#Sterilization Tunnel

[adinathinternationalindia]

Vial Powder Line

Vial Powder Line, also known as the vial production line, is comprised of a machine for labeling, cap sealing, powder filling, washing, and sterilizing vials. Every machine was oriented to function as a single, cohesive system. Both Automatic and Semi Automatic Vial Powder Lines are available in our inventory. Automatic lines, also known as fully automatic vial powder lines, have conveyors on each machine that are connected to one another for uninterrupted automatic operations.

Automatic Vial Powder Line

Automatic Vial Powder Lines are made up of machines for labeling, filling, sterilizing, and washing. Every machine is connected to function as a single, cohesive system. Automation is used in operations to reduce the need for human intervention. These lines are also known as Production Scale Vial Filling Lines or High Speed Vial Production Lines. The equipment in this kind of filling line is listed below:

Vial Washing Machine

The AI-VRW Automatic Rotary Vial Washing Machine is made to wash glass vials without letting non-contact machine parts come into touch with the vials. A gripper system on the Automatic Rotary Vial Washing Machine model grips the vial from the neck and inverts it while the washing process is underway. Once the washing process is complete, the vial is released on the outfeed star wheel arrangement in a vertical position, ensuring a positive wash of the vials. With the use of spare components, our machine model can clean glass vials and containers ranging in capacity from 2 to 100 milliliters. A specifically constructed Gripper holds the glass vial from its neck, inverts it, and moves it further on a rotary moving system for the washing process. The glass vial feeds through a turn table to the infeed Star Wheel.

Sterilization Tunnel

In order to sterilize and dehydrogenate cleaned empty pharmaceutical glassware used in parenteral product packaging, this type of continuous sterilizer is a fully automated system that specifically uses forced convection of filtered air through a high efficiency particulate air filter.

Vial Powder Filling Machine

A filling tool used to fill injection powder vials is called a vial powder filler or vial powder filling machine. The monoblock equipment that performs filling and stoppering/bunging operations on the same platform is the sterile powder filler. For cGMP compliance, all contact parts are constructed from FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L.

Vial Cap Sealing Machine

The PP/Flip-ff cap sealing onto round glass vials is appropriate for the Automatic Vial Cap Sealing Machine. The machine for capping vials is specifically made of stainless steel and has a mild steel frame with stainless steel cladding and enclosures. The Vial Capping Machine has a vibratory bowl feeder that allows the cap to be continuously fed for online operation on any liquid or powder filling line. Machine adaptable to different Vial sizes and, with the use of spare parts, to Plain/Flip-Off Caps. The Capping Machine is a useful tool for the pharmaceutical industry because it may operate automatically online and has fewer production requirements.

Vial Inspection Machine

Glass vials that can be injected are appropriate for inspection using an automatic vial inspection machine. The four tracks that make up the Vial Inspection Machine are made of nylon-6 roller chain, and they can be purchased with a spinning assembly that includes 24V DC wiring and AC drive rejection units. Additionally, the ability to modify speed was made possible with a variable AC frequency drive. All of the machine’s contact parts are composed of authorized engineered polymers and stainless steel, in compliance with cGMP regulations.

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine

One of the easiest vertical vial sticker labeler devices to use is the Automatic Vial Sticker Labeling Machine. This apparatus has a cutting-edge Micro Processor Control label dispensing mechanism with a product and label detection system. The Vial Labeler can be used to label spherical objects such as vials. Depending on the vial and label size, it may label up to 100 vials in a minute. An optional unique label sensing system allows an electronic and mechanical system specifically developed to put transparent (No Look) labels on vials at a very fast speed.

Semi-Automatic Vial Powder Line

Machines for washing, sterilizing, filling stoppers, sealing caps, inspecting, and labeling make up a semi-automated vial powder line. These devices operate autonomously and integrate with one another. These lines are also known as small-scale vial powder lines or low-cost vial production lines. The equipment in this kind of filling line is listed below:

Semi-Automatic Vial Washing Machine

A reliable, ampoule and vial washing machine that complies with cGMP standards is the semi-automatic vial washer, also known as the vial jet washer. It is small, adaptable, and semi-automatic. With the use of appropriate replacement components, the Multijet Vial Washing Machine’s stainless steel architecture allows it to wash glass vial sizes ranging from 2 to 100 milliliters and ampoule sizes from 1 to 20 milliliters. FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L are used to make all contact parts.

Dry Heat Sterilizer

Bottles, vials, and ampoules that have been cleaned can be sterilized using an ampoule sterilizer or dry heat sterilizer. It is constructed from MS heavy angles with an exterior wall composed of stainless steel 304 and an inner wall made of stainless steel 316. Our double door DHS is manufactured in compliance with cGMP requirements that are authorized in injectable pharmaceutical factories that uphold a class 100 environment. For cGMP compliance, all contact parts are constructed from FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L.

Vial Powder Filling Machine

A filling tool used to fill injection powder vials is called a vial powder filler or vial powder filling machine. The monoblock equipment that performs filling and stoppering/bunging operations on the same platform is the sterile powder filler. For cGMP compliance, all contact parts are constructed from FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L.

Vial Cap Sealing Machine

The PP/Flip-ff cap sealing onto round glass vials is appropriate for the Automatic Vial Cap Sealing Machine. The machine for capping vials is specifically made of stainless steel and has a mild steel frame with stainless steel cladding and enclosures. The Vial Capping Machine has a vibratory bowl feeder that allows the cap to be continuously fed for online operation on any liquid or powder filling line. Machine adaptable to different Vial sizes and, with the use of spare parts, to Plain/Flip-Off Caps. The Capping Machine is a useful tool for the pharmaceutical industry because it may operate automatically online and has fewer production requirements.

Vial Inspection Machine

Glass vials that can be injected are appropriate for inspection using an automatic vial inspection machine. The four tracks that make up the Vial Inspection Machine are made of nylon-6 roller chain, and they can be purchased with a spinning assembly that includes 24V DC wiring and AC drive rejection units. Additionally, the ability to modify speed was made possible with a variable AC frequency drive. All of the machine’s contact parts are composed of authorized engineered polymers and stainless steel, in compliance with cGMP regulations.

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine

One of the easiest vertical vial sticker labeler devices to use is the Automatic Vial Sticker Labeling Machine. This apparatus has a cutting-edge Micro Processor Control label dispensing mechanism with a product and label detection system. The Vial Labeler can be used to label spherical objects such as vials. Depending on the vial and label size, it may label up to 100 vials in a minute. Using an optional unique label sensing system, a specially built mechanical and electrical system applies clear (No Look) labels to vials at a very high speed.

[swampjawn]

What happens when you let a film nerd make an anime?

Fuuga Yamashiro (山代風我) joined Science Saru in 2017 as an Assistant Production Manager during production of "Night Is Short, Walk on Girl." He was essentially Studio Co-founder Masaaki Yuasa's secretary, but he worked his way up to assistant director on "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" and finally got to direct his own first full Anime series, Dandadan.

Having worked so closely with one of the greatest living auteur directors, you might think he would share that overpowering individual creative influence, but as he has pointed out in interviews himself, it's much the opposite.

Instead of relying on his own creative voice, which he doesn't seem confident about in interviews, he literally collects techniques from his favorite movies, breaking them down into storyboards and adding them to his arsenal to re-contextualize later. And as you may be able to tell from watching Dandadan, his biggest influences aren't anime and manga, but live action film -- something he seems to have studied obsessively.

And when you compare the anime to the original manga (which itself is already filled with references to old movies and TV) subtle adaptation choices make the deft application of techniques borrowed from other storytellers very clear. Every choice is made for a reason and furthers the story being told in some way; nothing is there for no reason. like the simple, controlled camera pans and tilts that make the serpoian spaceship feel cold and sterile, or the crazywackysilly, un-predictable wide-angle camera movements that intrude on that cold sterile world when turbo granny shows up.

In one interview during the production of "Keep Your Hands off Eizouken" Yamashiro pulls out his notebook where he had collected all these techniques and gives an example:

"There's a technique called 'Dolly Zoom', which is a technique that changes the perspective of the background while keeping the size of the subject." […] "In 'Cult of Chucky,' which I saw recently, there is a scene in which a long passageway is filmed in telephoto, while a wheelchair moves forward. The character is 'getting closer, but the viewer feels farther away'. This is the kind of thing I collect." […] "I'd like to combine these things in various ways and do it in animation." (I took some liberties with this, the translation was pretty rough)

And sure enough, that exact same type of dolly zoom rears its head in Dandadan as Okarun sprints away from Turbo Granny and the mouth of the tunnel stretches impossibly into the distance.

It may seem counterintuitive to ascribe too much importance to the creative vision of one person who specifically talks about his own lack of strong creative vision, (and to be clear, he's far from the only person playing a major role) but I think it's precisely that encyclopedic knowledge of film techniques and that pragmatic, meticulous attitude that may have acted as a stabilizing force for Yuasa, and that also provides some needed structure to a ball of pure energy like Dandadan, while still preserving its essence and the eclectic influences that it wears on its sleeve.

Also, mad respect for using the seventh installment of the Child's Play franchise as your example of a dolly zoom instead of, like, Vertigo, Jaws, or Goodfellas.

This is just a sliver of what I talk about in this full video! A minuscule piece of the pie! Some tiny little crumbs for the peasants! So if you consider yourself worthy, go watch the whole video. I think it's good.

Uhh also reblog! I spent way too long on that intro animation, so I need it. Bad.

[theotherbuckley]

right here - read on ao3

In an instant his veins turn to ice, his body stills, his legs shake as they try to hold him up. The voice on the other end of the line keeps speaking, but he can’t hear her. Can only hear the last four words repeating around and around in his mind.

There was an accident.

There was an accident.

There was an accident.

There was an accident.

Tommy.

He’s moving before he can register it, half way out the door, holding his wallet and keys even though he doesn’t remember picking them up. He doesn’t remember hanging up the phone but the woman is no longer on the line. He knows which hospital to go to, even though he doesn’t remember her saying it.

His mind feels like tunnel vision; hazy and dark around the edges, focused on one thing only. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy.

He shouldn’t be driving.

He drives anyway.

He arrives 25 minutes later, wishing he was faster, but he can’t even remember the journey anyway.

The hospital lights are too bright and sterile as he walks in. They make him want to itch under his skin. There’s a buzz in the air, beeping of various machines. He can’t hear it over the thud of his heart beat in his ear. He doesn't remember if he locked his car. He has insurance, it doesn't matter. 

Lub dub.

Why is he thinking about his car?

There’s someone talking to him. He’s at the front desk. They’re asking his name.

Lub dub.

“I— Evan, um, Evan Buckley. You— someone called me? For Tommy. Thomas Kinard.”

Thomas is his father’s name. He doesn’t like Thomas.

Lub dub.

“One moment,” she says, turning to the computer screen.

“Mr Kinard has just come out of surgery. He’s in room 135 in the east wing. The doctor’s there can fill you in.”

Surgery.

Lub dub.

Surgery.

Lub dub.

Surgery.

Lub dub.

He barely remembers to say thank you, before he’s running through the halls. He wishes he didn't know exactly which way to go. 

Tommy looks small under the burning white lights, drowned in an oversized hospital gown.

Lub dub.

Tommy never looks small. Tommy makes Buck look small. Right now he feels like a giant in all the worst ways.

Lub dub.

He can feel every inch of his skin. It feels like there’s both ice and fire running through his vein. Burning cold through him. He can feel each hair standing on end, feel each beat of his heart pulse through his body like a tremor. He feels clumsy, like his limbs aren't his own, his mind feels too small for this body. He feels too big as he looks at his boyfriend from behind a glass window.

Lub dub.

Christopher's iPad is in the backseat of the Jeep. He forgot to take it home. He hopes nobody steals it.

Hopefully he remembered to lock the door.

Why does it matter right now?

“He’s in a medically induced coma, for now.” There’s a doctor standing by his side. He doesn’t know when she got there. He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring.

A coma. The words echo in his mind.

A coma.

Lub dub.

This hurts far worse than being struck by lightning ever could.

It always hurts so much more when it’s not him, when it’s someone he loves instead.

He’d take being struck by lightning a thousand times over this.

Lub dub.

Thinking about his car feels easier than looking at Tommy. He must have locked the door, it's like second nature. Eddie always gives him this look when Buck double checks the door. There's no way he forgot this time. 

“We hope to get him out of it after a day or two, just enough time for his body to heal a little from his injuries.”

What injuries? His brain is screaming. His heart aches in his chest. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. It feels like it’s trying to escape, trying to break through this glass barrier and get to where it belongs; with Tommy.

Lub dub. Lubdub. Lubdublubdublubdub—

“What—what happened?” He croaks out over the ringing in his ears.

“It was a fucking bird of all things,” a voice behind him says. This one he recognises.

“Lucy?” He turns to her, forcing his eyes to move away from where his boyfriend lays. It physically pains him to do so. Feels like he’s ripping a part of himself off as he turns away.

“He didn’t see it coming. Just flew straight through his window, wasn’t much he could do after that.”

“He’s lucky,” the doctor speaks this time. Buck doesn’t think this is lucky. Luck is winning the lottery, luck is finding the man of your dreams on a random day in the middle of a hurricane. Luck is not crashing a helicopter from a bird strike.

“A fall from that height, with only the injuries he sustained. He was talking when he got here. The only surgery he needed was a minor bone realignment of his leg which took most of the impact. He’s lucky it wasn’t much worse.”

Buck hears the words she doesn’t say.

He’s lucky to be alive.

Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub.

His hands are shaking.

"I don't remember if I locked my car." He's not sure why he says it, but the words come out anyway. 

"You don't—Buckley," Lucy sighs. "Give me your keys." He obliges. His brain feels kind of foggy. He returns his attention to his boyfriend. The man who needs him right now but Buck's too busy thinking about his damn car. 

“Can I—Can I sit with him?” His voice comes out as not much more than a whisper.

“Of course.” The doctor nods, gesturing him towards the door.

Each step he takes feels unsteady but he moves anyway. His heart beat feels louder in his ears, like it knows it’s getting closer to the man he loves.

Lub dub.

He hesitates in the doorway, for reasons he can’t understand himself.

His heart skips a beat.

He walks through anyway. Takes a seat right by Tommy’s side. He lifts his shaking hand, pauses and looks towards the doctor who nods an okay.

He takes Tommy’s hand in his own. His hands are still shaking and he squeezes Tommy tighter to try and get them to stop. There’s bruising along his arms. Purple blotches scattered up their lengths. But the doctor’s right; all things considered he looks better than he could be.

There’s a cast on his leg. He remembers the firetruck crushing his bones and his own leg winces in sympathy.

Buck takes a deep breath. His heart slows slightly, matching that of his boyfriend’s.

A single tear escapes through his eyelid and Buck lets out a sob that he didn’t even realise he was holding back.

All at once, everything catches up to him. He collapses his head onto Tommy’s bed, never letting go of his hand. He cries, the sound muffled by the mattress. His body shakes with each hiccuping sob, but he feels better than before.

Because Tommy’s still here.

Right here.

His hand is limp beneath Buck’s own, but it’s warm. Warm is good. Warm means life.

The rest doesn’t matter right now. Tommy’s alive, he’s going to stay alive. And Buck will stay right here until he wakes up.

He presses a soft kiss to Tommy’s red knuckles. Wiping his eyes with the hand not joined to Tommy’s.

“I love you,” he whispers. He swears the heart rate on the monitor jumps slightly, like Tommy heard him. It doesn’t matter even if he didn’t. Buck will just tell him again, and again when he wakes up. read on ao3

[slytherheign]

A WALK TO REMEMBER | tasm!peter parker

PAIRING: tasm!peter parker x reader

WORD COUNT: 3.4k

SUMMARY: you take one last walk with the love of your life.

WARNINGS: illness (unspecified), HEAVY angst, insecurities, death. let me know if i missed any warnings. [⚠︎︎RATING: G]

AUTHOR’S NOTE: inspired by the movie/novel with the same title, but only slightly. THIS IS A GENDER NEUTRAL FIC BTW, but if you see something that pertains to specific gender then pls reach out so i can change it. also, i��ve planned another part for this focusing on their first walk but it’s still not finished. though when that part comes out, you can either read it as a one-shot or a prequel for this. EDIT: the prequel is out! READ HERE. again, i apologize for the lack of uploads, i just got busy with university and life in general. thank you for understanding and enjoy reading! you might want to get tissues before you proceed.

DESTINATION: Angst Avenue | GO BACK TO THE STATION. CLICK HERE FOR ALL THINGS AWTR (reviews, commentary, etc. about this fic).

The scent of the hospital permeated the room, mingling with the soft whirring of medical pieces of equipment. You were lying on your hospital bed, your frail form engulfed by the sterile white sheets. Your family surrounded you, their faces etched with worry and exhaustion.

The doctor entered the room, his expression grave. You watched him closely, a flicker of hope dancing within your eyes. Perhaps there was still a chance, a new treatment or some kind of breakthrough medication.

But as the doctor spoke, his words fell like heavy stones, shattering your fragile heart and optimism. "I'm sorry," he began, his voice laced with regret. "But it seems the treatments have stopped working."

Your heart sank like an anchor in your chest. You felt as if the air had been sucked out of the room, leaving you gasping for breath. Your family's hushed whispers filled the silence, their words a blur as tears clouded your vision. "I-I don't understand," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper. "What does that mean?"

Your mother's trembling hand reached out to grasp yours, her eyes brimming with tears. "It means we have to consider other options, sweetheart," she said, her voice breaking with emotion.

But you knew what those "other options" meant. It meant more pain, more uncertainty, and the terrifying prospect of saying goodbye. You turned away, burying your face in your pillow as a sob wracked your body.

The doctor spoke with your family and discussed the other options. You listened to his words, but they felt distant, as if they were coming from the end of a long tunnel. You knew what he was saying, and you could grasp the gravity of his words, but you couldn't bring yourself to fully process them.

“What do we think?” he asked, looking at your faces for an answer. 

If you were being honest, a part of you didn’t want to try anymore. You didn’t want any more pain. You were already tired—exhausted, even.

But then you remembered him.

You remembered Peter.

And you remembered how you promised him that you would do everything to survive. You promised that you would keep trying until all was well. 

After a moment of unnerving silence, you spoke. “I think we should do it,” you breathed out, looking up at your parents and your doctor. “The other options… let’s do it,” you smiled weakly.

So, that was what you did. You kept trying.

Peter lightly traced the lines on your hand as you waited for your order. Every now and then, he would look up and gaze at you lovingly. You couldn’t help but chuckle. “What are you doing?” you said, smiling.

“Admiring you,” he smiled, intertwining his hand with yours atop the table.

The smile left your face almost instantly. “Even when there’s nothing left to admire?” you stated sadly.

He immediately frowned at that. “What are you saying?”

“You know what I’m saying…”

“Y/N…”

“Peter, I’m not the same as I was. I don’t look like what I used to when you fell in love with me.”

“Stop.”

“No, Peter. I’m pale as snow. I look so sick, I’ve lost my hair. This—” you pointed at your head. “This is just a wig. My real hair is gone—the hair that I know you loved playing with and twirling the ends with your finger. I’ve lost a lot of weight—I don’t have the chubby cheeks you loved to pinch anymore. I-I’m so w-weak,” you sniffed. “Look at me, Pete—I can’t even stand on my own feet anymore. I have to be in a wheelchair.”

A tear fell on Peter’s cheek but he quickly wiped it when he noticed the waiter approaching. You immediately turned your face at the window, pretending to look at the parking lot on the other side so the poor waiter wouldn’t notice the emotional distress you were in.

Peter smiled at the waiter. “On second thought, can we take these out?” he gestured to the food. The waiter smiled in return before picking up your table number and taking the food back to pack it up for the two of you. Peter sadly looked at you as you continued to stare at the window. He heard you sniffing and he cursed himself for not knowing the right words to say at the moment. God, if he only knew how to take this pain away from you, he would do it right this instant.

He thanked the waiter, grabbing the paper bag with one hand and placing his other on your cheek to turn your face to him. He wiped the tears with his thumb before moving his hand to clasp yours. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” you asked.

“To your favorite place.”  

He sat on the bench beside your wheelchair before opening the takeout bag and handing your food to you. The two of you ate in peace while admiring the sight of the beach in front of you, the cool breeze that swept off the ocean instantly finding its way to your bodies.

You remembered this beach. It was where Peter asked you to be his, and it was where you answered him “yes”. You remembered how it was snowing then, and how both of you thought it was weird, but beautiful nonetheless.

Moments after you finished eating and Peter threw the trash in a garbage can that was nearby, he cleaned his hands with an alcohol spray. He then went back to you, knelt down, and held your hand with both of his. “I have an idea.”

“A good one or a bad one?”

“A good one. A very good one.”

There was a glint of excitement in his eyes and you couldn’t help but laugh lightly at him.

“Well then, count me in,” you smiled.

He smirked before standing up and starting to carry you bridal style. 

“Peter—Pete! What are you doing?!”

“Just trust me, okay?”

You looked at him, searching his eye for some kind of clue to what he was planning on doing. Unfortunately, you couldn’t find a clue or anything. “Okay,” you forfeited.

He noticed the slight pout you made and he rolled his eyes jokingly. “You really know how to get me, huh?” he chuckled. “Fine, I’ll tell you what we’re doing,” he said, starting to move his feet towards the beach. “You and I, my love, are going for a walk.”

Peter carried you as he gently walked along the sandy shore, his footsteps leaving imprints that would soon be washed away by the tide. You stared up at him, memorizing his features just like you did every time you would look at him. His hair moved smoothly with the flow of the breeze, his mouth looking perfect as he talked about something you weren’t really paying attention to because you were busy paying attention to his face. And then you wondered how a man as beautiful as him loved you. You smiled, thinking you must’ve done something really good in your life for you to have him.

Seagulls soared overhead, their cries blending with the gentle rustle of the palm trees lining the beach. The rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shore filled the air, a poignant backdrop to the bittersweet moment you were having.

Right. This was a bittersweet moment. There was something you haven’t told him yet.

“Pete, can we sit for a moment?” he frowned but did what you asked for nonetheless. He set you down gently on the sand, sitting beside you right after. 

You sat in companionable silence, the only sounds you were focusing on now were the sounds of Peter’s breathing and your heart’s beating. With each beat, you drew closer to the inevitable. You needed to tell him what he deserved to know.

“Pete—”

“Y/N—”

You laughed. “Okay, you go first,” you told him.

He smiled. “You were wrong,” he stated after a moment. 

“I’m confused.”

“You were wrong,” he said again. “You were wrong when you said that there is nothing left to admire about you. You were wrong because there is always something to admire about you. When I look at you, I question myself if you’re even real, because surely a person as perfect as you could not exist. The way you smile at the smallest compliments, the way you tilt your head back when you laugh at something, the way your brows knit together when you’re confused, the way your tongue sticks out sometimes when you’re concentrating—everything about you, big and small, I admire them. And I love them.”

“Surely, there are some imperfections in me,” you said.

“Yes, of course, we all have them. But those imperfections are what makes you perfect.”

“But I don’t look the same as I was before—”

“And I don’t care. Y/N, you are perfect in my eyes. Listen to me, I love you. I don’t care if you lost all your hair, or if you lose your teeth, or if you lose everything you have—I don’t care what else you lose as long as I don’t lose you.”

Oh.

As long as he didn’t lose me.

Your heart should’ve leaped with joy when you heard those words. But instead, it shattered like a plate of glass getting thrown into a wall. You hated this feeling. And you hated the feeling you would soon make Peter feel.

“Peter…” you called his name. “Pete—I love you,” you sniffed. “I love you,” you repeated. “You know that, right?”

“Of course,” he nodded, a tear escaping his eyes.

“And because I love you so much… I have to tell you something.”

“What is it?”

“They didn’t work,” you cried.

“What didn’t work? I don’t understand.”

“When my treatments stopped working, my family and I decided to try the other options. Those other options,” your voice broke. “Those options didn’t work either, Peter…”

“W-What does that mean?”

“That means that I’m dying, Peter. And there’s nothing left to stop it.”

“No.”

You held both of his hands when you noticed them shaking.

“It’s inevitable,” you explained, looking at his hands instead of focusing on his face. You couldn’t look at him while he was crying. You couldn't do it. Your heart wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“No no no no no.”

“I love you, Peter.” 

“Y-you can’t—no. Maybe there’s still a chanc—”

You shook your head, lips trembling as you kissed his hands. “I love you.”

“What about our dreams, the future we would have? The family we would make? Y/N…”

“Peter, it’s getting cold,” you whispered. “We should go back.”

“But—please, Y/N. Y-You just can’t…”

“Peter, it’s getting really cold…”

“You can’t just leave me, I don’t think I can live without you. I already lost a lot of people—”

“I love you, Peter,” you repeated.

“I–I can’t lose you too…”

And in one frail movement, everything turned black.

As soon as you opened your eyes, the darkness from your eyelids was changed into the blinding white of the hospital room. To your left were machines that connected to your body, the only reason why you were still breathing. To your right was Peter, sound asleep on his chair while he held your hand in his.

If you were back in here, then that would mean one thing… you didn’t have much time left.

Your face was pale and the once vibrant eyes you had were now dimmed by the weight of your illness. Despite the pain that was evident in your features, there was a peacefulness in your expression. You had come to terms with your fate. 

You could feel it. Death. It wasn’t just at your doorstep, it was already beside you, just waiting for the right moment to touch you and consume you. You supposed you should be thankful, for the heavens did not take you yet.

If it would take you within this week, then so be it. But you hoped it would at least be merciful.

If it would take you today, then so be it. But you hoped it would spare you a chance for one more wish. 

One last wish.

To give you time. 

Not more time to live, but just enough.

Just enough time to say goodbye.

“Peter?” you said, squeezing his hand with all the strength you had left.

He woke up, eyes widening when he realized you were awake.

“You’re awake,” he smiled, you swore you saw his eyes tearing up at the sight of you.

Your features were drawn with pain and fatigue and your body was weakened by the relentless progression of your illness. But despite your frailty, there was a quiet strength in your eyes, a determination to make the most of the time you had left.

“I don’t think I have much time left,” you admitted.

Tears welled up in Peter's eyes as he stood up to lean in and kiss your forehead, his heart breaking at the thought of losing you. He sat back down again, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of love and sorrow. He longed to take away your pain, to make you whole again, but he knew that was beyond his power.

"I'm sorry, Peter," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I wish things could have been different."

He squeezed your hand gently, his heart breaking at the sadness in your voice. "Don't apologize" he replied, his voice filled with tenderness. "You have nothing to be sorry for. We've shared so much love and memories together. Your time may be shorter than what we’ve hoped for, but I’m very lucky and glad that you decided to spend most of it with me."

A small smile played at the corners of your lips and you moved your hand to caress his cheek. "I love you, Peter," you whispered, voice trembling with emotion.

"I love you too, Y/N," Peter replied, his voice thick with tears. "More than anything in this world."

“My parents?” you asked.

“They’re outside.”

“Can you please call them for me?”

“Of course,” he said, standing up to fetch your parents. He stayed outside the room to give you and your family some privacy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” your mother immediately ran up to you, stroking both of your cheeks gently with her hands. Your father stood behind her, you could tell by their faces that they’d been crying.

God, you hated seeing them like this.

“Mom, Dad,” you whispered.

“We’re here,” your mother responded, wiping your tears with her thumbs. “We’re right here.”

Your father reached out to hold your hand. “We’re always here.”

“I don’t know w-what to say… I can’t think of words that are nearly enough to express how grateful I am to each of you,” you stated. “Thank you for everything you have done and given me since I was a child. Thank you for reading me bedtime stories when I was little, for bringing me to school and then picking me up when it was done, for cooking my favorite meals, for hugging me when I was sad, for cleaning up my wounds whenever I injured myself while playing, for being there for me through my first period, first heartbreak—I am who I am because of you.”

You glanced at your dad only to see him crying, his grip on your hand getting tighter as if trying to see if the tighter he held you the longer you would stay with them. You never saw him cry like this before.

“We love you so much,” he whispered.

“We’re so proud of you,” your mother added.

Your father agreed, nodding. “You’re the strongest person I know. You’re even stronger than me,” he chuckled sadly.

“I love you both so much,” you cried. “I don’t want to leave, but the world has other plans for me… thank you for being the best parents I could ever ask for.”

And there it was.

You could feel death’s hand slowly reach for you. You closed your eyes, it was getting hard to breathe. 

“C-Can you please call Peter?” you breathed out.

With all your might, you opened your eyes again. Peter was now beside you, holding your right hand while both your parents held your left. You stayed like that for a moment, clinging to each other as if you could defy fate itself. But you all knew that you couldn’t.

Your breaths came shallow and labored, each one a struggle against the weight of your failing body. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the pain that pulsed through you with every heartbeat. But despite your efforts, you couldn't escape the truth that loomed over you like a dark cloud.

You could see and hear them crying, the grips they had on your hands getting tighter and tighter and tighter… afraid that if they held you loosely then you would slip away sooner.

But that wasn’t how it worked. A tight grip would not save you. There was nothing they could do to change the inevitable.

As the seconds stretched into minutes, your thoughts began to wander, drifting through memories of happier times. You thought of your childhood, filled with laughter and innocence, and of the love you had shared with your family, with your friends, and with Peter.

The memories faded as soon as they came. And then you felt death’s touch linger on your skin, its distance becoming closer to you than you could ever imagine. Like a distant echo growing louder with each passing moment, the realization dawned on you that your time was running out. You tearfully looked around the room, taking in the faces of your loved ones, each one bearing pain and sorrow.

Your strength continued to wane, your body growing weaker with each second. And as you lay there, surrounded by the ones you loved, you found a sense of peace in knowing that you weren't alone.

With a final breath, you closed your eyes. You welcomed death’s touch with a smile, surrendering to the darkness that beckoned you. And as your family and Peter wept beside you, you drifted away, hoping to have left behind a legacy of love and memories that would live on long after you were gone.

7 MONTHS LATER.

Taking a walk along the beach never felt the same anymore. 

Peter concluded that without you beside him, it wasn’t as fun as it used to be. The only fun thing for him, he guessed, was the fact that with each step he walked along the sandy shore, the memories with you played in his head and he would smile as he recounted them. Sometimes, he could even feel your presence somehow.

He ditched his shoes and played with the sand with his feet. It only took him a few minutes before he decided to wear his shoes again and leave the beach.

The next place he decided to visit was the cemetery. He stood across your grave, still not believing that 7 months had passed since you took your final breath. There was not a day that passed when he didn’t miss your presence or longed for your touch. He sat on the grass in front of your tombstone.

“You know…” he started speaking. “Walking along the beach used to be my favorite. After you died and I started doing it again, I wondered why I didn’t like doing it as much as I did before. But now I know why… I realized that it only became my favorite because I was doing it with you.”

He played with the grass with his hands, picking some of them as he tried to hold back his tears. “God, Y/N,  it’s been 7 months and it still hurts the same… I miss you so so much. I miss our walks, our dates—I miss everything about you,” he cried.

“I want to love walking along the beach again, but I know I only loved it in the first place because I was with you,” he continued. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ll do those walks again, at least not now… I don’t know… it’s just, without you, I can’t—”

Something just crawled and bit his hand. “Shit,” he swatted the spider, before facing your grave again.

“Anyway, I just want you to know that I will forever treasure those walks that I did with you,” he smiled weakly but genuinely, wiping his tears. “I will never forget them.” 

Especially that last one.

That last walk.

That was a walk to remember.

SLYTHERHEIGN TAGLIST: @writingstoraes @joshiiieeenesx @checo2011

TASM!PETER PARKER TAGLIST: @mymilkducts @i-am-woman-strong @lauraneedstochill @jeanettexkillian @ms-mandalore @enaraism @alessandralol @sad-darksoul @sincericida @mentallystablepotato @mich0731 @logolepsic-insomniac @k0miiki @dreamsarecloserwithyou @jumilzzz @primroseparker @preciousbabypeter @myheartonthemove @rebecca-johnson-28 @silkholland @ellievickstar @okkulta @geekygamerchick @starqwerty20 @the-quiet-observer @softiepeterpan @willowhaired @sflame15-blog @pompeygirl89 @remuslupinsdocs

[angelpuns]

Leo’s hands were more sluggish than he would have liked. Definitely at least a baby concussion. It was hard to tell by himself, but he was usually pretty good at figuring it out before it got too dangerous. Like after- 

He swallowed thickly. He didn't need to be thinking of that right now. Especially in the med bay, surrounded once again by the sterility and the oppressive white walls that he'd spent way too long in. 

Leo quickly shook the the thought away and grabbed a scalpel. He didn't want to have to use it, but he couldn't afford to keep a tracker in him - if there was one.

He needed to at least get fixed up before they caught on and followed him home. He wasn't sure where he'd go next. Maybe the sewer tunnels? Bad for his minor wounds, but maybe the concrete would screw with the signal enough to give him a bit of reprieve. 

Then again, it wouldn't be a good place to be ambushed. There wasn't much of a way to escape unless he stumbled upon a hatch or something. He could always go further down the subway tunnel instead, but that eventually would lead to an active subway tunnel and he didn't really need to add ‘crushed by a train like a cartoon character’ to his issues today. 

He let out a huff and got to work on fixing up what he could. The brunt of the scratches were on his face, his nose slowly oozing blood. Probably not broken, but it still hurt like hell. If he were human it would've been a lot worse, so there was that at least. 

Leo worked quickly, not sure how much time he had left. He still didn't have a plan either, and he probably only had a portal or two left him in him. Maybe just the one with a concussion. 

Ideally, he'd just hunker down in the lair and defend it, but he was only one turtle with a couple swords and a dream ( and a big heaping dose of PTSD. And a concussion. ) so that wasn't really an option. 

He could try portaling away again, but it seemed like they'd always find him. He didn't necessarily want to try and cut the tracker out, but it seemed to be the only real option he had right now. 

He wasn't sure that would stop them either. They clearly knew where the lair was, and could easily just hide out here until he eventually came back… 

Leo sighed, rubbing his hands over his face with a groan. Why were all these options so shitty? Normally he was better at planning then this… 

 He supposed he'd have to fight them, but one on three was a losing battle and he knew it. Unless…well maybe he could trap them. 

Leo pocketed the scalpel for now. He had to get everything set up before they arrived, then he could worry about the tracker. He had plans for that too, now, and hopefully they weren't smart enough to figure them out. 

An hour passed as he worked to move furniture around and booby-trap as much of the lair as he possibly could. Nothing substantial, just little traps that would allow him to portal all of them into a big cage he'd fashioned out of bent up bars and that he'd soldered to the floor. He'd never been good at doing that kind of thing, so he hoped it'd hold up. 

He returned the supplies to the garage and hurried back to the med bay. They hadn’t shown up yet still, but he supposed them not being able to portal was a good sign. 

Leo checked his entire body for the tracker. He assumed it'd be like a movie and there would be some kind of little lump or something under his skin, or maybe an incision where it had been surgically implanted. The thought made him shiver. He didn't like the thought of those creeps in his room doing surgery on him. 

He didn't feel anything, though, in all the places he could reach anyway. 

He settled his now tired arms on the back of his neck, staring into the mirror and wondering what the hell he was going to do. 

Trapping those guys was a decent plan and all, but it wasn't a long term solution. Maybe he needed to move again. 

Moving after the Shredder had been difficult and all, but at least there hadn't been a looming threat of someone finding him. 

He groaned, arms brushing against the top of his shell as he gave a little stretch. He felt it then, something scratching and small on the upper lip of his shell. Just out of reach of running against his shoulder. He felt along the edges of it, the cool metal against his fingertips revealing that it wasn't just a mark. 

What a damn smart place to put it. 

He pulled at the thing, but it had to have been glued down or something. He put the scalpel he’d been wielding away and hurried to the purple room. He supposed whoever had lived here before had been some kind of scientist, because they had a ton of stuff. It had all just been here when he moved in, and occasionally he'd pop in to check that everything was okay and in its place….and to borrow tools. 

Something about the purple room was very comforting too. It had a familiar and nice smell, and he'd spent a lot of time after the invasion curled up in here, just basking in the comfort of it. The other subway cars were like that, too. Orange and Red and Purple bedrooms that Leo himself hadn't set up. They'd just been like that when he moved in. 

And yet somehow he found them comforting. He didn't know why, but it had sort of been like that when he lived in the sewers, too. 

Rooms he hadn't decorated, but a comfort nonetheless. Those too had just always been there. It wasn't weird because it had always been like that. So to find the same thing in his new lair…well it was nothing short of a miracle, really. 

He sighed and stopped basking in the comforting purple light, hurrying over to a cabinet and rifling through the tools there. 

If he could just find a screwdriver and mallet, he could use the as a chisel. As scary as that was in a place he really couldn't see, it wasn't too dangerous to try. 

He finally found what he wanted and hurried for the nearest mirror, which ended up being in his own room. He still hadn't seen any signs of the intruders from before, but he was confident in his traps. He'd at least hear them falling all over themselves trying to get in. 

Leo carefully positioned the makeshift chisel, pointing it away from y'know, accidentally stabbing himself in the neck, before he carefully began to work at the tracker. 

It took a few hits, the clunk-clunk-clunk of the screwdriver on his shell making his head ache. The vibrations weren't helping either, old shell aches flaring up with each tap on the screwdriver. 

Finally, the little metal bit broke off, the piece flying off into his room somewhere. 

He scrounged around on the floor to find it, finally spotting it under his bed. 

“ I've got plans for you, little guy,” he mused, flipping it over in his hand, “ you're going on a little vacation” 

---

More 50au!!! This obviously isn't like a completed fic or anything, but it is nice to write onto and I have some ideas I wanna do with it ( which is why I'm writing on it more this week, I had a really interesting idea I wanna try out )

So enjoy :)

Part 1 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 7

[lavendermin]

the lovers, reversed | stellaron hunter sunday

pairing | sunday x fem!reader

wc | 1.6k

genre | angst, one sided love, unrealized feelings

warnings | mdni, alcohol mention, brief mention of sex, blood, wounds, unhealthy relationship, spoiler I guess if sunday really does end up being a stellaron hunter (have not yet played 2.3)

Fresh wounds, a few gashes. Nothing he couldn't treat. Because you wouldn't have anyone else though Firefly has always offered.

"Hold still," Sunday quietly instructs as steady hands work quickly to disinfect and dress unsightly marred skin.

You wince and clutch the sheets until your knuckles turn white. The pain was never easy, but a consequence of your recklessness nonetheless.

Under deft fingers you're all skin, no shame. Not when it's him.

Another whimper you can't suppress escapes your lips, and maybe it finally breaks something in him because you hear him sigh quietly. With his teeth he swiftly pulls off one of his gloves and holds it to your lips.

"Bite down on this," he instructs, voice calm and level. "There's still debris in one of the gashes. I have to take them out one by one."

You can only nod, not registering much else as the pain has your vision tunneling. It's another twenty minutes as he tries to work as quickly as possible. It takes everything to keep his composure despite your muffled cries of discomfort.

"This should have been done in the medical wing." Sunday's reprimand has little to no bite as he clears the medical supplies from the coffee table he had pulled up from across your room.

Your breath is weak and shaky, but still a gentle thing he's used to. "Too bright in there. Makes me feel like a lab rat within those white walls."

"Smells too clean?" he chuckles. Something he can't help around you more recently. There's an innocent and peculiar way you view things. Much like–

Sunday shuts the cabinet in your bathroom a bit harsher than he intended. He can't think of her... not right now. It would only bring emotions he didn't need to process—couldn't process at the moment.

There's red on his hands, on his clothes, staining his once pristine gloves. The awful metallic smell feels like it’s burned into his nostrils—a nauseating mix of crimson and the strong smell of sterilizers as he cleans the tools. His hands work on their own under the running water of your sink, almost out of body as his mind wanders. There’s a slight tremble he catches. Pathetic, he thinks, unable to keep it together in such a dire time.

The 'script' did not mention anything of a necessary death, but of course it would never detail wounds or misfortunes in detail. Some of those just come with the job. And sometimes he would feel a bubbling anger at the twisted fates that often befell you. But he knows it's a spiral that leaves him down a foggy road, one he shouldn't tread on.

Still, you're alive, and he's here. And for now, that's enough.

Your strained voice pulls him back to his body. Back to the present with a clearer head.

Right. The painkillers.

Sunday is quickly back by your side, pushing the small pill past your lips and lifting your face gently to give you water.

"You forgot," you tease despite your hoarse voice.

And those golden eyes you love dearly can't even bear to look at you as he sits next to you on the bed. There's no response other than a halfhearted hum he gives you. You know he didn't forget, and his lack of correction knowing how matter-of-fact he is only further sinks your heart.

But you don't get to tell your heart who to love.

The now-wrinkled glove he gave you is placed next to his leg. "Sorry I messed up. I'll buy you a new pair."

"Thank you..."

"You're wel-"

"You should say ‘thank you’. For the gesture. But don't apologize for the inevitable from missions. What's done is done," Sunday interrupts, voice firm. A little cold.

"I-" You're cut off as he grabs your wrist, his eyes unfocused as he looks at the ground.

"If you had done as I said– You could have gone missing. A lot of things could have gone wrong. Don't use yourself as bait. If anything happens to me, you escape by any means necessary. Understand?"

The grip is a little less than comfortable and you can only nod. Obedient only if it was his words that commanded. It brought a feeling he didn't want to describe rushing through his chest. The way your eyes looked at him—a mix of fear and blind adoration. It made him nauseous to consider himself worthy of such affection.

The morals of why he kept you by his side—of why he sought you during moments of his own damned weakness... He would dwell on that another time. If his morals were in a slow decline, perhaps he would even turn to burn the words stuck in his throat with the liquid he once detested and swore would never stain his lips. The liquid courage might bring him tumbling into your arms, an eagerness to be held and soothed for the sin he feels tainted with.

That maybe in his drunken stupor with his face buried in your neck and his throbbing frustration filling you up, he would realize even in nothingness, there is you. Always you.

A rebound. A close second. A replacement.

Sunday subconsciously has been latching onto you. It’s something he doesn’t remember starting, something he can’t stop nor explain. You, who are like an injured little dove to him, easily hurt and predictable in seeking comfort with his presence.

At first he firmly tried to keep his distance, remain cordial. But now… You provide him some psychological need to keep his same routine from before or have some semblance of familiarity amidst this new path he's been set on. This relationship was just something platonic, he swears by this. Just an innate need to protect and guide you since you were also a clumsy new recruit.

You couldn't help it—falling for him. Slowly being consumed by an infatuation that morphed into a hopeful yearning that filled your chest with a syrupy thickness of strong emotions you were inexperienced with.

And Sunday was at a loss. That wasn't part of the plan. Well…granted he didn't have much of a plan with you. The platonic acquaintance he had built with you was nothing more than for his own gratification. His desperate attempt at normalcy. Someone to fill the void of not being able to see his dear sister.

Still... you're so willing to just give and give and give to him. Anything, for even the slightest possibility of returned affection. Even if you don't outright confess to him, he sees it. In your actions, your speech, your eyes.

Would it truly be so bad to take that which is offered in earnest?

A heart in his hands with nothing to show for it. Lies to himself that this closeness is his attempt to bring you salvation. To settle your heart.

He knows how your script ends, looming over his consciousness. Testing his heart as if he were a newborn god stumbling over his first creation meeting its written demise. Some part of him is too scared to ask if you know it, too. Maybe there's still some naïveté in him if he believes for a second that you don't. A hope that your heart remains innocent and lovely and–

For now Sunday lets you love. It would be a bitter thing to not take the heart you have handed to him.

The painkillers have started to work, your body finally able to sleep for a bit after he changed your soiled sheets from treating your wounds. Before he leaves, Sunday presses his lips to your knuckles and idles for a few moments to watch your steady breathing. Sweat glistens on your brow from the exertion the wound treatment put on your body. Your endurance was nothing to be laughed at.

Sunday doesn't need to turn to know who's outside your door when he leaves.

"Was there something you needed?" The question lacks any warmth.

Kafka chuckles where she leans against the wall, fiddling with a card in her hands. "Here to drop off your compensation for the mission and look after the little lamb," she replies simply, throwing the card to him. He catches it between two fingers. "She lost her phone this past mission so make sure to give her that card for the time being."

Sunday's eyes narrow. "I'm looking after her."

"Poor thing sent me a message asking that I check in on her so she won't bother you. Unless that's a problem?" Her unreadable smile is something Sunday is growing to detest.

"Not necessary. I'll be handling it." His voice is firm, a warning woven into his tone with careful consideration. A natural habit from his years as the head of the Oak Family.

"Really now? If you don't want me looking after her due to trust issues then Bladie can–"

"No." Sunday can feel his heart pounding in his ears, a frustration deep-set in his veins at the pure thought of someone that isn't him near you when you're at your most vulnerable. He wishes he could wipe that smile off Kafka's face. Victim of her teasing again. Remember your composure, a conditioned mind rings. With a clear of his throat, he continues, "No, that won't be necessary. I've already cleared my schedule to ensure her wounds are looked after so there isn't any scarring. I'll take care of it."

Kafka relents and pats his shoulder as she passes him. "Very well, birdie. Sounds like you have our little lamb's heart in your pocket. Or perhaps it's your own?"

Before Sunday can ask her what she means, she's already vanished from his sight. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket when he feels something rigid and pulls out a card he's sure she placed there.

A tarot card depicting a dove perched on a lamb. The lovers.

[00valentina-writes00]

Wired for you (previously posted on wattpad) chapters 1-5

The air in the workshop was thick with the smell of oil and the hum of machinery, a constant buzz that had become as familiar to you as your own heartbeat. You had worked in more sterile environments before, but there was something about the grime of Silco's operation that made you feel more alive, like you were part of something important. The underground tunnels of Zaun were a world of their own, a far cry from the gleaming labs you'd worked in before, but now you found yourself in the heart of this dangerous world, a new recruit to Silco's growing empire.

As you walked through the dimly lit hallways of the hideout, your boots echoed softly against the metal floors. The walls were adorned with tools, blueprints, and designs for weapons and tech that had been hastily scribbled out on pieces of paper. You had no time to waste—Silco needed you to repair broken equipment and upgrade the tech his people used. And that's where you came in. You were a techie, a specialist, with a sharp mind and a reputation for turning broken gadgets into powerful machines.

Your first real test came sooner than you expected.

You were summoned to the back of the hideout, where a small group of Silco's inner circle had gathered. It was there that you first laid eyes on her.

Sevika stood near the center of the room, her imposing presence commanding the attention of everyone around her. She was a tall, muscular woman with dark skin that gleamed in the soft light of the room. Her silver-gray undercut was sharp, and her eyes were filled with the kind of intensity that made most people take a step back. But there was something more—something unspoken—that drew your attention. The powerful, robotic arm that replaced her missing limb was a marvel of engineering, a testament to the brutality of this world.

"You must be the new recruit," she said, her voice low and unwavering. "I'm Sevika. And if you're here to fix my arm, you better be good at what you do."

You swallowed hard, suddenly aware of the weight of the situation. No pressure, right?

You nodded, keeping your composure despite the tension in the room. "I'm here to help. I've worked on a lot of tech, and I've got experience with prosthetics and augmentations."

Sevika regarded you with a long, unreadable stare. The others in the room shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, but you stood your ground, meeting her gaze without flinching. There was no room for hesitation in Silco's operation, and you weren't about to show weakness now.

After a beat, Sevika motioned toward her arm. The metallic appendage glinted under the lights, the intricate gears and mechanisms visible beneath the surface.

"I had a little... incident earlier," she said, her tone casual, though there was a glint in her eyes that suggested something more than just a simple malfunction. "Looks like my arm's in need of some work. Can you fix it?"

You approached her cautiously, not wanting to cross any lines, but your curiosity was piqued. You had seen mechanical arms before—hell, you'd built a few yourself—but none as advanced as this one. It was a marvel of engineering, a powerful tool, and yet there was something almost elegant about the design. As you inspected the damage, you could tell it was more than just a simple repair job. This wasn't a matter of fixing a few wires or reprogramming a circuit. It would take skill, patience, and a deep understanding of the mechanics.

Sevika, for her part, didn't flinch as you worked. She stood still, letting you inspect the arm with a quiet intensity. It was clear she was used to this kind of thing, but there was a subtle tension in her posture, a wariness that she didn't bother to hide. As you worked, you noticed the scars on her arms, the faint marks that told stories of battles fought and won—battles that had taken their toll.

You had heard the rumors about Sevika. She was Silco's right hand, a ruthless enforcer who commanded fear and respect in equal measure. She was known for her strength, both physical and mental, and her loyalty to Silco was unwavering. But there was something about her that intrigued you, something beneath the surface that you couldn't quite put your finger on.

"You're not like the others," Sevika said suddenly, her voice cutting through your thoughts. You looked up, meeting her gaze. "Most people would've already been shaking in their boots by now."

You raised an eyebrow. "I'm not most people."

She gave you a look, one that was part amusement, part challenge. It was the kind of look that made you feel like she was measuring you, trying to figure out what made you tick. But it wasn't hostile—not entirely. Instead, it was almost like she was testing you, seeing if you would rise to the challenge.

You worked in silence for a while, your hands deftly repairing the damage to her arm. The room was quiet except for the soft sounds of tools clicking and gears turning. You were focused on your task, but your mind couldn't help but wander to the woman standing in front of you.

Sevika was a force to be reckoned with. Her presence was commanding, and the way she carried herself made it clear that she was someone who didn't take shit from anyone. But there was also something more to her—something you couldn't quite place. Beneath the tough exterior, you sensed a quiet vulnerability, a rawness that she kept hidden from the world. It was a feeling you recognized all too well.

When you finally finished repairing her arm, you stepped back, wiping the sweat from your brow. You had done it. The arm was functional again, the damage fully repaired. You had done what you came here to do.

Sevika flexed her fingers, testing the movement of the prosthetic. She nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Not bad," she said, her tone begrudgingly approving. "You've got skills."

You allowed yourself a small smile in return. "Glad I could help."

Sevika's gaze softened for a moment before she quickly masked it with her usual cold demeanor. "This is just the beginning," she said, her voice low and authoritative. "There's a lot more work to be done if you want to stay here."

You nodded, already knowing what was expected of you. Silco's operation was no place for weakness, and you had to prove yourself if you wanted to make it in this world. But as Sevika turned to walk away, you couldn't help but notice the way her muscles rippled beneath her clothing, the quiet strength in her movements. She was a force of nature, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you might have found your place in this chaotic world.

As the door to the room closed behind her, you couldn't shake the feeling that this was just the beginning. Sevika's world was dangerous, unpredictable, and full of threats—both external and internal. But for now, you were part of it, and that was all that mattered.

You had a feeling that your work with Sevika wouldn't just be about fixing broken machinery. There was something more at play here, something that neither of you could ignore.

—-

The first few days in Silco's operation were chaotic, to say the least. You had expected the job to be challenging, but nothing could've prepared you for the intensity of life in the underbelly of Zaun. The constant sound of clashing metal, the hum of electricity running through the city's veins, and the ever-present tension in the air all served to keep you on edge. But the hardest part, by far, was working with Sevika.

Silco had decided to assign you as her personal technician—after all, no one else had the skills to fix the intricate mechanisms that powered her robotic arm, let alone design new weapons and tools for someone like her. You couldn't help but wonder if Silco had some ulterior motive. He was never one to make decisions without calculating the benefits, and you suspected your placement near Sevika was no accident. But there was no time to dwell on it. You were here to do a job, and that's exactly what you intended to do.

Your first assignment came quickly. Sevika's arm was damaged again—this time, during a skirmish with a rival gang. The mechanical appendage was cracked and malfunctioning, its delicate inner workings in need of immediate attention. You were called to the scene, as usual, but there was one key difference this time.

Sevika was already there, waiting.

She stood with her arms crossed, her stern gaze fixed on you as you walked into the room. Her imposing presence made the air feel heavier, her muscular frame and silver-gray undercut giving her an almost otherworldly look in the dim lighting. Her robotic arm was slung loosely at her side, a reminder of the damage it had sustained.

"I hope you're better at fixing things than you look," Sevika said, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. There was a sharpness in her tone, one that you had come to expect, but it still stung nonetheless. "Don't waste my time."

You set your tools down carefully and nodded. "I'll get it fixed, Sevika. Just give me a minute to take a look."

She didn't respond right away, simply watching as you began to assess the damage. It wasn't the first time you'd fixed her arm, but the complexity of this particular issue was more than you'd anticipated. As you inspected the damaged components, you could feel her eyes on you—constant, unwavering. It wasn't unusual for her to be so watchful. You were a new face in her world, after all, and she didn't trust easily. You'd be lying if you said you weren't frustrated by her unspoken challenge. It wasn't just her arm that she seemed hesitant to allow you to fix. It was her entire self, and that made your job even harder.

"So, you're Silco's new toy?" she asked after a few moments of silence. "What's your story?"

You glanced up at her, meeting her eyes for the first time since you'd started working. Her stern expression was still there, but there was a curiosity lurking beneath it, one that made you uncomfortable. You weren't used to being under such intense scrutiny, but you weren't going to back down either.

"I'm here to do my job," you replied, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Silco needed someone with experience in tech, and I'm the best for the job. That's all there is to it."

Sevika gave a small grunt of approval, but it was clear that she didn't fully believe you. You had to prove yourself in her eyes, and that wasn't going to be easy. She was as tough as they came, and the last thing she would do was hand over her trust to a stranger.

As you worked, the silence between you grew heavier, the tension palpable. It wasn't just the mechanics you had to fix—it was the distance that seemed to stretch between you two, one that neither of you was willing to bridge. Sevika didn't speak much during the process, but you could tell she was watching you closely, assessing every move you made. You couldn't help but feel the weight of her gaze, and it made your focus waver just for a moment. She was intense, not just in her physical presence but in the way she observed the world. She didn't trust easily, and that made her difficult to read.

After a while, the arm was fixed, the cracks sealed, and the internal systems realigned. You tested it carefully, making sure the movement was smooth and the circuitry was fully operational. Sevika flexed her fingers, inspecting the arm herself. You stood back, waiting for her judgment.

"It's better," she said finally, her voice low. "Not perfect, but it'll do for now."

You nodded, wiping the sweat from your forehead. It wasn't perfect, but it was functional, and that was what mattered. At least for now.

"Good. What's next?" you asked, hoping to move on to the next task.

Sevika's lips curled into a small, almost imperceptible smirk. "I've got some new designs in mind. Something to make my arm even more useful."

You didn't hesitate. "I can do that. I'll need some specifications and time to draw up the designs."

Sevika's gaze sharpened. "Don't take too long. We're not here to waste time."

With that, she turned on her heel and walked out of the room, her presence lingering in the air like an electric charge. You couldn't deny that you were intrigued by her, though you were also frustrated by the way she seemed to keep everyone at arm's length—herself included.

Over the following weeks, you found yourself spending more and more time with Sevika. Whether it was fixing her arm, designing new weaponry, or upgrading the various pieces of tech used by Silco's people, you were always in close proximity to her. Each time you worked together, you could feel the tension rising—an unspoken challenge that neither of you was willing to acknowledge, let alone address.

It didn't help that Sevika was an enigma. She was sharp, intelligent, and brutally honest, yet there was something guarded about her. It was like she held a part of herself back, always on the defensive, always ready for the next fight. You didn't know much about her past, but you could tell she had been through things that had shaped her into the person she was now—someone who didn't trust easily, who didn't allow others to get close.

But there were moments, fleeting and rare, where you saw something else in her—something softer, more vulnerable. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep you coming back, trying to understand her, trying to make a connection. Those moments were usually brief, but they were enough to make you wonder if she was willing to let anyone in.

You had become frustrated with her reluctance to trust you, especially when it came to the weapons you were designing for her. You spent countless hours drawing up blueprints, testing materials, and refining the designs, but every time you presented them to her, she shot them down with a scowl or a dismissive comment. You had worked with plenty of difficult clients before, but Sevika was a different breed. She didn't take kindly to suggestions, let alone any form of criticism.

"You think this is going to work?" she asked one day, after you presented yet another weapon design. Her arms were crossed, her stern eyes boring into you as if she were trying to see right through you.

You took a deep breath, trying to keep your frustration in check. "It's not about what I think—it's about the design. It's built to give you an advantage in close combat. Faster, more efficient."

Sevika raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "And what makes you so sure it'll work?"

"I've tested the tech. I know it'll hold up under pressure," you replied, your voice calm but firm.

For a moment, Sevika simply stared at the blueprint, her gaze intense and unyielding. Then, without warning, she tossed the design aside and looked at you. "You don't get it, do you?"

Your brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You think this is about technology," she said, her tone low and almost contemplative. "It's not. It's about trust."

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You had spent so much time focused on the technical aspects of your work, trying to prove yourself through your skills, that you hadn't stopped to consider what Sevika might really need. She wasn't just looking for a new weapon—she was looking for someone who would understand her, someone she could rely on, someone she could trust.

You swallowed hard, your frustration melting into something else—a quiet understanding. It wasn't about being the best techie in the room. It was about earning her trust, one step at a time.

"I understand," you said quietly.

Sevika didn't respond right away. Instead, she simply gave you a brief nod before turning away. "We'll see if you do."

As she walked out, you couldn't help but wonder what it would take to truly earn her trust. The challenge was only just beginning, but for the first time, you felt like you might be ready for it.

—-

The sharp, acrid scent of gunpowder hung in the air as the chaos of battle roared around you. The walls of the warehouse you were in had been shattered by explosives, leaving only skeletal remains of what had once been a place of operation for one of Silco's competitors. Now, it was just a battleground.

Your hands were covered in dirt and blood, but it wasn't your blood. At least not yet. You could still hear the deafening crackle of gunfire, the screams of combatants, and the rhythmic thud of boots against broken concrete. You had no time to process the madness, no time to analyze the risks. There was only one thing on your mind: Sevika.

She was out there somewhere, fighting like the savage enforcer she was, but that didn't ease the growing tension in your gut. Your job wasn't just to repair her tech anymore. You were her lifeline in moments like this, the one who kept her operational. You knew Silco valued her, which meant he trusted you to make sure she didn't get taken down by something as simple as a malfunctioning limb.

But that's exactly what had happened.

As the sounds of the battle raged, a series of explosions rattled the building. A flash of light cut through the haze, and the sharp sound of a grenade landing in their midst signaled trouble. You turned just in time to see Sevika take the brunt of an attack, her imposing figure engulfed in a plume of smoke and debris.

"Sevika!" You called her name, your voice barely carrying over the din of gunfire. But she wasn't the type to be taken down easily. The towering woman with the silvery-gray undercut and the robotic arm was built to survive, to fight. She stumbled back, smoke trailing behind her, and staggered toward you, gritting her teeth.

But her arm... her robotic arm was glowing red, a violent flash of sparks and smoke spiraling out from the damaged joint.

You cursed under your breath. The arm was compromised again, this time far worse than before. She had taken the hit directly. From the looks of it, the damage was more than just superficial.

Sevika pushed past the rubble, her breathing labored but determined. Her eyes locked onto you as she limped forward, her gaze sharp but pained.

"Fix it," she ordered, voice grating with exertion.

You didn't waste a second. You rushed to her side, your toolkit already in hand. You could see the strain in her muscles, the raw pain in her movements. The fight had clearly taken a toll on her, but you knew that if you didn't get her arm fixed now, she wouldn't last much longer in the field.

As you knelt beside her, your mind raced. You had the necessary equipment, but you'd have to work fast. Time was running out. Her arm was sparking wildly, and you could see the frail connections inside the prosthetic were melting under the strain. The sheer force of the explosion had done more than just break the external shell. The internal workings were fried.

"Stay still," you said, trying to keep your voice steady as you gently pushed her to a sitting position on the debris-strewn floor.

She grunted, but complied, her large frame sinking heavily against the broken wall. The contrast of her muscular form and the delicate intricacies of her cybernetic arm was a strange thing to behold, but you had seen it before. The arm was a marvel of engineering, but it could only withstand so much.

You quickly unlatched the arm's external casing, revealing the intricate wiring and burned circuits. You could feel the heat radiating off of it, the burn marks and jagged edges showing just how much damage had been done. Your hands worked quickly, pulling out the damaged components and trying to replace them with whatever you could salvage from your kit. It wasn't ideal—this wasn't a full workshop—but you had no choice.

Through the haze of urgency, you couldn't ignore the tension between you and Sevika. The proximity forced a certain intimacy, and it was in these high-pressure moments that the barriers between people were sometimes broken down.

"Where does it hurt?" you asked, your hands deftly working to repair the circuitry. You needed her to be able to move and fight again, but you also needed to understand the extent of her injuries.

She winced as she tried to adjust her position, but there was no complaint, no plea for mercy. It was just raw determination. "Don't bother asking," she said. "Just fix it."

Her voice was rough, strained, and there was something behind it—a tension, an anger, maybe even a touch of vulnerability that she quickly masked with cold defiance.

You didn't press her. Instead, you focused on your task, knowing the only way to get through this was to keep her focused. The weight of her trust was not something to be taken lightly. You were the one who could bring her back from the edge, and you would.

Sevika's gaze was fixed on the chaos of the battle, even though the fight had moved farther from where she was now. She was always aware of her surroundings, constantly vigilant. But there was something different about the way she sat now—her face was grim, her usual unshakable composure slightly cracked.

"I've been in worse," she muttered, almost as if speaking to herself, her voice a little too low. It was a far cry from her usual confidence, and for the first time since you'd met her, you saw something different in her eyes.

"What happened?" you asked quietly, working to replace a damaged wire.

Sevika's gaze flickered to you, her eyes narrowing. She was silent for a long moment. The words she was about to say seemed heavy, like they carried the weight of years of pain and sacrifice.

"I lost my arm when I took a bomb for Silco," she said, her voice surprisingly soft, though still edged with that familiar hardness. "We were ambushed. I pushed him out of the way, took the blast full force."

Her words struck you like a hammer. Sevika, the woman who never showed weakness, the one who had built herself into a machine of strength, had given everything for someone else. She had sacrificed her own body to protect Silco, the man she followed without question.

A part of you wanted to ask more, wanted to know why she would risk everything for him, but you stopped yourself. This wasn't the time for questions. She wasn't looking for sympathy. She wasn't looking for answers. She was telling you this in her own way, in the only way she knew how.

"I didn't need to," she continued, her voice harder now, as though she had to force the words out. "But I did it anyway. And now... well, now I've got this." She motioned to her arm, her tone tinged with bitterness. "A machine. A replacement. A reminder."

Her words stung, but you didn't say anything. You couldn't. The silence between you grew, thick and palpable. There was so much more you wanted to say, but now wasn't the time.

Instead, you finished the repairs and reattached the final piece of the arm. The prosthetic hummed to life again, the circuits sparking back into action. She flexed her fingers, her expression unreadable, before she looked at you.

"Thanks," she said, the words quiet but genuine. It was the first time she had acknowledged your work in such a way, without the usual snark or brusque dismissal.

You stood up and stepped back, breathing a little easier now that her arm was operational again. "Anytime."

But as you looked at her, something had shifted. Sevika was not just the machine-like enforcer you'd met when you first arrived. She was a woman who had been through hell, who had paid a price for loyalty and for love—whether she'd ever admit it or not.

"Are you okay?" you asked, unable to stop yourself. The words were out before you could stop them.

Sevika glanced up at you, and for the briefest moment, her eyes softened. "I'm fine," she said, her voice more subdued than you had ever heard it..

But you could see the cracks now. You could see the weight she carried, the unspoken burden of the choices she had made. And despite her tough exterior, you knew that this mission, this partnership between you two, was only just beginning.

——

The dim light of the hideout flickered as the remnants of the battle outside faded into an eerie quiet. The dust had settled, but the tension in the air was thick. You had been working alongside Sevika for several months now, and in that time, you had learned to read her every movement, every shift in posture. She was always alert, always vigilant. There was no room for weakness, no room for hesitation.

But tonight, as you sat next to her in the corner of the hideout, the silence was different. It wasn't just the usual quiet that came after a fight; there was something heavier about it, something that seemed to weigh on Sevika herself.

You had finished repairing her arm again after the last skirmish. She'd insisted she could fight through it, but you knew better. She had taken more hits than anyone else, pushing herself to the limit with little regard for her own well-being. This time, though, she hadn't argued when you told her she needed to rest. You could see the exhaustion in her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. But as always, she tried to hide it behind that cold mask.

You glanced at her now, sitting across from you, her imposing figure draped in shadows. Her stern eyes, usually filled with calculated intent, were distant tonight, unfocused. She was lost in her own thoughts, staring into the space between you two. It wasn't like her to be so still, so... vulnerable. You weren't sure why, but something about it felt like a crack in the wall she'd built around herself.

"You never talk about the past," you said, your voice gentle but probing. "I've heard little bits and pieces, but it's like you don't want anyone to know."

Sevika's gaze snapped to you, sharp and guarded. For a long moment, she didn't respond, as if weighing whether to dismiss you or actually engage in this rare moment of vulnerability.

"I don't see the point in dragging it all up," she muttered finally, her voice a low rumble. "What good would it do?"

You watched her carefully, noting the way her muscles tensed slightly, the way her jaw clenched. She was retreating into herself, already bracing for whatever answer you might give, expecting judgment, expecting rejection. But you didn't offer either.

"I'm not here to judge you, Sevika," you said softly. "I just... I just want to understand you better. We're in this together, aren't we?"

Her eyes narrowed, the tension in her body thickening as if she was about to shut down. But then, something shifted. Her posture relaxed just the slightest, as though the pressure she had been holding onto had loosened—if only for a moment.

"I wasn't always like this," she said after a long pause, her voice quieter now, almost as if she were telling herself more than she was telling you. "There was a time when I had more... hope. More... dreams."

You could hear the subtle change in her tone, the rawness in it that she was trying to hide. She didn't speak often about her past, but when she did, it was always brief, always shrouded in a defensive wall. This was different. You could sense the unspoken weight of her words, the unspoken truth that she was revealing more than she had in years.

"What happened?" you asked carefully, not pushing but wanting to know more. It felt like the right moment. Like she needed to say it.

She exhaled slowly, her gaze turning to the floor. For a moment, she was lost in thought again, the vulnerability there flickering like a flame in the wind. Then, with a huff of frustration, she spoke.

"I grew up in the underbelly of this city. People like me, we don't have much of a choice. You fight, you survive, and you either become a predator or a victim. I didn't have much of a family, just a few of us from the same neighborhood. We took care of each other. We had to."

Her fingers tightened around the armrest, the mechanical limb creaking softly under her grip. "But Silco... he came around, and everything changed. He promised us more, a way out of the chaos, a future. I believed in that. I believed in him."

There was a sadness in her voice, a hollow echo of trust betrayed. Her usual strength, the fortress she had built around herself, seemed to crumble just a little as she spoke of those days. It was a side of Sevika you rarely saw—the young woman who had once believed in something greater than herself.

"I fought for him, for his cause, because I thought we could make things better. I thought it was worth it," she continued, her voice steady but laced with the bitterness of a past that still haunted her. "But the more I fought, the more I lost. I lost my friends, my family... and eventually, I lost myself."

You could see it now. The cracks in her armor weren't just physical, weren't just the result of combat or injury. They were emotional, deep scars that ran through her heart, hidden beneath layers of toughened skin and steel. Sevika had been a weapon, a tool, a pawn in a much larger game. And the cost had been her humanity.

"Losing my arm was just the final blow," she said, her eyes hardening once more as she wiped away a stray strand of hair. "It was just another reminder of what I gave up. What I sacrificed for him... for this."

You sat there in silence, feeling the weight of her words, understanding more about her than you had ever imagined. She had been broken long before you'd met her, and every tough exterior and sarcastic remark had been built to protect herself from feeling the weight of that loss. You didn't blame her for it. You understood. You understood more than she might have guessed.

"I'm sorry," you said quietly, your voice soft but genuine. "For everything you've lost."

Sevika's head snapped up, her eyes locking onto yours, and for the briefest moment, you saw something flicker in them—something raw, something vulnerable. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but it was enough to make your heart ache for her.

"You don't get it," she muttered, shaking her head as though trying to dismiss her own emotions. "This city... it's built on lies. There's no place for people like me to belong. We don't get to have things like peace. We just survive."

Her words hung in the air, heavy with resignation. But something had shifted between the two of you, a change that was subtle yet significant. Sevika had let her guard down, if only for a moment. She had shared something with you that she had never shared with anyone else, not even Silco. And despite her attempt to mask it with harsh words and defensive anger, there was a part of her that was grateful, even if she wouldn't admit it aloud.

"I'm not going anywhere," you said after a long pause, meeting her gaze without flinching. "You don't have to do this alone."

She looked at you for a long time, her eyes narrowing as if assessing whether or not she could trust your words. But you could see the shift in her—a quiet understanding passing between you. It was unspoken, but it was there, the fragile bond of trust that had started to form between you two.

For the first time since you'd met her, Sevika's eyes softened, just a fraction. She didn't say anything. Instead, she gave you a small nod, one that was barely perceptible but still meaningful. It was as if she had finally acknowledged your presence in her life, as if she was allowing herself to let you in, even if only a little.

"Thanks," she said gruffly, her voice betraying a hint of vulnerability, before she stood up, her posture shifting back to its usual rigidity. "But don't expect me to start talking about feelings. I'm not that kind of person."

You smiled faintly, knowing that it wasn't about words. It was about the understanding that had passed between you, the silent acknowledgment that, despite everything, she didn't have to carry the weight of the world alone.

"No promises," you replied.

As Sevika turned to leave, you could feel the weight of her gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than usual. It was a brief connection, one that might fade with time, but for now, it was enough.

——

The hideout was quiet, the usual hum of activity now a soft murmur in the distance. Most of the others had retired to their quarters, leaving you alone in the dimly lit workshop with nothing but the soft clink of tools and the sound of your steady breath. The flickering lights overhead cast long shadows across the room, and the constant buzz of the damaged arm in front of you was a reminder of just how close you and Sevika had come to the edge in the last few weeks. Tonight, though, was different.

Sevika had insisted on staying to supervise your work. Her arm had been damaged again during the last mission—nothing you couldn't fix, but enough to make her insist on waiting while you worked. The last few days had been taxing for both of you, and the weight of it hung in the air between you, making each glance feel heavier, more meaningful.

Her towering presence was almost a constant in the space now, but tonight, it was oddly subdued. She was leaning against the workbench, her usual hard exterior softened by the late hour. Her silver-gray undercut glinted in the low light, and the mechanical arm she'd once used as a symbol of her strength now sat motionless on the table in front of you. Her usual bravado had slipped away, leaving a vulnerability that you hadn't seen before.

You continued to work, carefully inspecting the arm's damaged plating. A few of the internal components had been rattled loose during the fight, and you needed to carefully realign them. The sound of your hands moving across the metal was calming, the only sound in the room as you focused on your task. The silence between you and Sevika was strange, but comfortable in its own way. You couldn't help but notice how she'd positioned herself: close enough to be within arm's reach but far enough to keep that invisible wall of distance.

Sevika's gaze followed your movements, her eyes calculating, always watching, never allowing herself to relax too much. You could feel the weight of her stare on your skin, the intensity that radiated from her like an unspoken challenge. She was so used to being in control, used to holding power over every situation. But right now, she wasn't. Right now, you had control of her fate. Her well-being was in your hands.

You glanced up at her for a brief moment, your eyes meeting hers. The usual guarded expression was still there, but there was something else lurking behind her stare—a flicker of curiosity, of something more. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you caught it. And for a brief moment, you wondered if she'd noticed the same thing in you.

You focused back on the arm, trying to shake off the rising heat in your chest. It wasn't the first time your proximity to her had made your heart race, but something felt different tonight. Maybe it was the long hours, the shared exhaustion, or maybe it was the quiet moments of understanding that had passed between you in the last few days. Whatever it was, it was undeniable.

The tension in the air seemed to stretch as the minutes passed, the two of you falling into an unspoken rhythm. You worked in silence while Sevika watched, her posture still rigid but with an underlying softness. Every so often, you caught her looking at you—brief glances that spoke volumes. She didn't say anything, but her presence was all-encompassing. It was like she was trying to figure you out, to understand the person who had slowly begun to occupy her thoughts more than she'd ever intended.

There was something intoxicating about her quiet intensity, the way she observed you without a word. It was almost as if she were waiting for something. And as much as you tried to focus on the task at hand, you couldn't help but feel the pull of it. The space between you had grown charged, thick with a tension neither of you could ignore. Every movement you made felt too intimate, too close.

You reached for the tools, trying to steady your hands as you tightened a bolt on the arm's plating. It wasn't until you heard her voice, low and quiet, that you realized how much you had been avoiding it.

"You're good at this," Sevika said, her tone strangely soft for her usual bluntness. "Better than most I've seen."

Her compliment caught you off guard. It wasn't that you didn't expect her to recognize your skills; she was smart enough to know your value. But the way she said it, the way her eyes lingered on you—it felt different. There was no sarcasm in her voice, no mockery. Just honesty.

"Thanks," you replied, your voice steady but betraying the flicker of warmth that had spread through your chest. "I've had a lot of practice."

She nodded, her eyes following the movement of your hands as you worked. The silence stretched again, and for a moment, the only sound was the quiet clicking of your tools against the metal. You could feel the weight of her gaze on you, heavy and penetrating, like she was searching for something in the way you moved, in the way you responded to her.

You could feel it too—the heat building between you, the way the space had grown too small, too tight. It wasn't just the proximity. It wasn't just the late hour or the shared exhaustion. It was the chemistry that had been simmering between you two since the first moment you'd met. You were drawn to each other, even if neither of you was willing to admit it aloud.

You finished tightening the last bolt and stepped back, wiping your hands on a cloth. Sevika's arm was fixed, the metal gleaming under the light, its mechanism now working smoothly. You looked up at her, your gaze meeting hers once again.

Her eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than usual, the unspoken question in them hanging in the air. Was she going to say something? Would she acknowledge the tension between you? You held your breath, waiting for her response.

But instead of speaking, Sevika stood up, her movement fluid and practiced. She reached for her arm, slipping it back onto her shoulder with a precision that spoke to years of experience. The moment was fleeting, a passing glance that could have been interpreted a hundred different ways. And yet, neither of you said anything more.

You both stood there, the air thick with the unspoken, the silence almost deafening now. Sevika adjusted the arm, testing the strength of it, her fingers flexing around the controls. But she didn't look at you as she did so. She kept her gaze fixed ahead, her face unreadable once again.

"Good as new," she muttered, her usual gruffness returning.

You nodded, your mind still swirling with the unspoken words that hung between you. The moment had passed, but something inside you told you that this wasn't over. The tension, the chemistry—it hadn't disappeared. It was still there, simmering beneath the surface, waiting for the next moment when it might explode.

"Glad I could help," you said, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions inside you. "Just don't get it blown off again."

Sevika gave a sharp, almost imperceptible grin. "I'll try not to. But no promises."

You watched her walk toward the door, her movements as calculated as ever. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at you one last time. There was something in her eyes then, something that made your heart skip a beat. It was as if she was waiting for you to say something, to acknowledge the moment that had passed between you.

But instead, she just nodded and walked out.

You stood there for a long time after she left, the quiet of the room pressing in around you. You could feel the weight of her absence, the empty space where her presence had been just moments ago. But you also knew that whatever had passed between you two tonight—whatever unspoken words, whatever building tension—it wasn't over.

[lets-try-some-writing]

Final Respects

Smokescreen was set to aid Optimus Prime in reviewing an abandoned Decepticon mine. He imagined it was largely going to be guard duty. Instead, he found his views of the dead challenged by his idol.

Previous Smokey related thing can be found here.

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"Optimus, what are we doing here?" Smokescreen walked a few feet behind his Prime, observing the abandoned battlefield quietly. The Decepticons had fled long ago, leaving behind only their useless mining excess and the bodies of the Vehicons who were killed in the fight for the mine less than an hour prior.

"We are here to offer the dead their final respects." The Prime answered quietly, almost solemnly. He didn't pause in his steps, instead marching through the rubble and into the mine to assess the damage. Smokescreen followed without question, his gaze falling upon the abandoned furnaces and strip mining tunnels just inside. The Decepticons weren't trying very hard to hide this particular operation.

"Why? They are Decepticons-" Smokescreen attempted to voice his concerns, but Optimus silenced him with a weary sigh and by halting his steps.

"Smokescreen, I lived before factions were even a murmur on the wind. Many of these soldiers were born into this role. They had no choice in the matter." The Prime gestured to the devestation, the bodies strewn in and out of the mine. Smokescreen followed his gaze, but he didn't find his spark swelling with any kind of pity. He saw the badges and the masks. They were Vehicons. Not Autobots or civilians.

"Still doesn't change the fact that they are enemies." He tried to state his objection to this whole mess, but Smokescreen found his voice came out weak and uncertain. Under Optimus's gaze, he felt like a sparkling being schooled after having stolen from a store.

"Neither does it disregard the fact that each and every one of these Vehicons were forged Cybertronian." There was a certain undertone of sterility to Optimus's glyphs that made Smokescreen want to vanish into the ground. But he managed to reset his vocalizer as he looked at all the bodies again. What was the point of it all? Why give funeral rites to enemy soldiers when energon was already scarce and they were so overworked?

"I don't get it. Why waste energy on Vehicons? I mean, I'd get it if they were alive, but they are obviously offline." Again, Optimus sighed. Smokescreen felt like even more of a discrace to his non-existent bloodline as he watched the Prime rub his face and then gesture between them both.

"If your comrade fell in battle, would you honor him?" The question hung in the air mockingly for a moment. Smokescreen took the chance to contemplate whether or not it was meant to be a trick question as he nodded.

"Of course. Autobots stick together, especially a soldier who goes down for the cause." Touching his badge, Smokescreen showed it off with an expression of uncertainty. Optimus remained as composed as ever as he fired back with another inquiry.

"What about a civilian? A neutral caught in the crossfire." Smokescreen hesitated a bit longer with his response. He was not liking where this line of questioning was going.

"Sure, I mean they didn't do anything wrong." He almost grumbled but fought back the response as Optimus's optics cycled, as if preparing to land the killing blow. In their verbal spar, he might as well have been as he again gestured to the dead around them.

"Then what sets a Decepticon apart from an Autobot or a neutral? Why are they unworthy of a funeral?" There it was. Smokescreen actively winced as he found his worldview attacked. His drill sargent always said to see the enemy before the mech. It would make shooting them down easier.

It wasn't exactly fun to have to consider things from a moral perspective.

"They are the enemy. It's not a good use of resources to give them funeral rites." Not really wanting to deal with the emotions involved in dealing with the dead, Smokescreen opted for logic. Optimus, however, didn't seem very inclined toward it as he knelt beside the nearest Vehicon, removing the mech's mask to show a face frozen in terror.

Smokescreen was unable to stop himself from grimacing.

"I understand that being raised in a time of war has made seeing our people as one unit effectively impossible. But I would implore you to look beyond the badges of your fellows." Optimus reached out, tenderly closing the optics of the dead mech before carrying it over to the nearest furnace and laying the Vehicon's body inside.

"They have faces." He picked up more bodies, always taking care to remove the mask in order to assess each and every face. Some were relatively peaceful, as if they'd expected their end. Others were forever stuck in a state of horror or pain. A few select ones even seemed sad, with dried tearstains on their faces. Optimus wiped the marks away from those fallen bots, his expression solemn but not unkind.

Smokescreen felt sick to his tanks.

"They have names." As if to rub rust in the wound, Optimus held up a Vehicon's arm before he gathered up the body. Smokescreen was met with the sight of numbers burned into the mech's very plating, a designation in a sense. He couldn't help how his spark clenched in its chamber at the sight. They weren't proper names, but these mechs still had something.

"They have sparks." Optimus gathered up more of the bodies, showing the ones with torn chassis plating so reveal their cold and lightless spark chambers. It really shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. But seeing the dead be so empty… it made something instinctual in Smokescreen recoil.

"Look at them and tell me once more that they do not deserve to be given their final rites." Optimus's voice rang out as he continued to move bodies into the furnace, his tone neither harsh nor particularly soothing. He was teaching Smokescreen a lesson, one which he was not enjoying all that much.

"They carry scars just like we do." Optimus held a body in his arms, one mutilated from battle and the explosion that killed them. Smokescreen's devotion to his viewpoint faded futher and further with every motion the Prime made.

"They had wants and wishes just like every other living being." As the last body was loaded into the furnace, Optimus came up and clasped Smokescreen's shoulder, breaking him from his reverie. He should have been helping… and yet here he was. Rethinking life or something like that.

"No matter which side they stand on, they deserve to be laid to rest. If only to honor the lives they could have lived if they were not cut short." With that, Optimus moved away to start a fire. Smokescreen wasn't paying much attention to the whole affair. His focus was on Optimus and the machinery he was forcing back into functionality to get the fires burning.

"Why'd you pick me to help with this?" He found himself murmuring as the flames began to rise up, covering the bodies in the furnace. He wasn't doing much on the helping front, but he couldn't help but wonder why he was shown this at all. Logically, he assumed it was for the sake of learning a lesson. But why bother? He was just a rookie.

"Because you are the only one who has not yet seen the horrors of war as we have. I wanted to teach you to honor your enemy before you grew too bitter to see them as kin." Optimus moved away from the furnace to stand by Smokescreen's side. They both watched the bodies start to melt under the intense heat, metal and internal components turning into liquid that would soon be mostly useless to any organic who came across it. Without protomatter or energon, cybertronian steel was only somewhat stronger than human metals.

The dead would not be able to be used as a weapon.

"Records from the archive said that traditional rites would have the dead be turned back into parts for the living, or used as sentio metallico for a newbuild." Smokescreen spoke up softly, voicing the old information that came to the front of his memory banks. Optimus hummed beside him, his optics trained on the flames.

"Normally, that would be the case." Looking up at him, the Prime seemed so very tired. His optics held depth that was impossible to fully comprehend, but within the haze of age old knowledge, there was what Smokescreen could only assume was grief. How Optimus managed to care for so many mecha after so long being embroiled in war was behind him.

"But on this foreign world, in a place so far from our home… it is safer to destroy that which we cannot salvage. That way, no others may use the bodies of our dead to create more devestation." Optimus's response was not heavy, although there was a not of regret in his tone. Somehow, it made Smokescreen's spark pang in sorrow. He couldn't imagine being left as a pile of slag on a foriegn world, forgotten to everyone.

"That's… really sad. It almost feels wrong to just have them all burned up like this." Every part of his training screamed at him, demanding Smokescreen return to the mind of a soldier and witness his foes for what they were. But seeing the bodies burn? He just… couldn't do it. It was not an honorable end. Burned up into liquid metal and left to clump and become soiled on a world that was not their own.

It wasn't right.

"And now you see the worth of a life, Smokescreen." Optimus's voice was little more than a murmur, but Smokescreen caught it anyway. He said nothing else as they watched the flames, waiting until everything was fully melted before dousing the flames. Once they were done, they exited the mine, at which point Optimus shot at the entrance until it collapsed.

Smokescreen winced as dust and rubble rushed past him, but again, he said nothing. What a sad way to die. A mere number, then abandoned in a slagging mine of all places. As much as it bothered him to admit it… not even Decepticon deserved to be forgotten.

"We honor our dead as best as we can, but in the end, we are still at war." Optimus's servo fell upon his shoulder, heavy and comforting all at once. Smokescreen could faintly hear the ground bridge opening behind them, but he couldn't help but stare at the collapsed mine for a little while longer. Part of him wondered, distantly, what the world would have looked like if there hadn't been a war. Would he have known any of those Vehicons?

Slag, Optimus had a way of making him rethink his entire life's purpose.

"Guard the living, remember the dead. Honor the fallen, and fight in their names. That is all we can do to ensure we do not lose ourselves in the haze of eternal conflict." The Prime's commentary was grim, but it was not without wisdom. Smokescreen could only sigh in response, his vents fluttering as he watched for a moment, and then turned to follow Optimus back through the ground bridge.

No one deserved to be forgotten.

Not even enemies.

[bzurk]

brushstrokes

Your memory is broken, made of puzzle pieces that don't fit together. Like a shattered mirror, fragmented and sharp, never meant to be pieced together again. You are held together by the four men you find yourself inextricably drawn to. Can you put yourself back together before the guilt shatters you completely?

The light hurts. It’s crimson red, sharp and blinding, like blood dripping into your eyes and staining the insides of your eyelids. You squeeze your eyes shut, a cascade of red and black dancing in fragmented waves across your vision. The brightness of the light sears into your skull, rendering any attempt to open your eyes an ordeal of piercing pain and queasy discomfort.

You slow yourself down, forcing the air out of your lungs in an attempt to relax. Take your time. Breathe, then open.

Following your own advice, you inhale shakily. The air scrapes down your throat like sandpaper. You release it in a controlled sigh, trying to ground yourself in the present.

Slowly, you blink your eyes and try to adjust to the light as you take in your surroundings. The current bane of your existence is a singular round bulb screwed into the white ceiling, its harsh glare casting stark shadows that make the sterile room feel even more oppressive. You're in a bed, swathed in a light gown that, though faded and worn, is mercifully soft against your sensitive skin. You frown at its pale blue hue, clinical and impersonal. There's a set of chairs next to one side of your bed, accompanied by a small side table cluttered with medical paraphernalia.

You try to reach out and wince at how stiff you are. You lift the light, white sheet and wince; one of your ankles is heavily wrapped in white bandages.

You glance around. No water. No signs of other people. You slowly sit yourself up, head spinning, but you manage to keep yourself upright. Gingerly, you probe your face. A plaster clings to your temple; your eyes feel hollow above gaunt cheekbones, and your lips are dry and cracked. Running a hand through your hair, you find it soft and clean, falling in loose waves down your back. Pain flares in your shoulder when you move, and your left hand meets resistance atop the sheet. An IV is embedded in the back of your palm, the clear tubing snaking up to a hanging drip.

"What the fuck," you echo hollowly, wishing you had a mirror. What the hell happened to you?

Do you wait for someone to find you, or do you go find someone yourself? You puzzle it for a moment, listening attentively. Faint footsteps, coming towards you. You glare expectantly at the door, but the footsteps pass right on by, leaving you in an unsettling silence.

Carefully, you swing your legs over the bed and set your feet on the ground. The linoleum is cold beneath your bare feet, sending a shiver up your spine.

"One, two," you whisper to yourself, palms pressed into the mattress, "three!"

You push yourself up and immediately regret it. A crippling wave of nausea and dizziness swarms you, and there's a blistering pain in your left ankle that feels like fire crawling up your leg when you try to take a few unsteady steps towards the door. Your body feels foreign to you, each movement a struggle against the weakness that seems to have taken over your limbs. You lean against the small side table, halfway across the floor, blinking the spots out of your vision. You're definitely not in any state to run or fight, but what choice do you have?

You limp across the room, the IV stand clattering along like a reluctant prisoner, your heart thudding wildly in your chest. Your untethered hand grasps the doorknob and turns it slowly. It clicks open and you push the door open with a shaky breath. The hallway outside is just as white and sterile as your room, the walls stretching out like an endless tunnel. You can hear faint beeping noises coming from somewhere down the hall, and you take a few tentative steps forward, your bare feet slapping against the floor. There's no one in sight, but voices drift down from one end of the hallway, their tones muted and indistinct.

"Hey! You're awake!"

You falter, dread tightening its grip on your spine.

The voice belongs to a nurse, her figure unmistakable in blue scrubs, pushing a trolley laden with tools and supplies. Your eyes, trained by survival instincts, flick over her form, scanning for threats. Breast pocket, lanyard, pant pockets, hands – no weapons. Logic whispers that she is merely a nurse, that you are in a hospital. Yet, logic is drowned by the cacophony of your racing heart, the slickness of sweat on your palms, and the primal urge to flee.

The nurse holds her hands out placatingly, the way one would soothe a spooked animal, her voice low and calm, “You shouldn’t be walking on that ankle just yet. Let’s get you back to bed, okay? I’ll page the doctor and your captain, I’m sure he’ll be happy to know you’re awake.”

“The- the captain?” you ask, but your voice comes out as a whisper, the words like sandpaper scraping up from your throat. You take a wary step back into the room on your good leg.

The nurse takes the IV stand from you easily and smiles, her expression kind, but you can’t shake the feeling of unease squirming in your stomach as she herds you back into the bed. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to explain everything, let me just—”

“What happened?” you croak, cringing at the sound of your own voice, a dry and broken thing.

She busies herself, checking your IV, adjusting the blankets, retrieving a bottle of water from her trolley. “You don’t remember? That’s okay, it’s normal after traumatic events and accidents. Your doctor will fill you in."

You take the water gratefully, taking large gulps. The water is cold and refreshing, almost stinging your throat. You try again, throat soothed, “What happened to me?”

“Don’t you worry, the doctor’s on his way, honey. Think one of your boys should be on their way, too! You’ve been out for a while, they’ll be happy to hear you’re up!”

‘One of your boys’?

You don’t have children, so that can’t be it. Your father… You can’t recall what he’s been up to, it feels like years since you last visited. Has she mistaken you for someone else?

“They’ve been taking turns to stay nearby in case you wake up, isn’t that so sweet? Think this week is the big one in the mask, think I saw him in the halls a few days ago-”

The nurse’s blabbering goes in one ear and out the other, radio static.

Big one in a mask. You don’t know anyone like that.

You don’t really know anyone, when you think further about it. Nobody to call to collect you, because surely you can’t fucking drive with a busted foot, and you’re unsure if they have any of your belongings - a wallet, a phone, your clothes. The only thing on your person is the necklace resting against your shoulder, fallen from its place against your chest when the nurse ushered you into bed. You reach up to fix it, to inspect the warm metal you can feel, when the door creaks open again and two men rush through. The nurse who had been keeping you company nods to them, smiles at you, and then steps aside.

One of the men is the doctor, clad in a pristine white coat with a stethoscope casually looped around his neck, embodying the quintessential image of medical authority. The other man, however, is a stark contrast—a towering figure clad casually in faded jeans and a black hood, his face obscured by a skeletal mask that transforms him into a haunting spectre. He is exactly as the nurse described, big guy with a mask, but her words couldn’t prepare you for the sheer size of him. He stands out immediately, an imposing figure whose presence seems to suck the light from the sterile hospital room, making the walls close in around you.

His eyes are the only visible part of his face, sharp and calculating, glinting with a familiarity you can’t quite place, something about them that stirs a vague recognition deep within you. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and his silent, commanding authority feels eerily familiar. It's as if his very being demands your attention, making it impossible to look away.

He approaches the bed, his gaze locked onto yours, and you catch a flicker of something in his eyes—concern? Recognition? You can't be sure. But your heart skips a beat, a primal instinct whispering that you know this man, that you’ve encountered him before, perhaps in a different context, a different life. The doctor begins to speak, but his words are drowned out by the thundering of your heart, your attention riveted on the masked man as you desperately try to pull the threads of memory together.

You should fear him, you think, this personification of Death.

"How are you feeling?" the doctor asks, his voice a distant echo as you continue to stare at the man in the mask, searching his eyes for answers.

Death is cold, unfeeling, all-consuming. Death is the embrace of complete and utter nothingness, a black void where things simply cease to exist. Death is selfish, taking and taking and never giving. Death does not feel remorse, yet craves it in others. This man may don Death’s image, dressed head to toe in black, his pallor pale and his energy overwhelming, but he is not Death.

His eyes speak of warmth, comfort, security. You can visualize the way they light up, crinkling at the corners in crow’s feet and folding into half-moons, the image ingrained in your mind from the time you’d gifted him the mask—

The doctor repeats your name, jolting you from your reverie.

“The mask.” You rasp, refusing to tear your eyes away from the masked stranger.

“I’m sorry?” The doctor blurts.

“The mask,” you repeat. “I made it, didn’t I?”

The stranger nods slowly, his eyes narrowing with sharp scrutiny.

You remember it; the way your hands fiddled with the fabric and paintbrush, sitting at a desk in the dark, illuminated by a small lamp. The rest of the scene evades you - the time, the place, the room - but you can recall the smell of bleach clogging and burning your nose, the way it had stained your favourite pair of leggings, the delayed appearance of your corrosive paint against fabric canvas, slowly revealing the bones and teeth that made up the skull.

“Why do you- how did you get that?” you demand, your voice trembling.

His eyes narrow almost impossibly further, “The fuck you on about, Art?”

 “Where did you get that mask?” you repeat, your torso twisted to face him at the side of your bed. “It’s mine, I made it. And- and did you call me Art? That’s not my name. You’ve all got me confused for the wrong person!” 

A suffocating silence falls, heavy and oppressive. His expression transforms, warmth replaced by an icy, guarded mask. He withdraws, shutting himself off completely.

The doctor, sensing your disorientation, asks gently, “What do you remember?”

You swallow hard. “Nothing.”

“The brain sometimes suppresses traumatic memories,” the doctor explains, prodding your ankle, searching for pain. “It's natural. They’ll come back over time.”

"No, I..." you trail off. "I don't remember anything."

He hums. "Like I said, it's not a surprise. Give it a few days. I'm sure the lieutenant can help fill you in."

The masked man leans in, his gaze intense and unyielding. “What do you mean, you don’t remember anything?” he asks, voice cautious.

You meet his eyes, caramel depths holding secrets you can’t grasp. “I—I don’t know anything,” you confess, words spilling out in a rush. “I just woke up, and the nurse mentioned a captain and an accident. I don’t know what’s happening, where I am, and—and I want my dad – has anybody called him yet? - and I feel like I know you, and that’s a mask I made, for—for…” You trailed off.

The doctor and the stranger speak over each other, their words a tangle of confusion.

“For who?” the doctor inquires.

But the masked man’s question chills you to the bone. “Where do you think your father is right now, Art?”

His question lingers, absurd and ominous. Dread pools in your stomach.

“Back home,” you whisper, uncertain. “On the farm.”

Before you can think of anything else to say, he turns and storms towards the door, throwing it open and slamming it shut with enough force to rattle the lamp above your head. You stare at the door, a tear slipping down your cheek, an ache in your chest you can't explain.

The doctor clears his throat, gently repeating your name. "You don’t have any immediate family listed."

The fragments of your memory sink deeper into the fog of confusion, and you cry, the weight of the unknown crushing you.

[adinathinternationalindia]

Vial Liquid Line

Vial Liquid line that includes a washing, sterilizing, liquid filling, cap sealing, and labeling machine is used to fill injectable vials. This is known as an injectable liquid filling line. Every machine was oriented to function as a single, cohesive system. We have both Automatic and Semi-Automatic Vial Liquid Lines in our inventory. Automatic lines, also known as fully automatic vial liquid lines, have conveyors on each machine that are connected to one another for uninterrupted automatic operations.

Automatic Vial Liquid Line

Washing, sterilizing, filling stoppering, and labeling machines make up automatic vial lines. Every machine is connected to function as a single, cohesive system. Automation is used in operations to remove human intervention. These lines are also known as Production Scale Vial Filling Lines or High-Speed Vial Production Lines. The equipment in this kind of filling line is listed below:

Vial Washing Machine

The AI-VRW Automatic Rotary Vial Washing Machine is made to wash glass vials without letting non-contact machine parts come into touch with the vials. A gripper system on the Automatic Rotary Vial Washing Machine model grips the vial from the neck and inverts it while the washing process is underway. Once the washing process is complete, the vial is released on the outfeed star wheel arrangement in a vertical position, ensuring a positive wash of the vials. With the use of spare components, our machine model can clean glass vials and containers ranging in capacity from 2 to 100 milliliters. A specifically constructed Gripper holds the glass vial from its neck, inverts it, and moves it further on a rotary moving system for the washing process. The glass vial feeds through a turn table to the infeed Star Wheel.

Sterilization Tunnel

In order to sterilize and dehydrogenate cleaned empty pharmaceutical glassware used in parenteral product packaging, this type of continuous sterilizer is a fully automated system that specifically uses forced convection of filtered air through a high efficiency particulate air filter.

Vial Liquid Filling Machine

Glass vials that are injectable can be filled with an injectable liquid filling machine, such as an automatic vial liquid filling machine. Turntable, stainless steel stat conveyor belt, and special eccentric pre-, filling, and post-gassing comprise the basic unit. 316L stainless steel syringes that are incredibly accurate and efficient, non-toxic synthetic rubber tubing, and a compact, easily accessible panel.

Vial Cap Sealing Machine

The PP/Flip-ff cap sealing onto round glass vials is appropriate for the Automatic Vial Cap Sealing Machine. The machine for capping vials is specifically made of stainless steel and has a mild steel frame with stainless steel cladding and enclosures. The Vial Capping Machine has a vibratory bowl feeder that allows the cap to be continuously fed for online operation on any liquid or powder filling line. Machine adaptable to different Vial sizes and, with the use of spare parts, to Plain/Flip-Off Caps. The Capping Machine is a useful tool for the pharmaceutical industry because it may operate automatically online and has fewer production requirements.

Vial Inspection Machine

Glass vials that can be injected are appropriate for inspection using an automatic vial inspection machine. The four tracks that make up the Vial Inspection Machine are made of nylon-6 roller chain, and they can be purchased with a spinning assembly that includes 24V DC wiring and AC drive rejection units. Additionally, the ability to modify speed was made possible with a variable AC frequency drive. All of the machine’s contact parts are composed of authorized engineered polymers and stainless steel, in compliance with cGMP regulations.

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine

One of the easiest vertical vial sticker labeler devices to use is the Automatic Vial Sticker Labeling Machine. This apparatus has a cutting-edge Micro Processor Control label dispensing mechanism with a product and label detection system. The Vial Labeler can be used to label spherical objects such as vials. Depending on the vial and label size, it may label up to 100 vials in a minute. An optional unique label sensing system allows an electronic and mechanical system specifically developed to put transparent (No Look) labels on vials at a very fast speed.

Semi-Automatic Vial Liquid Line

Machines for washing, sterilizing, filling stoppers, sealing caps, inspecting, and labeling make up a semi-automated vial liquid line. These devices operate on their own and are integrated with one another. These lines are also known as small-scale vial liquid lines or low-cost vial production lines. The equipment in this kind of filling line is listed below:

Semi-Automatic Vial Washing Machine

A reliable, ampoule and vial washing machine that complies with cGMP standards is the semi-automatic vial washer, also known as the vial jet washer. It is small, adaptable, and semi-automatic. With the use of appropriate replacement components, the Multijet Vial Washing Machine’s stainless steel architecture allows it to wash glass vial sizes ranging from 2 to 100 milliliters and ampoule sizes from 1 to 20 milliliters. FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L are used to make all contact parts.

Dry Heat Sterilizer

Bottles, vials, and ampoules that have been cleaned can be sterilized using an ampoule sterilizer or dry heat sterilizer. It is constructed from MS heavy angles with an exterior wall composed of stainless steel 304 and an inner wall made of stainless steel 316. Our double door DHS is manufactured in compliance with cGMP requirements that are authorized in injectable pharmaceutical factories that uphold a class 100 environment. For cGMP compliance, all contact parts are constructed from FDA-approved materials or stainless steel 316L.

Vial Liquid Filling Machine

Glass vials that are injectable can be filled with an injectable liquid filling machine, such as an automatic vial liquid filling machine. Turntable, stainless steel stat conveyor belt, and special eccentric pre-, filling, and post-gassing comprise the basic unit. 316L stainless steel syringes that are incredibly accurate and efficient, non-toxic synthetic rubber tubing, and a compact, easily accessible panel.

Vial Cap Sealing Machine

The PP/Flip-ff cap sealing onto round glass vials is appropriate for the Automatic Vial Cap Sealing Machine. The machine for capping vials is specifically made of stainless steel and has a mild steel frame with stainless steel cladding and enclosures. The Vial Capping Machine has a vibratory bowl feeder that allows the cap to be continuously fed for online operation on any liquid or powder filling line. Machine adaptable to different Vial sizes and, with the use of spare parts, to Plain/Flip-Off Caps. The Capping Machine is a useful tool for the pharmaceutical industry because it may operate automatically online and has fewer production requirements.

Vial Inspection Machine

Glass vials that can be injected are appropriate for inspection using an automatic vial inspection machine. The four tracks that make up the Vial Inspection Machine are made of nylon-6 roller chain, and they can be purchased with a spinning assembly that includes 24V DC wiring and AC drive rejection units. Additionally, the ability to modify speed was made possible with a variable AC frequency drive. All of the machine’s contact parts are composed of authorized engineered polymers and stainless steel, in compliance with cGMP regulations.

Vial Sticker Labeling Machine

One of the easiest vertical vial sticker labeler devices to use is the AutomaticVial Sticker Labeling Machine. This apparatus has a cutting-edge Micro Processor Control label dispensing mechanism with a product and label detection system. The Vial Labeler can be used to label spherical objects such as vials. Depending on the vial and label size, it may label up to 100 vials in a minute. An optional unique label sensing system allows an electronic and mechanical system specifically developed to put transparent (No Look) labels on vials at a very fast speed.

[tribbetherium]

Today as abundant and diverse as they were back on their home planet, the ants were among one of the most successful terrestrial invertebrates that had been introduced to HP-02017. Descended from a select few species, introduced as detritivores, pollinators and seed dispersers, these remarkable hymenopterans have since spread across the globe and occupied the niches similar to Earthly ants, such as seed-eaters, leaf-cutters, scavengers, predators, fungus farmers and even honeydew-ranchers: though the livestock of those ranchers are somewhat different, with the niches of sap-sucking true bugs instead filled by beetles and lepidopterans.

Some species, however, have begun taking on niches unlike any of their Terran forebearers. Raftants, aquatic species native to floodplains, developed specialized castes to act as oars and floaters to propel the colony along the surface. Perhaps stranger, at least for ants, are the lonestingers: ants that no longer live in colonies and have become solitary, with all individuals being winged and wasplike, no longer producing wingless sterile workers and taking on a niche akin to solitary wasps and bees.

One of the most unusual species in the Middle Temperocene, however, are the lime ants (Citromyrmex polyregina), an abundant and widespread species found all across South Ecatoria and the neighboring islands. Easily recognizable by their distinct yellow and black coloring, these ants are generalist omnivores diet-wise: consuming both plant and animal matter, though prioritizing carbohydrate-rich sugary food like fruit, sap and nectar for the active adults, while saving protein-rich seeds, bugs and meat to the larvae to encourage their growth. Like most ants, they communicate by pheromones, travelling across the forest floor in single file to scout out food sources they can carry back to the colony. They, too, have specialized castes for their vital activities, such as small minor workers that participate in foraging and nest cleanup, major workers that act as heavy lifters and back-up defense, and soldiers, armed with large heads and powerful mandibles who defend the nest, cut up large pieces of food, and even ferry around the smallest workers hitchhiking on their bodies.

But one truly remarkable characteristic of the lime ant is its behavioral flexibility, thanks to an unusual recessive gene, the Q gene, that causes the species to produce three separate types of queens, depending on which alleles they acquire. Each one lives a completely different lifestyle: one that affects the behavior of their corresponding colonies as well. These genes mix together during nuptial flights, where alates from different colonies pair together queens and drones that in turn, produce offspring that are homozygous QQ, heterozygous Qq, or homozygous qq. This is further complicated by male ants being haploid, and thus males are always only Q or q.

Homozygous QQ queens develop into what is known as the despot morph: a sedentary, highly-aggressive queen with a bulky body and large mandibles. Her colony dwells in a fixed, permanent nest that occupies the same space for as long as she lives, which can be as long as fifteen years. During which time, their nests can grow into immense proportions, spanning tunnels and chambers many meters across and inhabiting up to 100,000 inhabitants. Despot morph queens tolerate no other reproducing female in the colony, and a single despot morph queen rules supreme: aggressively killing any other breeding female in her nest, be they rival invaders, her own alate daughters, or a worker that starts laying unfertilized eggs. All of her genetically fatherless drone offspring will be Q drones. If she mates with a Q drone, all her female offspring will be despot morphs as well, and if she mates with a q drone, half her offspring will be despot morphs, and half her offspring will be Qq heterozygous: the communal morphs.

Communal morphs, the second kind, are long-bodied and capable of traveling long distances on foot, unlike the sedentary despot morph. These queens, the most common kind, are different from despot morphs in another way: they tolerate the presence of other communal morph queens, thus producing a polygyne colony that is much larger than those of despot morphs, with as many as nine or ten queens and colonies growing to up to a million or more. Their large colony size instead favors them to constantly be on the move, foraging for food in an area and building smaller temporary nests and moving on once food becomes depleted in migrations every few months, with the queens marching along in the swarms and the brood carried by the workers as they go. With multiple queens that can be regularly replaced as they die, the colony as a whole can survive significantly longer than those of a despot morph, which is important as their nomadic lifestyle also leaves them with a higher mortality rate due to exposure to environmental factors and predators. Being heterozygous Qq, they can produce either Q drones or q drones, and a communal morph queen that mates with a Q drone will produce half despot morph offspring and half communal morph offspring, and a communal morph queen that mates with a q drone will produce half communal morph offspring and half qq homozygous offspring: the usurper morph.

Usurper morphs are unusual as they do not build colonies at all: they never shed their wings and remain solitary, similar to the lonestingers. As they disperse from their parent colony during the nuptial flight, they mate once with a drone and store his sperm, but do not start laying eggs right away. Instead, over the course of their long lifespan which may last many years (but rarely as long as the despot and communal morphs), the usurper queen instead infiltrates the nests of the other two kinds shortly before the nuptial flights begin, lays her eggs inside, and leaves all the effort of childcare to the workers of the colonies. Covering the eggs with pheromones to trick the colony into accepting them, she functions in essence as a solitary brood parasite whose progeny are raised by others. As she does not form a colony: none of her offspring become workers and soldiers, and instead always hatch into queens or drones: drone offspring are always q as they are born from unfertilized eggs. If she mates with a Q drone, half of her daughters will be communal morphs and half will be usurpers, and if she mates with a q drone, all her daughters will be usurper morphs.

This unusual arrangement likely evolved as an advantageous trait due to fickle, changing seasons and environments, allowing the species as a whole to persist. When food is plenty despot morphs become more common, able to defend a productive patch of land. When food is scarcer, communal morphs dominate, able to travel long distances to scout out new foraging grounds. And when times are the toughest, the most common morph becomes usurpers: being solitary, they need less food than a whole colony and can depend on the few hardy colonies to rear their young. Through a complex set of environmental dynamics, genetic inheritance, and competition between the queen types, the lime ant proves itself an adaptable and tenacious species that finds great success in the forest floor ecosystems of South Ecatoria.

Despite its complicated and bizarre life history, however, the local northhounds that occupy its range, in particular the vulpins, have found a rather mundane use for this abundant species. When threatened, major workers spray formic acid from specialized nozzles in their abdomens as a ranged mechanism. This, however, has been exploited by the vulpins who intentionally provoke the ants to get them to spray their acid onto food items: in effect acting as both a preservative to ward off fungal and bacterial growth on food, and as well as a seasoning that imparts a sour, citrus-like flavor onto said food. While toxic in large quantitities, the ants' formic acid is harmless in small amounts to larger creatures like the northhounds: making for a surprisingly ideal additive in the vulpins' cultural fondness of imparting different tastes in their primitive form of 'cuisine'.

-------------

[kiddbegins]

Elections • A. Hotchner

A/n: this is self indulgent and heavily politically charged. I need to get how I’m feeling out in one way or another. So. …

There was only one thing you didn’t want to wake up to today. Weeks of going out and spreading the word. Hours of pacing, worry, anxiety, fear, filling you from the tips of your toes to the halo a top your head.

Election Day had never been this difficult. Usually you could see a light at the end of the tunnel but not this time. This time it felt like you were going to wake up drowning if the wrong side won.

Aaron was working. He had to be. You were home alone, everything spotless thanks to the anxious cleaning you did.

He’d been keeping tabs, knowing how much this was getting to you. You’d cried into his arms a few times already so it was no wonder that he was trying to get home to you now.

Because the first thing you and all Americans did the second they woke up was check the polls. 209 - 277.

He won.

Again.

Bile immediately grew in your throat, barely making it to the bathroom before it came out of your mouth. Retching with fear, anger and anxiety.

This meant horrible things. That you, a woman, were going to be the target of negativity for at least the next four years.

Your phone was ringing but it wasn’t audible over the higher pitch in your ear. The news wasn’t on and you were so glad it wasn’t because what exactly would that pull from you?

More tears? Screams?

It felt like hours you’d sat there on the tile floor, eyes starting to burn and thoughts running back and forth.

Leaving was always an option. But maybe not when your husband worked for the government.

Sterilization, except you were 34 and have no biological kids.

Abstaining, the most likely option at the moment but you’d miss the way Aaron held you before, during and after.

You didn’t hear the key in the door downstairs or the footsteps cracking the wood of the steps. The only sign someone was home was the bathroom light flicking on and the LED lights replacing the small bit of natural sunlight to hit your eyes.

“Oh sweetheart…” Aaron’s voice was so soft and warm it immediately brought another strong wave of tears out.

For you, for any possible child you’d have, your friends. Everything.

“I know…” he held you to his chest, knowing… knowing there was little he could do now. That anyone could do.

It took a small while before you got a calm spot. Eyes too tired to create anymore.

“Let’s get you up.” His voice gentle as he flushed the puke that still sat in the toilet and helped you up. Your body was numb.

Both from your emotions and position.

“We’ll figure something out.” He tried to make you feel better but how could he? How? You felt like someone shot you dead without ever pulling an actual trigger.

“You can’t.” Your voice raspy and full of congestion.

“Like hell I can’t. We are going to figure this out. As a couple. As a family, a country. We. Will fix this. And I would burn anything down that tried to get to you.” His voice was so firm, so full of his own fear for you that it made your heart lurch.

“This is just day one of a fight. I have no right to tell you this, but today you mourn, and tomorrow, if you can, you get back out there and you fight as hard as you have to. And i will have your back.”

“We all will.”

“Don’t do that. I am SO angry Aaron. I want to fight NOW.”

You take a breath.

“I want to scream and cry and get into a fight with everyone that voted the way they did. It’s like I have a huge bag of flames in my stomach that I want to spit out at anyone I talk to…”

“Everyone. I’m angry.”

I’m not even gonna promo down here or tag anyone. I’m just so devastated and wish I had this.

[whump-in-the-closet]

The Ghost in the Machine

Living Weapon Whump for the 2025yearofwhumptropes

content: medical setting, noncon drugging, living weapon whump, memory loss, restraints, dehumanization, bound

Day 1. #20159

Next

He woke with a searing flash behind his eyes, the kind that split his skull in two and left the edges of the world smeared and formless. It blurred his vision to the point he could hardly make out the edges of the hospital bed or the faces around him. What he could recognize was the sterile tange of antiseptic singing his nostrils.

Directly above him, a vent blew cold air into his face.

He opened his mouth but all that came out was a cotten-throated "gah", the words stuck somewhere between his tongue and teeth.

He blinked rapidly, everything hitting him all at once and leaving him with a pit in his stomach.

"Wh-where am I?" each word was a battle.

Someone hushed him and turning to someone behind them, snapped. "Increase the dosage, will you?"

"What?" He tried to sit up, only to be yanked back down to the stiff sheets by the velcro restraints around his wrists and ankles.

His breathing faltered. Trapped. He was trapped.

But he didn't really panic until he saw the IV linked to his forearm, pinching his skin under the small bandage. Some yellow, shimmering liquid was being pumped into his body.

And he could see it.

Vicious, golden threads under his skin. Pulsing. Stitching their way up, up, up--

The scream ripped itself out of him, raw and guttural.

"Someone calm it down!"

Desperation became a whole new reality, lodged entirely in the small medical room with four pale walls and that cheap landscape painting in the corner.

Someone was shoving him down.

"Get it out! Get it the fuck out of me!" he thrashed wildly against the arms that pinned him to the bed. They grunted and pulled another strap over his forehead.

Their clothes smelled of cigarette smoke and salt water, green and nauseating. Their face was lined, almost etched. There was a heaviness in their expression that almost hid the vicious smile. Almost.

They jabbed something sharp into his upper thigh and its effects were immediate.

It hit him like a physical blow, his limbs relaxing at his side before he could fight it.

His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one harder to draw than the last.

No- no- no!

Shadows crept into the edges of his vision.

He could do nothing besides snarl internally when the stranger sat beside him. "You're going to regret that, kiddo." They straightened and pulled a notebook out of their jacket.

"Subject two-oh-one-five-nine," they spelled out, "has been properly sedated after a brief resistance. Remains unmanageable." They shot him a look, arching an eyebrow, like they were daring him to try anything further.

"But not for long," they added.

Just wait, the boy thought, until I tell...

Tell...

He had someone to tell. He did.

The word with the face attached to it was just out of reach.

His vision narrowed to a tunnel of smudged colors.

The memory slipped completely. Shit.

The last thing he felt was the stranger brushing a hand through his hair, slow and deliberate.

"We're going to make something out of you yet."

His heart lurched with a new, horrifying realization.

He couldn't remember his own name.

[kystarlight17]

Call Sign: Pipsqueak

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62843273

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62843273

I wrote a fic based on my Caleb brain rot.

Might be fluffy, might be cheesy and maybe a little angsty that you might have to squint?

Also I’m bad at punctuations 🥲

Walking into Caleb’s home on his private island in Skyhaven, the woman found herself the only occupant. Looking around, it was clear Caleb was still tending to his duties as Colonel after returning from another expedition in the Deepspace Tunnel. She glanced at the digital clock in the living room—6 p.m. Perhaps she could surprise Caleb with her unexpected appearance in his home... or perhaps not. More often than not, Caleb was always aware when she arrived in Skyhaven.

She walked deeper into the home, noticing that Caleb had bought more things for the place. To her, it still felt cold and sterile, but the new plush carpets and pillows—strangely to her taste—hid it like a band-aid.

“Aah!” she exclaimed in surprise, stumbling over a small package she knocked over. Throwing her weekend bag onto the couch, she bent down to pick up the package. The label on the delivery box read: ‘1 Desktop Robot - Yellow.’

She raised an eyebrow. The last time she owned such a thing was back in high school when she used to talk to it while working through her problems—when Caleb wasn’t around. That was years ago. And yet, Caleb bought one. The woman couldn’t help but wonder why he bought the exact same model. She had thought it was out of production. As if it were for her, if not him then this robot will do. As if he were trying to—

She stopped the thought in its tracks, setting the box down on the coffee table before heading toward the kitchen.

An hour or two later, Caleb returned home.

He didn’t tense up when he saw the lights on. He wasn’t even suspicious. He knew she was there. After all, she was the only one who held the key to all of him. The soft creak of his leather boots and the beep of his keys accompanied his entrance. The sounds of chopping from the kitchen, coupled with soft humming, greeted him.

The humming brought him back to memories—memories he wished he could live in forever, despite the pain and immense joy they carried. But he shook his head, forcing himself back to the present. Taking off his Colonel’s hat and tucking it under his arm, he headed toward the kitchen.

“Whatcha doing there, pipsqueak?” he asked, making his voice sound light and playful, just like before.

How he only called her pipsqueak because it used to annoy her. How it reminded her that he was always taller, always older. How that nickname was his shield, a childish pretense to keep the boiling feelings inside him at bay. Like staying in a familiar dynamic would not ruin him. Would not ruin them. When all he longed for was to call her something else entirely—

“I’m making you your apple soda,” her voice broke through his thoughts, shaking him like the vibrations of a collapsing star forming a black hole.

She was making him his favorite drink. And suddenly, it felt like it was all for nothing while simultaneously being everything.

She stood before him like a black hole with her declaration, and once more, her presence warps the space around him, pulling him in whether he fights or not.

He took a deep breath, lest he forget this moment.

“Well then,” he said after a beat, his tone masking the aching thud in his heart—simultaneously light and unbearably heavy. “I’ll go get changed, and I’ll make you one of your favorite dishes in return for the soda.”

He saw her shoulders relax slightly. He didn’t comment on it.

Turning away, he walked toward his bedroom—to slip into clothes the Caleb she knew would expect to see him in. Clothes she still liked. But it was still all so new between them.

She listened as his footsteps disappeared into the depths of the house. Relief- or was it something else?- settled over her. His Colonel uniform still filled her with all sorts of emotions. Some she could name. Others…she dared not. It blurred lines that were already too hazy yet still held them both back.

Lost in thought, she didn’t realize she was chopping the apples harder than usual until she heard Caleb’s voice behind her.

“Did I do anything wrong this time, pipsqueak?” he teased as he looked over her shoulder, watching her progress.

The presence of him behind her-close,solid,warm-was both comforting and suffocating.

“Ugh, Caleb,” she groaned in mock annoyance, falling back into the rhythm they knew. The rhythm that let them pretend.“You broke my concentration.”

“What, cutting chunks of apples needed concentration?” he teased, reaching over her head to retrieve the plates, the brief press of his chest against her back making her instinctively lean into the counter. Too aware. His height, his warmth and his-

“Pass me a knife, will you?”,

Wordlessly, she reached for the knife block, pushing it toward him before stepping away from the shared counter. Distance. She needed distance.

Caleb could only smile.

Even though it was just across the kitchen, his illogical side saw it differently.

He shifted his gaze back to the vegetables he was expertly chopping just as the sound of the blender filled the quiet kitchen. The harsh machinery filled the space where their familiar banter should be.

They could still talk like they always had. But it was like winding up a music box over and over, their groove lost on a different frequency.

They were both too stubborn to move. Too scared of the change.

“When are you leaving again?” she asked suddenly.

The minute pause in Caleb’s chopping was almost imperceptible.

“Eager to plan illicit activities while I’m gone?” he teased, aiming for levity. But the words reminded him of what he lacked.

He had no luxury to join her adventures. No luxury to be by her side like he used to. And the darker part of him wondered—

Did she find new people to go on adventures with?

She nudged his arm with her elbow. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

Her touch landed on his disguised mechanical arm. The phantom sensation it gave him was both familiar and aching. He couldn’t feel it. Not fully.

She kept her gaze on the boiling pasta. “I just wanted to see if I’ll be free the next time you come back. Maybe you can come over to my place if our schedules align.”

Caleb exhaled. Back and forth. Heaven and hell. Over and over again.

And yet… he was used to it.

“I don’t remember it on top of my head so I’ll look for it and let you know later”, he smoothly lied as in fact he knew when his next expedition and when he is coming back again. To her. It was just his pathetic way of finding an excuse to contact her.

“I’ll hold you to it and oh the pasta is done by the way”, announced the woman as she was carefully pushed to the side watching Caleb take over the rest of the cooking. Judging on the ingredients Caleb had prepared it was going to be a Mediterranean night

Dinner passed with playful banter, plans for his next outing, and stories of her latest missions. Caleb was listening-humming in response, asking questions, throwing quick glances her way. If she weren’t so distracted, she would have noticed those glances felt like a fleeting caress. As if memorizing her all over again.

The woman soon reached the conclusion of her stories,

“Apart from that Lemonette for some reason keeps making appearances all over Linkon City which makes patrols more difficult,” the woman concluded as she set her utensils down on her finished plate.

A small teasing smile graced her lips, “Don’t tell me that you even managed to get a Wanderer to like you” the woman continued her teasing tone, “Because I’m beginning to see a pattern here of Lemonette’s appearances and your arrival back, they seem to coincide.”

“Oh?,” drawled Caleb following along with the woman’s banter, pausing from taking a bite of the cooked pasta to rest his chin on the palm of his hand. Using his fork to point at the girl, “Would you be jealous if I looked forward to getting a gift and attention from a Wanderer?”,

The implication was there as they both knew that Caleb never accepts a gift from anyone except from the woman and the grandma that raised them.

The woman looked at Caleb with a look as she knew it was meant to be a jest but secretly she did care, childishly she stuck her tongue out to Caleb, “Then I’ll tell Lemonette to make you a super duper sour candy”,

“I look forward to it, pipsqueak” singsonged Caleb as he began to eat his dish once more as he took in the flush on the woman's cheeks and the familiar feeling of pride to have made her look like that.

After dinner, the woman wanted something sweet. Caleb disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two mini pints of ice cream. The one she liked. Not that she needed to know he bought it just for her and would restock it everytime.

“Mmmh,” hummed the woman with pleasure as she dug into her half pint of favourite ice cream, “Also Grandma’s birthday is coming up soon, we should leave something at her grave,” the woman remarked as she dug back into her desert.

Caleb, in turn, hummed in thought as he didn’t realise how much time has passed since that…bombing. The death of their shared guardian who told them to call her grandma and gave them life much different than before. A life Caleb remembers vividly and the woman forgot.

The woman began to talk about possible gift offerings they could leave at the grave as they ate their ice cream. Half of Caleb’s mind was present while his other mind delved into one of his rare introspections.

He was thankful. Their grandma had brought them together, given them a family bond that ran deeper than blood. But bonds, he had learned, were a double-edged sword - strong enough to hold, tight enough to constrict.

Watching her, he knew with certainty: he loved her.

It had taken him so long to admit it. The kind of love that was both a poison and a cure.

Skyhaven had been his dream, a place where he could soar free. But love tethered him. And instead of resenting it, he found that he didn’t want to escape. Like a celestial body bound by an unseen force, he is always drawn back to her orbit.

It was the necklace she had given him, the laughter they shared, the way she grounded him. She was why he fought, why he returned from the Deepspace Tunnel against all odds.

Even if it meant putting himself in harm’s way again, his second death would be for her alone. A phoenix only to die again.

Love should be an absolution. But absolution could only come from her.

Focusing back on the present moment, he noticed a stray drop of ice cream at the corner of her lips. He automatically reached over to wipe it for her causing her to stop mid talk. Her wide eye gaze honestly made him want to move his thumb and caress her lower lip.

“You know for someone who claims she’s all grown up, you sure do eat like a child,” he teased her not missing a beat lest she suspects where his thoughts went to,

For a second, she forgets to breathe. Then, before she can stop herself, she swats his hand away. Too quickly, too sharp. As if the touch might change something neither of them are ready for.

“So? There’s nothing wrong with being young at heart,” the woman quipped back to Caleb as she gave her ice cream spoon a long lick to finish off the leftovers. While she kept her gaze on Caleb she could see the miniscule movement of his eyes before focusing back on her face.

The woman presented her empty ice cream cup and ice cream spoon to Caleb as she playfully continued, “See I’m stopping at one ice cream cup, would a woman like me go for a second one?”,she asked him,

“A woman huh?Caleb remarked as he leaned back in his seat and there was that tiny crack on his face that the woman, knows well, “I do have another ice cream cup in the fridge and it would be awfully lonely to eat one by myself,” Caleb goaded her with his faux sadness.

For some reason, the woman couldn’t help but notice there was another layer to this. Their interactions these days are often double layered and hardly straightforward as it used to be. Right now, this conversation made the woman wonder if Caleb was thinking of the changes in her. Changes that he wasn’t there to see and witness during his time away after his supposed death.

Much like how she feels about his own changes perhaps she’s slowly understanding that this independant version of her was someone he is still coming to terms with. Especially since she still pictures him being part of her life in the future.

“We can share a cup then,” the woman conceded and was given that boyish smile on Caleb’s face that made her heart flutter and wanted to keep to herself forever.

When Caleb returned with a new cup of ice cream and sat across from her once more, the woman quickly snatched it playfully from his grasp. Earning an equally playful sound of protest as Caleb waited patiently to see what she was up to.

The woman sported a mischievous grin as she opened the ice cream cup and taking out a spoonful of ice cream she held up it to Caleb, “Prove you liked the apple soda”

She watched as Caleb eyed the spoon and belatedly realised it was the spoon she was using originally. However, before she could withdraw, Caleb was quick to eat the spoonful of ice cream from it.

For some reason, her heart beat faster at that action and she couldn’t understand why. After all, they've shared utensils before and didn’t bat an eye about it. Yet this new dynamic between them that she dared not label yet was perhaps another factor at play.

Caleb copied the woman’s actions and used his own spoon to scoop out the ice cream and held it up to her.

“Prove that the dish I cooked for you was delicious”,

Without hesitation, the woman leaned forward to eat the ice cream. Keeping her gaze on his face and though there was a slight smirk on his face there was tendril of that fire. Like he likes watching take what he provides for her.

Their game continues as the sentences shifted differently,

“Eat if you’ll come to down to Linkon soon,” Caleb ate

“Eat if you’ve been sleeping on time,” the woman ate

“Eat if you’ve also been looking after yourself,” a slight hesitation from Caleb that the woman did not miss as Caleb ate the ice cream

“Eat if you’ve haven’t been pushing yourself too hard at work lately” it was the woman’s turn this time to pause for a few seconds that Caleb immediately noticed.

They had told two lies and two truths to each other. Since when did their dynamic have become hide and seek all in the name of each other’s peace of mind and happiness. Then, as the last two spoonfuls remained, they both spoke at the same time.

“Eat if you still promise to let me stand by your side”

“Eat if you still promise to not let me drift away”

[weevil-writes]

Staples, comics and Banana bread

rottmnt x Leo reader

Tags: Mention of injury, slight blood, angst, unconfessed feelings, fluff, angst with a happy ending

The Kraangified remnants of the foot clan were left scattered across the pavement.

battered and beaten. Ripe for the EPF to escort them to who knows where.

Thanks to Raph, the very last infected Foot-brute was sent into a nearby alley wall, impacting a crater into the cement upon impact.

Raph turned back to Leo- who stood with his shell facing him.

“You okay Leo? That kraang goon nearly clipped you-!”

Leo still faced away from him, trembling, moving his hand to his side as Raph spoke.

“…ye-yeah Raph..I’m right…r-right as….rain..”

Leo tried echoing his words as if it would distract his brothers from the wound he covered with his hand. But the moment his legs began shaking unsteadily, Mikey ran in to support his older brother.

Donnie, April and Raph hurried over at the same time.

“It did get you, Leo! Hold on-! Mikey, lay him down for a moment, Donnie, put pressure on his side, now-!”

April dug through a compartment in Donnie’s battle shell, handing him a medkit and watched as Donnie swiftly opened it.

Leo winced as he was gently laid down, groaning when his plastron scraped in on itself. His side was lightly cracked, and blood ran down steadily. 

It was clear the foot tried impaling him with a tendril, but missed by a couple inches.

Donnie already had a sterile gauze he put over the gash to keep Leo from bleeding any more. As soon as he applied pressure, Leo flinched and cried out in pain. 

His eyes pricked at the edges and he longed to claw everyone’s hands off of him. 

April kneeled next to Leo’s head, and she softly cradled Leo’s face, wiping away his tears.

Leo appreciated what his brothers and sister were doing for him.

But he felt shame for letting this happen, he felt shame for obligating them to help him.

He sluggishly squirmed and dug his heels in the ground. He whined and stifled cries when they carried him, and he yelled and kicked when they stapled him back together. he sniffled when he felt the soft bed underneath him and his father’s old hands holding his. 

And he sobbed when he was all alone, because he felt like a failure. Coming home in pieces while his brothers were left unscathed.

He didn’t want to need help.

He wanted to be as good as his brothers.

Walking down the familiar sewer tunnels, you scrolled through your phone, listening to music. You didn’t have to look up to know where you were going- 

You just took a left and kept going.

Over the ramp,

Through this tunnel,

Past those two rats with the weird hair,

Over this little bridge,

Take a right,

And you looked up to see the familiar subway-sewer lair, filled with those unforgettable neon lights and smells of something Mikey cooked up.

Wandering around as if in your own home, you looked for any signs of the turtles.

It was awfully quiet, however. Only splinters faint soapy treadmill and snores echoed from another room.

So you tried asking.

“Hellooo? Anyone hooome~?”

You heard a faint “huh?” From the kitchen. Walking into it, you saw Leo with a questioning expression.

When you rounded the corner and he saw your face, he let his shoulders relax.

“Oh, it’s you. I thought piebald was setting up to scaring me again.”

You chuckled as his comment and leaned against the counter, smiling. 

He smiled back for a moment before glancing down. And back up again.

 He looked worried.

You couldn’t see what he looked at, being on the other side of the countertop, but you walked closer to him.

“What’s wrong?”

He chuckled- “nOthing-!“

He blurted out before leaning close to the table, mirroring you. He made an effort to stand farther away from you. 

Leo was a good liar around anyone and everyone but you. 

You could see his faux grin wobble.

Quickly walking right next to him, you inspected the floor.

“What-? What’s wrong?”

Looking tile to tile, there was nothing out of the ordinary. Just a couple crumbs and a dry spaghetti noodle.

Then out of the corner of your eye, you saw Leo’s hand flinch- he was covering his side.

Looking back at his face, you gave him an unimpressed look before grabbing his wrist and moving his hand out of the way.

..oh.

Your face fell and all was left was a shocked, hurt complexion that hung around your eyes.

The side of his plastron was cracked and multiple staples held them altogether. The cracks were red in between, it looked so painful.

Why was he even standing? It looked like it hurt to stand.

“It’s fine, really. It’s like, it’s a week old. Its not as bad as it looks.”

He flashed a small smile, but it didn’t change your empathetic face.

“I’m sorry that happened to you. It looks pretty nasty.”

He shrugged. 

“Well, accidents happen, right? Do you expect villains to not hurt me?”

You frowned.

“You weren’t…putting yourself in danger, right?”

“What?”

“You’re not using yourself as a human shield again, now are you?”

His eyes bulged a little and he swallowed.

“….n…noo…”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I-well, I’m not technically a huma-“

You grabbed his shoulders and he decided not to finish that sentence.

“…I’m sorry. I-I was…just…”

You sighed and pulled him in a hug, being mindful of his injury.

He blinked a couple times, staring at the back of your head before wrapping his arms around you. He exhaled as he buried his face in your hair.

“…I’m sorry. I keep doing that.”

You nodded. Still holding the hug.

“I’m afraid for you, Leo. You keep getting hurt like this.”

You gently scritched his shell, and he melted a bit in your arms.

“…I..would rather be hurt myself….than watch my brothers be hurt..”

You sighed.

Hug was still going.

Awfully long.

But it was nice.

“There’s… a line, Leo. Between protecting your brothers and..nearly getting kebabed every mission.”

He chuckled at your word usage, and he gently rubbed your back.

“…yeah…”

After almost 3 minutes of hugging, you both let go. (Unwillingly.)

“Crap! My banana bread!”

Leo scrambled to the oven, opening the oven door and fumbling to put his blue mitts on. Pulling the loaf out of the oven, he set it on the stovetop.

He waved at it, trying to cool it down.

“Does it look burnt..?”

You went over to where he was and poked at it with a fork. Shrugging, you replied-

“No…? You should cut it and see.”

He pulled a drawer open and got a knife. Holding it steady, he cut out two small slices and gave you one.

The banana bread was pretty good. The chocolate chips had melted nicely, and thankfully Leo didn’t add any raisins or walnuts.

“This is pretty-“

You choked on your food and coughed for a moment.

“SINCE WHEN did you start BAKING-?!”

Leo stared at you for a moment before chuckling a little. A bit of blush hung around his cheeks.

“When your brothers start making you stay home from missions, you gotta find ways to pass the time.”

You laughed. 

“Man, you must be bored if you’re baking bread now!”

He feigned a pout and the warmth on his face grew.

You covered the bread with a cloth to let it cool down before looking back to Leo.

“I got something to fix that.”

Pulling off you medium-sized backpack, you set it on the floor and unzipped it. You pulled out the latest JJ comic volume. It was hardcover and had alternative cover art that was hard to find.

“Look what I found at my local Noblebarn~”

He gasped, his eyes growing all sparkly.

“NO WAY! I thought it was being released next month!”

You replied with a coy grin.

“It is. But if you have a friend who works there, you can get some things early…”

You placed the book in his hands, and he stared at it cluelessly for a moment.

…

“It’s for you.”

His eyes grew wide like dinner plates and he looked at you with a unbelieving expression.

“…really-?! for me??”

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Yeah, for you.”

He giggled girlishly and set the book aside to hug you again. He nearly crushed you.

But that was a good sign that you made him very, very happy.

“Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou!!!”

He laughed, then picking up the book again reverently. As if it was fine china.

“Let’s go read it! C’mon!”

The both of you ran to the couch like you were little 3rd graders again, jumping onto the sofa and sitting impossibly close, eyes glued to the comic.

Before Leo would flip the page, he would look to you and ask “next page?”

“Yeah” you’d reply, before studying the comic again.

Oh, the things that kept you two occupied.