#plexiglass plexiglass barrier

[sammyloomis]

trying to embrace the fact im a huge weirdo but not in a fun and quirky way, in a strange and off-putting way

[angeltannis]

Guess who’s sick AGAIN! Four times in four months. This time it’s some kind of stomach bug where I can’t stop puking and can’t keep anything down.

I think I’m going to email my primary care doctor at this point because I don’t think this is normal. I’ve never been sick this many times in a row.

Also putting this last bit under a cut bc it’s absolutely Disgusting but also kind of morbidly fascinating to me (TW: VOMIT):

Every time I threw up last night, I blew my nose after - and chunks of undigested food came out?? Of my NOSE?? I don’t throw up like ever so maybe that’s normal, but that’s never happened to me before. It was horrifying!!

[buttermilkqueen]

my milk themed dream drama might be bc yesterday @ grocery store i was trying to tell customer services that there was expired milk on their shelves and we were just NOT understanding each other

“so what, the price is wrong?”

no, i just bought it, there is stuff on the shelf that expired a week ago

*looking at the milk i just bought* “ma’am this isnt expired”

i didnt buy the expired milk, it is still on the shelf

“I dont know what you want, i can refund this milk?”

😐 i just thought someone would want to remove the expired milk

“OK so if you’re keeping the milk i cant offer you any refund”

[aziraphale-is-a-cat]

DP X DC Dont Scratch the Ice

It wasn't October in Gotham if Manbat hadn't gone on a rampage, and Dick was currently chasing Kirk Langstrom through the densely populated Main Street in Gotham, so by God was it fucking October.

They'd mostly kept on rooftops so far and Dick honestly thought this chase was going to be relatively easy until suddenly, thanks to decades of poor infrastructure maintenance, the sky light the scientist-turned-bat was using as a launchpad fell through under his weight and left him falling downward into Gotham City's indoor Ice Rink.

Dropping down on the ice, Nightwing made the startling realization that he neither had the skill set to gracefully slide across the ice on his soft, noise proof shoes, nor the normal winter cleat accessories to remedy the issue.

Trying to both stand up and think of a way to properly fight/corral Manbat on the ice, he saw him cornering a large group of skaters. Thinking fast, Dick launched his grapple to hook on the frame of the plexiglass wall surrounding the Rink itself and used that momentum to nail the Manbat in the back of the head with his knee. "ICE to meet you, big guy! This fight would be a lot better off somewhere else, don't you Rink?" He quipped.

Manbat roared, the skaters screamed, and his jokes went criminally unappreciated.

Springing off the plexiglass barrier, Dick tried to think up his next move when he saw two skaters split off from the pack and lead Manbat to the center of the Rink. Rushing to try and separate the two suicidal civilians from the rabid bat-creature-thing nearly ready to tear them to shreds, he stopped short as a third came shooting down from the opposite end of the rink and making a spray stop right in front of the Manbat- but instead of the snow spray they were expecting a wall of ice came up from his skates and froze Dr. Langstrom into place.

"So is this the Batman everyone's been talking about? Because if so he's really gonna have to help us fill in these grooves."

One of the two who split off came circling back. "No this is Man Bat. Kinda like you, just uncontrollable rampaging bat form." She said, looking appreciatively at the wall of ice.

"More of a Jekyll/Hyde situation I think, or the Hulk." The second commented, slowly skating back to his friends, but as he was nearly there his skate caught on one of the deep scratches the Manbat had caused and he fell face first.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Partners in Crime 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Lee Bodecker

Summary: you’re left reeling after your divorce but the chaos has only begun. (short!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The sheriff swings around in a U-turn. Traffics stops for him even without his siren wailing. You lean into the door as he straightens out and weaves into the lanes. He steers back towards the mall to retrace his steps. 

You’re already thinking of that handcrafted decor shop around the corner from your building. You might find something there if you dare to venture within. How many times have you passed and shied away at the crystal tear drop lamp and the lush velvet stool. You let out a breath slowly, careful not to let the sigh grow too loud. 

“So, what d’ya do then?” The sheriff asks, startling you from your internal plotting. 

“Um, oh, just... I work at the pharmacy. Stock shelves,” you admit with shame. 

“Hard work,” he remarks. From anyone else, it would be mocking, but he sounds oddly genuine. “Too bad your day off got spoiled.” 

“Yeah, I guess, but...” you tap your fingertips together, “it’s okay.” 

“Hmm,” he hums as he slows, his blinker clicking loudly, “sounds like you’re used to disappointment.” 

That cuts. You shrink back. You’re sure he meant nothing by it but it’s true. You don’t expect anything but so today is hardly daunting. 

“A little. I...” you stammer. People don’t ask about you. They look past you, through you. As much as your grandmother’s saved your ass, she never talked about your old life. It was a forbidden subject. “I just got a divorce.” 

You don’t know why you said it. Maybe because you hadn’t said it out loud before. It feels like a rock sinking in water. 

He clucks, “now that’s too bad. What kinda man would leave a thing like you?” 

You peek up and meet his gaze in the rear view. A tide washes over you. You look down and shrug. You won’t mention that it was long awaited. 

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s okay, it’s fine,” he echoes, “you say that a lot.” 

You inhale sharply and frown, “sorry--” 

“Don’t needa be,” he affirms as he stops again, this time by the mall lot. You look up at the sign in confusion. He’s bringing you back? 

He rolls over the dip in the curb and across the straight white lines across the tarmac. You crane and look around, trying to figure out what’s going on? Maybe he’s just cutting through to avoid the lunch time rush. 

He stops and idles near a set of metal doors to the rear of the mall. You twist this way and that then look to the front seat. Before you can ask what’s going on, the passenger door opens and someone gets in. Someone! That man. The one with the mustache. 

But the sheriff doesn’t respond with shock or outrage. He doesn’t get mad. He just nods at the man and leans into the gas pedal. Your heart pumps painfully. 

“Sheriff?” You eke out. 

The mustachioed man chuckles but says nothing else. The officer doesn’t answer you either. You pull against your seat belt and touch the plexiglass divider, “sheriff? What’s going on?” 

He stomps on the break and the motion forces you back against the seat. You let out and oomf as the impact knocks the wind from you. There’s another laugh from the furry-lipped criminal. What’s happening? 

“What are you doing?” You whine. 

“He said she was quiet,” the man in the passenger seat mutters. 

“She’ll calm down,” the sheriff says. 

“Hey! Please,” you lean forward again and hit the thick barrier. “Tell me what’s going on--” 

“Don’t make me come back there, pussy cat,” the passenger warns and smirks at you over his shoulder.  

“Now, darlin’,” the sheriff drives the limit, coolly following the current of traffic, “you hush up back there and don’t get yourself all worked up.” 

“You said—he's--” you stutter, your breath hitch as your heart beat builds tempo. You writhe and clap your hands to your chest as it racks. “He’s-- help!” 

You gulp in breaths but they only make your head throb. Your lashes flutter wildly as panic rings in your ears. Something bad is happening. They know each other. They are working together. But why? 

“Well you just told me you were all alone and you work a job you ain’t like, kitten,” the sheriff tuts, “so why you actin’ up when we’re takin’ you away from all that?” 

“Taking...” you murmur through shallow heaves, “away...” 

You can’t breathe, you can’t think. You rock back and forth, clawing at the seat belt to find the buckle. You unleash it and keel over your lap. You cradle your head as the world thrums around you. 

“Can’t... can’t... breathe--” 

“I told you not to work yourself up,” the sheriff says, “let’s count to ten, darlin’, you do that for me?” 

“Can’t... can’t...” 

“One,” he says firmly. 

“Can’t--” 

“If I gotta pull over, I ain’t gonna be so nice,” his voice dips an octave, “now count with me, kitten. Ten.” 

You quiver and cough, “n-nine--” you blow out and suck air back in, “eight--” 

“That’s a good girl,” he praises, “keep goin’.” 

“Seven,” you wisp and shake around another burning inhale, “six...” you hug your spinning head, “five...” 

You continue the countdown until you get to one. You stay still and silent. Your chest is achy but not bursting. You close your eyes and meter your breathing. This cannot be real. 

“She’s a nervous one,” the other man intones. 

“She’ll settle,” the sheriff assures as the tires spin and the motor hums. “Just gotta take time.” 

“Oh, I got time,” the passenger chortles, “hey, sweet stuff,” there’s a tapping on the glass, “hey,” he calls you by your name. You wince and slowly lift your head. You look up at him with misty eyes, wide with terror. “There you are. Nice to meet ya,” he winks, “Lloyd, but you can call me sir.” 

Your lip quivers and you shake your head. You stare at him, blinking dumbly. He smirks as his eyes rove over you. 

“You’re a cute one, huh? Can’t wait to have some fun with you,” he taunts. 

You whimper and drop your head down again. You don’t understand. You thought the worst thing that could happen had happened. Your grandma, your lawyer, everyone said it was all over. That you’re free.  

How the heck did you walk into another cage? 

“Ah, stop it,” Bodecker snips, “you’re gonna get her upset again.” 

“I’m just introducing myself.” 

“Sure,” the sheriff drawls skeptically, “you always do know how to make things worse, don’t ya?” 

“I said I’d be nice. I’m being nice,” Lloyd blusters, “damn it, officer, I’m abiding the law.” 

His last few words are slanted with mimicry of the other man’s accent. Bodecker huffs and the engine accelerates. You stay curled up, completely paralysed to the situation. If you stay like that, it might just not be real. Hiding never helped did it. Turn out, neither does running. 

[intriga-hounds]

have sivi and baz met the sauce packets yet?

sivi met them a week ago and was like ew, don’t touch me. he might change his mind when they’re able to run and play with him in the yard.

baz has only interacted with them with either me holding them or with barriers between them. he likes them when i’m holding them, hates them when they’re running around on their own. he’s not allowed to interact with them and i have plexiglass zip tied to the bars to keep any accidents from happening.

renly LOVES them but doesn’t understand how to play gently/calmly with them outside so she only gets to be with them for a couple minutes at a time.

ponzu still doesn’t like dogs looking into the puppy pen, so i’ve made sure the boys know pretty well that they’re not allowed to. sivi dgaf, but baz is like 👀 “wut goin on in there…don’t like that.”

renly has to be kept out of the room with a barrier or she WILL try to go in the pen to play with babies.

[akai-akai]

tf141 pro hockey players au 👹👹👹

Team Captain/Center Price, Goalie Garrick, Defensemen Riley and MacTavish (deadly duo for defense) and I'll leave the two wingmen up to your imagination.

small, rushed drabble below bc I just want my ideas in word form and out of my head

I drool over the idea of goalie Garrick getting shoved by an opponent after blocking the puck during the first period and suddenly the guy who did it gets absolutely fucking launched into the plexiglass puck barriers by Riley, knocked clean off his feet before he's dragged back up by the front of his jersey. MacTavish is close behind, gloves and helmet already yanked off, stick left abandoned on the ice as his fist connects with the guy's helmet, knocking it off his head while Price skates up to Garrick and checks on him before skating over to them, trying to stop the fight like a responsible team captain.

But then one of their opponents tackles MacTavish to the ice as Riley shoves someone else, and a third comes up behind Price and slams into him, and it's fucking ON.

Referees are almost scared to get close to the fight as more of the opponents join in, which causes more of the 141 team to join, and now there's a full on brawl as both teams benched players are jumping the barrier and now the entire rink is filled with pissed off men beating the hell out of each other. The crowd is going absolutely fucking nuts, more referees are coming out onto the ice, the announcers are having the time of their lives commentating, people at home watching are on their feet shouting, cheering their teams on.

After everything calms down minutes later, MacTavish, Riley, and two of the opponent players get the worst of the penalties, ejected from the game and forced to the locker rooms while the game resumes and heads into the second period.

MacTavish has definitely got a broken nose, Riley's eye is swollen, lip split, and they've both got bloodied knuckles. (Doesn't stop them from making out in the locker room before their coach walks in.)

They're officially benched, but both Riley and MacTavish spend the rest of the game yelling, fists banging on the barrier as they root for their team. The goal horn sounds with 17 seconds left in the 3rd period and the teams are tied. MacTavish is yelling himself hoarse, Simon has his arms crossed, mentally going over exactly what needs to happen, what plays need to be made for 141 to win.

Then Price signals to the coach for timeout, and it's called, and the team is skating over.

"I want Garrick on offense!" Price shouts over the roaring crowd and the music on the loud speakers. "Open goal!"

Riley's shouting an agreement from the bench, and then it's decided. Open goal. 6 on 5. Play dangerously.

And it works. The puck drops and the clock starts. Price's stick clashes with the other guy's then he's shooting off to the side with his stick cradling the puck. The other team gets overwhelmed almost immediately with Garrick added in, scrambling as they pass the puck back and forth at lightning speeds.

15 seconds, Price passes to their left wingman, their substitute left defensemen cuts off the opponent wingman.

10 seconds, left wingman passes to right wingman, Garrick gets into position ahead, in the opponent endzone.

8 seconds, Price is in position, skating towards the goal, Kyle in front of him. The opponents are skating with them, struggling to cut them off when 141's right wingman makes the pass.

6 seconds, the man skating next to Price snags the puck briefly, but he fumbles and Price nearly trips him as he snatches the puck back and digs his blades into the ice, speeding off.

5 seconds, Price shoots it right for Garrick, in between two opponents rushing him, Garrick receives the pass perfectly and rushes the goal, eyes locking onto the opposing goalie.

4 seconds, Garrick feints left and banks sharply to the right instead, throwing the goalie off as he whips around the right side of the goal and aims.

3 seconds, Price is shouting "Go! Go! Go!", Riley is on his feet, hands on top of his head as he watches with baited breath, MacTavish is pounding on the barrier, screaming "Get it in there Kyle!"

2 seconds, Garrick makes a fake move and the goalie dives, shin guard and glove reaching for where the puck should be.

1 second, Garrick's stick scrapes against the ice as he shoots the puck right underneath the goalie's left knee, where it's lifted off the ice slightly in his contorted position, slamming into the net with enough force to yank the mesh back and shoot the puck back out of it.

0 seconds, the goal horn blares.

Riley and MacTavish throw their arms up in the air, both yelling and MacTavish jumping up and down on his skates.

Riley and MacTavish bust out of the players bench, skating over and colliding with Garrick, Price close behind, and they fall to the ice in a heap of sweaty men and manic yelling as the rest of the team piles on top.

Garrick hands a kid his hockey stick and gives the crowd a dazzling smile. He's a team favorite for a reason.

Later, after the post-game interviews and the coach's talk with them, the boys are throwing back beers in the locker room as they shower and change, chattering boisterously. Garrick is the center of attention, claps on the shoulder and arms thrown around him. The goalie who made the winning play.

___________________________________________________________________

special interests and hyperfixations are colliding. Hockey and TF141. I need to take my meds before I spaz out over this.

maybe I should draw out the boys helmet designs. Simon with a skull on the side, maybe a German shepherd sticker (For Riley <3), Johnny with dynamite and fire motif stickers, Kyle with a British flag and a shield sticker for his impeccable defensive plays as goalie, John with a sick 141 sticker in a cool font. Not sure what else for him tbh, gotta think some more.

[foursaints]

idk how you do it but evan’s eyes look like he’s not there mentally, like there’s a divide between him and reality, a barrier, his cornea is actually a plexiglass (sorry to throwback to pandemic-core), he’s just 👁️ 👁️ and i feel that

ah i'm so happy!! that's exactly what i was going for with the eyes this time, so it's so nice to see someone actually mention it 😭 ♡♡. i DO think his eyes are dead & glassy..... and oddly luminous. they look like they should glow in the dark

[liminalweirdo]

COVID is airborne. Airborne transmission is different from droplets, which are large particles containing the virus, expelled when you speak, cough, sneeze, etc. Droplets are heavy enough that they will eventually drop to the ground or nearby surfaces, meaning it’s relatively easy to contain: any physical barrier — like a cloth mask or plexiglass — will block these droplets before they can reach another person. “Social distancing” is a concept that applies to droplet transmission, under the presumption that the virus-containing droplets will fall to the ground before reaching someone 6 feet away. Sanitizing surfaces kills any viral droplets that have landed on them before someone can touch them and then touch their orifices.

However, COVID is not confined to droplets. We have known for years that it can spread through aerosol as papers published in the New England Journal of Medicine, Emerging Infectious Diseases, and Risk Analysis demonstrate going back to 2020. Aerosol is composed of much smaller particles that bounce around between air particles, and can stay suspended and infectious in the air. Picture someone smoking: the behavior of the smoke is much more akin to the behavior of viral aerosols. Can you still smell the smoke behind a plexiglass shield? How about if you’re six feet apart? In a crowded, enclosed space, how many people would breathe in the smoke of one smoker? Measures designed to protect against droplets aren’t exactly pointless against COVID, since it also spreads via droplets. But just because you’re not spewing COVID-laden spittle in someone’s face does not mean you’re keeping your germs to yourself.

[rockinrpmemes]

Please, for the millionth time, RPC:

STOP with the: "You're so quality I feel dumb around you, so I can't reply to your stuff, and I just can't come up with anything because I can't match your XYZ"

Listen. If I am writing with you, shipping with you, messaging you, and we share our ideas together, that means I like you, your characterizations, and your muse/s, and there's literally no need to withhold your responses because you think I write "better" than you. I do NOT think you're less than me, but I do feel like crap, because you are using your own feelings of inadequacy to put a barrier between us and our characters, so then nobody gets anything, and all our stuff is put into a forever stasis, never going anywhere. And now, we're both stuck with nothing going on our blogs. How's that fun for either of us? Isn't that counterintuitive? This is not about writer's block, btw. I understand writer's block. But this tumblr rpc method of telling your partners: "I can't measure up to you," makes both parties feel bad about themselves, so why do it?

Being told you're "too quality" doesn't compliment us, it makes us feel the opposite. It makes us feel like we suck as a partner, actually. It makes us feel like no one wants to write with us because we write a "certain way" and dare to try and write our characters a bit deeper than some of the more casual writers here. So somehow, we hurt our partners everytime we put words to our screen. It makes all of us slapped with this so-called "compliment" feel like undesirables, and that somehow we aren't fun and exciting, we're just here to look at through a plexiglass box, then pass by when you're done. It makes us feel like you're saying: "Please water yourself down and take away all the cool stuff I like about you so I don't feel bad writing with you."

I know that's not always the case, but that's how it makes us feel. This is the other side of the story.

Being put on a pedestal is utter crap.

[gilverrwrites]

Two-Face/Reader

AN: My laptop is basically occupied with rendering a uni project for the rest of the week, so I wanna use any spare time practicing characters I don’t do much of with 10 sentences or less fics. Rating: None

CWs: Angst, mild threat of violence.

Please remember: baby steps are still steps.

"Sometimes I miss the man you used to be.” It’s a stupid statement, and the moment it leaves your lips, you wish you could take it back.

Mismatched eyes stare through the plexiglass that separates you. Blank at first, narrowing slowly as he processes your statement. His brow begins to furrow, one corner of his lips grow taut as his face twists into something sharper, something filled with red hot rage.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He seethes, and when his fist hits the glass you jump back. Guards are on him immediately, grasping at arms and shoulders to pull him back but that doesn’t keep him from pressing up to the barrier as best he can. “I’m still good for Gotham. We’re what Gotham needs, you’ll see. We’ll make them all see.”

Request Info | Prompts | DC Masterlist | Ko-fi

[iliterallydecepticanteven]

Hey y'all remember Eat Shit & Live, Blitzwing? Y'all want a fun short thing I churned out that takes place sometime after that fic? Here you go! Punched out while waiting for my nails to dry and not spellchecked or proofread at all, have fun!

💜

The day is cool, a soft breeze wafting off the lake and the sun peeking out from scattered clouds. Alexandria had babbled the entire car ride, insistently pointing out the window and shouting, “Cloud! Cloud, mommy!” 

Emily had just replied that yes, that was a cloud. When they neared the air base, she started shouting out other things she saw, like planes and helicopters. She shouts an enthusiastic greeting at the guard who checks Emily’s ID when they arrive at the gates of the base. 

When she’s finally released from the confines of her carseat, she jumps up and down excitedly, already knowing what their little trip entailed. 

“Hand, hand, give me your hand!” Emily shouts, chasing after her daughter who is practically skipping towards one of the hangars. She finally slows down and grabs the outstretched hand, but continues to bounce up and down as they walk into the hangar. 

It was a newer building, built for use by Decepticons. Much higher than those used to house military and passenger planes. They walk past the massive desks and chairs towards the back, where there’s an elevator. It takes them up to an upper level filled with human sized desks and chairs, at perfect eye-level with Cybertronians. 

“Bitz! Bitz!” Alexandria starts shouting, looking down at the hangar. 

“He’s coming! Calm down, honey,” Emily says as she drops her purse on a desk. 

“Bitz and Lug-ug?” Alexandria asks. She takes an offered stuffed elephant from her mom. 

“Yes, they both should be here,” Emily replies as she sits in a chair. She checks her phone as Alexandria runs about, looking around the office space. The barrier between the work area and the drop into the hangar is solid thick plexiglass that comes up to Emily’s chest with no gaps, breaks, or small spaces a kid could squeeze into. The triple reinforcement also means that Alexandria is able to push her whole body against it without it so much as budging. 

Various work emails talking about changing the shift schedules and overhauling the tech in the tower to be able to better communicate with the Decepticons. She’s punching out response when she hears the large door of the hangar whining open. 

Emily gets up, standing next to Alexandria as she squeals and bounces. The most interesting thing Emily had experienced from being around Cybertronians was their smell. Those that flew smelled like ozone and burning metal and something she couldn’t quite put her finger on but was this faint chemical smell. Those that drove smelled of dirt and burnt carbon and that faint chemical smell as well. 

The smell of burning ozone drifts over before Blitzwing comes into view, his calm face smiling at them before snapping to his jack-o-lantern one. He cackles excitedly as he approaches, Alexandria jumping up and down in excitement as he approaches. 

“Hello, hello, hello! How are you little one?” he laughs as he stands right next to the barrier. 

“Bitz! Bitz!” Alexandria shrieks. “Mommy, up please, please up!” 

Emily reaches down and hoists her daughter into her arms, just high enough to rest her tiny hands on the edge of the plexiglass. She looks over to watch as Lugnut walks in the hangar as well, clawed hands holding a stack of metal rectangles. Megatron steps in a moment later, instantly drawn to the commotion. 

“Your sparkling is growing well,” he comments as Emily sets Alexandria down to run along the edge of the plexiglass. 

“Oh yeah. She went through a growth spurt recently and completely outgrew a bunch of clothes,” Emily replies. She knows that this likely means nothing to him, given the major difference of species and societies, but he and the other Decepticons she interacted with regularly appreciated the updates regardless. 

“Out of curiosity, what do you feed human offspring that young?” he asks. She’s running up and down the length of the plexiglass, Blitzwing following her with his gaze. 

“Same food I eat, organic stuff, just mashed down or cut up so she doesn’t choke on it,” she replies. “She’s loving white cheddar cheese right now. She’d eat a whole block if we let her.” 

Emily thinks for a moment before asking, “What do yours eat?” 

“Specialized formulations of energon, made to have more minerals and easier for the tanks to digest,” Megatron replies. “As we age, our fuel tanks can handle less processed energon. I could eat raw energon crystals and be perfectly fine.” 

“Wow,” she says. Lugnut has since walked over to wave at Alexandria. 

“You grow stronger every time we see you, tiny puny human!” Lugnut shouts. Alexandria squeals in response and jumps up and down. 

“Heard the Autobots might re-enter the picture,” Emily says, looking over at Megatron. 

“Discussions are occurring,” he admits. “For the obvious reason of not wanting to share the energon crystals popping up, I’m not impartial to it. However, Governor Nakamura is the one making the final calls in regards to who does and does not aid in protecting this state from the Quintessons threat.” 

“She’s not talking to the ones who bailed, right?’ Emily asks. 

Megatron chuckles. “Of course not. She is, although, talking to the only Autobot who has ever bested me in battle.” 

“Optimus?” Emily asks. 

Megatron nods, slowly and reverently. “Correct.” 

Emily pauses for a moment, thinking. “He wasn’t the one to pull Autobots out of Michigan when the Quintessons attacked?” 

“Of course not. He loves this stupid mudball too much to even think about leaving it defenseless.” 

“Then who made the call?” Emily asks. 

“The Autobot government is run by various bots, all assembled into one unit known as The Autobot High Council. In the absence of the Magnus, who is the highest leader to the Autobots, the Council can make a decision without their input, so long as they have a two-thirds majority vote.” Megatron pauses, glancing over to gauge Emily’s reaction. “From my understanding, Optimus Prime, now the Magnus of the Autobots, was dispatched to the planet of Nebulos to aid in clean up and recovery of Quintesson attacks. He could not be reached by the Council when the attack on Earth began. And thus, the Council unanimously voted to pull all Autobots and Autobots forces off of Earth, leaving you with only your military forces to fight back the surprise attack.” 

Emily’s jaw drops. “I’m sorry, unanimously?” 

Megatron nods. “Perhaps there was one bot who voted against it. But my current understanding is everyone who was present voted to abandon your planet.” 

Emily opens her mouth to say something but loses the words. She rubs at her face and mutters, “Fuck.” 

“I can assure you though that Optimus does respect your planet and, so long as there is no additional meddling from the fools running his faction, he won’t turn and run,” Megatron says. “Honestly, even if the Council told him to turn and run he wouldn’t. He’s quite stubborn.” 

Emily just nods in response, looking at Alexandria, watching as she holds her stuffed elephant up to them and babbles about it. She remembers the day the Quintessons attacked. Everyone in Detroit, even the whole state, remembered. She remembered the fear that gripped her tight and every horrible scenario that ran through her head. To think that it could have all been avoided if a bunch of alien robots on a completely different planet hadn’t made the call to abandon them. 

It didn’t make the Decepticons better, per se, as she also remembers the Battle of Detroit. But the difference was they were here, fulfilling their end of a contract, and not turning tail at the sight of danger. Hell, some of them were even nice enough to take time out of the day to make faces at her toddler and ask about her development. 

Megatron breaks the silence, saying, “Regardless of how their plan pans out, I can assure you everything is going well on our side. You, and the rest of your gross species, will be allowed to continue to live in safety.” 

Despite his words, Emily can’t hear any malice in Megatron's voice. She snorts, “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome,” he replies with a wry smile. 

[sisterspooky1013]

Gaslight, Chapter 35/48

Rated X | Read it here on AO3

Initially, Scully is so disoriented by adrenaline that all she can do is panic. She’s thrown from one side of the vehicle to the other as it makes a series of sharp turns, and then the ride becomes much smoother. With something opaque draped over her head and her fearful, rapid breathing, she quickly becomes disoriented and dizzy from hypoxia, and she tries to calm herself down. She pictures Mulder’s face in bed that morning, his hair wild and unkempt, and the lovestruck way he looked at her. Minutes pass and she finds her bearings, then begins paying closer attention to her environment.

She hears the hum of traveling at high speed and the intermittent rush of passing vehicles, which leads her to conclude that she is on a highway. She hears a constant murmur of voices, but the pace and pitch don’t match the typical cadence of conversation. Talk radio, she decides. She has no idea whether they are traveling north, south, or west; she was too caught off guard by what happened to note the direction of their turns after being thrown into the back of the van. She thinks of Langly and the gravity of the situation comes crashing down. Quiet tears stream down her cheeks, though she is careful not to let it devolve into sobbing that will use up too much precious oxygen.

She needs to know where she is, and in what direction she is being taken. If she somehow manages to gain access to a phone or to send a message, it will be useless if she can’t share her location. She twists her neck, stretching it from side to side to gauge how tightly her head covering is secured. She gets onto her knees and bends at the waist so her head is upside down and then shakes it vigorously, but the cover doesn’t budge. Next, she leans against the wall of the van and toes her shoes off, then removes her socks by pinning the end of them to the floor of the van with her heel and tugging her foot free. When her feet are bare, she folds herself in half and catches the fabric of the head covering between her big toe and the one adjacent before she slowly sits up. On the first couple tries the fabric catches under her chin and slips out of the grasp of her toes, but on the third try she is able to tug it loose. She sucks in a huge lungful of comparatively fresh and cool air the second it slips off her head, then looks around.

The back of the van is windowless and empty aside from herself and her discarded shoes. Between the cab and the rear there is a plexiglass barrier, most of which is painted black. Only a small, approximately twelve by six inch slice of glass has been left transparent, and through it she can see the reflection of a set of sunglasses in the rearview mirror. She inches closer to the cab, moving slowly enough to avoid calling the attention of the driver. When she’s in front of the door, she rises up onto her knees and peeks through. She sees that there are two men, and they are in fact on the highway. She looks just long enough to see a street sign indicating that they’re traveling north on US-29, then sits down behind the driver’s seat out of view.

Her hands are growing increasingly cold and numb, indicating that the zip tie is tight enough to restrict circulation. As she carefully takes stock of every nook and cranny in the back of the van, she spots a row of small hooks bolted to the floor along each side, likely intended to tie down cargo. The base of the hooks where they’re affixed to the floor appear to have reasonably sharp edges, so she scoots over to the nearest one and shifts around until she catches the base of the hook on the zip tie around her wrist. She keeps her eyes on the little window into the cab while she shifts her shoulders and rubs the zip tie back and forth against the sharp edge. The man in the driver’s seat turns his head to the side and she freezes, but after saying something to the driver he turns back to the windshield. She tries to move faster, but it’s hard to tell if what she’s doing is having any effect at all without being able to see it. Without warning the zip tie snaps and her hands sting as blood rushes into them. Scully brings them in front of her and flexes her fingers as she watches them go from white to pink, and within a few minutes the pain subsides.

She’s aware that it’s only a matter of time before they look back to check on their charge, so she quickly puts her shoes and socks back on, then peeks through the window again. The van starts veering to the right and she sees that they are exiting onto Interstate 70 West, towards Frederick. She slips the hood back over her head, leaving it loose enough to allow fresh air in, and then sits against the wall of the van with her hands behind her back. After fifteen minutes or so she feels the van slow and turn, so she lifts the hood and takes another look out the window. The landscape is changing, becoming more rural, and she catches a sign for Marriottsville Road before returning to her post against the wall with the hood on. She hears two loud clunks that send her flying off the floor of the van, and her tailbone crashes painfully against the steel floorboards when she lands. After a few minutes the van slows again and the tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop.

Scully sits back up and readies herself. She knows that she is no match for these large men who are presumably armed, but she has to try; she won’t go down without a fight. Her tailbone aches and her heart is pounding in her ears as she waits in darkness.

She hears two successive slams of the front doors. Shoes crunching over gravel. The pop of a latch. The squeal of door hinges. A blast of fresh, crisp air.

“C’mon, Red,” says a gruff voice.

A strong hand winds around one of her ankles, and then the other. She is dragged along the floor until her legs fall over an edge. In her mental map, she knows she is now sitting at the open back of the van.

It all happens in a matter of seconds. She whips off the hood, braces one of her heels against the ledge of the van and her hands on the floor behind her, and bends her other leg up against her chest. The ruddy, pock-marked face of the man standing before her is just beginning to register surprise when her shoe lands hard against his nose with a satisfying crack, and his hands fly to his face as he stumbles backwards.

She runs. She doesn’t look for the other man or consider which is the best direction to go. She just runs straight ahead, onto a set of railroad tracks, zig-zagging to avoid the bullets that she expects to whiz by any moment. The tracks lead into a tunnel, short enough that she can see light on the other side but long enough that she’ll be obscured by darkness until she makes it through, making her a more difficult target. She runs, loose gravel kicking up under her feet and her lungs burning. The first bullet cracks just as she disappears into the tunnel, staying close to the side where it’s darkest.

The inside of the tunnel is covered with colorful graffiti and it reeks of urine. She continues to run at full speed, ducking into a small nook in the wall when another bullet cracks against the tunnel above her head. But she can’t stay still, she has to keep moving, so she darts out again and keeps going. There’s a rumble, a low vibration beneath her feet, and then the blast of a train whistle. It’s too close, entirely too close, but she keeps running. Another whistle blast, so loud she has to bring her hands up to cover her ears, and she sees that the sunlight at the far end of the tunnel has morphed into a headlight. The tunnel begins to fill with the smell of exhaust, and the heat of a diesel engine hits her face in an overwhelming wave. She keeps running toward the train even as the whistle blasts continuously and she hears the brakes begin to shriek.

When the train begins to pass by her, she ducks into another nook and orange sparks fly at her as the train slows. Box cars, flatbeds, and oil tankers whip by, and she waits for it to pass as hot, metallic wind flicks bits of debris against her cheeks. The train keeps slowing down, and the cars never seem to end, so she peeks out to verify that the coast is clear before she begins to shimmy down the tunnel with her back against the wall, the train close enough to reach out and touch. She’s twenty feet from the other end of the tunnel, and then ten, and then five. She’s almost there, and then she can only hope to disappear into the wilderness around them.

Just ahead of her, a door on a boxcar flies open, nearly colliding with the wall of the tunnel and completely blocking her path. A man leans out, his jacket whipping in the wind, and locks eyes with her.

“I’ve got her!” he calls out, and Scully turns and starts running in the other direction.

The open door and the man attending it usher her out of the tunnel as the train continues to slow. She knows that there is no hope of escape, but she keeps running. She runs out of the same end of the tunnel she ran in, and into a waiting semi-circle of men, one of whom has bright red blood streaming from his nose. Her lungs ache and her legs have been reduced to jelly, and she collapses to the ground, defeated.

“Fucking bitch,” the bloody-nosed man says as he kneels down beside her, latching a new zip tie around her wrists and pulling it unnecessarily tight before adding a second around her ankles.

She is loaded into the train and dropped unceremoniously onto the floor of the boxcar. A man in a white coat takes her vitals and then injects something into her upper arm. Her limbs become heavy and her eyelids droop, and a parade of boots, wingtips, and loafers pass by as she is gently jostled by the motion of the train. She tries to stay awake, but her eyelids are so heavy, and she’s so, so tired.

When she comes to, she’s outside. The cool air sends gooseflesh up along her arms, and her head bumps rhythmically against something firm but warm. Her eyes flutter open, still heavy from the sedative, and she sees the ground beneath her as well as the heel of a pair of boots walking across cement. Her cheek bounces against the man’s back with each step, and she recognizes the press of his arm across the backs of her legs, holding her steady over his shoulder.

“Mulder,” she mumbles.

The man stops and carefully lays her down on a stretcher. He cuts the zip ties on her wrists and ankles, avoiding looking at her face. He’s gentle with her, unlike the others. He looks a bit like her older brother, Bill.

“Please, help me,” she says, her lips and tongue thick and uncoordinated.

The man does not respond. He secures her to the stretcher with velcro straps, then nods at someone that Scully cannot see.

“Here we go,” says a female voice, and then the stretcher is rolling.

Scully looks up as the pale blue sky disappears behind a doorway, and her face is hit with warm, antiseptic air.

“No!” she screams, lurching against her restraints as fear supplies her with a burst of energy. “No, please don’t do this!”

She’s been here before. She knows the smell, the sputter of the fluorescent lights. She knows that she left here a mere shell of herself.

“Calm down now, hon, no use in causing a scene,” the invisible woman says with an edge of irritation. “Carmen, will you draw up some Ketamine, please?”

“No!” Scully yells again, craning her neck to try and see the woman’s face, to appeal to her humanity. “Please don’t sedate me, Carmen. Please don’t do this.”

Another pinch. The world fades to black.

The next time she comes into consciousness, the acrid sting of ammonia is scorching her nostrils. She immediately retches, and a bottle of water is placed in her hand. She coughs and gags, and her eyes are watering so profusely she can hardly see. She feels that she is sitting upright in a chair, but when she tries to stand she is unable to lift her hips off the seat. She looks down to see a strap around each of her ankles and a third around her waist, securing her to the chair. Gratefully, her hands have been left unrestrained.

“Easy now,” says a familiar voice. “You’ve been given enough sedatives for a man twice your size. You’ll need time to recover. I apologize for the smelling salts; I’m afraid I was growing a bit impatient waiting for you to wake up.”

Scully takes a long drink of water. It’s cold and fresh, and she has to resist the urge to thank her captor for providing it. As the stink of the smelling salts fades away, she smells a different kind of funk: tobacco.

“Would you like something to eat?” the voice continues. A large halogen light is hanging above her, making the periphery of the room difficult to see.

“I’d like to leave,” she says, her throat raw and her voice raspy.

There’s a resigned sigh from somewhere in the darkened border of the room.

“An understandable desire,” the voice says. “Unfortunately, we’re past the point of that being an option for you, Agent Scully.”

The hair on the back of her neck stands on end.

“Who are you?” she asks, squinting against the light.

She hears the zip of a lighter and then sees the muted orange glow of a flame. Cigarette smoke billows into the pool of light around her, making her cough, and the man steps forward. He’s old, deeply wrinkled, and he’s sporting an unaffected smirk above his charcoal suit. He takes a drag from his cigarette, but this time he has the courtesy to turn his head to the side before expelling the smoke.

“I’ve always been curious as to how you and Agent Mulder refer to me,” he says, tapping ash onto the floor. “I don’t imagine it’s very complimentary. But now that we’ve become friends, you may call me Carl if you like. Or Mr. Spender; I know you’re fond of honorifics.”

“You’re Mr. Kennedy,” she says, and he smiles an eerie, sinister smile. “You’re Mulder’s father.”

“Would it flatter you to know that I decided to pay you a visit because I missed you?” he asks, and her stomach roils.

“No,” she says firmly, but his smile stays in place.

“I took it as a good sign that you didn’t give any indication of recognizing me,” he says, pacing slowly back and forth in front of her chair. “Now I find it rather insulting. Am I not memorable to you, Agent Scully?”

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her throat tightening.

The smoking man throws her an appraising look, then continues pacing.

“Nothing, really. I thought you might like some answers,” he says. “Aren’t you a bit curious?”

She has a million questions she’d like the answers to, but she sees how much it delights him to hold this power over her, so she just stares at him, offering no response, and after a moment he continues.

“Did you not like the family I assembled for you?” he asks, and his tone almost sounds genuine. “I put quite a bit of intention into it, you know. Handsome husband, adorable children. And that house!” He smiles and his eyebrows lift, giving him a garish, clown-like appearance. “What a wonderful house that was. It would be any woman’s dream to live in such a house with such a family.” His expression falls. “But not you. You just went right back to Mulder.” He takes another drag from his cigarette. “I’ll admit that I don’t understand it.”

“You’re a monster,” she growls at him, and he sticks his neck out, pointing to his own chest.

“Me? A monster? The man who handed you the American dream on a silver platter? Such ingratitude, Agent Scully.”

“You stole my life,” she says, her volume steadily increasing. “You stole my memories.”

“I did try to give you new ones, Dana. They were wonderful; I hand-designed them myself. But you wouldn’t take them. Three times, we tried to implant your new memories. Each time you woke up the first thing you did was ask for Mulder. It was quite perplexing. We finally had to revert to complete amnesia, which was less than ideal. And here you are again. No matter what we do, it seems you just won’t forget him.”

She levels him with a hateful glare. Anger burns hot in her belly, combining with the sedatives to make her feel queasy.

“What makes you think you have the right to decide what my life should look like and who I should spend it with?” she spits at him.

The smoking man steps forward, standing just a few feet in front of her, and lifts his chin defiantly.

“Your life would have ended years ago if not for me,” he says coldly. “I don’t think you understand or appreciate all that I’ve done for you and Fox.”

“Maybe if you hadn’t erased eight years of my memory, I would,” she says through gritted teeth

At that he laughs, barking a waft of nicotine soaked breath that stings her eyes.

“Touché, Agent Scully,” he says, taking another drag. “Allow me to refresh your memory. When you were abducted in 1994, it was me who insisted on your safe return. When you were subsequently stricken with cancer, it was me who facilitated the cure. And when you and Agent Mulder stupidly entered that warehouse, it was me who advocated for enrolling you in the Spurious program. They’d just as soon have killed you on sight, you know.”

“Were you not also involved in orchestrating my abduction?” she asks. “Did you not also insert a chip in my neck that caused me to develop cancer when I removed it?”

He cracks a slow, devilish smile.

“I suppose it won’t do any harm to tell you this now, and I’ll admit to being rather proud that I was able to compel you to re-insert the chip without a second abduction. The chip had no impact on your cancer, Agent Scully. It was simply a matter of needing the correct course of treatment, which I provided as soon as the chip was back where it belonged.”

Scully’s mind is reeling, memories cascading in with each bit of information he shares.

“What about Betsy Hagopian? And Penny Northern?” she sputters.

“What about them?” he asks, taking a slow drag.

“You could have saved them? All of them?”

“As I said, you don’t seem to appreciate all that I’ve done for you.”

Scully slumps back in her chair, remembering Penny’s hollow cheeks and her kind words. Scully did not deserve to live any more than Penny did.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asks fearfully.

The smoking man drops his head and takes a final drag from his cigarette before flicking it into the darkened edges of the room.

“I don’t want to kill you, Dana. I should hope you’d know that. I could have killed you innumerate times by now if I wanted to. But you’ve quite effectively tied my hands here.”

A wave of nausea hits her and she brings her hand to her mouth.

“And Mulder?” she asks.

He shakes his head, fishing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his jacket pocket.

“Diana is quite insistent that we send him through the program again, much to my chagrin.” He lights a new cigarette, leaving it dangling from his lips when he speaks again. “I’m very fond of Fox, but I’ve found this entire exercise rather exhausting. I don’t think I’m cut out to be a family man.”

Scully thinks of Mulder as he was when she met him at the coffee shop, devoid of the spark that she fell in love with and beholden to Diana’s whims. He might rather be dead as well.

The smoking man walks to the darkened outer edge of the room and she hears his knuckles rap against metal.

“I’ll give you this bit of solace, Dana. Calvin and the children will be arriving tomorrow, and I’ve arranged for you to spend some time with them. I know you became quite attached to them, not that I was surprised. You’re a very loving person. It’s something I’ve always admired about you.”

A spike of anger, fear, and grief bring tears to her eyes.

“Please don’t hurt them,” she begs the darkness. “They’re innocent. They’ve done nothing wrong.”

A door opens and she sees him backlit against the hallway.

“I don’t think you know your husband as well as you like to think, Agent Scully,” he says. “But no matter, I can assure you that their final moments will be swift and painless.”

“If you hurt them, I will kill you!” she screams, pulling against her restraints. “Do you hear me?”

Another silhouette enters the door frame and the smoking man leans in, whispering something before two men enter the room. She thrashes wildly as they approach her, each catching one of her arms around the wrist.

“Get your hands off me!” she shouts futilely. Even if not for the sedatives still in her system, she is no match for their strength.

Another pinch, another flood of drowsiness. She is aware of them lifting her out of the chair, and then nothing.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[catreginae]

If you're Canadian and you're absolutely done with our Grocery Store overloads making record profits quarter after quarter and treating us like criminals while the rest of us struggle with a cost of living crisis, then join us in boycotting Loblaws for the month of May.

Loblaws operators under chains such as Zehrs, No Frills, Real Canadian Superstore, Atlantic Superstore, Loblaw, Your Independent Grocer, Fortinos, and Shoppers Drug Mart just to name a few. Some of their most popular brands are President's Choive, Joe Fresh, and No Name.

And why just Loblaws in particular? Because they're the most egregious with their messaging. "We're doing our best to keep prices low, the suppliers are mean 🥺🥺🥺" while they install plexiglass barriers, locks on carts, and scanners to leave the self-checkout areas unless you want to pull an alarm. They treat us like criminals just for stopping inside. They have member exclusive pricing that are sometimes 50% lower than non-member pricing. Also, they attempted to fixing the price of bread a few years back and apologized with a $25 gift card.

This is all while still being more expensive than Walmart and brands under Metro and Sobeys.

Shop local if you can! If you're stuck with Loblaws, focus on buying loss leaders. Use altgrocery.ca to find local retailers in your area or recommend one. Don't listen to Sylvain Charlebois, he took research money from Loblaws before and he still goes to bat for them while downplaying our very real struggle.

If you're not Canadian, feel free to reblog anyway!

[charmcoindied]

dude working in food service during covid was fucked up especially when u work somewhere frequented by a lot of old people. when i worked at wendys our lobby wasn't always open but when it was i would usually be working the counter and i had so many old people be weird to me about masks. we had a plexiglass barrier in front of the register and this old man tried to like walk around it to stand right next to me because i asked him to wear a mask it freaked me out

[wolveria]

The Raven’s Hymn - Ch 17

Pairing: SCP-049 x Reader

Series Warnings (18+ only): Eventual smut, dubcon, slow burn, violence, horror, death, monsters, human experiments, dark with a happy ending

Chapter Summary: “If you both cooperate in the days to come,” he added, “then perhaps your privileges will expand.”

“I want guarantees.”

“You’re not in a position to demand them.”

AO3

You were not returned to your cell. Not your usual one, at least.

This cell was barren concrete walls and ceiling, definitely a testing chamber rather than a containment cell. Various sensors and receptors lined the room, targeted at you as soon as you awoke.

Your wake-up call was one of confusion and pain, loud bursts of static rousing you from sleep with your heart leaping in your throat. Various other noises and lights assaulted your senses, but that was better than when the room was quiet and dark. Those were the moments that something undetectable assaulted your body, making you feel dizzy and nauseous.

A typical D-Class would have no idea what was going on, but unfortunately, you did. This was an assessment chamber, a place where new SCPs or D-Class exposed to an SCP were tested with various stimuli, sound frequencies, electromagnetic radiation, and whatever else they can think of to measure.

You were exposed to odd bursts of light, vibrations that tightened your skin and rattled your teeth, flashes of hot and cold, and even an electric shock, though you had no idea where it came from as the floor was solid concrete. Knowing them, they electrified the whole thing.

By the end, you had found a corner to crawl to, shivering and pulling in your limbs. No one had bothered to give you clothing, and you couldn’t stop shaking. Tears burned the corners of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. You wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing you break, and that included the universe at large. Maybe this was cosmic punishment for all the work you’d done for the Foundation, but if that was the case, then fuck the universe for punishing you and no one else in this cursed place.

Finally, there was light. Fluorescent strips shone from above, covered in a thick barrier of plexiglass to avoid damage from the tests. A door opened and a D-Class entered your cell.

“Stay… away from me.”

Your voice hoarse and cracked, but you were pleased to hear it angry rather than afraid. In fact, the D-Class seemed more afraid of you, his features drawn and his shoulders hunched as he approached.

You waited for what he would do, he was as much a test subject as you were, proven when he grabbed your wrist and forced your hand onto his arm. You couldn’t reflect on the odd gesture, because as soon as you made physical contact, you sensed… it. Something wrong inside him, evident now that you were close. Sweat-slicked forehead, broken blood vessels in the whites of his eyes, his dark-toned skin flushed with an unnatural pale hue.

He was sick, and not sick like the D-Class in the previous test with 049. This man was actively being invaded by a violent, unseen enemy, though as you gripped the man’s arm, it had gone quiet. Inert, as 049 might have said.

Was it an SCP? It must be, to change so drastically under your touch. You concentrated, closing your eyes, and reaching out in a way that was less than scientific.

You knew what it was. How could the Site Director have done this? The amount of danger he was putting on the whole facility just for this one test, one that would have cosigned you to death as soon as the man stepped in the room if it wasn’t for your own unnatural ability.

You opened your eyes, your fingers squeezing in what you hoped he would see as comfort.

“I’m sorry they’ve done this to you.”

The man’s eyes went glassy, and his throat worked. He’d already known what fate awaited him, then. And the cruelest part of this was you might have been able to help him, perhaps even cure him with 049’s help.

But the doors opened with a pneumatic hiss, and three guards in hazmat suits entered the room and pulled the man away, forcing you to let go. Even though you couldn’t feel it, you knew SCP-008 would return to its active state as soon as you let go, resume its ravishing of this man’s body until he would become something not unlike 049’s reanimated dead.

You hadn’t even learned his name.

A pair of hazmat-suited guards came for you right after, taking you through a series of decontamination chambers that left your skin stinging and your underclothes drenched. At the last decontamination chamber, a guard in a hazmat stripped off the tattered remains of your underwear and shirt, and you went through the harsh stinging liquid with nothing to shield your naked skin.

You were shivering and retching, that last chamber dousing you with something especially strong, the automatic dryer doing nothing to warm the chill from your bones. You were led away from the high-tech purifying chambers and down a series of halls into a white room filled with computer banks and medical instruments.

Your mind was as numb as your body, past the point of wishing it to be over. You craved sleep as an escape more than you wanted it to heal your body. Even as you were surrounded by guard and technicians and doctors, none of them met your eye. None acknowledged you as a person. You were truly alone.

At least this last room provided you with a stack of clothing. White underwear, a long hospital gown and white leggings, as well as hospital slippers, it was a lot better than walking around naked. Even if all the eyes on your body were clinical and only saw you as an object, it was still a relief to wear clothing again. It was humanizing, and certainly a lot warmer.

Your newfound relief was robbed of you. Strapped to a hospital gurney with no inch to move, they inserted IVs into the crook of both arms, and you were pumped with an assortment of chemicals even you couldn’t identify. Your system was flushed of the chemicals, only to have more pumped into your system. This was repeated over and over, until your heartbeat was sluggish and uneven. Ironic for you to survive this long only to die by accidental chemical overdose.

The drugs stopped, but the procedures didn’t. One doctor removed patches of your skin with a scalpel, no numbing agent given for the pain. The only thing they gave you was a rubber mouthpiece forced between your teeth. At least your tongue would be spared as you bit down and screamed.

Everything went fuzzy after that, though you recalled blood being taken with more needles, and your wounded arm was given ointment, gauze, and wraps.

You were pulled to your feet before you realized you’d been unstrapped, and the two guards leading you got to have the privilege of half-dragging you, legs refusing to cooperate. You were led down familiar corridors, the steel catwalks and concrete tunnels of Heavy Containment, and you tried to pay attention as a door was opened before you with a keycard.

It wasn’t a containment chamber. It was an observation room.

The door slid open, and you were manhandled inside by your guards.

“Ah, all right, that’s fine. Let her go.”

You forced your head upward, disbelieving your ears—but there stood Dr. Puli, his expression apologetic as the guards left you alone in the dim room filled with computer banks and one long observation glass—

No, it wasn’t just the two of you. Someone was behind Dr. Puli, leaning against a console with his arms folded, posture haughty with disinterest even as his eyes were too sharp on you.

A growl ripped from your throat as you stalked toward your target, but Dr. Puli blocked you, putting his hands on your shoulders and pushing you back. With the sorry state you were in you couldn’t push past him, but your rage did force the doctor to use most of his strength.

“You!”

“Yes, me,” the Site Director said, examining his fingernails. “Now sit down and stop acting like an animal.”

You bared your teeth. They’d treated you like an animal, and you’d show him what one looked like.

“It’s all right,” Dr. Puli said, his voice soft, an attempt at comfort. “Please, have a seat. We wish to speak to you, that’s all.”

You glared at the man you’d once trusted. He was just as bad as Leahy by the fact he was letting these dehumanizing and cruel tests continue, and you would be damned if you let a kind tone let all be forgiven.

But then your eyes drifted to the monitors, a dark figure the focus of the screens. The room displayed was 049’s inner containment chamber, and the SCP itself was chained to the wall, agitated and continually yanking on its restraints.

Your fury burned away, leaving cold fear in its wake.

“What happened?”

Dr. Puli gave another apologetic wince and pulled up a chair for you. You took the seat if only so he would answer your question, but you couldn’t deny the cushion of the seat was a relief against your sore joints.

The doctor handed you a ceramic mug, and your mouth immediately salivated as the aroma of fresh hot coffee hit you.

Damn the man for tempting you with coffee and knowing it would work. It wasn’t just the warm promise of caffeine that drew you in, it was the temptation of normality, of returning to a time when you had routine, control, and a lack of terror and pain.

You weren’t the only one without control over their own lives. You took the coffee mug, but your eyes didn’t waver from the SCP. It wasn’t clear how long 049 had been struggling against its chains, but it didn’t let up for a moment, every fiber of its being dedicated to fighting its way to freedom.

No. It wasn’t its freedom it wanted, was it?

“It was fine until you left,” Leahy answered your previous question with a scoff. “Though it kept muttering about the Pestilence closing in and that it needed its assistant. We sedated it and restrained it to the wall, but before it could be properly secured, it attacked one of the guards. A man you supposedly cured.”

At his accusatory tone followed by the soft slap of a paper dropping beside you, you turned your gaze away from 049 to a file sitting next to you on the console. You opened it and recognized the employee file inside, though he hadn’t been wearing a guard uniform at the time you last saw him. He’d been one of those “cured” during the test.

“His name was Louis Salazar. A good man, survived by a wife and two daughters who no longer have a father because of that dangerous, criminally insane monster.”

Dr. Puli shifted uncomfortably beside you, but your focus was on the Site Director.

“Why?”

Leahy frowned.

“Why, what?”

“Why did 049 attack him?” you pressed. If this Louis Salazar had been cured, then that meant there was no “Pestilence” inside him, and the plague doctor would have no cause to be aggressive.

“Did you not hear the criminally insane bit?” Leahy squinted at you. “That thing is unpredictable, out of control. It’s my suggestion to the O5 Council that it be put into permanent storage.”

You bolted upright.

“What? You can’t do that! It’s not 049’s fault!”

Even as you protested, something tugged at the back of your mind. Why was the Site Director meeting you and Dr. Puli in some dim observation room? Why was this not being done in his office, or hell, why was he talking to you at all? Threatening to place 049 into permanent storage—which meant putting the SCP into a lead-lined box and burying it miles underground in a layer of concrete—didn’t make any sense. He could just do it and never mention it to you.

Maybe it was the insight granted to you previously by SCP-714, or maybe you just knew Leahy too well at this point to know he wouldn’t be bothering unless you had something he wanted.

The Site Director glared, but not as angrily as he should be.

“You put the grand delusion of cures into its head,” he said with a little more bite. He might want something, but he still didn’t like you. The feeling was mutual. “You’re just as much to blame for the lives it takes.”

“I was trapped in a room with 049 against my will, and you blame me for not dying?”

The Site Director’s face went beet red, and oh, wasn’t that satisfying.

“I survived something that never should have happened,” you seethed, your returning anger carrying the momentum forward. “And instead of opening an investigation, you threw me into a cell and turned me into a chew toy for SCPs—”

Leahy was gripping the edge of his chair at this point. Maybe if you pissed him off enough, he would stop playing games with you, but Dr. Puli stepped forward before he could lash out. Your old boss had been standing some distance away, shifting uncomfortably at the verbal sparring match between you and the Site Director.

“That’s not why we asked you here.”

He spared a nervous glance at the Site Director, but Leahy simply leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest.

They had both asked you here? Why? What were they up to?

“You have proven to be a valuable asset in terms of learning more about the nature of these SCPs, especially SCP-049,” Dr. Puli said. “I recommended that you be kept with 049 until its agitation passes.”

You blinked. He couldn’t be serious.

Dr. Puli gave you a sympathetic smile, one that you wanted to trust. But you knew better.

“You have been under a considerable strain yourself. This is not another test,” the doctor insisted at your disbelieving frown. “Rather, it is a time for you to rest in a place where you’ll be more… comfortable.”

You didn’t believe it for a minute. It was a trick, a ploy—

“This is ridiculous,” Leahy muttered like a petulant child. “Who in their right mind would be comfortable around that beast?”

Dr. Puli ignored the Site Director, maintaining eye contact with you. He was… serious. Leahy’s annoyance to the proposal lent it more authenticity than anything else.

You looked back at the monitors where 049’s struggles hadn’t changed. After everything you’d been though, maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise that the idea of being back in the SCP’s cell was… calming. Familiar. The SCP had protected you when you’d been distressed, had defied the guards several times when they’d come to drag you away. And even though you had no delusions that it was simply protecting what it viewed as a tool in defeating the Pestilence, in a strange way, 049 was the only one actively trying to keep you sane and alive.

“It’s a waste of time and resources to keep her locked away with that creature,” Leahy said in a tone that indicated he and Dr. Puli had had this argument several times before. “A creature that is delusional at best, and manipulative to an unprecedented degree at worst—"

“For how long?”

Both men stared at you.

“How long do you want me to stay with him? It?”

You corrected your slip too late. Dr. Puli and the Site Director exchanged a glance, then Leahy simply shrugged.

“I am willing to put the other testing on pause if you can keep SCP-049 docile and cooperative. A list of personnel who are terminally ill, due to natural causes or anomalous ones, has been compiled, and the first batch are being transported to this site to be… healed.”

Leahy said the word with a sneer. 049 might be his golden goose laying the golden egg, but he didn't like the SCP no more than he liked you. You thought it fitting.

“If you both cooperate in the days to come,” he added, “then perhaps your privileges will expand.”

“I want guarantees.”

“You’re not in a position to demand them.”

You glared at him, fear and anger mixing into a murderous concoction. All you’d wanted was for the torture in the form of tests to stop, but the best you could hope for was a temporary reprieve.

But the Site Director was right. You had no leverage, and you were lucky to be given this much.

Your gaze drifted one last time to the monitors, to 049 and its fruitless struggles. It wouldn’t stop fighting until its strength ran out, or it injured itself too much to continue.

“I’ll do it,” you said. The word carried the weight and finality of a deal with the devil.

“So glad you agree.”

With the use of a walkie-talkie close at hand, Leahy called the guards inside.

“Take her in.”

That was it? No more bargaining or cajoling or mocking?

Why did you get the feeling you’d played right into the Site Director’s hands?

It was too late to change your mind, and what was the alternative, anyway? To not help 049 and continue being tortured? There was no choice, not really.

Two guards entered the observation room and pulled you to your feet, forcing you to leave your mug behind on the console. You hadn’t even been given a chance to finish it.

You were dragged to the containment doors even though they were only a few feet away, and a duffel bag was heaved into your arms before you could ask questions. The outer containment doors opened and you were escorted inside, left beside the autopsy table as you clutched onto the bag like a lifeline.

The inner containment doors parted more slowly than the outer ones, these doors heavier, taking more power to move. 049 was where you last saw it, chained to the wall with shackles around its wrists, ankles, and neck, but it was completely still as the doors parted.

You avoided its gaze for now, instead catching sight of what you’d missed from the camera in the corner. 049’s inner containment chamber had had some… renovations.

The left section, which had been empty before, now contained a toilet and shower head installed into the wall, both with zero privacy. There was also a bathroom sink, small and porcelain compared to the metal industrial sink in the middle containment room.

That wasn’t the only change to 049’s “living” area: instead of the single-sized bed that had been there previously, there was a larger full-sized bed in its place.

Before you could wonder at the new changes, and the implication of how long they expected you to stay, the locks holding 049 in place disengaged.

The SCP was on you before you could blink.

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