#valorant camber

[zeggyzone]

the intimacy of torture | cyphber

chamber/cypher (valorant) tags: torture, psychological torture, cigarettes, kidnapping, gun violence, delirium, unreliable narrator, aftermath of torture, aftermath of violence, angst, violence, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic description of vomit, vomit, whump, cypher whump, torturer deadeye, dead dove: do not eat, hurt no comfort, canon divergence, near death experience, cross-posted on ao3

synopsis: after the events of the SHATTERED strike team incident, cypher is sent out on a reconnaissance mission where he is tasked with understanding just exactly *who* those agents fighting alongside viper were. after two weeks, the trail goes cold, and cypher is a second too late in finding out why. or, cypher gets kidnapped by omega earth chamber (deadeye) and tortured.

sfw? very graphic so idk. 6.3k words.

notes: hello! i’m back, this time with a lot of angst. - i think what i wrote is rather graphic. continue at your own risk. - any, and ALL “accidental uses” of different names are ABSOLUTELY INTENTIONAL. - canon divergence where instead of simply digging through omega archives via alpha earth to uncover ATLAS, cypher is sent to omega earth to find out in person. everything else is the same. - cypher’s fake name is ‘ Khidae Eak ‘ - it gets horny. really horny. - translations will be provided in the end notes. - cypher is a linguist nerd, french people use arabic curse words (from what i know) - i made this while listening to old romantic music that you’d probably find in your dad’s vinyl collection. most of this playlist, actually. listen to it while reading if you want! happy reading :)

Omega Earth wasn’t everything Cypher expected it to be.

As much as Pearl’s geodome was a beautiful place to reside, he was disappointed. Even if the giant sunfish that swam atop and the comic shop that Cypher frequently visited (despite its harsh propaganda) were nothing short of pleasant, it was still Omega Earth. He could get used to it, maybe– plus, he would’ve loved to buy another comic if it weren’t for the circumstances he was in.

Cypher was put on a recon mission; his only directive was to locate information on ATLAS and their presence on Omega Earth. Killjoy was incredibly against it, given their previous run-in during their time as the SHATTERED strike team, but Cypher insisted on his ability.

He’s been here for two weeks now, and all he’s gathered so far are the locations of different ATLAS operational facilities; A site and B site. The doors were often guarded by security cameras, so Cypher made an effort to avoid them, but he isn’t one for keeping his distance for extended periods. Like Icarus, he frequently finds himself flying too close to the sun, threatening to get burned.

Occasionally, he met with his fellow Alpha Earth agents, oftentimes Yoru, who used his dimensional rift to retrieve and relay information back to Alpha Earth in a stealthy, swift manner. Cypher was supposed to meet with him today, but he was taking a bit longer than usual.

He eventually found himself walking around. He bought a comic for memorabilia, a cup of coffee at the little Pérola Café pop-up, and then a few bottles of cherry brandy from that little winery down by the plaza. He circled back to the Garden of Heroes as soon as he got the memo that things were back on schedule— that was of course, after he returned to his safehouse and pulled on his mask. Pearl can know of Khidae Eak, but they will not see Amir El Amari.

The walk is cheerful, bustling,

and incredibly short.

Cypher doesn’t remember the details. All he knows is that eyes were on him, and evading them was not going to be easy.

The broker; hood and scarf on at the commencement of August, body completely covered. His eyes dart around the barren garden– the occasional tourist here and there– and he spots someone. Familiarity lingers in the air– the same glance, the same frame– it couldn’t be. 

Cypher remembers looking at his PDA, ready to urge Yoru into hurrying up (excuse his phrasing), and that being compromised isn’t something that he’d appreciate. But he decides to start typing a few moments too late.

He remembers the sound of rushed footsteps, the smell and taste of alcohol, and a hushed urgency uttered in Portuguese, the enunciation nasally in essence, almost as if the orator was not a native speaker. The realization made Cypher’s head spin– or maybe it was the chloroform.

– It could be.

That’s how he managed to get ripped from his desired location with his hands and ankles cuffed to an uncomfortable metal chair, the taste of alcohol lingering on his tongue; his surroundings are dimly lit– or maybe it’s his eyes adjusting to the dark as he wakes up after being unconscious for God knows how long– and his wrists hurt. 

“Attacher ton amant à une chaise,”

Cypher exhales through his nose, the saying all too familiar, speaking honeyed on his dry tongue, – it could be.

– “C’est simple comme bonjour.”

“Vous savez votre français.”

“Et mes mots sûrs.”

“Vous êtes dégoûtant.”

“J’ai appris du meilleur.”

“My double?”

“Yes,” Cypher says, the slightest growl in his voice.

Deadeye exhales through his nose, feigning a laugh, which comes out an amused huff as he closes his captive, compelling his hat down by the rim, so gently that Cypher is reminded of his Vincent back home.

“Why are you here, Amir?”

He puffs, “Careful, I might as you the same thing, Vincent—“

The rattling of a snake,

the breaking of bones,

a groan from a broker,

the taste of iron on his tongue.

“You’re being a pain.”

“But you love when I’m in it.”

“Not you.”

Deadeye’s countenance flattens, his Headhunter spattered with Cypher’s blood as he bears his free hand to tilt Cypher's chin up to face him. His fingers trail down his throat, grazing it like he could tear his skin apart with his fingernails, just until they match the bottom of Cypher’s mask. his breath hitches. His Adam’s apple dips.

“Not the mask,” he almost begs.

Deadeye uses his Headhunter to chuck Cypher’s hat off, allowing it to fall to the floor as he practically shreds off the cuffed male’s mask. His nose is bleeding— bloodied— broken, and the bitter taste of iron sits upon his tongue, his gums an unhealthy brown from the cheap cigarettes he smoked with his beautiful Vincent.

“We’re long past that point, Amir.”

Deadeye speaks with certainty, but his actions speak louder, and they’re yelling in Cypher’s face: “I will kill you.”

But Cypher doesn’t fear death. He never has. Not since then.

Deadeye’s gums are the same color as tobacco, evident as he scowls, teeth yellowed from the smoke that Cypher assumed his counterpart blew into his mouth and forced him to savor, the cinnamon cigars being far too much of a delicacy to waste.

Cypher wants his Vincent.

“How did you know where I was?”

Deadeye strikes his pistol, barrel-first into the side of Cypher’s head, a groan stemming from his strained throat.

“I ask the questions here.”

Cypher is one for witty remarks, “so ask.”

It earns him a muzzle to the forehead.

“Do you want to die, Amir?”

“You want to kill me.”

Deadeye pushes the muzzle further onto Cypher’s forehead, “I said that I ask the questions—“

“No, you misunderstand,” Deadeye’s hand quivers with the beginning, and Cypher feels the ground shift, “it was a statement.”

The more Cypher speaks, the more he feels his heart start to beat behind his eyes– he’s seeing double and it’s like he sees Deadeye and his Vincent in front of him simultaneously. The hallucination makes him feel grounded. He wants to reach out and cup his Vincent’s cheek, rub the scar on his cheekbone, and turn away.

But Deadeye doesn’t have a scar on his cheekbone. He’s not Vincent, and he never will be.

The foreboding silence makes Cypher feel like he’s done something he will regret, and his thoughts are proven correct as soon as Deadeye pulls back the hammer of his Headhunter.

“You’re right, my friend,”

Deadeye flicks his hand. Cypher’s ears ring. His throat becomes sandpaper.

“I do want to kill you.”

He shot his fucking leg. He shot him in the fucking leg.

“Because you know too much,” it fucking hurts, “and I need to make sure you don’t tell any more than you already have– one way or another.”

The breathing is heavy in the room, and Cypher feels like he’s going to suffocate if he doesn’t get his shit together. He’s a grown man cuffed to a chair with blood dripping down his leg and bleeding into his baggy gray pants. He loved those pants. The air is crisp, hard to swallow, and hot. It’s as if Chamber’s body heat and musk are forcing itself down Cypher’s throat– it’s asphyxiating.

Chamber’s hand clutches Cypher’s jaw, tautening each time a hic fled his throat, his eyes fleeting tears. Cypher thinks his jaw might give out with the way he’s clenching it so hard– Deadeye slams his skull against the concrete wall. Cypher cries.

“And I’m not opposed to using methods that are considered corrupt, Amir.”

He’s dizzy, he’s losing blood, and he knows he has to survive whatever Deadeye puts him through. He has to. He must. Cypher’s breaths are labored, but his eyes don’t falter– they’re forced open and he just wants to sleep—the intimacy of torture– plagued by your lover.

“I could leave you braindead, do you ever think of that?” Deadeye asks it with a sickening smile as if he’s enjoying it. Cypher would not be surprised if it was some crazy fucking fantasy of his– Cypher feels his face tighten.

“I’d rather not,” he whispers, and Chamber smiles at him, pseuding innocence. Cypher fears what's next. The broker knows everything about everyone but is oblivious and frightened here. He wants to fight back– he has to fight back.

Save your life, Amir– you’ve only got one.

“Imagine what your friends back home will think,” Deadeye tilts his head, twirling a curl next to Cypher’s temple. His lips purse and he pulls his head away as best he can, his brows furrowing in disgust– trepidation– sorrow? Cypher doesn’t even know what. “What would your Vincent think? Will he cry? Will you comfort him?”

Deadeye’s twisted smile widens, “Will you even survive to see him?”

The finger leads down to Cypher’s lower eyelid, his middle finger pulling down at it, his pointer prodding at his eyeball. The feeling is abnormal– the pad of Deadeye’s finger pushes at Cypher’s eye, and he tries to shut them, pulling his head away as sufficiently as he can. His mind blanks.

“You often prattle about being the ‘all-seeing eye’ Amir,” Deadeye’s hand doesn’t halt, but stays put. A hazy breath leaves Cypher’s throat, terrified, “but a spider cannot string its web half blind.”

Wait, Cypher wants to say, but it comes out as a pathetic whine, and Deadeye laughs at him. He laughs in his face. Not like this— no, it can’t end like this. 

“You’re shaking.”

Part of him wants to bite the bullet and talk back, but the sheer fear that displays itself within his clenched jaw renders him wordless as Deadeye’s fingernail digs at his cornea. The bawl that seethes through Cypher’s teeth is piercing; he begs for mercy, forgiveness– anything to spark empathy in Deadeye’s amused stare, and from behind his wet finger, stained with Cypher’s tears (he didn’t even realize he was crying), he sees those same bedroom eyes that yielded him speechless in better ways than this.

He swats his head down, and Chamber swiftly slaps him, grabbing him by his jaw once again; the familiar ache returns. He’s cursing at him, laughing, and it’s demeaning. Cypher is glad that his head is ringing so much that he cannot hear him, and that his eyes are too blurred to even view the face of his love.

Or what it would’ve been, at least.

Cypher then realizes what is at stake here– he could possibly ruin everything the protocol had going for them right now– getting killed by an Omega agent could very well compromise the whole operation, much less get him killed. Cypher could care less about that.

He imagines Chamber wouldn’t, though.

So he forces himself to think. The pain is like sparklers underneath his skin, but he blinks back the hot tears and clenches his fists behind his back, fingernails digging into the skin– he tries to focus on that instead.

Handcuffs, you know how to get out of those. Crime novels might not be the best source to rely on, but it’s all you have, Amir; work with it. Chamber gently traces his jawline and he gulps. Cypher tries not to think about it too hard– if he does, he won’t see Deadeye anymore. He cannot handle that outcome.

To a flick of lighter, Cypher looks up– second nature, really– to see Deadeye lighting a cigarette; filter-tipped Virginia blend. Expensive. The authenticness of his character is uncanny. Cypher wants to throw up.

A London delicacy that has to be shipped in at a much higher price, and Chamber is holding it in his right hand, lifting Cypher’s chin to look at him with his left. His captor blows the smoke out in Cypher’s face, and he inhales– a reflex– as the smoke tingles against his eyes. Deadeye twirls the cigarette in his fingers, and inches the cherry towards Cypher’s neck.

“You’re greedy, Amir.” He says, the heat tickling the hairs that already stand on edge. “These go for fifty-five United States dollars per pack. Specialty blends Virginia tobacco, and you’re taking my leftovers,” Deadeye punctuates with a laugh, “you are pathetic. Très pathétique.”

The cherry makes contact, and the scorch makes him fume. “You’re wasting them–”

“On trash, yes,” Chamber says, “But I’ll relight it just for you, if that is what you want, Amir.”

“No,”

The zippo clicks again. Cypher braces himself.

Three cigarette burns mark his neck, and Chamber looks at them like an artist would his magnum opus, prideful in his masterpiece. He drops the cigarette onto Cypher’s shoe, stepping into it.

Cypher zones out.

Then he feels something against his left thigh. Thin– sharp.

Khra, fuck. Of course, he has to pull it out now.

“You’re ravishing like this, Amir,” you are not doing what I fucking think you are doing, “it feels as if it is my job to impair you,” you are not his, “Vous êtes mon problème, after all.” Focus– one hand to abduct the joint, the other set in place to perform the deed.

Dislocate your thumb and slip out your hand. Dislocate your carpometacarpal joint, specifically. You don’t want to break your hand– that’s one less resource you have– if you dislocate your thumb, you can pop it back into place. Easy as pie? Hopefully. Deadeye’s hand falls. Cypher exhales. He was not aware he was holding his breath.

Within the next strike, play it off. Easy.

Chamber drags down the flat side of the blade against his femur, and as the blade is pushed ever so slightly, Cypher lets out a yowl, his thumb angled at an abnormal angle now– one more to go. He uses his other hand to pry off the handcuffs. He forces his shoulders to stay put– a strenuous task, but he manages, and he makes sure to quietly drop the cuff, avoiding any sound cues that may alert his captor.

They did not die for you to fail to endure.

Cypher’s hair stands on end.

It seems Deadeye doesn’t notice the ploy, as he says something about how he had “barely touched” him and that he “shouldn’t jolt like that.” As if he cared.

Cypher can handle a slashed thigh, and he can handle a bullet to the leg– but either way, he will end up bringing fists to a knife and gunfight. He doesn’t even know if Deadeye has additional weapons on him. He fears the worst, even if he’s too set on persisting to realize it.

The blade digs into his skin, and it takes so much inside of him not to buck his legs while dislocating his other thumb, and a growl burrows itself in his throat, coming out in tragically sputtered speech. His eyes shake, looking down even if his brain told him not to, and he sees the blood seep from the cut, slowly– so achingly slowly– staining his already soiled pants. The blood from his nose has already dried and the smell is rancid. He feels a stinging, putrid, and chunky liquid rise in his throat. He bites his tongue and forces the egregious mixture back down. You have seen worse. this is nothing.

He works his other hand of its confines as best he can, his eyes flittering with every twinge of discomfort. He wants to thank God if there even is one out there, that Deadeye doesn’t suspect anything. Maybe there is one if he’s survived this long.

Cypher’s atheist views aside, he ignores the edge slicing into his skin and the wetness dripping down his thigh, working to pop his left thumb back into the socket. Chamber meets Cypher’s dazed stare. He smiles. Cypher exhales, his breath malodorous as olden remains of vomit rest upon it, the thumb unsuccessful in popping back into place as Deadeye rubs his thumb on the wound– it pricks. He feels small crystals chafe at the serrated edges of the cut, and Cypher realizes that he’s genuinely rubbing salt in the wound.

There is something so intimate about it. Captive and captor. He will never look at that smile the same.

Cypher looks at his ankles, one cuff under the leg of the chair and the other connected to him. Lift the chair. Slide it under. He almost laughs– it couldn’t be that easy, and he’s right; he’s shot, he’s cut, and he’s lost blood. Not to fucking mention that he can’t feel his face, but can somehow feel the sweat dripping down the side of his crown, sticking his curly brown hair to his forehead. The broker pops his right thumb back into the socket, flinching as Deadeye slams the knife in the middle of his legs.

He recounts. His legs have been shot at and sliced. That’s a disadvantage. He has no weapons. If he took the knife, he’d be bringing a knife to a gunfight. He doesn’t know if Deadeye has a quick reloader. Maybe he can get him to waste his bullets. Yes, that seems plausible.

Chamber’s hand reaches up to his jawline again, his thumb parting Cypher’s lips ever so slightly, but his jaw stays clenched– he can feel the simmering of salt on his lips. Deadeye forces him to open up, resting the salt-covered thumb on his tongue, and holding it down. A pathetic, broken sob leaves Cypher’s throat. Just a bit more. Find an opening, Amir. You cannot die here. You cannot let him destroy you like this,

because what would happen if you allowed it?

His breath hitches in his throat as Chamber forces his thumb deeper, “Clean it,” he demands, and Cypher leaps into the breach, the taste of sodium and iron on his tongue, causting– a chemical reaction that Cypher wishes didn’t do things to him. He imagines his actual lover performing and wants to fucking bite Deadeye’s thumb off.

“Watch the teeth,” Deadeye scowls, pulling his thumb with a pop and wiping it on Cypher’s shoulder. He swats his hand to clean it, looking away for just a fucking second. That is all the time Cypher needs. His heart aches for warmth, touch– Vincent– so he stands up, tugs the knife out, grabs the chair, and hurls it at him.

He doesn’t realize how badly his legs want to give out until he’s standing upright (more like glorified perching with the way his knees buckle), his grip on the knife faltering ever so slightly as he catches his breath, feeling the adrenaline kick through his veins. He knows it will be over soon– he is only human. 

He squints as Deadeye tries to recover from the metal hurled at his frame, and he grunts– and of course, he doesn’t have his fucking glasses. His eyesight comes back to bite him in the ass in a life-or-death situation. Maybe God isn’t real. The room is dark, only lit by a buzzing lightbulb that hurts Cypher’s head. It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have time to think because if he can, he’s doing something wrong.

A bullet flies past his head and it brings him back to reality– he is the disadvantage, one dislocated thumb refusing to pop back into place, legs ready to give out at any given moment, and Deadeye just fucking shot at him.

Cypher yells, legs flailing as he flies towards Deadeye, firing blindly. He can tell that he is disoriented still, so he uses it to his advantage. One hand reaches to Deadeye’s wrist– the one holding Headhunter– and pins it down to the best of his ability, kneeing his crotch (hard, at that) to further disable him. Deadeye’s free hand balls into a fist, and slams into Cypher’s cheekbone, groaning out in pain from the previous knee, sprawled on the floor as he tries to keep his hold on Headhunter firm, but Cypher tugs it out of his hand, head spinning as it slides all the way across the linoleum floor, clanking against a piece of metal.

An exit route.

Cypher slams the knife into Deadeye’s right wrist, and he wails, a loud curse echoing through the desolate room as his left shoots up to grab Cypher by the scalp. Chamber tugs his head back, harshly, and Cypher growls, kneeing him once more to slacken his grasp, raising the knife from the puncture with a hellish sound. The ridges of the knife dig against Deadeye’s skin, slitting his wrist into a perfect cavern, through and through. Cypher can feel both of their strength diminishing.

The words spoken are lost to CCTV footage, (that’s if there is a camera in here in the first place) and whizzed memory, but Cypher feels his body move on autopilot, rolling off Chamber, even if he can feel the tightened grip on his scalp pull at his hair follicles, and his body follows in the path that Chamber is dragging him in. He headbutts him once– twice– Cypher stumbles backward when his grip loosens, immediately sitting up to grab his right wrist, squeezing it to try and stop the pain. His groans lay low within his throat, guttural.

Cypher feels his head spinning, and the adrenaline starts to wear off– he cannot allow that to happen.

He holds his head, knife laying in his hand as he pushes himself up to his feet, legs wobbling after each frantic step, trying to find the gleam of the Headhunter as a guide towards the metal door. It’s so, so close, and Cypher thinks he’s reaching out to the door, only to fall over.

Deadeye yanked at one of the cuffs dragging behind his ankle, hard enough to pull Cypher down to one knee. Maroon secretion spreads along the floor in generous portions with the pressure, the sensation closer to tv static. Diaphoresis sets in, and bullets of sweat excavate out of his body, heat evaporating into the still air. It’s sticky, sweltering, humid— wet. He hurls himself over, reaching out towards the door.

Every waking thought made his head pound– his life wasn’t flashing before his eyes, no, it was the terrible anxiety and realization that every decision he has made in his sad, pathetic life was a total failure and he had to be beaten to death by his lover’s clone to deduce that? Nora. Hadiya.

How could he let this happen? His head spins, this is it.

God forbid you meet at a crossroads with Amir El Amari.

He is the greatest mistake you could make.

Chamber crawls his way towards Cypher, flipping him over and trapping him between his legs, heaving. His hair is disheveled, framing his forehead with a slight glisten of sweat, and Cypher thinks he almost looks beautiful.

Deadeye takes the knife with the smallest struggle, using his right hand to hold it despite the gushing wound, his other creeping up to Cypher’s neck.

Chamber’s fingers graze Cypher’s neck so lovingly for a second, so short that he feels at ease. Chamber tightens. Cypher’s breath hitches. He whimpers. He pleas. Chamber wants to see him squirm.

Because what is more intimate than a captive and his captor?

“You fucking did this,” his words are gruff and are punctuated by the sickening ‘shhk’ of a blade ripping fabric and skin— Cypher doesn’t register the stab below his clavicle; rather, he’s too focused on grabbing Deadeye’s shoulder to push him off. He has one hand clawing at Deadeye’s wrist, hoping it’ll do something, anything, to get him one last breath of air.

Thinking is so hard, but he manages.

“My fucking—“ an enraged huff, “my hand, ayreh feek—“ he picks up Cypher by the neck and slams his head back down into the solid floor. He yowls. Cypher pushes him away, hand right under his jaw, trying to create distance. A growl, “vous ne valez rien.”

Cypher lets go of his wrist, trying to pull the knife out with a cigarette-befouled voice, “I’m going to kill you.”

Deadeye digs the knife in deeper, much to Cypher’s distress, and in response, punches Deadeye in the jaw. His captor shouts, reaching out behind him, throwing something– Cypher’s eyes suddenly fucking sting. Crystalline stabs at his cornea with each blink, like icicles under his eyelids, and he discovers that Deadeye just threw salt at him. Fucking salt. It’s scattered all over his face, catnapping the places where bones dip, and he feels it fall to the back of his throat. He shuts his eyes, hurling upward as he coughs, the hand around his neck uncooperative in his efforts to rid the sodium crystals from the back of his mouth.

“Not if I do it first.” He says through a laugh tainted with mockery, “I will crush your eyes,” he dips down to Cypher’s ear, “Amir,” Chamber says. Cypher doesn’t know if it’s a threat or a promise.

His grip is unforgiving, irritated, and deadly. He wants to break Cypher’s neck.

For once, Amir El Amari fears death.

Cypher hears melodies in his ear, ringing ever so slightly. Jazz– romantic jazz, at that. Songs that Chamber played for him late at night after romantic (or less romantic) scenes, or a long day out in the field, and all they needed was a meal and a nap. Trumpets and pianos, saxophones and bass, played upon an old stereo with antique reverb and a low pass filter that seems to become more muffled the tighter Chamber squeezes– he squints, free arm reaching outwards beyond Deadeye’s acknowledgment.

He’s talking. Cypher can’t hear him. He just needs to extend his hand.

His vision is blurred. He feels the room starting to get darker. His heartbeat is slowing. Why so aware? Why now? In his final moments, he sees his lover and not his captor– why?

A twisted fucking way to go out, and Cypher doesn’t consider himself twisted.

A grip. Finally.

Cypher’s shaky finger pulls the decorated nano-carbon steel into his grasp, and a huff of air leaves his nose. His hands tremble in his wake, Deadeye, so focused on staring him down, that he doesn’t realize the limb snaking under his own and aiming the radianite-infused firearm right under his chin.

Cypher weakly smiled, mustering up whatever strength he had left. 

Through broken breaths, “Laila sa'ida, habibi.”

The trigger is squeezed. The grip extricates. Cypher breathes. He pushes him off. Blood seeps onto his white collared shirt. Cypher brushes his face of bloodshed. He looks at the ceiling.

He just wants to sleep. But he can’t. So he won’t.

Cypher looks at the steaming gun, discarding it to the side, his back, head, – hell, his whole body aching as he shimmies his way towards the knife. He looks at Deadeye; his eyes are blown wide open, twitching ever so slightly, jaw slacked. He lies there, unresponsive as Cypher holds the knife in his dominant hand, cutting his left sleeve at the shoulder seam, and pulling it over his gloves. He leans over, grabbing the leg of the metal chair, and setting it up straight as best he can. Cypher puts his left foot up on the chair, looking at the cut. He furrows his brows, recovering from the blackness in his eyes, placing the knife on the chair. Cypher pops his right thumb back into its socket. He jerks his hand, getting used to it.

“Sorry for ruining your shirt,” he mutters, picking up the cut sleeve and unrolling it, “but you destroyed my favorite pair of pants,” Cypher ties the tourniquet, “so we’ll call it even.” He reaches over to cut off Deadeye’s other sleeve, repeating the action and looking at the bullet wound. He looks at the chair, then his thigh. Straight through. No bullet to pull out. That’s good.

It had just missed his bone. He’s one lucky, unlucky guy.

As soon as the deed is done, he wipes his nose on his sleeve, the whiteness sullies with dried blood, pulling out a few hairs from his face. He sniffs. It is unpleasant. He elevates his legs on the chair to regulate his blood flow as best he can, lying next to the corpse of his former captor. He nicks off another piece of fabric to stuff in the stab wound below his clavicle. He writhes.

He feels the familiar reverberation in his lower stomach, then the gurgle in his throat. 

Of course. Why now? Nonetheless, he uses his arms to push him up off the floor, scrambling and clawing towards the corner for purchase. The sick noise in his throat materializes and before Cypher knows it, vile liquid exerts itself from his mouth, throat salty as the bile fans into the corner, painting the walls with its projectile and splattering onto his knees. A sharp, caramelized, nutty stench paired with butyric acid fills the air. It’s fucking putrid. He does this twice, retching violently as his body hurls over like a cat, legs shaking as his left hand begs the wall for acquisition.

By the end of it, his body feels ten times lighter, but he feels as if he threw up all of his vital organs. He might as well have, given the way his body almost slumped into his puddle of puke. He pushes himself away from the wall, falling backward onto the floor, careful enough so that he won’t harm his head any more than it has been. His very alive head lies upside down next to Deadeye’s very much unalived one.

Now it’s just Cypher, his thoughts, and Deadeye’s corpse.

Help should be on the way, yes?

So, kick back, smoke a cigarette, and find a way to contact Alpha Earth. Yoru should have picked up that something is wrong, reported back to HQ, and they’re sending people— probably not a whole strike team, but people— to retrieve him. It’s that easy.

He lies there for a minute– then five minutes– then ten minutes pass until he exchanges his gaze at the ceiling for Deadeye, then his vest. Perhaps it’d be a good idea to search him.

He grunts, pushing himself off the floor, head still buzzed from the previous beatings, sitting with his legs straight next to his cadaver, keeping the tourniquets from loosening. He reaches over, twisting his hips to look over Deadeye, first checking his vest pockets.

A speed loader, eight bullets. It seems Deadeye was ready for a fight. Obviously, he did not prepare well enough.

A zippo lighter. Majestic Eagle– 1990’s vintage. At least he’d have something to occupy him.

A handkerchief. Sunset in color swirled in design. It matches his tie. The crimson from the bullet has seeped its way into it. Cypher grimaces. It’s still wet.

Cypher wants to hope that there’s water. There isn’t even a flask. Apparently, Deadeye doesn’t have the same habits as his lover.

His pants now.

An art deco, 1930s-themed cigarette tin with seventeen treasurer cigarettes left. He might as well put them to use if it meant he’d be stuck here for a while. Chainsmoking is a very good use of your time if you don’t think about it too much.

An Altoids can. Open it? Around 60 mints. He might have to survive off that for a bit.

Cypher pockets the Altoids, quick to crack open the cigarette tin and flip open the zippo, lighting himself a coffin nail, savoring the specialty tobacco. He flips the lighter closed, the cylinder resting between his lips as he digs around for anything else– maybe his old belongings.

The broker manages to pull himself to his feet, his eyes still blurred to a manageable degree. A black plastic bag is what he’s looking for– his comic, his brandy, and hopefully his biscotti is in there. He hears plastic rustle by his feet, along with a clinking of glass, and he almost laughs in victory before he realizes that there could very well be people outside his escape route.

He picks up the bag and trudges his way to the metal chair, resting the plastic bag in his lap as he sits. He cracks open the bottle of brandy after desperately searching for his PDA (it hadn’t been in there– a shame; at least Omega agents were smart enough to do that, though), pulling the cork out with his teeth and taking a strong swig to wash down the taste of vomit residue on his teeth and tongue.

His eyes dart back to Deadeye’s lifeless body, skimming his body for any part he forgot to search, hoping for a PDA, a homing device, something that could help him relay his location.

Then he feels a vibration.

It’s well known that Pearls’ power source runs underneath the city like its veins– its life force. Cypher has a feeling that it’s a hint as to where he could be situated.

If he remembers correctly, within the past few days he’s been here, the metro roars to life at around four o’clock in the afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. By that math, he’s been in here for six hours. How he slept that long? Cypher has no fucking idea. 

And, if he takes into account the fact that it takes one large rumble (that lasts half a minute, from what Cypher gathered) across the city of Pearl to send the metro down to the city of Opal, he should be at least somewhat far from the metro, established that the rumble lasted about ten seconds for him.

Maybe reading the briefing was a good thing.

Cypher takes a bite of his biscotti, downing it with a swig of brandy, setting the bottle onto the floor with a tiny clink, holding the cookie in his mouth as he kneels next to Deadeye with a grumble of discomfort, lifting him and rolling him as needed to search.

He handles something solid, and upon a few taps, he confirms that it is, in fact, a communications device. Cypher prays it's his own.

It is.

Cypher doesn’t realize how fucking lucky he is as soon as he pulls it out. It dawns on him a few moments later (after staring at the PDA, wide-eyed, and enduring a painful giggle fit of disbelief) that he has a get-out-of-jail free card, and that maybe God does exist.

He scrambles to turn it on, and even if the signal is spotty, he still has signal. He will take what he can get.

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:07 PM ALIVE DON’T KNOW LOCATION POSSIBLY A SITE CAN TRY RELAYING

AGENT-15 [YORU] // 4:13 PM TOUCHED DOWN RELAY IF POSSIBLE WE WILL FIND YOU

AGENT-01 [BRIMSTONE] // 4:17 PM STRIKE TEAM INBOUND STAY WHERE YOU ARE DO NOT ENGAGE

AGENT-5 [CYPHER] // 4:21 PM WAS NOT PLANNING ON IT HURRY

Fourteen minutes to relay twelve messages. Cypher didn’t think they’d send in the first place. But that’s beside the point; he has a job now– press down on his relay system and pray that the signal is strong enough for the strike team to find him.

But to kill time, he’s going to chain smoke, drink, and read his comic book.

What a wonderful way to spend his afternoon as a 37-year-old man.

The cigarette stays pressed between his lips as he takes a drag, digging through the plastic bag for the flimsy bundle of paper, setting it in his lap as his fingers flip the pages one by one, tucking the stick into the corner of his mouth, taking another swig of brandy.

If he was going to be in pain, he was not going to be sober.

It’s not until Cypher has reread the comic five times (which takes a while– approximately fifteen minutes per read, making him stuck there for nearly an hour and a half) that he hears sirens going off and shit hitting the fan. He stays put, however, the blaring noises are just a tad bit discomforting to his already tinnitus-symptomatic head. It then occurs to him that maybe he should put his mask back on. But that means he’d have to stop smoking. And drinking.

Shame, he was already getting buzzed.

Even worse, he expected them to take longer.

Cypher pushes himself up from his chair, the comic falling onto the floor as he reaches down to pick it up and pack his pathetic plastic bag, his legs stumbling from his sluggishness, body heavier than it should be. At the expense of his liver, he made it through whatever the hell this was. He tosses Deadeye’s Headhunter into his bag.

He sloppily pulls his mask over his head, dismissing the way his sweaty curls stuck to the insides, too drunk and in need of a bed to care. His hat still lay unmoving on the floor from events he’d rather not recall, the way that dried blood found its home on the rim from where Deadeye pushed it off sending chills down Cypher’s spine. The bottle of brandy is 75% done, (Cypher didn’t realize that either; it was good brandy, as expected from Omega), held loosely in his hand.

The footsteps and sirens blare louder within Cypher’s ears, and the white, piercing noise grows with it, much to his distress. He’s stumbling, covering his ears– he’s tired, he’s drunk, and he needs a fucking doctor. These wounds aren’t going to heal themselves and he just wants to get out. He wants to see sunlight, and fuck, the anxiety is setting inside of him again. Fuck you, Omega brandy.

The door flies open, he turns his head.

Cypher almost falls over at the sight– dark, flashing red lights on the outside make him want to fall asleep in the warmness of his coat (which probably wasn’t even warmth, given the blood he’s lost) and never wake up. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking.

Blue. Orange. Yellow. The colors are a blur.

His knees buckle, and he tumbles.

His captor.

“attacher ton amant à une chaise” = tie your lover to a chair / french

“c’est simple comme bonjour” = it’s as simple as hello / french

“vous savez votre français” = you know your french / french

“et mes mots sûrs” = and my safe words / french

“vous êtes dégoûtant” = you are disgusting / french

“j’ai appris du meilleur” = i learned from the best / french

“très pathétique” = so pathetic / french

“khra” = shit / moroccan arabic

“vous êtes mon problème” = you are my problem / french

“ayreh feek” = fuck you / arabic

“vous ne valez rien” = you are worthless / french

“laila sa'ida, habibi” = sleep well, my love / moroccan arabic

apologies if any of the arabic is incorrect. i’m on my second year of french as well, so that may be an issue too.

thank you for reading, i hope it was worth the hours i spent in a custom game as cypher on pearl to worldbuild and the time i spent scouring valorant archives to find plot devices.

huge thanks to the practice range discord server for keeping me sane during this (and giving me feedback when i was in the process of writing it)

another thanks to my beta reader, you’re a real one fr.

a follow-up chapter of the aftermath MAY come out within the next few weeks if i am feeling it. if not, maybe the next few months if i regain the motivation to work on this again :)

any questions can (and will most likely) be answered in the comments!

as always, my socials twitter tiktok tumblr

and our valorant lore-centric discord server! we’d love to have you! 人´∀｀)

[baklavakokusu]

[kmctecnologiaautomotiva]

Os alinhadores 3D KMC estão chegando em 2023 com grande! Não deixe de conferir.

O mercado nacional vem se atualizando cada vez mais. Montadoras novas estão entrando no Brasil com veículos inovadores, como por exemplo, a montadora BYD com seus veículos elétricos e extremamente tecnológicos chegando ao Brasil. A BYD possui grandes planos para esse ano em investimentos grandes no nosso País. 

Nossas máquinas de alinhamento 3D KMC já estão preparados para atender essa demanda, com dados precisos e adaptados às necessidades do mercado brasileiro. Com nossa inovação e qualidade, nunca deixamos nenhum cliente na mão, mantendo sempre o padrão de excelência da KMC. Temos garantia, apoio técnico e estrutura para resolver qualquer problema, caso aconteça. Nossos produtos adaptados ao mercado brasileiro são a escolha preferida das montadoras e concessionárias pelo País. Não é à toa que temos o alinhador de direção 3D homologado BYD e Volkswagen oficial, já atuando em várias concessionárias e auto centers pelo Brasil.

KMC Tecnologia Automotiva é uma empresa fabricante nacional e provedora de equipamentos para oficinas, auto centers e revendedores pelo País. Atuamos desde 1999 e contamos com engenheiros profissionais qualificados com quatro décadas de experiência para melhor atendê-los. Contate-nos agora mesmo, podemos ajudá-lo em seu projeto automotivo.

Nossos alinhadores de direção contam com câmeras tridimensionais em cada lado da haste, captando os alvos com precisão absoluta nas rodas do veículo para o cálculo da posição e ajuste dos ângulos de camber, eixo de direção, kpi, divergência e convergência junto com a alinhamento do volante. Após a leitura dos alvos, nosso software altamente intuitivo começará as operações de correção. O processo é simples e acontece em pouco tempo, agilizando o trabalho para que o concessionário possa realizar inúmeros trabalhos diários e obter o maior retorno.

O retorno sobre o investimento do alinhador de direção 3D KMC acontece de forma muito rápida. Temos casos de clientes que atendem dezenas de clientes por dia e recuperaram o valor investido em 30 dias. Também temos casos de revendedores que realizam várias revisões automotivas por dia e recuperam o valor investido em pouco tempo. Confira nossas máquinas pelo site oficial.

[marketresearchshope-blog]

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[cafrealv]

La fascinación y el asombro brillan cuando los pilotos de carreras hablan sobre el “Infierno Verde”. El Nürburgring Nordschleife es considerado como una pista particularmente desafiante. Sus espectaculares curvas, ascensos y descensos incrustados en el paisaje boscoso una vez impulsaron al triple campeón de Fórmula 1 Jackie Stewart a acuñar el apodo de la pista por el que todavía se lo conoce con cariño hoy. Para los ingenieros de desarrollo y prueba de MINI, el Nordschleife es el último indicador de desempeño para cada nuevo modelo de la marca británica Premium. Se dedicaron con particular intensidad a la dinámica de conducción del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP (consumo combinado de combustible: 13.70 l / 100 km; emisiones combinadas de CO2: 167 g / km). Vuelta tras vuelta, afinaron el motor, el chasis y las propiedades aerodinámicas hasta que finalmente fue obvio que el nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP hace del legendario “Infierno Verde” un paraíso para cada fanático de las carreras de motor.

Naturalmente, el “Anillo” debe su nombre original al castillo medieval de Nürburg, construido en el siglo XII en una colina rodeada hoy por el Nordschleife. La vista más hermosa de las ruinas del castillo es del pueblo del mismo nombre, no lejos de la entrada a la pista. De lo contrario, es el nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP el que se convierte en la escena fotográfica elegida cuando llega para la llamada unidad turística en el Nordschleife. Cuanto más se acerca al “Anillo”, más entusiasmados están los fanáticos de los deportes de motor, con los teléfonos inteligentes listos, para encontrar esta verdadera rareza.

El nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP, producido en una pequeña serie de 3,000 unidades, es el modelo más rápido y potente de la marca de tradición, aprobado para uso en carretera. Lleva el manejo divertido extremo de MINI a un nivel completamente nuevo. Los pilotos de pruebas incluso lograron conducir un prototipo de este atleta extremo alrededor de la pista de casi 21 kilómetros en menos de ocho minutos. Esto superó el mejor tiempo del modelo anterior en casi medio minuto. Equiparon el vehículo de producción con todas las cualidades necesarias para garantizar que incluso los principiantes del Nordschleife experimenten la emocionante sensación de carrera en el nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP de inmediato. Por lo tanto, al regresar al “Infierno Verde”, rápidamente queda claro que el último modelo de John Cooper Works eclipsa a la competencia en el segmento compacto no solo en términos de aceleración longitudinal y lateral, sino que su mejor carta de triunfo es su manejo controlable con precisión en todo momento incluso en el rango límite de dinámica de conducción.

El aspecto distintivo del MINI John Cooper Works GP ya impresiona en la línea de inicio: molduras en las salpicaderas de fibra de carbono, un alerón en el toldo con contorno de doble ala, rines forjados livianos grandes de 18 “y una suspensión de 10 mm más baja que el MINI John Cooper Works, lo que hace inconfundiblemente dinámico el potencial del biplaza exclusivo. Al presionar el pedal del acelerador simplemente confirma esta impresión: corriendo hacia el Tiergarten, toma solo 5.2 segundos alcanzar la marca de velocidad de 100 km / h en la pantalla del panel de instrumentos digital. El motor sobrealimentado de 4 cilindros en línea con 225 kW / 306 hp y ​​un par máximo de 450 Nm ofrece este irresistible empuje hacia adelante. La energía concentrada llega a las ruedas delanteras equipadas con neumáticos de alto desempeño específicos del modelo a través de una transmisión Steptronic de 8 velocidades que, completa con bloqueo de diferencial integrado, garantiza la conversión sin pérdidas del par motor en un desempeño emocionante.

Las ventajas de la distribución precisa de la fuerza entre las ruedas motrices también se manifiestan en la chicana de Hohenrain. La dirección del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP es notablemente ágil y permite acelerar dinámicamente en cada esquina sin tendencias de sobreviraje o subviraje. El sistema de frenos deportivos también inspira confianza inmediata. La capacidad de control precisa y el agarre potente de los frenos de disco de cáliper fijo de 4 pistones en las ruedas delanteras y los frenos de disco de cáliper flotante de un solo pistón en las ruedas traseras desaceleran el vehículo antes de que ingrese en el siguiente giro ligeramente hacia abajo a la izquierda. A más tardar, el respeto por el alto rendimiento del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP se transforma en un manejo divertido sin adulterar. La combinación de las curvas de derecha a izquierda en el Hatzenbach también es un placer, al igual que las crestas posteriores y la curva cerrada a la derecha más allá del Schwedenkreuz.

El montaje apretado del motor, la estructura de la carrocería extremadamente rígida y la conexión de suspensión y la tecnología de suspensión refinada con la experiencia en carreras de John Cooper Works potencian al nuevo MINI John Cooper Works para ofrecer un comportamiento de dirección impresionantemente preciso. Como movido por una cuerda, corre a través de las secciones de la sinuosa pista después de Fuchsröhreand Adenauer Forst, encontrando con éxito las líneas de carrera casi sin esfuerzo incluso en la curva de Klostertal y en el Carrusel de Caracciola. Los grandes anchos de vía y el aumento de los valores de camber específicos del modelo para las ruedas delanteras y traseras promueven la transmisión de las fuerzas en las curvas y facilitan valores de aceleración lateral asombrosamente altos. En el modo GP, activado por medio de un interruptor de palanca, los umbrales de intervención del sistema de Control Dinámico de Estabilidad (DSC) también se incrementan para dar al conductor aún más tolerancia al acercarse al rango límite.

A 265 km / h, la velocidad máxima del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP es totalmente ilimitada. Y en el tramo local entre Galgenkopf y Döttinger Höhe, se hace evidente que el mejor atleta dentro del segmento de vehículos compactos permanece firme en el recorrido elegido, incluso en el modo de alta velocidad. Además del faldón delantero específico del modelo, sobre todo su distintivo alerón del toldo desempeña un papel clave para reducir la vida útil y garantizar el equilibrio aerodinámico incluso en las curvas a velocidades particularmente altas. Sin embargo, el valor funcional indispensable de la llamativa doble ala en la parte trasera del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP no impide que los conductores de Nordschleife lo usen con otros propósitos nada ceremoniosos como una mesa durante las paradas del almuerzo.

En el motor después de un breve descanso, incluida la parada de reabastecimiento de combustible, en última instancia, una sola vuelta del circuito de Nürburgring no se acerca a capturar el potencial de rendimiento completo del nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP. Pero, afortunadamente, cada línea de meta también es una línea de partida. Y cuando se trata de un manejo divertido extremo, las puertas del “Infierno Verde” no se pueden abrir con la suficiente frecuencia.

Información proporcionada por MINI México.

El “Infierno Verde” es el paraíso para el nuevo MINI John Cooper Works GP. La fascinación y el asombro brillan cuando los pilotos de carreras hablan sobre el "Infierno Verde". El Nürburgring Nordschleife es considerado como una pista particularmente desafiante.

[wasilewskitbfrostzn64insura-blog]

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[ziplubemutirao-blog]

A desempeno da coluna (cambagem) tem a finalidade de distribuir o peso do carro pela banda de rodagem. Ajuda a aumentar a vida útil do pneu. O serviço é aplicado ao camber, o ângulo de inclinação da roda. ... Camber positivo – É quando acontece desgaste no ombro externo dos pneus, que estão voltados para a parte interna do carro. O que causa a cambagem? Cambagem ou camber/sopé é a inclinação da roda de um veículo em relação ao plano vertical. ... A cambagem estando fora dos valores originais do veículo, pode causar desgaste irregular dos pneus, perda da estabilidade e aumento do consumo. Aproveite e agende agora sua visita pelo WhatsApp (62) 98289-0020 ou ligue (62) 3639-6000 / 3639-6001. Site: www.clikofertas.com/ziplubemutirao para saber mais. #flamboyant #ubergoiania #ubergoiânia #buritishopping #goianiashopping #44goiania #goiania44 #oficinasgoiania #centroautomotivogoiania #trocadeoleogoiania #alinhamentogoiânia #99popgoiania #modafeminina #modagoiania #autopecasgoiania #locadoradeveiculos #locadoradeveiculosgoiania #tvanhanguera #recordtvgoias #mecânica #mecanicaautomotiva #mecanica #suspensão #freio #pneus #pneusnovos #alinhamento #balanceamento #balanceamentoderodas #escapamento https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz-qpV7gND8/?igshid=yk8xdq5gv31i

[gpcarautocenter]

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A desempeno da coluna (cambagem) tem a finalidade de distribuir o peso do carro pela banda de rodagem. Ajuda a aumentar a vida útil do pneu. O serviço é aplicado ao camber, o ângulo de inclinação da roda. ... Camber positivo – É quando acontece desgaste no ombro externo dos pneus, que estão voltados para a parte interna do carro. O que causa a cambagem? Cambagem ou camber/sopé é a inclinação da roda de um veículo em relação ao plano vertical. ... A cambagem estando fora dos valores originais do veículo, pode causar desgaste irregular dos pneus, perda da estabilidade e aumento do consumo. Aproveite e agende agora mesmo a sua visita pelo WhatsApp (62) 98340-0099 ou ligue (62) 3515-7004 / 98405-6467. Acesse nosso site: www.gpcarautocenter.com.br ou loja virtual https://www.clikofertas.com/gpcarautocenter para saber mais. #flamboyant #ubergoiania #ubergoiânia #buritishopping #goianiashopping #44goiania #goiania44 #oficinasgoiania #centroautomotivogoiania #trocadeoleogoiania #alinhamentogoiânia #99popgoiania #modafeminina #modagoiania #autopecasgoiania #locadoradeveiculos #locadoradeveiculosgoiania #tvanhanguera #recordtvgoias #mecânica #mecanicaautomotiva #mecanica #suspensão #freio #pneus #pneusnovos #alinhamento #balanceamento #balanceamentoderodas #escapamento https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz-pg8rHYzd/?igshid=lgqraec7ndh

[aleyamilcordoba]

Las 31 fotos históricas de la dramática rendición argentina en Malvinas

Hoy se cumplen 35 años de la rendición argentina en Malvinas. La guerra duró 74 días. Murieron 649 compatriotas. Las grandes imágenes de las cruentas batallas finales y del último día de la guerra. 

En los últimos días de la guerra recrudecieron los bombardeos de ablande, sobre todo en los montes Longdon, Dos Hermanas y Harriet

La rendición llegó el 14 de junio a las nueve de la noche. Los soldados combatieron hasta el minuto final entre bombardeos constantes de la flota británica

Los prisioneros fueron llevados a Puerto Argentino. Permanecieron unos días más en las islas y  fueron embarcados en el buque inglés Canberra, que el 19 de junio arribó a Puerto Madryn con 4.167 combatientes

Más allá de la derrota hubo muchos oficiales, suboficiales y soldados que dieron muestra de extraordinario valor y liderazgo en condiciones extremas

Un prisionero argentino detrás de un alambre de púas. Los ingleses confiscaron casi 11 mil armas y más de 4 millones de municiones (Photo by Martin Cleaver/Pool/Getty Images)

Tres Royal Marines toman prisionero a un soldado argentino. Le cubren los ojos “por seguridad” durante el avance británico hacia Puerto Argentino (AP)

Los combates finales del 11 al 14 de junio fueron los más sangrientos y cruentos de la guerra (Malvinense.com.ar)

Heridos británicos luego de la avanzada final hacia Puerto Argentino. Los ingleses sufrieron 255 bajas durante el conflicto armado de 1982

Los británicos revisaron a los combatientes argentinos en Puerto Argentino. No podían guardar nada: ni fotos, ni papeles, ni artículos personales

Montañas de armas abandonadas por los soldados argentinos luego de la rendición en Puerto Argentino.

Prisioneros de guerra argentinos realizaron durante su detención trabajos peligrosos prohibidos por la Convención de Ginebra, como transportar municiones

El General Mario Menéndez firma la rendición ante el comandante británico, General Jeremy Moore. El documento está en exhibición en el Museo Imperial de la Guerra en Londres

La rendición buscó evitar el combate casa por casa que aumentaría la matanza, luego de enfrentamientos armados que se extendieron hasta pasado el mediodía del 14 de junio

Exhaustos, muchos combatientes argentinos llevaban sesenta días en las mismas posiciones, en un clima extremo y bajo fuego desde el 1° de mayo

A las once y cuarto de la noche del 14 de junio, Margaret Thatcher le anunció a la Cámara de los Comunes la rendición de las tropas argentinas

Prisioneros marchan hacia Puerto Argentino. El avance británico desde el Oeste obligó a los argentinos a reorientar sus defensas, construidas bajo la expectativa de un ataque desde el Norte

En la noche del 11 al 12 de junio los británicos quebraron la primera línea de las defensas argentinas (Foto: Hulton Archive/Getty Images).

Los prisioneros fueron alojados en un galpón en Puerto Argentino. Y, como durante toda la guerra, en ese refugio se escribió POW (Prisioners of War)

En los días finales muchos soldados, aislados o en grupos, armados y desarmados, confluían en Puerto Argentino. Estaban separados de sus unidades y abatidos luego de enfrentar tremendos combates

Bajo los obuses, riadas de soldados confluyeron sobre Puerto Argentino, con la idea de que los ingleses no bombardearían la población civil de la capital de las islas

La derrota en Malvinas precipitó el fin de la dictadura y de la Junta Militar que gobernaba el país: el General Leopoldo Fortunato Galtieri, el Almirante Jorge Isaac Anaya y el Brigadier Basilio Lami Dozo

La batalla por Puerto Argentino dejó a más de 200 soldados argentinos y británicos muertos

En la madrugada del 14 los ingleses vieron como una sección agotada y diezmada -las del subteniente La Madrid-, luego de dar una dura batalla, se replegaba protegida por la ametralladora del soldado Oscar Poltronieri

Los británicos se prepararon para el último asalto y desalojaron las posiciones de los argentinos sobrevivientes del RI 7 en la zona del Wireless Ridge y Camber; al Este de Puerto Argentino y en el aeropuerto varias unidades estaban inmovilizadas y no participaron en la batalla

Los principales combates se desarrollaron siempre con gran superioridad numérica y material británica. Asimismo, muchos de los soldados argentinos no estaban, a mediados de junio, en condiciones de combatir

El gobierno de facto emitió el comunicado 165 del Estado Mayor Conjunto -que se realizaron durante toda la guerra- para anunciar: “Se labró un acto en la cual se establece las condiciones de cese el fuego y el retiro de tropas”. Nunca hablaron de rendición

El Informe Rattenbach destacó la actuación profesional del Batallón de Infantería de Marina 5, los pilotos de la Fuerza Área, la artillería y la aviación del Ejército. Los ingleses -y en especial el general Julian Thompson- sintetizaron el valor de nuestros soldados: “No fue un picnic”.

Caídos argentinos: 194 de Ejército (16 oficiales, 35 suboficiales, 143 soldados); 377 de la Armada (323 del Belgrano, 8 del Sobral, 1 del Santa Fe, 1 del Guerrico, 5 del Isla de los Estados, 34 de Infantería, 1 del Apostadero Naval Malvinas y 4 pilotos); 55 de Fuerza Aérea (41 aviadores); 7  de Gendarmería; 2 de Prefectura; 16 agentes civiles

Jeremy Moore con el documento de la rendición. A los argentinos se les concedió: retener su bandera, las unidades quedaban bajo control de sus oficiales, una ceremonia de rendición privada, la “devolución” de los 11.313 prisioneros de guerra

Grupos de los 40 y 45 Comandos de los Royal Marines marchan hacia Puerto Argentino  El Marine Peter Robinson lleva la bandera inglesa como símbolo de victoria (Imperial War Museums)

Soldados del ejército británico izan la bandera de su país tras la firma de los acuerdos de alto el fuego entre los generales Jeremy Moore y el gobernador militar de las islas, Mario Benjamín Menéndez. (Fuente: Infobae). 

via Blogger http://www.diariovillaguay.com/2017/06/las-31-fotos-historicas-de-la-dramatica.html

[zeggyzone]

michaelangelo / david (to carve you out the dark)

chamber/cypher (valorant) tags: mentioned deadeye | omega chamber, name changes, unreliable narrator (only for a bit!), domestic, home, comfort, references to depression, bathing/washing, non-sexual Intimacy, implied sexual content, not beta read, cyphber week 2024

synopsis:

synopsis: after crossing paths with deadeye, cypher avoids the outside world like the plague. chamber wants his lover back. day 1: domestic / "home" / comfort | mini-fic for cyphberweek on twitter!

sfw. 2.3k words.

Cypher seemed to be fine after the whole Omega incident. Amir was not.

His room, normally bleak, has accumulated a stench– a putrid mixture of cigarettes and cherry brandy–, the plates and cups are stacking, and the only thing kept somewhat clean would be his desk.

An ashtray sits to the left of his keyboard, clicking and clacking away at hours God does not consider. Cypher doesn’t even think God would be interested in what he has to offer; a sad, forty-one-year-old man's antics were probably the last thing on his mind; that’s at least what he thought.

The man sits at his desk, typing another wellness journal that Ling Ying had advised him to keep logs of during his episodes– especially after what happened a week ago. His fingers move hastily– typo after typo weaves its way into his review and he wants to claw his eyes out.

He hasn’t removed his mask in days– unless you count the occasional lift of the bottom to get to the bottom of a bottle or the end of a cigarette. Few people have checked on him. Ling Ying knocks on his door every once in a while. Han periodically brings him a plate of warm food. Hazal asked if he needed anything, to which he ignored.

However, Vincent hadn’t talked to him since the briefing.

Cypher believed that to stay the same until he ran out of painkillers, and decided he’d finally have to leave his room. Of course, he could just page Ling Ying for more, but she’d keep it on a specific dosage, and Cypher was not about to run out in a few days time. It’s not like he’d abuse the prescription– no, why would he do that?

So, he slides open the door, and he sees Vincent right outside his door, adjusting his cuff while his fist is up to knock on the metal.

Cypher’s existence is dreadful. Vincent’s is picture-perfect. Cypher feels like a child looking at him. Vincent doesn’t look at him with disgust. It’s more concern.

It’s silent. Staring. Burning.

Cypher tries brushing past his presence, “Excuse me,”

“Amir,” Vincent’s eyebrows furrow, turning in the direction he tries walking off to, reaching out his hand to grab the shorter man (not by a lot, Cypher wants to mention), from the back of his coat, forcefully hauling him back to the doorway. 

“Ow.” Cypher fusses, swatting Vincent’s hand away, turning on his shoulder to look at him. The top shutters on his eyes are angled downwards— angry. Vincent almost laughs. He was like an angry little cat. He bites back his laughter with rising concern.

“You haven’t come out in days.” Vincent begins, fixing his cuff once more, rolling his wrist. “I knock, you don’t answer—“

“You haven’t knocked,” Cypher squints, a small hiccup accentuating his already sluggish words, “You haven’t even paged me—“

“I have knocked, Amir— supposedly only when you were either so drunk you couldn’t hear a simple tap or asleep.” Vincent snaps back, arms moving to highlight the importance of his words as if they didn’t already jab at Cypher enough.

He stays silent. Vincent opens his mouth.

“… thank God I found you before you went off and did something stupid.” 

“Stupid?” Cypher retorts.

Vincent crosses his arms. “Well? What were you going to do?”

Cypher can’t just say he was going to get a bottle of painkillers from the medbay and expect Vincent not to think he was reaching to abuse it.

“Pain meds.” But he says it anyway.

“I think you’re in pain because you aren’t taking care of yourself.” Vincent rolls his eyes, one hand reaching over to push down Cypher’s hat. He flinches. The hand quickly retracts.

“… perhaps I’m too hard on you,” Vincent adds, pliantly tucking his hands into his back pockets. Amir’s shoulders untense at that movement.

“What are you going to do about it, anyway?” Cypher exhales through his nose.

“I’ll make you a meal—“

“You’ll use far too much butter—“

“— and wash the cigarette ash out of your mangy beard. But since you want to be a pain—“

Cypher rolls his eyes behind his mask, “It was a joke,”

Vincent sighs a laugh, “I know, mon coeur.” He says, passing Cypher, looking back expectantly, “You forget that I know how to banter.”

Cypher shakes his head, following Vincent without a second thought.

Their relationship was nothing friendly. Cypher hardly considered Vincent a friend. Their relationship just had benefits, is all— whatever that relationship may be. Vincent often cooked for him after their scenes; after long weeks; especially after a rough day. They hadn’t gotten together since the incident. This would be the first time.

His thoughts lead him to the kitchen with Vincent, sitting at the island while he waits for whatever buttery meal his lover (a work-in-progress title for Vincent; even Cypher doesn’t know what to call him) has prepared for him. His shoulders droop, feigning slumber. Vincent cracks two eggs into a bowl and walks over to the island to wash his hands. Cypher looks up.

“We haven’t talked since the … uh, comment dit-on, the … incident,” He exhales, drying his hands on his apron before returning to the counter, where he beats the eggs in the bowl before dipping two pieces of bread into the liquid.

Cypher clicks his tongue, “Brimstone called your strike team ‘SHATTER-02’, which I thought was incredibly unoriginal—“

“Besides the point, Amir—“ Vincent sighs, “I understand that things get bad for you, but this is terrible. You live in filth and you reek of drugs.”

He doesn’t stop there, “What happened to you was terrible. I agree. I’m here to help you come back from it.”

Especially because it was Him who did it to you, he wants to add.

Cypher rests his chin in his palm, looking at Vincent cook. Deadeye.

He shakes his head.

“Have your wounds gotten infected? Anything I should be aware of?” Vincent asks, picking up the soggy bread and putting it in a pan on the stove.

“No infections. It just hurts.” Cypher complains, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’ll get you a medically recommended dose and we’ll clean you up, oui? Is that of interest to you?” Vincent asks, brow raised.

Cypher tilts his head, “Will we share your fancy cigarettes?”

“No.” Vincent squashes his expectations— probably for the best. He imagines his double used the same brand. Even though Cypher smoked them with no problem, he didn’t want to remind him of that. At least… not while he was here.

“Luxuries aside… it sounds fine,” Amir says, getting up and walking around the island to stand next to Vincent and watch him cook. He hands the spatula over, and Amir begrudgingly takes it, pushing the toast into the pan to hear the small sizzle before he flips it.

It’s quiet from then on out. Amir flips the other buttered piece of toast and hands the firstly finished French toast to Vincent, who shakes some cinnamon on the top. He finishes it off with some syrup. He does the same for the next piece of toast.

Amir watches. Vincent empties his left hand and puts his thumb through the back belt loop of Amir’s coat. He rubs— so gently.

It is removed seconds later.

Cypher exhales, previously holding his breath. Amir’s face swells up. Comfort? Contentedness? He inhales.

He’s probably hung over. That is a good explanation.

Before he knows it, the apron is off and Vincent plates the dish, gently patting Amir on the shoulder, beckoning him over to the hallway once again. Amir grabs two water bottles from the fridge before retreating with his lover.

Because he’s had a long week. And that’s it.

The trip is short, and they make it to Vincent’s bedroom now. It’s neat, a bit rough around the edges here and there, yes, but it’s in a much better state than Amir’s. His LED screen is powered on, displaying Toulouse, Paris; home to France’s Aeronautics industry– Vincent’s hometown, from what Cypher gathered.

His bed is the same as always. Navy blue sheets, an abstract comforter, and gold satin pillowcases that he had spent far too much money on, and intended to use them until they frayed. When Amir found that out, he laughed in his face.

“I’ll help you wash up, yes?” He repeats, standing in front of Amir and gently placing his hand atop his hat, looking down at him. Amir scoffs out an affirmation, pushing away Vincent’s hand. He dares not to make eye contact again. He doesn’t know who he’ll see.

“We can do it the same way we always do,” Vincent says, voice gentle and sweet.

Amir missed it.

“Can I take this off?” He asks, hand rounding the top of Cypher’s hat. He nods.

Vincent removes the hat, walking over to put it down on his bed. “Go inside and call me when you’re ready. Take your food too.”

“What, will you feed me as you bathe me?”

Vincent titters. “That was the plan, yes. Maybe I didn’t think this through.”

“But of course,” Amir jests, “you never do.”

Vincent shoos him off.

French toastless, he walks over to his drawer, carefully taking out a long pair of shorts he wore to sleep, replacing his outfit with simply that and the undergarments he was wearing. He strips off his vest and dress shirt, folding them neatly on the bed for later use.

He hears two knocks from inside the bathroom, and he knows Amir is ready.

Vincent slides the door open, quick to turn off the lights and shut the door. He knows the routine all too well. Turn off the lights.

Shut the door.

Climb behind Amir.

Vincent crosses his legs behind his lover, craning himself to align his nose with Amir’s neck, breathing him in. He laughs– he smells terrible.

“We said no kisses, Vincent.”

“That wasn’t a kiss,” a graze of his lips, “nor that.”

His lips graze behind Amir’s left shoulder, and Vincent’s nose rests just above his trapezius, leaving peppered kisses along the backside. Amir leans his head back, “You never listen.”

“Guilty as charged,” Vincent smiles against his skin. Amir gently taps his nose with the showerhead, and Vincent happily takes it, pulling the faucet knob. The shower roars to life, and cold water hits Amir’s leg, making him flinch. Vincent chuckles, adjusting the temperature to a tolerable warm.

“I’ll wash your body first,” he says, “then we’ll get to your crusty beard.”

He rubs at Amir’s stubble. Amir pulls his hand away with the same laugh bubbling in his throat.

Vincent takes an exfoliating loofah, from his shelving (when you shower in the dark, you tend to memorize where specific things need to be) and applies body wash to it, lathering in his hands before scrubbing at Amir’s back, gentle and soft in circular movements.

Amir could fall asleep, just as he almost did many times before.

The loofah makes its way down Amir’s arms. Vincent gets to his chest and memorizes where the stab wound from the previous week resided (just below his left clavicle) and avoids it, tenderly rubbing around the sides of it to avoid any discomfort on Amir’s end, even if he’d tell him if he was.

“Neck,” Vincent mumbles. Amir hums and tilts his head up so Vincent can reach. “Can you do your legs?”

“I don’t know…”

“My goodness, mon coeur.”

A laugh, cigarette befouled, “I can.”

The exchange is swift, and Vincent softly tucks Amir’s hair back to wet. “Is this okay?”

Amir stays still. An exhale.

“Just be careful.”

Vincent nods, pressing a kiss behind his ear, “Okay.”

Once Amir’s hair is completely dampened, Vincent puts down the showerhead and puts a generous amount of his expensive shampoo in his hand, carefully lathering it into Amir’s strands. He does it slowly, careful for any injury there.

“I’m done with the loofa,” Amir mutters, picking up the showerhead and rinsing off the rest of the soap from his body and the sponge.

“I can take it,” Vincent responds, taking it from the older man and placing it back on its respective shelf. He returns to massaging the soap into Amir’s head, using his fingernails to drag the grime out. “I must buy you curl product.”

“No need.” Amir responds, “They will flatten anyway.”

“At least then you’d have something to take care of,” Vincent argues lightheartedly, “allow me? Please? Just this once, mon amour?”

He knows Amir loves it when he calls him that. “Fine,” Amir sighs, “only because I know you will do it anyway.”

Vincent laughs, “Because I never listen.”

“Precisely.”

The showerhead is exchanged with a gentle tap of the shoulder, and Vincent washes the soap out of his lover’s hair, angling it so it won’t get in his eyes. He wrings it shortly after, pulling the conditioner bottle from the shelving.

“Can I wash your face for you?” Vincent asks, “While the conditioner seeps in?”

“Don’t you always do that?” Amir asks, tilting his head towards Vincent just a bit– at least, that’s what Vincent thinks with how his head moves while he rubs in the conditioner.

“Yes, but I feel as if I should ask this time around,” Vincent says, voice small.

Amir tenses.

“You may.”

Vincent rinses his hands, pulling his facewash into his hands and arranging a careful amount. Amir turns to face him. His clean hand reaches out to feel Amir’s face– every cavern, every dip, every sag of skin, and every wrinkle, carving him out of the dark like Michaelangelo to David, bringing him to life with each etch. He can imagine him in his wake. What would he do for those lights to suddenly turn on?

Nothing.

He is content with this. He is content with his Amir.

He will bathe him in the dark for years if it means he’ll get to keep him.

For whatever man he might see, he will still be his Amir.

He feels a smile on the other man's face as the other hand comes to wash.

Son Amir.

His Amir.

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[m-times-world-blog]

Diagnóstico de fallas y reparación    ① elevó el eje delantero, girando el volante, luz del volante, y luego cualquier componente en el eje delantero, la rueda u otras partes. En primer lugar debe comprobar la presión de los neumáticos, baja presión, debe inflar para alcanzar una normalidad, el próximo test de alineación de la rueda comprobar la alineación de la rueda, con especial atención a la camber trasera y el valor del dedo del pie, si es debido al dedo del pie causando la dirección dura, Los neumáticos tienen un desgaste severo.    II si la dirección todavía sentido pesado, descripción falla en la dirección o las instituciones de la impulsión de la dirección, puede dividir más Xia brazo de la sacudida de la dirección y la palanca recta de la conexión, en si la dirección variable luz, descripción falla en las instituciones de la impulsión de la dirección, Tenía apretado o comprobar el cojinete de empuje si el aceite de la deficiencia dañado, la palanca si la deformación doblada, comprueba generalmente Shi, mano disponible que da vuelta dos a las ruedas alrededor giró ver la pieza de la impulsión,

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[gpcarautocenter]

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A desempeno da coluna (cambagem) tem a finalidade de distribuir o peso do carro pela banda de rodagem. Ajuda a aumentar a vida útil do pneu. O serviço é aplicado ao camber, o ângulo de inclinação da roda. ... Camber positivo – É quando acontece desgaste no ombro externo dos pneus, que estão voltados para a parte interna do carro. O que causa a cambagem? Cambagem ou camber/sopé é a inclinação da roda de um veículo em relação ao plano vertical. ... A cambagem estando fora dos valores originais do veículo, pode causar desgaste irregular dos pneus, perda da estabilidade e aumento do consumo. Aproveite e agende agora mesmo a sua visita pelo WhatsApp (62) 98340-0099 ou ligue (62) 3515-7004 / 98405-6467. Acesse nosso site: www.gpcarautocenter.com.br ou loja virtual https://www.clikofertas.com/gpcarautocenter para saber mais. #flamboyant #ubergoiania #ubergoiânia #buritishopping #goianiashopping #44goiania #goiania44 #oficinasgoiania #centroautomotivogoiania #trocadeoleogoiania #alinhamentogoiânia #99popgoiania #modafeminina #modagoiania #autopecasgoiania #locadoradeveiculos #locadoradeveiculosgoiania #tvanhanguera #recordtvgoias #mecânica #mecanicaautomotiva #mecanica #suspensão #freio #pneus #pneusnovos #alinhamento #balanceamento #balanceamentoderodas #escapamento (em GPCAR AUTO CENTER) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz8fq6aHL55/?igshid=1k7oovdjntyfy

[ziplubemutirao-blog]

A desempeno da coluna (cambagem) tem a finalidade de distribuir o peso do carro pela banda de rodagem. Ajuda a aumentar a vida útil do pneu. O serviço é aplicado ao camber, o ângulo de inclinação da roda. ... Camber positivo – É quando acontece desgaste no ombro externo dos pneus, que estão voltados para a parte interna do carro. O que causa a cambagem? Cambagem ou camber/sopé é a inclinação da roda de um veículo em relação ao plano vertical. ... A cambagem estando fora dos valores originais do veículo, pode causar desgaste irregular dos pneus, perda da estabilidade e aumento do consumo. Aproveite e agende agora sua visita pelo WhatsApp (62) 98289-0020 ou ligue (62) 3639-6000 / 3639-6001. Site: www.clikofertas.com/ziplubemutirao para saber mais. #flamboyant #ubergoiania #ubergoiânia #buritishopping #goianiashopping #44goiania #goiania44 #oficinasgoiania #centroautomotivogoiania #trocadeoleogoiania #alinhamentogoiânia #99popgoiania #modafeminina #modagoiania #autopecasgoiania #locadoradeveiculos #locadoradeveiculosgoiania #tvanhanguera #recordtvgoias #mecânica #mecanicaautomotiva #mecanica #suspensão #freio #pneus #pneusnovos #alinhamento #balanceamento #balanceamentoderodas #escapamento (em Zip lube) https://www.instagram.com/p/Bz8fIw4gD6g/?igshid=lypqdig61mrs