#restyling car

[tabooiart]

pearl to pearl communication pearl to pearl conversation

[vano6105]

man, it's like I'm doing car designs🤦‍♂

(beltz belongs to @streetdevil96)

[designmiss]

Restyling Renault 4 by David Obendorfer https://www.design-miss.com/restyling-renault-4-by-david-obendorfer/ David Obendorfer ha realizzato un restyling della mitica Renault 4, una proposta che mantiene la semplicità del vecchio modello ma aggiunge le modernità tecnologiche di oggi, come l’alimentazione ibrida o elettrica, […]

[wrapstars]

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[sashaisready]

Starting Over: Chapter 4 - Build

Mob!Bucky x Female Reader

Series Masterlist

When Bucky throws you out of the house for a betrayal and won't listen to your side of the story, you know the only way out is through - it's time to start over. Maybe this was never going to be your happy ending.

Me again! We’re back. Sorry I know I keep adding new parts but I’ve broken up the final chapter into two as it just keep going and this is a huge bumper one (sorry). I promise there genuinely will only be one more looool. Thanks again for all of your reblogs/comments/love for this story, it means a lot!!

💔

Lou had welcomed you back with open arms, fixing you up with a waitress job at the diner. Of course he had. Lou was like the father you’d never had. His love was one of the few constants in your life.

Mercifully, he didn’t ask you much about Bucky, didn’t chastise you for making a bad choice and getting involved with a mob boss. That wasn’t what Lou was about. He knew that ‘I told you so’ served no purpose, he knew that you were a big girl and there was nothing he could tell you that you didn’t already know yourself. So why bother? All that mattered was that you were here, and you needed him. He would always catch you when you fell.

Going back to waitressing didn’t feel like you’d taken a step back or that you’d somehow failed, if anything it was quite nice to see this former version of your life once more. And you’d missed chatting with the regulars, helping Lou with the accounts, occasionally fighting small fires (both metaphorical and very occasionally, literal). With Bucky you didn’t need to work, which was nice in one way, but you’d missed the structure and purpose your old job had given you. You previously had no interest in daily gossipy lunches with the other mob wives, and there was only so much shopping you could do.

“How did we ever cope without you?” Lou had asked one morning after you’d successfully chased and caught a dine and dasher, and saved hundreds of dollars on the power bill after negotiating a new contract. All before 10am.

You grinned, “I feel the same way about this place”.

You had moved in with Wanda, she had insisted - despite your protests. She and her boyfriend, Vis, gave you the spare room and said you could stay until you got back on your feet. It was small and full of all the extra stuff they couldn’t fit elsewhere in their apartment, but you didn’t care. You would’ve been happy with the couch, or a sleeping bag on the floor.

Nat was equally helpful, sorting you out by buying new clothes and shoes in your size and giving you some of the toiletries and make-up she didn’t use. She even cut and restyled your hair (‘because hair holds memories’, she told you) and took on whichever role you needed. Sometimes that was nights on her couch crying as she held you, other times it was hitting up the bars and trying to forget. She did it all. She had come and got you that morning at the hotel, after you sent her a frantic message from the rickety computer explaining what had happened. She told you she’d be there in 30 minutes…but ended up doing the trip in 20.

One afternoon a week or so later, Bucky’s men radioed him to let them know that there was a redhead in a Mercedes at the front gates demanding to speak to him. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. He’d sighed as he saw her familiar face on the security monitor and told them to let her in. He knew this day would come. He dismissed them, they didn’t need to be here for this.

Nat had parked up and casually exited the car, strolling across the patio as Bucky stood in the doorway and waited for the inevitable. She didn’t keep him waiting long, slugging him across the jaw with a sharp ‘thwack’ causing him to stagger back against the doorframe.

“Got it. Anything else to say?” he groaned.

She nodded and then kneed him hard in the groin, turning on her heel as she left him in a crumpled heap and ambled back to her car.

“I warned you this would happen if you hurt her”, she called out calmly without looking back.

“Always good to see you, Nat”, Bucky managed to eke out as she slammed the car door.

The generosity of them all was overwhelming, you knew how lucky you were. It’s often said that you don’t know who your true friends are until you fall on hard times, and your friends had proved themselves tenfold. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to repay their kindness.

💔

It had been about six weeks since the night at the hotel when he started coming to the diner. No goons or hangers-on, just him. Which was almost unheard of, given his position.

The first time was a Friday morning, around 9am. He sat in the corner booth, head buried in the menu.

“I can kick him out, hon’, I’m not scared of him”, Lou had snarled as he glared over at the man in the booth.

“It’s okay, Lou. I can handle him,” you told him gently, giving his arm a reassuring stroke.

You took a deep breath as you approached his table. You couldn’t see his face, just his hands, an eerie mirror of the first time you’d met.

“What can I get you?” you asked as you readied your pad and pen, your voice surprisingly even, in spite your stomach’s somersaults.

He lowered the menu slowly and you couldn’t deny it was good to see him again. His blue eyes shone, the former dusting of stubble over his chin and jawline now a fuller beard - just as tantalising as it had always been. A few strands of his hair had come away from the carefully styled gel, framing his face perfectly. Some of your former anger towards him bubbled away beneath the surface, but you couldn’t deny you had also missed him. You had loved him, after all.

The two of you shared a knowing smile.

“You know there are like…hundreds of other breakfast places in this city, right?” you teased, but half-serious.

“I do…but this is the only one that gets my eggs just right,” he grinned back.

“Mmm. I’ll pass your compliments onto the chef. You still want the usual?”

“Please”.

You scribbled down the familiar order onto the page. It felt strange to write it down again, it had been a long time since you’d done that for him.

“Are you going to behave?” you questioned, arms folded.

“Mostly”.

“You’d better. Lou will have your ass if you don’t” you scoffed.

“I don’t doubt it”.

“And Bucky, if you’re here to-” you began, your face betraying the pain that still lurked within you.

“I’m not”, he cut you off. “Just breakfast. I promise”.

You nodded, pressing your lips together with trepidation. The two of you watched the other for a few seconds.

“Well, okay, that’ll be right out”.

You turned and put his order into the kitchen. You didn’t have to look back to know he was watching.

“Here you go”.

You returned to the booth a little later, laying out the plates and re-filling his coffee, he thanked you and pulled a napkin from the dispenser.

“I like your new hair”, he said as he began to cut up his food, his eyes not leaving the table.

“Thanks. I like your new beard”.

“Thanks. Business going okay here?”

“Doing well. Yours?”

“Same old, same old…”

“And…Rumlow?” you asked, your throat catching a little as you said his name.

“Terminated” he replied coldly as he took a sip of coffee.

“Yes…I presumed so. HYDRA?”

“I finally cut off all of those heads”.

“I hope you mean metaphorically”.

“Mostly. The girls good? Vis?”

“All good. Steve? Sam?”

“Also good”.

“Good”.

“Good”.

“Well…good to catch up. Let me know if you need anything else. Enjoy”.

“Thanks”.

You waited for some big trick or reveal, but it never came. He ate his meal, drank another coffee refill, paid the bill, tipped, and left within the hour. Like any other customer. Lou was sceptical, and so were you – but there nothing to suggest it was anything else but breakfast…like he said.

And that’s how it was every Friday after that. He’d come in at 9am on the dot, sit in the same booth. Order the usual. You were always his waitress. Everything was the same, every week. The other regulars knew to avoid sitting at his table at that time. The other servers would barely bat an eyelid as he strolled in, taking for granted that you’d be along shortly to put his order in – even if he wasn’t in your section that morning. And it was…fine. He didn’t try and do anything more, didn’t ask you to meet anywhere or for a chance to talk. You initially thought it would be hard to see him again, but it was okay. Maybe a future where the two of you just pleasantly co-existed was possible.

The two of you would chat. Just small talk at first. Occasionally a joke. Even Lou would chat to him sometimes, he was still wary of Bucky but more open to him than he was previously. He certainly didn’t mind him spending money in his restaurant.

Weeks soon became months. Seasons changed. Still, he came in every week, rain or shine. Plates and plates of eggs eaten; endless coffee mugs refilled. He didn’t ever skip it, he was never sick, never seemed to take vacations. He showed up every time. Even if you weren’t there.

The small talk eventually evolved, so slowly you barely noticed it happen. You chatted more about the old times, memories started to feel fonder rather than sad reminders of what was lost. He told you anecdotes about Steve and Sam. You told him about Wanda and Vis, about Nat. You laughed uproariously one morning over the story of Sam’s disastrous vacation involving a mistaken suitcase and an overzealous TSA agent. It was nice to just sit and talk with him, just be with him. No expectations or obligations. You hadn’t forgiven him. You weren’t sure you ever could. But you had missed him. And seeing him for an hour every week, on your turf, just shooting the breeze – that was nice.

“So, you seeing anyone?” you asked one morning as you sat across from him in the booth and sipped your drink, your break coinciding with the end of his meal. You weren’t sure where it came from, but it popped out of your mouth before you had a chance to stop it. The curiosity was eating you alive. You seemed to talk about everything apart from his love life.

He firmly shook his head, “nope”.

You frowned. “Really? When was the last time you went on a date?”

“With you,” he replied in that no-nonsense tone of his.

You cocked your head, peering over at him in disbelief.

“But Bucky…”

“What? I’m not interested in anyone else”.

“But we’re not together. And it’s been months”.

“I know”, he replied stoically as he sipped his coffee. His eyes seemed to be studying you.

“And we’re not getting back together…”

“I know”.

“But…”

“But what?”

“I don’t know, but I-I don’t like this. It feels like a ploy, somehow. To push me into taking you back” you stammered, your finger dancing on the rim of your mug.

“It’s not. It’s just a fact. I didn’t even bring it up, you did”.

He was frustratingly calm and unperturbed, finishing his breakfast like this was just some casual conversation about the weather or a movie he’d seen.

“So…what, you’re never gonna date anyone again? Is that it?” you scowled.

He shrugged, “I never said that. It’s just not something I’m looking to do right now. Work is taking up most of my time. Plus, I’m in therapy, working through a few things. I’d rather be in a better place before I start dating again. Learn from my past mistakes”.

“Oh…” you responded in surprise, “well…that’s very mature of you. And is it…helpful?”

“Mmm, pretty eye opening,” he nodded as he took another sip of his coffee, “I’d recommend it to anyone,” he looked at you pointedly.

You felt the heat at your cheeks, perfectly aware that he was suggesting you do the same. And he was probably right. But you didn’t like the potential to appear vulnerable in front of him, so you merely shrugged and went back to rubbing your coffee cup. You were genuinely pleased for him…it was just unfortunate that your break-up was the catalyst. You felt a wave of grief roll through you.

You paused for just a beat, again unable to stop your word vomit.

“Are you gonna ask if I’m seeing anyone?”

“No”.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s none of my business. You can date whoever you want”, he shrugged, keeping his attention on his plate.

You frowned. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Yes. I just want you to be happy, doll”.

“Bullshit!” you scoffed, “you once picked a man up by his ankles and dipped his head in the toilet because he grabbed my ass at that party…”

“Well, that was deserved. And I didn’t flush it on him, so he got off easy…”

You pointed an accusatory finger at him across the table. “Buck…I know you. What’s your game, here?”

He sighed heavily, taking a long sip of his coffee before he spoke. His eyes finally moved up from his plate to meet yours. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I just like being with you? In whatever form I can? That maybe I’m happy just getting this time with you every week, no matter what happens between us?”

“And that’s enough for you?” you asked incredulously.

He shifted in his seat, his tone suddenly very serious.

“Look, doll. I’m always going to love you. And I’m always going to be honest with you. If you turned around tomorrow and you told me you wanted to give things another shot – sure, I’d bite your hand off to accept. But I live in the real world. And I know you aren’t likely to forgive me for what I did, and that’s fine. I’ve accepted that. I’m just happy to have you in my life in some way, even if that’s just talking to you every Friday while I have my breakfast”.

You blinked back at him, unsure whether to take him at his word or if this was some manipulation tactic. The word ‘love’ echoed in your ears, and you had to shake it off that he said he still felt that way about you. Maybe this was all some trick. You knew you couldn’t trust him anymore.

But as you looked into his eyes, for a moment his sentiment felt…genuine. Real. Maybe he was telling the truth.

“Fine”, you sighed as you took a sip from your cup, “I get paid to be here either way…”

💔

A few more months passed, it had been nearly a year since the break-up. Bucky remained a weekly customer but nothing else. You’d finally moved out of Wanda’s into your own place – a shitty, cramped studio apartment was the best you could do on a waitress wage and tips – but it was yours. It had been such a long time since you’d had your own space, you loved every meagre inch.

You'd also started therapy, to help get your head around your childhood and abandonment issues - to help understand why you were always ready to run and expect everything to collapse. Bucky was right, it was valuable - if not hard going. But you knew it was helping, even though nothing could be 'fixed' overnight.

You still visited Wanda and Vis regularly. In fact, you were over there laughing with Wanda and making an early dinner when you got the call that Friday evening. She knew something terrible had happened from the way your face fell, your eyes widening with shock as you listened to the voice on the other end telling you whatever horror story it was. Seconds later you were rushing out of the front door and trying to wrangle on your coat and grab your bag, as she called out to you in a panic just steps behind.

“It was a massive heart attack,” the doctor had said as she eyed the clipboard in front of her. “He was lucky that a passerby on the street called an ambulance, if he’d been alone…he may not have been able to call himself, and if it had been too late…”

You had not been at the hospital long, sweating and panting in your rush to get down there. Your head fuzzy, unable to fully take in what you’d been told. The doctor was still talking, her voice an unidentifiable drone in your ears as you concentrated all your efforts on staying upright. You tugged off your coat, suddenly far too hot. The hospital felt like a furnace, suffocating and stifling. You were dizzy, everything felt blurred.

A couple of chairs sat a few feet away along the sterile-looking hallway, you plopped down into one and put your head in your hands.

“Can she see him?” Wanda asked the doctor, her hands patting your shoulders supportively.

“He’s stable, but the team are just doing some observations on him. Plus, he needs to rest, and might be feeling groggy after the meds. He’ll be out for a good while. It might take some time to be conscious and lucid again, so-”

“I’ll wait,” you said defiantly, the first time you’d spoken since you got there. “However long it takes”.

“Yes, I understand. And you’re his…friend?”

“Daughter,” you corrected. “I’m Lou’s daughter. Well…good as. He doesn’t have any other family. Neither of us do…”

The doctor nodded kindly, pointing out the coffee machine across the hall and leaving you to it.

💔

Wanda waited with you for a while, but she had a work event that night. She insisted she’d stay but you waved her off, telling her you’d check in with her later. She’d been planning that event for months. Lou would be mad at her for missing it, let alone over him. And you meant it, you didn’t want her missing it because of you.

So, she left. Leaving you by yourself in the hard chair with the plastic cup of lukewarm motor oil masquerading as coffee. Nat was out in the Bahamas with some hottie for the week, and you didn’t really want to bother Vis, so you sat quietly alone. You kept sane by reminding yourself that Lou was stable, and his prognosis looked good. He would be okay. He would. He’s made of strong stuff.

Another hour went by, and you couldn’t help your tears from falling as you began to work yourself up worrying, exacerbated by the fact you hadn’t eaten and had nobody around to stop you from spiralling. Wanda had sent a few texts, but you knew she was busy and didn’t need you distracting her. You just wished you had someone to talk to. Or not even talk to, just be with. You squeezed your phone in your hands as if willing the idea that someone would suddenly call you out of the blue. A friend you’d forgotten, a long-lost family member. But there was nobody.

Well, almost nobody.

You pulled your purse onto your lap and dug through, retrieving your wallet at the bottom. You opened it up and checked each card holder until you found what you were searching for, slightly worn and torn tucked behind the library card you barely used, but the details still clear as day.

JAMES BUCHANAN BARNES

Director of 107 Inc.

You had scooped up the card after he left it in the hotel room. It was a bit of a split decision, you’d nearly tossed it in the trash but changed your mind at the last second and jammed it into your wallet, not really thinking about why. You hadn’t looked at it since, you’d never transferred his number into your phone, or even spoken to him outside of Fridays at the diner. But he had become something of a friend over the last few months, and you were surprised to find yourself looking forward to seeing him every week. It was as if you’d gotten to know each other again from scratch, a slow-burn friendship grown over time – the complete opposite of your initial whirlwind relationship, where heat had won out over foundations. But now, you felt you knew him differently. It was funny how you get to know somebody without the chemistry and physical attraction fogging up your brain.

Was this stupid? Were you asking for trouble? But…it would be nice to talk to someone. Just a phone call, nothing more. You took a deep breath and punched the numbers into the keypad before you could talk yourself out of it.

“Hello?” came his gruff voice in your year after two rings.

You sat upright, surprised he had even answered at all – let alone so fast. You hadn’t really thought about what you were going to say.

“Hey, Buck, I…” you squeaked, unable to mask the emotion in your voice.

“Doll?” his voice immediately softened, “what is it? Are you okay?”

“Yeah…well, no, actually. I’m at Mount Sinai…uh…Lou-uh, Lou had a big heart attack and I’m at the hospital and hesreallysickandI-I…”

You sobbed, your words melting into one as the pain of saying them out loud hit home, “I’m sorry I…”

“Hey. It’s okay. Take a moment for me, alright? Take a deep breath doll…”

You closed your eyes, inhaling and exhaling, blowing the air out of your lips like he said. You did it a few times, feeling slightly better afterwards,

“Good, that’s good,” Bucky told you. “Are you by yourself? Are Wanda and Nat there with you?”

“No…Wanda is working, Nat’s away. It’s fine…I just…”

“I’m so sorry about Lou, doll”, he said tenderly. “Do you want me to come down there?”

“No…no…it’s okay…I just. I just wanna talk,” you replied, wiping your eyes with the palm of your hand.

“Yeah…yeah, we can do that. What shall we talk about?”

You sighed, “I don’t know. Anything. Anything that isn’t hospitals or heart attacks…or food. Because I haven’t eaten and I’m starving.”

“Alright. Hmm. Well…I had to break up a fight between Thor and Scott today, if that helps distract you…”

“What? But Thor is twice Scott’s size. That was mean of him…”

“No…Scott started it. Said Thor was mouthing off about something or other and it all blew up. Scott swung for him”.

“What?? Is he insane?” you practically shrieked, the beginnings of a giggle forming in your throat as you tried to imagine Scott trying to land a punch as Thor towered above him.

“I guess so. But they worked it out. Last time I saw them they were laughing, and Thor was swinging him from his shoulders”.

You laughed. A proper, deep belly laugh. It felt good. Cathartic. You could practically see some of the tension leave your body.

“Well, I’m glad they figured it out. What else did you do today, Buck?”

“Hm. Not a lot. Mostly work. I went to the park. Just to get some air. Went to that duck pond you like and sat on the bench for a while”.

You smiled, “I love that pond”.

“I know. Remember that time you nearly fell in trying to help that duckling trapped in the weeds?”

“I do. I remember that you had to catch me and I accidentally splashed pondwater on your suit as I stumbled…” you laughed fondly.

“Not the worst thing I’ve had my dry cleaner remove for me. And we got the duckling back to its mom, even if she was furious at us”.

“She tried to bite you…”

“She succeeded”.

You both chuckled for a moment as you reminisced, then it suddenly went quiet between you both. You held the phone tightly to your ear, unsure and a little lost for words. It felt odd to feel tongue-tied around Bucky, it had always been so easy to know what to say to him. Despite how easy it was to slip back into nostalgia just now, and your newfound friendship, there was still something of a gulf between the two of you. You had been apart for so long now.

“…thanks, Buck,” you whispered.

“Anytime, doll”.

💔

After you hung up with Bucky, a nurse came over and you shot up out of your chair with anticipation. She told you that Lou was doing well but was slowly coming around after a heavy sedative. He should be ready for visitors in another hour or so. You sighed heavily but nodded grimly, as long as Lou was alright – that was all that mattered.

You sank back into your faithful chair, pulling out your rapidly dying phone again and wishing you had the foresight to bring a charger when you left Wanda’s. Or some food, at least.

You continued your vigil in the unfeeling hospital hallway, a place that seemed to exist outside of time. But you had to admit, speaking to Bucky had raised your spirits a little. It reminded you of the old days, when he was an anchor in a storm, a calming presence when things were tough. Part of you had missed that.

You’d just closed your eyes a little while later when you heard someone call your name.

“Still hungry?”

Your eyes filled with tears as your head snapped to see who it was.

There stood Bucky dressed in his off-duty grey sweats, his unstyled hair flopping across his forehead. In his hand was a brown bag, you instantly recognised the brand of your favourite take-out place printed across the front. It smelled heavenly.

“Buck…?” you mumbled in shock, not quite believing he was there, “what…what are you doing here?”

He shrugged, “you said you were alone and hadn’t eaten. I know how you get when you’re anxious. Figured you could use this”.

It wasn’t clear if he meant the food or the company, but in that moment, you were grateful for both.

He sat in the chair next to yours and began to methodically remove the food tubs, placing them on your lap and opening the lids as he pulled out a fork and napkins.

“Hope you still like this one,” he said as he revealed your usual order.

“I do”, you replied, your voice small.

“Good. Dig in.”

You began to eat slowly, feeling strangely self-conscious about your audience. Fortunately, he pulled out a tub of his own which took the focus off you. The two of you sat side by side and ate in silence.

“Thanks for this, Bucky,” you mumbled between mouthfuls.

“Anytime. Any news on Lou?”

“Should be ready for visitors soon”.

“Well, that’s good. He’s a tough old bastard.”

You both finished your meals and Bucky got to work tidying up the empty containers and old napkins and depositing them in the trash. You thanked him as he sat back down.

“Hey…thanks again, that was really thoughtful - but really, you don’t have to stay,” you shrugged, “you probably have a busy night”.

He shook his head, “nope. I’m wide open”.

He stared straight ahead and leaned back, his bulk squeezing up against the armrests of the chair. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“What do you mean when you said, ‘I know how you get when you’re anxious?’” you asked him tentatively.

“Just…I know how you can spiral when you’re stressed. Figured you could use some company is all,” he casually as he moved his hair away from his face.

“T-thanks,” you responded, your throat dry, “I’m not really up to chatting much right now, though”.

He was nonchalant, “that’s fine”.

The two of you sat side by side, nothing said.

It was awkward at first, sharing this cold and sterile space with your ex, worries about Lou weighing you down. But then after some time…it was sort of…okay? He didn’t try to initiate any conversation; he didn’t show any signs of boredom – even though he must’ve been feeling it. Didn’t complain. Didn’t check his watch. He just sat and waited with you, his arms propped up casually on the armrests and his eyes trained on the wall in front of him. You were grateful that he’d heeded your request not to speak as you didn’t have the brain power to labour a conversation. You didn’t fully understand why, but him just physically being there was strangely comforting - as odd as that was to admit to yourself.

Eventually the nurse returned, her smile warm as she greeted you.

“Oh, you have a friend. Right on time, Lou is ready to see you now”.

You quickly got to your feet and dashed after her as she led you to Lou’s room. Bucky followed close behind.

Your heart sank when you finally saw him, covered in wires and tubes, his face suddenly much older than his years. You gasped, rushing over to his bedside.

“Hey, kiddo” he wheezed, a smile creeping over his face despite the obvious effort it required, “aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“Oh God, Lou, I was so scared…I thought you’d…” you took his hand in yours, unable to say the words out loud as the tears started again.

You felt like you’d cave in on yourself from the anguish, but a steadying hand found its way to your shoulder from behind you. Bucky squeezed once, a small reminder of his presence, then pulled his hand away. It was grounding, helpful.

“Hey there hon, I’m doin’ okay”, Lou rasped as he weakly tried to grip your hand in return. “But I guess this is a good reminder to lay off the bacon, huh?” he chuckled before the effort caused him to wheeze.

You smiled faintly and patted his hand, careful to mind the IV by his fingers, “you gotta start taking better care of yourself, okay? No more greasy breakfasts at work…”

He nodded slowly, his eyes flickering over to Bucky behind you, “you brought company…”

“Oh, yeah”, you turned to gesture to Bucky, “he sat with me and brought me dinner while I waited”.

Lou nodded, a flash of something in his eyes you couldn’t place. “You takin’ care of her?”

Bucky nodded in return, “of course”.

Lou inhaled deeply, “well…alright, I’m glad she’s not been by herself”, he begrudgingly offered. “I wouldn’t want her out in the cold…so to speak” he said pointedly, a clear reference to that awful night one year before.

“Rest assured…that would never happen,” Bucky responded coolly. “But I understand your concern”.

You watched as the two men stared at each other, something resembling an understanding seemed to lay between them.

💔

You sat with Lou for as long as you could before the doctor shooed you and Bucky out, explaining Lou needed to rest. You promised you’d be back tomorrow.

“Oh hon…no. Don’t waste your time on an old man like me,” he teased playfully.

“Oh, stop that. You know I’m going to be here with balloons and grapes, the whole shebang…” you grinned, putting your coat on.

“Good to see you, Lou” Bucky chimed in as he shook Lou’s hand, “you’ll be fighting fit in no time”.

Unbeknownst to you as you were busy with your bag and coat, Lou used a finger to beckon Bucky to move closer. Bucky obliged, leaning forward so that Lou could speak to him. His words were hushed but clear.

“Hurt her again and I’ll beat the living shit out of you. Bad ticker or not. And I don’t care how many of your goons you set on me…”

Bucky raised an eyebrow, but his expression betrayed no emotion, “understood”.

You turned, smiling obliviously at Lou just as Bucky stood back up to full height and cleared his throat. They both smiled back.

“See you tomorrow, Lou”.

“See you, kiddo”.

You left the room with Bucky trailing behind. As a small sob escaped your throat, his hand pressed firmly against your back. A small reminder that he’d shown up for you. He was there.

💔

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1969 Dodge Charger

The 1969 Dodge Charger presented perhaps the widest array of choices in the history of the nameplate. There was a base model, an available SE (for "Special Edition") option that heaped on more luxuries, a hot-performing R/T version, and two wild race-bred iterations: the 500 and the Daytona. Engine selections started with Chrysler's trusty 225-cid Slant Six, but also included five V-8s, topped by the rollicking 425-horsepower 426-cid "Street Hemi." Depending on the model, available transmissions were three- and four-speed manuals, plus the excellent three-speed TorqueFlite automatic.

Given all these choices, it's perhaps ironic that the car came in just one body style, a two-door hardtop. The 1969 Dodge Charger was an update of the completely restyled '68 model, which meant it was built on a 117-inch wheelbase with Chrysler's familiar torsion-bar suspension up front and leaf springs in the back. New styling touches for base and R/T Chargers included a vertical center divider in the grille and horizontal taillights.

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Chevrolet Corvette S.O. 2151 Prototype, 1954. A one-off GM Styling Department “Proposal Car”  for an abandoned 1955 facelift is to be offered at auction. The Corvette body was restyled to incorporate several new features: a decorative hood scoop, eggcrate front grille, bumper-exit exhaust tips, and a re-styled trunk design. Another element of the new design were the slanted front-fender vents, painted body color on the passenger side and trimmed with chrome on the driver side – giving GM executives two different looks to choose from. The car has undergone an 1,800 hour restoration using  period photographs to ensure that the work was as accurate as possible, including re-creating missing trim pieces.

auction listing

[theplottdump]

Shortly after Kate's glorious return, ( 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘭𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘨𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 ) - a different yet similar scene was preparing to play out in the newly restyled second floor corner suite of the Holiday Inn.

Agent Number 005, 𝗩𝗲𝗿𝗮 𝗗𝗼𝗲, or simply V, as she had been affectionately dubbed by the other Agents, had grown up in a much different environment than that of her fellow Angels.

Where Kate had her horse, and her family therapist, Vera had a rotation of foster siblings. And when Poppy got a car for merely surviving high school, Vera was taking the city bus to the gymnasium- hopeful that her athletic prowess could one day be the key to a much greater path.

Doe wasn't even her actual last name. The clerk at the U.N.I.T. HQ in Windenburg had offhandedly penciled it in when she failed to provide one of her own during the hiring process.

But she didn't mind. It was cute and rolled off the tongue a lot faster than Van-Amstel.

Besides- she definitely didn't need the League of Evil showing up on her recently rediscovered birth father's doorstep every time they wanted leverage.

At her core, Vera was a true rarity- 𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝘆 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗳𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁.

And in a world of slashed throats, time bombs, and casual office trysts, she was a romantic. An especially hopeless one.

She could speak eight languages and punch you out in two more.

But since we're talking about love- let's just say, if Poppy was skilled, Kate was fluent- and Vera might as well be speaking Japanese.

[f1mike28]

Pagani Huayra BC „Macchina Volante“.

The Pagani Huayra BC is the most technologically advanced Huayra Coupé yet, introducing innovative technical solutions which will be applied in the Pagani cars of the future. This not just a „restyling“ of the Huayra, but a product that includes innovative changes in every part of the vehicle. It’s a car that has a completely different personality to that of the Huayra Coupé.

Conceived primarily as road going car that will give the maximum exhilaration and performance during track days and special events, the Pagani Huayra BC has been inspired by its „track focused“ predecessors: the Pagani Zonda R and the Zonda Cinque.

The name „BC“ represents the initials of Benny Caiola, a person who has greatly inspired Horacio Pagani over the years. Benny was so impressed by the passion and technology of the cars Horacio was designing from the very beginning, he made history as the first customer to buy a Pagani Automobile.

The Pagani Huayra BC powered by the masterpiece of an engine the Mercedes-AMG M158 V12 biturbo engine 6.0L over 800HP and 1100Nm of Torque.

Exclusively Handcrafted by Michael Kübler @f1mike28 in Germany Affalterbach.

Driving Performance is our Passion! Mercedes-AMG the Performance and Sports Car Brand from Mercedes-Benz and Exclusive Partner for Pagani Automobili. Mercedes-AMG Handcrafted by Racers.

[things-about-cars-in-posts]

I know you're not Identifying-cars-in-posts, but could you tell me about this car? Best pic I could get. It's got such a creature face, I really like it

First off, PLEASE feel free to treat me as a makeshift @identifying-cars-in-posts. I'm pretty sure I said as much at some point, but I should update my pinned to reflect that. Second off, I genuinely did the held in snore-laugh WHAT IS THAT THING

And I did indeed not know, due to the gaps in my knowledge of SUVs that size caused mainly by them barely ever coming to places like Europe, whose human-sized environments are not comfortably navigated by these absolute fucking monsters - hell, I live near a two way road that gets almost 25cm narrower than this thing. Oh, for yanks, that's just over the length of my- you know what actually let's not give that information to the public I can think of something else, uhhhhh that's about a head's width right? Lemme look it up on Wikipedia. Nope, apparently it's about from your chin to your hair. Did you know Wikipedia has a subsection on median human head measurements on the not at all creepily named article "Human head"? There's a table from lowest 99- wait, what were we talking about? Oh right, that thing. How did I get sidetracked like that? I swear that never happens.

I know it's a recent SUV by Nissan's luxury brand Infiniti because it looks recent and has an Infiniti badge that's visible from space, so I just did what I usually do, type what I know into Google Images (yes, DuckDuckGo users, you get to feel superior to me) and glance around at the results to see if I stumble into it. "Infiniti SUV", however, net me zilch. So I figured, since the damn thing so big and goofy it makes the picture you sent look like an Animorphs cover where a car turns into a semi, it could not possibly be anything but the top-of-the-range QX80, and thus googled that next. However, all the behemoths I saw looked much more acceptable, making me begin fearing I'd have to delve into the absolute mess that is the Infiniti naming scheme.

But then, I had an idea.

First result. B)

So what you saw is the second generation of, as I'd suspected, the Infiniti QX80. But also technically not.

See, the one below is the 2004 Infiniti QX56, based on the Nissan Armada based on the Titan based on me, but we(eee!) are never ever ever wait that's not how the song goes.

In 2010, out came its now Nissan Patrol-based second generation, who saw the awkwardness of the first one's roofline realizing at the end of the rear door that it actually can't slope down like that and its front end deciding it may need to be different but who said it must be better and emphatically asked it to hold its gas station sake.

But, in 2015, they did a restyling, in which they sprinkled some LEDs into the lights and fiddled with the bumpers creating the model you saw on the road and I found on Google - and used the occasion to transition the model to the new naming scheme.

You see, Infiniti had realized nobody could parse or remember their seemingly random letters and engine size names, so they started shifting to calling every car Q (or QX if it's vaguely gesturing towards the concept of off-roader) and use the numbers, like in many other brands, to denote where they sit in the range - thus the range topper got the highest number, going from QX56 (denoting its 5.6L engine) to QX80.

(good God.)

So technically, you could argue this to be the first generation of Infiniti QX80, since before this specific restyling there was no Infiniti QX80 because it was called QX56. But that logic would dictate someone who transitioned a year ago is a baby, and honestly if one stance on car names bars me from sex with trans people I'll pick the other.

Either way, they ran with that restyling for three years until they were like "Oh when y'all asked for a restyling you meant you wanted us to make it stop looking like a whale telling its daughter she is not going out dressed like that? Oh okay! Coulda said it earlier!" and gave it the second restyling that carried the model up to this year.

I'm not sure if it actually looks nice full stop or if it's just the whiplash from the Multipla-rivaling previous model, but at least the fender vents now look like they came from Infiniti and not Walmart. Though this generation is now getting sunset altogether, since in the mean time they figured out how to make the damn thing even larger.

This pedestrian mower's headlights have a 'bamboo forest design motif', which I'm very excited by, knowing many people that named their headlights' lack thereof as the key reason for their waning will to live. It's expected to cost Too Much and have a gas mileage rating of You Spent Six Digits On A Drivable House You Don't Get To Even Ask.

Links in blue are posts of mine about the topic in question: if you liked this post, you might like those - or the blog’s Discord server, linked in the pinned post!

[doll-lashes]

The spider living on my car's mirror caught a fly, it held on tightly to its meal when the car moved 🕷️ I don't like spiders very much but I also didn't want it to go hungry.

Hat: Morun X Muuna Stoik

OP: Heavenly Garden

Socks: Metamorphose Temps de Fille

Shoes: Unif

Bag: Restyle

Brooch: Morun X Muuna Stoik

[justforbooks]

Sir Kenneth Grange

A giant of 20th-century design whose products – from food mixers to lamps and trains – became staples of British life

Kenneth Grange, who has died aged 95, was the leading British product designer of the second half of the 20th century. Even if unaware of his name, most people in Britain are familiar with his output: the Kenwood Chef food mixer, the Kodak Instamatic camera, the Ronson Rio hairdryer, the Morphy Richards iron. These everyday objects are part of all our histories. Grange was also responsible for the restyling of the InterCity 125 high-speed train and the 1997 TX1 version of the London taxi.

He was a tall, handsome, ebullient man, a joker with that element of inner moral purpose often found in the designers of his postwar generation. He grew up imbued with a determination to make the world a better place visually, his emphasis always on functional efficiency. Grange was a master at reassessing usage, but he also viewed design in terms of sheer enjoyment. He wanted us to share in the surprising grace of the experience as the 125 train comes hurtling down the track.

When he set up his own design consultancy in 1956, Grange was one of just a handful of designers operating in the world of what were then quaintly called consumer goods. Many of his early commissions came via the Council of Industrial Design (now the Design Council), a governmental body set up with the remit of improving national design standards. Grange’s commission to design Britain’s first parking meter, the Venner, introduced in 1958, came via the council. So too did his introduction to Kenneth Wood, proprietor of the firm in Woking whose domestic products were marketed as Kenwood. Grange’s clean-lined and user-friendly Kenwood Chef food mixer became a housewives’ status symbol of its time.

Like his near contemporary Vidal Sassoon, Grange came from a non-artistic background and had a similarly innate sense of visual style. Both men were quintessentially 1960s talents, Sassoon with his geometric haircuts, Grange with a succession of urbane modern products for a new, self-consciously fashionable age. He became a prime designer for the growing market in “portable accessories”: pens for Parker, cigarette lighters for Ronson, the melamine and smoked perspex Milward Courier shaver which, in 1963, won the Duke of Edinburgh’s prize for elegant design (now known as the Prince Philip Designers prize). Did Prince Philip himself use it? Grange insisted that he did.

In 1972 Grange joined four of the rising stars of his profession – Alan Fletcher, Colin Forbes, Theo Crosby and Mervyn Kurlansky – in founding the ultra-modern design group Pentagram. This was a multidisciplinary consultancy described by Grange as “a one-stop shop” providing specialist services in graphic design and advertising, architecture and – Grange’s own area – product design.

Pentagram became the bee’s knees of design consultancies: ambitious, professional, intelligent and jaunty. It attracted loyal clients, including Reuters, for whom Grange designed the Reuters monitor, a state-of-the-art computer terminal and keyboard, superbly well engineered in heavy silver aluminium sheet.

Through the 70s Grange was occupied with the most high profile of his design commissions: the aerodynamics, interior layout and exterior shaping of the nose cone of British Rail’s High Speed Train (HST). The InterCity 125 was a key element in BR’s strategy to woo passengers away from cars and planes and back on to the trains. However the first HST prototype they came up with was, in Grange’s opinion, “a lumpish, brutish thing”.

He realised he could only improve the appearance by first tackling the aerodynamics. On his own initiative (and at his own expense) he spent a week at night working with a consultant engineer at Imperial College London, where there was a wind tunnel. In the course of these experiments they developed a number of new ideas, getting rid of the buffers, hiding the couplings in the underside of the nose cone, and giving the train a more futuristic look.

It was launched in 1976 with its radical, dynamically angled nose design. Grange was always careful to give credit to the expertise of the engineers he worked with. All the same, it was his major triumph and a lasting symbol of the best of mid-20th-century British design. The HST – still in use today on selected passenger services after almost 50 years – transformed the public experience of travelling by train.

He was born in east London, the son of Hilda (nee Long), a machinist, and Harry Grange, an East End policeman. Kenneth was brought up in what he once vividly described as “a bacon-and-eggs kind of house”, respectably furnished with a three-piece suite and flowery curtains, the dominant colour being brown. Nevertheless his parents supported his chosen career in what was then termed “commercial art”. During the second world war, the family had moved to Wembley in north London, and Kenneth won a scholarship to Willesden School of Art and Crafts where, from the age of 14, he studied drawing and lettering.

These basic skills gave him the entree to a succession of architects’ offices: Arcon; Bronek Katz and R Vaughan; Gordon and Ursula Bowyer; and, from 1952, the remarkably versatile architect and industrial designer Jack Howe – all of these were modernists and prime movers in the postwar campaign to rebuild Britain using newly available materials and techniques.

Grange took part in the 1951 Festival of Britain, working alongside Gordon and Ursula Bowyer on the Sports Pavilion for the South Bank exhibition. For so many of Grange’s generation of designers – including Sir Terence Conran and my husband, David Mellor – the festival would be a lasting inspiration. As Grange later recollected: “You couldn’t walk a step without seeing something unlikely – the cigar-shaped Skylon, the huge Dome of Discovery, extraordinary metal sculptures, waterfalls that twisted and turned. Nothing was like anything I had ever seen before.”

Where much of British design was still craft-based, dominated by ideas that went back to William Morris, Grange felt the fascination of machine production. He was excited by the sleek designs based on new technology beginning to infiltrate Britain from the US, describing the moulded plastic Eames chair for example as “a rocket ship exploding into our narrow world”. I remember being impressed on my first visit to his house in Hampstead, north London, to find him the possessor of not just one Eames lounge chair but three.

Grange’s natural resilience stood him in good stead through the 70s and 80s, those lean years for designers when British manufacturing lost its way and, as he described it, “unbridled accountancy became the new dynamic in British industry”. He was glad of foreign clients, especially enjoying working in Japan where the innate Japanese awareness of design delighted him. An especially successful commission was a sewing machine designed for the Maruzen Sewing Machine Co in Osaka, to be marketed in Europe. On trips to Japan he started what became a considerable collection of beautiful wooden geisha combs.

Pentagram itself was flourishing, moving in 1984 from Paddington to larger and more stylish premises in a renovated dairy in Notting Hill. At this period it employed more than 80 designers and assistants in different disciplines, and the communal dining room became an ever-welcoming talking shop, a gathering point for London’s design world of the time. I remember some marvellous parties at Pentagram, including the celebration of Grange’s marriage in 1984 to Apryl Swift.

For Grange himself the 1980s brought increasing public recognition. In 1983 a solo exhibition of his work was held at the Boilerhouse at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.

At this point he was already being lauded as Britain’s most successful product designer. He was made CBE in 1984, and knighted in 2013. In 1985 he received an honorary doctorate from the Royal College of Art and in 1986 became master of the elite group of Royal Designers for Industry. Success never spoilt him. He had a streak of self-denigrating humour and retained a kind of boyish innocence, as if he could hardly believe his good luck.

The sheer challenge of the job had always been his driving force. After his retirement from Pentagram in 1997, after 25 years as a partner, he and Apryl embarked on a project of their own, converting an ancient stone-built barn in the remote countryside near Coryton in Devon into a spectacular modern home with a spiral staircase of highly ingenious modular construction. Completion took five years; Grange commuted weekly between London and Devon, travelling on his familiar High Speed Train.

In 2011 the Design Museum held a retrospective, Kenneth Grange: Making Britain Modern. He continued to design into his 80s. Late commissions included the perfect men’s shirt for the fashion designer Margaret Howell; an updated range of classic lights – the Type 3, Type 75 and, in his 90th year, the Type 80 – for Anglepoise, for whom he had been made design director in 2003; and a really comfortable collection of chairs for elderly people. General levels of design for the aged population made him angry. “Where is the decent modernist care home?” he would ask.

Typical of Grange’s zany 60s humour was his design of a man-shaped timber bookcase that converted to a coffin, the ultimate exercise in recycling. “If I ever pop my clogs, it’s books out and me in, with the lid fixed, up to the great client in the sky.”

Two earlier marriages ended in divorce. Apryl survives him.

🔔 Kenneth Henry Grange, designer, born 17 July 1929; died 21 July 2024

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[diabolus1exmachina]

TVR Vixen

Although the Vixen used the same chassis as the outgoing Tuscan, the significant change was the use of the 1599 cc Ford Kent engine, as found in the Ford Cortina GT, developing 88 bhp. The Ford unit was selected in order to keep prices as low as possible and because of supply problems from BMC.

The Cortina unit was less powerful than the MGB engine which developed 95bhp, but it was also lighter. To use up remaining supplies, the first twelve Vixens built still received the MGB engine.

The Vixen’s bodywork was also slightly revised, with the bonnet having a broad flat air intake scoop and the rear of the car was fitted with the round “Ban the Bomb” Cortina MK I tail lamps.

The S1 was replaced by the heavily modified TVR Vixen S2 in October 1968. The S2 was built with a longer 90 inch wheelbase chassis, introduced on the Tuscan V8 but which TVR had now standardised to address complaints about difficulty of ingress. The bonnet was restyled again, with some early cars having a prominent central bulge and later cars having twin intake ducts at the front corners of the bonnet. The tail lamps were updated from the round Cortina MK I style to the newer wraparound Mark II style. Also very significant was the fact that the body was bolted, rather than bonded to the chassis, meaning it could be easily removed for repairs.

The interior was improved, with a leather-skinned steering wheel mounted much lower than before. In a further attempt to improve the quality feel, the body was thicker and panel fit was improved.

In December 1968, TVR announced that two more models, the S.2 Sport and S.2 Super Sports would be available as standard. These models came with an uprated engine from Speedwell including fully balanced bottom end, ported cylinder head and two twin choke Weber carburettors, with the Sports producing 100bhp and the Super Sports 115bhp. Both of these models came with seat belts and leather steering wheel as standard.

The S3 continued to improve the car with a number of detail changes. The heat extraction vents on the flanks behind the front wheels were decorated with “Aeroflow” grilles borrowed from the c-pillars of the Ford Zodiac Mark IV and the Ford four-cylinder engine was now in the same tune as in the Ford Capri, producing 92 bhp. Instead of wire wheels, cast alloy wheels were fitted as standard.

The S4 cars were an interim model that used the TVR M Series chassis with the Vixen body shell. Apart from the chassis, there were no significant mechanical or cosmetic changes between the S3 and S4. Twenty-two were built in 1972 and one in 1973.

The 1300 model arrived in late 1971 and was built in an attempt to fill an “economy” market segment for sports cars. It was powered by a 1296 cc Standard SC engine from the Triumph Spitfire engine making 63 bhp, and its lack-lustre performance limited its sales success. Top speed was barely 90 mph. Only fifteen were built, all in 1972. The final six of these cars were built on a M Series chassis and the very last 1300 was also built with M Series bodywork, although it never received a “1300M” designation.

[redsnowdrop]

Porsche Panamera

The presentation of the first generation (code name 970), which took place in April 2009 in China, revealed only part of the model range (3 versions), later expanded to 9 (including a diesel and a hybrid). Furthermore, there is a version with a 15cm longer wheelbase, called Executive.

In April 2013, a restyling was presented which, in addition to modifications to the headlights and bumpers, introduced some new engine features.

The 400 HP 4.8 V8 was replaced by the more powerful and high-performance 420 HP 3.0 V6 biturbo for the S version.

Car body

edit

The Panamera is a 4-door coupé approximately 5 meters long, with top speeds ranging between 259 km/h for the Diesel version and 310 km/h for the Turbo S version. The four seats consist of single seats; the external style deliberately recalls that of the Porsche 911, especially at the front, so as to make the Panamera immediately recognizable as a Porsche.

Production takes place in the Leipzig plant, the same one where the Porsche Cayenne is assembled, demonstrating the presence of many points in common between the two models (starting from the engines and the integral transmission on the 4S and Turbo models).

The markets for which the model is intended are, in addition to Europe and the USA, above all the emerging markets (Russia, China, Middle East): for this reason the presentation took place at the Chinese show in Shanghai.

In April 2013, the restyled version of the Panamera was announced, which then made its debut at the Shanghai Auto Show. The plug-in hybrid version, called Panamera S E-Hybrid, was introduced on the US market in November 2013.

The second generation Panamera was unveiled on 28 June 2016 at an event held in Berlin. The code name is Type 971; the car, built on the VW Group's new Porsche MSB (Modular Standard Drive) platform, is 35 millimeters longer and 5 mm wider than the first generation, with 30 millimeters more wheelbase. The interior features a redesigned dashboard, with center console instrumentation made up of touch-sensitive surfaces replacing the previous generation with physical buttons. The tachometer, the only analogue instrument, is mounted centrally on the instrument panel and recalls that of the 1955 Porsche 356 A. The new car is equipped with two seven-inch displays instead of the classic pointer dials in the dashboard, with another screen 12.3-inch touchscreen that also acts as a satellite navigator with Apple CarPlay integration present in the center console. The new instrumentation is called Advanced Cockpit. Under the bonnet is a new range of engines, with only the Panamera 4S, 4S Diesel and Turbo versions available at launch.

In March 2017 Porsche presented the Panamera Turbo S E-Hybrid, a plug-in hybrid car. The Turbo S E-Hybrid features the 4.0-liter V8 engine from the Panamera Turbo, but it comes paired with an electric motor. The total system output is 680 hp, making it the second most powerful production Porsche ever built, after the 918 Spyder.

In this new model the torque of the overall system rises to 850 Nm, reaching the torque level of the Diesel version. Performance also increases, 0-100 is covered in 3.4 and 0-200 in 8.2 seconds.

The new Panamera aesthetically no longer features the rounded tailgate that had divided automotive critics of the previous series, but now the tail with a more tapered and squared style recalls that of the 991 through the headlights and the longitudinal rear LED strip. This improvement in design helped clarify the model's identity as a touring-oriented sports car.

In March 2017 at the Geneva Motor Show, a shooting brake version of the Panamera II series built on the same base, called Panamera Sport Turismo, was presented.

The restyling of the second generation Panamera was presented on August 26, 2020.

[just-horrible-things]

Guards

The drones are unsettling. 

There are four of them, although the general public and even most of the garrison think there are only two. They only ever see two at a time. The armour covers skin tone, grimly masked helmets hide any distinguishing feature. And they all move the same, behave the same, share the same eerie silent coordination. 

Maybe they communicate electronically.

Popular opinion has it that they never sleep, but the governor has learned that it isn't true. They just don't sleep much. 

At any given time, one rests, one trains, and two accompany the governor as silent, ever-present guards. He has no illusions that they are solely for his protection – although he is certainly thankful for that function. 

Drones are made in batches of twelve, and the smallest unit size still considered battle-ready is six. That means that these four once had eight additional companions, since destroyed. 

The governor wonders if they mourn, in whatever capacity they have. They aren't supposed to feel emotions, not in any human sense. But are they aware of the missing drones' absence? Do they think about them, now they aren't here? Do they make plans that would take more than four, and then remember, and have to correct themselves? 

Probably not. 

Even when all four are together, in the secure suite where the governor sleeps and handles his most sensitive paperwork, they are silent sentinels, never moving from their positions except to meet their basic needs or to practice at the simulated range.

The human shape is a lie. Just a convenient shell to hold the artificial intelligence that pilots them. 

Once you see them really move, you understand that. 

99% of the time they're passive. They follow orders. In the first week he had them do all kinds of pointless things for him – fetching his coffee from across the room, holding his coat. He supposes it was an attempt to make them less intimidating. 

They never hesitated. They never showed any hint of resentment. There’s no reason to think they’re even capable of feeling resentment. 

Still, he stopped doing it. It felt… disrespectful. They’re killing machines, not service staff.

99% of the time they’re – not dormant, but something else. Idle. Watchful. Ready.

The other 1% proves their worth.

The first time one laid a heavy hand on his shoulder, the governor was so surprised that he completely failed to recognise the urgency of the signal. The insurgents watching didn’t make the same mistake.

His recollections are blurry, flawed. The precise, dry report from the drones in the aftermath described only three gunshots. But he remembers it as a barrage, a veritable hail of noise and mortal peril. There must have been screaming from the crowd, but he has no memory of that.

Mostly he remembers the bruising impact as one of the drones scooped him up, easy as if he were a child. The hard edges of armour plates left dark lines of bruise across his skin that took a week to fade. 

Perhaps his memory exaggerates the speed, but the drone sprinted with him, totally unburdened by his weight. The garrison soldiers were left behind, still only beginning to react to the gunshots.

Straight to the armoured car and into the back seat without the drone ever releasing its grip on him. He had never felt so acutely without control.

“Return to Command Central.” The first time he’d heard any of them give an order. Nothing in the command structure gives the biodrones authority over any of the governor’s staff, but the driver doesn’t hesitate.

There are more potent and fundamental authorities than written hierarchies.

And for all the weight of his writ, the governor is a doll in the drone’s steel grip.

The other one, he learned later, went hunting. Seven dead, though there’s no way to identify whether any of them were truly involved in the attack. 

By the time the drone returned to give its report, the governor had pulled himself together enough – changed his clothes and hastily restyled his hair – to cope gracefully with the news and start formulating a plan for the requisite speech to the unhappy public.

There have only been a handful of incidents severe enough to spur the drones to action. But every time they fulfil their function, he finds himself lying awake that night. There’s no use at all in dwelling on unpleasant possibilities. But in the small, dark hours, the images are hard to banish.

If the capital call him back, he has no doubt that his bodyguards will see that he goes, whether that’s walking tamely between them or slung casually into the back of a truck. There’s no resisting their superhuman strength and terrible efficiency.

Without that efficiency, he could easily be dead already. And it only takes one bullet – one carefully lined up shot. 

And still he must stand in front of his enemies, speak unwelcome ultimata with no shield but the flimsy illusion of fearlessness.

Because if he fails to walk this tightrope between control and appeasement, if the populace rise up en masse – four guards will not be enough to hold back the tide, however potent.