#Industrial Gate Repairs

[reliantdoors]

What are the advantages of industrial roller shutters?

Industrial roller shutters provide security, weather protection, energy efficiency, and durability with low maintenance, making them ideal for commercial and industrial use.

[dellarussel]

Best Industrial Gates Repair In Los Angeles

When it comes to industrial gates repair in Los Angeles, La Gates and Garage Doors is the go-to company. With years of experience and exceptional service, we have gained a reputation for our top-notch repairs and customer satisfaction. In this article, we will explore the reasons why La Gates and Garage Doors is considered the best industrial gates repair in Los Angeles.

Reliable and Experienced Technicians: 

La Gates and Garage Doors have a team of highly skilled and experienced technicians who specialize in industrial gate repairs. These professionals undergo extensive training to ensure that we are up-to-date with the latest repair techniques and technologies. We have a deep understanding of different gate models and can effectively diagnose and fix any issues that may arise.

Quality Repairs: 

The team at La Gates and Garage Doors is committed to providing superior-quality repairs for industrial gates in Los Angeles. To ensure longevity and durability, we always utilize the best tools and supplies. Our attention to detail and precision in our work guarantee that the repaired gates will be functioning in optimal condition.

Prompt Service: 

One of the factors that set La Gates and Garage Doors apart from other repair companies is our commitment to prompt service. We understand that a malfunctioning industrial gate can disrupt operations and cause inconvenience to businesses. Therefore, we prioritize same-day repairs and are available around the clock for emergency repair services. This quick response time minimizes downtime for businesses and ensures that our gates are back in working order as soon as possible.

Wide Range of Services: 

La Gates and Garage Doors offer a comprehensive range of services for industrial gates in Los Angeles. Whether it's a mechanical issue, an electrical problem, or damaged components, our technicians are proficient in diagnosing and repairing all types of gate malfunctions. From gate opener repairs to welding and fabrication services, we have the expertise to handle any repair job efficiently.

Affordable Pricing: 

Despite our exceptional services, La Gates and Garage Doors strive to provide affordable pricing for our industrial gate repairs. We think that quality repairs shouldn't be prohibitively expensive. We offer competitive rates that fit within the budget of businesses, without compromising on the quality of our work.

Customer Satisfaction: 

La Gates and Garage Doors prioritize customer satisfaction above all else. We understand that a satisfied customer is a loyal customer. Our friendly and professional staff goes the extra mile to ensure that clients are informed and involved in the repair process. We also offer warranties on our repairs, providing a sense of security and reassurance to our customers.

In conclusion, La Gates and Garage Doors is undoubtedly the best industrial gates repair in Los Angeles. With our reliable and experienced technicians, quality repairs, prompt service, a wide range of services, affordable pricing, and commitment to customer satisfaction, we have established ourselves as the leader in the industry. Whether it's a minor repair or a major overhaul, businesses can trust La Gates and Garage Doors to deliver exceptional results. Don't settle for subpar repairs – choose La Gates and Garage Doors for all your industrial gate repair needs.

[ironmengatesdoorsdesign]

Types Of Automatic Gates And Also Which One Is Right For You

In the world of house protection and ease, automated gateways have actually ended up being a principal. These highly advanced systems not just give an included layer of defense to homes however additionally add significantly to the visual worth, making them an extremely popular enhancement in modern houses.

Automatic entrances come in a selection of styles and also devices, each offering distinct attributes and benefits. Thus, it ends up being important for possible purchasers to be proficient with these types in order to make a notified selection that best matches their needs.

This short article ventures to look into the globe of automatic entrance systems, presenting an exhaustive exploration of different kinds offered today. The objective is not simply to state the different kinds however additionally help viewers in discerning which one could be best for their specific demands. Whether taking into consideration aspects such as design charm, operational ease or safety and security level, this exposition offers comprehensive insights that aim at helping with decision-making processes in the direction of selecting one of the most ideal electronic entry system for one's residential property.

Selecting the very best Electronic Access System for Your Property

Picking the optimal digital entrance system for one's building relies upon a careful equilibrium of safety and security and also comfort much akin to striking the best chord in a harmony; equally as way too many or as well couple of notes can interfere with consistency, an extremely complicated or insufficiently safe system can cause unnecessary disturbances.

A myriad of elements need to be thought about when making this important decision, consisting of the size as well as format of the residential or commercial property, its place, existing safety procedures, spending plan constraints, as well as individual preferences pertaining to technology use. An educated selection will make sure that not just does the picked system offer robust defense against unauthorised access but it also seamlessly incorporates into daily routines without causing added headache.

Different sorts of automated gates function in a different way: gliding gates are excellent for buildings with restricted room while swing gateways create an even more conventional visual appeal. For services seeking to regulate vehicular accessibility, obstacle arm gateways supply an effective solution whereas vertical pivot or lift gates work outstandingly in high website traffic areas as a result of their quick procedure. Bi-folding entrances with rapid open/close cycle times could offer well where rate is vital like airports or emergency solutions.

Each type includes special advantages and also prospective disadvantages; comprehending these distinctions is essential to making an astute choice that matches private demands flawlessly. Eventually, selecting an electronic entrance system is about joining a neighborhood committed to security and also ease-of-use-- it's about belonging someplace risk-free amid growing worldwide unpredictabilities.

[lifestyleblogeruk]

The Benefits of Installing Automatic Gates for Home Security in Lancashire

When it comes to safeguarding your home and loved ones, security should always be a top priority. In Lancashire, where residential safety is paramount, installing automatic gates can offer a multitude of benefits that not only enhance security but also add to the convenience and value of your property. Let's explore why automatic gates in Lancashire are becoming a popular choice for homeowners.

1. Enhanced Security:

One of the primary reasons homeowners in Lancashire opt for automatic gates is the substantial boost in security they provide. These gates act as a formidable barrier to unauthorized access, deterring potential intruders and ensuring that only authorized individuals can enter your property.

2. Controlled Access:

Automatic gates allow homeowners to have complete control over who enters their property. You can use various access control methods, such as keypads, intercoms, or remote controls, to grant access to trusted individuals while keeping unwanted visitors at bay.

3. Deterrence Against Crime:

The presence of automatic gates serves as a visible deterrent to potential criminals. Knowing that a property is equipped with secure entry points can discourage burglars and vandals from targeting your home.

4. Increased Privacy:

Automatic gates provide an added layer of privacy, preventing strangers and solicitors from approaching your home uninvited. You can enjoy your personal space without unwanted interruptions.

5. Convenience and Comfort:

With automatic gates, you no longer need to manually open and close gates, especially during adverse weather conditions. The convenience of remote or automated operation makes entering and leaving your property hassle-free.

6. Property Value and Aesthetics:

Automatic gates can significantly enhance the curb appeal of your home in Lancashire. They make a striking first impression and can increase the overall value of your property, which can be especially beneficial when selling.

7. Safety for Children and Pets:

Automatic gates provide an added layer of safety, especially for families with children and pets. You can ensure that your loved ones are protected from traffic or wandering outside the premises.

8. Low Maintenance:

Modern automatic gates are designed to be durable and require minimal maintenance. Regular servicing, including electric gate repairs in Lancashire, can keep them in excellent working condition.

9. Customization Options:

Homeowners can choose from a variety of styles, materials, and designs for their automatic gates, allowing them to match the gates to their property's architectural aesthetics.

10. Immediate Response to Security Threats:

In the event of a security breach or suspicious activity, automatic gates can be quickly closed, preventing unauthorized access and ensuring the safety of your family and property.

To ensure the continued reliability and security of your automatic gates in Lancashire, consider regular maintenance and timely electric gate repairs when needed. Whether for residential, industrial, or commercial properties, automatic gates offer a comprehensive solution to enhance security, convenience, and peace of mind for homeowners in Lancashire. Contact Us!

[jpitha]

Allergies

This is a rewrite of one of my oldest shorts. As a writer - especially one who posts online - never worry about redoing some old work and posting the new one. Artists often will show their old work against their new right? No reason writers can't do the same either. Be proud of all your work, but feel free to show your improvement too!

The small station was in a popular shipping lane, so it had high amounts of traffic. Even though the humans had brought their wormhole generator drives, many people were still used to using the Gate system. Retrofitting every starship would be too costly, take too much time, and (some worried) would shift the power balance towards the humans too much. One didn't have to be human to be set in one's ways.

Because of the high amounts of traffic, most of the people on the station worked in the service industry. Providing meals, entertainment, refreshments, repairs and other such things, the population was quite diverse. In their off hours, they mingled and socialized.

Generi stood there awkwardly, still wearing the uniform of the trinket shop he worked in, his tail drooped and his ears low, trying to make sense of it. “Explain allergies to me one more time?”

Meg sniffed and wiped her eyes, but she smiled softly. She was sitting at a table in the resident's lounge. At her feet was a bouquet of flowers “Our bodies have this compound, called histamine. It's released in response to an attack - an internal attack - on our bodies. It's meant to help our bodies expel an invader. You know about itching? I've seen K'laxi do it. It's one of the regulators of our itching response. Mind, you, Histamine does way more than that, but we're talking about allergies right now."

"Wait, what do you mean by attack?" One of his ears perked up. This went from embarrassing to interesting very quckly.

"I know you have bacteria Generi, I also know your bodies digest food for energy. What happens when you get an infection?" Meg said, raising an eyebrow. Her sniffles and tears had subsided now that the bouquet was away from her face.

"Oh, I've never heard it called an 'attack.' Uh, our body temperature lowers, and we go into a kind of torpor. We lay down somewhere safe and stay still. Since the bacteria only can thrive in a narrow range of temperatures our bodies cool until our immune systems can take care of it." Generi puts his paw on the chair opposite Meg and looks at her, questioningly. She nods and he takes a seat.

"Really? Cools? But wouldn't that have put your ancestors at risk for predation- wait you didn't have predators, you were apex in your niche, weren't you?"

"I'm... not really sure. I'm not an anthropologist."

"Me neither, but I think I remember reading something like that. Our bodies are different. They raise their temperature to fight infections. It's more dangerous than your torpor because we can... well, die from it." Meg shrugs. "It doesn't happen too much anymore, but it used to be more of a thing."

"That sounds like a human, yes. In a race between killing your infection and killing yourself." Generi's tail flicks - a grin.

"We're getting off topic." Meg gestures towards the flowers, "in the case of an allergic reaction, our bodies call for histamine to be released when a harmless-" She glanced over and saw Generi's face "Fine, harmless - for us - substance enters our body, but we treat it like an invader."

"And this happens to everyone?" Generi was amazed at this impromptu biology lesson. It certainly seemed like humans were nearly constantly at war with something. Their own bodies, themselves, their neighbors, no wonder they were so good at it.

"No, not everyone, but a lot of people. It's fairly common. Anyway, in some people the body overreacts to the substance and produces histamine which causes the allergic reaction. Sneezing, runny nose, itchy eyes and body, congestion, things like that."

Generi flicked his ears and nodded, combing the two species gestures for assent. "Okay, I understand now. So the flowers...."

"Yes, I'm allergic to Roses." Meg blew her nose.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Generi was despondent. "I read about giving humans flowers as a sign of affection and I...I wanted..."

"Oh, I understand the intent Generi, I'm touched, really!" Meg reached over and patted his paw. She noticed his fur rise just a little bit. "I'm just allergic to Roses. Next time, try a different flower." She stood. "Wherever did you get them?"

"One of the humans over in Little Earth is growing them. He has a whole garden." He voice was filled with wonder.

"I had no idea. I can't believe the station authorities allowed it, some human plants are downright... prolific." Meg stared at Generi for a second. "How about you take me down to see them? I'll take an allergy pill first, and we can look at them together before it's shut down and it has to all go into the incinerator."

"You mean, like a date?" Generi's ears stood straight up, and his fur rippled once.

Meg started to laugh but held it back so as to not hurt his feelings. "Sure, just like a date. It'll be fun."

[imtryingandtired]

Episode ideas for a NATM series that should exist

- McPhee ending up getting fired as museum curator because of complaints from museum guests not liking him all that much and getting replaced with a much worse person, so Larry tries to get him back

- War breaks out between the Wild West and Rome exhibit despite Jed and Octavius being friends now and them having to try getting to the bottom of this sudden aggression

- A buzzfeed unsolved type group starts to believe the natural history museum is haunted and decide to have a lockdown type stream in it to catch ghostly activity

- Larry has some time off as night guard and his temporary replacement ends up being the worst, leading to them trying to get Larry to come back

- Obligatory body swap or Freaky Friday episode for the fun of it

- Larry gets to go back to the Smithsonian after they borrow ahk and the tablet for a exhibit featuring the gate of kahmunrah (new wax statue or his actual corpse), him and Ahk reuniting

- The anniversary of Wea and Teddy getting together comes up and the exhibits try planning the perfect date for them, going the slightest bit overboard

- Halloween special where Ahk discovers a lone statue in the basement while exploring and befriends them, only to find out no statues are actually down there and revealed to be a spirit

- Christmas carol type episode with McPhee as Scrooge

- Flashback episode to Ahks childhood and eventual death (also this episode focusing on his time at Cambridge)

- One of Larry’s invention prototypes get discovered by some big tech boss who wants to help him make it big in the industry, making the exhibits worry that he’ll leave

- Teddy ends up having to be taken away for repairs after fetch with rexy gets too hectic, but when he comes back he’s acting completely different and the gang try to get to the bottom of it

- Ahk decides to sneak out of the museum one night to see how much the world has changed since he’s been let out of his sarcophagus and shenanigans ensue as Larry runs around New York trying to find him

Leave suggestions for other episode ideas

[anderstrevelyan]

I’m interested in your theory of what Gortash was a counsellor of? Or what department of high ranking official of the city he was working for?

Oooh thank you for the opportunity to talk about Baldurian politics 🙏 (somehow this developed footnotes) (and got really long, whoops)

I don't think I'm settled on who initially hired him—it could be one of the five officers of the city* who typically hire bureaucrats, or a duke (since it seems Florrick works primarily with Ravengard and the Fist).

I think most likely would be Earl Namorran (the Harbormaster circa 1482) or Thalamra Vanthampur** (either while she was Master of Drains and Underways or after becoming a duke), though I do picture some leeway in who the counsellors advise once they're in place, more about where their advice is needed than necessarily being tied to a particular area.

(I was trying to source back where I got that impression, and I think it's Wyll describing Gortash as trying to be an advisor to "the peers" in general:)

(He's thinking back to 1485 and before, when he still lived in the Gate—the "bit player" part became less true the closer you get to 1492, I imagine, especially with the narrator line that attributes the title counsellor to Gortash describing him as having considerable influence on industry and politics)

Some areas I could see Gortash being a fit to advise on would be a) weaponry (but we know the Watch marshal is skeptical of his ideas in 1492, and Ulder Ravengard certainly doesn't like his advice, so I can't picture him spending much time advising the Watch or the Fist despite any overtures), b) the flow of goods in and out of the city, and c) technology.

(Technology is why I'm imagining Vanthampur as a possible entrypoint: the drains and underways porfolio is prestigious because it's so technically demanding in a way that's beyond most patriars.)

And speaking of technology, personally I see him working a lot with the Gondians and the ways they interface with the city!

After Duke Torlin Silvershield's death, the high artificer of Gond becomes Andar Beech, who oversaw the temple's day-to-day under Silvershield and was critical of his involvement in politics—so I think that leaves an opening for someone outside of Gond's church to step in and do some of that liaising. Because the city really, really cares about the Gondians—they maintain those giant cranes that move all the goods at the docks and keep trade flowing, relevant to Namorran's work, and they repair plumbing in patriars' homes, relevant to Vanthampur's—and I could see him advising parliament and the dukes on how they might best get more use out of the Gondians and their inventions. (While at the same time using them as jumping-off points for his own.)

We know the Gondians likely had a lot of secret projects going on (I don't have a link, but the rumour's from Descent into Avernus!), and Gortash eventually takes their Foundry through fraud and blackmail, so I can picture him using his role as counsellor to twist his way in to learn more for leverage and to start to legitimize a partnership between him and the Gondians in the public's eye: setting himself up to take direct, forceful control like we see him having in 1492.

-----

*those five officer positions being: Harbormaster, High Constable and Master of Walls, Master of Drains and Underways, Master of Cobbles, and the Purse Master, per Murder in Baldur's Gate

**Follower-of-Zariel and owner-of-a-bathhouse-that-by-1492-has-a-bane-bhaal-and-mrykul-temple-under-it Thalamra Vanthampur!

[mariacallous]

KYIV, Ukraine—The office of Practika, a Ukrainian company specializing in armored vehicles, is concealed behind a tall security gate that fences off an anodyne suburban building that is otherwise indistinguishable from the neighborhood’s many residential homes. But step inside and one is immediately thrust into another world: that of Ukraine’s precocious defense sector.

Companies such as Practika have allowed Ukraine to manufacture more than a third of its own battlefield hardware at a fraction of the cost of arms industries elsewhere in Europe. Indeed, Ukraine’s weapon-makers also provide a template—and an opportunity—for modernizing the rest of Europe’s militaries.

Speaking to Foreign Policy in April, Practika’s top executive, Yuliia Vysotska, presented sleek marketing literature that displays a spectacular range of military vehicles, including a mobile guard house, armored trucks, and other tactical multipurpose vehicles mounted with firepower.

“We know exactly what’s needed and can shift quickly as new needs arise because we’re in direct contact with the front,” said Vysotska, who also heads the League of Defense Companies of Ukraine.

About 200 of Practika’s staff, for example, are research and development engineers who repair and adapt the machinery according to the specific, rapidly changing conditions of the battlefield.

“We’ll supply the weaponry of future because this is what war will look like,” Vysotska said, gesturing around herself to indicate all of Ukraine.

Ukrainians such as Vysotska aren’t the only ones championing the country’s dynamic new sector: Denmark, among other countries, is now purchasing equipment including howitzers, missiles, and long-range strike drones directly from Ukraine—and for Ukraine. It is an ideal way for countries without their own developed defense industries to aid Ukraine, and simultaneously to build out Europe’s production capacities. Three Nordic countries, the European Union, and Canada plan to spend roughly $1 billion dollars on the Ukrainian defense market through 2025.

“The Danish model of support is effective and fast,” said Ukrainian Deputy Defense Minister Dmytro Klymenkov last year, “as it allows us to reduce our dependence on international aid and respond flexibly to the frontline.”

And figures in the Danish industry are gushing over it, too: It’s “a win-win for European defence: cheaper, faster supply to Ukrainian forces and a bigger defence industrial capacity for Europe,” wrote Fabrice Pothier of the Danish consulting firm Rasmussen Global in a post on LinkedIn.

Vysotska is obviously proud of the metallurgy company that she took over from her father in the aughts—when it produced safes. In 2009, Practika’s first armored transporter rolled out of its single plant. When Russia invaded Ukraine and annexed Crimea in 2014, Practika switched to diverse tactical combat vehicles, expanding its production, eventually, to three factories and new products—the kind that Ukraine’s military, border guards, and police units urgently required to stem the Russian advance.

Ukraine’s competitive advantage is on full display in Practika’s flagship product: the Kozak 2M1, a nimble, mine-resistant personnel carrier that sports a 14.5 mm heavy machine gun.

“They save the lives of our troops—every day,” Vysotska said, underscoring that the 14-ton model’s V-shaped hull offers special protection against roadside bombs, hand grenades, and anti-personnel explosives. Operated by a crew of two, the Kozak 2M1 transports six troops in full battle gear and hits a top speed of 110 kilometers per hour (68 mph). It lists at around $450,000—about $150,000 to $250,000 less than equivalent models manufactured beyond Ukraine.

Practika is among about 400 established private armament manufacturers in the country that the war has shot to the fore of domestic arms production. (The Ukrainian government counts more than 1,500 military technology start-ups.) So impressively has the private sector stepped up—and outshined the state arms manufacturer that is the primary supplier of Ukraine’s armed forces—that ever more foreign countries are interested in purchasing Ukrainian weaponry for themselves. (It is illegal in wartime Ukraine to sell armaments to foreign buyers for their own purposes.)

Enterprises such as Practika are at the cutting edge of modern warfare, said Taras Kuzio, a political scientist at the Kyiv-Mohyla National University. “Because of this war’s existential nature, Ukraine couldn’t take years to produce military wares, the way it is in the West with so much bureaucracy and long gestation periods,” he said. “These companies have only weeks or months.”

Kuzio predicted that the war would end in Ukraine’s favor, and that the country will be among the world’s five largest arms producers when it’s over. Ukraine’s defense minister said in January that in 2025 alone, the country’s defense industrial capacity could reach 34 billion euros ($35.4 billion)—more than a fifth of Europe’s entire defense industry revenues.

Ukraine’s industry has ramped up exponentially since the full invasion, but it didn’t start from scratch. In the Soviet era, Ukraine was a hub for military-industrial research and development, and factories across the country manufactured missiles, transport aircraft, tanks, surface ships, and marine and aircraft engines. Ukraine remained a producer of armaments and other technology in the post-Cold War decades, but it was between 2014 and 2021 that military procurement shot up 13 times over: from $62 million to $836 million. During roughly the same period, market share of private arms companies more than doubled. After the full-scale invasion began in February 2022, government spending on arms and dual-use goods surged to nearly $31 billion. Setting the stage for this trend were several government reforms, including the creation of the Ministry of Strategic Industries, the implementation of more transparent arms procurement guidelines, and an overhaul of the state-owned arms companies. Nevertheless, when the full invasion began, foreign weaponry constituted the bulk of supply. But in some sectors, that’s quickly changing.

Ukraine’s drone production is already legendary—and more innovations are in the works.

“Ukrainian drones fly further and can carry ever more payload,” said Oleksii Babenko, the owner of Vyriy Drones, a firm that began operations in 2022. Ukraine now produces unmanned aerial systems equipped with payloads capable of striking heavy equipment such as tanks and armored personnel carriers.

Earlier this year, Babenko’s company supplied its first 1,000 drones that had been produced exclusively with Ukrainian components. Vyriy manufactures its own frames, initiation boards, flight controllers, and radio control systems; other domestic companies supply the likes of cameras and video.

“Almost none of these parts were made in Ukraine before the full invasion,” Babenko told Foreign Policy, adding that originally, much of the tech had come from China. When a foreign county requested that Vyriy Drones manufacture several thousand long-range homing strike drones for its own purposes, Babenko insisted that it buy an equal number for Ukraine.

The arms laboratory that is Ukraine has innovations in progress that are reshaping modern warfare. Interceptor drones capable of destroying enemy reconnaissance drones are already in the field. Add to that the likes of long-range missile-drone hybrids that rely on turbojet engines and function similar to cruise missiles; malware-equipped drones that destroy themselves should they be captured; remotely controlled bombs that move on tracked wheels; and remotely guided trolleys, which can be used to transport casualties from the battlefield.

Moreover, the one-drone model is quickly becoming redundant. So-called drone swarms are the future: autonomous, intelligent networks of multiple drones operated by a single system.

One of the Danish government’s top scores—and the talk of Europe’s defense industry—is the 2S22 Bohdana self-propelled howitzer, a long-range artillery piece mounted on a six-wheel truck chassis, manufactured to NATO specs by the Kramatorsk Heavy Duty Machine Tool Building Plant. The vehicle features an armored cabin at the front and artillery system at the rear that can hit enemy targets up to 50 kilometers (31 miles) away with rocket-assisted artillery projectiles. The Bohdana’s added value over similar weaponry produced in Europe is its precision firing and durability.

Moreover, say the Danes, Ukrainian weapons are easier to maintain in a combat-ready state. And, at 2.8 million euros per unit, the price is half that of its French equivalent and a quarter of Germany’s. The maker claims that it can repair damaged units within 48 hours and unlike the small handfuls in the West, forty units a month are rolling out of the Kramatorsk production facilities.

Europe’s private sector spots a bargain in Ukraine, too. Perhaps the highest-profile example is the German arms manufacturer Rheinmetall, which—in a joint venture with Ukraine’s state-owned arms maker—has already fabricated one factory in Ukraine for armored vehicles and plans to construct three more: a gunpowder production facility, one for artillery shell manufacturing, and an air defense systems production facility.

Direct investment is happening as well.

“We want Western companies to have a stake in the industry, to be part of it, and have an interest in its long-term growth,” said Denys Gurak, a partner at MITS Capital, a Kyiv-based international investment company working on defense. “The Ukraine defense sector is interesting for a West rearming itself in the face of new battlefield threats,” he added.

As the Brussels think tank Bruegel put it in a recent policy brief: Ukraine is becoming “Europe’s arsenal.”

[proxylynn]

MY WISH WAS ALWAYS YOURS (part #8 first half bonus chapter...Amnesia: The Law of Unintended Consequences)

{So, a while back, I got the idea for a short event based on an ask a lovely gave me, and it played out in my head so much that I had to make it into a story chapter. It is set in the same year as the film, but much later, so I hope nobody gets too confused about what's happening or why they have altered appearance details. I hope you like it and please enjoy.}

A crisp autumn wind swept through the industrial district, carrying the faint, warm scent of spiced pies and freshly baked dough. The Jack Horner Pie Co. was alive once more, its towering smokestacks sending gentle plumes into the air, and the faint hum of machinery emanated from within. The factory looked impeccable and imposing from the outside, its golden logo gleaming on the gate restored to its rightful prominence. The streets beyond it bustled with life as merchants, workers, and townsfolk moved about with purpose, their conversations tinged with mirth and prosperity.

The factory itself was a far cry from its former disaster zone. The chaos of months prior was now a distant memory, replaced by a machine-like efficiency that hummed in perfect harmony. The walls had been repaired, the production lines had been revamped, the once-scattered bakers were now a well-oiled machine, and the reorganized guards patrolled the grounds with renewed vigilance. Though his name had become more synonymous with fear than admiration, the city knew that the Jack Horner Pie Co. was thriving again. The reputation of its owner only grew with each passing day, fueled by rumors that Jack's return from the dead was something far more miraculous—and far more dangerous—than anyone could have imagined.

Inside the factory, Jack Horner sat in his newly refurbished office, poring over a stack of documents. Despite the grandeur of his surroundings—the fine mahogany desk, the polished black iron accents, the fresh brickwork, random little knickknacks—there was an unrelenting sharpness to his demeanor. His once arrogance had refined into something more focused. Ruthless, yes, but efficient. His reputation had only grown since his return. The factory's revitalization and the mysterious rumors of his survival had turned him into an even more prominent figure in the city's underworld. People feared him, admired him, and whispered about the strange power he now seemed to wield. Some even said that his eyes had gained an unnatural glow in the dark. Jack didn't mind—he knew the power of fear. It was what kept people in line. It was what had gotten him to where he was. And his looks after the Wishing Star almost claimed him did make others quake in their boots.

His bob-styled pink hair was dashed with strands of silver that glittered with dust like embers when the light hit it just right. The opalescent scarring that could be visibly seen on his skin shimmered with each subtle move. His eyes, the left a fair blue and the other a brilliant silver, held a powerful gaze, which was only enhanced by the star-shaped mark branching from his silvery ocular orb, which would catch the light like cracks in porcelain. This brush with cosmic magic and the talk of his demise is why rumors were spread. Some think he's a ghost, and others think he made a deal with some dark power. Either way, it spread his name further and became more challenging to ignore. Something that pleased him greatly.

His attention was on the papers scattered across his desk, flipping through them and making notes with a deliberate hand. His right thumb shimmered faintly with plum-tinted silver opalescence, unlike the other scars across his massive form; this was something he could prominently see constantly, a constant reminder of the wish he lost yet was used to spare him from meeting a terrible fate. A fate that was only escaped due to the desperate actions of the sole person who seemed to care for him.

He was alive because of...

*knock-knock*

Her.

“Enter.”

The door is softly opened, and Lynsie's presence is so familiar that he doesn't have to look up to see that it's her. She stands in the doorway, her figure framed by the dim hallway light. Her once-brown hair now shimmered with silver streaks of cosmic starlight, her markings as prominent as his own; her left eye glimmered with the same silver and branching star mark while the right was still a strong-willed green. They were a pair now, bound not just by history or loyalty but by shared scars and shared power. She stepped into the room, her presence filling the space like an unspoken promise. She hadn't changed much on the surface, but Jack had noticed the subtle shift in her. There was a quiet determination in how she carried herself now, a sense of confidence that hadn't been there before. She was no longer just the faithful sidekick; she was his equal in ways that had begun to feel more natural with each passing day. She hip-checks the door into shutting and comes to stand at his side, her boot heels lightly clacking against the floorboards and clipboard in hand; once close by, she starts rattling off updates. Her guard's uniform snugly hugged her form, causing her shadow to leave little to the imagination in the illumination of the room's hearth.

“I have gone over everything since we began the repair work and restructuring of the staff.”

“Go on.”

“Production levels are up 42% since the reorganization. We've secured two new distribution contracts and are ahead of schedule in fulfilling the fall contracts. Not to mention, thanks to the Midas Touch... Let's just say our coffers look very healthy even after so much spending. All in all...Not bad, considering the mess we were dealing with these last few months.”

He didn't look up from his writing.

“And the new hires?”

“Still a few kinks, but they're getting there. The improved training regiment and instructors are producing results. Finally, the guardsmen will be less useless than before. The third time seems to, so help me, be the charm."

Jack snorts a snide chuckle without looking up.

“It's about time. Less useless is the best we can hope for with some of these people. But it's good enough for now. The incompetence of that last batch almost made you pull your hair out.”

She groaned at the memory.

“Good help is so hard to find. Yet idiots are a coin a dozen.”

She gives a weighted sigh and flips through her clipboard.

“But that aside, I have some news about the city council...”

He groaned, running a hand through his hair.

“What now? Let me guess—they're whining about the so-called ‘unethical labor practices’ again?”

“Not this time. It seems our momentary ‘dead’ status and subsequent management displacement has made them realize that they aren't as financially stable as they believed themselves to be.”

She smirked, pulling up her notes.

“They're proposing tax incentives to, according to them, ‘help sustain the city's economic backbone’.”

His eyes left his work, and he looked at her with a raised eyebrow, his smirk widening.

“Tax incentives, huh? It seems they've finally learned who is actually keeping this city afloat.”

He leaned forward, steepling his fingers.

“Still, let's keep them on their toes. Draft a list of suggested improvements for city infrastructure. Frame it like it's for their benefit. If they're going to bend over backward, we might as well make it worth our while.”

“Consider it done.”

She jotted down a note, and he leaned back in his chair.

“We've got momentum. Let's keep it that way. We need to be operating at full throttle before the winter rush.”

She flips her notes to some other pages.

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

He kicked himself for jinxing it.

“Good first.”

“The good news is...I've confirmed our new supplier for the exotic fruits you wanted.”

“Good, I don't want delays in starting the new test line for the holidays.”

“Okay? So what's the bad news?”

“The foreman says we're running low on cinnamon again. He thinks the suppliers are cutting corners due to the mishandling they were dealing with in our short absence.”

His jaw tightened, his earlier good mood vanishing.

“Cinnamon's one of the cornerstones of winter sales. Get me the contact details. I'll handle it.”

She tilted her head, watching him closely.

“Are you truly going to handle it? Or is that code for sending me to ‘handle it’?”

“Depends...”

His tone is light, but his eyes are cold.

“If they're just testing to see if we'll notice and renegotiate our contract, I'll deal with it. If they're actively trying to rip me off, thinking they can get away with it because we're busy, that's when I send in my secret weapon.”

She smiled, a dangerous gleam in her eyes.

“Good to know I'm still your weapon of choice.”

“What can I say? You're damn good at making others see things my way."

She snickers.

“Well, someone has to ensure your reputation is intact.”

“Careful, you're starting to sound like you think you're special.”

He said, a sly grin spreading across his face. She tilted her head, meeting his gaze.

“Aren't I?”

There it was again—that new confidence she wielded so effortlessly. The kind that both challenged him and pulled him closer, whether he wanted it to or not. He didn't answer immediately, instead reaching out to hook a finger around her wrist and pulling her into his lap.

“You're special enough to stay.”

He said finally, his voice low and laced with something she couldn't quite name but recognized all the same. She smiled, the kind of smile that softened her features in a way few saw.

“And here I thought you only kept me around for my charm.”

“Charm, competence, willingness to throw yourself into danger for me... Call it what you will.”

He listed off lazily, running a hand through her hair.

“You've got your uses.”

“Mmmm, glad to know I'm appreciated.”

She murmured, resting her head on his chest and providing comforting warmth he could absentmindedly pet. For a while, they sat in silence, the only sounds heard being the crackle of the fireplace and the faint scratching of his quill on parchment as he worked. For once, the weight of the world outside their walls felt distant.

Their dynamic had shifted in subtle ways over the months. Where once they might have kept a guarded distance from such displays of connection, now their exchanges carried an undertone of intimacy. Where once Jack might have kept her at arm's length, now he let her in—not all the way, never all the way, but enough that she knew he trusted her more than anyone else.

And behind closed doors, the walls they built so carefully came down entirely. Their physical relationship reflected their partnership—intense, unyielding, and unspoken. He would never say the words; she didn't need him to. His actions spoke for him in ways words never could: the way he'd pull her close after a long day, the way his hands lingered, the way he let her see the parts of him he hid from everyone else.

It was complicated and somewhat restrictive, but it was theirs.

A sudden knock at the door interrupted the moment, and they returned to their usual professionalism. She moved to stand beside his desk, her arms held behind her back.

“Yes?”

The door opened at Jack's voice, and a new guard stepped in.

“Mister Horner, you have visitors at the gates. They say they come with a proposal.”

Jack's gaze sharpened. He's not a fan of uninvited guests.

“Did they give a name?”

“They claim to represent the Trader's Guild of Far Far Away. We checked them for credentials, and the seals they bear match our records.”

Lynsie quirked a brow.

“Interesting. That's an unusual move for them. They've been reluctant to aid our expansion into the land for what? Almost ten years now?”

Jack stood from his seat, rolling his shoulders as if preparing for a performance.

“Well, let's see what they have to offer. If they've finally realized I'm not just some dough-faced dimwit, we might just play nice.”

As Jack descended the staircase to the main hall, Lynsie followed at his side, her presence a steady and loyal shadow. The two approached the ornate front doors, which swung open to reveal three finely dressed merchants flanked by a handful of guards. Their leader, a tall man with a trimmed beard and a calculating gleam in his eye, stepped forward.

“Ah, Jack Horner. A pleasure to finally meet the man behind the rhyme.”

The man began with a practiced bow.

“I am Gregory Cienzo, and these are my associates. We come representing the Eastern Trader's Guild of the land of Far Far Away. We've heard much about your... talents and tenacity.”

Jack chuckled, low and menacing.

“Flattery gets you through the door, little man. What keeps you here is what you can offer.”

Antoniello straightened, offering a confident smile.

“Of course. We've come to propose a partnership of sorts. Now, it's been noticed that your brand has effectively dominated Spain and has been attempting to set up in Far Far Away for some time. We've also noticed you have some loose connections with the other sectors of the Guild. So...a collaboration could be arranged with our sect if that would be something of interest to you.”

Jack tilted his head, considering.

“And what's your angle? Nobody comes to me unless they need something.”

Antoniello's smile faltered slightly, but he recovered quickly.

“Perhaps we can discuss things further indoors?”

“If you seek business with Master Jack, you should be able to state your pitch publicly.”

Lynsie states, and Antoniello leers at the woman.

“You let your wench speak so freely?”

Jack's right eye faintly twitches and sparks.

“Don't deflect. I don't have time to waste on idiots.”

Antoniello annoyingly sighs.

“Fine. Let's just say things for us have become...difficult. Bandits, rival traders, and unpredictable weather have made maintaining control of our routes challenging. However, you don't seem to share such hardships even though you partake in some of our land wears while overseas. So we had concluded to ask of you...what with your resources and, shall we say, influence if you could ensure safe passage for things on our end.”

Jack leaned back smugly, smirking.

“So what I'm hearing is, you want my protection? That's funny. Because your guilds largely ignore my requests and try to snub my shops out of business over there. But you get some unforeseen setbacks and suddenly want to negotiate? Oh, this is rich. Let's say I humor you and offer my aid. What do I get in return?”

“An equal share of the profits, naturally.”

Antoniello offered smoothly. Jack's laughter echoed through the courtyard, dark and mocking.

“Equal share? Oh, no. No no no. Let me tell you how this works. You want my help? Then you people stop smothering my businesses, and I take seventy percent. You get thirty. And that's me being generous.”

Antoniello's face reddened, but before he could respond, Lynsie stepped forward, her tone calm and commanding.

“Consider the alternative, Mr. Cienzo. Without Master Jack's support, your trade routes will continue to crumble under the weight of your guild's incompetence. Thirty percent of something is far better than one hundred percent of nothing.”

Antoniello hesitated, begrudgingly weighing his options.

“May I have some time to discuss with my associates?”

“I think we're done here.”

Jack turns away from them and heads to return inside.

“W-Wait!”

That was the desperation Jack was hoping to hear.

“...We are open to your terms.”

Jack's smirk widened.

“Smart choice. Now, come along, and let's discuss the specifics.”

Jack continues, and Lynsie motions for the men to follow. She waits for them to proceed before she follows them to the negotiation room.

Over the next several hours, the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the city in hues of fiery orange and deep violet; the negotiations for the contract were hashed out. The air in the room was tense but electric as Jack leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he watched Antoniello and his associates pour over the details of their agreement. Lynsie hovered around them, her clipboard in hand and writing, her sharp eyes scanning every line of the documents for potential loopholes and any attempts on their end to cheat Jack.

“Remember, you're not just buying quality. My brand carries weight, and you're chaining yourselves to a juggernaut.”

Jack said lazily, his voice dripping with amusement as he reclined further. Antoniello's jaw tightened, but he forced a smile.

“Of course, Jack. Your reputation precedes you. This partnership will be mutually beneficial.”

Jack hummed, clearly unimpressed.

“Mutually beneficial? Such a polite way of saying, ‘I had no other choice’.”

He chuckled as Antoniello's face reddened.

The merchants finally finished drafting the agreement, and Antoniello handed over the gilded contract with a flourish. Jack skimmed it, then had Lynsie double check it, her eyes being more thorough and giving the okay when done to allow Jack to place his signature on the bottom line to seal the deal.

“Pleasure doing business.”

Jack said, standing and ignoring Antoniello's offered hand.

“You can go now. I'll have my people get in touch with your people. Lynn...See them out. I have work to get back to.”

She bows her head and escorts the merchants as Jack leaves to his own devices. As they approached the gate, she leaned in slightly toward Antoniello as they walked, her voice low and icy.

“A word of advice, Mr. Cienzo. Don't test Master Jack's patience or consider his offerings anything less than deserved. Big Jack Horner isn't just a businessman—he's a storm. Those who stand in his way will know true devastation. And in this seedy world you've chosen to step into so desperately, well... Let's just say, those that dare cross Big Jack Horner don't do so twice. Do you understand me, Mr. Cienzo?”

Antoniello swallowed hard, nodding.

“Understood.”

“Good!”

Her voice slipped into sweet honey-like warmth.

“Now, you fine gentlemen have a safe trip home. And be sure to enjoy the local hospitality. It's to die for.”

Unsure that was a threat, Antoniello and his entourage departed, their faces masks of professional courtesy hiding the unease of having struck a deal with a man as notorious as Jack. Lynsie watched as they disappeared down the cobblestone path of the bridge, her sharp gaze lingering on their retreating figures till far enough where she signaled for the gate to be shut.

“Do you have any orders, ma'am?”

A guard stationed by the main door asks.

“I want a small unit, no more than ten, to shadow them. See if they are legit and do return to Far Far Away's traders guild. If not... Eliminate them and make them vanish. No one crosses Big Jack Horner.”

“Yes, ma'am!”

With a salute, he rushes off, and she smirks. Finally. Competence. These were guards she likely wouldn't end up cutting down in fits of stupidity-induced rage. She turned and re-entered the factory, the familiar air of her command being noticed by the staff. She was Jack's weapon and a deadly one indeed.

She returns to his office and finds Jack leaning back in his chair, a glass of spiced apple cider in hand, and resuming his work from before.

“It's done.”

She said simply.

“You made the swap?”

He asks, and she pulls from her vest the original contract.

“I did. And I have men sent to follow them.”

Jack nodded.

“Good.”

He pauses to take a long sip and then chuckles.

“Do you think they realize they just handed me control of their routes?”

She smirks.

“Not a clue. And if they do, they'll likely have no idea till it's too late and try to convince themselves they can outmaneuver you down the line. Let them dream. They'll fall in line, just like the rest. It makes their inevitable failure all the sweeter.”

He chuckled, raising his glass in a mock toast.

“To delusional merchants and easily exploitable circumstances.”

“To your ever-growing power.”

She replied, her voice softer with admiration and reverence.

“Think of the possibilities this can bring. Raw materials, production, distribution—every crumb of it. I can take power in our former homeland.”

“As you deserve, Master Jack.”

Jack's smirk softened into something almost genuine, but the moment passed quickly.

“You may finish up for the night. I can manage things from here.”

She tilted her head.

“You sure? You know I don't mind sharing the load.”

He waves a dismissive hand.

“It's fine. Just get things ready for when I finish. I expect my meal to be hot when I sit at the table.”

A smirk threatened to crack her lips, but she fought it. This was normal for them, yet it felt so uncharacteristically domestic now. She shook such silly thoughts away and nodded.

“Would you also care for a wine to pair with dinner?”

“Surprise me.”

“As you wish.”

As she turned to leave, he called after her.

“And Lynsie...”

She paused at the door, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Don't retire too soon. I might need you. To, you know...help get to sleep.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she kept her composure. Help get to sleep, indeed. In fairness, he did wear himself out when lost in the heat of it all.

“Understood.”

The door clicked shut behind her, leaving Jack alone once more. He swirled his glass, staring at the faint reflection of his star-shaped eye in the liquid. Sure, he'd lost the wish, but in many ways, he'd gained something valuable—a partner who didn't just follow him but understood him in a way no one else ever had. That and it's not like he couldn't find something else to make his dream of being the master of all magic come true. That would just take time.

He finished the cider smoothly, setting the glass down with a decisive clink. There was work to do, and Jack Horner wasn't one to waste time. Not when the future was wide open, ready for the taking. With Lynsie at his side, he was sure of one thing: nothing—and no one—could stand in his way.

[TIME SKIP – A FEW MONTHS LATER]

Jack's influence extended far beyond the factory gates, spilling into every aspect of daily life for the city his business calls home. His name was on the lips of merchants, politicians, and common folk alike, whispered with a mix of fear and admiration. The once-shaky alliances he'd forged had solidified into unbreakable bonds—mostly held together by gold and the lingering threat of his wrath.

One evening, as the city buzzed with anticipation for the annual Autumn Harvest Festival, Jack stood on the factory balcony, surveying the city like it was his kingdom. Lynsie joined him, her presence steady and reassuring as always.

“The festival looks quite grand this year.”

She remarked, nodding toward the bustling streets below.

“No doubt because of your generous sponsorship.”

Jack chuckled.

“Generous? Hardly. It's an investment. Let the people feast and drink and celebrate—all on my coin. They'll remember who made it possible.”

“And what about you?”

Lynsie asked, her tone lighter than usual.

“Will you join the festivities?”

He glanced at her, smirking.

“Do I strike you as the festival type?”

“No. Not really.”

She admitted, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“But it wouldn't hurt to show your face. A little goodwill can go a long way. That and I do believe you've earned a break.”

She puts a hand on his arm.

“You've been working so hard. It would be good just to kick back and relax.”

He considered this, then shrugged.

“Fine. But only for a little while. If anyone spills something on me, I'm leaving.”

She laughed softly.

“Fair enough.”

As the sun set, the city came alive with music and laughter; the pair descended from the factory to enter the streets. No carriage to bring them in and announce his arrival. Not enough driving room. So people saw them just walking around as if they had suddenly appeared. Honestly, scaring the crap out of most. For a man who thrived in shadowy dealings and power plays, he was walking among the people as a presence they couldn't ignore.

Slowly, things adjusted.

Being the more socially approachable one, Lynsie made things easier for Jack. Engaging in conversation and distracting any children who may have been curious about them, all while keeping a watchful eye open. Despite this being a time for them not to be working, he couldn't help it. Jack found himself interested in the small displays of the people selling goods, mostly food, but looking for interesting items. He tried samples for those with edible goods and, when something caught his attention, offered those that met his satisfaction some very generous coin as financial backing or the right to use the recipe. Within a short time, he had made many people very happy.

“You're supposed to be relaxing, Master Jack.”

Her voice chides teasingly as he's about to make a beeline for the drink vendors, making him flinch faintly like a child being caught sneaking out after bedtime.

“I am relaxing.”

“Are you?”

His face scrunches.

“Don't even start. You wanted me to show some ‘goodwill’, and I am. Now I'm going to enjoy some hopefully decent refreshments.”

“Very well, but do try to pace yourself, please.”

“Woman, don't tell me how to drink. I'm not a lightweight.”

“Fine. But if you start to sway, I'm cutting you off. It won't look good to have me lug you back home.”

He scoffs and carries on, now with her in toe monitoring his indulgence.

Where earlier sellers reaped the reward of Jack's tastes, the same could not be said about those trying to peddle alcohol. Food is one thing, but his palate for stiff drinks would put master sommeliers to shame. His tastes bordering on the obnoxious when it comes to specifics, and one tiny flaw can sour his mood. These poor souls never stood a chance. The stings of his verbal lashings are surprisingly not so much aimed at the people but at the product they offered, yet his biting critiques are far from motivational.

“What the hell is this? I've heard of dry wines, but you made it bone dry somehow. How do you dry out a liquid?! I might as well be drinking grape-flavored sandpaper!”

“I wouldn't give this brandy to a pig dying of thirst. It would insult the pig, and there's no need to kill it faster with this swill.”

“The potatoes used for this vodka must have seriously hated you. For this tastes like pure spite. Spite...and the feet of someone that wants to see the world burn.”

“Do you know what a foreshot is? It's the first vapors to boil off during distillation, usually containing unwanted compounds and off-flavors, which, if drunk, can kill a person. I would rather drink that than whatever cheap knockoff cognac this is!”

Throughout the crashing waves of his scathing breaking of ambitions, a few did show promise, and he would offer some advice for improvement...but it still hit like he was disappointed that he had to do it.

Eventually, the hour that marked the festival would be winding down soon approached, and the city's vibrant energy settled into a hum of satisfaction. Lanterns swayed in the cool autumn breeze, their golden light casting a warm glow over the festivities. Children clutched at their parents' hands, some daring a curious peek at the infamous businessman, while merchants and city officials offered cautious bows and hurried greetings. Jack barely acknowledged them, his smirk widening ever so slightly at the ripple of awe and unease his presence created. This was precisely what he wanted—the reminder that the festival, the joy, the prosperity—everything—was his to give and take as he pleased. Jack stood in the town square, sipping on the only drink that had met his impossibly high standards. At the same time, Lynsie hovered nearby, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she partook from a plate of cheeses and watched him scrutinize the crowd with his ever-calculating gaze.

“Looks like your ‘goodwill tour’ has been a resounding success. Not too many tears were shed after your feedback.”

She teased, nudging his arm lightly. He snorted, amused, swirling his drink.

“They'll thank me when their businesses don't flop next year. If I have to endure subpar cider one more time, I'll buy their whole operation just to shut it down.”

She chuckled softly but straightened when one of the festival organizers approached. A stocky man with a nervous smile and dressed rather dapperly, he bowed slightly before addressing Jack.

“Señor Horner, the people would be most honored if you would say a few words to close the festival. Your generosity made all this possible, and it'd be nice to hear from you.”

Jack raised an eyebrow, glancing at Lynsie, who gave a slight shrug of ‘you do you’.

“Fine.”

He handed off his drink to a startled attendant.

“Let's get this over with.”

At the far end of the square, a makeshift stage adorned with harvest-themed decorations had been set up. Jack climbed the steps with a confidence and ease that came naturally to him. The murmuring crowd quieted as he took his place at the podium. His presence commanded attention, and every eye was locked on him as he surveyed the gathered townsfolk.

Clearing his throat, he began.

“My people...”

His voice carried effortlessly over the crowd, loud and authoritative.

“Tonight, you've feasted, celebrated, and reveled in the fruits of a prosperous season. Let me be clear: this prosperity didn't come from chance or luck. It came from hard work, smart decisions, and, most importantly...”

A sly grin spread across his face.

“From me.”

A ripple of laughter and cheers ran through the crowd.

“I have watched this city thrive over the years, becoming much more than the little village it humbly started as. The jobs you have, the goods you sell, the opportunities your children will grow into—all of it is tied to what we've built together. So, as you enjoy the rest of the night, remember who made it possible tonight. And look forward to tomorrow—as this is only the beginning!”

The crowd erupted in applause; Jack puffed out his chest in satisfaction with his brief speech. But a sharp, nasally voice interrupted.

“Enough of this self-aggrandizing drivel!”

The crowd gasped, whipping their heads around to find the source of the interruption. A figure at the crowd's edge moved closer, slipping between the revelers with purpose. It was a wiry man in tattered robes, his eyes burning with hatred. Lynsie's gaze narrowed on him as she instinctively joined Jack.

“This city and all its prosperity is because of you? So...Then it's to assume it's on you that so many suffer!”

He points a judgmental finger at Jack, and doing little more than making the man scowl, Lynsie discretely takes an on-edge stance to spring at the drop of a hat.

“Your expansion has been putting small shops out of business all across the region. Families are starving while you sit high and mighty, counting your ill-gotten gain. Even my own...I lost my shop. My love. My family. Everything...You destroyed my life, Horner!”

The man shouted, his voice cracking with rage. The crowd parted in alarm as he pushed forward. But Jack rolled his eyes before dismissing the intruder.

“Oh, geez. Not another whiny pity speech. Blah, blah, injustices. Blah, blah, tyranny. Blah, blah, You ruined my life! Do you have any idea how hard it is to run an empire? I have other things to do today, you know. Like deciding what wine I will have with dinner tonight. White wine, red wine, or, dare I say, Rosé?”

Jack's lack of fucks given isn't exactly the reaction this guy was hoping to get. The lack of a serious response is more insulting than if Jack got angry or denied the accusations.

“Did you not hear me?!”

“Oh, I did. I just don't care. I hear this kind of speech so annoyingly often that I've learned it's just your way of justifying your failures. If your life could so easily spiral to this point, that sounds more like a YOU problem. I'm just your excuse. So why not take a hard look in the mirror, quit whining, and—”

This doesn't make things any less tense. It only pours more fuel on the metaphorical fire.

“You greedy son of a...”

“Language. There are children present.”

Jack's tease is the last straw.

“Don't talk down to me! You think you're without blame?! That you're untouchable!?!”

The man screamed, grabbing some sort of pouch from his cloak and raising his arm back, aiming to throw said pouch directly at Jack.

“Let's see how untouchable you are when your world crumbles away like mine!!”

Lynsie's instincts kicked in, using her plate like a blade and flinging it at the man before surging forward off the stage. Her body is a blur as she soars in the air, her left eye flaring and igniting her hair in a protective fury. The man hurled the pouch, and time seemed to slow as the bag soared through the air, a faint trail of glittering powder spilling from its seams. If realization hit Lynsie as to this backfiring, it didn't show; at most, she put up her arms to take the brunt of the impact.

The bag bursts upon contact, a cloud of shimmering dust enveloping her and erupting in her cosmic flare. A blinding combustion, like an ember catching on lint, is gone as fast as it ignited, and when sight returns to all, two things are noticed. The first, the man is screaming and clutching his now missing arm. It seems the flung plate had been thrown with enough skill that it had sliced cleanly through his flesh and joint. The limb and now shattered plate lay some ways behind him. And yet the other thing noticed...Lynsie face down in the dirt, her sliver fire extinguished.

Jack had been stoic up till this moment. This wasn't the first attempt on him in some stupid ploy for revenge or whatever. He did not worry about it. But seeing her down and made still, a sight he's seen before yet so rare...it hits him differently. Something is wrong. Dangerously wrong.

Something in him gets angry. The air around him seemed to chill, the torches dimming as if in fear. His right eye erupts, yet he's calm. The crowd gives him space as he slowly steps down and stalks toward the would-be attacker. The poor bastard is too distracted by his bleeding and lack of appendage to notice the massive man till he's within grabbing range.

“Mister Horner...”

Some of his off-duty guardsmen had been among the festive folk and come to his side, pausing his hand from clutching the man as if he were twig then snapping his scrawny neck.

“He's no good to you dead. Let us take this guy away for interrogation and make him spill his guts.”

His fingers tremble and clench into fists of frustration. As satisfying as murder would be, his subordinates used logic, and it was enough to stay his hand...for the moment.

“Get this idiot out of my sight! I'll deal with them later.”

Jack's voice is so cold it would make ice seem warm by comparison. He didn't spare them a glance as the guards dragged the attacker away towards the factory, his focus entirely on Lynsie. He goes to her prone body and kneels, nudging her for a moment before flicking her face.

“Don't be so dramatic. Wake up.”

With a slight groan, her eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. She struggled to push herself up.

“Look at me.”

She blinked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“What...What happened?”

She looks around, puzzled.

“Why are we in town?”

“Because you wanted me to take a break. Remember?”

“I did what now?”

This...This got his attention.

“Lynn, what season is it?”

“Huh?”

“What season is it?”

She paused.

“Autumn. It's about to turn to autumn.”

It was mid-autumn, almost winter.

“Jack? Is something wrong?”

His gaze hardened, and his mind analyzed the implications of her disorientation—the powder. Whatever was in that pouch had not only knocked her out but had seemingly affected her memory or perception of time. His sharp gaze flicked back to her as she pushed herself to a sitting position, still dazed.

The crowd had fully dispersed now, sensing the palpable danger in the air. Only a few of Jack's guards remained at a distance, reassuring the people and awaiting his orders. The faint murmur of the city festival carried on in the background, oblivious to the chaos that had unfolded.

“Lynn, focus. Tell me exactly what you remember before this moment.”

She blinked, her brow furrowing in concentration.

“I...I was...in the stables. Then...I don't know. Everything's blank after that.”

Her eyes searched his face for answers, but his expression remained hard and calculating. This wasn't just a simple attack by a fool wanting to humiliate him or bruise his ego. This was serious. And she took the hit meant for him.

He stood abruptly, reached down, and offered her a hand. She took it, her grip firm but shaky, and he helped her to her feet.

“Come. We're getting this sorted out.”

His tone left no room for argument. She nodded, her usual sharpness dulled by confusion but still trusting his lead. Together, they headed back to the factory. The crowd respectfully kept their distance, their fear of him outweighing any curiosity they might have had.

Inside the factory, the atmosphere shifted instantly. Workers and guards at posts snapped to attention, sensing the unusual tension in their boss's demeanor. Jack barked an order for his head medic as he strode through the grand halls heading for the infirmary.

The medic, a timid man with sharp eyes and steady hands, rushed ahead to prepare the space at the sound of his employer's booming call. Moments later, Jack entered and had Lynsie sit at the examination table.

“What happened?”

“Some idiot came at me. You know, the usual stuff. She did her job and took the hit. Now, her memory is off. Like by a month and a half.”

“WHAT?!”

She looked at him like he requested a donkey, a dog, a cat, and a rooster to become musicians. His deadpan expression was enough for her to know he meant his words. The medic frowned, leaning closer to examine her. He was used to dealing with many medical emergencies around the factory, often due to Jack or Lynsie regarding "less qualified" staff. But when the pair returned from chasing the Wishing Star some time ago, even his medical skills found examining them awkward. It's not like magic is taught in medical school. So he does what he can and what he knows—giving her a basic checkup before planning for bigger things, lighting a match, and moving it slowly.

“Follow the flame, please.”

He instructed, his tone calm and reassuring. She obeyed, keeping her head still and following with her eyes alone.

“Can you give your name and position?”

“Lynsie, no last name. Also known as Lynn and Little Lynn. Strategist, bodyguard, personal assistant, assassin, and whatever else Master Big Jack Horner assigns me to be at any given time.”

“Good. And do you know where you are now?”

“In the factory infirmary at Jack Horner Pie Co. HQ.”

“Alright. Now, describe your last clear memory before tonight."

Her brow furrowed, and she sighed.

“I was in the stables, tending to the beasts, as I often do. Feedings went smoothly. I noticed the ramidreju had been shedding, likely its seasonal coat was transitioning for the coming cold, so I began collecting the fur.”

“A ramidrju?”

“Imagine a weasel, but it has a very long body like a snake, and its fur is slightly green-colored for camouflage. Its eyes are yellow, its nose is like a hog, and its tusks are like a boar, which it uses to dig deep extensive burrows and often will go after/unearth gold or other treasures. I was collecting fur because it has magical properties by acting as a healing panacea. So, loose fur would be good for medicines and trade in dark markets. I remember discovering scrap marks on the enclosure; no doubt it was trying to burrow out and then...nothing until I came to in the town square.”

The medic blows out the match before it burns too low.

“That gap is concerning. I'll need to run a few tests to determine the extent of the memory lapse. But if magic is affecting her memory, things might be more complicated.”

Jack sighs, running a hand through his hair to keep a calm composer.

“Master Jack, I'll be fine. If you have to go, you can go. I will return to you once this is done.”

Her words did little to comfort him. His jaw clenched, his stormy gaze fixed on her. For a moment, the air between them was taut with tension.

“You're not ‘fine’ until I say you're fine. You don't get to brush this off like it's nothing.”

She tilted her head, a flicker of her usual sharpness returning despite her confusion.

“I'm not brushing it off. I'm telling you I can handle it. You have more important things to deal with.”

He leaned down, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made the medic shuffle awkwardly.

“You're not allowed to fall apart on me. Got it?”

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a brief moment, she saw past his usual veneer of dominance and sarcasm. Beneath it lay something raw, unspoken, and perhaps... vulnerable.

“...Got it.”

He straightened, his imposing presence looming over her like a shield.

“Good. Now, stay put. I have a moron to irrigate.”

“You're going to interrogate them yourself?”

Jack's smirk was humorless, his voice low and cold.

“Of course. I'm going to remind him why I'm not someone you mess with.”

She reached out, lightly gripping his sleeve.

“Remember to make them bleed. Pain loosens lips, but death keeps secrets.”

“You did that for me already. You took his arm in the attack.”

“I did? Nice.”

With that, he strode toward the door, briefly pausing to glance back at her.

“You'd better cooperate. I don't need you making this harder than it already is.”

She smirked faintly, though her eyes held a glimmer of warmth.

“Wouldn't dream of it, Master Jack.”

The door shut behind him, leaving her and the medic alone in the room.

…

Jack marched through the factory's halls, his mind a whirlwind of plans and possibilities. This idiot had underestimated his reach and ruthlessness. If they thought they could hurt him, they'd just made the gravest mistake of their lives.

Lynsie's disoriented face haunted him. She was the one person he could rely on, who understood him and didn't flinch at the monster he could be. Seeing her vulnerable, even momentarily, sent a chill down his spine.

“Sir!”

One of Jack's guards ran up to him, saluting. His gaze snapped to the guard, irritation flashing across his face.

“Report.”

“Sir, the prisoner is ready for your questioning. He's in the holding cell, as per your instructions.”

Jack's expression darkened.

“Good. Take me to their soon-to-be tomb.”

His words were blunt, callous, and unapologetic. The guard heeded him without hesitation, guiding him towards the depths of the factory. The factory's exterior did not just resemble a fortress for intimidation reasons. Every bit of space was factored into the construction, including under it. The holding cells were deep in the lower levels, far under the supportive rock the structure rests upon, starkly contrasting to the grandeur above. The air grew colder and the walls rougher as they descended into the dimly lit corridors.

Passing a few empty spaces, the guard stops at one and opens the door, which Jack enters. Inside, the would-be assailant was bound with rope to a chair, his face pale and sweat beading on his forehead. His missing arm had been crudely tended to, yet there was not enough bandaging to cover up the smell of cauterized flesh permeating the air. He looked up as Jack entered, and his fear was palpable.

Jack loomed over him, his arms crossed, the epitome of menace.

“Here's how this is gonna go...”

Jack began with a no-nonsense tone.

“I ask you questions. And you answer them. Simple, yes? Now then...Where did you get that powder?”

The man swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape.

“You think I'm afraid of you, Horner? You've already taken everything from me. Kill me if you want. I have nothing left to lose.”

“Wrong answer.”

Jack kicks the chair over, and the man lands on his wound. As painful as that is, it worsens as Jack strolls up to him and puts his foot on his good shoulder, adding his bulky weight. The screams that come from this echo off the walls.

“Magic is a commodity I keep tabs on. And some poor pissant like you sure as hell doesn't have the funds or collateral for trade. So I'll ask you again. Where did you get the memory powder?”

This made the man pause for a moment.

“Wait...memory powder? I didn't have memory powder. That stuff was meant to obliterate you.”

Jack glances at one of the cell guards and motions for them to come over with what they have gathered.

“This is what he had on him, sir. The pouch was gathered at the scene.”

Jack looks at it; a single word is written crudely in faded ink as if it was scribbled in haste.

“Oblivio? You moron! That's Latin for ‘to forget’ not obliterate.”

The man groans, inwardly kicking himself.

“I knew I should've double-checked the label.”

Jack added pressure out of frustration. This was the guy who had potentially taken out Lynsie? An illiterate idiot with a chip on his shoulder that can't do anything right? Life is one fucking cruel joke after another.

“You said ‘label’. So this wasn't the original packaging?”

“It was a bottle!”

Jack eases off.

“I stole it from a shop. The old man running it had eye problems, so it was easy. After that, I snuck on a ship and came here.”

“I figured as much.”

Jack sighed, and the man laughed at him as if thinking this was some sort of victory; either that or it was a nervous response. The odd moment of calm was suddenly gone when Jack's fist slammed into the floor by the man's face. The sound of stone breaking snapped the moment's reality back into the forefront. The man's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull as all color left him.

“You have guts for coming at me like you did. Sure, you never stood a chance, but I must commend you for doing it. But you still made the mistake of doing so, and now, you must live with the consequences.”

Jack straightened, his expression cold. He turned and left the cell, slamming the door shut behind him.

“You say I destroyed your life? That you have nothing left to lose? You're wrong. Some fates are worse than death. And I won't be used as your scapegoat or executioner.”

He turned to one of his guards.

“Don't let him die. This is his life now.”

The guard nodded and entered the cell as the realization hit the man.

“No...No! You bastard! Come back! Get back here and kill me! End me like you did everything else!”

But his pleas fall on deaf ears. This was his fate. Jack won't let him have the easy way out he craves. If he wants to die, he'll have to find a way to end himself.

Jack's boots echoed through the narrow corridors as he ascended from the dungeons, his thoughts roiling, his rage simmering beneath the surface. The frustration of dealing with someone so thoroughly inept—someone who'd threatened his empire, all out of sheer idiocy—gnawed at him. The man's pathetic pleas linger faintly behind him, but he doesn't look back. There were more significant concerns now.

Ascending the steps back to the main level of the factory, he mulled over the revelation about the powder. A memory powder from across the sea. That meant two things: first, someone with access to potent magical substances had been careless enough to lose track of it, and second, he would have to wait till morning to get in touch with his contact overseas about this "Oblivio". And that ticked him off.

By the time he reached the infirmary, his composure was firmly back in place. Lynsie was still seated on the examination table, the medic hovering nearby with an array of charts and detailed records. Her gaze snapped to Jack as he entered.

“So? How did it go? Did you make him wish for death?”

Her tone was uneasily chipper despite her state and the context of the questions.

“Wishing and getting are two different things.”

Jack replied, his smirk faint but present. She snickered at the implications, and he glanced at the medic.

“How is she?”

The medic hesitated before answering.

“She's stable. Physically, there's no damage from whatever happened. But the memory loss may take time to resolve—or it may never fully return. I'd need more information about the substance to work on a countermeasure.”

Jack's expression darkened.

“I'm working on. The idiot stole a powder. Said he came from across the sea. That narrows things down a bit.”

She grimaces for him.

“Oh...You're going to have to call Kyle, aren't you?”

He sighs out a groan.

“Yeah. As much as that guy makes me want to snap his back over my knee, I can't hate him for knowing his stuff when it comes to hexes, curses, potions, and all the crap the old bat used to brew. So he's got his uses outside of supplying me with goods I can't get here.”

She pats his arm in sympathy, but he swats her for it, making her chuckle.

“Okay then, so we have a plan. Good. Very good.”

She hops off the table.

“Easy now, Miss Lynn.”

The medic adjusted his glasses.

“Avoid overexerting yourself. Your physical condition is fine, but cognitive stress could exacerbate the memory lapse. If you feel disoriented or have trouble focusing, tell someone immediately.”

She nodded. Jack leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed, as he scrutinized Lynsie. His usual sarcasm was absent, replaced by a tension he couldn't completely mask.

“You're taking this too lightly.”

“I'm taking it as it comes. You've taught me that much.”

She shot back, though her smirk didn't quite reach her eyes. His gaze narrowed.

“What I've taught you is to be prepared for everything. This doesn't feel like you.”

She blinked, taken aback.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

He straightened, stepping closer, his towering presence casting a long shadow over her.

“You're acting like this is just another bump in the road. But you don't even know how bad it is yet. Memory loss isn't some scratch you can slap a bandage on.”

Her smirk faded, replaced by something sterner.

“I'm not weak. I've dealt with worse, and I'll handle this like always."

His hand shot out, gripping her shoulder—not roughly, but firmly enough to mean business.

“You're not ‘handling’ anything. You don't even know what hit you. So until we figure this out, you're sticking close and not making big decisions without me. Clear?”

Her mouth opened to protest, but the look in his eye silenced her. It wasn't his usual domineering glare; there was something deeper, something raw and unspoken. She closed her mouth and nodded reluctantly.

He released her shoulder, stepped back, and exhaled slowly. Jack curtly nodded to the medic and motioned for her to follow him as he left the infirmary. The pair walked silently for a moment, the hum of machinery and the distant chatter of workers filling the void. She finally broke the silence.

“You need to calm yourself. If you keep this up, people might suspect you genuinely care about me.”

He stopped abruptly, turning to face her, his expression unreadable.

“Don't misconstrue this. You're supposed to be untouchable. Unshakable. You've taken hits for me before. But this is different.”

She's momentarily caught off guard but shakes it off and goes to her default stance as his shadow.

“This is no different than any other time I've leaped in as your shield. And I'll keep doing it. I'll always do it, no matter the blow. I take each hit with pride because it means you're there to respond when I need it. Just like now.”

His lips curled into a sly grin.

“You really are loyal to a fault, huh?”

“Just to you.”

She playfully poked back, and it made him chuckle.

“Let's get upstairs. I need a real drink, and you need rest.”

She nodded, following him as they ascended to their private quarters. Despite her disorientation, she felt the sense of security in his presence that she always did. No matter how ruthless or cold he could be, Jack had a way of making her feel like nothing could genuinely harm her.

As they reached their quarters, he poured himself a stiff drink and then poured a second one, handing it to her. She smirked playfully.

“You sure? You remember the last time you shared a hard drink with me?”

His smirk deepened as he leaned against the bar, swirling his glass with a casual wrist flick. His starry eye gleamed as he gradually watched her usual sharpness return despite the fog clouding her mind.

“Last time was...different.”

His voice was low but teasing as he remembered that night at his parents' with that perfect bottle of Armagnac brandy.

“Besides, I'm not about to get you sauced enough to repeat that particular performance tonight.”

She chuckled.

“Fine. One drink. Maybe this can help me sleep. Wouldn't want to risk mixing magics, you know?”

“Good girl.”

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, the tension of the evening melted away. But even as they drank silently, unanswered questions hung heavy in the air. Mayhaps...another glass would help?

…

The following day dawned with a chill in the air, the factory coming alive with the sound of machinery and the bustle of workers. The hum of the factory was distant, muted by the thick stone walls. The morning light filtered through the thick curtains of Jack's quarters, casting a soft glow over the room. But in the stillness of the bed—only the quiet rhythm of breathing was shared between the two figures lying side by side beneath the heavy sheets. The bed beneath them had been unmade in their carnal, unspoken descent into sleep. Jack's arm was draped loosely across Lynsie, his body half-splayed on the mattress.

He stirred first, his hand grazing the edge of the bed as he shifted slightly, the movement pulling him from the edge of sleep. He blinked once and twice, trying to orient himself from the hazy feeling of waking from deep slumber. It took him a moment to process the situation—the familiar warmth beside him, the scent of alcohol still faintly lingering in the air, and the softness of the bed beneath him.

Lynsie was there, curled on her side, facing him. She was still asleep, her face unguarded and at peace. The sharp, calculating glint that usually accompanied her expression was gone, replaced with the innocence of someone blissfully dreaming, unburdened by the chaos of the night before.

His mind flicked back to the events that had led them here—the attack, the uncertainty about the memory powder, the dramatic interrogation, and the slight tension they had before they returned to their quarters. What started as one drink soon became many they'd shared before sleep. The now more familiar sense of release of tension through physical acts he could only bring himself to do with her slowly dawned on him having had happened despite his original intentions. Fuck, he needed that badly last night. And with how she was, she needed it too. All that stress was gone to allow sweet shut-eye.

He sighed softly, his starry eye flickering as he glanced at her sleeping form. Despite the raw tension that had courted him the night before, the anger and worry that had almost consumed him, something about seeing her like this—vulnerable yet still with that subtle strength—calmed him.

A faint shift in the sheets caught his attention, and he saw her just as her eyes fluttered open. They were still cloudy, the fog of sleep clinging to her mind, but the confusion from the night before was gone. And in its place was something worse.

He had known her well for a decade. He has seen her at her highest and lowest points. But he had never once bore witness to the look she had as she stared at him like he was a ghost. Before he muttered a word, she reacted, practically flinging herself out of his bed and not bothered by the sudden breeze accompanying said action. It takes a moment, but then she notices the marks on him are also on her. As well as their nudity.

“Why am I—And you, you're also...? Why was I in your bed? Did we...Oh my god, Jack, did we—?”

“Calm down. I can explain.”

“Calm down?!”

Her voice cracks momentarily, and he tosses a pillow at her. It is a childish move that breaks her lapse in panic enough for her usual rational thinking to kick in.

“Y-Yeah...Yeah...My apologies...”

He pats the spot beside him, and she hesitantly rejoins him, him covering her.

“Jack? What happened?”

He had hoped this wouldn't happen, but her condition worsened. Judging from her outburst, her memory gap extended back to before the Wishing Star and before they dealt with Princess Fiorimonde. So, more months were now just gone for her. And deeper still, she no longer remembered their budding closeness. The intimacy that they had managed to achieve that went beyond their casual professional relationship. Now it's like things were at square one once more, something he once wanted out of fear.

She trembled faintly from concern or the cold; he couldn't be sure which. His tone softened slightly as he reached for her trembling hand, clasping it in his own.

“I'll explain everything over breakfast. But let's get dressed. Okay?”

Despite his usual gruffness, he needed her to feel grounded, even if she couldn't fully trust her memory. She glanced at him, confusion etched across her face, but she didn't pull away. She just nodded.

“I know, this isn't the best way to wake up. I've got a lot to catch you up on. But, you're going to be alright. I got you.”

He stood, tossing the covers aside and pulling on a fresh pair of underwear from the nearby dresser. She watched him cautiously, her sharp eyes flickering with fragments of recognition and doubt. It was a look he despised—not because it reflected weakness, but because it reminded him how vulnerable she was. And how much he hated seeing her this way.

After quickly freshening up and changing into fresh clothes, the pair went to his office. He sat at his desk while she perched on a chair nearby, distractedly nursing a cup of warm milk. Despite her earlier calm, he could tell her thoughts were racing—he knew the signs all too well. He could see it in her eyes, and he hated it.

With his own cup full of coffee to keep him focused, he sets about getting in touch with his magic supply guy in Far Far Away. Opening a cabinet by his desk reveals a series of crystals, each held on named plaques for easy identification. With delicate ease for his size, he pulls the crystal with the initials FGC. Setting it on his desk, he taps it and takes a big swig of brew, the crystal glowing as it rings. After a few chimes, the light solidified, and a voice came through.

“Well, well, well. Look who decided to call. And so early too? How have you been, Jacky-boy? Wait! Don't tell me. You want something. Am I close? I bet I'm close. Come on. Tell me.”

Jack thanked his luck that these two-way communication crystals didn't display visuals, or they'd get a big look at his exaggerated eye-roll.

“Not even two seconds and already more than twenty annoying words. A new record, Kyle.”

Kyle's voice was chipper, laced with a cheeky familiarity that thinned Jack's patience.

“You know I love our chats. They're so... stimulating. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from you this fine day? Are you looking for something? Illegal potion recipes? Enchanted armory? Oh, wait—don't tell me. It's a cursed object! Enchanted chains? A hex to make someone's hair fall out? I haven't had a good cursed-object deal in ages. No, I know! You finally want a love potion~. Classic.”

Jack sighed, rubbing his temples.

“Kyle, if you don't shut up and listen, I'll find a way to reach through this crystal and strangle you till you turn blue.”

“Promises, promises.”

Kyle quipped, though there was a hint of wariness in his voice.

“Alright, big guy, I'm listening. Lay it on me.”

Jack leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly now that Kyle was done messing around—for the moment, anyway.

“I need information. A possible reversal potion or antidote for a memory powder. Do you have anything like that in stock? I know the old bat kept things from the benign to the extreme for all her...business ventures.”

It was a polite thing to call anything that Fairy Godmother did.

Kyle let out a low whistle, clearly intrigued.

“Memory powder? That's some serious stuff. It's not exactly the kind of thing people pick up casually. You in a bind or something?”

Jack's patience was already thin, and Kyle's teasing wasn't helping. He looks over at Lynsie as she finishes her drink, looking at nothing but listening to everything.

“Let's just say someone came after me and messed with my people, so now I'm cleaning up the mess. Can you help me or not?”

Kyle chuckled.

“Since when do you care about what happens to your workers?”

Kyle gasped with cocky realization, a sound that made Jack want to smash the crystal just to shut him up.

“Unless it was that little cutie that always follows you around~?”

“Cut the crap, Kyle! Can you help me or not?”

Jack growled; he could piratically hear the delight of being right on the other end.

“Relax, big guy. I'm just teasing. Of course, I can help. But, uh, favors like this? They don't come cheap.”

Kyle's tone turned businesslike but with a smug undercurrent that grated on Jack's nerves. There was a reason Kyle inherited the businesses from Fairy Godmother and her son didn't. And it wasn't entirely because Kyle was her "sexy man-boy chauffeur"...though it did help. No. Kyle was to Fairy Godmother as Lynsie is to Jack. Loyal, faithful, know what they are doing, and can get difficult things done.

“You know how it works. I scratch your back, and you scratch mine.”

Jack palmed his face and groaned into his hand, scowling.

“What do you want?”

“Oh, I don't know yet. But trust me, I'll think of something. For now, let's mark this as an IOU. Because I like you so much.”

Jack wanted so much to be able to kill this man with his mind. There was a pause on the other end, followed by the faint sound of papers shuffling. Kyle was likely going over the many books on the products the Fairy Godmother's Cottage produces.

“Well, here's the thing,”

He said finally.

“Reversal potions for mind-altering hexes are tricky. The effects depend on the ingredients used, the amount taken, and how long it's been in the system. I've got a general antidote that works in most cases, but it's for your basic bouts of forgetfulness, like getting bonked on the head and forgetting if you left the oven on. That sort of thing. I'll need details if we're talking about the 'intentionally induced' kind.”

Jack's grip on his coffee mug tightened.

“It likely came from your territory. The guy who used it said he stole it and ditched the bottle it came in, probably for ease of stashing, so I don't have the original label. The only clue I've got is the word ‘Oblivio’. Does that ring any bells?”

Kyle hummed thoughtfully.

“Oblivio, huh? Latin. Fancy. Okay, I think I know the kind of brew you're dealing with. Years back, the King cracked down on magic that fell into the category of ‘manipulators’. We're talking about your hypnotics, will-benders, body modifiers, and, of course, the mind kickers. Naturally, the old gal was exempt from this due to her connections, but we had to relabel things to keep up with the goodie-goodie appearance. You know how that is?”

“Not really.”

“Right. I forget you don't care about public image.”

“I let my business and reputation speak for me. Why hide it? It works, and I'm still making a killing.”

“Figuratively or literally?”

“Both.”

“Ah, Jack. You really are a sociopath, you know that? But you're honest, and I like that. Mad respect.”

Kyle quipped back, though his tone was more amused than bothered.

“Okay, give me a second. Just got to flip through the gal's big book of brews.”

The crystal went quiet for a good long moment, the faint sound of papers shuffling and something heavy being dragged in the background. Jack drummed his fingers on the desk impatiently, resisting the urge to pace. Finally, Kyle's voice came back, a little muffled.

“Okay, so I found our bad boy Oblivio. And the good news is...That got renamed under the label Lethe's Tears, and it can be reversed.”

Jack didn't like how he opened with ‘the good news’.

“Don't hold out on me, Kyle. What's the rest?”

Kyle inhales nervously.

“So...Oblivio powder isn't for simply forgetting things. It's for erasing. It's extremely potent, and in its raw form, it is devastating. She always deluded it or used the smallest amount required if I read these notes correctly. So if your girl got hit with raw powder, her memory is going to keep fading the longer this goes untreated.”

Jack stiffened, and Lynsie flinched in her seat while Kyle continued.

“Now, while the antidote should counteract the effects, there's no guarantee the memories will return immediately. Sometimes, things of this potency need what we call a trigger. Something familiar. A place, an object, a smell—anything tied to strong personal memories. You get the antidote in them; then hit them with the trigger. If all goes well, the memories will start flooding back. If not…”

Kyle trailed off, letting the silence hang in the air. Jack exhaled sharply.

“Figures the old bat would rules lawyer her curses with bullshit like this. Fine. How soon can you get the antidote to me?”

Kyle's voice brightened, going back to all business now.

“I can have it shipped out and in your hands in...three days. Four tops.”

“That's too long!”

Jack snapped, a little sharper than he intended, correcting his tone slowly.

“I need it sooner.”

“Hey, hey, I get it. There's no need to bite my head off.”

Kyle said, his tone defensive but not unsympathetic.

“I'm just being realistic with you. It will take me some time to gather the stuff, make the counter agent, test it, and secure delivery. And I think you know that Far Far Away isn't exactly around the corner from your place; that's a boat trip. If all goes well and I start now, with luck that everything goes right on the first try, we're looking two and a half.”

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. He couldn't leave Lynsie like this for that long, not in her current state, but he knew this was out of his hands.

“Fine.”

He said finally, taking another sip of coffee, the bitter warmth grounding him.

“But don't try to pull something about what you want later. I'm not in the mood for games.”

Kyle chuckled.

“Jack, you wound me. Do you think I'd take advantage of a man in need? Shame on you.”

Jack muttered something under his breath as he tapped the crystal, ending the connection. The glow faded, leaving him to stew over what Kyle said. He stared at the space on his desk, his mind racing with plans and contingencies.

Three more days. He could make it work. He had to for her sake as well as his.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair. Lynsie sat silently across from him, her hands clasped tightly around the empty cup. Her gaze remained distant, as though she were trying to piece together everything before he could so as not to make him carry this load.

He despised this. This dent in her demeanor unraveled what she had been built up to be. The sharp, fiery woman he knew was trapped beneath a haze of confusion and fear, which gnawed at him.

“Alright...”

His voice was steady despite the storm brewing in him.

“We've got three days to hold this together. Here's what we're going to do.”

Her attention snapped back to him. She looked uncertain but nodded for him to continue.

“First, we will establish where your head is each day and act accordingly. We've got years of history, and we'll work on grounding you to it so the next gap in your memory doesn't get any bigger than it could be. So...Let's keep to a routine—familiar places, objects, anything that might help you feel connected. The more stable you are, the easier it should be when the antidote arrives."

She nods.

“I can also keep a record and write down the essential details like, well...”

She motions to their star-marked scarring.

“Good. Smart. Do it.”

Uncomfortably, she asks the tricky question.

“What do we do when the gap breaches years, and I recognize none of this?”

He froze, his jaw clenched at her question, and his mind sped as he tried to respond. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and interlacing his fingers, his star-marked hand faintly glinting in the dim light.

“If it gets to that point...”

He began, his tone careful, measured.

“Then we focus on keeping you grounded in the present. Even if your memory fades more, I'll ensure you have enough context to navigate. You won't be alone even if you don't recognize me.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her eyes flickered with something he couldn't identify, but she nodded hesitantly.

“Alright. That's...That's something.”

Her tone wasn't like hers. She sounded hollow and detached, like she was simply agreeing while not truly believing it. This won't do. She's not allowed to fall apart. He stood, reaching for his coat on the back of his chair.

“Get up.”

“Huh?”

“Get up. You're not going to slip up on my watch.”

“Jack...”

“We'll start with something simple today—a walk around the factory, maybe the stables later. Familiar sights and sounds might help. Then we'll do your journal idea—get everything written down. I'll fill in the gaps wherever you need.”

She looked up at him.

“You think it'll work?”

The question hung heavy between them, raw and unflinching. Jack exhaled through his nose, his expression hardening further, not with anger but with determination.

“It might. It might not. Either way, I'll remind you—every damn day if needed. I'll keep reminding you until it sticks. So don't you dare entertain doubt. You're not weak like that. You're a fighter. Write it down, draw it, sing it, I don't care. Just don't let go. Not without a fight. Don't disappoint me like this.”

The intensity of his words shook her, and the use of her trigger caused fear to overtake the situation's dire effects. Her uncertainty slowly gave way to determination, even if some moisture faintly built up in her eyes.

“Okay. Let's do this.”

A faint smile tugged at the corners of his mouth despite the heaviness of the situation.

“Good girl.”

She stood up and squared her shoulders as if steeling herself for battle.

“Thank you. Please, don't hesitate to kick my ass if I do that again.”

“Please...Like you have to tell me twice.”

With that, they began the actual first day of grounding her memory in the reality she was beginning to lose. They started by walking around the facility to see what she could recall, which was a lot. She only didn't register the new equipment and remodeling after the star event. But Jack led her through the bustling corridors with a patience he gave nobody else, the steady rhythm of the machinery filling the air like a sugary-scented heartbeat. Workers greeted them with nods or cautious glances, their expressions a mix of respect for Jack and concern for Lynsie, given talk of the event during the festival had already spread throughout. She trailed her fingers along the cool stone walls, the texture sparking flickers of intrigue when a mark was there that wasn't before or one was now missing.

In the stables, it was a similar situation with her recognition. She knew of all the creatures kept within and what their needs were. But he had to explain why four unicorns were missing from their pens. Luckily, her favored dark beauty was still there and was a delightful relief. How she learned of the phoenix's subsequent loss/betrayal was shameful. Regret befalling her for favoring the bird with trust. The state of the trophy room was also something that required him to explain. Her memory might have been regressed, but it was still up to speed to note every missing piece from his collection or how the stained glass window now had different patterns. Little details like that reminded him of how much he relied on her to keep things in check while he was paying attention to other aspects of his operations.

Returning to Jack's office, they worked on her journal. She wrote in neat, deliberate strokes, furrowing her brow as she documented what Jack told her about their shared history. When not too busy with his work, Jack occasionally checked on what she had written, correcting details or adding context when needed, and his voice was steady and calm throughout.

The afternoon was a gift—a semblance of normalcy. As protective as he had been, her memory was still on par with their usual, and he allowed her to run her typical rounds as if nothing was out of the ordinary. It was pleasant. No issues. And when she returned with snacks for teatime, he almost figured the effects of the powder had cleared out of her system. But that was a wishful thought that he only entertained briefly until she fumbled, making slips due to not having the knowledge she had days ago.

By evening, they were back in their private living quarters. Lynsie cooked as Jack sat at the table and went over her journal, adding more notes and little things…also maybe snooping to see if there were any secrets. For as close as they were/had gotten, both still had issues with opening up about personal things. Hell, he had to learn about how her mother actually died by hearing her tell his mother and not HIM; she had him believing she killed that repugnant witch in defense when the bitch offed herself yet blamed it on her. So this was both good for her and a mini bonus for him. Her notes were meticulous, organized into sections: facts about herself, shared bits with him, even quirks of the factory and its workers. It was equal parts practical and somewhat unnerving—a record of who she was in case she woke up and didn't recognize herself.

The scent of dinner wafted through the room, a mix of sautéd vegetables and something sweet—a dish he couldn't quite identify but knew she had mastered over the years. She moved about the kitchen with a grace that belied her earlier trembling, and she was humming, something she rarely did. Watching her like this, he felt a tiny flicker of hope. Maybe today had been a success, a foothold against the steady erosion of her memories. For all the day's chaos, something was calming about seeing her in her element, even if her memory gaps hung like a shadow over them. It was a rare moment of peace, and he wouldn't let it slip unnoticed.

“Smells good.”

He remarked, leaning back in his chair and closing the journal for now. She paused mid-stir, her lips twitching into a faint smile.

“This was something the bandits taught me. You learn many random dishes when food is limited due to a lack of coin. You get creative. See what works. And I suppose cooking's always been like...a meditation for me. Keeps my hands busy when my head's elsewhere.”

He nodded, letting the silence between them settle into something companionable. For now, he could push aside the weight of everything—her condition, the antidote, the questions they hadn't answered—and just focus on the here and now.

When dinner was ready, they sat at the table, the city's lights twinkling in the distance outside the window. The silence was pleasant, not awkward or forced. They ate in near quiet, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the room.

But as they reached the end of the meal, she broke the stillness.

“You don't have to deal with this, you know. I know it can't be easy for you to deal with me being broken. Knowing it's going to get worse before it gets better. I won't fault you if you wanted to—”

“Don't.”

He cut her off.

“I know where you're going with this, but knock it off right now. You are not broken. This. This isn't on you. So don't try to make it out like it is. We've...”

He catches himself and quickly corrects his words.

“You've been through worse. That's how I know you're better than this. You don't stay down when beaten, no matter how badly. You will beat this. You're something of mine. And I don't keep useless crap.”

She nodded but didn't look entirely convinced. Her gaze drifted down to her bowl, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the edge.

“Still, I can't imagine how frustrating this must be for you. Having to make yourself pause because instead of being at your side, I'm lost some ways back and have to catch up.”

“Not as frustrating as hearing you doubt yourself.”

Jack put his fork down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He wasn't good at this kind of thing—comforting people, sharing feelings. But Lynsie wasn't just anyone; he couldn't let her spiral into self-doubt.

“Listen to me. I don't care how far back you think you've fallen. I don't care if I have to slow down, stop, and drag you along—what matters is that we keep moving forward. Together. I'll do whatever it takes. Because you're not some liability or distraction to me. You're...”

The words get caught in his throat. He has to tread this cautiously. Yes, it's still her. Yes, he explained to her that they got close. But that connection is weak now because it is only on his end. He's the one with the hangups that have kept them in a comfortable partnership/companionship...with benefits...but now he's the only one on that spot. He's the one with emotions. He supposed now she had a point about that feeling left behind part. Yet, this was not the time to dwell on it. He had to make this stick with her.

“I built this place...”

Jack continued, motioning vaguely around them.

“Brick by brick, deal by deal. I've fought tooth and nail for everything I've got. And you've been here for a good chunk of it. You've got my back when I don't even realize I need it. So don't think for a second that I'm going to let some powder erase what you mean to this place, to me. And I don't care how often I have to say it; you don't get to fall apart on me. Got it?”

She let out a shaky breath, and for a moment, he worried he'd pushed too hard. But then she gave him a small tentative laugh.

“It's amazing. Even when you try to be comforting, you can't help but make it sound so...formidable.”

Her voice tinged with a wry humor that sounded more like her usual self. It was enough to make him smirked.

“Good thing I don't have to do it often.”

“True. Yet, I thank you for trying nonetheless.”

The tension in the room eased momentarily, the day's weight lifting just enough to let them breathe. Lynsie picked up her bowl, finishing the last bites of her meal. Jack followed suit, the quiet between them now companionable instead of strained. He watched her momentarily as she cleared the table before shifting gears.

“Let's talk about tomorrow. We've got the groundwork laid, but we need to keep building. More routines, more grounding. Maybe even dig into some of the deeper stuff. Whatever jogs the memories.”

She tilted her head, considering his words.

“You mean like that time you tried to ride a centaur and ended up in the infirmary for a week?”

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“I was hoping you'd forget about that.”

She chuckled softly, the sound a balm to his frayed nerves.

“Not likely. Nor am will I forget that Griffin, which came attacking because you fancied yourself a rare dish from its egg.”

“That omelet was worth it, and you know it. And I got a cool wall trophy from it too.”

He points to the head mounted on display in the den.

“That beast busted half the chimneys, took out a dozen men, and ate me! I had to kill it from the inside. Which, mind you, was not pleasant when it fell from the sky.”

He scoffs.

“Big deal. You were fine.”

“I had four broken ribs from the impact!”

“You're still here, aren't you?”

He muttered, though his smirk betrayed his amusement.

They fell into comfortable banter, the tension gone as the conversation turned to lighter memories and shared jokes. It was a glimpse of familiar normalcy, a reminder of the bond they'd forged over the years.

As the evening stretched on, she yawned, her eyelids drooping. Jack noticed and ushered her off.

“Go get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us tomorrow, and you'll need your strength.”

She nodded, getting in a good stretch before taking the journal, yet pausing to put a hand on his arm.

“Thank you.”

He gave her a small, genuine smile, patted her head, and then nudged her toward the hall with their rooms. As she disappeared to her room, he lingered for a moment. His mind sped with plans, contingencies, and the weight of what lay ahead. But beneath it all, there was a flicker of hope.

Three days. They could make it. They had to. For her, for him, and for everything they'd built together.

Jack clenched his fist, his star-marked plum thumb glowing faintly. He wasn't going to let her slip away. Not now. Not ever.

As Lynsie padded down the hallway toward her room, the journal clutched tightly to her chest; she felt an odd mix of exhaustion and gratitude. Her thoughts swirled, fragments of the day's conversations, the sensations of familiar places, and Jack's unwavering resolve echoing in her mind.

She paused briefly before her door, resting her forehead against the cool wood. The day had been surreal—moments of clarity interspersed with befuddlement, a sense of losing herself while still holding on to threads of what she was supposed to be. Yet Jack had been there, his presence a steady anchor in the storm.

She was thankful he didn't give up easily, a faint smile tugging at her lips, glad he was so stubborn.

Steeling herself, she pushed open the door and stepped into her room. The space was familiar and comforting, filled with small tokens of her life: trinkets from their escapades, books she'd devoured and reread, a threadbare blanket she'd never replaced because it was just right. Everything here told a story, her story, even if some parts of it felt distant now.

Setting the journal on her bedside table, she sank onto the edge of her bed and let out a slow breath. The day had been long, and though she was drained, the idea of sleep felt daunting. What if she woke up tomorrow as she did today? What if the fragile threads holding her identity together unraveled further?

She picked up the journal and opened it, skimming through the pages she'd written earlier. It was all there: facts, memories, moments Jack had recounted to her. His handwriting filled in the margins, sharp and precise, correcting dates, adding context, and sometimes slipping in a sardonic comment. It made her smile, his dry humor a consistency she desperately needed.

Her gaze drifted to the last entry, where she had added a small note at the bottom:

"No matter what, Jack is always there. He's always been there. He says I'm not alone in this. And I believe him. I need to."

She tears out a blank page and scribbles "READ ME" on it, setting it up to point whatever version of herself might be there in the morning to read the book before acting. She trusts Jack. Just about mindlessly in most things. However, she doesn't trust herself. Not like this. She knows how she used to be. The training she endured in her youth and continued into...hell...even now. She is a weapon. Honed like a blade tempered over the years. The last thing she wants is for her fractured to point any of this deadliness at Jack. Precautionary measures were a safe bet to take before attempting to sleep.

She got to work in a very paranoid way that even she'd recognized as a bit much. Hiding anything that could be used as an obvious weapon, secured the windows—blocked the fireplace—locked the door—and made crude restraints to hinder her long enough to make her focus so she'd find the note.

This will have to do. There's not much else she could do that Jack would allow. So she shut her eyes.

And hoped.

…

Morning rolled in with a dragging slowness. The colors of the sky dance into vibrant hues in these early hours before the start of progress begins, before the chimney stacks from multiple industry buildings plume with thick smog to block it all out. Of course, the city's heart is the most significant source of such smoke—the Horner Pie Factory. The ovens and conveyor belts of the production lines are lifeless. The staff is slowly getting things warmed up for the day before the time to start officially begins.

Jack awoke with the weight of a restless night pressing on his chest. The light filtering through the curtains barely cut through the haze of exhaustion, but it was enough to rouse him from the quiet slumber he'd managed to snatch. He blinked at the ceiling, the room's silence stretching around him, broken only by the distant murmur of the city slowly coming to life. The smell of the factory's cooking fumes, of the day's first round of preparations, wafted faintly through the air even here in their private quarters.

He swung his legs off the bed, the cold floor hitting his feet. His sudden movement made his mind wake up quicker, flashing the reality he now had to confront. Lynsie wondered if she'd slept, if she was still the same as she had been yesterday, or if the powder's effects had taken even more overnight.

Jack stood and stretched, his body creaking with the unfamiliar stress built in his muscles over the past few days. His mind was already racing through what he needed to do: the factory, the staff, making sure her memory was still intact for another day. But the small part of him—the one buried deep under the layers of callousness and indifference—couldn't shake the concern that gnawed at him for her.

The clock ticked louder in the silence, the steady rhythm mocking the fragility of the moment.

He reached for his robe, slipping the faded and familiar fabric on before heading out. His fingers paused at the knob of the door, suddenly hesitant for a moment longer than necessary before he opened it.

The hall, too, was still. The faint hum of the factory machines below was the only sound that truly broke the silence. His eyes immediately landed on her room down the hall, and the door shut.

Slowly, almost with caution, he made his way toward it, not wanting to rush what felt like a moment of breakable peace, even though he could feel the day beginning to pulse outside, full of tasks and responsibilities that couldn't wait.

When he reached her door, he paused for a breath. He didn't knock yet but instead pressed his ear to the cool wood, straining for any sound on the other side. It was silent, and in that soundlessness, Jack's thoughts surged.

He had to stay focused and keep reminding himself that whatever was happening with her was temporary and manageable. He was in control—he had to be. He would make sure she was okay, and he would do everything to ensure that.

But what if the memories slipped even further today? The thought crept in uninvited, but he quickly squashed it. He wouldn't entertain any more of these doubts, not when they only complicated things.

His hand went to the door handle, but he heard something on the other side before he could turn it. A rustle, a faint shuffle, then the unmistakable sound of paper. He knocked softly, waiting for a beat before calling out.

“Lynsie? You awake?”

No response.

He knocked again, louder this time, but still no answer.

“I'm coming in.”

He tested the doorknob and found it locked. His brow furrowed slightly, but then he smirked. She always was paranoid, but this was next level. Not a problem—He forced it open with some effort and was met with a quick flash as something shot by his face. A slight glance revealed a pencil now embedded in the doorframe.

“You should know not to enter a lady's room without permission.”

The sight that greeted him was reassuring, but not, especially with how detached her voice was. She sat cross-legged on her bed, the journal open in her lap. Her hair was slightly disheveled, her eyes buried in the book, but she seemed present. The room, however, bore signs of cautionary paranoia—the windows were securely bolted, furniture arranged in defensive positions, and the fireplace blocked. His gaze flicked to the makeshift restraints lying discarded near the bed and bits still on the frame.

“A bit of an overreaction, don't you think?”

Her eyes snapped to his, and his dread was confirmed; no recognition existed in her gaze.

“Huh? You really did get big. Neat.”

His chest felt tight even as he forced a neutral expression. The detachment in her voice and the scrutiny of her gaze weren't exactly aspects of the Lynsie he knew. The effects of the powder were more profound than he'd hoped, and the familiar bond they shared now seemed like a brittle string, stretched thin by the weight of her lost memories.

“Yeah. Big, strong, and stubborn too.”

He stepped further into the room but kept his movements slow and deliberate.

“Sounds like you. Well...The you I knew as a kid.”

So it went that far back this time. The first gap she lost was several weeks. Then, she lost a few months. Now, years are absent. And going off how she's reacting to him, the last ten years or more are gone.

“So you still recognize me?”

“I know it's you, Jack. Even with...whatever these things are.”

She motions to their cosmic scars. That's something, at least. His mind focused on assessing the situation. Everything they'd built, everything they were to each other now—that was gone. He felt a pang of frustration but hastily smothered it. This wasn't her fault. He had to handle this carefully. This was a Lynsie from a long time ago, someone still raw and cautious, not the one who had grown alongside him into a formidable partner.

“Good. Makes things a bit easier. Though if I'm honest, I figured you'd be a bit more, what's the word? Glad? To see me, I mean.”

He said evenly, pulling a chair from the corner and turning it to face her as he sat down.

“Oh, I am. I've wanted to see you again for years. But you must forgive my lack of enthusiasm. This has been a hard kick in the balls that I don't have.”

She taps the journal with her fingers in a claw-like way before running her hand through her hair to keep calm. She may have sounded detached, but the tension in her was palpable.

“Sorry. This has been a bad first impression.”

He waves it off.

“It's fine. I'd probably have done worse if I were in your situation.”

He watches her skim over the pages.

“How much do you know right now?”

She shrugs, her expression shifting from guarded to faintly curious.

“Only as much as I've read so far. But from the gist of things, I take it I work for you. Right?”

“Yeah. We've worked together for a long time.”

“So that makes you...what? My boss? A partner? Something else?”

He let out a low chuckle, the question amusing him. Hell, he didn't know exactly how to label their relationship himself. He was still iffy on calling what they were as "friends", but that line was murkier than the briny deep considering what they did behind closed doors.

“Honestly, a bit of all three, depending on the day. But that's more of a recent thing.”

“What does that mean?”

Not about to go into detail about such sensitive things, he continues but on a different track.

“You help me run this operation. You've been my right hand for a good chunk of it.”

Her gaze flickered to the journal in her lap, her fingers tracing the writing lines.

“That's what this says. But words on a page don't mean much when you can't recall it.”

His frustration flared again—not at her, but at the situation. She was right. How could he expect her to trust a history she didn't remember?

“Fair point. But you've always been good at figuring things out. Let's take it one step at a time. Start with what you know. What's the last thing you remember?”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Depends on what you're asking. The last clear memory I have...”

She leans her head back, eyes closed as she thinks.

“I was stealing from the tax repository of this shitty little town. They were assholes, so it was fine.”

“Of course.”

“So I'm loading this chest onto the back of a wagon that just so happened to be parked in the back...”

“Very convenient.”

“I know, right? So I'm loading this wagon and...”

She trails off, her hands rub her face, and she sighs.

“That's where it all goes dark. I can't recall anything after that. You can imagine the surprise of going from that to waking up here, tied to a bed. Kinda jarring.”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, I can see that. It's probably why you did all this.”

He motions around the room, her eyes roaming from one thing to another.

“Precautionary measures. Yeah, I'd do that if I didn't trust a situation.”

“Do you remember how old you were during that?”

“Why?”

She looked at him funny; he knew this would be the heaviest thing to answer. But he needed to know. He needed to figure out just how far back her mind had gone.

“Because your birthday is next month. You'll be thirty-eight.”

The journal falls from her lap.

“Thirty-eight? Are you serious?”

His deadpan expression was enough for her to know he wasn't joking.

“...E-Eighteen.”

The word leaves her like a muttered curse.

“Oh god...”

He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Yep. This was bad. He watched her process this revelation, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched her knees. The room, the carefully constructed haven she had fortified in the night, now felt like a cage—a stark reminder of just how much she'd lost. Her expression shifted between disbelief, confusion, and a hint of panic. For someone who had just learned they'd lost two decades of their life, she was holding it together better than he'd expected, but just barely.

“I know this is a lot. It's a damn nightmare, frankly. But—”

“Get out.”

He froze mid-sentence, the sharpness of her voice cutting through his words. She wasn't yelling or being loud, but the sharp edge in her tone made it clear that she wasn't asking. He looked at her, and for a moment, he saw something he hadn't seen in a long time—unfiltered fear. It wasn't the fear of him, but of herself, of the chasm she now realized separated her past from her present state of mind and being.

“Lynsie—”

“Get. Out.”

Her voice cracked, but her words stayed sharp as a blade.

“I need... I need a moment, Jack. Please.”

He exhaled slowly, holding back the instinct to argue. He knew better than to push her when she was this raw.

“Okay.”

He yielded, standing up and pushing the chair back slowly.

“But I won't be far. If you need me, you get me. This is your home. Feel free to do what you need.”

She didn't respond, her gaze fixed on the floor as if avoiding his eyes was the only way to keep herself from unraveling. He waited for a moment, a part of him screaming to stay and fix this, but he couldn't. She wasn't someone you pushed—not when she felt cornered. So he turned and left, closing the door quietly behind him. The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have in the stillness of the hallway. He stood there, fists clenching and unclenching as he fought the urge to burst back in. Instead, he leaned against the wall outside her room, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, heavier than ever. He ran a hand through his hair, his fingers catching on knots he'd neglected to smooth out. This wasn't how he wanted the day to start, but it was the reality they were facing.

This was worse than he'd thought. Losing over twenty years? It wasn't just a setback; it was catastrophic. The person in that room wasn't the Lynsie he'd come to know and depend on. She was someone else entirely, a shadow of her former self, struggling to make sense of a world that had left her behind.

He'd seen her in many different states—battle-scarred and triumphant, broken and rebuilt—but this...this was different. This wasn't a fight he could muscle through or a problem he could solve with sheer determination. It required patience, understanding, and a kind of vulnerability he wasn't used to showing.

“Damn it...”

He muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall and heading toward the kitchen. He needed to keep busy and focus on something tangible while she worked through her thoughts. Coffee, he decided. Coffee was a good start. And maybe pants. It's generally a good idea to get dressed; a robe isn't going to cut it as the morning presses on.

[To be continued in the second half.]

[ghostwise]

ten hours, five coppers

Rated T, 2.3k - Written for @dragonageannual 2025 ✨ AO3 link After a powerful storm strikes the alienage, Garahel finds his life altered in unforeseen ways. A story about the man who would become the Hero of the Fourth Blight.

Garahel’s body ached as he trudged into his home, and the silence that met him there was the first peace he’d felt in days.

A sliver of moonlight illuminated sights worn smooth by the years: the crate that served as a table, the cot in the corner, the antiquated wood stove. Tonight it all seemed new to him somehow.

Looking at his home, he was keenly aware of how fragile everything was; it was nothing but wood and stone, really, and the dreams of whatever elf, decades ago, had taken it upon himself to build. That every window pane was still whole was a blessing. Most in the alienage could not say the same.

It’d been a week since the storm had swept through the alienage, leaving behind a wake of destruction. Not a soul had slept through the howling winds and drumming rain that night—nor the deep, brassy crack that tore through the din, louder and more resonant than thunder.

That following morning they realized what had occurred.

The vhenadahl at the center of the alienage had been struck by lightning, and a portion had fallen upon the little ramshackle apartments near the courtyard. Black scorch marks stretched upwards along what remained of the great tree. It was, the hahren said, a bad omen.

Garahel had joined the repair efforts, asking for nothing in return, save what the people could spare. He was resolute in this. Even now, on this weary, hungry night.

At his side he carried a sack of flour—payment for the day’s work—which he gingerly set upon the table, beside a half-penned letter.

Isseya, the letter read.

Repairs are underway since the storm swept through our home. Believe it or not, shemlen visited yesterday, offering work. The pay is low, but regretfully I am considering the offer. A man cannot get by on goodwill and flour alone.

We ’ve heard tell that the Circle is sending mages to help in the shemlen cities that were affected. I understand the knight-commanders’ priorities. But we could use all the help we can get in the alienage.

And it would be agreeable to see you once more, sister.

The writing stopped there.

He never quite knew what to do with sentiment, and with the way he missed Isseya, even now. She was all the family he had. They were orphans, both abandoned to the streets, where they had lived and survived together—until Isseya’s magic manifested, and she, too, was swept away.

Briefly, Garahel considered finishing the letter. But his eyelids felt heavy.

He promptly climbed into his cot and fell into a deep sleep.

.

He and five others answered the call for work the next day. They made their way to the alienage gates, where a brief discussion with the guards granted them access to the city.

Ansburg had fared no better in the storm. People everywhere were industriously mending fences, patching roofs, or clearing debris. Most paid them no mind, though there were a few startled looks of suspicion.

The disparity never ceased to amaze him.

These streets were familiar to him, but he was a stranger to them no matter how many times he’d walked them. He’d lived his whole life less than a stone’s throw away, but it may as well have been another world. There was a rule of behavior that was expected here: eyes down, voice quiet.

Still, Garahel kept a trace of a smile for himself.

Their work brought them to a warehouse on the river, where the waters still ran muddy with the storm’s residue.

“Good, you lot are here,” the foreman called gruffly. He scanned their faces, his mouth twisting. “Only six? Never let it be said the elves of Ansburg are known for their work ethic.”

Garahel bit his tongue as they were led into the warehouse.

“River overflowed during the storm,” the foreman explained. “Damaged some merchandise. Your job is to sort the ruined crates from the undamaged ones—do not open anything or you’ll be losing more than just this job. Undamaged merchandise gets loaded onto the bulker. We need to reestablish supply lines; we’ve more shipments coming. You’ll be supervised, so no funny business.” The man paused to spit a piece of tobacco on the floor. “You’ll do ten hours today. Five coppers.”

“Five!”

The foreman’s eyes snapped to Garahel.

Anger, hot and startling, filled the elf for a moment. They had been promised ten. But he could feel his fellow workers tense up at his side. Some had families to provide for. They needed this.

“Apologies,” Garahel said tersely. He lowered his eyes and the moment passed.

The foreman nodded, satisfied, and the elves got to work.

It was bitter work. The crates were covered in splinters, with old nails that were beginning to rust. The ground was muddy and slick. Worst of all, the boarding platform was just a few paces wide.

But they stuck with it. The ship slowly filled with boxes of salvaged merchandise.

As the shadows grew short, then lengthened again, Garahel felt a deep weariness settle over him. It wasn’t the ache in his hands that bothered him. It wasn’t the mud that caked his trousers to the knee or the hunger he felt. It was the shemlen dockworkers, who viewed him and the others as beasts of labor, no more.

It was clear in the way they talked about them, the way they kept their distance—they may have been poor but at least they weren’t elves.

And it was clear in the way they laughed when the youngest among Garahel’s group slipped upon the platform and hit his head against the corner of a crate.

Garahel set down his load at once, and rushed to help. He grabbed the boy by the shoulders, steadying him upon the platform, which threatened to overturn.

One of the crates landed in the river with a splash. Thankfully that was all they lost.

“You’re alright,” Garahel said gruffly as he got the boy back onto shore.

“What’s this?”

The chorus of laughter from the human workers settled into silence at the foreman’s approach.

“He’s injured,” Garahel said. “If we could have some gauze—”

“Not him,” the foreman clarified. “The crate full of wine that is currently floating downriver! Who is responsible for destroying my merchandise?”

“Ser,” Garahel tried again.

“Quiet!” he hissed. “Get that bleeding oaf taken care of, and when you both return, you may begin working to pay off the losses!”

Garahel shut his mouth.

Part of him wanted to slam his fist into the foreman’s face. Another part wanted to jump into the rushing river and let it take him—maybe taste some of that watered-down wine, since it was apparently worth so much more than elven blood. He did neither. Instead, there came upon him a stark clarity, something past the anger and hunger he’d felt all day.

“Well?” the foreman pressed, as Garahel silently bandaged the boy’s wound with strips torn from his own tunic.

“He needs to rest,” Garahel said curtly. “I will take him back to the alienage. But first, pay him his day’s wages.”

“What?”

“I take responsibility for the wine. But you need to pay him.”

The foreman stared, mouth ajar and still full of chewing tobacco. “Maker damn you,” he said slowly. “I’ll show you what happens to thieving elves, you shite-”

“Someone here, serah.”

Garahel blinked.

He had been so caught up in his numb rage, he hadn’t noticed anything else. He was now startled by an unusual sight: blue banners with a silver griffin, and a group of armored warriors to match. But most unusual of all was the sight of elves and dwarves among them. Of these impressive figures, a tall blond woman with icy blue eyes stood out.

“I am Senior Warden Senaste.” She spoke in a clear, commanding tone, cutting through the mud with assurance. “Our carriages were damaged in the storm. We require transport along the river. Who is the person in charge?”

“Harbourmaster’s that direction,” the foreman grunted.

“Thank you.” Senaste turned her blue gaze upon Garahel. “Your man is injured.”

“He hit his head!” Garahel said hurriedly. “Nearly fell in the river.”

“We’ve a healer who can see to him,” she said, signalling to the others.

“Hang on-”

The Senior Warden snapped a glance at the foreman, who visibly shrank under her look.

“The elves,” he explained. “They damaged some merchandise. They must pay.”

“What exactly was damaged?”

“A crate of wine. Very fine bottles-”

He paused gain, visibly blanching as a mage Warden, staff in hand, healed the injured worker. In a moment the cut was gone as if it had never happened. With a mumbled thanks, the young elf rushed off.

“Wine,” Senaste repeated. “How very dire. Well, I trust the use of my healer more than compensates for the loss. Good day.”

As the Wardens turned away, Garahel stood rooted to the spot.

He’d heard of the Grey Wardens, of course—had grown up with stories of their heroism like most children. As the foreman stood in mute shock, Garahel felt his legs moving of their own accord.

“Warden Senaste,” he called.

He followed the Wardens away from the muddy job site. Away from his five coppers, the leering dockworkers, and the abusive foreman.

He almost thought she was ignoring him, but then she said over her shoulder: “Speak. I’m in a hurry.”

“I wish to be a Grey Warden!”

The words came out in a rush. He hadn’t even realized he was thinking them until he said them—but now they were out, and to his own surprise, they were honest.

The Senior Warden slowed, then glanced back at him to regard him properly. Garahel had the impression that he was being assessed. She cleared her throat.

“It’s a death sentence,” she told him.

“Life is a death sentence,” Garahel countered. Senaste laughed. Seeing an opportunity, he pled his case. “I am hungry. Haven’t eaten nothing but hardtack in days. My family’s gone. I have nothing keeping me here.”

“Ser,” the mage Warden from before said. “Harbormaster has passage for us tomorrow on a vessel transporting materials to the Circle.”

“Thank you.” The Senior Warden then glanced at Garahel and said, “Go home, young man.”

“But-”

“Go home, and think on it. A Warden’s life isn’t easy. It’s full of sacrifice and toil. You’d be leaving everything behind. You may not even survive the process. But if tomorrow you feel the same… come find me.”

With those words, she was gone.

.

That night, Garahel returned home for the final time. He didn’t bother packing his precious few belongings. His letter to Isseya sat unfinished. He didn’t sleep, didn’t write, and was still awake when a knock came upon his door.

“Hahren,” Garahel said when he answered it. “What’s wrong?”

“Do not join the Wardens, da’len.”

“So you heard.” Garahel sighed. “I know, it is a life of hardship. I might die before I even join—”

“More than that.”

“Then what?”

“You’ll be missed.”

Garahel’s brow furrowed. “I will miss you too,” he said softly. “All of you. As I miss Isseya, every day. And my parents, though I never met them. I think life must be like this; gathering more people to miss with each passing year. But, hahren, I can do more for our people this way. I’ve made up my mind. I’m going. Here-”

He passed a few coins into the hahren’s wizened hands.

“The money I made today. Thank you for everything.”

For some reason, those coins were still on his mind when the Joining chalice met his lips.

The fire that poured into him was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. But it was too late to renege. Among the Wardens, he took into himself a corruption beyond language, beyond thought.

It was the storm. The river. The vhenadahl burning. The Templars dragging Isseya away. The chewing tobacco in the foreman’s mouth. Every sorrow and terror in the world condensed into a cup.

Then, Garahel was lost to the fire.

.

He was on a ship when he awoke—he could tell that much—gently rocked by the current.

“Ah,” he said softly. “I’m dreaming.”

“No, you reckless fool,” Isseya said. “You’re finally awake.”

It made no sense. Isseya was in the Circle; she couldn’t be here, wherever here was. He frowned at her, confused, and this earned him a roll of Isseya’s eyes. But when she embraced him, he knew she spoke true.

“What-?”

“I boarded this ship on an aid mission for the Circle. Didn’t expect to share travel arrangements with Grey Wardens, and I certainly didn’t expect to find my own brother among them. How do you think I felt when they told me? Really, Garahel!”

Stunned, Garahel laughed. She was certainly right to be angry. He couldn’t begrudge her that; he was simply happy to see her, amazed by how she’d changed so much yet stayed exactly the same. Then the door to the cabin opened.

“Warden Garahel,” Senaste said. “I’m relieved you’re well… and in good spirits. I have something for you.”

“What is it?” Isseya asked.

She handed over a large item, wrapped in brown paper.

“Unsure. It was waiting for us at the Circle,” Senaste said. “When you are ready, come see me. We have much to discuss.”

He opened the parcel. “Now I surely must be dreaming.”

Within was a beautiful hand-carved bow. There were tell-tale marks upon it that hinted at its parent tree.

Garahel would carry it with him thereafter: the bow the hahren had sent to him.

A parting gift carved from the fallen piece of his vhenadahl.

[meepetteoneonly]

Snakes and Ladders: I.

Also on AO3 - here.

Chicago has Al Capone, New York has Lucky Luciano and Baldur's Gate has Mephistopheles Cania. However, the don is dying of cancer and the struggles for power between families of Baldur's Gate as well as within Cania's family are inevitable. His son, Raphael, is ready sit on his father's throne, but he needs allies to carry out his ambitious plans. As it wasn't enough, he has to deal with a new magistrate, Astarion Ancunín, who seemed not to respect the established order of things. Maybe Astarion's assistant, court clerk Octavia, could help him to dig some dirt on Astarion.

OR

Raphael, Tav, Astarion, (she) Harleep, Gortash, Nine-Fingers Keene and Mol (as an adult) in bloody mess of a story set in mafia AU.

TW:

Hunger, childhood in poverty, sexual harassment, toxic workplace

NOTE:

First of all, I would love to point out the great piece of fanfiction - the Fatal Interview by cravengaffer which inspired me to write this. Go and read it. It's brilliant!

Now to the rest. I allowed myself some freestyle with this whole concept of magistrates as we lack this institute in continental law. And to be honest, I don't know that much from common law. So bear with me, please.

As to some possible TW's in this chapter. Sexual harassment at the workplace. And I mean it! Mind the warnings and tags, I beg you.

The golden sign announced third floor and Astarion hopped out of the paternoster lift. He wondered whether it is possible to escape this monstrous machine with at least little bit of elegance, but luckily, the hallway was empty and so the clumsy stumble he performed while getting of the lift remained secret of his and walls of Department of Administrative Offenses of Baldur’s Gate District Court, the Lower City bureau. 

Astarion Ancunín was assigned as a magistrate to the court three months ago and so far, the judges were satisfied with his performance. He delivered the decisions on time, cases did not pile up on his desk, he work effectively with prosecutors and not many of his decisions were subsequently challenged. His supervising judge even described him as a remarkable newcomer in the report for the District Court Council and Astarion felt rightfully proud. 

He quickly checked his watches. He was a little early today. As he was walking through the labyrinth of long dark corridors to his office, Astarion missed the distinctive sound of justice machinery. He enjoyed listening to the rhythmical clicking of typewriters, ringing of the phones and the hum of everlasting discussions over various legal issues. But the court building has not woken up yet. 

Astarion’s office was located in the right wing. He would appreciated an office with functioning heating, but in the end, he was glad for what he got as the windows of the left wing offices were just above the old cemetery while his own had a view on the waterfront. The building of the court faced busy crossroad that served as a main traffic artery connecting the docks and industrial part of the city with polished streets leading to the city centre. He hoped to be assigned to the Upper City bureau as it was required that magistrates lived in their court’s jurisdiction, but so did other newly appointed magistrates. Unfortunately, the public secret was that places at Upper City bureau were reserved for those with relatives or friends at right places. Astarion had none of those. Not yet, he kept reminding himself. 

The familiar cold welcomed him as he opened the door No. 341. He had tried to request the repair of the heater several times, but the court administration only informed him that due to the new budgetary rules, expenses on repairs and maintenance should be cut to the minimum necessary. In other words, he survived three months, he can do it until spring. Astarion knew well how it is with public finances. No public body will invest into anything that still somehow works and courts was no exception. No matter how rusty or slow the gears of the justice were, as long as they were spinning, there was no need for extra funding. 

He put off his coat and took a moment to enjoy the view on the river. Hazy morning light was slowly diluting the dark, sweeping it out of the gaps between the cobblestones covering the riverbank. Patches of fog still remained on the water surface that mirrored bright orange lights of sodium lamps. The usual buzz of the city was just about to start. Such tranquil moments were something Astarion was not used to. But he enjoyed them. Or rather he felt like he should be enjoying them. But when he was alone, when there was no view to admire or another offense to be punished, he felt that time he was mercifully granted to enjoy what he has achieved so far, was running between his fingers. No matter how much he tried, he couldn't help but hear the ominous ticking of clockwork oiled by his parents’ words: There’s no such a thing as better life. Not for people like us. Don’t be naive.

He took his parents for fools who confused naivety with ambitions. Astarion was never naive. He accepted world as it was, played with cards he was given and he considered himself to be good at it. At least, compared to his parents. Those poor wretches were barely scraping along their entire life, toiled themselves for few cents a day and for what? To live a humble but honest life? To truly believe that money does not matter as long as they have each other? To raise him to be a good man? That was a naivety. Money ran the world and only the poor kept telling themselves otherwise. Parents' love won't feed a hungry child and that was a fact.

His parents died two years ago and Astarion haven’t visited their grave since that pathetic gathering he hesitated to call a funeral. He was convinced they didn’t deserve his visit. However, he often caught himself thinking about them lately. What would they think of his new job? What would they think about their son being a magistrate? They would be proud, Astarion was sure of it, but also, they would add that manual work is nothing to be ashamed off. And they called him naive.

Few cars passed under the court’s windows. Clumps of fog disappeared, uncovering the freezing mass of deep green water. Lights reflection faded. First steps of court employees resonated outside the door. In thudding march of oxfords and derbys, he recognized the high-pitched clacking of heels. That must be Octavia, he thought immediately. No other magistrate on this floor had woman assistant. Blond curls that appeared in the doors few moments later proved him right.

„Morning.“ She greeted him as she was shedding layers of coat, scarf and knitted shawl one by one, followed by thick mittens. She exhaled into her palms and rubbed them to bring her numbed fingers back to life. 

„So they were right with the predictions, for once. I’ve read it will be snowing this week.“ He said while going through the calendar at his desk. He seemed not to give Octavia much attention, his eyes focused on red circled dates, but secretly, he traced the curves of her hips as she was digging through new case files she brought from filing office. Those round lines stretching the fabric of her skirt, they almost begged to be squeezed.

She responded with silent nod. Octavia wasn’t talkative one and it annoyed Astarion beyond belief. For most of his life, the only fortune he had was his face, his charisma and the ability to sweet talk any woman even into things she wouldn’t herself want. To Astarion’s disbelief, Octavia was somehow resistant to his charm. She appeared so unapproachable he actually lowered himself to talk about weather with her.

„One appeal against parking ticket. Another one…. and another one…“ She counted. „All of them from that parking lot at Sundries.

He sighed. „Don’t tell me they printed passes with wrong dates again. Is it that hard to set the printing machine right?“

„It seems like it. I’ll take care of it.“ Octavia said and took decision forms from the shelf. 

As much for conversation, Astarion thought. Octavia was always doing a great job. She was assistant any magistrate or judge would want. Focused, practical, hard-working. He inherited her from the retired magistrate he replaced and she was the reason why he found his way around the new position so quickly. But she paid a little too much attention to the cases, almost none to him. 

He often caught himself thinking about her. He imagined himself rolling that skirt of hers up, slipping his hand under it, brushing the helm of her stockings with his fingertips, sliding a finger or two between her legs. She never mentioned any boyfriend and there was no ring, so a little office hookup wouldn’t hurt anyone, would it? But Octavia ignored any flirt attempt of his and it made Astarion wonder whether it’s purposeful or if she just doesn’t get it. 

The morning went just as any other. Post came at nine. Octavia made them coffee at ten. Astarion enjoyed his while reading Baldur’s Mouth Gazette. Octavia took a sip anytime she needed to return the carriage of her typewriter. It was half-empty and cold by twelve when Astarion usually went for a lunch. So far, she refused all invitations to join him. 

Once he was out of the sight, Octavia gave herself a pause too. She finished the coffee and lit herself a cigarette. She was a slow smoker, enjoying each drag she took, letting tobacco to sooth her nerves. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, working with Astarion was draining.  Although he wasn’t that nitpicking type who would reproach her for erroneous double space or simply different style of expression, and she knew those, his demeanor forced her to be on constant alert. One would say it is easy to ignore someone. Pretending she misheard his hitting and teasing, acting like she didn’t know about his stares he was so convinced that are inconspicuous. It was not. It was an act and she had to stay at the stage for too long periods of time.

Octavia threw the butt into an ashtray and lit herself another. Sometimes, she wanted to run away.  From everything. There was a tiny voice inside of her screaming, punching her innards, kicking and fighting. But she learned to ignore it. The last thing she wanted was going back home and this job secured that she didn’t have to. 

Astarion usually got back from lunch around one in the afternoon, but this time, it was a Mrs. Hanford from filing office who appeared at the door. 

„Octavia! I’m glad to see you, sweetie! Is magistrate Ancunín here?“ She asked, interrupting Octavia’s flow of thoughts. Two older women were working in the filing office. One insufferable shrew that Octavia couldn’t stand and this lovely lady with silver hair and voice always so cheerful. How they managed to sit together in the same office was a mystery.

„No, but he’ll be back anytime soon.“ Octavia said.

„This just came from the Tax Administration.“ Mrs. Hanford put a file accompanied by an official letter on Astarion’s desk. „They need a warrant to search some warehouse. The sooner, the better I suppose.“ She shrugged her shoulders.

„All right. Just leave it here, I’ll tell Mr. Ancunín it’s urgent.“

„Thank you, sweetie.“ She smiled. „But tell me, how are you doing?��

„Could be better, but I manage.“ To her own surprise, Octavia appreciated the care. Not so long ago, Mrs. Hanford found Octavia crying in bathroom and since then, she was casually checking on her, asking how she is from time to time. It scared Octavia at first. But when she couldn’t sense anything wrong in Mrs. Hanford’s intentions, she just let her do her mother hen job.

„If he’s pissing you off, just kick him right into the balls, girl!“

Octavia had no idea whether she was talking about Astarion or some Octavia’s alleged boyfriend. Clearly, Mrs. Hanford was from the generation that thought there was a man behind all the women's woes. „Don’t worry, I’ll do.“ 

Octavia’s answer earned Mrs. Hanford’s approving nod. „Mind giving me one, sweetie?“ She asked when Octavia tapped the burned tobacco from her cigarette away.

„Please, serve yourself.“ She offered her Camels.

Mrs. Hanford met Astarion at the door on her way out. Maybe it was just Octavia's imagination, but it was almost as if she subtly pursed her lips in a disgust when she passed him. 

Octavia crushed the only half smoked cigarette out. „Tax Administration needs some search warrant.“ She explained as Astarion could barely hide a surprise when he spot the file. „I am not authorised to issue one.“

„Well, you are still authorised enough to draft one.“ He said. „Anyway I’ll take look at that. But you know, you didn’t have to stubbed it out, hm? I think it could be nice to have a cigarette together before digging back into it.“

Octavia stayed silent.

„I mean, it wounds me, really.“ He dramatically touched his chest, feigning hurt. „It's impossible to get you to lunch, let alone a drink after work. I though we were colleagues, maybe even friends and yet, here you are, having a smoking pause with Mrs. Hanford instead of me.“

She let out an exhausted sigh and get up to wash her mug. „Maybe I prefer less dramatical company.“ She mumbled. 

Octavia knew she should have stayed silent, ignoring him just as usual. Astarion could bend any word, twist the sense of whatever she said in no time and easily caught her in a loop of banter he confused with flirting. She preferred no to give him anything he could grab onto. 

„Well, than we can set the drama aside, can’t we? As well as our clothes while we are at it.“ He chuckled and stepped into her way. There was an uncomfortable glint of desire in his eyes. She stiffened for a moment but recoiled quickly as he reached out, his fingers brushing against her arm.

„Don’t you do this.“ Her features hardened. Yes, silence is golden… 

It was the first time he managed to squeeze a reaction out of her. Completely unfazed by her rebuke, Astarion grinned. „Oh come on, Octavia, don’t be like that. I haven’t even done much of thing.“

„And that’s for good.“ She spat out and left to find the furthest sink possible. Just kick him right into the balls, girl! Octavia never wished to do so more than now. But she also wanted to keep her job.

With Octavia out of sight, Astarion’s attention turned back to the warrant request. 

The information provided in the file suggested a large number of imported alcohol stored in one of the warehouses in the docks for which the customs weren't paid. The customs that amounted into a considerable sum. No wonder it made the tax watchdogs salivating, Astarion smirked. The case was pretty self-explanatory, really. But it didn’t seem to be enough to allow the tax officers to raid the warehouse and seize the stuff. Right to privacy applies even to commercial premises as well, after all. Was there enough evidence to start the administrative proceedings? Certainly. But to issue the warrant to let them in? Astarion didn’t think so. Not that he cared for constitutional rights of the whoever those bottles belonged to that much (there was only a legal entity mentioned), but he wasn’t exactly thrilled with the idea allowing the search of the warehouse only for it to be later found illegal. Fruit of the poisonous tree doctrine helped those otherwise guilty even in more serious cases.

As he went though the file, he doubted the sanity of people who chose the tax law to be their main area of practice. Financial law could be interesting. Sometimes. Shares, capital transactions, banking, monetary politics, that he thought might be entertaining. But taxes? Duties? Customs? It bored the soul out of his body. He yawned as he turned another page. There was an envelope covering the extract from the log book. That served him better than afternoon coffee, sending the curious shivers down his spine. 

Usually, envelopes in which post serving as an evidence came in were kept in the files, but this one was plain, with no description and most importantly, sealed. Astarion reached for the envelope, checking the doors. Octavia was still sulking somewhere, maybe chattering in the filing office. The letter knife sunk into the paper, gutting the envelope of its secrets. There was a letter together with pack of banknotes. God, Astarion gasped. His stomach felt suddenly heavier, his palms got sticky. But he shook the quiver of anxiety off, checking the doors once again. No signs of Octavia. He opened the letter:

Dear Judge Ancunín,

I deeply regret the retirement of your predecessor. However, I believe that your appointment maybe the beginning of significant change in the order established in Baldur’s Gate. 

Please accept my gift as a token of goodwill. Let this be also an opportunity for you to make me a little favour out of your friendship. I would appreciate it if a warrant requested could be issued. As soon as possible.

With the kindest regards,

your Friend.

There was no clear signature, of course it wasn’t. Instead, there was a scribble that looked like a crescent how would Picasso draw it or an aggressive try to write out a new pen. 

Astarion read the whole letter again, turning it up and down, even holding it against the window.  He felt ridiculous doing it. But there was nothing more to it. No mysterious message. Simply, it was just a polite side dish a to a main meal - the money. Astarion didn’t risk to count the exact sum, but just from the looks of it, it was a lot. Probably more than he ever earned a month. Even as a magistrate. 

As a steps echoed from the corridor, he quickly stuffed everything back and closed the envelope in a drawer. This time, he appreciated Octavia’s heels for completely different reasons. 

For the rest of the afternoon, Astarion was suspiciously quiet. Octavia didn’t have high hopes he actually realized his actions earlier were far behind the line of what was considered appropriate at the workplace (at least in her opinion), but whatever was the reason of his mouth being shut, she appreciated the silence. Fact that Astarion left earlier today was just a cherry on top. The only thing missing to perfection was a functioning heater.

Astarion managed to took the envelope out of his drawer without Octavia noticing anything. If it wasn’t stuffed with money and incriminating letter, he would never paid that much attention to the  stealthiness of his movements and his back wouldn’t get covered in fresh sweat anytime he overheard Octavia’s clacking and clicking stop. It was a second. Open the drawer, take out the envelope, put in the bag. But it felt like ages. 

Once this peculiar task was done, he put the coat on and rushed from the office, waving Octavia goodbye with a simple „Need to get out earlier today.“ She hummed something in return.

Astarion would swear all the eyes he passed by on his way to an exit saw straight trough him. Normally, he loved those little small talks with court staff, especially the judges, but this time, he avoided an eye contact with anyone he met. Just don’t talk to me, just don’t… At least, he had perfect knowledge of what shoes are currently the most worn at Lower City bureau.

The neoclassicist interior of the court building merged into blur of granite and tiles. He took the stairs by two, not stopping at the first floor to soak up the atmosphere of humongous hall covered by the glass ceiling, connecting three galleries lined with thick pillars. They called the hall a „pool“. This time, he preferred not to swim there. 

As he pushed the heavy door at the exit open, he expected anything. A police cordon, detectives hidden behind the pillars of the court’s portico, a car with masked men ready to make him a strainer. But only a freezing cold awaited him outside. It calmed him down. He could feel his heart rate dropping. A false picture of reality induced by piking cortisol and adrenalin vanished. Just a moment before, he believed someone - somehow - will take him straight to the jail. Contrary to the fact that he knew very well it doesn’t work like that. Now he was just an ordinary man heading home from work a little earlier. Just an ordinary man who will soon disappear in crowds in the Lower City’s streets. No one to care about. No one to pay special attention to. Just an ordinary man with a bribe in his bag. He smiled.

Astarion didn’t live far from the court. Few stops by the streetcar, but he could simply take a walk. He decided for the later. Being just one of the particles of the usual city rush soothed him. The anonymity provided him with the sense of safety. On his way, he was taking a quick looks into the storefront he usually ignored. Slowly, he started to think how could he spent the money. If he issues the warrant and takes it. He could use a new suit - tailor made, of course. Facemaker’s, preferably. As well as a fine pair of shoes. He could also spend an adventurous night in the most prominent bars and clubs in the city. He never has been in the House of Hope, the one where unimaginable sins became reality and social elite striped its golden platting, revealing itself just as dirty as anyone else. Or so the rumors were.

If he issues the warrant and takes the money. Yes, the pesky question of moral still needed to be resolved.

His thought were swinging back and forth, so he completely ignored one of his neighbours greeting him when he passed the post boxes on the ground floor of the building his apartment was located in. It gained him a nasty comment on the arrogant attitude of young people, but he ignored that too. Firstly, he wasn’t that young. Secondly, as if he cared. The arrogance might be overall considered a bad trait, but it shielded him from those who just wanted all the others to be as miserable as them. It takes a little arrogance to achieve something. And even more to achieve something big. He was proudly arrogant and had no plan to change it. 

His apartment was nothing like he wished it to be. He dreamed of a penthouse in one of the Upper City’s skyscrapers, furnished with modern, functional pieces made of dark, polished wood and decorated with lavish wallpapers rich in colours and patterns. His heart ached for one of those glass-top coffee tables from Miller’s catalogue. He often basked in imagination of himself standing high above the city, untouched by the ordinary life and dirt and misery of common folks. With a glass of vintage red. With a curves such as Octavia’s rising under the silken sheet in his bed, waiting for him. He deserved such a life, did he not? 

Instead, his apartment was quite simple. Plain. Tasteless. Old furniture that remembered the last tenant, not-well-maintained parquet floor, kitchen with terrible corn cob wallpaper. A kitsch.  But it was the court’s apartment, one of those rented out to judges and magistrates and therefore, he only had to pay the half of the rent. Something at least.

He threw the keys to the bowl next to the door and than fall into the armchair in the living room. Immediately, he reached for the envelope and began to count the money. He didn’t even put his coat off. Every other green paper that passed through his fingers only raised his curiosity. He counted it over and over to be sure, but finally he find out the sum to be three times his monthly salary plus something extra. God… He has never seen such a sum before. And yet, it was there. Right in front of him. Material. Real. Tempting. 

It was far more than he originally expected. More than he would need for new pieces of clothing and night spent in the city’s nightlife vortex. He could easily invite Octavia for a dinner at Yenna’s  Table or Chez Dekarios and secure her attention with some glamorous gift. Roses. Nice jewell. A little shopping spree. Anything a creature like her could dream of. No woman would refuse the invitation to Chez Dekarios, wouldn’t she? And Octavia, despite her bright mind and aloof facade, was just a woman. If she is resistant to his charm, if he can’t gain her interest naturally, he will buy it. Money open both, doors and legs. What if she’s just a little gold digger, so cleverly hidden behind her typewriter, awaiting the right opportunity to bag some of the court’s bigger fishes? Was she making all the fuss about his innocent proposals because she has him for a beggar?  She didn’t seem to be that type, but it would explain why she doesn’t care about him at all. He smirked and put the money back to the envelope, taking the letter once again.

In any way it wasn’t suggesting who was the sender. Astarion could only wonder who disguised himself with such a polite words. He had just a common knowledge of the Baldur’s Gate underworld, not much deeper than anyone else in the city. Mainly, it was based on rumours and exaggerated newspaper headlines. There were several (allegedly) criminal families pulling the strings and various groups of their puppets. Local gangs, dealers, traffickers, thieves, pimps - all of those were just an end of the thread going up to those who held real power. Could this be the case? Will he appear on the payroll of someone of the great and good of Baldur’s Gate? Maybe he just let his fantasy of leash. Anyone could be behind the letter in the end. In the moral equation he faced he could not, therefore, calculate on the question of whom he would piss off if he won’t decide as requested. The only variable was his morals, then. He felt trapped.

If he takes the money, it won’t be the first time he will do something morally disputable. He wasn’t new to the grey zone between socially acceptable and deplorable, not at all. But this time, he lacked the excuse that would hush his conscience.

When he was a child, he had to steal from time to time. Picking pockets, shoplift for food. His parents didn’t earned much and when the Great Depression stroke, what else could he do? It was a hunger that drove his eleven years old hands. How could anyone blame him? 

Later, during his studies, he struggled financially. Of course he did. No one supported him, so he had to support himself. Was he a terrible person just because he ingratiated himself with (female) classmates from wealthier families? Was it really a crime when he borrowed some money from them? Without their knowledge? Never repaying it back? Especially if they didn’t notice? No. He simply didn't born into the right family and so he deserved those little contributions from the luckier ones.

And now - did he have all he wanted? Not at all. Fact that he was assigned to the Lower City bureau was a enough of a proof. The whole justice was more or less corrupted, was it not? He won’t be any worse than any other judge or magistrate. They all did little favours to their friends and families. They all had their connections, helping hands that lifted them to their positions. Contrary to him. He had to compete with wealthier, luckier, those more blessed and he made it. He would be an idiot to refuse a giving hand when it reached to him. He deserved it.

After all, one did not become successful and wealthy by playing fair. Living a good life while remaining humble and honest was impossible, at least in this society. When he listened to his conscience, he heard his parents’ voices talking to him. But what did they get with their humbleness? Their honesty and modesty and whatever false values they believed in? Back pain. Rheumatism. Tendonitis. And how did society reward them for being such good people? The doctor kicked them out of his office because they couldn't pay.

People praised others for being good simply to reduce competition. Those who fell for the fairytale of being good were out of the game, no longer a threat to those who understood the system. Blinded by the constructed ideals, lambs like his parents were herded by the wolves. They led you to poverty and praised you for the suffering. And when you asked for help, they bit your hands off. The circle had closed.

As the anger was boiling inside of him, he realized he was sitting there fully clothed. Only the scarf was loosen, hanging sloppily around his sweaty neck. It was decided. He’ll take the money, he’ll issue the warrant. He had some discretion and he could come up with some arguments why it was justified. 

Astarion left his coat in the armchair and went to the bathroom to sprinkle his face with little bit of cold water. After that, he poured himself a glass of wine.

[dellarussel]

Best Industrial Gates Repair In Los Angeles

When it comes to industrial gates repair in Los Angeles, La Gates and Garage Doors is the go-to company. With years of experience and exceptional service, we have gained a reputation for our top-notch repairs and customer satisfaction. In this article, we will explore the reasons why La Gates and Garage Doors is considered the best industrial gates repair in Los Angeles.

Reliable and Experienced Technicians: 

La Gates and Garage Doors have a team of highly skilled and experienced technicians who specialize in industrial gate repairs. These professionals undergo extensive training to ensure that we are up-to-date with the latest repair techniques and technologies. We have a deep understanding of different gate models and can effectively diagnose and fix any issues that may arise.

Quality Repairs: 

The team at La Gates and Garage Doors is committed to providing superior-quality repairs for industrial gates in Los Angeles. To ensure longevity and durability, we always utilize the best tools and supplies. Our attention to detail and precision in our work guarantee that the repaired gates will be functioning in optimal condition.

Prompt Service: 

One of the factors that set La Gates and Garage Doors apart from other repair companies is our commitment to prompt service. We understand that a malfunctioning industrial gate can disrupt operations and cause inconvenience to businesses. Therefore, we prioritize same-day repairs and are available around the clock for emergency repair services. This quick response time minimizes downtime for businesses and ensures that our gates are back in working order as soon as possible.

Wide Range of Services: 

La Gates and Garage Doors offer a comprehensive range of services for industrial gates in Los Angeles. Whether it's a mechanical issue, an electrical problem, or damaged components, our technicians are proficient in diagnosing and repairing all types of gate malfunctions. From gate opener repairs to welding and fabrication services, we have the expertise to handle any repair job efficiently.

Affordable Pricing: 

Despite our exceptional services, La Gates and Garage Doors strive to provide affordable pricing for our industrial gate repairs. We think that quality repairs shouldn't be prohibitively expensive. We offer competitive rates that fit within the budget of businesses, without compromising on the quality of our work.

Customer Satisfaction: 

La Gates and Garage Doors prioritize customer satisfaction above all else. We understand that a satisfied customer is a loyal customer. Our friendly and professional staff goes the extra mile to ensure that clients are informed and involved in the repair process. We also offer warranties on our repairs, providing a sense of security and reassurance to our customers.

In conclusion, La Gates and Garage Doors is undoubtedly the best industrial gates repair in Los Angeles. With our reliable and experienced technicians, quality repairs, prompt service, a wide range of services, affordable pricing, and commitment to customer satisfaction, we have established ourselves as the leader in the industry. Whether it's a minor repair or a major overhaul, businesses can trust La Gates and Garage Doors to deliver exceptional results. Don't settle for subpar repairs – choose La Gates and Garage Doors for all your industrial gate repair needs.

[torchship-rpg]

Dev Diary 11 - Special Checks

Welcome back, Cosmonauts!

Today, we’re going to be talking more about some of the systems in Torchship. As mentioned previously, Torchship uses systems of telescoping complexity to regulate how many mechanics you’re bringing in at a time. At one end is the core system of rolling dice for Checks and investigating things, which can be used in a pinch for just about anything. On the other are the specific costs, penalties, and conditions of hazards, tool making, repairs, and combat, all the detail we could possibly pack in and everything we could think of that might be relevant, if you wanted it. 

In between we have a set of intermediate mechanics called Special Checks. Special Checks are variations on the regular Check with a bit more detail specific to what you’re doing with them. The Medical Checks from last week are an example of Special Checks; they are ways for your specialist in that area to feel like they are engaging in their job specifically when it matters.

Many Special Checks have further associated mechanics in their own chapters (the same way Hazards will lead directly into the kinds of Harm players experience), but we define them up front with broader terms because we know we can’t possibly cover everything, and you don’t always want to bring play to a halt to look up how much a repair might cost if it's not the central beat of your episode’s story. 

So, let’s talk Special Checks, and all the weird ways you might roll dice.

Leadership & Institutions

While Star Patrol doesn’t have formal ranks, it still has leaders. The Admin Department is tasked with organisation and management, keeping everyone on task and coordinating between groups, and when emergencies strike it’s helpful to know who to listen to if you don’t know what you should be doing. 

When you’re leading a work team of characters, PCs or NPCs, you build your dice pool the way you usually do, but with a few modifiers depending on the availability of tools, the relevant expertise, and if you actually have enough people to do the job. Otherwise, it’s a pretty straightforward roll, treated like any other.

The other thing an Admin character might find themselves doing is coordinating with, leading, or relying on an institution bigger than a work team, like trying to coordinate the healthcare system of a planet fighting a deadly plague. In this case, you roll your Check like you normally would, but you’re using the institution as a tool, building it with the same tool level system as everything else. The 5d6 computer-coordinated government agency of an industrial world is going to make running a census much easier and more accurate than doing it with the 3d6 bureaucracy that has to do everything with styluses and clay.

Of course, while ‘specialised’ makes sense for institutions-as-tools, ‘emplaced’ doesn’t. That’s why, instead, that extra +1d6 is gated behind if the institution you’re using is legitimate, which is to say, if the people the institution is working with see it as The Proper Doers Of The Thing. If you’re tracking down a person fleeing from justice, you’re a lot more likely to get results if people view the local law enforcement as having real claim to being the law of the land, rather than simply being occupiers.

Negotiation

Gee Administration, why does mum let you have two Special Checks?

One of the things Star Patrol ends up doing a lot is negotiations, both as a participant and as an arbitrator. In both cases we use the same system, but in one it’s you rolling against the person you’re negotiating with, and in the other its you trying to get two squabbling sides to compromise.

In either case, negotiation takes place as a series of Opposed Checks over a central issue; if you’re a participant, this is the thing you’re arguing over, while if you’re a mediator, Star Patrol’s demands are “Talk about this like adults” and the participants’ demands are “Don’t wanna!!” Winning the Opposed Check also strengthens your position as your rhetoric and posturing gives you an increasing advantage; eventually one side will have to either concede the central issue or quit in a huff and be seen as the one who made negotiations break down.

Negotiation is accompanied by the offering of Concessions, promises by one side or the other that, if a deal is eventually agreed on, will be honoured. Having a concession accepted means you take a die from their pool and add it to your own; if you’re making good-faith offers, it strengthens your position. When you’re arbitrating, you’re the one proposing concessions between the two parties, dragging them kicking and screaming towards making some kind of deal.

Hacking

Signals is the Cert for using computers and communication equipment, but because we don’t just want you to be the one who informs the captain there’s a new message coming in, you have some modern tricks up your sleeve in the form of hacking. 

Hacking Checks are made against a different difficulty than usual, a sort of Opposed Check where the system has already rolled the dice. This difficulty is the Security Rating, determined by what kind of system you’re infiltrating and how advanced it is. Oh, right, ‘hacking’ doesn’t just apply to electronic computer systems; you can one hundred percent hack any kind of decision-making system. If you forge the King’s wax seal and slip orders in his handwriting into the mailbag heading to his vassal? That’s hacking, baby!

Your excess Successes above the Security Rating earn you Actions, stuff you can do once you’re in the system before you get noticed and booted out. You can use this to subvert the systems on an enemy rocket, shut down incoming missiles, steal or insert information, spy through cameras, open doors… you know, hacking stuff. You can also add backdoors to make it easier to come back next time.

Because the Security Rating on many important systems will be somewhat insurmountable, there’s a special kind of Investigation Checklist for computers where you can gather edges. This is where you can engage in the fun social engineering and physical theft that, in real life, makes up a large amount of real hacking, acquiring passwords or inserting devices into computers to make them easier to subvert.

We also have some guidelines for how you might hack systems in unusual situations; you can hack any computer that takes in any information from the outside world (as data sanitation is not always practised with nearly the thoroughness it should), and if you’re dealing with a device that runs on machine learning and takes natural language input, you can use prompt injection. Thanks, real life, for making ‘Kirk talks the computer to death’ into hard science fiction!

You also get to roll to oppose hacking if somebody else does it to you, even if the Signals character isn’t actually aware the hacking is happening; after all, as the admin, you’d be responsible for setting up the defences.

Invention & Repairs

We’ll go into this more in the specific chapters where it’s most relevant, but Engineering characters are often going to be making tools, fixing things, and making tools for the purposes of fixing things. These special Checks handle those situations; they use most of the normal Check mechanics, but with an added framework for costs and time.

So when you’re faced with something broken, the GM lays out what it’ll cost to fix it, in Supply or otherwise. You then choose the ‘level’ of repair you’re attempting. A ‘patch fix’ is fast and cheap, but you can’t ever get a full success doing it, meaning that it’s never perfect; you’re just getting the system online, even if the results are unsafe or use resources you could have used elsewhere. Jury rigging a solution will fix the problem, but never permanently, so it’ll do for now. A proper repair takes the longest amount of time, but you can reroll it over and over for a small amount of additional Supply until you get it right; it’s what you do if there’s no time or cost pressure.

Invention is a bit more complicated, but in summary, you take the tools you have to build a new tool with them, where a full success gets you the new device at the cost of time and resources, of equal tech level to the tool you used to make it. The more complex the device, the more Disadvantage you face, and insufficient successes mean you need to make compromises that might reduce its tech level or place limitations on the results.

When we talk about tools in more detail, we’ll go into the specifics; tool-building is one of the game’s major complex systems, with the ability to make almost anything!

Attacks & Defence

If you’re Security or Tactical, Astrogation during space combat, or stuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, you might end up making attacks and defence rolls. While there are combat subsystems in the game to handle the details, you don’t always need to interact with the full set to roll attack and defence; sometimes it’s just a shooting gallery, sometimes you’re using your weapons as demolition devices, sometimes you’re just resolving an attack quickly because the story is happening elsewhere.

Attacks & Defence are always rolled as Opposed Checks, but with very specific dice pools. Your Attack is determined by your weapon and the Certs relevant to it, which is pretty straightforward, while Defence is more complicated and situationally dependent. In space or other vehicles, you’ll often be rolling the vehicle’s Evade stat, a dice pool which is derived from how nimble it is. If you’re facing incoming missiles, though, you might try to shoot them down with point defence instead. Sometimes you don’t even get a roll; there’s nothing you can do about a laser beam except pray the screens hold.

On foot, you often have to make a decision between dodging the attack, trying to block it with an object, or taking cover behind something. Dodging faces the problem that your body is only a 2d6 tool, so once people start using things more dangerous than fists, that’s not going to work very well. Blocking isn’t always viable, and you’ll take penalties (or simply not be able to use it at all) if the object isn’t designed for it. When you take cover, you treat the cover itself as a tool. 

While the dice pool for cover isn’t determined by tech level, we are very proud of the fact that hiding in a foxhole is, in a sense, taking cover behind the collective energy of an entire planet, so it’s 6d6.

Psychic Checks

Psychic Powers are a big topic, and we’ll need to save it for another day.

In short, though, psychic powers are largely freeform, with some specific limitations and guidelines, and you can always attempt to use psychic powers; you don’t need to tick a special checkbox to make you a psychic. There are four special Psychic Certs (right now they’re ESP, Psychokinesis, Telepathy, and Precognition, though this is subject to change as we work the details out), but like any Cert, you can still roll them untrained. So while you can always try to use your latent mind powers, it’s unlikely you’ll get very far to start.

Which is why you can train your psychic abilities! Nobody gets to start their Star Patrol career as a qualified psychic, but you can become one as you explore the galaxy. It’s a difficult road, and one that’ll cut into your professional development, but you can do it. Further details will be confined to a dedicated dev diary; it’s a big complex topic!

That’s it for this Dev Diary. Next time, we talk the weird branch of the human family as we take a look at the Proxies and Archivists of humanity’s first extrasolar colony.

[acceptccnow]

High-Risk Payment Processing: Strategies for a Thriving Credit Repair Business

Article by Jonathan Bomser | CEO | Accept-Credit-Cards-Now.com

In the ever-shifting landscape of financial services, the voyage of credit repair businesses encounters unique challenges, particularly in the realm of payment processing. As e-commerce ascends and the demand for credit repair services burgeons, the quest for effective high-risk payment processing solutions takes center stage. Whether at the helm of credit repair or navigating the intricate waters of CBD products, the acceptance of credit card payments emerges as a compass pointing to success. This article plunges into the intricacies of high-risk payment processing, unraveling strategies that not only foster flourishing enterprises but also position them as pioneers in their industry.

DOWNLOAD THE HIGH-RISK PAYMENT PROCESSING INFOGRAPHIC HERE

The Magnetic Pull of Credit Card Acceptance

Beyond mere convenience, the magnetic pull of credit card acceptance resonates profoundly in today's business milieu. It is not merely about transactional ease; it's about broadening horizons and amplifying revenue streams. By embracing credit card payments, be it in the arena of credit repair or CBD enterprises, businesses swing open gates to a more extensive clientele. Customers, valuing the versatility and security offered by credit and debit cards, find it simpler to engage with services providing this option, translating into heightened conversion rates and the organic growth of businesses.

High-Risk Merchant Processing: A Strategic Alliance

In sectors like credit repair and CBD trade, where the "high-risk" tag is commonplace, perceiving it as an opportunity rather than an obstacle becomes paramount. It's not merely a label but a gateway to markets teeming with potential. To navigate this successfully, forging alliances with reliable high-risk merchant processing providers emerges as a strategic imperative. These specialized processors comprehend the unique challenges faced and deliver tailored solutions to suit the specific needs of credit repair businesses and CBD merchants.

E-commerce Payment Processing: Transformative Paradigms

The realm of e-commerce payment processing emerges as a transformative force for credit repair businesses. It not only facilitates secure online payments but also equips businesses with tools to efficiently manage transactions. The article underscores the significance of e-commerce payment processing, shedding light on its pivotal role and emphasizing the need for specialized payment gateways attuned to the intricacies of the credit repair industry.

The Strategic Leverage of Credit Repair Payment Gateways

A credit repair payment gateway stands as the linchpin for online business operations, ensuring seamless connections between customers and services while safeguarding their financial data. The article advocates for the careful selection of payment gateways aligned with business goals, ensuring a frictionless checkout process, reduced cart abandonment rates, and an augmented revenue stream. Features like one-click payments and compatibility with various credit and debit cards take center stage in enhancing the user experience.

The Tactical Significance of CBD Merchant Accounts

For CBD merchants, the possession of a dedicated CBD merchant account emerges as a strategic imperative. The association of the CBD industry with cannabis places it within the high-risk category. However, with the burgeoning acceptance of CBD products, the market presents rapid expansion. The article delves into the significance of a dedicated CBD merchant account, emphasizing its role in enabling businesses to offer customers the convenience of credit card payments and contributing to overall business growth.

The Ever-Present Ally: Online Payment Gateways

In a digital age where business operations transcend time zones, an online payment gateway becomes the perpetual ally, processing payments even when physical stores shutter for the day. The perpetual availability not only broadens revenue potential but also elevates customer satisfaction. The global reach facilitated by online payment gateways extends business access to customers worldwide, free from geographical constraints.

The Pulsating Core: Credit Card Processing Systems

In the intricate dance of credit repair or CBD ventures, the pulsating core lies in a reliable credit card processing system. This system serves as the nucleus, ensuring secure and swift transactional processes. The article advocates for investments in robust credit card processing systems, emphasizing the need for real-time transaction monitoring and fraud prevention features. The assurance of secure transactions emerges as priceless for both businesses and customers.

The Guardian Shield: High-Risk Merchant Accounts

In the arena of high-risk businesses, a high-risk merchant account stands as the guardian shield, offering protection against potential challenges. This shield provides access to payment processing solutions tailored to the industry's needs. With the right high-risk merchant account, businesses can navigate the labyrinth of high-risk payment processing with unwavering confidence.

Embracing High-Risk Payment Processing for Triumph

Embracing high-risk payment processing is not merely a choice but a necessity for credit repair businesses and CBD merchants. The article underscores the empowerment derived from accepting credit cards, enabling businesses to thrive and grow. The advocacy for partnerships with reliable merchant processing providers and the utilization of secure payment gateways crystallizes into a seamless and secure transaction experience for customers.

In a dynamic business landscape, adaptability emerges as the keystone. The high-risk label should not be viewed as a deterrent but as an opportunity to shine in the industry. The article encourages investments in robust credit card processing systems and dedicated high-risk merchant accounts to safeguard businesses and propel them toward success.

In the contemporary digital epoch, where convenience and security reign supreme, accepting credit cards for credit repair and CBD products paves the path to prosperity. The article urges businesses to embrace the power of high-risk payment processing, positioning themselves for success and a brighter future. It's an invitation to say yes to new heights.

[uniquecollectivementality]

Metal Welding Services in Miami: What to Know

Metal Welding Services in Miami: What to Know

If you’re searching for top-notch metal welding services near me in Miami, finding a professional and reliable service provider is key. Miami’s booming construction, automotive, and marine industries demand high-quality welding solutions for various projects. Let’s explore what makes metal welding services in Miami stand out and what you should look for when selecting a provider.

What Are Metal Welding Services?

Metal welding involves joining two or more metal parts through heat, pressure, or both. Welding is an essential process in industries like construction, automotive, manufacturing, and shipbuilding. Miami is home to a range of experienced welding professionals who cater to diverse project needs, including:

Structural welding: For buildings and bridges.

Automotive welding: For vehicle repairs and customization.

Marine welding: Specializing in ships and boats.

Custom metal fabrication: Tailored designs for unique projects.

Why Choose Professional Metal Welding Services in Miami?

Miami is a hub for skilled welders offering precision, durability, and expertise. Here are some key benefits of choosing local welding services:

Expertise in Various Techniques: Certified professionals in Miami use advanced techniques such as TIG, MIG, and stick welding for high-quality results.

Access to High-Quality Materials: Miami welding shops have access to durable metals like aluminum, stainless steel, and carbon steel.

Compliance with Local Regulations: Professionals ensure projects adhere to Miami’s building and safety codes.

Fast Turnaround Times: Local services minimize delays, ensuring your project is completed on time.

Types of Metal Welding Services Offered in Miami

Whether you’re working on a large-scale construction project or need small repairs, Miami’s welding professionals provide a range of services:

Residential Welding: Gates, fences, and railings.

Commercial Welding: Storefronts, signs, and structural supports.

Industrial Welding: Heavy machinery, pipelines, and tanks.

Repair Services: Fixing broken metal parts for boats, vehicles, or equipment.

How to Find the Best Metal Welding Services Near You

Finding the right welding service in Miami can be overwhelming. Here are some tips to help you choose the best provider:

Check for Certifications: Look for welders certified by organizations like the American Welding Society (AWS).

Read Reviews and Testimonials: Online reviews on platforms like Google and Yelp can give insights into the quality of service.

Compare Pricing: Request quotes from multiple providers to ensure competitive pricing without compromising quality.

Ask About Experience: Providers with extensive experience in your specific project type are likely to deliver better results.

Inspect Their Equipment: Modern, well-maintained equipment indicates a commitment to quality.

Top-Rated Welding Companies in Miami

Here are some highly recommended welding services in Miami to consider:

Miami Welding & Fabrication: Specializing in custom designs and structural welding.

South Florida Marine Welding: Experts in marine welding and aluminum fabrication.

Elite Welding Services: Known for precision welding and on-site services.

Benefits of Choosing Local Welding Services

Opting for a local welding service in Miami comes with several advantages:

Quick Response Times: Local businesses can provide on-site services faster.

Knowledge of Miami’s Environment: Welders understand the impact of Miami’s humid climate on metal structures.

Supporting Local Economy: Working with local providers strengthens the community.

Common Metals Used in Welding Projects

Miami welding services work with a variety of metals depending on the project requirements. Common metals include:

Aluminum: Lightweight and corrosion-resistant, ideal for marine and automotive projects.

Stainless Steel: Strong and resistant to rust, perfect for construction and decorative purposes.

Carbon Steel: Durable and cost-effective, suitable for heavy-duty industrial applications.

Copper: Used for electrical and plumbing applications.

How Much Do Metal Welding Services Cost in Miami?

The cost of metal welding services in Miami varies based on factors like:

Type of Project: Custom designs or large-scale industrial jobs may cost more.

Materials Used: Exotic metals like titanium are more expensive.

Complexity of Work: Intricate designs or repairs require more time and expertise.

On average, welding services in Miami range from $75 to $150 per hour, but it’s best to request a detailed quote for accurate pricing.

Tips for Maintaining Welded Metal Structures

To ensure the longevity of your welded metal structures, follow these maintenance tips:

Regular Inspections: Check for signs of wear, rust, or cracks.

Cleaning: Use appropriate cleaners to remove dirt and prevent corrosion.

Apply Protective Coatings: Paint or galvanize metal surfaces to enhance durability.

Avoid Overloading: Prevent excessive stress on welded joints.

Why Miami’s Climate Matters for Welding Projects

Miami’s coastal location and humid climate can affect metal structures over time. Professional welders in Miami understand these challenges and take necessary precautions, such as:

Using corrosion-resistant materials.

Applying protective coatings to combat rust.

Ensuring proper welding techniques to withstand environmental stressors.

Conclusion

When searching for metal welding services near me in Miami, it’s important to choose a provider with expertise, modern equipment, and a proven track record. Whether you need custom fabrication, industrial repairs, or marine welding, Miami’s professionals offer reliable solutions to meet your needs. By selecting a trusted local welding service, you can ensure your project is completed efficiently and to the highest standard.

[wonderousmonarch]

Kamen Rider Wizard Thoughts #4

he really is showing off his sorcery...

Episode 10

- got the girlfriend in call for this one, she hasn't watched any of it but it's still fun

- bro got the totem of undying

- Phoenix is crashing the FUCK out

- "He's shown his true colors: Red!"

- do the government have a fucking Chaos Emerald?

- Koyomi has hella drip

- uh oh the cops are here

- THEYRE GETTING HIS ASS!

- why this guy's face in the center of his damn body

- he rock!!!

- BIG! PLEASE!

- worlds worst vacation

- oh hey. this is one of the places from The Museum in Double

- leave it to the government to see the hero as a potential threat.

- ooh, Naoki has been a Gate before???

- why are the phantoms restricted to Tokyo?

- Naoki's dad was probably killed by a phantom

- mmm. classic underground factory...

- OH SHIT

- Did this phantom kill his dad? and was his dad also a Gate?

- Haruto coming in clutch

- oh he's busting out the big guns

- BIG SWORD LMAO

- time for his T-Pose Beam

- I'm very intrigued as to what Kizaki did to Naoki's dad

Episode 11

- what is this guy's deal. can he get off Haruto's ass for one second

- this show is making me want donuts

- government man is too stupid and stinky to use the rings

- the rings don't make a wizard the wizard makes the ring

- oh that is not the real Naoki. they're definitely setting a trap for Haruto

- your feeble guns are useless

- fold this man like an omelette. pack him up like a suitcase

- did they just not have Naoki's actor for this episode? he isn't saying anything either

- wuh oh phoenix time!

- oh I was right. that wasn't actually Naoki.

- I love Haruto's fit in this episode. it goes hard

- they made a pact over the chaos emerald so Kizaki would protect his son.... how nice

- dad of the year 2012

- Kizaki you dumbass.

- ATTACK OF THE LITTLE GUYS!!!! THE LITTLE BLORBOS

- THEY CAN FUSE???

- Damnit Rinko. you can quick draw faster than that

- Rip Naoki's Dad, what a goat.

- oops despair time

- hm. y'know I like Kizaki a little more now. not so much that I want him to keep showing up but he's got some points back.

- two guns!

- oh I thought he did the devil may cry pose

- HIS BIG BEAM ATTACK!

- holy shit the fucking hand monster

- I love this thing

- oh this is the first dragon usage since they became a real team. that's nice :D

- time for dragon to become a big foot... why can it do this

- down low, too slow, fucker.

- HE WANTS TO BE A FED??? BAD ENDING!!!!

- oooh new ring ... oh NVM it's still a rock

- earth, fire, water, air, and.... green

Episode 12:

- I need a donut...

- NEW RING TIME :O

- woah! Duos ring!

- oh... stupei ace defective is on the case

- what kind of style is Haruto wearing. i love his little shawls

- oooh I like Valkyrie's design

- ooh sweets shop? call Shoma

- uh oh the ghoul has appeared. he wants the scrumptious treats

- Valkyrie is being so polite.... oh NVM

- THE TREATS!!!!! NOOOOOOO

- Shoma would fucking kill this guy in a second

- man I gotta stop watching shows with major food content at times when I cannot get food. I'm fucking hungry

- damn the food industry sucks. the monsters don't help

- Shunpei sweep

- Haruto should learn some kind of repair spell. it would solve so many problems

- holy shit. this guy is totally the phantom. no one asks for that much

- yeah. he's the phantom. what a fucker

- WAIT THE OWNER WAS THE GATE!!!! FUCK

- oh hey it's that one street where Tycoon and Buffa have a friendly interaction

- I love Haruto's big stupid gun. such a doohickey. thingamajig ass weapon

- copy is such a cool spell

- ooooh GREEN MODE

- gun Shunpei a gun too. let him help

- taking a hostage. what a bastard.

Episode 13

- next I get to watch the movie ;3

- i simply wouldn't be taken hostage. just wouldn't happen to me

- damn he just gave up

- oh they're going to kill Tetsuya

- Shunpei sad arc :(

- uh oh. devious woman has heard

- oh she's about to fold him like paper. she's about to turn his ass into a crane

- funky ass camera angle

- DAMN. STRONG ASS PLASTIC CHAIRS

- "Haruto's my hope" bro in any other context that is the most homosexual thing you can say. although it still is.

- LOCK IN TETSUYA. make the most banger treat ever

- he's making the hope manju qahhhhahahhseh

- awwawawawawaa this is so sweet

- Valkyrie is about to show up sometime soon. this might be bad.

- THE STEAMER THING IN THE BACKGROUND AS HE TURNS FIRE HEHEGEH

- Shunpei! Lock In!

- oh hey it's the place where Gemn tried Hyper Muteki that one time. How Interesting.

- MY GOAT! HE CAUGHT IT

- my boys. I love them.

- THE WINGS!!! HOLY SHITTT

- this series is so fucking cool man.

- the fucking Cyclone.... my goat.

- he got hired :D yayyy

- officially the assistant now.. oh joyous day

I love this series so much. it is so heartwarming and fun and I love just watching Haruto fight.

next up is Movie War Ultimatum.