#crack repairs of damage casting

[rapowersolutions234]

Crack Repair By Metal Stitching And Metal Locking

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[defiantly-ageis]

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[metalstitchinglocking]

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[engineoverhaulingservices]

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[after-witch]

Horrorfest: To Make me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Title: To Make Me Fret or Make Me Frown [Yandere Scaramouche x Reader]

Synopsis: You bought a life-size puppet in terrible condition and restored it. But now it doesn't want to let you go.

For Horrorfest request:

Might be cheesy, but Scaramouche haunted puppet for horrorfest? Maybe reader inherits an uncannily lifelike doll, or finds him as an antique?

Word count: 1156

notes: yandere, puppet shenanigans

“He’s creepy,” your friend says. Her nose crinkles and she puts a hand up as if she can ward away whatever haunting abominations she imagines must be inside the doll, waiting to slither through her nostrils. “And weird,” she continues. “And broken.” 

The doll has colorful blue hair and most of his strings are missing; one of his eyes is missing its pupil and an arm is cracked, a jagged wound that goes all the way to the fingers. If the doll were to be lifted, the damaged pinky on that arm would probably come right off--maybe the forefinger, too. He’s dirty and wearing only some cast-off shirt, itself probably too damaged to be sold by the secondhand store. 

Your friend moves on, eager to head to the second floor where all the nice, expensive secondhand goods are kept, often behind glass cases so they don’t get damaged by looky-loos.

But you stay where you are.

Because the moment you took one look at the damaged life-size puppet propped up at the back of the store, in the same pricetag-less limbo as piles of tupperware with no lid, ripped books and ugly dolls missing arms, and your heart swelled. 

“He’s perfect.” 

--

The pinky on the damaged arm did come off before you even left the store, but you were able to salvage the original forefinger. The pinky, sadly, couldn’t be repaired--but you made a new one using the original as a mold and unless you’re staring quite intensely (which to be fair, you often do, when working on the puppet) you wouldn't be able to tell that it’s not original to the hand. 

“I’d like to keep all your original parts as much as I can,” you murmur in the direction of the puppet, currently propped up on a chair you’d dragged into your workroom for the sole purpose of letting him have somewhere to sit while you worked. “You really are exquisite, you know? I can’t believe someone let you get into such rough shape.” 

You sigh, lamenting the treatment of such  a unique piece of craftsmanship, and place the finishing touches on the puppet’s repaired eye. The pupil needed to be filled in with new material but you went ahead and refreshed the iris of both eyes to make them look newer. 

“Good as new, see?” You hold up both repaired eyes to the puppet, but realize your mistake when you’re greeted with a prim looking puppet with two black holes where his eyes should be. 

“Oops.” You carefully slide the eyes back into the socket, fiddling with your finger until they slot right into place. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t thinking. There!” You grab the magnifying mirror from your desk and hold it up in front of the puppet. “Now, see? Much better.”

It took a few months of work, but the puppet was just about restored, in your view. You’d even bought a new outfit for him, a simple white blouse with ruffles and plain trousers. It wasn’t exactly what you imagined he might have worn originally, but that was fine. 

“I’m glad I found you,” you say, to the puppet--and to yourself. “I’ve had a really nice time working on you!” You hum to yourself and start tidying up your work bench. “Now all that’s left is attaching your new strings, and I can have you picked up.” You smile, to yourself, to the puppet, to no one in particular. “I can’t believe that antique shop gave you away for free--they had no idea they were sitting on such a rare item!” 

But you, who repaired dolls and the like for a living, immediately knew what the puppet was worth; and who to contact as soon as you were able to get it home, as you knew a friend with an antique shop that took special requests, and he had a particularly wealthy customer who was dying for one of these rare life-sized pieces. 

The puppet with freshly painted eyes stares back at you and says nothing.

--

Something is sitting on your chest. Something heavy and cool to the touch. 

Sleep paralysis?  It wouldn’t be the first time. You did sleep on your back, after all, and your nights were sometimes restless. 

But you open your eyes without trouble, and the sensation does not go away. It takes a few moments, blinking in the dark, to realize who (no--what) is sitting on you.

It’s the puppet. 

Freshly painted eyes stare down at you, a face framed by the carefully sewn-in hair. In the dark, you can’t see the wood grains of his skin or the repair marks that you’d buffed until smooth. All you can see is his human shape, the gleam of glass eyes. 

“What--” you say, before a wooden finger presses to your lips.

“You were going to sell me.” It’s the puppet--the puppet is speaking.

You nod, terrified, every nerve in your body inflamed.

This can’t be happening, and yet it is. 

“Why?”

Your lips are dry and you stutter out an answer, hoping to wake up from this dream at any moment. But the more time goes on, the more you realize that you’re living in reality. An awful one, but reality all the same.

“I-I needed the money, you… you’re worth a lot.”

There’s a sound that comes from the puppet’s wooden throat, but you can’t quite place it. 

“You can’t sell me,” he says, simply. If you weren’t sure that you’d lost your mind, you might say that he sounds upset. Not just angry, but--hurt. 

“I-I won’t.” You swallow. “Just um. Get off me and I can…”

“No.” The glass eyes bore down on you, and you wish your eyes weren’t becoming accustomed to the dark. It was better not to see the cool stillness in them, unmoving, unblinking.

It’s then that you notice the strings.

Not on the puppet--but on you. 

The strings are wrapped around your wrists, tight, pinching into the skin. When you look up you see he’s attached them not to a marionette control bar, but to his own fingers. To himself. 

He raises his repaired pinky and your wrist goes along with it--too fast and harsh, nearly flopping over your face.

”Ah.” He regards your flopped appendage with curiosity, before simply lifting it himself and placing it back on your chest. “Well. I’ll have plenty of time to figure that out.” 

He leans forward, pressing his weight down on you, until his face was close enough that you could spot your own work; spot the little fine details in the paint, the grooves of his wooden flesh, the way his hair fell in a certain manner thanks to the placement of your carefully created knots. 

Oh, you thought, as his face came closer to yours, as he kissed you with puppet eyes wide open and wooden lips stiff. 

The paint on his lips needed to be touched up. 

[alwayssassydreamer]

Damaged

Song Prompt Challenge

Am I too damaged for you? After everything we've been through If you go, I won't stop you You're not damaged like me Am I too damaged for you? After everything we went through If you stay, I won't stop you You'll end up damaged like me

Warnings: self conscious/damaged reader, reassuring Killer

Characters: Killer x GnReader

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a cold, silver glow over the quiet deck. The creaking of the ship beneath your feet was the only sound, a soft reminder of the distance that had been growing between you two, even before the argument.

Killer stood by the railing, his gaze fixed on the horizon. His silence spoke volumes, but so did the tension in his posture. You hated it. Hated the distance that seemed to keep him further away, no matter how close you stood.

"Are you gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna talk to me?" you asked, your voice quieter than you intended. You wanted to be angry, to throw all your frustrations at him, but the words died in your throat.

Killer turned his head just enough to glance at you, his expression unreadable. You knew him well enough to know when he was trying to hold something back. He always wore that mask, but it didn’t hide the storm brewing inside. You weren’t blind.

"I’m not the one who has something to say," he muttered, but the words were heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You stepped forward, your voice trembling with something between anger and fear. "Am I too damaged for you?" you asked, the words escaping before you could stop them. "After everything we’ve been through, is this how it ends? With you walking away?" You took a shaky breath, trying to hold it together. "If you go, I won’t stop you. You’re not damaged like me."

"Don’t say that," he said quietly, his voice low but firm. "You’re not broken. You’ve never been broken."

"But I am!" you snapped, taking a step closer to him, your voice rising. "I’m broken. And I’m trying to fix myself, but... I can’t do it alone. I’m not perfect, Killer. I’m not the person you think I am. You think you can save me, but I’m already lost. Damaged beyond repair."

Killer finally turned to face you fully, the mask hiding his expression. The silence between you felt suffocating as you waited for him to say something. Anything.

"If you stay, I won’t stop you," you said softly, the fight drained from your voice. "But you’ll end up damaged like me. I’m not the kind of person you deserve."

Killer’s fists tightened at his sides.

"I’m not afraid of damage," he said, his voice steady but laced with an emotion you couldn’t quite decipher. "I’m not afraid of you. I’m not afraid of what you think you are." He said as he took a small step closer to you. "I never have been."

You blinked, not sure if you heard him correctly. You wanted to ask him again, wanted to scream at him for not understanding how deep the wound went, but the way he stood in front of you, steady, unwavering, made the words stick in your throat.

"You don’t have to fix me," you whispered. "I’m not worth fixing."

Killer shook his head, stepping closer until there was almost no space between you.

"You don’t get it," he said softly, his voice low and intense. "I’m not here to fix you. I’m here because I’m not going anywhere. We’re both damaged, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be something together. If you want to stay, then stay. I’m not leaving."

Your heart skipped a beat, the weight of his words sinking in slowly. You stared at him for a long moment, the reality of his words taking root deep within you. Maybe you weren’t as broken as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind the cracks.

"I don’t want to be alone," you whispered, your voice barely audible, but the truth was there in the air between you.

With that Killer removed his mask his eyes soft, and he took another step closer, his body nearly flush with yours. The gap between you was gone now, replaced by the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breath mingling with yours. His thumb brushed along your cheek again, but this time, it wasn’t just a gesture of comfort—it was something deeper, something that spoke volumes in a language neither of you had ever fully understood.

“You don’t have to be,” he murmured, his voice low and hushed, as though he was sharing a secret only meant for the two of you. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your jaw, before he gently cupped your face, lifting it so your eyes met his.

And in that moment, you realized something—Killer didn’t just accept your damage. He embraced it, as broken as it was, because he didn’t need you to be perfect. He only needed you to be you.And you needed him too.

Slowly, cautiously, you closed the gap between you, your lips brushing against his for the first time. It was a soft, tentative kiss, a question asked without words. But when he responded, it was with a warmth that spread like fire, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss, and answering everything you had been too afraid to say.

His hands moved to your back, pulling you tighter against him, your body pressed flush with his. You could feel the heat of his skin, the strong beat of his heart under your fingers. Everything else faded away—the doubt, the distance, the fear of what might come next. In this moment, all that mattered was him, the way he kissed you like he’d been waiting for this as long as you had. You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your forehead resting against his.

“I guess I don’t need fixing,” you whispered, your voice shaky but full of conviction. “I only need you.”

Killer’s lips curled into a small, tender smile, and he brushed a strand of hair out of your face, his touch gentle yet certain.

“And I will never leave your side.” he replied, his voice a low promise.

And as you kissed him again, with a depth that held all the unspoken words and feelings, you realized that in his arms, you weren’t broken. You were whole, as whole as you could ever be—because you weren’t alone anymore.

[serve-588]

Community Service

The sun rose over the bustling city, casting its golden glow on a team of SERVE men assembled near a damaged stretch of road. Each man was dressed in the signature black full-body rubber suit that gleamed under the morning light. The polished material reflected the precision and discipline they embodied. A silver stripe adorned the polo-style collar, complementing the silver military boots that struck the pavement with purpose. On their left chests, the silver text "SERVE-" stood as a proud badge of their mission.

The team worked in perfect harmony, repairing cracks, smoothing asphalt, and ensuring every detail was flawless. Tight silver gloves allowed for precision in every movement, from holding tools to spreading the new road surface. Their efficiency was remarkable—no words needed as each man executed his role with mechanical exactness. The rhythmic sound of their tools blended with the hum of the city's morning rush, a testament to their synchronization.

Passersby stopped to observe the scene.

At first, they were drawn by curiosity. The men in their radiant uniforms exuded a presence that was both captivating and inspiring. As they worked, their dedication and unity became clear. A man from the crowd muttered, "Look at how perfectly they work together. It’s like they’re one mind." Another nodded, eyes fixated on the SERVE men. "They’re doing this for us—for the city. Imagine being part of something so noble."

Among the onlookers, whispers of admiration grew. SERVE was more than a team; it was a vision of order and purpose. The Voice’s mission to rubberize and unite all men under the Hive had never been so publicly appealing. The men showcased the Hive's core value: service to the greater good.

One by one, intrigued men stepped forward, drawn to the sense of belonging that the SERVE men radiated. They asked questions, learning about the Hive’s principles, its focus on unity, strength, and the transcendence of individuality. The SERVE men paused briefly to acknowledge the inquiries, offering concise yet inviting responses. "We are one," one man said simply, his silvered gloves gleaming as he extended a hand to an observer. "Join us, and serve with purpose."

By the end of the day, the road was flawless, its smooth surface a reflection of the effort and precision put into the task. More importantly, the impact on the community was evident. Men who had once felt lost or purposeless now stood inspired, contemplating their own transformations. The SERVE men gathered their tools and formed a line, their polished suits glinting in the sunlight as they marched off to their next assignment, leaving behind a renewed road and a deeper impression.

The city had witnessed not just community service but an embodiment of the Hive’s ideals. That day, the Voice's message resonated louder than ever: unity, discipline, and the allure of perfection through service and rubber. The men who observed, inspired by what they had seen, were ready to take the first step into the Hive.

#SERVE #SERVEdrone #Rubberizer92 #TheVoice #Rubber #Latex #AI #RubberDrone

[thegildedbee]

Calm/Hobby: May 7 & 8 Prompts from @calaisreno

As his Air Baltic flight from Oslo begins its descent into Tallinn, Sherlock stares distractedly out the window at the thinning layer of clouds, and pushes back at the whisper of bleakness that it it is the Estonian coastline coming into view, not the South East shores of England. He girds himself with stoicism as he feels a tendril of melancholy begin to unfurl at the fact that Sherlock Holmes no longer exists, now that Herr Lukas Sigerson has taken his place.

He knows that this new identity will only be the first of many.

Sigerson has brown eyes, and wears dark brown tortoiseshell glasses; his dark hair is beginning to have a salt and pepper cast to it, his lower face is covered by stubble. His loose-limbed gait is relaxed, and there's a remnant of a tendency to stutter when he speaks. Hidden from view are the still-healing cracked ribs on the right side of his torso, the damaged ligaments of his right knee, and the fact that the ossicular chain within his right ear bears traces of having been successfully reconstructed, the surgical repair restoring the hearing he had lost after the trauma to his skull. 

When Sherlock had been ready to leave the UK to begin to grapple with Moriarty’s extant remains -- the people and infrastructure and schemes dispersed across the globe -- it had been hard to determine what to do first and where and why. Of the three assassins in London on the day of his fall, the one assigned to Mrs. Hudson – a thuggish fellow more noteworthy for his brawn than any brains – had been rolled up by Mycroft’s people even before Sherlock had been delivered to the morgue. The one assigned to Lestrade had been somewhat harder to ferret out, but as Sherlock began piecing together what details he could collect during his recuperation, he had determined that he was a functionary who had infiltrated the Met – and the resolution of that criminal had also been left to Mycroftian minions. 

But John’s sniper was of a different cast altogether, an experienced professional who had made no mistakes and vanished like vapor. Sherlock believed that individual had been more than a freelance hire -– Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had been brought into the mix of those in danger of losing their lives because every action of Moriarty’s was as theatrical and excessive as it was insane: ransoming John’s life had always been the true motive. John’s sniper would have been especially close to Moriarty, and likely a member of the upper echelon of his criminal syndicate. Sherlock suspected that acquiring the information that would allow him to destroy this person was going to be an exceedingly difficult proposition.

He needed information, and Sherlock had finally decided that the place to begin was with Estonia, the tiny nation that had regained its independence from Soviet occupation in 1991, and that had chosen to bypass the encumbering drag of the impoverished infrastructure bequeathed from the Soviets, by abandoning it. Estonia had instead risked its future by constructing an economy based on the latest digital technologies, leapfrogging more advanced nations as it became a cyber-powered incubator of innovation, and one of the most wired countries in the world. Sherlock had no doubt that Moriarty would have been intent on turning this transformation to his own advantage; he would have found the opportunity irresistible.

Moriarty’s claim to have a code that could take over any computer was false, but even so Sherlock suspected that this fabulation pointed at something all too real: investments by Moriarity in the dark web, and in the recruitment of cadres of hackers to be manipulated into hijacking computer networks. In April and May of 2007, Estonia had been besieged for three weeks by waves of cyberattacks that had crippled its digital public and private sectors, from government entities such as the foreign and defense ministries, to banks, corporate enterprises, and media outlets. Estonia had traced the attacks to actors within Moldova’s breakaway state of Transnistria, a long narrow geographic entity bordering Ukraine that displayed the Soviet Communist hammer-and-sickle on its flag and coat of arms. Sherlock suspected that these cyberterrorist actors were performing roles under Moriarty’s direction, and that he would find information from within Estonia that would point to the far-flung nodes of his enemy’s wretched empire. 

With their impending arrival in Tallinn, the melancholy that had emerged begins to become more deeply rooted, and Sherlock’s mind's eye paints pictures of what lies in the deep of the sea passage below, and across the sea miles beyond Britain’s and Europe’s contours – fragments of exploded ordnance littering the ocean floor, where bodies entombed in submarines and battleships are testament to the destructive capabilities of bands of people bent on glory and riches and domination.

His meandering thoughts catch hold of a memory in the viewing room of his mind palace, the one that records the evenings when John had chosen a film to share as they sat propped up together on the sofa in the darkness. It focused on the US Army Air Force unit that flew missions from East Anglia in World War II, and the appointment of a new commanding officer tasked with reversing the underperformance of the bombing teams. 

He had been riveted by the harsh speech the uncompromising commander delivers to the group of pilots, who simmer with resentment at his theory that part of their problems lie with their playing it safe. He tells them that while fear is to be expected, the only choice they have is to stop worrying about the fear, and about themselves. He can still feel the chill of premonition when he heard the figure on the screen bite out his message: “We’re in a war – a shooting war. We’ve got to fight. And some of us have got to die." But it was the follow-on command that is engraved in his mind beyond the memory palace, visible in the shadow of all else he is thinking about: "Stop making plans. Forget about going home. Consider yourselves already dead. After that, it won’t be so tough.” And so, too, was his bombing run a flight into the unknown, against unseen enemies, the actions of a self-created ghost who must reckon that he truly inhabits the underworld from this point on.

Sherlock closes his eyes and continues work on the new spaces that he has been constructing in his mind palace, an effort that never fails to bring him calm, even when other emotions are in play. These new rooms are cloisters and refectories based on the architecture of a thirteenth-century monastery, in deference to Tallinn’s remarkable preservation of the medieval city within its precincts, and he has reserved this adjacent building for whatever part Eastern Europe will play in his sojourns. It is complicated artistry, and he is the last one to rise and exit the airplane.

As Herr Sigerson makes his way toward the front of the compact airport, he adjusts the rucksack on his shoulder, and tugs the bottom of his jumper to straighten it. As a standard issue Norwegian, he is, of course, kitted out in knitted wool, although the garment he wears is only a single hue; the vividly colored patterns favored by so many of the inhabitants of his improvised homeland hurt both his eyesight and his sense of fashion. Sherlock smiles at the thought that John would be amused, were he to see his couture, and consider it revenge for Sherlock’s hobby of “inadvertently” wreaking havoc on the least attractive of John’s jumpers.

Sherlock's half-zip pullover is a dark navy blue with a beautiful sheen, and it is not completely devoid of decoration – it is just that the design is woven into the single color, slightly raised, subdued in its visibility. On the back is the Norse symbol of the vegvisir, which was said to allow its possessor to always find the right path, no matter how turbulent the environment might be. Next to the wayfinding icon is a letter from the ancient runic alphabet said to summon good luck. No doubt John would also be amused at the fact that his relentlessly rational friend is carrying these mystical totems on his body. Although, perhaps not, were he to know of the future toward which Sherlock has now committed himself. ........................................................ @calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper rest of the @s in the tags, which will work for communication purposes, I hope? just say the word if you want to be untagged or tagged xoxoxo

[eldritch-spouse]

A short yandere monster (Fasma, Rei, and the servants) is leaning against a wall. On the other side a Y/N on the phone with a friend. She is talking standard stuff until it veers to personal tastes. Proceeds to gush about how they find short guys/gals attractive and cute, hot, etc. The convo shifts to different things Y/N want to do to them/ them do to Y/N ending with: "I haven't had any luck… Well, the next person I see 5'0 or under I'm taking them out on a nice romantic date. Then I'm takin' em home and doing some bedroom olympics💕💋" What would their reaction be to hearing all this?

Fasma accidentally inhales his cigarette and stumbles around trying to cough or fish it out. He stumbles over to your side of the wall on accident and honestly hopes the ground will swallow him whole.

Rei just fucking intrudes on your conversation. "EY, I heard you're thirsty for shortstacks. Today's yer lucky day!" He expects you to take his phone number if you're not going to immediately fuck him in the next most convenient location.

Lacai likewise doesn't directly intrude, but he'll make it a point to show up beside you a little bit after the call you just had. He can't curb the smartass smile when you cast him several nervous glances. He'll start conversation smoothly but always keep himself a bit too close to let you relax.

Nena's little heart almost combusts right then and there. She's so excited, her tail is swatting hard enough to ride her work dress up. Now that she knows you could be into the height difference, she flees home to pick her most delicious outfit and will follow you the next time you're out and about.

Jayde is a bit normal about this. He tries not to let a small smirk crack on his face as he gets rid of his watch and makes it seem as if he's a little lost, rounding the corner to ask you for the time, making small talk when you give him directions to a location he asked about. He hopes he can get you engaged enough to at least consider keeping his phone number or letting him buy you something for the kindness.

Roch actually has to pinch himself a couple times to make sure he's not having a lucid dream. He's the most awake he's been in a while when he shows up and quietly asks if you saw one of his personal belongings he totally lost around the area. The search is pointless, but he thanks you for the consideration anyway while he introduces himself and says he hopes he can see you again.

Eleri is suddenly obsessively checking their outfit and doing their best to guess what else you might like in a person besides height. They can't fuck this up, they already have a good start!! Ironically, you'll hear them start chatting with someone else nearby as Eleri very not-subtly waxes poetic about ""tall"" humans that look suspiciously like you.

Flints rakes his claws on that wall in a fit of rabid excitement. In a bit of a dick move, he pretends to be passing by and knocks you off balance "accidentally", excusing himself quietly as he picks your phone up for you and asks if it's damaged so he can pay for any possible repairs. Well, if you see anything off with it later, here's his number.

Rieba nearly vibrates her way over to you and pretends she's never been in the surface before, asking you a bunch of stupid questions before locating the nearest snack machine and getting two of the same item, handing you the spare as a thank you for your time. Come on, she's short and she's feeding you, that's gotta get you to pay her attention.

[rapowersolutions234]

Repair Of Casting Cracks | Metal Stitching And Metal Locking

Metal locking and metal stitching processes have been used by RA power solutions technicians for more than 44 years to repair of casting cracks and damage casting. Cracks in casting are primarily influenced by melt quality, casting equipment, casting process conditions, and grain structure. The repair of cracks in casting by metal stitching and metal locking has a definite advantage over the repair of cracks by welding. For the successful repair of broken, cracked, and fractured casting parts, metal stitching is becoming increasingly popular. The services of crack repair of casting cracks and aluminum parts are offered 24/7, and we are considered to be cost-effective. All crack repairs of metal stitching and crack repairs of damage casting are undertaken with a guarantee. For more information, repair of crack casting, Turbine casing crack repair on site, and crack repair damaged casting rectification Contact us at rajshahani@rapowersolutions.com, info@rapowersolutions.com or call us at +91 9582647131, or +91 9810012383.

[wordsandrobots]

Say what you will about Yoshiyuki Tomino, he hasn't yet inflicted a beauty pageant on me in the middle of a lethal game of cat-and-mouse with an alien armada. Good grief.

As I mentioned previously, watching Super Dimension Fortress Macross, I struggled to maintain a clean distinction between 'this sucks' and 'I hate it'. Certainly, I don't think it's fair to lay into the highly variable animation quality (a quick glance at Wikipedia confirms the production was somewhat troubled) or the particular type of song chosen to centre the show around (this is a matter of taste and while I could get very snobbish about hinging everything on a pop song with the refrain 'zoom zoom zoom zoom', that definitionally goes against treating something on its own terms). I won't even attempt to lay out why I found the love triangle centred on protagonist Hikaru Ichijyo so incredibly tedious, because there's a point at which one just has to accept one is not suited to a particular set of conventions and tropes.

Conversely, when I say the action is overall rather dull, I mean that as a substantive complaint and a direct comparison to the original run of Gundam shows, of which several key creative figures here were fans. I'm not sure if it's simply there being less visual variety, since the bulk of the focus is on the same two or three mecha designs, or just that there's a trick to making jet fighter combat sing they haven't quite cracked yet. I've seen later pieces of Macross animation that hold up better in terms of storyboarding, so it's not inherent to the idea, merely this initial execution. Where this series does manage interesting visuals, it's in the juxtaposition of giants with human-sized environments or vise versa, and the persistence of changes in the world. About a third of the way through, it's established the alien Zentradi can't keep their spaceships in good repair, so when our heroes smash up an enemy command centre on their way out of being taken prisoner, it stays damaged for the next third of the show. I found that a lovely touch.

There end the nice things I have to say. Beyond this, I have three serious critiques I think are worth making about SDF Macross. Let's take a cut for spoilers and for me getting frankly quite ratty about a major anime franchise.

First point: fairly early on I found myself thinking, "so this is what straight mecha anime looks like." By that, I don't mean it is sexist, although to be clear, this is one of the most irredeemably sexist things I have watched in a while. Every female character is defined by how acceptably 'feminine' they are and their actions revolve solely around the male cast. The few instances where it looks like we might break from this pattern are swiftly walked back (I'm particularly smarting about Lap Lamiz, introduced as a high-ranking and formidable commander, ending up playing second fiddle to Kravshera, who while one of the most consistently entertaining antagonists is still little more than a belligerent, thuggish drunk).

Nor do I mean SDF Macross is meaningfully homophobic. We have one cross-dressing joke of the 'aliens misunderstand human gender roles' variety and one instance of protagonist Hikaru being called a pervert for mistakenly stumbling into a lingerie display in public. Compared to, say, the comedy eked out of disgust-at-queerness in Gurren Lagen, it comes across as quaintly oblivious.

No, what I'm getting at is that I have never before encountered a plot you could shatter so thoroughly with the very concept of same-sex attraction. The Zentradi, you see, are a warlike race of bio-engineered giants who possess 'no culture'. This means their lives are entirely devoted to combat, with art, creativity and love all unknown to them, to the point Zentradi men and women live completely separately from one another (in the movie adaptation, this is changed to a full-on war of between the two genders). Regardless of this, they respond on a primeval level when exposed to songs, music, and most of all, the sight of men and women kissing. Somehow, despite being hundreds of thousands of years removed from 'culture' – treated as a general encapsulation of anything outside warfare – they still get the hots for blue-haired pretty boys and sixteen-year-old pop-idols. That is to say, they're fully capable of attraction and all it entails, emotionally and socially speaking; it's just that the segregation of the sexes meant they were oblivious to this fact.

What a damn shame there were no gay Zentradi or this whole thing could have been sorted out eons ago.

You might think this is making a lot of a ridiculous plot conceit in a show that not only has giant alien but presupposes they can size-shift via techno-biological means and are otherwise functionally identical to humans. This isn't any less daft. But it is a reminder of how people like me aren't considered part of 'culture' despite having existed for as long as there have been people, and that's hard to overlook.

Second point: the inherent meaninglessness to how the conflict is portrayed.

SDF Macross opens with a brutal attack on the island city built up as part of an effort to restore the titular warship after it crashed on Earth. This forms the first in a series of exceptionally destructive incidents, including the island itself getting teleported to Pluto, a nuclear-level detonation that demolishes 50 square miles of inhabited landscape, and Zentradi bombardment leaving the Earth's surface a desolate desert. Over the course of this carnage, a grand total of three voiced characters are killed, the death of only one of whom is given any emotional weight, since Minmay's parents are presented as unlikeable and unreasonable. Theoretically, we are talking about an inconceivable level of loss, so some numbness is expected. But it's striking how utterly insignificant it all is in relation to the main cast.

Nobody spends much time reflecting on the destruction. The city destroyed at the start is rebuilt inside the Macross (several times). The Macross' crew lead a reconstruction effort to restore the damaged Earth that swiftly restores a 'normal' suburban environment with only token gestures towards the hardship resulting from the utter ecological collapse of the entire planet. True, there is mention that Earth's technology advanced rapidly as a result of encountering alien machinery. Yet all the same: nobody is markedly changed as a result of living through any of this.

To contrast with Gundam again, there are a lot of traumatic events in those shows that do not quite have the enduring impact they perhaps should. Nevertheless, such things usually mark turning points, the loss of people the main characters care for or the sight of the harm caused by war changing and reinforcing their arcs. And Macross is certainly trying to present its equivalent moments as traumatic, lushly rendering the devastation and humanising it by, for instance, showing a soldier throwing his body over a child in the seconds before both are atomised. It arguably does a better job of depicting this sort of thing, while astronomically upping the scale.

I couldn't, however, tell you why they bothered when the actual core of the show – the aforementioned tedious love triangle – remains entirely unaltered as a result. Ichijyo, Minmay and Hayase bumble through their failure to communicate without the slightest reference to the scale of the loss they have endured. Oh, it structures the plot in a nominal sense, A to B to C. But for all the difference it makes, nobody might have died, certainly not the parents of two of the three in the same apocalypse. You might at least think that would induce some significant progression in the relationship(s) or their maturity, but nope! Two years into rebuilding human civilisation and the misunderstandings continue as usual.

(The movie makes an attempt to actually connect the dots, the exploration of the dead Earth becoming the point Ichijyo and Hayase form a romance. In doing so, though, they cut out the meat of the two's interactions from the original, raising more questions about what the hell she sees in him. I therefore can't give it too much credit. Although it does manage to make the death of Roy Föcker [Ichijyo's mentor figure] even less impactful than it is in the series, which is at least funny. Oh, I should be clear, I don't count Roy in the above discussion because his death is in run-of-the-mill armed conflict not, you know, the end of the flipping world.)

This wouldn't irk me if not for the conscious centring of spectacular grand-scale violence every few episodes, where you're abruptly reminded you're technically watching a war story. If they'd spent less effort on the harrowing scenes, the whole might work more seamlessly, but clearly they wanted to show exactly how horrible the war was, for the maybe ten seconds at a time in which it got to be the emotional focus. The tonal shift from there to whatever way Ichijyo is failing to decide which of these two women he actually gives a shit about this week is basically the Jeremy Clarkson "Oh no. Anyway" gif, repeatedly, for thirteen hours.

Anyway, needless to say this whole debacle is an exercise in imperialist storytelling.

Right. OK, this is point three and it's me getting pissed-off enough to indulge in the bleakest reading possible. I feel bad about it, because this is the big dumb 'pop music saves the word' mecha franchise, who could be mean over that, etc, etc. But look: we are talking about a series where the antagonists are a people 'without culture' who are pole-axed and converted by exposure to the delights of a heterosexual, consumerist, celebrity-centric society, who then prove troublesome to actually integrate into the greater whole. It is very notable that while we get a brief demonstration of human resistance toward welcoming aliens to the Macross, post time-skip all the trouble is caused by Zentradi who cannot give up their belligerent ways. All of it. Everything would be absolutely fine if they just went along with the majority who are happy working to restore the Earth, but oh no, these few are just too barbaric and angry. They want to return to warring and won't let us take them out non-lethally even when we want to. How sad.

(No one seriously gives a fuck about this. The Macross firing its cannon to obliterate the angry Zentradi is a heroic moment of final victory, capping off the series.)

The Zentradi are desirous of 'human' culture. They covert the pretty pop-princess. They are, after defeat in battle, flattered into instant feminity by the affection of a 'gentleman' (sod me, that's how the Macross wiki describes Max, the man whose reaction on first meeting Milia is to estimate her bust size and remark how she's perfectly his type). They make crude attempts to emulate 'culture' for themselves, that they sometimes turn against humanity, when they aren't perfectly happy to live lives functionally indistinguishable from 'normal' people.

There is a token attempt to copy the Gundam play-book by having dubious military higher-ups who theoretically act to make the situation worse despite our heroes' attempts at peaceful solutions, plus repeated references to the 'Unification Wars' that leave me undecided as to whether the series thinks forcibly annexing the entire world under a single authority is a bad thing or not. We do get the usual 'humans have also made war for as long as we have existed' line to show how we aren't so different.

Even so, it's not significantly less imperialistic to write tales about alien enemies who lack the things that go into a 'proper' society and who will become acceptable citizens if they just embrace those things than it is to simply render them a homogenous mass of acceptable targets in need of extermination. To return to my first point, Macross' idea of culture is one where people like me – and people of non-heterosexual orientations in the original audience – do not belong. The story presupposes that a 20th Century 'developed' lifestyle can (and should) be replicated ad nauseam, regardless of whatever level of upheaval is inflicted upon it. Also (human) military personnel are nearly always in the right and anyone criticising them is being churlish. Seriously, we never get the reason why Minmay's cousin has such contempt for soldiers, beyond his being a jerk, to say nothing of Ichijyo's own initial dislike of the military evaporating like snow on a hotplate.

I do not like Super Dimension Fortress Macross. It is a mediocre piece of animated art, its action empty spectacle and its characters largely shallow. While I am, unlike what you might think, not averse to things being dumb fun, the precise configuration of the setting and what it is intentionally or otherwise implying about 'culture' with respect to other societies means I quite simply can't have fun here. Perhaps you will not have these issues with it, but I still cannot in good conscience recommend this series to anyone else.

You can enjoy the Valkyrie as one of the best mecha designs ever committed to screen perfectly well detached from this drivel. Who knows, maybe that's what most people do?

I wouldn't blame them.

[metalstitchinglocking]

Cracks Cast Iron Repair and Repair of Damaged Engine Block

On-site Metal stitching sometimes serves as the only feasible method to fix cast iron problems and repair an otherwise damaged part or large piece of equipment. Cast iron and other cast metals are unable to be repaired using traditional welding techniques, which frequently cause additional damage to the component being welded. After an inspection, we were able to suggest a fix to save the severely damaged block by metal stitching as we have been helping clients for 40 years with the repair and maintenance of these engines. RA Power also suggested that after the entire engine was rebuilt in its workshop, it be installed aboard the offshore vessel. Dial +91-9582647131, Tel. +91-124–4378292.

[morsartis]

Nightwing x Civilian!Reader

Warnings: None. Its fairly gen. No actual romance I just had this thought that made me laugh.

-

The sound of your living room window being forced open was what woke you. Heart hammering in your chest as your hand went to the baseball bat you kept tucked away by your bed. Years of living in Gotham had made you hypervigilant of what sounds your apartment made and where. You knew for a fact that your living room window had been locked and that the sound of snapping wood had to have been the frame being forced open. The window lock itself was flimsy and you had brought it up multiple times with the landlord only to be shrugged off. Now you weren’t sure whether to feel petrified or triumphant that your concerns had been justified. Throwing back the blankets you stood slowly and raised the bat as you began creeping towards the open bedroom door. Out in the hall everything was still pitch black and you cursed yourself for not at least checking the time on the alarm by your bed. Your late night intruder hadn’t bothered to close the window behind them and the pale light of the moon and soft glow of the streetlights below gave you just enough light to see. A figure had collapsed on your couch, a hand dangling from where it awkwardly cushioned a head. As you cautiously shuffled closer you could make out the reflective glow of blue along the fingers. Your poor heart nearly collapsed in relief when you realized it was Nightwing, the resident vigilante of Bludhaven. 

When you had moved to Bludhaven a year ago you had assumed it would involve a lot less vigilante sightings than Gotham. Looking down at the battered and bruised figure of Nightwing sprawled across your couch you had to admit, this officially made Bludhaven weirder than Gotham. If only because in your years of living in Gotham you had never had a run in with the resident gaggle of vigilantes. Taking in his sweat soaked and disheveled curls, the half curl of his body that suggested a good amount of pain, and the way he was actually too big to fit on your admittedly small futon with how his legs dangled off the other end you sighed. 

A bird was a bird you supposed, Gotham looked after its own and while you had abandoned your home for Bludhaven the Gothamite still inside of you insisted you had a duty to look after the local vigilante. Setting the bat against the back of the couch you walked gingerly towards the window to assess the damage. Like you feared the lock had been snapped in two and the sizable crack that ran along the wooden frame was enough to tell you it was busted. You’d be living with a busted open window for the next few weeks while you scrounged around for enough money to cover repairs. Not even bothering to close it and risk damaging it further, you turned back towards your uninvited houseguest to check his own damage. In the light cast from the window you could make out a dark purpling bruise along the side of his face spanning from his temple to his jaw. Wincing in sympathy you shuffled closer and began gently prodding at his ribs. When he didn’t immediately shoot up in pain you returned your attention to his face. His mask was still firmly in place and you were grateful for it. You did not want to get dragged into the nightly struggle. Hoping that the bruising along his face was the worst of his injuries you tried to think of what to do next. You did not want to know what or who had managed to do that to the man. Instead you reached over and began unfolding the blanket you kept on the back of the couch. His suit left little to the imagination and you didn’t think it had to be very warm in the night chill now that he wasn’t actively fighting for his life and the lives of others. You could admit that despite the fact he was injured he had a nice figure. But that wasn’t something you’d be bringing up. Like most people you’d seen and heard about Nightwing enough to know how the media loved to sexualize him. It had to be exhausting and you weren’t about to add to it. Gently laying the blanket over him you wondered if he’d been exhausted or simply lost consciousness. There was no way for you to check without waking him and you dreaded the thought enough you weren’t about to even attempt it. Scrubbing an exhausted hand over your face you turned towards the bathroom where you kept your medkit. Closing the door mostly behind you before flicking on the lights you caught sight of your haggard appearance. You were exhausted from work. The dark circles under your eyes were a badge and testament to your workload. You missed Gotham’s much cheaper rent. Back in Crime Alley you hadn’t had to work as much as you did now. Sure the area had been Crime Alley but rent was cheap and so long as you kept your head down no one had bothered you much. Nudging open the cabinet underneath the sink you collected the medkit and swiftly left the bathroom. Now wasn’t the time to get lost in thought. Setting the kit down on the coffee table in what you hoped was Nightwing’s line of sight, you next turned your attention to the kitchen. As if on autopilot you shuffled in and grabbed what you needed to make a couple of sandwiches. You worked in silence as you stacked them on a paper plate and grabbed a water bottle from the fridge. Like most people you had a few waters in the fridge more for looks than an actual drink. Taking them to the coffee table you set them down next to the medkit. Sweeping one last concerned gaze over the vigilante still passed out on your couch you took a deep breath. You had done everything you could and you had at least enough confidence to know he wouldn’t die on your couch if you left him be. Satisfied he wouldn’t die in his sleep you left Nightwing be as you shuffled on back to your room and the sweet siren’s call of your warm bed.

In the morning you awoke half convinced it was a dream garnered by too much Lifetime TV. Especially when you saw the bat sitting against the nightstand. It wasn’t until you sat up that you had a feeling it wasn’t a dream. Your medkit sat at the foot of the bed. A place you would never leave it. Wide awake with adrenaline you shot out of bed to check if Nightwing was alright. What greeted you was an empty living room, the blanket folded and placed where it always was, no food or water left on the coffee table. Your second clue that it hadn’t been a strange dream came when you wandered into your own bathroom. Condensation clung to your mirror and one of your towels was definitely missing. Looking around further showed that he’d clearly had a shower before he left and you wondered exactly how tired you had to have been not to hear the water running considering the only bathroom in your apartment was in your room. Shaking it off you brushed your teeth and wondered why Nightwing had felt so comfortable showering in your apartment with only a flimsy bathroom door between you. Was he just that confident in his ability to sense someone sneaking up on him? Not that you would have even attempted. There were certain boundaries even you wouldn’t push and going out of your way to learn someone’s secret identity was one of them. Not that you thought you’d even recognize him. Grabbing the keys to your mailbox and a dog treat you locked the apartment door behind you. Like every morning you were going down to the ground floor to grab yesterday’s mail. No vigilante was going to ruin your morning routine. 

No matter how bizarre. 

Your routine was something you shared with your neighbor directly above you. Though more specifically you shared the routine with his dog. Your neighbor usually went down at the same time as you did every morning to grab yesterday’s mail and take his adorable puppy for her morning walk. To say you adored that dog would be an understatement. She had the ability to happily and shamelessly distract and derail your thoughts every time you saw her. She was the sweetest, happiest, thing you had ever seen with her wiggling body and lolling tongue. Truth be told, of which you would never admit, you could pick Haley out of a line up before you could pick out her owner. It was incredibly embarrassing but there was really nothing about Dick that stood out to you other than his dog. Sure, he was an attractive man, as your other neighbors liked to gossip, but Haley had always had your full attention. You hadn’t even realized how long he’d been your neighbor until he’d gotten Haley. Your direct nextdoor neighbor had practically laughed herself to tears when you admitted it to her. Cackling about how of course you’d notice the puppy before Dick ‘sex on legs’ Grayson. Which you couldn’t even argue against. 

As always Haley was sitting by Dick’s feet and promptly burst into happy wiggles and pants at the sight of you. Dick glanced up and then he smiled in greeting before going back to his mail, Haley’s leash draped loosely over an arm. Like always you smiled back before grabbing your mail, feeling Haley start pawing at your leg for her daily treat. Tucking the mail underneath your arm you knelt down to scratch Haley behind the ears. 

“Hi there sweetheart.” You cooed cheerfully just like every morning since you’d seen her. She was soft, smelling vaguely of vanilla and oatmeal shampoo. “Did your daddy give you a bath?” 

You thought you might have heard a huff of a laugh from the man in question but Haley had already zeroed in on the treat in your hand and had sat down with impatient squirming for her treat. 

“You’ve got her trained quicker than I have.” Dick groaned when you handed her the dog biscuit. That made you laugh. 

“I’m just happy you let me spoil her. She’s such a good girl.” You smiled and gave her one last scratch before straightening up. 

“She’s the best.” Dick agreed mildly before yawning. Your gaze was sympathetic. 

“Long night?” You asked.

“Yeah. You?” 

“Something like that.” You agreed unsure if you should admit to Nightwing stretched out on your couch in the wee hours of the morning. Or the fact he had apparently been comfortable enough to use your shower and steal one of your towels. Did that mean he was coming back? Or were you going to have to buy another towel?

“I better get going. You know how Haley gets when she can’t get her usual walk.” He told you with an affectionate eye roll. You laughed. 

“I’d be cranky too if I couldn’t get in some exercise.” You teased, “Bye Haley.”

Haley yipped at you tail wagging as you wiggled your fingers at her.

“Have a safe walk.” You told Dick when you glanced back at him. He smiled. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

You could feel his eyes watching you as you turned back towards the stairs and disappeared behind the door.

[50setsofplayif]

You are introduced as a manager for the college basketball team, but it seems like you've transferred on a messy year.

The team's reputation is at risk after one of its new star players, is accused of cheating in an exam. Your best friend, a sister of one of the players, pleads for your help in finding the real culprit before the team is banned from playing All Star School Tournaments.

You begin to investigate and get to know the different members of the team, including the serious scholar, the charasmatic captain, the laid-back joker, and the brooding outsider. As the investigation progresses, tensions rise among the team members and secrets are revealed as you learn about how deep the rabbit hole goes.

Will you be able to clear the team's reputation before it's too late?

No Demo - Spotify - Visuals - Pinterest

Features

A customisable MC – hair, clothing style- in general, physical features.

Build and repair relationships with a cast of characters from two different schools.

Choose between five RO's to romance or befriend.

Build up your stats! You'll need them.

This game is 18+ due to the basics (swearing, drug abuse and so on) a better description will follow with chapter 1!

ROs

( The charismatic captain: Riley ) : This basketball player is the charismatic leader of the team, with a charming personality and a magnetic presence. He's confident and outgoing, but also has a vulnerable side that he doesn't show to everyone. Lately, he's been feeling the pressure of being a role model to his teammates, and struggling with the realization that he might not be able to achieve his dream of becoming a famous basketball player if his team's reputation is ruined as he's torn between wanting to pursue his dream of becoming a famous basketball player and not wanting to abandon his teammates in the dirt of these accusation towards the new teamate, who are like family to him. How will you help him navigate these difficult decisions? ♥︎

( The serious scholar: Orion ) : This basketball player takes his academics very seriously, and is under a lot of pressure to maintain his high grades from his parents, as he's been threatened to be pulled out if his grades drop, while also performing well on the court. He's struggling with being a perfectionist, and it's affecting his sleep schedule and overall health. He's also worried about the accusations of cheating, as he knows how damaging they could be to his team's reputation. Can you help the serious scholar balance his academic and athletic responsibilities, and clear his team's name? ♥︎

( The laid-back joker: Isaac ) : This basketball player is always cracking jokes and making his teammates laugh, but he's secretly struggling with anxiety and introversion. He feels like he has to put on a happy-go-lucky persona to fit in with his outgoing teammates, but he's really struggling to keep up as he's secretly an introvert with anxiety. Can you help the laid-back joker find his true voice and overcome his anxiety, and find the confidence to be himself? ♥︎

( The brooding outsider: Vincent ) : This basketball player is the team's grumpy player, with a quiet and brooding personality. He doesn't reveal much about his past, but there's a hint of something darker lurking beneath the surface. Some people on campus whisper about rumors of him being involved in bullying in the past, but he's never spoken about it. Despite his prickly exterior, he's fiercely loyal to his teammates and has a strong moral code. How will you help him open up and confront his past, while also supporting him as a valued member of the team? ♥︎

( The enigmatic transfer: Eli ) : This basketball player is the team's enigmatic transfer, with a mysterious and elusive personality. He's new to the team and the college, and doesn't reveal much about himself or his past. After his first exam, he was accused of cheating and it's tarnished his reputation on campus. He's been keeping a stoic persona to avoid any further scrutiny, but he's struggling with the weight of the accusations against him. How will you help him clear his name and find the truth behind the accusations, while also getting to know him better and unraveling the mystery of his past? ♥︎

[glitterguts13]

hello! wanted to ask you about the biker Mavuika and retired military officer Capitano fic; how’s it going? no pressure, ofc, but if you’re currently working on it, are you satisfied on how its coming along?

—Reikanon

I am working on it! I'm only one chapter in, and I want to get a few done before I post, but here's a snippet of the start!

The flash of red catches his attention before the fist is thrown squarely into his face. Muscle memory takes hold before he can stop himself, catching the woman’s fist in the palm of his hand, leveraging her weight, and throwing her onto the gravel. Hitting the ground with enough force to knock the wind from her lungs, her eyes flash dangerously, one long leg kicking out and catching him under the chin.

“Bastard!” he stumbles back, but doesn’t loose his footing, “Do you have any idea how much money it’s going to cost to repair the damage you did?”

“I’ve told you time and time again, Mavuika. Do not park your motorcycle in my driveway.”

“It was there for five minutes! I just had to run in and drop some things off next door, and Chasca doesn’t have room for me to park!”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Capitano can feel the migraine forming behind his eyes.

This had been going on for over a year. Since he’d moved into the neighborhood Mavuika and her little gang of hellions had been a constant thorn in his side. Reeving up their bikes before the crack of dawn, holding parties till the morning hours, and using his property as a communal parking spot, destroying his lawn in the process.

“I don’t care if you used my land before, I live here now, and you need to respect that.”

Her fingers twitch, eyes narrowing, the scent wafting off her was bitter, poisoning the air around her.

“Things are different in Natlan. We aren’t neighbors here, we’re family. Everyone shares with each other, we make sacrifices for each other.” it takes a great deal of effort to avoid scoffing at her words. His silence only seems to irritate the Alpha further,

“You’re paying for the damage you caused to my bike.” he casts his gaze towards to hunk of metal laying on its side. Perhaps, he had done a little more than was necessity, but a year of frustration had built up, and taking a crowbar to the wretched thing was rather cathartic. The Alpha knows full well he’s at fault this time, even if it was on his property, he could have easily moved it aside. There wasn’t any need to bust the damn thing up as badly as he had.

However, he was far too prideful to admit that.

“No. It’s about time you face some consequences for your actions,” he looks the other Alpha up and down, “At your age, you really should know better.”

“My age- That’s rich coming from you.” Mavuika circles around him, head held high, lips curled back into a snarl.

“I’m not paying for the repairs unless you get a court to order it.” it only fuels her rage further. The rage in her eyes burns hot, and for a split second, Capitano thinks she’s going to swing on him again.

“A bet.”

Blinking, the old Alpha crosses his arms over his broad chest.

“Excuse me?”

“We settle this,” she motions to herself, her small gang of misfits that were watching with equal parts concern and shared fury, and to her destroyed bike, “All of this, with a bet.”

Capitano wasn’t a gambling man, and perhaps it was the lack of sleep, being worn down from the last year of constant bickering, or simply age dampening his common sense, but he finds his mouth opening before his brain stops him.

“I’m listening.”

Mavuika growls, deep and low, teeth barred.

“A fight. Hand to hand, no weapons, five minutes, no holes barred. Whoever pins the over for ten seconds wins.”

Brows knitting in confusion, he speaks once more,

“And what is in it for you? I pay for your repairs?”

“No,” she spits, “The loser gets bitched and bred.”

[lcortes]

In the Mushroom Kingdom, the sun dipped low in the sky, casting long shadows across the vibrant landscape. Luigi Mario, usually the cheerful and optimistic brother, was now weary and worn. For days, he had toiled alone, laboring to rebuild the plumbing systems that Bowser had ruthlessly destroyed during his latest attack. Mario was away, safeguarding Princess Peach during an important kingdom conference, leaving Luigi to face the daunting task by himself.

As he wiped the sweat from his brow, Luigi sighed deeply. The echoes of his hammer striking the pipes resonated in the dimly lit tunnel. "Just a few more hours," he whispered to himself. "I can do this. Mario and Peach will be back soon, and I promise I’ll have everything ready." He had promised the Mushroom people that the repairs would be completed before his brother's return, but with each passing hour, exhaustion settled heavier on his shoulders.

Luigi’s hands trembled as he inspected the damage in the west tunnel. The ceiling had sustained significant damage from Bowser's relentless attacks. He could almost hear the echoes of the chaos that had ensued—the roars of Bowser, the screams of the Mushroom citizens, and the frantic rush to safety. “Just one more check,” Luigi told himself. “Then I can rest.”

As he ventured deeper into the tunnel, the air grew heavy with dust and despair. Luigi’s heart sank when he saw the cracks in the walls and the debris scattered across the floor. He knew the risk; he had seen what had happened in other tunnels. But he pressed on, determined to finish the job. Suddenly, without warning, the ground beneath him trembled violently.

A small earthquake shook the Mushroom Kingdom, rattling the stones and causing debris to fall from the ceiling. Luigi barely had time to react before a cascade of rocks and dirt tumbled down, trapping him beneath the rubble. Panic surged through him as he struggled to move, but the weight of the earth was too great. “No! Mario!” he cried out, his voice barely a whisper in the darkness. “Help me!”

In the suffocating silence that followed, Luigi’s heart raced with fear and sadness. He thought of his brother, of the countless adventures they had shared, and the times they had always looked out for each other. He had never said goodbye, never had the chance to tell Mario how much he loved him. Tears streamed down his face as he lay there, trapped and alone.

Time seemed to stretch on endlessly. Luigi’s body ached, and the pain from his injuries pulsed with every heartbeat. He tried to call out, to shout for help, but all he could manage were muffled cries, swallowed by the darkness around him. The thought that Mario would be busy with Princess Peach, unaware of his predicament, gnawed at him. “What if he never finds me?” he thought, despair creeping into his heart.

Suddenly, as if the universe was listening to his cries, a glimmer of light pierced through the darkness. Luigi's heart raced. “Could it be?” he wondered. He strained his ears, and through the rubble, he thought he heard the distant sound of voices. Hope flickered within him, igniting a spark of determination. He began to pound on the rocks above him, calling out as loudly as he could, “Mario! Help! I’m down here!”

Meanwhile, Mario and Princess Peach were returning from the conference, their hearts filled with hope for a peaceful kingdom. As they approached the castle, Mario couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. “Luigi should have finished the work by now. He’s been down there too long,” he said, worry etched on his face.

Peach placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Let’s check on him. He might just need a break.”

They headed toward the west tunnel, the very place Luigi was working. As they arrived, they noticed the ground was disturbed, and debris lay scattered about. Mario’s heart dropped. “Luigi!” he shouted, rushing to the entrance of the tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

A faint, muffled response floated back. “Mario! Help! I’m down here!”

Without hesitation, Mario began to dig through the rubble, his heart pounding with urgency. “Hang on, Luigi! I’m coming!” He worked furiously, clearing rocks and dirt, driven by the fear of losing his brother. Peach joined him, pulling aside debris with all her strength. After what felt like an eternity, Mario finally uncovered a small opening. With a final shove, he cleared enough to see Luigi’s face, pale and bruised but alive. “Luigi!” he cried, relief flooding his voice. “I’ve got you!”

With Peach’s help, they carefully pulled Luigi from the rubble. As soon as he was free, Luigi collapsed into Mario’s arms, tears of relief and pain