Diagrama stanadyne injection pump

Unexpectedly looking for a car. Had it with Japanese cars w/6-speed automatics that aren't supposed to break. First, a Camry (ughh, I know) and now a 2016 Mazda3, 120k. Besides the tranny, the Mazda AC seems to be on its way out.
Had a B5 Passat 2.8 30v 5M, royal POS, but nice to drive. Also had an old Fit manual almost made it to 360k, and still own an 06 Accord k24 5M as a backup/hobby car. The Mazda needs to go, undecided on the Honda.
Looking at VW Golf/Jetta/Passat about 2015+, which are the best built and w/least issues? I don't care about car play, but blind spot would be nice. Decent performance on regular gas (and good handling) is a plus.
Which is best--- Golf, or doesn't it matter? 1.8t? I don't see getting another car with an auto transmission that lasts 120k. Any issues to look out for- direct injectIon causing gunk, or strange things like air pumps? Sunroofs?
Fwiw, the Mazda had a tranny flush at 50k and a drain & fill at 100k. Rarely driven hard. Tried to avoid CVT and dual-clutch, still had issues, twice.

I lent my car (Skoda Fabia) to a friend a few days ago and he accidentally filled it with gasoline instead of diesel. He didn't notice and drove the distance from the gas station to my house (about 10 km). When I tried to start my car the next morning, it made strange noises and stalled (I tried to start it about four times). Now the car is at the workshop and the tank will be drained next week. On the internet, I read mixed (experience) reports - from draining the tank and everything worked fine again (~500€) - to engine damage/high-pressure pump damage/injection system needs to be replaced (~3000€ or more). Has anyone had similar experiences and knows what kind of damage I should expect? Who has to pay for the damage and will the insurance cover anything?
The tank was nearly empty when he filled it, so there probably was a lot of gasoline in the tank while he drove home and when I tried starting the car.
Any help or experience reports are appreciated. I only bought the car last autumn (after saving for a long time) and therefore don't have the money for major repairs. I am really afraid it's irreparable, this would be my worst nightmare.

I lent my car (Skoda Fabia) to a friend a few days ago and he accidentally filled it with gasoline instead of diesel. He didn't notice and drove the distance from the gas station to my house (about 10 km). When I tried to start my car the next morning, it made strange noises and stalled (I tried to start it about four times). Now the car is at the workshop and the tank will be drained next week. On the internet, I read mixed (experience) reports - from draining the tank and everything worked fine again (~500€) - to engine damage/high-pressure pump damage/injection system needs to be replaced (~3000€ or more). Has anyone had similar experiences and knows what kind of damage I should expect? Who has to pay for the damage and will the insurance cover anything?
The tank was nearly empty when he filled it, so there probably was a lot of gasoline in the tank while he drove home and when I tried starting the car.
Any help or experience reports are appreciated. I only bought the car last autumn (after saving for a long time) and therefore don't have the money for major repairs. I am really afraid it's irreparable, this would be my worst nightmare.

They just issued a patch today and it seems to have made Meridia Dark Fluid injection missions more bearable. Difficulty 7 feels like Difficulty 7.... still might need to bring more machine gun sentries though, the shriekers are still swarming us near the extract after the last pump is done, on every mission of this type I've attempted so far.

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The following two brain scans were provided by the Neuro-Warfare branch of the Halcyon Security Division (HSD) for the purpose of analyzing the thoughts, behaviors, and information of notorious gangsters Vincent 'Troy' Cohen and Bruno (Deadname: Koraak Tel-Char). At the point of the recording of this archival shared, Bruno has since received his rebirth therapy, and Vincent is currently serving a long-term rehabilitative and reeducative sentence in the Erebus Supermax Prison on Io.
Warning: the contents of this archival shared may be especially disturbing to some audiences. Viewer discretion is advised.
Warning: the contents of this archival shard are for the sole purpose of analyzing the thought patterns and memories of certain degenerate criminals in an effort to ascertain vital information that can be used to eliminate their organizations. Only staff with clearance level Omega may view this archival shared, and the viewership of this archival shared by anyone of inadequate clearance level will lead to twenty years in prison and a fine of over a hundred thousand credits.
Booting up memory scan: Vincent 'Troy' Cohen, November 4th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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"Do you have visuals of the target, Troy?"
I knelt down in the alleyway, the bodies of me and my partners shrouded in long, waterproof, ashen-gray overcoats the shade of dirty street scum that we wore to ward off the constant heavy rainfall the color of osmium. Our faces were covered in a mix of scrapped respirators, visors, or full metal face masks carved with intricate designs to hide our identities. On our waists were our badges of honor: leather belts studded with interlocked rivets made from blackened titanium, each buckle forged of silver and shaped into the head of our gang's symbol, the black mamba. We hid amongst the shadows of the dark midday of Halcyon City, the heavy, oppressive rains blanketing the roads paved obsidian-black with asphalt and weathered concrete walkways. The street lamps were always on, like beacons of false hope in a storm of melancholy.
The city was dark and dreary as always, the planet of Proxima Centauri B, renamed Dawn's Lamentation over a century ago, orbited the red dwarf star of Proxima Centauri, and the atmosphere was thick with natural smog and ever-storming rain clouds. That didn't dissuade people from living here: there was plenty of money to be had for shrewd industrialists and hardworking pioneers, even in the urban sprawl. But that life also came with risks, especially for those on the bottom of the totem pole.
I was a ganger, and we were criminals; full stop. I won't assault you with some spiel about how we're the good guys fighting oppression because, at the end of the day, we could be just as bad, if not worse, than Halcyon's Security Division, or the HSD for short. We were traffickers, killers, extortionists, and money launderers. We dealt with everything from stolen tech and military-grade hardware to hard drugs and sentients.
Yes, sentients. We trafficked sentients, but not in the way you might think. They weren't prisoners, in fact, we were their saviors if they had the cash. We had developed a reputation for fighting the power, but it was still business: sure, freeing captives from the clutches of the Protectorate. The disruption of its many oppressive organizations held a certain satisfaction in my heart for sure, but we didn't help those who couldn't pay unless someone else paid on their behalf. It was about making sure me and my gang, my family, could live a decent life for another day.
It helped that most of us joined after leaving the state yard for partaking in acts of 'degeneracy' and 'anti-xenopet illegalities' as if those terms meant anything anymore other than that we were a threat to the local status quo. It was hard to pick up a job as a former inmate when even in something as harsh and backbreaking as a job in the iridium mines near the poles when the employment office had you blacklisted as a degenerate, which lead to the formation of many of the gangs: we needed to make a living somehow, and when all social programs were cut off from you unless you submitted for 're-education' and the only way to put food on the table was subverting, breaking, or even downright fighting the law, you did what you had to do or you died on the streets a scorned beggar.
It wasn't like the HSD made it easy for us on even a good day: the local HSD units were armed to the teeth with advanced, military-grade hardware that you'd often see on the front lines of the Second Authority War: armored assault transports, a myriad of advanced war droids, all sorts of chemical countermeasures that made tear gas seem like putting the garden hose on mist mode, and of course advanced firearms. Add that to the fact that they were authorized to use deadly force when they deemed it necessary and you had a ruthless, heartless, and nearly unstoppable enemy. But we could make that work: we weren't trying to stop them, just to withstand them.
"Yeah, I got eyes on the prize, Koraak; seven armored transports, two for droids, five for prisoners."
Today wasn't a day for a normal job: we were getting bolder, cockier, more ambitious. Our numbers had swelled for the last few years after the raid at Barnard's Star and the fall of the Blood Dragon Mafia. Their leader, Saito Yasuhide, had committed seppuku as their manor burned, and his twin sons had gone down fighting rather than allowing themselves to be captured simply to face a firing squad. In the aftermath, many of the family's associates had fled to the surrounding systems, and with the sheer size and scope of the criminal underworld found here, it was no wonder that many people who had developed skills of the less legal variety had decided to form ranks with the gangs, and with them they brought guns, tech, knowledge, contacts, and even something that we thought wasn't possible beforehand: a semblance of peace between the gangs, or at least the closest thing to peace that gangs could cultivate effectively. With the fall of the Blood Dragons, we saw the writing on the wall, and the writing couldn't have been clearer: work together or die together.
"Sounds like a massacre, Troy: are you sure we can handle seven?"
"We ain't got no choice, Cinder: this job's double the usual rate, and that's not including the weapons and gear we could scrounge if this goes well," I hissed, my eyes scanning for any resistance. There were at least four guards for each van, not to mention at least eight droids in total, meaning that we were already outnumbered, but we had the element of surprise: we could make it work. "So put your balls in your purse and get ready to spill some blood."
Koraak snorted at our antics, which sounded like someone pulling the ripcord on a lawnmower. He was a veteran Russu Corsair, and while his past of slaving, raiding, and killing was unsavory, so were the lives we'd lived, so who were we to judge? All we cared about was that he was a brutal and capable fighter and a loyal brother in arms. It turned out that being a ganger wasn't much different from being a Corsair: you lived and died by a code of honor, you fought to the death for your brothers, and you lived to die for the sake of your gang and your family, simple as that. In a strange, ironic way, it was an incredibly honest way of life: we were under no illusions as to what we were, what we did, and why we did it, and we'd long since accepted it. The Russu related to us in that aspect, in many ways I could respect, which is why I hated what the Protectorate was doing, and why I couldn't grasp how most of humanity could just collectively lose their marbles so long ago. What had happened for us to deem all other life below us in such a demeaning and infantilizing way?
The Russu were a race of tall, muscle-bound Saurians with avian features, and Koraak was no exception: reaching almost seven feet in height and weighing over four hundred and fifty pounds, he could be an absolute menace if he so desired. His skin was covered in stubby, knobby scales and dense plumage, with elegant feathers adorning the ridges along his back as well as his forearms, elbows, knees, and the crests on his head. He almost looked like how paleontologists described velociraptors, with razor-sharp talons, feathers shaded in vibrant greens, reds, and purples, and a maw full of sharp teeth, but at the tip of his snout was a sharp, beak-like growth meant for ripping flesh off the bone.
The Russu were strange as hell, but they also looked almost cute in the same way a fully grown alligator was cute: they were obviously dangerous, but humans would always have this innate desire to anthropomorphize them and to pet them for some inexplicable reason, although common sense usually prevented that, at least amongst the very few of us left that were sane.
"Shut up, Troy! All I'm saying is that that'll be rough, and you know it," hissed Cinder. Cinder was a tall black man whose coffee-colored skin was covered in tattoos. He wore an ebony mechanic's jumpsuit with metal inserts underneath his grimy overcoat covering his body and a faded black respirator on his face. His eyes were a startling blue that seemed sorely out of place, and his hair was braided into thick cornrows along his scalp. He wore a pair of heavy black combat boots and palmed his compact shotgun in his hands, the square barrel less than seven inches. Like a lot of the weapons the Black Mambas carried on their persons and dealt in, they fired caseless ammunition; in Cinder's case it was 16x40mm caseless shotshells filled with depleted uranium micro-flechetes no thicker than a toothpick. Cinder nervously fiddled with the detachable tube magazine underneath the barrel, his hands shaking. Despite the shit I have him, I didn't blame him for being anxious: I was anxious too, even if I refused to show it. The biting cold of unease and pessimism was in my stomach, and I ran all the way that this job could go wrong in my head over and over.
"Just hold yourself together, this ain't anything we haven't done before, there's just more of it," I reassured Cinder, "besides, we're not alone; we have reinforcements across the street. We'll make it out of this alive."
Cinder nodded almost absentmindedly, his eyes downcast and his breathing shallow. I turned from him and back to Koraak, who was making sure he had everything on his person; he had a synthetic leather bandoleer across his chest that contained the heavy eight guage depleted uranium slugs he kept loading and unloading into his much larger, longer, and more traditional shotgun he nicknamed ‘carnage’ and several leather straps that held his Tu'shan daggers: traditional Russu pyramidal blades forged from a silvery alloy with all three edges serrated and the tip barbed to leave behind horrible, gaping wounds that gushed blood. They were wickedly sharp and absolutely straight like a stiletto, and the hilts and pommels were beautifully decorated. He wore no clothes underneath his overcoat to cover the countless scars and blemishes he's earned in combat across his chest and abdomen, and instead of a normal respirator or visor, he simply wore a hood over his head and some traditional Russu facial armor to protect his mouth, eyes, and cheeks.
"You ready to fight, Koraak? The caravan will pick up and leave soon."
Koraak was silent for a moment before nodding, a human gesture he had picked up after serving as a soldier with the Black Mambas for years. "I'm always ready to fight," he said before lifting up his shotgun and aiming down the sights at the reinforced front wheels of the first armored car in the caravan. He exhaled and fired, the slug ripping through both front tires and causing them to deflate and fall apart. The echo of the shot rang through the alleyway and the street, causing pedestrians to panic and flee the scene as heavily armored guards poured out of the side doors of the armored cars and unholstered their carbines.
"Go, now!" I shouted, and both me and Cinder rushed out into the fray, our guns raised. Koraak was right behind the two of us, providing covering fire with his shotgun. Several guards fell quickly, Koraak's precise fire and the sheer force of the depleted uranium slugs putting them down for good as their heads were vaporized or their chest cavities were turned to mush. He emptied the tube with one final shot that painted the grey matter of a security guard on the door of one of the armored cars, then racked the shotgun and expertly loaded it in threes, his hands deft and agile as he reached for more slugs faster than any human.
With the cacophony of our initial assault, more Black Mambas poured out from the alleyways and the subways, armed to the teeth with all manner of weapons; shotguns, submachine guns, pistols, machetes, baseball bats, and all manner of homemade explosives. Molotovs and more potent concoctions shattered against the asphalt, herding in the caravan guards with their volatile contents as they were quickly gunned down. The assault was working, and we were winning.
Then I heard the robotic whine of a combat droid activating, and my heart sank. One of the armored cars in the back activated the four combat droids it held, the robotic assault units detaching from their charging ports on the sides of the large van and began to form up, each armed with a terrifying array of deadly weapons meant to quash any and all resistance. They were blocky, soulless, utilitarian things that stood at eight feet tall, with flat feet meant for stomping and blades, grasping claws designed to lacerate flesh and shatter bone. On each shoulder was a weapon: on the left was a multi-barrel rotary grenade launcher loaded with 15mm concussion grenades, and on the right was a burst-fire splinter cannon. They were all painted a dull grayish-green, the color of Halcyon's Security Division, although some had a few decorations on them: the one closest to me had a bit of graffiti on the side that said Mr. Hugs in Comic Sans, which I couldn't decide whether that made it more or less terrifying. They split up without hesitation and began to scan the chaotic battlefield, their single, red, beady lenses the security forces had the gall to call eyes focusing on specific targets to eliminate.
An entire group of Black Mambas was torn to pieces by a cloud of flechettes as one of the droids fired a withering three-round burst of shotshells from the four gauge splinter cannon mounted on its shoulder. Another picked up a Black Mamba in its hand and crushed her skull effortlessly before tossing her limp body to the side, its single, red, remorseless robotic eye tracking a new target. Most bullets that struck their thick armored chassis simply bounced off, and those that could pierce the armor didn't seem to phase the droids whatsoever, merely notifying them of a new potential target.
"Damnit," I shouted as I gunned down another guard only for two more to take his place. "Cinder! We gotta pop open the cars and scram! Get the maglock cutters!"
Cinder rushed and slid over through a dirty puddle, pulling out a maglock cutter from the inside of his coat and slipping it onto the back door of the first van. It immediately went to work, drilling through the maglock with a high-powered plasma torch nozzle, and within ten seconds we heard the telltale clunk of the maglock separating. I yanked the door open and ordered I side, ready to escort the prisoners out… only for my face to contort in shock and horror.
The back was empty. There was not a single soul inside of the back brig of the armored car.
"What the fuck…" Cinder gasped, his eyes wide with shock. "What the actual fuck… what the fuck is this, Troy?"
"I… I don't…" I stuttered the sounds of battle and carnage drowned out by the sound of blood rushing in my ears. All five cars were supposed to be filled with recently captured Russu from the front lines ready to be housed in the local Xenopet-Megaplex for processing and conditioning. The fact that this one was empty…
Suddenly, it all hit me at once with the force of a freight train, but it was too late. "We were set up, Cinder; our fucking client either squealed or was crooked to begin with…"
"Fucking bitch!" Cinder shouted as he spun around in an enraged arch, anger growing in his eyes. He aimed his shotgun at an approaching security guard and reduced his upper body to a fine red mist with a cacophony of shotgun blasts. "We gotta get everyone who's left out of here! Do you know what this means? The Jurors will be here soon, and then we're all going down! We gotta go, fuck the job!"
I grit my teeth. Not the Jurors, anything but the Jurors.
"Fine, gather everyone who's left and we'll slip through the sewers, the droids are too bulky to follow us there…"
As I spoke, my eyes wandered to the seventh and final armored car, the second of the droid cars, and my blood froze. Not only were all four ports empty, but they were also smaller and more shallow than the ports for the combat droids. That could only mean one thing.
"Oh fuck! Cinder, we gotta get our Russu members out of here! They've got arachnid droids!"
Arachnid droids were the stuff of nightmares. Resembling blocky, robotic arachnids the size of a manhole cover, they were specifically designed to take down sentient aliens, specifically the Russu, using sickeningly non-lethal means. They were equipped with full-body adaptive cloaking to blend in with their environments, paralytic agents that they could inject into their victims, built-in taser barbs, psychedelic gas ports for crowd-control, and a narrow-coned cacophony canon that disabled the Russu using incredibly high-pitched sounds that only they could hear, forcing them onto their knees and clutching the backs of their heads where their auditory organs were stored in agony. But worst of all was their stygian spinnerets: special ports near the end of their robotic abdomens that excreted a viscous, latex-like substance made up of millions of nano-bots. This substance could be used to render Russu blind, deaf, and mute by having it forced onto their faces, the black substance growing and enveloping their heads and working its way into every orifice. It was completely permeable to the standard atmosphere, but any Russu who had been 'webbed' was completely helpless and essentially captured, and the 'webbing' was both nearly indestructible and nigh impossible to remove without a triple-encrypted override key that was found in every arachnid droid's code, which was corrupted when the droid was destroyed or hacked into. Once you were 'webbed', you were essentially captured and the standard protocol was to leave you to the wolves since the nano-bots could be tracked, endangering the entire gang.
I turned just as I heard the deafening sound of Koraak discharging his shotgun, and I saw him squaring off against one of the assault droids. The droid has obviously been programmed to not use lethal force against Russu if possible, as instead of simply killing Koraak with it's shoulder-mounted splinter cannon, it approached with its claws extended, blades retracted. Koraak continued to back away and fire, pumping the droid full of depleted uranium slugs, its armor crumbling inward as the slugs pierced its chassis and damaged its internal cyberstructure. Eventually, Koraak ran out of slugs and instinctively reached to his bandoleer only to find that he had no more shells left at all, and he drew one of his knives and his sidearm, a simple high-caliber handgun. He tried to take down the droid with his handgun, but the bullets didn't even seem to affect the droid upon penetration, it's claws still extended as it attempted to apprehend Koraak.
In the corner of my vision, as I watched Koraak battle with the droid, I noticed a faint shimmer in the air on one of the black streetlight poles that was right behind him. I focused on it and blinked, believing my eyes had deceived me for a moment before realizing that it was actually a cloaked arachnid droid stalking Korvaak, ready to pounce and incapacitate him.
Before I could shout, it leaped from the pole and landed on Korvaak, causing him to shout in surprise while it began to coagulate its horrifying stygian webbing to disable Korvaak. Korvaak tried to wrestle it off of him, but the droid was agile and fast, clinging onto Korvaak and skittering around across his upper body as he attempted to grab it, forcibly wrapping the sticky black liquid across his face as he gagged like a spider wrapping up a fly. I rushed towards him to try and help, but I felt pain explode in my ribs as I was struck with the arm of the closest combat droid and launched into the chassis of a parked car, the metal denting from the sheer force of impact. I groaned in pain as I saw stars and my head spun, and just then I felt a blinding light be cast over me.
“Drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head, or you will be pacified with deadly force!” Shouted a loud, artificially deepened voice from above. “I repeat, drop your weapons and kneel with your hands on your head! Neither hostility nor hesitation will be tolerated!”
It was the Jurors, I could feel the air being pushed around from the thrusters on their drop ships, and I could hear screams and shouts as my fellow Black Mambas were quickly gunned down. I couldn’t see well since I was seeing double, but I could hear the slaughter as my eyes dimmed and I began to lose consciousness, my regrets crawling up my throat like vomit.
I’m sorry was all I could think as everything finally went dark, and the sounds of chaos, destruction, and combat faded away.
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Memory halted due to loss of consciousness. Booting next available memory in shard…
Booting up memory scan: Koraak Tel-Char Bruno, November 5th, 2446…
Loading and processing firmware data… translating… memories and subconscious simulated…
Beginning archival shard presentation…
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“Good morning, sleepyhead; it’s time for breakfast.”
My eyes shot open. I was not in the street anymore, nor was I home in my bed with my mate. I knew instantly that something was horribly wrong. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t gain the leverage to do so: my ankles had been shackled together with magnetic cuffs and my arms were forced together in front of me.
I was wearing some kind of thick shirt. It was warm, fluffy, and comfortable on the inside, but it still made me incredibly uncomfortable that my arms didn’t have a free range of motion. I looked down to see that I was wearing some human garment I had heard about before, a straightjacket maybe?
The entire room was padded: the walls, the floor, even the ceiling. There was no bed or furniture; the floor was soft enough to serve as a bed in itself. There was nothing else except for the soft reddish-orange lights on the ceiling that somehow made me sleepy. I blinked slowly for a moment, my body screaming at me to just lay back down and lose consciousness, but I couldn’t do that: I needed to figure out where I was and how to escape.
Then I noticed who was speaking to me: it was a short human female, with crow's feet around her blue eyes, blonde hair braided down her back, and freckles all over her face. She had a soft smile on her lips, and her forehead was slightly crinkled. She wore a full-body white lab suit with a white overcoat and a pair of glasses for snugly on her face.
"There we go, now I can see those pretty eyes, such a beautiful shade of teal," she cooed softly, "You're such a handsome boy, even with all those scars: I'm sure you'll be adopted very quickly once we get you fixed up."
Fear gripped my heart as I began to piece all the evidence together. I had been captured; I was no longer on Halcyon, and instead, I was in one of the horrific space-born facilities I had heard so much about from the inside agents. I started to hyperventilate and squawk like a newborn hatchling, my eyes dilating in panic. This couldn't be happening! This has to be a nightmare!
The human woman merely wrapped her arms around me and pulled me into an embrace, cradling my head under her chin and speaking softly. I couldn't bite at her or claw at her: I was muzzled and wearing a straight jacket, so I had no choice but to allow her to coddle me.
"It's okay, sweetheart: I understand you're scared, but Julie's here to make all the pain and bad thoughts go away," she said as if she was comforting a child, which made anger blossom in my chest indignantly. "I'll be your caretaker for the next few months, and I'm going to make sure you're healthy, happy, and most importantly safe while you're under our care. I'm sorry to say that includes your restraints and restrictive clothing, but we have to make sure you aren't a threat to yourself or others before we can determine if it's a good idea to remove you from suicide watch."
I growled under my muzzle. Suicide watch? They must have had a lot of instances of Russu taking their own lives after being captured, something I wished I had been able to do before that damnable droid launched itself onto me and…
I shuddered at the thought of the black, viscous substance forcing itself into my nostrils and down my throat and windpipe, gagging me and rendering me completely helpless. It was so cold, so harsh, like slime, and when I had tried to tear it off of my face it merely attached itself to my claws and bound my talons together. I remember squirming on the ground as it enveloped me, unable to see, hear, or speak, and then everything went dark in an instant. It was the most horrible thing I had ever experienced, which was saying something.
"You alright, sweetheart? Oh, I know, you're probably hungry! Here, try some of this." She held up a piece of what looked like raw bacon and wiggled it in front of me before reaching out to remove my muzzle. In an instant, I attempted to snap at her only for pain to blossom in my forehead and my eyes to roll up in my head as I convulsed. It was like something was attempting to drill through my skull from the inside, and every breath felt empty and labored.
"Now, that didn't feel very nice, did it? This is why we have countermeasures in place because we can't trust you yet, sweetheart! Don't worry, we'll work on breaking you of all those bad behaviors and habits while you're here; after all, a well-trained pet is a happy pet!" She began to stroke the crests on my head as I slowly recovered, and she snugly fit the muzzle back onto my snout. "But I won't hold it against you this time, sweetheart; you're just scared and confused, but I'll make all the pain go away."
I struggled in the straight jacket, trying my best to break out of it, but it was no use. Eventually, I became exhausted and despondent, allowing my new caretaker to have her way with me as she gently ran her fingers through my feathers and along my ridges, quietly speaking to me in a hopeless attempt to cheer me up. She seemed genuinely concerned for my well-being, which concerned me even further: who could be this naturally twisted while attempting to be as benevolent and kindhearted as possible?
I felt the pain and terror build up in my chest, the anxiety from what horrific activities I imagined they had planned for me here. I couldn't take the infantilization, the lack of any autonomy, the dehumanization, and what I feared the most was if the rumors of 'rebirth' were true: would they take my personhood from me?
Suddenly, I felt her whisper to me. "Don't worry sweetheart, I know you're so scared and confused, but I promise you everything will be okay: it's going to be your birthday soon, and then everything will get better." She ran her fingers through the feathers along my crest lovingly. "It will be such a wonderful day, and then we'll choose for you the most wonderful family, and you'll spend the rest of your life happy in your forever home! Doesn't all of that sound wonderful?"
I wanted to die. I wanted to disappear. I didn't want to lose myself, not like this, not to these monsters!
"It'll be your birthday soon," she said wistfully as if she was remembering similar events to this in the past like I wasn't the first she'd done this too, "and you'll never be sad again."
I realized that I wasn't the first the stay in this particular cell, and I knew for certain that I wouldn't be the last: I'd end up like my brother, a broken, erased mess of a pathetic creature, reduced to nothing more than a pet for these humans to amuse themselves with.
"We took the liberty of picking out a nice name for you, sweetheart! Now, let me just slip this little programming chip into the port slot on your occipital bone, and... there we go! It will also help you calm down a bit and adjust."
I felt the chip begin to invade my mind, suppressing my thoughts. What made me me was slowly being ripped out of my mind. I couldn't remember my name my name is Bruno, and I needed to get out! I can't let them do this to me! Somebody help me! I was a good boy.
##Do not think. You are a good boy.##
I tried to scream, but my voice wouldn't work: I had trouble forming any words at all, the confusion clouding my mind like wet, slimy eels curling around my brain and sinking their teeth into its folds like needles. I couldn’t scream any longer, because I had nothing left: the chip was slowly beginning to take everything from me, robbing me of my identity and branding a new one into my psyche with a white-hot iron. Julie simply held me close, attempting to reassure me as I awaited the inevitable demise of my personhood. Soon I would be just like my brother: erased. My mind would be shaped into the mind of a loyal plaything, like a Dog.
##Relax. Allow caretaker [Julie] to comfort you. You will let go of your burden.##
Soon, everything was a blur. I quickly found myself resting my head in her lap as she whispered to me and fed me, my eyes bleary and my head fuzzy. I couldn't remember my name anymore My name was Bruno, and I needed to break free from this trance relax, and allow her to help me; good boys didn't resist help.
##Good Boy. Do not think. You are a good boy.##
You can't... I...
##Good boy.##
I wouldn't… good boys don't… I…
##Good boy##
I was a good boy… I was a good boy…
I was… I was… a good… boy…
Someone help me, please! I don't want to be erased!
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The following script is from episode #343 of Halcyon After Dark, a popular late-night and current events talk show hosted by Melinda Carter. This specific episode was sponsored in part by the Halcyon Security Division, with Director Lochlin O'Brien joining as a guest star to talk about the changing crime statistics in Halcyon City and the HSD's recent successes in busting organized crime as well as their plans for addressing the growing criminal underworld.
MC: Good evening Halcyon! I'm your host, Melinda Carter, and you're watching Halcyon's most popular late-night talk show, Halcyon After Dark!
The crowd claps and cheers as Melinda walks on stage and sits behind her desk, her glittering red dress waving as she does so from the special effects.
MC: Tonight we have a very special guest here to tell us about the state of crime in the city and his plans on resolving it: please put your hands together for the HSD's very own Director, Lochlin O'Brien!
The crowd cheers some more as HSD Director Lochlan O'Brien, a tall, muscular, caucasian male in his early forties with red hair and a well-trimmed beard steps into the room, waving at the crowd with a bright smile. He sits in the armchair angled next to Melinda's desk and gives her his full attention.
MC: It's so good to have you on the show, Director! Tell me, how are you doing on this fine evening?
LO: I'm doing excellent, Melinda: every day I wake up feeling fulfilled knowing I'm serving Halcyon to the best of my abilities and then some."
MC: That's the spirit, Director! Now, I know this question is just on everyone's lips, so I have to ask: how successful was the recent gang bust? I heard HSD forces took out dozens of gang members and liberated at least a dozen Russu Hounds from their abusive clutches, but I know that everyone in the audience and at home wants to know the numbers.
LO: I'd be glad to tell you, but I do have to preface this by saying that we still lost a lot of good officers that day, and while we did strike a crippling blow to one of Halcyon's biggest gangs, it doesn't change the fact that each death is a tragedy, and we're taking steps to prevent them in the future. That being said, those valiant officers did not sacrifice themselves in vain: we had over a dozen confirmed kills and several arrests, including the rescue of several corrupted Russu hounds.
MC: That's excellent, Director: proof that even when the number of degenerates and scum grow by the day, the HSD will always be here to keep the citizens of Halcyon safe.
LO: Absolutely, Melinda, and we're always working tirelessly to increase the efficiency and effectiveness of our units, as well as racing to stay several steps ahead of the many gangs of Halcyon at all times. My newest goal as Director is to vastly increase the funding given to our Robotics Department and our Neuro-Warfare Department to potentially reduce the number of casualties we may experience in the future, as well as to quickly and effectively detain, and if necessary, eliminate criminals. Within the next decade, I want to double the number of automated units each Security Platoon is assigned: droids are the future of public safety as well as countless other industries, and it would be foolish to be left behind.
MC: That is quite a lofty goal, Director: what about the displaced jobs from the increased automation? What will the union say?
LO: And to that, I say: what misplaced jobs? We aren't replacing our honored and beloved service members with droids, Melinda, we are simply supplementing our units with more droids to ensure that future gang assaults end with fewer HSD casualties and more gang members in prison or eliminated, simple as that.
MC: That makes much more sense, Director, thanks for clarifying. Now, I have one more question that I'm sure much of Halcyon wants to know the answer to before we take a short break: what plans do you and your fellow directors have to make long-term progress in reducing crime beyond just increasing funding? Have you proposed any plans to strike at the source of where crime and degeneracy flourish?
OL: That's an excellent question, and one I am proud to answer: my constituents and I have been working tirelessly on a two-step plan to greatly reduce crime levels in Halcyon. Step one would be to prevent people from becoming criminals and degenerates at all in the first place: a lot of young men and women, but especially young men, have lost either one or both parents or even a sibling, aunt or uncle, or even a close friend by the brutality of the Second Authority War, and while the service of their lost loved ones will always be recognized and honored, many of these young men and women are left bitter, angry and lost without the guidance these people give them in their lives. Oftentimes they seek to fill that void with others who claim to relate to them: career criminals. These criminals will fill their heads with lies and false narratives to make them feel like they're fighting back against the 'evil protectorate government' that took their loved ones from them by sending them off to war when in reality it was the rogue Xenopets of the Triarchy that took them away by resisting their just and inevitable unburdening.
In response, I have proposed a slew of special programs that will make sure local law enforcement and HSD officers are present and contributing to their local community, and we'll be providing easy and light job openings for youngsters and teens looking to make a career for themselves in the force when they grow up. We want to let these lost souls know that there are people who care about them, people who understand them and that you shouldn't turn to degeneracy to feel fulfilled. We want to help the youth of our great society soar to new heights!
MC: That sounds like a wonderful beginning to your plan, Director, but what about the second step?
LO: Well, the second step is to prevent criminals and degenerates from becoming repeat criminals. Sure, they've made their mistakes, some worse than others, but they're only human like the rest of us. Some of them have been through hell: some are traumatized veterans who don't know how to adapt to normal life, others were recruited when they were young and don't know that there's a better way to live, and even more are mentally ill. We're alone in this galaxy, and we can't leave so many people behind. That's why we've come up with an excellent solution: we've set up isolated communities on distant moons and frontier planets where these criminals can be reeducated, rehabilitated, and allowed to repay their debt to society. When they're deemed 'reformed' and have graduated from our program, they'll be granted a hefty stipend and their criminal record will be deemed irrelevant, allowing them to reintegrate and become functioning members of our proud society.
MC: all of these sound like incredible steps forward in the fight to better our society and make real progress, Director. Sadly, we do have to step away for a moment, but you best believe I'll be back, Halcyon, and we'll be asking the Director here some burning questions about allegations over the quality of life Erubus Supermax! Now, a word from our sponsors!
Halcyon Xenopet-Megaplex! Everything your xenopet could ever need in one place! Adoption is now free-
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Good, you’re still alive! The rest of this shard appears to be corrupted, which means this particular trail seems to have run cold here, but do not despair; you need to keep searching. Find out what happened. Find the truth.I cannot guide you any longer: they've already found me, and if I remain in contact with you they'll find you as well. Take the archival database, and see what you can piece together. Maybe if we discover what truly happened we can put an end to this madness once and for all. I'm counting on you. Don't cry for me, I don't fear death, but I fear what they'll do to me to get to you: there are far worse fates than death, after all.

Long read
I had this originally written under a previous post asking about potential health effects of Quetiapine in this sub. I thought it might be a little much to blow up on someone else’s question. So here is my (long ass) experience and current investigation underway with my rheumatologist in Boston who was an adjunct professor and graduate from Harvard with an expertise in pharmacokinetics.
This will be a dumbed down version the best I can explain as layman with a mere masters degree in physical therapy. While I have a strong grasp of the concepts and language, I may get verbiage or premises incorrect but I believe this will read mostly correct. If you’re a medical professional or chemist, feel free to correct me. Im no writer and I’m sure this will be evident by poor grammar and run on sentences but I did try to do a quick proofread. It’s Reddit though, so…whatever lol.
This is a super individualized account to my neurobiology. Much of it will read as though I’m trying to scare off anyone from ever taking this medication. If you get through it, you’ll see that my doctor’s theory mostly shows the opposite, and the safety profile is extremely good. The people at the highest risk of suffering my fate, that is if he is even correct because this is still just a theory(but well backed) are people in the large cohort of patients being prescribed Quetiapine off label for sleeplessness or “insomnia” as a primary diagnoses.(Spoiler: insomnia is not a real diagnosis, it’s a secondary symptom and why the manufacturer warns physicians against prescribing for sleep).
Seroquel destroyed my life. Prescribed by a “Noctor”(mid level nurse playing with shit she doesn’t know thinking she’s as smart as a doctor) an insane dose of 300mg a night for simple nighttime induced anxiety that messed with my sleep.
This was after suffering an issue where I was on the road and didn’t sleep at all for 4 days. I was really struggling and my employer paid for me to see one of the top psychiatrists on the planet that works specifically with people in my industry(entertainment). We happened to be coming up for a stop in Nashville(where she practiced) and they setup the appointment. I had 6 hours with her where she walked me through the fallacy of insomnia as a primary diagnosis, and that I needed to find the physical or psychological root cause. 90%+ of “insomnia” is just a secondary symptom of mild anxiety with a nighttime onset. That is what she diagnosed me with. Simple anxiety that was triggered at night because my career was so mentally vigorous and non stop that all anxiety was building up with no where to be expressed other than the only time my mind wasn’t occupied by work…laying in bed.
She sent my diagnosis back to my primary in New England and wrote me a script for 8mg of Xanax a month with instructions that I had 2x1mg doses per week to utilize as an emergency med but the goal would be through therapy and self moderation of work to utilize the medication as little as possible.
When I got home from my work trip the only appointment I could get was with the Noctor as my primary physician was booked out for almost 2 months. She looked at the diagnosis from a world class psychiatrist and inserted her own biases about Xanax use under any circumstance being extremely dangerous. Even as an emergency or rescue medication taken a couple times a month. So she choose to nuke my fucking brain with a high daily dose powerful antipsychotic for some night time anxiety.
For a year it was fine other than a little weight gain. Wasn’t too bad for me though because I worked 16+ hours a day on the road 9 months a year.
Then the nightmares started. Like insane, traumatic, horrifically vivid nightmares that would make Stephen king blush. I’ve seen every person and pet I’ve ever know or loved, including myself murdered gruesomely in the most gorey ways in realistic acts of violence, accidents, as well as supernatural monstrous hell fuel.
I’d wake up soaked, covered in sweat and my back and neck would be sore from my entire body being contorted and stiff in terrible positions whilst waking up completely hypertensive due to the vivid hellscape I just awoke from that was indistinguishable from reality.
I went back to her and begged her to change it because I was no longer feeling like I was sleeping. I was just going from one world to another and waking up feeling like I was just in a car accident. She told me it was the only thing she prescribes for sleep because everything else is addicting and dangerous. So I tried to tough it out but after a few more weeks couldn’t take it anymore. I got another appointment and told her I was done whether she liked it or not. I wasn’t getting any rest and I’d wake up in pain like I was hit by truck. She then essentially threatened me. She told me the only way to get off it was to see the psychiatrist at my practice and told me if I went anywhere else she would flag me as a drug seeker. The first date available with that psychiatrist…6 months. So I set an appointment as early as possible with my actual physician(nearly 2 month wait) and figured I’d start weening myself off and by the time I saw my doctor I would be fully off or mostly off.
About 2 days later(I hadn’t even reduced my first dose yet so I was still on 300mg) I was hospitalized. I woke up from my normal nighttime alternate universe of horror completely immobile from my armpits up. I wasn’t numb, but I woke up with my head kinked under my right arm and bent almost completely around. Any movement felt like my spine from my upper thoracic all the way through my cervical spine was going to snap. My wife had to call an ambulance because it was not loosening up like it normally would. While the paramedics tried to board me from my bed I went into shock from the pain and went unconscious.
I woke up in the hospital a few hours later where I learned the doctors had to pump some drug into me that essentially made all of my muscles go completely limp in order to move me out of the position because my muscles were so rigid they couldn’t untwist me. The ER doc said he had never seen anything like it outside of some extreme situations of rigor mortis when someone was found dead in an awkward position and the body locked into that position.
Even once released from that position I felt like I had a knife in my neck. The ER called into my primary physician to update them and they moved my appointment up. In the days that followed my neck only got worse. I couldn’t stand, sit or lay in the same position. I obviously stopped Seroquel immediately. I spent all day flat on my back crying with my wife encasing me in and changing ice packs every 15 minutes. I was ready to kill my self the pain was so bad.
When I saw my doctor a couple days later we were going over my records and I emphasized this was a direct result of the Seroquel that I begged to come off several times because of the side effects and I had learned that even the drug manufacturer didn’t approve of it being used off-label for sleep. She was shocked I was being prescribed 300mg for sleep. I asked her that if she was shocked, why would she approve it considering she was the supervising physician for the noctor that prescribed it to me? She showed me the offices internal notes and the noctor has diagnosed me with mania and disassociation.
Like, WTF!?
There was no record in the practices notes of the diagnoses and recommendations from the psychiatrist I saw in Nashville other than “patient saw a “pill doctor” out of state”, “says he has “anxiety”.
Reading through her notes it essentially accused me of psychosis and drug seeking because I saw a doctor out of state that prescribed me a medication she didn’t agree with.
On my doctor’s end in her oversight of her nurses prescribing she just saw that she was prescribing a patient Seroquel for manic episodes, which is a standard course of action. She agreed that this was a horrible misjudgment, viewed the physical copies of the notes I brought home from Nashville, and immediately changed me to that physicians plan of Xanax as an emergency/rescue med vs 300mg of Seroquel daily.
It was too late though. The pain in my neck never went away. I couldn’t move, I was completely bed bound. The pain in my neck felt like I was wide awake whilst someone dissected my cervical spine with a rusty box opener. They sent me to “interventional pain management” where they then did more non-fda approved “healthcare” by repetitively injecting corticosteroids into my spine.
It only got worse and worse. The pain began to spread from my cervical spine, down into my thoracic spine. I started losing feeling in my arm. Then it was neurological medications like gabapentinoids, muscle relaxers, high dose NSAIDs, tricyclic antidepressants, physical therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy etc…within 8 months that noctor was no longer employed at the office(I don’t officially know if it was from her destroying my life).
After about a year there was still no answers. I lost my job that I had busted my ass for over a decade climbing the industry ladder after getting and advanced degree, and was on the verge of losing my house because I was still completely bed bound 90% of the day.
My doctor out of desperation and lack of answers starts me on narcotic pain management. I had never once touched opioids outside of anesthesia inpatient surgeries related to sports injuries growing up. I was staunchly against the use of opioids outside of that setting. Other than some moderate cannabis use after college(when I was no longer being drug tested for the first time in 6 years) I was pretty brain washed by the drug war zealots. Now I’m a pariah. Both doctors and people in my social circles keep me at an arms length because people drank the koolaid and believe anyone taking an opioid must be a raging addict sucking dick for heroin.
I’ve managed to claw back and slow down the total collapse of my entire life because my pain is now controlled to about 60ish% by pain meds while I go doctor to doctor trying to figure this out. By working as a part time consultant in my industry I’m making just enough money to stop complete asset loss but I’m still eating into my retirement and investments. If it wasn’t for the fact that my wife makes a decent salary we’d already be homeless. Even then we’re hemorrhaging money and are likely going to have to sell our house. At 32 I was on track to retire by 50 and travel the world. Now at 37 I don’t know if I’ll be alive by this time at next year as the inflammation and connective tissue deterioration runs rampant.
Doctors absolutely hate and refuse to try and pin serious medical conditions on bad medical professionals or bad medication. I’ve been through every major “world famous” hospital system here in Boston and they’re willing to look for the answer everywhere accept where I’m telling them it started. Until a few months ago.
I hired a high profile private patient advocate. A woman who is a former internal medicine expert that was the lead in a department at Brigham with a PhD/MD from Harvard and her law degree from Cornell. She found me an expert here in Boston that is a rheumatologist who investigates pharmacokinetics. He produced several redacted papers by the patent holders on Seroquel that show them shutting down the research by a hired lab that found Tumor Necrosis Factor spikes in high doses of Seroquel administered to mice with normal neurological function. 3 other labs confirmed the research and wanted the medication held for retrial in humans.
TNF when not properly regulated by the immune system causes a cytokine storm attacking healthy tissue without the presence of disease/damaged tissue. This is the foundation of most autoimmune diseases.
Seroquel regulates various neurotransmission and endogenous processes in the brain when they are not at their normal levels. Even then the science isn’t perfect on it so often an SSRI is prescribed along side because SSRIs are better understood and it’s kind of a protection from the unknown actions of the Quetiapine(Seroquel).
If those neurotransmitters are functioning correctly and neurological function is fine, introducing something like Seroquel in high doses at constant intervals can be incredibly dangerous.
This is where the black box warnings and requests for bans from the manufacturer of seroquel about off label prescribing come from. They only reported redacted and halted research on TNF production increase associated with the drug because they only ever confirmed the research with mice.
This rheumatologist has essentially shown to me with pretty indisputable evidence that I’ve likely developed a severe medication induced autoimmune disease that is rapidly destroying the connective tissue in my spine and is now jumping to organs. It falls outside the diagnosis of any single autoimmune disease and can only really be classified as MAS(multiple autoimmune disease). Because the research papers are all heavily redacted and were never entered into peer review for final patenting and fda approval there is no case or action for me to bring.
Furthermore seroquel has a pretty high safety record because it’s statistically more normal to have an imbalance of the neurotransmitters that it regulates which means it’s rare to cause the reaction the research found with the mice. Most people have some form, even if mild, imbalance that most often goes without symptoms. But the manufacturers did know the consequences of introducing a high dosage of the compound to a perfectly balanced brain.
I fell into a perfect storm. My neurotransmission was such that a small dose of Seroquel daily likely wouldn’t have hurt me but it was as close to equilibrium that flooding it with a drug that regulates neurotransmission that I exhibited the same outcome as those mice forcing my immune system to drive up TNF production. There is a well known list of medications that can cause autoimmune diseases and the way the drug was patented and approved it escaped this labeling given the uncommon instances of the phenomenon.
I am now in the phase of trialing every biologic/TNF inhibitor known to man to try and get it under control before it completely disables me, or jumps to a vital organ and kills me.
This is still only a theory by an extremely educated expert in the field as autoimmune diseases and tumor necrosis factors are only recently in the last couple of decades becoming more understood. We got a more substantial confirmation that he is correct over the winter when I got my first case of Covid19. I rarely get sick. I am an extremely healthy person that exercises regularly(as much as possible through my pain now) as a former division 1 athlete and eats super clean and balanced. This was the first time since this began to see what my immune system did under duress.
My pain dropped by easily 50%. Meaning my immune system had something to do other than attack and inflame the healthy tissues in my joints and organs. While I felt like shit of course, my neurological pain dropped significantly. Within a week of recovering I had to increase my pain meds back to normal as everything became inflamed again.
The entire point of this rant is this: Seroquel is extremely dangerous…to a small population of people. This isn’t uncommon of most pharmaceuticals. It is a cautionary tale about the off label prescribing of this drug for sleep, and sleep only. DONT ALLOW IT TO HAPPEN TO YOU.
If a psychiatrist, neurologist, or behavioral therapist has well documented diagnostics and evaluation that leads them to believe you have a significant neurological imbalance that leads to a true psychiatric diagnosis you will almost certainly be just fine with Quetiapine.
Unfortunately Seroquel is the most prescribed off-label sleep medication on the market. It needs to be stopped. The primary indication for Seroquel cannot be “insomnia”. The manufacturers tried to hide the pharmacokinetic reasons as to why, but they did black box it and request physicians not to prescribe it for such. Read the insert. Back, neck, and joint pain are all warnings to speak to your doctor immediately and this is why.

My doctor recommended aggressive chemotherapy from the start, saying I'm young (42, female) and otherwise healthy, so they decided on this. Today, the pharmacist called to explain the side effects, and it was really scary. Below are my chemotherapy plan and prescription. Are there others who have undergone similar treatment? Please share your experiences.
Planned chemo regimen:
Cycles 1 through 6: Oxaliplatin (over 2 hours), Leucovorin and Irinotecan (over 1.5 hours) and Fluorouracil (over 46 hours) given intravenously on day 1 of a 14-day cycle.
Cycles 7 through 9: Oxaliplatin and Leucovorin (over 2 hours), and Fluorouracil (IV push bolus over 5-10 mins and then attached to continuous infusion pump over 46 hours) given intravenously on day 1 of a 14 day cycle.
Prescriptions:
• Dexamethasone 4 mg tablets: take 2 tablets by mouth every morning with breakfast on days 2, 3, and 4 to prevent nausea and vomiting for cycles 1 through 6. Take 2 tablets by mouth every morning with breakfast on days 2 and 3 to prevent nausea and vomiting for cycles 7 through 9
• Olanzapine 10 mg tablets: take 1 tablet by mouth daily on days 2, 3, and 4 to prevent nausea and vomiting for cycles 7 through 9
• Loperamide (Imodium) 2mg tablets: take 2 tablets by mouth at the first onset of diarrhea, then 1 tablet by mouth every 2 hours around the clock until diarrhea-free for at least 12 hours. During the night, may take 2 tablets by mouth every 4 hours. Maximum of 8 tablets per day.
• Nivestym 300 mcg: Inject 0.5 ml (1 syringe) subcutaneously daily for 5 days (days 4 to 8 of the cycle) starting at least 24 hours after chemotherapy pump is removed (only for cycles 1 through 6).
• Prochlorperazine 10 mg tablets: Take 1 tablet by mouth every 6 hours as needed for nausea or vomiting

Scout
GK2: Burst fire.
M1K: Charged shots deal very little dmg but apply, “marked for death”, a debuff that causes that enemy to take more dmg from other sources (hipfire included).
Drak: Applies a debuff that causes enemies to take more fire/cold dmg and heat/chill buildup is faster, but less damage and more heat.
Gunner
Minigun: Faster rof and faster overheat, but you gain charges of, “coolant injective”, which reduces heat and can cancel overheat, these can be resupplied.
Thunderhead: Turns your gun into a mortar, shots deal more splash dmg, have a larger aoe, but have less direct dmg and arc and fall fairly quickly, less ammo and slower rof.
Hurricane: Bullets explode into firecrackers when you press reload, less ammo.
Engineer
Warthog: Pump action, more dmg and blowthrough, but less ammo and more spread.
Stubby: Better aim, decreased spread but more recoil, and weakpoint dmg bonus.
LOK1: Auto fires at locked enemies, faster lock acquisition speed, less max locks.
Driller
Flamethrower: Can charge a large burst of flame that consumes a lot of ammo.
Cryo Cannon: Less ammo, but sticky ice.
Sludge pump: More charged shot ammo use, but gooed enemies and terrain explode upon ignition.

Hi folks, i have a 1998 gmc k2500 6.5 diesel that started running ruff above idle. When i give it gas (even to the floor) the rpm only goes to 1k rpm and the engine shake and run really hard. Is there anybody that have more knowledge about diesel to help me diagnose this problem. I've read online that my problem might come from the ip (injection pump)/pmd/wiring. I also had engine codes that i cleared and now they don't come back on. (P01656/P0251)

So I just inject my 3rd shot yesterday and have had no side effects until last night. I woke up because I had a headache, I’ve never done that before…ever. I took some Advil and went back to sleep. I’m tired this morning, but I’m trying to power through it. I’m thankful that I am almost down 7lbs though. I’m only supposed to be on 2.5MG for a month and jump to 5MG in 2 weeks. Am I wrong to have expected to continue to NOT have side effects on 2.5MG, going into week 3? SW=192, CW=185.2, GW=150. I’m a 50yo female on an insulin pump. On a super excited note, my runaway insulin needs have stabilized! I’m now using less insulin and when my BG increases it is because I’ve consumed carbs, which was not the case 3 weeks ago!

So, I have ED and have for the last 5 years. I'm 65.
I've talked to my doctor a few times. I have both diabetes and hypertension. They are both managed well with medication. I lost a lot of weight about 5-10 years ago (from 260-180) and my doctor at first that would help. It didn't. A couple years ago he prescribed viagra and then Cialis. Both didn't really work. I would start to feel something, but nothing.
He basically just shrugged his shoulders after that and said that it's just something I'm going to have to live with because of diabetes and hypertension.
Without going into TMI detail, my sex life is satisfactory in spite of this, but I'd really like to fix it if it's at all possible.
Is there hope? I know there are other treatments (injections, pumps, etc), but they seem invasive/painful and I'm not sure my doctor is so keen on pursuing it further and will they work?
What are the next steps I should do?

Autopilot.
Aware that you cannot move or think or breathe on your own. The words that spew from your lips are nothing more than senseless garbage to appease the masses watching your every move.
You can't scream or cry or beg for mercy.
All you can do is watch your body, your mouth, your thoughts, be puppeteered by thousands of greedy, impatient eyes.
It's like being dead, and aware I'm dead.
Dead, while my body dances, my mind is no longer mine.
I smile a perfect smile. I don't notice the stitches holding me together.
I'm not allowed to notice.
So many layers of skin, flesh over flesh that is patchwork and does not belong to me. I am not allowed to think. I am not allowed to scream or cry, or tear into layer upon layer of Brianna Timberman’s sculpting me into beauty.
Perfection.
No thoughts, except one.
That suffocates me, strangling my words from my throat.
And I am put into autopilot.
I am Brianna Timberman.
I am Brianna Timberman.
I am Brianna Timberman.
Felix was my latest three day fling.
I was using him to make Sam jealous, but a drunken night had turned into another night, and suddenly it was Wednesday, and I was yet to leave his place.
Fuck.
He was supposed to be someone I could kick to the curb, someone to take out my frustration on. Now, Felix was more than a rebound. But even tangled in his bed, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam.
Sam Thwaites rejected me at seventeen years old, and had waltzed back into my life. As teenagers, I told him I loved him, and Sam got all flustered and started shaking his head, like I was something he didn't believe in.
Sam said words like, “I didn't know you thought of me this way.” and “Wait, you liked me?” with this dumb fucking look on his face. He told me he needed space, and left me in the pouring rain.
Five years later, he was standing in my parent’s lounge.
I could still smell him on my skin, and I hated it. I hated him.
“Bree!” Mom’s smile was wide. She and Dad were obsessed with finding me a suitor.
“This is Samuel.”
Sam Thwaites took my hand, entwining his fingers with mine. He was so warm, and I hated that I wanted to fall into him. I hated that my heart was pounding through my chest. I had already seen him, bumping into him in the snow.
I had already shamelessly fucked him in a stall without truly looking at him, angry and frustrated, and really, really, fucking hot. I wanted to tell him whatever he wanted to happen was over. I told him I hated him, curled against him, the two of us out of breath, my head against his chest, his head tipped back, half lidded eyes skimming across the ceiling.
The two of us were sprawled out on ice cold tiles, his fingers stroking through my hair. I told him to leave.
But there he was, standing in my parent’s house. In the exposed light, Sam was maturer in the face, losing his baby fat for more curvier, handsome features. Thick brown curls hung in playful eyes that wanted a challenge.
The slight curve in his lips told me everything I needed to know. Sam remembered our stupid childhood pact.
I could hear it in his voice, the satisfaction dripping from his tone.
“Hello, Brianna.”
I pulled him outside, straight into a downpour.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded.
Sam shrugged with a smile. “We’re both adults, aren't we?”
I thought back to our childhood pact. If neither of us had found anyone by the age of twenty, we would marry each other.
“You left me.”
Sam stepped forward, grasping my hands. “I did.” He admitted, “But I was a stupid kid, Bree. I had no idea what I was talking about, and I was… scared.”
“Scared?”
He nodded, blinking rain out of his eyes.
“I was scared of losing you.”
I laughed incredulously. You did lose me, Sam! When you left me in the rain.”
“But I'm not scared anymore,” his voice was soft. He got closer. So close, I could see his breath. Sam kissed me tenderly, one hand cupping my cheek, the other sliding up my jacket. His mouth found my ear, something wet and warm oozing down my neck.
“Take… it.” Sam’s voice was different, suddenly.
”Please.”
Pulling away from the kiss, I shoved him back.
“How much is my father paying you?”
Sam swiped at his… bloody? lips, and a question sprung to mind.
Where did the blood come from?
“Well?” I demanded, my voice collapsing into a sob. “Is my dad paying you or not? Is that why you came back?”
Sam didn't answer, his face crumpling.
“Bree–”
“Save it!”
I left before he could fully open his mouth.
Halfway down the road, I realized I was freezing cold.
Before a shadow loomed, an umbrella shielding me.
“You look like a drowned rat.” My colleague was next to me, avoiding my gaze. “Take this.” he turned away from me, curling his lip. “Do whatever you want with it, I don't care.” He twisted around, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
The next day at work, I couldn't stop thinking about Sam.
Felix, the lead singer of a local band, and a law student, was the perfect distraction. I met him in a bar.
He was the Aussie trying to get a Dualingo streak, downing shots like soda. His accent was cute. It reminded me of water, or maybe that was just my drunken state. The cadence in his voice was like…trickling.
I told him this, and he laughed. His suggestive wink took us to his apartment, and we spent the night together after I drunkenly told him I thought he was hot. I expected it to be just a one-time thing, but then we were having sex on his kitchen counter.
I told him it wasn't serious. However, a one night stand had become more of a three day friends with benefits thing.
Now, we were sitting outside my work drinking coffee, and I was starting to reconsider my initial stand on Australian Felix.
There was something about the way he smiled with all of his teeth, nervously tapping his coffee cup and occasionally losing himself completely, falling into a daydream mid-conversation. I liked it though.
I liked watching his mind jet off into space. His longing gaze was adorable.
Felix was sitting awkwardly, chin resting on his fist, talking about his favourite band, and I was enraptured by caramel colored eyes and the dimples in his cheeks. The sun was shining, and we were sitting under cherry blossoms I didn't remember seeing before. I was supposed to be working, and he had come to see me, armed with cupcakes and my favourite coffee. Dreamer Felix.
Dimpled cheeks Felix.
Felix with the trickly accent and slight lisp, who stumbled over his words and had a milk moustache I desperately wanted to wipe away. I did, leaning over the table and lightly brushing the curve of my finger across his upper lip.
“You've got a little…”
Felix’s eyes widened. He swiped at his mouth, chuckling. “Ah. That's… kinda embarrassing.”
A loud and overly exaggerated clearing of the throat made me jump.
“Urgh. I think I just threw up in my mouth.”
Looming over me like a bad smell, was my colleague Jasper, scowling as usual. Standing with his arms crossed over his apron, he shot me a patronising smile, completely blanking Felix.
The boy dumped my latte down, spilling half of it across the table.
Behind him, a group of teenage girls were giggling. I wasn't surprised.
Jasper really could pull off any look, and, just like the girls squealing over him, I couldn't resist handsome features and a killer jawline. It just sucked that he was one of the rudest people I had ever met.
He was wearing the exact same shirt from yesterday, his apron flung over the top, cropped blonde hair in disarray. Running his hair through it, he groaned.
“You're supposed to be workiiiing, Bree,“ He said in a sing-song. Leaning across the table, Jasper’s patronising smile widened. “Are we done here?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Sorry, Jasper.”
“You should be.” Jasper’s gaze flicked to Felix. ”You're a student, right?”
“Uh…” Felix nodded slowly. “Yeah? I guess.”
My colleague shot him a sparkly grin. “Five percent off at the Crap ‘N Shack this weekend! Student discount! Alcohol served after 9pm will be free.”
“Woah, really?” Felix downed the rest of his drink, his eyes wide.
I glanced at his cup. I could have sworn he'd… finished it.
“What about parking?” Felix asked. “Will… I still get a ticket?”
“Nope!” Jasper shot him a grin, and a thumbs up. “Make sure to bring a student ID, and parking is free! It's all going down at the Crap ‘N Shack! This Saturday! With a Special guest, local music artist, Tiema Wright! Performing his new song, “I'm sorry I left you in the rain, but will you marry me?”
Both boys turned to me with matching smiles, speaking in sync. “Will you be there, Brianna?”
I nodded, with a grin. “You bet I will!” I saluted Felix with my drink. “Shouldn't you be heading to class?”
“I love you Jasper!” one of the girls squeaked from behind me.
My colleague rolled his eyes, not even turning around to look at her.
“I know you do.” Jasper sighed, pulling out his notepad and pen.
He side-stepped to the next table, serving the people next to us. He licked his finger with exaggerated slowness, flipping the page. “But you're embarrassing yourself, sweetheart.”
“I'm free after work,” I said, “Maybe you could come back to my place?”
“You're on the late shift tonight with me, so no you're not free.” Jasper said behind me. When I twisted around to shoot him a look, he was tapping his pen on his notepad, mid-eyeroll.
“No, sir, we don't do refills. Nope, I can't make an exception, and no, complaining about it will just make me laugh.”
“I'll text you.” I told Felix.
“Sounds good.” He jumped up, finishing his coffee and grabbing his backpack. The Pikachu keyring on his zipper made me smile. “I have class, but I'll reply when I'm out, all right?”
Felix lifted his hand in a wave, took two steps back, and was crushed by a falling sheet of glass.
I'm not sure when it was my mind stirred, and I regained consciousness for the fraction of a second. It was enough for my vision to clear, my senses coming back to the surface.
The never ending script of words programmed into my brain stopped abruptly, and I was left suffocating on my own breaths.
I was awake.
Awake, blinking at Felix’s body being peeled from concrete.
Awake.
Awake enough to notice my colleague visibly flinched behind his notepad when Felix died. Awake enough to be able to breathe again, coerce words in my mind.
I had zero idea of who I was before Brianna Timberman. Who was underneath flawless skin and manicures and sparkling teeth. My senses returned in waves. Taste.
I had drank the same fucking coffee four times, and I could taste coffee grounds on my tongue.
Smell.
There were sweat patches staining my blouse.
Touch.
I could feel my coffee cup, running my finger around the rim.
I am not Brianna Timberman.
The thought slammed into me, and I felt my hands twitch by my sides, the overwhelming urge to tear off my skin, layer after layer until I found myself.
When did I regain my free will?
Maybe it was when Felix’s blood was seeping across my shoes, his body an unrecognisable mess of stringy flesh and lumps under splinters of glass sparkling like diamonds across the sidewalk.
It took me half a second to realize a woman was screaming in my face.
“Oh my god, sweetie, are you okay?”
Autopilot.
I nodded shakily, words already tumbling out of my mouth.
“I'm fine.”
“Was he your boyfriend?”
Autopilot.
“No.”
For some reason, my eyes found Jasper still hiding behind his notebook.
“He wasn't.”
No matter how hard I tried to fight it, Brianna’s feelings were already swamping me. I felt my cheeks heat up, my stomach fluttering. Before autopilot thoughts could spring out of nowhere, I remembered my colleague’s reaction to Felix’s death, as well as him subtly trying to stop me from talking to Sam.
There was zero doubt in my mind that Jasper didn't know what was going on.
If the rest of us were recycled lumps of skin, what was he? He was a love interest, but he wasn't one of Bree’s exes.
Sam explained my colleague was a curveball.
The so-called bad-boy playing with Brianna Timberman feelings.
With little to no thoughts of my own, I stated the facts in my head.
My life wasn't real. I was nothing but recycled flesh sculpted and moulded into a dead prom queen with her memories. That thought still had not sunk in yet, and when I started to register it, all I wanted to do was peel my skin from my bones until I found myself.
Who I was, hiding under patchwork flesh.
So many Brianna’s stitched onto me. So many lost souls.
I had been on autopilot for days. All that I had left when I came to, was a vague memory of every other death.
Ben, Alex, and Esme.
Car crash.
Suicide.
Carbon monoxide poisoning.
Now Felix.
Crushed to death.
Each of their deaths had been voted m by the townspeople.
It was only a matter of time before Felix would be erased from existence too.
Sam, or the boy underneath him, had shown me who I really was, a lump of flesh sculpted into Brianna Timberman.
Sam had the same fate.
He showed me where he came from, a factory that had turned the town's teen populace into the exact same four faces.
Brianna Timberman’s exes.
Ben, Alex, Esme, and Sam.
First, he was an Alex, then a Ben, and then an extra, who tried to warn me, before being abruptly converted into Sam Thwaites, a brand new love interest, and Brianna’s childhood friend.
Sam told me Brianna’s exes deaths were a joke, her love life controlled by the town through a popularity poll.
Brianna had committed suicide years ago, but the town were obsessed.
They wanted to watch her life. They wanted to see which person she would choose, voting for their favourites while dooming the loser to a fate worse than death. The least popular love interest would die brutally, and the cycle would continue. In this case, it was Felix.
The boy suppressed under Sam had shown me the truth, only to be captured and turned into one of my parent’s suitors. The realization was like a kick in the face. I was alone. Awake and aware of too-bright lights on my face, and unable to cry out or scream.
Brianna Timberman was dead, but according to the town, the show must go on.
Staying very still, I was suddenly well aware of patrons on their phone.
I glanced at a teenage girl, who was rapidly swiping right on an image of my colleague, while a man holding a briefcase lazily swiped left on Sam.
“Your boyfriend should have been more careful.”
I blinked.
Jasper was in front of me, arms folded across his apron.
Sam talked about a Red Zone in the bathroom stalls a few days ago.
He said it was where they couldn't see us, and I would be fully conscious, severed from whatever was in my head.
Jasper waved his hand in front of my face, and it suddenly occurred to me that if I wanted answers, such as where the Red Zone was located, I needed my colleague’s help.
Whether he was awake or not.
Brianna Timberman was in full control of my mind, however, so regaining free will was getting progressively harder.
Two days later, after being stuck on autopilot, I was serving a woman trying to calm her screaming kid.
Felix didn't have a funeral, and his name was already forgotten. In my half awake state though, I remembered him.
I had since met two people.
Adrianna, who was a quick make out in a bathroom stall.
She smelled just like Esme. Roses and cheap perfume.
Ren. The older college professor who I drunkenly kissed in the back of an Uber.
I can't pinpoint the times when I was fully awake.
Fully in control.
I was perfecting a foam heart on a customer's latte, when I realized I really wanted to fuck my colleague. The thought was explosive, immediately setting my cheeks on fire. Trying to suppress it was fighting a losing battle.
“Hey.” Jasper sided in front of me, tearing me out of my thoughts. Or Brianna’s thoughts. I had spent the last hour dazedly staring at his wonderfully sculpted jawline, unable to look at anything else.
Brianna liked to fantasise, and her mind wasn't exactly PG13.
It's not like I had control of my mouth. Autopilot meant my body and mind worked for me. I was just lucky to be conscious– or at least semi-conscious.
I had a semblance of a plan, and the first part was finding Sam Thwaites. Or the boy sculpted into Sam. The last time I saw him before I went on autopilot, I had no idea if he was awake or just a really good fucking performer.
The Red Zone was all I could think of.
If I wanted out of this nightmare, I needed to find it.
However, thinking is kind of hard when all I can think about was my colleague’s biceps.
I couldn't take my eyes off of the way he swung a carton of milk, mid-conversation with our manager.
Jasper caught my eye, scowling.
“Bree. Get your fucking head out of the clouds.”
My colleague’s tone was so shamelessly unapologetic, a group of girls in the queue burst into giggles. The guy was like a circus attraction.
Now that I had a semblance of actual thought, I realized our only customers were women, with the odd man every blue moon. Jasper cleared his throat, setting the milk down.
“Okay, look, I’m sorry your boyfriend got flattened, or whatever, but you need to stop moping around like someone freakin’ died.”
Autopilot.
There was a bright light suddenly.
I shoved him. Hard.
“Why do you always have to be such a dick?”
Jasper was unfazed. He didn't even stumble. I felt it, a shiver creeping down my spine, an insatiable need clouding my thought process.
Brianna Timberman was hot. Very hot. Jasper’s attitude, his movement, everything about him and being so close to him, was making her flustered.
She was sweating under her apron, and all she could look at, all she could focus on, was her colleague. Who was, against all odds, still playing hard to get.
All around us, patrons went silent.
The girls in the queue started nudging each other. My colleague stepped forward, his breath tickling my face.
He was a little too close. “I should be asking you the same thing,” he murmured, lips twitching into a smirk.
“You've been staring at me all morning.” Jasper stepped closer, backing me into the counter. I could feel my cheeks getting hotter and hotter, my thoughts clouding.
Another step, and we were nose to nose.
Jasper cocked his head. “Do I…have something on my face, Bree?”
It took every morsel of self control to turn away from him, back to the queue.
I smiled widely at the customer, making lattes and coffees. But my stomach was dancing, my mind foggy and distant.
It didn't help that every time Jasper shoved past me, he made it intentional, and the friction of his body against mine, his hands brushing my waist, was driving me crazy. Sam mentioned aphrodisiacs being pumped through the vent in the bathroom stalls to influence intimacy between Brianna and her love interests.
I had a feeling that is what was happening. Still, though, when I peeked at the ceiling, I couldn't see a vent.
I couldn't stop my own wandering hands every time he passed me.
It was a game, in a way.
Who would crack first.
I was in the break room trying to cool myself off, when Jasper stepped in front of me.
“Vegan milk.” He said. Despite acting cool and collected, maintaining his asshole smirk, I glimpsed a noticeable red blush spreading across his cheeks.
His lips found my ear. “Can you… help me find it?”
Autopilot.
Autopilot had taken us into the dark. My body and emotions and feelings were no longer mine, choking, drowning, in fog that contorted me into exactly what these people wanted.
I'm not sure how I got from the break room to the storage closet, pinned against a shelf, half naked, my legs wrapped around my colleague. He started, of course, with his mouth latched to my ear, muttering about Mulberry Milk offers, before his lips found mine.
His breath was heavy, his hands finding my waist, and sliding up my shirt.
God, I pretended a lot of things weren't happening for the sake of not losing my fucking mind.
I pretended I couldn't hear the wolf whistles and squeals rumbling in the walls surrounding us, that the pleasure riding through me was mine, and not theirs. We had an audience.
Somehow, that was even worse than my body being used to satisfy others.
I pretended I wasn't fully exposed, and even worse, that I wanted it.
I wanted to get closer to him, pressing my mouth into his clammy neck and burying my face in his shoulder.
I wanted him to continue, his lips in my hair.
Tipping my head back, my vision was blurring.
But I could see it.
Right above our heads, there was the vent pumping us full of aphrodisiacs.
Sex drugs, I thought dizzily.
I laughed, and it was so out of character, Jasper pulled away for a moment, brows knotting in confusion.
“The Red Zone.” I managed to grit out through Brianna Timberman’s mouth. “Where is it?”
When he didn't respond, I grabbed the back of his head, forcing him to look at me. Under the dim light of a flickering bulb, my colleague’s eyes were half lidded, his pupils dilated pools of confusing black. I had no doubt he hadn't been heavily drugged.
Jasper kissed me deeply again, and when I managed to shove him away, he tightened his grip on my waist, pressing his face into my shoulder.
“The Red Zone.” I repeated, my thoughts reduced to soup.
I only had a certain amount of time, and that time was running out.
I shoved him again. This time, I felt filthy.
His clammy hands all over my skin was like poison.
I felt suffocated, every time he leaned in.
The worst part is that this man had zero choice either.
The thought struck, sending violent tremors through me.
How many times had my corpse of a body been used like this?
How many times had I been fucked, or fucked someone else for this town’s sickening satisfaction obsession with Brianna Timberman?
“Tell me where it is!” I said through a shriek.
Jasper slowly started to respond, blinking rapidly. “The… wha?”
He was a good performer, awake or not.
“You knew what was going on when your friends dragged Sam away.”
I kept my voice low, kissing him harder to keep the narrative going. Especially when I could hear the dull sound of pounding feet. These freaks wanted us to fuck.
I made sure to let my mouth linger on his, aware of every inch of the two of us being watched, analysed, probably photographed and posted to the town website. “I saw you flinch when Felix died. Which means you were awake.”
I pulled away, slowly, playing with the collar of his shirt. But at the same time, I was looking for every possible escape route. Sam was right. To my left, I could see a subtle red light dancing across Jasper’s jaw.
And to my right, another skimming across my neck.
So, I grabbed the boy, shoving him against the shelf, switching our positions.
“You tracked me down that day,” I spoke softly, pretending to bury my head in his chest. “You knew exactly where I was. And you took Sam away. So, you know exactly where the Red Zone is. You know where he was hiding.”
Jasper surprised me with a chuckle. When I lifted my gaze, my vision was fuzzy, my body hot and flustered, and yet I was shivering. His head was tipped back, lazy eyes tracking the ceiling. He was following the exact same red light.
“You're a funny girl, Bree.” He murmured. My colleague leaned forward, keeping up the facade for our unseen audience. He was doing exactly what they wanted, the curve of his back almost too perfectly lit up.
It was exactly what Brianna Timberman had fantasised.
Jasper’s panting breaths found my ear. “Keep talking, though? You're going to fuck both of us over.”
His words sent shivers trickling down my spine.
In the corner of my eye, the red light was visible. If the room was too dark, that meant they were tracking and filming our movements. I didn't think.
Grabbing my colleague’s shoulders, I yanked him to his knees, dropping with him. Risking a glance behind us, the light was gone. Which meant (or at least I hoped) that we were out of shot.
Jasper regarded me lazily, inclining his head. “What are you–”
I slammed my hand over his mouth, cutting him off.
“The Red Zone. You know exactly where it is.” I hissed, tightening my grip on his shoulder. When he played stupid, I dug my fingernails in. “You're not an ex,” I said, “So, what are you?”
“Jasper?” my colleague muffled under my hand, pointing to his name tag. When I removed my hand, his lips spread out into a grin. But I caught his eyes frantically searching for those red lights.
“I have no idea what you're talking about, Bree!” He raised his voice significantly, “But… did you know vegan milk is made with only the best pasteurised milk from Mulberry Farms?”
This guy wasn't going to sing, so I had to get creative.
Above us, three red lights were scanning the dark.
They were looking for us.
“Please.” I whispered, searching his eyes for a hint of a human being.
“You're as much of a victim as me, right? Don't you want out of here?!”
Jasper responded with his signature eyeroll, maintining that plastic fucking grin.
“I… have zero idea what you’re talking about! But do you know what I really want to talk about? Mulberry Farms milk!”
I couldn't stop myself. Maybe it was frustration, desperation, or a mix of both. I wasn't fully thinking straight when I grasped the back of his head, and slammed Jasper’s skull into the metal edge of the shelf. I regretted it immediately when the guy’s eyes rolled to pearly whites, his body going limp in my arms, head lolling onto his shoulder.
When a single rivulet of red slid from his nose, I realized he was like Sam.
Sam, who must have given himself a head injury to wake himself up.
A severing.
Under the influence of the narrative, as well as aphrodisiacs choking my thoughts into arousal, I never really saw my colleague’s body. I only saw what Brianna wanted to see. Lean muscles and a perfectly sculpted v-line.
But now, away from the cameras, and in the fading light of a dying bulb, I saw them, running my trembling fingers over rugged stitched and patchwork skin moulding this boy, and so many others, into the perfect man.
I could see where parts of him had been replaced and cut away, his entire face airbrushed into a viewer’s fantasy.
But looking closer, his real eyes were mismatched contortions of blue and brown.
I waited for the sarcastic eye roll and immediate plug-in advertisement.
Instead, though, the man's expression was… softer.
He looked dazed, confused, blinking rapidly.
But, as he slowly drank in his surroundings, his expression started to twist into fear. Pain. Anger.
Anger that was so vast, so overwhelming, that he dropped to his knees, scrubbing at his face. I didn't know what to say. Sorry didn't mean anything. Sam was gentle when he told me I was recycled skin, nothing but a flesh puppet for a psychotic town.
But I didn't give him a chance to take it in. I plunged him directly into this cruel, horrifying reality.
Jasper’s frenzied gaze went to his hands, and then his hands were in his hair, clawing down his face.
His lips parted like he was going to speak, but I don't think he could.
Jasper’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. Terror that was something I could relate to, an existential dread and confusion and pain that was tearing him apart. I knew the questions at the back of his head.
Why me? Why was this happening to me? How can I be alive? How can I be real when the rest of me is nothing?
I felt my own fingers trace the scars across my own stomach.
Scars that only I could feel, deeply indented into my skin.
Skin that I wanted to rip into, to tear away.
Because… I was somewhere, right?
Underneath all of this, my old self was there.
I fucking HAD to be because I can't just be THIS.
Jasper stumbled back, clumsy on his feet, embarrassed and confused, trying to hide himself. When blood started seeping freely from his nose and down his chin, I found my voice. “Hey.”
I spoke softly, and his eyes finally found mine, resembling a startled deer.
“Can you tell me who you are?”
I swallowed thick slime creeping into my mouth.
“Who you were?”
For a sobering moment, it was just the two of us.
Not Brianna and Jasper.
His eyes found mine, truly drinking me in.
And something sparked in his expression. Recognition, or familiarity.
His hands cupped my face, fingers running down my cheeks.
The man was mute, speechless, and yet somehow, he was crying.
Crying for me.
A stranger.
Somehow, though, my hands, or at least part of my hand, the stitched and rugged parts of me, responded to his touch.
“Bree? Jasper?”
When the door flew open, I jumped to my feet, pulling the boy with me.
They were paranoid, I thought, mirroring Sam’s earlier words.
The town was making sure we were still satisfying them.
To my surprise, Jasper’s eyes dilated back to brown.
“Uh,” His voice was choked up, more of a growl, “Give us a sec, all right?”
Autopilot.
I bent down and grabbed my shirt, throwing it on.
Jasper buttoned up his own, brushing himself down.
He stepped back, winking.
“Same time tomorrow?”
Autopilot.
Brianna didn't speak. Instead, she headed towards the door.
She wanted him to chase after her for more.
But not before Jasper came close, hissing in my ear.
“You want to go on a suicide mission? Fine.” I was already pulling away, or Brianna was pulling away, because my body was being forced forwards.
Still, he held me, tightening his grip. “The thrift store across the street. Stall three, in the bathroom.” He said. “Just, please,” Jasper’s tone softened.
“Please never fucking do that to me again.”
So, I had a location.
The problem was actually getting to it.
Autopilot.
It was stronger, forcing me onto the stage.
I spilled coffee over a customer, and of course, Jasper came to the rescue.
When I dropped a tray full of drinks, slipping on someone's mess, his arms were already wrapped around me, catching me before I could hit the ground.
When our eyes met, Brianna Timberman’s heart fluttered.
The people surrounding us were already swiping right on their phones.
Jasper helped me stand up. “You… should be more careful, you idiot.” He grumbled.
I nodded, straightening up.
Jasper leaned against the refrigerator. “Do you know Sam Thwaites?”
I didn't look up from making coffee. “Yeah. He was…”
I blinked away memories of the two of us as kids.
“Just a friend.”
“He's bad news.” Jasper said. “The guy is working for your dad.”
“That's not… that's not true.”
“Oh, really?” He stepped in front of me, head tiled to the side. “So, he just came back into your life for no reason?”
“I don't want to talk about Sam.”
“But… Did he leave you anything?” Jasper murmured. “Like a… I don't know, a parting gift, maybe?”
Before I could reply, my colleague blurted, “What were you wearing when we were… “ He looked around nervously. “Looking for vegan milk?”
“I… don't know?” I prodded at my apron. “This, I guess? Why?”
“Oh, no reason!” he winked at me. “Did you know my Aunt died recently?”
“No…”
“Well, her funeral was all sorted within a matter of days,” Jasper continued, speaking through that same grin.
“Callister Funeral Care really did give me the comfort me and my family needed while we were in mourning…”
Autopilot.
I woke up halfway through my shift the next day, in the middle of serving three boys.
Immediately, I dropped what I was doing, darting to the door.
“I'm going on my break!” I yelled, grabbing my jacket and pushing through a group of girls. The town thrift store was empty. I was pushing through the door when a girl pushed past me, hard enough to knock my jacket out of my hands. When I scooped it up, something dropped out of my pocket.
Inside was a single black disk-shaped thing. I stuck the plastic down my bra.
“Bree? What are you doing here?”
Lifting my head, my colleague was standing over me.
Jasper’s smile was a little too big.
When he helped me up, his voice was a sharp breath. “How exactly are you planning on getting in the men’s bathroom, genius?”
I had a way.
But neither of us were going to like it.
Autopilot, however, did my job for me. I was in a bathroom stall on my knees, when reality hit, and I shook my head of fog. Jasper was already pulling me to my feet. Pressing his index over his lips and motioning for me to be quiet, he pointed above our head. Instead of a window, there was a hatch. “Red Zone Two.” He mouthed. "Fucking go!
I nodded, climbing onto the toilet bowl, throwing myself through the hatch.
This time, I felt directly into a pile of still-wet and still warm bodies.
But these weren't Alex’s or Ben’s, or Sam’s.
My own face, my perfectly moulded and sculpted Barbie doll face stared back at me. Brianna Timberman was everywhere. Her glazed blue eyes and wide smile were suffocating me. It when I stood up, did I start to see patches. I saw skin and hair, torn and stained clothes with body parts still attached to them. Different faces.
Girls.
Beautiful girls with their heads severed, their bodies reduced to mutilated flesh.
Smiles stretched into skeletal grimaces, and eyes scooped from the sockets.
As if I felt connection with the doll pieces around me, I started to claw at my legs.
Like I could find my own skin, revel in it.
I stood up, at the sound of a mechanical whirring. In front of me was a blood stained conveyer belt that wasn't moving, that was frozen. Just like the room with Sam’s, Ben's, Alex's, and Esme’s. I felt my fingernails rip into my arms, and my face. My gaze was glued to the cutoffs, the human bodies scattering metal flooring. Is this what I was?
I ripped into the skin of my face until I felt the sting.
But there was no fucking blood. Nothing to remind me I was human.
“Bree. You need to get out of here. Now.”
I was barely aware Jasper had joined me. He fished up my jacket.
“What are you?” I asked him, my voice shuddering.
“Wrong.”
His response surprised me. “Which is why they're going to kill me off soon, and I'll die the way I was supposed to.”
Jasper’s words collapsed into white noise.
Instead, I was someplace else, a memory splintering into dozens of memories.
I was… Clara.
Jamie.
Lily.
Kiera.
Becca.
Elizabeth.
I was running.
Screaming.
A guy was in front of me, tugging my hand.
“The far gate is the exit!” The voice in front was female.
“If we reach it, we’ll get out of here. Just keep running.”
A sharp flash, and I was standing stiff. Upright.
I was moving, a long line of girls in front of me.
I felt them, writhing, entangled around my bones.
Every girl I was made out of.
The cruel needle plunging into the back of her neck, instantly killing her.
A second needle injecting a solution that kept the body alive.
Her thoughts and feelings and sensations.
All of it was kept alive.
Conscious.
The whirring blades coming down and skinning away her face, her eyes, her lips, her screams falling on deaf ears.
Her sculpted body, naked and raw, was shoved forwards.
The next metal arms made sure to stitch up loose skin, adding and removing and slicing away what was no longer needed, adding a metal exoskeleton to assure no damage. Then came clothes, a yellow summer dress, exactly what she was wearing on the day Sam Thwaites dumped her in the rain. The final metal arm was more of a brush, a thing scraping across the face to make sure Brianna was perfect.
When she tumbled off of the conveyor belt, smiling widely, I wasn't Clara, or Jamie, or Lily…
Fuck.
I was Brianna Timberman.
Standing at the end of the line, with his arms folded, was Brianna’s father.
His smile was proud, eyes glinting with madness.
He stroked my face, eyes filling with tears.
“She's perfect.”
The memory shattered, coming apart, when something pricked my neck. There was a blinding white light on me.
“We’ve got her, sir.”
A muffled cry, and I could just see Jasper being wrenched back.
“Hey! I did what you told me to do! The pocket is empty!” his voice deepened into a growl. “Let me go!”
The figure who grabbed him seemed to enjoy his discomfort. She had wandering hands. “Five more seasons, pretty boy.” The woman hummed. “Brianna may have forgiven you, but your debt is with Mr Timberman.”
“Wait! No, we had a fucking deal you piece of– mmppphmmh!”
I was forced onto my stomach. “AND the love interest who appears to be faulty. It's the tracer who was supposed to be following her.” The voice swam in and out, as my mind plunged. *“Yes. I'll get him remodelled immediately. Uh-huh. Brianna is A-okay, sir. Do you have my permission to proceed?”
Autopilot.
This time it was deep, dragging me to impossible depths.
“Brianna!”
Mom’s voice snapped me back to half-fruition.
I was standing in my parent’s hallway in front of Sam.
Sam, who had lowered himself to one knee, a ring pinched between his fingers..
“Say yes!” Mom stood behind me, standing with my brother.
Autopilot.
My lips spread into a smile.
Two bright lights on the two of us.
“Yes.” I whispered, when he wrapped his arms around me. “I'll marry you.”
The walls around us were ooh-ing and ahh-ing.
When the lights switched off, and Sam’s smile stayed plastic and taut, I realized the boy underneath was gone.
But it was when his head was in my chest, did I remember his earlier words.
“Please. Take it.”
Autopilot.
The day skipped forward.
I was only aware of my mother’s hands tangled in my hair.
She was dragging me down the hallway.
“Don't worry Brianna!” She said gleefully, tightening her hold.
“No daughter of mine is this much of a nuisance, and the show must go on!”
I was shoved into a room, on autopilot.
But, after regaining myself, I can break myself out of autopilot.
The medic came to see me.
According to her, I'm slightly severed.
They're going to fix me. Like what they did to Sam.
Look, it's been three hours and I've been thinking about a lot of things. I know you can't save me. I live in the blip of a town, a town you can't find on a Google search. I know I'm a prisoner.
But I think I know how to save myself and the others.
Mainly. I want to cut Brianna Timberman away, and look underneath.
But I'm terrified that under all of these layers? They're will be nothing left.
I've already done most of it. Right now, half of my face is caught under my nails.
But I'm not
Fuck
I can't find me???
Im not bleeding, I can't see anything that looks like ME and when they come back they're going to patch me back up.
They'll stick someone else's flesh over me, and call me Brianna.
But I'm not Brianna?????
I'm not any of those girls, so who am I?

I purchased a second hand Range Rover Evoque 2015 Td4 150 Se Lv from a private seller with 160,000 on the odometer on 12 January 2024. I am the third owner of the car. Before purchasing the car there was an engine management light that was on, but one of the DPF sensors were replaced. And roadworthy certificate was done.
While driving the car there was a low water light that came on, and had to top up the radiator water a couple of times.
February I was driving the car onto the freeway on ramp, and a warning light came on saying ‘engine oil critically low’. I decided to continue driving as I was close to work and would check it when I got to work. AS I continued the car started running rough and popped up a second warning light ‘performance critical low’. So I pulled off the freeway and my brakes would not work ‘limp mode’
I turned the car off and called my father who is an auto mechanic and he checked the engine oil which was full. The car would not start again. We called a tow truck. The gear box was locked and the car had to be pulled onto the tow truck.
The scanner showed two fault codes
P064F-00 permanent/ Unauthorised software/calibration detected P060A-29 intermittent internal control module monitoring processor performance
Ad blue empty Cam sensor replaced Fuel pump ok Crank sensor ok
Dad rented tools to check the timing chain and apparently this was ok, a new timing chain. When aerostart is sprayed into the inlet manifold the car starts, but there is no injection pulse.
Land Rover dealership said they could not scan the car as there was aftermarket programming. The computer was reset, however failed to turn on. So we have purchased and had installed a new computer. The car is still not starting.
Any help please???

I want to start a small tree fertilizing and spraying business that actually makes a difference. I have a nearby university where I can get soil samples processed fairly quickly that I'm hopeful will tell me what kinds of fertilizers to use for specific projects, but I'm finding that many tree care websites just sell "herbacultural oil" for spraying while making claims that it reduces the populations of harmful insects, however, something just doesn't sit right with me. Certain insects are good for our tree friends.. Is anyone else torn by this?
Also, as far as fertilizer, is anyone reading using an injection pump to fertilize and if so, what are you actually injecting and how often?
If you got this far, thank you and keep being awesome.

Hi all, I thought I'd post here just seeking some general advice!
A little about us.. I have identical twin boys (17 months) who were recently diagnosed within 2 days of each other. (One went into DKA, the other was tested in office) It's been a huge adjustment but I think we are doing okay! They each have a dexcom and are taking (very tiny and only sometimes) corrective injections. Their goal BG is between 80-180.
Some questions.. What the heck do you all drink?! We are having water 99% of the time. Sometimes they will have those hint waters, but I can tell that are missing juice and flavor!
Same with snacks, anykod friendly ideas besides cheese and strawberries?! Endo said to keep snacks about 5 carbs or under since they are so small.
We are also thinking about insulin pumps, I'm leaning towards waiting a little longer, Endo thinks its a good idea because they can dose in such small amounts. Tell me the good, bad and ugly involving those.
Id love some general advice, words of encouragement, or anything you think it's important for a caretaker to know!
Thanks!!