#Intercom technician

[novakdoorsandgates]

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[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

𐙚 PAIRING: Mydei/F!reader

𐙚 PARTS: 1, 2

𐙚 SUMMARY: A wartime radio announcer keeps broadcasting long after a general goes missing in a bombing. The war ends. He doesn’t return. Still, she holds to his letters and the sound of her own voice—until a quiet reunion asks whether memory is enough.

Some promises survive in silence. And some voices you wait for, even when the frequency goes quiet

𐙚 C.W: Tragedy, hallucinations, implied PTSD, war themes, implied character death, violence, blood, survivor's guilt, grief, unresolved feelings, implied depression, emotional repression, loneliness, displacement, breakdowns, hopelessness, reunion after trauma, emotional whiplash, fleeting comfort, lingering loss, disassociation, and memory fixation.

𐙚 A/N: Hi!! I started reading some journalist stuff about Edward Murrow (i think thats his name) and i was fascinated about how some radio broadcasters during war time would visit missions or camps to get the full picture and relay the news to common folk. I hope my writing is okay………. 

𐙚 TAGLIST: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura @whatamidoing89 @myegyumi

𐙚 W.C: 8037

Three… two… one.

“This is Station Halcyon, broadcasting on 730 kilohertz to the northern provinces. It’s 0600 hours. You’re listening to the military update relay, authorized by the Office of National Communications. I am voice ID 042.”

You pause. Let the sound hang, steady, professional.

There’s a quiet shuffle behind the glass. Acacia, your sharp-eyed radio technician, taps away at her console, eyes darting between screens. You catch the subtle clink of a coffee cup being set down somewhere in the corner.

You clear your throat, keeping your voice calm, even though your throat feels tight.

“Last night, forces holding Sector D-7 managed to repel repeated enemy assaults. Confirmed casualties stand at fifty-seven, with six soldiers missing in action. The battle was fierce, with artillery fire disrupting communication lines throughout the night. Weather conditions remain harsh—snowfall continues to slow movement and reduce visibility, hampering defense and rescue efforts.”

You glance down at the papers before you typed-up reports from the front, barely legible scrawls from field commanders, urgent telegrams. Your fingers tap a rhythm on the desk, trying to keep nerves at bay.

“The situation at Station Epsilon is evolving. Early this morning, a bombing caused significant disruption to the communication infrastructure in the area. Frontline units are working tirelessly to re-establish contact. As of this broadcast, details remain limited and are subject to change.”

The room feels small but alive. Kastos, one of the writers, leans against the wall, scratching notes onto a battered notepad, eyes narrowed in thought. Acacia’s fingers flick deftly over switches and dials, tuning frequencies, her headset crackling with static.

“Acacia will be managing the relay patch for the upcoming shift,” you say quietly, turning slightly to catch her eye.

She shakes her head, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Nope. You’re on for the next segment too.”

You wince, lowering your voice. “I don’t have much choice. Prices are climbing faster than I can count. I need the overtime.”

Kastos raises an eyebrow, concern plain in his gaze. “Are you sure? You’ve barely taken a break all week. The others could—”

You cut him off with a shake of your head. “No. They need to hear a steady voice right now. Plus, there’s nothing else for me to do at home anyway.”

Acacia laughs softly behind her headset. “Fine. But don’t let us find you passed out on the floor.”

The supervisor’s voice crackles through the intercom, sharp and clipped, slicing through the low murmur of conversation.

“All units, stand by for frontline updates. Maintain clear channels. Repeat: clear channels. Prepare for immediate transmission.”

Your heart rate ticks up, the familiar rush of adrenaline threading through the exhaustion.

You lean forward, hands steady now, eyes scanning your notes again as you prepare to close this segment.

Outside, the pale dawn presses cold and gray against the windows. The world feels fragile, held in the fragile pause before chaos.

“That concludes the update for 0600 hours on Station Halcyon. Stay vigilant. Keep your radios tuned.”

The microphone’s red light switches off, and the room exhales in unison. You lean back, fingers relaxing, but the weight settles deep inside — this isn’t just news. This is lives hanging in the balance.

Behind the glass, Acacia fiddles with a new frequency, her expression serious.

Kastos pushes off the wall and walks over, tapping your shoulder lightly. “You want a break before the next round?”

You shake your head, forcing a tired smile. “Really, no. I need the extra hours. The cost of living’s not getting any easier.”

He nods, not pressing further. You sip your water, your mind already half on the interviews scheduled in the next shift, the faces you’ll have to see and hear and report.

The hours ahead, filled with static and voices, stories and silence.

Outside the station, somewhere between the lines and the snow, the war rages on.

The windowpane fogs under your breath as you lean forward, chin resting against your hand. Outside, snow drapes the ground in a dull white. Not fresh enough to be beautiful, but enough to make the road glisten with quiet hostility. It’s the kind of cold that gets into your teeth if you breathe too fast.

You sigh.

Acacia hums behind you, not really singing, not really talking. She’s fixing her scarf around her neck like she expects to be gone all day. You half-expected she’d insist on handling the assignment herself, but now she’s just stuffing a pack of cigarettes into her coat like it’s routine.

“The bombing at Station Epsilon,” she says idly, “wasn’t it near a munitions cache?”

“Might’ve been. The higher-ups didn’t say.”

“You think it’s sabotage?”

“Or someone got sloppy.” You turn back toward her. “Either way, they’re not giving us the full picture.”

She shrugs and gives a pointed glance to the dusty vent above the broadcasting booth. “They never do. But if the explosion was that loud and that close, maybe we’ll get real answers once we reach the camp.”

You grimace and look back at the window. The street outside is nearly empty—just snow-covered rooftops, shuttered buildings, and an old delivery van caked in slush. Nothing moves. Even the sky looks reluctant.

Kastos enters the room again with a stack of clipped reports, his scarf lopsided and his coat half-buttoned. “The company journalist’s already downstairs. And the car’s warmed up.”

You blink. “Already?”

He tilts his head. “You did say you’d go.”

You grunt, already reaching for your coat.

Before you’ve even shrugged it on fully, the crackling voice of the station chief echoes over the speaker:

“Halcyon crew. Let’s move. Camp Carthage is twenty klicks out and we’ve got daylight to burn. We need a full segment recorded by nightfall, preferably with clean audio this time.”

You wince. Clean audio. In a military camp. During a snowstorm. With half the equipment held together by tape and hope.

“Understood,” you call back, adjusting your scarf and tucking your press badge into your breast pocket. It’s chipped at the corners and still says Field Assistant instead of Lead Broadcaster, but nobody bothers to fix things like that anymore.

Acacia steps beside you, glancing toward the door. “You’re really sure you want to do this one?”

“I need the money,” you say, again. But there’s more than that.

There’s a kind of buzzing in your chest, not quite nerves. Not quite dread either. Just something pulling. Some part of you feels like something is coming. Something overdue.

Kastos hands you the last of the reports. “The camp you’re visiting? Carthage Unit. That’s one of the main defense divisions assigned to the Northern Borderline.”

You flip the folder open, scanning the list of ranks. Then pause. A name buried halfway down the page catches in your throat.

General Mydei.

The folder almost slips from your hands.

Acacia notices, her brow furrowing. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, closing the file again. “Nothing.”

Because it’s not supposed to mean anything. You’ve seen the name before on posters, in briefings, once scratched on a cafe wall like a curse.

But it still clutches at your stomach when you read it.

That’s the man who used to stand in line at the corner bakery every Thursday, exactly at noon. Who never smiled, but always tipped the staff and bought the same pomegranate bread, dusted with sugar. Who never said your name, but always nodded when you passed by. Who, one rainy afternoon, left a clean handkerchief on your seat when you forgot yours.

You hadn’t known who he was until he disappeared from the city altogether. Until the rumors started that the famous tactician was being shipped out. Until posters with his name were printed in black and pinned to walls like announcements of war.

You wonder, briefly, if he still likes pomegranate bread.

“Let’s go,” you say finally, as your hand tightens on the folder.

You make your way downstairs, the stairs groaning under your weight, coat pulled tighter around your frame. The wind slaps at your cheeks the moment the front doors open, and the cold digs straight through your bones.

Parked on the curb is the usual truck, military make, with the back converted into a cramped audio recording room. One of the junior field techs nods at you, holding the door open.

You step in, tucking your folder close to your chest.

The last thing you see before the door closes is the snowfall thickening.

As if even the sky wants to blur what’s about to happen.

Snow flurries whip past the windshield as the transport truck rolls to a stop, tires crunching over slush-packed gravel. The gate ahead is nothing like the ones you’ve passed on safer routes. No banners, no welcoming officers. Just concrete, barbed wire, and tall shadows flanking the entrance like stone guardians.

You press your palm against the side window, peering out.

“They really stuck us out in the edge of the map,” Kastos mutters beside you, thumbing his pen with nervous energy. He’s already creased the interview questions.

“They’re the spearhead division,” Iliyen replies, voice low but calm. She adjusts her officer’s coat and slips a black notebook into her breast pocket. “They’re the reason the front hasn’t collapsed yet.”

She says it like it’s praise, but her jaw stays tense. You don’t ask questions. You know her type,  the kind of correspondent who’s seen enough wreckage to speak in clipped phrases and small exhales.

The back door slides open, and a wave of cold air floods the truck’s interior. One of the drivers motions silently for you to get out.

You step down onto hardened ground, boots crunching over the icy surface. Around you, the camp sprawls like a living machine. There are gray tents and steel outposts peppered across snow-dusted hills. Men and women move like clockwork: some carrying munitions crates, others trudging in groups toward the eastern lookouts. Their uniforms are thick, faded with frost. Their expressions unreadable.

There’s no music here. No shouting. Just the wind and the occasional barked command.

You tug your scarf tighter.

At the gate, a stern-looking officer approaches — tall, clad in full winter gear with only his eyes visible beneath his cap. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just scans your badges and says:

“You’ll speak with Lieutenant Raen. She’ll brief you on what you can and can’t record.”

Iliyen nods. “Understood.”

You glance to Kastos. He flashes a thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

As you’re led into the camp proper, you pass soldiers who glance only once before turning away again. No curiosity. No interest. Just war-weariness shaped into silence.

You’re not used to being invisible.

You pass the mess tents, the gear sheds, the comms posts with each one half-buried in snow, smoke curling from chimneys that barely heat the interiors. The air smells of sweat and rust and something faintly metallic.

And then you reach it,  a central pavilion reinforced with stone and iron, like a makeshift headquarters carved out of old world bones.

Inside, the air is warmer. Dim lanterns swing gently from the beams. Maps cover the walls. Chalk and pins mark movements and losses.

Lieutenant Raen stands at the center, sleeves rolled, voice brisk.

She turns when you enter and gives a short nod.

“You’re the press team?”

You nod. “Radio Halcyon.”

Raen eyes you, then Iliyen. “We’re on borrowed time. Command only gave you two hours.”

“We’ll take thirty minutes,” Iliyen says.

“Fifteen,” Raen corrects. “You want answers, ask fast. No photos. No names unless cleared. No questions about the blast. No questions about ‘General Mydei.’” She says the last part flatly, like she’s memorized it.

Your heartbeat skips.

Kastos doesn’t flinch, just flips to a fresh page in his pad.

You say nothing.

Raen leads you to a side wing where a handful of soldiers. The more presentable ones, you guess, are seated and waiting. Most look tired. One taps his fingers on his rifle’s strap. Another adjusts the bandage around her wrist and mutters something under her breath.

These are the ones they want the public to see.

Raen gestures toward the foldable chairs arranged like an awkward classroom. “You can record here. You get quotes, not monologues. Keep it clean. If anything sounds off-message, I’ll cut it.”

Iliyen already has her notebook out. Kastos follows suit.

You set up the mic, the static in your ears a low buzz. Your voice is hoarse from the cold.

You clear your throat, glance at the recorder’s red light.

“Recording live,” you murmur.

You look up.

And you begin.

“Corps Command Halcyon, frontline feature, Northern Defense Axis,” you say, tone low and measured. “Present location: Camp Carthage, spear division of the border defense. In front of us: five soldiers, five stories.”

One of the soldiers, the one with tired eyes and a faded patch on his arm, meets your gaze.

“Let’s talk about what survival looks like,” you say softly. “Here. Now.”

The recorder hums softly in your gloved hand, its red light blinking slow and steady. A bit like a pulse. You lean forward, enough to catch the profile of the soldier speaking without crowding him.

“…it’s cold, sure,” says one. Corporal Theon, wiry with sharp, wind-burnt cheekbones. “But the thing about frostbite is it creeps up quietly. Like artillery. You don’t feel it until you’re already too far gone.”

There’s a stiff chuckle from one of the others.

Kastos jots it down, then gently interjects, “How’s morale, Corporal?”

Theon shrugs. “We still get letters. The food’s warm. When it isn’t frozen, anyway.”

The woman beside him. Specialist Vesha. She folds her arms, eyes half-lidded but listening. You turn slightly to her.

“What about the last skirmish? Reports said Carthage was the first to respond.”

“We always are,” she says dryly. “We’re used to going first.”

There’s no pride in it. Just fact.

You clear your throat. “And... word was that someone on your squad intercepted a transmission from behind enemy lines?”

Now, that earns you attention.

Vesha’s brow lifts. Theon scratches his neck. The youngest, a Private whose name you never caught, leans in a little.

“Oh, you mean the mole?” the Private blurts, a little too loud.

You exchange a quick glance with Kastos.

Iliyen’s pencil pauses mid-word.

Vesha elbows the kid, not subtly.

Lieutenant Raen, who’s been standing off to the side like a bored shadow, steps forward. “Strike that,” she says firmly. “That information isn’t cleared for public dissemination.”

The soldier mumbles an apology. You nod silently, thumb the switch on the recorder and mark the cut. Later, you’ll edit that part out.

Still, you file the word mole somewhere in your brain. You’re not sure if it’ll matter, but your gut says it might.

Kastos moves things along. “Let’s talk about conditions.”

One of the others, a medic, judging by the red cross half-hidden beneath his coat, gestures vaguely outside. “Snow’s hitting harder this week. Rations are tighter. We don’t see command often, but when we do, they usually come bearing good or bad news. No in-between.”

“And what do you do to stay… grounded?” you ask. “To remember you’re still yourselves out here?”

The medic hesitates, then half-smiles. “We listen to the broadcasts.”

Your breath hitches just a little.

“The radio,” he clarifies. “Yours. Mostly yours. Someone strung up a signal rig in the comms tent. We catch it most nights if the wind isn’t too cruel.”

He doesn’t say your name, but his eyes linger a beat too long on your face. You wonder if he recognizes your voice before your face. If he ever imagined you looked different, or if you were better off staying just a voice.

“Helps us feel like we haven’t slipped completely off the map,” he adds.

“...Thank you,” you say, a little quieter than you meant to.

They nod. The air settles.

But then someone… One of the quieter soldiers at the end, older, worn like wet rope, murmurs, “The General listens too.”

Raen straightens slightly. “That’s enough.”

He doesn’t stop. “We heard it. From the mole. Enemy officers said he’s been picking up Halcyon frequencies, even when he’s behind enemy lines. They call him ‘ghost-walker.’ Think he’s some phantom with a pulse.”

You can feel your stomach twist. A slow, low curl of something in your chest.

Kastos writes faster.

Raen’s voice slices through again, sharper this time. “Strike that.”

Iliyen doesn’t even argue. She draws a thick black line across a portion of her notes.

The older soldier shrugs. “Was worth saying.”

You glance at the recorder. Still red. Still blinking.

You switch it off with a soft click.

The interview ends in an awkward shuffle. No one claps. No one thanks anyone. Just tired nods and half-formed murmurs of "stay safe."

You step outside again, scarf pulled over your lips as the cold slaps back into your lungs. The sky above is gray-blue and heavy with snow. The wind whistles through barbed wire and loose canvas.

Iliyen joins you at your side, gaze faraway. “He listens,” she says.

You look at her.

“The General,” she continues. “Or so they say. I wonder what he’s hoping to hear.”

You don't answer.

Because you already know.

You’ve seen the signal strength peak at odd hours. Heard rustling when no one else was supposed to be transmitting. Caught static at your name. You’d once said something—something small, off-script, during a broadcast lull:

“If you’re out there… if any of you are out there… just know someone’s still listening.”

And someone had tapped the line once. Just once.

You’d told yourself it was wind.

But you’d written it down anyway

The wind is quieter now, almost reverent. Snow falls in patient flurries, dotting your coat and lashes. You stand near the gravel path that snakes out of the main barracks, waiting for the car to circle back from refueling. A low hum echoes from the far end of the camp — soldiers drilling.

Not just jogging or casual formation.

No, training.

Hard.

Rhythmic, timed drills. Callouts in unison. Boots pounding frozen earth in perfect coordination. The kind of conditioning you only ever hear about in radio reports, but rarely see.

You and your small team stand near a stacked crate, watching like civilians watching a well-oiled, frightening machine.

Kastos exhales next to you, breath visible in the air. “The other camps don’t train like this.”

Iliyen folds her arms, gloved fingers tapping the outside of her coat. “Camp Carthage isn’t like the others. I’ve heard it’s where they send the toughest units.”

Kastos nods absently, gaze still trained on the soldiers. “Still. This feels excessive.”

“General Mydei runs this one, doesn’t he?” Iliyen says, not looking at either of you. “They say he’s strict. Really tall. Big build. Makes them train three times harder than protocol.”

There’s a long pause.

You glance at her from the corner of your eye but say nothing. The name Mydei clings to the inside of your skull like snow melt against skin.

Iliyen shrugs. “I mean... of course. Carthage is always first in. When the lines are redrawn, they’re the ones pushing it. Or dying on it.”

A young assistant, whose nametag reads Harren, maybe fresh out of training, sidles up to join your group. “It’s because they’re sacrificial,” he says bluntly. “Everyone knows that.”

You don’t even think before your hand jabs his side with your elbow.

“Hey.” You don’t bother hiding your glare. “Don’t say that. Not out loud.”

He stammers, rubbing his ribs, looking mildly ashamed. “Sorry. I just—everyone thinks it. I didn’t mean anything.”

You look back at the training yard. Soldiers running drills under snowfall, lifting crates, forming formations, voices crisp and synchronized. One of them collapses, gets back up within seconds. A sergeant barks something from across the yard.

“I know,” you say after a moment. “But some of them still write home. They still hold onto birthdays. They’re not just statistics.”

A long silence settles again.

Only the sound of soldiers calling out numbers cuts through the cold.

Kastos shifts beside you. “Ever met Mydei?” he asks suddenly, eyes still on the yard.

“No,” you lie, quickly.

Iliyen watches you, but doesn’t call it out.

“Well,” Kastos says. “If this is his doing… can’t decide if it’s terrifying or admirable.”

“Both,” Iliyen says quietly.

You don't respond.

Instead, you stare a little longer at the blur of movement. The dark coats. The steady, trained bodies. And somewhere out there, maybe in one of the tents or maybe already gone back to the field, is a man who once stood in line at a bakery every Thursday at 4 p.m.

He always ordered the same lemon tart. He never said more than five words at a time.

You never knew his name back then.

Not until you started hearing it echo across casualty reports, field victories, and whispered soldier rumors like it was both a threat and a blessing.

General Mydei.

You pull your scarf higher up your chin and exhale.

Behind you, the car pulls up at last, headlights dimmed against the white glare of snow. You don’t get in right away.

You keep watching.

Not for long. Just a few more seconds.

You pat down your coat pockets once. Then twice. Then with increasing urgency, a third time.

No pen.

No—not just any pen.

You shove your hand into your left coat flap, then the inner lining, then frantically unzip your side pouch. Kastos and Iliyen are already halfway to the car, chatting like people who don’t have a heart sinking into the soles of their boots.

“Wait—ugh, I’ll be right back!” you call out, already spinning on your heel.

“Again?” Kastos yells over his shoulder. “What is it now?”

“My pen! My lucky pen!”

He groans. “You and that cursed thing—”

“I was holding it literally six minutes ago,” you mutter, ignoring him as your boots crunch back over the gravel.

It was Thomas’ pen. Your favorite professor during your last year in broadcast journalism. Said you had “a voice like velvet and vinegar” his words, not yours,  and handed you that red metal pen before your first campus coverage.

You got your internship three weeks later. Then your first job. Then—somehow—Station Halcyon.

And now you’d dropped it. Somewhere in Camp Carthage, the most intense military base in the damn region. You could scream.

You trudge past crates, your fingers jammed under your arms to stay warm. “Please don’t let some lieutenant find it and think it’s a bomb,” you mutter to yourself.

There—near a cluster of empty benches outside the officer tent.

You spot the gleam of metal against frost.

You scramble forward.

“Oh, thank god—” you sigh, crouching to retrieve it. Your name still elegantly etched near the clicker. Slightly scratched but still legible.

You tuck it back into your breast pocket with a reverent pat. “You’re the only thing that makes my handwriting legible,” you whisper to it, only half-joking.

Your nose twitches.

Then—ah-CHH! You sneeze sharply into your handkerchief, muffling it as best you can.

Ugh. Cold.

You straighten up and turn around—

And crash straight into something.

Solid. Warm. Tall.

You recoil, mumbling an immediate, flustered, “Oh, I’m so—!”

Then you look up.

And freeze.

He stands in front of you like a thunderclap dressed in regulation.

Dark coat. Tactical gloves. Snow still melting on his shoulders. His hair is slightly mussed, damp from training or wind. His eyes—sharp, dark, and steady—land directly on you.

You’ve seen that face only a handful of times up close.

Once at the bakery.

Twice in passing.

And one time, half-shadowed in a classified military photo you weren’t supposed to see.

But there’s no mistaking it now. No confusion.

This isn’t some vague officer or distant silhouette.

This is him.

General Mydei.

And he’s staring at you.

Just a beat too long.

You blink. Your breath hitches.

His eyes flicker downward briefly, like he's taking stock of you: the scarf, the broadcaster’s badge on your coat, the handkerchief still clutched in your fingers.

Then his voice, low, smooth, with an edge like flint, breaks the silence.

“…You dropped your pen.”

He says it like it’s a matter of state.

You nod dumbly. “I—I got it. It’s, um… it’s really precious. Refill’s stupidly expensive.”

A pause.

Is that the corner of his mouth twitching?

No. Couldn’t be.

You clear your throat. “Sorry for bumping into you. I didn’t mean—sorry.”

“No harm,” he says.

Another silence.

Another moment that stretches longer than it should.

He’s not moving.

You’re not either.

You wonder if he recognizes you. Not from radio broadcasts. But from Thursdays. From tart crumbs. From the smell of lemon sugar.

Before this war devoured everything.

You’re not brave enough to ask.

Not yet.

From the corner of your eye, you see Kastos waving from the car.

You swallow, nod stiffly to him, and start to move past—

“Mydei,” he says quietly.

You pause.

“I’m General Mydei.”

You turn back to him slowly. He didn’t need to introduce himself. Everyone here knows.

But somehow, hearing him say it… to you feels different.

Like he’s handing something over. Even if it’s just a name you already knew.

You wet your lips.

“I know.”

He studies you a second longer.

Then, with nothing more than a nod, he turns and walks off toward the barracks.

You don’t move for a long time.

Only once he’s disappeared into the haze of snowfall do you whisper, “What the hell.”

Then you walk back to the car, hand over your badge to the guards, and try not to let anyone see how pink your ears are.

The walls hum quietly. The radiator sputters again.

You exhale as you toss your coat over the single chair by the door, boots kicked off with the sluggishness of someone whose spine has been standing too long. The second the latch clicks shut behind you, the silence settles. Not comforting. Just there.

You lean against the doorframe for a second, just breathing.

The building shakes faintly every few minutes, trams or low-altitude aircraft. Hard to tell anymore. The view outside your window is barely a view: dim streetlamps, skeletal trees, and that same white birdshit stain on the upper right pane.

You were going to clean it. Last week. Then your boss scheduled you for two more overnight shifts. And the market trip. And that call from the registrar's office in the Outer Lieran Region—your younger sibling’s tuition deadline, right on cue. The second one needed housing funds.

You didn’t even flinch when your last paycheck dissolved the moment it hit your account.

It’s quiet. You don’t turn the radio on this time. For once, your voice is the last thing you want to hear echo back.

You collapse into the chair by your desk. Your coat slips off the side.

Right. Work.

You dig out the pages from your coat pocket—notes from today’s field interview. Scrawled shorthand. Names, code designations, half-legible transcriptions. You’ll have to polish it all tomorrow, but you want to at least organize it before it all blurs again.

Your fingers ache slightly as you hold your pen. The red one. The engraved one.

Your name glints under the weak lamplight.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Then your eyes drift.

He looked different.

You'd already known he was tall—could tell even from the bakery line, from how people moved around him like his shadow carried weight. But in uniform? In full command?

It was like watching someone step out of a war mural.

The golden pauldron caught the light when he moved. The twin gauntlets didn’t look ceremonial; they looked used. The robe—dark and stitched with sharp red lines—moved when he walked like it had its own momentum.

But his hair—

It still looked the same.

Messy. Beige with threads of red through it like streaks of clay, sunlit in some places. A long, thick lock was still braided neatly down the right side, and the sapphire earring he always wore—the one you used to quietly admire when he passed your bakery window—was still there. Just… brighter.

The tattoos you only half-saw. They curled past the edge of his collar, glowing faintly beneath the sharp line of his neck.

You rub your eyes.

Why are you thinking about this so much?

You sneeze into your sleeve again, groaning.

Right.

Still sick. Still underpaid. Still out of credits.

You glance at the corner of your desk, where yesterday’s receipt is still pinned to the wall.

180 credits – Eggs (bargained 20% off)

The lady at the counter had looked at you like you were gutting her cat, but you needed it. Needed something cheap. Rent ate the rest.

Your fingers drift to the windowsill, tracing dust with your pinkie. It’s been a while since you even wiped this thing. The fucking bird droppings dried into the glass days ago. It looks like a cursed shape. Sort of a lowercase "g." or maybe a fucking “o”.

You should clean. You should.

But you don’t.

You pull your legs up into the chair, curling one arm around your knees.

There’s a letter on your nightstand waiting to be mailed. It's to your siblings. You’ll have to pay extra just to get it out by courier—postal lines are delayed again, thanks to military rerouting.

You sigh and lay your head down on the desk.

His voice was deeper than you expected.

Not booming. Just… deliberate. Like every word had to pass through a dozen checkpoints before being released. But when he said your name, even just once, it stuck in your chest like a bruise that didn't hurt.

You wonder if he recognized you.

You wonder if he ever listened.

Surely not. You’re just a voice on the frequency. Background noise between strategy reports and ration orders.

But maybe…

Maybe once or twice, before deployment or during quiet hours, he tuned in. Maybe he knew it was you. Maybe that’s why he said his name like that.

“Mydei.”

Like a reminder.

Your name, his name.

Two things that don’t usually sit in the same sentence.

You let your eyes drift closed, just for a moment.

The room smells faintly of ink and radiator heat. The soft hum of the war beyond your window fades just long enough for you to almost forget you’re part of it.

Almost.

Click. Pen. Click. Pen. Click.

You blink blearily at the scheduling sheet, the overhead lights too white for your crusted eyes. The ache in your throat hasn’t let up. The coffee’s cold, and you haven’t even touched it.

Your fingers are cramping slightly from transcribing yesterday’s interviews—nothing special, just more vague military platitudes and rehearsed optimism. Except for the one slip-up. That poor man practically flung his whole career into your recorder before Raen told you to cut it from the official copy.

You left it in your private notes, though. Just in case.

Across the room, Illiyen pinches the bridge of her nose. "Follow-up scheduled. Camp Carthage wants us back there for an extended segment. Apparently, the general’s agreed to speak directly this time."

Kastos lets out a low whistle. “General Mydei? Himself?”

Illiyen mutters, "They’re never that generous with media access. Wonder what he wants spun.”

“Control the narrative before it controls you,” Acacia mutters.

Your stomach twists.

"Guess who gets to interview him," she adds, eyes sliding to you. "Congratulations. He insisted."

You blink.

“…He what?”

“He said, and I quote,” Illiyen flips a page, “‘Tell the broadcaster not to bother assigning anyone. I’ll speak. Only with her.’”

Her tone is unreadable.

Kastos snorts. “Must’ve liked how you look clutching that red pen.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs on reflex. “Shut up.”

But your hands are cold. You shove them under the table, trying to steady your pulse.

You arrive late.

The morning frost hasn’t lifted, but Camp Carthage is already blistering with movement. Soldiers run drills. Barked orders echo across the field. The air smells like scorched fabric and freshly oiled metal. Yet there’s still that strange trace of sweetness—somebody’s always baking in this place, you swear.

You barely register the routine security checks this time. Raen’s already watching over you like a goddamn hawk. Illiyen’s adjusting her camera strap. Kastos is trying to look casual and failing miserably.

You’re just cold.

“Interview’s set up in the outer war room,” an escort tells your group. “General’s already inside. Waiting.”

Your fingers brush the edge of your coat pocket, where your pen rests. Still there.

Good.

The room is clean. Stark. A long rectangular table stretches through the middle, flanked by military maps pinned on every wall. Red markers. Circles. Strings. No windows. The heater hums.

He’s already there.

General Mydei stands at the far end, back to you at first—his posture unnervingly relaxed for someone surrounded by so much tension. But when the door closes behind your group, he turns.

Your breath catches.

In full light, he looks sharper. Not just large—striking. His uniform is the same as yesterday’s: deep maroon robes under sharp tailoring, the gold of his pauldron catching even the weakest light. His gauntlets reflect faintly, fingers flexed as if he’s perpetually ready to strike. The tattoos just barely peek from the edges of his collar. His eyes—sun-gold, slitted just slightly—land on you.

And stay there.

Iliyen starts introducing herself. Mydei doesn’t even blink. He nods once to the team. Gives a simple, “Thank you for coming.”

But his gaze never leaves yours.

You clear your throat. “We appreciate your time, General.”

“It was mine to offer,” he says, quietly.

The interview begins. You do your job.

You ask the prepared questions. Updates. Troop morale. Shifts in strategy. Reflections on public sentiment. His answers are composed, measured, but not rehearsed. There’s something disarmingly direct about the way he speaks. He never rambles. He never deflects. But he’s choosing every word like a blade.

And still—he looks at you. Almost the entire time.

You can feel the weight of it like pressure on your throat.

You try to ignore it. You have to.

Kastos starts wrapping up, giving the practiced thank-you and final formalities that come with every military interview. His tone is brisk, neutral, just enough polish to signal professionalism but not deference. Iliyen is already clipping the mic off her coat, brushing some lint off her scarf. Then, Kastos cracks his knuckles and mutters something about freezing his fingers off while fiddling with the audio case.

You don’t move.

Not immediately, anyway.

Your fingers hover over the recorder’s buttons, slowly double-checking everything you’ve already checked twice. You thumb through your notes, half-skimming your own shorthand even though you know exactly what’s written. A small, stubborn part of you stalls—lingering for a reason you don’t quite have the words for.

He doesn’t leave.

You feel it before you confirm it: that same unmoving gaze. Mydei hasn’t shifted from his spot at the far end of the table. He stands with his hands clasped behind his back now, gaze rooted to where you sit.

Not unkind. Not expectant. Just steady.

Your pen trembles slightly between your fingers. You set it down, too slow.

From the corner of your eye, you catch Kastos.

He’s mouthing something.

Ooooh.

You don’t even need to hear it to feel the heat crawl up your neck.

You shoot him a look sharp enough to shear his tongue off. He smiles innocently and turns away, already helping Illiyen pack cables.

Raen leans in just enough for her words to be heard over the static, voice clipped and quiet. “Tread carefully around generals,” she says, eyes fixed ahead. “I’m not in the mood to explain insubordination.”

Your mouth opens slightly. “I’m not flirting,” you hiss.

“You were lingering.”

“I’m working.”

Raen shrugs. “Then do it. And don’t try anything foolish.”

You ignore her. Mostly because you can’t argue while your heart’s pounding this hard.

When you finally lift your head, you’re met—again—with his gaze.

It’s not piercing. Not invasive. It doesn’t leer or search.

It just sees.

There’s a calm to it, like staring into the eye of a slow-moving storm. Not danger. Not desire. Just depth. Like he’s memorizing your face for reasons even he doesn’t understand yet.

You swallow. The back of your throat still aches.

You gather your things too quickly, nearly knocking your clipboard over. Your hands fumble with the strap of your bag as you follow your team, suddenly aware of the echo of your boots against the cold tile floor.

You hesitate in the doorway.

And still—he hasn’t said anything.

But as your hand finds the doorframe, steadying yourself as you step out, you feel it. The air shift.

He nods.

A simple thing. Barely even movement.

But it’s not a dismissive gesture.

It’s one of recognition. Like he’s answering a question you hadn’t asked aloud.

And it’s meant just for you.

The door shuts quietly behind you.

Days pass by, broadcasting news with a hoarse throat.

The news finishes broadcasting at precisely 17:00. Your voice still lingers faintly in your ears, the tail end of a final sentence about grain ration restrictions and how imports from the northern regions will be suspended due to sabotage.

You flick off your mic.

The studio is warm and smells like paper and old wires. Acacia’s in the corner doing maintenance on the transmitter, mumbling about the feedback delay on Frequency 3. Illiyen’s out on her day off—good for her—and Kastos is raiding the office cabinet for the last pack of coffee sticks. Again.

You're about to stand and grab your notebook when the front desk intern walks in, holding a square envelope like it's radioactive.

“Something came for you,” she says, holding it at arm’s length.

You furrow your brows, taking it cautiously. It's... old-fashioned. Real paper. Cream-colored envelope. Inked address.

Your full name is written in neat, squared handwriting. No return address.

But in the top corner—

Camp Carthage.

Your stomach drops.

Acacia doesn't notice. She's still swearing under her breath at the equipment.

But of course, Kastos notices.

"Ooooh," he says, drawing the syllable out like he's sixteen again. “Camp Carthage? That’s from frontline daddy, isn’t it?”

“Shut up, asshole,” you snap too quickly.

“Bet it’s a marriage proposal.”

You whirl on him, nearly smacking him with your clipboard. “I swear to the gods, I will file a hostile work report on you.”

He raises his hands innocently, grinning wide. “Don’t shoot the messenger. Or the jealous coworker.”

You pocket the envelope like it might spontaneously combust.

It’s probably not personal. It’s probably official. Maybe you forgot to redact something. 

Maybe it’s a warning. Maybe General Mydei wants to complain that you hovered too long or stood on the wrong side of a marked perimeter or—

You sneak out of the studio.

You head straight to the second-floor bathroom, into the third stall—the one that doesn’t lock properly but faces away from the mirrors. You sit on the toilet with the lid down, heart drumming faster than it has any right to.

You open it carefully, breaking the wax seal.

The handwriting inside is the same. Clean. Sharp-edged. Pressed like the writer hesitated after every word.

It reads:

“To Station Halcyon – Attn: Broadcaster [Name], Regarding your last transmission: You mentioned the supply shortages near the Estera fields, and I believe your source was either outdated or misinformed. For record accuracy, we’ve since rerouted all eastbound grain stocks via Riverline, with security guaranteed by Squadron IX. Furthermore, the tone of your closing remark (re: "the bleakness of the eastern border settlements") may unintentionally demoralize listeners stationed near those areas. I understand the pressures of tight scripting, but I would suggest consulting the civilian morale guide distributed last quarter. Should you require updated data regarding troop rotations or food parcel allocations, I can arrange for briefings to be transmitted weekly to your station. I will ensure they are signed and verified. Your reporting has been... notably consistent. – Commander M. of Carthage Division”

You stare at it.

You blink.

You read it again.

You feel warm in the face and cold in your fingertips.

It’s not personal—not really. Not even close.

But there’s a very specific kind of... attention to it. The formality is thick, like he doesn’t know how else to communicate. But the words aren’t condescending. They’re intentional. Even thoughtful.

"Your reporting has been... notably consistent."

What the hell does that mean?

You fold the letter neatly, tucking it back in the envelope. It smells faintly like paper and ink. No perfume. No hidden message. Just a strange, stiff kind of connection, signed with a single M.

Your foot taps against the floor. You reread the line about arranging weekly briefings.

You mumble aloud, “Does he... want me to keep talking?”

A knock on the stall door jerks you upright.

“You die in there?” Kastos calls. “Because if you are, I’m not covering your shift.”

“Get out!” you bark, flushing hard.

You bury your face in your hands.

When you’re back home, you fold your arms on the desk and groan into them.

Why is writing a simple thank-you letter making you sweat like this?

It’s not like it means anything. It’s a follow-up. A professional courtesy. You do this all the time. With vendors. With guest speakers. With that one guy from the postal union who sent you a thank-you card with an accidental oil stain.

This is normal. So normal.

You sit back, adjust your posture, and stare at the blank sheet of paper like it's a final exam.

Okay. Focus.

You pick up your pen—the red one, the one with your name engraved—and begin writing in the same formal structure you imagine he used. Except you’re chewing on the corner of your sleeve and second-guessing everything as you go.

“To Commander M. of Camp Carthage, Thank you for the clarification regarding the Estera grain supply reroute. We’ve updated our station records accordingly. I apologize for the error in tone regarding the eastern settlements—it was not my intention to frame the situation in a way that might discourage or alarm listeners stationed near the region. I appreciate the offer for regular briefings. If such transmissions can be arranged, it would greatly improve the accuracy of our broadcasts and help maintain the trust of our audience. Your feedback is valued. – [Your Full Name], Station Halcyon”

…Your feedback is valued? AAAAAA. You cross it out. It sounds like a customer service bot.

You try again.

“…Thank you for taking the time to write. I imagine your schedule is demanding. We’ll take care to reference verified materials moving forward.”

You tap the paper. Then rewrite that sentence because "I imagine your schedule is demanding" makes you sound like you’ve been thinking about his schedule which, you haven’t, obviously, what the fuck.

You cover your face.

This is deranged.

Why are you even blushing? It’s a letter. From a literal general. About literal war.

And yet—

You can see him. Stoic. Still. Gauntlets catching the light. Watching you like he did at the end of that interview, eyes not judgmental, just… unreadable.

You shake your head and close the letter.

That’s enough.

You’ll seal it, get it couriered, and not wait for a response.

You definitely won’t hover by the desk pretending to organize files just to hear if someone mentions incoming mail from Camp Carthage.

Definitely not.

The tent smells faintly of parchment, ash, and old tea. There's a brazier glowing behind you and the steady drip-drip of snow melting off the canvas above. Your breath fogs faintly in the cold.

You adjust your scarf, recorder already on, pen tucked behind your ear.

Iliyen’s at your side, halfway into the formal opening.

“We’ll be recording a brief segment for Station Halcyon, mostly regarding the western checkpoint—”

“Out,” Mydei says.

You and Illiyen both look up.

“...Sir?” illiyen blinks.

“I’ll handle this interview alone,” Mydei says again, tone even.

There’s a beat. You nearly drop your pen.

Illiyen blinks once, glances at you, then back at Mydei. “...Understood, General.” She doesn’t question it. She just pats your shoulder once and slips out of the tent, brushing past the flaps with a huff of cold air.

You are now alone with him.

You clear your throat. "U-Um. This will be brief," you manage, flicking your gaze to your clipboard. “Just a few notes on the recent patrol routes, and—”

“You speak well,” he says, cutting through your nerves with that low, gravel-soft voice.

You blink. “Sorry?”

He nods once. “Your phrasing. Clear. Intentional. Commanding, at times.”

You weren't expecting that.

“Oh. Thank you…?” you fumble.

Mydei leans back against a table, arms crossed. The light catches the gold edge of his pauldron. His eyes don’t leave yours.

“But,” he continues, “when you talk about troop losses… or damage…” He tilts his head slightly. “There’s weight in the facts, yes. But you allow it to linger.”

You freeze. “...Too much?”

“Not too much. Just enough to feel real.” He pauses. “But morale breaks in the quiet, not in the chaos. People are tired. Be mindful of how long you let silence stretch between your words.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Your heart’s hammering, and you’re not sure if it’s the cold or him. Probably both.

You nod slowly. “I’ll… work on that.”

A small grunt of approval. He pushes off the table and walks to the map on the tent wall. You take that moment to breathe.

He begins speaking, slow and measured. "Three nights ago, we intercepted communications from a collapsed enemy camp near the border. One of our moles confirmed what we feared—the bombing near Station Rozen was not meant for civilians. It was a test. Meant to measure response time.”

You scribble notes. He doesn’t pace, doesn’t fidget. He speaks like someone who has too many thoughts and not enough space in his body to store them.

You glance up. “And the camp here? Any word if you’re a potential target?”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Always.”

That hangs in the air longer than you want it to.

You shift in your seat. “I see.”

“Carthage is too valuable. We intercept most first-wave assaults. Which makes us both feared… and disposable.”

You frown. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“I would.”

You don’t know what to say to that. But he continues before you can try.

“There’s also been movement along the frozen river. We’ve dispatched scouts. I’ll send you the official debriefing tonight.”

You nod quickly, pen scratching.

Then, silence again.

He doesn’t leave. Doesn’t move.

Finally, he speaks again, voice quieter.

“You keep the red pen.”

Your breath catches.

You look up slowly. “How did you know it was mine?”

He looks down at you. "You said it out loud when you found it. Three times."

You flush. Of course you did. Fucking loudmouth.

“You could’ve left it at the officer's tent,” you say, trying to salvage your dignity.

“I could’ve,” he agrees, no hint of sarcasm.

You scribble the last note down. “...Thanks again.”

A long pause. He steps closer—not uncomfortably close, but enough for the brazier’s heat to catch his silhouette.

“You write your own reports?” he asks.

You nod. “Most of them.”

He watches you for a moment longer. “I read them. Often. Even before the camp visit.”

Your pen stills.

“Oh,” you say softly.

His eyes are unreadable. “They’re good.”

Then: “That’s all.”

You nod, throat dry.

You gather your notes quickly, double-check your recorder (still on, thank god), and make for the flap—

“Your cadence is improving,” he adds before you step out.

You look back, breath misting.

“Thanks,” you whisper.

You step outside, heart thundering.

Snow still falling.

And for some reason, you can’t feel the cold. Not yet.

The ride back to the station is quiet. Snow thuds softly against the windows of the old transport vehicle, and the heater hums in a broken, uneven rhythm. You’re wedged between your notes and your recorder, knees tucked under your coat, fingers still tight around your pen.

You press play.

"Your cadence is improving.”

You pause it. Rewind. Press play again.

"Your cadence is improving.”

𐙚 A/N: School rlly fucked me up and I had to keep revising- there's so many groupworks, I'm gonna have work immersion too... Please kill me :(( Just had exams today, really funny because it's just the second week of classes but o welp. I'm sorry if the fanfic was delayed for weeks, but I'm posting the second part tomorrow, I swear! :(

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

[forthebrokenheartedthings]

You Better Knock - Part 8 - Your name on his file

TW: Torture, Mind Control, Emotional Manipulation, PTSD, Grief.

Word Count: 1700 +

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Winter Soldier x Reader MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH - THIS ONE HURTS. DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YA.

The Winter Soldier wasn’t supposed to dream.

But lately… you'd been slipping through the cracks.

A face. A name. A flash of warmth before the frost reclaimed him.

Then they handed him a file—with your picture clipped to the front.

You weren’t a memory now.

You were a target. Or an asset.

Or worse—just like him.

They hadn’t shocked him in three days.

Which meant one of two things: He was stable. Or they were about to test something new.

He sat in the restraint chair. The metal cuff on his left wrist was loose—just enough to let the arm twitch when the spasms came.

He didn’t ask for food anymore. Didn’t ask for names. Didn’t ask why the nightmares had started to come with a soundtrack:

A laugh. A piano. A voice saying, You better knock, Buck.

Sometimes the name slipped out. (Y/N). Sometimes he whispered it. Sometimes it played in the static where the commands didn’t quite drown you out.

The technicians noticed.

So they handed him a file.

The photo was black and white.

You were seated on a bench, long coat draped over your knees, head turned like you didn’t know you were being watched.

(Y/L/N), (Y/N). Designation: SUBJECT TWO. Status: In Evaluation. Psych Profile: Unstable. Compliant. Risk.

His thumb dragged across the page.

His chest hurt.

His breathing picked up.

“Barnes,” one of the handlers said. “You know her?”

His fingers tightened.

“I… I…”

He looked at your face again.

He remembered— A ring. A hand on his cheek. Your voice: You’re alive, Buck. I’m right here.

Right here.

Then the surge hit. Sharp. Electric.

“Override,” barked another voice.

The file was ripped from his hands. His wrists re-cuffed. A tech injected something into his spine that turned the world white.

Somewhere down the corridor—

You blinked under a harsh light.

Twitching. Sweating. Your bones ached.

Your memories were there—but so were others. Sharper. Colder. Drilled into your skull with a rhythm that wasn’t your own.

You held the ring again. Clenched it in your palm.

They told you if you passed the next phase, they might let you see him.

Not as a visitor.

As an operative.

______________________________________________________________

The room was built for control.

Steel. Glass. The kind of cold that made your marrow ache.

He was strapped upright to a vertical slab. Wrists locked. Ankles pinned. He wasn’t resisting. But his breath quickened when the side door hissed open.

He knew your footsteps.

Even before he saw you.

You entered like someone already broken—head low, arms trembling behind your back. Barefoot in a gray shift uniform.

But your eyes still found him.

And in them— Something sparked.

“Winter Soldier,” came a voice through the intercom, nasal and gleeful. “You remember Subject Two?”

His jaw didn’t move.

They stepped you closer.

He flinched as they positioned you in front of him.

Close enough that he could see the faint scar at your right temple. One that hadn’t been there before.

“Commence evaluation,” said the voice. “Trigger recall sequence. Subject Two.”

You blinked.

Then opened your mouth.

Your voice didn’t sound like yours.

“Seventeen.”

His hands jerked against the restraints.

“Rusted.”

He shook his head slowly. “No…”

“Furnace.”

“Stop.”

Your voice hitched—like a knife slipping on bone.

“Daybreak.”

He groaned, head dropped, eyes squeezed shut. His arm twitched violently in its bracket.

You stepped closer. Lip trembling.

“Nine.”

“(Y/N),” he rasped. “Don’t do this—don’t let them—”

“Benign.”

A sob broke free.

“Homecoming.”

His head snapped up.

You lifted your hand.

Pressed it gently to his cheek.

Their eyes locked—one last time.

He whispered, “Don’t say it.”

“One.”

He didn’t scream.

But what followed— It tore through him like fire through flesh.

You collapsed to your knees, clutching your chest like you could claw the words back into your throat.

The intercom clicked off.

Satisfied.

They left you there.

You crawled to his feet. Rested your forehead against the cold steel of his leg.

And whispered, again and again:

“Come back to me.”

______________________________________________________________

He didn’t wake up screaming anymore.

That’s how they knew something was wrong.

The Winter Soldier was supposed to be empty.

But now he was waiting. Watching. Breathing like a man with something to lose.

They noticed first when a tech grazed his shoulder too softly—and he flinched.

Not because it hurt.

Because it didn’t.

Later, when they ran his drills, the name slipped again.

(Y/N).

Not with pain.

With a hush. Like a secret.

He wasn’t supposed to have secrets.

Then came the photo.

The one he hid.

Not consciously.

Not yet.

They’d slipped it in with the rest—targets, handlers, traitors. He moved through them like a machine.

Until your eyes met his.

The picture said: Subject Two — FAILURE

He paused.

Just for a second.

But they noticed.

In his cell, he didn’t sleep.

He stared at the ring. Just a glint of it—stolen, hidden in his boot seam.

He didn’t know how it got there.

Didn’t know why he still had it.

But it calmed him. Like an ember refusing to die.

You were somewhere below.

Sedated now. Quiet. Small.

But in his head, you still laughed. Still yelled when he tracked mud in. Still said, You better knock.

And for the first time in years—

He smiled.

It didn’t last long.

But it was enough.

______________________________________________________________

They put you in side-by-side cells.

No blankets. No light.

Just the stench of steel, ammonia, and the sound of nothing.

You didn’t speak for twelve hours.

Neither did he.

Hydra watched. Logged it.

Two perfect subjects.

Quiet. Obedient. Empty.

Exactly what they wanted.

Exactly what you weren’t.

When the guards changed and the silence hummed in that familiar way—

He scratched three slow fingers along the wall.

You caught your breath.

One scratch in reply.

Still there.

Still you.

“You awake?” His voice was sandpaper.

“Always,” you whispered.

The vents buzzed. Surveillance dipped.

“I’ve got twenty seconds before the mic loop resets,” you murmured. “You good?”

“No.”

“Me neither.”

He smiled. Just a little.

You did this every night.

Not enough to be noticed.

But enough.

Enough to remember.

“You still got it?” you asked once.

“The ring?” he murmured. “Always.”

“I picture the house sometimes,” you said. “Brooklyn brownstone. Stairs that creak.”

“A mutt who sheds too much.”

“You coaching a team you hate.”

“You in the kitchen in that awful robe—”

“It’s warm and you loved it.”

“I lied.”

You laughed into your sleeve.

Then—

“I was gonna name her June.”

He blinked.

“The baby?”

“Yeah.”

______________________________________________________________

The next day, they fed you in silence.

Bucky didn’t flinch when the tray slid in.

You didn’t look up.

Hydra logged success.

But that night—

He scratched the wall again.

“Still there?”

“One knock.”

It meant yes. It meant I love you. It meant they hadn’t won.

Not yet.

______________________________________________________________

The vents kicked on.

You lay on your side, chains cold against your ankle. You reached out, fingers brushing the wall. Two slow knocks.

His breath was already there on the other side.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He let out the softest laugh. The kind you used to hear when his head was tucked under your chin.

“Hurts?”

“Always,” you whispered.

“Where?”

“Everywhere.”

He shifted closer. You imagined his back pressed to the same wall, both of you held together by the inches of air between.

A pause.

Then you said it.

“Do you think this was the plan?”

“What?”

“Us. Like this. Here.”

Bucky stared at the ceiling.

“No. But we were always gonna be messy.”

You smiled. You knew he could hear it.

“I still remember the night before you shipped out,” you said. “You didn’t sleep. Just kept cleaning that damn uniform like it was gonna win the war itself.”

“You cried into my chest like I wasn’t already drowning.”

“You kissed me like you were gonna live forever.”

“I didn’t.”

“You didn’t die either.”

“…Not yet.”

Silence.

The kind that said everything without saying a word.

Then:

“I still see you sometimes,” you whispered. “Before all this.”

“Where?”

“By the stove. Cussing out the eggs.”

He chuckled. “They deserved it.”

“You’d look at me like I was the only thing that didn’t scare you.”

“You were the only thing that didn’t scare me.”

A beat.

“If this goes bad, Buck—”

“Don’t.”

“If it does—”

“It won’t.”

“Just promise me you’ll—”

“I will knock,” he said. “I will come back.”

You exhaled. Like that was enough.

Like it had to be.

Later, through the static, you said:

“I would’ve loved that house.”

And he whispered back:

“I would’ve hated those stairs.” ______________________________________________________________

They came at dawn.

Hydra never gave warnings.

Two guards. Rifles lazy in their hands. One barked your number.

Not your name.

They never used your name anymore.

You looked back at the wall between you.

Three knocks.

You didn’t get to hear his answer.

Bucky fought.

It was stupid. He knew that.

They were stronger. They were faster. They had the serum and the cuffs and the gas.

But he fought anyway.

They beat him down, restrained him, injected something sharp and cold.

When he woke, he was in the chair.

The same one.

Cold leather. Steel. A bite at his wrists.

He couldn’t move.

But he could see you.

They brought you through the far door.

You stumbled. Your lip was split. Bruises on your arms in the shape of hands that didn’t belong to him.

You saw him.

And smiled anyway.

“Hey, Buck.”

His breath hitched.

You sounded wrecked. But you said his name like it still meant something.

He yanked at the cuffs. “Let her go—LET HER GO—!”

The voice came over the speaker. Calm. Clinical.

“Subject One is resisting reprogramming. Emotional trigger confirmed.”

They forced you to your knees in front of him.

“Barnes,” the voice continued, “this is your final failure point. Observe. Internalize. Let go.”

One of the guards raised the gun.

You looked up at him.

Eyes bright.

Not scared.

Not ashamed.

You leaned forward.

Pressed your lips to his knuckles—cold, metal, trembling.

And whispered:

“You better knock.”

He screamed.

The shot cracked.

Your body hit the floor.

And the scream didn’t stop.

He was still screaming when they dosed him.

When they scrubbed the name.

When they erased your voice from his memory.

When they buried you under ice, silence, and what they hoped was nothing left.

That was the day they finally made him theirs.

But it wouldn’t last.

It never did.

Not with a heart like his.

And a ghost like you. Part 9

[noxyboii-arts]

How would the vees react to one of them almost dying or actually dead

Oh you want an angst meal with extra sad. Comin' up!

There was the one time that Velvette got caught up in an extermination, she had been so badly hurt she lost consciousness. Valentino and Vox got there before the final blow was struck. Val's wings had been completely flared out to make himself look as big and intimidating as possible, Vox meanwhile appeared in a flash of electricity that just didn't leave him, sparking off his body and swirling around his claws dangerously. They were both absolutely pissed but Valentino had a very important job, getting Velvette to the safety of the tower. So he grabbed her and flew off as fast as his wings would take him while Vox had quite the time electrocuting the shit out of those angels. Obviously it didn't kill the angels but it did stun them long enough for Val to get away with Velvette. The angels had recovered fast tho and one had managed to throw an angelic spear through his screen, it nearly killed him, he had just enough energy to get himself into the power grid and get back to the tower where he promptly collapsed and shut down. Valentino was alone to deal with both of them on the brink of death, panicking and worried they'd never wake up, he patched up Velvette's wounds the best he could and screamed through the intercom for someone to send Vox's technician up to the floor they were on to fix his screen. It was the most terrifying night of Valentino's afterlife and one he REALLY doesn't want to repeat. (so that one is kind of a twofer)

Valentino has thankfully only been near death once, he pissed off the wrong person who set a trap for him and and tortured him for days using an angelic weapon they had picked up. This fucker made only one mistake, posting a picture about it online, Velvette saw it, her and Vox were there so fast. Vox started to deal with Valentino while Velvette took the angelic weapon and literally impaled the person up the ass with it, face it to say they were dead and she posted the pictures of it all over social media as a warning to anyone stupid enough to even think of trying something like that again.

Velvette wasn't around for the last time Vox and Alastor actually fought, she's only heard about it from Valentino since Vox doesn't like to talk about it. She knows Val will tease Vox about it to his face, but when Vox isn't around it's a totally different story. Valentino spins a tale of a horrifying night finding Vox on the destroyed battleground, thinking he was dead from the fight (especially because Alastor was nowhere to be seen so he assumed the victor left) He had been enraged trying to find Alastor but the deer demon was long gone, a small glitch from Vox was what indicated he was still alive which Val almost cried from relief. He took him back to the tower and got him fixed up, then proceeded to watch over his unconscious body for weeks with no sign of him waking despite how many times the technician told him Vox was fine it was just taking time to recover. (He wasn't happy to hear of Alastor's return and is happy Vox seems to be keeping his distance and just poking from afar this time)

Hope that does it for ya. I don't do character death stuff really, near death or believed death sure, not actual death. It's just not my style

[prettystylinson]

sooo i went to a rage room today and it inspired this cute lil oneshot with harry and louis—just some banter, a bit of tension, and a smashed printer or two <3

"Swing First, Flirt Later"

Rage On Me wasn’t exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find a man in Saint Laurent boots and a Gucci ring collection, but Harry Styles liked surprises.

He also liked watching people lose their minds through a plexiglass window, which probably said something about him. Probably nothing good. But when the job listing for a rage room technician had shown up, Harry had applied mostly for the story. And now here he was—supervising therapy by way of sledgehammer.

He wasn’t usually on the floor. Customers tended to get…distracted.

But today, Maeve called in with food poisoning and Jamal had a flat tire, so Harry was manning the desk and the control booth and the post-smash cool-down lounge.

Which meant that when Louis walked through the front door, scowling and wild-haired like a caffeinated hedgehog in Vans, Harry was the one who greeted him.

It was like spotting a unicorn. If the unicorn had attitude and cheekbones that could slice steel.

“Hi there,” Harry said, smiling over the counter. “Back again?”

Louis froze mid-step, frown slipping. “You’re not usually—are you new?”

Harry shook his head, amused. “Been here since we opened. You just keep missing me.”

Louis blinked. “Huh.” He looked Harry up and down, as if assessing whether the curls and bird tattoos matched the hammer-swinging energy this place was known for. “Well, I hope you’re as good at cleaning up broken glass as you are at looking like a poster boy for queer gardening.”

Harry laughed, delighted. “You have been bottling things up, haven’t you?”

Louis rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “You have no idea.”

Harry set him up in Room 3: the one with the neon purple lights and the dummy mannequin dressed like a corporate manager. He watched from the control room, sipping tea from a chipped mug that said Smash Responsibly.

Louis didn’t go in like most customers—tentative, testing the weight of the crowbar. No, he stomped. Picked up the bat like he’d been waiting all day to wield it.

Then he went off.

A printer exploded on impact. Ceramic mugs shattered like they’d insulted his mother. The mannequin’s briefcase was launched across the room with such force that Harry instinctively flinched.

“Christ,” he muttered, watching the destruction unfold. “Whoever pissed him off better start running.”

Five minutes later, Louis was panting, hair damp, cheeks flushed, a cracked phone screen at his feet.

Harry tapped the intercom. “That looked…cathartic.”

Louis, still breathless, grinned up at the camera. “Think I pulled something in my rage arm.”

Harry snorted. “Come to the lounge. We’ve got water and ice packs. And very soft couches for emotional come-downs.”

The lounge smelled like lavender and unspoken feelings. Harry set a bottle of water in front of Louis and tossed him a cool gel pack, which Louis caught with the reflexes of someone who’d once been in a pub brawl over karaoke night.

“Phone okay?” Harry asked, nodding at the cracked screen.

Louis sighed dramatically. “It was already on its last legs. I just gave it a warrior’s death.”

Harry laughed. “A noble end. Did you name it first?”

“Phil. He was a bastard.”

“Rest in pieces, Phil.”

Louis snorted. “You’re funnier than the other guy. The tall one with the eyebrow slit?”

“Jamal. He’s our best bat wrangler.”

Louis’s brows lifted. “That a real job title or just something you made up to flirt?”

Harry smirked. “Can’t it be both?”

That got him a pause. Louis tilted his head, studying him again. “Right. So you are flirting.”

Harry shrugged, casual. “Could be. Or I could just be naturally charming. Hard to tell sometimes.”

Louis took a long sip of water, never breaking eye contact. “Mm. Dangerous combination. You always flirt with people after they beat up office equipment, or am I just lucky?”

“You’re lucky,” Harry said, low and smooth. “But I do have a soft spot for anyone who smashes a fax machine with that much passion.”

Louis grinned. “It did deserve it. Honestly, I think I blacked out a little.”

Harry leaned back, watching him with a lazy sort of interest. “You ever considered coming in on staff discount? Could save yourself a tenner if you plan to rage this regularly.”

Louis quirked a brow. “You offering me a job or asking me out?”

“Again, can’t it be both?”

Louis laughed. Actually laughed. Then shook his head, biting his bottom lip. “Alright. You win. I’ll take the discount. And maybe…you can join me for a drink sometime instead of just watching me from the booth.”

Harry grinned like the cat who’d smashed the canary with a crowbar.

“It’s a date, then.”

Louis stood, brushing off his jeans. “And next time I’m in, you’d better be on shift. None of this mysterious disappearing act.”

Harry winked. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I wouldn’t want to miss the sequel to Phil’s tragic death.”

Louis looked back as he reached the door, voice light and teasing. “Next time, it’s toasters. Bastards never work when you need them.”

Harry called out, “I’ll prep the eulogies.”

[sparrowsong-7]

10. Stable

“Aetheric readings nominal” the technician double checks the numbers, “compression chamber is stable. Ready to proceed at your signal ma’am.”

You keep your eyes glued to the aetheric vapors circling throughout the chamber, every muscle in your body tense. You reach and hold down the intercom button

“Proceed.”

---

Canary sat alone behind a stack of crates within Oblivion HQ, the only sign of her presence a trail of smoke gently wafting into the air. She had been lost deep in thought for what seemed like hours, gently tumbling a small violet crystal in her hands. Ayami had elected to give her space after finding out the truth and given the look Canary had seen on the younger woman's face, she probably needed the space too. She flicked the butt of her cigarette into an ever growing pile and sigh heavily, peering down at the small shard.

“I wish you were still here…”

---

“What happened?!” you cry, your voice a mix of fury and grief.

The technician, the one still alive that is, is scrambling to the monitor, trying desperately to get a read on the situation. “I don’t know ma’am!” they cry back, flinching when another set of tubes goes up in explosive flames, “everything was stable! It should have gone off withou-”

They’re cut short as another explosion sends a piece of shrapnel into their skull, and with that you slam the emergency blast shield down. The cleanup crew starts to shuffle in a few minutes later, once everything has calmed down.

You break down not longer after.

---

Ayami and Canary stood at the edge of the Shroud, near the ruins of Amdapor. Cradled in Canary’s hand was a small violet crystal, chipped and cracked. Her tears flowed freely. She gently lowered the crystal into a small hole she had dug and covered it in soil, weeping all the while. She stood slowly, wiping her face on her sleeve. She gave Ayami a small, silent nod before they both turned away from the grave.

The headstone read: 

Here lies L’vinia Fay, 

dearest doll, 

dearest friend

[teine-mallaichte]

Day 1 @augusnippets : gaslighting

Characters: 84 and Colonel Carter

Colonel Carter is determined to create the perfect unthinking, unfeeling, living weapon, and has chosen 84 as their subject. CW: gaslighting, psychological manipulation, manipulative whumper, living weapon wumpee.

Asset 84 master list

Complex 27 master list

Colonel Carter monitored the live feed with a smirk, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the arm of her chair. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, where 84’s distress was becoming increasingly evident. This was the culmination of her meticulous work—a perfect operative who would never falter.

“We’re seeing significant stress indicators in 84’s biometrics,” reported a technician, his brow furrowed as he checked his tablet.

“Excellent,” Carter replied, her gaze unwavering, a sloght smirk on her lips “Inform me immediately when their stress levels hit the critical threshold.”

She turned back to the monitor, her eyes sharp and calculating. Over weeks, she had slowly dismantled 84’s confidence. Small, insidious changes - an almost imperceptible shift in the jumpsuit’s shade, fluctuations in temperature, rearranged items - had finally begun to show through 84’s conditioning. The asset’s facade was cracking.

In 84s quarters, every object was precisely arranged: the cot a foot from the wall, the locker’s latch firmly in place. Yet today, everything felt off, minor yet unsettling shifts.

The mantra that once fortified them now felt like a fragile shield, barely holding back the rising tide of anxiety. “I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure.” But beneath the surface, doubt was creeping in—an insidious thought whispering, “Am I failing? Boken? What if I am defective?” They touched the tattoo on their neck—‘I am 84’—seeking comfort but finding none. Defective assets were expendable, disposed of, maintaining composure was imperative.

Reaching for the locker latch, they felt an unusual chill. The latch’s resistance seemed to waver, heightening their discomfort. Each glance around the room revealed subtle, unsettling changes—the angle of the cot, the flicker of the lights—distorting their sense of normalcy.

When Colonel Carter’s voice crackled over the intercom, it was both a lifeline and a torment. “Asset 84, report to the briefing room.”

84 hesitated, though they were unsure why, their handler had called, they were meant to react instinctively. Repeating their mantra a few more times they left their quarters, each footfall echoing ominously.

The corridor lights, once steady, seemed to flicker intermittently. Shadows stretched and shifted along the walls, creating an unsettling, almost imperceptible dance. The feeling of being watched, every step scrutinsed, felt suffocating today.

Two armed guards stood at the end of the hallway, their faces impassive, eyes hidden behind dark visors. The sight of their weapons, gleaming menacingly under the flickering lights, added to 84’s growing unease. "I am 84," they repeated again in their mind.

Entering the briefing room, the stark contrast was jarring, the room was dim and grey - unlike the bright white corridor. Colonel Carter sat at the head of the table, her posture impeccable, a predatory glint in her green eyes.

“Sit,” Carter commanded, her voice sharp as a scalpel.

84 obeyed, their gaze flickering nervously to the surveillance camera in the corner. Was it watching them? Had it always been there? They shifted in their seat, trying to suppress the instinct to fidget, their knuckles white as they gripped the edge of the chair.

Carter’s eyes remained locked on 84, her face a study in cool professionalism. “Your performance has been exemplary,” she began, her voice deceptively warm, though a glint of cold satisfaction flickered in her green eyes. “However, there are some concerns. Your stress levels—”

“Stress?” 84 interrupted, their voice breaking slightly. “I do not—”

“Do not interrupt,” Carter snapped, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Flawless performance is the bare minimum. Doubts and weaknesses are the cracks in the armor that can lead to your downfall.”

84’s breathing quickened, their hands trembling as they gripped the edge of the chair, trying to remain still but failing, “I will not fail. I…” 84’s throat tightened, their voice a strained whisper. “I trust you, Colonel.”

“Good,” Carter leaned forward, her fingers steepled, a predatory glint in her eyes. “You’re a weapon, 84 - a crucial asset. But even the best tools need careful handling, or they can break.”

The room seemed to tilt for 84, their senses overwhelmed. The sharp, sterile scent of the briefing room mixed with the rhythmic hum of unseen machinery, adding to their disorientation. “I will not break,” they managed to assert, only barely suppressing the tremor in their voice.

Carter’s eyes narrowed slightly as she observed 84’s reaction, her expression composed but her gaze colder now, more calculating. She leaned back again, folding her arms with a deliberate motion that seemed to dismiss 84’s protests. “Good,” she repeated, her voice softening, but laced with an undertone of authority, "Doubts are natural, but they can be dangerous. It’s vital you stay focused and trust the guidance you’re given.”

84 nodded, their gaze fixed on the metal table. Was it always this color? The surroundings seemed to shift subtly, their sense of normalcy eroding with each passing moment. They glanced back at Carter, whose expression remained neutral.

Colonel Carter’s watched 84, her satisfaction barely concealed. She could see the asset’s attempts to suppress their doubts and fears growing increasingly strained—the twitch of their hands, the slight sheen of sweat, the way their eyes darted around the room as if seeking an escape from an invisible threat.

“Remember,” Carter’s voice softened slightly, though still authoritative, “I am here to support you. You’re on the path to becoming a flawless operative, but you need to trust me completely.”

84’s gaze wandered, briefly fixating on stray details—a scuff on the floor, a flicker of shadow by the door. The familiar now seemed alien, every detail adding to their growing sense of instability. They fought to hold onto their mantra, but their voice, barely a whisper, betrayed them. “I am 84. I am a weapon. I will endure.”

As Carter’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of cruel satisfaction crossed her face. “Good,” she said softly, almost tenderly, “But remember, trust is earned, and perfection is demanded.”

84’s grip on the chair tightened, knuckles whitening as they struggled to anchor themselves to reality. The room seemed to close in, the edges of their vision blurring as their mental defenses crumbled. The shadows lengthened, stretching out like the fingers of a predator closing in.

“Every failure here reflects not just on you but on me. I expect perfection, and I will not tolerate anything less.” Carter’s final words echoed ominously in the dim room.

84’s breathing quickened, the mantra fading into an echo of their fear. The room tilted, and as Carter’s figure loomed larger, their resolve shattered. The asset was breaking, and Colonel Carter knew she had won.

[return-to-twisted-wonderland]

🔆anon

— —

Skion: *looking at a tablet* And that’s the last signature. Let’s get started.

Jamil: I really don’t like the idea that you’re in charge of this.

Skion: If it helps, I’m involved with the data and tech side. Everything else is Idy.

Jamil: No. That doesn’t help at all.

Ortho: I can promise you my brothers will be the best people for the job. Nothing will go wrong.

Idia: *sighs* Let’s just get this done.

Skion: First, let’s test with Subjects A, C, and E. After that will be B and D. Orth, can you show the first group to the simulation room? I’m heading to the control room. *leaves*

Ortho: Understood! Riddle Rosehearts, Azul Ashengrotto, and Vil Schoenheit, please follow me. *shows the three of them out*

Idia: *looks at Leona and Jamil* You two can just chill here while we step out. The intercom button is by the door. Use that to call staff if you need anything.

Leona: If you’re going to leave us here, shouldn’t you get us a snack menu or something?

Idia: That’s not how this works. This is still an exam. You know you can’t eat during those, right? Don’t tell me Skia has infected you that much. Or if it’s the opposite way around and you’re why he got into trouble… *exits*

Leona: I’m still not putting my trust in Radish Sprout it the Pest.

Jamil: No kidding.

—

(Control Room. Skion and Idia are inside with a few technicians. On the monitor is data and visuals for the simulation room.)

Technician A: Ortho has brought the subjects into the simulation room, and all the instruments are calibrated.

Skion: Nice. Data recording starting at 2100.

Idia: *pressing a button and leaning into a mic* Testing, one, two. This is the control room. Do you read me?

ll Ortho: *voice coming through the monitor* This is the simulation room. We read you loud and clear.

ll Vil: Excuse me, but I would like a word. You can’t lead us to a large room then strap massive headsets on our heads without warning.

ll Riddle: What is even the plan here? Do you plan on making us fight each other?

ll Ortho: Absolutely not. You will be fighting enemies in virtual space. These are just special VR headsets.

ll Azul: VR? I’m still not understanding much here.

Idia: *pressing the button* It’s a lot easier to do than explain. Just start it up Ortho.

ll Ortho: Roger! Virtual enemy mode, standby. Commencing dive.

ll Azul: What?! You can’t just start it up suddenly!

—

ll Ortho: Test one complete. Test subjects are cooling down with the simulation.

Skion: All vitals are normal and blot is in standard range.

Idia: That’s to be expected. Start the next test.

Skion: Syncing simulator with Lachesis System… and done! All ready to go.

Idia: *pressing the button* Phase transition time. Ortho, take it away. *releasing the button*

Skion: Look at them go. They definitely didn’t get their housewarden seat for nothing.

Idia: I always thought they had it because the role was a pain, and thus attracted pains.

Skion: *snickering* You know that would include you too, right Idy?

Idia: Hey, I didn’t ask for the role! It was forced on me!

Skion: I still include you. You’re a pain.

Idia: Can you focus on you on job?!

Skion: You’re just mad I’m right.~ But it looks like the test is almost done. So far vitals are normal and blot is too. There’s definitely changes from the last test though.

Idia: Give it a bit more time to collect data before making any comments.

—

ll Ortho: Test two complete. Test subjects are cooling down with the simulation.

Idia: *pressing the button* Thank you, Ortho. Please escort the subjects to the recovery room.

ll Ortho: Got it!

Skion: Yup, vital signs are normal. Blot remains there two. Desyning simulator. Five percent left… Two… One… Complete.

Idia: Finally that’s done.

Skion: Aww, but that was fun. Look at the results too. It’s very interesting, like the blot rate between subjects. Riddle’s got some massive amount of magic compared to the others, like he’s had some artificial boost, but he has a tendency to brute force his way through moments when he’s indecisive by elevating his output. He has the highest accumulation out of all, even if it’s still normal.

Idia: That sounds inefficient. He’s got power to back it up, but when that runs out, theres nothing left.

Skion: His numbers show he’s heavily affected by his mental state. Test two clearly didn’t sit well with him.

Idia: He’s pretty much a ranged glass cannon, designed for DPS.

Skion: Then there’s Azul. Precision and control are his strengths. He ran mostly a supportive role the whole time. He’s calm and efficient, but also seems like he’s using people as meat shields. Makes me question how much I’d want to team with him.

Idia: A healer class basically. One to sit back and observe the whole field. Plus a cool head when hit with curveballs, a good support trait.

Skion: Cool head and good at seeing the big picture. Probably someone you should party with… He doesn’t have the biggest magic pool. Probably where his strategic nature comes from. So if I’m good for his goals, even just on a cautious standpoint, he’d probably protect me. Yeah, I’d team with him.

Idia: And Vil?

Skion: Dude is completely balanced. High numbers in magic pool and speed. Also no dips or spikes in performance. Plus he has insane reliance, his blot doesn’t seem too affected by stress.

Idia: He didn’t get any special training before school too. He’s definitely a tank. Head of the party and calling all the shots with a UM that’s a long duration debuff. I’d hate to play with them online, but if they were characters, they’d be a blast to play!

— —

(Most of the tech/testing scenes are going to be similar to canon. Skia will shine better in character scenes.)

(You mean where he gets to mess with Leona?)

[vulpinroid]

July 21, 1998 (Tuesday) Raccoon City, Missouri

Brian Irons was already feeling the beginnings of indigestion. He grumbled softly and reached for the intercom. He squashed a clubbed finger into the microphone button and held it down.

“Christina-” Irons grumbled.

“Sir?” A young female voice came back over the speaker grille. Irons froze for a moment, then he silently cursed himself for the slip.

“Apologies, Rita. Old habits die hard.” Irons sighed and massaged his stomach. “Do you know where I can find a bottle of Gastropep?”

“In your drawer sir, the big one on the right side.” Officer Rita Phillips’ smile could be felt through the speaker. “You need a glass of water, sir?”

“Yes, please.” Irons leaned back in his seat. He reached down and opened the aforementioned drawer, grabbed the bottle of purple liquid and took out a shot glass, pouring it full of the Umbrella-made liquid medication. Irons knocked it back and coughed softly, splattering some on his bushy mustache. He wiped it along his sleeve and scowled at the remnants of previous purple smears. This was getting to be too much, maybe it was time to lose some weight like Dr. Bard had been pressing him to.

He opened another drawer and took out a cigar as well as a cutter, absently fidgeting with the cutter before slipping the uncut end of the cigar into the circular hole in the middle. One flex of a finger was all it took to make the uncut tip flop into the ashtray. Like a head in a guillotine. Irons liked that analogy. In fact, it got him thinking about making a special cutter modeled on the device. It’d go hand in hand with the art collection here.

He lifted up a memo from his inbox and was in the process of flipping it over, reaching for a pencil when Rita Phillips knocked on the door. Irons looked up and gestured, leaning back. “Come in!”

Rita smiled at him and noticed the memo as it was framed in the light of his green vintage-style banker’s lamp. She set a glass of water down on a RCPD coaster, then set a bottle of ginger ale down beside it. “Ah, that came for you by fax this afternoon-” Rita murmured, reaching up to run a hand through her short blonde hair. “Looked pretty important, it came from the mayor’s number.”

Irons grunted as he took a greedy sip of water. “And you didn’t tell me this until now because?”

“You were out at lunch, sir. Slipped my mind if I’m to be honest.”

“Goddamn it, Rita!” Irons’ fingers clenched on the glass. “Well, that’s what I get for having to rely on a cop to be a secretary.” He felt his face grow hot.

“I’m sorry, sir!” Rita shrank back while Irons seethed. He pointed to the door. Then he flipped the memo around and felt his blood pressure hit the roof.

Brian, I was promised results on these murders and you’ve only just now assigned STARS to them? The press is having a field day and Cortini is sniffing around. My hand is forced, I’m bringing something new in, I’m giving you one last chance before I give assent to Cortini to take over. Not that I really have to but the man is snorting and stamping his hooves at the starting gate. Don’t even try to start a jurisdictional pissing match with him, you’ll lose and he has two more years in his term and use this to get himself re-elected in 2000. You could pretty much kiss your campaign goodbye there no matter how big of a war-chest Rainshield gives you.

Normally I would try to use something in-house but frankly this is not something that Rainshield specializes in, it’s not like it’s corporate espionage. As it happens, Donald Johnson was the one who came to me with the idea. Division president of Security Concepts for Omni Consumer Products. They’ve just finished field testing of their new RoboCop RC-2000 and offered us a lease which won’t affect your ‘Special Expenditures’ budget category too badly, at least the faster this gets wrapped up.

It’ll arrive tomorrow. Since we’re on a barebones lease, we’re getting the unit, basic equipment and a car for it but they won’t staff a technician. So put someone with some brains on it. May as well clear out the old autopsy room.

Warmest regards, Michael Warren Office of the Mayor Raccoon City, MO

“Warmest regards,” Irons growled, clenching the memo and balling it up. He threw it at the trash can but watched it sail over. “Goddamn it!” He thumbed the intercom. “Rita!”

“Sir?” There was hesitation in her voice.

“I want you and Ryman to take whoever you need to from the custodial staff and clear out the autopsy room. Tables, all of that shit, I want it out and I want that room scrubbed and cleaned by tomorrow morning.”

“Sir, I-” More hesitation.

“Get it done!” Irons roared.

[kopawz]

what up my dudes it is wip wednesday hope you like funny oc moments before we go talk to kale holed up in his hospital room

The eighth floor was always something of a delicate subject in Vandelay's largest hospital.

To the general public, most aren't allowed anywhere beyond the many doors past the information desk. It seemed like a regular floor meant for cybernetic repairs and rebuilds– until you went beyond them... That was the real eighth floor. But of course, very little information, if any at all, slips through the cracks of those heavy metallic doors.

Until today, apparently.

An indignant and absurdly loud shriek of disbelief rang out in beyond the elevator as the doors chimed open–

"HE'S ALIVE?!" Chai nearly spilled the drinks in the carrier he was holding, and the bag 808 held in her mouth almost fell from its grip in her jaws.

NUR-53 units passing by couldn’t help but flinch, before resuming their work.

“SHUT UP–” Peppermint shouts, shushing him as if that would take back the loud noise. Stepping out of the elevator, she led a stunned Chai towards the information counter, turning to face him. Her voice dipped into an aggravated whisper, "I *just* said NOT to freak out.”

She leaned on the counter, waving to get one of the hospital staff’s attention, "Just be cool, act natural. Technically, I'm not even allowed to tell anyone about this."

He whisper shouts, mildly alarmed, "How come you're bringing *ME* up here then–!? Aren't you going to get in trouble for doing this–?"

"–Don't worry about it,” Peppermint patted his back, and kept snapping and waving to get the receptionist’s attention, “We can talk more about it once we’re in. It'll be like we were never here."

She turned back to the LU-C1LLE that had rolled over, smiling at them–

“Hey, could you page Technician Buffet for me? If he’s not too busy.”

The LU-C1LLE that responded rolled their eyes on impulse, “Sure. Another Vandelay visit, I'm guessing." They sigh, reaching over to the intercom.

The technician in question probably was busy at the moment, but knowing him, that ridiculous man would drop whatever he was doing whenever anybody made the effort to summon him.

“Buffet,” LU-C1LLE's voice rang off over the speaker as the receptionist held a button down, “Buffet to the main desk, please. You have visitors.”

…Shuffling in place in front of the main desk, Peppermint waits, idly tapping her foot to the easygoing song breezing out of Chai’s music player. Chai himself stared at the two cups they picked up on the way to the eighth floor. He was tasked with the job of carrying the drinks, because it gave him something to focus on. The feeling of warm drinks emanating from the carrier into his hands helped.

So, looking at the orders, Peppermint had firstly ordered: A classic cortado in a tall paper cup.

Evidently, that one must be for Kale. So he can still drink! …And he’s alive.

That’s the most surprising thing here. He lived through exploding. And he’s been here the entire time, not dead. Instead of being completely obliterated in a smoldering heap from the battle beside Vandelay towers all those months ago… He lived.

That’s…? Chai isn’t 100% sure how he feels about that. It’s weird. He *should* be angry about that, right? This guy SUCKS! This guy– that’s basically responsible for so much of the crappy things that are still affecting him and everybody else– is alive, and that should suck! But…

He feels conflicted– About WHAT?! There’s nothing to be conflicted about! No part of him should be even remotely happy about this! And yet…

His sock rhythmically tapped against the tile to the cheerful tune.

…There’s this anticipative feeling where an angry ball of nerves ought to be.

He looked over at Peppermint, leaning on the counter and typing something into her tablet while waiting for the person she summoned to arrive. She seemed relaxed for a likely more normal reason: familiarity. She’s definitely visited Kale a bunch of times before, then.

It stung a little that she didn’t say anything about this until now…

She noticed him staring, and paused her typing, “Hey.”

He flinched, “Hm?”

“You’re kinda looking at me like a kicked puppy. What gives?”

“Oh– um.” He shuffled in place some more, “You… really couldn’t tell anyone about this?”

Instead of looking at him, Peppermint just lowered her eyelids, and continued pecking at her tablet, “...Sorry. We can talk about it more once we’re in there.”

She glanced over, “You can ask as many questions as you want once we do, I promise. I think it’ll be a good idea to have this conversation with him. Just trust me on this.”

He stared and nodded, “I never said I didn’t.”

…Man, Chai is going to have a *LOT* of questions once this tech guy shows up.

Alright… Second of all, the second order: A sweet barley tea, and a blackberry muffin which 808 was holding onto for the time being. Peppermint smacked his hand when he tried grabbing the muffin in the elevator– So, it certainly wasn’t for Chai, that’s for sure. 

"Ah!" Some tall man wearing a pale coat made a noise, noticed them all standing there as he opened a pair of large, metal doors.

He quickly walked over, pleasantly surprised. This technician seemed to have been pulled from the middle of something, attempting to stuff various wires and connectors to fit sloppily into his already overflowing pockets.

Large, complex goggles that resembled headphones with a camera sat over most of his face; only the bottom of his nose and lopsided grin were visible.

The strange device snug to his face was doing its best to hold down medium-cut, auburn, frazzled hair. His confident stride that he carried himself with (almost) made the man seem distinguished–

Because everything else about this guy screamed anything except professional.

He had a tiny pin of the hospital’s crest affixed to the dark green t-shirt that was stained with… oil? It smelled like oil. Just standing here, Chai could already tell this man smelled like the inside of a car. …Are those fingerless gloves? Okay, maybe this guy was a little cool. 

Leaning forward to get a better look at them, his employee I.D. pass hanging from his neck jangled against his torso,

"...Miss Mint! Never not good to see you and your robo-kitty companion! But… Something seems different today,"

“First of all, I don’t usually get summons on weekdays! That, and, well–" Reaching up to flicking the panel on his goggles upward with a small click, he peered through the rectangular hole at Chai with deep black eyes.

They were slightly obscured from the shadow of the goggles’ interior, shadowing his features; very hard to read.

He wore a subtle, confused frown for a few silent moments.

Yet, he still notes with piqued intrigue as he leaned back, flicking the goggles closed again with a pop– "...You brought an additional something with you, I see!"

He crossed his arms, “Certainly, we don't plan on leaking confidential information about what we do here on floor eight," He quirked a brow at Peppermint, "Do we?" …But he was still smiling wide like there wasn’t any real issue.

It was difficult for Chai to tell if his warning was genuine, or just some weird inside joke between her and the technician. Maybe both?

"Heyyyy, Buffet," Peppermint scratched the back of her neck, apprehensive, "I know nobody's supposed to know about who you have up here, but–" She stuffed her tablet back into her pocket, gesturing towards Chai and 808,

"I was hoping you could help me smuggle someone else in this time?"

Buffet hummed, looking again at Chai’s perplexed, tired expression. He did so with a zoomed in goggle lens. 808 reached out a paw to playfully bat the ocular scope.

…So *this* was the ambassador in the flesh?

So much talk of this peculiar man, who seemed to be a frequent topic of conversation whenever Peppermint would visit Buffet's patient. And always spoken of, with such an air of familial fondness! Recently, spoken of with regret and remorse. Her way of making up to her friend for the whirlwind of recent current events, maybe?...

Chai whispered beside himself when Buffet hadn't moved an inch from his thoughtful posture for an entire fifteen seconds, "Why is he staring at me–?"

Peppermint quickly shushed him, "–He's thinking about it! Do you want to be let in or what?"

…Buffet supposes he can fiddle with the visitor registry a bit, to let this oddball accompany her and her cat. It would be comical, really! Especially considering that this young man was the entire reason this long, complicated build project began in the first place nearly a year ago.

He hummed, un-zooming his goggle lens', "I'm afraid to admit, my spitfire friend, that I can't find anything peculiar about your visit to the patient in our careful care today."

"What–?" Chai spoke up, "But, I'm not supposed to–"

"All *I* can see," Buffet interrupted, and spoke matter of factly, "Is that you've brought two service animals to our humble floor, instead of the typical one! Interesting…" His voice faded as he walked away from the information counter.

He returns, holding three bracelets, "Miss Mint, 808, unassuming third party that I am barred from naming for hospital confidentiality reasons– could see your wrists?"

"Thanks," Peppermint snapped the pink barcoded bracelet around her wrist, "For doing this, Buffet. I thought it would help."

"Don't mention it, literally." He grins, swiping the sweet drink and muffin from Chai and 808, downing the entire paper cup in a few chugs.

He launches the empty paper cup into a trash bin, "It is good to help others, isn’t it? You help me remember the wonders of breakfast, and I help you with matters of the heart!– …So to speak."

Peppermint rolled her eyes, walking past him into the hallway, “Maybe try remembering to feed yourself, instead of relying on cheap cafeteria food.”

Turning over the yellow bracelet on his left wrist that matched the one fastened to 808’s tail, Chai was given a different barcode that seemed to capture his attention more than Peppermint’s rapport with the technician.

His bracelet held a minimalist symbol of a dog, which read– “Service animal?” He noticed there was additional text beneath a smaller warning label, "...Nervous?" He mumbled, squinting at the words.

Buffet snapped his finger to summon a small holographic screen beside himself, musing over the schematics of a familiar robotic body as he walked onwards.

His speech was muffled, on account of him having a blackberry muffin lodged in his jaw, "Let's do our best to make this visit brief, for both our sakes, Miss Mint."

Peppermint gave a small smile, "We'll try." She started moving down the hallway to follow the technician, gesturing for Chai to quickly follow them.

[impish-crow]

[TRANSLATION] DIG-ROCK HOUND ROAR vol. 1 - Track 03

Track 3: Things I don’t want to admit

(Bell ringing sound)

Toya: Haru-chan? Kasuga: I've come to pick you up~ Toya: How did you get all the way in here? Kasuga: The entrance and elevator lock were opened by someone passing by. It's a nice mansion~ Excellent security. (Door opens) Kasuga: Good morning, Toya. Toya: Your voice is loud… Kasuga: As you said, I don't want to cause trouble for the neighbors. Pardon My intrusion~ Toya: I told you before that I don't like other people coming into my room. Kasuga: you're not answering your phone--I was worried. Toya: Sit there. I'll quickly change and come out. Kasuga: Sure~ Kasuga: How are things these days? Toya: Just so so. Kasuga: Can you just say you’re in top condition? You being strict with yourself.. Toya: Haru-chan, you praise too much. Kasuga: Humans can receive more praise. That's my motto. Toya: You seem to have come up with that just now. Kasuga: Not at all~ There's a saying that praise can make someone grow, but hitting and destroying doesn't benefit anyone. Toya: Did you say something? Kasuga: …I said I'm glad to see you healthy! Leaving that aside, you change quickly! Toya: Have I ever been late for practice? Kasuga: Nope~ You're truly an honor student. Toya: It’s normal thing. Kasuga: Othes rarely practice, the record is fragmented and the technician patchworks it together delicately. Live is a binge of sound recording, TV is lip-synced and edited. That's not unusual, is it? Toya: I don't care how others are doing. And practicing is not particularly praiseworthy, nor does high skill guarantee success. Kasuga: Your words are reasonable. Oh, that's right. The tie-up for the new song has been decided. Toya: Tie-up…? Kasuga: It's the image song for a game app. We'll release a lot through CMs and promotions. If it goes well, it might be used longer than a drama theme. It should be easy for people to remember. And there's talk of releasing an album with this new song and the single ROAR, syndrome, and Reincarnation… Toya: Toya: Hold on. Talk about the album is fine, but keep the tie-up talk blank. Kasuga: Why? Toya: I haven't heard a single word about it beforehand. I can't consider the content of the job since I don't know what game it is for. Kasuga: Why? Toya: I haven't heard a single word about such matters beforehand. I can't consider the content of the work if I don't know what game it's for. Kasuga: Ah, sorry, sorry. Actually, this was discussed between companies. The deciShion was made recently. I played the existing demo of the song, received a response without problems, so it's okay. Toya: Haru-chan, you said HOUND ROAR is going to compete with skill, right? Kasuga: I said so, and I still sincerely believe that. Toya: I'm not saying tie-ups are bad. However, if we're going to do it, I want to compete with skills. Otherwise…

Kasuga: Toya. Skill, as you mentioned earlier, is not everything. It's the overall average of everything. You, with the backup of Renown Stage, just use it to the fullest to score. Toya: I know that! But… Kasuga: It's okay! Don't be so scared. HOUND ROAR is a good band. I guarantee it. Toya: Haru-chan… Kasuga: Besides, you don't want to lose to the bands of DigPro, right? RUBIA Leopard and Impish Crow.. Toya: …. Kasuga: I got it, leave it to Haru-chan. Don't worry about trivial things; just keep creating the music you love. Toya: … Kasuga: Well then, Let’sgo!

Kasuga: Good morning~ Hey, Toya, try to lighten up a bit.~ Toya: Stop that sugarcoating words. Sogo: Toya! Haru-chan! Kasuga: Good morning, Sogo. Sogo: Both of you… haven't you heard anything from Shion? Kasuga: Shion? Nothing at all. Toya? Toya: I don't know. What's going on? Sogo: I promised to move the keyboard today… went to pick him up, I kept ringing the intercom, and he didn't answer. He didn't come to the studio either. Toya: I don't want to imagine it, but… he didn't collapse at home, did he? Sogo: I'm starting to worry now. Should have asked him to open the door when I went to the mansion… Kasuga: No, no, they wouldn't have opened it so easily. Unless it's family or the police. Sogo: Ah…That’s right…

Shoma: Good morning,, Sogo: Shoma! Have you heard anything from Shion? Shoma: Megane? No, not at all. Kasuga: Any idea where he might be? Shoma: It's impossible… What happened to him? Sogo: He's not answering calls… Toya: How about sending Haru-chan to check his condition at the manShion? Kasuga: Let's do that. If it doesn't work out, we may have to contact his parents to open the door. Shoma: If it doesn't work out… Kasuga: If anything happens, we'll contact you. You guys can continue practicing. Shoma: But… that guy might have collapsed somewhere! It's not the time for a practice! Toya: There's nothing we can do. It's better than wasting time. Shoma: Don't say we're wasting time like that! Toya: Then how should I say it? Shoma: You! Your words are so heartless! Toya: So annoying… Shoma: What?! Sogo: Both of you, that's enough. Shoma: …Sorry. Sogo: Let's calm down for a moment. I don't feel like practicing right now either. Toya: Haa… Shion, that guy…

(footstep sounds)

Sogo: Oh? Haru-chan! Shoma: You're back so soon? Kasuga: …The police just contacted me. Toya: The police…? Kasuga: Shion has been arrested. Shoma: …Huh?!

Shion: … Sogo-san…? Sogo: Are you okay, Shion? How's your condition? Shion: I'm okay… Sogo: Thank goodness… Ah!! you surprised me! Shion: I'm sorry… But why is Sogo-san here? Sogo: I came with Haru-chan. Now, let's go. Shion: Huh? But… Sogo: The police were convinced by Haru-chan. There's nothing to worry about now. Come on, get up. Kasuga: Thank you so much~ I'm sorry for causing trouble. Police: Really, be more careful next time. Kasuga: That's true! I'll make sure to tell him that. Ah, here he is, Shion. Shion: Uh… Kasuga: Save the scold for later! Now, apologize to the police. Shion: I'm sorry… Police: Don't make any confusing actions in the future. And explain the situation more clearly. Since you're an adult. Shion: …Yes. Kasuga: Haa~ It's been a while since I visited a police station. Sogo: A while? Kasuga: …When you work in the entertainment industry for a long time, you experience various things~ Want to hear the details? Sogo: Haha… I'd rather not. Kasuga: So, Shion? Shion: Um… I'm sorry for causing trouble. Kasuga: You did well! Shion: Huh? Kasuga: Calling me first was the correct thing to do. Thinking that Shion relied on me in a crisis, it warms my heart. Shion: No, it's not really like that… Kasuga: Let's just go with that. It's resolved before it could become a bigger issue, and there won't be any hindrance to HOUND ROAR’s activities. No need to worry. Shion: Oh… Kasuga: Sogo, listen to the details. I need to go back to the office. If something troublesome happens, contact me. Sogo: Understood. Kasuga: I’m counting on you~ Sogo: Shall we go too? Shion: Sogo-san… I (coughing) Sogo: Are you alright?! I parked my car nearby, can you walk? Shion: Yes.. Umm.. I have a favor to ask. Sogo: What is it? Shion: I… I don't want to go home right now. Um… Sogo: Will you to come to my place? Shion: Asking for this… I know it's a lot, but… Sogo: I was planning to do that from the beginning. Shion: Huh? Sogo: You're not in good health, and it's harder to be alone, right? Plus… we want to hear the details.

[aro-pancake]

This is the scam of "authorized assistance" (forgive me if the term is wrong, but it's a direct translation from Portuguese)

I had to deal with that shit last week, and let me tell y'all, they devised the best ways of keeping you trapped.

It wasn't for a tractor, but for a smart lock, and it was hell on earth.

Story time:

I started at 10am, when my locksmith came by because I couldn't take it anymore of my lock not working properly. Nice guy. Very professional and polite. I scheduled it the previous day. He advised me to call upon the warranty.

So, off to Google we go, to find out where I could get it. I get 1 (one) place, in my whole metropolis (please note that I live in a very large urban area). I try calling, and the number doesn't exist. I go to their website and find a new number and a WhatsApp, and finally get a contact. They couldn't send a technician before the first next month, and it would cost me 350 bucks for someone to come by and see if there was something wrong. That, was last Friday, July 12th. I could also take the thing to them, but I'd also need to pay someone to remove it from the door for me. So, after an hour of going nowhere, they recommended that I contact the technical support team for the maker, and give me a phone number.

Again, the phone number doesn't exist, so we gotta find another way of contacting them. Mr finds a local office and the number I was given previously is WhatsApp only, so I try to contact both. They kept me on hold for 15+ minutes and I'm talking in loops with the bot on WhatsApp asking to speak with a person, as they keep redirecting me to the "authorized assistance" that I already talked to.

Ok. Finally, I get through to someone on WhatsApp. They ask me to send them videos of what's going wrong with the piece. I send it. They send me a couple tests to run, and I do them to no avail. They tell me to return to the "authorized assistance", and I tell them that it's becoming a safety issue and I have urgency (my mother is coming next week). They say there's nothing else they can do.

Annoyed, angry, pissed off, and after spending another 20 minutes on the punching bag before I had a breakdown, I look at the intercom. It's the same brand. Huh, interesting. So, I call a neighbour who's with the buildings administration, and ask him who do they call when we need maintenance. He gives me the number. It's 2pm by now.

I contact them, send the videos and ask how soon can they send someone in.half an hour later, my intercom rings. It's the technician. He opens the whole thing, and reinstalls it. No more issues. 150 bucks. Really nice guy, very polite, made a funny comment about the apartments previous owner (that no one in the building liked, btw) and about the guy who sent me their number.

That was a small thing in one of the highest populated areas in Brazil.

Now, imagine your tractor goes down in the middle of a harvest. It's Fucksville Nowhere. You'd be lucky to get any technician to go at any time. If you can't go on with the harvest, you'll lose everything.

So, yes. Farmers not only should be able to fix their gear, but they need to. It's a matter of securing their own livelihoods.

Crops and livestock are a massive investment, many times at high personal costs. Farmers only get paid upon delivery of their product. A crop field will easily have hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of moneys invested in them, along with time and effort. So, a single broken tractor, during crop season (because stuff only breaks when you need it), will set them back by a lot.

[shieldprosecurity]

How to Choose the Right Intercom Installation System for Your Business: Step-by-Step

In today’s fast-paced world, secure communication and access control are more important than ever, especially when it comes to safeguarding your home or business. Whether you're managing a busy office or looking to enhance safety at home, having a reliable intercom system can provide peace of mind, seamless communication, and added protection. Modern intercom systems offer smart solutions that meet a variety of security needs.

Working with a trusted security system installation service in Brisbane ensures your intercom is installed correctly and functions efficiently. Intercom installation in Brisbane enhances both security and convenience for homes and businesses.

What are Intercoms?

Intercoms are two-way communication devices used to manage access at entry points in residential, commercial, and industrial spaces. Their capabilities have evolved over time to enhance their functionality and user experience.

Intercom systems have evolved significantly, offering various types to suit different needs and environments. From residential homes to commercial buildings, intercom systems enhance security and communication. 

In this section, we explore the various types of intercom systems, where they are most effective.

Types of Intercom Systems:

Audio Intercoms

Ideal for simple communication between rooms or entrances, audio intercoms are a cost-effective solution. They are perfect for small homes or duplexes looking for reliable intercom installation in Brisbane without breaking the budget.

Video Intercoms

Offering both voice and visual interaction, video intercom systems are a top choice for residential complexes and commercial buildings. For enhanced security and convenience, many Brisbane intercom services recommend this option in urban and high-traffic areas.

Wireless & Smart Intercoms

Modern intercom systems in Brisbane include smart features like mobile connectivity, remote door unlocking, and visitor log storage. These are perfect for smart homes and tech-friendly offices seeking seamless security system installation service in Brisbane.

Step-by-Step Guide to Selecting an Intercom Installation System

Selecting the right access control system for your business is a nuanced process that requires a deep understanding of your specific security needs and operational demands. Let’s walk through a structured approach to ensure you make an informed decision that aligns with your long-term security objectives.

ShieldPro Security is a top choice for professional intercom and alarm installation services in Brisbane, earning the trust of both homeowners and commercial clients across the region.

Why Professional Intercom Installation in Brisbane Is the Smart Choice

Hiring a licensed technician for your intercom installation in Brisbane ensures the system is customized to your space and functions reliably. Experts will assess your property, recommend the right system, and ensure everything complies with safety and building codes.

Whether you're upgrading your existing setup or starting from scratch, professional security system installation services in Brisbane provide peace of mind and long-term support.

Implementing Your Intercom Installer System

After choosing the right access control system for your business, the next step is successful implementation. Proper installation and routine maintenance are essential to ensure long-term reliability. Being aware of potential challenges ahead of time can help streamline the setup and strengthen your overall security.

With a strong reputation for reliability, timely service, and cutting-edge technology, ShieldPro Security delivers security solutions suitable for all property types, from residential homes to office buildings.

Final Thoughts:

Installing an intercom system is a smart investment in your property’s security, convenience, and communication. From understanding the types of systems to choosing a trusted installer, taking time to evaluate your options ensures you get the best solution for your needs.

Whether you're focused on family safety or workplace access control, the right intercom system in Brisbane can make your daily life safer and more connected.

FAQs:

1. What is the best intercom system for home use in Brisbane?

Video intercoms with smartphone connectivity are a great choice for most homes, offering both audio and visual access control.

2. How much does intercom installation cost in Brisbane?

Basic systems start around $300–$500, while advanced smart systems can range up to $1500 or more depending on features and property size.

3. Can I install an intercom system myself?

DIY kits exist, but professional installation ensures optimal performance, safety, and integration with other systems.

4. Are intercom systems compatible with smart home devices?

Yes, many modern systems integrate with Alexa, Google Home, or smart locks, offering remote access and app-based control.

[axontecindia]

What Makes an ELV Installation Company Truly the Best in India? Key Technical Criteria Explained

ELV (Extra Low Voltage) systems are the foundation of contemporary infrastructure in today's digitally connected world, facilitating everything from data communication and fire detection to access control and security surveillance. Selecting the best ELV installation company is essential for performance, dependability, safety, and future scalability, regardless of the building type—high-rise apartments, corporate offices, hospitals, hotels, or manufacturing facilities.

But how can you tell the difference between a mediocre and a truly exceptional service when there are so many vendors vying to be the best ELV solution provider in India?

To help you choose wisely for your upcoming project, let's examine the essential technical requirements that distinguish a premier ELV installation company in India.

1. Comprehensive Expertise Across ELV Systems

The top ELV businesses don't focus on a single vertical. Under the ELV umbrella, they provide integrated solutions that address a variety of systems:

CCTV Monitoring Systems

Biometrics and Access Control

Systems of Public Address

Networking and Structured Cabling

Alarm and Fire Detection Systems (FDAS)

Systems for Building Management (BMS)

Identification of Intrusions

Intercom and IP Phone Systems

Integration of Audio-Visual

In addition to saving you the trouble of managing several vendors, a company with a wide range of products guarantees smooth system interoperability, which is crucial for automation and smart building projects.

2. Compliance with Indian Regulations and International Standards

Although India's infrastructure is expanding quickly, compliance remains a top priority. A top-notch ELV service provider guarantees that every installation satisfies or surpasses:

India's National Building Code (NBC)

Indian Standards Bureau (BIS)

The National Electrical Code

IEEE, ISO, TIA/EIA, NFPA, and BICSI are examples of international standards.

Additionally, they keep abreast of the most recent changes to electrical and safety codes, which are essential for sectors like data centers, healthcare, and education.

3. Robust System Engineering and Pre-Design Skills

The top businesses create and engineer solutions that are specifically suited to your needs rather than merely installing them. Their procedure entails:

Risk assessments and site surveys

Detailed schematics and technical drawings

Power planning and load calculations

Considerations for future scalability

Planning the network topology for IP-based systems

During installation and maintenance, a design-first strategy guarantees optimal performance, little downtime, and effective cabling paths, saving time and money.

4. Skilled and Certified Technicians

The quality of installation is dependent on the individuals using the tools, regardless of how sophisticated the equipment is. Top ELV firms in India make sure their employees are:

taught OEM-specific certifications (e.g., Cisco, Hikvision, Bosch, Honeywell, etc.)

Certified in CCNA, PMP, or BICSI (for network and cabling systems)

Continually trained in the newest safety procedures and technologies

A hallmark of professionalism and high-quality delivery is having the proper mix of certified engineers, project managers, and support personnel.

5. Product Quality and Approved Vendor List (AVL)

Prominent ELV firms only collaborate with well-known brands and keep an Approved Vendor List to guarantee that the goods utilized in your project are:

In accordance with international certifications (UL, CE, RoHS)

robust and interoperable with other systems

backed by guarantees and post-purchase assistance

In order to lower failure rates and long-term expenses, they also refrain from using inferior or fake equipment, which is widely available.

6. Interoperability and System Integration

Multiple systems must communicate with one another in today's smart buildings: CCTV must integrate with access control, which must integrate with fire alarms, and so forth.

The top ELV businesses are system integration specialists, guaranteeing that:

All subsystems can be monitored and managed by your BMS.

Systems for responding to emergencies are coordinated

A single dashboard is used to centrally monitor and manage data.

Integration facilitates wise decision-making and lowers operational inefficiencies.

7. Timely Delivery and Project Management

The way the business handles the project lifecycle is a crucial but frequently disregarded component. The top companies use cutting-edge project management procedures and tools:

Gantt charts and monitoring of milestones

Frequent updates on progress

collaborating with civil contractors and MEP

minimal interference with ongoing construction

Quick handling of issues and requests for changes

In high-stakes settings like hospitals, airports, and data centers, timely completion is just as crucial as technical excellence.

8. Documentation, Commissioning, and Testing

It takes more than simply flipping a switch to accomplish a proper handover. Credible ELV installers behave as follows:

Testing and quality assurance at the system level

Training and orientation for clients

Complete documentation, including configuration files, maintenance manuals, and wiring diagrams

This guarantees that the system can be maintained and run without any issues by your internal team or AMC partner.

9. AMC Services and Post-Installation Assistance

After handover, the top ELV service providers remain. They provide robust post-installation assistance and Annual Maintenance Contracts (AMC), which include:

Visits for preventive maintenance

Remote monitoring around-the-clock (if applicable)

SLA-based problem solving

On-site assistance during specified hours

Your ELV infrastructure's lifespan is increased and minimal downtime is guaranteed with dependable support.

In conclusion

Selecting the best ELV installation company in India involves more than just price; it also involves efficiency, safety, compliance, and long-term dependability. Prioritize these technical factors when assessing vendors, regardless of whether you're upgrading legacy systems or establishing a greenfield smart building project.

The ideal ELV system will be designed and installed by the right partner, who will also adapt to your infrastructure over time to keep your facility safe, effective, and prepared for the future.

[ezy-gate]

Increase Safety and Comfort Having Automatic Gate Installed in Auckland - Reliable Local Services

In this hectic modern-day and age, security and convenience have become the number one most important criteria in the minds of the owners of houses and business establishments. In case you have itchy feet on both, then the idea of automatic gate installation in Auckland is a flawless idea. Considering both reliability and simplicity, they are stylish and safe, and automatic gates are gaining more and more popularity between residential and working premises in Auckland.

Reasons to install automatic gates in Auckland.

Installation of an automatic gate in Auckland is not only a barrier, but a security whereby you and your home are guaranteed peace of mind and property value. As the issue of security gets more appealing to Auckland residents, a wide number of them are embracing automated gate systems as the best way of keeping unauthorized access and yet gaining easy access in controlling who visits their property.

You may already be living in a house, a business establishment or an industrial plant, but installation of automatic gates in Auckland can improve the security and outlook of your building.

Advantages of installing an automatic gate.

These are some of the biggest advantages of choosing an automatic gate for installations in Auckland:

Increased Security : Automatic gates provide a good physical security barrier which is a great deterrent to any potential intruder and enable your family, staff and other assets to be well secured.

Convenience : You never need to leave your car in poor weather again. Now you can open and close your gate and still keep sitting in your vehicle using remote controls, keypads or smartphone applications.

Values added to property : An automatic gate professionally installed in Auckland is an added value of the property and improvises the resale value.

Customizable Designs : Sliding gates and swing gates or have them customized to fit your style of property and individual security requirements.

Compatibility to Access Control : Contemporary Auckland automated gate installations have the capability of being incorporated into an existing access control system, intercom system or CCTV system and thus providing augmented security.

Kinds of Automatic Gates in Auckland

In terms of installation of the automatic gate in Auckland, numerous kinds of the gates could be selected depending on the structure of your land and taste:

Sliding Gates : An ideal solution to premises with restricted spaces.

Swing Gates: These swing gates are most suitable in areas where the driveway is wide and more space is available to move the gate.

Boom Gates: are usually applied to commercial car parks or industrial premises.

Custom Gates: They are tailored and fit into unique property designs and unique aesthetic requirements.

The professional Auckland installers will survey your location and advise on the most suitable choice to you.

Installation Matters Professional

Even in the case of installing an automatic gate in Auckland, it is imperative that you have experienced technicians to carry out this service to give quality and durable results. Licensed technicians guarantee the safe installation as well as smooth operation of the gate system, as well as its compliance with the regulations of the local council.

Most of the services in the Auckland automatic gate installations also offer maintenance packages to ensure years of effective operation of your gate.

Why should the people of Auckland be reliant on Local installers?

The providers in the local area are aware of the security issues and arrangement of properties prevalent in the neighborhoods of Auckland. They have a quick reply rate, customer-specific and customized solutions, and satisfying after sales. Auckland has the best companies that make sure that they consult, install and conclude their work with the satisfaction of the customer and by focusing on safety.

Conclusion

Automatic gate installation in Auckland has never been easier once you realize you are going to increase the security and convenience of your property. Whether or not it is a modern home or business premises, an automated gate system would provide you with style, safety and simplicity.When you are in the mood of upgrading your property, call in a qualified automatic gate installer professional today in Auckland and initiate your first positive step towards a more reliable and safer entry point to the property.

[ahalal-uralma]

I’m going to add something about the setup of elevators in the situation of an emergency, because I’ve not seen it brought up in any tags or reblogs from other users and I feel it’s really important to safety in general in the event you find yourself in a situation you do need to evacuate through the elevator or find yourself stuck on it—I am trying to apply my own past OSHA training to the best of my knowledge here and someone can correct me here if it’s out of date or if they have anything better, but—please be mindful about attempting to initiate communication for help on the elevator too:

You might want to call 911 and might notice a phone button on the elevator and a red button as well—these don’t function to the police/fire department directly usually. If you’re not sure what I’m talking about, then you might want to start familiarizing yourself with more buttons on the elevator in future for safety purposes! It is very important everyone knows these buttons exists! Do not just familiarize yourself with numbers when you ride the elevator.

I am using this image from google just for a rough example of a typical elevator setup.

The red button functions to STOP the elevator, and sometimes restart it, and the phone button (it has a literal phone symbol or bell sometimes on it—or in this image it says alarm with the bell beside the button) functions as an emergency call button to call staff in the building for help in the event you are stuck. So calling them might help you, but it might not! What typically will follow is a service technician to help. If they do answer you, then you’ll hear them respond on a little intercom within the elevator. Depends on your situation and their location during your emergency—if they’re evacuating from a fire, for instance, then you’re better off reaching for your own phone if you have one and calling 911 for rescue instead (which is what you really should be doing anyway).

But, generally try to keep your own working cell and charger with you always on hand whenever you think of traveling just in case. I hope bringing this up helps someone out with fear and anxiety about getting stuck on an elevator in advance. This applies to any emergency situation with elevators, not just when there is a fire. I know there’s a lot of people out there with phobias and I hope this advice eases it for someone even if it’s a marginal amount.

Wait what's a buildings fire evacuation plan if you aren't supposed to use the elevator to get down