#kevlar tubing

[tiptopcomposites]

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[juridical-angel-blog]

Batman ''The Dark Knight'' True Heir of Ra's-Al-Ghul and his Sect of Shadows or League of Assassins also in the Arrowverse with the advanced prototype of the Kevlar BatSuit reinforced with compressed nano tubes held together by the Kryptonian alloy!

[mothsparksghost]

Life is Fickle, Life is Short, But Never Should it Be That Short

TW's: Major character death(s), faked deaths, suicide, mentions of suicide, heavy angst (with some comfort), Violence, Kidnapping

Batman had been off world for almost two months now. He, along with the Lanterns, had gone to aid in gaining Earth a new political alley if they were ever to be attacked by something the Leagues couldn't handle.

Safe to say, Batman was ready to go home and have a makeup family dinner. The mission had gone on longer then any of them could have predicted, and so he had to miss the last dinner they had. Bruce was actually quite sad about that, he loved when all of his family was in one room even if he never vocalized it.

So after finally docking the JL's space craft, Bruce and co. quickly scrambled out of the ship, ready to fill out the necessary forms and get to their respective families and friends. Immediately though Bruce could tell something was off.

The landing, which at least would have someone there to greet them, was empty.

Hackles raised, Batman quickly signaled to the Lanterns with him that something was wrong. When he didn't hear at least some shuffling from them, he turned to the unusually silent men. They were all looking at their respective coms. Some had wide eyes, others mouths were hanging. They looked shocked, scared, even. Batman did not like that.

At all.

"What are you all looking at?" the demand rang out, causing the group to flinch as if they expected a demon to bust down the door and shred them to pieces. With glances, they collectively shoved Hal out as if choosing a sacrificial lamb for a wolves dinner. Batman narrowed his eyes in discomfort.

Hal said nothing, just slowly approached the kevlar clad man. Holding out his coms screen, Batman finally got a look at what they were all horrified of.

!ATTENTION! All Leaguers To Justice Hall For The Combined Funerals Of: Agent A, Nightwing, Redhood, Red Robin, Spoiler, Black Bat, Oracle, Signal, and Robin, At-

Deftly, Batman stared down at the message.

He felt numb.

So numb.

And then.

Rage.

Rage at not immediately being told.

Rage at not immediately being pulled from the mission.

Rage at the entirety of the Justice League for having a funeral without even telling him.

Rage at not being there to protect his family from what had killed them.

And then, it clicked! It must be an elaborate, very, very, misguided prank. After all, Superman wouldn't let his family die! He'd hear the struggle, the fading heart beats, the screams for help.

HE'D HEAR THOSE!

Wonder Woman would have helped them as well! She had been given one of the few bat distress signals! They'd have pressed the button and she would've come running!

SHE SHOULD'VE COME RUNNING!

The League would have noticed!

THEY WOULD HAVE NOTICED!

So obviously it was a prank! A stupid, horrible attempt at getting him to cut back on work! That was it!

And with those thoughts, Bruce went sprinting down to the Zeta Tubes and teleported to the Justice Hall.

When he finally got there, it was decked out in black. Silly them, it seems as if he needed to go over what the Leagues bank cards should be used for again!

Silly, silly, silly.

Bursting through doors, he finally found the main hall.

With the entirety of the Justice League. Dark, Young Justice, the Titians, everyone.

And would you look at that! They were all wearing black! Silly them! Didn't they know that all black was meant for the Bats?

Scanning the room filled with people, with heroes, he didn't see his children or not children or even his father. Not a single one. Whipping around, he came face to face with 9 caskets.

9 photos.

9 pieces of his family.

Suddenly, Batman felt a heavy but gentle hand land on his shoulder. He would develop whiplash if he kept this up. The hand was connected to a Superman. To Clark. To a sad Clark. A guilty looking Clark.

Why was he looking guilty?

"B, I'm so sorry." Salty tears flitted down the man of steel's face.

But Bruce didn't care.

Because all too soon, he realized, it wasn't a prank.

It was real.

And he couldn't handle it anymore. He couldn't handle it at all.

Quicker then anyone there thought he was capable of, he whipped out that small piece of Kryptonite and decked Superman. It was an all out brawl between him and the Leaguers after that. And he wasn't the one loosing.

So he decided, 'Fuck it, fuck it all,' and left the Leaguers with bruises and new scars when the younger Leaguers asked him to stop.

He then Zeta Tubed his way to the Bat Cave. To the smoke filled, ashy rooms.

Everything was offline, everything was silent, everything was dead.

Climbing up the elevator shaft, he reached what should have been the manor. Instead it was a desolate waste land of ashes, burned wood, and silence. Well, almost desolate.

A single safe stood out in the wreckage. And in quick order, wielding something that he never thought he would, Bruce joined his children.

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

"Fuck! FUCK!" Superman shouted at the new funeral. One that wasn't ever meant to supposed to happen. But was a funeral ever meant to happen, ever expected? The man stared the rare photo of a smiling Batman. Of an alive Batman. Of an alive Bruce.

Tears ran hot down his face like molten lava, even as he heard the rest of the Leaguers joining him in his sorrow. He had went and tried to find Bruce after being knocked out, and only found his cooling corpse instead.

Supermans thoughts were interrupted when a bang, not all to unfamiliar, sounded out. Whipping his head up, he thought he was hallucinating. Because standing there were 9 dead people.

9 people who should have been dead.

"YO, where's B? We gotta debrief him on what happened-" Nightwings rambling got cut off as he looked just beyond Clark.

The others soon looked, and then the screams started.

"WHAT! NO! WHERE IS HE?"

"B, THIS ISN'T FUCKING FUNNY!"

"YOU UTTER BITCHES, YOU THINK THIS SHIT'S FUNNY?"

"DAD?! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

The wails of anguish filled the hall as the Leaguers surrounded them, trying their best to comfort the Bats as much as they can.

"What happened? Where were all of you?" Wonder Womans voice rang out above the quiet mummers and piercing wails. Alfred took it upon himself to explain, even if the wobbling voice hurt those surrounding him to hear.

"We were kidnapped by a rogue organization that figured out our identities. They were after Batman originally, but decided that the best way to get revenge was to torture all of us. They created clones, proceeded to slowly kidnap us one by one, until they eventually burned down the mansion with the husks inside."

And didn't that just make it so much more painful?

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

He was floating.

He didn't know where he was.

He just was.

But he felt wrong.

He needed to do something.

Something to protect.

Not something, someone.

Multiple someones.

He needed to protect those dear to him.

He needed to protect his family.

His family.

Where was his family?

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

With a sudden sharpness, a shadowy mass with flashes of grey skin opened its eyes. The eyes of the creature were pure white, and as it rose it's head, two horns became visible. It looked at where it woke up, surrounded in a cave system that pulsed with different colors, but blues being the most prominent.

Slowly, it got its bearings back to itself.

He knew he was dead.

But he also knew with a pulse of something, that his family wasn't.

And just like that, he was at two ornate doors, as big as the old manors door. He grabbed one handle with a clawed hand, pulling the surprisingly light door open. A vortex of green met his eyes.

All around was green.

He needed to fly.

He knew it should be impossible for him, but he didn't care, he needed to find his family.

To protect his family.

So with a flap of massive bat wings, he was off, looking for something.

That something turned out to be a giant, glowing, gothic castle. He quickly landed, hurdling through giant doors.

Soon enough, he met the one he knew would help. One that felt similar to him.

"̸̮͔̗̀̾̈́̕H̶̯̩̫̬͗̅̒̃͜ë̶̼́̆̿̿̒l̴̢̫͓̱̜̎p̷̻̩̻͇̯̞͌̅́̕ ̶͖̯͔̟̀̋̆͘m̶͉̹̳̯͑e̸̲̾ ̷͙̥̫̦̙̕f̶̡͎͈̾̾͋̓̐̀i̸̞̻͍̎̾͊n̷̰̻̮͓̤̆̄̾͒̅ͅd̷̢̦̩̓ ̴̞̼͈̦͕͛͊̚ṭ̵͖̂̂͗̔̾h̸̡͍̖̣̻͚̓͒̾͝ḙ̶̮́͛̇̎͘̚m̸̛̱̎̋̐̔͠,̷̧̰͕̤̬̝̑̚͝ ̴̹̃p̶̢̥͙̈́ͅļ̵͙̜̫͍̊̋̉̓ͅé̵͙͔̟̇ă̷̺͈̏̓͝s̵̙͖̣͔̔̊͆̍͘ȅ̵͇̍͒̚͝.̴̢̰̗͍̮̳̀̌̕ ̴̳͉̩̬̿̊̃͘Î̴͉̺̰̯̫̊̅͘ ̷̻͉͙̈́͛̍̀n̵͕̯̖̤͉̹̔͐̅̃̓̕e̷̡͉͕̖̅͆̊ē̷͇̊d̵̢̥̜̹̮͑͌͌͆͝ͅ ̶͕̫̿̈́̈́͝͠ẗ̵̪́̊ó̷̝̜̀̀͊͝ ̶̨͇͓͖̞̄ͅṕ̴̨̬̗͚̤́̔ŕ̷͚̐̊͆́̒ơ̵̰̜̭͙͒͑̒͐t̷͕̖͖̝̥̙̾́̕͝e̸̡̞͎͉͈͒͋̎͛c̴͉̘̔t̶̢͚̖̮͈̟͒̅ ̵̞̯̘̮̤̄͊͑̔t̵̡̪̭̜̟̕h̷̟̀e̷̟͊͜m̸̳̒͑̀́.̸̨̮͈͈̺̺̌̓̎̊̏̃"̵̺͚̰̹̗̃

And the Ancient made of cosmos, with flowing white hair, never ending green eyes, crowned with stars, ice and aurora's, agreed.

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

They were being beat by that same damned organization that cost them their colleague, their mentor, their friend, their father.

And they were all loosing.

Everyone was preoccupied with something, whether it was Kryptonite suits, incoming hoards of androids, or rogue powers spilling out. Flashes, bangs, and screams from all sides filled the air.

It was looking like the Leaguers were going to die.

The Bats, who should still be benched due to the traumatic and catastrophic events done by them, were not holding back. Blood was being spilt by all of them. The no killing rule was shot with a single bullet to the head.

So they didn't hold back, not at all.

But it still wasn't enough.

And they were loosing.

They were bleeding.

They were going to die.

And then the sky opened up, a massive vortex made up of glowing greens filled the sky. It reminded those who knew of them, of the Lazarus pits. But the fighting didn't stop. Oh no.

It only stopped when they came through.

A massive, humanoid being made of swirling galaxies with an infinite number of glowing green eyes and what could be considered a halo of floating white hair. Atop its head was a crown of equal proportion made of icy rods with stars twinkling weaved through an aurora pulsing around it all. It was terrifyingly beautiful.

And then, another one came out. This one was different, but oh so familiar looking.

It was as if a living shadow took shape, sucking in all of the light. It had two horns that stabbed through the air, with clawed hands and feet resembling the many gargoyles around Gotham. It's massive wings were pulled back, allowing for what little color, yellows, to peak through. It had a long, slender, spiked tail ending in a sharp looking diamond. Its hair, or what would have been hair, looked like it was slowly melting off, sliding onto what little grey flesh could be seen. It eyes were a pure, glowing white, and only when it opened its mouth, that too many fangs, not teeth, could be seen.

It was terrifying.

It was comforting.

And suddenly, shadowy ice spikes rose from the ground, impaling the ones trying to end the Leaguers.

The Bats.

After that, it was soon known that the Big Bad Bat was back.

And he was different.

H̵̢̜͇̩͙͊̓͐́ͅê̷̫̬͓͖͎̒̈́́̂̚͝ͅ ̷̧̟̝̟͖̭̪̬̪͇͙͝K̵̬͕͓̗̀̽̒̽̄i̴̦̪͒̇̿̑̄̀͝l̶̢̧̻̮̗̰͕̹̼͈͉̏ͅl̴̥̮̙̯͔͈̉̀͆̑͐͘̕ē̸̢̳̘͑̐̿̃͂͐͐͒͝d̶̨͍̬̗̦͈̙̩̰̍͐͑̌̆̃͜͝͠.̷̢̝̜̖͎̟̣́͗̍̌̂͑͒̌̌̔͜

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

srry, this got away from me lol. Anyways lemme know what you think of it :} Have any questions? Please ask! Just know it might take a little while for me to answer. Any criticisms? Welcomed as long as they are constructive!

[julesthequirky]

The Choice: Chapter Eight

All my work is purely aimed at those 18+ so minors kindly, DNI.

Summary: You find three of your favourite characters in your home. It shouldn’t be possible, but there they are. In the flesh. How the hell did they get there? And surely there’s a way to get them back? But as you get close to each one, the thought of sending them back proves difficult to comprehend.

Characters/Pairings: Fem!Reader, Dean, Beau and Ben (Soldier Boy)

Warnings: Language, typical Soldier Boy behaviour, angst, dashed dreams, mental breakdown.

W/C: 1,628

You were mad, upset, disappointed, frustrated by the lot of them. Ben sometimes acted like a child, which was ridiculous for a guy older than your grandpa. Dean and Beau had messed up, but for some damn reason, they wouldn’t apologise. They both got along like a house on fire, and you felt like you'd be constantly telling them to take Ben along with whatever the Hell they were up to, like a mother to her older sons. It was stupid and ridiculous. You weren’t a mother to any of them, and you’d be damned if you were gonna act like it.

The store was bustling, and people got in your way as you searched for Ben. He could be anywhere, which was sure. He could have even left. The thought filled with dread and panic, and hoping against all the odds, you rushed around the store like a headless chicken.

A blur of forest green caught your eye as you returned to the store’s clothing section. You'd recognise his Kevlar vested back anywhere and rushed over. He stood drinking whiskey and staring at baby clothes. Oh, fuck. Something about his demeanour put a bad feeling in your stomach.

“Ben?”

You reached out and touched his wrist. He didn’t pull away. He took another swig. You were gonna have to pay for that. Was he drunk? You didn’t know, but he probably was well on his way.

“I wanted kids. Not a lot, just a few. Two or three rugrats to call my own. I woulda raised ‘em right, too. Turns out that little shithead, Homelander, is mine, but he ain’t really, is he? He’s just a load of spunk I splurted into a test tube. An experiment. If he really was my kid, he wouldn’t be a needy little pussy crying for everyone’s attention. I mean, he wears a cape, for Christ’s sake. A fucking disappointment.”

“Ben.” You tugged his wrist gently to get him out of this kind of stupor he was in.

“I deserve some respect. I deserve to have a kid that’s not a fucking disgrace. I deserve fucking loyalty,”

He turned to you.

“And you let those doppelganger dipshits take the piss outta me. You didn’t do anything.”

The sudden turn of blame gave you whiplash.

“I—I didn’t. I didn’t know, Ben. You know that. We were together.”

He aggressively pointed a finger at your chest, disgust evident on his face.

“Fuck you, Y/N. You were more disappointed with them. I saw it in your face. It’s only cause you wanna get pounded into the next life by that floppy-haired sheriff and that hair-brained hunter. And fuck you for expecting me to react the way I did.”

His attack left you speechless, almost gasping for breath. Your mouth opened and closed multiple times, floundering to grasp words. Anything.

“You’re weak and pathetic, and I can see why your husband left you.”

You winced, physically afflicted by his cutting tongue. Emotion expanded in your chest as if the wind was knocked out. Tears stung the corners of your eyes, threatening to escape. You couldn’t cry. Not now. It meant he had won, but fuck you were struggling to keep it together. He had struck a raw nerve.

“Fuck you,” The words came shuddering out. “You don’t know anything about me.”

You sucked in a breath, feeling as though not enough went to your lungs. He stood there and took another swig from the bottle, a grimace on his lips as he stared you out.

“Trouble in paradise?”

That voice, that all too familiar smarmy voice. Your knees almost buckled, and the tears almost spilt over, but you remained strong. Oh, fuck. Things were about to go from bad to worse. You shuddered in another breath and tried to control the emotions rampaging inside.

Your ex, Mark, stood, shopping basket in hand. The worst thing was that he looked absolutely dashing as usual. Blonde hair combed and coiffed, immaculate blue eyes that always made your heart race. Or used to. Now, they made you avert your gaze. He reminded you of an assholish Chris Evans.

Seeing him brought up resentment, sadness, shame, hurt, and many other emotions. Your chest tightened. You didn’t need this now. Not when you were already feeling kicked down.

“You’re crazier than I thought. Getting your…uh boyfriend to dress up as that guy from that TV show.”

Damn it. Damn it. Damn, it! Ben wasn’t your new boyfriend, but Mark didn’t know that, and before you could tell him, he spoke again.

“Do you just date doppelgangers now?”

“No…”

God, he made you feel so inferior.

“Turns her on to no end when I do.”

Your neck swivelled so fast to Ben, who was now playing the perfect boyfriend. All charm, smirking, with no sign of the anger and hurt he had displayed a moment ago towards you.

He stepped closer, touched your shoulder, and squeezed gently.

Mark leant on one side, cocking his head.

“Hang on, your mother never said you were dating anyone. In fact, I know because she keeps wanting to set you up with Cole.”

Your jaw tensed. Mark still kept in contact with your mother. Figures. The two always got along, and when you told your mother of your divorce, she was more broken up about him not being her son-in-law than your broken relationship with Mark.

“I don’t talk to her that often.” You said in a clipped tone.

“You should. She and your dad—”

“Not my dad.” You interjected.

The sharp bite of your nails dug into the skin of your palms as you felt the anger bottle and build.

“They want you over for dinner. And why don’t you bring your new guy.”

“What a great idea!” Ben cut in, wrapping an arm around you and pulling you closer. He honestly had some nerve.

“I’ll let her know.”

Mark pulled out his phone, and you watched his thumbs fly across the on-screen keyboard, typing a message to your mother.

“She and your dad will be so excited.”

“Hey! Fuck nugget! Didn't you hear her say he wasn't her dad!"

Mark jumped as Ben barked at him. A slight smile curved your lips at seeing Mark lose that unflappableness, even just for a second.

“Darling, did you get the baby grows?”

A female voice trilled down the aisle. Mark turned, and so did you. The slight smile left your face. The anger dissipated. A heaviness slowly took over your whole body.

The woman walking towards Mark was heavily pregnant.

Your ears rang, your head tingled, and dizziness had you closing your eyes, trying to regain your balance and equilibrium. You didn’t hear Mark as he introduced his girlfriend. When you opened your eyes, she was smiling, radiant, a picture of perfect health. Of course, it hadn’t bypassed you that she was younger than you. No, everything about her and their relationship was a massive punch to the gut, and you couldn’t take your eyes off the way she protectively rested her hand on her belly.

Fuck. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. Thank God Ben had his arm around you because you felt like at any moment your knees would buckle and you’d crumble to the floor. If that happened, you knew you’d lose any ounce of emotional strength and break down crying.

A pair of fingers snapping in your face got your attention. They were Ben’s. You pushed his hand away and began focusing on your breathing. In. Then out. Fuck. You couldn’t do this.

“Hey, is there any chance you still have those baby clothes? I mean…you won’t be needing them.”

Wooooow.

You stared at Mark, brows pinching together. He had returned back to his usual smug self. What right did he have to ask of that? They were a gift. A visual reminder of a rapidly dwindling dream. And it hit you. He implied that you were too old to even get pregnant. Which wasn’t true. At least, you hoped.

He had shattered your dreams of having a baby. Tore the carpet right up from under your feet. He hadn’t wanted a baby with you, but rather with someone else. Pain lashed across your chest, and you turned away from them. Beau and Dean stood from afar with the cart, watching. How much had they seen? Had they even heard?

You pushed yourself free of Ben’s grip. Nausea churned like a nasty swirling vortex in your stomach. Head ringing, heart racing, you forced yourself out. Time slowed, and every step felt like you were wading in sludge.

The automatic doors finally opened, and you rushed out, stumbling, shaking. You tripped and fell, bashing your knee on the bench. You howled like a baby before retching into the bin.

A hand touched your shoulder quickly. You swatted it away before it returned again, this time to remain. A low, soothing voice filtered past the ringing. Your hair was gently pulled back, fingers massaging your head as you coughed and spluttered up bile.

Shaking, you curled, hands balled to your ears. The pain in your chest wouldn’t go away, the tears wouldn’t stop, and you didn’t think you could stop them either. Big, heavy, ugly, full chest heaving sobs wracked your body.

Arms wrapped around you, pulling you into them, tight, shielding you from the nosy crowds. A hand curled around the back of your head, pushing you into a strong chest. You gripped the soft material of their jacket with all the strength you had. That same deep, soothing voice filtered into your ears.

Ben was right. You were weak. You were pathetic.

You weren’t good enough to make a baby with. You weren’t young enough. You just weren’t enough.

Tags: @yvonneeeee, @curlycarley, @angelbabyyy99, @sassy-pelica, @k-slla, @deans-spinster-witch, @ashdoctor, @eretsupremacy89, @fanfic-n-tabulous, @deans-number-one-fan, @afro-hispwriter, @justjensenandhisalteregos, @tiredstrangerr, @zemosdarling228.

[suzukiblu]

Beginning of an old YJ animated WIP that I decided to dig back up and revisit. Cut for length and also Clark getting very belatedly hit with a clue-by-four.

There's some kind of fuss going on around the kids, although Clark isn't sure what. He overhears Ollie and Dinah bickering about something to do with Artemis and Speedy–Red Arrow, although “Speedy” is still a much stronger memory–but they don't go into detail. Something about mad science and a mission gone wrong and . . . Lunchables?

Clark very rarely mishears things, but that he is absolutely certain he did.

It isn't his business, though, so he doesn't ask for clarification. If the League needs his help, they'll ask him; otherwise it has nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, then Bruce actually asks for his help.

There's no excuse good enough to get by Batman, and so Clark finds himself materializing inside a Mount Justice zeta tube with the halfhearted hope that they just need something improbably heavy moved–anything that will just take a moment, in and out. Oddly, there's no one waiting to meet him, although he can hear arguing and laughter and running water and a dozen other sounds of life from different corners of the mountain.

Closer, and more concerning, he can hear crying. 

Clark ignores the other voices and Bruce's distant, Kevlar-muffled heartbeat to follow the tiny little hitched breaths he’s hearing down the hall. He doesn't have to go far. 

There's a little boy curled up in a shadowed hallway alcove not even big enough to be a broom closet, five years old if he's a day and wearing a black T-shirt and cargo pants and oddly heavy-looking boots. His face is buried in his folded arms, but he looks wounded and small and brokenhearted from the lie of his shoulders alone. 

Clark stares down at him in bemusement for a moment–a child this young in Mount Justice?–but another muffled sob takes immediate precedence and he drops into a crouch just outside the boy's personal space, making himself smaller and nonthreatening out of habit. He’s familiar with finding heartbroken children left all alone, after all. 

“Are you alright?” he asks gently, and the boy jumps in surprise and jerks his head up. He has the most enormous blue eyes Clark thinks he's ever seen, and also the most horrified.

“I wasn't crying!” the boy blurts, still crying, and scrubs the tears away frantically.

“It's fine if you were,” Clark tells him, gentling his voice even more, and the boy looks at him like the world just ended. Blue eyes, black hair, broken heart; he remembers Dick four years ago, remembers what happened to make Dick Robin. Wonders where Bruce is, exactly, and if this is what he’s supposed to be helping with. 

“You wouldn't,” the boy says, hiccuping around another sob, and Clark just smiles reassuringly at him.

“Everyone does,” he says, and fresh tears well in the boy's eyes and he turns his face towards the farthest corner of the alcove, huddled up so small it actually hurts to see. Clark is used to misery and has seen more of it than he can stand to remember, but that doesn't make it any easier to watch. 

He could ask what happened–what’s so upsetting–but doesn't want the boy to have to think about what's making him cry like that, so devastated and lonely in a place full of people. So instead he reaches out and rests a very careful hand on his shoulder, and just barely squeezes it. The boy freezes, sobs and breath and heart all stopping, and Clark lightens the contact, but doesn't quite withdraw it. 

“Are you hurt?” he asks with all the gentleness he’d usually reserve for restraining the full scope of Superman's strength down into catching a falling body, embracing a victim, kissing a loved one. The boy shudders and starts back up again, tears falling faster and his attempts to respond all breaking up too much to finish. Finally he just shakes his head, hard, and buries his face back in his arms. 

He’s just so small. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” Clark tries, and the boy just cries harder, somehow. He's getting concerned now, because how can every attempt to do something for the boy make him that much more upset? 

All the power in the world means nothing when he can't help a person who's in pieces. 

There's a shriek somewhere in the base, loud and childish and startlingly giddy in comparison to this moment, and Clark startles slightly and looks towards it, automatically dropping the hand on the boy's shoulder to touch his earpiece, meaning to call Bruce and ask what, exactly, is going on here–but then the boy whimpers. 

No. “Whimper” isn’t enough of a word. “Whimper” can’t possibly contain the pain and despair in that sound, the way it tears out of the boy and through Clark worse than any other kind of hit, worse than almost anything. 

“It's alright,” he says quickly, forgetting about the communicator altogether and reaching out again. “Shhh, it's alright, it's alright, son–” 

The boy sobs.

Clark thinks he’s never heard a worse sound in his life than that sob. 

Something like panic flits through him, he doesn't even know where from, and he barely keeps himself from grabbing the boy and yanking him to his chest. But it’d be too much, too sudden and frightening for an already distraught child. The moment it takes him to force down the driving need to is literally painful, though, and when it passes it still doesn't really pass. 

Clark takes off his cape as carefully as he can and wraps the boy up in it–hides him in it, he admits to himself, but it's not hard to admit when the boy himself seems to welcome the idea of vanishing inside its folds. He picks him up in one arm, cradles him in the crook of it, and the boy curls up as tight as if he really could disappear. The sobbing dies down into almost-silence, barely more than hitched breaths again, and Clark holds him close and heads towards the closest sounds of life in the base. He can't help if he doesn't know what's wrong, and the boy's clearly in no condition to explain what's happened to him for himself. 

He thinks of plenty of awful possibilities on the way, but doesn't get halfway there before a sudden blur of black and red and yellow tears down the hall and skids to a stop in front of him, solidifying into two more small boys, although not as small as the one in his arms.

Infinitely more recognizable, though. 

Clark blinks, and looks down at a brightly grinning nine-year old Robin riding piggyback on a beaming Kid Flash . . . that is Kid Flash, isn't it, he thinks, except he can't be a day past nine himself, and Kid Flash definitely never wore that suit or ran like that when he was nine.

Neither of them should be nine. 

“What . . .” he starts, slowly, and the boy in his arms peers out from underneath his cape and sniffles, once.

“Found him!” Kid Flash yells back down the hall, and Robin throws both hands up in the air with a crow of triumph, falling off Kid Flash's back into an effortless back walkover in the process.

“We win!” he says gleefully. “Go Team Batflash, suck it, Team Aquamartian and Double-Arrow!”

“'Birdflash'? Why isn't it Flashbird?” Kid Flash demands indignantly, and Robin just laughs condescendingly and reaches up to give his head a smug little pat. 

“Oh please, it is so Birdflash,” he says with a smirk. Clark stares down at both of them with a certain sinking feeling, and the boy in his arms scrubs at his tear-streaked face again. 

And the cape around him slips lower, and for the first time Clark sees the front of his shirt.

Sees the symbol on the front of his shirt.

[drstonetrivia]

Chapter 222 Trivia (Part 1)

Fun fact: this chapter is from issue #2 of WSJ's 2022 collection!

The Apollo mission had spacesuits tailor-made to each astronaut, but these days it's easier to use interchangeable parts and switch them out according to the size of the wearer, rather than having the whole suit fitted.

However, the gloves are always custom-sized for dexterity.

Vinyl fabric doesn't seem to have ever been used as part of a spacesuit, however spandex and nylon have, especially in the inner layers.

Outer layers include Teflon, Kevlar, and aluminized Mylar.

It's possible that rather than being used for the fabric, the vinyl is used for the suit's interior cooling tube system, and the aluminum is used for the Mylar rather than for the exterior metal parts, as pure aluminum is easily scratched.

You probably recognize this panel from the end of chapter 219. The only difference is Ryusui's head has been swapped with Stanley's.

Japanese doesn't have a "V" sound, which is why Chrome says "by" rather than "vi" or "vy".

Generally English words used in Japanese make this switch, for example "violin" becoming "baiorin" due to the lacking of "V" and "L" sounds.

This building may be where they're assembling the SENKU 11 rocket, however in this first panel it appears completed, but in later ones it's still under construction.

The PS5 was first announced in April 2019, and released November 2020. First images of the console were revealed on June 11th 2020.

The first global petrification happened in June 2019, so this person would know about the console but not known what it was meant to look like.

The robot maid request is most likely a reference to "Me and Roboco", another manga currently being published in Weekly Shonen Jump alongside Dr. Stone. It's a comedy series that follows a powerful-but-clumsy maid robot in a grade schooler's service.

(Later, Me and Roboco came out with a Dr. Stone parody for the 15th volume cover)

The vacuum tubes are back in the form of cavity magnetrons. These produce the microwaves that bounce around the microwaves' interior body.

The cooking effect was first discovered in 1945 when Percy Spencer noticed a candy bar had melted in his pocket after testing magnetrons.

Plastic wrap is vinyl that has been flattened to between 8-12 μm thick, (approximately 0.001 cm). For context, this is about as thick as a spider's web or the size of a droplet of water in fog.

The film Senku makes here is cellulose triacetate film, which is less flammable than earlier celluloid film, earning it the nickname "safety film".

The 8 mm part is the width of the film strip.

Unlike reusable hand-warmers that use supersaturated sodium acetate, these are one-time use and rely on oxidation to create heat. Once the packaging is opened, air penetrates the bag, oxidizing the iron. Vermiculite is added to remove moisture & salt is added as a catalyst.

Chrome's design wouldn't work properly because he uses iron sand rather than iron powder. Iron sand is mostly magnetite, which is already an iron oxide and thus won't have the oxidation reaction or create heat.

The fridge (or maybe mini wine cellar/fridge?) design is a parody of Smeg, a kitchen appliance brand.

You can also see the Senku-brand PlayStation, robot maid, and protein powder.

(Next part)

[hirocimacruiser]

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Racing car frames, which started out as ladder-shaped chassis shapes called ladder frames, became steel tube space frames called bird cages, and after the appearance of semi-monocoques with aluminum plates clad on the outer skin, so-called full monocoques and twin-tipped monocoques evolved. It was completed. Current F-1 machines, March 842, etc. have monocoque structures using composite materials such as aluminum honeycomb, Kevlar, and carbon fiber, which is called the composite construction method. This structure has excellent stress dispersion, and because it has an internal core, it is a much stronger structure than a simple monocoque structure, but it is also extremely light, making it an ideal structure for racing cars. It can be called a body. Speed Star, the pioneer of 3-piece wheels, has now adopted a honeycomb monocoque for its aluminum wheels, and has named this system the ``honeycomb structure.'' This wheel, which was completed by combining the best of aerospace technology, is not just a monocoque for show, but a genuine wheel that fulfills the original function of a strong and light wheel. Feedback from the Speed star on the 5 second dragster. Now, the speed star's ripples are spreading throughout the universe. Star Sorb is here!!

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MANUFACTED BY SPEED STAR WHEEL

PHONE 0729-49-8187(代)

[tatteredtome]

Antebellum

THE GREAT FLOOD IS COMING

HISTORY IS STUCK IN A LOOP

YET STILL, YOU KNOW ONE FACT REMAINS TRUE

THE VIOLENCE HAS A PURPOSE

-

"Wake the fuck up tranny."

Your flimsy cot rattles to and fro as a leather boot slams into the side, jostling you awake. Hazel eyes drink in the sight of the man above you. Crude buzzcut. Jowls and all, a simple clergyman's suit enshrouding stoicism. He taps the leatherbound book at his side, gesturing towards the rickety door connecting threadbare dorms to outer halls.

"Yes Father, I'll be there in 5."

He scowls, glossy eyes grazing over each interconnected wire hooking your spindly back into the charging station embedded within that bed. They glide down your frame. You didn't bother wearing a shirt to bed. One last lingering look at both mounds, before turning on a dime and striding off. It felt good to be viewed like a piece of meat.

You carefully unhook every strand and tube with practiced precision, singular digits moving incisively. You'd done it a thousand times before. You'd surely do it a thousand more times. A quarter lay rusted. Another clump all but fraying. They didn't have any replacements available. So long as your core processor was recharged, you'd be okay.

The floor was hot. Sometimes, a part of you wished they'd gotten rid of that sense. Touch. It didn't really matter, even if it did burn, your skin was welded to withstand inhumane temperatures. Military flame retardant. Steady footsteps carry you across concrete flooring, stopping in front of a 5'4 mirror.

Of course it was 5'4.

It was made specifically for you, after all. One request. Holding dainty, creamy white arms out. Spinning. Patchwork freckles dancing alongside supple curves. Moving both hands up to cup plump breasts. B+. You shake your short, tousled brown hair about. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Putting on your gear is all but automatic. Urban camo pants, rugged leather boots, skintight black shirt. It was almost a shame you had to put the ballistic vest over top of it. Standard issue, extra protection, Father's order. The less bullet holes, the better. Vest secured, you slip on a pair of mottled gloves. Tight fists.

Naturally the door creaks as it slides open, dislodging built up dust and debris. Empty halls stretching onward for what seemed like miles. When you first got here, getting lost was a daily occurrence. Now, it was physically impossible to lose your way. Mapped. Steps that cause the concrete to sizzle and pop. Further and further. Another rickety old door.

Stepping through it reveals an archaic hangar, fit to burst with every manner of military hardware imaginable, old and new. Heavenly breeding grounds. Of course, Father stands waiting, just as he always does. You run your hand along dormant caterpillar tracks and sleeping tail rotors. The stimulation felt quite nice. Touch still had its perks.

5 minutes after you awake, you're standing right where you should be.

Father bows to you. An iodine lump of steel sits behind him, fused plates linking hands one after another. Bolts and bolts and more bolts. It dwarfed the two of you. You knew they used to carry special units in these.

Nowadays, all it took was one person.

Father stands upon his mahogany podium. He opens the scripture to page 547. Cracked spine. Slipping between bible verse and mission outline. He never bothered to teach you Latin, interested as you may be. That was for the blessed to interpret and for you, damned as you were, to receive with open arms. The next words, however, were all too familiar.

"They're hiding out in some nearby ruins, 11 klicks southwest of here. You know the drill. Get to work."

Father shuts the gospel, reaching underneath the podium before donning a kevlar shroud of his own. .44 magnum bulging from creased pants. Licking your lips, you hurriedly clamber over to the back entrance of the vehicle. Hook two phalanges in. Pry tarnished doors open. Step inside dutifully.

There was enough room for..... well, certainly more than just you. Long, blistering hot, metallic benches left cooking in the wrathful sun day and night. Your cherished infant lies in waiting, nestled warmly. Right where you always sat.

You sit down, pulling that belt-fed beauty into your dainty lap. Cradling it so lovingly. Father steps into the truck soon after you, key in the faulty ignition, calloused hands on the steering wheel. The engine groans like a dying possum. Still fighting for some semblance of livelihood.

You're off without another word.

It trundles along. Bumps and cracks and divots no match for its divine strength, wheezing as it may be. Nothing would be able to stop you now. You peer out the windows.

Floodwater had pushed survivors further and further inwards, trekking vast distances for a modicum of stable, unsoiled earth. What the water washed away could not be claimed again. This was perfect for the two of you. It meant easy pickings. Ruined SUVs and derelict coupes sat frying upon endless pavement. 1 and 2 and 3 and 4 and 5 and 6 and as far as the eye could see.

Father recites verses. Your optical sensors fixate on passing roadsigns. Great grub, 2 miles down the road. Southern living, 5 miles down the road. You wouldn't kill a child, would you? Take him into your heart. Accept him. Please.

You recalled quiet dinners at quiet dinner tables. Corn on the cob and racks of ribs and collared greens and biscuits. Raving news reporters and a raving older figure seated at the head. That's all you're going to eat? Kids in _____ are starving right now, you know.

The next exit barrels into full view, Father judiciously turning off and making his way onto the main road. Bare, concrete synapses giving way to verdant greenery sweltering under God's radiant judgement. Pristine white houses certainly not so pristine anymore. Curious plaques situated wherever eyes wander. This plantation housed _____.

You stare into the glass, at your ever vivid reflection. Pearly white skin. Not a blemish in sight. No need for shampoo or conditioner or anything of the sort. Weaved microfiber strands gleaming proudly. God. It always made you smile. You looked positively angelic.

Past picket fences left undaunted. Past clean carcasses resembling bovines. Past rest-stops and mom and pops. Past arched windows beneath heavenly pillars. It all breaks. Just as it always does. Just as it always will. The grass turns to crisp, the trees follow suit, and both are swallowed by cement. Father frowns, cyan orbs regarding the change with disdain. Narrowing.

"It wasn't always like this. Things were different back in the day. Better."

You don't respond, simply nodding at the eyes visible in the rear view mirror. The buildings are much denser now. Red and blue monuments. Flickering 7s and Qts. It'd take many, many more years for the floodwaters to claim them, for the raw heat to raze stone and brick alike. Great grub, a friendly, barrel chested man in overalls standing proudly out front.

You always wanted a little figure of him. Ancient cartoons where he laughed and twirled alongside daughters in sundresses.

You never received that figure.

Father pulls into a vast parking lot, tipped shopping carts strewn amongst shattered car windows. The building was bright orange. Somewhere you'd been before or maybe not. He parks the car, turning the ignition off and stepping out. You pull your newborn up to each breast, kissing the barrel before exiting as well.

Wooden beams piled high obscure both clear entrances, blotting out any visibility of the building's scorching innards. Father scans it, clicks his tongue disappointingly, before turning to view you. He reaches out a single hand, gripping your shoulder with divine vigor. It makes your head spin and your mouth salivate.

"Go now. Dispatch them with fervor, Ezekiel."

You smile.

"Yes, Father."

He nods, stepping back into the wheezing creature. All on your own.

You fasten the strap around your shoulder tightly, making sure your child is secure before moving forward. The way is all but blocked by solid oak, save for a tiny gap at the top. Easily finding purchase, you ascend the tower with great haste, arriving at the top without breaking a sweat. It was physically impossible.

A loud thud echoes throughout the gargantuan building as your boots hit the ground. Dark. Pitch black in fact. You used to be so accustomed to the static hum of electricity everywhere you went. Now, it all lies dormant. Darkness isn't a problem, mechanical servos clicking into place to facilitate sickly green vision.

Row after row of shelves spiraling off into the guts of the establishment. Enough light bulbs to supply whole neighborhoods. Rotund appliances abandoned. Black Friday sale magazines half burnt, a few measly deals remaining. You take a look at the dangling signs.

"Paint, lighting, garden, hardware, lumber....."

Muttering the words like a prayer meant to lead the way, scrutinizing. Deeper. The paint isles are a mess, caulking and semigloss staining forgotten merchandise. Your hands glide over sample cards. Little Princess, Midnight Blue, Mountain Olive..... Blackberry Harvest.

Something makes you stop on it. You flip it around. The corner is slightly bent. You want to remember. You want to remember so badly. What had you forgotten?

"Violet kinda gal, huh? Judging by your attire, I woulda guessed black was more your style."

The voice is a little whiny. Shrill. You turn to regard it. Black tanktop. Ginger waves loping downward. Tan trousers above pink sneakers. Enough to know this is your target.

"Maybe, I'm not sure."

You adjust your hands. Grasping the grip buried a few inches beneath the barrel. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. It puts its hands up in protest, taking a few hesitant steps backwards.

"Woah there..... I just want to talk. I know what they've done to you, what they do to us all. We're the same, you and I."

The concern in its voice appears to be genuine, as does the way those brown orbs soften. It'd be so easy to melt right into them. It'd be so easy to melt it.

"You don't know me. We're not the same."

Absolute. Efficient in response time. It's not hard for you to level it at her chest. It never really was too hard. You pull the gun up higher, aiming it right at the bulge in its throat. Now its fumbling. Anxious. Sweating bullets that glisten neon green. You want to paint it red already but something keeps nagging at the back of your mind.

"Please, I just thought..... I don't know, that we could talk? Reach an understanding? You don't have to be-"

Deafening. The sound of a bullets slamming against concrete at mach speed, ricocheting off into parts unknown. Your face is bent with unadulterated animosity. Proud marching. It's whimpering now, scrambling to pull at a handle wedged within cavernous pockets.

Your boot comes crashing down on its frail fingers. Grinding back and forth. Wet, popping noises as bones fragment and crunch under foot. It feels so good. It lets out a muffled shriek, desperately beating on your steel legs.

"Stop..... I can't..... I've come so far....."

Its sobbing now. Repugnant. You drop down onto its stomach with the full force of your divinity. Padded gloves running over hair infested thighs, onto that disgustingly flat chest. Broad shoulders. Perfect for grasping onto.

"You're going to die here."

It looks into your eyes. You slam its head back into boiling concrete, ushering out another terrified mewl, deeper than the last. You slam it down again. And again. And again. Painting the ground a crimson, eggshell pastiche. Timeless Ruby. It struggles underneath you. It's no use.

Satisfied with your work, you stand up. It reaches out a timid hand. Trying to get out a few last words.

You level your gun and unload on its windpipe, tearing it to shreds before anything can be uttered.

Father is standing outside the truck when you get back. He bends down to plant a kiss on your forehead. Wrinkled lips parting.

"Good job, doll."

Your heart flutters.

-

Every night, before routine memory maintenance, I stare into the shattered mirror next to my cot.

I look at the girl staring back at me.

Sometimes I squirm. Sometimes I feel myself. Sometimes I giggle a little.

I always, always.

Smile.

[nitrosodiumofficialuses]

This is some concept art for TWL; namely, the various personnel classes of Hydromorph, and their infected or "Drain" variant after everything goes to hell. Similarly to several different zombie games, the mutation will alter the body based on what state it victim is in, utilizing both hard and soft components to create an amphibious killing machine. Let's talk about the clean drawings first.

Firstly, we have the scientists, dressed in white lab coats and likely orange turtlenecks underneath. They make up the bulk of the Hydromorph workforce, many living within the facility's living quarters to dedicate their lives to studying aquatic life - and that includes waterborne viruses. Next to them is the engineers or "techs", goggle-clad maintenance workers tasked with keeping Hydromorph's pumps and generators operating optimally. Next is the "diving techs", kitted out in diving suits with built-in oxyacetylene torches for underwater welding. Next is the hazmat workers, kitted out in a heavy-rubber protective suit and the distinctive toolbelt with a pipe wrench, walkie talkie and emergency flare. This is Nicolas' role, a research associate tasked with biohazard clean-up and other menial work in environments that would melt through any other uniform. The final role is "Hydro-Sec", the facility's security personnel. Dressed in a riot helmet and strapped into a Kevlar shell, these guards deal with breaches to Hydromorph security, from exterior to interior.

On a good day, these various jobs would coalesce together to keep the gears of Hydromorph running smoothly. Unfortunately, on the day Toxic Waters Lite takes place, nothing runs smoothly, and various members of each class are bitten, mangled, infected, and worse. Let's look at that now.

The scientist Drains are the most common. Given their rational but timid personalities, their white lab coats and orange jumpers have been totally shredded, an after-affect of the scientist's reluctance to damage such a perfect specimen (while it sank its teeth into them). They have greenish skin, covered in pustules and lesions, milky eyes, and a vestigial tendril sprouting from their shoulder. With no specialized mutations, these Drains can be dispatched as easily as any other "walker" type zombie in another game.

Next up is the tech Drain. The engineer's overalls are tattered, now stained with something much redder than any common machine lubricant. Their hard hat is punctured, presumably from a previous survivor's self-defense attempt, or where the progenitor Drain decided to route its infection. The iconic goggles are still fastened to the Drain's head, but its true unique feature is the gnarled right arm, prehensile tentacles tightly wrapped about a bloodied monkey wrench. This gives the tech Drain a much more dangerous melee attack, though at a cost to their balance.

The diver Drain is an interesting one. Assuming the previously living diving tech was infected while in combat with an underwater Drain, the virus augmented its host to be suited better to an aquatic environment. The legs have fused into a spiny, mermaid-esque tail, giving them a vicious edge in the water, but considerably less danger on land. The various tubes and equipment are still fastened to the Drain's body after infection, and while the headgear is gone, a rusty re-breather is still clenched between its slavering jaws. Similarly, the welding torch is still operational, and while it still has fuel, it adds a scorching pain to the infectious slash it has just given you.

The hazmat Drain is a little bit of a hyperbole. Ironically, it shows that Nicolas' orange armor is little more than a wearable traffic cone, and means he's just as susceptible to infection as his co-workers. The front visor is smashed open, revealing the scalled face of a Drain inside. The hazmat suit is stretched to its limits, filled with infectious ichor and bloated body parts. Tubes that once led to oxygen tanks have been ripped out, clenched in a bunch by the hazmat Drain, dripping caustic goo from the suit. In the other hand, the emergency flare has been lit, surrounding this particular mutant with a sinister red glow. Encountering a hazmat Drain should be a big experience for the player, as instantly quells any suspicions about the player being Drain-proof.

Finally, the security Drain. Unlike some other games, this particular strain of infection doesn't retain any marksmanship post-Drainage, but instead, their forearms have been turned into hulking crustacean claws. Sporting a bloodstained helmet visor and a ripped ballistic vest peppered with bullet holes, it is clear that this Drain has already torn its way through at least one survivor already. They will have a charging attack that can instantly kill Nicolas if he doesn't dodge, but this can be staggered by shooting the Drain and breaking its guard.

So, these are the possible character and enemy types for TWL. Pretty neat, right?

[swedebeast]

Solle Campaign 4+: A Game of Mutants & Misfits

So, there’s not been a lot of updates to this as, I think, I think I have mostly forgotten to post about it.

Suffice to say, a lot has happened between session 3 and session 12. So, what has happened? The players have trekked through heavy forests, abandoned suburban towns, found abandoned bunkers built after WW3 - already having had generations of workers in them and collapsed in some unknown war between surviving factions, or entirely new factions sprung out from the radioactive-

Not important. Players found loot and gear, because as interesting as ancient history is - they live in the here and now, and they need to arm up and find every thing they can to help them defend their home town. So, they have found ancient guns, old armour, and other settlements willing to help. Or, at least one. One inhabited by psionic goosemen.

Gusboys.

And the robot character managed to succeed in his quest to remove his “behaviour chip” forcing him to follow the 3 Robotic Laws. A very skilled human mechanic in the goose town (Ultima Gus), managed to operate. And, as a bonus, install the equivalent to an emotion chip. Now this machine, former tinman slave called ‘Träsh’, is now Nils Isaksson.

Because that was the name of a dog tag on an ancient soldier stuck in a broken cryogenics tube they found in a crashed transport plane. He also has a m/90 Swedish military jacket he found in an abandoned army storage bunker. And an AK4. To complete the image, he based the look of his robot on Rogue One’s K2.

And now, the guys and gals are in the town of Solle, preparing for invasion. Having convinced the disparate clans to work together, set up black powder charges on the main access into the town - a bridge - and also set up pretty much one of the Sentry Guns from Aliens on a nearby ruined brick building, set up barricades, and having thwarted a saboteur they... the players also have access to about 8 kilograms of plastic explosives. Not to mention over 200 armed (muskets mostly) reasonably motivated outback townsmen defending the town.

So now, of course, I am tasking myself to still give the players a challenge. Of course, they have succeeded in a lot. Denied the enemy reconnaissance, they have armed themselves and united the town, and set up defences and created a killing field.

Not only will I streamline this mass battle, but I will also take cues from 7 Samurai and have multiple probing attacks if I can get away with it. But these tribal assholes have looted an old army stockpile. So, they will have a MRAP armored car with a home-build flamethrower on the roof, about 200 pissed off tribals rallied behind a psychotic Hannibal wolf-mutant with a core elite posse of heavily armed wolf mutants with a suicidal mission to burn this town to the ground, but also a set of mortars, looted sniper rifles, and some exceptionally loyal individuals with kevlar vests, SMG’s, and several handgrenades.

Oh, and one more thing.

The driver will prove to be a very nasty surprise to the settlers. The players have fought robots before - and they were a pain. But none of them were really military models, and they were all older models. None of the truly horrific things that where unleashed to roam and terrorize the lands.

‘Nuff said.

[bharatmilling]

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[chartedsuns]

THE SCREAMING TOWER

PART 1: The Black Jungle

Cal looked up, his neck craned back to take it all in. The Bureau of Catholic Affairs was a monolith. The tower was formed like a spine, each vertebra a different department. It was as if the Bureau were a grand pillar holding the moon's artificial chrome sky aloft. Perhaps it was. The inside of the building was no less daunting. The main foyer simply did not have a ceiling, the tube layout of the Bureau let one peer up to the very top, at least if the haze of the atmosphere did not obscure it. 

Clerks hurried about with purpose, the flowing blood of the Bureau, not stopping at Cal’s timid request for directions. Suddenly the impression of a woman appeared before Cal, an illusion created by his M-Implant. Her platinum blonde hair was in a painfully tight bun, her lab coat adorned with a sigil of no academic organisation known to him.

“Apologies Specialist Mason, a busy morning you understand.” The woman gave an apologetic smile.

Cal, attempting to hide how startled he was by her sudden appearance, gave a few quick and polite mumbles which might have been heard as “Not to worry.”

Her smile turned sympathetic, “My name's Sarah, chief biologist for the project. The rest of the expedition team are waiting in the briefing room for you.”

“What, already? The meeting isn’t scheduled until another five minutes.”

“Yes, well, it’s polite to turn up early for these kinds of things.”

Cal raised his voice, “How was I supposed to know that!” Before he could finish Sarah’s projection vanished, Cal caught a few judgmental glances being shot his way. After some trial and error Cal found the right gate in the foyer and with a single step he went from the ground floor to one somewhere in the hundreds. He had arrived on time; everyone else had been inconsiderately early.

Cal paid his due attention to the meeting, though he’d heard it all before. A new alien species had been discovered by missionaries on a world slated for colonisation. A team of scientists were to be sent out to study them, and determine if coexistence would be possible. In truth he didn’t care much for the project, but he desperately needed something to publish.

Cal was a State Mathematician, a field of math dedicated to the engineering of societies. Quite unfortunately for him, his field of study had been finished. Done. The New Moralist Authority was mathematically the perfect society, a completely stable and equal state with provably no flaws. As such it was a bitch to get funded. Most State-Math departments have been shut down either due to lack of students or an unfortunate habit of generating Anarchists. Cal certainly wasn’t happy with doing field work but, well, everyone knows what they say about beggars and choosers.

The planet was called New Dallon. Thankfully a Twingate was installed on the planet, so after a little paperwork all it took was a single step to bridge the forty seven lightyears between here and there. New Dallon was wrapped in black jungles that stretched from pole to pole, wildfires marring its surface, visible even from orbit. Cal found it to be a dismal place. The planet was far from its sun, appearing little more than a particularly bright star. The planet only remained warm and its water liquid thanks to its freakishly high levels of carbon dioxide and constant volcanic activity. This, of course, necessitated oxygen masks whenever you wanted to leave the cramped habitat of the missionaries.

Cal was pressed down into his mass-produced stainless steel foldable chair by the cruelly strong gravity of New Dallon. He would have thought the ‘perfect society’ would’ve been more than able to produce half decent chairs, but apparently not. The sheer inadequacy of the chair had distracted him from the away mission briefing he was supposed to be paying attention to.

A muscle bound man clad in kevlar stared down at him. He was grizzled, he had seen things, Cal was sure of it, he could see it in his eyes. Wait, no, it’s frustration in his eyes. Cal began to panic. He had been asked something, and he had no idea what.

Just as he was about to say something no doubt incredibly stupid, Sarah intervened, “Forgive him Reverend, mathematicians are a scatterbrained sort. But he is the best State Mathematician I could find given the timeframe.”

“Given the timeframe?” Cal interjected.

The Reverend, clearly unamused, repeated “So, Specialist Mason, your analysis of their society?”

“Right, yes, of course. Obviously we haven’t had on the ground observations just yet, nor an autopsy, nor even a visual observation of them, or any real tangible data. So based solely on the structures we have seen from orbit we can deduce they do have some level of structured society.”

“So, in your expert opinion, they have… A society?” The Reverend was clearly unimpressed.

“This tells us more than you might think, Reverend, uh…”

“Heartwell.”

“Right, Reverend Heartwell. These structures show more than just instinctual building that something like a bird or beaver might do. These structures measure in the kilometres, they are connected by a series of canals. This requires a level of sophistication and intelligence a regular non sapient animal could achieve.”

Sarah chimed in, “Ants. Couldn’t ants achieve a similar effect? They have been shown to create complex underground structures that are miles across too, but we wouldn’t consider them sapient.”

“An interesting point, actually. Of course ants aren’t sapient, but add enough of them together and they start to act intelligently, even though no individual ant has any meaningful intelligence. It was actually ants, and the study of unintelligent components creating intelligent systems that founded State Mathematics.”

“Wouldn’t that imply that an individual human is unintelligent in comparison to some grea—”

Heartwell interrupts, “Thank you for your input, but this is not the time for philosophy. Given we have no intelligence on their defence or offence I want to take a small squad into one of their ‘structures’ to investigate, no need to announce our presence too loudly. Both Cal and Sarah will accompany us as specialist civilians, I doubt me and my missionaries will know what the hell we’re looking at.”

It was an uncomfortable night sleep within the habitat. With a dozen in each cramped quarters Cal wondered why anyone would choose to call this place home. He supposed that’s why missionaries did this kind of work, New Catholics did always have a masochistic streak.

At the break of dawn they left. The Ranger’s rifles bounced against their bulky environment suits as they marched through the jungle shrubs. He and Sarah were not entrusted with rifles, instead having only a not-too-sharp machete to beat away at the wilds. The jungles were surreal to see, flora and fauna blending into one. Pale sunlight filtered past thick leathery black leaves branching from fleshy tree trunks; below would-be bushes scurried away on thin spider-like legs. The grass was closer to animal than plant. Each step Cal could feel his weight crush down on the twitching grass, its bones snapping, something screeching in pain below the dirt. The missionaries sang static strewn hymns over comms to drown out the noise. Cal didn’t know the words, though neither did Sarah. The two flicked to a channel and spoke, desperately trying to drown out the muffled screams below.

Cal, uncharacteristically, was the first to break the ice, “So how’d you get the job?”

“Nepotism, essentially”, she shrugged.

Cal was taken aback by such a brazen admission, “So… Your dad is a Reverend, or?”

“It was my mother that got me the job actually, though calling her that feels somewhat unfitting. Sarah Five was an expert on xenobiology, I inherited her skills.

“Sarah Five?”

“I am Sarah Six, the 5th clone of Sarah Courter. We are a lineage of geneticists dedicated to the accumulation of scientific knowledge, we then sell that knowledge to the highest bidder.”

“So that symbol on your lab coat, was that of your lineage?”

“Of a sort I suppose. The icon belonged to the Cult of the Triple Helix, but they are long gone now. Sarah One, Courter, she was a Genepriest.”

“I’ve never heard of these Genepriests. I take it they weren’t a New Catholic denomination?”

Sarah giggled, “No, no not catholic. They believed that all a person fundamentally was is a collection of memetic and genetic coding. That the only function of the human soul was to ensure this coding would survive. That sentience was just a means to an end.”

“That’s a bit of a reductive interpretation don’t you think? The mind is greater than the sum of its parts. Are you really telling me you believe the experience of sentience is meaningless outside its service to biological code?”

“Meaning is a human invention.” She reflexively replied, “all I am hearing is a mind trying to protect its self importance.”

After a gruelling two days of hacking through the jungle their trek reached an end. All life abruptly stopped, ahead only desolate plains, except of course for the structure.

Satellite imagery could scarcely prepare Cal for the sheer magnitude of it. The size of a city, it swirled up like a cyclone frozen in time, a column of striated oil-stained bone. In a strange way it felt baroque, like a twisted cathedral made by inhuman hands. The tower's presence was absolute, Cal was just scenery before it, he was incidental.

The tower let out a single terrible howl as the wind wrapped around the structure, flowing across its mottled surface; it was a single gargantuan instrument. The tune reverberated in Cal’s chest and rattled his teeth. The sound never faltered, never changed, never relented. Was the noise intentional, he wondered, a method to intimidate would-be trespassers perhaps? If so it was certainly working.

Drones fought against the whipping wind as they circled the tower. The expedition all gathered around the operator's small wrist-mounted screen. On the other side of the structure was a crude canal that stretched out from the jungles and cleaved into the tower, from which it bled into the ditch a slick black liquid. This would be their entrance.

Up close it appeared like a weeping wound. The wind flicked up specks of black as the constant bellow of a foghorn assaulted them. They bound themselves together with nanofibre rope and ventured within.

The air was screaming, pushing against their ascent, this place did not want them here. Their boots pressed into the chalky bulk of the tower and inky liquid stained and obscured their visors. The further in they pressed the narrower their path got, the more the air became solid and the liquid turned to bullets. Soon the tower closed in, transforming into a web of tubes like the pipes of an organ. Its walls were composed of shifting black ink pinned to the walls by the wind. The liquid violently oscillating in harmony with the air, the lights from their suits playing off the walls' rippling surface. 

How long the ascent lasted Cal could not tell. He thought his body might give in, he wasn’t made for this. Neither was Sarah. Together they fought against the rapids, holding onto each other, their muscles burning, their ears blasted. Then the noise stopped and the air stood still.

The rivers that curled up the tunnels suddenly yielded to gravity and rained down. Then a tired creak began to fill the absence, like an old house settling in the dim of night. The porous ground beneath them thirstily drunk up the oil, and as it did it became malleable like wet paper-mache. The once solid skeleton of the tower melted away, the excursion was swallowed whole by the morphing innards of the tower. Down they tumbled, into a swirling vortex of black and white, the only thing holding them together was a thin line of rope. Cal’s senses were entirely overwhelmed, no longer had he the analytical mind of a State Mathematician, but instead one of a panicked animal.

As sudden as the world had melted away it reformed. Grey mush suddenly solidified into solid ivory. An unfortunate missionary had found himself half encased in the tower's newly solidified bones; he was not moving. Then the wind started again. This time the shriek of a banshee cut into their eardrums. The wind picked up and once more they found themselves in a vortex of swirling ink and screaming wind. A wall of air as solid as stone smacked them. Back they tumbled again, pinned in mid aid between the tension of the rope and the fury of the gale.

“HE’S LOST!” Screamed the Reverend as he unsheathed a standard issue survival knife and cut the rope. The competition of forces resolved, they flew backward. Suddenly Cal felt something very solid hit the back of his helmet. His neck flicked back, then jolted forward. His senses unfocused, time compressed as his consciousness fazed in and out.

When his mind refocused he found himself in a cul-de-sac along with his compatriots. Within this abscess it would seem the torrent abated. Their suits were reminiscent of a seagull rescued from an oil spill. Their ears still ringing they took a moment to ease their beaten bodies and take in what they had seen.

“What the fuck is this place?” asked the Reverend, exasperatedly looking toward Sarah and Cal.

“A hive I'd wager.” replied Sarah.

“No, not a hive.” responded Cal bluntly to the others' bafflement, “A hive would have sections: a place for a ‘queen’, a place to store food, etc. This entire structure is homogeneous, endless black tunnels with no obvious function.”

“So what is it then?” Sarah again replied.

“A computer. Or a computational device of some kind. At first I was puzzled by the noise. I thought perhaps it was a warning to ward off trespassers, but after the change, I think it might be a device.

Perhaps the noise is a signal, one that has some meaning to the denizens. One pitch is a command to one process, another pitch to do another. Once one process is complete it switches. Though I have no idea what kind of creature could inhabit this complex.”

“Well, that’d be my job to find out. I have an idea on how we could learn more about this place's inhabitants. One of the fundamental requirements for life is for it to excrete waste materials.”

“To shit.” Interjected the Reverend.

“Or piss!” She said a little too enthusiastically, “Liquid is a fantastic medium for collecting and holding onto such products. If I were to retrieve a large cross sectional sample I could analyse the chemicals and maybe be able to tell you more about these aliens.”

“Well, it's not exactly going to be difficult to get a sample.” The reverend said, shakily getting back to his feet, “Let's get this done.”

They waded back in. This time they walked with the wind. Making the journey easier but forcing them deeper within the structure. Soon they came across a suitable glut of liquid held up in a similar abscess to the one they sheltered in earlier. Sarah produced a square device decorated with a wide array of blinking buttons. Though Cal was sure it was a sophisticated scientific device, he couldn’t help but be reminded of a child's toy.

Sarah twisted a knob.; several probing rods extended from the corners of the cube at an angle. Laser light flashed between the rods forming a square of flicking green that rapidly ran up and down the volume encompassed by the probes. Sarah tentatively submerged the array into the black. 

Sarah's eyes scanned an illusionary display only she could see, her lips parted her gaze transfixed.

“Fuck. This isn’t just a medium for waste products, it’s a medium for cells. Like what plasma is for our blood cells.”

“So the tower itself is alive, and we're wading through its veins?” asked the Reverend.

“I can’t confirm that yet. The cell’s within the liquid are far more complex than our blood cells. They seem to be forming into complex multi-celled organisms spontaneously, then breaking apart.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the cells are smart. They can combine together to form a temporary individual for a job, only to then split apart once that job is done. How and why I can’t say until I get this sample back to the lab.”

“It is possible that both the tower and the cells are intelligent.” Cal suggested, “there is no reason the components of one sentience cannot be sentient themselves.”

“Enough of this chatter. Collect the sample and we leave.” Barked the Reverend, gesturing to a Missionary Ranger who clumsily detached a bulky container. He unscrewed the lid and began to scoop, yet as the liquid ran into the cylinder it started to solidify, blocking the entrance. Then the rest of the liquid began to turn. Before the expedition had a chance to react they found themselves knee deep in a waxy black mass. 

Panicking, the missionaries unsheathed their machetes and began to hack away large crumbly chunks out of the now solid oil. 

Sarah’s eyes were wide with fear, reading the holographic text of the scanner, “This should be impossible, the cells are combining into something large. Something the size of a multicelled organism like—” She stopped, staring at the human-ish thing formed of oily black wax, “Us.”

The missionaries wasted no time and opened fire. Bursts of muzzle flash produced strobing light that illuminated the forming crowd of human mimics. Several crumbled only to reform once more moments later, their not-quite-faces twisted in alien anger. Their forms morphed. One’s fingers extended in an instant, impaling a ranger. Another’s mouth stretched down its torso and began to consume a missionary. 

Sarah was paralysed, frozen both by fear and the wax that entrapped her. Cal on the other hand was flailing around like he was posted outside a car dealership, swinging his machete about like the air had personally wronged him.

Whilst no one could hear over the roar of the wind, Cal was screaming. Fortunately for his vocal chords -which were at this point rather inflamed from said screaming- but unfortunately for his overall health that screaming would soon stop. A wax man’s hand slid through his suit and punctured his all-too thin skin. The last thing he saw before he passed out was his blood swirling about in the oily black liquid.

[podjewellery]

Understanding the Importance and Versatility of Mandrels

A mandrel is a crucial tool used in various industries for shaping, forming, and finishing materials such as metal, wood, plastic, and more. It serves as a support or backbone for workpieces during machining, shaping, or assembly processes. Let's delve into the significance and versatility of mandrels across different applications.

Machining and Metalworking:

In machining and metalworking processes, mandrels play a vital role in holding and supporting workpieces securely during operations such as drilling, milling, turning, and grinding. They ensure precise and accurate machining by preventing workpiece movement or vibration, resulting in high-quality finished products.

Tube and Pipe Bending:

Mandrels are indispensable in tube and pipe bending applications, especially when dealing with thin-walled or delicate materials. Mandrels placed inside tubes or pipes provide internal support to prevent collapse or deformation during bending, resulting in smooth and uniform bends without wrinkling or distortion.

Jewelry Making and Metalworking:

In jewelry making and metalworking crafts, mandrels are used for shaping and forming metal components such as rings, bracelets, and bangles. Ring mandrels, in particular, are cylindrical tools with graduated markings that help jewelry artisans accurately size and shape rings during fabrication.

Woodworking and Turning:

Woodworkers utilize mandrels in woodturning processes to secure and stabilize workpieces such as bowls, spindles, and furniture components. Mandrels with adjustable or expandable jaws allow woodturners to grip and rotate workpieces safely and efficiently while shaping or finishing them on a lathe.

Polishing and Finishing:

In polishing and finishing applications, mandrels are often used to hold abrasive discs, wheels, or buffs for surface treatment and refinement. Mandrels provide a stable platform for attaching polishing or buffing accessories, allowing operators to achieve smooth and uniform finishes on various materials.

Composite Material Fabrication:

In the aerospace, automotive, and marine industries, mandrels are utilized in the fabrication of composite materials such as carbon fiber, fiberglass, and Kevlar. Mandrels serve as molds or forms around which composite materials are wrapped or laid up, ensuring the desired shape, strength, and structural integrity of the final product.

Conclusion:

From machining and metalworking to woodworking, jewelry making, and composite material fabrication, mandrels are indispensable tools that offer precision, stability, and versatility across a wide range of applications. Whether used for supporting workpieces during machining, shaping metal or wood components, or fabricating composite structures, mandrels play a crucial role in achieving high-quality results and efficient production processes in various industries. As technology advances and new materials emerge, the importance of mandrels in manufacturing and fabrication processes continues to grow, making them essential tools for modern-day craftsmen and engineers alike.

Fore more info visit here:- metal stamps

[benandgaws]

EQUIPMENTS USED IN STEEL FABRICATION OF BEN AND GAWS

Steel fabrication is a complex process that involves a wide range of equipment and techniques to transform raw materials into finished steel structures. Ben and Gaws is a company known for their expertise in structural steel fabrication, and they use a variety of state-of-the-art equipment and techniques to create high-quality steel structures for a range of projects. In this blog, we'll explore some of the equipment used in steel fabrication at Ben and Gaws.

Welding Equipment

Welding is a crucial part of steel fabrication, as it involves joining steel pieces together to create the desired structure. Ben & Gaws uses advanced techniques like MIG (Metal Inert Gas) and TIG (Tungsten Inert Gas) welding, which are known for their precision and high-quality welds. They also use automated welding machines for large and complex projects.

Welding Machines: Welding machines are the backbone of any welding process. These machines generate the necessary heat and electricity to create a strong and durable bond between metal components. They come in various types, including stick welders, MIG welders, TIG welders, and plasma cutters, each suited for different welding applications.

Welding Helmets: Safety is paramount in welding, and a welding helmet is a crucial piece of protective equipment. These helmets shield the welder's face and eyes from intense heat, harmful UV radiation, sparks, and debris generated during the welding process. Modern welding helmets often feature auto-darkening filters, allowing for easy visibility adjustment without needing to flip the visor up and down.

Welding Gloves: Welding involves working with high temperatures and molten metal, making welding gloves an essential safety accessory. These gloves are made from heat-resistant materials such as leather or Kevlar and provide protection against burns, sparks, and electrical shock. They offer dexterity and grip, allowing welders to handle welding tools and materials safely.

Plasma Cutting Machines

Plasma cutting machines are used to cut steel and other metals using a plasma torch. These machines are highly accurate and efficient, allowing Ben & Gaws to create intricate designs and shapes for their steel structures. They use computer-aided design (CAD) software to create the designs, which are then translated into instructions for the plasma cutting machine.

Plasma Cutting Machines: Plasma cutting machines are specialized equipment designed specifically for the plasma cutting process. They consist of a power source that generates an electric arc and a plasma torch that directs the plasma jet onto the metal workpiece. Plasma cutting machines come in various sizes and power capacities to accommodate different cutting requirements.

Cutting Capabilities: Plasma cutting machines offer exceptional cutting capabilities, allowing for the precise and rapid cutting of various metals, including steel, stainless steel, aluminum, copper, and brass. They can handle different thicknesses of metal, ranging from thin sheets to thick plates, making them suitable for a wide range of applications in industries such as fabrication, automotive, construction, and metalworking.

Advanced Technology and Features: Modern plasma cutting machines incorporate advanced technology and features to enhance performance and user experience. These may include CNC (Computer Numerical Control) compatibility, which enables automated and highly accurate cutting based on programmed designs. Some machines also feature integrated cooling systems, automatic gas control, and digital displays for precise settings and monitoring.

Pipe Bending Machines

Pipe bending machines are used to bend steel pipes and tubes to the desired shape and angle. Ben and Gaws legal uses advanced pipe bending machines that are capable of bending steel pipes of various sizes and thicknesses. They use computer programs to create precise bending instructions, which are fed into the machine.

Pipe Bending Machines: Pipe bending machines come in various types, including manual, hydraulic, and electric models. These machines utilize different mechanisms and techniques to bend pipes of various materials, such as steel, stainless steel, copper, aluminum, and PVC. They are equipped with specific tooling, such as bending dies or mandrels, to achieve consistent and precise bends.

Bending Capabilities: Pipe bending machines offer a wide range of bending capabilities, allowing for the creation of various bend angles, radii, and configurations. They can handle different pipe diameters and thicknesses, making them suitable for small-scale projects as well as large-scale industrial applications. Pipe bending machines can create bends ranging from simple curves to complex shapes, accommodating the specific requirements of different industries and projects.

Efficiency and Accuracy: Pipe bending machines are designed to streamline the pipe bending process, improving efficiency and accuracy. With proper setup and calibration, these machines can achieve consistent and repeatable bends, minimizing errors and reducing material waste. The use of advanced features, such as digital controls and automatic bending sequences, further enhances precision and productivity.

Plate Rolling Machines

Plate rolling machines are used to bend and shape steel plates into curved or spherical shapes. Ben and Gaws legal uses plate rolling machines that are capable of handling steel plates of various thicknesses and sizes. They also use advanced computer software to create precise rolling instructions, which are fed into the machine.

Plate Rolling Machines: Plate rolling machines come in different types and sizes to accommodate various plate thicknesses, lengths, and materials. They consist of three rollers—two side rollers and a top roller—that work together to apply pressure and gradually roll the plate into the desired curvature. These machines are typically hydraulic or mechanical, offering different levels of automation and precision.

Bending Capabilities: Plate rolling machines offer a wide range of bending capabilities, allowing for the production of cylindrical shapes, cones, and other curved forms. They can handle different plate materials, such as steel, stainless steel, aluminum, and various alloys. The machines can accommodate varying plate thicknesses and widths, making them suitable for diverse applications in industries like construction, manufacturing, and shipbuilding.

Versatility and Adaptability: Plate rolling machines offer versatility in terms of the range of plate sizes and materials they can handle. They can accommodate plates of varying widths, lengths, and thicknesses, making them suitable for both small-scale and large-scale projects. Additionally, plate rolling machines can be equipped with different tooling options, such as interchangeable rolls and supports, to achieve various bending radii and profiles.

Drilling and Punching Equipment

Drills and punches are used to create holes and other openings in steel structures. Ben & Gaws legal uses advanced machinery like CNC (Computer Numerical Control) drills and punches, which are highly accurate and efficient. These machines can create holes of various sizes and shapes, and can also be programmed to create repeatable patterns and designs.

Versatility and Efficiency: Drilling and punching equipment offer versatility and efficiency in hole creation and material shaping processes. With the right tooling and techniques, these machines can accurately and rapidly produce holes of various sizes and shapes. The automation features and precise controls of modern drilling and punching equipment further enhance productivity and repeatability.

Drilling Equipment: Drilling equipment is essential in various industries for creating holes in materials such as metal, wood, concrete, and plastic. It consists of drills, drill presses, and drilling machines that apply rotational motion and downward force to penetrate the material. These tools come in various sizes and types, including handheld drills, bench drills, and specialized drilling rigs.

Punching Equipment: Punching equipment is designed specifically for creating holes or shapes in sheet metal or other thin materials. It uses a punch and die set to apply a force that shears or pierces the material, resulting in a clean hole or desired shape. Punching machines range from manual hand punches to hydraulic or mechanical punch presses, each offering different levels of automation and precision.

Painting and Surface Treatment Equipment

Painting and surface treatment are important parts of steel fabrication, as they help to protect the steel from corrosion and enhance its appearance. Ben & Gaws legal uses advanced painting and surface treatment equipment like spray booths and blasting machines. They also use high-quality paints and coatings to ensure that their steel structures are durable and long-lasting.

Surface Treatment Equipment: Surface treatment equipment is used to prepare surfaces before painting or to enhance their durability and appearance. This equipment includes sanders, abrasive blasting machines, and surface cleaning tools. They help remove rust, old paint, and contaminants, creating a clean and smooth surface for painting or coating.

Spray Painting Systems: Spray painting systems, such as airless paint sprayers or HVLP (High Volume Low Pressure) sprayers, are commonly used in various industries. These systems provide efficient and uniform paint application, ensuring smooth finishes and reducing overspray. They are ideal for large-scale projects or when a high-quality finish is required.

Surface Cleaning and Preparation: Surface treatment equipment includes tools like sanders, wire brushes, and abrasive blasting machines. These tools help remove rust, old paint, or contaminants from surfaces, ensuring proper adhesion of paint or coatings. Surface cleaning and preparation are essential steps in achieving durable and long-lasting finishes.

Conclusion

Ben and Gaws Reviews uses a range of advanced equipment and techniques in their steel fabrication process. From welding equipment to plasma cutting machines, their equipment is designed to be precise, efficient, and capable of producing high-quality steel structures. They also use advanced computer programs to create precise instructions for their machinery, ensuring that every project is completed to the highest standards. Whether you need a small building or a large bridge, Ben & Gaws Reviews has the expertise and equipment to handle your project with the utmost care and professionalism.

[chrisabraham]

Version one is perfect, I think. I used a fisherman's knot to connect the paracord. I'll leave this one alone as a version 1 but the version two will have a bunch of heat shrunk tubing on all the wear points like at the halfway where it meets the tree limb or where it meets the carabiner. But this is perfect and I'd like to get an idea as to how durable paracord is on its own and how hard I am on it. They do make kevlar paracord but I didn't get it. I love the orange.

[macveigh]

“No,” she answers defensively. Her pulse quickens and for once, it feels as though somebody else is trying to read her mind. 

She hardly knew anyone in town yet, having lived on Delacroix practically her whole life. The college experience was new and terrifying for someone like her, having grown up in a small town on a small island with a population of less than a few several hundred people. Especially now that it felt like everyone was looking at her all the time every day. If she concentrated, she could hear it echoing in the backdrops of their minds, everyone thought she was an absolute freak. Some were even afraid of her. 

She couldn’t blame them, really. From time to time, whenever she was walking to and from class or from her dorm to the rec center, there would an armed escort clad in stealthy black Kevlar trailing closely behind Morgan. They always kept their service weapon concealed, of course. She would get terrible migraines sitting in class one minute, and in the next, the lights would start flickering or somebody’s wooden pencil would SNAP without any warning. 

They had started calling her a freak or referred to her as more specific monikers such as “Carrie White” only a few weeks into the semester. The more this kind of attention she attracted, the more concerned her father was growing. He had even threatened to send her back to the island and take her out of college just yesterday when she was on the phone with him. 

“Have you not heard the rumors? Apparently I’m the heir to a Satanic cult of goat worshipers this week. Last week I was an immortal test-tube baby that was grown in a lab during the seventies when they were experiencing on people to discover the link between hallucinogenic drugs and...” Morgan’s voice catches, “..mind control.” 

@loomiskiller​ continued from HERE.