#Oil Field Trailers

[logisticscompaniesinabudhabi]

Land Transport Services - OCT

In the bustling landscape of the United Arab Emirates (UAE), efficient land transport services are paramount for trailer manufacturers. Whether you're delivering finished products to clients or sourcing raw materials from suppliers, navigating the UAE's extensive road network requires precision and reliability. This guide is tailored to trailer manufacturers, offering insights and strategies to optimize your land transport operations in the UAE.

Understanding the Landscape:

The UAE boasts a well-developed infrastructure, with modern highways and roads connecting key industrial and commercial hubs. From Dubai's bustling ports to Abu Dhabi's industrial zones, the UAE offers a network of routes for transporting trailers and goods across the country.

Key Challenges:

Regulatory Compliance: Compliance with UAE's transportation regulations is critical. Understanding local laws, permits, and documentation requirements is essential to avoid delays and penalties.

Traffic Congestion: Urban centers like Dubai and Abu Dhabi experience heavy traffic congestion, particularly during peak hours. Efficient route planning and scheduling can help mitigate delays.

Weather Conditions: Extreme temperatures, especially during the summer months, can impact road conditions and vehicle performance. Adequate maintenance and contingency plans are necessary to ensure uninterrupted operations.

Safety Concerns: Ensuring the safety of drivers, cargo, and other road users is paramount. Compliance with safety standards and implementing best practices can mitigate risks associated with land transport.

Optimizing Land Transport Services:

Fleet Management: Maintain a well-maintained fleet of trailers equipped with advanced tracking and monitoring systems. Real-time visibility allows for better route optimization and timely delivery.

Strategic Partnerships: Collaborate with reputable logistics partners and freight forwarders in the UAE. Leveraging their expertise can streamline operations and provide access to additional resources when needed.

Technology Integration: Embrace technology solutions such as GPS navigation, fleet management software, and electronic documentation systems. Automation and digitalization enhance efficiency and accuracy in land transport operations.

Driver Training and Safety: Invest in comprehensive training programs for drivers, focusing on defensive driving techniques, cargo handling procedures, and emergency response protocols. Prioritize safety to mitigate accidents and ensure compliance with regulations.

Adaptive Planning: Remain flexible in your planning processes to adapt to changing market dynamics, customer demands, and external factors such as weather conditions or regulatory changes.

Efficient land transport services are essential for trailer manufacturers operating in the UAE. By understanding the local landscape, addressing key challenges, and implementing strategic optimizations, manufacturers can streamline their operations, enhance reliability, and maintain a competitive edge in the dynamic UAE market. Embracing technology, fostering partnerships, and prioritizing safety are key pillars in achieving success in land transport services in the UAE.

[rushmoregroups]

Earth Moving Spare Parts Manufacturers in Dubai: A Comprehensive Guide

Dubai, known for its rapid urbanisation and grand infrastructure projects, stands as a global hub for construction and development. Central to this growth are earth-moving machinery and equipment, which play a crucial role in shaping the city's landscape. To keep this machinery running efficiently, the availability of high-quality spare parts is essential. This article delves into the world of earth-moving spare parts manufacturers in Dubai, highlighting their significance, key players, and the factors driving this industry.

The Importance of Earth-Moving Spare Parts

Earth-moving machinery, such as excavators, bulldozers, loaders, and cranes, is fundamental in construction, mining, and other heavy-duty applications. These machines undergo significant wear and tear due to their intensive use. Consequently, maintaining them in optimal condition necessitates a reliable supply of spare parts. High-quality spare parts ensure the longevity and efficiency of the machinery, minimising downtime and enhancing productivity.

Dubai's Strategic Position

Dubai's strategic geographic location makes it an ideal hub for the manufacturing and distribution of earth-moving spare parts. The city's state-of-the-art infrastructure, including world-class ports and logistics facilities, facilitates efficient import and export processes. Furthermore, Dubai's business-friendly policies and investment incentives attract global manufacturers, contributing to a robust and competitive market for spare parts.

Factors Driving the Industry

Several factors contribute to the growth and dynamism of the earth-moving spare parts industry in Dubai:

1. Rapid Urbanization and Infrastructure Development

Dubai's ambitious infrastructure projects, including the construction of skyscrapers, roads, and airports, drive the demand for earth-moving machinery and spare parts. The city's vision for continuous growth and development ensures a steady need for these essential components.

2. Technological Advancements

Advancements in technology have led to the development of more sophisticated and efficient earth-moving machinery. Consequently, there is a rising demand for specialised spare parts that can support these advanced machines. Manufacturers in Dubai are continually innovating to meet these technological requirements.

3. Stringent Quality Standards

Dubai's emphasis on maintaining high-quality standards in construction and industrial sectors extends to the earth-moving spare parts industry. Manufacturers adhere to stringent quality control measures to ensure that their products meet international standards. This focus on quality enhances the reliability and performance of the machinery.

4. After-Sales Support and Service

The availability of robust after-sales support and service is crucial in the earth-moving spare parts industry. Manufacturers and suppliers in Dubai prioritize customer satisfaction by offering comprehensive after-sales services, including maintenance, repair, and technical support. This approach builds long-term relationships with clients and fosters trust.

Challenges and Opportunities

While the earth-moving spare parts industry in Dubai is thriving, it also faces certain challenges. These include fluctuating market conditions, the need for continuous innovation, and competition from global players. However, these challenges present opportunities for growth and improvement:

1. Sustainable Practices

With a growing emphasis on sustainability, manufacturers in Dubai are exploring eco-friendly practices in their operations. This includes developing spare parts that are more durable and environmentally friendly. Embracing sustainability not only benefits the environment but also enhances the reputation of manufacturers.

2. Expansion into Emerging Markets

Dubai's strategic location and robust logistics infrastructure provide an excellent opportunity for manufacturers to expand into emerging markets in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia. By leveraging these markets, manufacturers can diversify their customer base and increase their market share.

3. Integration of Digital Technologies

The integration of digital technologies, such as IoT and AI, into the manufacturing and supply chain processes can enhance efficiency and reduce costs. Predictive maintenance, real-time tracking, and automated inventory management are some of the innovations that can drive the industry forward.

Conclusion

The earth-moving spare parts industry in Dubai is a vital component of the city's construction and industrial sectors. With a focus on quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction, manufacturers and suppliers in Dubai are well-positioned to meet the growing demands of the market. As the city continues to evolve and expand, the importance of reliable and high-quality spare parts will only increase, ensuring the longevity and efficiency of earth-moving machinery. By embracing new technologies and sustainable practices, the industry can continue to thrive and contribute to Dubai's dynamic growth.

Email:                       info@rushmore.ae

Call:                          (+971)45776444

Website URL:           https://www.rushmore.ae/

[tuskerhv]

Oil Field Semi Trailer | Oil Field Equipment in Sharjah, Dubai, UAE:

    Tusker Engineering FZC is the leading manufacturer of commercial vehicle bodies, based in Hamriyah Freezone, UAE. Started in 2009, we have grown to become the leading supplier of trailers, road tankers, tipper bodies, cement bulkers and reefer trucks. We also fabricate specialized bodies, as per client’s requirements. We count our clients to be the leading truck dealers, transport and logistics companies.

    With a team of over 100 people in our company, comprising of qualified engineers and skilled technicians, we have strong in-house design capabilities and quality control in place. Our well-experienced team of engineers and designers, have collectively worked on a vast plethora of diverse projects, for many of the leading clients in the UAE and beyond.

   We pride ourselves in being the only manufacturer of Container Side Loaders, in the GCC region. We also use the TEKLA software for structural steel detailing and    modelling services.

   We are a leading Oil Field Equipment in Sharjah, Dubai, UAE. Our company can retail and supply a range of Oil Field Semi-Trailers.

OIL FIELD TRAILERS:

Flare Stackers

ECR Trailers

Engineered Trailers

Mud Pump Trailers

Crude Oil Field Trailer Tanker

URL: <https://tuskerchv.com/oil-field-equipment-semi-trailer>

CONTACT US:

Tusker Engineering FZC

Hamriya Free Zone, Phase-2,

P.O.Box 51538, Sharjah, UAE

+971 6526 9282

+971 6526 9284

sales@tusker.ae

info@tusker.ae

[flowerandblood]

Flowers and Thorns (1/2)

[ canon • Aemond x courtesan • female ]

[ warnings: sex content, smut, angst, working in the brothel, mention of murder, kind of trauma ]

[ description: Prince Aemond arrives unexpectedly on the Street of Silk, and she is chosen by Madame to soothe his stoic, stony nature and give him what he needs. ]

After a few seconds from the trailer that changed our lives, this short little series was created. No more thoughts.

Part 2 − Hopes and Prayers

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

"You've grown so much." She heard Madame's soft voice, looking curiously with several young girls at the figure of a man barely visible behind a red translucent curtain.

One of them is going to make a pretty penny that night, she thought with amusement. She glanced at her friend Lysa and noticed, seeing the mocking smile on her face, that she was thinking the same thing.

Madame was their guardian, if you could call it that, but unlike most of the owners of the taverns on The Street of Silk, she was concerned with quality, not quantity.

They, meaning her girls, were women of culture and elegance, not simple whores, and that was how they preferred to think of themselves, giving their flesh only in the process.

She blinked, hearing that Madame was answered by an uncomfortable silence, the newcomer's head turned to the side in impatience.

She thought the man was very tense and frustrated.

A common reaction to feeling embarrassed.

Madame knew what to do in such cases.

"Do you have any particular requests?" She asked softly, their heard the man hum quietly.

"Mmm. I will rely…on your taste." She heard a low, hoarse, slightly trembling voice that sent shivers through her.

Madame nodded and led him to one of the most expensive chambers. After a moment, she returned and approached them, sighing quietly, eyeing them one by one, as if she were pondering the choice of the right juicy fruit.

"The matter is very delicate. The King's younger brother is shy and withdrawn. His lack of an eye does not help him. Come, sweet girl." She purred, extending her hand to her, and she giggled, smiling broadly, thinking she had never seen anyone from the royal family in the flesh before.

Her friends slipped fresh field flowers into her hair and rubbed oils on her neck, as if they were preparing her for her wedding night − they put on her translucent purple robe, one of the most expensive they had, her dark hair partly pinned up in a bun at the back of her head.

She wondered with a fast-beating heart if the Prince resembled the King.

She had never had the opportunity to lie with King Aegon but from what she had heard, he had a taste in depravity that she was not a lover of.

Madame, however, would not have chosen her if it had been the same in this case, and as she trusted her judgement, she went to his chamber with a light heart.

As she closed the door behind her, she caught sight of his tall figure standing in front of the mirror − he turned towards her, frightened by her sudden presence, his face pale, his nostrils twitching rapidly in an anxious breath, his hands entwined on his back clenched into fists.

He was more than tense.

He was terrified.

Something was happening inside his head.

She bowed without a word, knowing that men of his kind did not like pretense.

She decided that she would not approach him until he commanded her to do so himself.

He swallowed hard, turning his face towards the bed, as if wondering what he was actually doing.

The most devoted to the Seven of all the Queen's children seeking comfort in the brothel.

She thought it was nothing to be ashamed of, but she knew that he did not crave her advice.

He thought for certain that she would approach him and coquet him, whispering about what she would do with him and how much she craved him, but she just moved ahead towards the other part of the room, watching him curiously. His gaze followed her.

"How old are you?" He asked reluctantly.

"Old enough, Your Grace. Madam doesn't hurt children." She replied meekly, bestowing him with a warm, comforting smile. His gaze softened − he hummed at her words and nodded.

Only after a moment did his gaze sweep over her entire figure, allowing himself to look at her. He swallowed hard again, his lips pressed together in a thin line as if he was impatient.

"May I undo your tunic, Your Grace? You'll be uncomfortable in it." She said, and he looked deeply into her eyes.

She thought he had an extremely intriguing face − he looked like a statue, his jaw long and sharply defined just like his nose, his mouth full, capable of caressing any woman wonderfully.

She felt a squeeze between her thighs at that thought.

His eye patch or what he wore under it didn't matter to her, but he didn't know that.

He nodded, lowering his gaze to the floor.

His thoughts were still fleeing somewhere far away.

She approached him slowly with a quiet rustling of her robe and didn't dare look at him as she reached her hands into the buckles of his tunic, slowly undoing them one by one.

She could smell his pleasant scent, the fact that he had taken a bath, his warm, quickened breath enveloping the top of her head.

He still kept his hands behind his back and didn't dare touch her.

She thought with a smile that she would use one of her fantasies, her being a lord's wife, using her skills during their wedding night to win his heart.

That night she didn't want to just be a whore.

It seemed to her that he didn't want that either.

He helped her by sliding the material off his shoulders, and she took it from him and placed it on the table standing next to them. She shuddered as his knuckles ran over her cheek, a wave of heat and desire surging through her spine and lower abdomen.

She looked up at him and met his dark, deep gaze, his full lips slightly parted.

"Your father sold you here?" He whispered, for some reason needing to get closer to her, to get to know her before what was about to happen.

She understood him and it occurred to her why Madame had chosen her.

She was able to take her time, to give the most shy of their clients the comfort and reassurance she herself so desperately needed.

"Doesn't every woman eventually get sold by her father to some man?" She asked, the corner of his mouth twitching in something that might resemble a smile, a glint in his eye.

"Mmm."

He felt it.

Some kind of twisted, helpless bond.

He kissed her, enclosing her face in his broad hands, rough from wielding the sword, surely. She gasped under her breath, feeling her nipples harden at the thought of how gentle this caress was − his lips, full, warm and wet, ran and brushed hers with the quiet click of their saliva.

She dared to place her small hand on his wrist and he sighed quietly, moving closer to her, deliberately shortening the distance between them − his body slammed into hers, his half-hard erection pulsed softly in his breeches.

She hugged him around the waist, allowing him to feel through the fabric of their garments the pleasing shape of her plump, sweet breasts − he drew in a loud breath feeling it, one of his hands traveled down her back, his fingers tentatively clamped on her buttock.

"− yes −" She whispered into his mouth, wanting him to know that she desired this, that she was not driven by pity or any other reason that might disgust him.

He murmured into her mouth at her words and moaned low when her tongue licked his, encouraging him to caress her more boldly. In response, he caught her under her hips and lifted her up − she giggled quietly, throwing her arms around his neck, a look of peace on his face, but also of pride, satisfaction and curiosity.

As he laid her down on the bed, he pulled the eye patch from his face as if it was her he was exposing, apparently expecting a reaction for which he might punish her, fuck her like a disobedient little whore − she, however, felt a squeeze between her thighs at the sight of the precious blue stone gleaming in his eye socket, her fingers ran over the line of his scar making him draw in air loudly.

With a quick, impatient gesture, he drew her hips closer to him, forcing her to spread her thighs before him. He reached into the material of his breeches, untying them, looking at her piercingly, his breathing quick and raspy.

"− show me your breasts −" He commanded, and she felt his words deep inside her. Immediately she slipped the material of her robe off her shoulders, his lips parted wider in desire at the sight of her little, puffy nipples.

"− fuck −" He breathed out, squeezing his long, throbbing erection in his hand, just looking at her.

She knew he didn't want her touching him, that if she threatened his privacy or comfort she would ruin everything.

"− do you want to feel it inside you? −" He gasped, and she nodded eagerly, looking at him expectantly, breathing loudly as he did, excited.

"− there you go − shhh − no, look at me −" He exhaled, guiding the fat head of his cock against her swollen slit, leaking from her wetness − her body resisted him for a moment, his eye closed as he opened her wide with her cry of exertion.

She looked at his face where droplets of sweat glistened, his lips swollen with desire, his long white hair tickling her face.

"− it's half way in − are you able to fit it whole? −" He muttered, as if asking her permission, and she nodded quickly, dreaming of nothing else now.

For some reason she wanted him to do this to her.

She tilted her head back seeing his grin of satisfaction, his hips impatiently thrusting deeper into her tight, fleshy interior, filling her to the brim.

"− I'm impressed − maybe I should visit you more often? − you seem shy for −" He exhaled but didn't finish, as if he decided it wasn't the best time to offend her, a loud sigh left their throats when he finally put it all the way in.

"− a woman of your kind −" He gasped.

"− I didn't choose this life −" She mumbled before she had time to think what had actually left her mouth. She saw his pupil dilate in surprise and she thought she had made a huge mistake.

His whole body froze, his cock pulsed greedily deep inside her.

"− nor I mine −"

She smiled at his words with some kind of gratitude, from which he swallowed hard. He surprised her when he leaned down and pressed his forehead against hers, their hands gripping their cheeks, his hot breath enveloping her skin.

"− I'm going to accelerate now −" He exhaled and she nodded, feeling a shrug at the thought of how much, though he certainly didn't think of it that way, he cared that she didn't push him away now, that she didn't look at him with disgust or resentment.

They both groaned as his thighs began to slam loudly against her buttocks, again and again pounding his already fully hard, thick erection into her, her hands clenched on his back, trying to find a rhythm with him, a wonderful shiver ran down her back each time he teased a wonderful spot deep inside her.

His body pressed her against the bed, which began to creak loudly beneath them, his breath heavy as her legs intertwined on his back, allowing him to thrust into her as deeply as he desired, his lips licking and brushing her mouth in the wettest, warmest, messiest kisses she'd ever experienced in her entire life.

"− ah −" He exhaled helplessly, feeling her little cunt begin to clench around his manhood in fulfilment and suck him inside, soaking him wet, intensifying his sensation, a sweet, innocent, girlish moan of delight ripped from her throat.

Their hands wandered blindly over their hot bodies, his fingers again and again returning to her breasts, finally clamping down on them when she felt he was close, their bodies all sticky from their shared moisture.

"− yes − yes, oh gods, yes −" He breathed out, clenching his eyes with an expression of some immense relief that surprised her − he drew in air deeply, as if he were choking, and then tear after tear began to run down his face hot with emotion, his eye clenched as he burst out suddenly into sobs, as if what flowed out of him was not just his seed.

"− I killed him − I killed him −" He whimpered, clenching his hands on either side of her head into fists, his hot tears one by one began to flow onto her cheeks. He covered his face with his hands, as if he didn't want her to look at it.

"− gods − gods, forgive me −"

She put her arms around his head and he let her pull him close, snuggling immediately into her body, his face pressed against her neck.

Never before in her life had she witnessed someone next to her burst into such helpless, almost childlike crying.

"− shhh − I know − I know it's scary −" She whispered, he drew in a deep breath as if he was suffocating.

"− if you tell anyone about this −" He hissed maliciously.

"− never −"

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 59

part 1 | part 58 | ao3

cw: canon-typical horror/gore (like for real this time), emetophobia, reference to minor character death. ty to @thisapplepielife for indulging my weirdly specific research about headstones

Steve tries to follow her — gets shot down before he even gets within speaking range, Max shouting at him to give her a minute the second she spots him coming over the hill. He backs off, hands raised in surrender, and then…

Well, then he’s already out of the car.

Well then his feet know where to take him.

His dad’s grave isn’t far. Maybe a football field away, close enough that he’ll be able to hear it if Max calls for help. He moves toward it without thought, his legs carrying him past simple overgrown markers in the oldest part of the park — crumbling remnants of civil war soldiers, farmers and shopkeepers and factory workers, people who worked the mines, people who died before his grandfather was born. People who might have been loved once, before time and moss and water stripped their names off of the stones.

Up the next slope, the markers get more elaborate, shift from bronze to granite to marble, to monuments and mausoleums and a fucking obelisk; ostentatious displays of the town’s oldest money. The coal barons, the oil tycoons. Rotten bastards, Wayne might say.

The Harringtons aren't that rich. They're further down the hill in a neatly manicured row of Indiana limestone; fresh flowers on each grave, the weeds plucked, the grass trimmed.

Dad's buried right next to Grandpa Otis.

It almost looks nice.

Crisp, clean, dry. Nothing to suggest the messy wet red of his father's demise. Steve shoves his hands in his front pockets and steps up to his dad's plot, toes the edge of it, the rounded lump of earth, sparse grass and loose soil where his father's bones are laid. The ground gives a little under his weight, the dirt compacting. Could he dig this up with just his hands? Could he claw through until he reached the bottom, pry open the box and peer inside? Unbidden, the image forms in his mind: worm food and rot, half a man left inside, somehow still frowning in disappointment with his jaw bone shining clean.

Steve's stomach turns. A sick shiver runs through him, saliva flooding his mouth, sweat beading at his hair line.

This isn't right.

Something's not right.

There's a sudden chill in the air, frigid wind carrying a smell like roadkill in the summer — heat wafting from the pavement, death clogging up his throat. Steve covers his nose and wills his shoulders down from his ears; tries to mutter words of comfort to himself under his breath. “Just a graveyard, Steve. Just a totally… normal…”

Ice on the back of his neck. Steve tenses every muscle, turns his good ear toward the sound of whatever's creeping up on him; something taller than him, something slithering and wet, its rasping rattles of frozen breath sending goosebumps down Steve's arms. His hands twitch inside his pockets.

Then, a voice — a voice that isn’t his, that can’t be anyone’s, because the man it belonged to is dead. “That Munson boy was right about you."

Steve can't fucking breathe. Dark clouds roll in around him, violent as a blooming bruise, and that voice behind him echoes — distorted, vicious; hungry.

"You are a black hole."

Steve grabs two fistfuls of his own hair and tugs; wills the pain to dispel the nightmare, his eyes swimming from the sting.

The thing behind him laughs. "Look how you ruined your mother," it snarls. "Look how you tore her apart.”

"Shut up!" Steve barks with his hands over his ears.

“Steve…” The voice deepens, beckons, thick with malice and rot. Steve slowly turns to face it, trembling all over, pulse thudding in his ears, and his shoes squelch in the dirt, and when he looks down he sees that the dirt has turned to mud that now turns to oozing red, a viscous river beneath his feet, flowing up over his ankles, pouring from his father's grave. And there, in front of him, a mangled remnant stands. The ruined corpse of Richard Harrington, his skin shriveled and gray, the torn parts of him held together by his clothes. There’s a hole in his torso where the exposed ribs glint like knives.

Steve throws up on himself.

The ground gives way beneath him, goes spongy like rotting meat, and the thing wearing his dad's face cackles as Steve sinks into the earth, the grave swallowing him whole, up to his calves, his knees, his thighs. "Join me," it offers, lipless smile full of teeth.

The glamor peels back to reveal a monster underneath, its scarred skin crawling in mucus-coated vines; naked, long-limbed, stitched together with burnt flesh.

Steve screams as he scrambles for purchase, up to his hips now in the muck, his feet on the lid of his dad's casket. He claws blindly at the loose ground but it’s all thick and wet with red, and the air itself is red; blood in the sky, in his eyes, in his lungs. He's going to die here. The voice tells him so. It's in his head now, a bellowing echo as the monster draws near, one hideous hand outstretched, an all-consuming join me, join me, JOIN ME—

“HEY!!!”

Max shouts directly in his face, shaking him hard by both shoulders where they're crouched on the cool ground, Kate Bush leaking from the headphones slung around her neck. Steve gives a startled shout and jerks back out of her grip, falling hard on his ass, landing harder on his elbows.

The world shifts back to blue. To dry, clean grass. To breathable air.

Steve pants up at the sky. His shirt clings to him where he's soaked it through with sweat. When Max offers him a hand, he stands on shaky legs, looks at the ground beneath his feet and screams again, scurrying back until his ass hits a stranger's headstone.

There’s a dent in the earth where he was standing. A smudge of packed dirt where he really did sink in. Steve stares at it; feels it reaching out for him, the dark patch thudding like a heart beat, spreading out like snaking vines.

He clutches at his heaving chest. Max’s eyes are huge on him.

"Okay, what the fuck?" she begs.

"What the fuck yourself!"

No heat behind the words, but they burn him, anyway, pushed out on a weak gasp. Is this what she was talking about? Is this what she calls nothing?

This doesn't feel like fucking nothing.

“Shit," she says, and her eyes go even wider. Steve can see the veins in them. "Shit, Steve, your nose…”

He swipes his arm across his face.

It comes back red.

—

part 60

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[urcursebreaker]

burning body waiting. (ellie williams x fem!reader)

warnings for this chapter: 18+ content, graphic violence/gore/blood and animal death.

chapter 1: blood-soaked beauty

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

The floorboard creaks under your featherlight footing. You drag yourself to a fluid halt, cautiously analyzing the drab sunroom.

The crooked, off-kilter shelf; a ratty, blood-crusted sheet draped over it. A murky puddle of rain water reflecting the forlorn, dim winter sun, plumes of old motor oil dancing in an iridescent swirl. A lopsided, rusty tricycle. A pile of chipped cement bricks.

Nothing of use; and no one to hear your misstep.

You exhale shakily, resuming your calculated strides. You shuck the grimy, makeshift curtain away from the shelf, deftly pocketing a stray razor blade and half-used roll of duct tape.

After surveying the room and gathering what you need, you shove through the dry-rotted back door, the frigid breeze cascading through your unbound hair.

"Shit," your teeth clatter over the curse; the cold, penetrative rain aiming spears of ice straight through your bones.

You tighten the soiled fur-lined coat you had stolen from your brother around your frame, adjusting the shotgun slung over your shoulder. The rain soaks through the corduroy and saps your hair to your face.

You shield your eyes from the ferocious patter of rain and give the collapsing back porch a brisk once over, before making a run for the darkening tree line.

Mel had informed you of a vacant trailer park they'd encountered on their last sweep, just through the thick of the dense forestry. They'd killed the lingering infected on their way through, a few runners feeding on the steaming carcass of a horse.

She assured you there were no live cordyceps in the area, so they'd deemed it safe enough for you to loot it alone, as long as you returned to base before night descended and followed the precautions they established after Nora's death.

This was the final step of your initiation into the WLF; endure a loot run, alone, and with minimal supplies. Then you were officially one of them.

You and your brother had arrived in Seattle a month and a half ago, where you were grudgingly taken in by the Wolves after incidentally stumbling into one of their self-made traps.

After confirming you weren't a Seraphite, they'd permitted you shelter in exchange for your faithful camaraderie and proof of your usefulness. Which, even after all this time, you were still laboriously proving. You had to double your efforts to solidify your value in order to compensate for your brother.

He had his own beneficial qualities, but his blindness limited him to organizing and rationing stock, refurbishing broken supplies, and cleaning everyone's weaponry. Nobody wanted to risk sending him on a mission when there was a highly probable chance he wouldn't make it back.

So you had to act as two people when exploring the outside world.

The canopy of leaves give you decent coverage from the relentless rain as you move swiftly through the heavy greenery. The sun would set in precisely two hours, granting you sparsely half an hour to get to and search the sight.

The thought itself sends you into greater motion. You break into a sprint, hopping over fallen, mold-shrouded logs and winding around the towering, western pines, until the rain mutes to a dull sprinkle.

The trees eventually open up to unveil an expansive clearing. About a dozen overgrown, warped mobile homes dot the field, shadowed by swaying tall grass and curling canary.

You stop idly to catch your breath and do a cautionary visual sweep of your surroundings. It's all nearly peaceful; the distant span of rolling mountains. Silence, but the water dripping gently off the leaves, the bristle of the dew speckled grass. Wet vines billowing with the wind.

You rummage through the first few without difficulty; they were filthy and crumbling, but free of any infected or evidence of death. The trailer park was likely abandoned in the wake of the outbreak.

You collect an impressive variety of canned foods; beans, corn and even a dented can of mandarin oranges, alongside a few rolls of toilet paper and a box of unopened bandaids. You even found a collapsed bookshelf and salvaged a few books, snagging one for yourself to indulge in during your watch shift. You only allow yourself the selfish luxury as a celebration for you upcoming place among the WLF, once you return with the goods.

You begin to search the fourth to last trailer, this one partially seeping into the sunken, mossy earth and caving at the roof. Half of it was obstructed by the collapsed ceiling, but in the reachable area you find a toolbox under the sink, dump the miscellaneous screws and bolts into your backpack, and hook the baby hammer you find to the belt loop of your worn, bootcut Levi's.

You slip out of the trailer once you gather the necessities. A mockingbird chirps, it's tweet eerily reminiscent of a human whistle, it's wings beating overhead as it soars across the field and into the encompassing trees. You wipe your dusty, damp palms on your pants uncomfortably, glancing around before regaining your footing and making your way toward the neighboring trailer.

You're vigilant as you scan the interior, the birds song unsettling you deeply. It rung as if it were warning you; as if it were fleeing. You make sure to take the apple-cutting knife you spot on the counter.

You were sidling out of the derailed door when you heard it, plainly and resolutely; a sharp whistle from your left.

You freeze. Your hand subconsciously jerking to your holster.

Silence.

The pines creak. The grass wisps faintly.

Another whistle, this one long, melodic, and from your right; closer.

You duck into the brush, your heart hammering wildly against your chest. You withdraw your gun, fishing the stray bullets out of your pocket, loading it with trembling fingers.

The grass rustles forcefully from both sides, followed by a series of coded whistles, all nearing by the second. Your breaths heave from your lips in panicked spurts, as you crawl under the latticed underbelly of the trailer, mud plastering to your elbows, your brothers coat.

Seraphites. Fucking Seraphites.

You'd rather it be a herd of infected.

Especially when you hear a dog's frantic, frothing string of furious barks.

"She was just over here. She can't be far," a male voice boom's authoritatively, too close for comfort. "She's close."

The mud must be deflecting the dogs of your scent, as you can make out their nearby blood-thirsty sniffing. You quietly lather it on your face, smearing it all over your exposed skin, suppressing your labored breathing.

Two Seraphites enter the trailer you're tucked beneath. The floor screeches precariously under their footing, inching closer to where you lay. You shimmy toward the small gap on the opposing side of the crawlspace, accidentally slicing your cheek on a stranded, dangling pipe in your attempt to avoid them.

You grimace, stifling the whimper rising in your throat, the split searing your cheek, hot blood leaking down your face.

It's only a few seconds later when the previously sedated, off-course dogs begin to bark ravenously, harmonizing as they bound for you in a frenzy.

They must've smelled the blood.

You curse openly now, clambering for the small opening, shredding it open with your adrenaline-piqued strength, stumbling to your feet and dashing down the hill.

"There she is!" Someone hollers, followed by a stampede of Seraphites hurdling behind you, gunshots renting the evening air.

Bullets whistle by in whirs as you stagger zig-zaggedly away from them, the dogs barking intensifying as they speed through the slick grass.

"Fuck," you seethe, tearing through the terrain, toppling down the hill, nearly losing your balance. You manage to shoot over your shoulder without falling, clipping a Seraphite on her waist, sending her plummeting to the ground.

More resounding gunshots. Exchanged shouts. One of the dog emits a loud, wounded whimper.

You run far and fast enough that you lose the dogs for a couple of minutes. You press yourself against a wide berthed tree and breathe raggedly, painfully, rubbing a heap of mud onto your gash, blanketing the blood in it.

You barely have time to catch your breath when a twig snaps to your left.

And you barely have time to react before a body is pummeling into you, knocking you to the rain-sullen floor, eliciting a grunt out of you.

You blindly wrestle the man off of you, stabbing him directly in the gut with the knife you'd thieved. He gets a powerful punch in despite the wound you'd inflicted, your head reeling back, slamming into rock.

The world spins around you, blood coats your tongue, but you stab him again, twisting it up and penetrating an organ, a guttural scream tearing through his throat. It weakens him enough that you manage to shove his body weight off of you, and he rolls onto the wet moss with a thud.

He reaches weakly for your ankle, and you flip the knife, bringing it down on his skull with a deafening, sickening crunch, as it spears through scalp and drills through bone.

You don't bother beholding the gruesome scene or dislodging your new weapon from his head; you turn away from the act you'd committed and hobble away, vision distorted and mind fogged from the impact of his attack.

You slip the fully loaded shotgun off your shoulder and cock it, creeping back toward where you had fled. If you didn't kill them all now, they'd track you back to the base.

There were five that chased and fired at you; two of which were accompanied by a hellhound. One of the dogs was seemingly injured in the crossfire, leaving one dog, and four Seraphites, if you exclude the woman you'd momentarily impaired. The man you killed must've been stationed in the woods, meaning there had to be more located somewhere.

You do all the calculations mentally, your shoulders strung high in alert, eyes feverishly darting around, assessing the vicinity. The sun was setting, darkness eclipsing the trees.

Another cycle of distant gunshots ricochet through the forest, from where you had run. No dogs barked. Everything around you remained unmoving. Your fear had taken you far.

Eventually, you arrive back to the yawning field. The trailers were pierced with steaming bullet holes, blood spattering the rusted metallic sidings. Three Seraphites stand back to back in the opening, including the pixie-cutted woman you'd shot, muttering apprehensively amongst themselves.

You crouch behind a bush, aiming at the cluster of people. One of the dogs lay unmoving and rigid, face-up in the grass, a puddle of blood accumulating around its body. Your brow pinches in bewilderment as you notice a Seraphite girl sprawled lifelessly beside it.

And another one, by the feet of one of the living soldiers, his gun clutched tautly to his chest. He flickers his gaze around dubiously, frightfully, mimicking yours and the others confusion.

You take advantage of their preoccupation with their uncounted for enemy and lock in on the befuddled man, zeroing in on his head. You steady your hold, let it linger on him, before pulling the trigger.

It blasts through him, brains and blood exploding through the air, birds flocking from the trees with high-pitched guffaws. You'd already vacated your spot when the other two began listlessly shooting in that direction.

You seek new lodging behind an abandoned CRV, studying them from a new angle. You zone in on one of the women, finger hovering over the trigger, when two gunshots erupt. Seamlessly killing each of them.

You hesitate for a brief second, before deigning to head back the way you had come, not wanting to cross paths with the dangerous, exceptional force that had swept in and took each of them down one by one.

The past gunshots ring perilously, hazily in your ears. You lethargically flick the drying mud off of your face, trudging through the forest, still wary of any potential threat, as the person who'd been capable of single-handedly decimating that entire group of Seraphites was still wandering through these woods somewhere with the knowledge you were alive.

You're nearing the old farmhouse you were scavenging earlier when a soft, hesitant, questioning whistle sends you halting in place. You tuck yourself behind a tree, scouting for the source of the noise. They repeat the whistle, more insistently.

You shift to step out from behind the tree when a calloused hand clasps over your mouth, steering you into a lithe, toned body. You struggle against the firm, strapping grasp, hot breath fanning your ear.

"Quiet." A soft, raspy female voice murmurs lowly. Arm secured around your waist, anchoring you to her blood-soaked front. Her words tickle your cheek as she whispers, "We're not alone."

You reluctantly concede, only lightly squirming in her oppressive hold. Fearing that if you refuse to comply, she'll aim her wrath at you next. Loathing that she can feel the trepidation emanating through you, the rapid thundering of your heart against her arm.

Boots rifle through the damp leaves, the hushed footing sloshing through mud. Your wheezy breathing escalates as your unknown captor leisurely maneuvers around the tree, grasp on you unyielding as she expertly avoids the prying Seraphite.

"Shh. Easy now." The woman mutters with lethal, calm calculation. The soft, fatal edge filtering her tone sending an unexpected, quavering shudder through your icy body.

You nod stiffly under her sweaty palm, and she marginally appeases her bone-crushing grip on you. She slowly, deliberately removes her hand from your mouth, absentmindedly dragging it down your chin, her rough fingers ghosting your jaw.

You anxiously glance down to find your heels on top of her scuffed boots and stumble off of her in alarm. Her hand catches your waist, grave-cold digits inching up your jacket, clawing at bare skin, as she yanks you back behind the tree.

You make to glance at her in a conjunction of gratitude and terror, but she had dissipated seamlessly, whirring by like a vengeful phantom in the night as she stations herself behind an adjacent tree, back plastered to the moss-cushioned, sappy trunk. Elaborately designed switchblade in hand.

She eyes her target, deadpan, excluding the twitch of her bruised under eye. She presses a trembling finger to her chapped lips, slicing a cautionary glare at you.

You sardonically hold your breath, emphatically puffing your cheeks, and you swear you discern an amused lilt to her lips. Or perhaps it was just the waning, dimming sun light, glazing over her slim figure, quelling dancing shadows across her battered face.

Whatever it was vacuumed out of her face, overcome by a grim, stoic solidity, when the Seraphite inched hesitantly in her direction. She creeps around the base of the tree as he rounds it, leisurely prowling up to him.

It happens briskly, lightening-quick— you blink and she was fisting his unruly hair and hauling him back, baring his throat to her— which she drills through efficiently and relentlessly, blood spraying in jagged spurts, sprinkling her wrath-warped face.

Another whistle cuts distantly through the humid air.

She's already slipping through the night-shrouded greenery before he even falls, his gurgled, floundering whimpers following him down as he thuds to the ground, blood still sputtering out of him, large frame twitching.

She disappears through the vast darkness of impending nightfall, her bloodied knife glinting faintly, distantly in the minute moonlight, as she takes determined strides toward the source of the second whistle.

Horror clutches your heart and squeezes unabashedly as you linger, the man's lifeless body still pulsating with the remnants of life it harbored.

You cast a suspecting glance around, the brush tranquilly silent, death idling in the dampened air.

And then you throttle back the way you were originally headed, wanting to put as much space between you and the ominous woman as tangibly possible, in case she returned, regretting keeping you alive.

You don't make it very far.

An arrow soars through the air and strikes the back of your thigh, puncturing flesh, narrowly missing the bone. Searing, white-hot pain bursts through your body as you slam to the ground with a sharp cry— your scream ricocheting through the trees.

You clamber for purchase, using your arms to crawl through the dense mud, dragging your injured leg dejectedly. The pain scathing, shooting up your body in fissures of agony, as you seethe through your teeth, the full arrow protruding from your skin.

You hear the whistle of a second arrow and duck. It spears through the earth inches from your head. You speed up, using your unwounded knee to push you forward, colorful dots edging your vision.

Twigs snap all around; muffled shouts resounding through the forest, an electric current of danger thrumming through your numbing body, as you drag yourself weakly, futilely.

You halt under a curling, dripping fern, fumbling for the arrow gauging your thigh. You take a few deep, alleviating breaths, before ripping it from your leg, stifling a scream at the scathing pain. Crimson saturates your pants, blooming in a dark pool.

Seraphites are storming by urgently, mud flicking off their boots. You remain unnoticed by a quad of them that hurdle by.

For a couple minutes it's silent. You don't move, afraid that if you shift even slightly, you won't be able to suppress the noise that would leave you at the blistering, twinging agony.

You think you're remotely safe, shielded from searching eyes, superficial wound already sealing.

That is before your head is unexpectedly cracked against something colossal, and your wisked away into a world of unfathomable darkness.

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Drip.

Your finger twitches, pulse thumping in the pads.

Drip.

Your heartbeat thunders through your skull, the drumming nearly muffling the faint noise. Your face spasms; the mobility slowly begins creeping in, though your mind has been reduced to a vacant chamber of incoherence.

Drip.

The hairs on the back of your neck stiffen. A keen awareness begins to slither back into your numbed body; you're not alone. Your mind may be buzzing, it's cognition still restoring by the second, but your body tingles under watchful eyes. You remain frozen.

Until a boisterous crackle sends you lunging up, triggering a sharp intake of breath. You gasp for air, shaking violently, your vision still murky from earlier's collision.

Through your fragmented sight and a stream of dense smoke, you decipher a red figure. They hover just across from you, the small, roaring fire the only barrier dividing you from the eerily, predatorily still stranger.

You blink rapidly, disorient. "Who are you?" you bleat, voice hoarse with misuse. You attempt to lift your hands as a last resort of protection, to find them bound in front of you. You wriggle them senselessly, panic bubbling in your chest, the thick, tethered rope rubbing your skin raw.

The figure's head tilts inquisitively. "Who are you." A husky, feminine voice drawls.

That voice...

You gulp, saliva syrupy like molasses. It's the girl; you knew from the way her voice alone sent a bolt of hot, electrifying shivers up your spine. "You," you breathe softly, licking your teeth, the taste of your own blood relinquishing on your tongue. "You're the girl. You helped me."

The figure straightens, rigid, arm dangling off her thigh as she crouches before the fire. Though you can't directly see her eyes through the haze, you can feel her gaze penetrating through you, prying you apart piece by piece.

She's silent for a moment, before picking up a stick and delicately prodding the flames, the smoke lightly defusing, the embers flickering. "I was going to kill them all anyway." She informs blithely, shrugging with one bandaged shoulder.

You could see her clearer than before, now; she was doused head to toe in crimson. Blood billowed down her sharp face, dripping to the floor in slow but ferocious spatters. The blood accentuated the verdant-blue of her crystalline eyes, dull and piercing yours. "I could tell you weren't one of them. And I don't kill just for the fuck's of it."

You sit in uneasy silence, studying her outline apprehensively. She withdraws her switchblade from her pocket and continues, "Which raises the question; if you aren't one of them, who are you?" She asks conspicuously, as if to herself, as she begins sharpening the blade.

You hesitate, your mouth dry as you reluctantly offer her your name. You know better than to share anything beyond that; the WLF had everyone under lockdown. Abby believes Nora's murder was a targeted, vengeful attack, and had warned all of you not to disclose your ties, in case you stumble upon someone who knows the killer.

"Do you move alone?" The woman interrogated unabashedly, peering down at the knife as she ran a dirty rag across its shiny surface.

"No," you admit, swallowing harshly, shaking your head. "It's me and my brother. He's blind, so I go out and get supplies, he protects our stuff."

Half truths are the most believable lies.

"Where did you two come from?"

"Ohio," you respond baldly. "We left with our family, but. It's just us now."

She pauses to assess you for a moment. "I lost someone too." She mutters, haunt dwindling in her eyes.

It's your turn to analyze her. Even caked in grime and unapologetically coated in her victims blood, she was beautiful. Her mussed auburn hair was partially tied back out of her angular face, her features neatly carved like a statues, emphatic and naturally alluring. Her eyes were a brewery, swirling with color and indistinguishable emotion, framed by expressive eyebrows, one of them slitted.

Maybe it's wrong to look at her— the woman who'd shamelessly, brutally wiped out dozens of people before your eyes— and notice these things.

But you've always been an optimist.

You can tell by the wariness glinting in her eyes that she doesn't share that sentiment.

"I'm sorry to hear that," you whisper sincerely, sorrowfully, gulping down the lump of emotion cementing in your throat.

She glances away, her jaw clenching. A muscle spasms in her blood-spattered neck. "Yeah," she whispers tightly, the word emitting from her lips in an unintentional seethe. "Yeah, I'm sorry too."

There's an awkward duration of silence.

"So..." you snort, and she startles at the noise, glancing up at you in bewilderment. Her swampy blue gaze roving over your slick face. "Can you maybe untie me now?" You lift your bound wrists in emphasis, arching a brow, trying to appear undeterred by her astute stare.

Her eyes brighten vaguely. "Why? You don't like it?" She teases monotonously, a frail smirk tugging at her cracked lips. Your cheeks tingle with warmth at the insinuation, and you shift, coyly angling your face away from the blood-soaked beauty.

"Not when it's against my will, no," you respond, half-quipping.

"But when it's not?" She raises a challenging brow, that sort-of smirk still pulling at her lips.

Against your better judgement, a conclave of butterflies erupt in your stomach, fluttering around. It's evident that she's just joking, which, in contrast to her rumpled, grizzly appearance, is funny in itself. The fear you felt around her from before seems to have dissipated and been replaced by a morbid curiosity.

"Untie me and try again. We'll find out."

"Huh," she coughs out a sheepish laugh, sliding her thumb across her lip, ridding the blood that had dripped there. She's silent for a moment, before pointedly clearing her throat. "That wound was pretty gnarly." Her voice comes out in a ragged breath.

You smile to yourself at her sudden timidity, glancing down at your thigh. Crimson blossomed through the bandage enveloping your wound— she must've dressed it herself, when you were unconscious. Which means she must've also...

"Did you carry me here?" You question in disbelief. She must be insurmountably strong if she was able to move your dead weight...

"Yeah," she clears her throat again, eyes uncertainly darting between you and her blemished green backpack. She grazes a finger over a tiny spaceship pin clipped to the front contemplatively. "It wasn't very far from where you dropped."

"Ah," you chirp airily, nodding slowly, watching her unzip the front pouch and unveil a sack of cashews. "Well... thanks."

She hums noncommittally, tossing the sack of nuts to you. You eye her warily, awaiting her curt nod of confirmation, before ripping it open and gratefully popping a couple in your mouth. She watches you eat mutely, blankly.

A gentle stream of dewy morning sunlight begins to beam through the torn netting of the rusted window, softly illuminating your previously shadowed surroundings. It's the garage of the farmhouse you were looting before.

The loot.

Your chewing slows, and you cast your gaze around frantically in search of your bag. And your guns. They're no where to be found.

"I left all your stuff there," the girl states knowingly, shrugging at the look of pure panic on your face. "It was too heavy for me to carry both you and you're stuff. We'll go back for it once the sun rises."

The implication she'd be accompanying you made a part of you uneasy; but on the other hand, you were thankful you wouldn't have to relocate your things all alone.

"Okay..." you reply dubiously, flexing your bound wrists, the muscles beginning to ache. "When am I getting these off? It's not like I can hurt you. I'm unarmed."

She shoves off the concrete and to her feet with a soft grunt, absentmindedly rubbing her side, wincing at her own touch. She shoulders her bag, smiling down at you wolfishly. The orange glare of the dimming fire reflects off her blood-stained face. "Not yet."

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

You examine your reflection in the rippling water. A cracking layer of mud mutates your face, greases your hair. You cup a handful of oil-contaminated water and splash it into your face, rubbing vigorously, the now wet rope heavy against your wrists.

Sunlight gleams through the overhead awning of leaves, ricocheting off the water. The morning birds chime in benign song; the rest of the encompassing world silent, save for the gurgling of the stream. Fog creeps in from the distant forestry; dew speckles the frost-tipped grass.

You pat the dampness from your eyes with your sleeve and glance at the woman. She's half-submerged in the pond, plumes of blood roiling off of her, tainting the water a murky crimson. She scrubs her blood-crusted arms vehemently, grimacing, pointedly disregarding you.

You waltz over to the large, upturned rock where she'd draped her coat, moving slowly and methodically as to not disengage her from her trance. You toss your coat down beside it and unlace your boots, setting them aside, eyes trained on her carefully, still afraid that one wrong move could send her lurching.

On the trek here, she'd been passive and silent, her face ghoulish and tense. It was as if with the rise of dawn came the fall of her peace; there was tension in her jaw, and determination in her strides. Though she'd been the one to suggest accompanying you, she seemed suddenly inconvenienced by it, like she was in a haste to finally be rid of you.

Which, gladly. You didn't want to be tied up and leashed around any more than she wanted you trailing her and nosing her plans.

She may have helped you, nursed you back to health, but you didn't forget what she was capable of; the mass destruction at her singular hands.

You wanted to remain on her good side, or whatever side emboldened her to save you, for as long as you could; at least until you were released from her clutches.

You peel off your socks and keep the rest of your clothes on— a soiled green camisole and blood-stained Levi's— and hesitantly breach the shore of the cold water, creeping toward her unsurely. You gasp quietly when the icy water rises to your midriff, raising your goose-pimpled arms over the surface, teeth clattering.

"How are you not freezing!?" You yelp as you dive into a breaststroke, swimming past her, shivers wracking your body. You spin around and float on your back, exhaling obnoxiously. It's hard to move without using your arms, but you manage to keep yourself afloat with just your legs.

She glances at you furtively, her eyes flickering between your face and your chest, before chagrinly dropping back to her arm. "It's not bad," she mumbles mundanely, her skin raw and blistering from her violent scrubbing.

You notice a bold tattoo curling over the length of her forearm. Curiously, you inch nearer to her, taking in the ink. It's a detailed moth atop

a long, winding fern.

"Cool tat," you chirp, absentmindedly extending a finger and lightly caressing the thick line of ink. She stiffens but doesn't recoil, her lowered eyes meeting yours uncertainly.

"Thanks," she says gruffly, simply, retracting her hand, eyeing you for a prolonged second before returning to her scrubbing. This time she soaks a cloth she must've cut from her shirt. She half-heartedly sweeps her hair off her neck and runs it down her back, blood beading off in loud droplets.

You take a step back and fully duck yourself into the water; despite its nearly debilitating chill, it was refreshing— the mud and blood flaking off and floating in particles around you. You aggressively massage the water into your hair, digging out the caked-up grime to the best of your ability with your bound wrists partially disabling you.

You break the surface with a gentle gasp for air and find the woman staring at you. Except this time, instead of sheepishly breaking your gaze, her stare remains resolute. Her eyes leisurely rove over your face, where water drips languidly from your lashes and scars brand your skin, and down your chest, where your nipples are peaked from the cold.

You feel them harden further at her gaze, as it seems to indulgently trace the shape of them. You swear you detect a hitch in her otherwise steady breathing before her eyes wander, slowly, back up to your face, darkening when they meet yours.

She doesn't say anything, her now mainly bloodless face masterfully blank. You tentatively take a couple steps closer, the ground rough and littered beneath your feet, until she's practically peering down at you. Freckles form a vast constellation on her cheeks and nose, a light smattering dusting her face. A nearly microscopic scar mars her lip.

"You never told me your name," you say pointedly, raising a brow, projecting an illusion of confidence. Her eyes dart to the roguish smile splaying on your lips, and you lick them subconsciously, the rancid tang of dirty water dissolving on your tongue. "You know mine. Doesn't seem fair."

She contemplates you for a second, craning her chin up, donning a faint smirk of her own. "Ellie."

You sink deeper into the water, shielding the entire upper half of your body, peaking up at her. "Well, Ellie," you taste her name on your tongue, drawling it out deliberately, precisely, as you attempt to swim backwards. "It's not very easy to swim with no hands."

"Then stop swimming." She states matter-of-factly, and you roll your eyes, gliding towards the shore nonetheless.

But on the way up, your knee grazes something sharp, and you hiss a curse, wincing internally. You dip your fingers into the water and fumble for the object, forcefully yanking it out of the mud where it's lodged.

It's a thick shard of glass.

You glance over your shoulder at Ellie, blissfully unaware and dragging the cloth down her reddened face, before pocketing it covertly and marching up the shore.

You linger for a moment, water dripping out of your hair and off your seeping body, before wringing out as much as you could and calling, "Gonna go piss, be right back!"

Ellie doesn't respond. You take that as your cue to go, hurrying through the dense tree line and crouching behind a hefty bush. You strain your neck to peak at her through the branches, assuring yourself she's still preoccupied, before pulling out the shard and sawing into the rope.

You saw and saw and saw, slowly but surely cutting through the rope, its grip loosening by the second.

A twig snaps behind you.

You swivel around swiftly, freezing in horror as Ellie stares down at you, her switchblade unsheathed. You hadn't heard her wading through the water; she'd moved silently and stealthily.

Her face is blank, that expertly devoid expression she'd tailored when hunting down those Seraphites plastered on.

She reers the knife back, the only sign of life the twitch of her upper lip. You close your eyes and brace for the impact; this was it. You should've played the long game, gained her trust, earned your freedom. Now she was going to slaughter you like the rest.

You flinch at the grunt that tears through her lips as she brings the blade down.

Only instead of agony, blade breaking flesh, your hands snap to the ground, free of unbearable tension.

You fearfully squint down at your wrists; the rope now split in half, cuffing your wrists but no longer knotted before you. You stretch them apart, rolling your shoulders, looking up at her with pure, undiluted trepidation, gulping.

She meets your gaze unapologetically and throws your coat down at you. "Let's go," she says dispassionately, cooly, already turning away and marching up the hill. "Your stuff isn't far."

. . .

[amoxicillin-tangent]

"her · it · age"

property that is or may be inherited; an inheritance.

i visit my hometown for the first time in a decade. i have never felt more or less like me. before today, i was no one because i had nowhere to remember and nothing that was truly mine. and now i feel like someone again. someone with roots.

my roots are filthy, nasty, rotten. set in a town with more bayous than banks, backwater, backwoods. my roots are set in trailer parks with moon crater puddles of stagnant water. my roots are set in putrid places where flowers refuse to bloom.

but at the corner right past the railroad that goes on forever, there is a trailer home without air conditioning where the hummingbirds fly. that is where my murky, trashy, broken roots begin and they are mine.

i buy a french vanilla cappuccino from a corner store that's open all night. the cashier takes one look at me and say "that'll be a dollar forty-nine. yer one-a dem Gauthier girls, aintcha?" and I nod politely, say yes ma'am i am, though i'm a Gauthier in face and not name. i pay a dollar bill and 2 quarters for my drink. she gives me a dime in change. by the time i realize she got it wrong, it's too late for me to turn back. i pocket the 10-cent piece. maybe I'll frame it.

there's a man selling peaches by the basket on the roadside. i buy a single one. it drips down my chin and tastes like heaven like home, and the scent won't leave my breath. i turn the car around and go back, understanding now why he sells them in batches of 20.

the clouds are fallen angels turning their backs on the world. everything prays for the south-- the grass, the grain, the dirt. eventually the angel clouds turn back around, casting their shadows at the rusted crucifix on Margie's purple wall. 

there are no towers on the horizon, no mechanical sepulchers sinking their teeth into the ground to drink the oil like parched soil drinks the year's first rainfall. there are no towers here, just trees for miles and angel clouds and rickety train-cars fallen on their sides.

the roads are almost empty, where they exist at all. there is more traffic at night. some of it is ghosts. no one questions this.

the neighbor ladies sip sweet tea and their gossip sounds like ice cubes clinking against smudged glasses, "didja hear Jessica's baby ain't right in the head?" "sure ain't. and who would be, under the circumstances? can't believe she married Chantelle." "funny, i never reckoned she'd be a dyke." there is an edge of disdain in their tea-glass voices, overshadowed by boredom.

strange things happen in the church on 1st street. the trains rush through the town. before anyone hears or sees them, they make their presence known by shaking the ground. everything is dilapidated now. the buildings are broken like a child's lincoln log castles. the families are shattered like mother's good vases.

the morning light comes and dew glistens over everything, spiderwebs stretch out bigger than my face, clover fields and dove feathers and honeysuckles litter the ground. 

everything has changed but its all the same, there are still pieces of me scattered through the world. at least i have this one back.

it's time for me to leave.

[marveltrumpshate]

Want to participate in Marvel Trumps Hate, but don't know what to offer? Think outside the box!

Stumped on what to offer because you don't write fic or draw? Marvel Trumps Hate welcomes a huge variety of fanworks and fan labor (see our sign-up post) so there are different ways you can contribute. You'll be amazed by the breadth of skills, talents, knowledge, and types of creative expression found in fandom!

Here's a smorgasbord of offers that we've either had before or seen people discuss as possibilities for MTH 2023 or future years to help inspire you.

ART (VISUAL/ILLUSTRATIVE)

Single-page and multi-page comics

Paintings (oil, acrylic, gouache, watercolor)

Stained glass/suncatcher

Mixed-media artwork on canvas

Ink-on-bristol art

Embroidery on canvas

Pour paint/spin art

AUDIOVISUAL WORKS

Podfics

Videos (fic trailers, themed edits, vids set to songs)

BETA SERVICES

Editing

Cheer reading

Soundboarding/planning

Fact-checking

Culture-picking

Sensitivity reading

Knowledge about specific topics or experiences (e.g., identities, lifestyles, professions, interests, fields of study)

CRAFTS & MERCH

Candles

Lip balms

Soaps

Scented beanbag-style sachets

Candy/chocolate/baked goods

Pins, magnets, patches, charms, standees, key chains, ring holders, calendars, stickers, bookmarks

Sculptures

Ceramic mugs and other items

Apparel/wearable accessories (shirts, jackets, scarves, gloves/mittens, hats, face masks, regular masks, cowls)

Tote bags, itabags with custom window shapes, leather dice bags, wallets, pouches/pencil cases

Plushie animal or Tsum Tsum versions of Marvel characters

Dolls (crochet, needle felt, matte board, hand-sewn)

Embroidery hoops/wall art and cross stitch pieces

Jewelry (diamond painting, macrame, metal, crochet, wire, beads)

Woodwork/wood burning (cheese board, box/chest, USB stick, coasters, photo frame, alphabet blocks)

Glasswork

Custom Funko Pops

Paper cut light boxes

Pillow cases, quilted pillows, baby blankets, dishcloth/washcloths, potholders

Handmade leather journals

Linoleum stamps

Dog toys

Artbooks and paper doll books

Hand dyed yarn skeins

DIGITAL

Gifsets

Graphics/edits

Mood boards

Photo manips

Fic covers/posters/banners

Icons and headers

Webweaving

Tumblr layouts

FAN LABOR & TRANSLATION

Typesetting

Bookbinding

Names, tags, and summaries for fics

Audio/sound editing for podfics

Book cover design and printing

Art/comic/fic translation

Website/game coding

WRITING

Poetry

Meta posts

Social media AUs

Whether you can do something on this list or something else altogether (we're sure there are a lot of other things that you can do that we haven't thought about or seen before), we hope you'll consider signing up before the deadline: September 30, 11:59 PM ET.

[culinaryaspiration]

my latest obsession has been country living in riverblossom hills, especially for my sims in the culinary career track.

here are some of my favorite pics so far.

(image descriptions under the cut)

Courtley Manor Country Radio

[id: a series of eight photos from the sims 2 taken with the in-game camera. the first one features a male rancher with long black hair in a ponytail, wearing a black cowboy hat, bluejeans, and a black leather vest over a white t-shirt, cooking burgers on an outdoor grill, with a black stallion prancing in a corral in the background near a pig and three chickens in a field. the second is of an auburn haired young woman in an apron making lunchmeat sandwiches in a country style kitchen. third is of another auburn haired young woman in pigtail braids and red plaid pajamas cooking pancakes on a cowpoke stove in a country style kitchen with terracotta floor tiles and wallpaper with a floral print. fourth is of a trailer with a flat metal roof and duraluminum siding surrounded by evergreen trees, a trail of smoke rising up from its tall thin cylindrical metal chimney, and a distant barn in the background. fifth and sixth are of the woman with the braids now fully dressed with a grey cowboy hat on and a green flannel shirt with blue denim overalls, first picking oranges in her orchard and then adding them to her juicer bowl in the kitchen in preparation to make juice. in the seventh she's talking with some folks on the porch of an old west saloon with clapboard siding, and in the eight and final pic she's seated inside on a contempto adirondack loveseat sipping coffee (not espresso) next to a tire stack end table and a lit shoddy barrel stove made from a rusty old oil drum mounted on cinder blocks. /end id]

[zojastankovic]

༊*·˚ Harvesting and collecting olives ˚·*༊

┊🫒┊Activity title: Harvesting olives in Croatia

┊🫒┊Duration: 8h

┊🫒┊Type of activity: activity and service

༊*·˚ Activity description

╰┈➤ Olive harvesting has been traditionally starting after November 1st for decades. This year, the tradition was broken. Experts advised to start earlier, so the first harvests started at the end of September.

╰┈➤ On harvest days, everything else stops. Everything is subordinated to the collection of those small fruits that mean health. People are gathering to collect olives - no one is sick, no one is in cafes or on the streets during the day. Everyone is in the olive grove. And help is always welcome.

╰┈➤ We went to the field early in the morning. Harvesting begins as soon as the dew disappears. The terrain is inaccessible, interspersed with large rocks and stones. It is done in 3x2 teams, i went with my mom. First, the team sets up large, long awnings around the trees. When the awnings are set, a team with machines (mambas) appears to shake the olives from the tree. The olives fall on the awnings, which are collected by the third team.

╰┈➤ When collecting the awnings with olives, the fruits are cleaned from the branches with rakes and the remaining leaves are removed. Then the olives are bought in buckets, taken to the "grizaiola" to be sifted once more and the rest of the leaves and twigs removed. They are packed in a bag in which they will be transported to the oil mill.

╰┈➤ We finished harvesting around 4:00 PM because the visibility was decreasing. we cleared about 30 trees. Then the olives are taken to the oil mill for processing. And that's just a real experience. A long column of SUVs with trailers full of bags formed an almost kilometer-long line. And that's where the magic began. All the pickers were outside the vehicle, grouped into groups of 10- 15 people. When I got out of the car, I heard happy tiredness, laughter, shouting. Everyone was holding glasses in their hands and happily discussing. Our host explained to us that this meeting is an ancient custom, that is, a way of communication and exchange of information. Everyone has been in the field for months, everyone spends their days picking olives, and this was a time for socializing. No phones.

╰┈➤ As I passed by different groups of happy pickers, I noticed that the topics were the same: how much did everyone pick, how many trees, what's the weather like tomorrow, and the question of all questions, "how much did the olives drop"? I asked for an explanation...not so long ago, for 100 kg of harvested fruit, olives "threw" 17 liters of oil each. Now it is much less, and the crop "threw" 9 liters to us.

༊*·˚ Learning outcomes:

┊🫒┊Demonstrate that challenges have been undertaken, developing new skills in the process

┊🫒┊Demonstrate how to initiate and plan a CAS experience

┊🫒┊Demonstrate the skills and recognize the benefits of working collaboratively

┊🫒┊Show commitment to and perseverance in CAS experiences

༊*·˚ Reflection:

I learned a lot about collecting olives and generally about peoples life style in those regions. I also learned about their culture, mindset and interests because i spent a whole day with them. Even though it was hard and tiring work, i enjoyed it. The negative side of this whole event are the things i learned about climate change. As i already mentioned, collecting olives is becoming less profitable due to conditions created by climate change. But even with that on my mind, i had a great time with my mom and other people from Cres.

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[panosatthemovies]

Killers of the Flower Moon is the most important Martin Scorsese film in a while, dealing with the Osage murders of Indians by the white Americans while trying to steal their fortunes from the oil found in the fields that the government relocated them to after first taking their fatherland. In essence, this is a story of how America was born through gun violence and brute murders, especially against the indigenous tribes. It’s a story that echoes both the gangster movies of the past and the still unresolved issue of gun control that torments the country to this day. No wonder then that Martin Scorsese chose this as his passion project, acquiring the rights to the novel “Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murders and the Birth of the FBI” by David Grann before it was even published.

You see, Scorsese sees this as another Goodfellas, Mean Streets, or any other story about mobsters abusing society with violence. He gets how these people work. It's his thing. But in adapting the book's story, along with Eric Roth, he almost leaves out the FBI's founding and the investigation's who-done-it plot in favor of creating a saga similar to The Godfather. The resulting three and a half hours film has cinematic virtues unparalleled by most movies coming out from Hollywood these days: Big vistas filmed in amazing anamorphic cinematography by Rodrigo Prieto, great music by the late Robbie Robertson, and fantastic editing by the legendary Thelma Schoonmaker. But the script, perhaps due to late-time rewrites aiming to change the perspective from that of the white hero to justify the struggles of the Osage tribe, fails to provide valuable information to the viewer about who is who and what is going on. We don't understand the backstory of the tribe, why they were assigned a guardian to control their money, or how the whole community is basically organized against them. Nor do we see how exactly the newly formed FBI finally gets involved in solving the mystery of their murders.

We only get hints of all that while we focus on the love story between Leonardo DiCaprio and Lily Gladstone, manipulated by the former’s uncle, played by Robert De Niro. Their performances are truly great, although nothing new except Gladstone’s role. It’s no wonder, then, that the film becomes genuinely engaging only during the third part when the FBI investigation raises the stakes, and we start caring about what will happen next. But although the film is perhaps an hour too long, and it plays like a rehash of previous Scorsese tales, Martin still has a lot of new cinematic ideas to present, while he manages to create tension and an ominous atmosphere as well as to transport us into an unknown part of American history that has a lot to teach us about today.

B+

Trailer: https://youtu.be/7cx9nCHsemc

[phantom-does-a-thing]

you. drop your thoughts on the fnaf trailer and no one gets hurt

the animatronic designs look like the in game designs which, makes sense, yknow. But I don't really like the in game designs at all. Nonetheless, the teaser trailer which I have seen at least four times today, honestly? it makes me really, really excited for this movie. Like I can give the designs the benefit of the doubt (as long as they actually move like animatronics, that is how low my bar is and as long as they don't bleed oil any time in the movie I will be happy as a clam), the red eyes is stupid and I hope they don't do that throughout the entire movie but ohhhh this actually gets me really excited.

The trailer I thought looked really cool, really interesting, and while the animatronic designs still look stupid (they look just as stupid as in game so its okay!), they actually look like they fit the setting, which is good. I don't know a ton about the lore because I am definitely an outlier in this fandom but still! I think it looks really cool. It shows that the company making the movie at least has a handle on fnaf. They know what they are doing and they know how to handle the story and weight that they've been given to create.

It gives me a lot of hope for the movie and actually gets me excited so I really liked it! I was very iffy on the movie and I still kind of am because while my bar is so incredibly low, literally no other animatronic film (except the hug, that is a PHENOMENAL short film) has gotten higher than that bar. My standards are high, my bar is low, but this teaser trailer gives me hope.

The scene in the field with the kids is also really interesting! I hope theres a bit more to it besides the actual restaurant itself and I think that it's gonna be really good. Also the casting of what we've seen seems really good, I enjoy the casting a lot :).

All in all, it gets me excited for the movie and thats what a trailer should do. It shows what they have done with their source material and shows that they at least somewhat know how to handle it! it gives me a little more faith in them to produce a good movie and I am sooooooooo excited thinking about it. Cannot wait for it to come out, genuinely.

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[atksids]

[ sam heughan, cis male, he/him, 42 ] One who better stay safe is [ sidney delgado ]. They are a [ firefighter ] who have been in Lancaster for [ less than a year ]. They are [ in favor of the wild coyotes/sinful ones ] and what they stand for. People say they are [ reliable ] and [ thorough ] but their enemies would say they are [ cynical ] and [ removed ]. They are described as [ warm beer on the steps of a trailer, a thirty year-old car that leaks oil but putters to life when needed, stale coffee made for you by a close friend ].

details. name: sidney "sids" delgado age / d.o.b.: 35 / march 13th, 1987 gender, pronouns & sexuality: cis-male, he/him, bisexual (technically in closet) hometown: lancaster, az petaluma, ca affiliation: civilian, associated with the sinful ones by family job position: firefighter, retired professional baseball player education: bachelor's in english from university of texas relationship status: single  children: none (he’d be such a bad parent.) positive traits: fair, honest, reliable, thorough negative traits: cynical, removed, one-track minded

history (to be fleshed out as character develops).

born out of wed-lock to john flemming and grace delgado, the true nature of sidney's existence was meant to be hush-hush. in the beginning, there was no true place he found himself calling "home". he would bounce around various locations in the south-west, staying with so-and-so there and those-guys here. it wouldn't be until sid was near twelve that he was able to settle down into a life in the small town of petaluma, california. if asked, he will say he is from cali, not arizona.

a constant in sidney's life was always baseball. when nothing else made sense to the young boy or went his way, there was always a ball and a bat waiting for him to let off steam. he dedicated himself to the sport, falling into it as a source of comfort when he and his mother moved state lines yet again, moved schools and counties. as long as he could play baseball wherever he went- he didn't care.

his mother's family had always been a presence in his life, and perhaps on some level he knew something about their way of life wasn't exactly how his friends' families operated, but he learned young not to ask too many questions, least you discover something you didn't want to know. the suspicious police officer that followed his relatives one too many times, the strange looks they'd give one another when he asked something they couldn't elaborate upon.

sidney know's good and well who his father is, not that anyone else knows that he does. a letter of correspondence between grace and michael fell into his lap on accident on the eve of his sixteenth birthday, and piece by piece things began to click. pressure had begun to build within him, and with every night of snooping sidney would embark on, it only continued to mount.

his passion for baseball paid off when he was afforded a full-ride sports scholarship to the university of texas. sidney took off to texas the second he could. he couldn't take the lies and facades that surrounded his existence with his mother. his family. he didn't care how much they loved him- was he not allowed to know the truth? did they think he'd just live complacently? whatever their reasons for pretending were, sidney just knew he couldn't take it anymore. he didn't need them to make it in life. he just needed to be good.

sidney's performance on the field throughout college netted him a spot in one of texas' double-a teams' rosters. he didn't care that he had to share an apartment with four other guys just to be able to afford a place to lay his head near the stadium. in his eyes, sidney had finally made it. it would take him another eight years to step foot into a triple-a arena as a player, but when he did, the elation sidney felt was like no other. though never a star player of the major league, sidney prided himself on being a reliable batter in the rotation, always appearing when needed. he lasted seven years playing at that level, before age began to catch up with him. at the age of thirty-four, sidney's time as a professional athlete drew to a close.

after a few strangly worded emails from his mother and uncle, sidney realized there was something afoot. just as the sinful ones move into lancaster, he, too, returns to the town of his birth seeking answers he was once complacent in not knowing about.

wanted connections.

(these are very very very loose ideas that i'm 100% up to polishing with you! sidney is a new character and im still developing him so everything below is a suggestion :3c)

work buddies: sid's taken up a job as a firefighter here in lancaster! anyone in a related field he'd interact with is free to chat him up

club related: because sid is Technically blood to the sinful ones, anyone who's been in the club for the past twenty-ish years has probably heard of grace's son, even if they don't know him.

club related, but this time with dramatic irony: sidney is also technically blood to the wild coyotes (drama). he knows about john and a bit about the wild coyotes, but he hasn't told a soul he knows. could this change if he becomes friends/forms a relationship of some kind??

baseball: sidney still loves the sport and sometimes comes and watches the grade school games at the schools around town. if your character has kids playing, sidney might crack a smile or two at their performance and have some nice words (wow!)

+ any standard connection ideas! (friends, hook-ups, drink buddies, neighbors, etc..)