#visual inspection standards

[marketsreport]

In industries like pharmaceuticals, medical devices, and food manufacturing, keeping products clean and safe is extremely important. To ensure high-quality standards, processes like visual inspection and particle contamination testing are widely used in India. Having qualified toxicologists helps in understanding and managing any risks related to contamination. FTI Incorporation offers top-notch services in these areas, making sure that products are safe and meet the required standards.

In this article, we will explain visual inspection guidelines in India, the role of qualified toxicologists in India, and the importance of particle contamination testing in India, using simple language so that everyone can understand these critical processes.

[fti-incorporation]

In the world of pharmaceuticals and manufacturing, maintaining high quality and safety standards is crucial. For companies operating in Australia, adhering to visual inspection standards and effectively managing vial defect detection are essential components of ensuring product integrity. This blog will explore the significance of these practices and how they are applied in Australia to meet industry requirements.

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What If We Just Fall?

Oh my goodness @supervalcsi this has been the hardest secret to keep! 'Tis I, your summer exchange gift writer! Thank you for all your hard work as the moderator of HBO War Daily, we deeply appreciate you!! It's been a pleasure getting to know you and I hope you enjoy your summer as well as this lovely interlude with sweet Rosie!!!

Robert "Rosie" Rosenthal x ATA!Female Reader

Flying with the Air Transport Auxiliary has taught you many lessons – including the importance of guarding your heart carefully. It seems fate, however, has much more to teach you when you are forced to make an emergency landing in East Anglia.

Warnings: Language, Era Typical Sexism, Fear, Crying, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - T.

Author's note: No descriptions of reader other than the fact that she is not British. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 5729

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October 1944

Meeting a man like Robert “Rosie” Rosenthal was not something you had expected when you volunteered for the Air Transport Auxiliary. In fact, you were not even supposed to land at Thorpe Abbotts Airfield until fate, or more accurately faulty wiring, intervened. Ferrying a Wellington bomber from its repair depot back to the RAF in Norfolk for use in their nighttime bombing runs, you were piloting the five-man aircraft alone – standard practice in the ATA. There was no radio, no navigator, and most definitely no guns. You were a civilian non-combatant and if any Luftwaffe fighter pilots happened to get onto your tail, you simply had to outfly them.

This was not your first Wellington, not by a long stretch, and while you preferred Spitfires for their speed and manoeuverability, these mid-sized bombers were usually fairly docile once they got off the ground. This particular aircraft, however, had been displaying a bad attitude from the moment it took to the air. How it had passed quality control inspection was beyond you. The wonders the mechanics were able to work in short turn arounds were usually feats of precision and skill, but almost immediately you noticed the rudder seemed reluctant to obey your steering commands.

A cascade of instrumentation issues followed before the left engine quit. There was a reason, however, that the ‘Wimpy’ as it was affectionately called by the boys who took the aircraft into combat, was still relied upon by the RAF despite the arrival of four-engine heavies like the Halifax and Lancaster. The Wellington could take a great deal of punishment; lose great chunks of its aluminium and linen airframe, be down one engine, and still get the crew to its destination. It was this reputation you were banking on as you pressed forward to your assigned airfield, hoping the ground crew there would treat this plane better than whomever had done it such a disservice at the repair depot.

You were, by your best guess of the landscape and quick glance at your maps, roughly twenty minutes out when the right engine began to choke and sputter.

“Shit.” You hissed under your breath, pleased no one could overhear you, and dropped your altitude to scan for a safe place to land.

During your pre-flight preparations, you had noted this area was dotted with American airfields as well as RAF; surely you could find a stretch of tarmac to keep both you and this precious piece of war material in one piece. The telltale ‘V’ of concrete, surrounded by still-lush grass waving in the autumn breeze, could not have come into view at a better time. Exhaling in relief as the indicator lights confirmed the wheels had descended at your command, you checked visually that the left was down and had to trust the right and rear were also – with no co-pilot to look for you, there was most definitely no way you could release the yoke and glance out the window yourself.

Hoping the allies would recognize you for a friendly, you lined up to make your landing, the right engine quitting on you as you decreased your speed. Holding your eyes open wide with focus, you leaned forward in your seat, gripping the yoke almost painfully, willing the aircraft to stay aloft to meet the first few inches of runway. The silence in the cockpit was agonizing, a tense ringing in your ears replacing the normal, companionable thrum of the engines, sweat stinging at your eyes and prickling in your armpits. Seconds drew out into hours until at last your tires – all three of them – bumped down to land on the runway.

With a sigh of relief, you quickly pulled up on the flaps, frowning deeply as, with no engines to throw into reverse, the large object in motion seemed reluctant to come to a stop. Mortifyingly, you overshot the end of the runway, skidding to a halt some one hundred meters in the grass like a wet-behind-the-ears trainee, and yet…and yet both you and the plane that you had been charged with delivering were still in one piece. Not at all where you were intended to be, but landed safely, for now.

The sound of several vehicles approaching from down the runway refocused your attention and you pulled off your leather flying helmet, smoothing your hair before gathering your things into your flight bag. Climbing from the dead aircraft, you were greeted by a host of astonished male faces.

“Jesus Christ, she’s a dame!” One of the younger men exclaimed, not so quietly, from the back of the crowd and you did your best to keep a straight face.

“I’m so sorry to intrude on your airfield, gentlemen, ran into a little trouble during my flight. I appreciated the safe place to land.”

Several eyebrows shot up at your distinct lack of British accent, at least one astute gaze dropping to the gold wire weave badge bearing the name of your home country just below your shoulders.

“Well, we’re just glad you’re alright, ma’am. We got very nervous when we couldn’t raise you on the radio.” The owner of said astute, piercing blue gaze spoke, a hint of…New York, was it?...colouring his tone.

“Ah, of course, we aren’t connected to radio in the Air Transport Auxiliary, sorry for the confusion that must have caused.” Stepping forward you offered your hand as you introduced yourself. “Second Officer, ATA.”

“Robert Rosental, Major, United States Army Air Force. What happened up there?”

It took a moment to register that he had asked you a question, the feel of his palm pressing against yours as he shook your hand in greeting more than a little distracting. Inhaling sharply, you turned back to look at the troublesome aircraft.

“Rudder was slow to respond, then I started losing my instruments one-by-one before the left engine cut out. I was hoping to make it on the right, but when it started to go, I knew I had no choice to put it down as soon as possible.”

“You flew that all by yourself?” Another member of the crowd piped up and you nodded patiently.

“Standard practice in the ATA, just me.”

“Maybe that was the real problem.” It was hard to tell where exactly the snide comment, spoken under some ignorant boy’s breath, had originated from.

You noted a flash of anger in Major Rosenthal’s eyes before he started to scan the crowd for the source of it, but this sort of response was something you had certainly encountered before.

“I’m sorry I didn’t quite catch that, could whoever said that please repeat it? I’d really appreciate the opportunity to improve on the over seven hundred ferry flights I’ve made since 1941, including one hundred with this very type of plane, so please, speak up.” A sort of stunned silence overtook the group, several of the men wearing bemused smiles, others a look of shock, while the rest shuffled their feet awkwardly in the grass. “Hn. My loss, I suppose.”

“I’m assuming you’re a long ways from where you ought to be?” Major Rosenthal chimed in, the luscious thatch of hair of his upper lip highlighting the way his mouth hitched up at the corner in amusement.

“You would be correct, Major, might I impose upon you for the use of a telephone?”

Some directions were shouted to tow your aircraft to a spare hardstand as it seemed there were replacements planes of their own expected in a few hours and you turned to address the same man Rosenthal was giving orders to – Lemmons, you believed.

“Please be careful, its not a metal skin, it’s linen.”

The look of shock on the boy’s cherubic face framed by copious curls spilling from beneath his knit cap finally broke your control, a small grin sneaking onto your lips as Major Rosenthal led you over to his jeep. Unclipping your parachute from your waist, you tossed it and your flight bag into the back, sliding into your passenger’s seat and finally feeling the ability to relax somewhat.

“Over seven hundred flights?” He glanced at you as he drove, and you nodded softly.

“There are a lot of planes needing to be moved around this island.”

“And here I thought my boys had it rough needing to hit thirty…” He shook his head, driving past the control toward a sea of the all-too-familiar Nissen huts that populated every airfield you had ever visited.

“Ferry flights and combat missions are in no way comparable, Major, the worst thing I face up there is usually English weather.”

The pair of you shared a laugh as he pulled up in front of a long row of buildings. “My CO will want to talk with you, unexpected guest and all.”

“Of course, caused quite the ruckus didn’t I.” You laughed ruefully, sliding from the jeep to collect your gear, startled as he beat you to it.

“Follow me.” He nodded warmly, holding open the door to lead you inside.

After a brief meeting with a very busy Colonel Jeffrey where he put ‘Rosie’ at your disposal, you were ushered into an empty office to use the telephone and contact your superiors. Providing a detailed report of your flight, you were instructed to sit tight pending further directions – most likely an RAF repair crew would be dispatched to try and get the plane operational, but they were also loathe to keep you grounded and out of the rotation for too long. Providing them with Jeffrey’s secretary’s number as the point of contact, you stepped out of the office to find Major Rosenthal waiting patiently in the hallway.

“You must be starving…”

“I would not say no to some food, by any means.” You smirked and followed him back out to the jeep for the short drive to the officer’s mess. “You sure its alright for me to eat in here? RAF doesn’t usually…”

“I insist.” He nodded and opened the door for you once more.

With a grateful nod, you stepped into the space flooded with natural light where row on row of tables covered in crisp white linens stood empty. Given that it was an odd hour for a meal, somewhere between breakfast and lunch, it was no surprise that you were practically alone in there. A server in a white coat quickly approached and Major Rosenthal looked to you to place your order from the choices on offer before requesting just a coffee for himself, pulling out a chair for you to sit before setting your kit in the empty chair beside you.

“This is really quite civilized, thank you again. I apologize that I’m not really dressed for the occasion…”

He chuckled warmly and shook his head. “You look prettier than me after I fly, though I’m quite confident you start out that way, too.” He winked and you smiled shyly, busying yourself with laying your napkin across your lap.

Major Rosenthal was not the first handsome airman to cross your path in your line of work, there had been countless men who had either jeered or flattered you. But after opening your heart to several early on and promptly losing them to a ruthless enemy, you had learned better than to let yourself fall for such girlish stupidity again.

“Having a second breakfast Rosie? Oh…oh I’m sorry I didn’t see you were entertaining…”

“No apologies Croz, one of the lovely ladies of the Air Transport Auxiliary dropped in for a visit.” He grinned and introduced you properly to his friend and Group Navigator Harry Crosby who was apparently only finishing his breakfast now.

“A pleasure, well I’ll leave you two to it. Make sure Rosie tells you about his love of jazz.” His knowing grin at his friend drew an exasperated exhale from Rosenthal, but before he could protest, the server was returning with food and hot beverages that were fit to make your mouth water and Crosby had disappeared.

“I don’t think I realized quite how hungry I was…” You murmured, fixing your drink to your liking before seizing your utensils to dive in.

“Well then, please, enjoy.” He leaned back, cradling his cup in his hands to allow you to enjoy your meal.

After a few bites, once you were feeling somewhat less ravenous, you tilted your head. “Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman?”

He raised an eyebrow slowly before huffing an incredulous laugh. “Artie Shaw, if I must.”

You nodded thoughtfully as you took a deep sip of your beverage.

“What other planes have you flown in your seven hundred ferry flights?” He parried with a question of his own.

“Oh, all sorts - Tiger Moths, Hurricanes, Mosquitos, Spitfires.”

He nodded thoughtfully, smoothing the edge of his moustache with his forefinger. “Favorite plane to fly?” He inquired.

“To fly? Spitfire, without a doubt.” You answered easily, licking a bit of food from your upper lip. “That plane knows what I want it to do before I even think it. Landing however…one the test pilots famously said, ‘she’s a lady in the air but a bi–’” you quickly cut yourself off with a rueful twist of your lips “she’s something else ‘on the ground.’” You finished the quote with more appropriate language inserted.

Rosenthal’s eyes danced with mirth as he enjoyed a hearty laugh at that and you could not help but notice the reddish hue to the whiskers on his upper lip, highlighted by the sunlight streaming in the windows. You wondered if that was where he had gotten the nickname ‘Rosie.’ Jarring yourself from such dangerous thoughts, you quickly turned back to your meal and peppered him with more questions about American jazz greats, enjoying the way he enthusiastically and engagingly spoke about the various band leaders he preferred and why before turning back to you with further questions about your service in the ATA and life before that. Conversation came dangerously easy between the two of you, an undeniable overlap of interests and motivation to contribute.

You were admittedly attracted to the man as well, but for the sake of your sanity, that was something you were going to have to set aside for as long as he continued his brave yet perilous missions over enemy territory. The mess gradually began to fill as true lunch time arrived, your meal and his coffee long finished, and you were about to get up and find somewhere else to wait out the repair crew when one of the servers approached with a message that they had already arrived and were looking for you.

A short drive to the hardstand revealed the four RAF men hard at work on the Wellington under the curious eye of Lemmons and others who were occasionally drifting by.

“When I get my hands on whatever git did this to this poor Wimpy…” You could hear the threats and grumblings emanating from inside the fuselage and pressed your lips together, hoping it was the previous repairperson they had it out for and not you.

“Gentlemen?” You popped your head into the bomber and were greeted by several flustered men.

“Ah there you are Ma’am, how on earth did you keep this lobotomized plane in the air for so long?!”

“Well you know, a good old Wimpy can always get you home…or at least a friendly field.”

“We’ve got…a good few hours ahead of us but then I think you’ll be able to finish the last leg of the journey.”

“Thank you very much, I’m sorry to take you away from your more pressing work. Can I get you anything?”

“Crew Chief Lemmons has been very helpful, Ma’am, but thank you.”

You offered the young man a smile of thanks over your shoulder before shuffling over to set your belongings on the grass. The afternoon was fair, the weather still warm, so you figured it was as good a place as any to wait it out. To your surprise and pleasure, Rosenthal settled onto the ground beside you, picking up your conversation right where you left off as you listened to the men work through the thin skin of the aircraft, watching the sun make its way to the western sky to sink toward the horizon.

“You know, Major, you really ought to come visit London some time. We may not have Artie Shaw or Benny Goodman live in concert but there’s still a great deal of jazz to be enjoyed.”

“Please, you can call me Rosie if you’d like.” He smiled softly and you nodded in response, not wanting to have been so bold without his permission. “You stationed that close that you can just pop into the jazz clubs?”

You nodded quickly. “White Waltham, near Windsor Castle. Very short train ride. Used to fly with the Spitfire girls out of Southampton but I wanted a chance to fly the twin engines…maybe even someday I’ll get inside a Halifax or a Lanc…but that was definitely not going to happen in a ferry pool right next to the Spitfire factory flying only short-range flights.”

“These four engine beasts are definitely a whole other ball game,” He gestured with a thumb over his shoulder towards a B-17 looming behind him, dwarfing the Wellington with is height and breadth “would you still be alone?”

“ATA sends a flight engineer on four engine flights, but no co-pilot.”

He nodded thoughtfully, looking about to add something when the RAF repair crew suddenly emerged, grinning in satisfaction.

“Should be all set Ma’am, care to give it a whirl?”

Nodding quickly, you looked to your companion softly. “Thank you very much for an unexpectedly pleasant standby, Rosie.”

“My pleasure.” He responded with a grin, sliding to his feet and holding out his hand to pull you to yours.

Clipping your parachute in place on the back of your thighs, you slid on your helmet before climbing into the aircraft to try starting the engines. Running through an extended pre-flight check with one of the maintenance crew, they cleared you for take off, Rosie waving to you before driving off in the direction of the control tower. Beginning to taxi out, you could not help the grin as he returned to guide you down the runway, pulling off into the grass and waving once again from where he stood in the driver’s seat of his jeep.

Opening the cockpit window you shouted down to him, “See you in London, Rosie!” before taking off to the sound of his laughter.

To your delight, Rosie heeded your suggestion and made the trip to London – several times in fact, over the course of the winter, otherwise keeping in touch with you via letter. Despite the logical, cautious part of your brain demanding that you keep your feelings for him at bay, feelings that constantly threatened to swell and overwhelm you with each passing meeting and letter, you still found yourself constantly fretting for his safety. Awaiting his next contact, the next proof of life, with bated breath and firmly denied distraction whenever a friend or colleague would tease you about it.

How utterly rude it was of fate to throw such a perfect specimen in your path. Particularly one that could so very easily be taken away with the same rapidity. For not only was he breathtakingly handsome, but his understated confidence and capability in all things so far encountered simply made you yearn to discover his more hidden talents. To have survived so long in an occupation where the life expectancy was six-weeks, just forty-two days, and then sign up for a second tour after meeting his mission quota – yes, he’d had luck on his side thus far, but you had seen luck abandon far too many in the last few years.

The driving pace of your own worked helped distract you, undertaking training in the four engine Halifax bomber in December before the calendar turned to January 1945, and then onto February. Your commanding officer soon indicated you had nearly accumulated enough hours to begin flying Lancasters – much to your delight and eager anticipation. The pace of the production and demand on the frontlines required more ferry pilots for the British answer to the B-17 and you were more than ready to meet the challenge head on.

Not far into the month, however, you found yourself stranded near Diss on a weather delay, unable to fly back to White Waltham. With no trains until the next morning, you decided to hitch a ride to Thorpe Abbotts to take Rosie up on his standing offer to ‘drop by anytime.’ What greeted you, however, was a very concerned looking Crosby and no Rosie in sight. Sitting you down in the same spare office you had used to call in your emergency landing last October, the obviously under-slept man seemed to be having some difficulty getting down to the point.

“Major Crosby, I can assure you I am no stranger to the variety of outcomes of aerial combat, would you mind telling me as much as you are able before you asphyxiate from lack of oxygen?” You coaxed firmly, quite certain he had not taken a breath in over a minute as he paced anxiously in front of you.

His head jerked up at the sound of your voice and he nodded once before sinking heavily into the chair opposite you before taking a deep breath, to your minor relief, and beginning to speak.

“Rosie went up on a mission on the 3rd and we’ve had no news of him since he dropped out of formation.”

Your spine went completely rigid, snapping you almost painfully upright in your chair as you nodded in a cool, detached manner at the news. This. This was precisely the reason why you had been guarding your heart and fighting your feelings and putting every moment of wonderment and each smile of adoration you felt for the man in a small internal box for safe keeping. Because this very situation had seemed so very inevitable.

So why did it still hurt so damn much.

“No news is, is usually good news in these cases but it takes a while for us to hear…. well anything.”

You gulped once, twice in rapid succession as you nodded again before clearing your throat forcefully. “Well, Major, I have to go but,” grabbing a piece of paper from the desk, you scrawled the contact number for Ferry Pool No. 1, rapidly blinking as your eyes threatened to cloud over with tears “will you call if you hear anything? That you can share of course.”

“Of course I will, did you need a ride somewhere?”

You shook your head almost violently, looking forward to the walk to the pub in Diss, a good roadside cry would fix everything surely, before you had to show your face in public. Practically dashing out of there and off the base, you barely made it out of earshot of the gatehouse before your tears bubbled over. Fine lot of good all your cautious and careful planning had done you – you had been half a person in Rosie’s presence only to have the very emotions you willfully denied snap back at you tenfold now that he might very well be…and you never once got to see how his eyes might light up if you had told him how you really felt. Feel.

All the logic in the world could not save you now as you blindly sobbed your way towards town, stubbornly wiping at your nose with your handkerchief. If you had really lost him, a very real possibility that twisted your gut painfully and drew an extremely dramatic series of hitching sobs from your breast, he had deserved better. He had deserved to know that he was cherished and admired rather than just a friend to you, and on that front, you had failed so miserably you just might never forgive yourself.

The weeks of watchful waiting were long and painful. No news came, no messages awaited you at Pool Headquarters, no gossip on the bases you visited. Until the morning of the 26th when, to your great relief, and amusement, you learned that the man was alive and well, enjoying a hero’s stay in Moscow, of all places. The newspaper article quoting the absurd volume of vodka he had endured consuming brought a long-absent smile to your face and lightness to your chest, the news beating Major Crosby’s phone call by, at most, thirty minutes. All as you were on your way with your flight engineer to your first routine Lancaster ferry flight.

Climbing into the cockpit, you took the brief moment of solitude to close your eyes, inhaling deeply as you whispered words of gratitude to whatever higher entities had clearly been watching over him. Perhaps luck was never going to run out for Robert Rosenthal. Clearly you were a fool for thinking that was the eventuality here.

“Ma’am?” The timid voice of your flight engineer, Naylor – though everyone called him Tiny Tim for the young man hardly ever spoke above a whisper, pierced through your thoughts and you jolted back to reality quickly, offering him a reassuring smile.

“Let’s pop over to Wales and deliver this bird, shall we?” You did your best to display nothing but confidence in the task before you.

He smiled back with a nod, just as eager as you to get this great beast of a plane into the air. To say that heavies became the primary planes on your delivery roster would have been an overstatement, but they were most definitely a constant. As was the ever-present thought that someday soon you would find yourself face-to-face with Rosie once again and just how to handle that day of reckoning was certainly something you found impossible to decide upon.

Should you confess and apologize on sight? Wait for a few weeks for him to settle back into life on base before unloading your feelings onto him? Or continue on as you had before? The way your stomach plummeted like a wounded bird at the last option was a clear illustration of how impossible it would be to pretend you simply regarded him as a friend. But there was a growing fear as well. For all of your focus on concealing and compartmentalizing your own feelings, you had not once allowed yourself to consider how he might feel for you. Aside from some flattering comments that may have been construed as flirtatious, he had never displayed anything but the highest calibre of warmth and social graces towards you. But you found yourself constantly pondering just how Rosie might react to a confession of what had flickered into an irrepressible blaze in your chest.

In the end, you spent more time sitting with those concerns than those for his very well being, the unseasonable warmth of February continuing on into March, with more sunny days than you had grown accustomed to after living in England for so long. April was only a few days away on the calendar when your next ferry run took to you St. Mawgan to deliver a Lancaster to the RAF Overseas Aircraft Despatch Unit. Where exactly the aircraft’s journey would end was a point of mystery and you were admittedly envious of the pilot who would sit in the lefthand seat next and take it beyond the relative safety of England’s shores – territory that was strictly off limits to you as both a civilian and especially as a woman.

Parting with your flight Engineer Martens in the all-female WAAF mess, the girl avidly ensconced in a conversation comparing beaus with the girls stationed in Cornwall, you headed back out to pick up a damaged Spitfire that had just arrived from France, desperately in need of a visit to the repair depot. In the process of inspecting the aircraft, to ensure you knew precisely what damage you would be needing to overcome, a remarkably familiar voice broke through your concentration.

“She certainly still looks like a lady on the ground…rather mistreated, but definitely a lady nonetheless.”

Straightening and turning far too quickly, you cracked your head on the underside of the fuselage, earning a look of sympathy as his hands cupped your shoulders to pull you closer, out of danger of inflicting further harm to yourself.

“Rosie…” You whispered, staring at him, unable to stop your fingers from reaching out to brush his cheek, to confirm he was real.

The muscles of his face crinkled beneath your touch as he broke out into a smile, an expression you immediately echoed despite the unbidden prick of tears in the corners of your eyes.

“Hi there.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed sharply, face growing slightly solemn as he lay his hand atop yours, pressing your palm fully against his warm skin. “I’ve been a complete fool, and I’m not sure if you can forgive me.” You tilted your head, brows furrowing in bewilderment. “The world out there is dead set on tearing itself apart and I…” His tongue darted out to wet his lips nervously, an emotion you were quite confident you had never seen overcome him before. “The entire time I was struggling to get back here just to tell you. To tell you how much I care for you. You are much more than just a friend to me, and I was an idiot to think I was okay with putting this off until the war was over.”

Eyes widening as the man seemed to be stealing the very thoughts from your head and putting them into words before you even had the chance, you sniffled playful and wiped at a stray tear that had managed to sneak down your cheek. “Don’t you go taking all the credit now, Robert.” You chided warmly, earning a stunned look from him in return. “It has taken two complete fools to deny what we’ve become, wouldn’t you say?”

Huffing a soft laugh, Rosie conceded your point with a nod as he grasped the unbuckled ends of your leather flying helmet, tugging your face closer. “I love you, you incredible woman.”

Taking a notably shaky inhale, you nodded quickly, a few more tears spilling over. “I love you, too, Rosie.” You struggled to speak around the knot of emotions in your throat, fully intending to reciprocate with some sweet term of endearment, not quite certain you could manage.

Mercifully, his lips had the grace to press against yours and save you from trying to say anything more. Grasping the fleece collar of his bomber jacket, you pressed closer in the shadow of the plane you ought to be inspecting, but the Spitfire was doing a fine job of shielding you from prying eyes and five more minutes in the arms of the man you loved – yes, it was love – and had been separated from could easily be made up courtesy of the stiff tail wind you expected on your flight to Southampton.

The rasp of his facial hair made you shiver at the slightly ticklish sensation as he maintained a firm grip on your straps, delivering kiss after kiss as if to make up for lost time. An uncontrollable grin stretched across your lips, making it nearly impossible for him to continue and so he shifted to focus on erasing any trace of tears from your cheeks, only encouraging your grin to curl wider until you were simultaneously giggling and trembling at the feel of his moustache against your jaw.

“Someday, we’ll have a lot more time, and I’m going to spend every second of it kissing you…” His eyes were filled with a fiery intensity that made it awfully difficult to draw breath and you shifted forward to press your lips to his flushed cheek in turn.

“I’m going to hold you to that, Robert Rosenthal.” You nodded firmly as you pulled back, arching sharply as his hands slid to rest against your shoulder blades, his mouth landing on yours fiercely.

“First Officer, are you quite ready?!” The shrill bark of an encroaching member of St. Mawgan’s ground crew wrenched the pair of you apart as effectively as a physical intervention, a shared look of reluctance passing between you as you quickly straightened your clothing.

You noticed his eyes flick to your shoulders to admire your new rank badges.

“You’ve been busy.” He murmured and you smiled with quiet pride.

“Fly Lancasters now, too.” You nodded and pointed over his shoulder to the plane you had flown in that morning before turning to address your intruder as he called your name once more. “Nearly ready, thank you so much for your patience!” You poured on the sweetness in your tone, noting the way Rosie’s eyes narrowed slightly as they returned to your face.

Biting back a giggle you blew him a kiss before emerging around the nose to greet the harried RAF man. “Major Rosenthal of the USAAF has never seen a Spitfire before, he asked me to show him around.”

“Thank you again for your indulgence, Ma’am, they are definitely fine planes. But I will let you get on with it.” Rosie played his part admirably, the set of the intruder’s shoulders easing somewhat.

“Yes, yes, well we need you out of here in five.” He turned to look at the clipboard in his hand and your gaze met Rosie’s once more.

“It was my pleasure, Major. I’d best be off.”

“Of course.” He nodded firmly, eyes remaining locked on yours as he mouthed ‘love you’ making your heart lurch erratically for a few beats as you mouthed it back. “Safe flight.” You spoke aloud.

“You as well.”

Noting the RAF man was once again paying attention to his surroundings, you turned to finish your quick once over of the plane before stepping up onto the wing and slotting into the narrow cockpit before pulling the side flap closed and starting the engine. Once the coast was clear, you blew one last kiss to Rosie, laughing brightly as he made quite a show of catching it and tucking it into his pocket.

“Until next time!” He shouted and you nodded brightly, pulling the canopy closed.

Because there most definitely would be a next time for you and your man of endless luck, and that was something that you no longer wished to deny.

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Masters of the Air Masterlist

Postscript - thank you ever so much to @precious-little-scoundrel for proofreading this for me!!

[zahmaddog]

V. The Best of Us

Closure Series

SFW | Crosshair x fem!reader

I. Nightmares of Eriadu , II. Going Home , III. Familiar Face, IV. Treasure Found

Warnings: SFW Romance between Crosshair x fem!reader, grief, heart to hearts between brothers

Characters involved: Crosshair x fem!reader x Hunter x Phee x Wrecker x Omega x Tech

Word Count: 3143

< I am behind on making art for this... I just have the highest expectations and have trashed so many drawings/paintings. I'll lower my standards. I love the visuals going on in my head, so sorry I'm selfish at the moment. ;) > Here's Hunter lost in thought for now.

After landing on Pabu, Omega reunited with the squad aboard Phee’s ship. Without alerting the town that Tech had returned, they stayed quietly aboard Phee’s ship on the beach.

“Tech?” Omega approaches slowly.

“Why does everyone insist that is my name?” He bluntly responds while sitting up.

“Because —- it’s the name Wrecker gave you,” Omega confesses.

“And who is that?” Tech rubbed his head.

“ME,”Wrecker raised his hand. “Your brother.”

“Don’t you remember?” Omega held out her datapad that displayed a picture of Clone Force 99 during the war against the Separatists. 

Tech, still rubbing his head, took the pad from Omega and inspected the picture. He stopped rubbing his head to touch the screen as he recognized himself. His heel ceased tapping on the ground.

“Ring any bells?” Phee interrupts. “It’s clear to me that whatever was is no longer,” Tech slowly begins as he compares the photo to everyone’s current clothing and physical state. “You’ve put on weight,” he says to Hunter, “You’ve let yourself go,” he directs to Crosshair, “You’re insultingly static,” he mutters to Wrecker. “Hey!” Wrecker yells. “This one is absent,” he points to Echo, “And — “ he pauses with a finger to his image once more and squints a little, “It appears I once wore goggles — ”

Omega carefully takes Tech’s cracked and smashed goggles from her satchel and offers them back.

“We thought you were dead,” Omega discloses. Tech’s shoulders drop as he receives them. As he examines them, he takes a hand to his lost eye as he studies the completely smashed through left lens.

“Perhaps it would have been best if I stayed dead,” Tech deadpans.

“Why is that?” Omega is taken back.

“I have no recollection of you,” he sighs. “Surely that comes as a shock and disappointment to all of you.”

“You must have gaps in memory,” Crosshair interjects.

“Well yes, of course. But the lapses in memory never affected my plans for the future, so there was no need to dwell on the past,” Tech reports.

“Until now,” Phee leans in. “Don’t you want to remember, Brown Eyes?”

Tech couldn’t maintain eye contact with Phee for long and shrinks into his seat, letting his gaze fall back to the datapad. Tech wasn’t sure how to feel or rather, couldn’t collect his thoughts long enough to discern the storm brewing subconsciously. Not knowing how to ask the room for space, he drops the data pad, stows the goggles in a pocket, and stands abruptly. He fumbles past Omega and his brothers in search of the door. You hear Phee sigh and unlatch the door before he has to ask.

“Thank you,” Tech breathes and descends the ramp into the sand of Pabu’s beach. The squad rushes to the door to watch as Tech begins to pace in the sand, rubbing his eyes and head. 

“It was wrong to bring him here,” Hunter worries.

“Give him time, Hunter,” Crosshair insists. 

“What if he never remembers?” Omega sits down on the stairs of the ship’s ramp as she watches Tech continue to draw a line in the sand from his pacing. You squeeze past Wrecker and sit down on the ramp next to Omega.

“If he doesn’t remember, then there’s two possibilities: you either drift apart or you establish a new relationship,” you try to comfort. “He seems to have his core values in place; and after getting to know you all over the years, I know you don’t give up on family.” 

“Well, not all of us,” Crosshair side-eyes Hunter. 

Hunter brushed past Crosshair and stepped over you and Omega. Wrecker follows Hunter as they both descend the ramp to the beach. Wrecker sits in the sand to watch Tech as Hunter walks to Tech.

“You started that one,” Omega disappointedly mentions to Crosshair.

“You gotta ease up on him, babe,” you peer behind Omega to lock eyes with him. 

“Hmm,” Crosshair grunts a little. You send a soft wink and soft smile his way. Despite how you hadn’t left his side all week, the commotion, family business, blaster fights, left you missing him. His shell breaks for a moment as his eyes sadden and mouth purses. 

“You’re still his brother and he’s — right there; alive,” you assure Omega again. “And you’re better than me, kid. I just left my brother on Eriadu without thinking twice. I don’t even know if it’s what he wanted, but I never truthfully asked.” You give Omega’s shoulder a friendly squeeze as you stand and ascend the ramp back to Crosshair and Phee. 

Running your hands up Crosshair’s arms, you lay your head on his chest. You watch Hunter together on the beach as he tries to slow Tech’s racing thoughts down; something that Crosshair knew never worked in the past. Tech continues to pace while Hunter’s hands motion him to slow down. Tech must have said something quick and brutal because seconds later he joined Wrecker to sit in the sand.

“That went well,” Crosshair mutters.

“Like you could do better,” Phee instigates.

Crosshair kisses your forehead, “I’ll be back.” He lets his hands slide down your back as he releases you from his embrace and he walks down the ramp with a quiet confidence. 

“Get up, Hunter” Crosshair extends his hand to Hunter as he sits in the dirt. “We’re not done yet.”

Hunter exhales sharply and tosses his hand to Crosshair; which Crosshair grabs and lifts him from the ground. 

“All right, what’s our plan, Commander,” Hunter sarcastically relays to Crosshair. 

“I’m still working on that,” Crosshair breathes. “Wrecker, you’re welcome to come too, but I don’t think I can lift you off the ground.”

“Oh, come on, I’m not as big as I used to be,” Wrecker laughs as he stands. 

The three begin to walk towards Tech, who is still pacing, talking to himself, and rubbing his head. You weren’t sure what it would look like to split your soul in half, but it couldn’t be too different from this. 

“Captain Solomon!” You hear Crosshair yell for the first time in years. 

Tech stops in his tracks with his back to the three clones and sighs, “If you’re going to ask me if I remember anything again, I haven’t.” He turns in anger, causing the three clones to halt. Tech’s glare is intense. His shoulders forward like he’s ready to pounce and tear into anyone who touches him. Hunter takes a step back out of instinct. Wrecker stands his ground. Crosshair steps forward and extends his hand.

“Can we start over?” Crosshair asks. “My name is Crosshair. I shared a bunk across from you for about a decade.”

Tech’s expression focuses on Crosshair, as if he expected more from the non-conversationalist.

Crosshair sighs, “I’ve listened to you talk about everything under the stars, so I never thought I could miss your voice.” Tech rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to banter back, but Crosshair continues, “But I found myself listening for it each time I wanted to know more about a star system or geological anomaly. Old habits die hard, I suppose.” 

Tech drops his shoulders and moves to just standing and looking at him.

“You are the smartest of us all,” Crosshair shrugs, “And the bravest. The best of us. You may not remember us, but we could never forget you.” His words carried weight and truth. Tech believed him. 

“Who are you now?” Hunter asks Tech as he rejoins Crosshair’s side.

Tech examines the three clones and begins, “My name is Solomon and I’m a pirate of the outer rim. I wanted to believe that’s all I was.” He rubs his head and pinches his eyebrows together with his fingertips. “The mystery of my origins were overshadowed by my curiosity of the galaxy.” He took a few steps forward and closed the gap between himself and his brothers. “Whomever I was and the possibilities that once were no longer exist if my memory is not sustainable. It is clear to me that we share the same biological fabric as our faces, voices, and even mannerisms are strikingly similar. But I cannot stay based on that alone.” He sighs deeply and holds his silence in contemplation a moment longer, “My crew needs me.” 

Crosshair’s eyebrows furrowed, “I can respect that.” 

“Then we’ll take you back to your crew,” Hunter aides.

“Uh, we should probably tell him we blew up half of his crew,” Wrecker interjects somewhat quietly. Hunter swiftly elbows Wrecker.

“You what?!” Tech was back to looking like he was ready for a fight.

Crosshair forcefully slapped his hands over his eyes and sighed, “Meet Wrecker, the brother you argued with most.”

“We may have had some trouble extracting you,” Hunter confesses. He turns his attention towards Wrecker, “But our blasters were set to stun!”

“Well, I didn’t know that! I was carrying him!” Wrecker exclaims. 

Through his teeth, Tech seethes while trying to remain calm, “Well, I appreciate the offer. Let’s go.”

“Can we still invite you to celebrate holidays and our birthday?” Wrecker says to Tech as he brushes past Wrecker. Tech doesn’t respond.

“Well, that went well,” Hunter mocks Crosshair.

“Hmm,” Crosshair grunts. He slides a toothpick into his mouth and watches Tech stomp off back towards the ship. After a few moments of silence, he slyly side-eyes Hunter, “Is this how I made you feel, when I elected to stay with the Empire?”

Hunter releases the breath he didn’t realize he held as he watched Tech storm off again, “I didn’t want to leave you behind. Ask Omega or Wrecker, it weighed heavily on me for years.” He met Crosshair’s gaze, “I understand now that you needed to be a soldier to survive and have purpose: You needed the Empire more than it needed you.”

“Hmm,” Crosshair’s eyes widen with the heavy realization of Hunter’s spoken truth. 

“But I should have made more of an effort to — ,” Hunter loses his words.

“To what?” Crosshair takes his toothpick from his lips.

“To let you know we needed you,” Hunter admits. “Even if you thought you didn’t need us.”

Crosshair’s eyebrows lift in surprise to Hunter’s words, but stays silent.

“But Tech living as a pirate is different,” Hunter continues, “He built an entire identity from scratch. He enjoyed his freedom so much that he didn’t even care to look for us, despite knowing he had a past.”

“Was it freedom or survival?” Crosshair questions. 

“I guess we’ll find out,” Wrecker nods. 

Hunter raises his voice a little  to call out in hopes that Tech could hear him yards away, “If you ever feel like you don’t belong, find us.”

“There’s no way he heard that, Sarge,” Crosshair snickers. “He’s way too far out now. Yep, he’s climbing the ramp; didn’t even glance back. Getting back into the ship now. Probably complaining about the smell. You missed your chance.” “Shut up, Crosshair,” Hunter demands.

_________________________________

Back in Phee’s ship, Phee was silently coming to terms that the squad unanimously agreed to drop Tech back with his crew to resume pirating in the outer rim. You could sense she didn’t want to argue, but she wasn’t one to easily let go of found treasure. Omega was satisfied knowing he was at least alive and didn’t apply too much pressure for him to stay. 

“Did you at least try them on?” Omega says to Tech as he hands her the goggles back. “No, they are broken,” Tech shoots back.

“Just try them,” she insists, pressing them back into Tech’s hand. “I see you’re squinting to make things come into focus. You used to be a phenomenal pilot, I can’t imagine you are one now without them.” Omega teases.

“I am a phenomenal pilot. I just need my helmet to see,” He turns to Wrecker, “Which you left my helmet on Agomar when you senselessly carried me away.”

Omega presses the goggles into his hand once more, Tech wraps his fingers around them in acceptance. He lets them float in the air between his fingers for a moment, then with the spirit of revival, he lifts them over his head.

You could see in his expression that the perfect fit disappointed him; as if he didn’t want this reality to become anymore real.

“Happy?” Tech stammers.

“You can keep them, if you’d like,” Omega replies. Her expression is soft as she admires her brother adoringing his iconic eyewear once more.

“I’ll consider keeping them on until we return to Agomar,” Tech expressed. 

“Just like that, you want to go back?” Phee asks, heartbroken. “You’re not even curious about your old life?”

“I have responsibilities to attend to,” Tech informs.

“Always the soldier first, aren’t you? Some things never change,” Phee sighs. “We’ll take off shortly.” You sat back on Crosshair’s bunk in silence watching everything unfold. You felt exhausted, unshowered, and unsure that returning to Agomar would be safe. You were home on Pabu for the next few moments; you could slip out hardly unnoticed and take a long shower at home. You might receive a message from Crosshair once he realizes you were missing, but he was rather distracted with family. How could he not be? 

You reminisce back on seeing Crix just a few days prior. Did he have a choice in staying in the Empire? How could you be sure? Would you do the same for him that Crosshair would do for Tech? Should you have forced Crix to leave Eriadu like Crosshair forced Tech away from his crew? You decided to escape Phee’s ship with your thoughts before take off.

You gathered your helmet and extra clothes into your bag, then tip-toed towards the door. You feel a cold metal hand grab your arm.

“Abandoning me?” Crosshair croons quietly under the on-going conversation between Tech and Omega.

“Tech complained that the ship smelled and it’s probably me,” you say and let your nose scrunch up. “I should go home. You know, shower, sleep — get back to doing nothing,” you lie.

“Tech thinks everything smells,” Crosshair chuckles. “And it’s probably Hunter’s thermal detonating ration bar gas,” he lowers his voice.

You laugh a little louder than you should have for the family moments unfolding on the ship. Hunter eyes you and Tech turns towards you.

“And who are you?” Tech finally addresses you.

“I’m nobody,” you disclose. “I’m just a stowaway that keeps your brother Crosshair company and safe from — ”

“She’s my everything,” Crosshair talks over you as you were in a self-depreciating mood. He relays your name and begins filling Tech in on your past here and there. Tech’s eye widens when Crosshair mentions you’re a Tarkin. Crosshair notices the change in his expression.

“What is it?” Crosshair asks.

“I remember Tarkin,” Tech confesses. “Actually, he’s the first thing I remember.” As if he were just hit in the head with a hammer, Tech grabs his head and stumbles back a few feet. “Sorry, I seemed to have lost my balance,” he says, catching himself on the middle holomap console. He slowly sits himself down on the leather couch. 

Omega, Hunter, Phee, Wrecker, Crosshair and yourself gather around him. Omega rushes to check his vitals, which Tech waves her off with his hand to assure her he was okay. 

“What do you remember?” Hunter asks.

“I awoke in his compound as a prisoner. He questioned and tortured me for weeks about presumably your where-abouts,” he motions to his clone brothers with his hand, “But I couldn’t remember anything.” He gathers his thoughts and resumes, “The only evidence of my identity was surmised through officers questioning me. I gathered I was a ‘clone,’ an imperial deserter, and that I had infiltrated Tarkin’s compound with the assistance of other clones. I was scheduled for termination for not cooperating. But instead, a young soldier released me into the jungle as he explained to me that he ‘didn’t want to kill anyone’, ” Tech explains.

You immediately realize that the young soldier was most likely Crix. Had he served Governor Tarkin personally for that long? You counted the years and realized it made sense. You shook off the chills that sent goosebumps down your spine; you had been away from home for so long at this point.

“How did you get off end up a pirate?” Hunter asks.

“I found my way into town and began working in the mines the Empire re-opened. I suppose one thing led to another, and soon I was running an underground crime syndicate underneath the Empire’s nose.” Tech remembers.

“You found a way to survive,” Crosshair implies and eyes Hunter.

“Yes,” Tech agrees. “I did what I could to carry on.”

“Like you always do,” Omega adds.

Tech nods at Omega, “I would suppose so.” He leans back into the bench and sweeps his gaze across his brothers. “Perhaps we can gather once a year to celebrate our birthday after all,” he mutters.

“Good,” Crosshair nods as he throws your items back on his bunk. “Because tortured brothers get more cake.”

____________________

The hum and comfort of hyperspace was nearly lulling you to sleep, had it not been for Tech’s endless talking. Resting your head on Crosshair’s shoulder, you lay on the bunk facing the ongoing conversation in the bay of the ship, while Crosshair faced the ceiling. 

Omega was soaking up the conversation with her long lost brother and sharing her latest experiences with the rebellion. In return, he chatted about his pirate affairs, crew members he looked after, his run-ins with the Empire, and his technical modifications to his giant cargo ship. Wrecker’s roaring laughter in between spoken anecdotes would surprise you; causing you to occasionally open your eyes.

Hunter watched in silence, leaned up against a wall with a proud grin across his face. You realized you missed how much he smiles when Omega is around. Phee listened and interjected fun comments and anecdotes from her life every now and then. Tech was intrigued by her abilities and pirating stories. You had heard from Crosshair that Tech would never run out of discussion, but witnessing it firsthand really surprised you. He really could talk about anything in-depth and barely leave room for another to get a word in. 

Your attention turns back to Crosshair as you notice he was also lying awake with his eyes closed. His breathing usually changed when he was asleep. You rotate into him and wrap your free arm around him to hug him.

“I’ve missed this,” he whispers to you without shifting in the bunk.

“Tech ranting about weather systems of uninhabited planets?” You softly laugh.

“Yes,” Crosshair sighs. “Even if he doesn’t want to stay with us… This has been nice.”

“Do you want to join them?” You ask, shifting a little.

“No, no,” Crosshair vocalizes and cradles you into his chest more, “I’d probably ruin it.”

________________________________________________

Part VI: The Bounty

_________________________________________________

Taglist:

@heidnspeak @cloneflo99 @megmegalodondon @tentakelspektakel @maniacalbooper @thebadbatch2022

[3liza]

re: last reblog - saw a TikTok ad the other day of a zoomer lifestyle peddler visually coded as a Nonbinary Dirtbag Leftist (dyed ratty hair, conspicuous piercings, cheap punk clothing) attempting to sell me an ebook about how to elevate my class position by buying a turnkey business like a laundromat.

so, exploiting the poor. and I mean they aren't wrong, that's how you get class mobile. I don't think it's actually possible to run a business like that ethically and still make a profit. maybe I'm wrong. but it seems like every bit of the profit is extracted from a dependence upon the poverty of the clientele, eg, lack of access to home laundry, charging greater than cost for time, water, soap and cleanliness which are all human rights, hiring employees at minimum wage, etc. the entire basis of charging money for such an amenity is a process of creating waste also, it creates waste in travel from home to the Laundromat, it creates waste in putting a laundromat in a storefront where housing could be, it creates waste in handling money and bills for a business that isnt essential etc etc. and it's an economic coercion because clean clothes aren't something you can budget or cut down on, you basically have your clientele by the balls.

on the other hand I'm rapidly approaching a grinding surface in terms of either entering into one of these exploitative processes as a means-of-production owner, which would be accomplished purely through debt on my part, or having to withdraw to permanent poverty, and the third option is winning the lottery either literally or figuratively through an unforeseen inheritance, sudden recovery from illness, or getting popular on social media in a way that produces profit

I think the anarcho syndicalists are broadly correct in that small organization is the correct move, eg, I'm about to lead test my apartment water supply and do some other moves that I expect to use to lower my rent, but the bigger project would be to contact the other tenants and see if they'd be interested in essential a "hostile" acquisition of the building based on having it fail a bunch of inspections, which I absolutely think is possible.

I could see using a small syndicate of partners/friends to collectively purchase the laundromat as a co-op. but would the profit splitting make it not worthwhile? maybe we would recoup from not having to hire any employees and just taking the shifts ourselves. this is the classic American immigrant model and it's a classic for a reason. I would really hate trying to do all that horizontal organizing though (huge cost for me personally)

idk how any of those stuff works. my parents are from the managerial-intellegentsia officer class and are stupid about money from a weird combination of having too much of it and too little. the overeducated poor. food insecure people who get all the jokes on Frasier. extraordinarily weird class position, it's sort of like being in the circus or being a pickpocket. you can fool people into thinking you're wealthy when you aren't, which is why I'm so insane on here about grammar and spelling, because you don't know until you're actually on the other side of it how much your level of education affects your material existence, even if the education is DIY. I have been literally homeless for periods of time and have almost always been poor, and the amount of "skating by" you can do on good grammar and nice table manners is like a big secret no one tells you anymore because the boomers pretended they got rid of all that jive during the summer of love. people have gotten REALLY mad at me on here about this topic I think because they think I'm enforcing these cultural standards every time I try to teach people about them. I'm trying to warn you!!

think of it this way: how long is someone willing to let you stay in their coffee shop or diner or house if you're "acting poor", vs how long if you're charming and helpful and conscientious? if you're loud and using "low class" dialect vs if someone has at some point taught you to act fancy? this is extremely racialized obviously. I can't speak on that.

the communist coin op laundry could have a shuttle service and group wash nights where people can combine laundry to use the big washers and dryers for larger loads at lower total cost if they were willing to sort out their clothes at the end 😔

[admrlthundrbolt]

Leather and Lace (Killer Croc x Chubby Reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Waylon Jones had never expected to be treated like a human again. That was until he met you. Now he will do anything in his power to protect you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hey guys, I'm back at it again. I've always loved the idea of 'monsters' healing through care and affection. So I put our lovely boy Killer Croc into the spot light. I hope you enjoy.

Also, the 20th fanfiction will be a bit longer, not sure how long yet. But I have big plans for it.

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

Smiling at the security guard, you made your way through the metal detector. Only to groan as the man stopped you. “It didn't even beep Hank. I have appointments to make.”

He gave a lecherous grin as he tapped your hip with his night stick. “Well, it is within my rights to randomly pat down any visitor.”

“Coming from another department hardly constitutes me being a visitor.” Spreading your legs, you hoped this would be quick.

“Just consider yourself an exception then, nurse.” He breathed down your neck.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Cursing yourself, you sped to the solitary wing. That jerk had taken his time ‘patting’ you down. If you could call his thorough inspection that. No matter how many times you reported him you got the same answer. ‘We’ll look into it miss, but it would be better if you could work it out amongst yourselves’. Yet another excuse from Arkham to not keep their guards in line.

But as you thought of the patient you were heading to visit, your smile returned. Waylon Jones, aka Killer Croc, though he seemed to be the most humane ones here. If his treatment of you had any say in the matter.

The reason you even needed to see him was a violation all its own. He was beaten pretty badly and you were the only nurse brave enough to treat him. That was fine with you though, he was by far your best patient.

His cell was in an area a bit more isolated, but so were most of Arkham's most dangerous. As you came to the entrance, your badge was waved in front of a sensor. Stepping in you noticed that the guards had chained him to the bed. It was yet another standard procedure you didn’t approve of.

“Hello Mr. Jones. How are you feeling today.”

At the sound of your voice he lifted his head and sat up. “A lot better now that your here, Chere.” The smirk that crossed his face was almost more than you could bare. Who knew a crocodile man could be so charming.

Setting your go bag next to him, you gave him a visual once over. His wounds seemed to be healing well, with no visable infection. “Ok, shirt off.”

“Doesn't dinner usually come first.” His ‘complaint' was followed with him doing as you asked. He took the minor distraction as a chance to look you over. Never in his wildest dreams would he ever have imagine you. Being a new transfer, he was surprised at your attitude towards him. Most people always had a clear gleam of fear in their eyes when looking at him. Not you though.

Headstrong and full of determination. There wasn't a person that could stop you from trying to help someone in need. Though your personality was a big plus in his book. He could also gaze at you any time and not get tired of what he was seeing. Honestly, they should lock you away for how well your plush body filled out your scrubs. Forget the naughty nurse outfit, he didn't need to put you in anything but your uniform in his fantasies.

As you ran your warm, soft hands along his back. He couldn't help the shiver that ran through him. Think that he was cold, you moved to your bag. “Get dressed, the last thing I need is my most tolerable patient getting sick on top of injured.”

His smirk softened into a smile. “Aw Chere, i didn’t know you cared that much.” Sliding his shirt on gingerly, so as not to disturb his bruises. He was shocked to see you holding a jacket in his face.

“Of course I do. Now take this, it’s ridiculous that they don’t give you more layers. Do they not understand that you tend to be more cold blooded?” You huffed and straightened your bag, before slinging it over your shoulder.

This was exactly the kind of thing you did that drove him crazy. You knew things about him that no one else took the time to learn. He watched as you left the room, making sure to bid him a goodnight.

Putting the jacket on, it was a bit snug, but not so tight that one wrong move would cause it to rip. As he relaxed in his cot only for a lovely smell to take over his senses. Shifting the collar to his nose, your scent engulfed him. You were literally the type of person to give, someone like him, the clothing off your back.

He almost didn’t mind the shit that Hank put him through. If it meant that he got more time with you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Later that week, you took the familiar route to Waylon's cell. A bit more pep in your step. You didn't have the usual run in with Hank, at the check security check point.

Scanning over your medical bag, you were surprised to see a guard outside of the cell you were assigned to. As you got closer, a frown settled on your face. Of course it was Hank, you couldn’t get a single shift away from this guy.

“Hank. Can I ask why your at my patient's door.” You hoped that the direct question may result in a quick conversation. Though seeing the pissed off expression on his face, you knew it wouldn't be that simple.

“I’m here to find out why that trash has contraband.” His scowl deepened as he threw a familiar jacket at you.

Scrunching your face in indignation you said. “How can a jacket be contraband. It doesn’t even have a zipper.”

He took a step closer to you. “How would you know that?”

Rolling your eyes, you shook your head in disbelief. “He was cold during a recent check up. I gave it to him so he wouldn't get sick. It’s not my fault this place doesn’t care for it’s occupants.” Moving to step around him, you were surprised when he grabbed your arm.

“These people are scum. Sent here to rot until they die. Some deserve to just disappear all together.” His grip tightening the more hateful words that spilled out.

Getting as close as you felt necessary, your glare attempted to penetrate him. “While that may be your opinion, I find it to be quite the ignorant veiw. These people were sent here in hopes of bettering themselves. The staff are expected to help them on that path. But it seem some employees that aren’t suited for the task, have slipped through.“ You tried to wretch your arm free. Only to find that his hold had become achingly strong. Working to not let panic set in, you discreetly shuffled you hand into your medical bag.

“Well maybe if bitches like you would stop leading nice guys on. All while they were cozying up to monsters. I wouldn't have to do this.”

In one swift moment several dominos fell. He struck you across the face. While he paused to take in your reaction, you stabbed his cheeks with a scalpel. Before he could cry out, the cell door behind you both blew open. Where Waylon, who had heard everything, leapt from.

He descended upon the guard. At first he was seeing red from his rage. Then his body became red with the blood of the man who had dared to harm you. It wasn’t until you touched him that he came back to reality.

The alarms were blaring, so you had to raise your voice for him to understand you. “You have to get out of here.” Shoving the jacket in his arms, you pushed him towards a staff exit. “I’ll cover for you. Just get to this address.”

He looked down to what you were shoving into his hands. Your staff badge and license sat in his palms. Looking back at you in disbelief, he was at a loss for words. So he acted instead, bringing you in for a long passionate kiss. “Meet me there?”

You gave him a breathless nod and smiled. “Of course.”

[elwenyere]

ooh please tell me something about Fake Imperial Husbands if you'd like? 👀

Thank you so much for the ask, friend!!! I also got a question about Fake Imperial Husbands from the wonderful @smoosey. (Titles are from this WIP game.)

The full working title of this fic is Fake Imperial Husbands of the Infinite Sith Sadness, or FIHOTISS, and it's inspired by/in collaboration with this 'verse created by @frostbitebakery. The fic will be a 5+1, with some twists on a Sith Obi-Wan and Purge Trooper Cody premise. I've shared a few snippets here and there in the past. Here's another small, very drafty piece from the opening scene!

.....

“What are your orders, sir?” CC-2224 requested. Lord Tash was bent over the holomap: non-regulation apparel, Core accent, calluses and microscarring on the hands compatible with military service. CC-2224 waited. Time elapsed: five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen - 

“What would you do in this situation, trooper?” Lord Tash asked. He turned: his eyes were yellow. “What would be your strategy?” 

CC-2224 blinked, stalled.  

Reply type: non-standard. Run analysis. Possible results: question (type: rhetorical) - risk level minimal - wait for elaboration; question (type: leading) - risk level moderate - assure commanding officer of full compliance with standing protocols. 

“I would follow orders, sir.”

Lord Tash scanned CC-2224’s face - length of visual inspection: protracted - and CC-2224 had just registered a twitch in his right masseter muscle - physiological response: irregular; initiate - when the General broke visual contact and turned back to the map.

“Of course,” he said - vocal tone: unreadable - “2224, prepare the men to retreat to the caves.”

.....

Thank you very much for the asks, friends!!!

[charashmod]

SCP-XXXX: The Wallbreaker

Object Class: EuclidSpecial Containment Procedures: SCP-XXXX is to be contained in a standard containment chamber with reinforced walls at Site-XX. The chamber must be inspected weekly for any signs of structural damage. Any personnel entering SCP-XXXX’s containment area must wear protective gear and be accompanied by at least two armed guards.

Description: SCP-XXXX is a large, monstrous entity with multiple red eyes and sharp teeth. It is extremely wild and uncontrollable, feeding on human flesh. SCP-XXXX has the ability to transform into a white foam-like state to pass through walls. Once through, it reverts to a semi-liquid state before becoming solid and attacking individuals.SCP-XXXX primarily inhabits bathrooms and has also been found in restrooms of abandoned buildings. The creature’s exact dimensions are unknown, as it seems to be partially embedded within the wall, giving the illusion of breaking through the structure.SCP-XXXX exhibits a unique ability to manipulate its surroundings, causing tiles and other materials to appear as if they are being forcibly displaced. This effect is purely visual and does not result in actual physical damage to the containment chamber, although it can be disorienting to observers.

Addendum XXXX-1: SCP-XXXX was discovered in an abandoned art gallery, where it was initially mistaken for a piece of three-dimensional art. Upon closer inspection, Foundation agents realized the entity’s anomalous properties and secured it for containment.

Incident Report XXXX-2: On [DATE REDACTED], SCP-XXXX exhibited increased activity, causing significant visual distortions in its containment chamber. The cause of this behavior is currently under investigation. 🚽🛁👹👽

[lonestarflight]

The Original Crew of Gemini 9

"Portrait of the Gemini 9 prime and backup crews. Seated are the Prime crew consisting of Astronauts Elliot M. See Jr. (left), command pilot, and Charles A. Bassett II, pilot. Standing are the backup crew consisting of Astronauts Thomas P. Stafford (left), command pilot, and Eugene A. Cernan, pilot."

The original prime crew of Gemini 9 (GT-9) was to be Elliot M. See Jr., command pilot, and Charles A. Bassett II, pilot. They were a part of NASA Astronaut Group 2 "New Nine" and Group 3 "The Fourteen", respectively, and this would have been their first spaceflight. On February 28, 1966, about four months before their scheduled May 17 spaceflight, they and the backup crew flew in two T-38s from Houston, Texas to St. Louis, Missouri. They were there for two weeks of simulator training for rendezvous and docking procedures, and to inspect their Gemini spacecraft at the McDonnell Aircraft plant.

"See and Bassett flew in one Northrop T-38A Talon jet trainer, tail number NASA 901 (Air Force serial number 63-8181), with See at the controls and Bassett in the rear seat. A second T-38, NASA 907, carried Stafford and Cernan in the same configuration. Weather at Lambert Field in St. Louis was poor, with rain, snow, and fog, broken clouds at 800 ft (240 m) and a cloud ceiling of 1,500 ft (460 m), requiring an instrument approach. When the two aircraft emerged below the clouds shortly before 9 am, both pilots realized that they had missed the outer marker and overshot the runway.

See then elected to perform a visual circling approach, a simplified landing procedure allowing flight under instrument rules, as long as the pilot can keep the airfield and any preceding aircraft in sight. The reported weather conditions at the airport were adequate for this type of approach, but visibility was irregular and deteriorating rapidly. Stafford began to follow See's plane, but when he lost sight of it in the clouds.

Astronaut Elliot M. See Jr. inside Gemini Static Article 5 spacecraft prior to water egress training in the Gulf of Mexico.

"As See and Bassett’s jet vanished from sight, Stafford barked to Cernan in his backseat: 'Goddammit, where’s he going?' It was the last they ever saw of their comrades."

"Stafford instead followed the standard procedure for a missed approach and pulled his aircraft up, back into the clouds for another attempt at an instrument landing.

See completed a full circle to the left at an altitude of 500 to 600 ft (150 to 180 m), and announced his intention to land on the southwest runway (24). With landing gear down and full flaps, the plane dropped quickly but too far left of the runway. See turned on his afterburner to increase power while pulling up and turning hard right. Seconds later, at 8:58 a.m. CST, the plane struck the roof of McDonnell Building 101 on the northeast side of the airport. It lost its right wing and landing gear on impact, then cartwheeled and crashed in a parking lot beyond the building which was in use as a construction staging area."

"The wreckage of their T-38 training jet, covered with firefighting foam. The jet clipped the roof of Building 101 with its right wing, then skipped twice along the roof before plunging into a construction yard nearby and exploding."

Both astronauts died instantly from trauma sustained in the crash. Inside Building 101, 17 McDonnell employees and contractors received mostly minor injuries from falling debris. The crash set off several small fires inside the building, and caused minor flooding from broken pipes and sprinklers. Stafford and Cernan didn't see the crash and made an instrument landing 14 minutes later. They were asked by the control tower, “Who was in NASA 901?” Stafford replied back “See and Bassett." They were told that McDonnell Aircraft Corp. had a message for them. "A few minutes later, as Stafford opened his canopy, there was James McDonnell ('Mr. Mac' himself, aviation pioneer and founder of McDonnell Aircraft Corp.) waiting for them. In solemn tones, he explained that See and Bassett were dead."

"A truck slowly pulls the Gemini IX capsule past flags at half staff at a McDonnell parking lot on March 2, 1966, in memory of the two astronauts who were to have flown it into space."

See, 38, had been a civilian test pilot and the married father of two girls. Bassett, 34, an Air Force pilot, left a wife, a daughter and a son.

"Alan Shepard and Deke Slayton flew to St. Louis to lead an investigation. Their closed investigative hearing was held in Building 101. On May 27, their report cited deteriorating weather conditions and a descent that was too steep for See to pull out."

The backup crew, Thomas P. Stafford (left), command pilot, and Eugene A. Cernan, pilot.

"The promotion of Stafford and Cernan from backup to prime crew meant that a new backup crew was required. Jim Lovell and Buzz Aldrin were originally the backup crew for Gemini 10. This is significant as the standard crew rotation meant that a spot on the backup crew of Gemini 10 would have placed Buzz Aldrin on the prime crew of the non-existent mission after Gemini 12 (the crew rotation usually meant that after serving on a backup crew, an astronaut could expect to skip two missions and then be on a prime crew). Being moved up to the backup crew of Gemini 9 meant that Aldrin flew as part of the prime crew on Gemini 12, which played a major part in his selection for the Apollo 8 backup and Apollo 11 prime crews, ultimately making him the second human on the Moon."

-Information from Wikipedia: link, link

NASA ID: S66-15620, S66-28075, S66-15622, S66-15621, S65-28456

source, source

[brybryby]

I completely agree that Miles Upshore is queer, and Waylon is on the spectrum as well! If you have your friends analysis still plzzzzz link! I crave the content!!!

HI HI THANK YOU FOR THE ASK! 💜

I wish I had his analysis still!!! aarrrrgh it's been so long ;-; But I can try to relay some of the points he made (and add some of my own)!

This gets pretty lengthy so be prepared :')

I also added external links but they’re only there if you want to read more about the point I’m making! Feel free to skip them!

also // TW for mentions of SA

Miles

Story-wise, my friend found it interesting that Miles was the perfect host for the Walrider. Wernicke and Alan Turing were friends/lovers who worked on the technology that culminated into Project Walrider, so there's already a sense that the Walrider was founded on Wernicke and Turing's love for each other.

So, before I move on, I'll talk a bit about Alan Turing. In college, I had professors praise him for being the “Founder of Modern Computing”, cracking Nazi code, and also for being an advocate for gay rights.

More details here:

Out of every prominent scientist during the Cold War Era, Alan Turing was selected to play a role in Outlast's stories. And he didn't just happen to be openly gay—JT Petty purposefully made this significant to Wernicke's character. Not to mention, Wernicke made allusions to Frankenstein, allowing us to inspect the parallels between Wernicke & the Walrider with Frankenstein & Frankenstein's monster. When it comes to gothic & queer literature, Frankenstein is on the forefront of it, and I'm confident that JT Petty would be familiar with that (since he's a writer who's well-versed in horror/gothic art).

With Frankenstein, there's this idea to create life without heterosexual means (under the impression of cis-heteronormativity). Frankenstein's monster was also a sexualized creature—supposedly a representation of the “ideal man”—described as “beautiful”. Additionally, the novel was a critique of patriarchal norms through elements of sexualities. These aren't too different from Wernicke & the Walrider. The Walrider is arguably created through homosexual means in its abstract (Wernicke & Turing). This particular version of the Walrider that possesses Billy & Miles is stated to be the “masterpiece” by Simon Peacock—its appearance is also fairly sexual. And similarly, Outlast critiques patriarchal norms through its grotesque visuals of “masculinity”.

Frankenstein queer analysis:

Frankenstein sexual suppression analysis:

With all these story elements, there's certainly a queerness about the Walrider AND Outlast, which the devs openly embrace.

There's also many parallels between Frankenstein's monster and Miles. In the United States (and westernized countries in general), there are societal standards that function around cis-heteronormativity. Think of the traditional American nuclear family: A husband/father who's the breadwinner and patriarch, a loving wife/mother who cooks and stays at home to take care of the kids—they're mostly white, Christian, and American citizens. [WARNING: TRIALS SPOILERS AHEAD] The ideal American man is further illustrated in Officer Coyle's dialogue: “If only they were upstanding citizens like myself. Pay your taxes, do your job, fuck your wife, put a little something in the plate at service. America don't ask much.” Miles is arguably the antithesis of this, which is likely the reason he doesn't have any close friends/family—he was likely rejected by society. Frankenstein's monster follows a similar arc: he is also rejected by society and seeks refuge in seclusion. (The concept of “rejection by society” is inherent in queerness.)

With these parallels, it makes sense for Miles to be the ideal host for the Walrider. Additionally, Miles embodies queerness that isn't strictly homosexual—I mean his whole background/lifestyle is already, by definition, “queer”—but questions regarding his sexuality arise when inspecting other details of his character.

My friend pointed out the whole “Manhandler Hairspray for the Active Man” detail in Miles' apartment. There are a lot of homosexual undertones in the label, and it's hard not to think otherwise. “Manhandler” and “Active” are terms which indicate the “top” role in gay culture. I mean, it's possible that Miles is just embodying the “metrosexual” identity (basically straight men who embody characteristics associated with homosexuality) but metrosexuality is rooted in consumerism, which doesn't exactly align with Miles' character since he is openly critical of capitalism. I think the hairspray hints at queerness (or at least gender non-conformity).

Article on “metrosexuality”:

https://www.nytimes.com/2003/06/22/style/metrosexuals-come-out.html

The most revolutionary detail that my friend pointed out was the fact that Miles went out of his way to roast the ever-living shit out of everyone he came across at Mount Massive, begging the question: why is he so fixated on the appearances of other men? This could stem from his own insecurities of being rejected by society or insecurities of his own vanity (considering the hairspray he uses and the fact that he goes jogging…and if he's just trying to be healthy through exercise then he needs to explain his self-destructive alcoholism…idk…jogging for mental health? It’s open to interpretation…WAIT I mean he could just be keep up his physical fitness also with all the investigating he has to do anyways fjshshkdhd). It was just interesting that Miles was so fixated on physical appearances that it makes me wonder if he'd make similar comments about women—I don't believe he would and I'll explain below.

I know that we need to take Red Barrels' tweets with a grain of salt—they're known for deleting tweets that detail misinformation about the protagonists—but I find this tweet particularly interesting. I may be looking too much into it, especially since it's just a tweet and not presented in the games/comics, but it certainly is reflective of Red Barrels' values of respecting women and not viewing women as sexual objects, along with the notion of dismantling cis-heteropatriarchy/chivalry. It certainly doesn't mean he's not straight, but he doesn't particularly view women as sexual objects either (and I know that straight men are capable of not viewing women as sexual objects). Food for thought.

Some extra stuff:

Anti-conservatism and punk ideology (which Miles explicitly embodies) are pillars of queer culture in the political sphere.

The Germanic folklore, which the Walrider is based off of, exhibits notions of sexuality (though, probably not in the best light).

[TRIALS SPOILER] Wernicke’s dream therapy is associated with Dr. Easterman’s queerness—Easterman would be distracted by Wernicke’s handsomeness (and they both explicitly critique heterosexual relationships). Again, this supports the Walrider’s themes of sexuality.

Waylon

As for WAYLON, even though there isn't concrete evidence in the games to intentionally indicate queerness, that isn't to say he is entirely heterosexual (because assuming he's heterosexual is yet another product of the “ideal American man” image in a cis-heteronormative society, and Outlast's narratives are about dismantling this notion). In fact, now that you bring it up, I agree that Waylon can be considered on the queer spectrum/under the queer umbrella.

Regarding the “dismantling the ideal American man in a cis-heteronormative society” concept…the devs, artists, writer(s), actors, and contributors to the games' development are not only open/accepting of things outside of society's norms/expectations, but many are social activists. Chimwemwe Miller (VA for Chris Walker) is outspoken about being Black, Black history, and racism—he also narrated an audiobook which discussed racism, colonialism, & imperialism. Erika Rosenbaum (VA for Lynn Langermann) organized provisions for refugees and is active in environmental causes and feminism—she also spoke out during the #MeToo movement. Shawn Baichoo (VA for Miles, Waylon, & Blake) is also vocal about feminism/racism and was a huge advocate for his character Wrench's bisexuality from Watch Dogs 2, which became confirmed in a later installment of the Watch Dogs franchise.

I bring this up because Red Barrels actually entertains the idea of Waylon x Eddie (in the hypothetical that Eddie wasn't an antagonist like he was in the game…so like, erasing his problematic features baha…this deserves an analysis of its own) without mentioning sexuality or anything like that. Obviously, this can be seen as a way to entertain the fanbase, but I think it's worth mentioning that Waylon isn't opposed to homosexuality. After all, Waylon never makes homophobic remarks in his notes nor comments on male sexuality—he's just fearful of being assaulted (as anyone would be, regardless of gender/sexuality). He would, in fact, engage in a homosexual relationship according to this hypothetical.

(Note: the term “insane” is a harmful descriptor in this context, which is why I wrote “wasn’t an antagonist like he was in the game”)

So yea! I definitely think there's queerness with Waylon's character. And I don't exactly mean this to be “representation” because there's a lot of responsibility that comes with that, but ultimately I think it adds to what the franchise and the devs are trying to do—normalize queerness and dismantle the notion of the “ideal American man in a cis-heteronormative society” (and if you've studied socioeconomics/social theory, you know that this notion is a product of capitalism, which is another important theme in the franchise).

Here are some resources about the intersectionalities of cis-heteropatriarchy, capitalism, & queerness if you'd like to read more about it :)

(this one below is quite lengthy, but goes VERY DEEP)

All in all, my interpretation is that the franchise operates on the idea that “queerness” is normal or innate, but social structures are what label it otherwise. I've seen a lot of discussion surrounding Outlast characters' queerness, and it's interesting to me that the antagonists' sexualities get more attention amongst casual players than the protagonists' sexualities (and I think I can understand why, it's just a lot to unpack).

Just as many of the antagonists can be read as queer, the protagonists should arguably be read through the same lens. I truly do think Miles and Waylon (and even Lynn and Blake!) deserve to be inspected under queer lens. Doing so aligns with the franchise's philosophy/narratives. Also the idea of “queer characters taking down capitalism” is super empowering (and actually very identifiable hehe).

(Sorry, I think I projected a lot of my own personal values and biases into this post LOL hhhjdsfh feel free to critique anything I've written!)

This is my first time inspecting Waylon through a queer lens, so thank you for the ask!! I had a lot of fun writing this up :D

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

"Disco Inferno!" (Press the button.)

+5 XP

+1 Superstar Cop

MEASUREHEAD - As you slam your fist on the button the man collapses entirely, his head rolling to the side...

MEASUREHEAD'S BABE - "Looks like you're the new Measurehead now."

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] - Her voice is surprisingly calm.

KIM KITSURAGI - "No one is the new Measurehead -- let's go. Before he gets up..." The lieutenant makes haste toward the door.

+1 Reputation

We can now enter the harbour.

The door is locked and cannot be opened from this side without a pass card.

Guess you have no choice but to talk to the Union leader.

*EVERY WORKER - MEMBER OF THE BOARD* is written at the top of the flyers.

And at the bottom: the Union logo and *DEMAND DEMOCRACY*!

This is a *Dewy* typewriter -- the model name is on the back.

A standard office file cabinet. The drawers seem to be locked.

Someone left the coffee machine on.

The dark liquid in the pot looks almost sentient.

POSTCARD "LE JARDIN '21"

This laminated post card offers a glimpse across the river. A little more than a decade after the war, the eastern bank is already fully renovated. The hillsides are lush with gardens and residences, someone's parked a small beige airship by the fountain. This postcard will sell for a pretty penny.

NEAT OFFICE SHADES

+1 Visual Calculus: Eye of the reckoner -1 Drama: A bit dry

These were stuffed away in the Dockworker's Union office. They're perfect for scribbling down paperwork when the sun tries to get in your eye. Good for staring down suspects too.

There's also a Magnesium in here.

FILE CABINET - On second glance, someone has forgotten to properly close one of the drawers.

KIM KITSURAGI - "It's *unfortunate* for the Union to just leave their paperwork lying around like this..."

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - ...let's see what's inside, he thinks.

Open the drawer.

Ignore the drawer for now. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - The drawer opens smoothly. Inside is a well-organized selection of brown folders.

Browse through the folders.

Close the drawer. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - Hundreds of documents containing logistical data. Two kinds of transactions stand out: materials coming into Revachol from the outside world -- from Mundi, Graad, and even Iilmaraa...

...and the same materials being handed over to companies inside Revachol. Couron, Coal City, La Delta, and Jamrock are listed among the many districts where the imports are being sold.

Anything interesting? (Browse them.)

FILE CABINET - It's hard to make sense of this thicket of company names, dates, quantities, and percentages. You try to focus, but the lines are getting blurry...

2. [Volition - Medium 10] Force yourself to go through the folders.

VOLITION [Medium: Success] - Whatever's hidden here is hidden well. Concentration isn't enough, only a trained accountant, with a background in logistics, would be able to *really* make sense of it. However there *is* a little hand-written note, stuck on the side of the drawer.

Look at the note.

"Never mind the note." (Close the drawer.)

FILE CABINET - It appears to be a to-do list written in large, uneven capital letters:

REMEMBER, LEO!

* EVRART'S SHOES * SPECIAL WHIRLING BORSCHT * WATER EVRART'S PLANTS * SWEEP OFFICE FLOOR * MORE BANNERS

All items on the list have been crossed out and the note itself is crumpled.

(Turn to the lieutenant.) "Look, Kim, a to-do note with a list of errands for *Evrart*."

Ignore the note.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Evrart Claire, probably -- the head of the Débardeurs' Union." He inspects the note. "One of his aides must have left it. Nothing incriminating here."

+5 XP

3. Close the drawer. [Leave.]

FILE CABINET - The drawer slides shut smoothly.

THOUGHT COMPLETE: COL DO MA MA DAQUA

BONUSES: +3 Perception: Golden ear -1 Encyclopedia: No room for anything else

It's not only your eardrums that register sound anymore – your very skin has become an organ of hearing. Looking for a whisper light and low, a god who’s very, very silent. Nothing escapes you – a cockroach in the other room, a candy wrapper falling on dry grass, a drunk falling from a chair in a bar 20 metres away. In fact, you haven’t heard the Col Do Ma Ma Daqua, but you *have* discovered that you have amazing hearing. It must be the only part of you the alcohol hasn’t drowned out. Keep listening!

That's a lot of Perception. It'll be worth looking around Martinaise some more, once we get back on the streets.

ITEM GAINED: BOOK "LA FUMEE, VOL. 1 NO. 4"

The leading intellectual organ of Martinaise communism. Offers a radical Masovian perspective on a range of contemporary issues. The cover features a stylised portrait of the late King Frissel with a pair of white antlers growing out of his head.

Let's read this later.

A giant assprint on the pillow and a pattern of coffee rings on the armrest...

The radio is emitting strange buzzing sounds.

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - An imposing combination of a punch-clock and a payphone is looking down at you from the wall. A note on the side says: "Tokens unavailable due to strike. Use change."

Insert 10 cents.

[Leave.]

Why not?

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - The machine swallows your coin and seems to be waiting for your next move.

[Interfacing - Challenging 12] Let your muscle memory dial a random number.

[Leave.]

INTERFACING [Challenging: Success] - Your fingers run over the dial pad. 005... that's the dialling code for Revachol -- 49-52... and a moment of hesitation before entering the final numbers: 993.

PUNCH CLOCK/PAYPHONE - Calling...

Calling...

Still calling... then...

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - ...a crackle, someone picks up! They say: "Video Revachol, 24 hour video rental. We rent eight- and ten-millimetre film for home use. This is Lemmy, how may I help you?"

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Medium: Success] - The voice of a youngster on the other end sounds as enthusiastic as that of a man walking towards the gallows.

"What is this place?"

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Video Revachol is a 24 hour video rental. We rent eight and ten millimetre film for home use. This is Lemmy."

"No, I meant, what is this place to *me*?"

"Do you know me?"

"Why did I call you?" (Continue.)

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Sir, I don't know. It's a video rental. Maybe you rent videos here?"

2. "Do you know me?"

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "No."

3. "Why did I call you?" (Continue.)

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Maybe you called to extend your rental period? Do you need to extend your rental period?"

"Maybe, but I don't even know my *name*."

"My name is Raphael Ambrosius Costeau. Do you have anything on my name?"

Quietly hang up the phone. [Leave.]

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - "Raphaël *what*? Listen, I can't help you over the phone." He sounds annoyed now. "If you need further assistance you can visit us on the corner of Voyager and Main. Are we done?"

+5 XP

Level up!

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - He thinks you're pulling a prank on him.

VIDEO REVACHOL, 24H - The call is terminated by the other party. You're left with the discomforting sound of the disconnect tone.

That... that's enough for today.

[marketsreport]

In the pharmaceutical and medical industries, making sure products are safe is very important. This is where visual inspection comes in. In Australia, companies like FTI Incorporation offer advanced visual inspection sets, vial defect detection services, and strictly follow visual inspection standards to ensure product quality and safety.

In this blog, we will explain the equipment used for visual inspection, the standards that apply, and the types of defects commonly found in vials and ampoules. We will also answer some key questions about visual inspection in simple terms so that everyone can understand these processes.

[fti-incorporation]

FTI Incorporation offers premium Visual Inspection Sets in Indonesia, engineered for accuracy and efficiency in quality control. Elevate your inspection capabilities with our state-of-the-art solutions designed to meet diverse industrial needs.

[sahib-ansari]

How to maintain and inspect your safety equipment?

Safety Equipment is meant to offer you protection in times of emergency. However, just having safety equipment mounted on the walls of your workplace won’t assure your safety. Every gadget needs maintenance, and so do safety products. To have the safety equipment serving you effectively in urgent times, ensuring its longevity is a solid requirement. This blog will guide you through the unskippable points of sustaining safety and evacuation equipment.

Components of Maintenance Maintenance of safety products is not limited to a single aspect. There are several kinds of equipment and so are the procedures to sustain it. Here’s a curated guide to every practice in maintaining it.

Routine inspection Check the safety equipment regularly for any spoilage, breakdown, or deterioration. Periodic checks ensure that the safety equipment is in usable condition by recognizing potential problems before they become severe. Thus, repair work can be done promptly. For example, checking the flow of solution from an eyewash solution to check if the nozzle is operating properly.

Physical Inspection Physical Inspection implies checking visually for cracks in the safety equipment, damaged wiring of harness, corrosion, etc. It also includes monitoring the safety products for any strange smell in case of eye solutions and sound output in sirens and alarms.

Cleaning Proper cleaning of safety equipment is another integral element of its maintenance. Removing dirt, disinfecting, and sanitizing are primary procedures to follow to prevent the spread of any infection. Here, the usage of the right cleaning tools plays a key role in the safety and performance of the equipment itself.

Lubricating The safety equipment needs timely input of greasing and oiling to prevent friction. It is vital for equipment like shower stations where an emergency need for water may arise.

Calibrating Consistent evaluation of the standard performance of safety equipment helps establish confidence and trust in the workers and ensures the equipment’s reliability.

Compliance It is very important to make sure that the safety equipment adheres to the regulatory guidelines and recommendations in terms of the correct maintenance protocols.

For more details read : How to maintain and inspect your safety equipment?

[britswriting]

Fallen For You H.S | AU - Two

Fallen For You Masterlist - find description here

Read on Wattpad

Rancher!Harryxplus-sizedOC

🦋Delaney🦋

Harry stood outside his front door, arms crossed making his biceps flex and white shirt tighten, stepping to the side so I could unlock the door. My eyes lingered on his biceps before trailing down his arm, noticing the veins popping out due to his muscle strain.

"I don't have all day" he spoke, snapping me out of it as I stumbled to the door, pushing it open, mumbling a "Sorry", my body leaning against the door as I held it open for him.

"Are you really that unhappy with it?" I asked quietly, setting the key back on the white countertop, nervously chewing the inside of my cheek.

I stood in front of the closed front door, to my left being a living room area with big windows on each of the three walls, a couch laid against the outer wall, enough space for it to pull out and make a bed with two side tables next to it. We recently purchased a rug for the wooden floors to sit under where the couch pulled out, hopefully preventing scratches. We put in new blinds and curtains for each window. To my right was a galley style kitchen against one of the walls. A tapered countertop ended by the front door followed by a line of counters all the way to the stairs. A fridge separated the counters and stairs from actually touching. The stove and sink right next to it. Across from the kitchen was a wall that had the bathroom door on the end straight across from the fridge. A half folded table was pushed against the blank wall that the bathroom door was on, giving this little place its own dining area. The bottom step met the wall that was on the furthest side of the bathroom door, six shallow stairs taking you to the loft where there was a fair amount of space for a mattress on the floor, or even just to play games.

We painted the walls, cleaned the floors and windows, made sure the appliances were in good condition, sparkling even; yet he was upset?

Harry walked yet again across my once cleaned floor in his dirty boots, visually leaving dirt on the floor, irking me.

Why are boys like this?

Harry stayed quiet, walking all around my clean floors as he inspected the space again. He turned on the tap, opened and closed the fridge, walked into the bathroom and then back out and just stood next to the stairs, facing me.

"Why's the fridge empty?" he finally asked, causing me to sigh.

"We can go get you food. I just—"

"Why didn't you do it?" He interrupted, his tone sharp, putting me on edge.

Because I was busy making sure this rabbit shack of a home was spic and span perfect — not that you'd notice anyway.

"I uh, hadn't gotten to it. If you give me your list, I can go real quick" I suggested, the pressure of my fingers curling into my palms distracting my mind from how annoyingly dreamy he looked standing there. 

As annoying as he was being, the sunlight shining through the big kitchen window hit the side of his face perfectly. His green eyes were shimmering, as striking as they were. They looked intimidating, yet angelic. His light tan skin contrasting against his pure white shirt gave him a honey afterglow. The tattoos on his arms popping more than ever from his summertime tan.

"Don't you know my list?" Harry asked, sounding appalled that I didn't have it memorized, snapping me out of my daydreamer gaze.

Did he typically have a pretty standardized list? Did he never want special things like snacks? or drinks? Was everything black and white to him?

"Why would I know your grocery list?" I asked, confused why he thought this was a no brainer task.

His green eyes were locked on me, my skin crawling under his gaze as anxiety crept up the back of my neck, "Where's the truck?" He finally asked, my head tilting.

"What?"

"I'll go, if we take my truck" He reiterated, not clearing my confusion up whatsoever 

"Your truck? Since when did you have a truck?" I asked, trying to recall seeing a strange vehicle in our vicinity. Harry tossed me a weird look, "What?" I asked, Harry keeping a look on his face, "What?" I repeated, my brow furrowing. "Harry? What truck?"

"What do you mean, what truck?"

What?

"I didn't know you had a truck" I continued, the puzzle pieces only becoming more scrambled in my brain.

As far as I was aware, my dad had picked Harry up in his pickup truck and there hadn't been any unknown vehicles in the normal parking spots.

"I don't" he stated, only making me even more confused.

"But—"

"I'm supposed to get one from you" His eyebrows raised, eyes squinting at his jaw clenched.

"From me?"

"Yes from you" he stated, his tone becoming more and more clipped as my confusion grew.

"But I don't have a truck?"

"What do you mean you don't have a truck?" His voice went deeper, sending a chill down my spine. He appeared to be getting aggravated, which only confused me even more. Wasn't I the one who was supposed to be losing their patience?, "Part of my agreement to work in this hell hole" hell hole? "Is that I got my own truck!" 

Huh?

"Your demands was your own residency, dinner each night and a day off a week" I replied, his clear list of demands ticking off in my own mental checklist.

"And a truck" He finished, his arms crossing over his chest, taking a few steps.

"What truck? We don't have a truck Harry" I argued, convinced this man is just penciling in new demands to milk us even more.

"Like hell there is!" his voice raised, "I need a truck, Delaney" 

Again with this Delaney thing. Can he ever say my name like he actually wants me to be here?

"Well I don't know what to tell you, Harry—"

"You're going to tell me that you have a truck for me" he once again interrupted, my lips rolling in as I replied, "Well I don't"

Harry scoffed, his boots smacking against the vinyl flooring, his arm reaching around me to open the door, practically smacking me with it; my yelp going ignored as he stormed past me.

I leaned back against the door, wincing as my head hit it a little too hard.

Good looks and a bad personality really kills a girl's late night fantasies.

A dreamy — defend you in a heartbeat — bad boy is one thing.

An arrogant ass is another.

Snatching the key off the counter again, shimming on my shoes (thankfully) and shutting the door behind me, I reluctantly followed Harry.

He was a good distance from me, a familiar yappy noise making me pick up my pace.

"What the fuck" Harry snapped, shaking his leg in front of him as my mother's chihuahua nipped at his boots. "You fucking—"

"LOUIE!" I yelled, jogging over the menace of society, snatching him up; my pointer finger lightly smacking the top of his snout as he nipped at my hand, "Bad boy!" I scolded, my heart pounding in my chest as I looked away from the four legged devil up to Harry's ready to leave scowl. "I'm so sorry!" I freaked, Harry looking at the dog, then down at his books and back to the dog before finally looking at me.

"This is why I fucking hate dogs. Look what it did to my fucking shoe" He grouched, lifting his boot off the ground, showing me the two teeth indents.

"I'm so sorry!" I apologized again, "He doesn't like strangers!" I panicked, my body tense as I stared at the puncture marks. 

This is it. This is his last straw. It has to be. Of course it was fucking Louie that had to pull it.

"He fucking bit me!" Harry snapped, glaring at me. 

"Well—"

"Well nothing! Look what that.. that rat! Did to my boot! These are expensive!" His voice began to raise as he looked back down at his shoe.

"I'll pay you back, I swear!" I panicked, Harry's entire body tense as he stared at me and the little devil held captive in my hold.

"I know you will." He hissed before continuing back down the long driveway.

"Where are you going?!" I yelled after him, awkwardly jogging after him with a dog in my arms. "Harry! Stop!"

"What!" He snapped, quickly turning around on the heel of his boot making me halt with a slight jump.

"Please don't leave! I know this sounds.. sounds pathetic, but we need you! We already paid you! You can't leave!" I begged, already imagining my dads ruthless death stare eating me alive.

"Like hell I can! This place is a dump! You got no food. No bed. No truck. All you've got is a worthless piece of property and shit animals!"

Ouch.

"Where are you going?" I asked quietly, tears threatening to fall down my cheeks as my head begin to spin attempting to process his rash reaction, "Harry?" I tried again, Harry continuing to walk down the driveway. 

I sighed, my feet dragging me after him, yet again awkwardly jogging to catch back up, my boobs jiggling causing me to slow down.

I am not wearing the right bra for running right now. Can he just stop and listen for two seconds?

"Harry! Please!" I called out again, my hand reaching out for him as my fingertips just barely grazed the fabric of his t-shirt. 

His pace picked up and I gave up, stopping my attempts as I watched him quickly walk further and further away until he rounded the corner.

What would my dad do?

I brought Louie back inside, the other dogs perking up when the front door slammed shut.

"Sorry" I mumbled to them, setting Louie on the couch next to one of our great pyrenees, smiling to myself at their size difference.  

Hopping into my Mimi's truck that we used to bring inventory to the market stall, I started the engine, cringing when it made one of those old truck noises, the key taking a few tries before it really got going.

It only took about two minutes until I spotted a figure walking down the road, my foot easing on the break as the truck slowed down next to him, my window rolling down, "Harry!" I called out, not getting anything in return. "Please don't leave. Please just get in the truck and we'll go to town" I begged, really not wanting my family to lose out on this much needed help, let alone the crazy amount of money we already gave him.

"I thought you didn't have a truck" He stated, keeping his head straight.

"We don't" I replied, Harry turning to look at me with a really look. "We don't have a truck for you" I clarified, Harry turning to look straight again. "Please! One day, that's all I'm asking and if you really hate it, I'll personally take you back to the Rickman's. Please?" I practically cried, my voice pitching higher than normal, my breath getting caught in my throat when he stopped walking, stilling for a moment before turning to face me, not saying a word as he approached the window.

"Fine, but I'm driving" he stated, my eyes widening.

"What? No!" my head shook, "This isn't even your truck"

"Take it or leave it" he stated, a sigh leaving my nose as I opened the door, hopping out and walking in front of the truck, Harry climbing in and closing the door.

"Do you even know where we're going?" I asked, slamming the door shut as I reached for my buckle.

"I've lived here for 8 years" He stated, keeping me quiet as he started to drive.

Fair enough.

The drive was uncomfortably quiet the entire way to the town's market, the two of us quickly hopping out of the car, Harry not even bothering to wait for me to catch up as he pulled open the store's door, letting it slowly close behind him.

Really?

Did he not have a mother who taught him differently? Or a father? A grandmother perhaps? Where were all of his manners? 

So it's true that all guys who look like Greek gods are assholes?

I thought people said that because they were feeling petty and revengeful; not that they held any weight with their claims.

I yanked the door open with a  huff, Harry already walking through the market.

Is he for real?

With an eye roll, I grabbed a cart, seeing he was mindlessly wandering through the store to start with.

I trailed behind him like a lost puppy, hoping he knew where he was going and we could get this over with.

I hated that I viewed hanging out with him like a task; but who wants to hang out with someone who wants nothing to do with you? Sure he's cute. He oddly enough smells good, even though I couldn't place the scent; and the slight sheen of sweat above his brown made unholy thoughts flash through my head; but his personality? It's starting to diminish any hope I had for having a chance with him. Did I even want a chance anymore? 

"What do you need? Maybe we can tag team it?" I offered, not wanting to annoy this man more than I already have. "Harry?" I called out, the silence on his end becoming aggravating. I stayed quiet, hoping he would just start putting things in the cart, and maybe he just didn't want any small talk; but we walked up and down a few aisles that felt somewhat important. Things like dry cereal and granola bars, drink mixes and even the produce section, he never stopped.

Maybe he's a freezer meal kinda guy?

We reached the dairy section, the town's fresh milk sitting on display, Harry just staring at it, "We have milk at home, Harry. You don't have to buy any" I reminded, Harry giving another curt nod, continuing his walk past the cheeses and finally meeting the freezer section.

Finally, he walked down the aisle keeping to himself as I trailed behind, the two of us reaching yet another end of an aisle with a still empty cart.

"Is this not where you normally do your shopping?" I asked, my forearms crossed over the bar of the cart; my body weight hunched forward as I watched him just stand there, seeming completely out of place.

"I don't know" he replied, my eyes squinting.

What was this guy's problem?

"Okay.. Well, these are your options unless you want to go to some of the stalls, but those won't get you things like meat and dry goods" I informed, deciding to ignore his standoffish behavior and treat it like he's new in town. "Do you want freezer meals?" I asked, figuring we had to start somewhere if we were going to leave this store with a fridge full of food.

"You're supposed to make me dinner" He replied, my cheeks puffing as I blew out air, a short nod being a response as I decided to peruse our options.

"Are you a meat and potatoes kind of guy?" I questioned, the scowl not leaving Harry's face. He stayed silent so I took a different approach, "What would you like for dinners? What meals should we make? Any preferences?" I asked, confused why he isn't offering me any help here. It was for him, after all. Why doesn't he have any opinions?

With more annoyance building in my chest, I grabbed a tub of homemade vanilla ice cream, plopping it in the cart, passing Harry as I started grabbing staples off shelves.

Fresh farm eggs, sliced cheese, butter, a box of boring person cereal — seemed fitting, along with things like bread and a package of wrapped hotdogs.

We got to the condiments, grabbing things like ketchup, mustard, mayo and barbeque sauce. When I reached the jelly's, I raised an eyebrow at Harry, although he appeared to be distracted, my eyes rolling as I grabbed Grape jelly preserves and prayed it was good enough.

 With peanut butter in hand, Harry finally spoke up, "I'm allergic" he stated, my body freezing.

Oh

That would've been good to tell me before you left shopping for you in my hands.

I placed the peanut butter back on the shelf with a nod.

"See anything that looks good?" I asked, coming up on a small dessert table.

A few of our things were there, like the brownies I had intended to be for Harry, my Mimi's amazing apple crisp bars and even our neighbors yummy lemon poppyseed muffins.

I watched him look over the table before shaking his head, a sting of hurt hitting my chest, but I shook it off, mentioning "If there is something you'd like, let me know! We can always make it" my offer stopping him in his tracks, his lips parting like he was going to say something before they closed again and we walked to checkout

Harry grabbed the grocery bags, leaving me in his dust as he walked pack to the truck.

The ride back was just as quiet as the ride there.

I turned on the radio, hoping to disperse the awkward silence. I hummed along to Leave The Night On by Sam Hunt, my eyes locked on the fields and ranches that passed by as the truck bounced against the rough rock and gravel back to home sweet home.

"I've got it" Harry grumbled, taking all of the grocery bags before my fingers could even graze a shopping bag.

I hopped out of the truck, quickly being met with Knox, one of our Border Collies, and Felix, one of our Great Pyrenees, happily greeting me, almost knocking me over as they fought for my attention and pets.

The two dogs followed me down the pathway to Harry's house, Harry once again struggling with the key; my body struggling to withhold the giggle that so desperately wanted to escape, watching the front door finally push open, the dogs hot on my heels.

"No dogs" Harry's head shook, a frown on my face.

"Why? They've done nothing wrong" 

"No dogs" He repeated, shutting the door practically on my face.

I glared at the navy blue front door, looking down at the dogs.

"He's a bully isn't he" I spoke in a baby voice, crouching to scratch Knox's head, placing a kiss on top of his snoot. "Don't worry, we'll break him in and he won't be able to stop cuddling your precious face" I grinned, peppering his head with kisses before getting back up, opening the front door again and shamefully closing it in front of the loving herding dog.

Harry really is a piece of shit for making me lock out my dog from his house I mentally huffed, slipping my shoes off so I could help him put things away. Not like he deserved it.

"So you're allergic to peanuts?" I decided to ask, making a mental note to tell my mother so we don't have an ER trip that is way too far for something as serious as a peanut allergy.

Harry hummed, not offering me anything else to work with.

"Ya know, Wren, my twin sister, she used to tell people she was allergic to Bananas just because she didn't like them" I giggled, remembering the countless times mom reprimanded her for using something like a food allergy that was a very serious thing, just to get out of eating our late grandma's Banana Cream Pie.

"I'm not faking" is all he replied with, my head quickly nodding.

"Yeah, yeah, figured, just.. thought it would be funny— actually, I don't know why I told you that, I'm sorry. Peanut Allergies are life threatening, what she did was wrong" I corrected, embarrassment rushing through my veins as I wanted to curl into a ball and hide from what felt like this man who took up more space in this small living space than he actually physically did. "So.." I continued awkwardly, watching Harry stuff the plastic bags into a drawer, "What do you eat instead of PB+J's?"

"What?" He replied, turning to face me.

"Ya know.. since you're allergic and all" I shrugged, chewing on my lower lip.

"Like as a kid?" He asked, surprising me, but I kept my face stoic as I nodded, "Anything that didn't contain peanuts" he replied like a smartass, frustrating me as the insufferable silence reared its ugly head yet again.

This man was impossible to talk to.

"Well.." I looked around, "Need any help setting up your bed or anything?" I asked, walking over towards his pull out bed.

"I'm fine" he replied, right as I went to speak.

"Because ya know, I can help get the sheets and stuff— oh, yeah, that's uh.. good. Um.. I guess I'll just uh, leave you to it then. Um.. feel free to stop by the main house if you need anything. The only threat there is Louie" I giggled, hoping to break the ice, but Harry clearly didn't find it very funny since he continued to just stare at me.

I head back towards the door, slipping my shoes back on, hating the way he was just starting at me like I was some unwanted guest in the house I fucking cleaned and furnished for him.

"Oh!" I spun around, my hand dropping from the doorknob, "Will you be joining us for dinner?" I asked, hoping by him immersing himself in my family, things will start to fell a little more normal, but much to my dismay, Harry's head shook.

"You can just bring it to the door" He stated, my dreams getting crushed instantly.

I just nodded slowly before leaving, practically dragging my feet back to the main house, dogs hot on my heels as I stomped up the rickety wooden stairs, ready to forget this day ever happened.

My mother called us to dinner. The pot of Goulash; elbow noodles, ground beef, and mixed vegetables, sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by dinner plates.

"Will Harry be joining us?" Mom asked, my head shaking as I grabbed his plate, dishing up his food in a lull manner. "Oh, that's too bad. Maybe next time" She smiled, starting to prepare my younger brother's plates, the sound of them coming in as the wooden storm door shut, filling the quiet room with chatter, stopping in their tracks as she reminded them to wash up.

"I'm just going to bring this to him whilst it's still warm" I informed, knowing better than trying to get Wren to do it.

I knocked on Harry's door, the hot plate slightly burning my hands, the fork tempting my patience as it kept sliding against the glass plate, countlessly almost falling to the ground.

The door opened, a smile plastered on my face as I greeted him, "My mom made goulash" I shoved the plate towards him, Harry eyeing it before grabbing in and closing the door on me.

I stared at the door in astonishment.

No thank you? No comments or opinions? Just a door to the face?

I was starting to regret putting in so much effort for this asshole of a Rancher.

It's not like he fucking deserves it when he doesn't even know how to hold a door open for a girl, or say thank you when she delivers dinner to him.

With flared nostrils and pursed lips, I quickly walked back to the main house, the storm door slamming closed, rattling the framing as I grumpily walked back into the kitchen, taking my seat at the table.

"Deliver the food okay?" Mom asked, my quick nod raising an eyebrow from her, but she thankfully left it alone.

"So, Delaney," Grandma smiled, "Tell me about your day, honey. How'd it go with the new Rancher?"

* * * * 

Written on: August 7th, 8th, 10th, September 8th 2023

Published on: September 8th 2023

Word Count: 3.9k

Chapter Three

[youneedthisjob]

CHARACTER  TRUTHS — BOLD (  ALWAYS / OFTEN )  /  ITALIC ( SOMETIMES )  /  STRIKE  ( PAST )         :       ( repost, don’t reblog! )

001.  smoking — the habit  of  inhaling  and  exhaling  the  smoke  of  tobacco  or  a  drug  002.  binge  drinking — the  consumption  of  an  excessive  amount  of  alcohol  in  a  short  period  of  time  003.  drug  abuse — the  habitual  taking  of  illegal  drugs  004.  nail  biting — a  common  body  language  sign  of  anxiety/ tension  005.  lip  biting — a  common  body  language  sign  of  anxiety/ tension  006.  night  owl — a  person  who  is  habitually  awake  or  wakeful  at  night  007.  early  bird — a  person  who  rises,  arrives,  or  acts  before  the  usual  or  expected  time  008.  negative  attitudes — a  philosophy  of  approaching  life  with  criticism  and  pessimism  009.  positive  attitudes — a  philosophy  of  approaching  life  with  optimism  and  confidence  010.  swearing — the  use  of  offensive  language 

011.  superstitious — an  irrational  belief  that  an  object,  action,  or  circumstance  not  logically  related  to  a  course  of  events  influences  its  outcome  012.  inspecting  fingernails — a  common  body  language  sign  of  boredom  013.  scratching  your  neck — a  common  body  language  sign  of  uncertainty  014.  foot  and  finger  tapping — a  common  body  language  sign  of  stress  /  impatience  015.  nose  touch — a  subtle  body  language  sign  of  deceit  016.  flipping  hair — a  common  body  language  sign  of  craving  attention  017.  twirling  hair — a  common  body  language  sign  of  flirtation  018.  cracking  knuckles — a  common  body  language  sign  of  readiness  019.  hands  behind  back — a  common  body  language  sign  of  confidence  020.  finger  pointing — a  common  body  language  sign  of  authority 

021.  hands  on  hips — a  common  body  language  sign  of  readiness  022.  hands  in  pockets — a  common  body  language  sign  of  mistrust  /  reluctance  023.  frequent  touch — a  common  body  language  sign  of  warmth  /  familiarity  024.  throat - clearing — a  common  body  language  sign  of  rejection  /  doubt  025.  jaw - clenching — a  common  body  language  sign  of  hostility  026.  eye - rolling — a  common  body  language  sign  of  irritation  027.  head - tilt — a  common  body  language  sign  of  interest 028.  whistling — to  emit  high-pitched  sound  by  forcing  breakthrough  a small  hole  between  one’s  lips  or  teeth;  usually  to  a  tune  029.  humming — make  a  low,  steady  continuous  sound; usually  to  a  tune  030.  perfectionism — refusal  to  accept  any  standard  short  of  perfection 

031.  photographic  memory — the  ability  to  remember  information  or  visual  images  in  great  detail  032.  paranoia  — a  mental  condition  characterized  by  delusions  of  persecution,  unwarranted  jealousy,  or  exaggerated  self - importance,  typically  worked  into  an  organized  system  033.  exaggeration — a  statement  that  represents  something  as  better  or  worse  than  it  really  is  034.  intuitive — using  or  based  on  what  one  feels  to  be  true  even  without  conscious  reasoning; instinctive  035.  quick - witted — showing  or  characterized  by  an  ability  to  think  or  respond  quickly  and  effectively  036.  interrupting — breaking  the  continuity  of  a  conversation  with  one’s  own  statements  037.  doodling — to  scribble  or  make  rough  drawings,  absentmindedly  038.  irritable — having  or  showing  a  tendency  to  be  easily  annoyed  039.  gambling — to  play  games  of  chance  for  money;  betting  040.  travel - sick — suffering  from  nausea  caused  by  motion  of  a  moving  vehicle or boat 

041.  sensitive — having  or  displaying  a  quick  and  delicate  appreciation  of  others’  feelings  042.  melancholy — a  feeling  of  pensive  sadness,  typically  with  no  obvious  cause  043.  chewing  tabacco — the  exercise  of  chewing  tabacco  which  is  not  swallowed  044.  fidgeting — to  make  small  movements, especially  of  the  hands  and  feet, through  nervousness  or  impatience  045.  skeptical — not  easily  convinced  ;  having  doubts  or  reservations  046.  neat - freak — compulsively  obsessed  with  cleanliness  047.  gossiping — divulging  personal  information  about  others  048.  prim — feeling  or  showing  disapproval  of  anything  regarded  as  improper; stiffly correct  049.  abbreviating — giving  others  nicknames  /  shortening  names  /  giving  pet  names 050.  having  a  catchphrase — having  a  sentence  or  phrase  typically  associated  with  a  specific  person