#Wad Manufacturers

[aasthaenterprises]

Aastha Enterprises: Leading the Way in Sealing and Moulding Solutions

At Aastha Enterprises, we pride ourselves on being industry leaders in providing premium sealing and molding solutions to meet the demands of diverse industries. Our extensive product range is designed to offer durability, quality, and reliability, ensuring the highest standards in manufacturing and packaging processes.

Glass Container Induction Wad Suppliers

As trusted Glass Container Induction Wad Suppliers, We specializes in providing high-performance wads that guarantee a secure and tamper-evident seal. Our induction wads are crafted to suit a wide range of glass containers, ensuring leak-proof packaging and preserving the integrity of the contents.

Aluminium Foil Induction Sealing Wad Exporters

As experienced Aluminium Foil Induction Sealing Wad Exporters, we are committed to delivering premium quality wads that cater to both domestic and international markets. Our aluminium foil induction wads provide superior sealing properties, making them the go-to solution for businesses requiring high standards in packaging and product safety.

Pet Container Mould Manufacturers

In addition to sealing wads, we are renowned Pet Container Mould Manufacturers. Our precision-engineered molds are designed to meet the specific needs of PET container production, offering customization and efficiency to manufacturers. With cutting-edge technology and exceptional craftsmanship, We delivers molds that drive productivity and quality in PET container manufacturing.

Wad Manufacturers

At Aastha Enterprises, we are leading Wad Manufacturers offering a variety of sealing wads for various packaging needs. Whether it’s for food, beverages, pharmaceuticals, or cosmetics, our wads provide a reliable solution that ensures product safety and consumer satisfaction. We continuously innovate to offer the most effective sealing solutions tailored to our clients' specific requirements.

Aluminium Foil Induction Sealing Wad Manufacturers

As prominent Aluminium Foil Induction Sealing Wad Manufacturers, we focus on producing high-grade sealing wads that meet international quality standards. Our products are designed for maximum efficiency in sealing containers, providing a perfect barrier against contaminants and enhancing product shelf life.

Why Choose Aastha Enterprises?

With a commitment to excellence, We are your reliable partner for all your induction sealing and molding needs. Our dedication to quality, innovation, and customer satisfaction has established us as a trusted name in the industry. Whether you're looking for sealing solutions or precision molds, Aastha Enterprises has you covered.

Partner with us today for top-tier sealing and molding products that elevate your manufacturing process!

[phaoi]

look at the difference in size between my wad tour shirt and the one from tit (they’re both size m) 😭

[ipreferlush]

Either sew the pads into the bra the right way or leave them out entirely, you cowards.

[facts-i-just-made-up]

How do you build a atomic bomb?

Easily!

All you need are a few household items, a little bit of patience, and a Class 1 Top Security clearance for the manufacture of biological, chemical or nuclear weapons under the Fermi laws of 1954 contingent to permission from the United Nations Security Council.

You're gonna need-

A box of matches

A blender

Tape

Some wire mesh (Like a window screen, for sifting)

Cake mix (Yellow sponge cake works best)

Ziplock bags

String

Ice cubes (The cold kind, not the rapper/actor)

A toilet paper tube

A Catholic Missal

An empty kitty litter bucket

First, you're gonna need two rare substances- Weapons grade uranium and "heavy" water. For the uranium, just take your yellow cake mix and sift it with the wire mesh. Whatever stays on top of the mesh- That's weapons grade. For the heavy water, take some ice cubes, which are heavier than water but still made of water, and put them in the blender. By breaking up the ice cubes and releasing the water, you keep the weight but make it a fluid. This is a process that scientists call "Putrefaction".

To build the weapon, pack some uranium into one end of the toilet paper tube and then cover that end with the Catholic Missal. This guarantees what we call a "Critical Mass" of uranium. Then take a smaller wad of uranium and pack it into the other end of the tube, leaving plenty of space between the two.

Tape the box of matches to that end of the tube. It will act as an explosive device to send the "bullet" of uranium into the critical mass, thus resulting in a nuclear fission explosion.

You now have a nuclear fission device! This device has a yield equal to about 10 thousand tons of T.N.T. But fission is for wimps, right? So let's turn that fission bomb, into a fusion bomb!

Tape your string to the matches to act as a fuse, and then put the nuclear warhead in a ziplock bag. Be sure to seal it tight! Now place that assembly into the kitty litter bucket. Make sure it's empty of kitty litter before the next step.

Fill the rest of the bucket with the heavy water you made in step one, and seal the top of the kitty litter bucket with the string still poking out. Once the fuse is lit, it will light the matches and detonate the nuclear fission bomb. This acts as a heat source to boil the heavy water, and when heavy water boils- Nuclear Fusion!

Congratulations, your bomb is now complete. Remember that it's illegal to carry or detonate a nuclear fusion warhead in public (except in Texas), and bear in mind this will be quite a bit stronger than your usual firecrackers. We recommend only setting off your nuclear device on official U.S. testing grounds, such as the desserts of New Mexico or islands in the Pacific only populated by tribes under no country's protection, because that's seriously what the U.S. did.

So play safe and have a good time,

-facts-i-just-made-up.tumblr.com

[sscarletvenus]

and if you did not know : THE RAPID SUPPORT FORCES (RSF) SET FIRE TO ENTIRE VILLAGES IN THE EL-FASHIR AREA OF DARFUR, SUDAN. THOUSANDS HAVE BECOME REFUGEES IN THEIR OWN COUNTRY. 100+ INNOCENT LIVES BUTCHERED IN ONE VILLAGE.

COUNTLESS BURIED ALIVE ALONG WITH THEIR FAMILIES. THE INJURED AND STARVING FORCED TO BURY THEMSELVES ALIVE.

ALSO THE WAD NORA VILLAGE IN AL GEZIRA. VILLAGERS RESISTED THE INVASION OF RSF MILITIA, WHO THEN RESPONDED BY SHELLING THEIR HOMES WITH HEAVY WEAPONRY. DEATH TOLL EXPECTED TO BE IN HUNDREDS.

150,000 Sudanese people killed after nearly fourteen months of continuous genocidal aggression and war. two and a half million projected to die by september as a result of manufactured famine. rage and resist on behalf of Sudan! RAISE YOUR VOICE. YOUR VOICE MATTERS. SPREAD AWARENESS AND DONATE TO FAMILIES TRYING TO ESCAPE.

[impishcupid]

{BEGIN ID)

A video with the caption “Wow that was powerful! Never thought a ‘boycott Israel’ advert would move me to tears”

The video starts with a man grabbing a can of Pepsi from a cooler in a store, and placing it on the counter. He asks the price, to which the cashier tells him it costs two dinar. The shot then shows 13 versions of this interaction at once, where he hands over the 2 dinar and takes the can of pepsi, equalling 26 dinar.

After the product is scanned, we return to one shot and the cashier is counting his money. It then switches to show the pepsi delivery driver being handed the wad of money while delivering the stores supplies. This part of the video features many rapid transitions. The first transition is to the pepsi driver using a money counting machine to count his money, then we see many rapid cuts that interchange close up shots of the “100” on hundred dollar bills and images of stock market prices rising and falling, likely representative of that money changing between economies and countries.

It then transitions to a businessman counting money, which he places in a briefcase and leaves his office. He presents the briefcase to a colleague, which transitions as the case is opened to the colleague opening the case to show a weapons manufacturer. The weapons manufacturer then begins building with a variety of hammering, sawing, and ends with spray painting. He then presents his creation: a bomb. The person being presented to comments that it’s perfect.

It cuts to a plane flying through the rain on a darkened night, to which someone says to the pilot “do you have eyes on the target?”

The pilot responds “yes, i have visuals.”

The pilot then says “Sir, are you sure about the coordinates? I see civilians nearby.”

The camera then pans to a little girl, looking between 10 and 13, walking with an older man, either her brother or father. He is trailing behind her, and as she turns to look at him, she also looks up to see the plane.

While she is looking at the plane, an audio overlay of the pilot being told “do it.”

The shot then shows a close up of the bomb being dropped and it’s trajectory through the air, as it gets closer and closer to the ground. As we reach the ground, the camera actually zooms in on the innocent child’s eye, the tip of the bomb still in frame and clearly about to land on her face.

The moment in time freezes as the older man hugs her tightly, and she stares at the bomb. The shot cuts between a full body of her being embraced, the man hugging her with his back attempting to shield her from the bomb, and her face close up, staring at it. The moment in time resumes in extreme slow motion, as a pulsating ring is heard getting louder and louder as the nose of the bomb gets closer to impact. Right before the bomb lands, the screen cuts to black, with white text saying “Boycott.”

{END ID}

I posted this under ten minutes ago (it’s 4:29 EST 03-02-2024) and i’ve already gotten more notes then most posts I post.

That’s good.

Be vocal, be loud, never stand down

[auroravictorium]

high infidelity (pt. 3) (k.b.)

you know there's many different ways that you can kill the one you love.

Summary: kaz and the crows arrive at a safehouse after rescuing reader, where kaz is confronted by his past. reader wakes up and starts the long trek to recovery. Pairing(s): kaz x fem!reader (established relationship) Word Count: ~3.1k Warnings: brief allusions to SA (inej expressing concerns about reader), mentions of injuries (head injury, severe wound on reader's arm, bruises, scrapes, etc.), mentions of blood, lots of grappling with trauma, mentions of sibling & parent loss/death Genre: angst? a bit of fluff? Author's Note: hello hello!! i'm so sorry about my long absence. college and life happened, BUT i have a birthday in the near future (libras unite!!) so have the final part of high infidelity as a lil birthday celebration :)) pinky promise next part is already in the works and it should be a lot less heavy!! enjoy <33

part one / part two / masterlist

Kaz gently pulled you back into his arms as Jesper navigated the exhausted horses toward a small, two-story farmhouse tucked away in a remote field a few miles from Lij. In the distance, a few farmhouses stood like faint silhouettes against the night sky. Beyond that, nothing for miles. The perfect place to hide, heal, and plot before their return to Ketterdam.

The air was clean, untainted by manufacturing smoke, and stars glittered above Kaz as he carefully stepped out of the carriage with you in his arms. He thought hard about the stars as he approached the porch of his childhood home; he thought about how much you would love them when you awoke and how your eyes might look as they caught their distant glimmer.

It was easier to ignore the stirring ghosts of his past if he thought about his present, the future he hoped to have. That present and future rested in the sleeping woman in his arms, her head against his shoulder and her weight a strangely comforting presence against him. The comfort was foreign to him, a sensation he could distantly remember if he reached far enough through the fog that had plagued his life since Jordie died.

The stars disappeared from view as Kaz stepped under the porch awning and turned to face Inej, silent as ever behind him. "The key is under the board with a split down the middle," he said quietly, jerking his chin to the end of the porch.

"Whose house is this?" Nina questioned as she arrived, pale and exhausted from working on you for most of the ride. "And do you think they'll mind if I sleep here for an eternity?"

Kaz shot her a glare and answered neither of those questions. He didn't feel like telling any of them about whose house this was, nor about the phantoms waiting inside. He had enough to worry about without fielding their questions, and his concern rested solely with you, unconscious in his arms. "Jesper, remove the furniture covers. Inej, Nina, help get Y/N settled." His eyes flicked between the Wraith and the Heartrender, a troubled face and an exhausted one. "Then rest. All of you. Jesper, on the couch. Nina and Inej, take the large room upstairs."

He didn't plan to sleep until he was sure you wouldn't die on him. He'd had enough of death in his life.

Inej unlocked the door and pocketed the key, moving inside and holding the door out of the way for everyone to trickle inside.

The room was spotless, remarkably untouched by dust. As Jesper started to remove the cloths over the couch, table, chairs, and small kitchen surfaces, not a single speck of dirt puffed into the air. "I was expecting more... dirt," Jes admitted, wadding up the cloths and tossing them in an empty corner. "For a farmhouse."

Kaz didn't respond, turning on his heel and marching up the stairs toward the small bedroom to the right. He nudged open the door to his and Jordie's old room and held his breath as he carried you in and settled you in the made bed. If he didn't breathe, he couldn't let the past settle in his lungs and choke him.

His gaze remained solely on your face as he carefully unlaced your bloodstained, beaten boots and set them aside. But his thoughts were elsewhere, on a presence he could feel breathing down his neck. The hairs there prickled, and Kaz pursed his lips, fighting the growing tremor in his hands as he tucked the blankets around you.

Jordie was there, in that room. Present, though he'd been dead for years. His father sat on the rickety old seat beneath the window, watching Kaz brush your hair from your face before jerking his hand back. His breathing was coming fast now, and though he longed to stay with you, he had to get out. His lungs burned and ached, unable to pull in the oxygen he needed. 

Kaz had to get out of that room, escape the ghosts' eyes on him, their hands reaching toward the exposed skin of his neck, the small gap between his gloves and his sleeves that exposed his wrist. Anywhere there was skin for their cold, bloated, marred, dead hands to grab.

"I'm sorry," he breathed to you, the words barely audible. Kaz stumbled back and then fled like the coward he was. His lungs struggled to expand in his chest, his breathing shallow as he moved down the stairs and back into the living room. He walked past Jesper's unconscious, snoring form on the couch and grabbed a metal bucket from beside the back door with a trembling hand.

Coward, he thought, opening the door and stepping out into the cold winter air. It nipped at his cheeks and neck, but he didn't bother grabbing a coat. He deserved to brave the cold, to have to break the thick layer of ice in the well with his bare hands. He should be brave enough to stay with you until you woke, to hold your hand and think about everything he wanted to say. 

He could kill a man, but he couldn't stay with the woman he loved. It was a cruel trick of the universe, a flaw in the new person the harbor made. Brekker, where there should be Rietveld, two clashing sides of himself with the wrong half winning.

Broken, twisted coward. 

You deserved better than this, than him.

Kaz slammed the door shut, his breath clouding in front of him, and he limped off toward the edge of the Rietveld property to collect water.

The door rattled in the frame behind him, but Kaz paid it no mind. Inside, Jesper's snores seized for a moment before continuing, droning on alongside the eerie, anxious silence of the farmhouse and the cold, windy beginnings of snow.

-

Once Kaz was back from the well, his gloves soaked and cheeks flushed from the cold, Inej took a bowl of water from the bucket and a clean rag and slipped into the room you were asleep in.

She quietly pulled the seat from under the window to the edge of the bed and got to work, carefully wiping away the blood she could see without moving your clothing. As she ran the rag down your forearm, mindful of the deep gash cutting your tattoo in half, the concern that had been heavy on her heart came bubbling to the surface. She blinked away the unexpected tears in her eyes, turning her head toward the window and staring out toward the sky as she tried to collect herself again.

Inej hoped and prayed that this was the worst of what you'd been through. She didn't want to consider the alternative where you'd experienced the same pain and horrors she had. Unwelcome hands, permanent scars on the skin and beneath it, and memories of touches that didn't belong. 

She did what she could to get as much grime from your skin without scrubbing too hard or moving your clothing, and when she was done, she watched the flakes of blood and dirt melt and turn the water reddish brown. Inej shuddered and stood, taking the bowl and leaving your room as silently and quickly as she arrived. She wordlessly moved past Kaz on the steps and through the living room and stepped outside to dump the water into a patch of brown grass.

Inej stood there long after the reddened water ran over the dead blades of grass, a glass bowl dangling from her hand and her face turned toward the night sky. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and two tears slipped down her cheeks.

Please, she thought, her lips silently forming the word. Don't let her suffer what I have.

-

You woke up as the sun started rising, a loud thud and quiet bickering startling you into consciousness. You peeled open your eyes, fighting against the weight of your eyelids, and you blinked to clear your vision. Shivering, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows and then upright.

The room was freezing, your nose and ears numb from the temperature, and you pulled your covers tightly around you. A coat laid over you, smelling of smoke and city. Kaz. As you pulled it around your shoulders, ignoring the bloodstains on the front, you turned up the collar to inhale his scent again.

As you turned your head to investigate the room around you, the world twisted, and you squeezed your eyes shut to steady yourself, your fingers curling into the silky lining of Kaz's coat. Once your head stopped spinning, you opened your eyes again. 

The room was small, sparsely furnished with only the bed, a rickety chair beside it, and a chest in the corner with a thick layer of dust on top. The wallpaper was yellowed from age, and there were rectangular outlines on the walls where paintings had once been. Once, this had been someone's home, and the thought made the hairs on the back of your neck prickle with the sense that you were intruding. Distantly, you heard a quiet conversation from below, and the voices were too soft, the background too quiet for you to be in the city somewhere. 

Where the hell am I?

You slowly swung your legs over the edge of the bed, determined to poke around further and determine where you were. Standing and pulling Kaz's coat tighter around your shoulders, you managed one step. And another. Your legs trembled and threatened to go out from under you, but you took another step. The door was almost within reach, and you stepped forward to place your hand on the doorknob.

A board creaked beneath your weight, and the voices you'd heard below went quiet.

Footsteps thundered against wood, and the floorboards creaked. The sound grew louder, and you took shaky steps back, your head already swiveling in search of a weapon. Your hand made contact with a glass of water left behind on the bench beside your bed, and you lifted it, ignoring the liquid sloshing over the rim and onto your hand. Your grip slipped slightly, but you held on.

The door screeched open, and you raised the glass as if you might throw it. Your heart raced in your ears as you took in the faces of your friends in the doorway, and it took you a moment to process that you were safe and they would not harm you. Your team. Your friends. Your family.

"Y/N," Jesper said, already stepping into the room, and you set the glass back onto the bench as he came toward you and wrapped his arms around you in a tight, bone-crushing hug. 

You let out a quiet sob as unexpected tears sprung to your eyes, and you wrapped your arms around him, too, despite the spasms of pain running up your bandaged arm and throughout your body. You hid your face in Jesper's chest, breathing in his smell of gunpowder and metal, and he held you tightly against him, swaying back and forth a bit. 

Jes pressed a teary kiss to your sweaty, bloodied hair. "Saints, Y/N," he whispered, and he didn't have to say anything else. You understood. I thought you would die, he was thinking. 

You couldn't blame him. For a while, you thought you would too.

You pulled back and looked up at him, brushing away his tears. "Stop crying," you told him, your voice raspy from emotion and disuse. "You'll make me cry too."

Jesper laughed shakily and squeezed you in a hug one more time, and then a small hand landed on his shoulder, pulling him back. Inej was there, her warm, brown eyes alight with concern. There were a million questions, a million worries there, and you knew she was terrified for you. It wasn't hard to guess what she was thinking.

"I'm okay," you said. "They didn't." 

Inej's fear deflated, and she pulled you into a hug. Her grip was gentler than Jesper's, wary of your injuries, and she pulled back to grip your shoulders. "Thank the Saints," she whispered. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "If they had..."

"They didn't," you repeated, knowing she needed to hear it. You could feel the guilt and worry weighing down on her, and you didn't want her to shoulder that. So you pulled her back into a hug, even as the world tipped under your unsteady legs.

Nina didn't say a word as she joined the embrace, wrapping one arm around Inej and the other around you, pressing her fingertips against the nape of your neck. Her touch eased some of the stiffness and the persistent throbbing there, and you sighed, your head drooping onto her shoulder as you let your friends support you for once. 

"I'll pour some hot water and grab some clean clothes," Inej whispered, withdrawing from the embrace before turning to Jesper and nodding, the two of them quietly leaving as Nina started to tend to your wounds without you having to ask.

"How bad is it?" you murmured, letting Nina carefully guide you to sit on the bed. She pulled your injured arm out before you and peered down at the bandages, and you averted your gaze so you didn't have to see the state of your tattoo. 

"It'll scar," Nina said after a few beats, gently undoing the bandages and then running her fingers over the marred flesh. The touch would have caused pain, had it not been for the soothing rush of her magic over your skin. "When we found you, you had a bad head injury. I needed to work on that first."

There was an apology in her voice, and you looked up at her, finding her already staring back at you with so much sadness in her gaze that the tears you were barely holding back almost slipped down your face. But instead of focusing on what you'd lost, you took a deep breath and forced the tiniest of smiles.

"Thank you," you said softly. 

Nina nodded and smiled back. For once, she didn't press. She didn't say what was undoubtedly on her mind, didn't ask about what had happened to you. Instead, she just silently started to work on repairing what she could of your tattoo, healing scrapes and bruises as she went.

And you let her support you as you did fall apart, her hands still tending to your skin as you turned your head into the black coat draped around your shoulders and let your tears mix with the smokey scent of Kaz and the city that lingered on the fabric.

-

The air was bitterly cold when you took your first step outside, and you breathed in as much frosty air as possible. Your lungs ached in protest, but you didn't mind. You couldn't after everything you'd been through.

Wrapping the long black coat tighter around yourself, you took slow steps toward the tall silhouette standing near the tree line. He must have heard you coming, and he turned to face you when you stopped a few feet away.

"Hi," you said, your breath clouding before you before dissipating into the dusk. You took another step toward him, then another, then another, until you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Tucking your hands into the too-big pockets in the coat, you looked up at him. He was still watching you, his expression frustratingly yet understandably unreadable. "How long have you been out here?"

"I don't mind the cold," Kaz answered, his voice even raspier than usual. A typical nonanswer for Kaz, but the redness of his nose and around his eyes was anything but typical. The sight made your heart sink, and you longed to reach out to him and give him some reassurance that you were alright.

"Come inside. There's tea," you said, trying again to get him to thaw toward you. If he would say more than one sentence, you might have a better chance at finally talking with him.

"I'm alright," he said, turning back toward the tree line. His icy gaze flickered over the trees as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world, even as muddled shapes. Maybe they were when he wasn't busy looking everywhere but at you.

You were silent for a few long moments, then let out a slow sigh. "Kaz," you said softly. "Don't do that." The words tasted familiar on your tongue, like a memory shared long ago. You hoped Kaz would recognize them, would recognize what you were trying to say. He was shutting you out; at any other time, you would understand, and wouldn't push him to open up to you. 

But you needed him. Don't pull away from me, you silently pleaded, looking up at him as you waited for him to react to your words, to understand what you were asking of him.

Kaz turned to you, and you saw something sparkling in his eyes. It was the first indication of emotion he'd given you, and it was precisely what you needed: a sign that he would open up to you eventually about what was running through his mind. "Do what?" he said, the words fighting to come up past the lump in his throat, the blockage formed by everything he wanted to say to you.

"The distance." The words were breathless, and you didn't follow them up with anything. You didn't need to, because Kaz let out a shaky exhale of his own and then dropped his hand from the top of his cane to his side. Your throat felt tight with emotion as you freed your hand from your coat pocket and then slipped your hand into his, lacing your fingers with his gloved ones. The leather was cool against your skin, but Kaz's touch alone warmed you up plenty.

Kaz gave your hand the gentlest of squeezes, and you felt his gaze burning into your face. It was heavy with the weight of words unspoken, and you decided that talking could wait until it was easier for both of you to bear.

Instead, you turned your head up toward the sky, taking a futile glance around for stars just as the first snowflakes began to flutter down around you and the earth continued its unaffected rotation on its axis.

taglist: @tonberry-yoda, @b3kk3r-by-br3kk3r, @futurecorps3, @statsvitenskap, @sapphiccloud, @casualladyinternet, @d34drapunzel, @noctemys, @whitejxsmine, @so6, @franzelt, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @marlene-the-witch, @thestudiouswanderer, @lyjen, @rideacowb0y, @weasleybuns, @dal-light, @mariatpwk, @dreammgc, @elysian-chaos, @breadbrobin, @poppyflower-22, @halfofagayallofaqueer, @battleraven, @amarokofficial, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @poppyflower-22, @madnessinwrighting, @ponyboys-sunsets, @circus-of-thoughts, @empresspenguin18, @mediocrestuff, @stonksman8, @alanis-altair, @thefandomplace, @alohastitch0626, @the-royal-paintbrush, @just-here-for-ff, @whos6claire, @jodiereedus22, @be-lla-vie, @despoinapav05, @arianyo, @willowpains, @geekmom3, @dark-academia-slut, @aeslenya, @directioner5life, @notjustsomeblonde, @osteopsycho, @travelingmypassion, @tiana76, @angelhxneyy, @princessatoru, @urlocalgeek, @lonelywitchv2, @bookloverfilmoholic, @taerae515

please note that if your username is struck through, i was unable to tag you!

[erisawrites]

Juwon ryu dating head canons

Dating Juwon Ryu would seem all glitter and gold to materialistic outsiders, but given the few interactions Vinny, Sabbath Crew and even Sangho shared with him had Juwon's friends throwing pitiful looks at his girlfriend.

Cw: Toxic relationships

M A S T E R L I S T

Does he love me?

♤ Well, he doesn't mind having an accessory looped around his arm during events, every now and then. He also doesn't mind speeding through the cities with the sunroof gone, watching your hair carried away by the winds. Likewise the tacky, yet ambient atmospheres of high end resteraunts becomes bearable when you pester him for a date. But that rare moment shared amongst you two underneath the full moon, your eyes dazzling with genuine love? No. He'll just brush it off as you sucking up to him. Or even if he knows, he'll laugh it off. You are, after all, just another set of expensive receipts for him.

Does he care for me?

♤ Like an expensive suit tailored for a custom order, or a vintage vehicle professionally maintained for decades, Juwan understands the care required to cherish a girlfriend. Materialistically, of course. Weekly mani-pedis? Regular botox shots? New wardrobe fittings every month? He doesn't bat an eye towards it, with overspending being the last of his worries because while he doesn't care about you, he does care about your finances. That's why you don't have control over your money. Not from your savings, of course, but the debit card he so generously gifted you. Because he cares for you.

Does he support me?

♤ Let me flip the script, do you support him? Support his dope manufacture? His manipulative sponsoring? His twisted dreams? Because while he exclusively dated rose-coloured naive girls, he expected them to have some understanding that his line of work, his "passions" came before her. Obviously, the hopeless romantics, who don't realize they're just being used, get effectively swayed by his dreams and 'sacrifice' all sorts of things for their beloved. If you wanted to get some bizarre touch up or buy something unusual, yeah, he'll probably support you. But don't expect your dreams to hold value against his. You are second to his 'dreams', remember?

Does he defend me?

♤ Physically? In the rare occasion you get a stalker, yeah, he'll take care of it. But emotionally and socially? He's the one tearing your image apart in "banter". Though he rarely crosses the line, but if the topic focused on you amongst his closest circle, where his businessman facade melts back to his original sinister self, you'd be the butt of all jokes. Your confidence? Gone. Your self esteem? Shattered. What little respect and dignity you had? Ruined. That's the problem of mixing with different class circles as a 'gold digger' yourself. Your value isn't worth to be defended before them.

Is he loyal to me?

♤ Only loyal person here is you, where no virtue lied in it for you'd stayed faithful to the least loyal person to walk in your life. Like I said, you're just another set of costly bills, another arm accessory to flaunt around. His business mindset was mindful about your 'drop in value' with your prolonged stay and his gradual disinterest. He was not an ordinary man. He needed something new. He needed something fresh. And you've gotten old and boring. So he doesn't bother wincing at your tear stricken face, slapping one last wad of cash at your feet, before he dissappeared away in his Bentley, off to find another new plaything for him.

But you knew that.

Thought you could change that.

Only changing your status at the end.

But not your endless love for him.

[lorei-writes]

HC: Princes & Tears (Crack)

@drewadoodle I'm blaming you and your manly tears with glasses and what not (re:onions) for this.

Content Warnings: none

Leon: Whenever he cries, it conveniently begins to rain, so he just goes outside and stands *gestures vaguely* there broodingly.

Yves: Listen, those aren't tears. It's rose water moisturiser, and it's part of the reason why his skin looks so good. On that note, Yves doesn't sweat either. It's all perfume. And when he cuts his finger? No, he doesn't. Light shines from the skies and fixes it for him, so that he can maintain his flawless appearance.

Jin: They're not called tears, they're pheromones. (Each and every single one of them comes with a handy note of big-brotherly advice. And a coupon for the nearest bar.)

Licht: They're invisible. The only way to find out that he's crying is to touch his face, and notice that it's wet. Otherwise, it's all business as usual.

Chevalier: He doesn't cry. Of course, he doesn't cry. Never. Ever. There are no tears to speak of. Don't even try to touch his pillow to check for wet marks. There are none. (Really. Besides, if he did THEORETICALLY cry into his pillow, he OBVIOUSLY wouldn't leave ANY ((strictly theoretical)) evidence.)

Clavis: They vaporise, and each has a different effect. Crying Clavis? Haha. Hahahahaha. Not any longer. This time, it's laughing gas. Hahahaha. Haha. (Not the best thing to happen during a funeral.)

Nokto: They're not called tears, they're pheromones x2 (Each and every single one of them comes with a warning letter from at least one woman with a broken heart.)

Luke: It's not tears, it's honey overdose, and it's leaking out of more holes than just the eyes.

Gilbert: Tears? Tears of joy only. Except they all collect under his eyepatch. So you will never see him cry either way, probably. Unless you make him so happy his eyepatch begins to overflow? Hmm... That may be problematic, however, but hey, whatever it's made out of, that could have sooo many more uses than just eyepatch-for-Gilbert-manufacturing.

Keith: They either apologise for being there and absorb back into his eyes right away, or are tabasco sauce. Nothing in-between.

Silvio: He cries jewels. How do you think was he able to procure such fortune? He puts on a Korean drama, takes out a wad of bills, and begins to wipe all the overflowing emotion into a bowl. Or a safe. (He is familiar with more shows than all of us combined post-lockdown, just saying.)

+Rio: Puppy tears. No, but literally, he cries, and puppies materialise around him, so that he can stop crying. Emma's sad? Well, guess who's cutting onions now. (And so they retired on a farm, and bread dogs, and lived happily ever after.)

+Sariel: Well, those aren't his tears you're seeing...

[inkformyblood]

until we meet again (CWFKB #17)

Magical kiss, Canon Divergence - Left the Jedi Obi-Wan, Jedi-positive, General Qui-Gon. (injury detail) @codywanfirstkissbingo

The man speaks with a grin that’s entirely bloody teeth and latent fury sparking to the surface, his hands steady over the fresh hole torn into Cody’s chest. “So, come here often?”

Oh stars above, Cody has found a civvie medic with a sense of humour. He considers, briefly but weighed up all the same, throwing himself back outside of the tent and taking his chances with his own stubbornness to keep his blood inside his body. The man, sensing this somehow, leans further forward, one of his hands pressing sideways with a squish that feels like it should echo from rotting fruit exploding underfoot. Cody lets himself be herded onto a bed that creaks beneath his weight as he lies back, but the blanket is soft enough against his palms and Cody sighs, letting his eyes drift closed. Any moment of peace is luxuriated in, hole in his chest or not. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” the man prompts. Metal knocks together somewhere to Cody’s left, the man’s hand steady on his chest, before the fabric of his blacks is cut. The line of the scissors burn a thin line of warning over his belly and Cody is moving before he can stop himself, bracing his feet against the cot and pushing—

He stops himself, pain lancing up his chest and over the curve of his hips, wordless screaming agony, and he collapses back against the bed. Breathing is difficult, every gasp tinged with sour bile, every pant painted with copper and iron. The man continues cutting away the fabric in his way, his gaze flickering between a well-worn look of intense focus, his brow pinched into a crease between his eyes, and manufactured care. It had to be false to look so sincere. 

“You could,” Cody begins before he tips his face sideways, spitting a wad of something dark and liquid off the edge of the bed. “You could at least buy me dinner first.”

The man laughs prettily, wide and unhurried in his luxuriating delight of it. He laughs like a man who has never known war or maybe, a man who has known too much of it. His hands are streaked with Cody’s blood, dark over the pads of his fingers and the creases of his palms, a trickle sliding down his wrist like a caress. Cody watches it go, his lip curled back over his teeth. 

He’s still braced across the expanse of Cody’s hips, a warm and solid weight against his thigh, makingCody wonder if they could have met some other way. Some hole-in-the-wall cantina where the drinks were cheap and embellished with a twist of something sweet and the man could slide into the space at Cody’s side like it had been made for him, take his wrist and pull him out onto the dancefloor despite the bruised egos of the collection of others that Cody had turned down. 

“Here.” 

Cody holds his hand up, snapping back to the sore and aching present in the same blink. The man deposits a ration bar onto his palm, the thin packet already torn open in an uneven line, and returns to threading a curved needle. “We’re doing things the old-fashioned way, I’m afraid. I’ve patched you up internally but the outside will need some assistance.”

“And this is for?” Cody takes a bite of the bar. He’s not about to turn down free food, especially when it arrives in any different flavour than grey. The bar is dry, crumbling at his first bite and he cups his palm to his mouth, chewing at the pieces that have broken away. There’s some kind of fruit mixed in, sweet and soft and Cody would tear himself open to be able to eat it again. The man leans forward, the needle held aloft and the light catches the sharp point of it like a magic show, nothing in this hand, nothing in that hand, but look. He picks one of the sections out of Cody’s palm but it never touches his skin, hovering above the bloody pad of his fingers. The man tips his head back to eat it, his hair falling free from the bun he had likely drawn it up into hours before. Copper on his hands, copper in his hair. 

He winks at Cody. “That is dinner. Now hold still, soldier, and let me work.”

There’s the expected sharp stab as the needle pierces through skin, the ache as the thread is drawn after it, and Cody grinds his heels into a bed that is far softer than he deserves, his jaw clenched so tight it would shatter. “Cody,” he grits out, digging dirt-streaked nails into his palm, drawing out a dark piece of the fruit and pressing it to his lips. It bursts, sticky and smearing across cracked and ruined skin. 

“Pardon?” The man blinks up at him. His weight is mostly resting on his knees now, splayed wide and nestled into indentations on the bed. One hand smooths over the dip of Cody’s waist, trying to settle him with the repetitive splay of his fingers. 

“My name. Cody.”

“Cody,” the man repeats. His fingers trace over the seam of Cody’s waist, following the curve of a scar before his touch moves to another, then another. “It’s a good name. Suits you.”

“Thanks,” Cody answers, an old burn of learnt embarrassment catching the back of his throat, the memory of chasing something sharp and blue with something just as sharp but pink. His name is his name and he had chosen well. Might as well lean into it. “Picked it out myself.”

The man cracks open on a laugh, pausing his wandering exploration of Cody’s waist and the sharp bite of the needle against his stomach. He doesn’t tip forward but it is a neat thing, clinging to the tatters of his professionalism like it would keep him afloat. His cheeks are slightly pink and a wash of freckles stand out with the additional flush of colour. There’s a single mark high on his cheek, just beneath his eye, and Cody’s attention snaps to it like a named target. “I can understand the impulse.” 

“Oh?” Cody commits the man to memory deliberately, the curve of his smile and the precise colour of his eyes. He had thought he would be sick of blue after shipping out from Kamino and it’s endless rolling oceans but the man seems made to surprise him. The man’s grin only widens, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and he pushes the needle through the last necessary piece of Cody’s stomach, drawing the wound entirely closed. His stitches are neat, evenly spaced to reduce the scarring later with bacta rationed for the more severe cases, and Cody nods once, reaching down to trace his fingers over the man’s work. 

“If you would care to leave me a good review on Spelp,” the man says, still seated across the stretch of Cody’s thighs, his hands clasped in front of him and something about the pose sparks familiarity but it vanishes as soon as the man leans forward to trace his hand over Cody’s stitches. “My name is Ben. But you will possibly have better luck finding me under Kenobi.”

Cody nods once and the reality of the situation catches him like a blow. Ben is a civvie medic with something strange about him — Cody has been a soldier since before he had been pulled from his decanting tube, he knows how badly he’d been hit and this wound looking a week old already is not the same injury he’d been brought in with — and Cody is likely never going to see him again after they ship out from this planet. A name and a memory is the only thing they’ll ever be to each other. He wants to make sure it’s a good one. 

“Not going to kiss me better, Ben?” Cody asks, his cheeks flushing with heat but his hands are steady. He doesn’t look away. 

Ben’s brow raises, delight washing over his face. “Do you always ask your medics for a get-better-kiss?”

Cody shrugs. The movement doesn’t hurt as much as it should have done and he wants to kiss Ben. He wants to remember him in a way that is permanent and the scar across his belly will accomplish that well enough, but he wants more. Wanting is new, still shiny out of the packet. “Only the pretty ones.”

Ben cackles, low in the base of his throat, something meant to be savoured with ice and a warm fire, sipped until it’s gone. He leans forward until he is lying flush with Cody, his nose brushing against Cody’s, his breath brushing his cheek and smelling faintly of mint and disinfectant. “Sweet-talker,” Ben murmurs, no heat behind his accusation, and he stands suddenly, pushing himself off of Cody. 

The medtent is fucking freezing. A shiver rattles through Cody, newly-stripped to the waist and bereft of human contact, mitigated by the heady flush of embarrassment coursing through him. He makes to sit up, intent on throwing himself in front of a droid, somewhere where he would be actually useful, when Ben stops him, a hand on his shoulder. Cody notes that his back is to the entrance, partially shielding Cody from the view of any passing troopers outside. “Remember what I said,” Ben says. “Remember my name.”

“Ben Kenobi,” Cody repeats.

Ben grins and leans forward to kiss him, just once. There is a warm mouth pressed against his, Cody leaning into his touch, and Ben retreats, his smile smaller, softer, wistful in a way. “Take care, Cody.”

Standing to his full height, Ben picks up a spare undershirt from next to him, folded and still faintly warm from the transport box. Cody knows a dismissal when he hears one and he takes the shirt, pulling it on carefully. As he tucks the shirt into the ruins of his former flightsuit, Ben moves into another section of the tent, separated by a length of fabric and Cody walks back onto the battlefield as he bolts his armour back on. The chestplate is ruined, dented and torn where Cody had been hit, but he picks up a spare and throws himself back into his task. He doesn’t think about Ben Kenobi. He doesn’t think about the kiss. He doesn’t think about the accelerated healing of his wound, the way he picked up the ration bar without touching it, and the way that another shot like the one that had just sent him to the medbay alters trajectory in midair and crashges into the ground at his feet. 

In the quiet after the battle, Cody pulls his helmet off and scratches at the tangle of sweat-soaked curls at the back of his head. His stomach aches but he doesn’t think he’s torn any of the stitches. Qui-Gon waits at the head of the table, his head bowed as he splays his fingers over the controls. The display shifts, widening over a single piece of earth before it flickers and scans sideways. Qui-Gon throws his hands up in dismay before he clasps them in front of himself. Same gesture, same bite of familiaity catching on the weave of Cody’s thoughts and he’s speaking before he can stop himself. “Sir, is the name Kenobi familiar to you?”

Qui-Gon straightens and Cody forgets how tall he is every time, used to the non-regimental curve of his shoulders, the way he sinks into his posture. “I have a Padawan named Kenobi.”

Skywalker, slouched in the corner, speaks around his nails, worrying at the edges as he had watched Qui-Gon prod at the controls. “Master, he left the Order.”

“A sabbatical, dear one,” Qui-Gon corrects, trodding over the floorboards of a well-worn argument. “Obi-Wan can return anytime he would like and he will always be my Padawan in one way or another until he decides he isn’t.”

Skywalker grumbles something that sounds like attachments and Qui-Gon silences him with a look before returning back to Cody. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering, sir.”

Seemingly satisfied, Qui-Gon turns back to the screen. It’s pink now, somehow. Cody didn’t realise that was even a setting that could be changed. Skywalker’s eyes narrow, his features drawn tight. “I do miss him. I’m glad that he’s doing well. And, to answer your inevitable question Anakin, I know he’s doing well because he’s met my Commander here who is a good person to have met.”

Cody doesn’t think about kissing Ben. Not here, not now. He doesn’t know how much the Jedi could pick up from his thoughts and that is a memory just for him, until they meet again. 

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[goldenpinof]

do you know what the size range might be for the clothing merch? I really like the tees but I'm bigger (maybe like a U.S. XXL) and have sensory issues so I typically go for the largest size available.

WAD merch had only up to XXL available online, i don't know/remember if it was different during the tour. i'd really love to see the manufacturer so we could find measurements online. sometimes they vary from company to company. if someone posts labels online after Antwerp, i'll look into it. or gonna take pictures of someone's merch in Copenhagen (not planning to buy any there).

you can try to email IRL Merch and ask them how many sizes they made and the measurements. if anyone is reading emails right now (lol), they should answer.

[pareidoliaonthemove]

Business Dealings

There were definite advantages to being the ‘unknown’ Tracy, Virgil decided.

And in his opinion, the very best of these was the extra freedom he had over his brothers.

Virgil smiled at the attractive and attentive waitress who delivered his – decidedly unhealthy – lunch to his private booth, then rolled his shoulders, grinning to himself.

His brothers might have public success, a public profile, and receive some … interesting fan mail, that certainly enlivened quiet days on Tracy Island; but the price they paid for this recognition was, well, recognition.

It had gotten to the point that Jeff had mandated personal security for the four of his sons who had existed in the public eye. Virgil, however …

There was no way a bodyguard would have let him into this neighbourhood, let alone this dive of a diner – that made the world’s best burger and fries, hands down. And the looming gorillas in suits that were Tracy Industries personal protection specialists definitely discouraged the kind of ‘friendly’ service the waitress was giving him.

A gaggle of teenagers came bouncing into the diner, drawing away the waitress. Virgil watched bemusedly as one of the boys started teasing her.

He drowned a laugh in his milkshake, as she bapped one on the head with her notebook, reminding Virgil of Scott dealing with Gordon in one of his troublemaking moods.

Virgil ate as the waitress settled the group, and took their orders.

Once they had been served their food, she checked back in with him, and promptly fetched his requested coffee.

Then she sat herself at the table with the teens. “So what was all the noise about when you came in?”

“We’re celebrating!” came the chorus.

“Celebrating what?”

“Johnny got his photos back!” crowed the obvious sibling.

“And what photos are those, then?”

“Well, you know how that busted old factory over in Industrial East blewed itsself up?”

“It was kinda hard to miss. They’re still tryin’ to replace all the windows it broke, after two weeks.”

“Yeah, well, there was those two guys trapped, and they had ta get International Rescue to get ‘em out.”

“I know that.”

So did Virgil. It had been a nightmare rescue, and was a completely avoidable situation. Virgil was in town now as Tracy Industries representative; his father was buying the site, and the attached business. It had been a viable manufacturer, with a good product – the disaster had been caused by greedy management.

Jeff was trying to prevent an even bigger disaster – the collapse of a middle sized town. For all it was a ‘busted old factory’, it was a major employer in the region. The people deserved better.

The waitress continued, “Wish I’d been able to see them. Either the planes or the men. Pity I was stuck here.”

Little brother laughed. “Well, today’s your lucky day!”

Virgil froze. The boy hadn’t paid him any attention when he came in, he couldn’t have been there and recognised Virgil, could he?

His fingers strayed to his watch. Should he call his Father? Could he contain the situation here on his own?

“Cause Johnny here is a genius, and he thought to grab his camera. So here, today, is the first ever photographs of the …”

“THUNDERBIRDS!” the group shouted in unison, and broke out cheering.

Virgil started, slopping coffee onto himself, but now he had bigger worries. Brains was trialling a new technology in the ships, with a view to replacing the Photo Detectors, after the detection system had failed at that movie set, and Scott hadn’t reported activity of either system at debrief. Had the new technology disrupted the Detectors? Had the Photo Jammers worked?

The waitress noticed his mishap, and hurried over, napkins at the ready. “I’m so sorry, did you scald yourself? Can I get you a fresh cup?”

Virgil shook his head, accepting the wad of napkins. “No, I’m fine. Sorry, I was in a world of my own and I got startled by the noise.” He smiled. “I’m not normally so jumpy.”

She smiled in return. “They were loud, but, please, don’t mind those idiots. They’re a little excitable.”

Virgil deposed of the dampened napkins – he was going to have to change his shirt, his father would kill him if he turned up at a business meeting with a giant coffee stain on his shirt, and turned back to the waitress. “Sounds like it. Was that the Thunderbirds they were shouting about?”

She glared back at the group. “Oh yes, we had a bit of excitement a couple of weeks back. International Rescue saved two guys from a factory fire across town. Johnny here reckons he got photographs of them.”

“Yeah! We were just gonna have our first look! You wanna see?” The teens where hanging over Virgil’s booth, grinning, and immensely pleased with themselves.

Virgil nodded. “I’d heard they had some kind of system to stop photos being taken,” he ventured as the kids piled in across from him.

“Yeah, well I shot these beauties, no problem,” boasted one boy. Virgil eyed him, worriedly, trying to see if he could recognise the boy, but couldn’t. Hopefully the fact that Virgil had spent the whole time in his fire-suit would mean the boy couldn’t recognise him.

Apparently there was nothing about Virgil that rang any bells in ‘Johnnys’ memories; either that, or he was too focused on his moment of glory. “You’re lucky, mista,” the boy continued. “‘Cus the rest of the world is gonna hafta pay to see these!” He grinned. “And pay big! Hell, I might even buy myself an island, like that astronaut weirdo!”

There was laughter and catcalls at this pronouncement, and Virgil carefully swallowed his reaction. He gestured to the envelope. “Well, before you call the realtors, better check the goods.”

There were enthusiastic cries of encouragement, and the envelope was opened with a care that amused Virgil. Johnny couldn’t have been more careful if he had been handling the Mona Lisa.

The first two photographs were blurry generic landscapes, then a series of five less blurry images of bared backsides hanging out of a car’s windows at traffic lights. Virgil picked one up, and examined it briefly, before it was snatched out of his hand by a red-faced boy. Virgil raised an eyebrow at him, “One of his models, I take it?”

The boy flushed even brighter red, as the waitress laughed.

“No!” That was Johnny, staring, bug eyed at the top photo in his hand. Virgil craned his neck. A blurry, staticky mess of grey tones filled the centre of the image framed by the clear, focused image of the fire ravaged factory building.

The group fell silent.

The image was discarded in favour of the next in the stack. “No!”

The next. “No!”

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

“No!”

All the way down the stack. Every image had the same distortion, sometimes in the centre, sometimes there were smaller, multiple areas of distortion.

Virgil could tell what the boy had been trying to photograph by the relative sizes and positions. Thunderbird One. Thunderbird Two. Both Thunderbirds. Thunderbird Two on her struts. Thunderbird Two with her module open. The Diceltalyne Ladder truck ….

If it International Rescue had it on site, Johnny had tried to photograph it. Including, Virgil noted, himself and his brothers. Those zoomed in shots with the four small blurs could only be an attempt to photograph people.

Virgil was impressed. Kid clearly had some quality gear.

When Virgil said as much, Johnny roused himself enough to offer a slight proud grin. “Yeah, my uncle gave it to me, he’s a professional photographer and upgraded. I got his old stuff.” The boy wilted again. “Not that it did me much good,” he mumbled, staring at the blurry images.

Virgil smiled wryly. “International Rescue are pretty adamant about the no photographs thing,” he reminded the boy. “Looks like I heard right about their anti-photography kit.”

Johnny sighed. “Yeah.” He shuffled the photographs back into a stack, before glancing around the room. “There goes my private island,” he sighed. “Oh well.”

Virgil took the stack from him, and perused through it again. Johnny looked utterly miserable, and the rest of the gang was equally morose.

Virgil came to a decision. “You get these developed in town here?” he asked.

Johnny nodded. “Yeah, drugstore down on First does photos.”

Virgil slid out the ‘International Rescue’ photos into their own pile. “They do enlargements, say A4 size?”

Johnny frowned. “Yeah. Why do you want to know?”

“What’s he charge?”

There was a muttered argument across the table, and the waitress watched him warily. Johnny offered up a price. Virgil suppressed a smirk. Kid was damn good, price was high, but not so high as to be implausible.

He did a quick spot of mental arithmetic. Then reconsidered, before sliding one of the traffic stop images onto the International Rescue pile, and pulled out his wallet, before counting out a number of notes on the pile, before pushing it towards Johnny.

“I’ll be back here this time tomorrow,” he said. “Think you can be here with A4 copies of all these?”

The boy gaped at the cash. “Uh, yeah. I guess so. Why?”

Virgil tapped the cash. “If you are, you get the same amount again. That should keep you in film, and out of trouble for a while.”

The boy stared. “But … but you can’t see anything. They’re all blurry.”

Virgil nodded. “Yep. But I know a lot of guys interested in International Rescue. These …” he gestured at the photos. “Will drive them nuts.” He grinned at the boy.

Who grinned back.

The waitress looked at Virgil suspiciously. “And the, uh, ass picture?”

Virgil grinned. “I took some similar photos, when I first got a camera, about Johnny’s age,” he admitted. “My Grandma found them, and tore them up, and then tore strips off me.” He shrugged, sheepishly. “Figured it’d be nice to have something to remind me of the out night I had with my friends. ‘Cause we had a lot of fun.”

As the boys hooted in glee, and high-fived each other, the waitress stared at Virgil, before softening. “Boys,” she snorted.

Virgil shrugged. “Guilty as charged.”

The next day, Virgil wandered into the diner, and was surprised to find Johnny already waiting for him, shifting from foot to foot, anxiously.

Virgil slid into the booth he had occupied the previous day, and Johnny followed him, clutching a large envelope to his chest.

The waitress wandered over, and took Virgil’s order. She looked at Johnny. Virgil followed her gaze. “If you’re eating, I’m paying,” he said.

Johnny shook his head. “Nah,” he mumbled, not meeting Virgil’s eyes. Virgil frowned, and glanced at the waitress in askance. She shrugged, before wandering off.

“What’s up? Problem with the pictures?”

The boy shrugged. “Kinda.”

Virgil stared. “What’s the problem? Couldn’t get them all printed?”

Johnny mumbled at the tabletop. “I didn’t think about it. I just … took the photos. I didn’t think about what could happen.”

Virgil frowned. “What could happen?” he echoed.

“They say no photos. They say they have to stay secret. I didn’t think …”

Virgil got it. “You’re worried that someone might be able to unscramble these pictures, and then they’ll stop working. You’re worried about the people who might die if that happens, people who’ll die because of photos you took.”

Johnny stared at him. “Yeah, how’d you …?”

Virgil shrugged. “Because I’d worry about the same thing, if I were in your place.”

“So why’d …”

“Why’d I offer to buy the photos?” Virgil glanced around, checking for anybody listening. “Because International Rescue saved two of my friends. And my dad.”

The boy stared.

Virgil sighed, and pulled out his wallet, digging into a hidden section, he pulled out a folded up newspaper clipping. He opened it up, and pushed it across the table to Johnny.

He picked it up, and read the article.

He frowned, and read it again.

Then stared at Virgil.

“Th-this says that they saved �� J-jeff …”

Virgil nodded. “Yup.”

“Your dad’s one of his advisors?” The boy was practically begging Virgil to agree.

Virgil shook his head. “Nope. His advisors are my friends.”

“Y-y-you’re …”

Virgil took pity on him. “I’m Jeff Tracy’s son. Well, one of them. He asked me to come and oversee the purchase of that ‘busted old factory’.”

The boy stared. “Why?”

“It was a good business. The problem was with the managers, not the product, not the production. And without that factory, this town dies.”

Johnny stared at him.

Virgil took back his newspaper clipping as the waitress put down his order. Virgil chewed down a dozen fries and drank a good half of his coffee while he waited for Johnny to regather his wits.

Eventually his companion spoke. “Your dad’s like mega-rich.”

“Yup.”

“He has all sorts of people working for him.”

“Yup.”

“I give you these photos,” Johnny tapped the envelope, “you give them to him.”

Virgil shrugged. “That was the plan.”

“And he gives them to some hotshot photograph technician who unscrambles the images …”

“Wrong.”

Johnny stared at him.

“Most of my training is as an engineer, but I really love art. I’ve done a few – more than a few – photography courses. The kind of mess you’ve got there,” Virgil indicated the envelopes, “is some kind of electronic – maybe even x-ray – emission messing up the film. Unless you know the frequencies, it’d take oh, I don’t know, a hundred people a million years to unscramble those images.”

The boy blinked.

“And you’d need the negatives,” Virgil added, deciding this his burger had been neglected for long enough, and took a bite, watching as Johnny thought it through.

Johnny frowned. “You’d really need the negatives?”

Virgil nodded, his mouth full of – really delicious – burger.

Johnny nodded thoughtfully. “I remember my uncle saying that you need the original negatives to do proper forensic analysis of a photograph. That’s why a photographer should never let go of his negatives.”

Virgil nodded again, taking another bite. Damn, he was gonna miss this place when he left. Grandma and Kyrano were fantastic cooks, but a proper greasy diner burger was hard to beat.

He finished the burger before Johnny moved again. Evidently the boy had come to some kind of decision, because he pulled out a negatives folder, and slid the ashtray into the centre of the table. “You got a light?” he asked as he dumped the negatives into ashtray.

Virgil frowned. “You not gonna save the rest of your negatives?”

Johnny shook his head. “They’re blurry as all hell, and useless, no point.”

Virgil eyed him, but the teen was resolute. Virgil shrugged. “Well, if you’re sure,” he pulled out his cigarette lighter, a cheap disposable thing that frustrated his father and brothers, but suited Virgil fine. He pulled it back, when Johnny reached for it. “Not inside,” he said firmly. “Film burns fast, and film burns hot. You do not want to do this inside.”

They went outside, Virgil borrowing a broom from the bemused waitress to sweep clear a large patch of asphalt as far from the diner and anything flammable as he could get. At his gesture, Johnny put the negatives down, weighed against the breeze by a small piece of wood, as Virgil wrapped a scrap of cleaning cloth around one end of a long stick.

When Johnny was ready, Virgil used his lighter to light the cloth, and handed the stick to Johnny. “Arm and stick length,” he commanded. “Stay up wind.”

As Virgil had known it would, the film burst into enthusiastic and hot flame the second the lit stick touched it. Johnny jumped, and dropped the stick, swearing.

The fire didn’t last for long, and Virgil picked up the stick stamping down on the charred end to put out the residual flame, before using it to poke at the pathetic ashes in front of them.

Johnny stared, bug eyed again as Virgil poked the ashes, and pushed the pathetic scraps of film into the melted asphalt, sealing them away forever.

Virgil glanced at him. “You okay?”

Johnny nodded. “Yeah. I just never … damn, that was … scary.”

Virgil shrugged. But he did remember the first time he had tried burning film … He’d had a hang of a time explaining how the bathroom basin had gotten cracked through. Who’d have thought you could crack porcelain with a couple of strips of photographic film? Not fourteen-year-old Virgil Tracy.

They went back into the diner, and Virgil ordered milkshakes. Johnny slurped his as Virgil examined his new purchases. He grinned. Brains would be pleased that his new photo jammers worked beautifully, and against some high-grade kit. Johnny had been coaxed into describing the equipment his uncle had given him, and it was better than a lot of the professional paparazzi had hanging from their necks.

Virgil’s grin widened as he got the bottom of the stack. Oh, memory. His backside burned with the memory of his grandmother’s ire, but he owed Gordon, and he owed Gordon big. This would do nicely.

Let’s see him ‘paint’ with his butt on Virgil’s good canvases after Grandma had thrashed him for having this.

Virgil was on a high as he left the diner for the last time; Johnny practically skipping off, his stomach and wallet full, and conscience clean.

International Rescue: Protected.

Payback for Gordon: Secured.

It was just the Tracy Industries deal left to finalise, and he’d have a clean sweep.

It was a good day.

Notes:

I sat down to write a completely different story, and this happened.

One day I may get to write the story I intended to write, but for now …

The standard disclaimers, I do not own Thunderbirds, either the Original Series, the Movies (both Supermarionation and Live Action), or the Thunderbirds Are Go Series. (Although I do own copies on DVD.)

I do not do this for money, but for my own (in)sanity and entertainment.

[fleechin]

Here's my @portal-secret-santa prompt for @deathishauntedbyhumans, they requested a scene with cores, mainly Factventure, so I did a lil something of them being stuck in the place where you find all the corrupted cores right before the Wheatley boss fight. I tried to avoid references to fanon cores like Virgil as much as I could, by their request, though occasionally they slipped in.

Fic Text Below

It was no secret that adventures came in many forms, and in many phases. Sometimes you were running as fast as you could from a volcano or tornado, and everything was about getting away as fast as possible. Sometimes you were fighting hordes of enemies at once, having to figure out their weakness and be ready to exploit it, all in a matter of seconds. Sometimes you were sneaking into a carefully guarded enemy fortress, depending entirely on your stealth, knowing full well that any slip up would mean you were a goner. 

Other times, however paradoxical it seemed, adventure meant being stuck in one place for a long time, with no way in sight to pass it. A dragon’s dungeon, a prison camp behind enemy lines, even something mundane like camping in a strange forest, waiting for the sun to return, or in the front room of a castle, waiting to meet a powerful king you would want to ally with. Or in this case, being stuck in a container full of other cores with no way of getting out. 

The self proclaimed adventure sphere had seen worse. But worse wasn’t quite as boring. A good song would sometimes pass the time, but it wasn’t easy to pull inspiration from anywhere for lyrics.

“Nananana nAAAAAA, and then another explosion, NANANA, riding the shockwave to VICTORYYYYYY!”

Rick sighed, and looked over at his companion. “Ayo, pinkie, how long’s it been?”

The aptly named pink-eyed testing sphere sputtered a bit. “Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve. Twelve.”

“Ehhh, that’s whatcha said last time. When’s the last time you went and got yerself looked at?”

“The fact sphere is not defective. Its facts are wholly accurate and very interesting.”

Rick rolled his optic. The fact sphere, or Craig, as he sometimes liked to be called, had been a good companion for a while now. Rick could never quite remember how they had started hanging around each other, but as long as he could remember, wherever he was, “Pinkie” would follow.

That, however,  did not mean their adventures were without conflict. “Pinkie, do you even remember how we got here?”

“The Intelligence Dampening Sphere, several hours after assuming control of the facility, restarted the explosives manufacturing wing, at first accidentally while trying to silence the alert announcer protocol. Upon realizing what he had done, he then began using parts of cores, both deactivated and live, to make more bombs, so as to increase total production.”

“Exactly. Now, I happen to be lucky, cause as much as I love explodin’, I’m more valuable to ol’ blue-eye as a consultant than as a single lil’ wad o’ napalm.”

“He will most likely kill you, violently.”

Rick looked over, or at least as best he could given his position. “Ain’t that the point of an adventure? Overcomin’ the odds, fightin’ towards victory. ‘Sides, I can keep ya from bein’ turned into a bomb – why else do you think he brought you here?”

“The fact sphere is the most handsome sphere.”

Rick sighed. “Run a temperature check for me, will ya, pinkie?”

“WARNING: Sphere temperature reaching ninety- Apples. Oranges. Pears. Plums. Kumquats. Tangerines. Lemons. Limes. Avocado. Tomato. Banana. Papaya. Guava.”

“Exactly. When Doc Virgil was sayin’ you was hot as Rigel, he wasn’t exactly complimentin’ ya. Only I can use that there line –  got me a trademark on it.”

The moment he had said the word “Rigel”, a yellow-eyed core immediately sprung to action - that action being to spin its optic rapidly.

“Rigel! Rigel Rigel… blue star! Big blue star! …Goooooonna go supernova! Big bright star go boom! Wanna go to Rigel. Wanna see big boom star.”

“Sigh… yeah, that. You bein’ all overheated n whatnot makes you a perfect catalyst for a big bomb. And as much as I might enjoy that, I need ya alive so you can help me do the math for the next adventure course I build. Lucky for you, I know how to get us both outta this. ‘Member when we got Avery out of the whole mess with them turrets?”

“The adventure sphere had placed the gardening sphere, his then-romantic partner, into a custom built ‘adventure course’, which left her on the ground and under fire from turrets after a panel malfunction. Her injuries would require a full hull replacement afterwards.” 

Rick nodded, “And how’d I get ‘er out of it?”

“The adventure sphere initially attempted to negotiate with the turrets as they were firing on the gardening sphere. This attempt was unsuccessful, as the turrets could not hear over the sound of their own gunfire. After several minutes, the fact sphere found and hit the deactivation switch.”

“Exac- wait, what?” Rick tried his best to remember. Now that he thought about it, Craig was right. He had tried to negotiate, but it was the fact sphere that had actually shut the turrets down. In his defense, he had better memories of what came next, when his romantic partner had decided to end things then and there.

“Alright, fine, bad example, but point is, I’m what keeps you and Spaceball here both nine times outta ten.” Remember that time I saved you from bein’ launched into acid?

“ERROR, ERROR, ERROR: File not found.”

The space sphere, seemingly unconcerned with the argument in question, had shifted his focus to planets. “Go to Jupiter, go to Jupiter, see all the moons! Bababa bap babap baba. Become the smallest moon of Jupiter.”

The adventure sphere rolled his eye. “Ayo Spaceball. Say one useful thing. One. I dare you. I will give you a hundred dollars if you say one thing remotely applicable to anything at all.” 

Before he could respond with facts about neutron stars, however, Rick heard footsteps and what sounded like the one voice every core could hear from everywhere in the facility. Only this time, it was muffled, coming from what sounded like a small speaker.

“Corrupted cores, we’re in luck!” The footsteps grew louder, showing something Rick could never have imagined was still around. A human. The voice continued. “You find a way to stun him, I’ll send you a core, and then you attach it to him. If we do it a few times, he might become corrupt enough for another core transfer.”

The human nodded, made a right turn, and disappeared. Rick turned his focus back to his other companion. “Check it out pinkie, we got us another adventure! Good thing I’m here to save the day.”

The fact sphere was unfazed. “The adventure sphere is a blowhard and a coward.”

Rick was taken aback. “I… c’mon pinkie, you n’ me both know that ain’t true.”

“The adventure sphere, despite his insistence that he has no fears, cannot admit to his friends or partners that he depends on them or cares for them in any way. This traps him into a perpetual cycle of the cores he cares about abandoning him, which he justifies by insisting that they lack his adventuresome spirit.”

“C’mon pinkie, what are you even talki-”

“Examples include the gardening sphere, the culinary sphere, the public relations sphere, and the fact sphere.”

“I… I mean I don’t…” Rick was shocked more than anything to hear his companion say that. Not only because it was the same thing several of his exes always said to him, but also because it was perhaps the first time he had ever thought, or been made to think, about Craig as someone he cared about. 

But now that he was forced to face it… he did care about Craig. Every now and then, when Craig was occupied, either from being repaired or working on the little documentary series he had been making, Rick was stuck on his own. If that had come across to Craig, it had been despite his personality, not because of it.

And as fun as it was to be on his own against every threat the world could throw at him, it wasn’t quite as fun if he couldn’t talk about what he enjoyed with someone who had been there as well. Craig was not really a singer, so they had never done a duet of any adventure songs, but he had been there to listen to them longer than anyone else. He’d even critiqued them from time to time.

It had taken him forever, but now he had to admit it.

“I… I care a lot about ya, pinkie. You’re like, my best friend and stuff. And… I dunno, I like havin’ ya by my side when I’m on an adventure.”

The fact sphere sputtered a bit. “To make a photocopier, simply photocopy a mirror.”

In the past, Rick had ignored his companion’s little tidbits whenever they were unsolicited. But for the first time, it felt good to hear them. 

“We uh… we make a good duo, the two of us. I got me the adventuresome spirit, and you got yourself the brains.”

“It is incorrectly noted that deer are usually hunted for their antlers or their meat. They are instead hunted for their gearboxes, which can also be used to power motorcycles.”

Rick chuckled. Nervously, he looked away from Craig, hoping to find the right way to phrase his next question. “Shoot, whaddaya say… when we get us outta here, maybe we should like… hit the encore club again. Just the two of us this time. Whatcha… whatcha say?”

“Whoever wins this battle is clearly superior, and will earn the allegiance of the Fact Sphere.”

Rick’s handles moved, and his CPU experienced an extra burst of energy. “Ha, I’ll take that as a yes!”

The Space core, meanwhile, had continued his ramblings. “Ba ba ba babababa ba, wanna go to Saturn, go see Saturn. Saturn’s got rings. Big rings. Put a ring on it.” 

Rick chuckled. “Heh, maybe we oughta put a ring on it, huh pinkie?”

“Cores do not have fingers.”