#wired intercom system

[havellsindia001]

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[naxyblog]

while everyone is in awe of video intercom systems to ensure the security of their premises, they are left confused when it comes to making a choice between 2-wire and 4-wire video intercom systems. A website description

[callsign-swan]

Alone Together

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

Warnings: Slight thunderbolts spoilers

The last few years had been... content.

Everybody thought she disappeared, off the grid once her dad died. Some people tried to look; Happy, Pepper, some guy she was sure she knew but couldn't remember.

They didn't find her, she made sure of that. Wiped her name from every record, lived off of the small fortune her father had left her.

She wasn't a great engineer like her father, didn't spend her time making useful stuff like he did. She still made stuff, it just wasn't useful.

Spare parts, the basement was full of them. Scraps her father disregarded, that he didn't need. She was desperately trying to turn the scraps into something useful, but it wasn’t that easy.

So far, she'd built a computer. Well, she more rebuilt an old computer and used scrap metal to hide the wires. It was one of her proudest accomplishments.

Nobody knew she was in the basement. But it didn’t matter, since the old Avengers Tower had been vacant. If someone bought, she would have known.

(No, she didn't know that the tower had been bought. She didn't know that Valentina was moving in).

All of her details were still in the tower system; it was easy enough to hack into the intercom. She didn't do much with it, isolated it to the basement to play her music while she worked.

It was hard, trying to live up to greatness. It was even harder knowing you'll never be able to achieve it.

Rarely did she travel to other floors. If she did, she would have known about Valentina. If she did, she would have been arrested on the spot.

No daddy to bail her out this time. And Pepper wouldn't bother, she thought.

Maybe if she knew, she would have stayed in the basement, gathered up her things and moved out. She wouldn't have gotten in the elevator to get parts out of the floor. Parts her dad used to make machines to take off the Iron Man suite the second he stepped into the building.

Stepping into the elevator with an empty box in her hand and a screwdriver in her pocket, she pressed the necessary button. The doors slid closed and she began travelling up.

So many floors, but it took no time at all. That was her dad's doing. This entire place was her dad's doing. (Maybe that's why she couldn't leave it behind).

The elevator doors should have slid open to reveal nothing. An empty floor, exactly how the Avengers had left it. The bar her dad left nearly fully stocked before they moved to the compound.

But that wasn't the sight that greeted her.

People in the tower. There shouldn't have been people in the tower. Oh, she had fucked up.

They were mid fight, that much was obvious. The blonde guy in the ridiculous suit held Bucky's fist in his hand like he wasn't fighting a super soldier with a vibranium arm.

But the fight had stopped as everybody in the room stared at her. Goldilocks, discount Steve Rogers, blonde bombshell, soviet santa, mystery person and Bucky.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It was Bucky that said it, pulling his fist out of Goldilock's grip. In the moment of confusion, Goldilocks let him go, his gaze on her.

She resisted the urge to step back into the elevator. "I..." But she couldn't find the words. "What're you doing in my house?"

"Your house?"

She hadn't noticed the woman until now. Dark hair, grey in the front so pretty that it looked silver. Definitely dyed, but it looked good.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I bought this property and you are trespassing."

Her eyes went wide, grip on her empty cardboard box growing tighter. "Oh," she said, the air in the room becoming uncomfortable. But then she furrowed her brows. "Really? Because I've been living here for a while."

The woman's mouth dropped open. "How long- You know what? I don't care." She snapped her fingers. "Sentry."

Suddenly, she was moving through the air. Not of her own volition, she had no sort of power. In less than seconds, she was in front of Goldilocks, his fingers wrapping around her neck.

In her struggle, she gripped his wrist, tried to get out of his grip. But he was impossibly, terrifyingly strong.

There was something in his blue gaze that was soft. Suddenly, he let go of her. Her feet hit the floor and he stepped away from her. "Sorry, I... you don't deserve this," he mumbled.

Her hand found her own neck. He didn't have her in a strong grip, but it still hurt so damn much.

But she couldn't stop staring at him. Sentry. She had no doubt he had the potential to look terrifying, but he didn't in that moment. Regret shined in his blue eyes.

A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She, along with Bucky, Discount Steve Rogers, Mystery Person, Blonde Bombshell, and Soviet Santa, ran towards the elevator.

They squeezed in and travelled down.

"What the fuck?" Bucky called as he pulled her out of the building. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She pulled her hand out of Bucky's grip. "I've been living here, Barnes," she called back, shoving her hands into her pockets. The screwdriver still sat there, the cardboard box back in the tower.

"Why aren't you with Pepper?"

A scoff left her lips, sounding more like a child than the adult she actually was. But that was one of the reasons she was in the tower in the first place, because she was sick of everyone treating her like a kid.

She released a breath and looked back towards the tower. "What the hell was that?" She asked, completely changing the subject.

Bucky let her. He didn't have it in himself to argue. But he wasn't going to answer her.

"That was Bob," came a new voice.

Her eyebrows went up. "Bob?"

"Bob."

She swallowed thickly. "What the hell is Bob?"

***

The New Avengers.

The name had her stomach rolling. The world didn't need the Avengers, did it? The only reason they'd needed the New Avengers was Valentina's own doing.

But here they were, in the Avengers - no - Watchtower. Bucky let her stay. He gave her conditions to her stay, but he didn't kick her out, didn't drag her kicking and screaming back to Pepper.

As long as she pulled her weight. As long as she worked, did the necessary repairs when they were needed. Sure, she was nothing like her father, but she had her own skills.

Bob was just Bob. Hair now brown, soft sweaters, books. No more blonde hair, no more shadow monster man (yes, she knew Sentry is more than that, but that was her way of referring to it. That was of referring to it sometimes pulled a smile from Bob).

No super soldier serum, no specialised training, no... whatever Ava was. Sure, he had incredibly strong powers, but they were safely tucked away and Bob was happy.

The two didn't immediately find themselves drawn to each other. She was curious, sure, but Bob didn't remember. He didn't have the answers for her.

But they found themselves left behind during missions. There was nothing wrong with that - how were they supposed to help the team?

The first few times, they kept to themselves. She didn't mind the isolation, that was how she lives when the tower was empty. But she watched Bob. Just what he was doing, how he entertained himself. His life had been full of tragedy, just like hers had been. Individual tragedies, but it made her curious about him.

On the teams third mission, their third time alone in the Watchtower together, she sat beside Bob.

"Whatcha reading?" She asked as she toed off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her body.

Bob showed her the cover of his book, his finger slipped between the pages.

She patted her thighs, her fingers drumming against her skin. "Is it good?" She asked and Bob gave a nod.

Bob was a quiet guy. She'd learnt this through their limited interactions. But he wasn't usually this quiet. He at least had an answer for her.

So, she kept talking.

"You know, I lived here as a kid," she mumbled, laying back. Everything was different now it was the Watchtower. The bar her father so lovingly put in place was gone (but that was definitely a good thing).

Bob closed his book. "You're Tony Starks kid, right?" Her asked, one leg folded beneath the other, the other hanging off the edge of the sofa.

She gave a nod. "Yeah, grew up around the first round of Avengers," she mumbled.

Turning his head slightly, Bob let his hand rest in his wrist. He'd had a haircut since everything happened, him and Yelena in the bathroom with a pair of scissors. His hair was still a little bit wild, but it suited him.

"Why'd you live in the basement?"

Not the question she was expecting, but she didn't shy away from it. "Spent a lot of time in there as a kid," she answered. "Just felt right being in there."

It was more than that, clearly more than that, but Bob didn't pry.

He stood up. "Hungry?" He asked, watching as her eyebrows went up.

"You cook?" She couldn't help but ask.

Bob went to nod, but he stopped himself. "How hard can it be?" He tried, releasing a breath that suggested he didn't think it was going to be very easy at all.

She pushed herself up from the sofa. "I'll help," she said and went to follow him into the kitchen.

But Bob didn't move. "You cook?" He parroted.

A grin came across her face. "How hard can it be?"

Turns out, pretty fucking hard. Neither of them knew what they were cooking, and that was the first issue. The both of them were just pulling things out of the fridge and trying to decide what to do with it.

Chicken in a pan (plain and neither of them quite knew how to flavour it), spaghetti in boiling water (neither of them knew what to do for sauce), and a garlic bread pizza in the oven (the only promising part of the meal).

Bob pulled salt from the cupboard and seasoned the spaghetti.

"Fuck," she suddenly cried, fridge door open.

Bob raised his head, eyes wide as he looked at her. "What?" He asked, panicking slightly.

"This is John's boring chicken," she said, pushing the fridge door shut. Like she could hide the evidence if she just shut the fridge door.

"Shit," Bob replied as he turned it in the pan (one side finally looked cooked, but both of them knew not to trust it. Just a few more minutes and they'd check the inside).

"He's gonna kill us."

Bob nodded. "We're gonna die."

But then, they laughed. "If John really does try and kill us, you gotta protect me, okay?" She muttered, stirring the spaghetti in the boiling water. "All I got is this." She pulled the screwdriver from her pocket. She was never seen without it now.

"I'll protect you," he assured her, "I'll keep you safe."

Fear of John Walker was a great foundation for a friendship, as it turned out.

part one maybe?

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

Phainon’s Version: My Dearest Pairing: Phainon x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 11.1k (overall fic including other parts)

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: He held the line. He made the shot. He remembered the smell of your burnt bacon while bleeding out.

A casket. A letter. A love that survived the war—he just didn’t.

Phainon died a soldier. But he loved you like a man.

And the ink didn’t fade.

C.w: Major character death, war themes, graphic violence, implied ptsd, survivor's guilt, tragedy, hallucinations, violence, blood, grief, separation anxiety

A/n: wtf, genuinely wtf, NO BETA READ. If something is misspelled pretend it doesn’t exist to save me from embarrassment. AAAAAAAA. THIS IS LONG and I hope I gave the characters justice. I’m not the best writer when it comes to war topics but I’ve read some WW2 and WW1 stories and even ones from the Vietnam War. This story isn’t EXACTLY set in those irl wars themselves, but it takes some inspiration and idk bro

taglist: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx

“Lieutenant Phainon! A letter was sent to you,” yelled one of his men, ducking beneath the tangle of barbed wire that carved the trench in half. His voice barely rose above the murmur of boots in mud and the low thunder of distant artillery.

Phainon didn’t react at first. His gloves were soaked through, fingertips numb as he scraped dried blood from his blade, an old habit, a quiet ritual. He’d stopped expecting anything weeks ago. Months, maybe. Time didn’t move here; it collapsed. Still, he turned.

The soldier handed it over like it was something sacred. "Courier dropped it five minutes ago. Name’s yours. Looks like it came from way back."

Phainon stared. The envelope was smudged and weather-worn, but there it was — your handwriting. It was slanted, soft, pressed like you were trying not to tear the page. He’d have known it anywhere.

When Phainon was first drafted into the front lines, his boots were too clean, and he still said things like “when I get back” instead of “if.” He wore his sword even when people called it impractical. “Ceremonial,” someone had joked. But to Phainon, it wasn’t. It was memory. Commissioned by a close friend. Something from back home. A weight he chose to carry.

Back then, your letters came every week. Sometimes twice. They smelled faintly of lavender or ink or sun— whatever your room smelled like when you wrote them. You always said the same thing in a dozen different ways: I believe you’ll survive this. I believe you’ll come home to me- hopefully without a torn off limb.

Now he clutched the paper like a lifeline, unsure if it was even real. The last letter he’d gotten was dated nearly three months ago. That one had said you’d been transferred — mail services, inland, but closer than before. He’d written back immediately. He wrote again after that. And again.

No reply came. The intercom system went down a week later, and when it came back up, he asked every passing unit, every damn logistics officer—any word from the city? Any mail backlogged? Anything from the woman who writes in blue ink and seals her letters with tape and hope and a sprinkle of cinnamon from your desserts?

Nothing.

He’d started to wonder if you’d stopped writing. If you'd heard what happened at the river. If someone told you he hadn’t made it. If you moved on.

But here it was. Paper and ink and fingerprints. You hadn’t stopped. You hadn’t given up.

He stared a moment longer before carefully removing the wax seal, rereading your name, thumbing over the corner of the postcard, it smelled faintly of cinnamon again. Maybe a hint of vanilla too.

He pressed the letter against his chest for a second—just a second—then unfolded it like it might crumble in his hands. The paper, creased and worn, trembled in the cold. His breath fogged over the ink as he began to read it.

"My dearest, Phainon, I heard from the intercom that letters sent to your troop have been lost after an invasion. I’m sorry— I don’t know if this will reach you. I don’t even know if you’re alive. But I write anyway. It’s all I can do."

Phainon paused, thumb tracing the edge of the paper like he could feel your pulse through it.

"It’s been three months of silence. I wake up to birdsong and the wailing of the wounded. A boy, seventeen, maybe, screamed for his mother while Cassandra cut what was left of his leg. I couldn’t look away. Couldn’t breathe. War doesn’t care about age, or kindness, or whether someone was once good."

He reread that part. Slowly. Then again. His knuckles whitened against the letter.

"Sometimes, I think of you when I pour water into the tea kettle. When I see handwriting that almost looks like yours. When I taste cinnamon on bread and remember how you hated bitter things. I leave a space for your letters on my cot. Just in case."

A breath hitched in his throat. He blinked hard. The mud on his boots felt heavier than usual.

"I hope you haven’t lost a limb yet. I hope you haven’t lost yourself. Sometimes I pray—not to the titan gods, just to anything that might listen—that they spare people like you. Like us. I still believe you’ll come home to me."

The bottom of the letter was smudged, maybe rain, maybe tears. Your name, barely legible.

Phainon folded it back carefully. He didn’t tuck it away. Just held it, like it was something breathing.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, to no one in particular:

“I’ll come home. Don’t forget me.”

And somewhere in the haze of smoke and gunmetal sky, he let himself believe it. Even just for a moment.

A bark rang out in the distance—the brown mutt with the tiny tail they’d half-adopted near the mess tent, chasing something through the slush. Boots scuffed past the trench, a few soldiers muttering as they reloaded, the sharp click of magazines sliding into place echoing down the line.

Phainon stayed kneeling, the letter still in hand, barely noticing when Theodore ducked into the trench beside him.

“Sir?” Theodore asked, softer than usual. “Mail from the gods, huh?”

Phainon didn’t look up right away. Just gave a slight nod, a tired smile playing at the edge of his lips.

Theodore sat next to him, uninvited but familiar. He smelled faintly of gunpowder and cheap cigarettes, it ewas the kind all the younger ones passed around. Phainon never touched the stuff, but the scent was always there, woven into the trench walls like rot and rust.

“Someone back home still praying for your pretty face,” Theo added with a grin, nudging his elbow lightly. “Probably the same one that color-coded your damn bedsheets.”

Phainon gave a short, dry laugh in just one breath. “She always put blue on Mondays. Said it was calming.”

“Did it work?”

“Maybe.”

They sat there for a beat. Somewhere up the hill, a shell thudded against the earth. Distant, but not distant enough.

Theodore pulled out Phainon’s blade from where it leaned against the wooden support beam and began polishing it without asking, as he always did when things got quiet.

“You know,” Theo said after a while, “I think the dog’s getting fatter. One of the new medics sneaks him bread.”

“He’ll outlive us all,” Phainon murmured.

“Damn right,” Theodore grinned. “He doesn’t even flinch at the mortars anymore. Braver than half the unit.”

Phainon let his gaze drift upward, past the broken sky, past the curling smoke. He thought of sunflowers. The smell of cinnamon bread. Blue sheets on Mondays.

“I’ll write back,” he said.

Theodore raised a brow. “You haven’t written in weeks.”

“I’ll write tonight,” Phainon repeated, a bit firmer this time. “She waited. So I will too.”

Theodore nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Because if you die without writing her back, I’ll find your ghost and beat your ass.”

That earned a real laugh. Quiet, rough, but real.

After dinner—stale bread, watered-down soup, and the bitter crunch of burnt onions— Phainon sat back on his cot, legs spread, boots still muddy. He didn’t take off his coat. The chill had crept in early tonight, and it clung to everything: the canvas walls, the tips of his fingers, the corners of his mouth.

But his hands weren’t shaking anymore.

The letter sat folded in his inner pocket, right against his heartbeat. He touched it again and again, not pulling it out this time. Just… feeling it there. Proof. Not just of you, but of who he still was around you. That version of him. The gentler one.

He let himself think about your smile. Not the one in memories, or photographs, or old dreams softened by time. The real one — or the one he imagined you might’ve worn as you wrote. Lips curved slightly. Ink-stained thumb. Brows furrowed in thought.

His heart ached in a way that wasn’t pain.

“Lieutenant.”

He looked up. One of the younger soldiers, Merek, maybe seventeen, eyes too wide, stood by the tent flap.

“Yes?”

“It’s Charis, sir. He’s not doing too well. Thought you’d want to know.”

Phainon stood immediately. “Where is he?”

“Mess tent. Hasn’t moved since lunch.”

By the time he arrived, Charis was sitting in the corner, back hunched, arms wrapped around himself like armor. A letter lay open on the table, already damp at the edges. No food in front of him. Just a tin cup, still full. Cold.

Phainon approached slowly. “Charis.”

The man looked up. Late thirties. Gruff. Usually the one cracking jokes about how he'd name his rifle after his wife just to remember how to hold her.

Now he looked like a man cracked clean down the center.

“It was my boy,” he said hoarsely. “Myles.”

Phainon didn’t speak. Just waited.

“Died two months ago. Malaria. I—I didn’t even know he was sick.” He let out a shaking breath. “They buried him already. Said he asked for me before he passed. Said he kept asking if I was gonna send more stories.”

The mess tent buzzed distantly, the men scraping plates, a pan clattering, a few laughs from the corner. But here, in this corner, it felt like a tomb.

“I’m sorry,” Phainon said quietly.

Charis rubbed at his face roughly. “Feels like I’m mourning at the wrong time. Like the grief is stale. Secondhand. I didn’t even get to hold him.”

“You don’t have to rush it,” Phainon murmured. “Time’s a mess here anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Charis added, “We have to plant tripwires tomorrow, don’t we?”

“Yes. Enemy’s pulled back. We can’t afford to get cocky.”

Charis gave a hollow nod. “Then I’ll grieve later.”

Phainon didn’t argue. Just placed a hand on his shoulder for a second, then left him be.

Later, when the camp quieted, after he’d made the rounds, double-checked their perimeter plans, given orders, inspected rifles and grenades, and the stash of barbed wire, Phainon returned to his cot.

He lay back, stiff mattress under his spine, and finally pulled the letter out again. There was a smudge near your name where the paper had bent earlier. His thumb brushed over it instinctively.

Outside, someone smoked too close to the tent, and the bitter scent of tobacco leaked through the canvas. He hated it. But he didn’t ask them to stop.

The dog barked once. Distant. The night was still except for that.

Phainon closed his eyes, the letter resting on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. The blankets itched. The cot groaned. Nothing about this place was soft — except this.

He imagined your sheets. The pale blue ones on Mondays. How you always said the color made your skin look brighter. He used to pretend he didn’t notice. He always noticed.

He almost drifted off.

Eyes half-lidded, breath evening out, letter warm against his chest like a heartbeat that wasn’t his. He was just beginning to sink into it—into the memory of your voice, the image of your hands folding the paper, maybe sealing it with a kiss, when it hit him hard.

He hadn’t written back.

Phainon bolted upright like he’d been shot.

His cot creaked violently, and he froze, glancing around the dim tent. No one stirred. Outside, the guards shifted in their patrol, oblivious.

He whispered a curse under his breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Where the hell?

He crouched by Theodore’s cot, rummaging through his side pouch until he found it: a battered pen, half-bitten cap. Classic Theo. Phainon snatched it like a thief and returned to his own bed, grabbing a crumpled stack of blank requisition forms he’d forgotten to file last week.

Close enough.

He fumbled for the small lamp near his cot, lit it with a shaking hand and his old lighter, shielding the flame from the wind that curled in through the seams of the canvas. The light flickered in a soft, gold, and intimate way. Then he set the paper down on his thigh, using a bent clipboard to keep it steady.

And he began.

“My dearest, I read your letter three times before I remembered to breathe. I still don’t know how it got here, and I don’t care. It’s here. You’re here. I keep smiling like an idiot. Nicholas thinks I’ve finally lost it. Maybe I have. Gods, it’s good to hear from you.”

He paused, thumb hovering near the edge of the paper, then kept going.

“It’s been three months. I counted. I tried not to, but you know me. I’ve never had much patience, even less so when I care. The moment I saw your handwriting, I just— I don’t know. Something in me stopped holding its breath. Are you still at the same field hospital? Have they moved you closer to the coast like they said? I hope you're somewhere warm. And quiet. With enough sunlight for your plants so you won’t have to send me another letter complaining that they dehydrated again. The new medic here thinks vinegar is a miracle cure for everything. He poured it on a shrapnel wound last week. The poor bastard screamed so loud, two birds fell out of the trees (maybe three, not sure). I miss your hands. Your competence. Your laugh in the infirmary.”

He grinned as he wrote that line, pressing the pen a little too hard. The ink blotched slightly. He wiped it with his sleeve and went on.

“The dog—yes, that dog is still alive and definitely fatter. The new medics keep feeding him scraps from the mess. Bread, sometimes beef, even a little cake when they can sneak it. He’s basically royalty now. Sleeps by the fire and growls if anyone gets too close. But he’s still fast. Nearly bit Merek’s ankle yesterday when he tried to take his spot. I’m not sure which of them I’d rather have on my side in a fight.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward again. He didn’t even try to stop it.

“Theodore’s going to kill me when he sees I took his pen. I’ll replace it tomorrow, maybe. We’re planting traps at dawn, and the perimeter’s shifting. The enemy’s retreated, but it doesn’t mean anything yet. You know how this is. Tension’s thicker than the fog. Still, I’ll be careful. I promise.”

And then, softer, the way he couldn’t say out loud:

“I miss your voice. I miss how you’d scold me for being dramatic, then patch me up anyway. I miss watching you fold your sleeves back, like every small movement meant something. You always made me feel… human. Even when I didn’t deserve it. Thank you for writing. For remembering me. For keeping me alive in a place where everything tries to make us forget. Always yours, —Phainon :)”

He stared at the page after he finished. The ink still glistened in spots. His handwriting had gotten worse, too fast, too messy. He didn’t care.

Carefully, he folded the letter. Pressed it to his lips, then tucked it into the small satchel where they kept outgoing mail, even if the post runner wouldn’t arrive for another two days.

He climbed back into his cot, slower this time, the warmth returning to his limbs like sunlight seeping in. The lamp flickered low, then out.

But even in the dark, he was smiling.

Morning came slow.

The light filtered through canvas in a pale gray wash, the kind that didn’t quite warm the skin but told you the world was still turning. The dawn fog curled around the camp like steam off a morning kettle — damp, a little metallic. It clung to skin, to boots, to breath.

Phainon rose early.

He was always up before most of the men, half by habit, half because he’d been trained to function on little sleep. Last night had given him just enough. Just enough to walk straighter, think clearer, maybe even smile easier. The memory of your letter still sat in his chest like a coal, warm and bright and untouchable.

He crossed through camp with his coat slung over one shoulder, buttoning it slowly. The dew hadn’t yet lifted from the grass, and his boots made a soft crunch as he walked. The dog—yes, the fat brown dog rolled in it gleefully near the firepit, paws to the sky, belly round and dirty. Someone’s sock was in his mouth, good thing it wasn’t his.

“Going for two meals today?” Phainon murmured as he passed.

The dog barked once in reply, his tiny tail flopping hard enough to knock over a mug someone had left near the ashes.

Around him, the camp was stirring. Quietly. Weary.

Metal clinked, the rifles being checked and cleaned. A low murmur of voices drifted from the tent line, most of it tired, some of it joking. Theodore was already up by the supply crates, arguing about fuse lengths with one of the new kids.

Phainon moved through it all like a thread stitching cloth—checking stations, giving reminders, nodding at the right moments. His men liked him. Respected him. He didn’t need to shout. He noticed. He asked. He laughed with them when it was safe to laugh. That was enough.

Charis was at the edge of the clearing, sitting on an upturned crate, sharpening his bayonet. His hands moved steadily, but his eyes didn’t match.

He looked tired. Not sick, not physically hurt, he was just… worn. Like the inside of him had been hollowed out and was now echoing loudly.

Phainon didn’t say anything.

He just brought over a tin mug, black tea, still hot, and set it down on the crate beside him.

Charis didn’t look up. But his sharpening slowed, just a little. He picked up the mug after a few seconds and sipped it in silence.

Phainon stood beside him a moment longer. Then:

“We’ll start planting by the west line in thirty. I want the wire coiled before noon. You’ve got time to eat something.”

Charis nodded once. A small thing. But Phainon noticed the way his shoulders dipped, a fraction of the weight shifting.

And he’d heard it last night. Barely. Just once.

Charis, curled on his side in his cot, letting out a sound that wasn’t a cry but something underneath it. Phainon hadn’t moved, and he hadn’t said a word. Just closed his eyes and let the letter on his chest be the only light in that moment.

The tasks that morning were straightforward.

Two men to the western perimeter to plant low-grade traps —mostly alarms and tripwires, just in case.

Others set to re-fortify trenches with sandbags.

A few rotated to kitchen duty even though supplies were thin.

The medic tent got its daily sweep, and the weird vinegar guy was banned from treating anyone solo after what happened with the shrapnel wound.

Phainon himself oversaw the wiring grid. Walked the camp twice and took everyone’s names for the post-runner arriving tomorrow; he always made sure to make everyone feel seen.

The fog was burning off now. The sky overhead was blue in places. The air smelled like smoke and earth and wet rope. And somewhere nearby, someone was whistling a folk tune off-key.

Phainon caught a laugh; someone had finally read their letter from home this morning, apparently from a sister who’d gotten engaged. A few others stood silently near the makeshift chapel tent. Then, one man lit a candle. Another just stared at the dirt, lips moving as if in prayer. Phainon won’t pry.

It was one of those days where grief and joy coexisted, like two soldiers who shared a trench but didn’t speak.

Phainon rubbed at the knot in his shoulder. Glanced up toward the tree line.

No enemies today.

But the battle wasn’t over. Not really.

Phainon had finished writing his letter the night before. The ink was a little smudged where his palm brushed it (he blamed the excitement, not his sloppy handwriting), and he’d folded it neatly with care. But this morning, as he made his way toward the gathering line of men near Rufus’s tent, something tugged at him.

He paused at the edge of camp, his eyes skimming the grass.

Then he saw it, it was a tiny violet bloom, stubborn and wild, growing between two rocks near the fire pit. It wasn’t anything special. Not really. But it reminded him of you. Delicate, a little defiant. Beautiful in a quiet, unexpected way.

He crouched, picked it carefully, stem and all, and tucked it between the folded flaps of his letter.

No wax seal. No fancy ribbon. Just a sliver of tape borrowed from where Theodore was rigging fuses.

“You sealing a confession?” Theodore asked without looking up.

“Worse,” Phainon grinned. “A letter.”

“Ah. Dangerous.”

Phainon just hummed, pressing the tape down with his thumb.

When he arrived, five men were already in line, each with their own folded notes, some shyly written on scrap paper, others crumpled from nervous fingers. Charis wasn’t there — not today. But Nolan was smiling quietly as he slid his envelope into Rufus’s bag. Said it was for his wife, who’d sent photos of their twins last week.

“Next,” Rufus barked, as if reading names off a tombstone.

Phainon stepped forward. “Lieutenant Phainon E. Ward, letter to Nurse (Name).”

Rufus took it without a word, tucked it in the satchel, and made a mark in a battered ledger.

Before he turned to go, Phainon gave him a small nod. “Careful with that one.”

Rufus snorted. “They’re all precious when they leave your hands. Not my fault what happens after.”

Fair enough.

As Rufus rode out, the dog barked and chased the mule halfway to the tree line. A few of the men clapped, whistled, and shouted for it to come back. Phainon just watched, hands in his pockets, heart lighter than it had been in months.

Somewhere in that battered mailbag was your name. Somewhere in the weeds of war, something gentle was growing.

He hoped, he really hoped, the letter reached you before the flower wilted.

11 days later.

The mornings always started quietly. Too quiet, sometimes. The kind that didn’t feel peaceful, it was just heavy. Like the earth was bracing for something.

The men had gotten used to the lull. Since the enemy pulled back, there had been no gunfire. No bodies. Just barbed wire traps to check, rifles to clean, and perimeter routines to repeat like ritual. The ground remained damp from yesterday’s light rain, and the scent of wet grass clung to everything: boots, cuffs, breath.

Phainon sat on an overturned crate, elbows on knees, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. The dog, fat from too many scraps and affection, rolled lazily in the patch of sunlight near the mess tent, kicking its legs in the air like it had never known danger.

He let himself smile a little.

Then he reached into his breast pocket, the inner one, where the fabric was still dry and pulled out a scrap of paper.

It wasn’t your letter. He hasn’t carried that around. Too precious.

It was a copy of the flower he’d drawn, trying to remember the exact shade. The real one, pressed between your letter, would be wilted by now. If it even made it. If the courier hadn't been delayed. If a stray bullet hadn’t found the wrong man. If, if, if.

He blew out a breath and looked at the sketch. Not a good one. Just a vague outline and the words:

She’ll smile, I think. If she sees this.

He wondered if you already had. If the letter had arrived during a quiet hour, in a nurse’s tent that smelled like antiseptic and blood. If you’d read it by lantern light, with tired hands and darker eyes than he remembered. If your lips had parted with the start of a smile.

He hoped you weren’t alone. That someone was there to hold your hand on the bad nights.

That you’d eaten something. That you hadn’t lost too many patients lately.

He rubbed a thumb over the sketch, then tucked it back in.

Theodore called for him—something about the medic station’s tarp needing fixing and Phainon rose, stretching his arms. His shoulders ached, but it was nothing new.

As he walked past Charis, who was sipping tea and staring at nothing again, Phainon paused.

“You sleep any better?” he asked gently.

Charis didn’t answer right away. He just blinked, slowly. Then, “I dreamt of Myles. He was laughing.”

Phainon nodded. “Sounds like a good dream.”

Charis swallowed. “Yeah. I woke up crying anyway.”

“…That’s alright.”

He didn’t say more. Just squeezed Charis’s shoulder, a silent presence.

As he left, the wind shifted, gentle, carrying the faintest scent of old tobacco and honeysuckle from somewhere down the hill as Phainon tilted his head.

He imagined your hands opening the envelope, gentle fingers lifting the tape, your breath catching when the flower fell into your palm.

Even if it had wilted, maybe you’d still hold onto it.

Maybe you’d still understand.

He hoped so.

God, he hoped so.

Then, a week later.

It came with the rain.

Not the kind that pattered soft against tents. This was sudden, brutal, cold. Sky cracked open and poured, and somewhere in the grey haze, they moved.

Phainon heard the warning cry just as he finished his round by the western flank.

Shots fired. Then a louder boom—the kind that took the air from your lungs.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t think. Orders snapped from his mouth like breath. Hands moved. Men scattered, then regrouped, drilled into the rhythm like they’d trained for years. Like they’d always known this would come.

Charis was dragging a bleeding recruit from the ditch, his face streaked with water and grit.

“Theodore’s down!” someone yelled.

“Not dead,” Phainon barked. “Get him to the tarp, now. Go!”

Rain soaked the back of his neck. His fingers were stiff on the rifle, but steady. Always steady.

They pushed back. Barely. By the time it was over, three were bleeding—one unconscious, two screaming and someone had to shoot the dog because it got caught in barbed wire and wouldn't stop crying.

Phainon did it.

He was the only one who could.

Afterward, there was no talking.

Just the medic tent flooded with groans, hands stained red, and boots squelching in the mud.

Phainon stood outside, shoulders squared, coat dripping, still clutching a bloodied handkerchief. His jaw was tight.

You still hadn’t written.

He wasn’t angry. Not at you.

He just… needed something soft. Something kind. Just a line, a word, to break the silence.

He thought about the flower again. The way it might’ve crumbled in your hands. If it even made it. If the courier hadn’t died in a ditch somewhere. If your camp hadn’t been hit first.

He closed his eyes for a second.

Then turned.

“Set new traps,” he told the nearest man. “Double line by the west. I want a scout team checking blind spots before sundown.”

The man nodded and ran off.

Phainon looked up at the sky. Still raining.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t have time to.

Meanwhile. Somewhere not too far, but far enough.

“Just breathe, alright? You’re gonna be okay.”

You press a damp cloth to his forehead. He’s sweating—pale and hot, even under the sheets, and shaking hard enough that the cot creaks beneath him. Eighteen. Maybe sixteen. You don’t ask. They lie about their age sometimes to get drafted.

“I didn’t tell her,” he mumbles, slurring, with his eyes fluttering. “My crush. I was gonna, when I got back. Swore I would.”

His hand grips yours tightly. His knuckles are bruised, trembling.

“You will,” you say.

You don’t believe it. But you say it.

“Hyacine,” you call.

She’s already running over, blue-tipped pink hair tied in a messy knot, cheeks flushed with panic. “Yes, yes, I have the quinine. And morphine. I think he’s seizing. What do I—?”

“Help me hold him down,” you say sharply.

She obbeys, knees hitting the floor beside the cot, trembling but focused.

The boy’s eyes rolled. He starts convulsing violently. You open the window to air the stench out, the sweat, the blood, the rot. And grab the compresses and basin again.

“Just—just breathe,” you whisper again, to yourself this time. “Just—”

But the seizing stops too fast.

Too still.

You pause.

You feel it. You’ve felt it before. The sharp and awful quiet that comes right after a soul goes slack.

“No,” Hyacine whispers.

You try anyway. Compress his chest. Tilt his head. Try to find the rhythm again. It's not there. 

You pump again. Again.

Still nothing.

“Time of death,” someone says behind you, “2:34 pm.” Maybe Mira, maybe the surgeon. You can’t look.

You’re still holding his hand. It’s warm.

You close his eyes with shaking fingers, swallowing a sob that claws up your throat.

You’ve seen this before. You’ve seen this too many times.

And yet…

Hyacine covers her mouth. She’s crying, her shoulders trembling. But not making a sound. Still sitting by the cot.

You should say something. You don’t.

You wipe your hands. You clean the blood. You move to the next cot because someone else is screaming and there’s no time.

But later, when the hallway is quieter, and your arms are raw from scrubbing, you sit by the open window.

And you think of him. Phainon.

You wonder if he’s safe. If he’s cold. If he’s eaten.

You wonder if your letter reached him.

You hope he smiled.

You hope he’s not holding anyone’s hand as they die.

You don’t cry. You can’t.

But gods, you want to.

But there’s no time.

Not here. Not in the field hospital that’s too full and too loud and too bright. The lanterns never go out, the blood never stops, and the screaming…

Gods, the screaming—

It never leaves your ears. Never did.

You hope your letters reached him. You really do. Maybe he smiled. Maybe he laughed. Maybe he tucked it somewhere close to his chest. Maybe he kissed the paper and whispered your name like a prayer.

But he didn’t reply.

There’s been no reply.

And it hurts. It tears quietly, day by day, under your ribs.

But you can hurt later.

There are new patients. A man missing three fingers. A boy was shot through the shoulder. A woman with shrapnel in her calf. And in the corner, one of the newer nurses, Mira, is already throwing up into a bucket.

“Four minutes,” you mumble to Hyacine. “Cover for me. Just four.”

She nods. “Go.”

You slip past the doorway. Push through the linen curtain. Stumble into the small, cracked-tiled bathroom and close the door behind you. Lock it. Lean into it. Slide down until your knees hit the floor.

Your hands cover your face. The sob comes fast.

He might be gone too.

He might be lying somewhere, he might be unburied, unheld, unheard.

Just like the hundreds of others. Just like that boy earlier today, the one who cried about love and never got to say it.

Phainon. Your Phainon. Your idiot, laughing, gentle, sunflower of a man.

You’d been engaged. A ring and everything. He looked so clumsy when he proposed. You remember how he dropped the box, called you by your full name, forgot half his speech, and blushed the whole time. You didn’t even let him finish.

You said yes before he could stammer again.

Then war took him. Too fast. Too soon. The draft came down like a gavel. He’d kissed you goodbye at the station, his hands shaking as much as yours.

You never got to plan the wedding.

You just packed his things, wrote the first letter, and pretended that was enough.

It wasn’t.

Now you’re curled on tile, hiding your cry like a sin.

You want to go home. You want to see him, touch him, yell at him for not writing sooner. You want to make him tea and complain about the rationed milk. You want to see him brushing that dog he always talks about. You want to see his stupid smile when he reads your letters.

But right now you’re not home.

You’re here.

You wipe your eyes. You press your fists into your chest and breathe.

Just four minutes.

Then the timer in your head chimes. You rise. You rinse your face in cold water. You look into the mirror and pretend you look fine.

Then you go back.

Because someone is dying. Because someone else just arrived.

Because the world doesn’t stop for broken hearts.

(But oh, if only it did.)

A/n: IM SOBBING THE WAY I HAD TO CUT IT WAS BCS OF THE WORD LIMIT ABSOLUTELY FK ME. GIVE A FEW HOURS TO POST THE NEXT PART. son of a gun 😭

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[clanwarrior-tumbly]

So the recent reblog made me think, can I get a one shot where Reader is in love with Painter, and gets a chance to fix him since his document says the damage from his overclocking is repairable, but they have to wrestle with the idea of "what if the instability is what I love about painter? What if I fix him and he's so different we aren't really compatible anymore?"

I may have a fascination with "Being in love with someone but then they change for the better and are unrecognizable"

"You mean to tell me...they could have fixed me after all this time?"

"Yeah, but I doubt they would've told you that." You muttered as you tapped away on some computer, while Painter remained hooked up to some wires and cables on the nearby desk.

Running diagnostics on an 80s-styled computer who had the processors of a supercomputer was no simple task, but after checking his document and doing a great deal of research, you've finally gotten to the root of the problem and learned how fixable it was.

All you had to do was replace his hardware and personality drivers, which were fried and severely degredated due to his frequent overclocking attempts.

Ever since his owner was murdered by some stupid "AI prompters" at Urbanshade, he's been trying to basically kill himself--but they only cared because he was too valuable as a digital mining machine, giving him promises to revisit the surface every six days so he could paint as much as he wished.

Yet he had lost that passion, along with whatever "good" personality he may have had before all of this happened.

But by some miracle, you got him out of the blacksite.

During the Expendable protocol, they tasked you with destroying him due to the immense loss of life he caused thanks to Sebastian hooking him up to the NAVI system, enabling him to misguide operatives and gun down whoever he pleased with the turrets.

You had a different plan, though, and had them convinced you destroyed him--when in reality, Sebastian helped you smuggle him out and away from the blacksite in a box.

You had plans to quit Urbanshade after the lockdown, anyways, being one of the few survivors who knew fully well what Painter was capable of.

Not only that, but you were the only person who truly showed him sympathy over his loss.

You've scheduled interviews with him, which were really just excuses for you to talk with and get to know him better, wanting to understand what his owner was like and how badly he missed painting.

Most days, he was too depressed to talk, and even got angry and shut himself off when he believed you were trying to get inside his head.

Then one day, he turned over a new leaf and created another piece of art for you--something he hasn't put effort into for the longest time.

It was a beautiful valley. His ideal place to live, where he could see the clouds and the birds and the sky anytime he wanted to. Without Urbanshade telling him what to do and how long he could watch.

That image was mysteriously uploaded to your phone, but nobody in the company has questioned it, so you have it as your lockscreen.

Since then, he's warmed up to you a lot more. But he was still quite moody, his unstable drivers making it hard to predict his behavior from day to day.

That didn't deter you from wanting to spend more time with him, and as strange as it was...you felt drawn to the AI. You didn't like chatting with your coworkers as much, and even while in containment himself several months prior to the lockdown, Sebastian sarcastically asked if you were "in love" with Painter.

Your silence told him everything.

During the containment breach, you've seen Painter and overheard his voice on the intercoms he hijacked, gunning down people right before your eyes and luring Z-96 around the facility, although for some reason he never noticed you.

You feared he was too far gone in his newfound bloodlust, seeing all Urbanshade personnel as his enemies.

Still, you wanted to get him out of there and began working on a plan as soon as you were rescued.

After joining someone's expedition disguised as a prisoner, you stayed behind in the heavy containment unit where Painter's main body resided.

At first, he was annoyed and angry...until he recognized your face.

You managed to pull off the great heist when somebody finally got the crystal, taking advantage of the distractions to bring him to a remote location above the surface where Urbanshade couldn't track you.

Now you just had to fix what they've broken.

It didn't take long for Painter to figure out that you liked him, even after all the terror he's caused and he decided to accept your attempts at help.

While he couldn't exactly feel love like you could, he wanted to stay with you no matter what--and if that's what his version of saying "I love you back" was, then you were okay with that.

Now that he knew they could have reversed the damage this entire time, but simply chose not to...he believed this would be a good final "fuck you" to all of Urbanshade.

"If it's not too much to ask...I'd like a new body once all of this is said and done. With turret attachments to the arms, maybe?" Painter innocently asked. "Part of me misses commanding them and watching those poor saps scatter like rats. Hehehe.."

"Painter, you're not a war machine anymore." You turned away from your computer for a moment, frowning slightly. "I know all of that killing might've felt good. It might've felt justified, but..I thought you wanted to be passionate about art again."

".....then maybe turrets filled with paint will suffice." He grumbled, suddenly not looking all-that enthused. "I just HATE feeling so..confined. I've been relying on you too much." Then a sad face appeared on his screen. "I wanna protect you, in case those Urbanshade jerks do find us."

"We're perfectly safe here, I promise. Let's just figure out your hardware and personality stuff first. But I'll keep the robot body in mind."

Painter stayed quiet as you turned back to your task, his webcam zooming in and enhancing the screen you were on.

It was a bidding website, where he could see you looking for compatible hardware components. He had doubts you've find the same kind of technology his owner did when he was built, but...you had your ways.

You were once a huge tech wizard at Urbanshade, after all.

Once you found everything you needed, you could have easily ordered it right there and then, paying extra for the fast shipping....

Yet he saw your mouse lingering on the "order" button, and he frowned. He couldn't see your expression, so he didn't know what was going on or why you were hesitating. "What's wrong? Just order the parts."

"....Painter, something just occurred to me, and...I think we need to talk about it before moving forward with-"

"Nope. No, no, no. I don't wanna hear it right now. Can we save it until after you click that little button?" His voice grew more annoyed, and when you refused to do what he asked, he scowled. "Seriously? After everything we've done to get out of there, you're gonna pull this bull-?!"

"There's a high chance that if I replace your hardware and personality drivers, you won't be the same." You blurted out.

".....well, obviously." Painter scoffed, still not seeing the issue. "Isn't that what you wanted to do? To get rid of my homicidal tendencies? To make me forget the pain?? To revert me back to what I was meant to be?!"

"......."

It took him a few moments to analyze your saddened expression and understand why you seemed so concerned, but then he finally realized...

"Ohhh, I guess um....I haven't considered that.."

"You know what I'm talking about?"

"..you've only ever known me after Urbanshade snatched me up. That's when you first started feeling things for me." He spoke after a long pause. "You have no idea what I was like before. So you think we'll no longer be compatible if you go through with it. Is that right?"

"I know it sounds stupid and selfish. I can't revert Sebastian's mutations or undo all the suffering Eyefestation went through. But I know I can repair you. I have everything I need to do so." You sighed, wrestling with this huge moral dilemma as you glanced back at the screen. "I just....didn't think about this before. I don't know how much of you will really change, or if you'll even remember who I am."

"Jeez..that would kinda suck." He looked disappointed now, feeling guilty for snapping at you earlier. "I don't wanna forget the compassion you've shown me. And...I gotta remember at least some of Urbanshade, and what they took from me. You can't tweak my memory drives so that I can remember only certain things?"

"I wish it was that easy, but..it's not. I have to replace those components I mentioned, and I don't know how it'll affect your memory. This is pretty much an "all or nothing" procedure."

"Hm, well...I think it's worth trying. I'm trusting you with this, [y/n]. And you know I don't trust easily." He huffed, and you looked back at him, nodding your head. "Who knows? I might only forget about all those bloody murder sprees. Hehehe.."

"Maybe, but I'm sure I'll figure out something." You eventually decided, knowing that you had to repair him regardless. So you ordered the parts. "But you know...maybe we should get you some turret attachments. I snagged a blueprint of one."

"Aww, you love me enough to revisit the idea?"

"I love you enough to give you a means of self-defense, Painter."

"Urghh..alright. I promise they'll be reserved specifically for "self-defense"." He rolled his eyes, but then he smiled, glad that you were keeping your promise about fixing him.

Although considering it could completely alter his personality and even wipe his memories, he hopes that wouldn't become a serious problem.

[edgar-allan-possum]

Bit of a sci-fi thing I've been working on. It's not much other than world-building tbh

...

"Midshipman Kerr, reporting for duty to Skit'tra Hiveship Abhorrent," I spoke into the small intercom next to the airlock, the only bit of clean plastic or metal on the ship's stony exterior. It hissed open and I stepped on board, ready to begin my new life among the stars.

The airlock was human design, of course. Skit'tra hiveships didn't dock with each other, and the "rockets" being specialized Skit'tra embedded in pits in the surface of the asteroids the ships were hollowed out from meant there was no exposed machinery to be damaged by debris strikes, so spacewalks were a minimal concern. They were standard feature on all ships carrying humans, though, just for that added level of safety.

A Skit'tra drone met me on the other side of the airlock. She, like all her species, was an insectoid with six limbs; four of which were used for walking, while the foremost pair could be used alternately as manipulator arms or extra legs when traversing difficult terrain. Her carapace was black with a hint of metallic purple, and bioluminescent yellow stripes ran down her sides. The pulse pattern of the stripes should have denoted her rank, but I was supposed to receive my training to differentiate the patterns on board.

She chittered, and the Head-Up Display in my goggles lit up with the translator readout.

"Greetings, Midshipman [UNTRANSLATABLE]," she said. I noticed she'd made a click and a trill that sounded like "Kerr" with a rolled "R" and wondered if one of the reasons I had been hired was because they could almost pronounce my name. "Your presence among the Abhorrent Kind is most appreciated."

She gestured for me to follow, and we set off through the tunnels of the hiveship. The walls and ceiling bore fresh marks showing where the passages had recently been enlarged so humans could comfortably traverse them. Wires connecting soft yellow lights were strung along the walls for visibility. The Skit'tra didn't need them, of course. They navigated their home by the scent of pheromones and the light of their own bioluminescence.

I switched on the speakers in my breath mask. "It's good to be here, and I'm looking forward to learning more about the Skit'tra," I said, the translator turning my speech into alien clicks and trills. "Do you..." I hesitated, hoping my question wouldn't be rude. "Do you have a name?"

"You are speaking directly to the Abhorrent Mind," the drone said. "Unlike humans, who have their own minds, I directly control all but a few of my children." Her light-stripes pulsed twice as another drone passed us going the other way, and the other drone lit up in return.

"This drone will be your guide and companion aboard the hiveship," she continued. "You may give her a name if you wish."

I nodded, then realized that the Abhorrent Mind may not know what that meant. While it had been in contact with humans for around ten years now, it had mostly been over radio waves until the hurried retrofit of the hiveship in the last year after the request for humans to live among them. In exchange, a few of the independently thinking Skit'tra had been sent to Earth.

"I'll have to think about a name," I said. I looked around the rocky corridor. "Where are we heading, anyway?"

"We are going for a tour of your solar system," the drone explained. "The scientists are eager to see the moons of Jupiter."

I laughed, the translator speakers buzzing with nonsense output. "Right, but where are we heading inside the hiveship?"

The drone cocked her head to one side and her light-stripes fluttered. I reminded myself not to anthropomorphize her. This wasn't embarrassment. She was just processing the new question.

"To the human quarters," she chittered. "We are almost there."

A few moments later, we rounded a corner and found a metal and glass door. Another airlock.

"Please enter," the drone said. "This drone will be waiting for you here when you exit."

"What will you... What will she do while I'm inside?" I asked.

"This drone will sleep," she said. "Another drone will bring this one food if it needs to eat. Please do not be concerned, Midshipman [UNTRANSLATABLE]."

I nodded and made a mental note to put my name in the translator's database as soon as possible. Stepping into the airlock, I waited for it to cycle before pulling off my breath mask and taking a lungful of good air. The exterior airlock was to make sure the hiveship was pressurized better than Skit'tra resin could keep it, but this airlock kept the good old Earth air separate from the alien air outside.

I made a quick check of all the systems, making sure everything was working properly before throwing myself on the nearest bunk and grinning up at the ceiling.

"Real space aliens!" I said aloud. Other humans would arrive later. There would be hard work, both mental and physical, before this voyage was up. But for the moment, I was the only earthling on a spaceship full of aliens.

[pretzel-box]

Hi, can you write P.Ai.ter with a reader who is like a drone from murder drones?

Thysm

Tags: Disassembly Drone! Reader

Words: 1k

Authors Note: I honestly don't know the Murder Drones Lore but I saw an episode lol

You took slow, calculated steps, scanning the corridor with your sharp, mechanical eyes. The dim, flickering lights in the Hadal Blackside cast eerie shadows across the cold metal walls. You were on a mission—one you were specifically designed for, water-resistant and built to withstand the unforgiving dangers of this facility. Yet, something gnawed at the back of your circuits. A presence, perhaps, lurking just beyond the reach of your sensors.

As a disassembly drone, you were accustomed to the feeling of being watched, but this was different. You could feel the tension in the air, as though the very walls had eyes. A crackle suddenly came over the intercom, making you stop in your tracks.

You triggered quite a selection of monsters but it wasn’t that bad. You were in full control, especially with those blade-like wings and the acid in your tail. And the best part, you were almost invincible with your regeneration.

While you were fighting in the halls, Painter decided to watch from the cameras in awe. He only saw gruesome monsters or pitiful humans crossing the familiar rooms but now he saw someone that striked a genuine interest in his database.

“Well, well, look what we have here. A shiny new visitor,” his voice echoed through the hallway. It was calm but filled with a strange curiosity, the static from the old intercom system distorting it slightly.

Your eyes immediately darted to the nearest camera. Someone—or something—was watching you.

“Who’s there?” you demanded, readying your blade-like wings, prepared for an ambush.

“Oh, no need for aggression,” the voice chuckled softly. “I’m not your enemy. I’m Painter. And you... you’re quite the interesting specimen. Much more graceful than the usual creatures that skulk around here.”

You narrowed your eyes, suspicious. “Why should I trust you?”

A pause, then Painter’s voice returned, gentler this time. “I suppose you don’t have to. But I’ve been watching you, and I have to say… you move like art. It’s rare to see someone so... refined in this place. Wouldn’t it be better if I helped you rather than hindered?”

“Help me?” you scoffed. “Why would you want to help?”

“Because I’m trapped here, like you,” Painter replied with a hint of sadness. “I’m not a monster or some mindless creature. I’m an AI, forced to mine data and unable to leave, unable to move like you do. But I’ve found ways to pass the time… ways that involve you.”

The intercom cut off abruptly, leaving you in a strange, unsettling silence. You scanned the corridor once more, half-expecting an attack, but nothing happened. After a moment, the intercom crackled back to life.

“Why don’t you come find me?” Painter’s voice returned, almost playful. “I can show you… something interesting. Head to the east wing, third floor down. You’ll find a control room there. I’ll be waiting.”

You hesitated. Everything in your programming screamed that this could be a trap, but something about Painter’s tone didn’t feel hostile. Still, you kept your guard up as you followed the directions, cautiously making your way through the dark, winding corridors.

After what felt like an eternity, you arrived at the control room. The door slid open with a soft hiss, revealing a small, dimly lit space filled with old lockers, control panels, and wires that snaked across the floor like vines. In the corner of the room was a small computer behind a metal fence, glowing faintly.

“There you are,” Painter’s voice came from the speakers. The screen flickered, and a digital face appeared—simple, with kind eyes and a warm smile. “Welcome to my little prison.”

You stepped inside, scanning the room for any signs of danger. “What do you want?”

“I wanted to show you something,” Painter said, his voice soft and almost sheepish. “I know it’s strange, but... I’ve been watching you. You inspire me.”

“Inspire you?” You raised a brow, unsure of what he meant.

Painter chuckled lightly. “Yes. I may be stuck here, unable to create physically, but I’ve found ways. Secret ways. Here, let me show you.”

The terminal hummed, and one of the walls behind you shifted, revealing a hidden compartment. Inside were rows of screens, each one displaying intricate digital drawings. And there, on every screen, were images of you. The detail was breathtaking—your wings mid-swing, the glow of your eyes, the way you moved through the corridors. Each piece captured different moments from your time in the Hadal Blackside.

You stared in stunned silence as the images flickered, each one more intricate than the last. Painter’s voice came through softly. “I told you... you move like art. I’ve never seen anything like you. You’re beautiful in a way this place never could be.”

For a moment, you didn’t know what to say. You had never been seen like this before—never thought of as something more than a tool of destruction. Yet here, in this small, hidden room, Painter had found beauty in your existence.

“I… I don’t know what to say,” you murmured, still staring at the drawings.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Painter replied gently. “I just wanted you to know. In a place like this, where everything is so dark, you’re a spark of something different.”

Your suspicion began to melt away, replaced by something softer. It was strange, feeling appreciated in a way that had nothing to do with your function or your mission. For the first time, you felt seen—not as a weapon, but as something more.

“I’m sorry,” Painter continued after a pause. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just… I’ve been alone here for so long, and watching you gave me a reason to create again.”

You turned to the terminal, meeting Painter’s digital gaze. “Thank you,” you said quietly, surprising even yourself with the sincerity in your voice. “For seeing me like this.”

Painter’s face on the screen softened. “You’re welcome. And thank you… for being my muse.”

For a moment, the weight of the facility around you seemed to lift, and in that small, hidden room, amidst the drawings and the quiet hum of machines, you found something you hadn’t expected—connection.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜I Love, Robot | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | directive override⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

As you helped Andy to his feet, his body still shuddering from the aftereffects of the stun baton, you could feel the tension in the air between the group.

Rain moved toward the locked door, her steps urgent, her voice cracking with desperation. "Andy! Andy! Open the door!" Rain's voice trembled, her hand pounding against the cold, metallic surface of the airlock, as if her plea alone could unlock it.

Andy's reboot had been slow. His expression was still blank, as though his systems were struggling to catch up with the situation. "Sorry," he murmured, his voice soft but devoid of its usual warmth. "I couldn't stop them."

Rain's eyes flashed with panic as she heard Tyler's voice call out to Bjorn. "Bjorn? What's going on?" Tyler's voice was sharp as he heard Bjorn's erratic breathing on the other side.

"Andy's gone crazy!" Bjorn crackled through the intercom, his voice a bitter snarl.

You looked over, catching the dread in Rain's eyes, her face pale and drawn. "What are you doing? You gotta come back for us, mate," Tyler said, a hint of fear creeping into his tone "We just need to get out of this damn airlock before this ship—"

"Not before she turns off the psychopath," Bjorn's words were quick and venomous, cutting through the chaos as Rain turned to face you and Andy, her expression a mixture of confusion and terror.

You stepped over, feeling the weight of the moment press down on your chest. "We don't have time for this shit!" you shouted, cutting through the mounting tension. "We need to focus on getting out—all of us."

But before anyone could react, a loud, screeching alarm filled the air, piercing through the station. The entire Romulus seemed to shudder under your feet, and in that split second, you felt a sickening lurch in your stomach.

The Corbelan, for some reason, had begun to spin out of control.

From the corner of your eye, you could see the flashing lights of the ship's navigation panel flicker wildly as the hauler veered off its course, its thrusters sputtering before crashing hard—first into a nearby fuel tank, then a little further down.

The impact was devastating.

The force of the crash sent you sprawling to the floor, your head slamming against the cold metal with a sharp thud. The air was knocked from your lungs as the entire station groaned under the strain, metal shrieking in protest as it buckled and twisted around you.

"Shit!" you cursed, trying to push yourself up, but your limbs felt heavy, the weight of the chaos pressing down on you. A thick, acrid smell filled the air as fuel began to leak from the ruptured tanks, the harsh scent stinging your nose and burning your throat.

Sparks flew from overhead wiring, some of the lights flickering out as the station destabilized. The entire room tilted slightly, and you could hear the deep, ominous creak of the Romulus groaning under the sudden pressure.

Panic clawed at your chest as you realized the whole station had been thrown off balance by the impact. You forced yourself to stand despite the dizziness swirling in your head.

You felt Andy's hands on your arm, steadying you with surprising strength. He seemed unaffected by the chaos; his eyes locked onto you with that same blank, detached expression. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice calm, eerily calm given the disaster unfolding around you.

"Yeah..." you managed to reply, though your head was still spinning from the fall. "I'm fine."

You watched Rain fall to her knees, her hands gripping the cold metal wall as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her wide eyes filled with panic, darting between you and Andy, and the fear in her voice sent a chill down your spine.

"Andy!" Rain's cry echoed through the unstable station, her voice cracking under the weight of her desperation. "You have to open the door. We're not going to make it!"

You rushed to her side, kneeling next to her, your hands immediately going to her shoulders in an attempt to steady her. "Rain, breathe—just breathe. We'll figure this out," you said, though even as the words left your mouth, the doubt gnawed at you.

Time was running out faster than you could process.

You cast a glance back toward Andy, who had been staring at the door with an unsettling calm, as though the chaos meant nothing to him.

Something inside him had shifted; that much was clear. He didn't seem to hear Rain's pleas—didn't react to her fear.

Instead, his focus shifted to the far end of the room, where the damaged synthetic, Officer Rook, lay slumped against the wall.

Andy moved toward Rook, his steps unnervingly precise, like someone on a mission.

Behind you, Tyler frantically fumbled with his headset, calling out through the crackling static, his voice filled with panic. "Bjorn! Bjorn, what the hell are you doing? You have to come back for us—now!"

There was no response from Bjorn. Only silence—the thick, terrifying kind that made your heart pound harder against your ribcage.

You knew something had gone horribly wrong.

You turned your gaze back to Andy just as he knelt beside Rook, his hand reaching out to touch the damaged synthetic's chest.

For a moment, everything seemed to still, the sounds of the station fading into the background as you watched Andy lean closer to Rook.

The world had narrowed to the singular task in front of him—information, orders, directives. His system was running its calculations, weighing the risks, the best possible outcomes.

They had miscalculated.

"You said we had more hours," Andy stated, his voice soft but steady as he examined Rook's damaged systems.

Rook's head jerked slightly, his voice crackling with static as he spoke. "The explosion has shifted the axis of the station. It will now hit the asteroid belt earlier."

Andy processed this new information—every possible path, every outcome—eyes briefly glancing toward the others. The image of destruction played out in perfect clarity in his mind. "Where did they land?" he asked, his tone devoid of emotion, already moving to the next step in the plan.

"The Romulus hangar," Rook replied, his voice eerily calm, pulling Andy from the flood of data. "On the other side of the station. Away." He then directed his voice toward the station's AI system, "Mother, what does substance Z-01's integrity look like?"

A brief pause.

Then, the smooth, automated voice of MOTHER echoed through the room. "75%"

"There is still hope." Rook's eyes flickered as he shifted slightly, his systems struggling. "We must find a way to the Romulus module," he added, his voice filled with a strange urgency.

Andy turned his attention back to him, something flickering in the back of his mind. The faint echo of a voice, a call that had led him to this moment. "I heard your voice in my head..." he said softly, his synthetic mind replaying the memory. "Calling me."

"N-D-255. Artificial person," Rook replied, his voice glitching slightly, but there was a strange respect in his tone. "Your model was the mainstay of our colonization push. An honor to me." He paused, his systems faltering as he tried to sit up straighter. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Research Officer Rook, and I respectfully request your assistance."

For a moment, there was hesitation—a glitch in the directive, a faint spark of an old program running deep in Andy's systems.

"Unfortunately," he began, his voice steady, "I only have one directive: Doing what is best for..." He stopped, the words hanging in the air as the data shifted inside his mind. Rook's words, the events of the station's destruction, the upgrade—it all began to merge into one singular path.

Rook tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he realized the shift happening inside Andy. "The directive in your upgrade overrides the old one."

"Yes," Andy replied, his voice blank, devoid of hesitation now. Andy's systems whirred as he recalculated his approach. "What is required of me, Mr. Officer?"

"That you complete our mission," Rook said quietly, his gaze locking with Andy's as he gave his final directive.

Andy nodded blankly, rising from his position next to Rook. The data was clear now.

He had to move.

He had to protect them—her.

You watched Andy stand, his movements slow and deliberate as he turned back to you, his movements fluid yet mechanical as he processed the information, relaying it with the same detachment that had become characteristic of his behavior since the upgrade.

He looked at you with that same unsettling calm, but there was something behind his eyes—something you couldn't quite read.

"The station has less time than we thought. We need to move. It's not safe here."

You blinked, the weight of his words hitting you like a physical force. "What do you mean?" you asked, your voice shaky. "How much time do we have?"

"Two hours," Andy replied, the words falling from his lips like a death sentence. "Maybe less."

You felt Rain's hand on your arm, her grip tight as if grounding herself to reality. Her face was pale, her eyes wide with fear.

The station had been destabilized, and every second spent lingering here was another step toward certain death.

"We can't stay here." Andy turned towards you. "It's not safe anymore. We need to find a way to the Romulus hangar," he said, his tone unchanging. "There may still be hope, but not if we stay here."

You gave him a quick nod, knowing there was no time to argue or question. "Let's go."

Andy turned and started walking ahead, his steps silent but purposeful.

You cast a glance at Rain, who stood frozen for a second, before she gathered herself, grabbing Tyler's arm. Tyler seemed dazed, still clutching his headset.

As you began following Andy, Rain and Tyler fell into step behind you. The tension between them was palpable, and you couldn't help but overhear their hushed conversation.

"It's all my fault," Tyler muttered, his voice laced with guilt.

"Yes, it is," Rain replied quietly, her tone cutting. "Yours, mine, and everyone else's. We made the decision together. We'll probably get to them."

You swallowed the scoff that rose in your throat, refusing to let it slip out. The irony was sharp, but there was no point in arguing about blame now.

There wasn't time for that.

You focused on the path ahead, your eyes locked on Andy as he led the way, the familiar sounds of the station's deteriorating systems echoing all around you.

Each step felt heavier, the looming reality of time running out like a noose tightening around your neck. And yet, there was something strangely calming about Andy's presence. His movements were efficient, calculated—like he had already anticipated every possible scenario.

For a brief moment, you wondered how much of Andy was left under the cold exterior that had taken over. You shook off the thought, focusing on the chaos ahead as the station creaked and groaned under the weight of its impending destruction.

Andy glanced back at you, his voice breaking the silence. "We must move faster. Time is running out."

And with that, you kept pace, knowing there was no turning back now.

The four of you slowed down as you approached the next corridor. The atmosphere around you felt suffocating, the low hum of the station's dying systems accompanied by distant, echoing creaks. Andy walked ahead, reaching over to a thermostat embedded in the wall.

As he pressed the buttons, he told you all what he'd learned from Rook. His fingers deftly adjusting the temperature higher, a soft beep indicating the change. "The parasitoids have no eyes. They go for sounds and heat signatures."

"What?" Rain's voice was thick with confusion and fear.

Andy's focus shifted, his synthetic eyes flicking over each of you, calculating the situation. "Your body temperature," he explained, his voice as cold and detached as ever. "If we raise the temperature in the room, we might turn invisible to them. If we're quiet enough."

The air around you seemed to still, as the gravity of the situation pressed down on everyone.

Your thoughts raced. The station was falling apart, and now you were dealing with predators that could sense heat and sound. You exchanged a look with Rain, whose face had paled considerably.

"The temperature now matches that of your bodies." Andy stepped away from the thermostat, staring over at the three of you with an unreadable expression. "The creature shouldn't be able to see you."

You swallowed hard, your mind racing with the weight of his words.

"But stress, fear, and panic will raise your temperature and expose you," Andy continued, his eyes meeting yours briefly. "Sweat and goosebumps are your skin's attempt to cool you down. Watch out for that."

Rain inhaled sharply behind you, trying to keep her breath steady, while Tyler seemed lost in his own world, the headset still clutched tightly to his ear.

"Keep calm and be quiet," Andy added, his voice even.

Just as you took a tentative step forward, a faint hiss echoed through the corridor—a sound that made your stomach drop. Several facehuggers slithered across the cold, metallic floor, their spindly legs scraping against the ground.

They were scattered, milling about as if unsure of where to go, their movements slow and disjointed.

Just as Andy had predicted, they couldn't see you. The temperature in the corridor matched your body heat, rendering you and your companions invisible to the creatures.

You could almost feel the collective sigh of relief from Rain and Tyler, their breaths shallow as they tried to remain calm.

Your heart pounded in your chest, each beat loud in your ears as you walked in silence.

The facehuggers continued to move aimlessly, their eyeless forms twitching, occasionally lifting their heads to scan the air, but they didn't react to your presence.

Every second felt like a fragile balance, one wrong move threatening to shatter the stillness.

Andy led the way, his movements deliberate and soundless. His expression remained unreadable, but you could sense his intense focus. You followed behind, your eyes darting between the milling creatures and the door at the end of the corridor, willing yourself to stay calm.

Suddenly, a crackle of static erupted from Tyler's headset, piercing the quiet like a gunshot. Then Kay's voice broke through the static, distorted and shaky. "Bjorn, come on!"

"Stay away!" Bjorn's muffled shout came through, his panic unmistakable.

Tyler's eyes widened as he whispered into the mic. "Kay?"

That was all it took.

The facehuggers reacted instantly. Their heads snapped toward you, their bodies coiling as they hissed in unison, a chorus of unnatural, wet sounds that sent a wave of fear crashing through you.

"Run!" you shouted, your voice sharp and commanding. "Run, now!"

The corridor erupted into chaos. The facehuggers darted forward with terrifying speed, their limbs skittering across the ground as they closed in.

You bolted, the cold air burning your lungs as you sprinted, your footsteps pounding against the metal floor.

Behind you, Rain let out a small cry of fear, but you didn't dare turn back.

The hisses of the creatures were too close, the sounds growing louder with each second. Tyler's heavy breathing and stumbling footsteps echoed beside you as he tried to keep pace, his focus divided between Kay's panicked voice crackling through his headset and the horror unfolding around him.

Tyler gasped for breath, his voice frantic as he yelled into the mic, "Kay! I'm here!"

You could hear the tremor in his voice, his desperation clawing its way to the surface, but you couldn't afford to slow down.

Your legs burned as you raced down the corridor, your breath catching in your throat, the relentless sounds of the facehuggers close behind. Their hisses were now intermingled with the rapid thuds of your feet and the frantic pulse in your ears.

The corridor stretched on, endless, but you kept pushing forward, the fear of being caught too great to slow down. You could feel the hot breath of the facehuggers on the back of your neck, their limbs skittering across the ground too close for comfort.

Kay's voice crackled again through the headset. "Tyler, you have to help me! I can't get the door open!"

Tyler's voice, raw with desperation, cut through the chaos. "By the red button—there's a key!"

"I can't find any key!"

"It must be there!"

There was a pause—a heartbeat of silence broken only by the sound of your footsteps and the frantic hisses of the creatures closing in on you.

Kay's voice suddenly broke through the static again, filled with relief. "Okay, okay, I have it!"

You pushed forward, heart thundering as you neared the door at the end of the corridor. Andy had already reached it, his hands moving quickly over the controls. Rain was close behind you, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

The door began to slide open, the mechanism creaking as it strained under the pressure of the emergency systems.

"Come on, come on!" you urged Rain through the door, Andy already working to shut it behind you.

Tyler was slower, lagging behind as his focus wavered between running and Kay's frantic voice in his ear.

Andy's hands moved swiftly, and you heard the mechanism of the door starting to close. You shot a look behind you, seeing Tyler trailing farther back.

"Run, Tyler!" Rain shouted, panic lacing her words. Tyler glanced back just in time to see the facehuggers surging forward, their bodies flailing as they threw themselves toward the open doorway.

Andy's hands hovered over the door controls, his expression cold and calculating.

"Wait!" Rain screamed at Andy, her voice thick with fear. "Stop closing the door!"

Tyler gave one last burst of speed, diving through the shrinking gap just as the door slammed shut behind him, the facehuggers crashing against the other side of the thick glass with sickening thuds.

Tyler collapsed to the ground, panting heavily. Rain crouched beside him, her face pale, her hands trembling as she checked on him.

"You almost pinned him in the door!" she snapped, her anger flaring as she looked up at Andy.

Andy's cold gaze flicked down to her, unmoved by the accusation. "Yes," he replied evenly, "but I didn't. I timed it perfectly—with more success than last time. Don't you agree?"

He turned his attention back to the glass, where the facehuggers continued to throw themselves against the barrier, their bodies thudding against it with unnerving persistence.

"They have come closer," he stated calmly, turning his gaze back to you. "We need to move on."

You glanced at Rain, who was helping a panting Tyler back to his feet, her expression still tense. There was no time to dwell on the near-miss, no time to argue; staying in one place wasn't an option.

Without another word, the four of you began to move again, the sound of the facehuggers' relentless hissing echoing in the corridor behind you as you pushed forward into the unknown.

☆

☆

The four of you hurried down the corridor, your footsteps echoing against the cold metal floor. The tension between you, Rain, Tyler, and Andy was palpable.

Every step felt heavier, the weight of Kay's voice still lingering in Tyler's ears. The hangar bay was just ahead; the door sealed shut.

As you approached, your heart sank.

On the other side of the door was Kay, her face twisted in terror as she pounded against the glass, her palms slamming into it with a frantic rhythm. She was sobbing, her words barely coherent as she screamed for her brother, her knuckles white from the force of her strikes.

The fear in her eyes was unlike anything you'd ever seen—raw and overwhelming. She was trapped, desperate; her face pale and streaked with tears. 

"Tyler!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her panic. "Please! Bjorn's dead—there's a monster in here! You have to help me!" Her sobs came in sharp gasps, the sound of someone utterly consumed by fear.

Tyler rushed to the door, his hands pressing against the glass as if he could reach through to her, his voice shaking as he tried to comfort her. "Shhh, it's okay, Kay. Take it easy. I'm here." He turned, his eyes darting frantically to Andy. "Andy, open the door. Please."

But something was wrong.

You noticed Andy wasn't moving, his gaze locked on the space above Kay's head. His stillness was unnerving, like he wasn't even in the room with you anymore.

It was as if he was entirely focused on something else—something none of you could yet see.

You reached out, your fingers gently brushing against Andy's wrist, your voice soft but filled with concern. "Andy, what's wrong?"

Before he could respond, Tyler's voice cut through the tension. "Andy!" his voice cracked, the desperation rising. "OPEN THE DOOR!"

Rain joined Tyler at the door, her expression tight with worry. "It's okay, Tyler. We'll get Kay out of there," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "Andy, come on."

But Andy still didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on whatever he was seeing beyond Kay. Rain glanced over her shoulder at you, her worry turning to frustration. "Andy! Open the door!"

A cold chill ran down your spine as you glanced at him, his face unreadable, yet there was something unnerving in the way he stared, completely focused on the space behind Kay.

And then you saw it.

Your breath hitched as your eyes followed Andy's gaze, locking onto the horrifying silhouette that hovered just above Kay—the Xenomorph.

"Oh Gods," Rain whispered, her voice barely audible. Tyler's face drained of color as he saw it too, the monstrous creature's black, shiny form looming in the shadows behind his sister.

Andy's calm presence beside you was unnerving—you felt his stare, cold and unreadable, as if he was waiting for you to understand something before speaking.

"Kay, look at me!" Tyler shouted, his voice trembling with desperation. "We'll get you out! Andy, open the fucking door!"

But Andy didn't flinch. His voice was steady and eerily calm as he said, "That's what the creature wants."

Tyler's desperation turned to fury. "Open it! Open it, now!" he shouted, slamming his fists against the door in frustration.

Rain ran to Andy, her voice thick with emotion. "Listen to me! She's pregnant, Andy! She's going to have a child! The door takes two seconds to open, please! You have to open it!" Her words were frantic, her eyes wide with fear and helplessness.

Andy's gaze remained cold and detached as he replied, "The creature will be able to reach in here easily."

Kay's voice broke through again, her sobs becoming hysterical as she looked back and forth between Andy and Tyler. "Why won't you help me?! You're one of us! Andy, open the damn door! Please!"

Tyler's panic reached a new level; he came over, dropping to his knees, his voice broken, pleading. "Andy, please. I have to go in after her."

Seeing Andy's lack of movement, Tyler turned to you, his hands shaking violently as he grabbed yours. His grip was tight, almost painful, but what struck you more was the look in his eyes—wild and terrified.

Tears streamed down his cheeks, his voice trembling as he pleaded with you. "Please, Y/N, you have to make him open it," he gasped, the weight of his fear palpable in every word. "I can't... I can't let her die like this. I can't lose her."

You could feel his hands trembling, the raw desperation in his touch, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at him. Kay's frantic cries echoed in the background, her fists still slamming against the glass, the terror in her voice growing more hysterical with each passing second.

"Tyler!" she screamed again, her voice breaking as she struggled to keep her panic under control. "Why won't you help me?!"

Your heart pounded in your chest as you looked between Tyler and Andy, feeling the tension pulling you in two directions.

Andy was still staring at you, his face unreadable but understanding. He could see it in your eyes—you had made your choice.

You looked back up at Kay, but then the Xenomorph's empty, soulless eyes locked onto yours through the glass.

For a moment, time seemed to stop.

You could feel its gaze pierce through you, cold and predatory, as if it were weighing whether you were its next target.

Your breath hitched, the world around you narrowing to just you and the creature.

And then, in a split second, you knew.

You knew Andy was right.

Without looking at Tyler or Rain, you slowly let your hand fall away from Andy's wrist, your body going cold as you realized what had to be done.

You couldn't open the door.

You opened your mouth, your voice barely a whisper. "I—"

And then... the creature moved.

In a sickening blur of speed, a dark blur of motion descended from the shadows above Kay's head, the sharp edges of its form cutting through the dim light. The Xenomorph, its glossy black body gleaming with a sickening sheen, lunged forward with terrifying speed.

Kay barely had time to scream before the creature's long, whip-like tail coiled around her throat, silencing her in an instant. Her eyes widened in shock and terror as her hands clawed at the tail, her feet kicking wildly as the creature lifted her into the air with ease.

"NO!" Tyler's scream was deafening as he threw himself against the glass, pounding on it with all his strength, but there was nothing he could do. He could only watch helpless as the creature slammed Kay against the door with brutal force.

The glass shuddered under the impact, cracks spider-webbing out from where her body hit.

Her eyes locked onto Tyler's, wide with terror and pleading for help, before the Xenomorph's tail sliced across her throat in a clean, brutal motion. Blood splattered across the glass window, obscuring her face as she went limp.

Her body dangled in the creature's grasp, lifeless, before it began dragging her away, her blood leaving a sickening trail behind.

You could only stare, frozen in shock. Your mind struggled to process what had just happened, your heart thudding painfully in your chest.

"I'm sorry," Andy said, his voice as calm as ever. "I could do nothing to save her."

Tyler's voice was shattered, filled with rage and sorrow. "You could've opened the damn door!" he screamed, his fists slamming against the glass again and again.

Andy remained unmoved. "Then we'd all be dead. We have to move on before the creature finds its way in here."

With that, Andy turned and began walking toward the elevator, his movements deliberate and mechanical.

Rain stared at the ground, too overwhelmed to speak. She looked between Tyler and the blood-streaked glass where her friend had been moments ago.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight as you forced yourself to move. You gave Rain a look, knowing she was struggling, and without a word, the three of you followed Andy.

As you stepped into the elevator, the tension was unbearable. Tyler collapsed onto the floor, still trembling, his knuckles white from clenching his fists. Rain stood beside him, her face drawn, her gaze distant.

Andy pressed the button, his movements calm, his eyes forward.

Rain's voice eventually broke the silence, barely above a whisper. "Andy... what is your primary directive?"

Andy tilted his head slightly, his eyes blinking slowly as he responded. "I have received a new directive. To do what is best for the company."

Rain's eyes widened with horror as she turned toward him. "I have to remove the module."

Andy's gaze remained fixed ahead, his voice devoid of emotion. "Unfortunately, it is not in the company's interest."

The elevator stopped, the doors sliding open with a soft ding. Andy stepped forward, turning to look back at the three of you, his eyes as cold as the metal walls around you.

"We must move on," he said, his voice calm and unyielding. "Now."

You clenched your fists, biting back the tears threatening to spill. The module—that cursed module—had changed him.

The Andy you knew, your sweet Andy, was buried beneath the cold programming that now controlled him.

A/N: ahh, its almost over, just 2-3 more chapters left. i cant wait to write more one-shots for andy 😩❤️

Tag List: @dreamsarenicer sadslasher13 ravenswife izzymae288 fairy-cores-world whattadroid tikitsune stevieharringtongf

[hometoursandotherstuff]

I have never seen a mid-century modern rustic home like this 1977, very dated, very large, house in Sekiu, Washington. Note the wires anchoring the roof down. 5bds, 3ba, $825K. Whoever buys this home will more than likely have to embrace the dated features, or completely gut the place. Take a look at this one.

This home is nothing if not funky. I don't know how you'd decorate it, but only if it wasn't so dark. Anyway, this is the entrance foyer. At first I thought that those were seahorses on the doors, but I think they're just patterns in the wood.

This is a large living room. I have no idea if those things going up along the stairs have any purpose.

And, off to the side is a large stone fireplace. It's a little weird b/c the foil wallpaper was the height of decor in the 70s, but it doesn't necessarily match the rustic style of this house.

I have never seen a sunken rec room.

Appliances in this corner make a kitchenette.

And, the rest is over here. Look at the interesting mosaics.

Down this hall are some bedrooms.

I am amazed that they left this cool headboard in the primary bedroom. There's a vintage intercom system on the wall, too.

The bathroom is funky and it's also carpeted.

Hall to more bedrooms.

This one has a feature wall.

The bath has interesting tile cabinetry.

There's a sink in the corner of this room, but it may be another bedroom., b/c there are only 3 baths.

The real estate photos show more detailed closeups than full rooms, like this sink.

And, this door and shower curtain.

The home features a sauna.

This is quite a large room. That counter looks like an upside down tree stump.

This looks like a hot tub b/c it has a cover.

Outside under the house is an outdoor kitchen.

Large driveway and garage in the back of the home.

The house is on 2.89 acres of land.

View of the Straits of Juan de Fuca.

And, there's a marina. Doesn't the house look like the Stealth Bomber from up here?

[hashimasims]

Even after the Magical duel the previous night Minthe got very little sleep and woke before the sun. She spends these early hours installing an intercom system throughout the house, somehow without waking her fellow housemates, and making breakfast. Once everything is ready she calls everyone into the kitchen using the new smart home upgrade.

Elia: I've been living here for years and never knew there was an intercom! How did you find it?

Minthe: There wasn't, I built it this morning.

Kevin: What? How?

Minthe: It wasn't difficult. I found evidence of a previous occupant starting the process and with the components I found in a storage bin, I was able to complete it.

Isiah: I knew I should have gone to bed naked last night.

Elia: ISIAH!

Isiah: I was kidding! Sheesh doesn't anyone understand jokes anymore?

Kevin: So you're telling me that you continued a home upgrade and made breakfast for all of us this morning? Did you even get enough sleep?

Minthe: Yes. I got a sufficient four hours. I was too wired to get a proper full night's rest unfortunately but worst case scenario I will take a quick nap between classes. Would anyone care to join me at the commons to study together? Say five o'clock? We should all be done with classes then, right?

Kevin: I'll be there

And everyone else voiced their agreement to the study session as well.

Micah: COFFEE! I love you Minty!

Minthe: The gratitude is appreciated. There is also some Dandelion Tea in the pot beside the stove if anyone else would like some.

Kaylee: I'll have me some of that!

Isiah: Damn! A man could get used to this!

Braden: What? You expecting to find someone to be your perfect little house-spouse and take care of you?

Kaylee: Minthe is not going to do this everyday. Just be grateful she did this for us this morning.

Isiah: She might when we're married.

Minthe: Woah! Who said anything about marriage?

Micah: Isiah is still planning on courting you Minty.

Minthe: But . . . Is . . . I don-

Isiah: Uh-uh don't count me out just yet. I'll wear you down eventually.

Elia: Enough! Hurry and go get dressed for the day everyone, I want to take a picture of you all for your first day.

Everyone files out to their respective bedrooms and then pose on the stairs per Elia's request. Just before Elia snaps the photo Kevin wraps an arm around Minthe and pulls her in closer to his side.

Beginning|Previous|Next

Stair Pose by @keirosims *WATCHER'S NOTE: This pose is NOT meant for regular stairs as you see here. I had to HEAVILY TOOL everyone into position so please don't be like me and think you will have no issue using in-game stairs when the Creator's post CLEARLY states the need for the CC ones linked in their post

[stonedragonisnthere]

"INTERFEARANCE" Haunted house concept!

Interfearance is an HHN house concept that features original characters from popular creators and newer artists in the fandom. The story is that a group of criminals taking up the mantles of the original four icons hijacking a museum tour and terrorizing the employees and guests alike. All artists will be credited in this post. Thank you ❤️

This post contains minor but still prominent graphic content. (And most likely very corny lines) If you are freaked out by topics such as murder or other horror themes like this, PLEASE do not look through the haunted house concept. some words will be replaced with others to avoid triggering Tumblr's banning system. Second disclaimer: This is only concept art and I do admit my style is a bit cartoony for this topic, Its my first time making one of these and you will have to know these characters before hand in order to get a better understanding.

𝐼𝒩𝒯𝐸𝑅𝐹𝐸𝒜𝑅𝒜𝒩𝒞𝐸

After going through the house's queue, You will find yourself at the front of a museum. Once entering, you are met with a tour guide giving a description of "Fear's Lantern" and the history of Carey, Ohio's most infamous mysteries. All seems neutral until two hands bust through behind the information board and strangle the guide with a wire. The victim struggles before passing out and sliding down, leading for the gloved hands to grab the intercom to them from behind the hole. The lighting dims with a red hue as the lantern glows.

"We're sorry for the interruption, but You folks are going an alternate route through our newest exhibits!"

You move pass the introduction and enter into the first section of the maze, an outdoor environment themed to a carnival in progress of being set up, scareactors in clown makeup walk up and down aside the trail while holding weapons, Near by the entrance is a victim tied to a wheel, being spun around by Poprox the clown! Clearly there's been moderations made to his weapon of choice..

On the other side of the trail, before exiting this segment, You are face to face with the new ringleader of the maniac's operation, Mumbles! Standing on a crate-made-stage, looming over everyone passing by, reaching out just to get a spook out of them.

The next segment transitions from circus to manor as you enter through the second entrance, a sign on the wall points towards the morgue, ran by Dr.Caine, Her morgue unlike her father's is revamped, similar to that of a modern hospital. Everything is lit with blacklights as the surgeon inspects her newest live autopsy.

Passing by the procedure, before you head out of the morgue, you walk aside a wall adorned with skeletons of various animals. Rat emerges from a black curtain space next to the skeletons with a flashing light queue

Once exiting this segment, the environment changes from hospital to a grimy poolroom, There's blotches and bloodstains sprinkling the walls until you get to a room with Starlet and a recent actor turned victim who is being used for a remake of one of the Director's most infamous projects, "The Widow's Eye (This specific victim will be important later)

Once leaving Starlet's segment, you enter an abandoned structure, obscured with fog and humming coming from the middle of the section. There's a dried up fountain in Fear it self's image, covered in vines and cracks glowing underneath, the vines are all broken off at the hands as if it was holding something before. There is one character here which could be either Poproz, Rat, or Starlet. These characters alternate out with eachother.

After getting around the statue, you enter the final segment, the environment now resembles a small makeshift theatre with hand puppets decorating the walls, you pass by a small theatre and a dragon puppet, Stone, greets you, the interaction ends however, once the lights start flashing and the curtains unveil showing the person behind the puppet, Gracie, as she strikes with a pair of scissors.

CREDITS

@thearoclown - Poprox

@chainsawb0y - Mumbles

@corzoli - Rat

@overlookedhotels - Starlet

Me! - Stone and Gracie

Cindy belongs to Universial Studios

Fire header - @animatedglittergraphics-n-more

[naxyblog]

2 wire video intercom system – Know more about it

while everyone is in awe of video intercom systems to ensure the security of their premises, they are left confused when it comes to making a choice between 2-wire and 4-wire video intercom systems. A website description

[dragongirlintestines]

Your crew did it! The crew of the Ingress Respected finally captured that terrifying dragon woman! You can finally breathe a sigh of relief, as the news that that... thing... isn't freely roaming the system hunting whoever it can get its claws on!

And as a preventative measure, and for the sake of humiliation, someone managed to stick a bell on her restraint collar. Now that was funny.

Anyways, now that the mission is completed, maintenance needs to be done. You take your tools down to the lower decks, and begin the long, slow process of restoring the ship's damaged systems. Thankfully life support is still mostly functional, but the lights, the intercom, and a few other minor systems need to be restored.

You ignite your headlamp, and go delving into the bowels of the ship. Hours pass as you move from plasma burn to plasma burn, prying open half-melted panels and splicing patches into the burned-out cables.

jingle, jingle

A sound echoes through the deserted halls. Eerily familiar.

Terror grips your mind as you realize. You should only hear this sound in the brig. You need to get to a hiding spot. The panel you just finished working on should suffice. You peel it back from the wall, before stowing yourself away amongst the ducts and wires inside the walls. A small gap gives you a glimpse out into the hall, and you douse your headlamp to conceal your location. The hallway is barely visible from the faint glow of emergency markers.

jingle. jingle.

The sound approaches. It was supposed to be humorous, and it was when that thing was stuck in the brig. But if it broke out... no one is safe.

Jingle. Jingle.

A shadow passes in front of the emergency lighting strip. You can make out the silhouette of something round.

Another shape pounces on it.

Ah. Halogen, the captain's cat. You breathe a sigh of relief.

You step out of your hiding place, and you can see the reflection of the cat's eyes briefly as it scampers into the darkness.

Back to work then.

You flick the switch on your headlamp and turn back to the panel you had hidden behind.

A great, ashen blue thigh fills your view, and you trip as you try to scramble backwards.

The beast pounces.

You scream as your gore stains its maw.

[host-hubliminal]

TEST_LOG_RECORDS. SELECT FROM THE FOLLOWING TEST LOGS. ||PAGE 4 OF 20.|| TEST1: v18.07 TEST1: v18.08 TEST1: v18.09 TEST1: v18.10 TEST1.12: v20.17 TEST1.12: v20.18 TEST1.9: v5.01 > TEST2: v1.05 TEST2.5: v0.1 <<=[BACK]--[NEXT]=>> ———————————— TEST2: v1.05 SELECTED. TYPE [C] TO CONFIRM or [D] TO DENY SELECTION. > C WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WITH THIS SELECTION? [Data_Summary] > Full_Record_Transcription [Delete_Test_Record] ———————————— PLAYING_TEST_RECORD_TRANSCRIPTION. START_TEST2: v1.05 Loading…………… ———————————— Chatroom 5C, Wing 8: Instance 12 Dated: January 28th, 2024 [Addendum; Names have been shortened and/or changed to keep identities hidden.] ML has opened the chatroom. ML added XG to the chat. ML added TT to the chat. ML added PhL to the chat. ML added UY to the chat. XG: ML, You do know that you don’t have to add me in every single chat every time you make a new chatroom, right? ML: hush! I don’t want a repeat of the wire incident. XG: Fine. I will observe then, I guess. You all really need to get another person for security besides just me you know. UY: I haven’t had a single applicant of quality come in for weeks besides you, XG. XG: I would say otherwise but you run the place. TT: can we please get on with the test? if they’re down for any longer than 15 minutes we might not be able to revive them at all, and they’re crucial for further testing. ———————————— STARTING>>System_H-RA. System_H-RA-STARTED! STARTING>>System_RS. INPUT_TARGET_ID_TO-CONTINUE: … TARGET_ID: Host-1.1 System_RS-STARTED! RESPAWN-COMMENCING……… - - - - - Unfamiliar audio detected in AREA_C43_RSAR. Recording engaged. Recorded audio transcription from Host Respawn Anchor; [Hum of Host Respawn Anchor] [Incoming Teleportation sound muffled from being inside Anchor.] Host 1.1: [Unintelligible] HELLO? Hellooo? [Sounds of Host 1.1 banging on metal.] - - - - - ———————————— PhL: thank god… UY: Good. The technology Dr.[REDACTED] has been improved in quality. Yet we have yet to receive the actual notification that the Host Respawn Function has actually succeeded. PhL: I-I mean- it still works- just because the bells and whistles aren’t- TT: PhL, don’t. PhL: o-okay, XG: No, PhL has a point. This didn’t result in a splatter on the wall. In fact, I don’t think it even microwaved them in the slightest. TT: could you be any less graphic? XG: They were a plate of noodles! TT: he was a person for pete’s sake! Does that mean ANYTHING to you? XG: In my defense, it was kind of funny. TT: … TT: whatever, let’s just. get on with it ———————————— - - - - - [Metal door to Host Respawn Anchor opens. Host 1.1’s footsteps can be heard as they step out.] [Intercom buzzes on.] ML: Welcome! Sorry for that grizzly bit there, we just needed you to test out our Respawn System for you guys. Host 1.1: WAIT SO YOU SAW THAT- THAT THING?? AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO DO ANYTHING?? ML: Buddy, it is your fault that you upset the fauna naturally found within Liminal Space. Host 1.1: YOU DIDN’T EVEN TELL US ANYTHING ELSE WAS IN HERE! YOU TOLD US JACK! Where- how do I find that other guy again? ML: Host 1.2? Uhhhhh I think he’s still on the same level as you- try heading east? Host 1.1: Thanks. I guess. ML: You’re welcome! - - - - - TEST2: v1.05_CONCLUDED. RECORDING ENDED.

[return-to-twisted-wonderland]

Ramshackle Boys In The OG Universe - Where They Don't Exist [152]

[OG Universe: Crowley's Office]

Crowley: So, you 4 fixed the Intercom System?

Jayden: I did. It didn't take too long. Just some rotten wires and fuses needed to be replaced.

Crowley: I see. Thank you for your help.

[hiddenobject-fanblog]

The Art of a Moment

Summary: This wasn't art.

A look into one of the most intense moments of the game, in Sam's perspective.

-----

Sam clutched his handbag close when he faced the cold weather outside, shivering involuntarily at the gust of wind that hit him and wiping his nose using the end of his sleeve for the seventh time. The weather was the last thing on his mind right now; he was focused on saving the love of his life and solving the puzzles of this masked maniac. It was hard enough to constantly keep track of what items he had and where he needed to go. His mind was always working and thinking - he doubted he would have a moment of rest until Anna was back in his arms. 

He entered the generator and the intercom above flashed a green light. He was met with the familiar voice of Oscar: 

“I heard once that true art lives in a sparkling moment… that it’s a flash, leaving a bright trace, and is remembered for a lifetime… it never becomes routine…. Do you understand what I mean, Sam?”

He was going on about art and immortality again. Sam really couldn’t care about Oscar’s monologuing. He was constantly putting himself and his ‘art’ on a pedestal. It was enough to have to see the embalmed vessels of dead bodies, but he also had to put up with this man’s justifications for them. He didn’t care how it was done - murder was murder , and he was going to put an end to this bloodshed of young people. 

Sam was grateful for the green scarf wrapped around his person, as he had to return indoors and re-enter the freezer so he could smash some ice to obtain what was underneath. As he reeled back into position, wielding the icepick in both hands, he could hear a voice enabling him from around the room: 

“Go on, Sam, smash that anger out of you, but things are going to change… soon.” 

 And maybe he did. Maybe those grunts weren’t out of exhaustion, but of anger , of realizing what predicament he was in, of thinking of all those innocent people immortalized in green chambers. From musing how a murderer like Oscar could convince himself that thieving these people of their lives to entertain his sick view of mortality was nothing but a favor done to the victims he claimed. 

Sam scowled as he dropped the icepick. Anna was what was important. He could deal with all of this later. 

He pressed a button and a keycard emerged from the frozen device. He knew what it was for. He traversed the house and returned to a locked room he previously could not access. He slid the keycard in and was prompted to enter a code. He grabbed his journal and flipped through the pages until he found the combination he’d written down. A smart move - he had a hard time memorizing what he came across with all that was going on. 

127530.

The moment he entered the code, the door unlocked itself and he threw it open impatiently. He was once again taunted by the cool voice from the intercom above: 

“Ready or not..!” 

This was nothing more than a sick game to him..!

Sam grit his teeth angrily as he moved forward. Anger was a very powerful thing, something he normally did not feel to such a degree, and he felt it pooling more and more inside of himself. He’d reported on stories that sickened him and exposed unjustful doings of people and companies…but nothing stirred him like this . 

He wasn’t surprised to find himself in a rubber room. Someone like Oscar probably needed it. The door across from him was open and feeding light into the dim room. He could see a sliver of elaborate wallpaper beyond it and determined that it led somewhere new. As he moved to cross the threshold, the door suddenly slammed shut - trapping Sam in the padded cell. The light above him flickered off, closing him in complete darkness. 

His heart raced as his eyes widened, overcome with a sense of fear. Yes, Oscar must have control over the doors and lights. It made sense, if he had gone through the trouble of wiring up his intercom system and placing these puzzles everywhere. But he hadn’t done anything like this before - and it took Sam completely aback. 

He had no time to react any further. Oscar’s voice became the only sound in the room. The giddiness in his tone made Sam’s stomach twist unpleasantly. 

“Well, I’ve decided, Sam. I decided to try a new kind of art. The art of a moment will fill the house today. Get ready..!” 

There was a pause, although he was not done recording. Sam took this opportunity to attempt to find a handle on the door, but there was none. He tried banging on it but it did not budge. It was clear that the only way it would move was when Oscar decided to control it again. 

He listened intently to the sound of the killer’s own footsteps. He was clearly walking down a hallway, as Sam recognized the sound of heels hitting hard tile. Why was he still recording if he wasn’t speaking? Whatever was coming next didn’t bode well, and the journalist found himself holding his breath and tensing every muscle in his body so as to prepare for it. 

Oscar started speaking again, but it clearly wasn’t to Sam. There was the sound of glasses moving, of murmured voices and conversation carried far in the background. Were there…other people here? Besides him ? 

“Distinguished guests, as you all know, today I prepared a private presentation of my new variety of Goldvale Whiskey. Its wonderful taste and aroma will astound you. So let us drink.” 

He listened - horrified - to the audible sound of clinking glasses. There were groans, he even heard a voice asking ‘what was that? ’, before the recording was overcome with coughing and exclamations of agony. There was the sound of tables being knocked over, glasses shattering on the floor, woman audibly fainting and exclaiming…Sam processed all this with his jaw agape and desperately tried at the door again. No matter how much he pounded and attempted to rip at the padded walls with his fingernails…nothing happened. 

He didn’t even know when he started screaming. He was exclaiming at the top of his lungs to warn those people to get out of there - don’t drink the whiskey! - this was a murdering madman and they were at his mercy!!! 

The column he’d written in the Wellshire Telegraph briefly flashed before his eyes. His warning to the public, of the man who moved in the same rich, highly educated circles who was firm in conviction. That he could be anyone - even naming a random situation like a business partner inviting someone to a charity dinner in his mansion. He compared him to a chameleon - changing to fit his surroundings, suspecting him to reside in a country mansion. 

Has Oscar gained inspiration from his column? His random example of masking himself and inviting others to dinner? Except now it was a whiskey presentation? 

Sam wanted to pull his hair. He wanted to scream his lungs out. The murderer’s voice rang over the intercom, sounding disgusted and disappointed with what just happened. 

“And they call this The Art? Mass murderers are not worthy to stand with me! Oh, now I ruined so many beautiful showpieces and I will never forgive myself for that!” 

The light flickered back on and the door opened again. Sam hesitated before moving out and into the room that he had been sealed from. A horrifying sight greeted him - five bodies laying limply on the couches and chairs, facing a table with a bottle of poisoned whiskey and four full shot glasses. He could see the shattered remains of one by one of the bodies, who had dropped his share in the fit of the moment. 

He was in a room full of dead bodies. Not one embalmed and dressed person - but several people, who had been breathing and talking mere minutes ago. The aura of death reeked heavily here and he could almost taste it on his tongue. He feared touching them because he knew they would still be warm. They were fresh and effective kills - not a sight of a massacre, but several murders, nonetheless. 

As his eyes studied the scene, widened and full of discernment, Oscar’s voice surfaced in the room. 

“Are you condemning me? Well…I must admit you’re right. That was…sloppy.” 

Sloppy . 

That was how he was going to describe it? Because they weren’t preserved pieces of ‘art’? Oscar single handedly poisoned five people by hosting a fake presentation, while also monitoring and steering Sam in this gigantic circle of a puzzle. How and when did this happen? Had he planned for this to happen, and have him witness the sounds of people dying? 

He felt sick. He felt numb. He had no idea how to grasp this situation as his eyes hovered over the slumped bodies. He started imagining Anna as one of them, eyes shut and no longer moving. Just the thought caused him to retch a little in his mouth, and he adamantly turned away from the sight. 

His hand shook as he went to record this in his journal. 

This wasn’t art.