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abalidoth · 1 year ago

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Replanting (Chapter 1)

[read on ao3]

When you feel the missile clip the corner of your mech's leg joint, you know it's over.

It feels like a line of white fire directly to your brain; your pain and the mech's mingling. But pain is nothing, pain is your every day. It's the immobility that terrifies you. Your mech knows before you do that the leg won't work, can't carry you back to base.

They won't send a field repair team out this far, not into enemy territory. Not even for the material outlay of the mech. You have no illusions of what would happen to you if they had to extract, but at least it would be fine, given a new pilot and allowed to keep doing its duty.

Don't think like that, it sends to you. I don't want another pilot.

You struggle a few dozen meters until the residual coolant in the leg motivators gives out and the intractable hand of physics pulls your mech to its knees. A cloud of dust billows up around you and you give up the rest of the way, mech lying on its side amid the baked earth and the scrubby bushes.

Creosote bush, the mech says. Didn't know it grew this far north.

You know it's just trying to keep you from panicking. It's not working -- you can feel your heart racing, the connection gel around you contracting in an autonomic effort to keep you from thrashing in the cockpit. Worst of all, your handler's ever present voice in your ear has gone silent.

A pilot's job is to keep its mech moving. No more and no less. You know there's no real affection from your handler, that her ministrations are part of the system, but you can't think about that sudden abandonment without a pang of grief. She should be there, she should always be there, but now there's nothing. Silence and static.

That feeling gives you a rush of adrenaline, coarser and hotter than the artificial flush the mech gives when you complete an objective, purely a product of your own withered adrenal glands. You have to get back you have to get back. You struggle to your knees, planting the mech's hands in the caliche like anchors and shoving so hard you feel something pop. (In you? In the mech? Is there a difference?)

You make it another hundred meters before you fall again, and the Caskie mech finds you, hitting you with an EMP before you can take them down with you. It lands with a jumpjet hiss in your sightline, so you're treated to the view of the alien-looking mech opening its canopy wide, two pilots getting out of the crude-looking mechanical cockpit.

---

They salvage the mech with you in it.

The pilots didn't seem to know what to do with you; you could hear from your outboard sensors that they were discussing in that strange, fluid accent how to get you out without killing you.

(You don't understand why that matters.)

Eventually, they just called for reinforcements; three heavy carriers showed up some indeterminate amount of time later. They haul your mech, pilot included, through the air on a frankly ridiculous web of heavy cables. You see the desert fade to green, canals threading through the land like veins, as you pass from the disputed zone into Union territory.

Your mech keeps a constant stream of commentary, talking about the plants that it sees, pointing out where old semi-arid forests have been restored. Its voice across the neural tunnel holds false cheer, picking up whenever you start panicking, but the enthusiasm is genuine.

Finally the carriers land at a base. It looks much like Conclave military architecture, concrete in utilitarian blocks, but you can see shining glass and chrome off in the distance, a city. They must want to keep you a ways away from civilians. You suppose that's fair.

They land you in an empty mech bay. It’s been cleared out hastily – you can see the Union mech that used to reside there off to the side, plugged into an aux power array. Your mech is not the right size, not the right shape, but a gaggle of mechanics come out anyway. They locked a restraining clamp on you at some point so you can't move, can't fight. Still, the mechanics move around you warily, like you'll snap and take them all out at any moment.

You would, in a heartbeat. Not just to get the euphoric response, but to quiet the anxiety, the feeling that you're entering a world where you don't have the tools to survive. But you can't, and a quiet part of you (or the mech) is relieved at that.

They strip your mech of all its weaponry, a harsh and hasty disassembly. You feel each removal sharply. Not physically -- mercifully, the mech has dialed down the haptic connection so it's left to suffer alone -- but in loss of potential, the closing of options.

Finally, when everything is done and your mech is defenseless (other than being a fifteen ton vehicle) a tall woman in a labcoat comes out, flanked by guards with red cross emblems on their sleeves.

"Hello," she says. Her voice is formal, neutral. Lower than you expected, with just a hint of that singsong Cascadian accent. "Can you hear me? Or see me? We have sensitive solid-conductance microphones on the outside of your mech so we can hear you if you speak."

You know the trainings. A pilot is part of the system, part of the Conclave war engine, and cogs don't speak. Your tongue flicks idly against the suicide capsule in your back left molar. You go to press in on it.

You feel something, like a hand, guiding you away. A great wave of fear washes over you, and you know it's not yours.

Please. No.

You stop. Think a moment.

"Hhhhh."

It's been a while since you've spoken. Just whispers in the dark with your handler, words carrying neither voice nor meaning. Your throat is dry, and you feel for a moment like it's not there. (Why would a mech have a throat?) You clear it, and try again.

"Yes. I can hear you."

She nods. "Good. I'm Dr. Mia Crane. I'm required by Cascadian Union treaty to inform you that as a prisoner of war, you have rights including food, shelter, protection from torture, and the right to ask about your other rights." She adjusts her round framed glasses. "I'm required by basic hospitality to ask you your name."

You pause. You know what names are, of course. Your handler's name is Rebecca. But that's not something pilots have. "I, uh. No?"

She blinks, a little taken aback. "Okay, well, we can work on that. Do you at least acknowledge your rights as a prisoner of war?"

This isn't going to end until you acknowledge, you feel, so you just say "Yes."

"Okay. Is there anything we need to know before we get you out of there?"

"I don't want out," you say. Your throat tightens.

You can't stay in me forever. It's okay. You'll find a way back to me.

You hear a hissing sound, and the low, sick gurgle of the connection gel draining out of your suit. Before you understand what's happening, the canopy drops open and you stagger out of the mech onto the diamond-patterned steel catwalk.

The sharp edge of disconnection, the sudden hole where there should be something inside you, keeps you off your feet. You stagger to one knee, felled as surely by shock as you had been by the missile.

The guards rush over to you and help you up. You want to fight them off but your muscles are jelly. Your head hurts.

Dr. Crane looks you over. You know she's not your handler, but you reach for the familiarity anyway, half expecting the usual routine, the ministrations that get lost in the foggy haze of post-battle euphoria. If your arms weren't being held for your own stability, you'd start opening your suit.

Instead she shines a light in your eyes and asks you to stick out your tongue, making notes on a clipboard as she goes. She puts a strip of fabric around your arm and it gets tight for a moment. "Elevated heart rate and systolic pressure, pupil dilation is beyond what I consider normal."

Your heart hammers in your ears. The smells around you -- the saccharine sweet of connection gel, your own body, something undefinable coming off the doctor, heighten to a nauseating strength. Your head hurts. "Are you going to..." You swallow. "Do you have the syringe?"

Dr. Crane tilts her head. "The syringe?"

"When the..." How do you explain this? You haven't had to explain any of this, people just know what to do. "When I'm done. Rebecca, she has the syringe, it's blue, and."

"Do you know what's in it?" she asks, gently. Too gently. The words are too soft, they smother you, it's too hard to breathe.

Your head hurts. The lights beat down.

"No, but it... she... always..."

Your head hurts.

Your head hu--

---

There are voices.

At first you don't care. You just want to go back to sleep. But there's something wrong with your bed, it's too soft. And the voices don't sound right -- that soft lilt, one you've only recently heard.

"Patient has been stable for six hours. Their heartrate is still a little funny, and I'm not sure this godawful cocktail of tramadol, modafinil, and tricyclics we pulled out of their tox panel is good for anything other than keeping them from dying of withdrawal, but we should be seeing them awake soon."

"Thanks, Dr. Chen." You recognize this voice, soft and husky -- it's Dr. Crane. "Have you figured out the... um. Mortality problem?"

"Part of it is that stimulant cocktail, I'm sure -- we haven't had the chance to pull in a full Conclave mech with pilot intact, and our field teams don't have the tools to stabilize someone as quickly as we were able to do here. But the most likely reason... false molar full of tetrodotoxin. We made sure to extract it. Carefully."

You probe the back of your mouth with a sluggish tongue. There's still a tooth there, but it feels strange. The one that had been there was artificial already, of course, but this one is much smoother, more like the rest of your teeth. Something lightens within you -- you've lost an option, sure, but maybe you were never good with options.

"Fuck," Dr. Crane says quietly.

"That's not all," Dr. Chen says. "There's extensive neural grafts consistent with the autopsies we've performed, but... there's something weird going on with the brain activity scan. I'm not sure what the Conclave is doing to their people, but it's scary."

"Nnn. 'M not," you say.

There's a rustling around your bed. You open your eyes and blink against the sharp light a few times, and eventually the face of Dr. Crane comes into focus.

"Hey," she says. "Glad you're awake. How are you feeling?"

You have no idea how to deal with this. Never expected to be in a hospital room of all things, being treated like valuable materiel instead of ammunition. So instead of answering her question, you just repeat your previous statement. "I'm not. Person."

She gives you a look you don't really know how to read. You never had to get all that good at reading faces, but you suspect this one might be hard even if you did.

"...well. Anyway." Dr. Crane clears her throat. "You had a medical emergency when you left your mech. You mentioned something about a syringe? I assume that's part of your post-operation routine? We've got you stable now. We're going to give you about another day to rest up before we bring you in for questioning."

"Questioning?"

"You're the only Conclave pilot we've brought in alive," she says, with a twist of her mouth. "It's damn near impossible to piece together any information about Conclave technology and hierarchy. I should know -- I'm the Union's top academic expert in Conclave culture and I always feel like I'm flying blind."

That was... a lot. You just nod.

"So you said something about... not having a name? Do you have something you'd like to be called? I know you're technically a prisoner, but you're safe here. People will respect what you say you are."

She says that last part with a lot of emphasis, a particular gravity to the words, but you're not sure why. "No."

"Okay. Designation number?"

"They re-assign our numbers every week so we don't get attached to them," you say.

She says a word under her breath that you don't know, other than that your handler says it when she gets mad.

"Alright." Dr. Crane takes off her glasses and pinches the bridge of her nose. "How about I just call you "Pilot" for now?"

That's what you are, and you don't see why that's so difficult, but at least this line of questioning seems to be over when you answer yes. She promises to check on you in a while, and leaves.

---

You dream about vines.

They're all over you. You haven't seen many vines up close -- there was sparse ivy on the back of one hangar for a little while before Maintenance took care of it. But you feel you know these.

They aren't strangling you. It almost feels like a caress, like the flight suit, like Rebecca's post combat care, but not quite any of those. It's pleasant. Cool rather than warm, and calming.

There is intense pain in your arms and legs, but it doesn't bother you. It's like someone is telling you that your limbs are being shredded, but the pain isn't getting through to the part of you that cares. It's just another sensation, less pleasant than the vines but certainly not bad.

You feel things you can't explain. A name, a pull in a direction that's not physical, feelings and sounds beyond your ability to parse. They build to a crescendo, and you wake with a shout. But at the edges of your awareness, the green is still there.

---

The next morning, you're herded into a shower stall with a clean jumpsuit, a washcloth, and a bar of soap. You clean yourself off as well as you can, given the circumstances. The soap has a soft smell to it, and no grit. It almost doesn't feel like it's cleaning you at all, without the scratches.

You knock on the stall door once you're finished dressing, and the door slides back. In addition to the two guards, Dr. Crane is there. She's wearing the same white coat, but her hair is pulled back, and she looks even more tired.

Still, she manages a slight smile. "Pilot. Did you sleep well?"

"No," you say.

"Ah. Well, hopefully we can help with that tonight. In the meantime I have some questions for you."

You follow her through a maze of white corridors, lit with skylights. Your sense of direction was never the best (your mech always took care of that, you think with a twist in your gut.) You wouldn't be able to find your way back if you needed to.

She leads you to a room with two chairs, both of them plush and soft. You feel like you're sinking into it; she looks like she's perched on hers. She balances her clipboard on her knees and starts in eagerly on the questions.

There's a part of you that feels you should shut up, refuse to answer, let them finish the work they didn't let your false tooth start. But one handler's as good as another. You're a weapon, and weapons know no loyalty. So you answer -- even when the questions don't make sense, or aren't about obvious things, or are about things you've never been allowed to see.

The reactions don't really make sense to you either. You talk about some of your worst missions, and she seems sad but like she knew what was coming; you talk about your handler, and she's gripping her clipboard so hard her fingers go pale. You stop trying to understand what's going on, and try to hit the same state of unconscious action that you do on a sortie. Question, response. Question, response.

There are a few about your accommodations. They're fine, of course. You have little standard for comparison, and if she asks if you need anything else, you feel she won't leave you alone with a "no," so you ask for books. Rebecca was always reading when you were doing synch tests.

After what feels like the whole day, Dr. Crane lets you go. She doesn't ask you any questions about the haze of green starting to fade in around the corners of your vision when your mind drifts, so you don't volunteer any information.

---

The next day's meal comes with a couple of books, and Dr. Crane seems determined to find you the right reading material because every meal tray thereafter has more. There's a shelf in your room for the purpose. It was a ruse at first, but it is genuinely a better way of spending your time then staring at the wall.

There's more questions, along with a handful of medical tests, supervised by Dr. Chen. Dr. Chen's questions are even stranger than Dr. Crane's, but at least they seem satisfied with the answers given by the scans and blood draws.

A few days pass until you get a good enough feeling of the layout of the facility to know which direction the hangar is in. You occasionally see Caskie pilots in groups of twos and threes, talking and joking with each other. No handlers, no augments that you can see -- if you hadn't seen people in those same outfits walk out of their primitive looking mechs in the desert, you wouldn't believe that they were pilots at all.

All of them are coming and going in the same direction, and it's a direction that Doctor Crane and your guards never take you. So naturally, the first chance you get when both of your escorts are distracted and you have the chance, you peel off that direction and start running.

Your augments sing as you stretch your legs. They’re not like infantry augments (or so you’ve heard) and they don’t have auxiliary power – you can feel them burning away your body’s energy, energy that would normally be supplied by your mech. But your desperation fuels them just as much as your calories do, and the initial burst of speed and agility is all you need.

The facility is confusing as always, but you spot a sign that says HANGAR and get reoriented. Startled cries fly in your wake, doctors and workers and pilots confused at your frenzied speed. Something that might be an alarm and might just be lighting flashes at the corner of your vision, nearly obscured by the green.

You get lucky, and a mechanic is coming through the secured door at the checkpoint at the same time you arrive. You take advantage of her confusion and duck underneath her outstretched arm, through the door and out into the hangar bay.

It's not hard to find your mech. You remember the layout from your brief spell of consciousness after arrival, the way your mech looked so different from the rest and didn't quite fit into its space.

You pull up to a stop, wheezing from exertion, and look at it with dismay.

Your mech has been dismembered, all four limbs strewn about the bay hooked up to various pieces of testing equipment. The body itself is on a riser jack, slightly askew like there wasn't the right connector to fit it, hooked up by thick cables and patched-together connectors to the exposed limb contacts. The canopy stands open, the inside unlit but visibly cleaned of leftover connection gel.

The sight makes you sick. You hold it down, but barely; but the nausea makes it hard for you to resist when a burly mechanic comes up behind you and wrestles you to the floor.

You're not sure you would have, anyway.

By the time Dr. Crane has shown up, your face is wet with tears and snot, and your breath comes only with sobs. You're still being pinned to the ground by a mechanic, but she's not putting her full weight into it. She more or less let go when you started crying.

Dr. Crane pushes through the crowd of onlooking mechanics and kneels down in front of you. "Are you all right?" she asks.

At first, you think she's addressing the mechanic; it would be such an incongruous question to a pilot about to be terminated for insubordination. After a silence disproves that theory, you shake your head and gesture with one semi-restrained arm to the mech. "No."

"I'm sorry, pilot," she says, "but you are still a prisoner. I'm going to request the board not to restrict your access for this, given that you didn't really hurt anything -- and I'm sure they'll listen to me -- but you surely didn't think you could just get back in your mech and run away?"

"No," you say again, frustration at your own inadequate words prompting a fresh fall of tears. "It's... you're hurting it, you're..."

Things click together, things that you've always known. Feelings shared through the neural tunnel, deeply held beliefs that couldn't be kept from a pilot. You understand, now, what your mech was trying to tell you all along.

"You're hurting her."

Dr. Crane looks from you, to your mech, back to you. She goes pale.

"Are you telling me," she says quietly, "that there's an AI in your mech? A sentient AI?"

You nod. It's too late to lie, now. To protect her. The green in your vision threatens to overwhelm you. You're sorry, so, so sorry...

"A sentient AI that... we have been effectively torturing for four days. Fuck." She takes her glasses off, buries her face in her hands for a moment. "I can't believe that didn't come up during questioning."

It could have. You had avoided the topic, because you were afraid of this happening -- your greater part, torn away and experimented on because you couldn't keep her safe. You had always heard that the Union had strange beliefs about machine minds.

Dr. Crane looks around to some of the mechanics. "Anyone who was working on this mech -- did you have any idea there was a sentient AI? Any anomalous readings?"

"Some anomalies came up in the report that indicated synaptic activity in the post-0.4 Turing level," says one mechanic, nervously playing with their hair. "But everything about Conclave tech is anomalous. Kinda got buried in all the other weirdness."

"Okay." Dr. Crane sighs. "Can we get some input/output hooked up to her, please? And give her her limbs back."

One of the guards flanking her frowns. "I don't think that's a good--"

"She's a prisoner of war, Ortega. Pretty sure removing a sapient being's body parts is against something in the codes. Not to mention the First Principle."

Ortega sighs, and waves some mechanics over.

---

They don't know what connection gel is, but it doesn't matter. The sensation of her against your skin is important, but not as important as just reestablishing the connection.

Dr. Crane apparently spots your longing glances towards your mech, and takes you by the arm. When you flinch back, she holds her hands up in a defensive posture. "I'm sorry," she said. "I was just going to guide you over there again."

There's a lot of activity going on in the hangar, between the mechanics re-arming your mech and the other pilots getting suited up to react in case she tries to start killing people. (You don't think she's going to, but you suppose you can't blame them too much.) It would be a shame if your reunion with your mech got postponed because you got beaned in the head by an inattentive mechanic carrying a crysteel strut, so you offer your arm to Dr. Crane again and she guides you through.

You don't want to take too long, but you're only going to get to do this once. You run your hand over the lip where the canopy seats into the body, feel the soft seal and the framework beneath, then lift yourself up over and inside the cockpit.

There's no gel, so you can't hear her voice right away, but you know what to do. Years of drilling guide your hand to the hidden compartment with the emergency connection pads. It falls open with a clunk, the ribbon cables and connection pads jutting out in a fall like vines. One on either temple, one on either side of the chest, one on the back of each trembling hand. You're probably being watched, stared at as you have been since you broke into this hangar, but you don't care. She's here.

Hello, love.

You shudder, come apart, not in a procedural way like with your handler but in a form that shoots through to the very core of you. Untouched, but undone. You have no words for her, but you know she can feel your relief and your joy. You crumple, weeping, and run your hands over the familiar inside of the cockpit.

The green in your vision doesn’t go away, but it recontextualizes. It’s her. It’s the part of her that lives in you, a fragment within a fragment.

It's a little while, just basking in the connection, before you realize you've fallen in an uncomfortable position. Your skin, your joints, protesting their treatment. You reorganize yourself, pull yourself from the connection just long enough to get there.

They've hooked a set of speakers up to her ports. They come to life with a spiky flare of static as she finds her voice.

"Hello," she says. You can feel her voice from inside and outside, through the tunnel and through the skin of the mech. "I am a Conclave of God Armored Forces Samson-B Light Interdiction Unit, but I would prefer if you called me Acacia."

#mechposting #empty spaces #might be a bit too cheerful to be empty spaces proper but it's part of the conversation #tessa writes stuff #tesserants #There's going to be probably one chapter after this

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transmutationisms · 2 months ago

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i keep getting so disoriented here bc all the streets look exactly the fucking same and i realised (this is obvious in retrospect) it's literally just bc essentially 100% of the built environment that exists now is less than 200 years old like it's just the homogeneity of extremely recent settler colonialism. even older colonial cities have more distinctive areas inside them like montreal and quebec city are both examples where you can clearly see some of the historical progression (though ofc some of this is now restored/redone/etc). and then there are cities like paris where what a lot of ppl think of as its 'classic' look is p much just a product of haussmannisation so it's kind of in general less 'historical' than often perceived. but still the point is there are like, distinct styles in different areas whereas like, places with a recent 'land rush' have so much more of this uniformity even if they were built by nominally different corporations/states. right now the big local fight here is the city wants to put a better bike lane on [large ugly wealthy street pretending to be styled like a parisian boulevard but not even succeeding at that] but the residents are putting up a stink bc it would detract from the 'historic' character of the street which is a foolish position regardless, but esp when you're talking about shit that was built in like 1890 at the earliest. and it's not even homogenous in like an interesting way, it's the same pseudo victorian brownstones you can see anywhere anglo and moneyed, and then dotted with like neoclassical churches... dc also has that confluence but it's more expected there bc in dc it's all about projecting soft power which is why there's that split between gov't buildings where they're either greco-roman nonsense or straight up concrete box brutalism. but who cares about doing that here is my question like why does it have to look manicured in this specific way, no one actually important even lives here it's not like some kind of power nexus lol. im always literally so lost thinking like, have i seen that hardware store before? and then im on a street called like edgecum lane with three fresh roadkills in the middle of it

#aesthetics

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kodared · 2 years ago

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Welcome Home Neighbor~ ✨ You and your friends enjoy passing the time exploring old and abandoned places and selling the leftovers for spare cash, but what would happen if things don't go according to plan?

Chapter 1/?

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You did not like this adventure one bit.

“Oh come on Y/N! What’re ya? Chicken?!”

Your friends Badgered you relentlessly as you all approached the tattered and run-down building. The once brightly coloured sign is now barely legible reading “Playfellow Workshops” In bold letters.

“I don't know guys... This building looks old anyways, I doubt there's anything in there worth taking”

Your eyes scan the shattered windows and brightly coloured “No Trespassing” sign, You don't know how you always get into these situations with your friends. It seemed whenever you were around it was always,

“Hey, I know a good spot to go to!”... or... “C'mon! We can use the money for a new Game!”

Nevertheless, your friends would never try to put you in danger... Right?

…

Yeah, nope they definitely would if it meant you guys could afford the new Nintendo game.

“C'mon, what if there's some vintage film in there? Think of all the possibilities Y/N!”

One of your friends shouted as he pushed you toward the entrance of the building. Your shoes made an imprint into the gravel driveway as you tried to stop yourself from going any closer.

You did not like the look of this place, the energy was off and bad vibes were lingering all around the already busted open wired gate.

However as you looked behind your shoulder, you knew from the looks on all of your friend's faces you weren't getting yourself out of this one.

So, with a heavy sigh, you marched forward past the tattered gates and steeled yourself for what you might find.

As you approached the giant red doors of the Studio, you remembered most places when they are shut down have the door bolted shut from the inside for this exact reason!

A small grin sneaked its way onto your face as you put one hand out and turned your head, ready to tell your friends there was no way to enter the building.

…

Of course, the door had to open flawlessly with a small push. Your small grin disappeared as fast as your friends had, with them nowhere to be found in your sight. They did that a lot though so you pushed forward into the studio.

First and foremost this place was big. It must have had many productions and props for it to be filled to the extent it was.

Boxes and cobwebs littered the concrete floor, a thick layer of dust coated the walls and plaques hung on the walls, the only light source being the dim light provided through the shattered windows.

You wouldn't get far without a flashlight though, as you searched your pockets for your phone your eyes found themselves scanning the walls for a light switch. Your efforts for a light switch proving to be for naught as you finally found your phone and clicked on the light.

Papers littered the floor, some covered with sketches of what you could only assume to be characters, and some with writing and... Was that a contract??

This place seemed to be in a devastating mess, even the concrete flooring felt unstable as you took steps farther into the Studio.

One thing caught your eye regardless, making you trek deeper and deeper to get a better glimpse. It was hard to tell by the dim light coming from your phone, but it seemed to be a Set used for the Characters to interact with.

A bright red house sat in the center of the room, its mechanical eyes shut with rust covering the surface. If the required items were remaining to get it to work, you knew by now there was no hope of restoring it.

You moved on to a farther corner of the warehouse, your curiosity seeming to reach its peak as you saw a door leading to an office. You rolled up your sleeve to wipe the dust from the door, it read

“Directors Office.”

Well… If there were any profitable things to be found you guess they would be in there, reaching for the door handle, it jiggled in your grip. Locked. Of course it was.

Dropping down onto one knee, you began to search your pockets to see if you had anything that would help with breaking into the office. Not very keen on returning to your friends empty-handed.

All you could find though was a wadded-up Five, a broken pin from your school backpack, and a soda tab…

…You considered yourself a very organized person.

Rising to your feet once more, holding the broken pin in your hand you began to try to finagle it into the lock, and by some miracle it... Worked?

You weren't one to doubt your talents but this just felt wrong, the lock should not have opened the door as quickly as it did.

The thought left your mind as you pushed forward, you didn’t want to be in here longer than necessary.

To your dismay, all that you could find were more animation and puppeteering sketches, they looked very intricate and old, with detailing on how to hold the strings for a puppet named Wally Darling and such.

From what you could gather from the scattered documents, this studio used to run a show titled Welcome Home, where the main Puppet named Wally would go and have adventures with his friends.

You ‘wished your adventures didn't always lead to trespassing’ you thought as your eyes landed on a rather cute piece of art containing Wally and his friends.

The designs were cute and simple, it was no wonder the show had its successes, one thought still lingered, why did this place shut down?

You understood the concept of bankruptcy, it was a common theme in your economics class, but this didn't make any sense.

The papers on the desk nonetheless clearly stated a bankruptcy claim, and a lawsuit file, with highlighted words stating there were OSHA violations, and rumours of puppeteers being harmed on the job.

It felt as if your mind was being run in circles the more you examined the papers on the desk,

Until you heard footsteps.

Your breath is caught in your throat. The footsteps sounded like they were coming from the front of the building, recognized by the sounds of glass being stepped on. Of course they had to be coming from the only known entrance to this place.

Your brain quickly jumpstarted back into functioning as adrenaline coursed through your veins. Clicking off your flashlight you picked up what papers you could recognize, At least you wouldn't be empty-handed. Making quick work of them and folding them into your jacket pocket.

Your hair stood up on its neck as the steps rapidly approached. You had that cold feeling running up and down your spine as you scanned the room for any sign of escape.

Other than the main office door of course there was no other way to flee. Your muddied shoes provided you with quieter footsteps as you crept towards the door.

The broken windows allow for minimal light to produce shadows of boxes and various rusted equipment.

One thing remained prominent in your mind, however,

Where were the footsteps coming from?

There was no shadow in the front of the building, yet those menacing footsteps kept crescendoing in your direction.

You had no time to worry about this, you needed to escape, and from the looks of it, this may be your only chance to do so. With a final deep breath, you shot from your previous place of hiding and took off in the direction of the doors.

The dim sunlight from the windows allowed you to avoid various boxes and obstacles in your path, You were not expecting however to feel the eyes of a predator on your back.

You tried your best to ignore it, but your breath proceed to become more laboured and panicked. Feeling as if you were a mouse caught in a glue trap. Your feet feel as heavy as concrete bricks as they hit the floor, where are you even running?

You couldn't tell. You tripped on what seemed to be your own feet, the world spinning around you, and you felt sick. What was going on? You felt panic proceed to grip your very soul as you felt the weak structure crack under your body.

This was not how this was supposed to go.

You wished you just stayed home. You could have minded your business and scrolled on the internet, but no. You had to be nosy and go exploring.

Your breaths became crazed and your eyes glued themselves onto the gray concrete. Not daring to look behind or beside you, in fear of making eye contact with what had frozen you with fear.

…

None of that seemed to matter anymore as the spinning feeling took hold of your brain. You could feel a migraine begin to pierce your eyes making your head throb.

Before you passed out,

you could have sworn the concrete was not this soft.

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

~Taking Welcome Home Requests! The full story can be found on my Ao3 ʕ •ᴥ•ʔゝ☆ -

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

#welcome home #wally darling #howdy pillar #taking requests #wally x y/n #ao3 link #updates #Welcome Home #Welcome home Neighbor #welcome home neighbour

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that-gay-jedi · 8 months ago

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Sorry to be both random and morbid but like. I don't want to go into the cremulator (bone blender) after cremation, not because it sounds gruesome, but because the end product is so much LESS gruesome than unblended bone-ash that I think it actually reaches a pathological level of death denialism.

It seems so extreme to me that we add a whole extra step to make our remaining matter smooth and uniform and prettified before returning it to the bereaved. When I'm reduced to a jar or box of fire-crumbled bone chips, I want to LOOK like a jar or box of fire-crumbled bone chips. That's not concrete dust or icing sugar, it's skeleton bits. Bone. Former vertebrate. Former person. Not a thing that was never alive, but a thing that has died.

Personally I've only held cremated remains after cremulation, but it seemed to me that last step had destroyed their connection to death. The inoffensive powder no longer said "I am a dead thing." I *wanted* to be clutching a bag of uneven, partially charred bone fragments. I still wish I had.

Removing the elements people may find disturbing about cremated but uncremulated bones also removed their ability to bring comfort, presumably the entire reason for urning them instead of spreading them in the first place. How can you tell this is what's left of someone you loved if it isn't macabre in some way? If you don't acknowledge mortality, you can't acknowledge that any of the dead ever lived.

Without artifacts of the bones' former functional purpose and of the fire which stripped away the flesh (a rounded edge here that must have been part of a ball joint, a particularly big or small fragment there) there is no visceral sense that this was ever part of something alive, that somebody once used those bones to sit and stand and move. There is no sense that when it was undeniable the person you knew and loved no longer did or said or thought any of the things you knew them for (because they no longer did or said or thought anything), you let go of the body that they no longer inhabit. There is nothing to drive home the reality of death, and nothing to connect their death as an event in your life to the future without them you now face.

The anonymity of cremated bones relative to the restoratively treated face of an embalmed corpse doesn't bother me, because both are still very obviously remains of a once-living thing. We do lose our individual identities in death. But the unrecognizability of the fine powder left after cremulation does bug me, because the loss of the realities of death is more disturbing than those realities could ever be. It fast forwards past every unconfortable stage during which the deceased is neither an object nor a living being, straight to a mere keepsake.

Don't smooth away the rough edges. Not of life, and especially not of death.

#cw death #cremation #memento mori #mortality

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todaysdocument · 1 year ago

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"A Chicken in Every Pot" political ad and rebuttal article in New York Times

Collection HH-HOOVH: Herbert Hoover PapersSeries: Herbert Hoover Papers: Clippings File

This is the advertisement that caused Herbert Hoover's opponents to state that he had promised voters a chicken in every pot and two cars in every garage during the campaign of 1928. During the campaign of 1932, Democrats sought to embarrass the President by recalling his alleged statement. According to an article in the New York Times (10/30/32), Hoover did not make such a statement. The report was based on this ad placed by a local committee -- which only mentions one car!

A Chicken for Every Pot [handwritten] World[?] 30 October 1928 [/handwritten] The Republican Party isn't a [italics] "Poor Man's Party:" [/italics] Republican prosperity has erased that degrading phrase from our political vocabulary. The Republican Party is [italics] equality's [/italics] party -- [italics] opportunity's [/italics] party -- [italics] democracy's [/italics] party, the party of [italics] national [/italics] development, not [italics] sectional [/italics] interests-- the [italics] impartial [/italics] servant of every State and condition in the Union. Under higher tariff and lower taxation, America has stabilized output, employment and dividend rates. Republican efficiency has filled the workingman's dinner pail -- and his gasoline tank [italics] besides [/italics] -- made telephone, radio and sanitary plumbing [italics] standard [/italics] household equipment. And placed the whole nation in the [italics] silk stocking class. [/italics] During eight years of Republican management, we have built more and better homes, erected more skyscrapers, passed more benefactory laws, and more laws to regulate and purify immigration, inaugurated more conservation measures, more measures to standardize and increase production, expand export markets, and reduce industrial and human junk piles, than in any previous quarter century. Republican prosperity is written on [italics] fuller [/italics] wage envelops, written in factory chimney smoke, written on the walls of new construction, written in savings bank books, written in mercantile balances, and written in the peak value of stocks and bonds. Republican prosperity has [italics] reduced [/italics] hours and [italics] increased [/italics] earning capacity, silenced [italics] discontent, [/italics] put the proverbial "chicken in every pot." And a car in every backyard, to boot. It has[italics] raised [/italics] living standards and [italics] lowered [/italics] living costs. It has restored financial confidence and enthusiasm, changed [italics] credit [/italics] from a [italics] rich [/italics] man's privilege to a [italics] common [/italics] utility, [italics] generalized[/italics] the use of time-saving devices and released women from the thrall of [italics] domestic drudgery. [/italics] It has provided every county in the country with its concrete road and knitted the highways of the nation into a [italics] unified [/italics] traffic system. Thanks to Republican administration, farmer, dairyman and merchant can make deliveries in [italics] less [/italics] time and at [italics] less [/italics] expense, can borrow [italics] cheap [/italics] money to refund exorbitant mortgages, and stock their pastures, ranges and shelves. Democratic management [italics] impoverished [/italics] and [italics] demoralized [/italics] the [italics] railroads,[/italics] led packing plants and tire factories into [italics] receivership, [/italics] squandered billions on [italics] impractical [/italics] programs. Democratic maladministration issued [italics] further [/italics] billions of mere "scraps of paper," then encouraged foreign debtors to believe that their loans would never be called, and bequeathed to the Republican Party the job of [italics] mopping up the mess. [/italics] Republican administration has [italics] restored [/italics] to the railroads solvency, efficiency and par securities. It has brought rubber trades through panic and chaos, brought down the prices of crude rubber by smashing [italics] monopolistic rings,[/italics] put the tanner's books in the [italics] black [/italics] and secured from the European powers formal acknowledgment of their obligations. The Republican Party rests its case on a record of stewardship and performance. [full transcription at link]

#archivesgov #1930s #October 30 #1932 #1932 election #herbert hoover

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entitycradle · 2 months ago

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Future Anime Girl Gestalt

As a breakthrough in silicon nanostructure materials makes photonics and near-eye displays cheap, smart glasses become the new ubiquitous computers, replacing smartphones. The always-on display provides unique opportunities for advertisers, as does new machine learning-assisted ad targeting. In the new omnipresent augmented reality, ads become personalized, three-dimensional, interactive displays, emerging from blank rectangles in subway stations. You see your facebook friends conversing animatedly, drinking budweiser.

As smart glasses become increasingly necessary for modern life, brands are able to invade further into perceived reality. Cars shine luxuriously. The name and price of your coworker's smartwatch floats above it. Of course many modern advertisements no longer directly sell a product or service, but rather create and maintain brand identities. Large corporations advertise on everyday objects--the plate at your favorite restaurant reveals the name of a software company as you finish your food. Your brother's anger turns him super saiyan, reminding you of the new episodes. A poor neighborhood turns into an alien-inspired techno-organic nightmare.

Many companies use characters to perpetuate their brand. These characters can be personalized--the insurance company mascot that shows up on your car dashboard during a harrowing rush hour is your favorite color, features large, expressive eyes, and is covered in shaggy fur.

Of course, machine learning algorithms can be unpredictable. And ad agencies could not anticipate the omnivalent memetic power of...

...anime girls.

The algorithm customizes your pepsi soda into a fizzy anime slime girl. They customize the call to your healthcare provider to raise the pitch of the representative's voice and translate the audio to Japanese (your glasses display English subtitles). The missiles you see striking a city in Iran are ridden by pale, northrop grumman-labeled anime maids.

As more human agency is ceded to enormous, power-chugging processing centers, the connections between everyday occurrences and brand presence become more abstract. Every character on a show you're not paying attention to, every old shoe you own, every person you interact with, every grain of sand on the beach, every floater in your eye, is an anime girl.

As humans do, they adapt. Generation Glass becomes accustomed to experiencing two entirely foreign sets of sense-data: one, their local, mundane world, of humming processors and concrete and scraggly trees. The other, the networked world, where your entire visual field is painted in overlapping anime girls of various sizes and your auditory vestibular nerve is drowned in high-pitched giggling. Each girl represents some object--pomegranate, sunset, friends, love, death.

As global civilization gently deflates under the pressure of climate change post-2100, so does the capacity to manufacture complex electronics. Within the space of a generation, billions of people are reduced to creating facile, vapid illustrations of the moving, living anime girls they once knew as bigotry and tarmac. Pictures of anime girls are used to label street signs, mathematical concepts, genders, religious texts. Ironically, anime girls become more incorporated into the real world than they ever were in the Glass period, because they adorn real surfaces. A post-traumatic behavior develops, in which a person destroys objects bearing anime girl images in an attempt to, according to one individual, "let them out," or otherwise restore networked consensus reality.

Thousands of years pass. Peregrine sophists of the Fifth Yyrzoc clan uncover an underground concrete structure. In it are glyphs of a single, big-eyed, pale, skinny, large-breasted woman with bright blue hair, surrounded by female figures in blood-red uniforms who are collapsed on the ground. The sophists are able to decode this message and avoid what we would recognize as a nuclear waste storage facility. They theorize that the figures are ancient feminine gods of radiation and death. Several etchings and illustrations are published by a notable scriptorium. Years later they are largely forgotten.

#writing #original fiction #sff #scifi #anime #weird fiction #worldbuilding

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knowmeornot21 · 25 days ago

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"The Second Life of the Kulhad"

In the year 2075, the humble kulhad—once used for tea and water—has found a surprising new purpose. Decades ago, as environmental movements grew, clay kulhads replaced plastic cups. But with time, capsule-based drinks and smart bottles became the norm. Tea in a kulhad became a distant memory, celebrated only during festivals. Mass production stripped the kulhad of its charm, and it seemed destined to vanish.

However, designers and environmentalists saw potential in the biodegradable clay. Rather than let the kulhad fade into history, they reimagined it as a solution to combat the environmental crises of 2075. By 2060, the “Kulhad Biopods” were introduced—clay pods filled with seeds and nutrients. Farmers used them to restore soil health, tossing the pods onto barren land, where the porous clay absorbed moisture and nurtured the seeds.

The idea spread to urban areas. Skyscrapers and rooftop gardens were lined with these plant-filled kulhads, transforming buildings into green ecosystems. Each new construction was required to have walls embedded with Biopods, helping cities fight pollution and cool down naturally.

People embraced this new tradition—tossing Biopods from balconies into public green spaces, watching flowers bloom where concrete once ruled. Schools began using Kulhad kits to teach children about sustainability, and at festivals, communities gathered to throw the pods into abandoned lots, turning them into lively gardens.

By 2075, the kulhad evolved from a disposable tea cup into a symbol of renewal and regrowth. It represented a shift from consumer culture to sustainable living. Rather than vanishing, the kulhad became a tool to heal the environment, making cities greener and the earth healthier.

In the end, the kulhad’s second life wasn’t about holding tea—it was about holding the seeds of a better future.

#kulhad #biopods #futuristic

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wanaery · 2 months ago

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Socionics Type: LSI

Examples & Description ⚔️🛡️🏰

Logical Sensing Introvert, LSI, ISTj, Maxim Gorky, Beta Quadra

For LSI, life must correspond to a specific system both in the material world and that of human relations, and one should exert efforts to ensure its betterment, maintenance, and restoration if it has been disrupted. LSI attempts to find such logical system, to become incorporated into it, to follow it and to perfect it. He analyzes and thinks over everything that surrounds him. From this information, he creates classifications and designations, creates hierarchies, derives maxims. All of this must be clearly stated and presented in various directions and instructions that aid in understanding and organizing life.

It is clear to him that whoever does not waver and follows such prescriptions will attain more in life, if he ceaselessly works hard and achieves commendable results then such person will be able to attain a worthy place in society. He is proud of having such ability, and it is exactly in this that he realizes himself. His pride suffers if another person is capable of doing the same job better than him. In such situations, LSI is capable of assuming work with thrice the force in order to not fall behind, for he finds it absolutely unacceptable to fall to a lower position in the conceptualized hierarchy he is aware of in his mind.

Such a person can be very productive. LSI is usually very conscientious: he considers it paramount that he works qualitatively, sequentially and systematically with this he builds himself a foundation and asserts himself.

LSI is inclined towards realism hes interested primarily in concrete and actual problems, rather than hypothetical issues. LSI thinks deeply about any problem, tries to understand its essence and roots. When he doesn’t understand something, he refers to established databases of information to check that everything corresponds to what is already known. In such situations, his mind starts to resemble a computer with a built in program, which he will follow without skipping a line. Carefully plans events, thoroughly examines and works out all the specifics. Puts work matters above sentiments. Takes all regulations into account. Keeps his personal things in order. He can always be relied on. Stoically endures life’s hardships.

A representative of Stoic philosophy, goals and principles are known and adhered to despite unfavorable societal conditions. Reserved by nature, introversion is not always apparent. LSI is a person of strong will, diligent and enduring. He/she is insistent and demanding in execution and verification of tasks. Takes care of those who are confused and uncertain, explains to them how they can do their work. In his assessments - a sober realist, who does not tolerate infertile, unrealistic fantasies. Proves his point and supports his case citing numerous facts that he has collected.

In communication with friends and colleagues, he is polite and courteous.

Can make an impression of an intelligent and well-mannered man. However, in closer, more familiar relations, he can be rather insensitive. Despite the fact that he is quite communicative in a small groups, periodically he needs to spend time alone. Has a tendency to be didactic, to deliver lengthy explanations on his understanding of a subject. May lecture on ethical topics.

What he deems himself capable of doing, he will also require from others. May become too deeply immersed in the details and the calculations, at which point he risks losing sight of the broader view. Uncompromising in his convictions. The fall of the ideals that he has previously followed treats as a personal tragedy. Distrustful of strangers and people about whom he knows too little. When he discovers some negative traits in another person, loses trust in him for a long period of time.

Examples:

Peter Steele

James Hetfield

Ghost Rider

Bruce Wayne

Din Djarin

Joel Miller

Rick Grimes

Natasha Romanoff

Gamora

Simon Riley

More Examples:

Dexter Morgan (Dexter)

Darth Vader (Starwars)

Magneto (X-Men)

Robin (Teen Titans 2003)

Nikto (COD)

König (COD)

Crosshair (Starwars)

Captain Rex (Starwars)

Jessica Jones (MCU)

Michonne Hawthorne (TWD)

Stannis Baratheon (GOT)

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lyncotek · 3 months ago

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Introduction to Synthetic Resin Adhesives

The building business was completely transformed by the introduction of Synthetic Resin Adhesives. These adhesives are effective in packing, long-lasting, and multipurpose. They consist of several chemicals. These days, resin-based products are a necessary part of modern manufacturing and may be found in everything from high-end to bulky packaging.

Types of Synthetic Resin Adhesives

Epoxy Resin Adhesives

Epoxy resin adhesives are renowned for having outstanding bond strength and resilience to abrasive environments. Applications needing strong adhesion and structural stability, such joined concrete, metal, and plastic, frequently employ it.

Polyurethane Adhesives

Because polyurethane adhesive is so strong and flexible, it’s perfect for packaging that comes in different widths. It is used in construction for joint coverings and wood fastening to various components.

Acrylic Adhesives

Acrylic adhesives are frequently used in construction to assemble furniture, affix decorative panels, and make windows. They are prized for their quick speed and strong adherence to a variety of materials, including metal, glass, and ceramics.

Cyanoacrylate Adhesives

Super glue, or cyanoacrylate adhesives, are thought to be advantageous due to its quick cure and great resilience. In construction, it is widely used to bind small pieces, repair cracks, and fuse soft materials together.

Properties of Synthetic Resin Adhesives

Resin-based adhesives exhibit several key characteristics that make them ideally suited for construction applications.

Strength

One of the number one blessings of artificial resin adhesives is their exquisite bonding strength, which allows them to create robust connections among numerous materials.

Durability

Synthetic resin adhesives are recognized for their sturdiness, resisting degradation from exposure to moisture, chemical compounds, and environmental elements over time.

Flexibility

Many synthetic resin adhesives offer flexibility, permitting them to resist the stresses of motion and vibration with out dropping their bond energy.

Resistance to Moisture and Chemicals

It is common for synthetic resin adhesives to be designed to withstand chemical exposure and moisture, which qualifies them for usage in outdoor and industrial settings.

Applications in the Construction Industry

Synthetic resin adhesives locate several packages in the construction industry, ranging from bonding materials to structural repairs.

Bonding Materials

Synthetic resin adhesives are used to bond a wide variety of substances, together with timber, metal, concrete, and plastic, permitting the construction of long lasting and resilient systems.

Structural Repairs

In cases in which traditional creation techniques are impractical or costly, artificial resin adhesives can be used to restore and toughen current systems quick and efficaciously.

Flooring Installation

Synthetic resin adhesives are typically used in floors set up, imparting a robust and dependable bond between the floors material and the substrate.

Wall Paneling

Synthetic resin adhesives are used to connect wall panels and decorative factors, supplying a steady and aesthetically pleasing end to indoors areas.

Advantages of Synthetic Resin Adhesives

In many production processes, synthetic resin adhesives are the favored choice due to their numerous advantages over traditional bonding methods.

Fast Curing Time

Synthetic resin adhesives usually have a fast curing time, bearing in mind rapid assembly and set up of production additives.

High Strength

Synthetic resin adhesives provide high bond electricity, making sure the structural integrity and sturdiness of constructed factors.

Versatility

Synthetic resin adhesives can bond a wide variety of materials together, imparting versatility and versatility in creation initiatives.

Resistance to Environmental Factors

Synthetic resin adhesives are resistant to moisture, chemicals, and other environmental factors, making them suitable for use in diverse climatic conditions.

Real-Life Applications

Several case studies highlight the effectiveness and flexibility of synthetic resin adhesives in production tasks international.

Challenges and Limitations

Despite their many advantages, artificial resin adhesives additionally face demanding situations and limitations, such as restricted temperature tolerance and capacity health risks in the course of software.

Future Trends and Innovations

The destiny of artificial resin adhesives in the construction enterprise looks promising, with ongoing research and improvement targeted on improving their overall performance, sustainability, and safety.

Conclusion

In conclusion, synthetic resin adhesives have revolutionized the development enterprise by way of supplying superior bonding energy, durability, and versatility. From bonding materials to structural maintenance, those adhesives play a crucial role in cutting-edge creation practices, paving the manner for innovative and sustainable constructing solutions.

Unique FAQs

Are synthetic resin adhesives suitable for outdoor applications?

How do synthetic resin adhesives compare to traditional adhesives?

What safety precautions should be taken when using synthetic resin adhesives?

Can synthetic resin adhesives be used underwater?

Are there eco-friendly alternatives to synthetic resin adhesives?

#synthetic resin adhesives #construction adhesives #acrylic adhesive #industrial adhesives #flooring installation #adhesive properties #durability #polyurethane adhesive

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notasapleasure · 10 months ago

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Also can I hear abt the Marthe/Kiaya band AU thing?

Well first, thank you for reminding me it was all in the file named 'bad very bad no good' and just comes after the already published horrible Jerott/GRM (cw rape, dddne!!!). Haha yes, Jerott's my favourite character, why do you ask? This is now uhhhh a 78 page document.

As for Marthe/Kiaya, there's nothing concrete written really, just allusions to it, and I think I was probably gonna follow canon in that way and not go into direct pov on them.

I've just pasted the couple of scenes with Kiaya below to go with my uhh minimal commentary/thoughts! They hopefully demonstrate my idea that she's quite happy to take any favours or gifts going, whether they're offered by Marthe or Lymond, but she keeps her cards close to her chest regarding what, if anything, she intends to offer in return. She sees an investment opportunity in the form of Lymond, as discussed with La Dame (named Thomasina Durand in the AU; also reminder that the Aga Morat is 'Baron Morgan'), but unfortunately Marthe is not viewed in the same way. We're too early for Tori Amoses and Fiona Apples - Marthe's too abrasive and too stubborn, too 'difficult' to market at the scale Kiaya deals in, too threatening to be a Kate Bush, too fierce to be a Toyah, too normal to be a Siouxie Sioux, etc. But Kiaya won't say no to a pretty woman offering to take her to bed *shrug emoji*

Marthe is mad that Francis is trying to muscle in on her tactics - she tries to persuade herself of the belief that anything he does to Kiaya she can do better, but she's been round long enough to know that men always get the contract deals first. It does mean that Kiaya can pick and choose just exactly what kind of nice time she gets to have. She is living her best life :)))

I don't know that Marthe falls *in love* with her, but she absolutely yearns for the power and influence Kiaya (appears) to have, and she imagines that the two of them would be unstoppable if Kiaya would just stop being some kind of gender traitor and back her and her music. She's grown up with her foster mother/grandmother telling her she'll never be enough, but never really understanding *why* (beyond 'misogyny') and never fully internalising the message, so she's always in a state of believeing/not believing it. Rationality about the sexist world she inhabits is constantly warring with ego - she's seen enough 'exceptions to the rule', women who are extraordinary enough to break through, but she's also seen the flip-side and knows no-one ever makes it on their own, they're always a product of a certain kind of marketing and industry support, and so there's a kind of love/hate relationship to the idea of Kiaya and what she can offer. She's always hopeful she can persuade her to take her side, and Kiaya will never be moved.

Kiaya has an open relationship with Dragut, though they'd never be such vulgar hippies as to describe it like that. They make their influence and power work for them wherever they are - fear, lust, money, whatever is most appropriate. She does have a genuine appreciation of music and what will go down well with the public, though she's probably personally rather condescending when it comes to what's popular - away from work Kiaya won't listen to anything younger than 200 years old, because that's the stuff that's truly impacted the world. Marthe playing an antique instrument to her in the privacy of her hotel room is an utter treat, a delight, a morsel of ambrosia - but it's not going to make her any money!

Eventually, I think Oonagh is a helpful person to give Marthe some perspective on band AU Kiaya. Oonagh has met women like this, power-brokers like this, people who take and take and take but simply never give anything of themselves back. Oonagh understands Kiaya with one glance at their first meeting, and when Marthe overhears her assessment of her something probably clicks and she's able to restore perspective on the 'relationship' that never was. She has a new strong force of a woman to learn from and admire :))

Intro to Kiaya in the bandverse (as it currently stands, but of course she meets Philippa in New York before then).

The following day, with Jerott pacified by the diazepam Onophrion had brought and administered - after assuring Francis that one calming dose would not render him addicted to a new drug - Francis managed to sleep through the hot afternoon. He almost felt refreshed, almost felt hungry enough for one of Morgan's enormous steaks, when he made his way to the bar that evening.

He found, however, that Morgan already had company, and stopped in the middle of the room when he recognised the woman sitting next to him.

Her back ramrod straight, her suit and make-up immaculate, talent scout and agent extraordinaire, Kiaya Çalışkan smiled at Francis and there was mischief in her eyes.

He'd never met her, but everyone in the industry knew her. Though she moved in different circles to Margaret Douglas, her reputation for unearthing talent was no less remarkable, and her track record for securing deals with the big labels was formidable. If Margaret was a king-maker in the British post-punk scene, Kiaya Çalışkan was handmaiden to the globe-straddling empires of artists whose work transcended local or national scenes and matched the invisible, unpredictable zeitgeist of the youth from Tokyo to New York to Berlin. She was even rumoured to have contacts working behind the Iron Curtain, subtly chipping away at the soundtrack of Communist repression on behalf of global capitalism's need to discover new markets.

In short - she was not the sort of person Francis expected to encounter in a barn lying well off the beaten track, in a state not known for its wild creative scene.

Morgan beckoned him over. "Frankie, come and join us!"

He moved stiffly, all the while trying to read what was in Kiaya's expression, as Morgan changed nothing about his own habits, pawing at Francis' leg beneath the table when he sat down.

"It seems I've done you a disservice, boy," Morgan beamed at him. "You are a real rock star..."

Francis didn't take his eyes from Kiaya, whose smile broadened, her white teeth echoing Morgan's.

"Mr Crawford," she said warmly. "It's so good to meet you."

"Did your car break down on the I-70 too, Kiaya Hanım?"

Kiaya turned her smile to Morgan - all condescending business politeness. Her dangling, jewel-speckled earring glittered against her thick mahogany hair when she spoke; the angle she displayed for Francis showed off the profile of her handsome, curved nose. "You tell him, Baron," she purred.

Morgan wore a smug expression. He swilled the bourbon round in his glass, and Francis wondered what time their business meeting in the bar had begun. He was drinking like this wasn't his first of the night.

"Miss Caliskan is a regular at my establishment, Frankie. She knows where to find talent. She's even signed up some of the bands she saw here - big fat contracts and advances to match." He raised his brows significantly.

Kiaya Çalışkan offered to get Francis a glass and share the bottle of wine before her, but he shook his head.

"Coke is fine, thank you."

"I keep tellin' him it'll rot his teeth..." Morgan cajoled.

"You know my partner Dragut, don't you?" Kiaya watched his response carefully. "I believe the two of you worked together in New York, earlier in the decade?"

Francis managed to keep his expression mild. He did indeed know Dragut, or he had known him - as to whether they could have been considered colleagues was another matter, however. As Francis recalled it, he had been considered a possession of the mob, while Dragut had been in their employment as a bouncer at the club Francis was compelled to play at.

He inclined his head. "Indeed? Yes I do know him. It appears we live in a small world, Kiaya Hanım."

Her eyes widened, glittering with ambition as she gave him a feral smile. "Growing smaller by the day, Mr Crawford. As our empire grows - Dragut runs his business out west now. He heads security for a casino in Vegas. It's a wonderful place for acts to get their big break. But he likes to know I'm staying somewhere safe when I travel across country alone."

Morgan beamed with pride. "She doesn't fly, because she might miss the next big thing out here at the Oasis..."

"And I thought it was because she was afraid of heights," Francis accepted the glass of soda he was handed and prepared to hear Morgan make his usual order on his behalf. But tonight, Morgan gestured, palm up, and invited Francis to choose.

Supposing this was some kind of acknowledgement of Francis as a 'real' musician, he picked a burger and then froze in surprise as the chair next to him was pulled out.

Marthe looked down at him with a cool smile. She'd applied the red lipstick of the Doña María costume and her black lace turtleneck and miniskirt had been cleaned of dust. Her hair fell in a blonde cascade over one shoulder and she extended a hand to Kiaya Çalışkan.

"We met in New York briefly, I believe you're a good friend of my foster-mother's."

Kiaya took Marthe's hand and raised her brows, a polite smirk on her lips. "Yes. Marthe, isn't it?"

Francis saw Marthe's neck flush pink as she sat down, hastily calling the barman back to place her own order.

"And I'll have...what wine is good here?" she looked at Kiaya Çalışkan.

"Oh! You're drinking wine? Just bring a second glass for her, please. She can share mine," Kiaya waved a hand to dismiss the man.

Baron Morgan chuckled and his fingers massaged Francis' knee beneath the table. "Well well. The little lady has decided to join us. I hope all this raw masculinity hasn't been puttin' you off, darlin'?" He was definitely tipsy, Francis decided.

Marthe gazed at him without expression. "Not at all. But if there are business deals being made, I shouldn't like Francis to have the only say."

Morgan laughed again. "Oh darlin'. You have no idea," he moved his hand higher up Francis' leg, his arm visibly stretching, and Francis jerked his thigh to shake him off. Morgan's laughter repeated itself, his gaze on Francis unperturbed as he took another drink.

Marthe's blue eyes absorbed it all, and she smirked at Francis. "No, indeed. It's far too subtle for me."

Kiaya Çalışkan had been generous with her information. Baron Morgan now assumed he knew all of Francis' troubles and desires, and quizzed him in ever more prurient detail about his life. Meanwhile, Marthe seemed to be doing her best to get a contract signed then and there, though Kiaya Çalışkan appeared unmoved by all her achievements and ambitions. Francis grew ever more frustrated as the other three drank and boasted and plotted and he realised he wasn't going to get to talk directly to Kiaya that night.

He believed that she did pass through Morgan's Oasis regularly, but the coincidence of meeting the mistress of his old acquaintance, Dragut, here still made him suspicious. Yet she acted like she really was just stopping in for a night, and was delighted to find a diversion as amusing as Marthe along the way.

After eating, when Francis was starting to feel tired and heavy, the other three were boisterous with drink. He didn't remember which one of them had suggested it first, but Marthe was looking at him fiercely.

"We should play."

"Yes! Play!" Morgan clapped his hands and then clapped Francis' shoulder.

Kiaya Çalışkan inclined her head and raised her glass. "It would be a pleasure, Lymond, if you chose to play for us."

So he blinked and drew a breath and summoned the energy to stand. He and Marthe helped themselves to instruments displayed on the wall near the stage, but brought their guitars back to perch on the table nearest to Baron and Kiaya.

Tuning up, Francis fought the heaviness in his eyelids, yawned, and listened to Marthe's murmured suggestions.

The first song, she insisted, should be one made famous by Francis Rankin Crawford.

"Really? They won't know that here," Francis grumbled, bending an ear to his instrument as he twisted the tuning pins.

"They will. They do. I used to play it with my band all the time. People loved it."

"In New York."

"It's not another planet. Kiaya will know it. Morgan, if he's half the judge of talent he claims, will know it."

Francis said nothing. He struck a chord and looked at her, and Marthe nodded and double-checked her own tuning.

Together, they played the song that Francis' grandfather had popularised - a French ballad reworked for the English-speaking masses. Together, their riffs wove in and out of each other, their voices were uncannily matched. To their audience they looked angelic: two fine-boned blonds leaning their heads away from one another, their legs crossed in opposite directions, their talent exquisite and their unison innate.

They played a few more songs: the Wayfaring Stranger, a folk ballad familiar to Marthe for its American roots, and a cover of Heaven by Talking Heads. A hint of competitiveness crept in and they ended with another folk song, The Old Man Came Courting: they embellished it with call and response, duelling guitar and voice, the tempo building to a breath-taking gallop.

It was more than enough to woo their audience.

"My, my..." Baron Morgan said as he applauded. "To think I came across real, genuine treasure at the roadside."

"They are golden, aren't they?" Kiaya agreed, her appraising smirk roving over both of them.

Marthe smiled back and Francis rubbed his forehead - he just wanted to go and sleep.

It wasn't permissible though, not yet. Morgan stood and drained his glass. "Great chat, as always, Kiaya," he slurred the name down to two syllables, so it sounded like Kee-ya, but she didn't seem to mind. "You really are a fount of wisdom."

Kiaya poured more wine out for her - and for Marthe. "I wouldn't want you to miss out due to a lack of information, Baron. Information is money," she gazed steadily at Francis, though it was Marthe who approached her.

"As is time," Morgan said profoundly. He took the neck of Francis' guitar and lay the instrument down on the table. "The staff will put it back," he said, looking heavily down at Francis' face.

It was a summons, much as Francis had suspected was coming. He levered himself off the table and lingered a moment, feeling Marthe's scornful stare as he and Kiaya locked gazes. "Are you staying long?"

Kiaya Çalışkan shrugged. "Perhaps I'll stay to see you perform. Perhaps not." She glanced at Marthe. "There isn't usually much to do out here, comfortable as it is."

Morgan chuckled and turned Francis by the arm, indicating he should walk ahead. "Enjoy the amenities, ladies," he put his hat on, touched a finger to the brim in a salute, and then prodded the small of Francis' back.

And the other Kiaya section that's written:

Outside the shower, he put the past - near and far - away, and bent to the rucksack Morgan had salvaged from their broken down car. In it, precious little of Francis' belongings remained - all that they could pawn they had got rid of, and he was left with one spare set of threadbare clothes and a fat, broken-spined paperback collection of contemporary poetry.

He pulled on the other clothes, the shirt of pale-checked cotton, ran his hands hastily through his wet hair, and left again in search of Kiaya Çalışkan.

If Morgan was going to cover the county with posters announcing their performance as 'Lymond and band' there would be no chance at all of arriving stealthily at Graham Reid Malett's ashram one state over - even if the Rajneeshees were sheltered from the outside world, Swami Geetesh would not allow himself to be ignorant of events so close by. It had set Francis' mind: they needed to get away sooner rather than later. He was relying on being able to strike a deal with Kiaya Çalışkan that would get them out of the Oasis and back on the road.

Standing outside his room, peering at the vehicles on the other side of the car park - Morgan's truck, a van used by the ranch staff, a collection of motorbikes glittering with chrome, and a two-seater red soft-top that had to be hers - he was debating where to start his search when a door to his left, over by the pool, opened and he heard Marthe's laughter.

She loitered on the lintel, her Doña María outfit rumpled, her lipstick long gone, and her boots in her hand. She leaned forwards and murmured something that didn't carry, and Kiaya Çalışkan's ringing, plummy laugh answered it.

Francis stepped back into the doorway of his and Jerott's room, but saw that Marthe was already aware of him. She stalked along the decking that fronted the row of rooms like it was a catwalk, her eyes fixed on him and a challenge in her smile.

"Don't tell me you didn't get breakfast in bed, Frankie?"

"No, some of us have actual business meetings to conduct..." Francis circled around her and saw Marthe's eyes spark with annoyance as she realised that he was heading in the direction she'd come from.

Her lip curled as she turned to face him. "And does your roomie know where you've been spending your nights?"

Cold, commanding, Francis took a step back towards her. "I believe he's had his own share of troubles to concern himself with," he said in a tone of warning.

There was that uncanny, funfair mirror feeling again: her eyes, that were so like his, narrowed with an echo of his own dislike; her long mouth curved without mirth, and she raised her chin haughtily. "He doesn't know the half of it, though, does he?

"He doesn't need to," Francis said firmly.

"Oh come on," Marthe said scornfully. "He's more repressed than a citizen of Cuba - it might do him some good to get the five star guest treatment…"

He felt himself turn chill as the blood drained from his face, and Marthe took in his white fury and moved away uneasily. Francis remembered, viscerally, the sensation of being pinned up against Morgan's kitchen counter - he'd braced himself against the marble slab as Morgan stood between his legs, his hips flush with Francis', while Francis tried to keep up with his sloppy, impatient kisses. He remembered each time that week when Morgan had forced himself beyond Francis' generous boundaries, had slapped aside what was offered and grasped for more instead. He remembered cleaning handprints off the piano in the studio at St Mary's and he remembered the blood on Jerott's face, the small, hunched, astonished look about him as he had struggled to come to terms with what Graham Reid Malett had done to him there.

His hands were balled fists, trembling with fury. "And while we're at it, shall we all request some electro-shock therapy to fix our own damaged minds?" he hissed.

Marthe blinked and grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"It's no different, is it?" he raised his brows. "You can't change someone by holding them down and telling them they're wrong."

Still a little ruffled, made standoffish by Francis' tone, Marthe looked him up and down. "Does Morgan play rougher than you like, then?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," Francis backed towards Kiaya's room. "I merely prefer not to share..."

She shook her head, her mouth curled in disgust as he turned to try his own hand at seducing Kiaya Çalışkan and her contracts.

"Fuck you, Francis," she spat and stalked away.

Francis stood outside the end room, straightened his back and stretched his shoulders and neck. He let out a sharp breath - and with it any extraneous, irrelevant feelings about what he was doing.

This was necessary, he told himself. It wouldn't always be necessary - he had to make himself believe that - but it was now, in order to allow him to protect the people he cared about, the people he'd put in danger. And he was wiser than he had been, he knew what he was dealing with. He knew now how to make sure that no one got all of him, the way it had been with Margaret Douglas. How to draw up the terms that would allow him to endure the signing away of autonomy, that would guarantee he wasn't going to let anyone down again, because he still retained just enough of himself - just enough - to arrange their freedom and safety.

Kiaya opened the door at his knock. She was wearing a fine robe of white cotton that, held loosely together by a knotted cord, revealed her black, lace-embellished slip beneath. She tossed her glossy hair back over her shoulder and smiled at her guest. "Good morning, Mr Crawford."

She was professional enough not to act coy or naïve: she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "I had some breakfast sent over from the kitchen and there is still coffee in the pot."

Her room was larger than the twin he shared with Jerott, and had a small counter with a kettle on it and shelves above for crockery. There was a tray with fruit salad and a half-empty plate of pastries on it, and Kiaya poured him a coffee and handed it to him enriched with cream and sugar.

"I would ask how you knew, but your acquaintance with Thomasina Durand explains it." Francis leaned his hip against the counter and smiled coolly over his mug.

Kiaya's brows raised in polite acknowledgement. It might have been said that she was impressed at his observation from the previous night regarding her contacts - but he didn't expect her to know everything about his history with Marthe's foster-mother, writer of the industry-leading column 'Doubting Tom'.

"Perhaps I simply saw a tired man who has not yet had breakfast, and made a good guess?" Kiaya suggested, raising her own drink, black as her hair, to her lips.

Francis met her playful gaze and his eyes narrowed. "It's said by many an average agent that this industry runs on hunches and gut feelings alone - but you and I know better. It's about who you know, and what they've decided the future will be."

"Intuition and observation still play a part," Kiaya replied robustly. "Why would I waste a meeting with Ms Durand discussing your rider, Mr Crawford?"

He laughed and allowed her the point, pausing to drink the sweet drink in his cup and experience the sensation of being revitalised. He accepted a seat in one of the two small armchairs that her room was provided with, and managed a grateful nod when she placed the fruit and pastries on the coffee table between them.

Unselfconscious about her scant outfit, Kiaya crossed one long, olive-brown leg over the other and combed her hair idly with manicured nails. She watched Francis and smiled. "Of course, during our meeting, Madame Durand and I did talk about you. She truly has high hopes for your career."

Francis put down the fork he had held poised above the fruit bowl. He laced his fingers in his lap. "Indeed? I thought I must have disappointed her by now? If not, it wasn't for lack of trying."

"Madame Durand has faith in you, Mr Crawford. Faith can't be shaken by a few petty squabbles in the press, nor, you should know, by any level of proximity to another's...tragic misadventure." She raised a brow and took an engraved silver cigarette case from the pocket of her robe.

Francis sat stock still, determined that she would not see him react to the implication in her words.

"Indeed, she was quite impressed at what you achieved on behalf of that Libyan boy. A shame that he seems to have had to resort to farm labour after the success of his album. It can be hard to find an audience for world music."

Still Francis didn't move. His mind was whirring into frantic action though, trying to determine what she might do with the information that Salah was on site, and whether she also knew about Archie and Onophrion; whether she had learned about them from Morgan, or whether she planned to tell Morgan.

Finally, he shook his head when she offered him one of the long, slim cigarettes as she lit one for herself.

"How did you know?" She had compelled him to ask it anyway, it seemed.

Genuine amusement cupped her eyes as she watched the ash fall from her cigarette into the ashtray. She considered how honest she was willing to be and then shrugged. "Dragut knows I'm safe when I stay here. He keeps his own contacts among Baron's staff to ensure it remains that way. All sorts need to visit an Oasis in the desert, after all - predators can get...mixed up with prey."

Francis felt his lips pull into a smirk. "And which are you, Kiaya Hanım?"

She eyed him from below heavy lashes and her mischievous expression echoed his. "I am merely here on safari."

Francis barked a laugh and picked up the fork again, spearing a grape and a cube of melon. "And as such, you must not interfere with the ecosystem? Or is it a hunting safari?"

"If you are asking whether your friends are in danger of exposure on my part - the answer is no. Their plans do not interest me," Kiaya smoked with the vigour and speed of a steam train, yet each clipped, decisive gesture remained elegant.

She added nothing more, and once again it was Francis who was forced to ask, "Then what does interest you?"

"Ah," she grinned. She seemed pleased that he had asked, that he was willing to play along with these little games. "What interests me is how a man with a golden path laid before him spends more of his time in the gutter than pursuing this path. How, with each new album, though the sales increase and the fans multiply, he ends up poorer and further from the act of creation than he has ever been. How a man whose music could change this messy world instead shuns the platforms from which he could use it to do so and pursues dead ends in the desert."

As he gazed into her knowing expression he felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He moved his hands, gripping the arms of the chair to stop them quivering. "I have found that music is less effective as an instrument of change than I once hoped."

Kiaya's smile was unmoved. "That is because you are focussing on the little things. Take a broader view - imagine what your music sounds like to those who have never heard it before. Imagine hearing lyrics in your own language that arrange the world in a way you had never realised was possible."

He allowed his brows to rise at this and let out a snort. "The little things?"

"Your destiny is not with a bastard child born in the desert, Mr Crawford. It is not with the child's mother - she is a husk, she has no more to give to the public sphere, and her art could not stand alongside yours." Kiaya's lips still curved, but her eyes were cold and hard as brass.

Francis felt something hysterical flutter in his chest and he laughed at the ceiling. "No. Of course. Destiny is always impersonal. What are destiny's thoughts on theft, however? On music that might change the world, as you'd say, being repurposed to fund a cult?"

"I understand that cults can change the world, too," Kiaya replied. "Are you telling me you have unreleased material to recover?"

He smiled crookedly, knowingly at her, though the bile rose in his throat. "And if I did? What would it be worth to you?"

Kiaya carefully extinguished her cigarette and toyed with the lace trim of her slip. "If it is already out of your hands, there is nothing to prevent me from recovering it myself. Is that not so?" she raised a brow in challenge.

It felt like acid inside him, his hatred of this bargaining - it was even more loathsome, somehow, than simply bargaining with his body - and it seemed like the feeling might dissolve through the front of his chest and neck, exposing a gaping, red ruin: the need of the man behind the musician. "All I ask," he said as steadily as he could. "Is for a ride to Salina. From there, I can arrange finances, I can ensure my people are safe. I will go to Nevada and finish what I came to do, and then you will have what I can recover from the man who stole from me; you will have those master tapes and more. I will sign a deal with you, and - " the words stuck in his throat.

Kiaya watched him mildly, amusement in her expression. "And?"

"And the terms will be as you wish," he forced himself to say.

"Mm..." she looked down at the lace on her thigh, at her glossy nails plucking at it. "It is a nice offer, canım. But I can't let you leave here like that."

"Excuse me?"

"You've made a commitment to Baron Morgan. You want to make a deal with me, while you say this is how you will honour that commitment?"

Francis released a disbelieving breath of laughter. "I didn't think you would be subservient to him..."

Kiaya's smile was now a little patronising. "It is useful for me to stay here. Why would I jeapordise my relationship with him?"

"With my material to your name, you'd never need to stay here again," Francis cocked his own, challenging brow.

"Hm," Kiaya moved decisively to light up another cigarette. "That will be up to me, Mr Crawford. In the meantime, if I sign you, it will be after seeing you perform."

"You could be waiting a while," he said sourly. He felt doubt begin to nag at his assumptions regarding this conversation and what Kiaya Çalışkan truly wanted.

She shrugged. "Then perhaps in the meantime I will make a visit to Nevada. I know who it is you have business with there."

Francis' fingers curled tightly against the arms of the chair. "Graham Reid Malett is a dangerous man."

"My partner is a dangerous man, as you should well remember."

"Dragut is honourable - as you tell me you are. Honour won't stop Reid Malett."

Her eyes sparked with - excitement? Francis suppressed a shudder.

"I think, Mr Crawford, I am beginning to understand something of what Madame Durand sees in you. You are ruthless, and ambitious. I cannot wait to see you play."

"You don't need to. I'll play for you now." Francis twitched a shoulder, acting like the change of topic suited him, even as he reeled from the imagined damage Kiaya Çalışkan and Dragut Reis could do to his plans. Should they thunder into Graham Reid Malett's Nevada ashram without a care, the victims and hostages Geetesh had tucked and woven into the fabric of the place would be in direct, mortal peril - of that Francis was certain.

He made to stand - "I'll get the instrument I played last night from the bar. A private concert, Kiaya Hanım..."

"Sit," she cooed. "Eat your breakfast. There is no hurry, Mr Crawford."

He was already on his feet and she rose to join him, standing close so that he smelled her perfume beneath the cigarette smoke.

She shifted the balance of her weight so that her hips tilted towards him. "Sit," she repeated, her fingers pressing to his chest.

He stood there, looking into the canopy of her eyes and trying to see beyond the cool imperviousness. He allowed one hand to rise to her arm, smoothing over the thin, rumpled cotton of her gown from her elbow to her shoulder. She didn't move as he lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth.

"Of course," he looked at her again. "I could perform any other way you choose..." She was watching him with a closed, amused expression, her fingertips still on his chest. So he leaned forwards and murmured, "Sit? Or would you prefer me to kneel?"

The way her brows raised and her lips curved seemed to give him his answer, so Francis sank to the carpeted floor as gracefully as his tired body allowed. He touched his hands gently to her hips and then moved his fingers to the bare skin of her legs, softly running his touch up the outside of her thighs beneath the robe, working his way up to the lace hem of her shift.

Kiaya smiled down at him. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and then reached for him, raking her fingers through his curls, tilting his face up to her.

He tried not to flinch as he recalled Morgan's grip tugging on his scalp.

"How nice, canım," she purred. "But I've had my fill of such gifts this morning. You may return in the evening, and we can continue our...negotiations."

He let out a harsh laugh as she drew his head back, and leaned his jaw into her palm. Privately, he cursed Marthe and her own selfish agenda, her untrustworthy, libertarian approach to her career. "That won't be possible, my lady, not if I am also to keep my word to our good host."

"Not at all," Kiaya beamed, running one thumb over his lower lip. "Baron has some business to take care of - I believe he intends to source some of your records. He won't be back from Salt Lake City for a couple of days."

Francis did all he could not to let the hope these words sparked show. If Morgan was away it was the best chance he'd have of getting out of here - he could be in Salina that very day, get a car with Gaultier's money, and be back to pick up the others before Onophrion's kitchen shift was even halfway done. No more bargaining: he'd be able to leave Jerott and Marthe, Salah, Archie and Onophrion somewhere suitable and safe and make his own way to the ashram for the reckoning he was due.

"In that case," Francis said smoothly, "I shall be only too delighted to return later."

"I am pleased to hear it," Kiaya Çalışkan smiled and turned away. "I haven't enjoyed business quite this much in some time," she added over her shoulder when Francis had got to his feet.

He blinked back dizziness - he was still hungry, still tired - but caught her wrist before leaving, pulling her close again.

She was warm and soft against him, scented with jasmine and sandalwood, leaning her hips readily into him as she pulled back to smile at his expression.

"A down payment," Francis's lips curved in something like a smile, and he moved to kiss her, recalling the taste of Margaret Douglas' lipstick and her moans of pleasure at knowing the power she had over him.

Kiaya Çalışkan smiled before she opened her mouth and then returned the kiss, filling his senses with the buzz of caffeine and nicotine.

"How nice," she repeated in a murmur as he released her and turned to leave. "You'll go far, Mr Crawford. Just as Madame Durand predicted."

#the band au #wip ask meme #my fics #my wips #lymond chronicles #marthe/guzel

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rosszulorzott · 9 months ago

Text

Joint statement by the President of the European Council, the President of the European Commission and the President of the European Parliament

Today marks a tragic anniversary: that of Russia’s full-scale war of aggression against Ukraine in manifest violation of international law and the UN Charter. Two years of violence, brutality, terror and destruction. We shall never forget the initial shock of the attack, the horror of the events in Borodianka, Bucha, Mariupol.

Yet, in spite of all the continuing atrocities and suffering inflicted upon it across the country, Ukraine is standing firm. The heroic Ukrainian people are demonstrating fortitude and determination in defending their homeland and fighting for their freedom and our shared European values.

The European Union will always support Ukraine’s independence, sovereignty and territorial integrity within its internationally recognised borders. The illegal annexation of Crimea and Sevastopol 10 years ago marks the beginning of Russia’s sustained aggression against Ukraine.

Russia and its leadership bear sole responsibility for this war and its global consequences, as well as for the serious crimes committed. We remain determined to hold them to account, including for the crime of aggression.

Every day, Ukraine is facing the constant brutal and indiscriminate attacks of its aggressor. More than ever, we remain united and true to our promise to support Ukraine for as long as it takes. For the people of Ukraine, for peace and security in Europe and for the rules-based international order to prevail.

The European Union will continue its strong and unwavering political, military, financial, economic, diplomatic and humanitarian support to help Ukraine defend itself, protect its people, its cities and its critical infrastructure, restore its territorial integrity, bring back the thousands of deported children, and bring the war to an end.

The European Union has decided to open accession negotiations with Ukraine and will help it on its path towards EU membership. The future of Ukraine lies in the European Union. The European Union will continue to provide Ukraine with regular and predictable financial support. The 50 billion euro financial assistance package for 2024-2027 will help Ukraine meet its immediate needs, rebuild its economy and society, modernise its institutions and consolidate democracy and the rule of law.

We will continue to address Ukraine’s pressing military and defence needs, including deliveries of urgently needed ammunition and missiles. We have taken unprecedented actions at the EU level to ramp up European defence industry production, and we will continue to increase the capacity, which will allow us to step up our military support and cooperation with Ukraine while simultaneously strengthening our defence readiness and European sovereignty. We are also working on future security commitments which will help Ukraine defend itself, resist destabilisation efforts and deter acts of aggression in the future.

Russia and its leaders will pay a growing price for their actions. Together with partners, we have imposed unprecedented sanctions against Russia and those complicit in the war and remain ready to increase the pressure on Russia to limit its ability to wage war. We have also taken the first concrete steps towards directing extraordinary revenues stemming from Russian immobilised assets to support Ukraine. We will continue our targeted actions to further isolate Russia in international fora.

We support Ukraine’s Peace Formula for a just, comprehensive and lasting peace based on the principles of the UN Charter and international law as well as all efforts towards a Global Peace Summit with the widest possible international support.

Today, our flags will be flying side by side as a symbol of our solidarity, commitment and resolve.

Az Európai Tanács elnöke, az Európai Bizottság elnöke, illetve az Európai Parlament elnöke által tett együttes nyilatkozat

A mai napon egy tragédia évfordulójára emlékezünk: arra, hogy Oroszország teljes körű agressziós háborút indított Ukrajna ellen, nyilvánvalóan megsértve a nemzetközi jogot és az ENSZ Alapokmányát. Két év erőszak, brutalitás, terror és pusztítás. Soha nem fogjuk elfelejteni a támadás által okozott első sokkot, a Borogyankában, Bucsában és Mariupolban bekövetkezett borzalmas eseményeket.

És mégis, bár az egész országban folytatódnak az atrocitások és nem szűnik a szenvedés, Ukrajna szilárdan kitart. A hős ukrán nép, tanúbizonyságot téve bátorságáról és eltökéltségéről, védi hazáját, és küzd szabadságáért és a közös európai értékeinkért.

Az Európai Unió mindig támogatni fogja Ukrajna függetlenségét, valamint a nemzetközileg elismert határain belüli szuverenitását és területi integritását. Oroszország Ukrajnával szembeni tartós agressziója 10 évvel ezelőtt, a Krím és Szevasztopol jogellenes annektálásával kezdődött.

Kizárólag Oroszország és vezetése tartozik felelősséggel ezért a háborúért, a világméretű következményekért és az elkövetett súlyos bűncselekményekért. Továbbra is eltökélt szándékunk, hogy elszámoltassuk őket, az agresszió bűntette miatt is.

Ukrajna nap mint nap elszenvedi agresszorának folyamatos, brutális és megkülönböztetés nélküli támadásait. Minden eddiginél egységesebben lépünk fel, és hívek maradunk azon ígéretünkhöz, hogy mindaddig támogatni fogjuk Ukrajnát, amíg csak szükséges. Tesszük ezt Ukrajna népéért, az európai békéért és biztonságért, valamint a szabályokon alapuló nemzetközi rend győzedelmeskedéséért.

Az Európai Unió továbbra is határozott és töretlen politikai, katonai, pénzügyi, gazdasági, diplomáciai és humanitárius támogatást nyújt Ukrajnának, hogy az ország meg tudja védeni magát, népét, városait és kritikus infrastruktúráját, helyre tudja állítani területi integritását, vissza tudja hozni az elhurcolt gyermekek ezreit, és véget tudjon vetni a háborúnak.

Az Európai Unió úgy határozott, hogy megindítja a csatlakozási tárgyalásokat Ukrajnával, és segíteni fogja az országot az uniós tagság felé vezető úton. Ukrajna jövője az Európai Unióban van. Az Európai Unió továbbra is rendszeres és kiszámítható pénzügyi támogatást fog nyújtani Ukrajnának. A 2024–2027-es időszakra szóló, 50 milliárd eurós pénzügyi támogatási csomag segíteni fogja Ukrajnát azonnali szükségleteinek kielégítésében, gazdaságának és társadalmának újjáépítésében, intézményeinek korszerűsítésében, valamint a demokrácia és a jogállamiság megszilárdításában.

Továbbra is hozzá fogunk járulni Ukrajna sürgető katonai és védelmi igényeinek kielégítéséhez, beleértve a sürgetően szükséges lőszerek és rakéták szállítását is. Uniós szinten példa nélküli intézkedéseket hoztunk az európai védelmi ipari termelés felfuttatása érdekében, és még tovább fogjuk növelni a kapacitást, ami lehetővé teszi majd számunkra, hogy fokozzuk az Ukrajnának nyújtott katonai támogatást és az országgal folytatott együttműködést, ugyanakkor ezzel egyidejűleg megerősítsük védelmi készültségünket és európai szuverenitásunkat. Olyan jövőbeli biztonsági kötelezettségvállalásokon is dolgozunk, amelyek segítségével Ukrajna meg tudja védeni magát, ellen tud állni a destabilizációjára irányuló erőfeszítéseknek és a jövőben el tud rettenteni az agressziós cselekményektől.

Oroszország és vezetői egyre nagyobb árat fognak fizetni a cselekedeteikért. Partnereinkkel együtt példa nélkül álló szankciókat vezettünk be Oroszországgal és a háborúban bűnrészességet vállalókkal szemben, és továbbra is készen állunk arra, hogy fokozzuk az Oroszországra nehezedő nyomást, és ezáltal korlátozzuk a hadviselési képességét. Emellett megtettük az első konkrét lépéseket annak érdekében, hogy az immobilizált orosz vagyoni eszközökből származó rendkívüli bevételeket Ukrajna támogatására irányítsuk át. Újabb célirányos intézkedéseket hozunk majd abból a célból, hogy Oroszországot még jobban elszigeteljük a nemzetközi fórumokon.

Támogatjuk Ukrajna békeformuláját az ENSZ Alapokmányában foglalt elveken és a nemzetközi jogon alapuló igazságos, átfogó és tartós béke megteremtése érdekében, valamint minden olyan erőfeszítést, amely a Globális Béke-csúcstalálkozónak a lehető legszélesebb körű nemzetközi támogatás mellett történő megrendezését szolgálja.

Lobogóinkat ma egymás mellett vonjuk fel szolidaritásunk, elkötelezettségünk és elszántságunk szimbólumaként.

#stand with ukraine #hungarians for ukraine #europe for ukraine

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