duty shift

Play that clarinet at 0300 ONE MORE TIME, I dare you

Luke is overwhelmed by the truth, and is suddenly protective of his sister.
A plea to the employers of millennials

Please. Raise the minimum wage to $15/hr. Why? Because it’ll likely end up unsustainable and you’ll replace us all with machines. And right now, I am completely on fucking board with that.

I have been abused, mocked, humiliated, and threatened during my time in retail. People intruding into my personal space is only the least of it. I’ve had a manager spreading ugly rumors about my personal life because I’m “naive” and “stuck up.” (His definition of stuck up? Being tired during the night shift. Apparently this proves I’m weak and can’t hack it, thus coddled and snooty. I am not even fucking kidding right now. He said it to my face.)

I’ve had people screaming at me, calling me a lazy idiot, when I fail to notice them right off the bat because I’m busy answering the phones, manning the register, and working in the aisles all at once.

Day shift managers shift their duties onto us because they oh-so-diligently refuse to clock overtime hours that would be expensive to the company–leaving us to work the overtime and stand the heat.

People leave biohazards jammed in the sink, hidden on the shelves, sitting in the aisles. People come charging in at 1:58 AM, wanting to purchase an armload of liquor from the liquor section when state law prohibits sales after 2 AM and the liquor department takes five minutes to unlock. (This is my fault, by the way.) People sop up stolen tequila with diapers and, yes, leave them for us to find. People get in fights in the aisles and the cops have to be called. People accuse me of racism for asking for clarification. Note: I don’t hate you for the color of your skin, I’m just not very strong on AAVE and need to be sure what kind of cigarettes you wanted! 

So please. Replace us with machines. Yes, it will suck for those of us being unemployed. But right this moment, I welcome our new automated-checkstand overlords, because it will piss all these people off.

The screaming bitch can’t argue with a machine. A computer lets you into the liquor section then refuses to sell you the alcohol because whoops, now it’s after 2 AM, can’t do it, doesn’t care. Calling a robot a racist, a retard, or any of the various charming modern equivalents of “poxy whore” won’t move it a fucking inch. And the managers can sexually harass Checkerbot 5000 to their hearts’ content, but it will never give them the satisfaction of flinching.

This is how the machine war begins. Not with a bang, but with a “May I help you?”

pondering recyclability

a random scrapped scene from ’Morphine’ ( FF.net | AO3 | Tumblr )

There was no better way to describe the current environment other than ‘dead quiet’. It was more literal than it was figurative. Dr Morgan Hooper was the pathologist on duty this night shift and as he walked carefully from slab to slab making careful notes, not a sound was heard. On occasion he would whistle, raising a surprised eyebrow when an anomaly presented itself. It was oddly peaceful, and while such an environment would have sent most people running home screaming, this was Dr Hooper’s comfort zone and he found it utterly serene.

The serenity this evening, however, was soon shattered when the doors to the morgue burst open, causing Dr Hooper to almost drop his clipboard.

“Oh, it’s you,” he said, adjusting his black-rimmed glasses that had slipped from the shock.

The interruption had been from the abrupt, but not unusual, entrance of England’s finest consulting detective, Samantha Holmes. Her long dark coat was a stark contrast to Morgan’s long white one as they stood at opposite ends of the morgue, facing one another. It was as though a demon had come to meet an angel, but with a sea of corpses between.

“I need a hand,” she said, absent of civilities as usual.
“Sam,” greeted Morgan, remembering his own, before returning to the next unprocessed cadaver he was to examine.
“Did you hear me?” asked Samantha, somewhat impatiently.
“Perfectly,” said Morgan, looking up from a Mr Jenkin’s sunken, grey chest.

Boone nonsense

1. Boone has light sensitivity/photophobia and as such, rarely removes his sunglasses, even indoors. This is also one of the driving reasons behind him claiming the night shift guard duties in Novac, rather than day shift.

2. Boone came from a family of farmers, a bit too far off the beaten path to get Boone into an actual school. It was actually his father who taught him to read and write. Keeping strict ledgers on what they produced, kept, and sold, his father, knew eventually the boy would need to learn and realized that teaching through application would work to both their benefits. Thus, Boone learns to read and write and in turn, his father got help keeping records up to date.

3. While he can’t translate Latin or make sense of half the things Arcade knows, because he doesn’t write in chicken scratch shorthand, he has the far better handwriting between the two of them. 

Femslash February day 15: Vampire

In daylight, Sol was fine. When she stopped to think about that, she found it ironic. Consciousness afforded her a degree of safety, barricading most of the memories behind daily routine, even if the routine itself contained its own array of potential dangers. The waking world had been hellish for awhile, but she had largely managed to minimise her trigger reactions and move on. But that was daytime. Nights were a different story.

For awhile after she returned from active duty, she worked night shifts and slept during the day, thinking the light and activity outside the flat would somehow affect her subconscious mind. But she could tell the backwards schedule was draining on Aviva, as much as she tried not to show it (for someone who fancied herself a rockstar, the Tiefling led a surprisingly tame and cozy private life). It also did little to stem the terrors; the only difference was Aviva often wasn’t there when they woke her. So she visited her mandated therapist, practiced the prescribed exercises and tried her best to sleep through each night.

The bedroom was warm and they had left a window cracked to invite in the cool night air. Aviva fell asleep almost immediately, her breathing deep and even, but Sol could not. Apparently it was going to be one of those nights. She played absently with the end of one of her braids, looking for invisible patterns on the ceiling of the darkened room. Sometimes she wished her people could still practice reverie, but that had fallen by the wayside centuries ago. Perhaps a state of semi-conscious rest was exactly what she needed. The thought bemused her.

Sol glanced toward the massive white dog flumped quite comfortably on the floor. Soft Girl was the soundest sleeper in the flat, despite her delusions of grandeur as a mighty watchdog. She considered getting up to ruffle the dog’s fur, but there was nothing to be gained from riling her up this late. Wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Sol sighed.

As if on cue, Aviva’s little black cat appeared at the foot of the bed and began to make her way upward. Sol raised an eyebrow and carefully hid the end of her braid underneath herself, lest the cat mistake it for a toy (again). The cat paused, considered her options, then stepped lightly onto Sol’s leg and continued her journey. Sol watched as the cat padded onto her torso, stopped, sat, and blinked at her. Sol returned the gaze. She still not quite sure about cats. But Aviva loved them, and she tolerated them for Aviva’s sake.

Slowly, Sol extended a hand. The cat leaned forward to meet it, rubbing her head against the curve of Sol’s palm and emitting a low, rumbling purr. A moment later she circled herself and settled into a ball on Sol’s stomach, making eye contact with the Drow just long enough to ensure she intended to continue petting. Sol stroked the little cat almost unconsciously, and she continued to purr in response.

It was oddly calming, Sol discovered. She could feel the tension in her body slowly dissipating, as if the furry creature was vibrating it out of her, or even absorbing it into herself. There were once Humans who thought that cats were energy vampires, and Sol could see where the myth had started. She smiled slightly at the sensation of soft fur against her fingers. Maybe Aviva had a point.

Aviva mumbled in her sleep and rolled her back to Sol. Suddenly at attention, the little cat stood and stretched, casting one final glance at the Drow before she stepped off her stomach and hopped up onto Aviva’s hip. She perched precariously for an instant, earning another unconscious mumble. Then she was gone.

Sol traced Aviva’s outline in the dark and realised she was deeply and utterly exhausted. Whatever energy had been keeping her awake had vanished with the cat. She curled herself against Aviva and pulled the Tiefling gently into her arms, grateful in that moment for many small treasures. Soon, she fell into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

The Bakery was quiet that day, which was good, because Sparks (for some unknown reason) had been placed on register duty for a shift. In swaggers Astrid, powerfully built, and dressed in a tanktop that reads: “THIS BEAST EATS FASCISTS.”

Fortunately she also eats donuts, and that’s probably why she’s here. Probably. She steps up to the register, smiling - all teeth and fire.



Pairing: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin

Rating: T


Perhaps because of the late hour, or the heat limiting most duties to half day shifts, the hammam is surprisingly empty when they reach it, their voices going hushed in the echoing room. Clarke realizes as she glances at Bellamy that they’ve never been entirely alone here together. They’ve rinsed off here together before, but that’s easier when they’re surrounded by their friends: Bellamy distracted by Brian snapping a towel at him and Jasper splashing everyone in cold water. Clarke tends to sit with Raven, stretching their legs out on the warmed metal after they’ve scrubbed down and enjoying the steam and hubbub of Arkadians around them.

Bellamy falters as he seems to realize the intimacy of it, the quiet, half lit room that smells of clean, light soap and the soft drip of water into wooden and metal buckets alike, the lap of it in the troughs.

Continue on AO3!

We Were Walking On Moonlight

Summary- The night of the masquerade was one of the most memorable and life changing nights for two people. For it was the night a young cadet and medic in training first met, causing their realities to shift completely.

Soulmate AU!!! Finally got around to picking something and writing it.  Soulmate AU the one where you can straight up talk to them in dreams AFTER you find them. Set in “canon-verse”, Meet on ARK AU as well. Just ALL the AU


The dreams didn’t start until Bellamy went to sleep the evening after the Unity Day Masquerade Ball, and at first he was confused as to why they started at all. He remembered meeting the beautiful blonde with the heart-stopping blue eyes, Clarke, at the dance but neither of them understood the dreams. Just that every night they met in their dreams and were able to sit and talk without worrying about duties or job shifts or Ark Class.

“What-what is this?” a feminine voice carried over to where Bellamy’s dream had left him standing. He turned and spotted a blonde with a confused look on her face as she voiced the same question he had running through his mind.

Not very often did his dreams seem this life like and almost always he never remembered them the next day, but this just seemed unforgettable. Here standing before him was the princess of the Ark whom he had met this previous evening and danced with before the flare alarm went off and his whole life shifted. But now it seems it will shift again for a different reason.

“Clarke?” Bellamy asked walking toward her. The blonde spun toward him with a replica of the confused face he was sure he had painted on.

“Bellamy? What are- aren’t I dreaming?”

Keep reading

Imagine that you’ve been assigned to the USS Voyager and it’s your first posting. You’ve been nervous about it since you got it, but for the first several days it had been uneventful. The stop over on Deep Space Nine was nice, you did a little shopping on the promenade and then re-boarded Voyager with a sense of things being far less scary than you had originally feared. So far it wasn’t much different from your last few months at the Academy with all the internships and training scenarios. You were more confident, even if you were still a little nervous. But then you were pulled through the badlands, and halfway across the galaxy.

The roommate you were assigned with hadn’t made it, the crew was a third Maquis, and your only way home was now little more than wreckage and particle dust floating through space. You helped to clean up the death and damage, pulled a double duty shift, and when you returned to your quarters you had to clean up there too. You would have cried yourself to sleep, but you were too exhausted to.

The next few days you were busy doing more of the same, but that feeling of terror had come back. This posting was anything except uneventful, but you were alive, and not everyone could say that.

A few days after being stranded in this new quadrant of space, you are called into the Captain’s ready room. You are terrified that you’ve done something wrong, and out here you can’t ask for a reassignment. But when you arrive it’s to find Captain Janeway waiting with a tired smile.

“Can I get you something? Tea? Coffee?” the Captain offers. You are nervous still and politely decline. The nervousness eases after a few moments though. You aren’t in trouble, if anything you are being praised for your hard work over the last several days. You’re here simply because she wants to get to knew her crew, something that’s become important to her. You talk for a little awhile, and she offers the replicator again, and this time you accept. And when your drink is finished you thank her, and leave with far less of the nervousness than you had when you arrived.

You might be new to life on a starship, and far from home and family, but you’ve learned something about your new Captain. She cares immensely for her crew, she’s going to do everything she can to get you home safely. And you’re glad that if you had to be thousands of light years from home, that she’s the Captain you’re serving under.


A section of our staff video, and an accurate description of what happens during shifts.

Artemis was tired, the past month had been a living hell. She had been alone for the last month, her partner had been dragged away on a long mission. God she hasn’t even talked to him because of radio silence. The vigilante was on monitor duty, taking as many shifts as she could stay awake for so she didn’t have to go home to the empty house.


The Normal Scales

Optimus Prime had commanded every Autobot to submit to a psychological evaluation as a preventative measure, and taken the tests the following morning between the early briefing and his daily meeting with the Analysis department. to no one’s surprise, he’d been confirmed as fit for duty within the hour. No one, after all, was going to question the sanity of the Prime. Optimus had then made a point of encouraging his command cadre to set an example by scheduling their own sessions with the psychological team as soon as possible. Ironhide, of course, had protested–loudly–that “I don’t need anybody messin’ around in my head! I like it in there just the way it is!”

Prowl, seeing no alternative, had set the appointment for the beginning of his duty shift, in order to get the unpleasantness over with so he could dismiss it from his mind and focus on his job.

As he’d expected, the test questions were largely inane, bafflingly obscure in their purpose, and lacking in necessary information. Several of them set off strings of unproductive memories and upset his emotional balance–which was almost certainly what they were intended to do. Prowl contained his exasperation, considered the matter with his customary care, then set about addressing the problem.

He “corrected” the test questions.

Spooky stories to tell on your duty shift

Three years ago on the night before Halloween, I was finishing up my last round of the night. I hung out with the night host, gave costumed/tipsy residents candy and advice, and generally had a great time.

A resident dressed as Tito from Rocket Power came along. He was completely wasted and completely locked out. I told him that if he could give me an ancient Hawiian saying he could bypass copying the long, embarrassing “I locked myself out and I am a silly resident” section of our lockout form but he didn’t know any. While he scribbled away (asking me every so often if he could just break in through his own window), I went to get the master key…

It wasn’t there. Our RD pledged to rip anyone limb from limb if they lost it. None of my staff in the building could find it.

After frantic searching, I looked at the key log out sheet. I called the last person who signed it out. Since he wasn’t on duty, he was out partying. About 20 minutes away. Dressed as a sailor. With the key in the pocket of his little sailor pants.

We had a lot of fun waiting for him to walk all the way back.