#Procedural lapses

[seemabhatnagar]

High Court of Patna Reinstates Natural Justice, Awards Rs. 5 Lakhs Compensation for Wrongful Termination

The Appellant was not served with a show cause notice to defend herself violates the principles of Natural Justice hence High Court of Patna Quashed the Termination order of the Aganbari Sewika.

The termination was made solely on the grounds of pending criminal charges and the appellant was acquitted of the criminal charges therefore it is deemed inappropriate when she is acquitted.

Since the third-party interest was already created hence reinstatement was not feasible. The Court balanced the need for justice for the appellant by directing compensation instead.

Shubhadra Kumari v. The State of Bihar and 6 others

Letters Patent Appeal 828/2019

Before the High Court of Patna

Heard by Hon'ble Mr. Justice P B Bajanthri & Hon'ble Mr. Justice Alok Kumar Pandey J

Fact:

Shubhadra Kumari, was selected as an Anganbari Sevika in 2003. She was implicated in a criminal case in 2013, as such she was terminated in 2014 by the District Programme Officer (DPO) of Nalanda. Her termination was upheld by the Deputy Director (Welfare) of Patna Division in 2014. Subhadra Kumari-appellant challenged this decision before the High Court through a writ petition, which was dismissed by a Single Judge in 2019, leading to the present appeal.

Legal Issue:

Whether the termination of Shubhadra Kumari from the post of Anganbari Sevika was justified?

Points of Argument

Argument by the Appellant's Counsel:

The appellant had undergone training and had been discharging her duties satisfactorily since 2003, with no complaints regarding her absence before the criminal case.

Prior to the criminal case, she was ill and hospitalized, which justified her absence from work.

She was acquitted of the criminal charges in 2018, which should negate the basis for her termination.

The termination was carried out without serving a show-cause notice, without following proper procedures, and without giving her an opportunity to defend herself.

The termination was abrupt and lacked a proper inquiry, violating the principles of natural justice.

Respondents (State of Bihar and Others):

The termination was based on an inquiry report and due to her continuous absence from duty.

A notice was issued directing the appellant to appear and explain her absence, which could not be served due to her absence.

Given the serious nature of the criminal charges against her, the termination was deemed appropriate.

The termination was affirmed by the superior officers, indicating procedural correctness.

Court’s Observations:

No notice was served on the appellant, which is a violation of the principles of natural justice.

The court emphasized that both quasi-judicial and administrative actions must follow the principles of natural justice, ensuring fair procedures and avoiding arbitrary actions.

The court referred to Supreme Court judgments (D.K. Yadav vs. J.M.A. Industries Ltd. and State Bank of India vs. Rajesh Agarwal) that highlighted the necessity of fair play and reasonable procedures in administrative actions.

The court found that the termination was not justified solely based on the criminal charges, since the appellant was later acquitted.

[losprimeros]

lapse - pulmonary medicine [PROCEDURE 005]

[mandatory-blog-stop-asking]

Kirk's character in Court Martial is so insanely interesting to me considering the Kirk Drift phenomenon, because it's a full 50 minutes of Kirk refusing to even be slightly corrupt, no matter how easy it would be, and no matter how much he knows -- knows -- it would simply be a way for others to act in accordance to reality, ignoring red tape and bureaucracy to make sure a man of his position doesn't go down as a perjurer and a coward.

Finney's entire relationship with him was destroyed because Kirk, fresh into a shift, correctly pointed out in a report that Finney made a mistake that could have destroyed the ship. He could have just let it go, fixed it as he saw it and talked to Finney privately, but the thought of not following proper procedure never occurred to him, and he doesn't even given it the time of day when he's explaining the occurred.

Commodore Stone tries to give him an easy way out, tries to blame the immense pressure he's on, tries to give him plenty of leeway on why would he, the star of Starfleet, ever commit such a mistake as committing to safeguarding the ship before a single crewman in Yellow Alert as opposed to Red. And Kirk fucking yells at him for even suggesting that he doesn't get properly punished, if that is actually what happened. The idea of a Starfleet officer who's not perfect is genuinely offensive to Kirk, and the idea that he'd blame his own lack of efficiency for such a dire consequence makes him irate.

Even his attorney asks him if he doesn't want to just say he had a lapse and work for a lighter sentence. This after they're shown nearly irrefutable evidence that Kirk did perform the crime they're accusing him of, evidence that even Kirk can't explain. And he still says no, never. If I did it, I did it, but that's not what happened, and this is my story.

Kirk is willing to have whatever happen to him in a court of law, he's willing to throw out every day he's ever spent studying and fighting and exploring and taking and giving orders in his entire life, while fully aware that he did nothing wrong. Because if he doesn't, if he takes an easy way out, then the letter of the law doesn't apply to him. And if that's the case, then it's all bullshit.

And he doesn't do it all because he's a humorless cop who doesn't care about context. He does it because he lives his life assuming that the ideals he upholds are worth it, and work, and if that's even remotely true, then there's something wrong with the entire situation and he can prove it through completely legal means.

Imagine looking at this fucking character and going "Oh right, the one that shoots first, has sex shortly after and asks questions never, right?"

Kirk is so righteous and so real about Starfleet honor that the thought of getting special treatment makes him red in the face with anger.

His professionalism, sense of duty, perfectionism and sheer dedication to the gold and green is such a large part of his personality and behavior that he's got Spock comparing it, unprompted, under oath, pulling the Vulcan Race Logic Card on a court of law, to the fucking force of gravity.

[knight-a3]

Just some pre-triple changer Blitzwing and his best buddy Astrotrain.

Some ideas for what happened to the other triple changers(aka every successful experiment has a few failures preceding it)

I ramble on under the cut

SO! I know the S4 plans had it outlined that Black Arachnia was the one who did the triple changer procedure on Blitzwing, but it doesn't totally make sense for her to do it imo. None of the S4 plans were ever set in stone anyway, so it's not actually canon. I just don't see much precedent for her to do that. Where did this medical skill set come from?

Historically, iterations of Shockwave have been the resident unethical scientists. In TFA, he was shown to be capable enough to restore Arcee's memory, so I think there's grounds to believe he can still play that role.

Whoever it was, Blitzwing couldn't be the first test subject. What other triple changers do we know of that could potentially meet a tragic fate? 🤔

So my idea was that the Decepticons captured three autobots and decided to use them as test subjects for this revolutionary new triple changer idea. Two alt forms? Truly a game changer!

Broadside was a former con(due to his jet alt form) turned autobot. He was a total failure. Never made it off the operating table.

Sandstorm lasted a little longer. But his body soon rejected the modifications, and he went offline.

Springer lasted long enough to be rescued/escape. But his mental stability gradually declined until the mods failed and he also died.

After these three experiments failed, they turned to some of their own troops.

Octane was not a particularly well respected Decepticon, which is why he ended up being a test subject. He survived, but suffered severe mental damage and was deemed useless. Probably tossed out like trash and left to rust. If not outright killed.

Astrotrain: Considered the first success. The mental damages were minimized and he was initially fairly stable, but his transformation abilities became more sluggish over time. And he suffered increasingly severe mental lapses. He'd either stare vacantly or suddenly drop into recharge mode. They were worse if he didn't get enough energon, gradually requiring more and more to keep him going. Weapons capabilities were lost to conserve energy. He was on a transport mission when a lapse got him killed and Blitzwing injured(which made him the next triple changer test subject).

(Also, I don't like drastic mass shifting, so Astrotrain is bigger than the others. And I think I'm gonna treat him more like he's a portable space bridge, rather than big enough to carry multiple Decepticons. He can bridge others from the decepticon base to himself, or to base from himself (it's still a strategic disadvantage compared to the autobots' large network of space bridges). This requires Astrotrain to still physically travel places in order to transport others. And losing weapon capabilities requires an escort to travel with him. The other option is a pocket dimension like Swindle's)

Blitzwing: His personality was fractured, leading to erratic behavior. Turns out the fracture eased the processing load caused by the triple changing modification. But otherwise in working order physically and mentally. He's lasted longer than the others, and his condition hasn't deteriorated since.

ANYWAY, this has been my attempt to reconcile some headcanons with canon. While also maybe tweaking canon a little to fit

[contemplatingoutlander]

The House GOP is a circus. The chaos has one source.

Republicans spent two years sabotaging the U.S. House. Another two years would be ruinous.

Dana Milbank does a masterful job of describing just how dysfunctional the House GOP members have been in the past two years.

This is a gift🎁link for the entire article. Below are some highlights:

The Lord works in mysterious ways. Six weeks after his improbable rise from obscurity to speaker of the House in late 2023, Louisiana’s Mike Johnson decided to break bread with a group of Christian nationalists. [...] “I’ll tell you a secret, since media is not here,” Johnson teased the group, unaware that his hosts were streaming video of the event. Johnson informed his audience that God “had been speaking to me” about becoming speaker, communicating “very specifically,” in fact, waking him at night and giving him “plans and procedures.” [...] Today, Johnson’s run looks anything but heaven-sent. In the first 18 months of this Congress, only 70 laws were enacted. Calculations by political scientist Tobin Grant, who tracks congressional output over time, put this Congress on course to be the do-nothingest since 1859-1861 — when the Union was dissolving. But Johnson’s House isn’t merely unproductive; it is positively lunatic. Republicans have filled their committee hearings and their bills with white nationalist attacks on racial diversity and immigrants, attempts to ban abortion and to expand access to the sort of guns used in mass shootings, incessant harassment of LGBTQ Americans, and even routine potshots at the U.S. military. They insulted each other’s private parts, accused each other of sexual and financial crimes, and scuffled with each other in the Capitol basement. They screamed “Bullshit!” at President Joe Biden during the State of the Union address. They stood up for the Confederacy and used their official powers to spread conspiracy theories about the “Deep State.” Some even lent credence to the idea that there has been a century-old Deep State coverup of space aliens, with possible involvement by Mussolini and the Vatican.

The above article was adapted from Dana Milbank's (2024) book: Fools on the HILL: The Hooligans, Saboteurs, Conspiracy Theorists, and Dunces Who Burned Down the House.

[See more below the cut.]

And this is on top of the well-known pratfalls: The 15-ballot marathon to elect a speaker, the 22-day shutdown of the House to find another speaker, the routine threats of government shutdowns and a near-default on the federal debt that hurt the nation’s credit rating. They devoted 18 months to a failed attempt to impeach Biden, which produced nothing but Marjorie Taylor Greene publicly displaying posters of Hunter Biden engaging in sex acts. One “whistleblower” defected to Russia, another worked with Russian intelligence and is under indictment for fabricating his claims, and still another is on the lam, evading charges of being a Chinese agent. As soon as Biden withdrew his candidacy, they promptly forgot their probe of Biden’s “corruption” and rushed to launch a new series of investigations into Kamala Harris (over her record on border security) and Tim Walz (over his military service and “cozy relationship” with China). After a number of failed attempts, they did impeach Homeland Security Secretary Alejandro Mayorkas (the first such action against a Cabinet officer since 1876) without identifying any high crimes or misdemeanors he had committed; the Senate dismissed the articles without a trial. House Republicans created a “weaponization committee” under the excitable Rep. Jim Jordan (R-Ohio), but it was panned even by right-wing commentators when it produced little more than a list of conspiracy theories from the likes of Robert F. Kennedy Jr. and Tulsi Gabbard. They lapsed repeatedly into fits of censure resolutions, contempt citations and other pointless acts of vengeance. In all of its history, the House had voted to censure one of its own members only seven times; in the two weeks after Johnson became speaker, members of the House tried to censure each other eight times. [...] In lieu of consequential legislating, they passed bills such as the Refrigerator Freedom Act, the Gas Stove Protection and Freedom Act and the Stop Unaffordable Dishwasher Standards (SUDS) Act. On the House floor, the Republican majority suffered one failure after another, even on routine procedural votes. Seven times (and counting), House Republicans voted down their own leaders’ routine attempts to begin floor debates �� something that hadn’t happened once in the previous 20 years.

[toweringclam]

After reading some responses to the latest Doctor Who, "73 Yards," I realized that a folkloric faerie story might be alien to modern audiences. However, there's a good modern equivalent, and I thought I'd try my hand at putting the story in a more familiar form.

"73 Yards"

Item #: SCP-17347

Clearance Level: 2/Restricted

Object Class: Euclid

Disruption Class: 2/Elam

Risk Class: 3/Warning

Special Containment Procedures: All Foundation personnel are to maintain at least a 32-foot (10 meters) distance from SCP-17347-1 unless necessary to protect civilians, in which case personnel are to use antimemetic ear and eye covering to reduce exposure to her effects. Otherwise, Foundation personnel in the field are forbidden from approaching, interacting with, or acknowledging the existence of the entity in any way. Should this prove unavoidable, personnel are to disable all communication devices to prevent the effect spreading. Any Foundation personnel inadvertently exposed to SCP-17347-1's effects are to be administered class A amnestics and transferred to a different site. Should this fail to relieve symptoms, they are to be offered early retirement with full benefits and disability pay.

Grade C surveillance is to be maintained on SCP-17347-2 with a primary goal of preventing civilian exposure to SCP-17347-1's effects. While SCP-17347-2 will generally avoid being separated from SCP-17347-1, should this occur Foundation assets are to intervene and ensure the 73 yard (67.75 meter) distance is maintained.

Description: SCP-17347-2 is a 21-year-old female Caucasian approximately 5'2" (157 cm) tall, with green eyes and natural brown hair that she prefers to dye blonde. A major identifying feature is a scar on her right eyebrow of unknown origin. Her demeanor is generally cooperative despite signs of psychological trauma related to abandonment. Attempts to gain SCP-17347-2's cooperation should use the subject's given name, "Ruby S█████," while focusing on reassurance that she is not alone and that the Foundation has her best interests at heart.

SCP-17347-1 is an entity of unknown origin, appearing as an elderly female Caucasian with white hair and wearing a long black overcoat. Due to its anomalous properties, it is impossible to form a more precise image of the entity. Methods of indirect observation such as cameras always show the subject with the same resolution as a human eye with 20/20 vision observing the subject from a distance of 73 yards (67.75 meters). Even anomalous means of observation are subject to this effect.

SCP-17347-1 maintains a constant distance of 73 yards (67.75 meters) from -2. Despite having a demonstrable physical presence, she does not appear to move when observed, instead relocating between blinks or lapses in attention. This effect is observable even on recorded video. Objects offer no hindrance, and the entity is able to keep pace with the fastest available Foundation land vehicles.

Attempting to transport SCP-17347-2 via air, sea, or other methods where SCP-17347-1 would theoretically not be able to follow have thus far failed due to anomalous weather activity. The temperature will plummet rapidly and produce out-of-season snowfall, escalating to blizzard conditions, and in one case flash-freezing a portion of the English Channel. The effects abate immediately should efforts to transport SCP-17347-2 cease.

Any attempt to interact with SCP-17347-1, including but not limited to attempts to harm, hinder, communicate with, or describe the entity will trigger her memetic effects, and can spread to secondary subjects nearby or through live audio/visual communication. Anyone subject to these effects will develop an intense antipathy towards SCP-17347-2. In civilians, this most often manifests as fear, but it can take other forms, such as anger, disgust, hurt, and disdain. The particular manifestation appears to matter less than the effect: an immediate and overwhelming desire to completely distance oneself from SCP-17347-2 in the most expedient and thorough way possible, including refusing to enter an establishment she frequents, changing their name and moving to a different country, resigning public positions, and, in one case, self-termination. Amnestics have no effect on this, though they may be administered to affected individuals to reduce psychological trauma associated with past and theoretical future interactions with SCP-17347-2

Testing has concluded that this effect includes indirect and negative means of interaction, with no known limit on range. D-Class subjects proved unwilling to push a button if informed that it would expose SCP-17347-2 to an intense, loud noise, even under threat of termination.

Those affected by SCP-17347-1 will only be able to refer to her in the most vague terms, describing her as "Shaped like she is," or "Looking like she is supposed to." They are unable or unwilling to explain the source of their antipathy, even under extreme duress, with the most common response being, "Ask her," refusing to clarify whether they mean -1 or -2.

At all times, SCP-17347-1 performs a looping series of gestures that appear to be an attempt to communicate in a form of sign language. However, the gestures are either not found in ASL or BSL (American or British Sign Language), or performed so poorly as to be unrecognizable.

Discovery: SCP-17347 came to the Foundation's attention following a failed operation to apprehend SCP-17347-1 by UK paranatural security organization UNIT (Unified Intelligence Taskforce). UNIT director Dr. K███ L█████████-S██████ (Dr. K for brevity) was exposed to the effects during an operation and ordered all information on SCP-17347-2 purged from UNIT databases and her files burned, on grounds of "Wasting precious resources on someone who doesn't f██████ matter)." Embedded agents and spy software were alerted to the purge and managed to save some documents. Official UNIT liaisons attempted to recover the remainder of the documents, but Dr. K vehemently refused and threatened to cut ties between our organization if pressed on the issue, yet she readily accepted amnestics when offered, to "Get her out of my goddamn head forever."

Addendum 1: From recovered documents, SCP-17347-2 appears to be a former associate of PoI-3 ("The Doctor") though what relevance that may have is unknown. -2 has shown reluctance to speak on this subject explaining, "That's when it started. The second time someone abandoned me forever. Not the last, though. Not the last."

PoI-3 has not been sighted since the anomaly began.

Addendum 2: Additional anomalous properties only came t o light during the documentation process. All measurements related to her must be conveyed in Imperial units first, though metric can be provided in parentheses. Also, both entities must be referred to with feminine singular pronouns, even when referring to both of her. Further research into this effect with languages lacking singular feminine pronouns is pending.

(I thought about adding interviews and testing logs, but I think you get the idea, and this had better get me like 500 notes from how much effort I put into it even without that)

[paingoes]

Rubies

Ungrateful

(Content: living weapon whumpee, illness, self loathing, conditioning, past abuse, implied child abuse, caretaker new master?)

He was starting to even out. Delta no longer felt the need to sleep all day, nor did he feel like he might lapse back into sickness. Apollo and Kitty gave him the space he needed, but he still saw them often enough. Their conversations were very limited. Delta still had trouble forcing himself to speak, so scared of triggering the wrong reaction. But so far they had been nothing but patient. This too felt strange and new.

When all their exchanges had been through a screen, it had been much easier to manage. They existed to him mostly in concept alone. Even when they’d sent videos, they still felt fictitious. He had understood them more as characters from a book than he did as real people. 

That same attitude was not sustainable in a three dimensional space. Those two were flesh and blood. Even with the new collar, Delta’s idle mode powers were higher than they had been in years. As ever, it was concerned with forms. It felt out the shape of the space around him with small pulses throughout the day. He could feel their hearts beating in their chest, the minutiae of their movements. 

Real people presented complications that fictional ones did not. A very, very old voice in his head already dictated how he was meant to feel about them.

They risked everything for you and you didn’t even say thank you. All you’ve done is hide out in your room and ignore them when they speak to you. You are ungrateful. You are disrespectful. It is an unacceptable way to act around your superiors. You should be on your knees. You should be begging for forgiveness for what you’ve done.

He did not know whose voice it was, but it sounded ancient. It sounded like it had come all the way from genesis. He wondered whether it had been there all along. Maybe he just hadn’t been able to make it out clearly before. Right now, without work to distract him, it had grown impossibly loud.

Ungrateful, venomous thing. Did you forget what you are? Did you forget who you belong to? Don’t you dare try to speak. You are an object. I don’t ever want to see you acting like that again. You are not a person. Get down. You do not exist for any reason but to serve your superiors’ needs. You will speak when you are spoken to and nothing more. You will obey their orders and do nothing else. If you forget your place, I will happily remind you of it.

Delta pulled the pillow over his head. The barrage was more or less continuous. Something about being in a new environment must have triggered it. He had already internalized most of what the voice said a long time ago. He knew that. But the constant reminders of his own ingratitude still made him feel awful. He knew it wasn’t right for him to be hiding out like this. He was scared and he was exhausted, but it wasn’t an excuse. He’d been trained better than that. He exhaled, rising up from the bed. He’d put it off long enough.

He found Apollo first. He’d been standing in the side room right by the kitchen. It had been his mother’s studio at one point, now it was just a space with good lighting and a usable surface. He’d been trying to clean it out when Delta walked in.

“Oh! Hi!” Apollo was pleasantly surprised to see him emerge from his room. The soft fabric of his poncho swayed around him when he moved. Little glimpses of golden jewelry were just visible in between the curls of his red hair. He gazed warmly at Delta, his eyes betraying nothing.

This was so fucking difficult. The easygoing way they acted around him only made him feel worse about his own indiscretions. It would have been better if they were angry; he’d have known what to do with that. The procedure was mostly the same, though.

Delta knelt down on the floor in front of him, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He bowed his head, stealing only a small glance upwards. Apollo’s expression was marked with concern. That was fine. It didn’t deter him.

“Thank you.” Delta’s voice was soft, but it was still the clearest Apollo had ever heard him speak aloud. “I didn’t say it yet. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

Less was more. He wasn’t going to start rambling, even if he thought he was capable of it. He’d only say more if Apollo wanted him to, if he gave him permission to. Otherwise, he hoped his body language would speak for itself. 

Apollo looked really, really upset. He crossed the distance between them. Delta cringed back at the rapid movement, sure he was about to be hurt. But Apollo knelt down, pretty abruptly interrupting what Delta had been trying to convey. He reflexively flinched as Apollo took his shoulders, shaking him gently, “It’s okay. Of course. You don’t have to do that. I’m glad you’re okay, alright? But you don’t have to. It’s not like that.”

Delta stared back at him unblinkingly. Apollo seemed to gather himself, releasing his grip. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have touched you. You can stand up though. Don’t mention it.”

He offered a hand for Delta to rise. Though confused and self-conscious, he accepted. 

===========

He tried again with Kitty. She didn’t return to the house until later in the night. Delta waited until Apollo had gone to bed, not wanting to upset him any further. Kitty was collapsed against the couch as if she’d been running around all day. Her ears perked up as Delta approached.

“Hey! You’re awake!” She smiled cheerfully, kind of goofily. 

Delta wrung his hands, more nervous on this attempt than he had been for the previous. He knelt. The carpet of the living room was much softer than the hardwood of the study. Kitty tilted her head in confusion.

“Thank you for saving me.” His voice sank a little as the shame seeped into his words, “I’ve been acting ungrateful. I’m so sorry. Thank you.”

“Aw. It’s no problem, bud.” Kitty frowned a little as she leaned forward. “Do you wanna sit on the couch?”

Delta hesitated. It wasn’t that he hadn’t been allowed furniture in general; he’d had his own room. It was specifically that he was not allowed on furniture with other people. It gave the wrong idea; he was never supposed to be at their level.

“No, miss,” he responded. It was too much for one night.

“Okay.” Kitty shrugged. “Floor time, then.”

She slid down onto the carpet with him. He blinked in surprise. Very casually, she switched on the screen on the far wall, untangling her controller from beneath it.

“You wanna play?” She asked.

“Um. No, miss.” He shook his head.

“K.” She said. 

He watched as the screen came to life. Kitty’s tail swished from side to side as she focused in. It was a hypnotic movement. Hesitant and careful, in anticipation of being reprimanded for it, Delta unfolded himself into a more comfortable position. Kitty did not object.

He pulled his knees up to his chest. After a few minutes had passed, he’d gotten absorbed in the bright colors and motion of the game, almost forgetting where he was. He was kind of susceptible to things like that. He blinked back to reality, stealing a sidelong glance at Kitty. She was just as engrossed, not half as tense.

“Do you want me to stay here?” He asked. Like she might’ve forgotten he was there, like it wouldn’t go well once she noticed. 

“Do you want to?” Her voice was a bit hopeful, in ways he did not pick up on and was not yet capable of understanding.

He nodded mutely as he leaned back against the couch. He watched her play in silence, slowly adjusting to the presence of another body beside him. 

…….

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper

[poisonheadcrabsalesman]

Sad times prompt:

Roland nears final dispensation and notices that people are beginning to distance themselves from him.

He's six years, nine months, two days, 4 hours, and ten minutes old when he really starts to notice the change in behaviors. AI can't help but see patterns. It's what he was made for, a ship AI managing a crew of thousands for deployments that span months or years without resupply, and now it's plain as day that his crew is avoiding him.

Shying away and cringing from the signs of his age, from him.

It starts with avoided eye contact and tight lipped smiles. He sees it in mouths closing instead of asking him. Discomfort clear in their faces and biosigns. Avoidance. A dull ache in his own code - do no harm to humans - but he can't help what's happening to him.

It's been an eventful career, non-stop since his commissioning, but he hadn't felt this level of melancholy since the Created Conflict. When he chose his crew over Her and it still wasn't enough. The looks and whispers, the hard-won trust turning to suspicion, now those feelings return full force as he's beginning to lose trust in himself.

Recursive thoughts spiraling and disrupting standard procedures. Protocols out of order - starting and stopping with no rhyme or reason. His recall sluggish and incorrect. A fog over everything he does.

Roland is a spider at the center of an aging web, its threads snapping and leaving him alone, senseless and blind, untethered. Sight and sense return sporadically only to present him with a million points of data from his crew. Whispers and pointed looks, conversations halted and glances shared, the bridge crew triple checking his numbers before every jump, awkward silences from crew members, from scientists to Spartans. No more poker nights, fewer reports to the captain, and the commander taking him off Ops.

Distance. Turned backs. Treating him like he's not even there. What's worse are the sad looks, mourning him while he's still there. Stilted conversation and tiptoeing around his lapses.

Everyone knows the end, the ticking clock above his head. A second is an eternity and a month is a blink of an eye. There's so much he still hasn't seen. He's never gotten to fly the ship solo. Being ignored feels like they're speeding it along, ready for the next model.

[cozzzynook]

Ratchet is sick and needs an expensive experimental surgery. Drift goes to pay for it when his card gets declined. Confused because he's rich he calls up his bank demanding to know what's going on. He finds out someone purchased a ship and other expensive things.

Drift thinks it's Rodimus and is angry. Ratchet is also upset because Rodimus was planning on leaving them without saying goodbye.

Except Rodimus didn't purchase those things. Someone else did.

When he gets home he's confused about what's going on. Drift is angry and they start arguing. Rodimus keeps denying it and a little bit of Deadlock comes out. Thinking Ratchet is going to die because his card declines he yells at Rodimus and ends up hitting him.

Hot Rod falls to the floor in shock and looks up to see and angry Drift standing over him. Telling him that he never wanted to see him again. When he looks at Ratchet he doesn't say anything just gives him a disappointed look.

Feeling spark broken he runs off going to a different city. He starts working all kinds of jobs wanting to pay Drift and Ratchet back. Even though he didn't take the money he still feels guilty and blames himself.

That is so painful to think about.

I could see a lapse of judgement happening and Drift snaps at Rodimus because his connection to Ratchet is closer and this very well could mean he loses his conjunx. The last person, his last person, even if they’re with Rodimus.

It’s something he didn’t consciously mean to do but did.

Ratchet is just really disappointed because Rodimus should’ve talked with Drift before spending so much of his money.

They both still love him they just…are scared and Drifts angry while Ratchet is so disappointed.

To learn it wasn’t Rodimus and that someone stole Drifts money.

They’re devastated.

Especially when they get a large sum of money that Ratchet needs for the operation and a note telling them he was sorry and telling them he would never bother them again.

I’m making this angsty.

It was someone that wanted to get back at Drift from when he was Deadlock. He killed their mate under an order from Megatron and they wanted revenge. They knew about Ratchet and slipped him something when he was at the clinic. They planned on killing Ratchet slowly and making Drift suffer and they bought a ship knowing Drift would think it Rodimus because they watched them all and noticed the dynamic between them.

But really anyone would know seeing as Drift and Ratchet didn’t conjunx Rodimus even after more than a hundred years together.

Drift rushes to get Ratchet to the surgeon and the procedure is a success.

They also caught Ratchets spark flames lowering and matched it with Drifts so he wouldn’t have to worry about his spark fizzling out any time soon.

That was something they weren’t aware of and they were glad to have caught it. Ratchet didn’t want to leave Drift alone…

That was something they had to accept for the moment seeing as Ratchet was on berth rest and Drift didn’t want to leave him.

Rodimus meanwhile was beyond exhausted and resting in a clinic.

He resorted to…unsavory methods of getting such a huge amount of money for Drift.

He..agreed to sell his frame for pleasure and since he was so beautiful and sought after well..it wasn’t hard.

He got lucky in a way. A high profile mech paid for him in full and he was given the money upfront.

The mech was surprised when Rodimus sent the money to another and agreed upon fragging the mech as much as they wanted.

Turns out the mech had a bit of a spark and used Rodimus for cleaning and an arm piece along with being a literal berth warmer. The mech would get lonely and paid for Rodimus to keep him company.

He didn’t mind.

But he did miss Drift and Ratchet.

When he got charged on engex he asked the mech to frag him because he needed a distraction and the mech did.

Rodimus was thankful for his spark baffle and the mech gave him his personal comm and a nice sum of money telling him to come back within a month if he didn’t make up with the mech he sent the money to. The mech was smart and knew it was more personal than owing a lot of money. He made him an offer.

“Make up with them and stay with them, just visit me often. I’ll get lonely without you. Or..stay with me if it doesn’t work out…I’ll give you whatever you want. I’ll be whatever you want. Just stay with me and we’ll travel and do whatever your spark desires.”

And…how could he pass up an offer like that?

Easy.

His spark was stuck on Ratchet and Drift.

So he left, refusing to take the money and hugging the mech. He promised to visit often and left.

He didn’t want to do that to the mech. He deserved someone who loved him, not be a replacement.

He took up odd jobs until he landed on a planet where he ended up running into Megatron who was living with Minimus.

The two were acting a bit odd at first but then they refused to let him leave their sights.

He didn’t really mind since he knew them and enjoyed relaxing with them. Especially when they would play smooth music during the early hours and watch him paint while drinking their early morning oil.

He wasn’t interested in oil, never really liked the stuff outside of medical oil and even that he didn’t care for but Minimus made the best oil and he was slowly drinking off theirs.

Since they wouldn’t let him pay for his stay, he cooked for them. It was amazing to how shocked they were and how ravenous they seemed to grow. Wanting to eat more often was a nice complement to his culinary skills and he ended up cooking all the meals save for the one day they would make him meals, every week without fail. And holidays? They took him to the inner city to nice restaurants that they all could enjoy.

Rodimus had been with them for months and hadn’t even realized until the mech he met came knocking at their door. They were understandably terrified meeting Megatron and seeing Minumus come up from the rear about to tackle them until Rodimus smiled at the mech and hugged them tight.

“Sorry..I lost track of time,” he felt guilty but the mech was happy as a cybersquito on a full cyberphant.

“I see all was forgiven? Have they finally sealed the deal?”

That made Rodimus splutter and Megatorn and Minimus blushed heavily looking like a bitty caught in the nickle cookies.

Rodimus shook his head no and tried to tell the mech to be quiet only for Megatron to speak, “so Ratchet and Drift really never conjunxed you?”

He looked…like he was suppressing anger and failing and he..couldn’t stop himself from shaking a vent out.

“No. It just..wasn’t meant to be.”

“Bullslag. Those must be the mechs you gave the money to because these mechs look too far in love to let you go let alone give you up.”

The mech was carefully removing their servos from his waist at Minumus removing it for him as he glared trying to keep himself together.

“It’s not like that, it was just..stuff happened and..its not important..”

Rodimus was trying not to get frustrated and cry. The mech easily changed the tone and asked when the wedding would be to which Rodimus spluttered again and tried to get the mech to leave.

“I’ll be staying at a suite in the city. I expect our time tomorrow to be amazing? Imll he borrowing him for my stay, if you don’t mind,” the mech smirked.

“Crowe!”

“What? I’m sure they won’t mind. You’re single and my offer will always stand,” he got in a kiss to Rodimus knuckle but Megatron gripped the mechs face and lifted him up to optic level.

“It’s ill advised to push us, Crowe. I have no problem committing a..necessary act of violence,” Megatron promised.

“Megs! It’s fine he’s harmless I promise.”

“He doesn’t need to be touching what doesn’t belong to him and you don’t belong to him,” Minimus put a servo on Rodimus lower back and that just..he didn’t expect to melt into the touch. He was embarrassed that Megatron came to hold him up and he was even more embarrassed when Crowe smiled and clapped at the display. Ring shining on his servo as he looked at all three and spoke once again.

“So..I ask but one last time. When are you conjunxing my dear cyber flame? Wouldn’t want another to come and take him now would you?”

That made the two look at each other and Rodimus was confused as to why Megatron and Minumus looked like that.

“I see you have things to discuss. You have my personal comm darling. Message me the invite hm? I hope to have bitties to spoil as well. A bitty of yours is a bitty of mine,” the mech smiled daring to steal a helm kiss and run for dear life.

“Crowe! Ugh, he’s such a.”

Rodimus stopped when he saw Megatron and Minimus looking at him the way he’s always dreamed. He’s never had someone look at him that way. He’s never felt a mechs affections like script written in stone just from a look, but today he has.

There was a lot of talking that happened after.

Megatron and Minimus admitted they were slowly trying to court Rodimus but didn’t want to lose their chance so they rushed a little by having him stay with them. They figured since Rodimus wasn’t with Drift and Ratchet that they severed the spark bond but to find out it never even happened?

Well, they wouldn’t say they weren’t happy to have a chance but…they were upset Rodimus was never loved the way he deserved.

They immediately got to changing that with Rodimus permission and soon, it’d been almost a thousand years of living together conjunxed.

Crowe of course came to the wedding and teased Megatron and Minimus because he could. Rodimus was worried for his friend but Crowe assured him, he was fine. So long as he could have Rodimus in his life, he was happy. That and he’d met a minibot who made his helm spin and Rodimus was beaming happy for him with how Crowe talked about the mini.

It was a wedding filled with friends and family and Rodimus felt guilty not inviting Ratchet and Drift but the two ended up seeing him a long time after the ceremony.

Rodimus was sporting a sparkling in one hand that looked exactly like Minimus but they weren’t a minibot and had Megatrons build. He was also carrying around a heavy belly that his sleeping sparkling was sitting on. Their helm on his chassis sucking a pacifier while his fists held tight to Rodimus.

The mech had dropped something and sighed letting his shoulders drop and tried not to cry.

“Slag,” he whispered covering his sparklings audial even in sleep, “well looks like we have to wait for sires to come out now don’t we?”

Megatron and Minimus were inside the market getting groceries for him since the smell was getting to him. They were almost done and he was glad because his ankles and back was starting to hurt but he didn’t want to put his bitty down. He enjoyed this too much and he wanted them to have all the attention alone that he could give.

Suddenly a servo picked up his bitties bottle that he dropped and he beamed thanking the mech until he saw who it was.

“Drift..Ratchet..hey..thanks,” he failed to smile or even take the bottle. He moved his sparkling closer to himself and took a cautionary step back and since he and conjunx never closed their bond, they knew something was wrong.

“Glad to see you’re okay Ratchet, Drift,” he nodded to the two and turned to go back into the store when Drift and Ratchet stopped him.

“Roddy? You..”

They looked to the sleeping sparkling in his arms and the huge belly that made him lean back to stand.

“We’re sorry kid, Rodimus. We know you didn’t steal the money. We’re sorry we accused you..made you leave.”

“I’m so sorry Rodimus, I should’ve never hurt you. I should’ve believed you.”

“Its..”

“Rodimus!”

Two voices boomed and soon he felt four servos on his frame and tensed when two went to grab their sparkling. Minimus stopped when he realized their sparkling was grounding Rodimus and the carrier needed their sparkling in their arms to know they were safe.

“Megatron? Minimus?”

The two looked to them and then to the sparkling that was starting to whine as they opened their optics and whimpered. That grabbed all of Rodimus attention and he shuffled a little soothing the sparkling in a voice neither the swordsmech or medic had ever heard before. “Drift, Ratchet, it was nice to see you in good health but we’ll be taking our leave.”

Minimus ever the polite one stated before taking the groceries and following Rodimus who waddled slowly with their sparkling that wanted his attention and was cranky from their nap being interrupted. Megatron kept a servo on Rodimus to help take some pressure off before bending into Rodimus audial and saying something that the mech nodded to.

Megatron lifted Rodimus into his arms and the two were able to walk off at a normal pace.

Ratchet and Drift looked on with sad expressions as they realized what they let slip through their digits.

“We fagged up, Ratty…we really fragged up..”

“We did kid..we really did..”

Back in their home, Rodimus was laying in berth with their sparkling asleep on their sire while the other was rubbing his sore and swollen ankles.

He didn’t ever expect to see the two again but he hoped one day they could all sit down and it’d be comfortable. But for now, he just wanted to focus on his conjunxs and sparklings.

-

I love dratchrod i promise i do. I just love minimegarod too

[vashtijoy]

11/20-21 akechi deep dive

The body language on Akechi’s model in the 11/21 Shido exposition cutscene is interesting.

When he walks in, he sees Joker’s death certificate on the desk...

... and folds his arms. That’s a defensive move. Maybe he’s in trouble.

As soon as they move on to the next topic—the much-deserved death of the creepy SIU director—his arms drop to their customary position at his side, where they stay for the rest of the scene. (Apart from an evil little dance when he talks about how he’s going to be viewed as a hero who took down monsters now—this is something he is genuinely into, and you can see it when he gets so worked up later on TV.)

Also, he keeps the puppy-dog eyes up all scene. That’s a bit of a tell too, because he does have a more interesting array of expressions he can use with his mask off—he actually seems to be quite consistent about the mask around Shido.

The fact that he’s using creepyfaces on the 20th and is back to his usual mask on the 21st is probably significant. Because there’s a pattern here of defensive behaviour around Joker’s murder.

[lots more images and flailing under the cut]

Let’s have a look at the phone call immediately after the murder:

Hello, hello. Straight out of the interrogation room and straight into a procedure fuckup. Something wrong, Akechi-kun? (He sounds different too—kind of robotic and stilted; compare him giggling about getting to kill the SIU Director at the end of this phone call.)

There’s only one other time Akechi lapses like this, and that is very near the end, when Shido tells him to bump off their customers and he understands the walls are falling down:

And, of course, that lapse, on top of questioning Shido for what seems an inexplicable decision, is what pulls down more Shido rage on him:

“Don’t use my fucking name on the phone!” Of course, Shido wants to get everyone he can dead ASAP, because the plan is actually to take Akechi out. It’s tempting to think this is what Akechi understands at the end of this scene, but it can’t be—he’s too shocked when Cognitive Akechi reveals it later.

back to the 11/20 post-interrogation room phone call

You can trace Akechi’s thought process here through the sprites:

Here’s the empty-faced sprite. “We don’t need to kill them. At least, not yet. Let’s put that on the back burner.” This is Akechi manipulating Shido.

Now here’s the smug sprite: Akechi is enjoying this bit. He genuinely has no liking or respect for the surviving Phantom Thieves, and likely means at least his sentiment here—but, again, he doesn’t seem to want them dead.

And we’re back to the empty-faced sprite, for the big lie to Shido. “I'll do that, when I find it. But really, it’s only a cat.” Another manipulation, because if he tells Shido about Morgana, that order—”Don’t forget to kill that weird cat”—is immediately going to become “Find it and kill it”.

And what happens next? We’re bringing Joker’s “suicide” back up. And Akechi drops back against the wall.

Lastly, here’s the smug sprite again. Killing the SIU Director is a totally different kettle of fish to killing the rest of the Phantom Thieves—it’s something Akechi can and will do immediately, with pleasure. Because by “After School”, the SIU Director is dead.

Something tells me the SIU Director’s shadow didn’t have a very good time.

what does all this mean?

Fucked if I know, y’all. Do what you like with it. What I find particularly interesting here is that there is an obvious range of motives and activities going on. Some of what Akechi is up to here is obviously evil, but some of it is not. There is a lot going on here.

Also, don’t lose sight in all of this that, probably before the day is out on the day of the “Um... Shido-san” phone call, Akechi will try to kill Joker and the rest of the Phantom Thieves, and he’ll put everything on the line to do so. But Joker returning from the dead appears to be the trigger that makes him not only bother with the rest of them, but view them as needing killing.

He’s not going to kill them because he dislikes them, or for fun. They are collateral damage in his war with Joker. Just like all the other people he’s murdered were collateral damage in his war with Shido.

Kids, eh?

omake

Here’s Futaba on how they found out Shido was the mastermind: Akechi gave it away on that 11/20 phone call after the murder. He got to be instrumental in taking down his father after all.

[thatsrightice]

and so it begins :)

WATCH THEM LAND

WATCH THE RADAR

LISTEN TO LIVE ATC OF FISK OR TOWER

What’s Fisk? Aircraft inbound to EAA AirVenture must follow the VFR arrival procedure – a procedure that makes air traffic control at such a small airport even possible. With so many aircraft and only 3 runways, one of which a taxiway converted into a runway for AirVenture, a temporary ATC station 15 miles outside of Oshkosh located along the VFR route. Named after the road it’s situated on, the Fisk air traffic control personnel are in charge of maintaining order among the inbound aircraft and making sure they are in a single-file line with the proper spacing. As an aircraft passes over Fisk, they will be assigned a runway. This allows the ATC Tower to focus on ensuring there is safe distance between the aircraft on the runway as often times multiple aircraft are landing on the same runway at once.

Have this video showing a time lapse of one hour of EAA AirVenture arrivals:

[holly-fixation]

Smol Sephiroth forced to cut his beautiful (safety blanket) hair, because... let's hear it from Hojo:

- It's stupid and childish. It serves no purpose and would only get in the way during the war!

For Sephiroth's hair to be worth touching at all, Sephiroth must severely embarrass Hojo, perhaps by failing a trial in front of President Shinra himself. Accidental or not doesn't matter. With Hojo's reputation tarnished through this disappointment, Sephiroth's punishment is severe.

The first phase is testing pain endurance. Something caused his misjudgment. If it was something as simple as pain, then Sephiroth's strength dwindled, which Hojo already had new regiments to begin if that was the case.

The second is surgery to discover what the exact cause was and develop theories to prevent it in the future. If these results come back negative or inconclusive, then the only explanation is a mental lapse.

Sephiroth is not allowed to make mistakes. He was born to be perfect and he will succeed.

The last phase, while the child is completely weak and fragile from healing, is his hair. He must never forget his mistake. Hojo conducts this procedure himself with a simple electric hair clipper. It takes everything Sephiroth has to stay still and silent when the buzzing began. Each long lock of silver hair hitting the ground took a piece of his heart with him. This was because of his failure. His inadequacy. He was bad and he deserved to be punished, but he never expected this.

It was cold. Everything was cold.

In his room that night, he bundled himself in every blanket and sheet he could find. It made due at night when he covered his head with the warm fabrics, the silver buzz cut prickly against the imperfections of each layer. In the lab, he struggled not to shiver, not like it was cold enough to justify the reaction. The lack of protection, the empty cold chilling his spine devastated him, the mental attack he could not defend against. The one piece of himself he had control over laid at the bottom of a worthless trashcan.

He swears he will never feel this again.

[leviackermanscleaningbuddy]

hiya!! i would really like prompt 24 from img 1 with lee know please! thank you :D !!

SKZ Prompt Game

Prompt: "You're trembling."

Member: Lee Minho

Relationship: Doctors Fem!Reader x Minho

Genre: Angst, Light Fluff

Warnings: Blood, Medical Procedures, Injuries, Death, Vomit, Smoking

You take another long drag of your cigarette, holding the smoke in your lungs for a moment, before you exhale and follow it up with a shuddering inward breath, then another.

You stub out your smoke and glance down at your feet.

There's blood on the toes of your shoes, and for some odd reason, it makes you want to laugh.

Of course there's fucking blood on your shoes.

There's blood everywhere. All the time.

Letting your head fall back, you stare up at the gray, undulating sky, and take another few deep breaths, just for good measure.

Chan's going to kill you for coming out here to smoke again.

But you needed to clear your head after that last case, and being in the same room as the distraught family and Lee Fucking Minho definitely wasn't the way to do that.

Nope. Rooftop it was.

Sighing, you shove your hands into the pockets of your scrubs, tuck your white coat around you as a buffer against the chill, and head back inside.

Back to the blood.

And back to Lee Minho.

********************************************************************************

"You've got an incoming in five." Chan says, dropping a clipboard onto your lap, interrupting you in the middle of scarfing down a vending machine sandwich.

Glancing up at the charge nurse, still chewing, you arch a brow.

Luckily, Chan's worked with you long enough that he catches your silent meaning.

He moves behind the desk, tapping at the computer and shuffling paperwork, moving seamlessly around the other bustling nurses as he replies back, "GSW to the lateral chest, GCS score of 6, patient was nonresponsive upon arrival. Paramedics report bagging since pick up, CPR upon arrival at scene. Heart rate is tachy, but bleeding has been slowed with TXA given at approximately 0200."

You shove the rest of your sandwich in your mouth and gather the clipboard he's given you, shooting him a grateful look as you leave the desk.

"Thanks, Channie. Have I ever told you you're the love of my life?"

Chan snorts and waves you off, already moving on to another nurse needing his attention.

You hurry through the busy ER and toward the arrival bay, donning gloves and protective gear as you move, and when you reach the doors in record time, Minho is already there, waiting.

You force down the curse that rises up your throat at the sight of him, and come to a stop beside him, staring out the glass doors.

He doesn't even look at you as he says, "Let me take the lead on this one."

You bite your tongue to stop from arguing, and instead, say back in a clipped, short tone, "Fine."

"Fine." Minho repeats, and as the sound of the ambulance grows closer, he steps forward to meet it.

You follow, but not without muttering another curse under your breath.

********************************************************************************

It's not that you don't like Minho.

You shouldn't, because he's rude and abrasive and way too arrogant for his own good, among a list of many other terrible qualities he possesses, but no.

The problem isn't that you don't like Minho.

It's that you like him a little too much.

And you hate yourself, and him, for it.

One night.

One night in an on call room when you were interns, a lapse of judgement, and here you were, years later, still pining over the one thing you couldn't possibly have.

Ever since that night, you'd gone every waking moment trying to distract yourself from Lee Minho.

And in return, he'd spent every waking moment making your life a living hell.

********************************************************************************

You don't like this part of the job.

The part where you're straddling a kid's body on a bed as you perform chest compressions, ribs snapping beneath your hands.

This is when it all starts to blur-the nurses' frantic reports, the terrified parents screaming, the harsh, clipped commands from your fellow doctors, the pounding footsteps.

Nothing matters at this point.

Nothing except getting a read back on that dead line of a shrieking monitor.

You're breathless, your muscles aching from the compressions, but you can't stop, you won't stop.

"Give me the thoracic needle." You command, and a nurse slips it into your waiting palm, slick with blood.

The mother screams some more in the background, and Minho is there, barking out orders to the nurses.

"Get her the fuck out of here!"

Glancing up at the flatline on the monitor, you shove the thick needle into the kid's chest cavity between the ribs without a second thought.

It goes in smoothly, and blood immediately begins to pour out of the open vial of the syringe and onto the floor around the nurses' feet.

"Get a basin." One of the nurses says, and another scurries to secure something to catch the seemingly unending stream of crimson pouring from between your fingers.

"C'mon, c'mon." You mutter, staring hard at the screen of the monitor, as if you can will it back to life.

The kid's chest beneath your hand remains still.

"I need an ambubag!" You call out, keeping a firm hold on the needle lodged in the kid's chest as you glance around wildly for what you're looking for. "We need to get this kid on the move."

When the nurses don't scurry to do your bidding, you curse and start leaning into the compressions once more, motions growing frantic.

"C'mon! Why in the fuck isn't anyone moving? Let's go!"

Minho appears at your shoulder then, his expression unreadable.

Blood spatters the tips of his sneakers, and more pools around his feet.

The flow from the needle is lessening, but the kid's blood is still hot as it leaks past your fingers.

You meet Minho's gaze and something in his eyes softens slightly.

"Doctor (L/N). It's been too long."

His words take a moment to register, and then you're violently shaking your head, staring down at the kid's limp chest beneath your palms, your skin stained with his blood.

"No-if we just get him to the OR-" You start to protest, but the words sound weak, even to your own ears.

"(Y/N)." Minho says your name softer, like a caress under his breath. "He's gone."

His hand covers your own where it still clenches around the large needle, and slowly, you allow him to pry your fingers away from the tube.

You stare down at the kid, bloodied and broken, now dead, and wonder why you ever wanted to go into this field in the first place.

Minho clears his throat and releases his hold on your hand, turning to the waiting nurses.

"Let's get him cleaned up. I'll go talk to the family."

You sit there, body heavy, unable to move, as everyone bustles into motion around you.

It's all a blur.

Somewhere, down the hallway, from the direction Minho disappeared, you hear the sound of an agonized wail.

********************************************************************************

You're sitting against the wall of the roof when Minho finds you, knees tucked to your chest, cigarette dangling from your lips.

You don't even glance up as he comes to a stop in front of you, and after a moment, he reaches down and snags the cigarette from between your lips, holding it carefully between his long fingers.

"You know, you really shouldn't smoke. It's bad for your health."

"Fuck off." You make a snatch for the smoke, but Minho holds it out of your reach with an unreadable expression.

You glare up at him, and after a moment, he puts the cigarette between his own lips, glancing out over the city as he takes a long drag and releases the smoke slowly.

He hands it back to you without a word, and settles down beside you on the roof, back against the wall, ass on the cold, wet concrete.

You sit like that in silence for several long moments, and then Minho sighs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes.

You resist the urge to study him from the corner of your eye, and take another drag of your cigarette.

"Wanna tell me what you're doing up here?"

You toss down the cigarette and put it out more than a little violently beneath the heel of your sneaker.

"Not really."

Minho cracks open an eye and regards you for a silent moment, before he shrugs and closes it again.

"Suit yourself."

You hate that he's here. He smells good. And he's warm. And fuck, he's really pretty.

You shiver, and feel Minho's gaze return to you.

"You're trembling."

You scoff at his obvious words, and shrug, wrapping your thin lab coat tighter around your body.

"Yeah, well, it's fucking cold this time of year. Not to mention, it's been raining all morning."

Your muscles are tight and sore, and you feel exhausted, and god, you could really use a hug right now.

Or a bath.

Or anything to make you feel human again.

Minho arches a brow and when you glance to him once more, his lips have curved upward into the hint of a smug smirk that's equal parts attractive and infuriating.

"You're upset." He states the obvious once more, and you feel ire rise at his blunt words.

"Weird how that works. I didn't really wanna watch a kid die in front of his parents today. Not really on my list of things to do, you know?"

Minho continues to stare, and you resist the urge to punch him in his pretty boy face.

Barely.

"You've been avoiding me."

God, he's giving you whiplash.

You whirl on him, giving him what you hope is a deadly glare.

"I fucking hate your guts, of course I've been avoiding you."

Minho's eyes grow dark with challenge. "Oh, hate? Is that what we're calling it now?"

He leans into your space and your resist the urge to back away.

Barely.

"Is that how you'd describe the things that happened between us in the on call room?"

His voice drops, and your heart thunders in your chest.

You hold his gaze, unwilling to let him win.

"That was one time."

Something in Minho's gaze grows fiery, and you swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

"And I haven't stopped thinking about it since."

His murmured admission has your breath catching in your throat, your expression going slack with shock, because Lee Minho-Lee Fucking Minho-had been thinking about your night together all this time too?

Well fuck you.

He reaches out, and carefully runs a featherlight finger across the swell of your bottom lip.

"You look pretty with blood on your face." He remarks with a tilt of his head, and you're pretty sure your heart stops beating.

"That's-" You start to say, swallowing hard, as he continues to thumb the part of your lips, his skin warm against the chill of your own. "-gross. And kinda makes you sound like a serial killer."

Minho chuckles, before he pulls back and pushes himself to his feet.

He glances down at you, and his smirk is back firmly in place, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes.

"Yeah, well-" He shrugs, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. "-doctors and serial killers are essentially two sides of the same coin. They've both been given a power that no human should possess-the ability to change the course of life and death."

You stare at him for another brief moment, and he winks down at you, before he heads toward the door that leads back into the hospital, calling over his shoulder, "You really do look pretty though. Blood or not."

********************************************************************************

Pounding footsteps make you look up from your charting in time to see Chan dash past the nurse's station, scrubs bloody, face serious, arms full of crash cart materials.

"(Y/N). Minho needs you in bay 3. Now."

Without a thought, you throw down your pen and sprint after the disappearing nurse.

Sliding to a stop in front of the door that leads to bay 3, not quite sure what to expect, you see Chan leaning over a young female patient, manually ambubagging her as Minho digs around in her open side, his white gloves almost completely crimson, slick with blood.

He glances up and his gaze meets yours, and the look in his eyes has you spurred into instant action.

A nurse hands you a pair of latex gloves , and as you snap them on, you call out to Chan, "What's her vitals?"

Chan swipes his forearm across the sweat gathering on his forehead, and flicks his gaze to the beeping on the screen behind him.

"70 over 40 and dropping."

Minho swears beneath his breath as you reach his side, throwing something else into the waiting pan on the tray beside him, bloody and unrecognizable, and glances back up to you.

"What happened?" You question briskly, as another nurse hands you the large irrigation syringe, and you carefully begin to clear the blood from Minho's field of vision.

"Bombing." Minho replies back, voice clipped and tight with stress and anger. His fingers continue to dig through the tissue of the patient's side. "Multiple points of shrapnel entry."

You echo his swear from earlier, leaning over the girl's passed out form to grab another pair of forceps as you move opposite of Minho, beginning to carefully search through the open gash on her upper chest, just above her breast.

Immediately, you find a metal shard of shrapnel buried beneath her muscular tissue, and drop it into the nurse's waiting pan with a solemn clink.

"Fucking domestic violence case." Minho continues, voice lowering into a furious growl, his dark eyes flashing above the mask he wears. "Girl's barely eighteen. Got mixed up with a drug dealer boyfriend."

You pull another shred of metal from the girl's chest and add it to the waiting tray.

"Fuck."

"Yeah." Minho nods, expression murderous, as he sits back and inspects the weeping gash he's been digging in, irrigating it once more for good measure. "Apparently, she pissed him off, so he bombed her car. With her in it."

"Fan-fucking-tastic." You seethe, glancing down at the girl's bloody face, her eyes fluttering under the effect of the sedation.

Chan glances back as the monitor beeps loudly and then to the two of you, expression grim.

"Still dropping."

"We need to get her to surgery right now." Minho shoves back from the table and motions to the one of the nurses, who darts out of the room for the nearest phone.

Chan starts unhooking her lines and monitors, prepping her to be moved, and you push back from the table as well, snapping off your gloves as you stare down at the girl's face.

Minho meets your gaze across her body, and there's something tortured in his expression for just a moment, before he smooths it over.

He throws his own gloves a little too violently into the nearest trash can.

"You think she'll make it?" You ask quietly, stepping out of the way of Chan's bustling.

Minho gives a slight, resigned shake of his head. "I don't know. I sure fucking hope so."

********************************************************************************

You're exhausted at the end of your twelve, but you don't have time to head back to your apartment before your next shift in the morning, so you head to the nearest on call room, eyes barely open.

Your entire body aches down to your fingers and toes, and you know you should shower in the locker room before you fall into the nearest bed, but you can't bring yourself to care right now.

A couple of the nurses on the floor nod at you or utter soft greetings as you pass, and you push in through the door of the on call room, already looking forward to stiff hospital mattresses and scratchy blankets.

When your eyes fall on Minho, already sitting on the edge of the lower bunk, surprise jolts you awake, your body instantly coming to attention.

He glances up at you silently, still in his scrubs from earlier, blood stained and dirty, and you open your mouth, already backing toward the door.

"I'm sorry, I'll find another room-"

"No."

Minho's soft rebuke has you freezing in your tracks, your gaze locked on him as he sighs heavily, glancing down once more to his hands in his lap.

"You can stay."

Swallowing, you close the cracked door once more and carefully take a step into the room.

Minho leans back onto his hands, staring at the ceiling for a moment, and then he says quietly, "She didn't make it."

You stare at him, and confusion must be clear on your face, because he tilts his head to meet your gaze, lips pressed into a somber line, and adds, "The eighteen year old."

Understanding washes over you, and without really thinking, you sink down onto the thin mattress beside him, your body feeling suddenly heavy.

"That sucks."

Minho nods, blowing out a breath that's halfway toward a humorless chuckle. "That's an understatement, but yeah."

You sit in silence for several more seconds, both of you lost in your own thoughts, and then Minho murmurs, "I fucking hate this job sometimes."

You school the surprise on your face, and glance sidelong at him, staring at the floor beneath your feet, the toes of his bloodied sneakers.

Once again, without thinking, you reach out and lay your hand over his own.

If he's surprised by the action, he doesn't show it, frozen beneath you, gaze never leaving the floor.

"People are shitty." You start in a quiet voice, not really sure where you're going with this. "And sometimes that means they do shitty things to other people. And we can't control that. But you're making a difference."

Minho huffs a sardonic sort of laugh, and finally raises his gaze to you, dark and swirling and angry.

"Maybe I should've followed my other game plan and become a serial killer. Would of been easier to be on the death side of things."

Your lips twitch upward into the hint of a smile at his teasing. "Doctor or a serial killer? Those were your options?"

Minho gives a little shrug, and some of the tension goes out of his shoulders.

"It was a flip of a coin honestly. I just happened to get heads."

You laugh, a short stilted sound, and Minho slides his gaze to you once more, eyes flicking down to focus on your lips.

Suddenly, you feel out of place.

You clear your throat and take your hand back from his. "I really can leave if you'd like to be alone-"

Minho lunges forward and stops you from standing before you can fully react.

When he speaks, his voice is firm, intense, serious.

"That is absolutely the last thing I want right now."

You stare at him, lips parted slightly in shock, and your heart does a weird little thump against your chest.

"Okay-" You start to say, hesitant, but forcing yourself onward. "What do you want then?"

His gaze once again falls to your mouth.

"To be distracted."

The corner of your mouth lifts into the hint of a smirk.

That you can do.

You reach out, letting your fingertip brush across his sharp cheekbone, across the splattering of blood there, and if you didn't know Lee Minho better, you'd think he leaned a little bit into the comfort of your touch.

"You look pretty with blood on your face." You tease his words from earlier, and he arches a brow at you in return.

"Pretty sure I used that line on you earlier."

You shrug one shoulder, smiling now. "Hey, if it works, it works."

He raises his other brow. "And did it?"

You cock your head, studying him, serious suddenly. "Anything you do works for me, Lee Minho."

Minho's gaze transitions into something hungry, and he leans forward to pinch your chin between his fingers, covering your mouth desperately with his own.

Because in the on call room, there's still blood, and death, and Lee Fucking Minho, but at least, for just a moment, it's also just the two of you and the power that no human should be able to control-feeling alive.

[originalleftist]

I did not watch the Presidential debate tonight because, as I previously stated, I believe Trump should not be eligible to run, should not be given a platform to spread lies and hate and incitement of violence, and should not be in the same room with the President of the United States because he is an insurrectionist terrorist. However, I have seen and heard some responses to the debate, which I would like to address.

So, the general consensus seems to be that Biden did badly, and now folks are once more trotting out all the "he's too old" and "he's senile" and "we should replace him with someone, but we definitely won't say the obvious name of Kamala Harris".

So, let's address this, yet again.

Let us ignore, for the moment, Biden's excellent, energetic, quick-witted, and wide-praised performance at the State of the Union address just a few months ago.

Let us also ignore that it is far too late, practically-speaking, to replace him as the nominee, that the primaries are nearly over, that we are running up on state deadlines to get candidates on the November ballot, and that a floor fight over the nomination at the convention would be an unmitigated disaster that would make the entire Democratic Party appear unfit to govern, and deeply divide the party just a few months before the general election.

Let us also ignore the fact that none of us have performed an in-depth examination of Biden's physical or mental state, that the vast majority of us are not qualified to do so, and presume that lay people can accurately deduce a man's mental and physical health from observing one debate performance. Let us assume that Biden is both physically frail, and mentally deteriorating.

And my response is:

SO FUCKING WHAT?

Seriously, SO WHAT?

Suppose Biden is infirm. Is some lapses of memory, or difficulty speaking (from a man who has had a life-long stutter) a greater infirmity that Trump's lifetime of narcissism, psychopathy, and pathological lying?

Suppose at some Biden finds himself struggling to keep up with the job? Is that a greater concern than a man who we KNOW was NEVER fit to do it? A man who's idea of dealing with a hurricane was to suggest nuking it, and who proposed dealing with an airborne pandemic by telling people not to wear masks, but to instead consume bleach? Would you rather have Joe Biden in that position, who will be surrounded by the host of highly competent professionals with decades of experience who he has appointed to assist him? Or Donald Trump, who will be surrounded by the likes of Steve Bannon, Steven Miller, Roger Stone, and Michael Flynn, a who's who of convicted felons, seditionists, white supremacists, and foreign agents?

Suppose the worst happens, and Biden has to step down or, God forbid, dies in office. Biden will be replaced by the eminently qualified Kamala Harris. Who would replace Trump? We don't know yet, but we can be sure that it will be someone willing to take a job who's last occupant Trump tried to have lynched for not following his orders.

Of course, as I alluded to above, that's really what a lot of people are getting at when they talk about Biden's age: the idea that a vote for Biden is actually a vote for Kamala Harris. And either they do not want a Black woman as President, or they are worried that voters will not accept her.

But you know, it's always a possibility that the Vice President will have to take over. It's happened 8 times in American history, just shy of 20% of all Presidencies. It could happen with Trump too. And it was a possibility four years ago, when voters decided that Kamala Harris was an acceptable Vice President. Hell, Kamala Harris DID officially assume Presidential powers for 85 minutes back in 2021, while Biden was anesthetized for a minor medical procedure. And, surprise, the world didn't end.

We all made this choice already in 2020. So don't try to scare me with the possibility of a Harris presidency now. And if you ARE that offput by the possibility that a highly competent, experienced centre-left Black woman might succeed Joe Biden... then maybe Trump is the candidate for you.

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Arrows (Special Request) - Doc - Part 2

Part 2 of Arrow. If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved!

My dear friend loves the whumpiest of whumps... this is what I have provided. This chapter Hurts. Happy Birthday @arctrooper69!!!

Also: got a new Poll up for your thoughts! Should Doc Have Her Own Blog?

Warnings: Bone/joint injury, profanity, vomiting, heavy whump, medical procedures/language, needles

WC: 2,650

Only the occasional rumble of Wrecker’s voice marked the passage of time as my mind lapsed into a haze of pain and silent pleas and something not quite reality. I wanted him to stop – needed – him to stop, the words begging for just a moment’s reprieve filling my mouth and halting my already choppy breath, but if I had managed to force them into existence, I was too far gone to truly hear it. The growing guilt and fear tensing his shoulders and quickening his stride, however, left what logic flickered within me certain I had spoken them, screamed them as my body struggled against him even now, unable to keep still beneath the relentless hurt coursing through me.

I vaguely saw the way my fingers clawed atop his back plate, felt my uninjured leg strain to find purchase against his hip, his stomach, boot dragging over plastoid in a futile attempt to push myself free of him. My throat felt raw, burning at the very thought of attempting to speak even as cries of pain continued to catch on nearly every breath.

“… seen her hurt before!” He was shouting. “This ain’t just some…!” Fading in and out. “…am hurryin’!” I hated the note of fear in his voice, hated my inability to offer him even a whisper of reassurance as the sickening chill of panicked sweat soaked into my blacks, mind balking amidst the lingering uncertainty that the world was spinning madly around me.

“Wr-eck… please…” Stammered. Broken. As soon as the ruined semblance of my voice choked past the tortured flesh of my throat, I couldn’t say with any certainty that it had ever existed as anything more than one of countless half-formed thoughts flitting too quickly through my mind to find any meaning.

“..ry! Kriff, I’m s… -ost there, jus… on…” I remembered the distant fear that nights on this planet would bring with them a chill, that I should pack an extra blanket for Echo, just in case… but the merciless cold at war with the fire raging through my veins was inescapable. Cursing through gritted teeth, Wrecker came to a sharp halt, sending a shockwave of sickening motion rippling through me.

“…orry-sorry; jus’… argh, just hol…” I tried to focus, tried to find some reason behind the sudden stop. A light thump seemed to echo from somehow just below me followed by the telltale trill of a blaster firing, the shimmer of a blue ring just catching my attention from the corner of my eye, and then we were moving again.

It wasn’t until feeling their hands ease me from Wrecker’s shoulder that I even realized we’d finally reached the others, and I had to fight to hear them over the deafening boom of my heartbeat, the static screaming around me… screaming… I was… I was screaming. Their touch felt like acid. The suffocating humidity from my frantic gasps sat heavily within the too-small hollow of my bucket, rebreather overloaded from how long I’d been hyperventilating, from how long I’d been abusing my vocal cords with ceaseless, shouted pleas, but, body nearly convulsing beneath the fresh torture of nerves shrieking against even the most delicate caress, those too-quick huffs came even faster, chest fluttering in something closer to a tremble than actual breath as they lowered me onto the ground… no… it wasn’t soil beneath me… a cloth?

“..ong with her?!” Hunter demanded. My uninjured arm coiled at my side, fingers burring mindlessly into whatever bit of fabric they’d laid me down on, leg continuing some listless attempt to push me up, to move, to flee this agony.

“-ey, hey, hey; come on, Doc; you’ve got to stop moving.” Some blurred visage of Echo flashed before me.

“…uncertain. I’ll need… remove the proje… test for toxins.” Pressure… pushing against my back, pinning me firmly to the ground… Panic resurging in a rush, whatever broken sounds of hurt caught in my throat turned desperate, body straining to reach for the man before me despite the arm nearest him refusing to even twitch.

“I’m here; I’m right here.” Echo murmured, so nearly stifling the fear from his voice as he quickly caught my hand in his. Somewhere nearby, Wrecker and Crosshair were… arguing? Yelling about something… at something… I tried to look, but someone held my helmet still, tilting it just enough to expose my neck. The sting of the autoinjector should have been a familiar nuisance, but the nerves reacted as though the thin needles gouged through muscle and veins and bone, and shied from it with a barked cry of agony, certain I would find a river of blood pouring onto the ground if I could just convince my eyes to focus.

“..et worse… can’t wait…” Tech’s voice seemed to spin around me, lilting on some faltering orbit as the words fluctuated between near silent and deafening. Maker, my chest ached from the frantic racing of my heart. “…lp hold her… pull…” The weight shifted atop me as something tugged at my armor. The first jostle of my shoulder as they removed the bell sent a burst of white across my vision, stomach heaving against the sickening hurt and fire and wrong as something clicked against bone. My hand wrenched away from Echo to claw uselessly against the joint, body trying to curl onto its side despite that relentless weight holding me down.

“Don’t le… move her arm.” Something tightened around my elbow, locking the useless limb in place. I think I was still screaming. Begging them to let me go. But I couldn’t move. I couldn’t fight them. Every muscle lay taut, teeth clattering violently from the terrible tremor wrought from cold and panic and pain.

Only when the wretched thing piercing my shoulder began to move, did I fall silent, throat locking shut in those first few seconds, the entirety of my existence too overwhelmed with that deathly wrong hurt to remember anything else. With a sickening hyperfocus, I felt every shift, felt the faint tremble from how his hands shook, felt the tiny twists as he worked to ease it free without furthering the damage or severing a tendon.

For just those for first few seconds, no sound could escape me, but then the trance broke, and I couldn’t remember how to stop as air I didn’t know my lungs still possessed tore from me in a sound I could barely hear over the static blaring in my ears. I don’t know when the thing finally came free, the vague awareness of Tech calling Echo’s name more akin to a near forgotten dream than reality before a new pressure burr down against the wound.

“Why … still awake?!”

“ …’t know, but …”

The weight shifted atop me, centering over my hips as their voices pulsed in a nauseating dysrhythmia. Hands tightened around my thigh like a vise and, before I could more than gasp at the terror of what was to come, something else settled over my calf, trapping my leg between them.

“-on’t look, Doc,” I didn’t even realize my head had been trying to twist enough to see them, movements halting and unsteady, until Echo’s words rumbled through my helm’s speakers. If he said something else, I couldn’t hear it as Tech began prying the second projectile from my knee. My back snapped up, body thrashing in a futile attempt to unseat them.

The pressure against my shoulder faltered slightly amidst a tiny grunt of pain, just audible above the frenzy of orders being shouted between the others, but my entire focus locked on it. The guilt that twisted through my chest was crippling as I quickly wrenched my hand back, unaware when it had lashed out for something, anything, and found only Echo’s thigh, fingers clenching ruthlessly around the muscle just above his prosthetic.

“Kriff, no-no, it’s okay.” I think he called my name, offered some manner of gentle reassurance, but that brief flash of lucidity was already overwhelmed by the deathly cold slicing into my knee, the certainty that they were cutting through the joint entirely as fumbled pleas tangled once more atop my tongue between the feral keening my screams receded into.

“Tech, yuh … -thing for the pai…” Wrecker was shouting.

“I – ng – I have!” He snapped, and even I could hear the struggle in his voice. “Hunter, hold h…”

“I am!” There was no relief when it finally came free, when the notches of whatever stone was lashed to the tip of that slender shaft broke through cartilage and tissue alike before slipping out from the ruined joint, nerves still aflame in the echo of that agony.

“Need to flush… try to… -oxins…”

Crosshair’s rifle fired twice, followed by a shrill cry from somewhere in the distance.

“More incoming.” There was a sharpness to his words I wasn’t used to. I wanted to see him, to understand why, but I couldn’t move beyond the way my body shook. Something pressed into the wound, stretching torn flesh before forcing liquid into the joint. My torso bucked, writhing against the cold and pressure and Maker, why wouldn’t it stop.

When the same hurt poured into my shoulder, I couldn’t hold back the gag, stomach convulsing as my body seized. Someone cursed and wrenched my bucket off. I didn’t notice the way he paused, didn’t see who dragged the wet gauze over my cheek to clean away the remnants of sick.

“Wh… what the kriff is …” I understood the horror in his voice more than the words, and fought to search for him amidst the churning colors… Echo… Confused, I belatedly realized he wasn’t looking at me so much as my face; my skin. “Tech, what is-”

“Think they want their friend back.” Wrecker called out through an audible scowl.

“Later – we need to move!” Hunter yelled over him. The rapid chirping of a heavy repeater joined Crosshair’s rifle.

“Too bad,” He growled, “That thing’s coming with us.” The cloth shifted beneath me, hugging my form as it began to rise. A stretcher… that’s what they’d laid me down on. Echo and Tech stood at my shoulders while Hunter took the position at my feet. I could still hear Crosshair and Wrecker firing rapidly behind us as we fled.

Every pounding footfall sent tiny percussions rippling through me, but my throat was too raw for anything more than a tortured wheeze. Muscles in my forearm, my thigh, stretching down my back began to lock, too exhausted to make sense of the continued abuse from how violently I trembled. Couldn’t unclench my hand… couldn’t breathe as I merely waited for my spine to cave; waited for that inevitable snap that never came.

“Everybody in! Get the ramp closed!” Hunter’s order boomed. The darkness of the Marauder’s halls granted a comfort at least in its familiarity. Home. This ship was home. Nearly the instant I was lowered onto my bunk, the faint hum of a scanner loomed over me.

“The toxin is blocking acetylcholine uptake as well as a few other autonomic functions,” Tech stated.

“What?!” Hunter barked. Someone’s hand rested over mine, but I couldn’t force my fingers to loosen enough to return that touch.

““It’s preventing her nervous system from self-regulating; she can’t moderate her heartbeat or”

“I heard what you said – what the hell can we do about it?!” He interrupted sharply.

“I… I d…” I could hear how desperately he fought against voicing the answer, how he balked at what it meant.

“Dank farrik!” It was such a rare thing to hear that kind of anger in Hunter’s voice; that fear. Knowing I was the cause sent a fresh surge of guilt twisting through me. “Is that thing awake yet?!” Silence followed by another sharp curse. Something shifted near the IV I hadn't noticed them place in my hand, and I vaguely noted Tech shuffling beside me.

“What was that?” Echo asked, not trying to hide the depth of sadness stealing through him.

“Beta blockers – I don’t know how to cure her, but I can try to treat the most dangerous symptoms.” He answered. A moment later, the daggers of the autoinjector tore into my uninjured shoulder. Despite how my breath caught, nearly hissing through clenched teeth, my throat was simply too raw to form anything near to the scream vying to escape.

“That was the same neural inhibitor she used for me.” He offered without waiting for the coming inquiry. “If her fever gets worse, there are more medications to try, but without knowing exactly what this toxin is, I can’t anticipate how it will interact with them. Until the need is urgent, that is all we should give her for now.”

The muscles in my arm were the first to respond, fingers slowly beginning to uncurl, and Echo’s small gasp held a hope I still couldn’t bring myself to feel. Fire continued to pour from the wounds, rippling through me with each beat of my still racing heart even as that terrible cold forced an occasional tremor from muscles long since driven past the point of utter exhaustion, but I could see… Thoughts once too frayed to grasp now lingered almost long enough to hold, and, as my eyes flickered listlessly before me, I managed to meet Echo’s gaze long enough for him to let out a sigh of relief.

Another touch settled atop my other hand, the sensation strangely numb in a way I would allow myself to worry over later. Gaze shifting wearily, I saw the anxious dread just twisting Tech’s normally sedate expression, saw how the fingers of his other hand tapped nervously against his thigh.

“Hey,” he sighed, thumb dragging softly over the back of my hand. “That stuff helping?” I couldn’t begin to answer him, eyes merely closing as my chest bucked in a weak sob. “Oh, cyare.” The heartbreak in his quiet whisper threatened to break me. When I forced my eyes open once more, straining to find him in the dim light, I ached at the defeated slump to his shoulders, the deep worry in the subtle downturn of his lips.

“I am doing what I can to chemically negate the effects of the toxin, but…” Desperate to ease his frenzy I forced my jaw to move, forced my shredded vocal cords to catch the huffs of air fleeing me in still too-quick huffs. “I would advise against trying to speak. I suspect you’ve damaged-”

“I…it,” I knew what he was going to say, but I didn’t care…. I needed him to know that his efforts hadn’t been worthless. “It… h-helped.” His eyes widened, and the rush of relief that swept through him was worth the razors clawing down my throat.

“Was that,” Hunter’s question died the instant he came back into the room, attention instantly locking on me, and the way he breathed my name still managed to send a tiny thrill down my spine as he quickly approached the bed. “We’re going to get you fixed up. Alright? You just need to hang on.” It wanted to be an order, but the threat of desperation in his voice rendered it into a plea. I tried to respond, lips barely managing to twitch around words my lungs and throat simply couldn’t manage.

“Hey, no-no; none of that.” He said quickly, hand reaching out to settle atop my shin. “Just breathe… okay?” It took a moment to convince the muscles in my neck to move, but I gave a small nod in reply. Hunter’s gaze suddenly turned pointedly toward the main hall of the Marauder, expression darkening.

“Tech. It’s waking up.” Before Crosshair even finished speaking, all trace of doubt fled the distraught man before me, shoulders stiffening as his jaw went taut, brows furrowing over suddenly sharp eyes as he turned toward the medbay door.

“If it has a language, I’ll decode it. They must have an antidote.”

Next Chapter

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69@@ct-0113@padawancat97 @eclec-tech@kixs-husband @atomickidsoul @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @burningfieldof-clover @manofworm @merkitty49 @fives-girlfriend @starqueensthings @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base @daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @oldmanwithashield @skellymom @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan @pentaghasm @actuallybarb @snow-dragon-rider @like-a-bantha @ew-wtaf @solstraalaa @drummergirl1701 @shersten-the-golden @shewhoneveryields @highlylunar @get-wr3ckered @dangraccoon @brokenphoenix99 @nekotaetae @rndmpeep @blondie_bluue @goddessofcongeniality