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Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week!

Graphic Policy’s Top Comic Picks this Week! 15 comics to check out! #comics #comicbooks

Wednesdays (and Tuesdays) are new comic book day! Each week hundreds of comics are released, and that can be pretty daunting to go over and choose what to buy. That’s where we come in Each week our contributors choose what they can’t wait to read this week or just sounds interesting. In other words, this is what we’re looking forward to and think you should be taking a look at! Find out what…

[artyandink]

amoralism | five

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

TW: So much sexual tension it’s illegal, Agent Dean Winchester (yes, he’s a warning in itself), mention of murder, murder, Knights of Hell but they’re just murderous humans, fantasising, description of injuries, use of firearms, a mole in the FBI, office shenanigans, body image, Azazel, mom being a PIECE OF WORK

Song Inspo: Elastic Heart by Sia

SERIES MASTERLIST

auteurism

Cain knew that they’d find him. Didn’t mean he wouldn’t go out without a fight.

The convoy of black SUVs pulled up to Cain’s warehouse where he kept his farm tools, their headlights cutting through the darkness. Doors opened, and figures in dark suits emerged, their movements swift and precise. Cain recognized them instantly—members of the Knights’ elite guard, trained killers, every one of them. They fanned out, securing the perimeter with practiced efficiency. Cain’s heart sank as he realized just how many of them there were. He was outnumbered, outgunned, and outmatched.

But he had something they didn’t—resolve. He had nothing left to lose, and that made him dangerous.

From one of the SUVs, a tall figure stepped out, his presence commanding immediate attention. Asmodeus, a Prince of Hell. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes glinted with a malevolent intelligence. He moved with the confidence of a predator, his every step deliberate and controlled.

Cain stepped out of the shadows, his eyes locking onto Asmodeus. The two men stood in silence for a moment, the air thick with tension. Finally, Asmodeus spoke, his voice smooth and cold.

“Cain. It’s been a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Cain replied, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. “I should have known you’d come for me eventually.”

“You left us, Cain. You betrayed your brothers. Did you really think we would let that go unpunished?”

“I left because you murdered my family,” Cain said, his voice rising. “Abel was my brother. Collette was my wife. You took them from me.”

Asmodeus smirked, a cruel glint in his eyes. “They were collateral damage. Abel was a threat to our operations, and Collette… well, she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. You know how it works.”

“Collateral damage?” Cain’s hands clenched into fists. “They were everything to me.”

“And now you have nothing,” Asmodeus said, taking a step closer. “Just like you will be after tonight.”

Cain felt the weight of his knife in his hand, the familiar feel of the weapon both comforting and damning. He didn’t want to fight. He had spent so long trying to put this life behind him. But he knew that there was no other way. Asmodeus wouldn’t stop until one of them was dead.

Cain took a deep breath, his mind racing as he prepared for what was to come. He knew he couldn’t take on Asmodeus and his men head-on. He would have to be smart, use the environment to his advantage. The warehouse was a maze of rusting machinery and abandoned crates, a perfect place for a guerrilla fight.

Asmodeus watched him, his eyes calculating. “You don’t have to do this, Cain. You can still come back. The Knights of Hell would welcome you with open arms. You were one of our best.”

“I’ll never be one of you again,” Cain said, his voice firm. “I won’t be part of your twisted world.”

“So be it,” Asmodeus said, his voice icy. He raised his hand, and the men around him drew their weapons. “Kill him.”

Cain moved quickly, ducking behind a stack of crates as gunfire erupted around him. The air was filled with the deafening roar of bullets and the acrid smell of gunpowder. He knew he couldn’t stay in one place for long. He had to keep moving, stay one step ahead.

He darted through the maze of the warehouse, using the shadows and the cover to his advantage. He took down two of Asmodeus’s men with quick, precise strikes, their bodies crumpling to the ground. But for every man he took down, two more seemed to appear. He was getting tired, his movements slowing, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

As he rounded a corner, he came face to face with Asmodeus. The leader of the Knights was waiting for him, his eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction.

“You can’t win, Cain,” Asmodeus said, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re outnumbered, outmatched. Just give up.”

“Never,” Cain said, his grip tightening on his knife.

Asmodeus smiled, a cold, predatory smile. “Then you’ll die.”

They clashed, the force of their blows sending shockwaves through the air. Cain fought with everything he had, his movements fueled by a desperate determination. But Asmodeus was a skilled fighter, his strikes precise and deadly. They fought through the warehouse, their battle a blur of motion and violence.

Cain could feel his strength waning, his vision starting to blur. He knew he couldn’t keep this up much longer. But he had to try. For Abel. For Collette.

Asmodeus landed a brutal blow to Cain’s ribs, sending him crashing to the ground. Cain struggled to get up, his body screaming in pain. Asmodeus loomed over him, his eyes cold and unfeeling.

“This is the end, Cain,” Asmodeus said, raising his weapon.

Cain looked up at him, his vision swimming. He thought of Abel, of Collette, and a fierce resolve filled him. He wouldn’t let their deaths be in vain.

With a final surge of strength, he lunged at Asmodeus, his knife aimed at the leader’s heart. But Asmodeus was faster. He sidestepped the attack and drove his own blade into Cain’s chest.

Cain gasped, the pain blinding. He fell to the ground, his vision going dark. He could hear Asmodeus’s voice, distant and fading.

“You were a fool, Cain. You should have stayed with us.”

Cain’s last thought was of his brother and his wife, their faces smiling at him. He hoped that, in some way, he had avenged them. As the darkness claimed him, he felt a sense of peace. He had fought for them. That was all that mattered.

Asmodeus stood over Cain’s body, his expression unreadable. He looked down at the man who had once been his brother-in-arms, then turned and walked away.

The Knights of Hell had claimed another victim.

You just wanted a normal Tuesday. That’s all. But then came the barrage of questions.

“Hey, uh, Agent?” Sam’s voice and keen eyes caught your attention as he sipped his coffee. Damn smirk; he knew what he was doing. “What’s the deal with you and my brother?”

Agent Ruby Edwards made a grunt of agreement amid a bite of stale office cake, the other agents humming and saying ‘amen’ in agreement. She swallowed it, huffing out a breath. “I’ve been waiting for someone to ask that- I mean, can you guys get any more sexually frustrated?”

“Sorry, sister, but they’re right.” Agent Lafitte shrugged, looking away as he sipped his coffee. “Tension can be cut with a butter knife.”

“I thought you had my back.” You scoffed, setting your coffee down.

“I made an oath, to tell the truth, the full truth and nothing but the truth-”

“That’s court, not a break room.” You snorted, shaking your head and folding your arms.

“I know that tone of voice.” Agent Meg Masters and Agent Cas Novak walked in, Meg’s smirk on full force. “We’re talking about the hotter Winchester’s thing with our golden girl, right?” She smirked at Sam. “I only say hotter cause he ain’t taken.”

“I’m married, Meg.” Sam huffed like a chastising parent.

“That’s never stopped me before.” A swift wink and a saunter over to the coffee machine had Sam laughing under his breath. Typical Meg. “Anyway, we’re not kidding. Whenever you and Dean are in the same room we’re prepared to run in case you two start rippin’ clothes off.”

The statement made everyone in the room choke on coffee - and in Cas’ sake his own saliva - coughing loudly.

“Not quite so boldly, Agent Masters.” Cas cleared his throat, while Meg looked unfazed.

“I’ll be as bold as I like, Cassie baby.” She winked.

“How do you manage to stay out of HR’s radar?” You spluttered, thanking God you’d kept your mouth shut otherwise you'd have coffee down your shirt.

"Easy." Meg shrugged. "No violations in front of a representative."

"Smart." We all turned to the door to see Nick. And we exchanged looks. Just yesterday Director Singer had gotten wind of how he tried to use the two trainees to get information and was put on indefinite leave. "Avoiding authority, how respectable."

"You shouldn't be here." Sam spoke up, more concerned than angry while Benny slipped off to grab security.

You put your muffin down. Even though you wanted one moment of peace to relax and eat it, you were denied that too.

First Dean's cock, now this.

"Sam, we were friends!" Nick chuckled nervously, knowing that security was coming. "We worked that one case, come on. You guys need me on this cartel case. Come on, you know me! I'm one of your best!"

Security barged in, which had him speaking faster. "You guys benched me, and I need to be out in the field. You don't know what it's like." His arms were seized as he began to be dragged away. "To be sidelined. You don't! None of you know! None of you-"

The door shut behind him.

You had been working the cartel case with Sam, when you’d gotten a phone call by the hospital. Nick had been admitted after being caught in the crossfire of a bomb blast that hit the Thurgood Marshal Courthouse, and you’d immediately asked Sam to give you a ride. He agreed, and you were hurrying through the halls, reaching the reception.

“Nick Santiago.” You told the front desk receptionist, who nodded and checked the system.

“Relation?” She asked, probably just to check.

“Cousin.” You replied, and then she told you the room number, which was 105. At breakneck speed, you made it into 105 to find Nick.

Oh, Nick.

He was all bandaged up, tainted with angry red burns and on an IV drip. His eyes blearily landed on you, and he smiled faintly. “Don’t look so upset.” Nick’s voice was raspy and hoarse, clearly from the burns covering the expanse of his neck.

“Nicky, what did they do to you?” You whispered, immediately rushing to sit beside him and smoothing back his hair, seeing the burns and wanting nothing more than to soothe them. He was your older cousin - but he was more a brother - and it killed you to see him like this.

“Attack on the President.” He coughed, clearing his throat, and you helped him drink some water. “I was part of the recommended personnel as he was givin’ a speech. Found the bomb, got him out, but I-I couldn’t get myself.”

You instantly felt anger boil. Not cause of the attack on the President, but the blast felt personal. “Do you know who did this?”

“Some guy called Azazel.” Nick wheezed, and you helped him drink more water, a small grunt of relief coming from him. “It was a suicide bomber. Willing. They yelled- they yelled ‘for Azazel’ and then pressed the damn switch. So I shielded the President.”

You rubbed your cheek, feeling the pressure build up in your mind. First Nick Garrison. Now Nick Santiago. You got news that Cain - or William Abernathy - was dead as well.

Less pressing problems being Dean Winchester and your family dinner that was now postponed because of Nick.

“You were so brave.” You whispered, sighing and closing your eyes for a moment, willing your brain not to burst or collapse.

“Agent?” Your attention was diverted by Sam, who had his eyes on the TV. “Announcement from President.”

All eyes were on the TV as President Shirley stepped out onto a podium, and had Dean and Director Singer as part of his security detail, everyone keeping an eye out for possible assassins. You assumed that they’d done a bomb sweep. President Chuck Shirley was a rather squirrel-esque politician, with a beard and a liking for suits that made him look broader than he actually was.

‘Before I get into the gruesome details, I’d like to thank a man who couldn’t make it today.’ Shirley spoke into the mic, clearing his throat. ‘Detective Sergeant Nick Santiago of the NYPD. An incredible cop who was part of my security detail and saved me from the brunt force of the suicide bombing. He’s now in hospital, but I’d like to give him all my gratitude, because if not, I would not be on this podium.’

“Yeah, I better be getting my thanks.” Nick chuckled hoarsely, his dry humour present despite being on a truckload of painkillers. “Throw in a Medal of Honour while you’re at it.”

‘Now, onto the suicide bombing at the Marshall building in New York.’ Shirley suddenly turned serious, the crowd going silent after a round of applause for Nick- as if that would fix anything. ‘It was a senseless act of violence, and we’re receiving rapid details from the FBI on the situation. I advise everyone not to panic, as we have America’s best people on the job and they will not stop until the organiser of this is behind bars.’

You wanted to throw the remote at the TV, but you refrained. You knew the name. Azazel. When John Winchester was your CO, he’d been heading the case with you and Dean. It had come up briefly. In a voicemail, a nobody ever figured out what it meant. Now you knew Azazel was a person. You looked to Sam, who gestured to talk outside, so you assured Nick and obliged, moving outside with him.

“This is all Biblical stuff.” Sam sighed, sweeping a hand over his mouth. “Satanic cultists, maybe?”

You shook your head with a sigh. “Not likely. I saw Abaddon’s footage. These are just pure maniacs taking inspiration off the damn Bible. Azazel’s a Prince of Hell.”

“So, what are we even looking at? Pure homicidal and organised stuff?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms.

“Probably.” You nodded. “Or there’s some grand scheme in motion. I don’t know, but we’re gonna have to think of some plausible way. I’ll contact Dean after his detail gig.” The name got a snicker out of Sam, and you raised an eyebrow. “What? What is it?”

“Sorry, just can’t get the… images… out of my head.” He laughed, which had you swatting his shoulder and him letting out a mock gasp. “Hey, blows hurt!”

“You shut up. You saw nothing.”

“Oh, I saw a lot more than nothing.”

“What do you want in return for your silence?”

“Advice.” He shot back immediately, rubbing his chin. “Y’know how Jess and I, second kid on the way, right?”

You nodded, folding your arms and nodding. “Yeah, Sam, I know. We’re all real happy for you, so what’s this about?”

“I wanna take her out on a date. But a special one, not just a normal movie night.” He shrugged, thinking about how this was incredibly unprofessional but not really caring because hey, his wife’s hormones were on the line. Sam didn’t want to risk that at any cost.

“Beach date.” You shrugged, smiling. “At night. Set up some fairy lights, some champagne. Jess would like that.”

“Is that your dream date or something?” Sam chuckled, surprised at how quick that came.

You shook your head with a smile. “Nah. My perfect date is stay in, cook with said significant other and watch a rom com while eating the food. Never done it, but always wanted to try it.”

“Romantic.” He smirked, raising his eyebrow. “And here I thought you were too focused on your work.”

“Just cause I play by the rule book doesn’t make me a workaholic.” You snorted, but the way he just laughed and walked back into the hospital room had you slumping and muttering Spanish curses to yourself.

Damn.

“Carajo!”

“A direct attack on the President.” Director Singer muttered, pacing while the organised crime team were crowded in the briefing room with him. “Our security was airtight that day. Airtight. Someone knew the weaknesses of the structure. Someone did, in order to send that bomber in.”

Another few bits of pressure. Finding out who sent the bomber. Who Azazel was. Dean staring at you from the other side of the room with barely disguised heat in his eyes.

And yet, your fingers drummed on the table, feeling almost dizzy in this damn room. The baggage that came with this job. But you’d taken it time and time again.

Why not now?

“We’ll find Azazel, sir.” You spoke up, your mind running wild with unwanted and very much wanted thoughts. “We already have witness accounts being reported back to the office, we'll scan through those and see if anyone can identify an anomaly or an unknown face."

"I've got tech squad hijacking the footage and all texting slash social media communications prior, on the time and after the attack." Dean added, clicking his pen but not taking notes.

"Good." Director Singer nodded, a little pacified. "I need this Azazel in the Supermax with Abaddon stat."

Your cousin Anita's quinceañera. What could possibly go wrong?

"Please tell me the food's spicy." Dean chuckled in your ear, fixing the lapels of his suit. He was your plus one since Lucia wouldn't shut up about wanting to see him again. Therefore, you had to bring him.

You let out a small sigh. "Not why we're here."

"I know, it's a quinceañera, but a guy can indulge." At the moment he stopped speaking, Nick, now healed enough to walk, came hobbling in with a stick to keep him up. Everyone cheered and clapped, while Nick's fiancée, Emilia, who he met in the force, wasn't far behind.

"There he is!" You heard from multiple bellowing men, along with laughter. Your dad, Ernesto and Anita's dad all sounded like they were from one boombox when with each other.

"Empanadas, sir, ma'am?" A server came by with a tray, and while you refused, Dean had a look over.

"Don't mind if I do." Dean chuckled, picking up one and taking a bite, groaning in appreciation. "Spanish food and Indian food are the best. Mm, yeah." He was speaking through a mouthful, and you were fighting the urge to smile.

Instead, you rolled your eyes.

Nick hobbled over, extending his hand to Dean. "Dean, nice to see you again, pal."

"Back atcha, Nick." Dean shook Nick’s hand with a smile, and Nick didn’t miss the way Dean’s eyes travelled to you and your dress for the occasion; a blue dress with thin straps, hair in an elegant bun and the hem of the dress stopping at your mid-thigh.

Ah. So he has a crush on his baby cousin. Nick would have some fun with that.

“Hey, sweetie.” Rick smiled as he came up to you, hugging you and then giving Nick a pat on the shoulder. “Nicky.” Then he saw Dean, and his eyebrow raised to his hairline. “Who’s this young fellow?”

You looked between Dean and your dad, clearing your throat. “Dad, this is Dean Winchester. I work with him at the Bureau.”

Dean immediately jumped into action upon hearing that - damn, he’s your dad - and put his hand out with the most charming and unassuming grin he could muster. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

“You too. Name’s Richard, but call me Rick.” There was a wide smile on Rick’s face. Good. He seemed to have a good impression of Dean.

“Oh, Ricardo!” Eleanor trilled, calling Rick by his dubbed Spanish name since they were ‘in Spanish company and he needed to blend in’. “Come on, Cassie’s already started her meal. You too.” She took Rick’s wrist, and with an apologetic look to Dean, you followed, only to find Cassie eating… a salad?

“This is her meal?” You asked, frowning slightly, just testing the waters before you jumped to conclusions.

“Yes, it is.” Eleanor nodded, which had you swallowing, looking down at the minimal plate of salad. “Problems?”

“Why wouldn’t there be?” You folded your arms, scoffing and gesturing to the plate. Cassie was hunched over it, diligently eating the insufficient food with a meek look on her face. Is this what happens when you weren’t there? “That’s not food. That’s barely sustenance.”

Eleanor waved you off, and Dean picked up on your anger from across the room, looking over with a confused expression but seeing that there was about to be a showdown between two angry Latina women. He looked to Nick with a raised eyebrow and flick of his eyes. Wanna intervene?

Nick shook his head subtly in response with widened eyes. Not until it’s absolutely necessary. They scare the crap out of me.

Dean nodded in response, seeing the truth in Nick’s ‘words’. Touché.

“Mom.” You painfully kept your voice level. Not wanting to raise your voice at your own mother, because even if she was a nasty piece of work - in your eyes - she still carried you for nine months. “This is unreasonable.”

Understatement of the Year award goes to you. Hopefully, also the Daughter and Sister of the Year awards too.

“What I do in my household is none of your business, niña!” Eleanor snapped back, her fingers too for emphasis. You felt familiar anger bubbling, but you told it not today.

You scoffed at the notion, though, rubbing Cassie’s shoulder. “You’re practically starving her!” Still shoving down unadulterated fury. “And pressuring her to have kids. Hell, I haven’t. I’m not even married.”

“You should be!” She responded quickly. Does this lady not get the point? “You should be married, bringing honour to your family.”

“You’re delusional.”

"I'm realistic." Your mom snapped back, and, with a chuckle, Dean decided to step in, while Nick saluted him (he could lose a very brave soldier today). Dean took your shoulders, effectively stopping you from lunging at your mom.

“Hey, ladies, relax.” He smiled, waving a dismissive hand. “We can deal with this later. There’s drinks, empanadas, flan. And, uh, let the kid eat what she wants, eh?” Dean gestured to Cassie, and out of slight shame at her diet restriction being noticed by someone outside of her family, Eleanor nodded and let Cassie take what she wanted, the latter shooting a thankful look to you and Dean.

You stared at Eleanor, and you raised a trembling finger. Dean half had to brace himself to tackle you to the floor and crumple the suit Sam picked out for him. “Treat her like your daughter. Not your project. At least rectify that mistake that you made with me.”

Dean was about to pat you on the shoulder, impressed that you’d kept your cool, but then he saw a man. Tall, wearing a white suit and leading an entourage of people in black suits and dangerous pistols.

“Moderate them, Abraxas.” He muttered to one of them, and as everyone screamed and got down, you and Dean took out your assigned handguns, flicking off the safety.

“Abraxas is a Knight.” You whispered to Dean, and he got the hint. You held them up, aiming them at the man in white and a Southern accent even though about six were aimed at you.

“Calm down, you two, I only bear a message.” The mysterious man spoke in a drawl that made you want to blow it out. Any way to get out this damn stress. “From Azazel. Leave this case alone, fellas. It’s far out of your… jurisdiction.”

“Y’know,” Dean spoke up, “when a member of the mafia tells us to jump, we don’t ask how high. We just ice their ass.”

“This is no ordinary mafia.” The dude chuckled, shaking his head. “This… is Hell. It’ll do you good not to meddle.”

“And who are you to order us around?” You asked, gun still held up as a warning.

“Asmodeus, dear.” ‘Asmodeus’ grinned, then gestured to his soldiers. “Fall back. But…” He looked straight at you, “this is my last warning. Next time, I’ll tell ‘em to open fire-”

“I think you’re mistaken.” You cut in coldly. “I’m talking. You’re not in control, I am. And I’m ordering you to get your hands behind your goddamn back.” Then they were gone, and you and Dean exchanged a look.

Direct threat. But it was majorly empty.

Dean stepped out of the shower with a sigh, lodged in a hotel room in Beverly Hills as there was a lead on Azazel that you and him needed to follow. He had a towel around his waist, hung low on his hips while he towelled the last droplets of water out of his hair. And then he looked to you, and you were staring.

Not necessarily at the droplets of water running down the planes of muscle decorating his torso, no, but his face. With an angry stare that he knew all too well where it came from. And Dean could tell that you’d been staring at the door of the shower, waiting for him to come out.

So he threw down the towel on the desk chair, turning to you and throwing up his arms. “Alright. Start goin’ off at me.”

“Why did you stop me?!” You burst out, scoffing and running an agitated hand through your hair, pacing. Yep, there it is. Dean nodded, slightly proud of his ability to sense what was going through your head. “I was literally about to take her head off.”

“At your cousin’s fifteenth birthday.” He reasoned with his hands on his hips. You tried to keep your eyes off the way his biceps rippled as he did, or the very obvious trail of his v-line down beneath his towel. “If anything, I did you a solid.”

“You’re… infuriating!” You shook your hands out in front of you, still pacing while Dean’s eyebrow raised higher and higher on his forehead, running the risk of disappearing above his hairline. “You’re not making any of this stress better-”

That made him bristle. “How am I doing that?!”

You scoffed, gripping at the roots of your hair. “You are every reason why this is happening. I value my job. Except we got caught making out in your office by your brother- a miracle he didn’t tell HR. Not to mention Cain got murdered, I had to watch Abbadon disembowel someone’s corpse on video, fuckin’ POTUS got attacked and my cousin was the one who saved that squirrelly piece of shit, this dude called Azazel is out there and now there’s an Asmodeus and an Abraxas, and I’m sick and tired of all the-”

You were cut off abruptly by Dean’s hand gripping your wrist, spinning you and yanking you into his chest. That hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair and angling your head back.

His lips crashing down onto yours.

NEXT UP:

“The mole.” Dean panted, holding his hand to his side. “Probably compromised our position. You need to go get ‘em, sweetheart.” He grunted, unable to move much. You were torn between staying and leaving, but he chuckled. “I can see the cogs. Go. Now.”

Your job’s duty was right there, with the rapidly retreating figure of Asmodeus. But it was also with protecting your colleague, so you took off your jacket, gesturing for Sam to move in on Asmodeus and begin chase, while Benny, Cas, Meg and Ruby headed to secure a perimeter.

Rolling up your sleeves, you took a look at Dean, gently removing his hands and checking for his signs of consciousness. “You’re gonna have to keep talking, ok?” You paused, and then chuckled. “As if you had any trouble with that before.”

The comment got a laugh and a shake of Dean’s head, huffing. “Smartass.” He coughed slightly. “I’ll fuck that attitude out of you when m’healed up.”

“Trust me, counting on it.” You grinned.

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[transparentgentlemenmarker]

Never forget.

En ce jour le plus long, plus de 200'000 hommes se trouvaient face à face, sur les plages de Normandie.

Les forces alliées débarquaient sur les plages de Normandie, le 6 juin 1944

Au nom de code Neptune, a été le plus important de l’histoire en termes de navires engagés.

Alliés

Effectifs: 156'177 hommes 5 divisions d’infanterie et 3 divisions aéroportées sont débarqués le jour J, dont 10'470 seront tués, blessés ou disparus, selon les chiffres du Mémorial de Caen, dans l’ouest de la France. Par mer, environ 133'000 hommes: soit 58'000 Américains sur les plages Utah et Omaha, 54'000 Britanniques sur Gold et Sword et 21'000 Canadiens sur Juno 177 Français débarquent aussi sur Sword.

Par air, 23'000 hommes: 13'000 parachutistes américains sont largués sur l’ouest de la France, dans le Cotentin et 10'000 Britanniques entre l’Orne et la Dives.

Aviation: pendant la seule journée du 6 juin, 11'500 appareils dont 3500 planeurs de transport, 5000 chasseurs et 3000 bombardiers survolent les plages normandes et déversent 11'912 tonnes de bombes sur les défenses côtières allemandes. Les pertes seront faibles: 127 avions perdus et 63 endommagés.

Marine: l’opération Neptune engage 6939 navires et la force de débarquement proprement dite comprend 4126 navires et barges constitués en 47 convois. Une partie des transports les LCA, Landing craft assault accompliront la traversée à bord de bateaux plus puissants pour n’être mis à la mer qu’au large de l’une de leurs cinq plages de débarquement. Les autres types de péniches traverseront la Manche par leurs propres moyens, notamment: les LCI (Landing craft infantry), petits transports de troupes, les LCT (Landing craft tanks) qui transportent des chars et des véhicules, les LCVP (Landing craft vehicle personal), les LST (Landing ship tanks), ainsi que les fameux «ducks» (canards), engins amphibies propulsés par une hélice. 20'000 véhicules et un millier de chars ont ainsi été transportés. La flotte logistique compte 736 navires auxiliaires et 864 navires marchands pour le transport de vivres, munitions et les hôpitaux flottants. Parmi les navires marchands, 54 blockships seront coulés pour former des rades artificielles.

L’escadre de combat totalise 137 navires de guerre dont sept cuirassés, une vingtaine de croiseurs, 221 destroyers, frégates, corvettes, 495 vedettes, 58 chasseurs de sous-marins, 287 dragueurs de mines, quatre poseurs de mines, deux sous-marins.

Forces allemandes

Effectifs: ~ 148'000 hommes de la 7ème armée sont stationnés en Normandie et environ 50'000 dans la zone de débarquement. A proximité des plages, une seule division blindée, la 21ème, au sud-est de Caen, et six divisions d’infanterie. Deux autres divisions blindées, la 12e SS (Hitler-Jugend) et la division Panzer-Lehr, sont respectivement près d’Evreux et vers Alençon-Le Mans. Trois autres divisions 1ère SS, 2ème et 16ème se tiennent au nord de la Seine, aux environs de Mons, Péronne et Senlis.

Aviation: une bonne partie des appareils vient d’être envoyée sur le front est. Restent quelques dizaines de bombardiers et chasseurs.

Marine: 30 vedettes, quatre destroyers, neuf torpilleurs, 35 sous-marins.

[amiserableseriesofevents]

honesty - muse a wipes muse b’s tears away from under their eyes

For Clegan

Hello anon! I didn't forget about you, so here's a short fic based on the prompt you suggested. I hope you'll like it! ♥️

Let the brokenness be felt 'til you reach the other side

I left him behind.

That's the only thought echoing in Gale's mind as he jumps over the wall and starts running, ducking when he hears shots being fired behind him.

I left him behind.

They run, they hide. An enemy convoy passes right by them but they don't get caught, thank God — Gale doesn't even believe in God and even if he did he wouldn't want him to look after him right now, he'd want him to protect John, to make sure that he's ok. All things he cannot do now, because he's left him behind.

A white horse walks up to him, his neck stained red with blood. A beacon of hope, maybe. The lingering memory of a faraway dream — a unicorn, John's favorite extinct animal. Maybe a sign from John to let him know that it's going to be ok, a way to tell him “I'm right here with you, Buck.”

Except he's not. Gale left him behind.

Continue reading on AO3

[tiptapricot]

Kombatember Day 3: Tarkat(an)

No matter how many times Mileena visits the outlying Tarkatan colonies, she doesn’t think she will ever find them more bearable.

Today is another aid drop. Vital leading members of Baraka’s camp have fallen to the next stage of their disease, and from a rather urgent letter the palace received, they were unprepared for such a development. The colony is in desperate need of blankets, bandages, water, and an excess of clean, raw meat.

Mileena steps off of the royal stagecoach, signaling behind her for the line of aid carts to enter fully into the enclave. There are less than she wanted to bring, but the season has been hot this year, and several of their best work mares have fallen ill. Mileena can’t blame them. She’s had trouble with the warm air herself as of late. It brings a new itch to her skin now, one that burns beneath the flesh like a bad rash and leaves her tendons aching.

She hasn’t told Tanya of that development yet. Nor Kitana. Perhaps she will, soon.

“Empress!”

Mileena looks up to find one of Baraka’s right hand men hobbling towards her. Where usually the grounds of the colony would be peppered with Tarkatans playing or resting or working, it is starkly empty today.

“Skarteeth,” she greets, meeting him halfway. He seems panicked, and she offers an arm for him to lean on when he wheezes as he slows. His nails squeeze at the silk of her sleeve.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he says after a moment. “It’s nearly our entire group of healers, and one of our scouts. They… worsened over this past week, and last night… We have people tending to them, but there’s only so much we can—”

Mileena holds up a hand, summoning her best smile.

“No more must be said. Where should my people bring your supplies?”

The jagged edge of Skarteeth’s mouth that still has soft skin to move twitches, and he pats her arm in appreciation.

“This way. We are caring for them in the cool tent. You may talk to Baraka there.”

Mileena nods, turning back to signal to her convoy to follow.

They weave to the back of the enclave, where a patchwork leather tent is sticking out awkwardly from the rough stone of the canyon wall. Skarteeth ducks into the opening and calls for someone, before leaning back out and nodding for Mileena to follow. As she pushes inside, a few other Tarkatans brush past her to meet the troops and begin unloading.

The inside of the tent is much darker, the air hanging heavy with the smell of blood and salt, and a quiet wash of groans and hisses echoing off the walls. Mileena can see when the tent gives way to a small cave sloping into the canyon, the stones damp and uneven, and several makeshift sleeping rolls laid out along the walls. In every one, a writhing body lies, each in various states of infection. A few of those tending to them look up at Mileena as she passes, their yellow eyes cutting through the dark. She nods to them briefly, continuing to follow Skarteeth.

They find Baraka near the back of the cave, talking in low tones with a worried looking man in mage clothes. Mileena can see the tarkat growths sticking up through the silk of his robe.

“Baraka,” Skarteeth greets, bowing jerkily when Baraka looks up as they come to a stop before him. “The empress has arrived with supplies. I’ve already had Kalait and their men begin receiving them. They will start the distribution soon.”

“Thank you.” Baraka nods to the man he was talking to, dismissing him. “Bring the water and food first. I worry what our friends may do if their hunger reaches its peak.”

Skarteeth growls in discomfort, giving a small dip of his head in affirmation before hobbling back towards the entrance, leaving the two of them alone. Mileena’s eyes drift after him as he goes, her gaze falling heavy to the shapes of so many bodies curling in pain in the dark.

“It is an unpleasant sight,” Baraka says slowly, stepping up beside her.

She nods. “It never will be pleasant.”

Baraka laughs, a gurgling, harsh kind of thing. “No…” he breathes. “No it will not.”

A beat passes, long and weary. Mileena knows she should speak, should address him, should open some… professional dialogue, but she feels at a loss for words.

Baraka moves to kneel down by a nearby bed, lifting a sullied cloth from a bucket beside it to wipe the body’s brow. It hardly looks like a body in this state. Mileena can only see a mass of bony spikes, the heaving, limbed state of it the only thing to indicate its form as a person.

“Baraka?” Mileena broaches. She swallows when her voice comes out rougher than she means.

“Mm.”

“Is… is this the fate that befalls all of us? In the end?”

Baraka stills, only briefly, before resuming his tending.

“One of them,” he says finally.

Mileena swallows. “And… the others?”

Baraka glances back at her, eyes heavy in the dark. Knowing.

He sighs after a moment, coughing slightly as he pushes to his feet.

“How much does the palace truly know about Tarkat?”

Mileena rolls her eyes, disdain slipping into her voice. “Not enough. It seems those who came before me were not interested in studying, only exiling.”

Baraka chuckles again, like a wolf with his mouth full. He swallows thickly before offering out his hand. “Come with me.”

Mileena takes it, some part of her mind still shrinking away from touching him, but she knows it will make no difference. Not to either of them. They are safe in their sickness.

Baraka leads her back through the cave, his presence firm and gentle.

“Tarkat itself is a mystery. We know it spreads, infects, but it works in many ways unlike a disease. Some of my healers… believed it could be a kind of mutated magical parasite but…” He sighs through his teeth, tongue darting out against the points. “We don’t have the resources to tell.”

Mileena purses her lips, another guilty bubble of anger at her mother swelling in her chest. She’s had so many of those feelings since her death. It is… an awful thing, to think of her like that.

“Infection, too, varies,” Baraka continues. “You know it comes largely from blood contact but…” he takes a moment to crouch, plucking something up off the floor. When he straightens, he holds up what looks like a large shard of skin. “These…” he mutters, ghosting his hand briefly over the bony protrusions on his own chest, “these carry it too. Like shedded splinters.”

His eyes dart pointedly to Mileena.

“You’ll get them too, soon enough. Enjoy smooth skin while you can. Enjoy… touching people.”

Mileena’s heart sinks.

“I am prepared, Baraka.”

He tilts his head.

“Are you?”

He takes her arm more firmly in his grasp, turning it against his palm until he can trace his finger along her forearm. “Here, beneath, is where it will begin. The mutations. The spikes.” His nail pokes at one of her tendons, and she stiffens. He glances at her. “Up through the marrow, then through the flesh. Your joints will sting with every movement. Your veins will bruise. Your skin will stink of puss.”

Mileena tries to tug her arm away, a sound rumbling in her throat, but Baraka holds firm.

“Are you already in more pain? Already more agitated?” He growls softly. “There will be no respite, Empress. The hot weather makes it grow restless, but the cold makes our bones ache. We cannot hide.”

He turns her arm roughly, fingers closing around her wrist, and Mileena winces.

“Your treatments may slow it, but the cancer will spread. It will find more of your body to eat, more of your mind. It will construct itself to spread violence through your skin, to sow destruction in your flesh and in your bloodlust for others. How long until sparring becomes too dangerous? Until your knuckles are sharp enough to break skin? How long until your lips become a deadly spindle for your lover’s tongue?” Mileena feels panic blooming in her gut, her mind racing.

“In the end,” Baraka whispers, dropping his grip and gesturing wide to the room, “you will end up dead by your guard, or here, with us. It is only a question of what will go first: your body, or your mind.”

Mileena clutches her shaking arm to her chest, lungs heaving as if they’ve been lit on fire. The groans of pain echoing around her seem to heighten tenfold, her ears aching, her teeth acrid in her mouth.

“That was unnecessary, Baraka,” she hisses.

He scoffs. “Was it?”

There is anger in his voice, but his gaze this time is tired. He stares at Mileena for a long moment before he sighs, kneeling once again by the nearest bed. This body is clammy and still. Baraka lifts their wrist briefly before letting it drop limply to the floor.

“It is not meant to be pleasant,” he whispers. “Have you already forgotten?”

[dimicul]

// this is a little scrap of a chapter i found when i was writing a fic but i never got round to finishing it :( but yeah it’s angsty hell, to give some context, you had used Ghost to get closer to your family/country by being in a relationship with him and over the months you had been piecing information and stealing from the base. you end up leaving and working for a team. the rest will explain!//

Gun It

A static crackle emits from the transceiver and Ghost is levering his large body against the wooden crate, squinting through the scope of his sniper, attempting to breathe in through his nose.

There’s no way he’s letting this go.

Days, weeks, months put into tracing the convoy, training in pure frustration - an enemy arms shipment is about to cross the border into Urzikstan, at which the point the enemy intends to use it to bolster a major counteroffensive. They believe it’s an ambush.

Simon’s mentally counting down seconds in his head, his white mask inked with moonlight as his eyes train on the chopper whirling in the sky above them.

“They’re taking a route to the north, over,” The static crackles again and Johnny’s voice snaps Ghost out of his trance - the man was always able to just do that. Break him free from whatever he was doing.

Purely because his voice was annoying.

“Roger.”

“Marines are rolling in now, L.T. You and Sergeant are leading the way on this, yeah?” He’s saying, and Ghost resets his jaw, the wind picking up around him as the chopper nears.

“The Sergeant?”

“Keegan, of course.”

As if on cue, there’s a rumbling of a car engine a few paces away and he glances momentarily at the tall, lean man swiftly manoeuvring himself from the side of the car, boots landing on the sand with a thud.

“Fucking hell.”

“He’s on station.” Johnny crackles again above the soft whirring of crickets and Ghost swears he can hear the traces of amusement in his voice. Punk.

“Copy. All set ‘ere.”

Keegan beside him now, ducking behind the crate - he’s glancing at Ghost, then at the chopper, positioning himself the same way. There’s a cigarette between his forth and second finger, tucked in.

“Eyes on two. Armed on the chopper.” Ghost drawls, shifting ever so slightly - he can see bodies shifting, clad in khaki green uniforms, pistol on their sides. Keegan exhales tiredly.

“When can we bomb this thing down, Soap?” Keegan’s mouth moves to his transceiver. Ghost wants to laugh at his impatience. Stupid fuck doesn’t know what he’s in for.

“Aye, with them holding five or six crates of explosives in there? I think not, mate,” Johnny chuckles.

“Why the hell not? Easier death.”

“Graves. He’s in there. We shoot ‘em, he’s dead.” Ghost remarks with the slight glance at the masked man, who raises a brow.

“And? Hell with that man, useless fuck.” Keegan cusses under his breath, removing the cigarette from his lips as he exhales the smoke. Gunpowder. Tar. Sand. It’s all he can smell.

“He’s got intel on this shit.”

Wind raises around them, muting the sound of buzzing cicadas and crickets, harshly pressing against Ghosts ear. It demands to be heard. He’s tilting his head a bit and watches the soldiers on the chopper say something to another. It stops suddenly.

“Eyes on ‘em. They’ve stopped it, Johnny.”

“Course they have, they can see the marines further down that hill.” There’s a sigh after his sentence. Eyes flicker from one soldier to another, sniper cocking in their direction, watching through the lenses.

“They’re shooting,” Keegan drops the cigarette in his hand, regaining his position.

“Remember what I said. No gunnin’ ‘em down yet.”

“But-”

A barrage of bullets are being shot down, piercing the silence between Ghost and his counting; there’s shouting, faint distant screams, and he notices the chopper gaining proximity.

“Alejandro? Do you copy?” Ghost holds his breath momentarily. He was in the cockpit.

“Fuck,” Keegan hisses, lowering his sniper as he leans up to squint in the distance - he can’t make out if it’s citizens screaming for help, or his very own team mate.

“Backup. You need backup.” Ghost recites into the transceiver. It crackles. He can’t help the panic in his voice as the bullets begin to multiple in blasts.

“If we just shoot at the soldiers,” Keegan pointed out, voice raised over the firing. Ghost has no choice but to nod, regaining his position, hands tightening around his weapon and he begins to lower his scope onto the first enemy, onto the second…

You.

You’re stood there. Your mouth is bound tight with a balaclava, arms shifted as you hold the weapon in your arms, the same arms he was holding only a week ago, those same eyes furrowed in concentration, a contrast between your soft, unsullied skin. Your skin. God he’s missed your skin.

“Ghost?” The transceiver crackles.

A wound opens up. It seeps with blood, pouring down his arm, the betrayal causing his heart to sink in the most familiar way. He’s felt this before. He’s been here before, he’s lost someone before - Ghost doesn’t notice the way Keegan’s shouting is becoming louder, how bullets are being fired one after the other, no, it’s as if he’s been blacked out of his body, eyes glued on you.

You left. In the middle of the night, you had packed your things and sneaked away, and he’s been punishing himself over and over, on the brink of insanity, thinking he had done something wrong; maybe he was too rough with you. Maybe, you had realised you deserved better. There was a possibility there might’ve been someone else, or you had become sick with his behaviour, fuck, he had been driving himself mad all month.

“Back up’s been sent, but you’re gonna have to try and steady on,” Johnny’s voice intercepts the static between Keegan and Alejandro, and he nods.

You’re standing there, grinning a little, saying something to the soldier beside you. Your eyes are still doing that same thing when you grin, your nose scrunches up and Ghost wants nothing more than to be touching you again, holding you to his chest, kissing the same hands you’re using to point the gun.

At his own team.

“How long? I’ve sniped down one, I don’t know if they see us.”

“Good lad, just keep the chopper in the sk-”

“Shoot it.”

Keegan snapped his gaze towards Ghost, a confused expression etched onto his face; there’s a glow of red and orange dusting the man’s white mask, and for once, Keegan realises this is what Ghost was infamous for. For not holding back.

“But, you said-”

“Gun it fucking down.” There’s a constriction building in his chest, his heart wearing at the seams - a lighter being held to the edges, a painful yet bittersweet feeling. “Shoot the damn thing.”

“Si? Kee, what’s he doing?” The transceiver crackles. Keegan doesn’t respond, his chest heaving up and down slowly, eyes trained on the man beside him.

They’re in position, snipers aimed at the boxes. Their transceiver crackles over and over with Johnny’s faint voice, but through blurry tears, Ghost fixates his scope on the end of the chopper - it’s filled with crates. Gloved fingertips brush with against the trigger.

They let go, and Keegan would be lying if he said it wasn’t a pretty sight.

[snoopyharleygal222]

Convoy • Theme Song (Film Version) • C.W. McCall

# Convoy

In memory of Rubber Duck.

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 48

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: Rick, Daryl, Glenn and Bob lead an escape from Terminus, with outside help from an unexpected source. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; threatening; casualties of innocents; imprisonment; discussion of assault and torture; reference/implications of cannibalism; explosions; discussions of a pandemic

Chapter 48 - Or High Water

“If they got problems, we got a chance.” Rick explained, looking around.

“Sounded like a bomb.” Glenn stated.

“Sounds like a damn war.” Daryl retorted. Rick directed them to the plethora of weapons left on a table to be used… on them.

“What the hell are these people?” Bob asked.

“They ain’t people.” Daryl answered. Bob made to stab the corpses in the brain, but Rick stopped him with a hand.

“Don’t. Let him turn.” He murmured. They moved into the hallway, following where Gareth had come and gone from. They moved past rooms caged off with rebar, a bloody, mangled torso hanging from a chain in the next room. There was more, buckets full of body parts, limbs. Smokers, drying racks. Like a damn meat factory. “Cross any of these people, you kill them. Don’t hesitate. They won’t.” 

Daryl broke off a long wooden handle from one of the smokers, thumbing over the sharp end. They moved do a door with a window, seeing into the yard they’d passed on their way in. The other shipping containers with people inside sat there, a few walkers scratching a the walls while people cried out from inside. 

“If we run, we can get by them.” Rick proposed. “They’re distracted.”

“We got to let those people out.” Glenn countered. Rick glanced at him warily and Glenn squared his jaw. “That’s still who we are. It’s gotta be.” Rick nodded, opening the door. They ran out quickly, falling into a formation as they split into the small swarm of walkers. Glenn grunted as he ran to the door, wrestling with the latch. He swung the door open, only for the man shouting from inside to nearly tackle him to the ground.

“We’re the same!” The man screamed, running over to Rick and grabbing him by the lapels. His face was covered in tattoos, his teeth covered by an ill-fitting grill. “We’re them!”

“Back off!” Rick grunted.

“We’re the same!” The man repeated, cackling. He looked wild, crazed, like he’d been in there for a while. Rick shoved him off, the man laughing slowly as he stepped away, only to be tackled to the ground and feasted upon by walkers. The group of four backed away, finding no one else in the container.

“Come on.” Rick called. Glenn paused, bashing both of their heads in with the bat before they went. More walkers flooded from around the corner, and Daryl grabbed the back of Glenn’s shirt, slamming him gently against the shipping container, out of their view. 

“We’ve got to double back.” Bob murmured.

“A is that way. We go back, we don’t know where we are.” Rick argued.

“We don’t really have a choice, do we?” Daryl grunted. They peered around the corner, gunshots taking out a few of the walkers that happened to be in their way.

“Wait here.” Rick instructed.

“Rick. Rick!” Bob called after him. Rick ducked behind the cover of an old car, watching as more walkers were taken out. He could see in the car’s mirror that there was a small group of people, making their way through the compound with automatic rifles, clearing the walkers out. He turned halfway back, seeing a walker over his shoulder, only for Daryl to put the handle of the smoker through it’s brain before Rick got eaten. The small convoy walked past, paying them no mind. 

Rick launched himself after the one bringing up the rear, stabbing him in the neck before commandeering his rifle. He then used the gun to put an end to the walkers as well as the others from Terminus. Not all of them were dead, but they were downed. Rick and Daryl nodded, turning to double back before they head to section A, the fading screams of their captors behind them.  

-

They sat in silence in the rail car as Eugene messed with the door, using the empty gas canister and a bullet shell. The walkers outside paid them little interest, and Iris hoped it would remain that way. She also hoped that Rick, Daryl, Glenn and Bob were still breathing. And not the unnecessary, raspy breathing that came from the walkers outside. But there were still plenty of gunshots, so she held out hope.

“What’s the cure, Eugene?” Sasha asked after a moment, looking up from sharpening her belt. 

“It’s classified.” He replied, staring straight down at whatever the hell he was doing. 

“We don’t know what’s gonna happen.” Michonne protested.

“You leave him be.” Abraham called. Iris frowned. In the very short few hours she’d known Eugene… she didn’t believe for a second he knew shit about anything going on. It was real easy nowadays to lie about what you did before, what you could bring to the table in exchange for a big lug of muscle to protect you until you got to where you wanted to go.

“We need to keep working.” Maggie called.

“Yeah, but it’s time to hear it.” Sasha said sharply. “‘Cause we don’t know what’s coming next.”

“What’s next is we get out of this.” Tara said defensively. Iris snorted. Tara didn’t know shit either. They might get out of this. And if they did, Tara was the one relying on them to protect her. She didn’t contribute much except extra hands to hold a gun. 

“Even if I told you all, even if I provided step-by-step instructions complete with illustrations and a well-composed FAQ and I went red-ring, the cure would still die with me.” Eugene explained.

“Really? Because we spent an awful lot of time at the CDC where we learned how this damn disease works, and I think I’m more the capable of putting two and two together.” Iris stated, narrowing her eyes at him. He swallowed, shrinking under her heavy gaze.

“If you’re so smart, then you head to DC and make a cure.” Tara retorted.

“There is no cure.” Iris hissed. 

“If he says there’s a cure, I’m gonna believe there’s a cure. And I’m getting him to DC. That’s all there is to it.” Abraham said firmly. Iris sucked on a tooth, sighing. Whatever. Maybe she was a cynical, glass-half-empty, pessimistic non-believer. But she’d survived this long, and she wasn’t about to convoy to get killed in the undeniable cesspool of walkers that likely was Washington, DC.

“The best case scenario, we step out into a hailstorm of bullets, fire, and walkers.” Eugene stated, moving the subject ever-so-slightly. “I’m not fleet-of-foot and I sure as hell can’t take a dead one down with sharp buttons and hella confidence.”

“Sounds like a party to me.” Iris replied, adjusting the grip she had on the two small knives she kept for herself. 

“We can and we will.” Michonne agreed, nodding to Iris.

“You don’t owe us anything.” Sasha conceded, standing up over Eugene. “Not yet. But we just want to hear it.”

“You don’t have to.” Rosita argued. Eugene barely looked up before pushing to his feet. He glanced around, taking a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“I was part of a ten-person team at the Human Genome Project to weaponize diseases to fight weaponized diseases. Pathogenic microorganisms to fight pathogenic microorganisms. Fire with fire.” Eugene explained slowly. “Interdepartmental drinks were had, relationships made, information shared. I am keenly aware of all the details behind fail-safe delivery systems to kill every living person on this planet. I believe with a little tweaking on the terminals in DC, we can flip the script. Take out every last dead one of them. Fire with fire.” Iris raised an eyebrow. A lot of fancy words for a lot of simple things. And a convenient answer to their problem. She still didn’t buy it.

“So you three are gonna bust into the pentagon and release some unknown strain of smallpox that conveniently only kills walkers?” Iris asked. “Sounds great.”

“It will be.” Abraham said sharply, glaring at her. She put her hands up, turning away. She was in no mood or place to start an argument. If that was the plan, she’d let them go ahead and die trying. Or eventually realize Eugene was full of shit.

“All things being equal, it does sound pretty badass.” Eugene mused.

“So let’s get back to work.” Maggie suggested. They all paused as the door creaked, suddenly sliding open.

“Come on! Fight to the fence!” Rick yelled. He was covered in blood again, one of the Terminus guard’s rifles in hand as Daryl, Glenn and Bob held a circle of space around the door of the railcar.

“Go! Go! Go!” Glenn yelled. Iris ran to Daryl, and he offered her a lopsided smile. Well, sort of a smile. More of a look of confirmation. She nodded, following Rick as they broke through the herd, heading for the fence that once again seemed so close and so far. They took them out in swathes, Rosita stabbing a walker through the fence as they finally made it.

“Up and over!” She called. Iris wasted no time, pulling herself up the chain link and practically vaulting the whole thing. She had a lot of energy and now was the time to use it. Rosita followed after her, Abraham helping people step up as Iris helped them down from the other side.

“Let’s go, move, move, move!” Abraham yelled. Iris spied Gareth and a few others from Terminus run over on top of the roof, but Rick unloaded his clip on them, landing a few shots and covering their asses. He and Abraham were the last ones over, and they stood for a moment as the walkers slammed into the fence, clawing at it. Black smoke poured into the sky, every building now up in flames. 

Daryl immediately began to lead them into the forest, finding the spot Rick buried the weapons in record time. He uncovered a shovel Rick had left under a few leaves, tossing it over.

“The hell we still around here for?” Abraham asked impatiently. 

“Guns. Some supplies.” Rick answered, already having dug a sizeable hole in the ground. “Go along the fences. Use the rifles. Take out the rest of ‘em.”

“What?” Bob asked.

“They don’t get to live.” Rick emphasized. He unearthed the bag, practically ripping it open.

“Rick, we got out. It’s over.” Glenn insisted.

“It’s not over till they’re all dead.” Rick snapped. He pulled out the weapons, handing them out. Iris was more than thrilled to slip the knife harness over her shoulders. 

“The hell it isn’t. That place is on fire.” Rosita hissed. “Full of walkers.”

“I’m not dicking around with this crap.” Abraham said decidedly. “We just made it out.”

“The fences are down.” Maggie added. “They’ll run or die.” Rick huffed, standing straight. He said nothing, taking a moment to decide. Iris gasped loudly, running past him. She collided into Carol, who stood covered in walker guts, but with a gun, Daryl’s crossbow, and a belt of very familiar knives.

“It was you.” Iris said with a grin, holding her tighter. Carol offered a sad smile in return, glancing anxiously at the group. Daryl immediately ran over, wrapping them both in a tight hug. He breathed a sigh of relief, and Iris’ smile stretched wider. Carol’s did too. Carl, Maggie and Rick had large smiles on their faces, too. They came over, Rick’s voice breaking. 

“Did you do that?” Rick nearly whispered. Carol nodded, laughing lightly as Rick brought her into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

“You have to come with me.” She breathed as they pulled away. 

She didn’t say much else before leading them off into the forest. They followed her unflinchingly, Daryl happily reunited with his crossbow, Iris with her knives, and Rick with his wristwatch. Their actions were decided for them, immediately leaving Terminus and whoever was still inside to burn. They could all burn. 

They broke from the trees onto s small gravel road, following it up to a small, frankly pathetic-looking cabin. There was an old car parked out front, a rusty barbecue at the side. Just as they neared the shack, the door opened, a familiar face exiting with a bundle of bags and another familiar face in his arms. 

Rick nearly collapsed at the sight of Judith, dropping everything right then and there before he started running. Carl was close behind, followed by Sasha. Tyreese eagerly handed over the baby before being ambushed by his sister. They all cried softly, laughing with joy. Iris’s lips stretched wide as Rick pressed a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head. She hugged Carol again, Rick thanking Tyreese profusely, though with no words. A simple hand on each other's shoulder was more than enough. 

Judith, safely wrapped in her father’s arms, reached out, giggling with a bright smile at the group.

-

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@lowkeyhottho

@fadingpalacebonkpsychic

[raisindave]

[Chapter 8] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content Warning: Graphic descriptions of violence and death.

Neurons fire like sparklers on the Fourth of July, making your mind imagine jumping shadows in the void darkness surrounding you. Just stay on your stomach; no one will see you without you seeing them from a mile away. Ghost’s hawk eyes will keep you safe, just like Soap assured you. Expectant, teasing anxiety tightens your throat, like the feeling that you’re being watched. Except in this case, you are the one doing the watching. A single crackling branch in the distance behind you makes you whirl around in panic, wild eyes flashing in anticipation. 

“Don’t go out in the woods much, I take it.” Ghost’s voice cuts the silence, additionally startling your heightened nerves. 

“Don’t worry, corporal, I’ve got eyes on the back of my head,” he huffed back, matching your agitated tone, ��and the side.”

You swallowed the urge to bite back some nasty quip about his ego, once again fighting the bile in favour of not getting a dishonourable discharge. Maybe he was right, though; after all, there wasn’t even any indication that there was any other living creature at least a few square miles. Save for the dear from earlier and your ghoulish company. Most likely, it was nothing, but the slim chance of a counter-ambush still stuck in your mind like a thorn. Turning back around to rest your torso on your now rock-hard pillow of snow, a quick flick of your radio's on and off button hailed the others for an update. 

“Alfa team, this is Bravo 7-1, still no eyes.” Soap’s voice cut into the microphone.

“Solid copy, standing by.” You respond. 

Minutes melted by. Agonizing silence. By this time, the meeting time given by the radio had long passed, and the shame and horror manifesting inside you made you mortified that you may have made some grave error. No, trust in your skills. This wasn’t some translation error; you knew what you heard and had recordings to back it up. The message padding, the Chinese informant, and Smokey, it all hiked on your nerves, refusing to settle like a pill caught in a dry throat. One thing was for sure: something was wrong. 

More tentative check-ups on the lookout on the road, each response diligent and practiced, but that didn’t dissuade the elephant in the room: The convoy wasn’t here, and we’d been sitting there for at least an hour. Ghost would never show it, even if his patience were wearing thin, but the off-radio dialogue between your comrades must be starting to point towards you. Every agonizing minute became an excruciating hour, and rubbing the cold from your thighs started having less of an effect. All the calories burned from your body fighting to keep up with agonizing cold made the empty pit in your stomach more poignant, though a steady, nauseous sensation kept the worst of the pain at bay. 

“This is fucking ridiculous,” Price finally spoke up through the radio, speaking what was on the top of everyone’s mind, “We’re sitting ducks out here. Gold Eagle Actual, what’s the status.”

Price’s radio to Graves implied an eagerness to wrap up the mission to come home, deeming the outing a lost cause. He’s probably aching to get back to bed, though you doubt he’d ever admit that. A glance at Ghost’s wristwatch next to you said the time was 03:54. Unwelcome sweat began to bead along your hairline as your neck muscles started to ache from strain.

“Just a little longer,” you croaked into the microphone, desperately hanging on to any semblance of hope, “-Sir”

“Little Miss, I don’t believe you have the authority t-” Grave’s voice was cut off suddenly. 

“Headlights, nine o’clock.” Soap’s radio crackled alive, 

Just like that, joy followed by relief, then gnawing dread sang through your mind, and your partner beside you shifted his posture. 

“Two vehicles- Three. I repeat, three vehicles westbound, coming ahead. 30 seconds out.” 

“Don’t miss, MacTavish,” Gaz chortled over the mic.

“I don’t miss,” he retorted. 

This was when your portable radio came into play. Once Soap gave the order, a listening device would be stuck to the undercarriage of one of the vehicles, a coin toss if it landed on the one hosting vital conversation. Rolling the dial under your finger, you sparked your end of the device alive. Waiting, frigid seconds ticked by as you heard Soap rustling into position through your mic, slow, practiced breathing as he stilled for action. Like a mountain lion stalking in the bush. A crunching sound and crisp rustles came from the device in your hands, then a delicate clunk. 

“Listening Device in place, coming to your position, Alfa Team, ” Soap’s voice triumphantly. 

“Solid copy, Bravo 7-1,” Price and Graves responded unanimously. 

Deep breaths of numbing cold tore down your throat as you steadied yourself against the headphones, squeezing your eyes shut to futility cut out all stimuli- not that it did anything in the surrounding darkness. A Cantonese voice is speaking through your headphones, relaying information to another. They were discussing the hangar and that they’d also need to collect the security tapes when they arrived. Shit, that’s important. 

“Two Cantonese-speaking males discussing coming to the hangar to collect security tapes.” You relayed into your shoulder radio.

Once again, you stilled yourself for more information, not bothering with any of the formalities of radio chatter, considering this situation was already exceptional by default. A Russian voice cuts in, asking for a translation from one of the Chinese members, responding in fractured Russian with a crude translation of the previous dialogue. 

“Russian male. At least three Tangos, stand by.”

Other than the minor conversation, there was almost no noise inside, save for an eerie Slavic folk tune singing about the grace of the motherland. Unsettling accordion notes screeching through a cheap radio. Then, you hear it. The unmistakable sound you recognized from earlier. The same clicking sounds you heard from Soap’s gun maintenance in the truck. 

“Armed. Repeat, Tangos are lethally equipped.”

You detect another shift in your comrade’s posture, like he’s giddy. Opening your eyes just in time to see the swinging headlights from the treeline turn into the open landing strip. Two thick black vans surrounding one flatbed cargo truck pulled in front of the domed hangar. Their engines rumbling audible from your elevation without the need for your radio. 

“Eyes on the target, Bravo 0-7, you seeing this?” The voice of Price made your eyes flicker to the northeast section of the compound where he, Gaz, and Soap now sat in wait. 

“In my sights,” Ghost uttered into the mic, making the hairs on the back of your neck stand. 

Another voice cut through the radio, making you clamp your gloved fingertips over your headphones. Ghost murmured something along the lines of ‘hold’ into the radio as you focused your attention intensely. 

"We’re early, cunt, I don’t like being early," A gruff Russian voice cut crackled through the listening device's speakers.

Early? The transmission said 02:35, it’s past 04:00. That doesn’t make any sense. 

“They’re early? Grant, I thought you said 02:35,” Price shot through the radio on your shoulder, you heard the barely audible sound of someone sighing in frustration behind him. 

“They did, I don’t understand,” the connection that Price, too, knows Russian churned in your stomach. It would’ve been nice to know that earlier. 

The two sturdy vans’ doors each popped open, each van carrying four armed soldiers, black body armour making them match their shadows from the floodlights. That’s a count of eight armed Tangos, information which Ghost radioed to the ground crew, with at least one more driving the flatbed. Each sported dark, ominous firearms glinting in the stark floodlight, distant chatter bouncing off the cliff face to reach your astute ears. Another chill crept over your brow as you watched Ghost’s index finger smoothly sweep across the side of his rifle, promising to shift to the trigger at a moment’s notice. Ready to paint the ground with pink mist, swift and lethal, edging toward that kill shot. 

One of the figures crouched, unclasping a lock from the hangar door and swinging it open with the sound of shambling sheet metal. The sharp, heavy clunk of industrial lights sparking to life revealed the interior of the hangar, cluttered with a handful of small boxes and a few desks in the far corner. More information was relayed through the radio, and hushed chirps were heard in reply through the speakers. They were talking about another group meeting up, waiting for ‘Púpsik’ to arrive. Púpsik, a feminine colloquialism for ‘cutie’... there’s another party coming, the feminine prefix implying a dear female figure… a... mother.

“More Tangos en route. It sounds like this is a tradeoff point.” Although the Russian language made you question if Price came to the same conclusion you did, sharing your familiarity with the tongue. 

“Copy.” Price responded in turn. 

“This is Watcher; Any eyes on the cargo?” Laswell’s voice clambered through a staticky frequency. 

“Affirmative, Tango's transporting a shipping container from the truck into the hangar.” Price responded.

“Stand by for further instructions. Let’s wait and see who’s gonna show.” She posited. 

“Rog.” 

The sound of metal scraping and casual conversation echoed through the night. Although technically morning, there were still many hours before the sun would rise in this northern climate. One of them sparked up a cigarette, amber flashes illuminating his face before sucking back a long drag. You noted no flags on any of them, cracking icy binoculars to fit your eyes. Fingers numb to the cold made your movements clunky and uncoordinated, reminding yourself how long it had been since you moved your legs. Movement was key in this gnawing cold, though any sound could jeopardize your position, no matter how minor. It was a gamble that you just had to take. 

Watching the shadows waddle back and forth, securing the container, distant idle chatter from the vehicle-mounted listening device was nearly fruitless, save for a few key phrases. ‘Púpsik’ was three minutes out. The cold gnawing at your extremities was past the point of pain and beyond the pin-prickling sensation, finally settling into a void, empty numbness. This was the time to gather your breath because, at any moment, things could go sideways. There was more radio chatter. Gaz reported headlights behind the hangar. Here comes mama. 

Another round of headlights swung out, another group of three, and a similar flatbed truck, though their flatbed seemed extensively kitted out with plated siding and heavy-duty engines. More doors swung open, and a squad of seven similarly armoured soldiers marched to meet the existing ten, all sporting glinting firearms on their backs. 

“Seventeen tangos, eyes on cargo. Grant, what’s the status?” Price relayed from the shadowy vantage point just out of view of the enemy combatants. 

“They’re exchanging greetings… One is asking about the tool…, and another is saying it’s- it’ll do wonders to clear out their backyard. Uniforms… two thirty-five…” you transcribed from what you heard from the radio in your palm, “They’re exchanging the cargo.”

“It’s now or never,” Laswell breathed. 

“Time to bring home the milk boys, let’s make it home in time for breakfast,” Graves' smooth southern tone quipped back, seemingly in high spirits now that the agonizing wait was over. 

“Bravo 0-7, take down the squirters. Alfa team moving in.” Price’s radio clicked to a close, making your stomach knot. 

“Yes sir,” Ghost uttered. 

The slinking shadows skulked around the darkness, utterly invisible to the pack of soldiers just inches from them. In an instant, the sizzle of a smoke grenade sent a cloud of piercing white smoke into the hangar with a heavenly glow thanks to the stark overhead lights. Pop, pop, pop. Commotion, more pops. It’s horrifying not to be able to see who’s getting shot at, and you can only trust the physical exam evaluations you read only days ago on Laswell’s tablet. Frantic shouting in Russian and Cantonese reverberated across concrete and metal siding. A deafening blast in your right ear nearly made you nearly pass out in shock. Ghost had picked someone off. You couldn’t decide what was worse, watching uselessly through your binoculars to watch your teammates fall potentially or the unforgiving and hammering unknown. Bang. Another deafening blast as Ghost cocked the rifle in patient preparation for another kill shot. 

Utter chaos screamed through the radio that must have been flicked on by mistake in the scuffle. Noise and shouting tore across the wild terrain, collateral of the combat below. Ghost’s rifle had gone quiet now, his steady breathing slowing to an impossibly slow pace. Radio chatter was full of expletives and fruitless commands, agonized whelping silenced by another pop. The courage to pull the ice-cold binoculars to your eyes manifested, and you beheld bodies strewn across the snow, red splatter, and brain matter pooled on concrete and asphalt. Noting the singular bodies of combatants fleeing to the treeline, picked off by your ghostly associate. 

The pandemonium stilled, gradually unwinding, like the crescendo had passed, leaving dwindling silence. Spare for occasional pops reverberating across the cliff face. There was still commotion from within the compound, out of view of your sniper’s position. 

“Alfa team, what’s your status,” Ghost called through the radio.

Silence in response, but evident gunfire, said the status was still in question. Blistering anxiety and tension rippled through your body, meagerly quelled by a deep, steadying breath. More pops and unsettling crackles from your comrade's radios. You were sitting blind and useless, with comrades cornered inside the hangar. Ghost impatiently tapped the side of his rifle with his fingertip, steady breathing, exhaling in a sudden, quick breath. 

“We’re going down there.” Ghost’s gruff voice cut over the gunfire, lifting his radio from his shoulder to speak. “Actual, this is Bravo 0-7, moving in to support the Alfa team, over and out,” his dark eyes meeting yours expectantly, swinging his body above yours and clutching your back by your crossbody firearm harness. 

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Master List

[discofightsandpuppies]

Convoy 1978, one of my childhood favorites

RIP Rubber Duck

[notgonnaedit]

Given to Fly

Convoy

Summary: Martha "Marty" Thorne was a basic teenager, a little antisocial maybe. But her life changed the day she met the Autobots and joined them in their fight.

Pairing: Optimius x Teen!OFC (Platonic)

Chapter summary: A military road trip goes awry.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, Marty and Fowler arguing, MECH, military (not) vehicles, Dadimus at his finest, use of a firearm, (If I miss a tag LMK)

Updates are sporadic. If you want to be tagged LMK

@dreamsight73

A/n: I was almost able to recite this episode by heart since my little brother watched is so much

Master list

Marty stood at the curb, patiently waiting for her guardian to arrive. Her backpack was at her feet, something she opted to ditch when her back began to ache. She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time, frowning when she saw that Optimius was supposed to pick her up 20 minutes ago.

She couldn't be angry at him. He had more important things to tend to than her, but she would have at least liked notice.

A familiar rumble of an Autobot's engine reached the Marty's ears, but it wasn't her Autobot.

Bumblebee rolled up to the curb, buzzing kindly as he opened the door for her. Though Marty couldn't understand his speech, she had a feeling he was telling her Optimius was busy.

"Thanks for the pickup," she said as she grabbed her backpack and climbed it. "I take it Raf is at the base?"

Bee buzzed in confirmation as he pulled away, driving towards the base.

Marty sighed softly, staring out the window. It wasn't uncommon for a Bot besides one of their guardians to pick them up, mostly when their main protector was busy. But the past few weeks, Marty had been finding ways to entertain herself around the base and getting rides from the other Bots. Optimius was busy leading the team in a targeted campaign against several Decepticon Energon mines they had located.

She wasn't upset, but she would be lying if she said she didn't miss her guardian.

                            )()()()()(

"Prime!" Agent Fowler's voice erupted from the computer, demanding the presence of the Autobot leader. "Prime!"

"Special Agent Fowler?" Optimius asked as he made his way towards the computer system. He had just returned from scouting an Energon mine with Bulkhead. "To what do we owe–"

"What else? Cons!" Fowler declared. "I chased them off with some hard ordinance, but not before they blew me out of the sky."

Miko sniggered. "Again?"

Marty smirked and looked back at the screen, leaning against the rail of the catwalk with the other kids.

"They tried to make a smash-and-grab for the DNGS."

Arcee cocked her head to the side. "The... what's it?"

"Dynamic nuclear generation system," Fowler clarified. "A.K.A. DNGS. It's a prototype energy source I'm porting to the coast for testing."

"Pfft! That's absurd," Ratchet huffed. "Why would Starscream bother with such primitive technology?"

"I'm guessing to make a big, fat, primitive weapon of mass destruction," Fowler told him. "If this baby were to melt down, it would irradiate this state and the four next door."

"Uh... Did Agent Fowler say what state he was currently in?" Raf asked nervously.

"I'm a sitting duck here, Prime," Fowler continued. "I need you to spin up your bridge and send the DNGS to it's destination before the Cons come back for it."

​​​​​​Marty looked at her guardian. She could see the gears turning in his head as he mulled over the situation. Yet what most would take several minutes of thought, took Optimius seconds.

"I'm afraid that sending such a volatile device through a ground bridge is out of the question," he said. "If there were to be an accident during it's transmission, the radiation of which you speak could propagate through the ground bridge vortex and harm all 50 states, and beyond."

Fowler frowned, trying to find another solution. "You got any better ideas?"

                           )()()()()(

At the crash site of Agent Fowler's jet, the Autobots readied in vehicle form. Optimius had a trailer, ready to haul the DNGS. Fowler sat in the driver's seat with a grin of a child in a candy store. He reached for the wheel, but was quickly cut off by Optimius.

"Ah! No need, Agent Fowler," he ordered. "I will handle the driving."

Fowler folded his arms, a dispute scowl on his face. "It's gonna be a long trip."

Marty snickered from the passenger seat (something Miko was incredibly envious of).

"Autobots, roll out!" Optimius ordered as he pulled out onto the road.

Marty stared out the window as they drove. Bumblebee and Bulkhead were bringing up the rear, acting as inconspicuous guards for their nuclear cargo. A small huff turned the brunette's attention to Fowler, who still had his arms folded.

"Fowler, are you... pouting?" Marty asked with a chuckle.

"Of course not!" He snapped back. "I'm a high functioning government agent with assignments you couldn't even begin to comprehend."

Marty raised an eyebrow, her expression saying how little she cared.

"Why are you even here?" Fowler asked in frustration. "The other kids stayed behind."

"Martha's logic and reasoning is useful in these situations," the cabin rumbled with Optimius' voice. "And her ability to remain clear-headed under stress is something we may require if things go awry."

A ghost of smile graced Marty's lips. She knew Optimius was trying to make up for lost time. She returned her gaze back to the window, watching as the mountainous landscape of Colorado passed by.

"We're locked on to your coordinates, Optimius," Ratchet told them. "Baring any complications, you should reach the drop-off point by sundown."

"Sounds good, Ratch," Marty answered, leaning back against her seat.

The mountain road was surprisingly wide, perfect for traveling. They passed few cars, but one in particular caught Marty's eye.

There was a family inside, and their sedan was obviously packed for a camping trip. Parents sat in the front, the mother pointing to a map while the father waved her off. Marty had seen such things in movies, but she never realized it was a real. In the backseat, two kids stared blankly out the windows, but they perked up when they saw Optimius– or at least his vehicle mode.

One of the kids, a little boy, pulled his arm in a pumping motion. Marty smiled, knowing what they were signing.

"Hey, Optimius," the brunette started. "could you honk your horn?"

He did as she requested, earning wide grins from the kids in the car. The dad spilled his coffee on his lap, earning more laughter from them. 

Marty chuckled.

"Martha,"

The brunette snapped her attention to the baritone voice surrounding her. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"No need to apologize," Optimius assured her. "I was merely asking why you wanted me to sound my horn."

Fowler chuckled. "You really are from another planet, aren't you?"

Marty rolled her eyes at the agent before turning her attention to the Autobot insignia on the steering wheel. "It's a human thing. When people on road trips pass semi trucks, they signal them to honk their horns."

Optimius hummed in thought. "Human culture never ceases to amaze me."

Marty leaned back against the seat. The hum of the engine was soft in her ears. She was very comfortable, more than she had been in a while. 

Her hazel eyes began to droop, but she promptly snapped them open.

The rearview mirror shifted slightly, a tell tale sign that Optimus' attention was on her now. "You can rest if you so desire, Little One," the Prime told her.

"Thanks, Optimius. But I'm not tire–" a loud yawn from her own mouth betrayed her. A heavy drowsiness settled over her. "Okay, maybe I'm a little tired."

"Perhaps," Optimius remarked, a teasing tone in his voice.

Marty folded her arms, resting her cheek against the seatbelt. "Don't patronize me."

In response the seatbelt tightened, allowing for a more firm resting place for her head. Marty smiled softly, giving the strap a small tug before drifting off to sleep.

                        )()()()()(

A loud horn jolted Marty out of her sleep. "Ahh!"

Bleary eyed and confused, she turned to see Fowler slamming his palm on the wheel. "Move it, Gramps!"

In front of them on the road was an old rusty rusty pickup truck. It veered to the right, driving onto the shoulder to let them pass. 

Fowler continued to blare the horn until Optimius finally stopped him. "Agent Fowler," the Prime sounded exasperated. "Is that really necessary?"

The agent scowled. "Ah, don't tell me you're on of them textbook drivers," he folded his arms and glared out the window. "Hmph."

Marty reached under her glasses, rubbing her eyes with her finger tips. A small groan escaped her as she processed the trauma of waking up.

Fowler, having gotten over his frustration, turned back to the dash. "Y'know, you're saving my bacon here, Prime."

"I am proud to be of service," replied Optimius.

Marty glanced at Fowler. "Huh," she didn't think she had it in him to say something nice.

"Course, not like I needed your help if you and the Cons had stuck to tearing up your own corner of the galaxy," he added.

Marty groaned. "And there it is."

"Are you suggesting that no evil existed on your world before we arrived?" Optimius asked, his tone slightly challenging.

Fowler paused. "Well, it was a... A different evil."

Marty scoffed. "Yeah, right. Evil is evil, don't try to paint it any other way."

The agent shifted uncomfortably. "How about some radio?" He asked, trying to change the subject. "You seem like a Nashville-sound kind of guy."

Marty hummed. "Finally, something we agree on."

The sound of blades whirring reached Marty's ears. She looked in the rearview mirror to see a green helicopter behind them. It was flying low, she noticed.

"That's the one!" Fowler said suddenly. "The Con who shot me down? Who is he?" He turned to Marty. "Wingnut? Dingbat? Skyguy??"

"Watch your rearviews," Bulkhead warned as his voice clicked through the walkie-talkie.

Marty frowned upon seeing several green cars surround the wrecker.

"Feeling a little constricted without the use of my fists here, boss," Bulkhead said.

"Remain in vehicular mode unless absolutely necessary," Optimius ordered.

Marty raised her brows in surprise when she saw one of the cars pass them on the shoulder and slide in front of Bumblebee. The scout tried to pass it, but it wouldn't allow him.

"A whole team of Cons," Fowler murmured.

"What?" Ratchet asked. "I'm not picking up on anything. They must be utilizing a cloaking technology."

But Cons have never cared about delicate operations, Marty remembered. Why wouldn't they just try a smash-and-grab like Fowler described them doing before?

One of the cars drove parallel to Optimius. The roof opened and out came a man holding a gun. "Pull over!" He ordered.

"What–!" Marty had never expected this. Not in a million years.

Fowler's mouth hung open as he stared at their attacker. "Well, I'll be dipped!"

"Our assailants are not Decepticons– They are human," Optimius commed the team back at base.

"Who are these guys?" Marty asked as she glanced out her window.

"Autobots, maintain your cover," Optimius ordered. "and apply minimal force. Disarmament only."

Optimius swerved along the mountain side, staying from as far from the edge as possible. The seatbelt around Marty tightened, pinning her to the seat. Fowler, however, swayed with the movement and was looking worse for wear.

He choked down a gag. "Could use some air."

Optimius rolled down the window for him, allowing the agent to rest his head in the open breeze. 

"Are you seriously doing that?!" Marty asked as she gripped the seat. 

Fowler sat up, a concerned look on his face. "I'm going out there," he proclaimed.

"You're what!?" Marty's voice cracked as she yelled at the agent, but he had already opened the door and climbed out.

Marty moved to see what Fowler was doing, but the seatbelt held her in place. She craned her neck as far as it would go and found Fowler grabbing one of the masked men by the back of his neck. We

"You're gonna tell me everything I want to kno–" Fowler stopped abruptly when the man was ripped from his grasp and was sent tumbling down the road.

This was real. Marty watched, worry painted across her normally indifferent expression. Fowler climbed back in, buckling his seatbelt with a grave look on his face.

The silence was palpable, but it didn't last for long.

"I do hope you take better care of the DNGS than you do your captives," a man's voice taunted from the walkie-talkie.

Fowler grabbed it vigorously, holding to his mouth. "Special Agent William Fowler here. Identify yourself!"

"I am Silas," said the man. "But of greater consequence to you, we are MECH. Fair warning– We will be helping ourselves to your device, even if it means inflicting casualties."

Marty's grip on the seat tightened as Fowler growled into the radio.

"Tell me, Si, what's the market price for a DNGS these days?"

"What makes you think we intend to sell it, Agent Fowler?" Silas asked. ​​​​​

Fowler's expression dropped as he glanced at Marty.

"There's a war brewing between the new world order and the newest. The victor will be the side armed with the most innovative technology."

Marty watched in the rearview mirror as a mask man fired his weapon at the trailer, opening the hatch. The DNGS was back there, but so was a surprise.

"So, Si..." A smirk found its way to Fowler's face. "You think MECH has the most radical tech?"

Just then, Arcee burst out of the trailer, taking out several cars in her vehicle form. Marty's eyes widened with awe as she watched the explosion from the mirror.

"Later, Si," Fowler clicked off the radio with a smug grin.

"Agent Fowler, do not take your 'Silas' lightly," Optimius warned. "Megatron preached the same ideology before plunging Cybertron into the great war that destroyed our world."

"Optimius," Ratchet clicked on the comms. "prepare to initiate phase 2. Five miles ahead to the South, you will reach the rendezvous point."

                             )()()()()(

"There it is," Marty said when the train tracks came into view. They ran along the road, slightly lower after a drop.

"Autobots, keep a tight formation," Optimius ordered.

Arcee jumped off the road to drive beside the tracks, the others following. MECH did too, but they couldn't know what they had planned.

They entered a tunnel, headlights clicking on as they drove alongside the train. Bulkhead transformed and quickly destroyed the entrance before the MECH cars could follow.

Marty watched as Bee transformed and jumped on to a specific train car, tapping on the door to be greeted by a soldier. Bulkhead climbed on to the car as the trailer's walls folded down. Arcee took the DNGS and handed it to Bulk, who handed it to Bee, who set it inside the car.

The brunette smiled to herself, proud of how smoothly the plan went. Even if MECH was unexpected.

As they left the tunnel and drove back onto the road, Marty couldn't help but notice that the helicopter was still following them.

"Uh, Optimius?" She worried. "What do we do about Silas?"

Before her guardian could answer, several jets appeared in the sky.

Fowler glanced out his window. "Air support? Ours or theirs?"

"Optimius, you have company!" Ratchet warned.

Just then, the jets fired their missiles. 

"Cons!" Marty cried as she gripped her seatbelt. Optimius swerved hard, detatching the trailer, as the missiles made contact with the earth and destroyed the trailer.

Fowler yelped as Optimius and the Autobots stopped at the edge of a cliff. The jets fell from the sky, transforming into their bipedal form. Marty realized that the Decepticons didn't care that other humans were watching, and it put the Bots at risk.

"Agent Fowler, Martha," Optimius said. "I'm afraid that if you and we are to survive, it has become absolutely necessary to drop our cover."

Marty nodded. Fowler's eyes widened, and before he could say anything, he and the brunette were sitting in Optimus' hands. When her eyes adjusted, Marty saw Fowler trying not to throw up, for the second time that day.

Optimius set the two humans on the edge of the cliff wall. "Remain here."

"Will do," Fowler adjusted himself, still looking slightly pale.

Marty turned her attention to the Bots, watching as they fought the Cons. She furrowed her brow, her mind racing with the location of the DNGS and the battle before her.

The radio in Fowler's hand clicked, and Silas' voice crackled through. "Special Agent Fowler, you and your young friend lead a charmed life walking among titans."

Marty looked up at the circling helicopter, bringing her hand to her forehead to block out the sun.

"Come on down," Fowler dared. "I'll introduce you."

"In good time. But at the moment I'm too busy wondering how the DNGS might have vanished into thin air without a trace. Now, if you'll excuse me... I have a train to catch."

​​​​​The helicopter flew off in the same direction as the tracks. Marty gasped. "He knows!"

Fowler cursed under his breath and brought the radio up. "Prime! Silas got wise to phase 2!"

Optimius glanced over at them from the battle and nodded. "I understand."

CLANG!

A Con used a log to hit him in the face, sending him flying.

"Optimius!" Marty cried as she watched her guardian fall down the cliff and out of sight.

"Prime, do you read me?" Fowler said into the radio. "Prime?!"

Marty ran her hands through her hair, struggling to find a solution. "Okay, okay, okay," she took a breath and reached into her pocket, pulling out her phone.

"Ratchet," she said into the speaker. "Optimius is down and MECH's gonna grab the DNGS."

"We need to think of something," Jack muttered.

"You mean like a phase 3?" Asked Raf.

Marty bit her lip, as she forced her brain to form coherent thought. "Come on, think," an idea popped in. "Alright, if MECH wants the DNGS, they have to get on that train."

"What if we get on board first?" Miko asked. "Y'know, run some human-on-human interference?"

"Absolutely not!" Ratchet declared. 

"Yeah, that would be suicide," Jack agreed.

"I don't hear any better ideas!" Marty growled. "Lives are at stake, Ratchet!'

"Yes–yours!" He snapped back. "You want me to not only bridge you into a confined space, but one traveling at 90 miles per hour?! I can't even count the number of ways that can go wrong," he did so anyways. "Mass-displacement trauma, twisted limbs, metal burn... Well, maybe not the last one. Regardless, it is nearly impossible to fix ground bridge coordinates on something moving at that speed."

Marty was about to bite back, but the sound of Raf's voice stopped her. 

"Would it help if we had access to the train's coordinates?"

Marty nodded. "Ratchet, bridge me to the train."

                             )()()()()(

Marty stepped out of the vortex to find Miko and Jack waiting for her, the latter with his phone ready. An unconscious soldier was lying on the floor next to the DNGS, his gun beside him. The brunette looked at the other teens in surprise.

"What, you thought you were gonna fight them off on your own?" Miko asked with her signature grin.

Marty replied with a huffed chuckle, but that stopped when she heard the sound of helicopter blades. Jack peeked his head out the door before raising his phone to his ear.

"Raf, MECH's landing on top of the train."

"In about 20 seconds, you're gonna come to a fork. Brace yourself," the boy told them.

The train shifted, but the helicopter lurched away. It wasn't long before the sound of blades increased, and the sparks from a cutting device on the roof.

"So what'd that buy us?" Jack asked. "10 seconds?"

Miko winced. "Raf is losing his touch."

Marty glanced around, searching for something to fend off MECH with. Her gaze landed on the soldier's gun.

She grabbed it.

"Do you know how to fire that thing?" Jack asked.

Marty fumbled with it, struggling to hold it. "No..." She whined.

Miko nodded, grabbing a fire axe. Jack grabbed a fire extinguisher, the only other weapon around.

The square in the ceiling fell through, revealing two masked men with weapons.

Marty's hands shook as her finger neared the trigger.

"Do you wanna slice of this?!" Miko swing the axe defiantly. "Well, do ya?!"

Jack aimed the fire extinguisher. "What she said."

Suddenly, MECH left, taking the men with them. Marty frowned. What was going on?

Jack dropped his weapon, looking out the door. Miko followed suit, grabbing his arm. "You're pretty fierce," she teased.

Marty couldn't bring herself to smirk, she was too concerned about the smoke rising in the distance. Then it hit her.

She snagged the phone from Jack. "Ratchet, MECH blew the train tracks. You need to bridge us out if here– the soldiers too."

"We've lost access to the train data!" Replied the medic. "I can't bridge you back without your coordinates!"

The three teens stood in the train car, worrying over what to do.

"Maybe we should jump?" Miko suggested.

Jack scoffed. "At 90 miles an hour?"

The pink haired girl shrugged. "It's the impact or the meltdown. Take your pick."

Jack let out a sigh. "What were we thinking volunteering for this?"

"Next time, you need to do a better job of talking us out of these situations," Miko snarked.

A sinking feeling settled in Marty's stomach. "Next time..."

"We can buy ourselves another few seconds if we're in the back of the train, right?" Miko asked.

Jack glanced at the two girls. "At least we're in this together."

Miko looked at Marty before snatching Jack's phone from her hand. "Raf, this is important! Make sure Bulkhead gets my guitar."

Just then –in a flash of red and blue– Optimius drove past. 

Hope climbed inside Marty. "Don't read the will just yet."

As Optimius passed the train, he transformed and grabbed on. He groaned as he dug his heels into the ground, trying to halt the train. Metal screeched and pulled painfully, but finally the train halted just before the tracks ended.

Optimius stood up straight, glancing back at the kids. Martha, Miko, and Jack were all safe and alive. The latter two were already talking about something pertaining to their situation. Martha looked up at him with an expression he had never seen before; something akin to fear.

Her hazel gaze drifted to the sky. When Optimius followed it, he found the helicopter belonging to Silas circling them before flying off.

"Optimius," Ratchet's voice clicked on over the comm. "are you and the children... intact?"

"Intact, Ratchet," the Prime answered. "Crisis averted. But the world in which we live is a different one than we previously imagined. One which has spawned its own Decepticons... In human skin."​​​​​​​

Previous

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[softquietsteadylove]

For the Maleficent AU: Thena snuck away on her own to a village to watch the humans. Days after Gil noticed that her behavior is odd so he investigates and then Thena admits that she snuck away and got shot and that the iron bullet is still sticking in her body.

"Dammit!"

Gil frowned as he landed at the lower level of the mothernest interior. When he was checking that everything was okay, he didn't expect to see a figure huddled around the healing pools. It was far later in the day than anyone would usually be here. "Hello?"

The figure startled, and he could recognise those sparkling white wings anywhere. "G-Gil?"

"Thena," he frowned, stepping a little closer on the mossy ground around the pools. He was careful, but he could see the skirt of her dress pooled around her bent legs on the ground, even though she was holding her wings around herself protectively. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, I-I'm fine," she smiled, although she was still letting her wings somewhat hide herself from him. "I just...got something on my dress. I thought I would try to use the cold salt water to remove it."

"Right," he murmured, trying to apprise himself of the situation. "The healing pools might not be as good as the shore waters for that."

"Right."

Gil stood a respectful distance away, crossing his arms as Thena made no move to leave the warm salt springs around them either. He sighed, settling his wings comfortably. "What happened, Thena?"

"Nothing," she tried to deny, but her breath was short and choppy, and those long, lithe shoulders of hers weren't moving right.

"Show me," he urged, stepping closer. She remained huddled over herself. "Let me help."

She stayed still for a little longer, her wings rustling against the mossy ground at their feet. "You can't tell anyone."

Gilgamesh wasn't sure how he felt about potentially keeping something that could very mean her being injured to himself, but he agreed. He moved closer, crouching down behind her, with her wings between them. "Please, Thena?"

She sighed, and slowly her shimmering feathers drew away from his view, revealing a splotch of red in the side of her white dress too large to ignore. She really had been trying to clean it.

"When did this happen?" Gil asked immediately, moving closer, ducking his head under her wing as he tried to see if it was still actively bleeding.

"I-" she began and hesitated for another second. "I was flying to the farms."

The farms were quite far inland, and they never went unless it was on a peace convoy with a full guard and protection detail.

"Someone must have seen me, and..." she trailed off, letting him move her hair over her shoulder. She winced as he moved her arm. "They didn't shoot me down but it-it just won't heal."

"Thena," Gil gulped, his hands on her delicate shoulders. Her skin was so soft, and so pale, like her feathers. "Can I, uh--just enough for me to see, okay?"

She had already accepted her defeat, it seemed. She nodded, letting him un-knot the strap of her dress at her shoulder and let the back of it come down around her side. Even her ribs were perfectly sculpted.

Gil frowned, too preoccupied with the iron burn along her side to worry about her state of undress. "Thena, it's still in you?"

"I-" she winced again as she attempted to turn and look at him. "I can't get it out."

"Okay, hey, it's all right," he shushed her, trying to get her breathing even again. He rushed to tie her dress properly again. Even the sight of her back half bare was too much for him. "Here."

Thena nearly whimpered as he helped her onto her feet and towards the caves. "I've been managing it thus far."

"I don't know how," he muttered, not at all pleased by the thought of her walking around with an injury to this degree. He let her lean on him as he walked her away from any prying eyes. "How have your brothers not found out?"

"Druig is with Makkari day and night, it seems," she sighed as the scent of the healing pools' deeper well reached her nose. "Ikaris, all I have to do is stand to his left."

Gil rolled his eyes. Druig was fine, but that other brother of hers...

"Gil," Thena attempted to plead with him, seeing what his intention was. "I don't think-"

"Thena," he frowned, steps away from lowering her into the healing spring himself. "You need to submerge it, and for more than a few minutes."

"I only came because Ikaris is hunting with Kingo," she argued with him, the warmth of the saltwater practically glowing at her from the ground. "I have to get back."

"You need to not walk around with an iron bullet in your ribcage!"

Thena blinked, completely surprised by the even marginal rise in his voice's volume. Her wings trembled on her back faintly, but she didn't wrench herself away from him. She tilted her head, "is that an order?"

He sighed; if she were part of his perimeter detail or guard team, then maybe. But he softened, running his hand down her arm until he could take her hand in his. "No, it's not. It's just something you can do to put my heart at ease."

Thena looked terribly torn. She had her own reasons for trying to keep this injury of hers contained. It was bad for the delegation, it was bad for human-fae relations, and it was bad for their reputation if people thought they could get shot out of the sky while flying.

It was bad if her brothers thought their only family in the world was hurt.

"Do you intend to undress me yourself?"

Gil huffed, turning around as his face became unbearably hot. He even spread his wings out, "very funny."

Thena's laughter was softer, but it echoed around the cave interior. "I am ruffling your feathers, Gil, nothing more. I know you would never."

He blocked out the sound of her light and breezy dress slipping off her body and onto the cave floor. He cleared his throat, "okay, okay, just get in the healing bath."

Thena hissed and then whimpered as she submerged herself properly, something she had probably avoided since she was first injured.

"You okay?" he asked, instinctively wanting to check on her but forbidding himself from even moving his head remotely in her direction.

"I'm fine," she uttered, but it did sound less strained than when she was huddled around the healing pools outside and trying to both bathe her wound and clean her dress at the same time.

"I wouldn't say you're fine," he growled, but tried not to start raging about how serious her injury really was, despite the way she was acting.

"Gil," she chided him before he had even said anything, "they were trying to protect themselves."

He snorted at her defense of the humans. "They can protect themselves with regular arrows. They don't need iron bullets the size of a walnut."

"What's done is done," she concluded, and he could hear the sound of her cupping her hands and letting the water run over herself. "There's no use imagining what could have happened differently."

Gil stayed quiet. He wouldn't win an argument with her about the humans. For how unsocial she was, she really was protective of those stupid walking fleshbags. "How did you fly home?"

"Slowly."

That made him even angrier--the thought of Thena hauling herself home, desperately using the air currents and the size of her wings to bring her injured body back to the nest. How had no one else noticed?!

"No one knows, Gil," she said quietly, going still in the water. "I wasn't intending on telling anyone."

He frowned to himself, letting himself turn his head faintly just to catch the sheer black of his wings in his periphery. He rustled them gently, "That's what bothers me the most."

Thena was quiet again, and he supposed he wouldn't expect her to have an answer to that. He continued to stand guard, although no one used the healing pools when it was late (they were too cold, then). But he was hardly going to let someone stumble upon something they shouldn't.

"I would have told you."

She sounded like a young faerie admitting to something only after the fact. Her contrition made her voice heavy. "I wanted to heal up just a little before I told you--so I could prove it wasn't dire and that there would be no need for action."

Gil made a face just for himself, "you mean so I wouldn't freak out and go track down the human that shot you?"

"You don't know it was a human."

"I don't know any other species that uses stuff like that."

Thena laughed, although it was still a little hollow and breathless. "I suppose you're right. But perhaps if we were as helpless as they are, we would be just as afraid."

Gil was not afraid of any human. Even if he had to take one of those iron monstrosities on for himself. He would face one down happily to look into the eye of the human that had done this to (his) Thena.

"Ah!"

Gil nearly leapt and flapped his wings in reaction to the noise. He still didn't want to look at her in any state of undress, but he stared hard into the opaque wall of his black feathers. "What happened!?"

"It's okay, it's okay," she panted faintly, but her voice was indeed stronger, "it's out. The saltspring is working."

Well, that was a relief. One of the best assets of this particular mothernest - home to so many biomes and nests within it - was its proximity to the healing springs. Ajak valued their medicinal properties greatly, after all.

"You were right," Thena conceded, which he got the feeling didn't happen often. "I should have just come here sooner, saved myself the trouble of secrecy."

"Well, yeah, I was right." She huffed, just loud enough for him to hear. He chuckled, "but I know you didn't want your brothers to freak out. Hard to slip away for too long with both of them around, right?"

"Dreadfully," she sighed much easier this time.

"Tell you what," Gil smiled, maybe a little too relieved now that Thena was actually on her way to better health. "I'll show up at your nest every morning this week to ask you to join me on 'convoys' inland. But you've gotta come down here and soak that wound of yours."

"Gil-"

"It's iron, Thena," he scowled straight ahead at the opening of the cave, "it's not going to be completely healed overnight. And you don't want them to know, so it's this or I bring you the spring water and tell them about it myself."

"Fine."

[gowithplana]

There’s a huff as Convoy ducks to fit through the doorway, but once he’s through— he’s making a beeline directly for Magnus just to settle behind him, fins pinned back and a low growl starting up whenever anyone lingers too long for his liking at Optimus’ desk.

Optimus is feeling absolutely harangued today. He hasn't even gotten fuel. Its been putting out fires, and trying to rebuild bridges. Its overflowing datawork and someone needs to see him NOW or five kliks ago. Its so bad that when his door opens he's prepared to beg for a reprieve. Only to see its Convoy. His shoulders slump, relaxing out of their tight posture. And when the larger mech scoots around his desk Optimus can't resist brushing his hip with his servo. When the other says nothing he simply...lets him be. Only to start at the vibrational growling when yet another aid swoops in to linger hem hemming by his desk. It drives them immediately away. And Optimus can actually, tearfully, open his fuel and get a sip. Fins drooping backwards in relief. He gropes around for a gel treat from his drawer and offers it out in his palm to Convoy," You are...such a good boy Convoy. Very good indeed."

[aksemmi]

just saw a whole convoy of cars with a bunch of hammers duck taped to them headed towards the bay bridge. what could this mean?

[laresearchette]

Wednesday, January 03, 2023 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: ISHURA (Disney + Star) I CAN SEE YOUR VOICE (Global) 8:00pm WE ARE FAMILY (Global) 9:00pm SISTAS (BET Canada) 9:00pm

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME CANADA/CBC GEM/CRAVE TV/DISNEY + STAR/NETFLIX CANADA:

CBC GEM YOUNGER (Season 4)

CRAVE TV THE EMPEROR (Season 2, Episode 1) THE TRAITORS UK (Season 2, Episode 1)

DISNEY + STAR HAMSER & GRETEL (Season 1) INCREDIBLE ANIMAL JOURNEYS (Season 1) ISHURA (Season 1, Premiere Episode)

MARLIES HOCKEY (TSN4) 4:00pm: Cleveland vs. Toronto

PWHL HOCKEY (TSN/TSN5) 7:00pm: Minnesota vs. Boston

NBA BASKETBALL (SN Now) 7:00pm: Bucks vs. Pacers (SN1) 7:30pm: Thunder vs. Hawks (TSN3/TSN4) 8:00pm: Raptors vs. Grizzlies (SN1) 10:00pm: Heat vs. Lakers

THE OTHER SIDE (APTN) 7:30pm: The Tillicum Health Centre in Nanaimo, B.C., has a dark history that has left spirits trapped inside its walls. Through traditional medicines and song, the team, alongside Lee's friend, brings calm to the angry history the building has endured.

SPIRIT TALKER (APTN) 8:00pm: Shawn collaborates with Knowledge Keeper Robert Hope in assembling a community teepee in Enoch Cree Nation. His spirit session brings forth words of comfort for a friend and insightful guidance from a loving grandfather.

CAUGHT! (Discovery Canada) 8:00pm/8:30pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Jewel thieves use their imagination for huge scores; ATMs face brutal assaults from heavy machinery to get to the loot inside; during a daring attempt to rob an armored car, one driver becomes a hero. In Episode Two, roadways and waterways are full of hazards, dangers and accidents waiting to happen; traffic cams, cell phones and dash cams get it all on video when sailboats crash into piers, a woman steals a cop car, and a cow-carrying convoy spills its cargo.

GOOD WITH WOOD (Makeful) 8:00pm: The three finalists race the clock to assemble a kitchen island with functional cupboards and doors; their handmade custom kitchen accessories may be a recipe for success and a path to the crown.

GHOST HUNTERS OF THE GRAND RIVER (APTN) 8:30pm: The ghost hunters visit The Grad Club at Queen's University in Kingston, where a local student helps them substantiate a century of lore and reports of paranormal occurrences on the campus.

NHL HOCKEY (SN) 9:00pm: Leafs vs. Ducks (SN360/SNWest) 9:30pm: Kraken vs. Flames

PAWN STARS DO AMERICA (History Canada) 9:00pm (SEASON PREMIERE): Rick, Corey and Chum wrangle some wild deals in the Lone Star State; the guys test-drive a 1968 Buick Riviera, become riveted by a blacksmith's anvil collection, and meet up with NFL legend Emmitt Smith.

THE HONEYMOON (Crave) 9:00pm: Adam whisks his new bride Sarah to Venice for a honeymoon, but Adam's gross best friend Bav tags along. A charming gangster Giorgio falls for Sarah, sending Adam and Bav across the border on a drug-dealing mission.