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[orthopaedicsgr]

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[lemonwrap]

Imagine: werewolf Ghost turning Soap to save his life.

The mission to find Makarov goes to shit. Ghost isn’t there in time to prevent Soap from being shot. He is there in time to see Makarov fire a bullet straight through Soap’s skull, to see his beloved sergeant crumple to the ground like a sack of bricks.

He’s over to Soap’s side in a flash, clutching him close and calling his name frantically as the blood pours out. Soap is quickly dying, and there’s nothing he can do.

No, there’s one thing.

He shifts faster than he ever has in his life, in less than thirty seconds. A werewolf’s bite does nothing unless they’re in their wolf form. His clothes and gear are torn to shreds, and he pays no mind to Gaz and Price nearby as he grabs Soap’s arm, and, in a fit of desperation, sinks his teeth in.

It was the one thing he vowed he would never do. He would never turn a human. But he can’t let Soap go, he can’t just not do the one thing that could save his life. With a werewolf’s superior healing, Soap might have a chance.

Soap doesn’t die, but it’s a damn near thing. They take him to a nearby hospital, get him admitted and under the care of multiple doctors.

That was three days ago. It’s common knowledge that a human bitten by a shifted werewolf would turn within three days, and Ghost hopes that Soap is still unconscious when it happens, because the first time is a terrifying, painful process. He had been turned by Roba in his twenties. All day, he watches Soap carefully, but the man shows no signs of waking up from his medically induced coma.

Soap doesn’t wake up for another two weeks. When he does, he’s confused and utterly disoriented, and doesn’t recognize Ghost or the rest of the 141. Ghost pretends it doesn’t hurt. Even so, Ghost tells him that he had bitten Soap to save him, and Soap understands, is grateful even, thanking Ghost.

Despite his initial condition, Soap’s healing is remarkable. After a week, he recognizes his comrades again, and seems to be relieved of some of the confusion he had experienced. The wound near his temple begins to close up.

Ghost spends most of his days in Soap’s room. That room is where Soap and Ghost share their first kiss, Soap’s shaking hands grasping at Ghost’s jacket as their lips meet, Ghost whispering a soft Johnny against his lips.

Soap healed extraordinarily well, but even the healing powers of a werewolf can’t fully diminish the off and on numbness in his limbs, tremors, mood swings, and brain fog.

They medically discharge him.

Soap goes home to Scotland, and Ghost follows. For a week, they settle in, but Soap shows no signs of transforming, despite his apparent possession of a werewolf’s regenerative abilities.

It’s a good day when Soap shifts for the first time. He’s bright and happy, like the sergeant Ghost knew before, and his confusion is almost entirely gone. His tremors lessen, and Soap hasn’t complained of the numbness that sometimes annoyed him.

What he does complain about is the sudden onset of a full-body ache, as if his bones themselves are throbbing. He becomes suddenly irritable, clawing at his skin and hair and pacing, snapping at Ghost and groaning in pain.

These are signs he knows. Soap’s going to transform, and he’s going to transform quick now that it’s set in.

“Ghost, w-what do I do?!” Soap stammers, looking like he’s trying not to panic, his eyes wide and filled with fear. He’s never seen Soap panic before.

“Just relax, Johnny,” Ghost says soothingly, because he knows there’s nothing he can do other than support him. Nothing can stop lycanthropy except death. “It’ll be alright.”

“It hurts!” Soap cries out sharply, and then his cry becomes a choked sound not unlike a growl. He drops to his knees and hunches over, putting his hands on his head and gripping his hair between his fingers.

And then he starts to shift.

His mouth elongates into a snarling muzzle, baring sharp white canines, his ears lengthen and migrate to the top of his head, and the hair he’s holding between his fingers turns into fur. Soap sobs and says something that sounds like Ghost’s name, but then his vocal chords change, too, and it turns into a throaty bark. His spine and bones lengthen and grow denser, his fingernails morph into sharp claws, and a tail grows out of his spine as patches of fur grow over his skin.

It’s a few harrowing moments filled with Soap’s agonized cries and whines that make up Soap’s first shift. Ghost knows the feeling, and his stomach knots with sympathy. His own first shift had been one of the most painful things he had ever experienced.

Now fully shifted, Soap is huge, easily eight feet tall when standing upright, with a brown pelt just like his hair, a stripe along his back, long limbs, sharp claws, and a fluffy tail. His wild blue eyes, alight with fear, fixate on Ghost. Ghost tenses, nearly expecting Soap to try to attack him. He knows Soap could rip him apart before he’d have the chance to shift and fight back. That’s what he did to Roba, after all.

Soap does no such thing.

Instead, Soap lets out a whimper and curls in on himself, his tail going between his legs and his claws digging scratches into the floor. He doesn’t look like an eight foot tall killing machine, he looks like a kicked puppy.

“Johnny?” Ghost says quietly.

Soap’s blue eyes glance over to him, and he lets out another pleading whimper. His eyes hold a look of betrayal, of sorrow, of why me? His jaws open and something strangled comes out, like Soap’s trying to speak, but Ghost knows that they can’t, not in this form.

“Oh, Johnny,” he murmurs, and cautiously steps forward. He knows it’s dangerous to get in another werewolf’s space like this, but it’s Soap. When it comes to Soap, all rational thoughts fly out the window.

He reaches forward and gently touches Soap’s arm. Soap stiffens, and Ghost thinks he’s fucked up big time until Soap stumbles onto his hind legs, nuzzles into the crook of Ghost’s neck, and wraps his arms around Ghost. His claws catch on Ghost’s clothing and dig in as he grips Ghost tightly, and Ghost is momentarily stunned. He had acted in no such manner the first time he had shifted.

“See, Johnny? I told you it’d be alright,” Ghost says softly when he gets over his brief moment of surprise.

Soap stays shifted for the rest of the day, and shifts back as soon as his body is able.

It’s from there that Ghost teaches Soap how to handle his werewolf form. He transforms with Soap often, and they travel through the fields near Soap’s cabin, wrestle, play, and bond.

Ghost has never felt as understood or happy in his entire life. It’s a good life, what they’ve made for themselves.

[radioactivepeasant]

Free Day Thursday:

"Responsible Adults", the sequel: Jak tries to do a regular Jak Stunt and is shocked that it doesn't go over well

(Roughly a week after this one ends. Long post warning, as most of these are lol)

Night terrors were not an uncommon experience for Jak. They may not have been his nightly companions anymore, but when he did have them, they were intense. He woke up in a corner of his room, wedged beneath the sink. There was a vague sense that he was taking cover from something, or someone.

Blessedly, he remembered no details of the nightmare. But the terror still sent his guts quivering the way they had in the prison. Huddled under the cot both for warmth and silently praying the boots wouldn't stop at his door. That he wouldn't end up Tyber's new punching bag when he got bored of the old man in the cell above Jak's.

Tyber is dead. Errol is dead. Praxis is dead. I watched them die.

Jak repeated the words like a mantra until he could move his limbs again. He crawled out from beneath the sink, but the lingering fear made his room feel claustrophobic. Smaller than it really was.

At least he hadn't woken Daxter this time.

Jak put on his boots, but didn't bother getting fully dressed. He didn't even know what time it was. Why bother if the doctor and the king guy were just going to nag him about being sleep-deprived anyway?

It must have been early morning, before dawn; the moon had vanished and people were outside doing repair work on houses and fog-catchers.

Early morning was the best time to get any outdoor work done in Spargus. A small girl led a flock of caprids out of the stables and towards one of the other districts to graze on the cactus there, and a gang of trainees only a little older than Jak were taking advantage of the temperature to do an endurance run around the city.

Personally, Jak didn't see the good of such things. You learned to be fast enough or smart enough to escape your enemies, or you didn't. He'd learned through life and death experience, not a footrace with no winners.

"Easy with the straps there!" A stocky man backed into Jak, calling up to a team of three people.

"Ope-! Scuse me there, pipsqueak." The Wastelander stepped to the side as if Jak was barely worth noticing.

"Howland, that thing ain't cinched tight enough!"

They seemed to be trying to remove a corroded beam from the supports of one of the multi dwelling houses. It was already leaning at a precarious angle, as big around as a grown man. If that beam came down the wrong way, it would take a lot of the adobe structure -- and probably a lot of people -- with it.

"It's fine, Daru!" Howland complained, "I just cinched it!"

"Well cinch it again! That sucker’s leanin'!"

Jak frowned, but let his curiosity wash away the dregs of the night terrors.

"What's wrong with it?"

The unofficial foreman tugged at a bushy red mustache and shook his head. "Don't rightly know yet. Could just be age. Sand storms and salt air will do a number on this kind of metal after a while."

Jak wondered if that had anything to do with Sandover using wood and stone almost exclusively. He was about to ask why it had been anchored to a mud wall when there was a loud metallic clang. The last bracket holding the beam snapped under the weight, and the straps weren't enough to hold it.

Jak didn't remember moving. But then he was there, with the beam on his shoulders and the foreman on the ground, having narrowly avoided being crushed to death. Cold metal dug into his hands, pressed down against his head, and Jak knew that by rights he should've been dead.

There was a thrill of revulsion in his chest when he reluctantly acknowledged that the only reason he was standing right now was that the dark eco experiments had lengthened his muscle strands to twice the size of a normal hu'men's. It wasn't just in his dark form. That element of...unnatural...was just with him. Every moment.

"Frith! Oh my- HOWLAND! GET DOWN HERE!" Daru roared, "YOU COULDA KILLED SOMEBODY!"

"I got it," Jak said through gritted teeth. "Is there a place to put this thing down?"

"Not yet," Howland admitted as he shimmied down a ladder.

"We were going to cut it into pieces once it was secure, transport it that way to be recycled."

Jak craned his neck, but the motion jarred the beam. Hastily, he adjusted his grip.

"What's- What's around me?"

"Too much," said Daru grimly. "Just- Hold on, kid."

He winced at the boy's flat stare.

"Er...no pun intended. We're gonna, gonna get you out from under there, I promise!"

"Get it cut up first," Jak grunted, "And you won't have to worry about getting me out."

"And what if your hands get sweaty, huh?" Daru demanded, "Fat chance, little man! We're going to find something to hold this up!"

The other two men hurried down from the roof with saws in hand.

Oh gods. Handsaws. This was going to take a while.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Honestly, Damas should have been expecting trouble when he didn't start his day with a free heart attack after seeing eyeshine in the kitchen. The kid was diametrically opposed to the concept of sleep, so he wouldn't have been in bed. If he was off his routine -- and by now Damas had learned to dread something interrupting the kid's self-imposed routine -- then there was probably going to be trouble later.

When he refilled the fuel in the Beacon, fed the birds, and actually had a cup of coffee uninterrupted, he was suspicious.

When the sun rose and there were no echoes of truncated curses in the halls from guards running into Jak, he started to wonder if the kid had decided to work outside. Unusual, but as long as he didn't do anything that would make Dr. Petros yell at them both, more power to him.

But when the talking ottsel showed up in the throne room about an hour after dawn, frantically demanding to know where Jak was, Damas was concerned.

Those two were attached at the hip! Jak wouldn't have gone to look for work without Daxter.

There was a small crowd forming by the time Damas stepped outside. People were shouting encouragements, or conflicting advice about pulleys and snatchblocks. Had something fallen? Damas hadn't heard any impacts. As he began to pick his way through the crowd, the shouts took on new meaning.

"He's slipping! Somebody get under there!"

"How many more hands do you want? There's ten people holding the beam up!"

"Why won't he just let go?!"

"Standing this long, maybe his arms locked up-?"

A beam? People holding a beam-?

An accident. There'd been an accident and night watch hadn't caught it.

Thoughts of crushed citizens and mangled houses circled Damas’s imagination as he pushed through the rest of the crowd, close enough to hear the rasp of handsaws and the buzz of a lone angle grinder.

"Get the cart back in!" Someone yelled, "Next piece is almost off!"

From the looks of things, a crew of four had reduced a two-story high support beam by a third.

Ten Wastelanders were beneath the colossal pole, hands and shoulders braced against the metal as it shrieked and groaned. If even one of them slipped-!

Damas threw down his staff without thinking to join them, racing to catch the end beginning to slide.

"What happened?" he demanded, straining with the others to keep it from crushing the houses and themselves.

"Tie straps broke!" a man three people down called back, "If it weren't for the kid, it woulda come down right through the roofs of a couple houses!"

Kid?

Oh gods don't tell me...

Jak was standing in the very center of the line. His arms trembled, and sweat poured down his face. He didn't seem to hear anything happening around him, too focused on keeping his grip. He was beginning to pale.

"What's he doing here?!"

"Dunno!" A woman to the left answered. "He was already there when me and the girls showed up, but that was two hours ago."

"Hours?!"

Jak had been out here for hours, trapped, and Damas had been none the wiser?

"Why hasn't anyone gotten him out yet?!"

"We tried! The poor kid froze up!"

Damas gritted his teeth and pushed away images of the kid standing alone under that crushing weight for hours until help had woken up.

"Get a truck and winch out of the pit!" He ordered, "Forget damage to the streets, we'll fix it later! I want this thing taken care of now."

It took a full twenty minutes to get the Dozer through the narrow streets of the tower district. By that time, those who had been holding the beam first had cycled out for fresh arms to allow for water and eco. All except Jak. He'd accepted some water that someone poured into his mouth earlier, but still seemed to be unable to let go. He was at the fulcrum point, he insisted, and he wasn't going to let it tip. (Not that he thought he'd actually be able to move at this point.)

Fifteen people attached pulleys and cables to the beam from above, careful not to dislodge the hands of those below. When the cables had all been hooked to the Dozer's winch, the weight began, at last, to lessen.

There was a ragged cheer from the assembled Wastelanders as the end of the beam tipped up and the rescuers eased the other end to the ground. There would be extensive damage to infrastructure to deal with. But nobody had died, and there were no major injuries, and Damas would count that as a victory. Shaking out aching arms, he hurried to the center of the line, where someone was physically holding Jak upright. Damas took hold of the boy's stiff arms carefully.

"It's gone," he said, easing the limbs down, "It's gone, let go, Jak. Come on, you're done."

The kid made a sound, a soft rasping whine that might’ve been words. Then he collapsed.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When the world drifted back into focus, Jak didn't know where he was. The smell of eco lingered around him, confusing the other scents that could have identified his location. He couldn't move his arms. Why couldn't he move his arms?!

It took a massive effort just to pry his eyelids up. Jak’s breath caught harshly between his teeth as he forced himself onto his side.

Well, that explained the lack of mobility in his arms. He ached like he'd been fighting beyond his limits again. The injection sites would be agitated again, he knew without looking. The pain radiated from his shoulders to his fingertips, skin, muscle, and bone.

The room was a blur. Brown and yellow slowly settled into more colors, ending in something either white or pale blue in front of his nose. The longer he stared at it, the more detail he could see. Pills of thread, clinging to loosely woven fabric. The texture and shape of the warp and weft shifted as he tried to move his hand.

He hissed in pain.

"Well that's what happens when you try to make a career as a load-bearing wall."

Jak tensed. Not alone. Not with Daxter.

Biting down on the pain, he dug his fingers into the pallet beneath him and forced himself upright.

This wasn't the hospital -- small blessings -- but it wasn't his room either. There was a low wooden bedframe on a wall a few feet away, on the other side of some kind of half partition full of plants.

"Where...?"

"Well you're about to think of it as prison," Damas answered from the opposite direction.

He was sitting at a table, hunched over a cup of coffee. The empty pot beside him was a story of its own.

"By the way, you're grounded."

"What?!" Jak sputtered. He started to get up, but fell back onto the pallet with a grunt of pain.

"Like rot!"

Damas glanced back over his shoulder. "Take it up with the doctor. He put you on bedrest, not me. Better yet, blame your own self! You could've let go at any time once the rest of the district turned up to help!"

"The whole...district?"

Jak blinked.

"I don't...remember that..."

Damas sighed and peered into into his mug.

"You've been sleeping most of the day, I'm not surprised. Even with the eco you'll probably be sore for a while."

"How -- ow! -- long was I out there?"

Jak cringed at the look in Damas’s eyes when the man turned around fully.

"Four. Hours. Four hours! Why didn't you let go when others arrived?!"

Was this a trick question? It had to be a trick question.

"Be...cause...I'm not supposed to let other people get hurt?" Jak answered with slow confusion.

Damas stared in complete silence for several seconds. Then,

"You're insane. My foster-son is insane. That's insane! In what world is "throw the youngest under the pillar" a rational solution?!"

"Uh. Haven?" Jak muttered peevishly. He tried to sit up again. "Look, just. Tell me which way my room is and I'll get out of your hair."

Damas pushed his chair back with a scraping sound.

"Mn. No. What part of "bed rest" didn't you hear?"

In brusque motions, he knelt and pulled the blanket back over Jak.

"You are not to do anything even mildly strenuous, or Petros will strangle me. And since I apparently can't trust you not to willingly walk into harm's way unsupervised, you get to camp out in here, and I get to work from home for the next few days to make sure you don't go try to lift a car or something!"

Jak was appalled. "You can't do that!"

Dry as dust, Damas retorted, "First of all, I'm king. Secondly, I'm your legal guardian. Yes I can."

Jak groaned in frustration.

"Where's Daxter?"

"Not grounded."

"Oh come on!"

[eunchancorner]

AU Mashup thing part 2

Tadaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

I'll give it a real name eventually

-

Henry’s eyes opened slowly, his whole body numb and his thoughts slow and cloudy. He was laying on his back, facing a tiled ceiling, and as he managed to look around, he quickly realized he was in the infirmary. Charles sat next to his bed, as if he’d been waiting a while. Upon realizing Henry was awake, he leaned closer.

“Henry, hey, are you okay? You’ve been out a long time…” he asked cautiously. “Me and Ellie got really worried there, we came in and Sven and Burt were both out cold, and you were following pretty fast. Was it the serum? I knew this experiment was a bad idea. Y’know, Reginald’s pissed. He said he’d kill you if it didn’t get him killed, so I’d start checking your food to be extra sure-”

“Wait… why is Reginald mad…?”

“Oh, shoot, you don’t know yet, right, uh… I-I’ll uhm… I’ll explain when you’re not full of painkillers, okay?”

“Charles Calvin. Why is Reginald angry…?”

The head of the aerial assault unit took a deep breath, as though figuring out how to word it.

“So… those serums of yours might have had some side effects… You three did gain more muscle mass, especially in your limbs… but you also gained some… other things… In the scientists’ defense, it’s easy to overlook what having dog DNA in someone might do…”

“Please… for the love of god… tell me it’s not one of those ‘gained animals features’ tropes… those barely even work on TV…”

Charles’s silence was almost deafening.

Henry let out a labored groan, looking back up at the ceiling.

“So… yeah, Reginald is now mad because he can’t see his own son without having to stock up on allergy meds. He… kinda blames you for this, which, I don’t blame him. You gave the ok on this experiment and dragged Sven into it. Ellie also thinks you’re an idiot, but she’s also just glad you’re alive,” the other continued to ramble, a sound that Henry couldn’t deny helped him feel a little better. Something about Charles’s yapping was just so soothing to him.

“So… I guess… what breed of dog do you think I got…?” he eventually cut in with a small smile.

“Well, it’s too early to tell. Everything is still forming, which is why you’re on painkillers to begin with, but it’s shaping up to look like you’re gonna be something pointy-eared. I’m thinking maybe like a husky or something? The medteam could probably take a blood sample and find the exact breed.”

“Have ‘em do that while I’m still high as a kite, okay…?” the leader requested. “... wait, why am I on painkillers…?”

“Well, you guys passed out from the pain. The doctors said it’s basically like… your bodies couldn’t take it, so it was like, a force-shutdown? Apparently the average human body can’t really handle your skull shifting where your ears go and your spine just straight up lengthening.”

“So that’s why Sven went down first…” Henry managed with a quiet chuckle. “Surprised they weren’t worried about the painkillers reacting with the serums…”

“Oh, no, they were. Ellie kinda… forced them to give them to you guys. Especially you. What can I say, she’s a protective friend, I guess.”

“Heh, of course she did…”

“Do you think you might start acting more dog-like, too? Like, becoming clingier and more affectionate and stuff? Or more protective?”

“We’ll see… I’m just glad it did give us more muscle… so maybe we’ll be stronger… or faster… or both…”

“Maybe next time you try to make a super-soldier, try less animal DNA, more… I dunno, steroids or something. I have no idea what you put in these things, I’m not a scientist.”

“I dunno either… I just approved the stupid experiment…”

“Hm… Well, we’ll see what happens, maybe this is actually the perfect mix, it’s just gotta… settle, I guess? The doctors said that at this rate, you should be ready to come off the painkillers by tomorrow. Ellie’s taken over in your place, by the way. She’ll probably stay there until you’ve actually fully recovered.”

“Once I’m out of here, I will absolutely take back over…”

“What? No, Henry, you’re gonna have to learn to live with this… weird… shit you did to yourself, first!”

“Toppats need a leader… That’s my job… As soon as I am out of here, I’m leading again…”

“Yeah, how about you see what happens when you try to do something dumb like that. I’ll give you a hint; I’ll take the consequences into my own hands.”

Henry went silent at the threat, before sighing.

“You won’t hurt me. I know that…”

“Yeah, you’re completely correct. But I’ll still make you regret it.”

“Heh, we’ll see about that… Mind letting me sleep now?”

Charles crossed his arms, feigning an offended look, though he was unable to force down a smile.

“Fine then, I’ll go and let his highness sleep!” he huffed as he stood, earning a short chuckle from Henry.

“I didn’t say ‘go’, I just want a bit of quiet… please…? I like having you here…”

“I know, I know…” the pilot conceded as he sat back down. “I’ll be here, don’t worry.”

With that, Henry let himself relax again, almost immediately slipping back into the warm embrace of sleep.

[ali-annals]

Is this Hope just a Mystical Dream? (ii - final)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Marinette Dupain-Cheng

Rating: T+ | WC: 2.3k | CW: Dark humour, pain of resurrection etc | A/N: For the loml @sarcasticbambi <3 | ao3 | PART ONE |

Did you know that some soulmates' souls are literally connected, meaning that when one half dies, the other follows them soon after to a personalized deathscape? Marinette and Jason sure did.

The feeling of Marinette’s soft lips was replaced by a burning tingling sensation, spreading throughout his entire body, inside and out. A soul-deep pain radiated his body, nerves lighting up with a pain like he’d never felt before. Red filled his vision, clouding his brain as the pain diminished. Clawing at the liquid around him, he struggled up, filling his lungs with a breath of air. Black-clad beings hovered around the edges of his vision, and he lunged at the closest with a snarl, quickly disarming them by muscle memory.

The beings went down surprisingly easily as the rage coursing through him seemed to fuel his desperate actions, leaving nothing but a spread of unconscious beings lying around him.

“Jason!”

The voice cut through the deepest red of the haze he was in, making him turn to see who had summoned him. A woman in black, like his previous opponents (though her face was uncovered unlike theirs), wrapped her arms around him, stroking his back soothingly. “Jason, it’s okay.  You’re safe here. You can calm down. The Rage will fade soon.”

She kept muttering reassurances as she grounded him with her firm yet caring backrubs, gradually turning the red from his vision to green. 

“You’re not–” Jason bit his soulmate’s name off as his sense fully returned, recognizing the woman comforting him. “Talia?”

“Yes, Jason, I’m Talia. You are with me in the League of Assassins’ Nanda Parbat base. You just came out of the Lazarus Pit, so you may feel some rage and volatility. You are safe here. I will protect you–from yourself, if I must. You will still be disoriented and recovering from the aftereffects of reviving and being healed via the Pit, so I will place you in the room next to mine so I can keep an eye on you. Do you understand me?”

Jason nodded. “I understand you.”

“Today is October 31st. You are sixteen years old. Your name is Jason Peter Todd. You’ve been responding to your name, so I assume you are familiar with it. When you feel ready, I will take you to your room and have a doctor look you over and make sure the Pit healed you properly.”

Jason’s grip around Talia tightened a fraction. “Please no doctors.”

“Okay, Jason. I won’t bring you a doctor. Will you let me look you over, at least?”

He nodded. “Okay.” He struggled to his feet, suddenly feeling woozy. Looking down, he noticed his limbs were longer and more muscular than he was used to, and his centre of gravity was not what he was accustomed to.

Talia wrapped his arm around her shoulder and supported his waist with her other arm. “Do you think you can walk a little? It will only be a couple minutes.”

“I should be okay,” he decided, taking a tentative step. The stroll got easier as they went along, as Jason became accustomed to making his newly changed body work how he wanted. He still stubbed his toes a couple times, being used to taking shorter steps and putting his feet down sooner, but overall, their progress was good.

Talia opened the door beyond the one she pointed out as hers, showing him in to his. It was plain, holding only a simple bed, chest, and chair. He lay on the bed, relieved to relax and feel his new self when he wasn’t forced to move his lengthened limbs. 

Talia settled into the chair beside his bed, placing two fingers over his wrist to take his pulse. She asked him basic questions, testing his cognizance, although he’d been responding fairly coherently to her earlier. She checked his pupils and that his senses were working well, that he wasn’t still feeling overcome with rage and violent tendencies. 

“You seem to be okay. I’m relieved,” she admitted. “I was worried about you for a while. Especially right after I found you in Gotham. Do you remember anything from the past six months?”

Nothing but the deathscape I share with my beautiful soulmate, Marinette.

He shook his head slowly. “How did I end up here? The last I remember is…the warehouse.”

Talia’s lips flattened and she hummed neutrally. “I see. Well, the League found you wandering Gotham four months ago, catatonic. I recognized you from your movements–you were fighting an attempted sexual assaulter with nothing but muscle memory. I brought you back here and hoped you’d regain your consciousness with care and time, but it wasn’t working. My father wanted to dispose of you, so I was left with no choice but to put you in the Pit.”

Jason filtered through his memory, finding nothing along those lines in his files. Shaking his head, he told her none of what she said rang any bells. 

“Did I ever say anything or try to leave?” Do you know about Marinette?

“No, you never tried to leave. You stuck by my side when you could. You only said ‘Bruce’ a couple times, but I heard you mention someone else once. I could find no record of a ‘Mary’ in your records that you would call for, though.”

Mari. Good, the League still doesn't know about her. 

“I wonder why I said Mary,” he deflected. “I only know a Mary in my class at school, but we’ve never talked.”

~~~

A sharp pain like a stab wound made Marinette gasp and clutch her chest. The pain spread throughout her body, a tingling sensation similar to the one she associated with being revived but more…spicy?...flooding her veins. 

Instinctively, she knew that something was happening to Jason. Gritting her teeth, she focused on all the love and affection she held for him, hoping that the power of true love would work and help relieve some of the excruciating pain she was sure he was experiencing. 

Gradually, the pain faded, leaving nothing but questions behind for Marinette to stew in. Would Jason’s apparent resurrection trigger hers again? Would she be the one staying behind in the deathscape this time? What was happening to him? Was he okay?

~~~

TWO YEARS LATER

Red Hood was on his first patrol with Batman since they’d (at least partially) made up. Bats was grappling onto the next building, and Jason was about to fire his grapple when he felt a tap on his shoulder. Whirling around, he sensed no one around him, making him frown. Warily, he continued on his route across Gotham. Either he was finally hallucinating, or someone was good enough to evade even his highly trained senses and didn’t want him to find them. That probably wasn’t good.

Batman paused in the mouth of an alleyway after stopping a mugging. “What’s on your back?”

Of all the words he expected Batman to say to him since their patrol started, those were not them. 

“Huh?”

Batman patted his back, then showed him a note he’d unpinned from his jacket. “How did someone get this on you?”

He shrugged and opened the folded note.

Cheri, I’m in your room. Don’t be surprised and shoot me ;) ~Pixie <3

“Nothing, just a prank pulled by one of your weird kids.” Folding the note up, he tucked it into the inner pocket of his jacket, over his heart. Could it be ?

“You’re one of my weird kids,” Batman pointed out.

Jason felt a warm glow at those words. Even with their rocky relationship after his return to Gotham, Batman still thought of him as his kid. 

~~~

Once he’d showered and changed, Jason headed upstairs, towelling his damp hair and weighing how accurate his hopes of the mystery note writer being Marinette were.

He cautiously cracked open his door and exhaled, relieved, and smiled at the sight. Marinette was curled up on his bed, fast asleep in his Gotham Knights hoodie. 

He sat carefully on the edge beside her, stroking her hair. “Hey, Pixiepop.”

“Hey, Jay, missed you,” she mumbled, curling into him. She stiffened and jerked into a sitting position. “You’re here!”

“I am. Why are you here? How’d you get resurrected?”

“Tikki was able to put me in a magic coma, kind of like Emilie Agreste was in, until I was ‘dead’ as long as you’d been. Once we were even, I woke up. I graduated and looked you up, but you were in the middle of your feud with Batman, so I waited until things had settled down to contact you so you wouldn’t be distracted.”

“You’re distracting?”

“Mhm,” she nodded against his chest. “Very. And you would’ve been trying to keep me away from Bruce, too.”

“How’d you  know where I was?”

She shrugged. “Looked up Gotham, found a new player, figured it was you ‘cause of all the drama–”

“HEY!”

“--and had Kaalki portal me over to make sure it was you. Trixx helped me spy on you, and once I knew it was you, I applied for universities in the area. I moved to the US officially, but I think I’m going to be right here more often than not. Your hoodies are really cozy, by the way.”

“You can have them all,” Jason told her, thrilled to be with her again.  “I’m so glad you’re alive again,” he squeezed her even tighter into his side. “I missed you.”

“Not as much as I missed you,” she countered. “How did you stand being in the ‘scape for so long when I wasn’t there?”

Jason snickered. “I had plenty of books, and I trained lots–had to keep the Robin skills sharp–and I tried all the hobbies that you were into so I could understand them…it wasn’t too bad most of the time.”

She sniffed disdainfully and slung her legs over his. “I’m still salty that the Pits severed our telepathic bond. And who thought it was a good idea to use one, anyways?!” 

“That would be Talia al Ghul, mother of the current Robin and daughter of the head of the now-dismantled League of Assassins.”

“Your dad…oh wow. How’s that work? Did Bruce know?”

“He did not; T just showed up one day and said he’s yours and your problem now. And now we have a spiky baby brother. Talia has The Worst™ timing.”

“Yeah she does. She interrupted us last time when she revived you–the rudeness!”

“We shouldn’t be interrupted now,” suggested Jason.

Marinette looked at him. “3…2…1…”

Jason’s door opened and Tim poked his head in. “Who’re you talking to? Also, Alfred wants to know if you want tea or hot chocolate, and if you had a good patrol.”

“I’m good, tell Alfie thanks. And it’s none of your business who I’m talking to, Replacement. Knock next time, yeah?”

Tim shrugged and closed the door, slapping the lightswitch before he went. “Turn a light on, sheesh.”

Marinette smirked up at Jason. “Now we’re good. Thanks, Trixx.”

They leaned in again, and the third time really was the charm, because they were blissfully uninterrupted. 

~~~

Marinette woke up to quiet yet insistent whispers. “Uh, Little Wing, who’s that?”

“Shh! You’ll wake her up! She’s as bad as Replacement about sleeping.”

“Sorry,” at a slightly lower volume. “But who is she?”

“Nunya business. Can you…not tell anyone about this, though? Or her, in general?”

“...I guess. Why is she so important?”

Jason’s chest heaved with a sigh under Marinette’s cheek. “You cannot tell anyone. She’s my soulmate.”

“That’s great, Jay!”

“SH!”

“Sorry! How did you know?”

“We met.” Marinette popped her head out of the hoodie she’d fallen asleep in. For once, neither she nor Jason had had nightmares. “Hi, I’m Marinette. You’re Dick?”

“Yeah. Sorry if I woke you up. Alfred sent me to get Jay for breakfast.”

She shrugged, patting her hair down. “‘S fine. Cheri, do you think Alfred would mind a guest?”

Jason groaned and ran his hands down his face. “Pix, please say you’re joking?”

“Absolutely not, but if you’re not ready, that’s fine. I’ll wait.”

He groaned again. “Fine. But you’re explaining everything.”

A grin slipped across her face. “That’s fine.” She bounced off the bed and smoothed the hoodie down, holding a hand out to him. “Ready, Romeo?”

Jason tossed her a disgusted look at her teasing nickname, knowing how he felt about the play, but took her hand, letting her pull him to his feet. 

Babs and Steph had arrived with coffee and now all the Bats and Bat-adjacents were at the table. The chatter abruptly ceased when they saw three, not two, people joining them. 

Marinette ignored the awkwardness. “Good morning!” she greeted cheerily. “I’m Marinette, Jason’s soulmate. Nice to meet you all!”

“You’re his…soulmate?” repeated Bruce, stunned. 

“Yep, we’re part of the 15% that has one.”

“How’d you meet?” asked Steph at the same time as Tim’s “What’s your bond?”

Marinette looked at Jason. “A crowbar introduced us. We have a death bond.”

The Bats mulled over this intriguing piece of information.

“So…you died and resurrected when Jason did?” asked Babs softly.

“Sort of. It’s rather complicated to explain. But the basics are, when we die we go to a deathscape, just the two of us. It’s like a dreamscape created by the dream-type bonds, but a little bit longer sleep. It was more of a coma in my case, so I didn’t wake up in my coffin.” She grinned at everyone’s awkward expressions. “Yes, I’m the one who corrupted your sweet Jay and told him death jokes are great for making situations awkward for everyone. You’re welcome.”

“How did you get in without any alerts going off?” asked Tim.

“I had one of the miniature gods I’m the guardian of open a portal directly to Jason’s room. Also, I used another’s illusion skills to pin the note to his jacket last night.”

“So you know who we are.”

“Of course. I’m also a hero–Ladybug, of Paris, at your service,” She bowed jokingly.

“Please allow Miss Marinette to eat her breakfast without having to answer all your questions at once,” Alfred said, bringing in the plates. 

“You are immediately my favourite,” Marinette declared.

A/N:

1) Yes, I know Jason canonically went to Heaven and also only resurrected in his grave around October, but this is a crossover and I do what I want :3

2) His body was resurrected because of his and Marinette's bond and her random deaths/revivals, but his soul stayed behind in the Deathscape until he was forcibly reunited with his body via Lazarus Pit.

3) Because of the meddling with his body/soul, the soul-pathic connection between the couple was severed, though they're still soulmates and still love each other (since that isn't because of the bond).

4) Jason still became RH because a) Bruce should have killed Joker before Mari did [in Jason's mind] b) he realized that he disagreed with Batman's letting everyone live. He was a lot calmer as RH though, and less focused on the Bats. Without all the Joker/RH/Bats angst, it was easier for them to work something out with him.

5) The League Talia wouldn't have done anything to Marinette, but Jason thought better safe than sorry, in case she revived and the League caught her. He still learns lots from the LoA and stays close with Talia. Why doesn't he look Mari up? ....Shh, stop thinking about my fic now please and thank you <3

6) Adrien is doing fine with Amelie and Felix.

Hope you enjoyed!

Taglist (open): @questioning-blob-of-fog @jennifer-rose123

[pysoch]

Hi guys I am going through sometjing RN so I thought I'd use my break at work to type out medic angst with my personal hcs woaowoaowa

Huge tw for the everything basicallt

Also tw for first person lol

=================

I am old. Each year I age and grow and change and I am old. There isn't any comfort in that, but it's hard to find any nowadays. I don't take to things like I did as a boy. Even with the new resources I have, I am old. Cutting down the skin of a man and splitting open whatever's inside him had started to leave me empty and bored. I've defied death, created machines to heal others of fatal wounds in an instant, invented immortality even if for a small duration, and it has given me nothing but a yearning for-

For..

Nothing.

For nothing.

I've accomplished it all. Done every feat doctors and medical professionals have beaten their lives for, and yet I have no celebration. I sit in my sterile office, on my uncomfortable chair, and stare at this form on my desk lengthening my employment. Even my coworkers give me no more than living entities to accompany my melancholy. And all I do as I stay here is get older. There's nothing left for me. God, I wish there was.

My thoughts wandered far, far from my accomplishments. No matter how I anchor them. It drifts. My eyes wander, too. They rest on the silver tray I have a lengths way from my desk. I kick the corner of it, full of floor-level marks in an odd streak. They resemble tally marks, six in total, all etched in dried fluid. It'd been too long, too many weeks for me to recall what for. On the surface is various tools I've used through my wretched career. Still probably clean from when I last polished them. Not probably; definitely. It's all I can do. Before my body and mind communicate it's already put me out, and back in the chair. The only thing that changes is the silver tool now in my palm. Scalpel. Yet my thumb pressed on it slightly too hard; tense arthritis is my one ail. A trickle of blood brings warmth to my hand and the silver handle, now coated in red. It's a hive, and the swarm of vermin that follows is natural.

It's not as if I haven't seen my own blood before. I usually wipe it, cleanse it, more often than not leave it to dry. The difference now is what comfort is brings me. I've played God so long that being reminded of my mortality has nearly set adrenaline through me too fast. My lungs pause their usual track before continuing the laborious activity. A small droplet sinks between the meticulously crafted oak paper below me and stain a word I was writing. An ugly thing blotting up my paper and driving me to pull back and out a paste to cover the mistake and keep writing. My body doesn't budge. I've forgotten I can bleed. I've forgotten I am not immortal. I press into the edge again.

Another slit. Yet more falls down my thumb. Instead of a stinging sensation of air hitting the receptors in my skin, I feel an overwhelming sense of joy. My body pumps itself out of the seat and to the desk itself while I stand hunched over. My untarnished thumb retracts the cuff of my sleeve and brings to light the pale flesh I hide under layers of professionalism. I can see blue and purple lines so faintly through them, pushing on their cages every time my fingers curl. I could hear them. They were suffocating while I watched and put all my focus into the dull throb they released in pain of claustrophobic masses. Hundreds of them; veins. Desperately wanting to be shown the world and I wielded the exit. It didn't take but a moment for me to unlock it, twisting in the key until the prongs fell into place, turning, and yanking it back out again. It jammed. I repeated the process thrice on the different locks of my mortal vessel until finally I withdrew. Their screams were of joy, and I was immediately rewarded with a blissful pleasure that hardly allowed me sense to stand.

Of course, my limb was coated with the slick and foul liquid that had drowned my unwilling captors. It slid out of the exits and down into clusters that dropped on the desk and scrawled away in feverish escape. The paper was nearly coated, now. Ink replaced for crimson and sometimes clotted so close it appeared black. I could only bite down on the inside of my cheek as I beheld my damage. Three- no, four- large gashes that no longer had blue visible. Yet still, the pulsating plead for release filled me deeper than lust for an untampered body devoid of scars. I attempted to put my freeing tool more and more within me, seeing white gifts spot my vision as my eyes tilted back to behold the ceiling fluorescents like angels. The euphoria was halted almost instantly as I realized I was unable to go further into the lock. Through squinting I could make out a thick white layer below the red, and under that an even sea of solid mass my scalpel couldn't sear through. My own bone. It shone gorgeously in the room. A gem hidden away in a tower that took perseverance and understanding to climb. It shone brilliantly. I nearly welcomed it as a friend before noticing it was merely a fragment. Loneliness is the death of man, I'd be no better than a tyrant if I forced him alone.

So further I worked to peel back the layers on my arm that read white. Eventually, I had accumulated so much shredded flesh on the desk it appeared like a normal surgery. Cutting back bit by bit rendered my arm suddenly useless. Hardly could I raise it above my waist anymore. And so it was; residing like a sleeping prince and pouring out waterfalls of life each passing second. Guilt consumed me at the sight of that lonesome bone, even if revealed. It's two-hundred brothers still begged unveiled beauty. Not a time to let rest take over. Instead, it was back to slashing and inserting, twisting and squelching up my side. The fabric of one of my favorite button-up shirts was no doubt long gone to these fruitful messes. There was a issue when it came to my sides. Through years of core strength in lifting men, gear, and other objects around there was a large barrier of muscle. It'd take toiling I had no patience for. The ribs could wait. It was truly my spine aching release. Not aided with a mirror nor flexibility, it was certainly wise for me to begin where it was most prominent and accessible. I tilted my head down in a mockery of prayer and found my way easily until the back of my neck had vertebrae poking through the mesh. A matter of seconds passed before the thin layers were able to reveal the bumps and grooves. It brought unbridled sensations down to me. I clung to that high, ripping away all I could and following the skin's path until a hasty move made my limbs render weak and useless. I felt everything spin and heard the resounding crack of my skull on the office floor. I never came to, as I hadn't passed out. Instead I was almost paralyzed in this state. I heard a faint drip and couldn't locate the source with my eyes. It took another two minutes for me to realize I was dying. A path of fatty tissue had falsely lead me to slitting out the front of my throat, causing my breathing laboured through blood and instead of my mouth, instead travelling out the crack. I was horrified and appalled at myself. My planning was so hasty, so unwise, that I led myself to death before getting to experience more of my precious body and its ability to be mauled by my own motivation. I'd remember next time the neck stays last. Everything was suddenly getting all too quiet for me. I raised my finger, dipping it in my excess fluids and deeply swiping it on the bottom wall of my desk. A tally of seven times by now that I've ended up dead at my own hands. Such is the way of suicide. After being robbed of death, it becomes a mercy. Most methods are unconventional, sloppy, and boring. Bullets don't give you time, hangings don't give you pleasure, and overdose hardly lets you feel at all. By the time I walk out of the doors to respawn, I'll have forgotten. I'll forget the love and darling sensation that is agony and killing yourself to revel in the beauty. It was far too late for me to write it down for reference; I undoubtedly had less than ten seconds left. The first time I died, I felt a cradle of my mother hold my head tenderly and comfort me. God took her away the third time I didn't learn my lesson that this game I play with myself was a mockery of his gift of temporary joys of Earth. Damn that bastard for being right. I'd prove his creation wrong once more the next time around.

As for right now, my lungs have stopped. My heart quit beating twelve seconds ago. My hearing is the last to fade in the gorey scene, but my own gasping and dripping wound excrements are a lullaby I hold dearer than most.

[sylphmacabre]

All Hallows Eve

Fandom: RISE OF THE GUARDIANS

'Verse - Six Guardians

Characters: Jack Frost, Pitch Black

Pairing: Blackice

Rating: Teen

Summary: You wouldn't think costumes with a theme would be Pitch Black's thing... at least, not in public.

Originally posted on Archive Of Our Own on October 31, 2015.

__________________

Jack would never cease to be astounded by the mercuriality of Pitch's moods, no matter how many years passed since the first time pale blue-veined limbs entwined with grey-skinned ones, no matter how often citrine eyes looked into sapphire ones and did not look away.

He'd learned quickly enough when to joke with his bedmate, and when to remain silent, when to be supportive of Pitch's melancholy and when to distract him from it.

But Jack never expected Pitch to be the one to suggest a night out on the town... a night spent in company... a night NOT spent brooding on his obsidian throne or cavorting between black satin sheets.

Not Mister "I am the Boogeyman and you will not have fun in my presence unless I'm sticking my tongue down your throat". Not Mister "oh I miss the Dark Ages when people actually fainted when they saw a plague doctor mask".

And certainly not "a night out" on Hallowe'en itself, a working holiday for the King of Nightmares, a duty Pitch took very, very, VERY seriously and defended to his fellow Guardians.

Thus, when Pitch casually worked into conversation the phrase "I thought we could drop in at Sanderson's little soiree in coordinated costumes this year", Jack was thoroughly flummoxed.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmm-okay?"

Pitch's clever hands kept kneading Jack's shoulders, claws retracted for a change. "And since the little creampuff likes marine life so much, why don't we indulge him?"

Jack turned over and looked the Nightmare King in the eye. "Seriously? You actually want to be seen in public with me outside of Guardian meetings?"

Thin grey lips quirked and revealed a hint of fangs. "I would have thought by now that you'd relish a chance to mix fun and fear. What goes better than All Hallows Eve and showing off that mix?"

Further conversation halted when Pitch simultaneously unsheathed his claws and trailed his tongue over Jack's collarbone.

A week later, Jack swooped into Pitch's lair to collect him for their trip to the Island of Sleepy Sands. He'd crafted his ice to coat his body in a brilliant blue shade and lengthened the ice into a long tail, so that he now resembled an electric eel.

He couldn't help but yelp and leap backward as something that was all teeth and uncanny swiftness emerged from the darkness and lunged towards him.

A throaty chortle from the Nightmare King calmed Jack enough that he could catch his breath and sputter out, "When... will I learn... that you're always going to pick the... creepiest... FREAKIEST... way of saying hello?"

Pitch proudly waggled the sinuous shadows emerging from his rump that finished off his lamprey look. Jack did not even want to TRY to guess how Pitch had reshaped his own head so that his eyes were now on either side of his skull; he was too disconcerted by the ever-open mouth ringed by triple rows of teeth that Pitch was now sporting.

"Okay, now that you've scared a century off my immortal span, can we get going to the party?" the Guardian of Fun asked the Guardian of Caution. He was surprised to see a hesitance come over Pitch, and wondered about its cause.

Pitch fidgeted before replying, "I actually have two costumes planned for the evening. This one is just for show... can't have the rabbit or the fat man gloating that I've gone soft in the head over you, after all." He cleared his throat and continued, "But I came up with the idea of another costume, just for you. A private viewing, maybe for later?"

The Nightmare King made some kind of motion that Jack did not immediately catch, but the result was striking. The essential eel-ness of Pitch's body did not change, but his colouring faded to an icy white, nearly as blinding as Jack's normal skin tone, mottled with deep-space-black markings that looked like... snowflakes.

Jack could only stare. Before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "Now THAT'S a moray!" and was rewarded with a full-throated laugh from Pitch.

They arrived at Sandy's party hours later than expected, with Pitch's lamprey teeth back in full evidence, but the self-satisfied looks they kept throwing one another gave the game away to their fellow Guardians.

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[sweetbaloonsriseboldly]

Gavriil Abramovich Ilizarov (Russian: Гавриил Абрамович Илизаров; 15 June 1921 – 24 July 1992)

Was a Soviet physician, known for inventing the Ilizarov apparatus for lengthening limb bones and for the method of surgery named after him, the Ilizarov surgery.

He discovered that by carefully severing a bone without severing the periosteum around it, one could separate two halves of a bone slightly and fix them in place, and the bone would grow to fill the gap. He also discovered that bone regrows at a fairly uniform rate across people and circumstances. These experiments led to the design of what is known as an Ilizarov apparatus, which holds a bone so severed in place, by virtue of a framework and pins through the bone, and separates halves of the bone by a tiny amount; by repeating this over time, at the rate of the bone's regrowth, it is possible to extend a bone by a desired amount

In 1980, Carlo Mauri, an Italian mountaineer, explorer, and photojournalist, on the urgings of his Russian colleague Yuri Senkevich, travelled to Kurgan, in the Soviet Union. He was to be treated by Ilizarov for a tibial fracture that healed incorrectly after a skiing accident ten years earlier. Italian doctors had long given up hope of any surgical improvement to the leg. Ilizarov distracted the stiff non-union in his tibia by 2 cm, healing the pseudarthrosis, corrected an equinus deformity by distraction and lengthened his leg. Mauri dubbed Ilizarov "the Michelangelo of Orthopaedics". On his return to Italy, the healing of Mauri's leg amazed orthopaedic surgeons. Subsequent to this, Ilizarov was invited by Antonio Bianchi-Maiocchi and Roberto Cattaneo to be a guest speaker at the AO Italy conference in 1981 in Bellagio. He gave three lectures at the conferences to more than 200 participants from Italy, France, Switzerland, Austria, and Germany.

[dromersheriff]

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[orthopedicimplantcompany]

The Evolution of External Fixators: Types and Innovations

There are few surgical procedures more ubiquitous in the orthopedic surgeon’s repertoire than the technique of applying an external fixator to a fractured extremity. There are many types of external devices and each type targets unique requirements and issues. Let’s dive in and explore the different kinds of external fixators and delve into the modular fixation system.

Understanding External Fixators Types

External fixators are devices used to keep fractured bones in place. These are placed externally and help in stabilizing the affected area and keeping the broken bones in alignment to promote recovery. External fixators are broadly categorized into three main types: conventional pin fixators, ring fixators and hybrid fixators, each with different applications: 

Standard Pin Fixators: These are the simplest type of external fixators where pins are directly-screwed into the bone. They are most commonly applied to simpler fractures where adequate rigidity can be afforded with comparatively little implantation of hardware.

Ring Fixators: As the name suggests, ring fixators are placed around the limb, arm, or foot, encircling them fully or partially. The rings are fixed on the bones using wires, struts, and special pins so that they could easily be adjusted or corrected as required.

Hybrid Fixators: Hybrid fixing is formed by combining standard pin and ring fixators. They are mostly applied in multiple types of fractures that need reinforcement or stabilization.

The Modular Fixator: The Surgery Revolution in Orthopedics

The modular fixator stands as one of the significant developments in external fixation technology. In contrast with the traditional fixators, the modular fixators are developed for fast application and easy adjustability. They include one sub-assembly partial frame that connects to one of the main fracture fragments with pins and rods. These frames are joined by rod-to-rod construction, designed to assert and enable accurate control and minimization of the fracture

Another advantage of the modular fixators is that they are applied without intraoperative x-rays. This makes the procedure faster and (more) minimally invasive thereby minimizing adverse effects. Furthermore, modular fixators can be adjusted after the application making it easier for the doctor in treatment and correct alignment and stability of limbs.

Advantages and Uses of External Fixators

These fixators are applied in various scenarios ranging from simple fractures to complex deformities. It is especially useful in those particular cases when internal fixation cannot be used, for example with open fractures or in cases with a high probability of infection. In limb lengthening and deformity corrections, external fixators are very useful and give a patient a ray of hope for better functionality and quality of life.

The Future Of Orthopedic Surgery

External fixators have revolutionized the field of orthopedics, giving a new way of handling complicated cases such as fractures and deformities. After the use of the modular fixators, the opportunities of the patients getting the best orthopedic treatment improved even more. External fixators are not only orthopedic accessories, but they also represent the genuine efforts of the medical community. These innovations and improvements give us all hope for a better future ahead especially for orthopedic surgeons.