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[embossingrollers]

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[jamiepaige]

Constant Companions Closeup #7: AGGRANDICIZE

(also on spotify!)

There's no other way to intro this song - TAKE IT AWAY, TIKTOK VOICE

---

It's a hot and muggy night in Texas, mid-July of 2022.

In my dream, I am somewhere else entirely - A room in the city of Chicago, nestled somewhere high up amongst a countless number of high-rises, aesthetically somewhere between an upscale apartment, an art gallery, and a concert hall. Wide-open windows reveal the landscape of glass and steel spires, light bouncing between reflective surfaces indiscriminately and ultimately making it into the space I'd found myself in.

A good few souls were gathered here, many in suits holding notepads and handheld recorders, others in the flamboyantly-casual wear you might expect from a rock star invited to a press event. A song was playing at modest volume over an unseen sound system, an achingly familiar arrangement steadily ticking away at mid-tempo, drums striking with exacting precision upon each downbeat.

I held in my hand a phone, open to a familiar looking website. I don't recall most the actual words - it was a dream, there likely weren't any - but I recall it in broad strokes, with one specific detail, so I'll do my best to recreate the experience below.

i don't know if any of these shapes actually mean anything i just scribbled things down because i remember there being a row of Something there

"Some might bemoan this newest foray into glossy, baroque art pop as being simply a cheap Kate Bush impersonation," our dream reviewer wrote. "For Jamie, though, I believe she'd take this as a compliment."

And yes, I would. That's the kind of artist you're grateful to be mentioned in the same breath as! That being said, like, huh? That's not even how you spell aggrandize. What?

I woke up with a singular mission.

---

In this day and age, "being a star" is a strangely democratized concept. Everyone is a celebrity, with a brand image to maintain and an audience to cater to and a compelling story arc to be followed. Fandom manifests in all its beautiful and nightmarish aspects even in amounts of tens of people.

Maybe it's my boomer dadrock-loving parents, or my childhood obsession with the game Rock Band, or some chemical imbalance, or simply some toxic nostalgia manifest, but part of me couldn't help but crave it.

I wanted it to be true!! The romantic idea of the musician, touring nonstop in beatup vans across entire continents, pouring their heart out on stage and in recording booths, seeing their name up in lights and embossed in gilded vinyl records, finding constant companionship secondhand. Obviously, reality is so much messier than that, but honestly, it's a dream I've never really been able to let go of - being a star.

I shouldn't have to tell you how out of touch with reality that ideal is. That doesn't stop the dreams from coming.

The subject Aggrandicize is written for, that the lyrics are addressed to, is fame itself. To be wanted, to be dissected, to be bleached and recycled ad infinitum, to be subject to the churning violent machine of fame; To be forever just out of sight, to lack the luck, to bleed and bleed and bleed until you're nothing and not even get a single inch closer to that goal because it's impossible and it's not even what you want. Doesn't it sound like paradise? To tower over reality itself, a redwood tree amongst bushes and ferns? To take this image and stretch, to grow so big gravity revolves around you? To be more brand than body? To be a star?

I don't need that. I don't want that, even if I think I do. Maybe I want to want you to want me, but it is an ideal destined to rot me from the inside out and drain me for every ounce of blood. I just want to make music! And honestly, the path I've gone down has proven that I can have my cake and eat it, too - Playing live at Digital Stars earlier this year was one of the most gratifying and fulfilling experiences I've ever had in my life. I can make better memories by following where my art takes me, memories without 'fame' and 'fortune', memories of light and connection and getting in a room with a bunch of people who know the lyrics and singing my fucking heart out alongside them.

...

Basically, I own a TikTok account, but it'll be a cold day in hell before I ever use it.

---

This song, like many others I've written, was created primarily through assembling a bunch of piecemeal ideas I'd amassed over a couple years of demos. In particular, it borrows a lot from On Fire, a song I wrote for a song jam hosted by Fourth Strike Records back in 2021! I couldn't really tell you why, but I just keep returning to this song over and over - first with Encore, and now with this... Thankfully, I think I've exhausted this font of ideas at this point.

Aggrandicize, somewhat fittingly, is also the song that gave me the most technical trouble on this entire release - I think I genuinely went back and reworked the mix some fifty-odd times before finally giving up and just sending it as-is. I'm still somewhat unhappy with the final result, but hey, the only difference between a work-in-progress and a finished piece is what you call it, I guess.

This is another song I've had a lot of MV ideas for, and that may very well still see a video if I decide to go that route! There's a couple concepts that I've floated, including possibly an animated/animatic type video, but the original concept was to do a whole shitload of fake brainrot tiktoks and film them playing off a phone synced up to the music. That idea never took off, mostly because I couldn't bring myself to do all that, but there's exactly one remnant I'd like to share.

That's it for today!! If you have any questions, I'll gladly answer them below, but otherwise, I'll be back tomorrow to talk about women who love other women with Liaison!

[kirikorik]

Adam’s Death

Bucky Barnes/femOC! (Aveline). 18+

Part 1! Part 2! Part 3! Part 4! Part 5...

Summary: Maybe if he had turned away, pretended not to recognize her, everything would have been different. Maybe then she would have lived a long life — not with him, but at least a living one. But Bucky doesn’t know how to turn away. Doesn’t know how not to search for her in the crowd, not to grab her hand trying to remember everything… Maybe he could have saved her. Maybe next time he’ll make it in time and she’ll survive. Maybe next time… Aveline was destined to live three lives: as the sister of America’s hero, as the daughter of a great engineer, and as Hydra’s legacy.

Warnings: Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Love, Age Difference, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, 1930s, 1940s, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Sexism, Child Soldiers, Love/Hate, Blood, Trauma, Psychological Torture, Grief/Mourning, First Time, Developing Relationship, Cruelty, Sexual Inexperience, Masturbation, Character Death, Feelings.

If to be honest

"Your ghost still floats along the walls of my room..."

Date: 1991.

When the discharges stop slicing through the air, the lab is enveloped in a viscous, painful silence, wed to the darkness. Only heavy, ragged breathing — the sole reminder that the body strapped to the metal chair is still alive. Its muscles no longer twitch, but the tension remains — as if every cell is bracing for the next jolt.

The Asset’s eyes are open, but his gaze is frozen, glassy — like a marionette tossed to the floor. He stares straight at the ceiling, as if something up there might anchor the remnants of who he once was. Or at least hint at what he’s lost this time. But there’s nothing. There never is.

Tiled floors, stone walls, clinical light, the smell of medicine and cold. The cold seeps through the body like a virus, enslaving every cell. It stings the skin, turns the stomach... It spreads like a frostbite, stabbing into flesh with icy needles. It worms under nails, crawls into lungs, constricts ribs. His forehead breaks out in hot, sticky sweat — the body is trying to fight, trying to warm up, but it’s in vain.

An endless closed loop: cold outside, fire inside, shivering that burns the skin. Sweat runs down his temples and spine, but all the Asset feels is the chilling breath of death. Damp fabric sticks to his body, the cold pierces through.

“Purging complete,” (Очистка завершена) a cold voice slices the air with its verdict. A tall man in glasses straightens at the control panel, eyes scanning the clean data lines on the monitor. There’s no hesitation or sympathy in his voice. This is a victory. A successful experiment. One session down.

And hundreds still ahead — the only thing the Asset remembers from year to year.

Next to him stands another man — gray temples, military cap, clearly not from American or Nazi forces.

Sometimes he wonders: what year is it? What century? How long has he been here? The answer lurks deep within, as if the other him — buried in memory — still knows.

The officer holds a thin red book with a black-embossed star on the cover. Too thin for more than a dozen pages. He gives a slight nod to the scientist, steps closer, positioning himself so his voice can reach the dehumanized, mutilated figure before him.

The room hums with machine noise, but the next words that follow make even the most hardened workers flinch.

“Longing,” (Желание) says the gray-haired officer in a foreign tongue.

The Asset doesn’t know how, but he understands Russian — and that makes it worse. He’s forced to live the life of enemies, always dreaming of going back.

The officer’s tone is flat, almost mechanical, as if each word matters only to the system. To the subjugated mind of Bucky Barnes, once a soldier of the American military. The Asset doesn’t blink. But his body subtly tenses — as though a familiar word reverberated through him from within.

“Rusty,” (Ржавый) the man continues.

The Asset’s lips tighten. His teeth grind. His hands, still bound to the chair, twitch — as if trying to clench into fists. The plates in his metal arm creak.

“Seventeen,” (Семнадцать) the voice is clear, firm, unquestionable. The echo grates on sensitive hearing.

Was he born only to suffer like this?

His body jolts more visibly. The words, like deliberate, heavy blows to the head, beat out the last fragments of his identity. His mind thrashes inside, like a bird trapped in a cage.

But there is no escape. Nowhere to run.

Memory, emotion, pain — all vanish, leaving only cold obedience. His fingers twitch faintly, muscles responding as if tuning to a new rhythm.

Survival demands it.

“Daybreak.” (Рассвет) — no matter how dark the night, daybreak always comes.

In the frozen darkness of his cell, in this eternity masquerading as Hell, he forgets the warmth of the sun. Forget what daylight looks like. Sometimes in rare, painful dreams, he feels its rays on his skin — only to wake and realize they were burns.

The Asset gasps sharply, throwing his head back. Dark, wet strands of hair cling to his forehead and cheeks. Sweat trickles down his spine, but his skin stays ice cold. Prolonged stillness has frozen his muscles into metal. He feels the moisture under his arms and at his temples, but his fingers — still bound — are numb, cold, bloodless.

“Furnace.” (Печь) — if he had failed, if the experiment had gone wrong, he would’ve been burned. Cremated. Perhaps even alive.

His thoughts scatter, racing from one corner of his mind to another, searching for something real — but now, all that remains is a dark room with four walls.

There is no point in screaming.

“Nine.” (Девять) — in the myth of Hydra, it has nine heads. Cut one off, more grow in its place.

He can never win.

The Asset draws a deep, ragged breath. His head tilts back again, damp hair sticking to clammy skin. The air is freezing, but his body burns from within — skin itching, muscles spasming from the violent contrast. Ice and fire — eternal enemies — tear through his flesh, a reminder that he is not a man, but a machine of flesh and bone, alive only at the edge of agony.

Will he ever fool them?

“Benign.” (Добросердечный) — he never wished harm on anyone. Yet his entire body is soaked in someone else’s blood.

Mentally, he tries to latch onto something. Anything. But nothing holds.

“Homecoming.” (Возвращение на родину) — and yet, no matter how he longs to flee, to end this torture, he always comes back.

Suddenly his eyes come to life. But the life within is alien, cold, inhuman. There’s no warmth left. No pain. No fear. Just the glint of a blade — sharp, merciless, born for one purpose: to kill.

“One.” (Один) — he is always alone. Always in solitude. No one cares, no matter how much it hurts. No one pities him, no one shows mercy — no matter how he begs.

He is always alone with his loneliness.

He remembers no faces. Not the soldiers. Not the scientists. Not his victims. Every face blurs into the same shapeless void. The Asset might see something familiar in a silhouette, but no matter how hard he tries — it never comes together.

“Freight car.” (Грузовой вагон) — it was there that he died.

There, he lost his last chance at salvation.

It all falls into place. His mind empties, filled with a predatory hunger not his own. The past vanishes, buried beneath the weight of commands. The persona of Bucky Barnes — erased. All that remains is flawless obedience.

“Good morning, Soldier,” (Доброе утро, Солдат.) says General Karpov, finally setting the red book aside. Now the Asset remembers his name. His handler. But not the master...

His lips tremble, and slowly, emotionlessly, he speaks in the foreign tongue, the one that was carved into his brain:

“I am ready to comply.” (Я готов отвечать.)

His voice is flat, monotone. The warmth, the life that once colored his tone — gone.

He remembers nothing else. Knows nothing else.

“Response is optimal. Procedure complete,” (Реакция префосходна. Процедура завершена.) one of the scientists notes indifferently, jotting something in a notebook without even looking up. The Asset is stable.

He sits motionless, reacting to nothing. But everyone in the room knows — even the faintest creak, a drop of sweat, a breath — he’ll hear it. Enhanced strength, speed, smell, reflexes, night vision. And the will to execute commands without hesitation. Kill means kill. No interpretation.

His whole body is slick with cold sweat — but he no longer trembles. That’s not permitted. Even now, his body is no longer his. He cannot warm up, cannot freeze — it functions independently of him. It is not his. Not anymore.

The Asset — the Soviet Union’s legendary weapon. Hydra’s ghost. Forged from pain and death. Steel, blood, and flesh. A perfect killer, programmed for destruction. Cold as the metal in his arm. Silent as breath before the final shot. A faceless nightmare stepping from the shadows when it’s time to erase a name from history. He cannot be stopped. Cannot be tracked. The Asset vanishes, leaving behind only corpses, terror, and emptiness.

They don’t release him right away — the scientists must recheck everything: pulse, brain activity, even the slightest physiological shift.

Everything is perfect.

At last, someone begins loosening the straps. This time, they don’t lift him like a limp puppet. His legs find footing on their own, but his movements are unnatural, rehearsed — like a program executing.

“To the cell, Soldier,” (В камеру, Солдат.) orders the man in uniform.

And the Asset obeys. No resistance. No questions. Just walks, as commanded. Muscles primed for action. Mind cleansed. Empty, save for one cold truth:

I am the Winter Soldier.

Date: 1937.

When Avelina stops showing up nearby, the days lose their color. The hallways grow quieter, as if someone turned the volume down to a minimum, depriving the place of life itself. Even the school posters advertising new movies no longer seem as bright.

Bucky, tormented by guilt, takes a long time to gather his thoughts to talk to Steve.

Time goes by, and his judgments become something familiar, like dust-covered iron rails trains still run on. Steve carries something similar inside him—hesitation and sadness. But this conversation is necessary, if he wants to fix the situation at least a little.

Avelina is the sister of his best friend. After all, Bucky Barnes is a good guy. Yes, he’s ashamed. Yes, he blames himself for every word he shouted back then, without thinking. Yes, he regrets it more than he can admit. And yes, he wants her to forgive him. But it’s not forgiveness that torments him the most…

Avelina has crossed him out of her life. But he hasn't. He keeps catching himself looking for her gaze, replaying their conversation over and over again. And it’s stupid. He’s eighteen, and he’s chasing after some girl four years younger than him, seeking forgiveness. But Avelina isn’t just some girl, and he’s a fool—she was right about that.

Bucky knows he acted horribly, and for the first time in a long while, he feels it gnawing at him from the inside. When he finally works up the courage to ask his friend where his sister is, Rogers just nods dully and throws:

— “She doesn’t want to see you anymore.”

Bucky knows that already. He doesn’t like being wrong, doesn’t like admitting mistakes. Pride and stubbornness always made him hold out till the end. But this time, something changes. Something breaks. He knows he has to apologize, but still doesn’t know how.

Bucky bites his lip as he walks along the snowy streets. No, he knows. Everything that happened is his fault. Those words would have hurt any girl, even one who was always tougher, bolder, braver than the rest. Even Avelina. And she… She believed him. Looked at him with trust, with respect, even with warmth, though she’d pull his hair at any opportunity.

And now she doesn’t look at Bucky. At all. She doesn’t even grace him with the slightest glance, as if he’s just an empty space. She speaks to her brother in a whisper, and Barnes becomes nobody to her. He tugs her braid, and she wrinkles her nose in disgust. He tries to joke, to start a conversation, but her silence hits harder than any shout. It eats away at him from the inside. He’s used to being the center of attention, used to the fact that even her anger or resentment was still directed at him. And now—nothing. Just nothing. Empty. As if he no longer exists. As if he’s just an empty place.

It’s entirely fair, and still…

This ignoring is killing him.

The weeks drag on endlessly. She keeps avoiding him even at the Rogers’ house. As soon as Bucky shows up at the door, Avelina either goes out for a walk or locks herself in her room. He notices how she’s changing. As if something inside her is burning out.

Her clothes, once messy and always dirty from running around and fighting, now look perfect. The jumper skirt’s hem is shortened and ironed, the collar of her snow-white blouse is even, without a single crease. Even her stockings don’t slide down anymore, and the shoes that were always scratched and dusty now shine like new.

Avelina braids her hair neatly. Her school bag no longer looks like a chaotic mess, and sometimes, smiles flicker on her classmates’ faces when they whisper with her. But this isn’t the Avelina Bucky knows. The one he knew.

She’s becoming fake. Wrong. Someone else.

Her blue eyes no longer shine with mischief. She doesn’t fight, doesn’t yell, doesn’t run down the hallways. She no longer has that boldness, that freedom that made her special. Bucky knows why. It’s his fault.

He’s had a lot of time to think.

Avelina always fought for her freedom. For not being limited. It’s so cliché—when the teachers told her to sit still, she would rock back on her chair legs, testing how far she could go before falling. When she was made to write neatly, she would purposely scrawl large letters just to prove—it’s possible this way too. When one of her classmates was unfairly punished, she rallied the others to protest, and when she was dragged to the principal by the ear, she just shrugged and said it wasn’t her fault everyone listened to her. The girls didn’t like her, but she was the first to fly at the bully who lifted someone’s skirt. Even if it had nothing to do with her.

But that’s not really rebellion. Avelina just never wanted to obey. Because there were never enough good reasons to. She wasn’t ashamed to be herself. Every day at school is a kind of test for one’s identity, and every drop of freedom gets squeezed out. Now, there’s something restrained in Avelina, something hidden, something that tries to blend into the rules.

She wants to be the way others want her to be.

There’s no fierce, terrifying battle cry. No girl who threw her arms around Bucky’s neck. No girl who jumped off the steps to run with him and Steve to the river their mom told them not to go to. No girl who caused mischief and rebelled just for laughs, unafraid of judgment. Instead, Avelina becomes a part of decency, like so many who try to follow expectations, giving up their desires in exchange for approval. Everything becomes unfamiliar. And now, there’s only a well-behaved girl, a model student, a beloved daughter—quiet, timid, and annoyingly kind.

Bucky misses Avelina Rogers.

For Bucky, she had always been the little sister of his best friend. Responsibility for her seemed natural to him, just like for any close person who needed protection. He had never thought of her any other way. Only as a part of the family, someone who had been around since childhood and for whom, as the older one, he felt it his duty to watch over, out of habit.

He had gotten used to how she got tangled up in his life, mixing everything up disgracefully. And now, when she was gone, a frightening emptiness had formed inside. As if someone important to him had simply been torn from his life. And he realized their value too late.

All this time, he had seen Aveline as something taken for granted, without ever thinking about how much she meant to him. He cared about her, teased her, got angry—but never realized that she wasn’t just Steve’s sister, but someone who truly held a special place in his heart. And only now, when Aveline had turned away from him, when Bucky felt this emptiness, did he understand how carelessly he had treated her feelings...

Then two months pass.

Monotony. Bucky feels it—each morning begins like the one before, and nothing can break this cycle. He can’t afford to delay his apology any longer, or he’ll remain in the past.

Bucky shamefully accepts defeat, clearly understanding that if he doesn’t do anything, nothing will change. He had gotten too used to Aveline being everywhere—annoying Aveline, bold Aveline, sharp and disobedient Aveline.

He has to apologize.

The idea with the toy from the vending machine comes to him suddenly. Bucky, seeing the shiny machine, bright in the evening light of the amusement park, remembers how Aveline always reminded him and Steve how they, going to the amusement park for the first time, lost all their money and had to ride home in the back of a truck. Although she was more likely upset that they forgot to bring her sweets.

And now he’s already putting coin after coin into the machine. This is probably the dumbest idea he’s had in the past month, but he stubbornly doesn’t give up. Half his savings go into the penny slot, but the damned toy won’t budge. It would be easier to buy something at a stand, but it’s too late to quit now—and shameful, too.

One more try, one more coin. When Bucky finally pulls out a plush bunny, he doesn’t even feel joy. Only exhaustion.

And now he doesn’t know what to do next, standing in front of the Rogers’ house. Dark and, as it turns out, empty. Through the windows it’s clear that no one is home. The lights are off. Steve had gone to the hospital to his mother, and Aveline… is somewhere else.

His boots creak on the icy sidewalk—winter in New York is cold, and on such nights the homeless huddle against buildings, trying to keep warm. The windows of neighboring houses glow with muted yellow light—there, behind thin walls, someone is listening to the evening news on the radio, someone is whispering in bed, and someone, perhaps, is also tortured by thoughts, just like him.

Bucky could leave. Go home and try again the next day. Or stand here in the cold for the next few hours, in the dark, among slums and strangers, hoping no one will rob him. Although right now, the most precious thing he has with him is probably the plush bunny.

Instead of all that, another insanely stupid idea comes to Bucky. And within minutes, he’s climbing onto the roof of the Rogers’ porch, hoping the neighbors don’t mistake him for a burglar.

The frosty air bites his face, the cold seeps under his thin jacket, but Bucky doesn’t pay attention. Reaching the window, he presses his fingers to the fogged glass, lifts it, and after a bit of fumbling, tumbles into the room.

The crash of a toppled chair breaks the silence.

For a moment, he freezes, listening to his own breathing. No signs of life—it seems the house really is empty. Bucky quickly scans the room, which he’s never been in before, and feels a strange, almost unpleasant sensation—as if he’s invading someone else’s world he knows nothing about.

Looking around, he realizes that apart from the white door with the uneven surface, he can barely make out any details in the darkness, so he has to find and turn on the nearest light source by touch. There’s a lamp with an olive lampshade right on the nightstand. He pulls the string switch, and it lights up the room with a soft yellow glow.

In front of him is a completely unfamiliar bedroom. It’s nothing like he imagined. Cream-colored walls, light wooden floor—everything looks neat, even cozy. The bed with a white headboard, covered in stickers and drawings, stands in the middle.

On the windowsill, books are stacked—a pile of old, worn-out volumes, clearly read to pieces. Biographies of famous people, collections of scientific articles, a couple of novels. He can’t resist—pulls one out—the title printed in faded letters: The Life of Marie Curie. Bucky frowns—he could’ve guessed that Aveline might be into something like this. But it’s still hard for him to picture.

Barnes walks over to the desk, cluttered with notebooks, textbooks, pages with diagrams and notes. He opens one of the notebooks and grimaces at the messy, sweeping handwriting.

“Chemistry?” he mutters gruffly, reading the cover.

Bucky flips through the rest of the notebooks: biology, physics, math. He can’t help but be surprised. Who would have thought that Aveline, with all her constant carelessness, might be into something like this? But she really never complained about school grades.

And he really is a terrible friend.

Bucky slowly looks around the room again. Old posters hang on the wall—one advertising the film Three Little Orphans, another for a Louis Armstrong concert. On the shelf sits a small radio—with worn buttons, but still functional. Bucky imagines how Aveline, getting up in the morning, turns it on and listens as the announcer delivers the news or plays another jazz hit—but it doesn’t seem like her. She’s more the type who wakes up five minutes before school and runs out just in time for the first bell… though now he’s not sure even of that.

Aveline has changed too much.

His gaze shifts to the window he climbed in through. Beyond it, a snow-covered rooftop is visible. Aveline was always drawn to places she wasn’t allowed to go. Bucky chuckles, remembering how once she managed to fall out a window onto a neighbor and broke her arm, and the poor old man’s leg. They and Steve never did get the full story, but Barnes teased the younger Rogers for half a year afterward about her stiff fingers.

Bucky tiredly sinks onto the edge of the bed. The plush bunny lies nearby. The fabric under him creaks softly. It smells like something familiar—something that reminds him of early childhood, those times when he and Steve spent hours running through the streets, and Aveline chased after them, trying to prove she was just as good.

He smells the faint scent of cheap soap, some paper—the smell of notebook pages—and a barely noticeable trace of vanilla—maybe from an old perfume bottle of Mrs. Rogers that she found and kept for herself.

Bucky raises his head and looks at the ceiling, as if trying to see what Aveline imagines there before falling asleep.

It’s too quiet. Too peaceful. And he feels unbearable pain realizing how much he misses the impossibly loud fights with the younger Rogers. He never thought about how much he’d gotten used to her voice.

He liked coming to the Rogers’ house early in the morning, to tug her braid while she was still eating breakfast, and occasionally steal a couple of her sandwiches or take a spoonful of her porridge just to hear her shriek how disgusting that was.

He liked hurrying her along when she begged to go out with him and Steve. He liked carrying her on his back when she got tired in the evening. He liked pushing her into tall grass in summer, always making sure she wouldn’t get hurt… and watching her for hours as she played with bugs she found, naming them and building little houses out of sticks and caps. That was another funny quirk. Especially since she could stare for ages at a snail or a dragonfly in her palm, telling how their wings work or why they have so many legs, with that same tone like she’d already defended a dissertation. Sometimes Bucky thought she was making it all up.

Now, sitting in this room, Bucky realizes just how much he misses her. And in the silence, a minute passes. Two. Three. Ten. Twenty… Bucky is still sitting, nervously tapping his fingers against his thigh. The silence of the room, broken only by his uneven breathing, presses in on him like invisible vise grips. The room is warm, but Bucky still shivers—from the weight of his own thoughts. In the window is the reflection of snowy New York—the streets lit by dim lamplight, the rare figures of passersby hurrying home. Somewhere in the distance, a tram hums dully…

To keep himself busy, Bucky tugs the drawer handle, opening it with a quiet creak. Inside—clutter. Jewelry, shiny stickers, magazine clippings, something resembling a once-living creature, which he pushes aside carefully. His eyes catch on a small notebook. A diary.

“No, come on, you wouldn’t…” he whispers to himself. But his hands are already reaching into the drawer.

The cover is slightly worn, corners bent, the spine peeling. Bucky runs his fingers over its surface, wondering if he should go on. But curiosity wins. Aveline is only fourteen—what could she have possibly written in there? She could have.

He opens the first page.

Brings the diary closer to the light. On the very first spread is a drawing. Beside sketches of some flowers, he sees himself—his profile, captured down to the smallest detail. A slight smile, dimples on his cheeks, slightly narrowed eyes. It’s a moment he vaguely remembers: an evening in the living room, talking with Steve. He runs his finger along the outline of his face. He didn’t know she, like her brother, liked to draw.

Bucky doesn’t even recognize himself at first—too soft a look, too calm an expression. He’s used to seeing himself in the mirror with a smirk, always with a cheeky face, but here… here he looks different. Barnes swallows, feeling a strange, almost childlike guilt—it’s hard to imagine someone drawing him like this…

How could he have been around her for so long and not noticed anything? He really doesn’t know her interests—except for bugs. He never seriously asked how her day went… Aveline isn’t just an add-on to her brother. She has her own world, one Bucky never looked into. One he’d never cared about before.

All this time he looked at her, but never really saw her. Aveline was always there—like something taken for granted, a noisy, restless presence he’d gotten used to. He saw her more as a part of his life than a person with her own thoughts, dreams, problems. He never asked what she lived for, what she dreamed about, what worried her. He treated her like she was still eight, but she’d grown up and...

No, he can’t do this to Aveline. That’s already too much.

Closing the diary, Bucky gently puts it back in the drawer, trying to return everything to its place. As if he never touched anything. He only regrets not daring to flip a few more pages. Maybe then he would’ve seen more…

Bucky spends another half hour in the room. When his back begins to ache, he decides to lie down, still wearing his boots. One arm behind his head, the other clutches the toy to his chest.

The blanket fabric is warm, it smells—of tar soap, which he had already noticed earlier. And just something that reminds him of home. Bucky closes his eyes. Bits of thoughts spin in his head. And the world outside the window keeps living its life—somewhere in the yard a door slams loudly, the wind howls through the window cracks, but Bucky doesn’t hear it anymore…

Maybe that’s the whole problem. He too often closes his eyes to what really matters. For too long, he didn’t notice how important Aveline was to him. Not because he wanted to—but because he never thought about it seriously. And now, when she’s pulled away, he finally realizes how wrong he was.

***

His ears are ringing, blood rushes to the back of his head. Something heavy hits Bucky in the head, and he jerks upright like from an electric shock, losing his sense of direction. A woman's shriek pierces his ears, snapping him back to reality.

Bucky inhales sharply, his face twisting in a pained grimace. His head is buzzing, temples throbbing. He blinks several times, trying to focus on the silhouette in front of him. It takes him a second to realize where he is, and another to understand who’s yelling at him. The warm glow of a lamp casts a trembling shadow on the wall, and the winter air leaking through the old window feels especially icy.

“What the hell are you doing here?!” hisses a familiar voice.

Bucky blinks, shakes his head. Did he fall asleep?

Avelina is already standing in front of him. Her face is red with anger, and her eyes blaze with fury. But suddenly she glances around in panic and presses a finger to her lips, silently demanding silence.

“It’s fine, Mom!” she shouts, cracking the door open. Bucky winces again — too loud. He hasn’t fully come to his senses yet. How did he even manage to doze off?

Bucky listens. Somewhere in the house, the faint crackling of the radio can be heard — Mrs. Rogers is listening to the evening news again while stoking the fire.

“I just saw a horribly ugly bug!” Avelina chatters mockingly, quickly slamming the door shut and leaning her back against it. “But no worries, I already got rid of it,” she adds a little quieter.

Bucky snorts.

Rogers stands for a few seconds, staring blankly at a confused James. She’s wearing an old, oversized sweater, probably Steve’s. Its sleeves hang nearly to her fingertips, and her light hair is disheveled like she just ran through the street. Her eyes flash with irritation mixed with something else — something Bucky can’t immediately place.

Her breathing is sharp; she’s trying to calm down, but she can’t. Barnes runs a hand over the back of his head, wincing from the pain, and notices her school backpack on the floor. So that’s what she threw at him.

“What the hell do you carry in that?” he mutters to himself, but the ringing in his ears drowns his words.

“None of your business,” she snaps — so familiar. “And what’s that?” Avelina shoots a question back, noticing the stuffed toy in James’s hands. She definitely didn’t have that in her room.

“A gift,” Bucky says more firmly, straightening up, holding the stuffed bunny out, finally meeting the scowling blue eyes of the younger Rogers.

“You... you’ve got the wrong room, I think. Steve’s is across the hall,” Avelina says with a sneer, folding her arms across her chest.

Bucky’s lips curl into a barely-there crooked smirk.

He knew Avelina would resist. Bucky’s like that himself — prickly, unwilling to admit he needs anyone. He’s had to swallow his pride more than once, but stubbornness is a hell of a thing. Maybe Avelina picked that up from him. And that thought — makes everything worse.

“Very funny,” Bucky snaps. “But it’s a gift. For you.”

Avelina’s gaze suddenly grows… older. As if these past weeks changed her so much, she’s no longer the girl who never questioned if something was wrong with her. Her eyes, once full of light and laughter, now hold something distant, foreign to the time they used to laugh together on the playground while waiting for Steve. Time changed her. He changed her.

Avelina glares at him with disdain. Her face contorts with disgust. The warmth in her blue eyes is completely gone. Pain squeezes his chest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky wants to say — but doesn’t.

“Pathetic,” she sneers, curling her lip, then rolls her eyes and turns away. “What do you want from me?!” she hisses, voice suddenly sharp. Her lower lip trembles, but she clenches her teeth so she won’t burst into tears — not here, not now. She missed him so much. She’d held herself back for so long. She still can. She must.

“We need to talk,” Bucky says quietly.

“You need to. Not me.” Rogers cuts him off harshly, arms crossed.

Avelina furrows her brow, looks aside. Memories flash before her eyes: Bucky’s angry, loud tone. The way he yelled, shook her by the shoulders. Scolded her like a little kid. Called her not pretty enough, jealous, not even a real girl. He humiliated her. Chose that bitch Caitlyn over her — his friend, or so she thought. She was wrong.

She had trusted him. Believed in him. But to him, she was just a silly little girl whose feelings didn’t matter. Bucky’s no different than the rest. They all betray her.

She remembers how she ran down the hallway, around the corner, choking on tears and gasps, panic rising in her chest. He hated her. Bucky despised her. And she had believed he saw her — really saw her. Accepted her. Clearly, he didn’t.

After all, how could anyone love someone like her? Right?

She’s fourteen. Her mom says it’s a difficult age. But she’s always felt different.

That night, crying into her pillow, Avelina bit her palm to keep from waking her mom and Steve. Her hands trembled, her heart ached beneath burning lungs. She scratched at her skin until she bled, trying to claw away everything that felt foreign and wrong.

She was unwanted. Replaceable. No one would ever truly choose her. And what she hates most is that it still hurts.

And yet she hoped — the next day — that Bucky would come over. Apologize. Or at least pretend nothing happened.

That would’ve been easier.

Avelina steps closer, grabs Bucky’s elbow, and tries to pull him toward the door. He follows, like a scolded child, but then suddenly stops, snapping back.

“Avelin, we need to talk!” he insists, looking into her eyes, searching for any chance at a real conversation.

“Get out! I’ve got nothing to say to you!” Avelina growls through gritted teeth. She tries to shove Barnes, but she’s clearly not strong enough.

Then Rogers yanks the bunny out of his hands with such force her own fingers shudder from the pain. Clutching the toy, she stares at Bucky like he’s the enemy, then throws the stuffed rabbit into the corner. It hits the floor with a loud smack, its soft ears crumpling on impact.

Avelina’s heart skips a beat. She feels something inside her twist — so tight that it spills over into a cough. Heat gathers in her eyes, on the verge of tears, but she won’t let herself fall.

Bucky sees her pain, sees the layer of fear and despair creeping over her face. Avelina’s lips start to tremble. He wants to stop her, say something — but the words don’t come. God, he’s not ready for this. This isn’t the girl who once fought for her place in the world with fists raised. This Avelina looks afraid. And knowing he caused that makes him sick.

Did he really hurt her that badly with his words? Yes.

“Come on, kid! Don’t be stubborn! I came to apologize, okay?!” Barnes clicks his tongue, raising his hands in surrender. Damn it, he really is sorry.

“No, it’s not okay!” Avelina snaps, voice breaking. Just for a second.

“But—” Bucky says, surprised, like he can’t believe her words. Like he misheard.

“I. Said. No.” — tears stream down her cheeks. Rogers breathes quickly, nearly gasping, but she stands her ground, fists clenched white. Doesn’t matter. He’s too late. He came too late.

Avelina knows she looks pathetic right now. And all she feels toward herself — is disgust. She wants to bolt, run as far as she can.

“What do you even want from me?” — her voice cuts like a blade, the trembling spreading through her fragile body. “Stop hurting me! Haven’t you done enough?!” she cries, gasping for breath.

“Kid, please, I—” he tries again, but she shouts over him.

“No!”

Mrs. Rogers must have heard them.

“Get out, Bucky!” — she hits him again. Avelina’s voice drops, breaking into a sob. “I don’t need anything from you! I listened to what you said. I realized I really do need to grow up. And now I am the way I should be! And I like it! But again, something’s wrong for you! Well guess what — I don’t need anything from you anymore! Get out!” — her fist hits his chest.

There’s no softness in her eyes anymore. She doesn’t want to forgive him. She can’t. But she does.

“If you need my forgiveness so badly — fine. I forgive you. I forgive you! But don’t expect anything else from me! Ever again! Now get out!”

“Please, I want to fix everything,” Barnes whispers, grabbing her hands. He holds them tight but gently — not to scare her more. “You can call me a jerk, an idiot, whatever you want! But I… I really am sorry. I didn’t mean for it to turn out like this,” his voice cracks. “You know what a stubborn ass I am. You said it yourself…”

For a second, silence falls, and suddenly, like a blade, a quiet, hoarse sob cuts through the air. At first, Bucky doesn’t even catch it—only after staring at the top of Avelina’s head for a while does he notice her shoulders trembling.

The damage is already done.

“You, even now, despite everything—you’d still choose not me, but yourself. Just go…” she pleads, her head lowered. Tears stream down her red cheeks, glistening in the yellow, dim light of the lamp. “Please, just go…”

Avelina pulls her hands from his and backs away, toward the wall. Pressing one palm to her chest, she covers her eyes with the other, trying to hide the tears. But the hoarse sobs still break through.

And Bucky stands frozen, as if chained in place, not knowing what to do. He watches her slowly slide down the wall and sit on the floor. She pulls her knees to her chest, and the tears fall harder, leaving wet trails on her face like burns.

Barnes exhales heavily, runs his hand over the back of his head, looks around as if hoping to find an answer. But the room remains silent.

He’s only making it worse. And truly doesn’t know how to fix it.

How do you even ask for forgiveness for something like this? Is he still doing it wrong?

“Hey, shrimp…” Bucky dares to break the silence. His voice sounds hoarse and unsure. Maybe he shouldn’t insist? Maybe it’s better not to try to fix anything anymore? After all, a wound, if constantly picked at, won’t heal. Only if left untreated, it festers. So what’s the right thing to do?

Avelina doesn’t answer him. She doesn’t lift her head, doesn’t move the hands covering her tear-streaked face. But he keeps going, even if it feels like his words are only breaking against the wall of her silence.

James sighs heavily, lowers himself to the floor opposite her, leaning his back against the cold wall. Outside, the tram hums again, and Bucky catches himself wishing he were anywhere else but here. Because being near her pain is worse than taking a punch in the ring. He can handle physical pain—but seeing Avelina cry and being unable to help… That’s unbearable.

“I… really wanted to apologize,” Bucky starts slowly, almost stammering. His voice is softer than usual. Even comforting. “I snapped back then. Said too much…” Every word is hard to get out. He’s never been good at apologies, but now it seems especially difficult. “I waited too long, I know. But… I was wrong. I admit that. And I regret it.” He sighs. “If you don’t want to or can’t forgive me, then don’t. If… if it makes things easier for you.”

“I forgave you a long time ago, Bucky…” Avelina lifts her head. Her eyes are shining, her lips pressed into a thin line.

She looks up from under her brows, but not angrily. Mournfully—so much so that he wants to hug her and comfort her.

“Caitlyn bullied me with her friends for months, but I didn’t care,” Avelina’s voice trembles. There’s hurt, regret. “She called me names, took my textbooks, threw away my things! Called me a boy, pathetic, and dirty. But I’m the one who acted badly, right, Bucky?”

He’s a fool.

“I didn’t know,” Barnes exhales heavily.

“And if you had known, what would you have done?”

Bucky looks away.

“I’m really sorry. Honestly. I don’t know what came over me then.” He lowers his head, presses his lips together. “If it helps you at all—I never went to the movies with her. Never went on a date. Didn’t talk to Caitlyn again. She even got angry and yelled at me when I ignored her.” Bucky lets out a bitter huff. “I don’t even know why I agreed in the first place…”

Avelina snorts, sniffling.

“Well, you were always chasing every skirt,” the younger Rogers says tiredly, and there’s a hint of a chuckle in her voice. Pleasant, warming his chest.

Bucky snorts in response with a laugh.

“When did that ever happen?!” he exclaims exaggeratedly in mock offense, throwing up his hands.

“All the time,” Rogers laughs briefly, wiping her wet cheeks in embarrassment. “You were always flirting and teasing everyone nonstop. You couldn’t even pass by the math teacher. And she’s over forty, by the way. But to not notice how I was being bullied… That’s impressive, even for you, Bucky Barnes. You really are blind and a fool.”

“And you’re incorrigible,” he tsks, shaking his head, but there’s warmth and joy in his voice. “I’m sorry I hurt you.”

Bucky immediately looks around, remembering what he came with. He finds a stuffed bunny lying nearby. Picks it up, fixes its ruffled fur, and without thinking, sits next to Avelina, shoulder to shoulder.

“Here, take it,” Barnes says, handing her the bunny with a tiny golden crown on its head and a cape on its back. Like a proper royal—damn Brits. It’s almost funny how the dislike for them seems to pass down through generations for no real reason.

Avelina blinks, looking at the toy in surprise. But her lips slowly stretch into a smile—tired, but genuine.

“Thank you, Bucky,” she whispers, hugging the bunny to her chest. Her eyes, blue and still red from crying, linger on his face for a moment.

“So I’m forgiven?” he asks with a smile, lifting a brow questioningly. The corners of his mouth twitch almost nervously.

“Alright then,” Avelina sighs, rolling her eyes theatrically.

But then her expression softens, and, hesitating slightly, she moves forward and hugs him. Thin arms wrap around his broad back, and for a moment, Bucky freezes, surprised by the gesture. She holds him so carefully, as if afraid he’ll push her away. And that surprises Bucky, because he’s used to her persistence, her punches, her mockery. But now it’s different. There’s warmth in this hug—real, sincere—and it scares him a little, because maybe he doesn’t deserve it after what he did.

Bucky hugs Avelina tightly in return.

She simply can’t hold a grudge against him. She just can’t.

And the hug lasts only a few seconds, but there’s more in it than just reconciliation. It’s a quiet promise that everything will be alright… And when they pull away, both smile a little awkwardly. Avelina looks out the window, and soon they both climb outside, onto the rooftop. There, under the starry sky, sitting on the windowsill in a small pile of snow, they continue talking for a long time. Bucky asks her about everything he never bothered to ask before… And Avelina finally begins to feel lighter.

The city lives its own life before them—storefronts still glowing somewhere in the distance, cars with round headlights drive down the streets, leaving tracks on the snowy road. Somewhere in a dark alley, a homeless man fidgets by an old barrel fire, trying to stay warm, and from a nearby bar comes the muffled laughter of men just back from the factories.

Bucky and Avelina’s laughter quietly drifts through the night air, mingling with the rustle of the wind. They tell each other ridiculous stories, laugh about Steve and his countless clumsy attempts to match them, and hope that Mrs. Rogers isn’t eavesdropping.

Bucky savors the moment—the cool night, the gentle whispers. For the first time in a long time, he feels the noise inside him give way to silence and calm.

Avelina, on the other hand, sitting next to him, keeps stealing nervous glances his way and shifts slightly away. In the starlight, her cheeks grow pinker, and her heart beats strangely louder. She doesn’t know what it means. Or maybe she does, but she’s afraid to admit it. Her fingers dig into the snow—she focuses on the cold, hoping it’ll calm the flutter in her stomach. Bucky says something, and she nods, even though she’s not listening at all…

Date: 1991.

Time had long since ceased to exist for him.

The chamber is swallowed by darkness, so dense that not even the faintest hint of light breaks through its thickness. The darkness becomes something physical. One can breathe it in, feel how it wraps around the body, turning every cell into a shadow that has neither form nor essence.

He sits on the cold concrete floor, his back pressed against a damp wall. The cold seeps into the bones. Moisture can be wrung out from the concrete surface, and this dampness creeps under his clothes, felt on the skin like microscopic needles, scorching the insides. Only the sound of water beating through pipes somewhere deep within the base reminds him that this place is not the product of his sick imagination.

The Asset has stopped thinking about when they will come for him. The unbearable silence oppresses, but still, in this silence, somewhere in his subconscious, an expectation lurks. He does not wait, but this viscous feeling crawls through his body like an untamable poison.

Everything inside him has long been lifeless. He has stopped fighting.

The waiting has merged with the very essence of existence. His being has become merely an image, nearly weightless. And yet, from deep within his soul, like a spark in a dark corner, something resists, not allowing him to dissolve into the gloom. But that very thing brings pain, tearing apart his hollow shell from within. For the flame is pitiful compared to the Winter Soldier and Hydra — and it will soon go out.

Every step he takes feels like the last. Time loses its meaning, and that becomes part of his unchanging existence. Whenever they come for him. Whenever the end comes — it is already too late.

The Asset does not know how much time has passed, or whether it is day or night, but the feeling of cold, the awareness of the body, the faint shiver running across the skin — all of it feels so real that he cannot tell illusion from lie.

Was he ever afraid of insects? Sometimes it seems to him that spiders crawl all over his flesh. Black, many-legged, and hissing. They crawl into his eyes, nostrils, and mouth, fill his lungs, and suffocate him.

All suffocate… suffocate… and suffocate.

His exhausted body feels the icy treachery of this place, this chamber, these people. And yet, it doesn’t matter. He is no longer who he once was. His attention is scattered, but something still keeps him afloat — voices, footsteps, electric shocks, fear.

Fear is constant.

Suddenly, the heavy creak of a lock tears him from oblivion. The door bursts open with such force that the stream of light pouring in slashes at his eyes. But he does not blink, sits motionless, as if his entire inner world freezes, stumbling on this bright, painful light.

He doesn’t move. Only his gaze, hidden beneath filthy hair, scans what’s happening from under his brow, and a shadow of heightened senses crawls along his skin. He feels nothing anymore.

Absolutely nothing.

Absolutely worthless.

Two guards burst into the chamber. They grab him by the arms and yank him to his feet — again. With such harshness that it makes one want to resist, but his body is lifeless in their hands. He moves mechanically, like a man stripped of will, like a puppet long without strings.

A body, alien to itself, moves along the same rehearsed trajectories. He does not resist. He knows it is pointless. He knows he could — but it would be useless. He no longer wants to fight. The Asset knows he could tear them apart. Knows how easy it would be. But he no longer understands — why?

His palms sweat, his body, poisoned with medication, weakens, then feels a new surge of strength, but he doesn’t care. He does not feel pain, only its echoes.

The corridor is long, suffused with dim light. The walls — cracked concrete, and from every corner, gloomy silhouettes of soldiers. Invisible, faceless. He doesn’t remember their faces, doesn’t focus on them.

But the one who controls his body now is memorizing the facial features of each of them—just in case there comes an order to eliminate them. After all, he is an excellent killer.

The guards' footsteps, holding their breath. Sometimes one of them nudges him to hurry, but the brain, like an old mechanism, no longer perceives either them or this place.

Finally—the door. Automatic opening. And there it is again—this room.

Cleaner than all the previous ones, but just as cold and sterile. Metal walls reflect the lamp light, giving no sense of calm. The smell of disinfectant is everywhere, something chemical, like in a lab. The Asset could say the air is heavy, but he no longer has the strength for such thoughts. It doesn’t matter. Inside, there is only powerlessness. Submission.

He stopped fighting long ago.

There are several other soldiers in the room, and only one scientist. They laugh, chatter, forgetting about his presence, as if he is part of the setting—a useless object left for their amusement.

One of them makes a loud joke, and the others burst into laughter. In the center of the room, a scientist in a white coat is flipping through some papers. He doesn’t even look at him as he gives instructions to the guards.

And his whole existence is reduced to hollow time, meaningless action. He knows what comes next.

"Undress, Soldier." The words are dry and detached, like something that has nothing to do with him. The Asset doesn’t even flinch.

He has no choice.

A body, burdened with a heavy, unnatural state, obeys the command without the slightest hesitation. Every cell, tired of pain and tied to these strange, foreign movements, moves mechanically.

The Asset removes the tactical top, then the bottom, then his boots. The bloodstains on the clothing do not bother him, even if he doesn't remember where they came from—and knows for certain the blood isn’t his.

The Asset feels the sweat and grime merging across his bare skin, but even that brings no discomfort. The Asset feels the cold creeping across his skin, bare and vulnerable. But inside, deep within his flesh, something tears.

The floor is so cold that every step, every contact with the concrete surface brings the sensation of being plunged again into icy water… The Asset doesn’t remember when that was, how long ago or why he was there, but he knows for sure—it hurt. His body, tortured for years, remembers that biting cold and the horror, the desperation of choking and drowning…

He hates the cold and the water.

His bare body touches the icy polished walls, and it brings neither pain nor fear. He stopped feeling vulnerable long ago. To be naked in this place is nothing more than a formality, an insignificant fact. He is not a man. And his body does not belong to him.

He notices many scars on the visible parts of his body. Broad, ugly, freshly healed—ones he does not remember. But the Asset is sure: they weren't there before.

It isn’t physical agony. It’s something that cannot be put into words. As if he's losing another piece of himself. Again. One that can never return—again and again… Looking at his reflection in the cast-metal door, he doesn’t see himself. He only sees the Winter Soldier.

His gaze is empty.

"To the station." Another order.

And the Soldier, not looking at the people around him, takes a step toward the metal structure. He moves forward like a mechanical doll, not realizing what he's doing. The Asset knows—he will never disobey. Even if in his mind, in that foggy corner of his consciousness, the one who was once Sergeant Bucky Barnes silently screams.

Who is he? He died.

Died under torture, when they beat him with boots for disobedience. In the immoral acts of soldiers—who trained him. On the operating table, when the scientists tested how much agony he could endure before his heart stopped. In the dark cell, where nightmares consumed his flesh. During the wipe sessions, when electricity shattered his brain.

That unbearable feeling of rupture when you lose yourself and know you can never come back. With every step, every scar, every jolt of current—his humanity fades, dissolves into madness. He can’t fight it anymore. The damage is irreversible; some shards of memory will never return.

Suddenly, a stream of ice-cold water hits his body. It strikes from several sides so forcefully he nearly stumbles. But keeping his footing, he tries to stand tall.

Instinctively, he wants to shield himself, raise his arms, hug his body so the torrent, tearing at his flesh, won’t hurt so much.

But the Asset cannot. There was no order.

The water washes away the remnants of blood, grime, sweat, bile. It seems he vomited—but he doesn’t remember when. It’s unlikely he could say the last time he ate not through a tube.

Crude jokes from the soldiers, their laughter—all becomes a distant, empty hum.

One of them throws something to the scientist. Someone comments on his wounds. Another calls him a “monster.” But the Asset does not listen. Whatever they do, whatever they say—he knows: disobedience brings pain. Otherwise, they will hurt him again.

He stands, stares at them blankly, indifferently. And when he flinches, his metal arm letting out a grating screech, the soldiers jerk back, nervous. Their eyes fix on his tightening fist, but none dare meet his gaze.

He senses their fear.

Even when rifles are aimed at him, his gaze remains cold and detached.

The barrel of the weapon brought closer evokes no shock, no fear. The Asset stands before them naked and indifferent. The metal arm hangs heavy at his side, its surface icy, letting out a new crackle. Water runs down it in tiny streams, droplets hitting the concrete with sharp, hateful sounds. He feels them—but doesn’t feel. As if his whole existence has become a single, monotonous pain that can no longer be separated from himself.

If he is given the order to kill them—he will do it without hesitation. Everyone in the room knows it. Everyone fears he might snap.

What if one day the collar on his neck breaks?

One of the soldiers nervously adjusts his belt. The scientist shouts at him to lower the rifle. He disobeys. But he’s no longer sure he can step any closer.

They don’t dare approach the Asset. The fear isn’t obvious, but it hangs in the air like a taut string.

He doesn’t care.

Water continues to stream from his body. Cold penetrates to the bone, cramps his muscles. He feels his skin begin to numb, a chill racing down his legs, even a light breeze leaving painful traces on his bare flesh.

Finally, the icy spray ceases. No longer does the water strike his face, blind him, pierce his skin with a million needles. But the burning remains. It spreads across his body, reaching into the very depths of his hollow shell. Strands of his long wet hair stick to his cheeks and neck, cold, sliding down, leaving thin icy trails. He exhales. Hoarsely, wearily. His chest pushes forward.

They don’t warm him. Don’t offer a towel. Only a new command:

"Go."

And the Asset walks again. Submissive, as always.

But deep inside, in the void, something groans hoarsely—like a dying beast. Inside, where there is no hope left, where everything is already too late. He knows one thing: the suffering isn’t over.

It will be eternal.

I don't know English. Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok

[pontevoix]

the american government is an inconvenience. yet, m & n have both chosen fifty states as a point of residence. they are the same except for every way that they are not. 

near suspects that mello had drifted towards america because he understood grime well enough to establish himself as the next great american novel.

mello is every version of himself that had once been born, had lived under the figurehead name of childhood, had burned himself to the ground. 

near is one version of themselves, even if he is indifferent to his own shape. there is no personal draw to america for them, even though it is familiar. they choose new york because there is funding there & because someone built the scaffolding for him to inherit a title. 

inheritance suits near well enough because the title ( L ) distorts them beautifully – the way that light passing through warped glass refracts in funny ways & isolates & commands different versions of self. 

distortion makes him efficient, makes him functional, guarantees he will hold his top tier title for longer than his predecessor. 

regardless, near’s predecessor does not feel yet dead enough. l had died in the midst of the kira case, & unresolved things mean loss. 

near does not care for loss – they make a habit of silent tempers & acidic language when puzzle pieces do not fall quite into play. 

it had been scarce to happen when he was a child at wammy’s, where the environment had been sterile enough that near could trace the clean edges of jigsaw puzzles’ frames 

it had been more frequent before, when near was young enough that they weren’t made to be a person. 

regardless, unresolved business & distorted glass make near a good businessman. they like money because they cannot live without it, because they prefer the ability to waste it. 

he cares for money so little that it matters so much. it is expensive to want nothing.

 so it becomes easy to tolerate the american government’s inconveniences — they want for the kira case to end, & so near is a  phantom limb of the government.

still, near does not disguise his foul-tongued critiques for its functionality or its puppetmasters. near’s purpose is to serve as a high-speed processor, & so it is their right to demean other defunct machinery. 

the funding keeps coming, & it stacks well with l’s undead inheritance. 

unresolved things are lucrative.

pleasantly, unresolved things can offer surprises. even if all things must slot into a final picture, there is too much tedium in problems too easily solved — ultimately the problem of kira might ruin near. it ruined l, killed him. near might survive, but they’ll be ruined too. because there is nowhere to go after toying with magnum opus —- 

in america, mello toys with novel things — all of which emboss the kira case with gold. 

in the aftermath of a stolen missile & the vanished death note, mello paints the magnum opus. foil crackles into the receiver of a phone, & near listens to mello bite into his habit. 

near wonders if mello likes the taste or if the ceremony has dullened the sweetness. 

near doesn’t care much for sweetness.

regardless, breaking news scripted in american red blares out sixty screens of static pixels. it shades blue light near, casts purple beneath their eyes, & there are a million voices overlapping. 

near balances the phone between his shoulder & jaw. he ignores the subsequent ache, because they like to have their hands free.

today it’s dominos. they make a type of jigsaw.

mello dares them to speak first. the challenge doesn’t have the stakes that mello wishes it would, because near indulges him.

it isn’t a loss, so he has no reason to protest. 

‘ you’ve cost the tax-payer, ‘ near murmurs into the phone. it’s more static, built upon dysfunctional machines. 

mello changed the course of the kira investigation with the threat of explosion.

certainly there had been a cost; someone had to have financed it.

near’s funding keeps coming, & it stacks well with l’s undead inheritance. 

mello snorts into the line, scoffs.  ‘ jesus wept - ‘

from @m-11o : jesus wept, mello & near

& it’s funny in the would-be-funny kind of way, because near has never known someone to dress themselves in religious sin, religious language the way that mello does.

so mello uses jesus’ tears to scorn near. it’s ineffective, as it will always be.

‘ big guns are not an indicator of cleverness, ‘ near keeps humming into the phone, & it’s another type of tearless sin because near is one version of himself. mello is burning sin coloring  stained glass.

‘ mostly, they’re just compensatory. ‘ 

the expenses keep piling. near waits for the moment that they can cast them away.

[roach-muncher-girl]

As much as 196 was fun and the source of 98 percent of my karma, existing and posting on tumblr has always had my heart and soul

On reddit when i imagine what op looks like when posting im picturing a regular blue collar human, tapping away at a phone.

But on this hellsite?

Here i imagine the op adorned in a silk bathrobe from the waist up and cartoon loveheart boxer shorts from the waist down. They are sitting down at an oak and gold embossed desk, a wine glass topped up with diet dr pepper and a bowl of mac and cheese at their side, slowly whittling the night away at an antique typewriter. The clack and chime of the weathered machine are the only company op needs as they complete their masterwork, the sands of time sifting through from the golden hours of dusk till the cool calm of the early morning.

By morning the post is complete and is sent by way of pidgeon to the rabble in the town's square. Now nailed to the towns notice board is the following:

"Ricco from the penguins of madagascar was kind of a girlboss. I wonder what their body tastes like"

And then 5297 notes and two and a half months later its revealed that op was the one that stole someone's urn containing their grandma's ashes at dashcon or something.

[catboywizard]

Saying your Names

Chemical names, bird names, names of fire and flight and snow, baby names, paint names, delicate names like bones in the body, Rumplestiltskin names that are always changing, names that no one’s ever able to figure out.

Names of spells and names of hexes, names cursed quietly under the breath, or called out loudly to fill the yard, calling you inside again, calling you home.

Nicknames and pet names and baroque French monikers, written in shorthand, written in longhand, scrawled illegibly in brown ink on the backs of yellowing photographs, or embossed on envelopes lined with gold.

Names called out across the water, names I called you behind your back, sour and delicious, secret and unrepeatable, the names of flowers that open only once, shouted from balconies, shouted from rooftops, or muffled by pillows, or whispered in sleep, or caught of the throat like a lump of meat.

I try, I do. I try and try.

A happy ending? Sure enough—Hello darling, welcome home. I’ll call you darling, hold you tight. We are not traitors but the lights go out. It’s dark. Sweetheart, is that you?

There are no tears, no pictures of him squarely. A seaside framed in glass, and boats, those little boats with sails aflutter, shining lights upon the water, lights that splinter when they hit the pier.

His voice on tape, his name on the envelope, the soft sound of a body falling off a bridge behind you, the body hardly even makes a sound.

The waters of the dead, a clear road, every lover in the form of stars, the road blocked.

All night I stretched my arms across him, rivers of blood, and dark woods, singing with all my skin and bone Please keep him safe. Let him lay his head on my chest and we will be like sailors, swimming in the sound of it, dashed to pieces.

Makes a cathedral, him pressing against me, his lips at my neck, and yes, I do believe his mouth is heaven, his kisses falling over me like stars.

Names of heat and names of light, names of collision in the dark, on the side of the bus, in the bark of the tree, in ballpoint pen on jeans and hands and the backs of matchbooks that then get lost.

Names like pain cries, names like tombstones, names forgotten and reinvented, names forbidden or overused.

Your name like a song I sing to myself, your name like a box where I keep my love, your name like a nest in the tree of love, your name like a boat in the sea of love—O now we’re in the sea of love!

Your name like detergent in the washing machine.

Your name like two X’s like punched-in eyes, like a drunk cartoon passed out in the gutter, your name with two X’s to mark the spots, to hold the place, to keep the treasure from becoming ever lost.

I’m saying your name in the grocery store, I’m saying your name on the bridge at dawn.

Your name like an animal covered in frost, your name like a music that’s been transposed, a suit of fur, a coat of mud, a kick in the pants, a lungful of glass, the sails in wind and the slap of waves on the hull of a boat that’s sinking to the sound of mermaids singing songs of love, and the tug of a simple profound sadness when it sounds so far away.

Here is a map with your name for a capital, here’s an arrow to prove a point: we laugh and it puts the world against us, we laugh, and we’ve got nothing left to lose, and our hearts turn red, and the river rises like a barn on fire.

I came to tell you, we’ll swim in the water, we’ll swim like something sparkling underneath the waves. Our bodies shivering, to the sound of our breathing, and the shore so far away.

I’ll use my body like a ladder, climbing to the thing behind it, saying farewell to flesh, farewell to everything caught underfoot and flattened.

Names of poisons, names of handguns, names of places we’ve been together, names of people we’d be together.

Names of endurance, names of devotion, street names and place names and all the names of our dark heaven crackling in their pan.

It’s a bed of straw, darling. It sure as shit is.

If there was one thing I could save from the fire, he said, the broken arms of the sycamore, the eucalyptus still trying to climb out of the yard—your breath on my neck like a music that holds my hands down, kisses as they burn their way along my spine—or rain, our bodies wet, clothes clinging arm to elbow, clothes clinging nipple to groin—I’ll be right here. I’m waiting.

Say Hallelujah, say goodnight, say it over the canned music and your feet won’t stumble, his face getting larger, the rest blurring on every side.

And angels, about twelve angels, angels knocking on your head right now, hello hello, a flash in the sky, would you like to meet him there, in Heaven?

Imagine a room, a sudden glow. Here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. Here are the illuminated cities at the center of me, and here is the center of me, which is a lake, which is a well that we can drink from, but I can’t go through with it. I just don’t want to die anymore.

-Richard Siken, Crush

———————————————————

unfortunately tumblr would not let me format this the same as the poem originally appeared, which was my intention. got about 2/3 through before it was like “this paragraph is too long” bc the poem is literally one long paragraph with no breaks. so, i had to compromise and add breaks btwn most sentences. hopefully this was the correct choice to maintain the rhythm of the poem best as i could.

i’ve seen quite a few quotes from Richard Siken on tumblr, but i dont think ive ever seen one posted in its entirety. i was reading Crush and really fell in love with this one. so I decided to transcribe it and post it on here. could i have found it somewhere online already and just copy/pasted? probably, yeah, but i didn’t want to.

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

CATCHES ONE'S EYE INSTANTLY AND IS A DESIGN MASTERPIECE IN EVERY WHICH WAY -- THE CAMPARI SODA BOTTLE.

PIC(S) INFO: Spotlight on the eternal design icon that is the conical bottle in which Campari Soda is still sold today. The futurist design was created by painter, sculptor, and graphic artist Fortunato Depero (1892-1960).

A SMALL HISTORY: "After the Bitter Campari and Cordial Campari, respectively ruby red drink and liquor with macerated raspberries in cognac, the company of Milan’s Davide Campari launched on the market in 1932, exactly Campari Soda, or Bitter with the addition of soda. The drink was no longer being served with the siphon, but already mixed in the right doses in comfortable glass bottles in the shape of an inverted cup.

The bottle was ordered to Bordoni glassware in the early thirties and had to be made of frosted glass with two embossed lines at the base with the words “SPECIAL PREPARATION, Davide Campari & C. MILANO”, while in the center field was to appear as "CAMPARI SODA." All these features, combined with the special shade of red and the absence of the label, instead of the typical alcohol on the market, made of Campari Soda a product that broke conventions and, because of its shape and the advertising psychology, opened new sales strategies. Interesting to note that the registration of the name “Campari Soda” in 1932 served to secure the name of the product consists of the words “Campari” and “Soda”, but the three-dimensional mark could not be deposited (shape of the bottles, embossed character of the name) because of the lack of a legal definition.

The success of the new drink is due also to the fact that Campari expanded the scope of the product by installing supplying machines in public places, by inserting a coin, they released bottles. The distributor was completed by a figure conceived and always realized by Depero which reflects the inverted cone reason, the same as the bottle. The Trentino artist had long worked on this figure, elaborating several sketches from the early years of the association with Campari, which began in 1924. It can be assumed therefore that the company had to study the Campari Soda at the end of the twenties and that Depero had been responsible for providing the first plans for an advertising presentation, projects that were later used in the early thirties.

Davide Campari had the merit of being among the first Italian industrialist to notice how advertising could influence in a decisive way the visual perceptual faculties of the consumer. The partnership with Depero did not tie only to the design of the product, indeed. The Rovereto artist produced an enormous amount of sketches, ink, collage of colored papers, plastics for advertising projects, of which only a fraction was then realized. In 1931, demonstrating his commitment also in the publishing field, he published the Numero Unico Futurista Campari, a collection of graphic and poetic creations of advertising, combined with the launch of the Manifesto dell’Arte Pubblicitaria Futurista."

-- FERMO EDITORE (Italian blogspot), "Depero and the Campari Soda bottle: an history lasting 80 years," by Fossella Romito, c. October 2017

Sources: www.fermoeditore.it/en/blog-en/depero-and-the-campari-soda-bottle-an-history-lasting-80-years-2, Pinterest, L'Italo-Americano, Italy On This Day, Briasco Distribuzione, Biber Architects, various, etc...

[pizzatheif]

two machines appear in town within days of each other. one, a bright blue with illuminated butterfly wings and MORPHO in bright bold letters at the top ; the second, black, blank. the only illumination coming from the screen tucked behind a curtain — it felt like stepping into a photo booth going through its goth phase.

hugo had seen both. hell, the blue one was hard to miss considering it had turned up in the old borders-turned-cvs that sat neatly next to that one bagel place with the thin-sliced taylor ham; his fave. in a matter of days, he’d had to start taking the long way if he wanted breakfast. traffic down that street was a nightmare — worse than usual and that’s saying something.

he decided he wasn’t gonna buy into that crap, though. a matter of principle, he’d claimed ( though he’d probably misspoken ). what did he care that some stupid machines were telling people’s fortunes? he’s content where he is, anything else needed work or schooling and when would he find the time for that?

it eats at him, though – subconsciously plagues his dreams. especially when he finds tony’d gotten his done. ❝ ey, 'ugo, lookit this shit. ❞ the blue card is shoved under his nose and hugo squints at it, narrowed eyes darting upward to meet tony's in the space of a breath. ❝ i thought we thought this shit was bull? ❞ to which tony shrugs, tucking his potential back into his pocket. ❝ you do the death one too? ❞ gaze averts and hugo holds out his hand, ❝ cuh'mon, tone. you holdin' out on me? it's me. ❞ but tony won't let him see the card and hueg don't like the feeling that settles in his stomach because of it.

a couple of days later, he follows his feet to breakfast but he ends up in front of that damn blue machine. his tummy grumbles — he ignores it.

sweaty palms are pressed to the glass when prompted. he almost leaves the stupid butterflied blue envelope that pops out.

he doesn't read the card for a week.

there’s nothing he can rationalize as to why he’s so nervous for it, only that he’s been disappointing people since he was born. what if this card finally means he’ll be disappointed in himself? what if it means tony’ll expect him to change? what if he don’t like who he’s supposed to become?

he knows the thoughts are silly. especially when he gets the call from eloise because she’d gotten her blue card and she wanted to jabber about some conspiracy theories she’d read online that the potentials aren’t what you’re supposed to become, only that they’re supposed to show you a path forward. maybe she won’t become the next picasso, but now she knows wendy doesn’t have a leg to stand on when she criticizes lu’s choices. if she hadn’t gotten an artistic path, she says, then she’d be able to explore what that might mean.

it bolsters him. at least enough to slide the card from his envelope. a cold sweat breaks out when he reads the word.

RAT

hugo flips the card over to see the silver embossed butterfly on the back before rereading those three little letters. fuck.

a rat? his life's potential is to be a fuckin’… nervous gaze darts to the empty spot on the couch, half-relieved that he’d chosen to read his card when tony wasn’t home.

a wave of anxiety shoots through him as he stands, throwing on the green jacket he’d commandeered from tone ages ago. thoughts spiral with each step out the door — who the hell would he rat on? how’d they get him cornered enough to get him to squeal? what if it’s tony he gives up? god, he’s sick to his stomach until he looks up and finds himself at the blue machine, again.

maybe it's a mistake. yeah... yeah. hugo wipes his hands on his jacket, looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was tailing him. laundry quarters are slipped into the slot and he goes through the motions to get another card.

RAT

❝ fuck! ❞ he jumps out of the booth and slaps a five on the counter. ❝ can i get change? ❞ is his voice cracking? he clears his throat, voice dropping half an octave with the follow up demand of : ❝ quarters. ❞ hands are clammy, again, as he punches in his social, again, to draw another card.

RAT ( again ).

he sits in the booth, this time, world crashing down around him. how would lulu spin a card like this? his phone is in his hands as he hovers over her name, hesitation stalling him until there's a knock on the booth that rouses him from his panicked thoughts. a mumbled apology falls from him as he pushes past the person waiting their turn and he shoves the three identical cards into his pocket, as deep as they'll go.

he shoulda never read the card. he shoulda dumped it or maybe never tried it in the first place. how're you supposed to come back from this? is he just supposed to give up crime in favor of a boring-ass nine-to-five? you can't be a fuckin' rat and not expect to get got because of it.

he doesn't realize where he's going until he walks into a dude at the end of a line and almost gets himself punched because of it.

he’d heard the news label it the machine of death. hugo swallows thickly, stepping gingerly behind the dark curtain when it's finally his turn. he’s gotta know if they’re related – is he gonna pull cement shoes? is he gonna get whacked just for pulling RAT? the white card slips into the slot and hugo all but rips it out in his fervor.

PIZZA

❝ wh... what the fuck is that s'pposed'tuh mean? ❞

[bigegomagick]

Ch. 4

They got on another flight, this one complimentary. The six hour layover in the massive new airport was spent shopping in duty free stores and eating vending machine sandwiches with some kind of weird distasteful cream cheese condiment that left a film on Hazel’s tongue. Gabriel bought a gag copy of the necronomicon with an embossed leather cover at the newsstand while she haggled with a vendor selling baby snapping turtles in tiny plastic cages. 

The second flight went without incident. At the other end they rented a ship and sped through woods speckled with geodomes. The veiled interiors beckoned, vibrating with bass or winking with diffused, sourceless sunlight encased within. The old sun had started to set by the time they reached Edwige’s house. At dusk it was all but invisible, sinking and crusty with old moss and ivy, the rare natural growth between the frosted hemispheres on all sides. 

Gabe lifted Hazel up around her hips so she could reach the high slats of the porch and hoist herself over. It was littered with the corpses of black squirrels, common intruders on the house chopped into bits and left as a warning to any larger beasts lurking around her property. Often more likely to bring vultures. Hazel’s mother could be a cruel woman, an embittered daughter of two war-addled alcoholics.

Hazel decided to forgo knocking and opened the front door slowly. Behind the blackout curtains the house flamed with candlelight. Edwige sat cross-legged at a desktop computer in the living room corner, typing avidly and nodding to an upbeat indie rock song. She jumped up at their entrance.

 “ Hi mama!” Hazel said.

“Hazel! You didn’t tell me you were coming! I’m so sorry the house is this filthy.” Edwige zig-zagged across the room, gathering cups and books in her arms and landing in front of Hazel, whose shoulder she squeezed before disappearing into the kitchen. When she emerged she had an apron on. “Hi Gabe, I’m so sorry about the mess, can I get you a drink, I have plenty of wine and I just ordered in a new gin.”

Edwige’s long arms shook the cocktail shaker over her head as she danced across the living room, stopping to adjust picture frames and smear around dust. “It’s so lovely to see you two, how are you doing? Have you found a place to stay yet or are you still traveling? so bohemian, your lifestyle. Sometimes I think about just ditching this place and following your lead. At least I wouldn't have to deal with the constant upkeep, it is exhausting the little repairs and maintenances and even just the dishes since your father left, and he still hasn’t picked up any of his stuff from the basement, it just sits there gathering grime and that musty smell old clothes get.”

Hazel reached into her bag and placed the baby snapping turtle on the coffee table in front of her mother. “I brought you a new pal for the womb-room.”

“Thank you, thank you! You won’t believe it! come upstairs and look at the womb room now, I’ve really upgraded it since the last time you were here, which was so long ago.”

Hazel jogged after her mother up the stairs to the glowing back bedroom of the house which was lined floor to ceiling with elaborately decorated vivariums, perfect microsystems each containing a different sort of amphibian or reptile. All the power of the generator was dedicated here, one fluorescent room amidst a cluster of candlelit ones, warm sacramental bedrooms with globbed stalagmites of wax on every surface. The two of them gazed in silence for a time at some geckos pressed up against their glass, completely still except for the quick pulsing of their gullets. 

Hazel sat down on the floor, legs crossed before her. Edwige naturally followed suit. 

“Mama, we’re out of money. I’m out of money. I don't know where it's all going, it just seems to leak away. Gabe’s on a federal shortlist and can’t get a single endorsement. I’ve been sneaking us from squat to squat in rented ships but there’s been something off, all the older destinations are starting to degrade . We made it through a security check to get on a major airline here, but it's only a matter of time before we get flagged.”

“I have heard it's dangerous these days to travel without an assignment. Sometimes I do wish you had just built a following and done some traditional sponsored content, you know you're a very eloquent writer and would have been an excellent destination guide.. but yes, yes, I know, you have other ideas and hate to work, don’t we all… well. I can’t help you with the money of course, I don’t have any, but the two of you can stay here for a time while you search for another squatter’s dome to fuck around and beat off in, whatever it is you do.”

“Thanks. How are things here? You seem a little tense, or high strung, or something else?”

Edwige’s attitude shifted perceptibly. .

“How am I? The same, I guess, I’m not getting out of the house much during the week, and barely over the weekend anymore. I don’t get many visitors.  I’ve resigned myself to being alone forever.”

“Mom. that’s ridiculous, you’re fifty-seven.”

“Noo, not in tragic way, I just can’t expect anything to change at my age. You’ll see when you’re my age. And I’m resigned to it. Really, it’s been liberating. I’ve started to think of my own death as the next big life event I get to experience. you’ll get all of this, of course.”

She gestured to the reptiles on all sides, who gazed agog with their wide unblinking eyes. 

“Jesus, mother – ”

Edwige flicked a switch on a power cord with one finger and the lights in the tanks flickered on, off, on.

“I’m just not sure where this attitude is coming from. I am holding it together as best I can? And it isn’t easy. I stick around here, I keep the house together, I take care of the animals. You and your father are so alike, that way you like to fuck off and sneak around, you show up and ask questions like you actually give a shit. You don’t give a shit about me, you or your sister or your doughy boyfriend down there. I know you all laugh about me here, and mock me for the state of the house and the womb-room. You have no idea the energy it takes to get up out of bed every day. And still, I have never, never stayed in bed all day. In fact, I no longer go to bed at all. And I find that it makes it much easier to get up in the morning, if you never go to bed, so I just keep busy all night and in the morning I reset with chaturanga and I find that it serves the same role – i find that it is not actually the sleep that the body needs, but the punctuation.”

Edwige abruptly rose onto all fours and cycled through downward dog to baby cobra, panting in heavy lion’s breaths. Gradually she sank back into child’s pose, her long arms pushing the floor off and away.

[towards03]

Aluminium Foil Packaging Market Intelligence Report: Key Trends, Innovations & Market Dynamics

The global aluminium foil packaging market size reached US$ 38.58 billion in 2024 and is projected to grow to US$ 62.25 billion by 2034, expanding at a CAGR of 4.9% from 2025 to 2034. Market players are focusing on inorganic growth strategies, such as acquisitions and mergers, to develop advanced aluminium foil packaging technologies, driving market expansion.

Aluminium Foil Packaging Market Size (2023 - 2034)

Major Key Insights

Asia Pacific dominated the aluminium foil packaging market in 2024.

North America is expected to witness significant growth during the forecast period.

Foil wraps held the largest share in the market by packaging type in 2024.

Food & beverage emerged as the dominant end-use segment in 2024.

0.09 mm – 0.2 mm foil segment is projected to experience substantial growth.

Market Trends

1. Eco-Friendly & Sustainability Innovations

Governments and brands are eliminating non-recyclable plastic-aluminium laminates in favor of 100% recyclable aluminium.

Adoption of bio-based coatings (e.g., cellulose, plant-derived polymers) as plastic lining alternatives.

Use of thinner, stronger foils to reduce raw material usage and carbon footprint.

Integration of RFID & NFC tags for real-time temperature & freshness monitoring.

QR codes on packaging enhance traceability & anti-counterfeiting measures.

2. Premiumization & Customization Trends

Luxury brands (chocolates, spirits, cosmetics) adopt textured & metallic-finish foils.

Digital printing enables small-batch, personalized aluminium foil packaging.

Elimination of additional labels by integrating branding into foil designs.

3. Expansion in Sustainable Food & Beverage Packaging

Aluminium foil packaging is gaining traction for wine, cocktails, juices, and dairy as an alternative to plastic & glass bottles.

Growth of reclosable & recyclable aluminium pouches.

Increasing replacement of plastic wrappers with ultra-thin aluminium foils.

4. Regulations Driving Innovation

The EU Circular Economy Action Plan pushes for 100% recyclable and reusable packaging by 2030.

Bans on multi-layer plastic-aluminium composites foster mono-material aluminium solutions.

Extended Producer Responsibility (EPR) laws drive brands toward sustainable aluminium sourcing.

AI in Aluminium Foil Packaging

AI-driven robotics improve precision in cutting, embossing, and lamination.

Automated defect detection ensures high-quality production and minimizes waste.

Predictive maintenance prevents machine breakdowns, reducing operational costs.

AI-powered RFID & QR codes enable real-time tracking and authentication.

AI-enhanced recyclable coatings replace plastic-based solutions.

Market Drivers

1. Growth of E-Commerce & Online Grocery Delivery

Amazon Fresh, Walmart+, and Carrefour Online drive demand for foil-based insulated packaging.

Meal kit brands (e.g., HelloFresh, Blue Apron) use aluminium foil pouches to maintain food freshness.

E-commerce growth fuels demand for high-barrier foil-laminated packaging in coffee, pet food, and protein powders.

2. Rising Demand for Sustainable & Eco-Friendly Packaging

Global plastic bans and environmental regulations accelerate demand for mono-material aluminium packaging.

Aluminium achieves over 70% recycling rates in Europe and North America.

Advancements in biodegradable and compostable coatings improve sustainability.

Market Restraints

Regulatory pressures on single-use aluminium packaging.

Plastic-free packaging trends encourage alternative materials like biodegradable paper coatings.

Recycling challenges make aluminium packaging less attractive compared to fully circular alternatives.

Market Segmentation

By Packaging Type

Foil Wraps: Held the largest market share in 2024.

Pouches, Containers, and Lids: Gaining traction due to sustainability concerns.

By End Use

Food & Beverage: Largest consumer segment, leveraging aluminium foil for food preservation and convenience.

Pharmaceuticals & Cosmetics: Growing adoption of high-barrier foils.

By Product Type

0.09 mm – 0.2 mm Foil: Most widely used due to its strength, flexibility, and barrier properties.

Ultra-Thin Foils: Increasingly preferred for lightweight applications.

Regional Insights

Asia Pacific: Market Leader

China & India drive market growth due to rapid urbanization and increasing e-commerce penetration.

Japan & South Korea lead in recycling infrastructure for aluminium foil-based packaging.

Growth of online grocery shopping and meal kit deliveries fuels demand.

India Aluminium Foil Packaging Market Trends

India is a high-growth market due to its large consumer base and increasing adoption of sustainable packaging solutions.

Growth in quick-service restaurants (QSRs) and food delivery services drives demand.

Local manufacturers adopt closed-loop recycling for aluminium foil packaging.

Source: https://www.towardspackaging.com/insights/aluminium-foil-packaging-market

[creatureindustry4u]

Batch Coding Machine: Revolutionizing Efficiency in Manufacturing

In today’s rapidly evolving manufacturing landscape, batch coding machines have become indispensable tools for businesses striving to maintain accuracy, efficiency, and compliance. These machines ensure that products are labeled with critical information, such as batch numbers, expiration dates, and barcodes, which is essential for both consumers and regulatory agencies. Below, we dive deep into the world of batch coding machines, exploring their types, functionalities, benefits, and how they are transforming industries worldwide.

What is a Batch Coding Machine?

A batch coding machine is a device designed to print or emboss essential information on products or packaging. This information includes manufacturing dates, expiration dates, batch numbers, and other identifiers that help track products throughout the supply chain. These machines are widely used across industries such as pharmaceuticals, food and beverages, cosmetics, and electronics.

With advancements in technology, batch coding machines now incorporate features like high-speed printing, automated adjustments, and error detection, making them more reliable and efficient than ever.

Types of Batch Coding Machines

1. Inkjet Batch Coding Machines

Inkjet printers are among the most common batch coding solutions. They use tiny nozzles to spray ink onto surfaces, creating clear and precise codes. These machines are suitable for high-speed production lines and can print on a variety of surfaces, including paper, plastic, glass, and metal.

Advantages:

High-speed printing

Suitable for various surfaces

Low maintenance requirements

2. Laser Batch Coding Machines

Laser coding machines use focused laser beams to etch information onto surfaces. These machines are ideal for industries requiring permanent and tamper-proof markings.

Advantages:

Permanent markings

No need for consumables like ink

Eco-friendly and cost-effective over time

3. Thermal Transfer Batch Coding Machines

Thermal transfer printers use heat to transfer ink from a ribbon onto the surface of a product or label. These machines are commonly used in industries where high-resolution printing is required.

Advantages:

High-quality prints

Ideal for flexible packaging

Durable codes resistant to smudging

4. Contact Coding Machines

Contact coders use a stamping mechanism to transfer ink onto a product. Though older than other methods, they are still used in industries where simplicity and cost-effectiveness are priorities.

Advantages:

Simple operation

Low initial cost

Reliable for low-volume production

Key Features of Modern Batch Coding Machines

1. Versatility

Modern batch coding machines are designed to handle a wide range of materials, including cardboard, plastic, glass, and metal. This versatility makes them suitable for diverse industries.

2. Integration with Production Lines

Advanced models can seamlessly integrate with production lines, ensuring that coding operations do not disrupt workflow.

3. User-Friendly Interfaces

Most machines now come equipped with touchscreen interfaces and intuitive software, allowing operators to easily adjust settings and monitor performance.

4. Compliance with Regulations

Batch coding machines ensure adherence to regulatory standards, such as those set by the FDA, ensuring that products meet legal requirements.

Benefits of Using Batch Coding Machines

1. Improved Traceability

Batch coding ensures that products can be tracked from production to distribution, which is critical for quality control and recall management.

2. Enhanced Brand Reputation

Accurate and professional-looking batch codes enhance the perceived quality of a product, boosting customer confidence and brand loyalty.

3. Cost Savings

By automating the coding process, manufacturers can reduce labor costs and minimize errors, leading to significant cost savings over time.

4. Increased Efficiency

Modern machines operate at high speeds and require minimal supervision, allowing businesses to optimize their production workflows.

Applications of Batch Coding Machines

1. Pharmaceutical Industry

In the pharmaceutical sector, batch coding is crucial for ensuring product safety and compliance. Machines print batch numbers, expiration dates, and barcodes on medicine bottles, blister packs, and cartons.

2. Food and Beverage Industry

Batch coding machines help maintain food safety by providing essential information, such as expiry dates and batch details, on packaging.

3. Electronics Industry

In the electronics industry, batch coding is used to label components with serial numbers and manufacturing details, ensuring proper assembly and quality control.

4. Cosmetics Industry

Batch coding machines play a vital role in labeling cosmetic products with lot numbers and expiration dates, meeting both consumer demands and regulatory requirements.

Choosing the Right Batch Coding Machine

When selecting a batch coding machine, consider the following factors:

Type of Material: Ensure the machine is compatible with the materials used in your products.

Production Speed: Choose a model that matches your production line’s output.

Budget: Factor in both initial costs and long-term operational expenses.

Regulatory Compliance: Opt for machines that meet industry-specific standards.

Ease of Use: Look for user-friendly features like touchscreen interfaces and automated adjustments.

Future Trends in Batch Coding Technology

1. AI Integration

Artificial Intelligence is being integrated into batch coding systems to enhance error detection and predictive maintenance.

2. Sustainability

Manufacturers are focusing on eco-friendly solutions, such as laser coding and biodegradable inks, to reduce their environmental impact.

3. IoT Connectivity

The Internet of Things (IoT) allows machines to be connected to central systems, enabling real-time monitoring and data analysis.

Conclusion

Batch coding machines are essential for modern manufacturing, offering unparalleled efficiency, accuracy, and compliance. By investing in the right batch coding solution, businesses can streamline their operations, enhance product traceability, and build consumer trust.

[cosmopacks]

10 Must-Know Trends in Skincare & Cosmetic Packaging for 2025

The skincare and cosmetic industry is changing fast. Packaging trends show what customers want: sustainable, innovative, and practical options. This guide shows the top 10 trends that are changing cosmetic packaging's future helping brands stay competitive.

1. Green Cosmetic Packaging

Being eco-friendly is still the main focus. Green cosmetic packaging, like recycled bottles and materials that break down , is becoming more popular. Brands are choosing:

Post-Consumer Resin (PCR): This recycled plastic has less impact on the environment.

Materials That Break Down: Bamboo and PLA offer green options.

Simple Designs: Using less material matches what eco-aware customers value.

2. Airless Bottles to Protect Products

Airless bottles have a revolutionary effect on skincare packaging. These containers shield products from air exposure, which keeps them effective and extends their shelf life. They offer these advantages:

Better product protection.

Exact dosing with little waste.

Perfect for delicate formulas like serums and creams.

3. Custom Packaging Options

Brands stress uniqueness through tailored packaging. Choices include:

Unique Shapes and Sizes: Fitting product needs.

New Printing Methods: Screen printing and embossing to brand products.

Color Matching: Using Pantone color scaling to ensure consistency.

4. New Surface Finishing Techniques

Packaging looks play a key role in drawing customers. Popular finishes include:

Glossy and Matte Coatings: To create a high-end appearance.

Metallic Finishes: To add a hint of elegance.

Soft-Touch Textures: To offer a special feel.

5. Compact and Travel-Friendly Designs

As people live more on-the-move, they want small easy-to-carry packaging. Features include:

Leak-Proof Designs: To ensure easy transport.

Multi-Use Containers: To blend usefulness and ease.

Lightweight Materials: To boost usability.

6. Integration of Smart Packaging

Tech is causing a revolution in cosmetic packaging. Smart packaging features include:

QR Codes: They link to product info or tutorials.

Temperature Indicators: They ensure proper product storage.

NFC Technology: It enables interactive brand experiences.

7. Refillable and Reusable Containers

Refillable packaging is eco-friendly and saves money. Examples include:

Refill Pods: They cut down on waste while staying convenient.

Reusable Jars and Bottles: They promote sustainable consumer habits.

Subscription Models: They offer refills to loyal customers.

8. Luxury Packaging for Premium Brands

High-end skincare and cosmetic brands invest in luxury packaging to mirror their brand image. Key elements include:

Glass and Acrylic Materials: These exude elegance.

Intricate Detailing: This enhances the unboxing experience.

Sophisticated Branding: This involves simple yet striking designs.

9. Versatile Product Lines

Versatility in packaging allows brands to meet different consumer needs. Examples include:

Multi-Functional Tubes: These work for many skincare products.

Dual-Compartment Containers: These hold matching products.

Adjustable Pumps: These give controlled dispensing.

10. Commitment to Social Responsibility

Customers now value brands that focus on social responsibility more. Packaging that shows ethical practices includes:

Recycled Materials: Showing care for the environment.

Clear Labels: Helping buyers learn about sustainability.

Team-ups with Good Causes: Boosting brand image.

Why Pick Cosmopacks for Your Packaging?

Cosmopacks leads these trends offering new, green, and adaptable packaging answers. As a reliable cosmetic packaging maker with over eight years in the field, we give you:

Top-notch Quality: Ensuring products last and work well.

Cutting-edge Tech: Using machines to get things right.

Earth-friendly Choices: Backing your brand's green aims.

Check out our broad selection of packaging options such as cosmetic bottles, tubes, jars, and airless containers. Get in touch with us at Cosmopacks to boost your brand's packaging and be at the forefront in 2025.

FAQs

1. What does eco-friendly cosmetic packaging mean?

Eco-friendly cosmetic packaging uses materials and designs that reduce harm to the environment. This includes recycled plastics, materials that break down like bamboo, and packaging you can reuse or recycle .

2. What makes airless bottles so common in skincare packaging?

Airless bottles enjoy popularity due to their ability to shield products from air exposure, which keeps them effective and lengthens their shelf life. They also allow for exact dispensing reducing waste.

3. Can I customize my cosmetic packaging with Cosmopacks?

Yes, Cosmopacks gives you many options to customize, including specific shapes, sizes, colors, and printing methods. We team up with brands to make packaging that shows their identity and values.

4. What materials are used in luxury cosmetic packaging?

Luxury cosmetic packaging often uses high-end materials like glass, acrylic, and metal. These materials provide strength and a classy look.

5. How does refillable packaging benefit the environment?

Reusable packaging helps cut down on waste by letting people use containers more than once. This way, we make less single-use plastic and support buying habits that are better for the planet.

6. What makes Cosmopacks a reliable packaging supplier?

Cosmopacks has earned trust over eight years offering top-notch, fresh, and green packaging answers. Our cutting-edge tech, options to customize, and focus on customer care make us stand out.

7. How can smart packaging enhance the customer experience?

Smart packaging uses tech like QR codes and NFC tags to give more product details how-to guides, or fun brand experiences. This adds worth and gets consumers more involved.

8. What are the MOQ requirements for Cosmopacks' products?

Cosmopacks has flexible minimum order quantities (MOQs), which start at 5,000 units. We can adjust the MOQ to meet the specific needs of startups.

9. How does Cosmopacks ensure the quality of its packaging?

We follow strict quality control processes and hold certifications like ISO and FDA compliance. Our automated production lines guarantee consistency and accuracy in every product.

10. Can Cosmopacks support sustainable brand initiatives?

Of course! Cosmopacks focuses on eco-friendly packaging solutions, including recycled materials and sustainable designs. We assist brands to align their packaging with their environmental objectives.

[chromaprint]

Pressure Sensitive Labels

Pressure Sensitive Labels

Pressure Sensitive Labels are pre gummed labels available in roll form to be used in a label applicator machine or applied by hand. There are many kinds of pressure sensitive labels such as paper, film, transparent (no look), speciality materials depending on the product and industry. Pressure Sensitive label is one of the most common product decorations for FMCG, Beverages, Spirits and Pharmaceutical industries. Pressure Sensitive labels can be applied on all types of plastic and metal containers, PET and Glass bottles, paper and laminated pouches. Roll Form Pressure Sensitive labels are manufactured in Flexo printing machines and for short quantities they are produced in Digital printing machines. Various embellishments such as spot coating, Hot foil, Embossing and thermo-reactive print are possible on pressure sensitive labels.

Types

Foil labels

No- look labels

Metallic labels

Color Changing labels

Double Side printed labels

Benefits of

Pressure Sensitive Labels

Highly decorative graphics are possible on these labels with multiple embellishments.

Clean finish of the applied labels on the bottle or jar. There are no excess gum leaking from poor application and the alignment of label to the bottle is straight on all the bottles.

No need to invest in complicated equipment to apply labels

No skilled operators needed to apply these labels and savings in man power costs involved in label application quality checks and correction

Numerous substrates options such as paper, plastic and clear films are available in these labels.

[irisyaps]

on routinely love

I knew there would come a day where this would fall apart. you remove your shirt, the tesserae buttons gleam in the dim hue of the mood lamp we bought on one of our weekend's together, the cheap polyester clings on the rusty hanger with paint that chips away, the one we fight about every Thursday when you forget to do the laundry again. we set into routine like clockwork, I stand by the window with my tea, you sit on my favourite chair, the pillow you embossed with my initials under your feet, the volume of the TV a little too loud for my liking, but I make do. I ask you if you've eaten, you pull your head away for a moment to look at me, and sigh. I think your bones are a bit too heavy, and the weight of growing together shows in the way your skin sags and folds. I have memorised every frown and freckle on your face, the way your neck curves, the way your body jerks before you heave a sigh that signals the onset of another vague empty answer. the glass of kokum that I despise is condensing on the table, the smell so putrid and sour, I can't help but open the window. bustling crowds that are winding down from the rush hour blast through the crummy alleyway, mulling in with the TV, the ice in your sharbat sloshes around as you take a sip, and I can hear the washing machine beep. it's a Thursday. my hunger dissipated a while ago, and I pretend that I have eaten. we get into bed, your nails rake my shoulder mindlessly as you scroll, the candle in the corner of the room shines as your face contorts. must've been another headline. I can see your eyelashes, they flutter as you breathe through your nose, your lips pulled taught on one end, as your cheeks twitch every now and then to push your glasses back up your nose. I can't help but feel so defeated tonight, the tears eventually soak your shirt and you sigh and put your phone on the nightstand and turn to hold my head. there's not much to be said, you call me Jaana, and tell me to sleep. the promise of a better tomorrow was something that you stopped making a while ago, and I know why. we lay there, you pick your phone back up, and I keep crying. I tell you I miss you. you reply that you're right here, and I laugh with mirth that clogs my throat. I ask you to stay, and you do. I ask you to love me for one more night, and you nod. I knew there would come a day where this would fall apart, but I don't have it in me to pick up the pieces tonight.

[mounishamarketing]

Engraving and Ornamentation Works That Define Elegance in Dubai

Engraving and Ornamentation Works That Define Elegance

Engraving and ornamentation have long been admired for their ability to transform ordinary objects into extraordinary works of art. In bustling cities like Dubai and Sharjah, the demand for exquisite engraving and ornamentation services has surged, reflecting the region's appreciation for beauty and craftsmanship. This article delves into the fascinating world of engraving and ornamentation, highlighting its origins, tools, techniques, and modern applications.

Introduction: Unveiling the Craft

Engraving and ornamentation are ancient arts that have evolved over centuries. From intricate designs on metal and wood to delicate patterns on glass and stone, these crafts bring out the beauty in various materials. Today, advanced technologies like laser engraving and CNC machines have revolutionized the industry, making it possible to achieve precision and detail like never before.

Origins and Evolution

The history of engraving dates back to prehistoric times when early humans carved designs into bones and stones. As civilizations advanced, so did the techniques and tools used for engraving. Ancient Egyptians, Greeks, and Romans used engraving to create stunning jewelry, weapons, and decorative items. Over the centuries, engraving techniques spread across the world, influencing art and culture in various regions.

Tools of the Trade

Modern engraving relies on a range of sophisticated tools, each designed for specific materials and techniques. Some of the essential tools include:

Engraving Machine: A versatile tool for various materials.

Laser Engraving Machine: Ideal for precision work on metal, wood, glass, and plastic.

CNC Engraving Machine: Used for detailed and complex designs.

Hand Engraving Tools: Traditional tools for intricate, manual work.

Etching Machine: Used for creating detailed designs on metal and glass.

Techniques and Styles

Engraving techniques have diversified, each offering unique aesthetic qualities. Some popular techniques include:

Laser Engraving: Utilizes laser technology to engrave precise designs on various materials, including metal, wood, glass, and plastic.

Etching: Involves using acid or other chemicals to create designs on metal or glass surfaces.

CNC Engraving: Employs computer-controlled machines to produce intricate patterns and designs.

Hand Engraving: A traditional method using manual tools for a more personalized touch.

Engraving in Different Materials

Engraving is a versatile craft that can be applied to a wide range of materials:

Metal Engraving: Common for jewelry, watches, and decorative items.

Wood Engraving: Popular for custom furniture, plaques, and art pieces.

Glass Engraving: Used for trophies, awards, and personalized gifts.

Stone Engraving: Ideal for monuments, memorials, and decorative art.

Ornamentation: Beauty in Details

Ornamentation adds a layer of beauty and sophistication to engraved items. This involves adding decorative elements, such as filigree work, inlays, and embossing, to enhance the visual appeal. In Dubai and Sharjah, ornamentation services are highly sought after for their ability to elevate the elegance of everyday objects and architectural elements.

Modern Applications and Innovations

The advent of modern technology has significantly expanded the applications of engraving and ornamentation. Today, these crafts are used in various industries, including:

Jewelry Design: Creating personalized and intricate jewelry pieces.

Interior Design: Enhancing home and office decor with custom engraved furniture and decorative items.

Corporate Gifts: Producing unique and memorable corporate awards and gifts.

Fashion: Adding unique designs to accessories and apparel.

Preserving Heritage

While modern techniques have revolutionized engraving, preserving traditional methods is equally important. Many artisans in Dubai and Sharjah continue to use age-old techniques, ensuring that the heritage and cultural significance of engraving and ornamentation are maintained.

Professional Engraving Services in Dubai and Sharjah

For those looking to experience the finest engraving and ornamentation services, Aafiyah Technical Services offers exceptional craftsmanship in Dubai and Sharjah. Their expertise covers a wide range of materials and techniques, ensuring that every project is executed with precision and elegance.

Visit their website for more information: Aafiyah Technical Services.

Conclusion

Engraving and ornamentation are timeless crafts that continue to captivate with their intricate beauty and precision. From ancient techniques to modern innovations, these arts have evolved, offering endless possibilities for personalization and elegance. In Dubai and Sharjah, professional services like Aafiyah Technical Services are at the forefront, providing high-quality engraving and ornamentation that define elegance.

Whether you seek to enhance your home decor, create personalized gifts, or add a touch of sophistication to your business, the art of engraving and ornamentation offers the perfect solution. Embrace the beauty of these crafts and explore the myriad of possibilities they present.

[vinceaddams]

Alright! Here's what we've got!! (Excluding the garbagiest garbage)

So many plastic buttons, so so grimy. Washed my hands several times and will wash all the buttons later.

I'm going to donate most of them (my button stash is big enough already and I don't often use plastic ones) but I will go through and choose some to keep. I'm really loving all the different green shades.

They're of wildly varying ages and qualities, and of course some of the older ones were disintegrating in various disgustingly textured ways and had to be thrown out.

A few metal buttons. There were more that were also gross and corroding, some in a green way and some in a rusty way, and these were the only not completely awful ones.

Some mother of pearl buttons, and a lot of these seem to be... also degrading in a gross textured way?? I have never seen mother of pearl do that. Maybe they were stored in an acidic environment, or maybe some gunk from something else got on them? I'll try washing them.

Some leather and wooden buttons, and a few non-disgusting fabric covered ones. (There were many more fabric covered ones that were rusty)

The little slanty ended ones are cute, but their shanks are very thin wire that's also very rusty, so I think they'll have to go. But I wanted them to be in the photo anyways.

The two biggest wooden buttons have the statue of liberty embossed on them.

I wonder what they were originally attached to.

8 glass beads, a glass stud with a yucky corroded green back, and a mother of pearl stud with a yucky rusted back. A tiny spiky buckle, 2 broken jewellery bits, a dangly wooden doodad, and 4 buttons that I think came off button boots. I'm quite sure the black one did, at least.

Glass buttons! Yay!! Much better luck here that with the MOP ones, which is the reverse of how it usually is. Those 3 little blue ones are doing one of my least favourite button things though, which is when one has a perfectly pristine metal back and another has a very oxidized one. Perhaps I can polish it.

Also look!

look at the little bird!

Instructions on setting invisible zippers from 1969, a crochet, knitting, tatting, and embroidery book from 1952, and a packet of mostly ugly Artex embroidery transfers.

Here, I reversed this one so you can read it.

I don't know what decade these are from, but I feel like maybe 60's or 70's? What the heck is ratfink??

2.8 metres of tatted lace, 2 small plain white cotton scraps, a crudely made hat shaped needle book, and Ethel why would you do that? Why would you print your name in a random spot on two handkerchiefs? If you're not going to embroider a monogram you could have at least centred it nicely on a corner, or put it along an edge.

Most of the thread was really awful quality, but there were a few nice ones, and some wooden spools! The two bottom spools were also fuzzy garbage, but I just wanted to include them in the photo because the ends look like radiation symbols.

It's a bit hard to read, but I think this spool says "mom hates her little children" :(

Several of the other spools had scribbling on them.

Seam binding, hand sewing needles, a bodkin, machine needles, and a plastic fork thingy. When I saw the handle I thought it was an awl, but it has two points so I'm stumped. Is it for eating fancy little snacks?

Safety pins and danger pins (and rusty extra danger pins which I put in my sharps disposal) as well as a few tacks and small nails. A broken floral brooch made of tiny seashells glued together, 4 links of a chain, 8 tiny metal balls and one big one, and a marble.

And of course a square glass container with a lid! I don't know what things I will put in it yet, but I will certainly put some things.

Belt tool connector thingy, 4 plastic buckles and one metal one. (slightly rusty but also slightly sparkly. Cheaply made fake cut steel.) An embroidered patch, a seashell, and more pins and needles in prescription bottles for two different people, neither of whom is Ethel.

Three very dull pairs of scissors, a cork, 3 bobbins which I think will fit my Singer but I haven't tried yet, a tracing wheel, two machine parts, a screwdriver, a board game piece, chalk, and a couple of mystery metal bits.

A wristwatch box with a single skein of embroidery floss.

Parent pencils named "EAGLE Verithin Dark Green" and "Says "Think Fire Prevention"", with their darling baby pencil, "Mini Frie".

4 snaps, more than 4 hook and eye closures, and a zipper so old the packaging calls it a Slide Fastener. And it was made in Canada!

An intriguing torn corner with a lot of "omit" and "deduct" on it, 4 puzzle pieces, a luggage tag, a sports ticket from 1989, a doctor's appointment, and a child with a bad haircut.

Make your own covered belt, buckle, and buttons! I'll save these until I find a good home for them.

I had thought this bag was old tissue paper, but no! It's little square scarves!

The fleshy mesh one in the upper right looks newer & coarser quality and is cut in half diagonally, but I'm pretty sure the three on the left are silk, and the red one appears to be one of those 50's nylon ones I've heard The Closet Historian talk about a few times.

I will also set these aside and someday find them a good home. They're too small for me to wear as cravats, but there must be some vintage ladies out there who want them.

Ok that's everything! Thank you for coming on this adventure with me!

Just grabbed this box of stuff from the free junk pile at an estate sale and I'm about to have the BEST afternoon! I will update you on the treasures later!