#BEAT HIM AGAIN WHIRLYBIRD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rescuebabiesau · 2 months ago

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"You've Been Accepted!" - Whirl

Whirl grasped the tiny pamphlet tightly in her hands as she hurried down the tiny corridor, her spark beating a million times a microsecond. Every few steps she'd look down at the top, seeing the first four words printed across it: Congratulations, you've been accepted!

Accepted! One of the first students to be attending the brand new Rescue Bot Training Center, stationed on the one and only Earth!

That scared her a little bit, she supposed. Traveling to another planet, being away from everyone and everything she knew... But she'd done a lot of research on Earth- mostly through scattered stories and random video broadcasts she was able to get her servos on- and it seemed like it was something she could handle.

She just hoped her dad would see it the same way.

She paused at the front door of his workshop, bouncing on her pedes and wondering if she should knock or wait and tell him later when he wasn't working. She was already here, so why waste time going back and forth? She pressed her audio receptor to the door, hearing a soft clinking of metal on the other side. She then pressed her knuckles against the metal and tapped gently.

A muffled mumble, the one that told her she was free to enter, but that he was also focused on something else at the same time.

She pressed her palm to the scanner and the door slid open, exposing the cluttered, dimly-lit space that was her father's workshop. Crates and containers of parts- both big and small- were stacked almost to the ceiling and half-unpacked. Cubes of energon- mostly empty but not quite finished- sat in groups on the floor and tabletop, splashes of it dripped and dried on the floor and table as well. Her father sat on a small bench, hunched over the table with the only light in the room being a lamp he'd pulled down and close to him.

"Hey, Dad...!" Whirl greeted softly, trying her best not to startle him.

"Hey, Whirlybird!" Her dad greeted in a cheery tone, though not looking from his work. "Just give me one second, I'm almost finished putting these gears in."

"Take your time." Whirl carefully navigated the boxes and crates, reaching the table and quietly, slowly, bending down to collect the cubes from the floor. She stacked them in her hands, moving them from under his pedes and over to the recycling chute across the room.

"Oh don't worry about cleaning up, Whirly. I can do that."

"I'll let you focus on your work. Don't worry, I got it." Whirl placed the cubes into the chute, watching them tumble downward into the dark where they would settle with others to be collected, taken away, cleaned, and then refilled to be redistributed out with fresh energon rations to the population of Cybertron. She wondered if any of these cubes would wind up going on a ship for a long-distance haul. What sorts of wonders did they see as they were reused, over and over?

She turned back to the table, looking at her father. It was amazing how much emotion she could pick up from just the one, giant optic that formed his faceplate. The focus, the concentration... The desperation. His hands were shaking, the tiny gear caught between the tweezers in one hand clinking against the metal of the casing he was trying to put it in, his other hand moving the casing in practically every opposite direction the gear was going.

Whirl could feel it, she could see it in his expression.

She set her announcement pamphlet down on the table, coming around and taking his left hand gently in hers. "Do you want me to hold the casing?"

"I...Okay, Whirly..."

Whirl smiled, despite her spark breaking at his defeated tone. Taking the casing from his pincer grasp and keeping it steady while he tried placing the gear in its place again, she watched his movements carefully. The air moving through his vents slowed, the tension loosening just a bit; he was trying to calm himself down, to calm the shaking that was causing him so much trouble.

Her gaze fell on his hands as they trembled uncontrollably, long talons for fingers that were not made to grasp tiny gears or hold fragile trinkets... Hands that were not truly his, and constantly fought him in every action he made. Such intricate motions were still hard for him, trying to make micro-movements and holding other pieces perfectly still, and praying to Primus that he didn't suffer an involuntary jerk that sent the tiny components flying across the room.

Why had he taken on such a delicate occupation when he had faulty parts, some had asked. Because it was what he loved doing, no matter what condition he was in.

"Your motor function's a lot better, have you been doing those exercises they showed you?"

"Heh... You know I have, Whirly. You're there to make sure I do 'em..."

The gear clinked back and forth, but finally, it plopped right in place, and both of the bots relaxed. The tweezers clattered to the table, and her father's hands went to his helm as he gave a hard sigh.

"Hey, don't be hard on yourself. You're doing a lot better. You haven't dropped your tools on the floor in weeks." She wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her helm on his shoulder. "You're doing great..."

Her father didn't respond, but the dull ache in his EM field eased just a bit. She felt him lift his helm and then reach forward, "Hmm? What's this?"

Whirl lifted her helm as he grabbed the pamphlet, flipping it over to examine its writing. She felt a stillness to his spark, and then the waves of relief and joy that washed out of it and encircled hers.

"You got in...! Oh Whirlybird, that's great news!"

Whirl released him just long enough for him to turn around on the stool and embrace her properly. "Y-Yeah...! I made it in!" Her own excitement reignited as she felt his, "I wasn't sure how happy you'd be, you know? It's a long way away from here, so-"

"Oh Whirly..." The mech's EM field smiled, "...You have no idea how happy I am. You're following your spark, doing what you want to do rather than whatever someone else decides you're made for. I am so excited that you're growing up in a time and age where you can be whoever you want to be... And I know you'll be an amazing rescue bot."

Whirl gripped his armor tightly, "Thanks, Dad...!" Her voice modulator cracked, "You... You promise you'll keep working on your clocks?"

"You work hard, and I'll do the same... We'll call and make sure each of us is keeping our end of the bargain, okay?"

"Sounds good...!"

Whirl had no idea what it had been like for her dad, growing up just as she had, but being told he could only be one thing when he desperately wanted to be another. Of course he would be delighted to see her have that choice, to be herself.

She would do well, and she would graduate the Rescue Bot Training Academy with the best marks... She would make him proud.

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

I plan on doing one of these for each of the other recruits (Hotshot's is already up) but Whirl's second!

#transformers #rescue bots #ghostsofthepresent #transformers au #rescuebots #transformers rescue bots #maccadam #tfrba whirl #gotp story post

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messinwitheddie · 4 years ago

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HA! New one finished! A fic of Shakkin, Jin, Pitch and... Shakkin's mystery apprentice!

By @a-wanderin-whirlybird

A Poem of Fury and Discovery

Jin didn't know what to make of his Granny. Granny Pitch was a fixture in his and his mother's life. Not that Jin complained much. Granny Pitch managed to help streamline the kitchen work at the cantina with her drumming. Though he didn't like her constant requests for poems.

Sure he enjoyed writing out his feelings in poems. And his painting was also relaxing. But….

"Nooooo! Granny I'm not putting this up in the Cantina!" Jin hissed as Pitch tapped a vicious beat on the wall.

Another interesting thing Jin and his mother had learned. Pitch's hive had several non verbal languages, one for each discipline the Hive practiced. The entire Hive would be fluent, and the languages would have a Visual or touch based alternative for those who needed it.

apperantly Hive Octave had a, No Smeet Left Behind, approach. Even the most vicious and Callous of Tallest within the Hive insisted all Smeets had a place in the Hive, and needed to communicate some way.

By the time Pitch had been born, the languages had been second nature for all members of the hive. But since the fall of the Hive and the loss of all their history and practices, these languages lost so much of their place in the scattered descendants from the Hive.

Pitch was quick to teach Jin and Kagi the Drummer language. It was both sound and touch based. Pitch used the sound based version more than touch, lest her conversation partner was deaf.

Kagi, Jin's Mother, had picked up the language quickly. Jin, was already fluent.

"Its wonderful Bleetie! A True Masterpiece of attention and detail!" Pitch tapped out the message on the wall with her talons, careful not to damage the wall. Kagi nodded.

"Jin, I'm sure Frylord Gir would love to use your paintings! And Granny is right! It draws you in, its impossible to ignore!" Jin groaned.

"Moooooom! Not you toooooo!" Jin whined. He felt like a Bleetie again. Pitch seemed to notice and paused in her beat. After a moment she returned to drumming.

"I only ask because of pride." Pitch drummed. "It is a wonderful piece and it fulfills a defense position. I recognize the pull from the Hive."

Jin waited for Pitch to finish before speaking again. He didn't like interrupting and Jin had noticed how excited Granny Pitch got when talking about Hive Octave. Jin actually liked hearing about the long lost Hive. It was a piece of his family history. And Granny Pitch loved to listen to Kagi and Jin talk about Vortian culture and Fallow, Jin's Father.

"I will not push more. My apologies Bleetie." Pitch tapped. Jin sighed.

"I… its not that I'm not proud of my art. Its just…" Jin looked over the painting. His memory jumping back in time.

It was of his Father, Fallow. Drawn and painted from the one clear memory Jin had of him before he passed. Fallow was an average height Irken with Pale green skin and longer than average antena. His eyes were a vibrant Magenta and he held baby Jin in his arms.

"This piece is personal." Jin muttered.

Kagi placed a paw on Jin's shoulder, eyes softening. Pitch nodded, tapping an affirmation. Jin's gaze hardened.

"But I can make one that is for the Cantina." Jin said firmly. Kagi squeezed his shoulder with a soft loving smile, and Pitch drummed an energetic beat in excitement.

Jin got to work.

Frylord Gir didn't know what to expect when Jin came in with a gift wrapped present for him. His ancestor, the Dead Irken Pitch, was close behind him, a glint of pride in her eyes.

Gir gasped as he opened the gift.

"Its beautiful Jin! You made this?" Gir said. Jin nodded.

It was a painting of the Cantina, various regulars strewn about. It almost looked real, and Gir couldn't look away for a while. Then Pitch's drumming pulled him back.

"Granny said that it has, uh… the Octave Pull. It draws people in and makes them hesitate if they have good intentions, and paralyses them if they have bad intentions…" Jin coughed. "Granny taught me how to fully utilize the pull. So if anyone causes trouble…oof!"

Gir had picked up Jin, crushing him in a bear hug. The painting had been forgotten, hanging in the air. Yarp, the Crystal person, caught the canvas before it hit the floor.

"Its wonderful Jin! Thank you! I know just where to put it!" Gir said, dropping Jin and gratefully taking the Painting from Yarp. As Gir skipped off Yarp approached Jin and Pitch.

"That was new." Yarp said. "I haven't seen Gir so happy in a while."

"He probably found the secret." Jin said. Yarp shook his head.

"Whatever it was it certainly made him happy." Yarp said, his crystal fingers clicking. "Anyways the Grand Brewmaster Shakkin is coming today, remember?"

"Oh! I completely forgot!" Jin exclaimed, anxiety setting in. "We… have to close the Cantina and hide dont we?"

"Yeah. We already got the front taken care of but we need All chefs in the back. We are taking the back room but Pitch is welcome to join the chefs."

A ferocious beat stung the air as Pitch responded.

"Granny said only if you need her." Jin translated.

"It would be appreciated." Gir said returning to the conversation.

"Oh No. Frylord? Is… is Su-garr?" Jin asked unable to finish the sentence. Frylord Su-Garr greatly disliked Gir, no Matter how good Gir was. She liked to tag along when other Dignitaries came to visit.

Jin was especially worried because Brewmaster Shakkin was, while a Very Jolly Irken, a bit secretive of his Apprentice. And Shakkin had asked if his Apprentice could join him. Said she had something for Gir.

A great honor for Gir.

But if Su-Garr gate crashed, then it could quickly become a very big Problem. For what ever reason Shakkin hid his Apprentice, a forced reveal would destroy both Gir's place as Frylord, and Shakkin's Paitence.

Gir patted Jin's Shoulder.

"Dont worry Jin! It will work out." A good Phrase of Gir's. It will work out. It meant there was light on the otherwise of the anxiety, but the road to that light was possibly fret with beasties, like Alligators. Not that Jin knew what and alligator was, but Gir often sited them as monsters.

Pitch Tapped away.

"Er. Thanks Granny. Frylord, Granny has offered to keep an eye out for any trouble and take care of it." Jin translated as Gir chuckled.

"Thank you Miss Pitch but it will be fine. Now off to your stations! Brewmaster Shakkin should arrive soon."

After Jin and Yarp ensured Pitch was set up in the main kitchen, drumming the beat of the production, the two retreated to the locked down Cantina and took up posts.

Several hidden security booths were scattered around the building hidden in the walls and duct work. Radios connected the various booths to each other and to the main kitchen, to ensure no one wandered down into the hidden Cantina.

Jin and Yarp were set up in the wall by the Grand Round Table. A seat made for parties and welcoming Dignitaries. Gir had set it aside for the occasion as it was relatively private aside from the security booth. They looked out through a one way window painted to look like Tallest Miyuki. But aside from that, it was very private. No cameras to speak of!

As Yarp and Jin settled the Radio crackled to life In their audials.

"All is well. Brewmaster Shakkin has landed." Urik, an albino Irken spoke over the radio. He had been demoted to table and Gir had saved him. Poor Urik had a permanent stoop because of it.

"Roger, thanks Uric. We will report when they arrive in the Round." Yarp reported quietly.

Jin was peering through the window as Yarp watched the sound proofing device. Jin squinted as an Irken slipped inside and got situated beside a plant.

Jin didnt recognize them and double checked the data pad with the list of Irkens who would be present and who served who. Hmmmm.

He was a Blue skinned Irken with Milky eyes. Jin gasped.

"Yarp, report to Uric and the Kitchen! Su-Garr is here! One of her servants is in the Round."

"What?! Floopdin!" Yarp spat relaying the news. An unsettling feeling hit Jin's gut and his tongue danced behind his hrit teeth trying to form words.

Why? Did she want to Sabotage? Who though? He wanted to take the radio and shriek into the main restaurant. But Jin bit his tongue.

"Can't I come as I see fit? I AM a frylord, and I expect a place that fits my station!" Su-Garr's shrill voice made Jin and Yarp wince. Gir was likely trying to deal with it as Shakkin's booming laugh hit the air.

"Su-Garr, we have an important appointment! You must understand!" Shakkin's voice had an edge to it. Not a good one.

"Then wait! I out rank both of you!" She didn't, Jin knew. She was below Shakkin but the Brewmaster never said mainly cause she kicked up too much of a fuss. Su-Garr then burst through the doors, slamming the handles into the walls and cracking the wall.

Jin growled a Decidedly Irken growl. Feral and… almost musical.

Shakkin was behind, hand on Gir's shoulder as if to assure Gir and himself it would work out.

"Jin! Stop growling, the Kitchen can hear you!" Yarp said, his crystal made a jingle, a sign he was shocked and then snapped back to the radio.

Jin didnt notice Yarp talking. He glared out the window. Gir had been a savior for everyone in the cantina and they LOATHED Su-Garr for her mistreatment of Gir.

Jin especially hated her for her words. She was looking over the room with disgust.

It was all drivel like, you call this woodwork, and I bet the food is worse than a Vortian's backside. And You never improved Gir.

But the straw that broke the Dignialin's Back was when they finally sat down to eat. She kept talking and smacking her lips as she ate. Then…

"Ugh. I don't even know why you got this system, dirty food, disgusting cooking techniques. And I bet you go through entire swarms of Cooks, you couldnt even keep that Defect Zim near you!"

Jin was overcome with an urge and couldn't stop it. A deep rooted instinct that had been asleep for sometime had started to rouse before. But now it was awake and kicking Jin's teeth in. But he was paralysed in place, a buzzing sound filling his head as his eyes swam and his pupils vanished, turning to Irken eyes.

Then a drum beat. And Jin moved. He barely register the glass breaking, or the words leaving his mouth. Yarp had been shoved into a corner as Jin burst forth, Granny Pitch in the door, drumming upon a pot.

The words were new yet old at the same time, a spoken beat poem. Jin was zeroed in on Su-Garr. The Irken was frozen, her eyes misting over as Froth formed in the corners of her mouth.

As the words continued she got violently ill over and over until her squeedlyspooch was empty. Her servants, in a trance took Su-Garr and left. Only when the door shut behind them did Jin know what he had just done.

Beat Poetry in Hive Octave was what the humans Called a Pavolvian trigger. It created the reaction and trigger for the dog. In this Case Jin had effectively taught Su-Garr in the span of 2 minutes that, everytime she came here and insulted Gir, she would get violently ill. So she would have to be on good behavior. Potch's drumming ensured none of the offending party knew who did this or why.

Shakkin blinked at Jin and Pitch and Gir looked both terrified and furious. A very rare sight. Jin started to shrink until Shakkin Laughed.

"Good show! About time some one put that girl in her place! Ah Gir, dont look so. Your not the only one hiding fugitives." Suddenly all eyes were on Shakkin, wide an amazed.

"What?!" Gir exclaimed. Shakkin tapped his beast plate. It had been larger than normal and when the beast plate opened up, a Blueish green fuzzy irken stepped out. She had bright pink eyes and her neck fuzz covered her mouth. Her Pak, Jin noticed, was inactive. Meaning she was meant to die a smeet.

"Allow me to introduce my apprentice!" The girl curtsied and nodded as a sweet calm voice exited the fuzz.

"I am Ion. My siblings and I were saved from death in smeethood but I wanted to be a Brewmaster. So I approached Shakkin and he took me in." Ion said. They couldn't see it, but Ion was smiling. "That poem reminded me of a song My rescuer sang when they saved me and my siblings. It had frozen Mother Control Brain long enough for us to escape. But no matter I have a gift for you Frylord Gir! It will only take a moment!"

They watched, stupefied as Ion took out various liquids and cups and began to mix them, the final concoction was Bright Blue with a green swirl. No one knew how she did it. But the swirl was suspended in the loose blue liquid like a flag.

"Ion made special drinks for all the frylords. Yours just took a while because she wanted something that truely reflected your unique and friendly approach to food." Shakkin explain, Ion nodded.

"The Open Heart I call it. It goes well with Ave Escape. That one is more of a desert than a drink though. Oh! Would you two like some? Its the least I can do for driving that strange Lady away." Pitch nodded.

"Uh sure? Thank you."

Ion happily clapped and vegan to prepare the Ave Escape. It was a Massive drink and Gir was happy to sip in his Open Heart all stress and fury fading away. Finally the er… drink was complete.

It was a towering mass of Ice Cream soda and crunchy candies. Whipped cream and berry sauce dripped over the sides of the glass cup. Something popped and sizzled on top and 2 curly straws hung off the back like antenna. Ion had made disc's of Melted Glonk, sorta like Caramel but green. Two large discs sat on the front and back. The front one had a face. And on the sides connecting the 2 disc's were 5 smaller ones with tiny Glonk antena. The two of them stared.

Suddenly Pitch was drumming. It was rapid and excited.

Ion looked puzzled.

"Uh, Granny Pitch wanted to know if Ave Escape was named after anyone.."

"Oh yes! My rescuers! Two Tall Irkens, both women. One was curvy with a soft face. The other was a cool grey color with long corkscrew antenna like her." Ion said point to Pitch who was shaking. Tears began to form in the dead Irken's eyes.

"Oh dear. Are you alright?" Ion asked, only to be met with a slow deliberate drum beat. Jin paused. Pitch looked at him, begging him to translate. Jin caved.

"The curly antena were they like my horns? Or Granny's Antena?" Jin asked cautiously. He really didn't want Putch to get her hopes up.

"Oh yes, but much longer! Almost to the ground! Oof!" Pitch had rushed forward, grabbing Ion and hugging her tightly. Jin squeaked. He was feeling rather strung out. Most did after their first Beat Poetry. And now…

Pitch tapped a slow deliberate beat on Ions back. Against some wooden armor. Jin swallowed.

"She said… thank you. For telling her. And uh… that was her Wife. The one with the long antena… ah. I dont recognize the other…"

"Oh-oof! Really? Ah I remembered her name started with a D. And she ripped the mechanical arm out of the wall when it tried to grab us!" Pitch was silently sobbing. Her sounds were swallowed by her own attempts. Talking was hard enough and it hurt to make sounds. Jin didnt know what to do.

"G-granny come on… lets… let's give The Brewmaster and Frylord their space. Thank you and… ill… fix the wall." Jin winced as his body remembered his burst through solid glass. It stung. But he pulled Pitch away all the same.

Gir waved him off, lost in the flavor of his drink.

"Oh! Wait! Take the Ave Escape with you!" Ion called. Handing the massive drink to them. "Share it with anyone you want! Its meant for sharing! I… i hope you find your wife. I'm sorry I don't know where she is."

Pitch tapped a beat.

"Granny said thats fine. To know her Songstress is around and has helped you is enough for her." Jin paused as Pitch tapped again. He sighed. "No Granny we aren't adopting Ion she has a- NO!"

Pitch chuckled, clinging to her Desendant. She would find her Love, one day. She could wait until then.

[:DDD

This was such a fun read. Jin is a talented young buck ^^ and his lucky to be wholesome-haunted by Pitch.

Pitch is a vindictive badass Granny and I love her. I hope Jin gets to explore as much Irken and Vortian artforms as he can. I would love for Pitch to meet some classically trained Vortian minstrel/ bards ^^.

I enjoyed seeing my frylord OCs get attention. Soo-Gar's snooty-shmooty attitude was spot on. Zim will enjoy hearing she got her just desserts :3.

Gir may be a noob of a frylord stuck running a dinky armada cantina but he loves his job and his kitchen crew. It's adorable how ready they are to go to his defense. His response to Soo-Garr becoming ill was very natural to me;

Gir is very confident in his crew, but not in his skills quite yet. Anyone becoming ill after eating his appetizers would upset him; He appreciates the sentiment, but he hopes Pitch and Jin dial back in the future, even when Soo-Garr is obnoxious.

Ion's drink sounds delicious. Best since tbe SuckMonkey. Gir loved it! He will gladly serve her smoothie/ float/ icy drinks in his cantina. He, and the rest of the culinary ops will be devastated when Shakkin finally steps down as Brewmaster Masterbrewer, but he couldn't have picked a better apprentice. He is a very proud poppa ^^, and unfortunately he is unwilling to let Pitch adopt her, as he still has much to teach her and learn from her too.

Can't thank you enough for sharing.

#invader zim #fanfiction #to fanart #irken #gir #ocs #pitch #ion #frylord #submission

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letterboxd · 4 years ago

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How I Letterboxd #5: Will Slater.

Talking mullets and other manes with the man behind the internet’s definitive ‘exploding helicopters in movies’ catalog.

“Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment.”

A London-based PR man by day, by night Will Slater has a thing (and a podcast, blog and Twitter account) for movies that feature exploding helicopters. According to his Letterboxd bio, it’s “the world’s only podcast and blog dedicated to celebrating the art of exploding helicopters in films… as well as shaming those directors who dishonor the helicopter explosion genre”. As Will tells Jack Moulton, he also loves film noir, Wakaliwood, masala movies and much more. Just don’t get him started on the one action movie cliché that never fails to disappoint.

Sylvester Stallone takes aim in ‘Rambo III’ (1988).

First things first, have you ever had a ride in a helicopter? Will Slater: What, do you think I’m mad? Of course I’ve never flown in a helicopter! If I’ve learned anything from watching hundreds of films where helicopters spectacularly explode, it’s that they are a singularly dangerous form of transport. You never know when Sylvester Stallone is going to pop up with an explosive-tipped arrow and blow you out of the sky.

I’m going to say the words ‘the definitive action hero/heroine’. Who pops into your head first? No runners-up. Go. Snake Plissken, no question, for a number of good reasons. First, there’s the look: that eye-patch, the beaten-to-hell leather jacket and Kurt Russell’s lustrous mane of hair. Second, there’s the attitude: his contempt for authority, the drawled sarcasm and all-round bad-assery. And I also like that he doesn’t have any special abilities. Action heroes generally tend to be either musclebound slabs of beef—Arnold Schwarzenegger, Stallone—or martial arts specialists—Jean-Claude van Damme, Jackie Chan—Plissken is just a pissed-off, angry dude who’s trying to stay alive. He’s very relatable. Plus, I’d argue he pretty much invented the whole anti-hero formula that rules our screens today.

Kurt Russell as Snake Plissken in John Carpenter’s ‘Escape from New York’ (1981).

When did you start your podcast and which film got you into looking deeper into the topic? It was while watching the cheesily bad Cyborg Cop that I first had an epiphany about the weird and wonderful ways in which helicopters seemed to continually explode in movies. But the film that convinced me to start documenting the phenomenon was Stone Cold. If you’re not familiar with the film, it was an attempt to turn former gridiron star and mullet-king Brian Bosworth into the next big action star. It goes without saying that Stone Cold did not transform ‘The Boz’ into the next Arnold Schwarzenegger, but the film wasn’t a total failure as it features a helicopter explosion that is as brilliant as it is gloriously stupid.

And that was the prompt to start the Exploding Helicopter. I launched the website in 2009, and the podcast followed 2015. Since we started, our aim has been a simple one: to celebrate the strange and inventive ways that helicopters explode in films.

youtube

Motorcycle crashes into helicopter in mid-air, ‘Stone Cold’ (1991).

When did you join Letterboxd? What are your favorite features here? I’ve been around since 2013. As for the features, the stats are very cool. When you dig into your viewing history, you can learn some very revealing things about yourself. For example, I generally like to think I have a commendably broad taste in film, and watch only the most important and influential works from every decade, genre and country. But then you look at the data and find you’ve watched Thunderball nine times in the last five years, so maybe you’re not as cool as you thought.

We noticed that your profile faves are low-key and explosion-free, given your theme of choice. Why these four and not Die Hard four times? Man cannot live on helicopter explosions alone. Even I need some occasional intellectual nourishment, between watching whirlybird conflagrations. There’s a little bit of nostalgia tied up in The Ipcress File. I first saw it as a kid, and it made a big impression on me. It’s very stylishly directed, has a great John Barry score and a star-making turn from Michael Caine. I’m a big film noir fan and Sweet Smell Of Success is a beautifully sour tale of cynicism and manipulation. To borrow the words of Burt Lancaster in the film, it’s a “cookie full of arsenic”.

Jean-Pierre Melville is my favorite director and Le Samouraï was the first of his films that I saw. What Melville does so masterfully in this, and his other crime films, is distil the elements of film noir. Basically, he takes the genre’s iconography—the gun, the trenchcoat, the fedora—and familiar plot tropes—the betrayed assassin, the heist gone wrong, the criminal doing one last job—then elevates them above cliché into something almost mythic. And what do I really need to say about Taxi Driver, other than it’s a masterpiece?

Now you say you shame directors who dishonor the art of helicopter explosions? Which directors did you dirty? Well, one of the biggest names in our hall of shame is Tony Scott. For a man who specialized in hyper-stylized, pyrotechnic-filled action movies, he flunked every helicopter explosion he filmed. In our eyes, one of the most egregious offences you can commit is failing to show the helicopter explosion. And in both Spy Game and Domino, old Tony cheats the viewer by having the chopper fly out of sight before it explodes. Now, I can accept such visual chicanery in a low-budget film, where they presumably don’t have the money to stage the scene, but what’s Tony’s excuse? If you look at his filmography, at one time or another he’s wrecked trains, planes and automobiles in spectacular fashion. But for some reason, he repeatedly couldn’t be bothered to give us a satisfying chopper conflagration. At a certain point, it starts to feel like a personal slight. Tony, what did I ever do to you?

In your immortal words, “a film is always improved by a helicopter explosion.” When has this been especially true? When you see lists of worst-ever directors, Uwe Boll is a name that always seems to turn up. And, according to the internet, one of his worst-ever films is the video game adaptation, Far Cry. Now, I’m not going to try [to] convince you that the film is a neglected classic, but it does have a very imaginatively staged exploding helicopter scene. It’s too convoluted to explain here, but take my word that it wouldn’t be out of place in a Fast and Furious movie.

What about the unsung heroes; the stunt artists, the pilots, the pyrotechnicians, the VFX wizards who have worked on numerous iconic action moments, all of whom deserve a shoutout? Personally, I don’t understand why the Academy doesn’t have a stunts category. But if they did, I’d be lobbying hard for Spiro Razatos to get the first award. These days, he works as a stunt coordinator on the Fast and Furious and Marvel films, but I’d like to draw people’s attention to some of his early work. Back in the nineties, he did a lot of work with PM Entertainment films, an independent company that made low-budget action films for the home video market.

They might not have had much money, but they put every cent on the screen with glorious, raucously inventive set pieces that were often more spectacular than big-budget Hollywood offerings. And remember: this was in pre-CGI times, so every death-defying detail was absolutely ‘real’. Go back and watch films like The Sweeper or Rage, and you’ll can see why Super Spiro has now graduated to these more prestigious gigs.

Narrow this list down for us: which is the ultimate most spine-tingly epic “we got company” movie moment? As you may have gathered, I do like an action movie cliché. When you encounter one in a film, it’s like meeting an old friend. And one of my favorites is when someone uses this classic line of dialog to signal that a car chase or a gun battle is about to start. I’ve heard people deliver the line in all sorts of ways–funny, scared, angrily and often just badly. But if you want spine-tingly, then you can’t beat Harrison Ford in Star Wars. He drops the line during the detention-block scene after failing to bluff an imperial officer. As soon as he says it, John Williams’ iconic score kicks in. It gives you the ‘feels’ every time.

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“Boring conversation anyway.” Han Solo and Chewbacca in ‘Star Wars’ (1977).

And which action movie cliché can you simply not stand? Stop it: my hackles are raising just thinking about it. For me, the trope that never fails to disappoint is the ‘reluctant’ hero being convinced to take up arms and join the fight. You know the scene. Invariably, the hero has hung up their spurs and is living a bucolic existence ‘off the grid’, when a gruff buddy shows up asking them to risk almost certain death by taking on ‘one last job’. Now, dialog is rarely an action film’s greatest strength, and these beefcake actors generally are not cast for their dramatic chops. Which means we get subjected to the same perfunctory and uninteresting scene over and over again: “I told you, I’m out the game”, “Goddamnit, we need you”, “OK, I’ll do it”. These scenes just never work and are never less than painful to watch.

Which up-and-coming action director are you most excited about? In terms of up-and-coming action talent, I’d pick the director Stefano Sollima. I first noticed his work on a couple of TV series: the fantastic Italian crime dramas, Romanzo Criminale and Gomorrah. The way he composed shots really stood out, and it was clear he had a very cinematic eye. He rather reminds me of Michael Mann. He’s now on Hollywood’s radar and got to direct Sicario: Day of the Soldado the other year. And he’s lined up to make a Tom Clancy adaptation with Michael B. Jordan. I can’t wait to see what he comes up with.

Have you witnessed the glory that is Wakaliwood—Ugandan DIY action filmmaking—three of which make Letterboxd’s official top ten films by black directors? Which international films do you feel out-match Hollywood? I love the Wakaliwood films I’ve seen. It’s fascinating to watch action films from around the world and see their different styles and flavors. Recently, I’ve been trying to investigate Indian cinema and, in particular, what are known as ‘masala movies’. These mix action, comedy, drama, romance and dance numbers into one big, crazy, entertaining mess. They’re a unique experience. If you want to check one out, I’d suggest Dhoom 2. It’s bananas.

Can you believe there are only two female directors represented in your exploding helicopter list? Do you believe that’s due to systemic or thematic reasons? You have to say it’s systemic. Men have dominated filmmaking for more than a century. Until women have the same opportunities to direct and make films as men, it’s impossible to know what their interest may or may not be in blowing up helicopters. [Will has previously written about the search for “true gender equality in the world of exploding helicopters”.]

To address the elephant in the room, how has Kobe Bryant’s unfortunate death earlier this year changed the way you look at these scenes? Obviously, I appreciate that Kobe Bryant’s death was very shocking and a tragedy for his family and fans. But basketball really is not a thing on these grim shores, so it didn’t register with us unenlightened Brits other than [as] a sad headline about a US sports star.

What was your most anticipated movie event of 2020 before Covid-19 pushed every tentpole back? That’s easy: No Time To Die. I’m a huge Bond fan and as soon as tickets were available, I booked myself in to see it on opening day at an IMAX. But if the Daniel Craig era is synonymous with anything, it’s lengthy delays between films.

Freerunner Sébastien Foucan in the opening scene from ‘Casino Royale’ (2006).

What’s a fond memory you have in theaters related to the Bond franchise? I remember going to see Casino Royale. I was excited, but also nervous to see it. The Brosnan era had ended with the risible Die Another Day: invisible cars, kitesurfing and, worst of all, John Cleese’s awful Q. Since that had come out, we’d had Mission: Impossible, Bourne and the Triple X films, so it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that Bond might be finished. Then the first ten minutes of Casino Royale happened. And while that outstanding parkour-inspired chase was terrifically exciting, it also hit me like cinematic Valium. I suddenly realised I could sit back and relax, safe in the knowledge that 007 was going to be just fine.

Are you planning on returning to theaters as soon as you can? When would you feel comfortable? I’m taking a wait-and-see approach. I’d love to see films back on the big screen again, but I want to know more about how cinemas are going to maintain social distancing inside.

Finally, what three Letterboxd accounts should we all be following? Why not give Todd Gaines, Jayson Kennedy or Fred Andersson a follow? If you’re interested in genre films that are a little off the beaten trail, they’ll likely all steer you towards some hidden gems.

#letterboxd #how i letterboxd #letterboxd member #letterboxd community #cine #film lover #exploding helicopter #chopper fireball #action films

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hell-of-a-copter · 5 years ago

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A VERY DESCRIPTIVE PROFILE OF YOUR MUSE.

Repost with the information of your muse, including headcanons, etc. if you fail to achieve some of the facts, add some other of your own!

NAME. Whirl of Polyhex previously known as Jetstream of Poyhex

NICKNAME(S). Whirlybird, Whirly, Chicken Nugget, Fingers, Several other insults.

AGE. Old. About 6 to 8 million years

SPECIES. Cybertronian

ALIGNMENT. Chaotic Neutral maybe Chaotic good.

INTERESTS. Building things(mostly clocks) Drinking, Sharpshooting, Hanging out with friends,

PROFESSION. Ex-Wrecker, Ex-Flight Instructor, EX-Watchmaker, EX-Law Enforcer. Unemployed

OPTIC COLOR. Yellow

FACECLAIM. IDW MTMTE/LL Whirl

HEIGHT. About 38feet. taller if you count him stretching his legs.

VOICE. A slightly higher pitch voice than the DefectiveTurret from Portal

RELATIONSHIP STATUS. widowed / Single

ENEMIES. Several some he is unsure if they are enemies or just battle buddies

COLORS. Teal, black, gray, yellow. May change the paint job if so desired.

ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES? Yes

SMOKES? No

DRUGS? Not at the moment / recovered addict

DRIVERS LICENSE? Imagines Helicopter getting a car driving license.

FAMOUS FOR. Beating up Megatron.

INFAMOUS Arson, Outbursts of rage when triggered.

WANTS. Real Friends, To be able to make clocks again, To have Sparky again

NEEDS. Friends, Self Acceptance, Help, a job

Tagged by: @polyhexianchicken

Tagging: @hitbyspacejunk, @grumpy-purple-jet @your-future-robot-overlord , @a-life-revised @shyspiderweb @cannons-and-swords @athenafire @betterdoctorthanyou @rungalwaysheretolisten @moonpuncher

#Whirl speaks #I was tagged wooooo

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shirk-raya · 6 years ago

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Castle of Glass [ One-Shot ]

Characters: Shirk, Vinny ( @vinnydoesbad ), Disaster ( @disaster-doll ), Ace ( @acesinadeck ), Vulpe (mentioned, mine.), Dr. Majesty (mentioned, @ a-wanderin-whirlybird ) Rating: T for language, graphic descriptions of violence and heavy topics Warnings: Heavy amounts of blood, graphic descriptions of violence, mentioned kidnapping, mentioned torture, hurt/comfort, angst, allusions of self harm, needles, self care of injuries, head injuries, character going nonverbal, panic attacks, sign language Word Count: 4,036 Words Relationships: Shirk/Ace/Disaster/Vinny (The New Gods) Summary: Prompt fill: "You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you." A/N: So, uh, remember that fluffy drabble I posted not long ago? Yeah, this is the complete fucking opposite. Sorry that I’m not sorry. This was written in one night, without sleep, and not proofread, so if there are any mistakes, welp. This is rather heavy, so read at your own risk. I like making my boy suffer ;3c

The clouds rolled low over the tops of the buildings, hung heavy with bellies full of the promise of rain, threatening to break their hold at a moment's notice. They completely covered the sky in a thick blanket, blotting out the moon and stars which twinkled high above without a second thought about what occurred below their light. The only illumination that lit up the dingy streets were the flickering street lights, old and unkempt, which lined the black asphalt in mirrored, uniform lines. A dark, hulking shape shuffled itself through their pockets of light, hunched in on them and sending darting glances to every shadow like the world itself was readying to pounce on them. Their left leg dragged uselessly behind them with a quiet, and all too loud, scuffing noise. A long, jagged metal pipe was held in a white-knuckled grip in their left hand, a serrated knife hanging loosely from their right. Both had rivers of blood and ichor falling away in a rhythmic drip, drip, drip as the person slowly made their way through the streets, leaving a bloody trail that mingled with the person's own blood.

Bright red, disheveled hair was lit up underneath a street light, calling focus to the gore and unsavory grime that caused the ruby strands to clump disgustingly together, staining their head and neck an ugly shade of red. A flash of lighting followed shortly by a sharp crack of thunder caused the figure to seize up, hands clenching impossibly tighter around the weapons held within. When no one jumped out from the darkness, no glint of a gun meeting their eye from within the creeping shadows, they let their shoulders slump and began their trekk once again. Another flash of lighting and another sharp CRACK thundering through the sky caused the person to jump and glance upwards in an unsteady squint, green eyes weary and unfocused. A fat drop of rain, bone-chilling and foreboding, fell between their eyes, causing them to flinch away from the freezing touch and pick up their slow shuffle to a slightly faster amble.

As the clouds finally broke under their pressure and the rain began to pelt down painful bullets of ice-cold water in earnest, soaking everything their chill-inducing hands grasped, including the lone figure in the street. A familiar building rose out from the darkness like a beacon of hope. The abandoned mall. A painful smile cracked across the person's face despite the way they flinched violently against every thunderous wave, splitting a previously unseen cut across their bottom lip open again and spilling fresh blood down their chin, rough with unshaven stubble. Their amble picked up speed once again, and they forced weight on their injured leg, sending sharp spikes of agony up their spine into their chest with every step. Each excruciating step brought them closer and closer to safety.

They finally, and quite literally, stumbled into the building, water cascading off of them in waves and mixing with the bloody footprints left behind after every step as they made their way to the single elevator in the middle of the main entrance area. They stepped into the elevator and hit the floor they wanted to go to. As soon as the doors slid shut, they collapsed heavily onto the railing, weapons clattering heavily to the carpeted floor with a series of dull thuds. The mantra that was being chanted in their head like a song on repeat thudded painfully loud within their skull. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon of Los Santos. I will not betray my family. I will not give in. I am Shirk Raya, the Dragon-

The doors opened with a cheerful chime and he stooped down to pick up the abandoned weapons before stepping off the elevator, watching dully as the doors slid closed once again. He then slowly turned, head and leg throbbing painfully with every beat of his heart, and shambled down the short hallway to the room he knew was his. He fished out his keys-the only thing left on his person after his captors destroyed everything else-from his jacket pocket, unlocking his door with a cuh-chunk and taking a single step into the dark threshold. The door shut with a soft click behind him and he finally allowed himself to relax, beaten and battered body nearly giving out where he stood.

Shirk was exhausted, wanted nothing more than to sleep, but he knew that it was highly unlikely he would get any amount of rest for a while, what little sleep he would manage to capture would almost surely be plagued with nightmares. Plus, he was getting nowhere near any of his furniture being covered in slick blood as he was. First thing: shower. Tend to his wounds. Eat or drink whatever he could stomach without throwing it back up. A flash of lightning alighting the room through the single window to his left caused the normally fearless man to startle so violently he nearly passed out, a vice-like grip crushing his lungs and causing his heart to pound painfully against his ribs. He quickly scurried like a frightened cat to the bathroom, closing the door tightly and locking it before allowing himself to breathe. He kept the lights off, didn't want to see himself in the mirror until he was at least somewhat presentable, and turned the shower on as hot as it could get. He had enough cold water to last a lifetime-

A quick shake of his head dislodged the memory, and he quickly shucked off his clothes and climbed into the shower, not for the first time glad it had a seat-like slab in it as his busted leg finally gave out on him and he fell heavily onto it. He let the blistering water pour over his skin, washing away the physical reminders of what had happened barely hours ago. He felt more than saw the blood wash down the drain, no doubt coloring the water a horrid red as it swirled around. He quickly cleaned himself, taking extra time and special care on his hair, making sure it was completely clean and snarl free before moving onto his injured body. He washed himself down the best he could, mindful of every fresh wound and abrasion, some still dribbling blood even as he cleaned them. He attempted to move his left leg to give some attention to it, but it spasming sharply at the smallest movement caused him to forgo cleaning the limb entirely.

He shut the water off and clambered out of the shower ungracefully, left leg refusing to bear anymore weight. He grabbed one of the towels off the rack- leaning most of his weight onto the bathroom counter- and patted himself dry, ignoring the white linen turning red in spots as he did so. Once suitably dried off, he wrapped the towel around his waist and turned the light on, ducking his head at the bright assault to his eyes. Once his eyes adjusted to the change in light, he opened them and glanced at himself in the mirror. The man staring back was hollow-cheeked, with sunken eyes and cuts and scrapes littering his face. The beginnings of a beard colored his chin and cheeks, below the dark hair his skin was pale and sickly. The man's eyes lacked any emotion in them, being closed off and mistrusting of everything.

The only thing that told Shirk it was him and not some stranger were the all too familiar scars brandished across his face. This wasn't the man Shirk had left as three weeks ago, this wasn't who he remembered. He didn't have the beard, or the nearly feral look in his eyes for starters. Unfamiliarity stung as his brain and he tore his eyes away from his face, to take inventory on the rest of his body. Numerous new wounds- some already scarred, others fresh- littered what unmarred skin he once had. Some were sticky and hot with infection, and yet others were scabbed over uncomfortably. A plethora of different wounds in different states of healing; most intentional, torturous wounds meant to hurt, not kill, though a few were gained in his escape-

He once again shook his thoughts away, moving to crouch in front of the sink and rummage through the cabinets. Shirk pulled out his first aid supplies, including a needle and stitches, and began to patch himself up. He'd maybe go to Doc Majesty, but probably not. Never does seek out her aid, lady makes him nervous, only when forced to go or on death's door would he find himself at her lair. He found he had zoned out, deft fingers working on auto pilot as he sewed and bandaged himself up. His torso and arms were done, all that was left was his leg.

Which, unfortunately, had the head of a crossbow bolt stuck in his calf. Not one of the small ones, one meant for hunting large game, broad and triangular. He kneeled down so all his weight was on his right leg, moving his left to a position where he could reach the wound. Prodding gently, not without sharp pain radiating out from each touch, he located the foreign object. Holding his left hand over top it from the outside, he grit his teeth and took a deep breath. Positioning his right hand, he dug his finger into the wound, biting his tongue to keep from making a noise. He breathed heavily through his nose, the stench of blood and antiseptic clogging up his senses. He fished around and his finger finally brushed over the hard edge of the arrowhead, and he quickly yanked it out, pressing in with his left hand to staunch the fresh blood flow from the wound. He couldn't help the pained grunt- too loud- from escaping his lips, and he stilled, holding his breath.

Shirk thought he heard movement from outside the bathroom, so he waited, daring not to breathe, listening for anything further. When no other sounds greeted his ears, he turned back to his leg, grabbing the stitches with a hand he refused to acknowledge was shaking. He quickly stitched the offending limb back up, wrapped a tight bandage around the rushed job, and stood up, still bearing most of his weight on his right leg. He washed his hands, ignoring the one injury he refused to touch-they re-carved BEAST just below the brand.

He couldn't help the way his eyes drifted down to the age-old brand, phantom pain of the hot metal biting into his skin causing the muscle underneath to twitch and jolt as if it were being branded all over again. He swallowed, throat dry, and remembered step three of his plan. Get something to drink. Easy. The nausea suddenly rolling in his gut promised he'd be unable to eat anything, but he's gone this long without food, what's a few more hours? Shirk pointedly ignored his ribs poking out from under his skin, and turned to the door. He hesitated, glancing back at the mess he left; a pool of blood, used bandages and towels, other medical supplies strewn about… He'd clean up later, he decided. He really needed water. He hesitated again, before praising the Gods he kept a spare change of clothes in bathroom for times like this. He quickly threw on the sweatpants and t-shirt, not bothering to tie up his hair.

He swung open the door without second guessing again, turning out the bathroom light as he did so. Another grumble of thunder caused him to jump. Shit, he fucking forgot it was storming. What a damn coward. Jumping at a little thunder. He let out a quiet, humorless laugh, limping his way towards the kitchen. The knife and the broken pipe he had brought home with him sat on the wooden table, neatly placed. Strange, he didn't remember putting them there. He could've sworn he had dropped them somewhere by the door…

The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and that was his only warning before footsteps approached behind him. His hand reflexively reached out and wrapped around the handle of the knife, and he ducked into a crouch, springing away from the person behind him. They gasped. He whirled around and bared his teeth, pushing the pain away. Brandishing the knife like a sword, he narrowed his eyes, just seeing the outline of the person standing before him. Their hands were raised, hands empty. Shirk didn't trust them-

The light turned on and he violently flinched, backing up on instinct. His foot hit the counter, his bad leg, and sent a shock of pure agony up. He groaned, resisting the urge to grab his leg, and opened his eyes into a glare. As the people in front of him came into focus, he froze, knife clattering to the floor. Disaster was the one who came up behind him, in a nightgown, eyes flashing with worry and confusion. Ace stood behind her, slowly putting down the book they had grabbed. Vinny was over by the door, looking ready to bolt but trusting Shirk enough not to hurt any of them. All the fight in him left in a rush and he suddenly felt light-headed, headache back double-fold and leg angrily pulsing in pain with every heartbeat. He slowly lowered himself so he was sitting on the floor and hung his head, focused on drawing in breaths that didn't cause his chest to shudder.

The rush of blood in his ears receded, and a voice right in front of him- too close, too close- replaced it. "-irk! Shirk, answer me!" His head snapped up and he attempted to scoot away, panic seizing his body again, but his back was to the counters so he had nowhere to go. He was trapped. His hand reached for the knife again against his own accord- "Woah, shhh, it's okay." Disaster was crouched in front of him, trying to calm him down, hands held out once again. He hand gripped around the blade of the knife, serrated edge slicing easily into his palm. "Please put down the knife," she told him in a calm, soothing tone. She was too close. He hand reached out to touch his arm, his vision swam, and he curled away from her outstretched palm.

He heard Ace- or was it Vinny?- ask something in a scared voice, but all he could focus on was how close Disaster was and how he wanted her to back up. "Nnn," he tried, mouth unable to form the words his brain was screaming.

"Shirk?" Disaster asked, attention back on him.

"Bhhh," he tried again, frustration mounting the fear. His eyebrows furrowed, and his hand clenched further around the knife. The bite of the blade didn't register in his mind. "Bhhk," he ground out, chest heaving-in anger? In fear? He wasn't sure-and heart somewhere in his stomach.

"I don't understand, sweety," Disaster told him, and he nearly brought his head back to connect with the cabinets behind him, but barely restrained himself.

A sudden thought came to him, and his hand slowly uncurled around the knife. He brought his hands to his chest, shaking like a leaf. He refused to look at Disaster or Vinny, instead meeting Ace's eyes. 'Back up,' he signed at them. Again and again, repeating himself. 'Back up. Back up. Back up back up back up-'

It took a few tries, Shirk's movements jerky and sloppy, but Ace's eyes soon lit up in recognition. "He wants you to back up, I think?" When Shirk nodded, too desperately in his opinion, Disaster's mouth turned to a deep frown, but she moved away a couple of feet, finally giving Shirk room to breath.

"Shirk," Vinny piped up, moving to sit next to Disaster. Now that Shirk didn't look like he would shank one of them or hurt himself out of fear, they felt more confident to approach, in slow, deliberate movements like one would do around a frightened dog. That's what he was, huh? A fucking scared animal. "What happened?" Vinny's word stopped Shirk's train of thought, face shuttering over.

He wanted to tell them, he really did. But something held him back, something screaming about not trusting anyone, something scared and broken from weeks of torture and abuse. His hands moved of their own accord.

"'I'm fine, nothing happened,'" Ace translated, settling near the other two.

"Bullshit," both Vinny and Disaster said at the same time.

"You can't expect me to believe nothing happened, not when you flinch every time something touches you," Disaster told him. Her tone rose as she spoke, clearly upset, and Shirk had to fight back the instinct to curl away from her volume. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction of proving her words.

He glared back at her. 'I'm fine,' he stressed, ignoring the blood dripping down his arm. 'Nothing happened. Got a little banged up, that's all.'

"Shirk," Ace said quietly, after translating. "Why are you lying to us?"

'I'm not-'

"You are," Vinny told him. Shirk raised his hands to sign something back when they stood up a little too quickly. Shirk shifted before he realized, back in a crouch and fingers brushing the knife again. "You wouldn't look 10 seconds from slitting one of us if something didn't happen."

Shirk curled his lip at that, averting his eyes. Damn Roach was too perceptive for their own good. He startled when he looked back and saw Vinny closer than they had been. Not within touching distance, but closer. Shirk's breath caught in his throat.

"What happened?"

Shirk wanted to use words, his voice, for this. He forced his mouth to work, frowning at its reluctance to do what he wanted. It had been over a week since he spoke. "I-its nnnothing you neeed to con-concernn yourselvess about," he started, slowly and haltingly. His words came out slurred, and for the first time he worried about brain damage. Maybe that's why his head hurt so much.

"Shirk, we just want to help you," Disaster piped up, having moved closer too. Ace wasn't far behind her, in the process of crab-walking over beside her.

It was like a dam broke, and something that had been misplaced clicked in his brain, mouth suddenly spouting words he didn't want to be spoken aloud. "What do you want me to say?" he nearly shouted, voice wavering and cracking from lack of use. "I fucked up, okay? I got caught, I was stupid, I fucked up." His breaths were coming out in gasps, but he couldn't stop the words anymore. "I was caught, and tortured for three fucking weeks, and I didn't think you were coming-" his voice cracked harshly, but he barreled on, "and to top the shit pie, it was the fucking Burgundy Beasts who got me. I was in their grasp again and I was alone and I didn't know what to do-" His voice broke completely, and his legs gave out below him. He gripped his hair, finally allowing his head to connect with the surface behind him with a CRACK. "He's coming, he's coming, and we're all fucking screwed because he's on his way," he said, quieter. A shudder passed through him, and he whispered, "I thought you weren't coming for me."

"Shirk," Ace started, but Shirk cut them off with a frantic shake of his head.

"You know how fucking scary it is, to be tortured for three weeks, and you try, oh you try to hold on hope that help is coming. They have the best damn hacker in Los Santos minutes away, of fucking course they're on their way. But the days pass and the torture gets worse, you go fucking insane trying not to say anything, and then you realize the ones you love aren't coming. If they were, they'd be there by now. You start to doubt they ever loved you at all," he told them, tears welling up in his eyes. God he was so fucking weak, crying like a bitch over this. "Do you know how that feels?"

A spur-of-the-moment thought made him lift his shirt up and off, showing the bandages hiding new and old wounds he would normally never show anyone. He almost unwound the white linen, but just stopped short of doing so. Brain damage was likely. He gestured to the scars, peeking from beneath the bandages, across his chest in anger, staring at Disaster and Ace who didn't know what the Beasts were capable of. "Do you know how it feels to be ripped to pieces, day in and day out? To have old wounds-" he gestured with his bloody hand to the re-carved words under the brand- "reopened with the intent of breaking you?" He ended with strained breaths, entire body shaking.

"Shit dude," Ace whispered, getting elbowed in the side by Disaster. No one knew what to say for a moment, the only sound being Shirk's ragged breathing, too fast to be healthy.

Vinny moved first, breaking the tension that had fallen over them. They moved forward, slowly and deliberately, knowing that when Shirk got like this a hug was the best thing to do. They got within a couple of inches and paused. "Can I touch you?"

Shirk started to shake his head no, but changed his mind and nodded a quick yes. His eyes were screwed up against the tears that still threatened to spill. When Vinny's arms wrapped around his body, he jumped, inhaling sharply. But he quickly melted into the hug, arms coming up to clutch at Vinny's back. "I thought-I thought-" he blabbered, barely suppressed sobs shaking his frame. "I-I thought y-you-" he hiccuped, pressing his face into Vinny's chest.

They had never actually seen Shirk break down like this, but the two had some close moments when talking about their shared experiences within the Burgundy Beasts, and they simply ran their hand through Shirk's hair, shushing him whenever the babbling got to incomprehensible. Disaster and Ace soon joined them, wrapping their own arms around Shirk's frame- which was much thinner than they remembered-and giving him soothing words and touches. They avoided any and all fresh wounds, sticking to his head, his neck, his arms.

His sobs quieted, exhaustion settling over his body, and he pulled away from them, eyes glassy. He crossed his arms across his bare chest, frowning at himself. In a fit of anger towards his actions and words over the past… however long, scooped the knife up off the floor and stood. The others gave him questioning, almost doubtful looks as he turned the blade in his hand. He stabbed it behind him into the counter top before he mumbled something and stomped away to the living room and collapsing face-down onto the couch. He felt someone gently grab his hand in their own and had to force himself to not snatch it back. They wrapped something around the cut down his palm, and he signed 'thank you' from the side of his head, unwilling to move his face from the pillow.

He heard Ace mumble something about how he "had mood swings so violent it'd must hurt," from behind him, and then heard what sounded like a smack followed Ace whining.

Shirk realized dully that he never got the water he was originally after, and he fought with himself whether or not to get up and get it. One the one hand, laying down for the first time in weeks felt so good, and the sleep was pulling at his body. On the other, he was unwilling to sleep as he knew what would happen if he did. Mind made up, he went to push himself up when a comforting weight settled onto his back. Hands started carding through his hair, and Shirk sighed in bliss, pressing his head back into the hands. He could… lay here for a little longer. At least, until whoever was on top of him moved. The hands didn't still and he found his thoughts slowing and his consciousness being pulled away from him. He would get up… he would. Just after... he took a small nap. -- A/N: There are some questions left unanswered, which aren’t spoilers for a maybe story about what happened before, so I’ll put them here: Q: What prevented Enigma and the others from finding Shirk for so long? Also how was he not found during a sweep of Los Santos if he was missing for so long? Were they under the pretense that he’d be out of communications for a while? A: Shirk had been out on a job, gather intel and spy on a group that was claiming a little too much land within the city, and while told not to engage, followed them back to their base in the mt Chilliad region. The group happened to be a subset of the Beasts, and Vulpe themself was personally visiting the crew to make sure things were running smoothly. There was a shootout and Shirk was overwhelmed and captured. No one thought anything was wrong until too many missed calls, and bu that time it was too late. Vulpe is a Specialist, not only an expert with strange weapons (ahem, the crossbow) , they're also rather good when it comes to covering tracks, whether physical or digital. They wiped all the cameras before the Freaks realized shirk was MIA. Their base is underground, like one of the bunkers in-game, and hidden, its no wonder they didn't find him. Q: How far did he walk from where he was being held to the mall? He’d have to be pretty close, right, or did he walk for over 24 hours? Wouldn’t they have found him then? A: He didn’t walk far, but where he was being held was not near the city at all. Opposite side of the island, in fact. The final fight actually happened quite close to the city. They were transporting him to the docks to send him to the main land, to Fabian, and he broke out of the van, killed the men who were driving and fought Vulpe again, this time getting away (was it purposeful on Vulpe's part to let him flee? yes. Did they let him leave unscathed? The arrowhead in his calf says otherwise.) Q: Was he tortured the entire three weeks or would it alternate between days of torture and days of isolation? Because would’t he die if it was three weeks of consecutive torture? A: It did alternate between torture and isolation. Vulpe did want information, yes, but the intent of everything was to make Shirk hurt and weak, before Fabian could fully break him. Vulpe never forgave Shirk for what he did to their beautiful Leader’s face.

Q: Why is everyone in Shirk’s apartment, anyway? Don’t they all have rooms/apartments within the Mall? Why weren’t they out looking for him? A: Well, yes, they do. But you know when someone misses their s/o who’s on a trip or smth, so they wear their clothes and sleep on their side of the bed and stuff? It’s a comfort thing. They all missed Shirk, and the easiest place to regroup without feeling so hopeless was his apartment. They broke in, of course, but Shirk doesn’t need to know that. And the reason they weren’t all out is because they were getting rest and regrouping. They had been looking all day, and when this happens it’s really late at night/early in the morning. Like, 2-3 AM. People need their rest, whether or not any of them were actually sleeping. Q: Who the fuck is Vulpe? Why are they important? Why are they after Shirk? A: Oh! They’re someone we haven’t properly met yet! One of the Fox Twins, and one of the two Third-in-Command, Fabian’s most trusted crew members. They take turns with their sibling, Corsac, running the Los-Santos branch of the Burgundy Beasts, and all the smaller crews owned affiliated with them. You’ll learn more about them later, as well as the Beasts as a whole.

#mine #freak fam #vinny #ace #disaster #The New Gods #long post

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