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sassenach77yle · 3 months ago

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||COUNTDOWN ||SEASON 7 EPISODE 05 || SINGAPORE ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

She pressed her back against the tunnel wall, hands flat on the rough rock, and thought. That’s where they’d gone, then. It made no difference, but she closed her eyes to improve her concentration and summoned up the pages of the massive binder—presently on the seat of the vanished truck—that contained the structural and engineering details of all the hydroelectric stations under her purview.She’d looked at the diagrams for this one last night and again, hastily, while brushing her teeth this morning. The tunnel led to the dam, and had obviously been used in the construction of the lower levels of that dam. How low? If the tunnel joined at the level of the turbine chamber itself, it would have been walled off. But if it joined at the level of the servicing chamber above—a huge room equipped with the multi-ton ceiling cranes needed to lift the turbines from their nests—then there would still be a door; there would have been no need to seal it off, with no water on the other side.Try as she might, she couldn’t bring the diagrams to mind in sufficient detail to be sure there was an opening into the dam at the far end of the tunnel—but it would be simple enough to find out.

SHE’D SEEN THE TRAIN, in that brief moment before the doors closed; it didn’t take much fumbling round to get into the open cab of the tiny engine. Now, had those clowns taken the key to the engine, too? Ha. There was no key; it worked by a switch on the console. She flipped it, and a red button glowed with sudden triumph as she felt the hum of electricity run through the track beneath.The train couldn’t have been simpler to run. It had a single lever, which you pushed forward or back, depending on which direction you meant to go. She shoved it gently forward, and felt air move past her face as the train moved silently off into the bowels of the earth.She had to go slowly. The tiny red button shed a comforting glow over her hands, but did nothing to pierce the darkness ahead, and she had no idea where or how much the track curved. Neither did she want to hit the end of the track at a high rate of speed and derail the engine. It felt as though she was inching through the dark, but it was much better than walking, feeling her way over a mile of tunnel lined with high-voltage cables.It hit her in the dark.

For a split second, she thought someone had laid a live cable on the track. In the next instant, a sound that wasn’t a sound thrummed through her, plucking every nerve in her body, making her vision go white. And then her hand brushed rock and she realized that she had fallen across the console, was hanging halfway out of the tiny, trundling engine, was about to fall out into darkness.Head spinning, she managed to grab the edge of the console and pull herself back into the cab. Flipped the switch with one shaking hand and half-fell to the floor, where she curled up, gripping her knees, her breath a whimpering in the dark.

“Holy God,” she whispered. “Oh, Blessed Mother. Oh, Jesus.”

She could feel it out there. Still feel it. It didn’t make a sound now, but she felt its nearness and couldn’t stop trembling.She sat still for a long time, head on her knees, until rational thought began to come back.She couldn’t be mistaken. She’d passed through time twice, and knew the feeling. But this hadn’t been nearly so shocking. Her skin still prickled and her nerves jumped and her inner ears rang as though she’d thrust her head into a hive of hornets—but she felt solid. She felt as though a red-hot wire had sliced her in two, but she hadn’t had the horrible sense of being disassembled, turned physically inside out.

A terrible thought sent her surging to her feet, clinging to the console.

Had she jumped? Was she somewhere—somewhen—else?

But the metal console was cool and solid under her hands, the smell of damp rock and cable insulation unchanged.“No,” she whispered, and flicked the power light for reassurance. It came on, and the train, still in gear, gave a sudden lurch. Hastily, she throttled back the speed to less than a crawl.She couldn’t have jumped into the past.

Small objects in direct contact with a traveler’s person seemed to move with them, but an entire train and its track was surely pushing it. “Besides,” she said out loud, “if you’d gone more than twenty-five years or so into the past, the tunnel wouldn’t be here. You’d be inside… solid rock.” Her gorge rose suddenly, and she threw up.The sense of… it… was receding, though. It—whatever it was—was behind her. Well, that settled it, she thought, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. There bloody well had to be a door at the far end, because there was no way she was going back the way she’d come.

There was a door. A plain, ordinary, industrial metal door. And a padlock, unlocked, hanging from an open hasp. She could smell WD-40; someone had oiled the hinges, very recently, and the door swung open easily when she turned the knob. She felt suddenly like Alice, after falling down the White Rabbit’s hole. A really mad Alice.A steep flight of steps lay on the other side of the door, dimly lit—and at the top was another metal door, edged with light. She could hear the rumble and the metallic whine of a ceiling crane in operation.Her breath was coming fast, and not from the effort of climbing the stairs. What would she find on the other side? It was the servicing chamber inside the dam; she knew that much. But would she find Thursday on the other side? The same Thursday she’d had when the tunnel doors had closed behind her?She gritted her teeth and opened the door. Rob Cameron was waiting, lounging back against the wall, lit cigarette in hand. He broke into an enormous grin at sight of her, dropped the butt, and stepped on it.

“Knew ye’d make it, hen,” he said. Across the room, Andy and Craig turned from their work and applauded.“Buy ye a pint after work, then, lass,” Andy called.“Two!” shouted Craig.She could still taste bile at the back of her throat. She gave Rob Cameron the sort of look she’d given Mr. Campbell.

“Don’t,” she said evenly, “call me hen.”

His good-looking face twitched and he tugged at his forelock with mock subservience.“Anything you say, boss,” he said.

Tunnel Tigers ~ An Echo in the Bone

#the frasers #outlander #outlander series #outlanderedit #outlander fanart #outlander starz #outlander book #outlander books #sophie skelton #brianna fraser #brianna mackenzie #outlander season 7 #outlander 7x05

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bitchfitch · 4 days ago

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A thing that's been happening in the back ground over the last few weeks is that I've been working on making Vermin's Angel a real thing. Mostly because I wanted to experiment with writing in the actual novel format instead of the post™ format I usually do for my personal projects.

So, here's the first chapter but long. It's not properly edited, but it's good enough to be worth posting for posterity.

Vermin's Angel, CH 1

Lino had long since learned that the best scores were the ones you didn't have to work for. Younger scavengers than him could do the heavy lifting of digging up ley lines and checking the voltage moving through them to locate yet unfound bunkers. He would simply wait for them to take their first burden and then pick through everything that was left. It was a system that had served him well in the decade and a half it'd taken to develop it, but on the odd occasion it still managed to fail him.

He'd been tailing a newer scavenger, a teenager by the name of Cordero, for a full week now. It wasn't hard, they'd torn a path through the brush as clumsily as he had at that same age, but there was no sign of them when Lino arrived at the ring.

Bunkers were living things that ate the world around them. They were largely self sufficient and isolated from the outside world, but they still needed raw material to push through their converters for repairs. Over the years this lead to them creating ring shaped valley's that perfectly circled the entrance crown.

This one was massive. It was wide and deep enough that if it wasn't devoid of plant life even Lino would've thought it was natural. Maybe that's what got Cordero off course, they'd come to this place and trudged on thinking they'd not found it yet.

Lino would have to track them down once he had the in established. They were a good kid and after all the sweat they put into this, least he could do was make sure they made it back to the Sun in one piece.

He dropped his bag off at the edge of the center dome, grabbed his spade, and got to the work he had hoped would already be done for him.

Overriding a bunker's locks was one of those skills Lino wished he'd never had to learn. Not because it was particularly difficult, but because it was always a tedious, messy, job. He was on his belly in his freshly dug fox hole down deeper than he was tall with a high voltage ley line a hands width from his face and the multi ton mechanism of a prewar machine hidden all around him by wet dirt. His clothes had long since gotten soaked from the ground water seeping in from all sides, his nose itched, his fingers were starting to go numb from the position he had had to keep his arms crammed into to steady his hands enough for the work.

Lino's probe had already found the right spot within the wires, so all he had to do was keep it where it needed to be and scroll through the loaded memory cards as each exhausted it's list of known override injections. The breakin box in his hand clicked as it signalled each failed attempt to force code through the glass cables, before finally the world around him began to shake.

He clambered out of the hole with as little grace and as much speed was needed to avoid finding out which door opening procedure this bunker used the same way he'd witnessed other scavengers do it; by getting caught by the machine and reduced to mulched fertilizer for the plants.

The stretch of ground before him ruptured as the bulkhead tore up through the earth. The hole he had previously occupied collapsing as it's anchor legs churned through the dirt like a blender. The mechanisms that drove it growling as it crushed everything that had settled into it in the years since it was either abandoned or made a mausoleum.

When the doors finally opened to grant him access into the elevator he was met with the large 'W' insignia of Wirnhir Corporation . It was all over the countless bunkers they built. Maybe as a reminder for those who commissioned the structures creation that it was the Wirnhirs who granted them safety in the last moments of the old world, maybe it was meant as a distraction from who it was that built the bombs they were now sheltering from.

He got his gear bag over his shoulder and his gas mask over his face before stepping in and tapping the single button on the smooth brass colored walls. WC bunkers were the expensive ones. In Lino's years of scavenging, they always turned up full of pre-war art and luxury items that were too pricy to waste the resources on making these days. But his specialty, the endless list of machines that kept these bunkers running were always hidden away behind panels and made near impossible to break down quickly. It usually made every WC he found a gamble, but with Codero in the area they'd probably manage to make out with better hauls than either would've gotten on their own.

He was older for a scavenger, almost thirty-five and still paying his dues by raiding tombs. Maybe this was fate's way of finally giving him an out from this life. Cordero clearly needed help learning the little details of this work, and he needed someone with less worn out joints to do the hard work... If the kid was interested, becoming a mentor didn't leave too bad of a taste in Lino's mouth.

The elevator opened up to the main hall, the lights hidden by the crown molding flicked on in a gentle wave along its length as the motion detectors picked up on him entering.

WC bunkers had an uncanniness to them. Marble floors, faux dark wood accents, and pre-war furniture. Cleaner robots still whirring away even after all their masters were long dead made it look like time had simply stopped when the doors shut.

When he had nightmares, they always happened in these. Other bunker classes still looked like places humans had once lived. Messy and altered by hands long gone, no two ever looking alike. Decayed and broken but they felt safer for it. They were never hiding anything.

There were only about a half dozen floor plans for WC bunkers, and he already knew from the shape of the foyer that he was dealing with the largest of them today. Most of them had names inscribed by their elevators, but Lino couldn't read the loopy script it was always written in. He knew from the scavengers that could that these behemoths usually had "Castillo" or "Manor" or "Fort" in their names. Something that made them sound old and formal even when they were new.

He turned from the main hall to enter the family room where the central control panel and systems map would be only to stop in his tracks at the sight of the silent crowd that awaited him.

Mannequins. What had to be at least a hundred mannequins stood in clusters through the room. Each wore gorgeous pre-war ensembles. Each was positioned as though it were involved in a conversation with others.

It was bizarre, had the cleaners just mistaken these forms for actual people? The paths between them were clean, as were the narrow spaces between their stands. Lino wondered if the last person to have lived here had simply grown lonely.

He could imagine it easily, trapped in this unchanging place as the world above recovered from bombs and man made eruptions. He wondered which empty spot was theirs. Had they still been at this gathering when death finally took them? Were they here amongst their fabricated friends when the cleaners came to break down their body to carry it in pieces to the incinerator like any other piece of filth?

The clothes the mannequins wore were finely tailored. not a seam or stich or wrinkle in the cloth out of place. Like they were made for the mannequins instead of just being something the mannequins were being allowed to wear. The fabric was strange too. It was immaculate. The weave hadn't begun to come loose, and the fibers weren't rotting or crumbling. Lino didn't dare touch them with his muddy hands, but many looked to be made with silk or soft wool instead of the cotton and meat breed wool they had to use.

They looked like not a single day had passed between their creation and him finding them.

It was a shame really that their only value was in the fabric they were made of. No one looked like that anymore.

A head, thin neck, a chest with smooth ribs and two arms to a pelvis with two legs. The people in the Core called it the Classic Look. Most of the radiation shielding Lino had sold in his life had gone to lining the homes of people who wanted nothing more than for their children to be born Classic. He wasn't even sure it ever did anything.

Lino had been born out in the Corona like most other scavengers, no shielding, no special non-irradiated water, and he was the most Classic looking person most had ever seen. Still, the vast majority of these garments wouldn't fit even him.

The majority, but not all. As he walked between the party goers he found one single dress that looked like it might be close enough.

It was a dull grey that sparkled silver when the light caught just right, with a halter neck that buttoned shut and no back. Most of the clothes Lino had been able to justify keeping from these bunkers looked like the dress, halter tops and short skirts went a long way in making his extra arms and minute stature look natural, but none were in half as good condition as this.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his other set folding to wrap over his shoulders like a cloak. He hadn't even gotten that deep into this place before he found these. Between the fabric of all the other clothes and whatever else he could fit in his bags, he'd have enough to cover his dues to the end of the season at least. Maybe longer if he could sell a few of the more tailored ones as art pieces instead of scrap fabric. He could get even more if he could shake the trailers on a few return trips. As soon as word spread that he'd found this place there'd be a race from the scavengers who hadn't gotten so lucky recently to find the route to it.

One dress wouldn't make that much of a difference, he argued with himself. It would fold up in his personal supply bag to fill the space his rations had instead of taking up room in his haulers... He could always sell it later if he had to- But if he sold it now before the market was flooded by everything else in this bunker it would be worth more

Lino sighed in frustration at himself and got to work stripping out of his muddy clothes. He had to make this decision now or it would nag at him for the entire four day walk back home.

He dropped his gear bag and wiped as much of his top half clean as he could with the inside of his shirt. He was careful to not disturb the O2 canister that hung off his belt until he noticed the small panel of status lights were telling him the pump wasn't pulling from the canister at all. It wasn't even directing his air supply through the filter, just feeding him the same ambient air he would be breathing if he wasn't wearing his gas mask at all.

Bunkers were massive metal beasts, their superstructures rusting ate up all the oxygen almost as soon as the computers detected there were no more living things in their bellies to make air for. For it to be breathable down here meant the O2 makers must be something immense.

He made a note to himself to Maybe tell one of the quarter overseers about it. The Inner Core's O2 maker was constantly on the fritz and there might be a payday and a promotion for Lino if he got to be the one to lead the mission back here to carve the multi-ton lung out to haul home.

He dropped his mask off beside his gear bag, before dropping his pants and stepping out of his boots and wet socks. It was far from the first time he'd been naked in a bunker. The Sun didn't usually waste electricity on heating bath water, so hot showers were a luxury reserved for the scavengers when they found bunkers that had all the systems in place to grant them that opportunity. Still, the army of mannequins around him had his nerves on edge enough to make him rush getting the dress on.

It was irritating how well it fit. The silk lining slid over his work roughened skin, the bodice which was cut for a large chested Classic woman fit his broad ribcage and the layer of heavy muscle it took to support his extra arms like it was made to do so. The high low skirt hid how short he was by looking intentionally cut. The front hung a hands width off the ground the back dragged like the fancy trains he'd seen in countless pre-war pieces of entertainment. He'd need to take in a few inches at the waistband, and find a way to make it sit higher up so it was actually around his waist instead of his hips, but otherwise it felt perfect.

The skirt alone had a day or two worth of dues in it at least.

He stepped away from the mannequins to the floor to ceiling mirrors the WC bunkers always had as some attempt to alleviate the claustrophobia of being underground, and his chest tightened.

He looked gorgeous in the dress. His dusty albino white skin and hair and the grey of the dress made him look like the pre-war stone statues that decorated many of the bunkers. The collar had been cut just right to look like it was made to accommodate his mutated arms, the small peak at the nape of his neck fell perfectly between his extra shoulder blades. Like his disfigurements were something to be tailored for instead of something he should have allowed to be tailored off of him years ago.

He spun to make the skirts flare up around him, his bare feet padding on the marble floor until he came to a jerking halt.

He wasn't alone anymore. Another person, badly mutated, stood at the entrance. They crawled on their hands, six by the look of it, and dragged their legs behind them as they took tilting steps into the room. Their mouth looked like a gash in their throat, their lower jaw hung open as they swallowed their breaths like an animal scenting the air.

Lino didn't recognize them, they weren't another scavenger and they certainly weren't Cordero. Had they been down here already? They wore clothes tailored to them, not as extravagant as anything the mannequins wore, but still undeniably pre-war in their design and lux in the sheer amount of fabric it would have taken to make something for the behemoth.

A dweller. Someone who had returned to the bunkers long after they initially emptied. They were rare, usually outcast or banished for violent crimes against the surface communities. That was the only explanation for their presence that Lino could think of.

"I heard you," they had a deep, muffled voice, like it came from far lower in their throat than it should. "Vermin, I heard you. Where are you, you pest?"

They're blind. A mercy, Lino thinks. He's never encountered a dweller in person, but he didn't need all the stories of the claustrophobia driving good people insane to know he didn't want to meet this one.

He steps along the wall, careful to keep silent as the dweller moved through the room towards his discarded gear. He wouldn't be able to leave without it- He hadn't even brought rations for the return trip. Lino always betted on his ability to get the replicators in these places functional again to save on bag weight.

The dweller stops at his pile of muddy clothes. Pawing at it like an animal as they inhale the unfamiliar smell. They freeze, then raise their head slowly their beastly lips twisted in a snarl.

"Another of you!?" they whipped their head around gasping down breaths as they tried to locate him by smell alone.

He needs to get his gear bag, he can make this work if he can just get his bag.

They take a step towards him, Lino takes another to the side, his fear making him move too fast. The tiny sound of his foot fall was enough to have the dweller launching at him, a horrific growl cutting the air, Lino ran for his bag. The mirror shattered behind him as they collided with the spot Lino had just been.

His heart pounded, he grabbed the strap of his bag, not stopping to attempt to recover his mask too, only for its tubing to snag and send the tank clattering across the floor. The sound buys him an extra few strides in his bolt for the elevator, but the dweller is shockingly fast for their size.

Their mutated hands pound the floor behind him, before they lunge. Their fist catching the hem of his skirt.

The breath slams out of him as he collides with the floor his shoulder screaming from striking the stone before the skin is scraped from his arm by the dweller yanking him towards them. He kicks, his heel colliding with their soft throat, their hand grabs his leg hard enough to make his bones grate. All he can do is attempt to kick again, bracing on the cold floor to drive his other heel into their jaw over and over until they snap. Their ugly maw opening before Lino's world evaporates into blind pain.

The dweller's teeth lock into his flesh, their mighty jaw breaking the bones in his lower leg before they jerk their head, upsetting his balance and cracking his skull against the stone.

The vermin's blood welled in his mouth. It's putrid taste stained his tongue even as he spat it out. Disgusting, Vile thing. Vincent growled low in his chest as he dragged it closer. The ugly creature was in one of his dresses, he could tell from the feeling of the fabric under his hands. It was the grey one with the silver threads he'd sewn into the weave one by one to make sure it glittered just right.

Filthy awful thing. How had it even gotten in here? His home was supposed to be secure against the monsters that defiled the surface with their presence. He'd set the locks to re-engage and to bury his home once more as soon as the first rodent escaped him. What exploit were they using to enter and how does he block it off forever?

He pet his hands up it's front, searching for it's neck so that he may ring it and rescue his work from further damage only to come to a stop over it's narrow ribs. It breathed quiet, even breaths. Its ribs are as smooth under his hands as it's emaciated little hips had been. Its belly is taught, but not deformed, it's chest full and symmetrical, he drags his hands down it's arms and finds them thin but proportional to the rest of it, it's hands are tiny in his, each with five delicate fingers, none with webbing between them.

He knew from the way that the other vermin had ran that it was just as fowled by sin as he was, but this one- There had to be something wrong. Something that he had just not found yet.

He'd already felt it's heels, he knew the shape of its leg from where he'd marred it- He scrambled to find it's neck, this time searching for what was wrong with it- there had to be something wrong with it. Its neck was thin like the rest of it, too small to fill the collar of his dress but so normal under his hands that it made his heart twist. It's jaw was soft and round, its cheeks devoid of the fat he could tell should be there. Two eyes with soft lashes, a straight nose, thin lips. Its- His, his hair was silk under Vincent's fingers. Dirty and greasy, but soft despite the wretched state he was in.

What has he done?

This was no vermin, but a person he'd attacked out of blind hate for the beasts. He gathers him into his arm already planning to make a run for the medical supplies so he may staunch the bleeding, only to be stopped dumb as he finally finds the oddities he'd been searching for. Two perfect wings, the feathers move like scaled armor under his touch.

An Angel, the answer to his prayers after so many years.

Oh, what has he done?

#tldr the difference between post and novel format is that in a post youre racing your readers attention span #so when you're actually writing a Novel™ you have a lot more time to get detailed and string threads together instead of having to have #every individual chapter be as minimal as possible And work as a stand alone piece #Fanfic writing is also not really the same as book writing bc in a complete book you dont have to account for the potential that the #reader read the last chapter 3 months ago (bc thats when you last published an update)

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posttexasstressdisorder · 1 year ago

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Dynaco Repair Post No. 6: The Glow Renewed

Tuesday evening, 12-26-23

I was completely caught off guard by the box by the front door when I got back from Bunny Duty/Safeway/Post Office errands today. Things are supposed to be delivered starting tomorrow, three different packages, but nothing was scheduled to come today.

Busted out in a big grin as soon as I saw it was from my bud in SC: The EL34s got here two days early! So...I was completely (and delightedly) doing something much different this evening than I had planned!

In the box were five tubes, all of them "good spares" I had personally pulled out of working ST70s I had. I'd de-tubed them before I sold them on eBay. They went to afore-mentioned friend who was going to use them in HIS Dynaco, but hadn't yet. He sent 'em back to me, four of the square-bottled Mullards (three of 'em original Dynaco-branded actual Mullards), and one "Winged C" (the Russian iteration), and a JJ as a spare. These had been in one of the systems I'd set up for ANOTHER of our buddies (my bestie who died in 2021). Old, but good, solid tubes with lots of life left in 'em.

The 5AR4 I have is the original one. The silvering at the top is almost non-existent. It's a US-made Mullard clone:

Gorgeous, ain't it?

SO...I got the ST70 ready for relaunch. Put it on the bench and hooked it up to my trusty old Micronta variac, set to "Zero Volts", got the fuse in, and switched it on.

Started out slowly turning it up to 10V, and waiting 15 minutes, and then turned it up another 10V to 20V, and waiting 15 more minutes, lather, rinse, repeat, until I got it up to about 117V.

At about 40V I began to see the barest glow in all but one tube (that Winged C). At 50V, it began to glow as well. So far so good. After about an hour, I'd nursed it up to 70V, every tube glowing strong. I let it sit at 70V for about a half hour, and then just slowly turned the knob on the variac up to 117.

Every tube came up like a champ. The ST70 Glows once again!

I let it sit and burn for about an hour, and checked the bias voltages. I had set the two adjustment pots to their center point. The left channel needed the slightest of increase (probably due to the Winged C) to get it up to the correct voltage, but the right channel was dead-set-centered on 1.56V. Boom. Rock solid. Done.

Now that the repairs are done, and I know everything is working, I will start tomorrow on re-connecting and re-arranging all the components in the system. I'm kinda spent at the moment...it's been quite a day! I'll post more tomorrow, but for tonight I call it a victory. All of the thanks go to my buddies @misfitwashere (who got me the parts) and our old compadre "Harbourmaster" on the East Coast, who sent the tubes.

More tomorrow, and to all a bitchin' Good Night.

Wednesday Night, 12-27-23

Well, it took awhile, but I finally got things re-wired and in position. Got the turntable and the FM3 hooked up and both work splendidly. I found a super-shielded RCA cable for the turntable specifically, and it sounds better...there's almost no need for the turntable ground wire now!

First, tho', I have to show off my speakers. These started their lives as Pioneer boxes, Model CS-44, to be exact. I got them at the thrift store for $25.

BUT: the 8-inch woofers and tweeters in them were garbage, so I replaced them with new components: A pair of 8" butyl-rubber surround, poly-cone woofers (they will never need reconing), and a pair of genuine Danish SEAS Tweeters, salvaged from a working pair of Dynaco A-25s.

The result? The 8-Inch Dynaco Speaker That Never Was! The A-10s had 6-inch woofers, and all the others had 10-inch woofers.

And the sonic result? A pair of mid-sized bookshelf speakers with rock-solid bass and the clearest, most well-defined mids and highs you could ever want to hear! And they don't look bad, either!

Here is everything finally in place:

And that about wraps it up! I've finally got my music back. I'll finally be able to continue my vinyl transcribing, and won't have to worry about my equipment for another good long while.

Many thanks again to my bros @misfitwashere and Harbourmaster. I couldn't have gotten it accomplished without y'all's help.

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heliopauseentertainments · 1 year ago

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Denied Repose

For Rare Pairing Fest 2023 - @tfrarepairing

Prompt Day 1 - Underworld

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Teen

Relationship: Megatron/Ratchet

Characters: Megatron & Ratchet Warnings: Major character death, mild gore, necromancy, one-sided relationship

Summary: In which Megatron decides death is also his to control.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

“Good doctor,” Megatron started, strapping Ratchet’s limp limbs to the medical slab, not that Ratchet seemed to be in much of a mood to struggle at the moment. He wasn’t in the mood for much of anything, if Megatron were being honest. “This is one of those situations where I’ll be, in theory, asking you for your forgiveness, rather than for your permission.”

The room thrummed with high voltage electricity as it coursed through the wires and circuits of the machinery lining the walls and ceiling. Megatron did not fully grasp the physics behind it, but that didn’t matter. He had read enough of Scorponok’s notes.

The Autobots had made the mistake of leaving their fallen behind in the chaotic aftermath of battle. Megatron had never been one to let an opportunity go to waste.

Ugly welds made by inexperienced hands crossed Ratchet’s cold chest, windshield glass lingering only as shards still stuck inside of the frame. With guidance from Flatline over their commlinks, Megatron had already patched the worst of the damage to Ratchet’s body, leaving only cosmetic injuries that could be repaired. These were not vital, not yet to a functioning body.

Of all the mechs misguided enough to join the Autobots, Ratchet had always held Megatron’s personal respect. One day, he had always reasoned, perhaps Ratchet could have been convinced to see the world from the Decepticons’ perspective. He had seen the worst of what Functionism had done to the people. Megatron had even put out a standing order early on to leave the handsome medic to do his work, to not target him in battle.

This was not how he had anticipated swaying Ratchet to his cause. He had hoped to use words, wielding the powerful weapon of rhetoric. Though, perhaps, in time he could yet do that, but Ratchet would need function sensors to receive the anything that Megatron had to say.

Megatron checked the straps again, running the back of his hand along Ratchet’s forearm as though soothing an ailing friend, rather than a deceased enemy. He avoided looking at the medic’s dark, unseeing optics.

Cables, still powered down, hung from the ceiling. Megatron reached into Ratchet’s chest through the gap where the windshield had once been, clipping the cables onto his spark chamber.

He stared for a few moments at the gray, crystalline orb nestled inside. Once it had held all that Ratchet was, powering both his frame and his thoughts. Perhaps soon it would again.

Thankfully the spark itself had not sustained damage or shattered, otherwise even this last hope would have been out of reach.

Scorponok had pioneered this gargantuan machine in his quest to both understand the spark and boost Decepticon numbers. His research had been intended to both keep their strength up and pursue techniques they could leverage when Phase 7 finally arrived.

This resurrection machine, however, had been only sparsely tested due to its unsustainable energy requirements.

Should Megatron have been doing this?

Absolutely not. This was selfish, pure and simple.

What would Ratchet say when he discovered that Megatron had sidestepped the natural order of the universe for him? That was hard to say, but he would be alive to say whatever it was.

If it worked.

Reluctantly leaving Ratchet’s side, Megatron walked over to the control console to begin entering the commands to prepare the machine. Its sole task was to jump start the cold spark in Ratchet’s chest.

The console ready, Megatron initiated the sequence.

Power surged down from the ceiling through the cables and into Ratchet’s empty spark.

“I hope one day you’ll understand.”

#2023TFRarePairingFest #megaratch #fic #drabble #megatron #ratchet #maccadam #idw1

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antaxzantax · 5 months ago

Text

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 55

Summary: Alfred Ashford agrees with Peter Lee to perform sadistic rituals in an abandoned factory.

The mansion stood on a gentle promontory.

He rang the doorbell.

A red-haired individual greeted him.

“Welcome to my sweet home.”

The guest entered the estate like a prince marching to his coronation. In the entrance hall, a stylised white marble statue reproducing the nude torso of an Atlantean dominated the room as its centrepiece. Its features, in contrast to the classical hieratism, were a grimace of pleasurable pain reminiscent of works from the Hellenistic period of Ancient Greece.

“I'm a sculptor. You don't have a name. Do you want me to show you the workshop?”

“Show me the film,” Alfred ordered dryly.

Peter hurried down the corridor to a door set into the eastern wall. He unlocked the latch and motioned Alfred through first. Alfred descended a flight of worn stairs that roared in pain with every step from decades of neglect. Behind him, Peter flicked the light switch. A set of lonely, bare bulbs flickered on. The bulbs hung from the ceiling by the effort of a rickety copper wire. The basement was empty except for a chestnut-coloured leather armchair and a television perched atop a bedside table with a VHS mounted on top of the box. Alfred accidentally inhaled a strange, sweetish stench that snaked through the isolated atmosphere of the room.

Without waiting for Peter, Alfred sat down in the armchair. He settled himself by crossing his legs and took the cardboard box out of the inside of his jacket. He lit a cigarette while Peter revived the television and pulled out the VHS to play the tape.

A black background with Japanese lettering. A house similar to the ones he had seen on the postcards his father received from the Japanese subsidiary of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. A man wearing a suit and a mask that hid his face. The man carried a curved sabre which he drew when he entered the house. He went into a room on the first floor. In the room was another young man pleading for his life. The man raised the sabre and cut the young man to death. The dismemberment of the young man was realistic, crude, raw and honest. The sabre sliced through skin, muscle and bone as if they were made of paper. The victim's high-pitched shrieks reverberated through the speakers in the basement.

The footage lasted fifteen minutes, the equivalent of three five-minute cigars, and faded to black. The player paused. Alfred put the last cigarette butt in the steel packet.

“Where did you get it?” asked Alfred.

“I bought it over the phone from an anonymous guy I met at the video store downtown. I haven't seen him since.”

Alfred got up from the chair. Peter got up from the floor.

“And... that's it?”

Alfred sounded bored, as if watching a banned film was a minor pastime.

It had not surprised him. It had not moved him.

Peter's hands began to move erratically. Alfred raised an eyebrow.

“Are you the devil?” Peter spoke as if he had been shaken by a high-voltage cable.

“What demon?” he replied calmly.

Peter went to the back of the room. He grabbed a handle stuck in the floor and pulled it to unbolt a trapdoor. A foul smell of decay emerged from the hole as if he had uncovered a mass grave. Alfred futilely held his arm over his nose. Peter pulled a doctor's bag from the hole in the floor. He placed the bag on the leather chair and opened it to reveal its contents. Alfred peered into the tiny abyss.

A collection of rusted and uncleaned surgical tools. Bloodstains were embedded in the metal like scabs covering a wound. Alfred coughed, positioned parallel to Peter. The latter pulled a bone saw from the bag. Inexpressive, he swung the saw around to face Alfred.

“I practice with animals. This basement is my secret place.”

Alfred did not retreat. The momentary shot of adrenaline he felt from identifying a potential threat intercepted and overrode the neural reception of the nauseating smell. Defenseless and not knowing how to fight hand-to-hand without harming himself, he dismissed attack as the main course of action.

“I had my secret place too.” Alfred whispered to Peter without looking away. “I spent my teenage years at boarding school in England. I had a group of friends there...” Peter listened carefully. “There was an attic in the dormitory where I lived. We would take the bad kids up there and punish them. I was in charge of the punishments. I called myself the master of ceremonies.” Peter put the saw down. “I wore a rabbit mask that one of the boys bought for a Halloween costume.” Alfred cleared his throat. “The important thing was not to leave a mark. We'd stick them on their backs with leather belts and ivory canes. We'd lock them in cages in the attic and deprive them of food and drink until we got bored.” Alfred gave Peter a nostalgic half-smile.

“Were you found out?” asked Peter, engrossed in Alfred's narrative.

“No. The school owed my family a favour and the law of silence was imposed.”

“Were you punished?” Peter's facial expression had relaxed considerably.

“Yes, but only the teachers. I was only whipped with the cane, not given any of the punishments in the attic.” Alfred glanced at the trapdoor. “I've had some practice with animals myself.”

“Do you listen to them too?” Peter mumbled excitedly.

“The voices?” Alfred answered automatically because of the remarkable number of times he had heard the same question in horror films.

“Are you schizophrenic too? The voices ordered me to kill you so you wouldn't call the police.”

Alfred smiled pleasantly natural.

“No, I'm not schizophrenic, but I also have strange thoughts. Have you ever tried it with a person? Do you know what it feels like?”

The suggestion caught Peter by surprise and off guard. He shook his head.

“It's a very pleasant sensation,” Alfred whispered.

Peter took a couple of steps back. He threw the bone saw onto the couch and dug his knees into the floor.

“You are the devil. You have come to me.”

“Would you like to try it?” offered the demon called Alfred.

“Yes.”

“I will see you next Saturday at the same time and in this house. I will tell you my plan.”

Alfred went upstairs and disappeared through the front door. Peter kept vigil for the rest of the night with his knees to the floor and the cellar hatch wide open.

Alfred returned around noon to the mansion he shared with his sister and father in the wealthy suburb of Raccoon City. Alexia was tending a rose bush in the back garden when Alfred appeared to inform her of his meeting with Peter Lee.

“Is dad in home?” Alfred yawned.

“No.” Alexia cut the stem of a rose.

“I have already seen the film.”

“So?”

“There was something else.”

Alfred moved closer to his sister so that she could hear his murmur.

“There is a trap door in the cellar of his house,” he said in Scottish Gaelic so that no undesirable would understand. “A mass grave with the remains of the animals he practices on. He keeps the instruments in a doctor's bag. The tools are stained with blood. He is schizophrenic and thinks I am the personification of his demon. He wanted to kill me, but I dissuaded him by telling him about the attic in the Jacob II. I think he now reveres me.”

Alexia cut a second rose.

“I've had an idea,” Alfred added hesitantly. Alexia prepared to cut a third rose about to wilt. “Do you think I'm a demon?”

Alexia did not respond, focused as she was on the rose bush. In reality, she knew what Alfred wanted, hence her accusatory silence.

“Don't tell dad, please,” he pleaded out of politeness, because he knew that telling his father was her responsibility, not Alexia's. “I'm going to do it, and I want Ogie[1] involved. He wants to be involved too. We've talked about it.”

“Maybe you should have been a priest,” said Alexia.

“You're right,” Alfred confirmed and turned away from her to go into the house.

Alexia was right.

His introduction to the priesthood was his last chance to achieve a self-awareness that would have enabled him to quell the Craving for good. The Craving was a phenomenon that his great-grandfather Thomas began to experience at the same age as Alfred, at fifteen, and which he tried to quell for the rest of his brief life without success. Thomas described the Craving as a visceral and irrational impulse to commit infamous acts. The subject, possessed by the Craving, did not reason like a human being, but indulged in the most despicable instincts. He was beast, but not man, and this beast had to be tamed to avoid being controlled by it. In the particular case of Thomas Ashford, the Craving manifested itself as an obsessive fixation on consuming human flesh.

In his manuscripts, Thomas recounted his frequent trips to London's East End to satiate the Craving. Dressed incognito, like a factory worker, he would pay whores a generous sum of money to lock himself up with them in the cellar or attic of an abandoned house. Out of Catholic devotion, Thomas never committed the sin of fornicating with his victims, nor of being suggestive with them or kissing them, for he was a married man and faithful to his wife. However, before beginning his ritual, Thomas would get drunk with his victim, as alcohol was his only source of weakness, and then kill her by suffocating her with a rope. Once the victim was dead, Thomas would begin a second ritual, described in his memoirs, which included the skinning of the skin, the Egyptian draining of bodily fluids as if to mummify the body, the dismemberment of arms and legs, and the opening of the cranial cavity with a saw for the subsequent preparation of the brain with spices and bourbon flambé. The meticulous cooking of the human flesh and other organs such as the heart and pancreas usually took no more than three hours.

Once the food was prepared, he would organise the feast in the same place where he had killed the victim. The sour taste of the cooked organs and the soft texture of the human flesh gave him an indescribable, ultraterrestrial, addictive pleasure. A tally sheet taped to the cover of one of the notebooks listed a total of 107 souls; 105 low-life women and two men of the worst kind with whom he had fallen out over a rugby match. On the same sheet of paper, the first name, surname, gender, age, nationality, occupation, city of residence, marital status and religious denomination had been recorded with detective-like meticulousness. All the victims were cut from the same cloth: between 20 and 30 years old, unmarried, lower class, living in London, Protestant and English. Thomas, in keeping with his moral principles, never devoured anyone who was Scottish and Irish, Catholic, old and socially worthy.

Thomas rationalised the Craving as a test from God to demonstrate the strength of his faith and as a punishment for the weakness of his spirit, which was prone to be intoxicated by worldly passions such as alcohol and lasciviousness. Since the Craving was reluctant to abandon his being, he took up a strategy based on a virtuous Catholic life, devoted to prayer and contemplation of the ten commandments, with some borrowings from the Franciscan rule and a ten-month stay in an Italian monastery. It didn't work, but it allowed him to bear the craving with temperance, reducing the number of people he devoured each year, and finally to die in peace with himself and his fellow relatives. He interpreted the cancer that took his life in his late forties as an act of divine commiseration for his torment and atonement for his own flesh.

Alfred read Thomas Ashford's memoirs during the summer before he started university and at a time when he was still unable to put a name to the strange thoughts that gripped him. To summon a demon you had to know its name, and its name was the Craving. The Craving that tormented him possessed a different nature. Cannibalism disgusted him, even if it was one of his favourite subjects as a spectator. His thing was the infliction of pain. Sadism.

It all started in the attic of King's House with the first time he put on the rabbit mask, and from then on he couldn't and didn't know how to stop. First, it came about as an escape from his depressing reality. Second, as a way to impose his power on the boarding school. Third, as an addiction. Fourth, as an artistic expression. And fifth, as a combination of all of the above. There was not a day that went by that he did not wish to ascend to the attic to carry out his sentence on all the boys who dared to break even the most absurd of rules. His group of executioners cheered and praised him, and each cheer revived his Craving. Such was the magnitude of the tyranny that the Jacobite core of King's House imposed on the school that Alfred was referred to the institution's psychiatrist. The psychiatrist ascertained the source of his affliction and recommended to the school authorities that Alfred be assessed by a forensic doctor specialising in serial killers, but the Headmaster declined the request because of its obvious social repercussions for the prince and his family. In the end, the decision was made to seal off the penthouse and disband Alfred's Jacobite clique by moving the boys to the remaining residences. Alfred was left alone in King's House. Henry, an ordinary boy, was the only one who survived him. Without his main source of amusement and without friends, Alfred's character soured.

As Henry was the only one who stayed by his side, Alfred made him the target of his frustrations and outbursts of rage. His abuse of Henry was verbal and emotional, as he lacked the physical substance to attack him. Henry endured his tantrums and hurtful comments with an imperturbability that would have made the Virgin Mary weep. On the last day of school, now sixteen years old and admitted to the University of Saint-Andrew, Henry approached him, shook his hand and then said: you are a monster, an unhappy, petty bastard with an inferiority complex. Your life is meaningless and you are nothing without your lackeys. You are alone and abandoned. You disgust me. Henry's words stuck in his heart like silver stakes.

Back at Ashford Hall, Alfred retreated to his bedroom, where he spent his nights weeping with rage and banging his head against the wooden bars of the canopy. He refused to seek help from his father and sister lest they mock his pathos. So, during the worst summer of his life and to keep from hitting rock bottom, he began reading the Bible at night to comfort himself with the motivational passages and exploring the cottage, sifting through the more than 150 years of stratigraphic layers that had accumulated over the previous five generations like an archaeologist.

On one of the explorations he discovered great-grandfather Thomas's safe. The box had been locked since his death and it took them a triumph to peel the lid off the box after Alexander helped him pick the lock because no one could remember where Thomas had hidden the key. From inside Alexander retrieved the photographs from when Thomas was alive and he was a baby, while Alfred kept a couple of the handwritten notebooks that most caught his eye to read.

From these notebooks, Alfred became familiar with the concept of the Craving and understood what was wrong with him, which increased his hatred for Henry. However, he did not want to end up like his great-grandfather. He did not want to be a slave to the Craving, so he made a decision inspired by Thomas' strategies.

He called in the chaplain of Ashford Hall and confessed to him all the sins he had committed in the Jacob II. The chaplain forgave him his sins in the name of God. Forgiveness improved his state of mind, but that was only the first step. The next step was to frequent the chapel with unusual assiduity. This habit caught the attention of Alexia, who spontaneously began to accompany her brother in his prayers, although Alfred knew that Alexia did not believe in anything resembling a divinity and that she was not praying either, but possibly reflecting in silence. Alexia's contemplative accompaniment cheered him greatly, enough to fracture the shell of decay in which he lived. He was not a wretch, he told himself when he was with Alexia in the chapel.

On August, 1st the Stuarts travelled to the Vatican for the confirmation of Alfred and Alexia and their cousin Auguste by the Pope. Alfred used the event to validate himself as an Ashford and a Stuart, and as the beginning of his test of faith. After confirmation, Alfred stayed at the Vatican to attend a minor seminary for young Christians in which he had enrolled at the time of his decision. The programme was geared towards a priestly ministry, but what interested Alfred was not the profession, but whether he could work in himself a radical change of conscience that would enable him to overcome the Craving and become a better human being than those who despised him, like Henry. Whether or not he would end up as a priest was another matter.

He entered as a boarder in a residence located on the outskirts of St. Peter's Square. Unlike the Jacob II, Alfred did not enjoy any privileges, even as a scion of the Defenders of the Faith[2] . He shared a dingy room with twelve other boys his age. The beds were a rotting jumble of wooden slats whose boards dug into his back through the starving mattress. The pillow still retained the shape of the previous head that had rested on it. The only ventilation available in the room consisted of a window with a broken latch through which a little wind filtered in along with the cacophonous nightlife of Rome. The heat was unbearable and undressing was punishable by a caning, so Alfred removed his pants in the dark and hid them under his pillow to keep his testicles from wrinkling. The food was, to say the least, vomitous. A concoction of two kinds of pasta with meat that looked like rat meat, sometimes fish, and lots of boiled vegetables. The menu at the Jacob II, while not good, tried hard to appear acceptable and not look like expired mashed beans. Alfred ate what he could and stole the rest from the kitchen when it was his turn to do the dishes. The one notable advantage of the seminary was the absence of bullying and mistreatment among fellow students because of the imposition of a pious, scripture-dedicated lifestyle. It was not forbidden, but they never spoke to each other. He did not learn the name of any of his co-religionists and they did not learn his either.

Apart from the obligations he had to observe as part of the pseudo-monastic coexistence, Alfred concentrated on his purpose of finding in Catholicism the inspiration to redeem himself from his Craving. He was initiated into the themes that most appealed to him, such as penance, martyrdom, atonement and the apocalypse. The apocalypse fascinated him with its annihilating descriptions and he copied down by hand the quotations he liked best in order to memorise them. Then he would repeat them mentally like mantras with the first morning prayer. But the apocalypse took him back to the rabbit mask and he saw the boys he tortured as the agonising souls in the nine Dantesque circles. Because of these visions, Alfred was afraid of failing in his enterprise and switched from the apocalypse to more generic Old Testament texts. These passages were not at all revealing to him, so they were easier to digest but duller to memorise, and he used them for the assimilation of new spiritual conceptions.

First he tried chastity. He faced his first contradiction with the biblical model of the family. A man and a woman united in holy matrimony. Alexander was married once and divorced, and never intended to remarry. In addition, his father was bisexual. He had lain with both men and women and at times with both, committing the sin of sodomy. However, Alfred had also sinned. He had had sex with Henry in his room at Jacob II and on two occasions. But that was the norm in British boarding schools. In the absence of women and in the midst of adolescence, there was no other option. Although homosexuality was frowned upon, it was tolerated if you were not caught. But Alfred, unlike his father, wanted to be a straight man like his grandfather Edward. He was decidedly heterosexual, the experience with Henry did not count, and he aspired to marry a woman he was in love with. Since his father was an ungodly man, he would make it his mission to resolve this contradiction. But then the problem of masturbation came up.

Onanism was proscribed by the Bible and in this sense he acknowledged that he had been a recidivist sinner. At the Jacob II he had pleasured himself in the company of his Jacobite friends and alone in the bedroom and study room with porn magazines that one of them was responsible for stealing from the village. Wet dreams were what he dealt with the worst. He would wake up on occasion with a major erection and a stained bed. At home he would privately tell Harman to take care of it, but at the Jacob II he had to lie on his fallen soldiers until the next mandatory change of bedding. At the seminary it was much, much worse. At the Jacob II he discovered a positive correlation between not masturbating and an increase in the frequency of wet dreams. Despite this, and to be consistent with his morality, Alfred vowed not to give in to temptation.

Unfortunately, the flesh triumphed over the mind. A stain was detected on the bottom of his bed and he was interrogated by the monk in charge of discipline. Alfred lied as best he could, but was still punished by being locked in a cell for a day. He prayed until he was hoarse, but to no avail. He continued to be assaulted by wet dreams and spontaneous erections. However, that was not the worst of it. The worst was that he was dreaming about Alexia.

The Bible also regarded incest as a sin and in this respect had another irresolvable contradiction. As the son of a royal house, 90% of his family tree was made up of relatives of varying degrees of consanguinity. The Stuarts, from whom he was directly descended, had preferred marriage between brothers and cousins ever since the first Stuart was crowned king of Scotland. Indeed, he believed that had he been born five hundred years earlier he would have been obliged to marry and procreate with Alexia for lack of a better marriage to a princess from another country to whom he would surely also have been closely related. Veronica Ashford married a cousin Douglas, though Stanley had him through an extramarital affair with a Prussian general. Stanley married a Campbell cousin, as did Thomas. Arthur married a distant cousin from a German royal house who was descended from Charles II of Stuart. Edward was the first to marry a foreign woman related to the Royal House of the Netherlands. But that was also the norm for his kind until relatively recently. The point was that he did not consider Alexia a sex object. Alexia was his twin sister, his partner, his best friend, not a piece of meat for pleasure. For this reason, these wet dreams repulsed him, causing him bodily and spiritual discomfort. But he could take no more, he had to act urgently.

Finally, prompted by the beatings he received when the new evidence came to light, Alfred opted for a desperate measure which, when he returned home, Alexia understood in relation to that specific context. After the night prayer, he slipped away and locked himself in a tourist confessional. He took out a picture of Alexia and masturbated to it. The flesh was weak and he hesitated about his ability to fulfil the purpose.

There was only one final solution left. Mortification of the flesh. He undisciplined himself so that the monk could flog him. But the blows rekindled the craving. Pain into pleasure and torment into ecstasy. He committed twice as many faults and received twice as many punishments. And, after a bad blow, he ended up in the infirmary with the skin on his back torn. At that precise moment, Alfred had an epiphany. He was deluding himself. Thomas fought an untamed force because that force was himself. The Craving was not a demon possessing him, but the manifestation of his desire. And because it was his desire, the Craving was himself. Thomas despaired of justifying his actions. Alfred would not justify himself. The Craving was the manifestation of his will. His God.

At the end of August he graduated from the seminary and flew back to England. He had accomplished the task of clarifying his conscience.

Peter called him a demon.

Alexia understood his feelings.

The Craving was back.

William Birkin was readmitted as chief researcher at the underground laboratory. They were laughing at him. They were definitely playing a sick joke on him.

He laughed out loud after reading the letter. A stunned Annette grabbed his hand to reassure him. What if they left Umbrella? Annette listed a number of companies that would accept him without hesitation. They could move to Chicago, near Annette's family. William denied the well-meaning proposal for one reason: the explanation. He had to know why, and he wouldn't stop until those responsible for such detestable behaviour towards him sang like a church choir. He hadn't worked at the company for more than a decade for nothing. He deserved an answer.

The platform descended down the hole to the lab's reception desk. William handed in his old card at the reception desk and received the new credentials. Chief researcher.

“They are waiting for you in the main laboratory,” said the receptionist.

“Who is waiting for me?” he asked, but the receptionist refused to answer.

He walked down the same corridor as the first time and leaned against the same wall for the second time. The electronic double doors opened. The lab was different in layout, instruments and machines; as if the previous lab had been a reverie. There was no table in the centre to hide what was at the back, nor did he recognise any machine like the one the blonde woman had used to destroy the only existing sample of the G-virus.

A delirium?

William advanced towards the centre of the open space.

It had been a nightmare.

A door creaked behind him.

William turned away.

A young woman and an older bearded man.

William clenched his fists.

The two approached him with a certain parsimony. The young woman held out her hand to shake his.

“Dr. William Birkin. I am Dr. Alexia Ashford, who will be chief researcher in this laboratory along with you. This is my father, Dr. Alexander Ashford, president and CEO of Umbrella Pharmaceuticals. It's a pleasure to meet you,” said Alexia.

William reflexively shook his hand. The shake was light and quick.

“It is a pleasure to meet you at last. Mr. Spencer has spoken very highly of you. I hope your results continue to be as brilliant as they were in the Arklay laboratory,” Alexander continued.

William shook his hand next. The shake shook him painfully from the exaggerated pressure with which Alexander had gripped his hand, and lasted for a couple of seconds that passed like centuries.

It was a nightmare.

A voice inside William climbed into his throat to scream, but his lips were sealed with the force of a million atmospheres. They were in front of him: smiling, feigning sympathy and congratulating him on achievements that had been memorised for the occasion.

It was a nightmare.

I had to wake up from the nightmare.

Silently, he approached one of the tables. He lit a lighter. The flame glowed with the intensity of the sun.

I had to wake up from the nightmare.

He burnt his hand.

He screamed until his jaw unhinged. He punched the lighter as he groaned in pain.

Alexander ran towards him. He was going to kill him. This man would kill him and he would wake up from the nightmare. With enormous strength, he grabbed him by the shoulders. However, he remained rigid.

“Are you all right, Dr. Birkin?” he said in a honeyed tone, and with a murderous look in his eye.

William mumbled an insult that Alexander did not understand.

“You can join us a week later. You haven't finished your stress treatment yet, have you?” said Alexia.

William looked at Alexia. Alexander stepped in front of him to obstruct his vision and increased the strength of his grip.

“You should go to the infirmary,” Alexander continued. “Talk to Dr Garcia. She will advise you.”

Alexander withdrew his hands. Then, guided by a supernatural impulse, William left the laboratory and made his way to the infirmary, as Alexander had instructed him.

I had to wake up from the nightmare. It was not real. Nothing was real. But his hand burned. He examined his palm. He felt the burning. He felt the mortality of his body.

It was real.

The nightmare was real.

Peter was tinkering with a statue when the doorbell rang.

Alfred.

“My name is Auguste.”

A burly, red-haired man accompanied Alfred. Peter invited them in. Alfred showed Auguste the statue presiding over the reception. Auguste commented that it was not bad.

Peter did not understand anything. He had arranged a meeting alone with the demon, and the demon had come with him. Auguste made him nervous. A gigantic guy with a rougher way of speaking than Alfred, although he identified that they both shared the same accent. When they got bored of staring at the statue, Alfred asked Peter to show Auguste his secret place. Was Auguste another demon? He didn't know, but Alfred trusted him blindly.

They went down to the basement.

Peter played the tape a second time. Auguste sat down in the armchair. Alfred leaned against the wall. The tape ended.

Auguste smiled and gave Alfred a knowing look. Peter had lost track of what was going on.

Auguste pulled a pistol out of his shorts and pointed it at Peter. The latter raised his hands in terror. Auguste stood in front of him with the gun in line to his heart. Alfred stood next to Auguste. He reached inside his jacket to pull out a switchblade. The blade shot out of the handle.

“Last week we agreed that I would tell you my plan,” said Alfred. “And I asked you if you'd ever tried it with a person. Sit down.”

Peter sat down in the armchair under Auguste's gun. Alfred stood behind the television.

“I'll make you a deal. I want you to be our enforcer. We will be your master of ceremonies. We will procure the meat and you will carry out our wishes. The rituals will take place in an abandoned factory we just bought. You will not ask about the identity of the meat, nor will you become attached to them. Your job will only be to be the executing hand. The rest will be our responsibility. In this respect, you will have to comply with a number of conditions. First of all, silence. If you reveal our activity to anyone, we will kill you. Secondly, you belong to us. You will obey us above all things. If you disobey, we kill you. Thirdly, the fault is yours. You are the one who killed those animals. And fourthly, our relationship will be limited to these kinds of encounters. You are not our friend. Do you accept?”

Peter swallowed hard.

“Who would I have to kill?” Peter trembled like a flan shaken by an earthquake.

Alfred positioned himself at Auguste's level.

“You will not ask about the identity of the meat,” Alfred stressed.

“I'm sorry.” Peter apologised, cringing.

“Do you accept?” Alfred repeated.

The devil required his services. The voices had casually led him to the climax of his vocation.

“Y... Yes. I accept.”

Alfred smiled and put the knife away. Auguste holstered the pistol in his trousers. The two began their retreat from the house. Auguste gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.

“I'll call you next Saturday night. That will be our time for the rituals,” Alfred announced without waiting for Peter's approval.

Alfred and Auguste went upstairs.

Peter had made a pact with the devil.

[1] Nickname of Auguste Campbell.

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Defender_of_the_Faith

#resident evil #resident evil code veronica #alexia ashford #alfred ashford #alexander ashford #william birkin #annette birkin

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allthebrazilianpolitics · 1 year ago

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Fire at landless workers' movement camp in Brazil leaves nine dead

A fire in a camp belonging to Brazil's Landless Workers' Movement MST in the northern state of Para killed nine people and left eight injured on Saturday night, the movement said on Sunday.

The incident was caused by a short circuit in the electrical network during the installation of internet wiring in the rural farmers' camp, located in the city of Parauapebas, according to MST.

Community leaders told a press conference that the short circuit happened at around 8 p.m. local time, when an antenna touched the high-voltage network, setting fire to power cables and some shacks in the camp.

President Luiz Inacio Lula da Silva asked his agrarian development minister, Paulo Teixeira, and head of lands rights agency Incra, Cesar Aldrighi, to travel to the city this Sunday to "follow the case closely and bring all the support of the federal government to the families of the victims of this tragedy", the government said in a statement.

#brazil #brazilian politics #politics #landless workers' movement #luiz inacio lula da silva #paulo teixeira #mod nise da silveira #image description in alt

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breadandblankets · 1 year ago

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💕

following up my birds on a wire fun fact, certain high voltage wires are left completely bare (them wires Naked), there's a bunch of reasons for this, one the insulation needed to make a high voltage wire safe would make the wires Unbearably heavy, the strain on the cables and the towers would be incredible, two insulation makes heat harder to dissipate (the heat is generated by friction from electrons moving in the conductors) and when conductors are hot they Suck at transporting electricity, and finally its SPENSIVE, really really spensive

what do they do instead? cables use the air! Air is in fact an insulator and it keep the electricity in its cables quite well, just don't get within that air gap or you might just be the perfect point to take the electricity to ground x.x

send me an emoji and i'll send you a fun fact about my special interest

#ask games #i hope this was a good fun fact kai my beloved #breadboarding

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dicabselectrical · 3 months ago

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#Industrial cable manufacturer #High Voltage Cable Wire #Cable Manufacturing Company in India #Power Cable Manufacturer India #High-voltage cable manufacturing in India

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brtt2pnny · 3 months ago

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https://www.futureelectronics.com/p/interconnect--connectors-pcb--shunts-jumpers/5102tr-keystone-5046274

Jumper cap, jumper wire connector Jumper wire types, coaxial cable connector

0.02 in 0.5 mm Thick Copper (Silver Plated) 0.27 in 6.85 mm Long Jumper

#Keystone #5102TR #Connectors #PCB Shunts & Jumpers #Jumper cap #jumper wire connector Jumper wire types #coaxial cable connector #terminal jumpers #cables #high voltage jumper wire #high current jumper #solder bridge jumper #jumper wire #wire connector

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sankaranicommunication · 4 months ago

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Fast Charging Cable: A Game-Changer in Modern Smartphone Technology

In today's fast-paced world, where we rely heavily on our smartphones for everything from communication to entertainment, having a reliable and efficient charging solution is crucial. One of the most significant advancements in this area is the fast charging cable. If you're tired of waiting hours for your phone to reach full charge, investing in a fast charging cable can make a world of difference. At Sankarani Communication, we understand the importance of staying connected, and that's why we're here to discuss everything you need to know about fast charging cables and how they can revolutionize your charging experience.

What is Fast Charging?

Before diving into the importance of fast charging cables, it’s essential to understand what fast charging means. Fast charging refers to a technology that allows devices to charge at a faster rate compared to standard charging. Most smartphones today come with fast charging support, allowing users to power up their devices much quicker.

Traditional chargers typically deliver 5 watts (W) of power, whereas fast charging can deliver anywhere from 18W to 100W, depending on the charger and device. The higher the wattage, the faster the phone charges. However, to take full advantage of fast charging, you need both a compatible phone and the right accessories, including a fast charging cable.

How Does a Fast Charging Cable Work?

A fast charging cable is designed to handle higher power outputs compared to regular cables. The cable's ability to deliver more current and voltage directly impacts the charging speed. With fast charging, the charger sends more current through the cable into the device’s battery without generating excessive heat or damaging the battery, thanks to intelligent charging technology.

Here’s a simple breakdown of how it works:

Higher Current: Fast charging cables are built with thicker wires that can carry more current (amperes), typically up to 3A or higher.

Improved Voltage Regulation: Fast charging cables allow higher voltage transfers, enabling the charger to supply more power efficiently.

Efficient Data and Power Transfer: Some fast charging cables also support high-speed data transfer, allowing you to sync files quickly while charging your device.

Why Choose a Fast Charging Cable?

Save Time Time is of the essence, especially when you're on the go. With a fast charging cable, you can charge your smartphone up to 50% in as little as 30 minutes. Whether you're traveling or preparing for an important meeting, fast charging ensures you won’t be left waiting.

Compatibility with Modern Devices Most modern smartphones, including flagship models from Apple, Samsung, and OnePlus, support fast charging. Having a compatible fast charging cable ensures you can fully utilize your phone’s potential, keeping your battery topped up when needed.

Durability and Longevity Quality fast charging cables are made from durable materials like nylon-braided or reinforced connectors, making them more resistant to wear and tear. At Sankarani Communication, we offer cables that are designed to last, providing better value for your money.

Enhanced Safety Fast charging cables come with built-in safety features like overcurrent, overvoltage, and short circuit protection. These features help prevent overheating and protect your device from potential damage during charging.

Universal Use Fast charging cables are compatible with a variety of devices beyond just smartphones. You can use them to charge tablets, laptops, and other gadgets that support fast charging, making them a versatile solution for all your charging needs.

Factors to Consider When Buying a Fast Charging Cable

When shopping for a fast charging cable at Sankarani Communication, keep the following factors in mind to ensure you get the best product:

Cable Length: Choose a length that fits your needs, whether it’s for home, office, or car use. Long cables are great for convenience, while shorter ones are ideal for portability.

Charging Speed: Ensure the cable supports the charging speed compatible with your device. Look for cables that offer up to 3A or higher for optimal fast charging performance.

Connector Type: Depending on your phone, you may need a USB-C, Lightning, or Micro-USB connector. USB-C is becoming the standard for most modern smartphones, while Lightning is specific to Apple devices.

Brand and Warranty: At Sankarani Communication, we provide high-quality, branded fast charging cables with warranty options for peace of mind.

Conclusion

A fast charging cable is more than just an accessory; it’s a necessity in today’s world where staying connected is vital. Whether you're looking to reduce charging times, enhance your smartphone's performance, or protect your device, a fast charging cable from Sankarani Communication is the solution you need. By investing in a reliable and durable fast charging cable, you'll experience the convenience of faster charging times, enhanced safety features, and long-lasting performance.

At Sankarani Communication, we offer a wide range of fast charging cables tailored to meet your specific needs. Visit our store today to explore our collection and give your smartphone the power boost it deserves!

#Fast Charging Cable

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sassenach77yle · 6 months ago

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“Holy God,” she whispered. “Oh, Blessed Mother. Oh, Jesus.”

A terrible thought sent her surging to her feet, clinging to the console.

Had she jumped? Was she somewhere—somewhen—else?

“Don’t,” she said evenly, “call me hen.”

His good-looking face twitched and he tugged at his forelock with mock subservience.“Anything you say, boss,” he said.

Tunnel Tigers ~ An Echo in the Bone

#outlander #outlanderedit #the frasers #outlander starz #outlander series #outlander fanart #outlander books #outlander book #outlander season 7 #outlander 7x05 #sophie skelton #brianna mackenzie #brianna fraser

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