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firewood-beech-ash-oak-ltd · 4 months ago

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Volledige 40'HC-container met los gedroogd brandhout in bulk geladen BESTE PRIJS voor 27 ton

Volledige 40'HC-container met los gedroogd brandhout in bulk geladen BESTE PRIJS voor 27 ton

Los gedroogd brandhout Losjes in bulk geladen Prijs is 125 EUR per TON Totaal is 27 ton x 129 EUR = 3 375 EUR De bovenstaande prijs is Ex works Bulgarije (zonder transport) Volledige 40'HC-container met gedroogd brandhout in netzakken, in bulk geladen BESTE PRIJS voor 27 ton - Prijslijst voor brandhout Nee. Product Hoeveelheid in een lading (40'HC-container) Prijs per stuk Prijs per hele lading af fabriek Boergas, Bulgarije Foto 1 BRANDHOUT OP GROTE PALLETDOZEN 63 m3 21 palletten x 2m3 + 21 palletten x 1m3 69 EUR per m3 M3 = 420-440 kg 4.347 euro

2 BRANDHOUT OP HOGE PALLETBOXEN + BRANDHOUT IN ZAKKEN OVER DE DOZEN GELADEN - 26 palletboxen x 2m3 + 6 ton zakken brandhout erbovenop geladen 69 EUR per m3 palletboxen; 145 EUR per ton voor de zakken 4.458 euro

3 BRANDHOUT IN ZAKKEN OP PALLETS 66 m3 52 palletten x 1,27 m3 73 EUR per m3 M3 = 420-440 kg 4.818 euro

4 BRANDHOUT IN NETZAKKEN ZONDER PALLETS 27 ton 1800 zakken x 15 kg Of 2700 zakken x 10 kg 145 euro per ton 3.915 euro

5 BRANDHOUT GESNEDEN EN GESPLETEN IN GROTE LADEN 27 ton 125 euro per ton 3.375 euro

6 BRANDHOUT IN GROTE ZAKKEN 27 ton 139 euro per ton 3915 euro

7 AANMAAKSTOFFEN OP PALLETS 66 m3 52 palletten x 1,27 m3 99 EUR per m3 80 zakken x 4-5 kg 6.534 euro

8 KINDLIGS IN ZAKKEN ZONDER PALLETS 5400 zakken x 4-5 kg 1,15 euro per zak 6.210 euro

Om ons een WhatsApp-bericht te sturen, KLIK HIER Om ons een E-MAIL te sturen, KLIK HIER - Om al onze brandhoutproducten te bekijken , KLIK HIER - U kunt onze natuursteensoorten bekijken - Onyxplaten en tegels, marmer, graniet, travertijn, kalksteen, gneis, dolimite, klik HIER - Om al onze producten te bekijken, KLIK HIER - Wij kunnen laden in een 40 ft High Cube Container : 27 MT Los Gedroogd Brandhout Houtsoorten: EIKEN, ESSEN, BEUK, HAAGBEUK, BERK, ACACIA, OLIJF afzonderlijk 100% puur één houtsoort van de lijst of gemengd indien nodig Het losse gedroogde brandhout is gedroogd tot 10-20% vocht Los gedroogd brandhout Log Length: 25cm is our standard – Tolerance on lengths +/- 8%. If required they can be: 20 cm, 33 cm , 40 cm , 50 cm and 100 cm Log Diameter: is our standard 12 -15cm measured across widest point of log. Tolerance on diameter +/- 10% If required they can be: For stoves: 7-15cm, 10-15cm ; For fireplaces 15-20 cm or max large - over 20 cm Moisture Content: Average 10-20% Brash Volume: Max 4% per crate (brash constitutes bark and smaller pieces) Normal delivery Time: 5-8 working days High Cube Container Sizes and Specifications: Dimensions of 40ft HC container Internal length 12.031 m / 39.5 ft Internal width 2.352 m / 7.8 ft Internal height 2.698 m / 8.9 ft Tare weight 3,940 kg / 8,687 lbs Payload capacity 30,480 kg Cubic capacity 76.3 m3 / 2,694.5 cu ft We can supply you with a 40 feet High Cube Container with Loose Dried FireWood as you confirm an order. We need your company identifications as name , address, VAT number so we can issue invoice proforma and proceed with supplying you with our DRIED Firewood . Documents not required for exportation from Bulgaria but may be required by your authorities for importation in your country - phytosanitary export authority certificate - 5 euro per ton - fumigation / disinfection with gaz : 130 eur/ 40' container - T2L form doc (not invoice T2L) on;y for EU supplies- 100 eur/ container - Certificate of origin issued or endorsed by the Chambers of Commerce - 100 eur/ container MOISTURE PROTECTOR: - Container dessicant (drying anymold tablets in the container) - 150 eur per container. To send us a WhatsApp Message CLICK HERE To EMAIL us CLICK HERE More about Dried FireWood in Net Bags. Large Crates Dried FireWood is used for home consumtion of died firewood and the Firewood on pallet boxes can easily be moved by forklift. Dried FireWood in Net Bags are used mostly in homes and are usually sold in a Big Markets like Metro, Gas stations , etc. Type of wood - whether it is hardwood or softwood - burned in the combustion process is important for the heat value and the energy efficiency. Hardwoods have less resin and burn slower and longer. Softwoods burn quickly. In addition the seasoned length influences on the fuel efficiency. Seasoning the wood refers to the allowed drying time before combustion. Wood need to be dried at least 4 to 6 months before use. Our wood is dried at least 10-12 months. Densities and heat values of some common wood species are indicated in the table below. Note that the volume of a stack of firewood varies considerably on whether or not it is split and how it is stacked. The moisture content also play a role - the values below are based on a average moisture content of 20%. Wood Species Density of Dry Wood (lb/ft3) Weight of Dry Cord (lb/cord) Recoverable Heat Value of Cord (Dry Wood) (millions Btu/cord) Heat Value of Cord (Green Wood) (millions Btu/cord) Units of Green Wood needed to produce 1 Million (cord/Btu's) Apple 48.7 4100 26.5 18.6 0.054 Ash, white 22.3 Aspen 27 2290 14.7 10.3 0.097 Men's Balm 26.3 2240 14.3 10.0 0.10 Basswood 24.8 2110 13.5 9.5 0.106 Beech 44.2 3760 24 16.8 0.060 Birch 21.7 Black Ash 35.2 2990 19.1 13.4 0.075 Black Spruce 29.2 2480 15.9 11.1 0.090 Box elder 32.9 2800 17.9 12.5 0.080 Buckeye 13.4 Butternut 15.4 Catalpa 16.4 Cherry 36.7 3120 20 14 0.071 Chestnut 12.9 Coffee tree 21.6 Cottonwood 24.8 2110 13.5 9.5 0.106 Dogwood 27.0 Douglas Fir 26.4 East Hop hornbeam 50.2 4270 27.3 19.1 0.052 Elm 35.9 3050 19.5 13.7 0.073 Hackberry 38.2 3250 20.8 14.6 0.069 Hemlock 29.2 2480 15.9 11.1 0.090 Hickory 50.9 4330 27.7 19.4 0.052 Ironwood 26.0 Jack Pine 31.4 2670 17.1 12.0 0.084 Larch - Eastern 18.7 Locust 27.3 Lodgepole pine 19.3 Maple 21.6 Mulberry 25.8 Norway Pine 31.4 2670 17.1 12.0 0.084 Osage Orange 32.9 Paper Birch 37.4 3180 20.3 14.2 0.070 Pinon Pine 33.5 Ponderosa Pine 28 2380 15.2 10.6 0.094 Redcedar - east 19.8 Red Oak 44.2 3760 24 16.8 0.060 Red Maple 34.4 2920 18.7 13.1 0.076 Spruce 16.0 Sucamore 19.5 Sugar Maple 44.2 3760 24 16.8 0.060 Tamarack 38.2 3250 20.8 14.6 0.069 Tanarack pine 21.2 Yellow Birch 43.4 3690 23.6 16.5 0.061 Yellow pine 22.0 Walnut - black 21.5 White Ash 43.4 3690 23.6 16.5 0.061 White Oak 47.2 4010 25.7 18.0 0.056 White Pine 26.3 2240 14.3 10.0 0.100 Willow 13.2 - 1 ft (foot) = 0.3048 m - 1 lb = 0.4536 kg - 1 lb/ft 3 = 16.018 kg/m 3 - 1 Btu (British thermal unit) = 1,055.06 J = 107.6 kpm = 2.931x10 -4 kWh = 0.252 kcal = 778.16 ft lb f = 1.055x10 10 ergs = 252 cal = 0.293 watt hour Note that in the table above 1 net cord volume = 85 ft3 is used to convert between the "Density" and "Weight of Cord" column (1 stacked cord volume = 128 ft3). Be aware that the densities used for the wood species varies significantly. The densities used above is for natural dried wood where the average moisture content is approximately 20%. Heat values of cords with dry wood can be estimated by adding 10% to the green wood cords values. Recoverable heat values are calculated with a stove efficiency of approximately 65%. How to Calculate the Combustion Heat in MJ/kg from the Table above - calculate "Density of Dry Wood" in kg/m3 by multiplying lb/ft3 with 16.018 - calculate "Weight of Dry Wood" in kg/cord by multiplying lb/cord with 0.4536 - calculate "Recoverable Heat Value of Cord (Dry Wood)" in MJ/cord by multiplying Millions Btu/cord with 1055.06 - calculate "Recoverable Heat Value per kg (Dry Wood)" in MJ/kg by dividing 3 with 2 Example - Red Oak - "Dichtheid van droog hout": 44,2 (lb/ft 3 ) 16,018 = = 708 (kg/m 3 ) - "Gewicht van droog hout": 3760 (lb/koord) 0,4536 = 1705,5 (kg/koord) - "Herwinbare warmtewaarde van koord (droog hout)": 24,0 (miljoenen Btu/koord) 1055,06 = 25304 (MJ/koord) - "Herwinbare warmtewaarde per kg (droog hout)": 25304 (MJ/koord) / 1705,5 (kg/koord) = 14,8 (MJ/kg) Het verbrandingsproces van het verbranden van hout - Hout warmt op tot ongeveer 212 o F (100 o C) en verdampt het vocht erin. Er is op dit punt geen verwarming van het hout - Vaste houtsoorten beginnen af te breken en de brandstofgassen worden omgezet ( bij een temperatuur van ongeveer 300 ° C , 575 ° F ) - Van 575 o F tot 1100 o F ( 300 - 600 o C ) komt de belangrijkste energie in het hout vrij wanneer brandstofdampen die 40% tot 60% van de energie bevatten, verbranden. - Na het verbranden van de brandstofdampen en het verdampen van het vocht, blijft alleen houtskool over dat brandt bij temperaturen hoger dan 1100 o F - T C = 5 / 9 (T F - 32) Netto calorische waarde (CV) of Lower Heating Value (LHV) gegeven voor alle brandstoffen. Dit betekent dat de latente warmte van verdamping van de waterdamp die ontstaat door verbranding niet wordt teruggewonnen door condensatie Brandstof Netto CV per massa Bulkdichtheid Energiedichtheid per volume GJ/ton kWh/kg kg/ m3 MJ/ m3 kWh/ m3 Houtsnippers (30% MC) 12.5 3.5 250 3.100 870 Blokhout (gestapeld – luchtgedroogd: 20% MC) 14.7 4.1 350-500 5.200-7.400 1.400-2.000 Hout (massief – ovendroog) 19 5.3 400-600 7.600-11.400 2.100-3.200 Houtpellets (10% MC) 17 4.8 650 11.000 3.100 Miscanthus (baal – 25% MC) 13 3.6 140-180 1.800-2.300 500-650 Huiskolen 27-31 7,5-8,6 850 23.000-26.000 6.400-7.300 Antraciet 33 9.2 1.100 36.300 10.100 Olie verhitten 42.5 11.8 845 36.000 10.000 Aardgas (NTP) 38.1 10.6 0,9 35.2 9.8 LPG 46.3 12.9 510 23.600 6.600 Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Los gedroogd brandhout, Read the full article

#Burningwood #DryFirewood #Firewood #KilnDriedFirewood #Logs #Timber

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wollemi-whump · 5 months ago

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WIJ Day 6 - Left Behind

A light tune played through the chatter of city folk as Aerik and Cypress walked past the market stalls.

The song took on a familiar rhythm and Aerik gasped with joy.

“I love this song," he said. “I haven't heard it since I was a kid. I don't know what it's called!”

"It's called ‘Sunset in the Plains’," Cypress answered.

"You know it?”

"I used to play it,” he said.

The music grew louder as they walked further along the stalls. The bright colors of cloths, spices, tools, and food seemed to dance with the tune. It almost looked like the round house in his old village, Cypress thought. A bout of amateur singing and laughter flowed over the music. Almost.

“You should play!" Aerik said.

"What?”

"The kithara. You should play it," he said, already dragging Cypress over to the musician.

“Wait—" He dug his heels in, but Aerik’s stubbornness and physicality overpowered him and any reservations he had, which were many.

“Sir!" Aerik said to the musician. The man kept playing but turned his head.

“May I help you?" He asked jovially.

"Good sir, my friend here was wanting to play your instrument for a turn.”

"It's been years since I've played,” Cypress hissed.

The musician laughed. “All the more reason to play!" He quickly and elegantly wrapped up the song before standing and handing over the kithara.

Cypress took a seat on the stool and positioned himself with the instrument. He took a deep breath and began to pluck the strings.

It was as if he had never stopped playing.

A sweet melodic tune sprang from his fingers into the air. Melancholic notes drifted across the market, compelling passersby to turn their heads in search of the enchanting song. The musician and Aerik stood captivated as Cypress played his heart into sound.

He crafted a new bridge into the song, adding a further complexity and elegance to the main theme before guiding it back to the easy enrapturing melody from before.

Cypress closed his eyes as the song neared its end for he knew if they were open, one would see the mist in them.

He took a deep breath as the song finished and gratefully handed back the kithara.

“Come back any time!” The musician called out as Cypress and Aerik continued down the market.

“You were incredible!" Aerik exclaimed.

“Thank you, Aerik."

“You should play more often. We don't have one at home, so we'll have to buy one for you while we're here.”

“Perhaps,” he said. "The city has some of the finest. Much better than the one I had which was very old and rickety.”

“Is that why you stopped playing?" Aerik asked.

Cypress faltered in his steps.

He thought of the man, the rage and ferocity emanating off him, the utter despair, and sharp, stabbing grief. Of the woman, tearstained face and an unmoving mouth, eyes that forever glared coldly in his direction. Of the people with pitying yet silent stares. Of them. Of them.

“No,” he said. " It was simply... something I left behind.”

Something he left behind. Just something he left behind.

@whumpmasinjuly-archive

#me before starting: oh ill probably make this shorter than the other snippet #me after finishing: hm. well.#whump #ish #angst #emotional whump #wollemi post #wij24day6 #whumpmasinjuly2024 #whump writing #wollemi snippets #fluff

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bloomboost · 11 months ago

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Biodiversiteit | Bloomboost.nl

Ontdek met Bloomboost.nl de pracht van de natuur! Met onze verschillende soorten planten en bloemen draagt u gelijk bij aan het behoud van de biodiversiteit. Doe mee en verbeter het milieu!

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Uitverkocht

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Omschrijving

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Website: - https://bloomboost.nl/

#biodiversiteit

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its-my-whump · 1 year ago

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Whumpmas in July Day 2: What ten words give you the whumperflies or make you think of whump?

1. Pain (excruciating or unbearable)

2. Blood (preferred dripping)

3. Panting (strained and painful)

4. Buckle (as legs do)

5. Chock (at least on his own breath)

6. Thrembling (first in fear, than in pain)

7. Cries (silent)

8. Screams (definitely in pain, please)

9. Shivering (gladly from a fever)

10. Exhaustion (from all of the above)

11. Goosebumps (as I'm having right now :-*)

Can't deny, that pain is propably my most favorit here :-D

wij masterlist

#wij23day2 #wij #whumpmasinjuly2023 #whumpmas in july 2023 #whumpmas in july #whump #whump community #writing #I most definitely like them in pain

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suryabediening · 2 years ago

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Namens het gehele team van Surya bediening & Service wensen wij iedereen een gezegende 6e dag Navratri! #navratri2023 #katyayani #day 6/9 • www.surya-bediening .nl | [email protected] • 06 46 862 864 | 06 31 76 41 88 • Design by @808gfxstudios & @picapics.nl https://www.instagram.com/p/CqSLWGID9BL/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

#navratri2023 #katyayani #day

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wolfeyedwitch · 2 years ago

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soft words of reassurance for bailey (either canon or pariah prisoner version)

Pariah Prisoner, Part 4

So... I'm gonna just... deliberately misuse a comfort prompt in the name of furthering my plotline. Sorry. I promise I'll have more comfort soon. I have Plans. This also serves as my WIJ Day 6 entry for the prompt "Hold On".

Shoutout to anyone who can tell me the two TV shows I referenced here. Bailey is a nerd.

CW: blood, injury, swearing, implied past torture/abuse, (concussion, broken nose, dislocated shoulder already happened and are mentioned), stabbing

Masterlist

---

“Okay,” Bailey muttered, trying to gather their thoughts. The scattered ideas felt like stained glass, sharp-edged and glittering. They wanted nothing more than to sit down and think of nothing while waiting for the worst of their pain to pass.

But they couldn’t. Their directions, their powers, were the only things that were going to get the heroes out of here.

There was a job that needed doing, so they would do it. It was as simple and difficult as that.

“Escape Plan A failed,” Bailey said, mostly to themself. “So we’re moving on to Plan D.”

“What happened to B and C?” Foxfire asked.

“Not applicable,” Bailey said. They wanted to make a joke of it, but it wasn’t the time. Anyway, they doubted the heroes would get the reference even if they made it.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” Icarus said. Bailey warily gazed at him, wondering if he was being metaphorical or literal. “What’s Plan D?”

Metaphorical, then. Bailey let out a little sigh of relief. “Plan D is sneaking our way upstairs and going out through a window.”

There was a long moment of silence as Bailey worked on the door’s lock. Eventually, they turned to look at the heroes, who were giving them looks with varying shades of concern and doubt.

“What?” they asked.

“Could you elaborate on that plan?” Tempest asked.

“Because it seems a little…” Foxfire broke off.

Icarus finished for them. “Iffy.”

Oh. Well, that was fair. “There’s a set of service stairs. The lock for them is like this one, set into the wall, so Slipknot didn’t bother to set up cameras for them since they were the only one who could open it.”

The lock was an utter pain in the ass, honestly. It was barely more than a common turn-lock deadbolt, but the placement of it made it very secure. Slipknot could just reach in and turn the thing; Bailey had to work through a good few inches of wall to get at it.

Finally, they got a hold of the knob for the lock and started twisting. As they worked, they continued explaining. “Security is a lot tighter on the lower floors, since, you know, more likely area for breaking in and out. Which is why we’re not going there. There are enough blind spots on the higher levels that we can get to a window.”

The lock finally turned, and Bailey resisted the urge to pump their fist in triumph. They turned to face the heroes.

“The windows are reinforced,” Tempest said. “Shatterproof.”

Bailey gave a little nod. “Yeah. All of them. I have a plan for that too, though. That’s the part where timing is gonna be tricky, because I’ll have to get something, and it’s somewhere that’s monitored. We’ll have a small window of time to break the window and jump out.”

“Um…” Foxfire said. “Gravity?”

“Flight, wind, telekinesis,” Bailey said, pointing to Icarus, Tempest, and themself in turn. “Between the three of us, we should be fine. We don’t need to stop our fall, just slow it.”

Icarus still looked unconvinced, but Tempest just nodded. “Lead on,” he said.

Bailey opened the door, and the group made their way out. Bailey led them through the blindspots they’d mapped to the service stairs. They pressed themselves close to the wall while Bailey opened the locked door.

“If you can open this too, why didn’t Slipknot put surveillance up?” Icarus asked.

“Couldn’t do this originally,” Bailey said, frowning in concentration. The lock was sticking; it probably needed graphite, not that it was likely to get any.

“They don’t know you can open their special locks?” he pushed.

“No,” Bailey said, trying to keep their tone even. He had made them lose their grip on the fucking lock again. “This was self-taught, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The lock finally turned, and they opened the door to the stairs.

Now they just had to go up, and up, and up. Joy.

“How’d you learn, anyway?” Foxfire asked. Their voice was at least something more pleasant to focus on than the echoing clang of the group’s footsteps on the stairs. “It doesn’t look like it’s easy to do, so why bother?”

“Lots of exposure,” Bailey said curtly. Their head (and back, and nose, and… everything, honestly) hurt too much to keep their tone polite.

“Sneaking around behind your boss’s back, Poppet?” Icarus asked snidely.

Bailey couldn’t help but flinch at the name. They resolved that as soon as they were somewhere safe(r), they would tell the heroes their real name. Even if they sided with Icarus and decided to put Bailey down, Bailey was going to go out under their own name.

They weren’t going to remain as what Slipknot had made them into.

“Something like that,” they huffed.

It was the truth… if breaking out of the room they were locked in counted as sneaking behind Slipknot’s back. When they’d moved in, Bailey had only known about the lock on the inside of their door. They didn’t know about the one Slipknot had set into the wall, the one that could override their settings.

And that wasn’t even counting the times Bailey had frequented the cells for various lessons and punishments.

Finally, they reached the floor Bailey needed.

“Is this… a dorm?” Foxfire asked.

“Bigger rooms than your average college dorm, but close enough,” Bailey said. “This is one of the residential floors. There’s a window in the lounge. I just need to get something first.”

“What about other residents?” Tempest asked.

Bailey shook their head. “Not many of them. I wasn’t kidding about these being bigger than your average college dorm. And they shouldn’t be here anyway; this is training time.”

Which, of course, was when they ran into someone.

Viper opened her door just in time to see the four go past. She stared at them.

They stared back.

Viper looked Bailey up and down critically, gaze lingering on their broken nose and stiffly-held shoulder. She seemed to come to a conclusion, and nodded slightly.

“Hm. Seems that what I thought I heard must have been a remnant from that fever dream I was having,” she said, “because I don’t see anything out here.”

Bailey could have cried. Instead, they managed a small, shaky, “Thank you.”

She gave them a crooked smile, showing off her fangs. “I sure hope that my fever dream ends before I have my meeting with Slipknot in…” She checked her watch. “Fifteen minutes. It would be very awkward to have to explain that to them.”

She dropped the pretense and added, “Go. Get out of here.”

“Thank you,” Bailey added fervently, then led the heroes off at a run.

They got to Bailey’s room, and Bailey frantically started looking for what they needed.

“Come on, come on, I know I didn’t get rid of it, where the fuck did I put it after last time…” Bailey muttered under their breath as they pulled out drawers in their dresser.

“What the fuck was that?” Icarus demanded. “You said there wouldn’t be anyone here!”

“Said there shouldn’t, not wouldn’t,” Bailey corrected. “Forgot that Viper is on bedrest and isn’t at training. And that was our new time limit.”

“Honor among villains?” Foxfire suggested.

Bailey gave a half-hearted smile. “Something like that.”

Viper was one of the villains on the team who was halfway decent. She followed Slipknot’s orders, but she never went beyond the minimum necessary damages in training or on missions. Of all the people they could have run into during this escape attempt, she was probably the best option.

Bailey continued tearing through their room as they looked; it wasn’t as though it mattered if they made a mess, after all. They wouldn’t be coming back.

“What are you looking for?” Tempest asked. “Could we help?”

Bailey shook their head. “No, it’s— ugh, why do I still have that— it’s small, you won’t be able to help. It’s a necklace.”

“How’s that gonna help?” Icarus asked skeptically.

“It’s a diamond,” Bailey said.

Foxfire made a noise of agreement. “Not tougher than crystallized carbon,” they said.

Bailey smiled. They should have guessed Foxfire was a nerd.

“That won’t work,” Icarus said. “The force you’d have to put behind it—”

Bailey cut him off. “I can do it.”

He scoffed.

Bailey turned to glare at him. “This isn’t just your life on the line here; it’s mine, too. I’m not playing around. So unless you have a better idea? You’re gonna have to go with what I’ve got.”

They turned back to searching as Icarus gaped at them. They knew they still had it; they’d checked when they made this backup plan. And even before that, they wouldn’t have gotten rid of it. Slipknot had it made from one of the diamonds they’d stolen in the heist that led to Icarus’s intervention. It was both promise and threat, and Slipknot made sure that they wore it to every fancy occasion.

It wasn’t a collar, but it was a claim of ownership just the same.

Bailey finally found the necklace, and the group made their way to the lounge to make their improvised exit. The heroes cleared the furniture away from the window. Bailey held the diamond necklace in place with their powers, then struck it like a hammer against a chisel.

The reinforced glass spiderwebbed out from the impact.

“Well, well,” came a horribly familiar voice from behind them. “I have to admit, I didn’t quite expect this.”

Bailey turned to see Slipknot flanked by several other villains, including Viper.

They’d run out of time.

The ensuing fight was as vicious as it was chaotic. The villains weren’t holding back, using blows meant to maim or kill. Bailey did their best, but they were already at a disadvantage with their concussion and injured shoulder. Add to that the worry of protecting the heroes, as well? They didn’t really have a chance.

A stray blow sent the broken glass flying from its frame, and Bailey took their chance. “Go, go, go!” they shouted, practically pulling the heroes out the window with them as they jumped. Something cold hit Bailey’s side, but they didn’t have time to think about it. They were falling.

All of Slipknot’s sadistic training about heights paid off. With the help of Icarus and Tempest, Bailey was able to get all four of them to the ground safely.

And then they collapsed to one knee. Why… why weren’t their legs working?

They looked down to their side, where they’d felt the impact of something cold. The handle of a knife sprouted from their skin like a weed.

That’s not supposed to be there, Bailey thought.

Like a weed, they plucked it from where it wasn’t supposed to be.

That was when the pain truly set in. Bailey gasped at the sudden intensity of it, falling to their hands and knees under the unrelenting onslaught.

Suddenly Foxfire was there, hands warm against Bailey’s skin. They pressed against the wound, making the pain worse. Why were they making it worse? Bailey groaned and tried to push them away, but was too weak.

Foxfire was shouting, but Bailey had trouble focusing on the words. The hero’s face softened with something like… concern? What were they concerned about? Had one of the heroes gotten hurt?

“No, no, Poppet, look at me,” Foxfire said. “Look at me, there you go, keep your focus on me. You’re gonna be okay, just hang on. Hang on!”

Bailey smiled weakly. They rasped, “Bailey.”

“What? Don’t worry about anyone else, just keep looking at me. You’re okay; we’re gonna get you to our medic, just hang on, Poppet.”

Bailey shook their head. “Not Poppet. It’s Bailey.”

Their eyelids were so heavy, far too heavy to keep open. They smiled as their eyes slid shut. “My name is Bailey.”

They were going to go out under their own name, after all.

---

I don't kill my characters, don't kill me please! (Exceptions may apply to irredeemable whumpers. Of which I am not one. Again, please don't kill me.)

Taglist:

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ashintheairlikesnow · 2 years ago

Text

WIJ Day 6: Hold On

CW: Pet whump, fire, burns, panic, referenced past burns, some internalized dehumanization, BBU

Marc Sonders, Maliyah Sonders, and Beringer made their original appearance in Telling Time. This is for the @whumpmasinjuly prompt for day 6: Hold On

554897 takes the third shift, shooing the other daycare pets off to their beds in the tiny, cramped dorm behind the child development center. Only one adult really needs to be awake during these midnight hours, anyway - someone to handle night feedings, hand out cuddles if there are nightmares, change diapers or offer glasses of water and a sense of safety to tiny little people whose lives are entirely held in someone else's hands.

He knows how uncertain that can be - to know anything could happen, and you have to hope someone cares enough to help.

There is always someone awake in the daycare at Facility 001. And 554897, who everyone calls Beringer, volunteered to be awake tonight.

He's the one who knows how important tonight is, after all. The others couldn’t have been trusted with the truth. Beringer is the only one who can keep his mouth shut when a handler starts asking inconvenient questions.

It’s never the right handler asking, anyway. Easy to lie to all the wrong ones.

He learned that lesson a long time ago.

Beringer pads on silent bare brown feet over brightly colored rugs in the shape of rainbows, hearts, happy faces, and flowers towards the big windows that face out towards the parking lot. There’s a temporary tattoo of a green triceratops still wearing slowly away on the inside of one wrist peeking out from beneath his long-sleeved plain beige pajama top. The temp tattoo was a gift from one of the daycare kids. It’s flaking off like pixels dissolving on a screen, leaving the image of his skin and blood beneath.

Dissolving like the image of the smiling compliant perfect pet he’s always had to use to stay alive in a pit of vipers, laced with a couple harmless garden snakes. Took him a long time to be able to see the difference.

To figure out which garden snake will carry him away from here without swallowing him whole.

He keeps one hand closed around the tag that dangles from his collar, so it won't jingle. Around his wrist is a colorful bracelet made with giant beads by Handler Sonders' daughter Maliyah. Marc Sonders had come by last weekend shyly offering the gift. Beringer had played innocent surprise with the talent of a natural-born actor. It had been his idea for Mallie to make one as a way to bond with him, he’d sent the little ziploc-bag of beads and plastic ‘string’ home with her. He’d expected it, and he’d wanted Marc to be the one to bring it. Made a production out of trading, insisting Marc wear it for me, when you come to see me.

He hasn’t taken his off, either.

Beringer tries not to think too much about why.

He steps carefully around the occasional small air mattresses, each one with a child laying atop it, a blanket and pillow from home and a stuffie for comfort, too. They run the gamut of bunnies and puppies and kitties and bears, clutched in itty bitty arms. Along the walls are infants in cribs. They sleep with grunts and huffs and groans, shifting and moving their little bodies. He smiles at the sound. He might hate a lot of things here, but he really does love the kids.

He fights how his throat wants to close.

He’s going to miss them.

Time for regrets when you have what you want, he reminds himself. For now, only look forward to the future.

It’s sort of an exciting feeling just to have one.

His eyes scan over the sleeping children with fondness. Some of them he has known since they were four months old, tiny infants he could hold in his arms turned into wiggly toddlers who never sit still. Some, like Mallie Sonders, will go on to real school soon and leave him behind.

Beringer is always the one left behind, the one who cannot leave. Seeing them as big brothers to new classroom charges, big sisters, big siblings who smile and wave or give hugs and keep on growing, where Beringer can’t see.

Can’t shepherd them, can’t help shape the grown-ups they’ll be.

The nanny pets are the lucky ones, he thinks, the Platonics who get to watch their children growing all the way through. Even some of the Romantics get to bear their own, hold infants in their arms that don’t get taken away at the end of the day. Daycare pets are damned to lose their babies after just a few short years, again and again, until they grow numb to the grieving.

But Beringer isn’t going to have to lose his any longer. He won’t have to watch them walk away, won’t have to give high-fives with tears in his eyes to eight-year-olds who barely remember his face.

Not anymore.

He has spent so many years in just these few rooms, staring through the crayon-scribbled drawings and painted papers at the parking lot outside, wondering at the suggestion of trees just a little further than he can see.

Maintenance probably assumes he’s the lucky one, since he gets to see anything at all.

The floor-to-ceiling windows all along one side, marked with the construction-paper flowers and plastic 'stained glass' projects they've made, are cold against his hand as he looks out, grazing fingertips along the glass. Beyond the parking lot, the fence winds around the perimeter, seven feet of concrete topped with razor wire - not to keep anyone out, but to keep potential runaways in.

The gate the employees badge through before they can park - a little station where a man usually sits inside reading magazines and thrift-store novels while casually ignoring the gate going up and down and up and down again - is simply standing wide open.

The man who usually sits there is gone.

554897 smiles, a small and private expression.

That's step one.

There’s a deep breath behind him, and he turns, scanning the sleeping children until he sees little Jill Frugelmann, stretching her arms over her head. She yawns, eyes fluttering open, seeing Beringer and smiling hazily at him before she slides right back into slumber.

He smiles back.

Maliyah Sonders pushes a blanket off herself and heads for the little bathroom off in the corner, never even looking at anyone. She’s the earliest fully potty-trained kiddo he’s dealt with so far.

The back of his neck prickles above and below his collar as he says nothing, waiting and waiting. It’s hell, staying in this holding pattern. He’s waited so many years for something to change - and it’s been weeks since the notes started appearing in Laira Grant’s lunchboxes, notes he answers in his own slightly childish scrawl and sends back.

If it had been a trap, he’d have been hauled away, downstairs to be refurbed or just handed over the maintenance, chained to a mop bucket for the rest of his life. If it had been a trap…

But it hadn’t been. He’s sure of it, now.

He’s sure because he has to be, because if he’s wrong the consequences are… not unimaginable, exactly. He can imagine them very well. But he doesn’t want to linger too long, or he’ll lose his nerve.

A flash of light catches his attention and he looks back outside. It’s coming from the parking lot, slightly off to the left. If he squints, he can almost see them out there, a group of four or five. There’s another ten scattered around, getting into place. He sees shadows moving, silhouettes that don’t resolve into details.

The light keeps going. One deliberately slow flash, then a quick one. A pause. Three slow flashes. A quick blink, two more slow.

N. O. W.

It’s the sign he’s been waiting for.

He gives one last mournful look at the latest round of art projects - macaroni glued to paper, some paintings and drawings, tissue-paper flowers. He’d been so proud of how well the kids had done with all of them. At least some of the parents have taken photos, anyway…

Right on time, the scent of smoke starts to settle slowly downwards, piped through the vents. The first round isn’t real smoke, but it’s meant to look and smell like it, and Beringer moves fast towards the bedroom the daycare workers use in the back.

He sticks his head in. “I smell smoke!” His voice is a little too flat to sound sincerely surprised, but they’re all asleep, the other five, some until he literally shakes them to get them to start swimming back to consciousness unwillingly. “I smell-... there’s a fire, come on, we have to get the kids!”

223654 groans and swats at him, pulling a blanket over her head. Beringer has to yank it off, irritated, even as the others wake with shouts of alarm as the scent of smoke gets stronger, the haze a little more complete. It’s not real, yet - Beringer knows how real smoke feels when it stings your eyes, although he isn’t sure why he knows that - but it will be, and he’s on a time limit before people could get hurt.

“Hold your effing horses,” ‘654 mutters, then goes still. She pulls the blanket back and blinks, looking upwards. “D’you smell smoke, ‘897?”

“Yes. That is why I just woke you up at 2 a.m., you piece of dull cheese, come on! We have to get the kids!”

“Right, right-... darn it… oh, heck-” ‘654 finally manages to essentially just roll off the bed onto the floor, but she’s on her feet a second later. Around him, the others murmur in worried voices. This is new, unexpected. There’s no direction from a handler, no one but them to take care of their charges in what they believe is an emergency.

Beringer swallows, squares his shoulders, and steps up.

“654 and 339, grab the walkies strollers, they hold six apiece and that’ll take care of our 1s and the young 2s. 504, have the older 2s, the threes, and the fours hold hands behind you and walk in a line. 505 can help you. 112, you take the cribs for the two little ones. I’ll make sure everyone is out and nobody is left behind.”

He smiles at them, projecting confidence and strength. The others, clearly relieved to see someone who at least pretends to know what to do right now, immediately follow their assigned tasks.

Beringer takes a deep breath.

The smoke is settling in his hair and sleeves, and he has a painful flash of the idea of a bar, a cigarette in his mouth, laughing while holding up a lighter to a smiling girl-

He shakes off the pain and keeps moving. Memories just get in the way.

For a while, he just flits from one to another. He helps 112 to get the two cribs pushed out into the lobby first, moves along the mattresses to shush the crying toddlers and young children as they’re reluctantly woken and realize something is wrong. No one pays much attention to him, not right now.

Especially not when the fire alarm goes off suddenly, a shrieking repetitive wail broken only by a disembodied metallic voice announcing EVACUATE BUILDING ONE, EVACUATE BUILDING ONE.

That’s the sign that the fake fire has became a real one.

They promised him, in those secret notes, that only this building will burn, and that they don’t want to hurt anyone. They promised, and like all the good little pets, Beringer has to hope and trust that the promises aren’t lies.

Once everyone is out, he heads back to finish his own part of the job. In the supply closet next to the potty-training bathroom, he finds the small can of solvent cleaner he’d stolen from a maintenance cart a week ago, a few old rags, and a matchbook. His heart is starting to pound, banging around within his chest, screaming at him for his betrayal.

The handlers will be upset.

The handlers will be angry.

The handlers-

He pushes past the terror and closes trembling hands around the can and the rags, carrying them out and pouring solvent on one, another, yet another, until seven rags are soaked and lined up along the outside wall. It doesn’t matter if it’s obvious arson, because the people who set the first fire have promised to claim this one, too.

Then, finally, he goes to the little bathroom for his final act before whatever the hell this is about to turn into - and finds Mallie, right where she’d gone for the bathroom break she takes every single night around two in the morning, her dark eyes big and scared.

“It’s so loud!” She shouts, and reaches for him. “It’s so loud, make it stop, make the noise stop!”

“Hey, Mal-pal,” Beringer says, voice as soothing as he can make it when he’s nearly shouting to be heard. “There’s a fire, but everyone is safe. We just need to go and find your daddy, okay? Things are about to get kind of scary, and we should find your daddy so he can take care of us now. It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you. It’s okay, come here-”

She nods, chin wobbling, and Beringer’s heart hurts at having to scare her like this. But it’s the only way, he tells himself. It’s the only way he can get away clean in the chaos and confusion, the only way it might take a couple of days for anyone to care enough to look for him.

He sweeps her up into his arms, carrying her back towards the door and setting her down on her feet. Out in the lobby, chaos is starting to reign as the few handles on duty this late at night come boiling up to evacuate. Beringer swallows back his loathing - if it were a real fire, those bastards would be abandoning the trainees in the cells down below. Sure, there’s a sprinkler system and big locking doors and some other things Marc Sonders explained to him when he, ever so innocently, asked about what would happen in case of fire, but…

But it’s still leaving them to be terrified and alone in the cold light, not knowing where the fire is or if it will roast them alive in their cells.

He hates them all.

He doesn’t hate Marc, but he should. But he doesn’t. But he should-

He shouldn’t. He can use Marc, at least, for now. That’s all.

“Stay right here,” He says, setting Mallie slowly down near the door. “Okay, honey? Stay right here. I have one more thing I need to do. Then I’m going to take you outside to be safe.”

The alarm pauses, briefly - then starts again, at a slightly higher pitch. That’s two fires.

Beringer digs the matchbook back out of his pocket and heads for the window, ready to set the third. It’s easy - light the match and drop it to the cloth, wash the fire kick up, watch it take the edges of the papers he purposely hung too low in the windows. Set one more fire by the art supplies, knowing the paint cabinet burns easy, too. Set a couple of the rugs and mattresses on fire, pretending his heart doesn’t ache at knowing so many stuffies will be burned beyond recognition.

But the kids are safe.

He would never have done this if it would have hurt the kids.

He clings to that - he isn’t totally selfish, he isn’t a monster trying to be free when he doesn’t deserve it. No, he’s just… taking his chance, and hopefully no one will get hurt. That’s all. This is… this is understandable, and he’s done everything to make sure the children, the babies, are safe.

With the flames making their slow way up the window behind him, he turns with the warmth at his back to see Mallie still standing by the door, tears running down her heels. Crying with a silence he can’t bear, louder than the crackling of the flames. He grabs her up in his arms again and pushes open the door with his shoulder, running out to join the people who are streaming towards the exits. Handlers, the upstairs maintenance staff - not the pets, those will be trapped down in the basement levels, too, but the paid maintenance who put on a good show up here where it’s all above-board and normal. He even sees a couple marketing people who must’ve put in an overnight to finish a project.

Demo pets, holding their handlers’ hands, are rushed past him. Perfect actors with perfect hair and perfect clothes, as frightened as any bad pet before a refurb. Beringer can smell the smoke out here, too.

“You made fires,” Mallie wails, but her arms are tight around his neck. “I saw you!” You made the scary sounds! You made the fire”!

“Ssssshhh.” He doesn’t have time to explain. Can’t even begin to know how he could explain it, or convince this absurdly honest perfect little girl to lie for him. “Sssshhh, let’s just get outside now, okay? Let’s just get away from it.”

“You made it-”

“Mallie, hush baby, let’s just-... oh, here we go.” He sets his expression to one of wide-eyed shock as he sees Marc Sonders, pushing past others to make a beeline for the daycare. Beringer grabs him by the arm with his free hand, his other arm holding up Mallie, watching Marc look at his daughter with a stricken relief that she’s all right, hands to either side of her face, before he pulls her away from Beringer and holds her tightly, gripped on as though she’ll fade away if he lets go even the slightest bit.

“Mallie! Oh, Ber, you’ve got her, thank God. Oh, thank God. Just hold on, baby girl, we’re going to get out of here.”

“Daddy,” Mallie cries. “Daddy, it’s so scary, I’m so scared!”

“I know, honey. I know. Come on, Ber, you come with us, you can wait in my car with me.”

“No!” Mallie looks over at him, wide-eyed, and Beringer swallows against the guilt in his heart, seeing the little girl he loves - one of the children he has loved so much - fear him. “He can’t come!”

“Mallie, the rules don’t matter right now.” Marc shushes her as she tries to protest again. “Honey, let’s just get somewhere safe, okay?”

She swallows, and pushes her face into the side of his neck. “Okay, Daddy.”

Beringer exhales, closing his eyes. He can apologize to her later, he can, he’ll make it better-

His eyes fly open again. “Wait. Just-... one sec, Marc, please, stay right here.”

“Uh-... okay?”

Beringer doesn’t explain. He just turns and pushes his way back into the daycare’s main room. He’s met with a blast of heat, his little fires meeting the bigger one the pet lib group he’s helping set to cover their tracks as they break in. He inhales and the air is too hot and full of smoke to make it to his lungs. He coughs as he drops down to crawl on his hands and knees, trying to get under the smoke, squinting as his eyes sting. He reaches out-

So close-

His girlfriend is screaming as she’s pinned under burning wood and if he can just reach a little further-

His heart splits in two from the sudden burst of agony, and he groans, dropping limp to the floor. He can’t stop coughing enough to inhale, his hands are groping blindly along mattresses holding to find the right one.

Then, he’s got it. Two small round shapes, soft with age and washings, and the flutters of blankets attached to them. Maliyah’s loveys, Mommy and Baby Lovey, are in his hand.

His face aches from the heat, he can feel it blasting against his skin. What did they start these fires with? It’s spreading too fast, too easily. He runs out of air to cough with, wheezing hoarse and weak. He doesn’t turn around, just crawls straight backwards. Turning around would waste precious time, what little air he has left.

His feet bump wood that clunks, the door, and he sits up with his back against it, feeling blindly with his hand. He can’t breathe-

He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t breathe-

The door smacks him as it opens, pushing him forwards, and there’s a strong hand gripped round his arm that pulls him out of the blistering oven of heat, yanks him to his feet, and he turns to see Marc, blurry, crushing him close in a hug. He coughs, inhales, coughs again.

“What the hell-” Marc starts, but Beringer pushes the loveys into Mallie’s arms even as a coughing fit wracks his entire body, and he fits himself against Marc. The frightened pet desperate for leadership, even though he is a leader, when he wants to be.

“You saved Mommy and Baby Lovey!” Mallie says, eyes wide, and hugs them close.

Beringer’s voice is a rasping whisper when he tries to speak. “Please, Marc, just, just take me outside, please.”

Everything smells like smoke. He keeps reaching, but she isn’t reaching back any longer. The heat-

It hurts-

His skin cracks, it blisters and peels all down his back, he screams but her silence is so much louder-

Marc nods and pulls him along, out the double-door entrance, a place Beringer has never been before. Behind them there’s a cracking that’s far too loud, the groan of the structure struggling with the flames.

Once they push through the door, the crush of people around them, the heavy scent of smoke suddenly lightens.

The ghost of the fire before - the one that turned his back and arms to twists and ropes of scarring he hides under long sleeves even in summer, burying the flickers of memory as far beneath himself as he can - fades. Beringer takes a breath as he feels a breeze against his face and his hands, feels the concrete still holding a little warmth from the day under his feet. He almost stops, just to experience it, but Marc yanks on his arm and they keep moving, weaving through the others who stumble with the same desperate fear and confusion Beringer is trying to fake. Around them, people yell, the sound of fire sirens starts to rise and fall from a distance as the first trucks head for the Facility.

“Oh my God,” Marc whispers.

Mallie’s voice is a whimper. “Daddy? What’s happening, Daddy?”

“It’s a fire, baby, but it’s okay, it looks like-... it looks like everyone is out, it really does. I think everyone’s going to be okay, baby girl. Just keep holding onto Daddy, just keep holding on.”

She nods against his shoulder. Baby Lovey peeks up over her arm, flopped slightly, its odd stitched-in face eternally looking just a little bit surprised.

The sirens don’t sound at all like they do on the cartoons the children watch. Beringer frowns, wondering what else the television shows have lied to him about.

Before the three of them get any further than the edge of the sidewalk where the parking pavement begins, there are a series of loud booms, one two three four, and the people scream. Beringer skids to a stop as the ground shakes under his feet - he didn’t know anything about this - and looks over his shoulder.

The windows of the daycare show a growing inferno inside, but one side of the building - a long, low-level area that holds the currently-closed cafeteria and a bricked-in walkway to the pet clinic off to one side - no longer exists.

It’s just rubble, and a big hole torn in the side of the building. More flames, crackling and reaching greedy fingers to grasp at the oxygen outside. Beringer stares through it at smoke and dust. Figures dart inside, dressed all in black and wearing respirators with small tanks on their backs.

Everyone else is fleeing, but these seven run in.

The pet lib group who has been sending the notes, he thinks, and swallows, hard. There’s no one in the cafeteria at two in the morning, he tells himself, but if they lied to him about explosions, what if they lied about not wanting anyone to get hurt, too?

What if the trainees locked in their cells down below-

“What the fuck was that?” Marc gasps, looking as well, sliding his arm around Beringer’s shoulders. The two of them stand there, Mallie’s face buried against Marc’s neck, and stare together.

“I don’t kn-know,” Beringer says, and he’s not lying. He can hear wailing children through the noise and the chaos, and strains to see until he catches sight of the other daycare pets, circled far enough away to be safe with all their babies and children in tow. He tries to count, although the light from the streetlights isn’t great. It casts shadows too starkly, it’s hard with al the children clinging and crying and moving to be sure.

One-... two-... two cribs. Two infants crying, so that’s Yolanda and Markus. The six ones in their stroller - Hailie, Bethany, Myklaylah, John, Brayden, Ben... the six twos in theirs Addysin, Ophelia, William, Peter, Edward... a parent picking a three up - Elizabeth - and clutching them to her chest, weeping, two handlers together for one of the fours, that’d be Henry… He doesn’t breathe until he knows they’re all there, every single one - except for Mallie, of course, safe in her father’s arms.

“Marc…” He turns to look at the man, who looks back at him, dazed and struggling to process what he sees. Another boom rattles the parking lot, setting off car alarms and adding to the commotion - it’s a car, off to the side, suddenly going up in flames as well. Then a second car. Then a third.

Mallie screams. “Daddy!”

Marc shudders and pulls Beringer close, turning him so their foreheads rest against each other, Mallie sandwiched between them. She’s crying, weeping openly, but the sounds all around are so loud Beringer can barely hear her.

“I don’t even like this fucking job,” Marc says, in a voice like a faint, thin, strained wire, pulled tight enough to snap. “And people want to kill me over it, B-Ber.”

People like me, Beringer thinks.

His back itches, phantom aches from the scars that make up most of his skin from the collarbones down.

“She was probably still alive when you freed yourself-”

“Because you have to hurt us,” Beringer says, finding his opening, his way in, his escape in the pain in Marc Sonders’s voice. “To make us good. And we don’t want to be hurt, Marc. None of us want to be hurt.”

“What? But you-... you sign up for-” There’s a pause, and a look passes over Marc’s face that Beringer can’t read in the darkness. “Ber… if I told you I looked at your acquisition paperwork… I know I’m not supposed to, but if I said I did-”

“No,” Beringer says, and isn’t sure why. He shivers as he sees two of the daycare pets catch sight of him in the crowd, waving at him, trying to wave him over. He looks back to Marc, speaking as fast as he can. “Please, just put me in your car and drive and we can talk about it then. Get me off the grounds. Please, even if you bring me back later, just let me see the stars before I have to go back in there. Please.”

Marc looks at him, startled by the desperation in his usually-placid voice, the intensity. “Beringer, you’re-... you’re not allowed-”

“Please,” Beringer whispers. “Please, just let me watch TV with you in a real house. Just one time, Marc, please, I’m begging you, please-”

“Well…”

Beringer takes a chance and pushes forwards, pressing a kiss to Marc’s unresisting lips, pulling back to see an expression of such comical surprise he even finds the time to laugh despite his racing heart, and kisses him again. It’s a breathless, terrified laughter, but it’s laughter nonetheless.

“Come on, Marc. Just this once. Let me be a person, just for a while.” He nuzzles against Marc’s cheekbone, lips grazing stubble. “Let me be your person.”

It works when the Romantics do it, right?

Marc swallows, touching his own fingers to his lips, and then nods. He pulls Beringer to his car, unlocking it before they get there, even opening Beringer’s door so he can slip inside quickly. “I’ll get Mallie in her carseat, you get on the passenger side. Hold on, Ber, you’ll see stars tonight.”

“I hope so.” Beringer smiles at him as he buckles his seatbelt, watches Marc climb into the driver’s side. Marc starts the car and flies out of the lot, past the emptied open gate, and down the road just as firetrucks come screaming past them to go in.

Beringer catches the barest glimpse of the looks of shock on the faces of the other daycare pets, and then they’re gone. It’s gone, the whole damn place is gone.

One hand goes up to his collar, to rub his thumb over his number, his name.

He’ll wait a couple of hours. Do whatever it is Marc Sonders needs him to do, to make it worthwhile. He won’t be very good, but maybe Marc doesn’t need him to be. Then, once Marc’s guard is down, he’ll knock him over the head and get the hell away from this place for good.

He just has to wait for his chance.

If he does it right, he won’t have to kill him. He can just, just maybe get him to drink too much, or see if he has sleeping pills. Beringer has watched television late at night where they crush up sleeping pills into someone’s hot chocolate or pudding or whatever to drug them. Maybe Marc has trouble sleeping, Beringer offers to help… Maybe he can do this with no one getting hurt, he doesn’t really want to kill him, he’s the only person who has ever been really nice to Beringer, maybe he can-

Marc clears his throat, breaking into Beringer’s thoughts. “Um. Hey.”

Beringer finds himself looking over with a wry smile - not a feigned expression at all. He really doesn’t want to have to hurt Marc Sonders. “Hey?”

“What if… um.” Marc clears his throat again. Even in the dark, it’s clear he’s probably blushing. A streetlight briefly illuminates his face as he glances over, then back at the road. Behind them, Mallie whispers to her loveys. “What if, we… uh. Never came back, actually? Like... what if I just kept driving?”

Beringer blinks.

Waits a second.

Blinks again.

Then he whispers, “Wh-... what?”

Marc looks away. “Yeah, you’re right, it’s probably a stupid idea, just-”

“N-no, I didn’t say, uh, I didn’t say not to, you just surprised me.” Beringer leans over, worried this brief bright chance will be lost, and lays his hand over Marc’s where it rests on the gear shift between them. Marc swallows, an audible click in his throat. Shifts so they’re palm to palm, then pulls Beringer’s hand up until he can kiss the back of his knuckles.

“I don’t want to go back to work,” Marc confesses, turning left at a stoplight. The world seems empty at three in the morning, devoid of everything but the streetlights and the three of them here in the car.

“Me neither,” Beringer replies, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“I hate everything about my job except for you. You and paying the rent are literally the only reason I keep going and, you know what, if we just leave, then... then i don’t have to pay rent anymore...”

“Oh.” Beringer hadn’t considered that, that Marc might... not actually want to be a handler. That he might be willing to take the risk of quitting, or even just... vanishing into the darkness after the fire, just like Beringer plans to do. “Oh, uh. Then... where do you want to go?”

“I’ve heard about a town for people like you,” Marc says. He merges onto the interstate, heading due north. As they leave the heart of the city, the orange glow of all the lights starts to fade and the stars wink into existence one by one. “We know kind of where it is. What if-”

“Take me there.” He doesn’t even need Marc to finish the sentence. “Take me to that town.”

“I mean, I don’t know exactly where-”

“Take me as far as you can. I want to see it, I want to see-... everything.” He laughs again, more sincerely this time, as the city - the only place he has ever known - is finally and fully behind them. “I want to see anything.”

“I want to see you,” Marc says, voice low.

Beringer thinks of the scars under his clothes. Fifty-five percent of his body, something deep within him whispers. Weeks in the hospital fighting to heal. Twisted into a shadow of someone else long before WRU took his mind. “No you don’t.”

“I’m pretty sure I do.”

“No-”

“Ber. Just let me feel something for somebody, it’s been a while and I’m not great at it, but... I know what I feel about you. Let me have that.”

Beringer looks over at him, and his heart… shifts, in a strange way. It’s almost a fluttering, as if his racing heart has found something new to fly towards or away from. His nerves feel like they’re on fire, like he’s made of sparks burning away the edges, showing something else beneath.

Something... clean.

“Yeah,” He says, and leans back, closing his eyes. He can smell the smoke all over himself, clinging to clothes and hair, even his eyelashes.

He discovers, to his surprise, that he wants more of this new kind of burn.

P.S. No one is actually hurt in the fire, for the record.

Tagging people who have expressed interest: @astrobly @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @wildfaewhump @whump-tr0pes @hackles-up @peachy-panic @winedark-whump @boxboysandotherwhump @whumptywhumpdump

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