#Go Ordnance!

[fives-girlfriend]

And here he is, the long-awaited second-in-command of the 398th Ordnance Corps, Marshal Commander Frost! He heads the entire corps alongside Jedi General Scella Alaize, and he's quite the no-nonsense leader compared to our more well-known squad.

[therehavebeenstranger]

damn i wonder what happened to the place names in northern ireland........

the first of the celtic nations enters the ring will they steal the whole competition???????

[apas-95]

really though it was kinda hilarious how the whole 'I have asthma' part of the smoking indoors post was ignored in favour of 'oh you dont like the smell'. yknow like epic punk do whatever you want forever but ultimately the global communist government is probably also going to have heath and safety ordnances about smoking indoors lol

[literaryvein-reblogs]

more words for your fight scenes (pt. 2)

Arrive

admission, alight, appearance, arrival, billow, butt in, come in, cross, disembark, embark, enter, foray, get back, get on, go ahead, immigrate, influx, intrude, invasion, lance, light, lunge, penetrate, pierce, progress, reach, return, stalk, trespass, turn up

Illegal behavior

assault, backstab, bleed, break, bribe, buy, conspire, contravene, delinquency, disobey, extortion, felony, foul, graft, hara-kiri, holdup, imposture, infringe, intrigue, kickback, larceny, loot, misconduct, misdeed/misdemeanor, offense, pick, piracy, poach, rip off, rip-off, robbery, shenanigans, smear campaign, speculation, stick up, take, theft, treason, victimize, violation

Join physically

link, merge, mingle, piece, splice, tuck, unite, weld, yoke

Jump

bounce, clear, dive, gallop, hop, lunge, plunge, rear, recoil, skip, start, vault

Leave

abandon, back, blow, bolt, break, break out, cringe, dart, depart, desert, deviate, digress, disappearance, distance, draw back, ebb, embark, exit, fall back, flee, fly, get along, get out, goodbye, go out, jilt, light out, maroon, parting, push off/push on, quit, recoil, renunciation, resign, retire, run, scram, segregation, shake off, shrink, strike out, takeoff, threads, trousers, vacate, withdrawal

Prepare physically

acclimate, accustom, braid, brush up, bundle, coat, disguise, domesticate, dress, embattle, fine-tune, fix up, fortify, gear, gild, gloss, grease, habituate, knit, make up, modulate, overhaul, pad, plaster, polish, prepare, preserve, primp, reform, refrigerate, regenerate, rejuvenate, renovate, round, set, shine, smear, square, strain, toughen, training, weather

Pull

drag, extract, lug, pluck, schlep, strain, tow, twist, wrench, yank

Push

advance, back, barge in/barge into, billow, blow up, bulge, burst, compress, crowd, crush, depress, drive, extrude, force, indent, insinuate, jam, jolt, knead, mash, mob, notch, poke, prod, protrude, pump, repel, roll, shove, slam, squish, tax, tip, trample, wrestle, wring

Weapon

A-bomb, armament(s), arrow, atom bomb, battery, bullet, catapult, defense, explosive, firearm, gun, missile, nuclear weapon, ordnance, rocket

NOTE

The above are concepts classified according to subject and usage. It not only helps writers and thinkers to organize their ideas but leads them from those very ideas to the words that can best express them.

It was, in part, created to turn an idea into a specific word. By linking together the main entries that share similar concepts, the index makes possible creative semantic connections between words in our language, stimulating thought and broadening vocabulary. Writing Resources PDFs

Source ⚜ Writing Basics & Refreshers ⚜ On Vocabulary ⚜ part 1 Writing Notes: Fight Scenes ⚜ Word Lists: Fight ⚜ Pain

[lonewolflupe]

Republic Commando - Delta Squad

Welcome to my latest obsession (I've been calling it my hyperfixation within a hyperfixation within a hyperfixation)! After finally playing Republic Commando (2005) for the first time, I can't get Delta Squad out of my head. And since we never got a face reveal for any of them, I decided to make my own design (since I'm planning on drawing them a lot more 👀). I'll try putting my thought process during designing down below, but before I continue I want to say I was heavily inspired by the following amazing Delta Squad designs, so please go give those some love:

@jaderavenarts (x)

@papanowo (x)

@leafdupe (x)

Alright, buckle up for some ramblings:

38 BOSS As squad leader, I felt like Boss had to look somewhat presentable, without too much self-applied adjustments (like tattoos or alternative haircuts). He has slightly longer hair than Rex, but he likes keeping it short. He does have some stubble on his jaw, because I also felt like he would slightly care about his appearance, but not that much. He has a scar on the left side of his face starting at his lower jaw going up across his cheek, and he has a scar on his right temple crossing through the end of his brow. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

40 FIXER I feel like Fixer would stick to the reg look, since he's a bit more into regulations than Sev and Scorch. I did give him slits through both eyebrows, because I thought it would fit with his slicing abilities. He is more careful than the others and wouldn't wrestle with some creature or ordnance (at least not without his bucket on). He does have a thin scar on his chin. I headcanon that he scratches or rubs his chin whenever he feels like he's taking too long slicing (like a tic), and maybe one day he accidentally tore open his skin with a sharp edge of his gauntlet plate; thus the scar on his chin. He has a reg haircut (dark brown) and his eyes are the usual dark brown.

07 SEV Sev, my fierce love.. I was doubting between a buzz cut or the mohawk. I ended up with the mohawk (with undercut) because it gave me the vibes of a hunter/predator. The mohawk is fairly curly at the front. Of course he has several scars, because he isn't afraid to come up close to any hostiles (whether it being enemies or feral creatures they encounter on their missions). The helix of his right ear is slightly torn on three places, like some creature took a bite from it. He has a scar crossing his left eyebrow and one across his lips, making the teeth behind it visible. His hair is the reg-like dark brown and he has the usual dark brown eyes.

62 SCORCH Wooo-ooh! BOOM! That might have happened in his face. You cannot convince me that there is no evidence of explosion-gone-slightly-wrong on this beautiful boy's face. He has a burn mark across the bridge of his nose, across his cheeks, around his right eye and through the middle of his right eyebrow. His right eye is slightly discoloured (lighter than the usual reg eye colour). I don't think it's completely blind, I just think looking at an explosion that close is very unhealthy. He has a bit of a mullet mohawk; broader than Sev's. It's pretty curly, especially at the front, leaving some playful locks dangling down his face. I loved all the partly blonde designs I stumbled upon, so of course I added some blonde streaks through those locks. Besides the streaks, his hair is reg dark brown. His left eye is the usual dark brown too, but as I explained before, the right one is lighter.

I love 'em all but Sev and Scorch are my precious babies but also Boss oh Maker, it's the Tem voice I tell you, I kissed him in my dream last night ahahaha (I'm down bad with the Delta Squad flu, folks). But Fixer is also really cute because he's so baby?? Alright, on to my next Delta Squad piece!

Taglist (read to join): @aknightreaderr @returnofthepineapple @sunshinesdaydream @kotemf @thecoffeelorian @star-wars-lycanwing-bat @bixlasagna @dreamie411 @heidnspeak @earlgreyci @cyaretra

NPT because of RepComm content @orangez3st @kimiheartblade

[she-who-paints-with-fire]

KING'S FALL

Monarch pilots knew missiles well. The small, the medium, the large; the heat-seeking, the antiradiation, the radar locking; the agile, the powerful, the arcing.

Monarch pilots knew missiles very well. It was their domain.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING]

Not all kings could control their subjects.

[INCOMING MISSILE!]

Dawn Always Comes went into a steep dive; Lux strained against a force several times stronger than gravity and felt her mech strain with her. Her knuckles were white around the controls as her thumb pressed down the button for the first stage countermeasures.

[CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE]

Twenty thousand metres, falling at 600 metres per second and increasing. Slivers of metal exploded from small boxes in her mech, obscuring her back in a haze of metallic film.

[RADAR LOCK BROKEN]

Respite. She kept diving, just in case—

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

—that happened. 670 metres per second and increasing. Eighteen thousand metres above sea level.

[PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE]

1000 metres and closing. Lux knew that instinctively.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE / CHAFF FLARE]

Dawn Always Comes screamed warnings at Lux as she kept diving, jinking left and right all the while in an effort to find some sort of space or measure of safety. 730 metres per second and falling. Sixteen thousand metres above sea level. The air was growing thicker as she shot downwards, meaning the missiles following her would need to expend more fuel to keep up and retarget. Her fuel, on the other hand, was functionally infinite.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [PROXIMITY ALERT - MISSILE]

Fifteen thousand metres. Her pursuer had fired more ordnance. The lock-on warning tone howled in Lux's ear as she did her best to evade while her subjectivity suite screamed warnings directly into her mind. Her thumb pressed down the button for her countermeasures again.

As slivers of metal and thousand-degree magnesium flares shot away from her back, she felt a momentary searing heat, then a wash of fire as a missile detonated too close. Instinctively she flinched away, only to feel another missile detonate too close again, sending small electric shocks rippling across her frame.

The feeling jolted her brain, made something stand out over the haze of warnings. Gandiva. She was being shot at with Gandiva missiles.

[PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Reality smashed back into her with the warning tone of ten thousand metres. 810 metres per second and falling. No time to think about how the hell her opponent, a small-time pirate lord Union wanted dethroned, had gotten their hands on mainstay BELLA CIAO weaponry. Only time to react.

Nine thousand metres. She kept moving, dodging back and forth, trying to evade whatever she could.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

In her mind she weighed a choice. It was clear she couldn't outrun the missiles, even as she closed in on Mach 3, and the countermeasures hadn't worked the second time. Her Javelin rockets and Avenger mini-missiles could function as an ad-hoc point defense, but to fire them she would need to turn around, bleeding away speed—and while yes, speed wasn't going to win this fight, it did give her time and time gave her options, which was something she was sorely lacking.

Eight thousand metres. 920 metres per second.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Seven thousand metres. 930 metres per second. As seconds passed by so did distance. Distance gave time. Time gave options. She was running out of all three.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Six thousand metres. 940 metres per second. Her thumb hovered over the countermeasures. She could feel herself pushing past the redline; the subjectivity suite that linked her neurons to her mech made it feel like her heart was straining to keep up.

[RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE! INCOMING MISSILE!]

Five thousand metres. 950 metres per second.

[ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE!] [RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY WARNING - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Four thousand metres. 950 metres per second.

[ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE!] [RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY ALERT - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Three thousand metres. 950 metres per second. Lux braced for the force of gravity on her to multiply even further.

[ALTITUDE! ALTITUDE!] [RADAR LOCK WARNING] [PROXIMITY ALERT - MISSILE] [INCOMING MISSILE!] [INCOMING MISSILE!]

Two thousand metres. 950 metres per second. This was insanity under the best of circumstances—suicide under the worst. Bleeding off nearly a thousand metres per second of speed in less than a second was near impossible.

[PULL UP! PULL UP!]

Lux strained as hard as she could to level out before throwing herself around and firing every micromissile she had at the incoming ordnance. Her body felt like it was being crushed into paste as her momentum fought against the thrusters on her back and lost—900 metres per second, 700 metres per second, 500 metres per second, 400 metres per second, 100 metres per second. It made her ill. Her bones howled, her organs screamed, even with the interia cushioning provided by the Monarch—had she not had that cushion she would have been emulsified. Her micromissiles blazed away, seeking out the incoming missiles and detonating them prematurely a mere 100 metres away. Slivers of metal and white-hot flares shot out from her metal back, [RADAR LOCK BROKEN] finally freeing her from the enemy targeting lock, and [SCAN COMPLETE] her IFF system tagged the enemy mech as a Monarch named Dark Sky Stalker as it silhouetted itself against the setting moon.

Dark Sky Stalker, the personal mech of the pirate lord Lux was hunting.

[TARGET LOCKED]

[SHARANGA MISSILES ARMED]

[GANDIVA MISSILES ARMED]

[JAVELIN ROCKETS RELOADING]

[AVENGER MISSILES RELOADING]

She pressed the trigger, bore witness to a hundred shooting stars, and then the light of dawn.

[KILL CONFIRMED. NO FURTHER TARGETS. WELL DONE, LANCER.]

[multi-fandom-imagine]

This probably sounds weird but could you do Ghost with a Reader that has to evacuate their home because their neighbor had an “unexploded ordnance”? I just had police at my door telling me I had to grab my dog and leave my house until the military shows up to take care of the bomb, grenade, or whatever that was found in the house directly across the street from me

A/n: THAT IS HORRIFYING AND I HOPE YOUR’E OKAY.

The 141 had received intel about a bomb being placed in the city by Makarov. He was tasked to help evacuate the civilians. If Gaz was not able to disarm the bomb then they needed to save as many lives as possible though knowing that it was your city he had to get to you.

With Riley by his side he glanced over at Soap, the man helping others in the HumV. Knocking on the door, he shifted his gun over his shoulder as the door finally opened he was just happy to see you.

“Ah Simon…you’re here and you’re in your military gear…am I missing something.” You titled your head in confusion as you bent down to pet Riley.

Grasping your wrist, Simon tugged you out of your house slamming the door shut. “We need to go.”his voice was gruff but he didn’t want to scare you.

Frowning you pulled your wrist away shaking your head. “What do you mean? Simon what the hell is going on.” You glanced around spotting all the military vehicles. “Simon.”

You didn’t understand what was happening, why were your neighbors leaving their houses? “Simon? Please.”

Sighing, Simon glanced around though seeing that the men were preoccupied with helping the other civilians he lifted his mask up. He needed for you to see how serious he was, that he had to keep you safe, he needed for you to be safe.

“They found something in the city…something I can’t discus further but you need to listen me.”

Frowning, you bit your lip for a moment doing your best to not show how scared you were. “You’ll..you’ll keep me safe right?”

Placing his hand on your cheek, the man let his thumb glide across your cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Riley letting out a bark you then nodded your head you gave him a weak smile. “O-okay.”

Simon’s shoulders dropping with relief as he tugged his mask down, with his hand on your lower back he guided you towards the van. He would do anything to keep you safe, Simon would never let any harm come to you.

[usafphantom2]

#TomcatTails

#TomcatTuesday

“Well whattya know? A DMZ!!”

The following story occurred during my time in the VF-154 Black Knights. We were based on Atsugi, Japan and part of Carrier Air Wing FIVE onboard the USS Kitty Hawk (CV 63). The Kitty Hawk was the last conventional aircraft carrier (non-nuclear) and was actually quite good at what she did, despite her age (almost 40 in 1999).

I was headed to the Black Knights as a Department Head (Lieutenant Commander) and on the way I went to Forward Air Controller (Airborne) or FAC(A) school. This qualification was relatively new for the Tomcat and we needed at least 3 qualified crews per squadron. My RIO “Skippy” and I got the nod to go to the school on the way to Japan, which consisted of some school in the deserts of Marine Corps Station Twenty-Nine Palms for the ground portion, and then working with the Oceana Weapons School on a good portion of the flying syllabus. We eventually got our final graduation hop after we got to Japan, but that hop deserves its own #TomcatTail, so I’ll leave it there.

What the FAC(A) does is provide Close Air Support (CAS) to troops on the ground, working with a ground FAC to target the hostiles. In a nutshell, the FAC(A) will have some “assets”, generally sections of Tomcats or Hornets arranged in a “stack” separated by a thousand feet holding some distance away from the hot area (10 or 15 miles or so). As the ground dudes generate a target (building, vehicle, people, etc.) they’ll describe where it is and talk the FAC(A) overhead to get his eyes on it. Once the FAC(A)’s got it, he calls in his assets in singles or sections and they’ll follow the route the FAC(A) gives them to arrive in the target area, where the FAC(A) will then start talking the assets eyes onto the target.

He's also maneuvering to get in a position behind the asset and will eventually follow that asset as he rolls in on the target and if the asset appears to be aligned on the correct target, the FAC(A) will say “cleared hot” and the asset is then cleared to engage.

Now that’s the “low tech version” where the FAC(A) is doing max work to get the bombs on the bad guys. Later on, we were also able to lase targets with our LANTIRN pod, or the ground dudes could lase with their mules, so we could drop more accurate PGMs. You still had to follow the guy to make sure he was properly aimed before release. While I didn't have the honor of participating, after OEF/OIF started Tomcats made their bread and butter in the FAC(A) mission due to long on station time and lot’s of “spotting ordnance” (500lb bombs). All in all, it was one of my favorite missions and was always a real hoot……..especially at night with goggles on!

For the purposes of this story, our CAS training was going to be off the Kitty Hawk and to conduct some “Korean Contingent” training for when a hundred thousand screaming NORKs started breaking south. It was also a little show of force because….we can. The scenario is that we’re going to be working a “notional target area” about 30 miles south of the DMZ and me and Skippy would have 2 sections of Hornets and Tomcats (4 jets total) to “work the battle problem”. It was by no means a large exercise, just some fairly simple CAS training to keep those skills honed. Basic holding points and patterns, simulated 500lb bombs, fairly simple 9 Line Briefs.

A 9 Line is the basic information the FAC(A) delivers to the assets and contains Initial Point, Heading to Target, Distance to Target, Target Elevation, Target Description, Target Location (lat/long, grid, or description), Type of Mark (rocket, white phosphorous), Friendly Location, and Egress direction. When you read it over the radio, it might sound like “Alpha…..010°…..15 nm….500…….blue roofed building…..large intersection…..talk-on…..500 meters north….190°.”

We brief up (FAC does the brief), man up and bang off the boat and eventually find ourselves holding 35nm south of the Korean DMZ. Neat! What could possibly go wrong! After me and Skippy take a quick tour of the target area 5 miles to our north (nothing special….just a small town with some hills to the west, a few big roads, etc.), we come back and start preparing some 9 lines. The “stack” is established 10 miles south of us with the jets as a stack of four singles starting at 18,000 feet on up. The key training here is for us to practice our craft (9 lines, talk-ons, maneuvering) and for the strikers to work some basic CAS skills (taking 9 lines, navigating, visually acquiring the talked-on target, rolling in parameters, etc.). Just another day in Naval Aviation!

It looks about like this:

______________________ DMZ

Ӧ Target

Me and Λ

Skippy

The Stack Λ Λ Λ Λ

Hornet guys are going first because….well, they’re Hornets and they’re almost out of gas already (kidding….mostly). Skippy and I devise a good 9 line and we call the first guy in from the bottom of the stack. We pick him up 6 mile from the target area and we roll in trail at a half mile. As we talk him on, he has a little trouble finding “the house with the blue roof”. As anyone that’s flown over Korea knows, damn near EVERY building has a blue roof! And no, they’re not all IHOPs. We eventually get him lined up and he rolls in; we follow just behind, check his alignment on the correct blue-roofed building and give the “SIMULATE CLEARED HOT”. A quick sim delivery and he’s pulling off and left to 190° and we pitch off right to go back to our station.

We cycle the next Hornet through on a similar pattern, then work the two Tomcats so now everyone has one run. Those runs are pretty uneventful but good training in a dynamic environment, and by this time we’ve learned to NOT use “the blue roofed building” as a target. Hey, what can I say? We’re trainable. Our plan was to bang out two more with the Hornets, kiss them off to head back to the boat, and wrap; up with the Tomcats.

Now it’s time for the fourth run. We take one more trip over the target area to select some new targets and then position ourselves south of the target area to read the 9 line. Once complete, the first Hornet calls “pushing” and Skippy gets them on radar (RIO is REALLY busy with FAC(A) and so is the Pilot). First thing he notices is that he’s not quite heading in the direction of the target, off by maybe 10° to the east, heading maybe 020°. Hmm. The Hornet is trundling along and keeping that direction, making no corrections to the west (left) to put the target area on their nose.

After a few minutes, Skippy calls out for them to “check left, 30” to get him to steer toward our target. No response, no course change. He says it again and the Hornet comes up with a “all good” or something. By this time they’re abeam the target, heading north-ish, and are 30 miles south of the DMZ. Oh shit. He's had some kind of NAV failure. Skippy gets more strident with a call like “target is your left nine o’clock, come left hard”. By this time I’ve positioned us about 2 miles in trail and we’re watching him trundle unaware toward the DMZ.

This is gonna be bad. Real bad. The story of a couple US helos getting fired on for flying over the DMZ years back comes to mind and I’m thinking “Hey, we’re about to get famous.” By this time, he's 15 miles south of the DMZ and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up. One more strident “come left hard” call with no response and then Skippy shouts to “BREAK SOUTH, BREAK SOUTH, DMZ TEN MILES NORTH!!!”. At that point, I think the pilot snaps out of it and actually looks out the window (he was probably navigating heads down on a bad system) and we can see his jet break hard right and flow south like a scalded dog. We do the same, but not before checking out the DMZ in all its back-side-of-the-moon splendor.

There are areas where it’s not quite as obvious, but when you look at it from 20,000 feet the actual line of the DMZ is easily discernable in the landscape. Kind of like the US border in the southwest. You can see it. Which is funny because guess how my friend “Baja” got his callsign after an errant low-level flight near the US/Mexico border?

We flowed south and decided that, discretion being the better part of valor, we should probably CNX the rest of the mission that day and maybe we can sneak back and no one noticed. After getting back aboard the boat, the debrief was interesting because the lead Hornet pilot was in fact fiddle-f**king with his NAV system and when he looked out the window (the canopy is clear for a reason, kids), he thought “HolyShitTheDMZ!!!!” and broke hard. All in all, no harm now foul. We all survived the day but did have to let our CAG know what happened. He was very cool about the whole thing, especially since his “phone didn’t ring. I’m sure the Hornet dudes got max grief in the squadron (“Magellan”, etc.).

The only better end to that story I could think of is if the ship was serving Korean BBQ for dinner, but they weren’t. Sliders again. Not great, but not bad. We can live on Sliders.🍔

@RSE_VB via X

[cosmichorrorsarestillnicerthanme]

How bout a ZZZ? Ask Belle x cunning hares reader

Reader fights using half of a mech(whichever mech you feel is appropriate) they found in a hollow

I had a blast writing this, though I spent more time on the Mech than the interaction so if it feels a bit off compared to my usual, sorry!

Now! Your Wish Is My Command!

“Combat Rigs like this one were used-” you began to say as you adjusted the rotors of the cooling unit, getting a shock in the process from the left over processed ether, causing you to exclaim “agh! Mother-” before letting out a deep breath and starting over.

“Combat Rigs like this one were used early on to explore Hollow Zero back when it first formed. You’ve run into some of the tech descended from these in the Companion Hollows and its distant cousins in Belobog Construction. Though when these were first made; Ether Corruption wasn’t something very well known, neither was Ether Shielding, at least not on a large scale. Not to mention these things were slapped together in a couple of months with some Shoddy but aggressive A.I. Cores and a lot of the safety features in both of them weren’t exactly up to snuff, especially with the extremely volatile Ether Reactors that, when they got too hot, could melt the entire thing into a ball of molten slag with pilots still inside or A.I.’s programming breaking and hijacking the rig. So, over time as boots on the ground got more and more concerned about the Rig’s going rogue and we learned more and more about hollows, they were phased out. Replaced by heavy, non-piloted machinery with better made and adapted A.I., and small, highly trained groups of people guided by Bangboo.” You explained as you continued to run maintenance on your Rig.

“Then how’d you get your hands on one?” Belle asked, still craning her neck up to look at you.

“Found it in a Companion Hollow not too far into The Hollow Zero Exclusion Zone, from the looks of it, The A.I. Core broke and went on a rampage and flew out of Hollow Zero before the Reactor ran out of fuel and it shut down in mid air, causing it to crash. I had to rip off pretty much all of what remained of the plating and replace a lot of the underlying hardware due to Ether Corruption. The A.I. core was pretty much unscathed, and that’s been a headache and a half to try and work on. It's a stubborn piece of scrap.” you shouted down as you pulled out the damaged Ether Canister and looked it over, seeing if you were going to be able to salvage it.

“This massive thing can fly!?” Belle exclaimed, shocked.

“It could, without the A.I. Core I’m locked out of a ton of the subroutines, including the Flight Check.” you answered as you walked down the catwalk.

“Though considering the Payload this thing could carry, that may be a good thing. Going out in a giant ball of exploding fire sounds as cool to me as the next guy but I’d prefer not to have what was left of my body buried in a matchbox.” you stated as you walked past Belle, still examining the canister.

“What does that mean?” Belle asked, more than a bit concerned for her NOT CRUSH.

“Well, if I got this thing fully loaded with the max it could carry and still be able to go airborne and accounting for the Reactor… that would be around the equivalent of around a megaton of TNT exploding over the sky’s of New Eridu. More than enough to take a sizable chunk out of the city if it was on the ground.” you answered before placing the canister on the table, and pulling out a set of tools.

“That’s… terrifying.” Belle muttered, a chill running down her spine.

“Yup, that’s why I only use the heavy artillery this model was known for if absolutely necessary.” you stated as you continued to work on the canister.

“I know I’ll probably regret asking… but what does that mean?” Belle asked.

“This model was made as a form of highly mobile artillery piece, designed for the express purpose of cracking heavily armored targets with heavy ordnance from any spot on the field. Because of this, it could launch missiles, rockets, and other forms of munitions with little to no modification. It was the swiss army knife of high calibers, explosives, and magnetically accelerated weaponry.” you answered simply, putting your tools down and turning to face Belle.

“Now then Proxy time for me to ask a question, why the sudden interest?” you inquired as you looked Belle dead in the eyes.

“Can’t a girl like giant killer robots on her own time?” Belle clumsily retorted.

“Not you, one half of The Legendary Proxy Phaethon.” you stated clearly.

“Then could you at least ask a girl about her ulterior motives over a bowl of noodles?”

“Are you trying to ask me out?” you asked, eyes narrowing.

“Yes.” Belle declared, tossing all subtlety to the wind.

“Are you buying?” you asked, tempted.

“Half.” Belle answered with a shrug.

“Hmm. Let me get cleaned up and changed, give me a bit.” You said as you walked past Belle and towards the Cunning Hare’s main building where the Showers were.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

You closed the door behind you before walking forward, turning down the hall, and then leaning back on the wall before sliding onto the ground.

You were NOT prepared for this.

Quickly, you fished your phone out of your pocket and dialed the best person you knew for this kind of thing.

Nicole Demara.

The second you saw her name you were already calling her.

“C’mon, c’mon, pick up Nicole.” you muttered as the dial tone rang.

“Hey there! You’ve reached Nicole Demara, Leader of the Cunning Hares! If you have a job for us, say what it is at the beep! If you don’t, BUZZ OFF!!” Nicole’s pre-recorded voicemail shouted at you.

“NICOLE HELP! BELLE ASKED ME ON A DATE! WHAT DO I DO!?” you whisper yelled into your phone in a panic.

Oh god what were you going to do?

You couldn’t just blast your way out of this with rockets and explosives!

Not that you wanted to after all Belle was… Belle.

And you were a Grease Monkey who works with a dangerous robot that can blow a hole in the city.

How in the world were you going to survive this?

[aashiqeddiediaz]

i'm familiar with the ordnance

(or, eddie where he can get familiar with my ordinance)

[Image ID: four gifs of Eddie Diaz in 2x01, standing outside the ambulance discussing the live round in the patient's leg.

GIF 1: Eddie shaking his head, gesturing to the sensor for the round, talking about how it wasn't far enough for the grenade to go off.

GIF 2: Eddie looking back at the ambulance briefly and nodding to Bobby, saying that Charlie will die if they wait too long.

GIF 3: Eddie, pensive at first, determinedly telling Bobby that he can be the one to pull the grenade out.

GIF 4: Eddie saying that the guys he served with weren't dumb enough to shoot a live round into themselves but he's familiar with the ordnance, in response to Bobby's question about if he knows. He's confident as he shrugs. His brow dips into a facial shrug before arching as he waits for Bobby to make a decision.

/end ID]

[lordfries]

Now You See Me [Ch I]

Characters - Bucky x F reader

Summary - In the unforgiving deserts of North Africa, 1942, you’ve spent months proving yourself as a nurse in an army that doesn’t quite know what to make of you. When Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes arrives with a reputation for charm and easy confidence, he’s everything you don’t have time for—until the realities of war force your paths to cross.

Word Count - ~20,000 (so far!)

Warnings - Fluff, eventual smut, angst, war themes, descriptions of injury, blood. Reads fairly gender neutral for the most part, but it is written to be F!Reader and that'll show during future naughty scenes ... Unless the people request a gn option!

El Bucko doesn't show up until the second chapter, so I'll post that immediately after and link below... The tag is NYSM lordfries, for those that don't want to see updates for it.

If you want to get the latest chaps, they're up on my Ao3!

You’re not entirely sure how this soldier has managed to get his left hand stuck inside an empty ordnance casing, but the absurdity of it hits you the moment you stride into the ward. Your jaw tightens, and your frown deepens as you take in the sight: a sheepish-looking young man sitting stiffly on the cot, his trapped arm resting awkwardly on his lap. When he sees you, he gives a small, apologetic wave with the encased hand.

His uniform is spotless, not a wrinkle in sight, and his boots gleam like they’ve just been polished—textbook “fresh recruit.” You suppress a sigh as you glance down at the clipboard in your hand, flipping a page for confirmation.

“Private…” you drawl, eyes flicking up to meet his as you find the name, “��Ambley, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice is eager, the kind of politeness that makes you suspect he’s trying to soften the blow of whatever lecture might be coming his way.

You read aloud from the clipboard, tone flat. “Presenting here due to an ‘unfortunate miscalculation of hand-eye coordination’?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He nods earnestly, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“And when, exactly, did this… miscalculation occur?”

“This morning, ma’am. Just after oh-eight-hundred.”

You inhale deeply, pressing your thumb and forefinger to the bridge of your nose as if it might physically help you process the absurdity. A muffled groan escapes you before you lower the clipboard onto the cot beside him and crouch slightly to inspect his arm. He smells faintly of soap and clean linens—two luxuries that feel nearly foreign to you now.

“Private,” you begin, gripping the metal casing and giving it an experimental tug, “I’m going to assume you and your friends exhausted every possible solution before deciding to grace the infirmary with this… situation.”

“Oh, yes, ma’am. Absolutely. Me ‘n the boys tried everything we could think of.” He nods solemnly, rolling his shoulder with a theatrical wince. “It’s a bit sore now. Can’t be helped, I ‘spose.”

“Mhm.” Your scepticism is palpable.

This time, you pull harder, earning a strained grunt from the soldier.

Jesus… It’s really jammed in there.

You lean closer, tilting the contraption to get a better view as your brows furrow in frustration. For a moment, you try to imagine the sequence of events that led to this—was he just bored? Showing off? You almost laugh at the thought of him purposefully shoving his hand into the casing to avoid drills. The possibility feels less absurd the longer you think about it.

Still, you can’t entirely rule out that this was an accident. Maybe.

You straighten, tilting your head at Private Ambley as an idea begins to form. He watches you cautiously, the corners of his mouth twitching nervously at the sudden determination in your gaze.

“Stay here,” you instruct sharply, though there’s little chance he could wander off with his arm encased in half a bombshell. Grabbing the clipboard, you make a quick note before calling out to the orderly on duty.

“Corporal Ndoye!”

The man snaps to attention, leaning through the doorway. “Yes’m?”

“I need rifle oil, and plenty of it. Now.”

Ndoye raises a brow, looks past you to see Ambley grimacing and nods slowly. “D’accord. I’ll be right back.”

Private Ambley guffaws from behind you. “Rifle oil? That shit’ll stain my uniform, and I only just got ‘em.”

You glance back at him, arching a brow. “And yet, you’ve managed to lodge yourself in an empty ordnance casing, Private. So unless you’d like me to requisition a hacksaw, I suggest you trust the process.”

The corporal returns with a battered tin of oil, handing it over with a bemused look. You roll up your sleeves and set to work, placing a tray on Ambley’s lap before tilting his arm to pour a generous stream of oil around the rim of the casing. The private flinches, his shoulders drooping as the sleeve of his uniform blossoms darkly with the spreading oil.

“This might take a minute,” you mutter, rotating his arm carefully to ensure the oil spreads evenly. He sniffles, a faint sound of resignation. “Private, I can guarantee you’ll be getting much more than just rifle oil on these sleeves before long. Hold still.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he croaks, looking like he’s already regretting every choice that led him here.

Once satisfied, you plant your feet firmly and take hold of the casing with both hands. “Alright, Private. On three. One… two…”

You yank sharply on two, catching him off guard. He yelps, jerking forward as the casing pops free, slipping out of your grip and clattering loudly onto the floor.

“Three,” you finish dryly, leaning down to retrieve the casing. Straightening, you hold up the greasy hunk of metal as Ambley cradles his liberated arm.

“You’re free to go,” you say, wiping your hands on a rag. “Though if I ever see you in here for something like this again, you’ll be scrubbing latrines for the rest of your deployment. And don’t even think about dripping that all over my floor.”

Ambley stares numbly at his oil-soaked arm, watching it drip into the tray. You return to your station, gathering your papers and reports.

“Uh, nurse?”

“… You’re still here, Private?”

“Can I get a towel?”

You sigh and pass him the rag, planting your hands on your hips as you watch him give a sheepish nod and shuffle out of the tent, dripping oil all the way to the exit.

***

The infirmary smells of antiseptic and dust, a strange mix of clean and gritty that clings to everything. You tighten your grip on a roll of gauze, shifting it deftly as you unwrap the old bandage from a soldier’s forearm. The work comes easily, your hands moving automatically, though your lips twitch at the sound of familiar footsteps.

“Bah, that Ambley.” Corporal Ndoye sighs, his voice carrying that signature mix of exasperation and amusement as he approaches. “Though, if there is a way to make a mess, I believe you will find it, no?”

You glance up briefly, raising an eyebrow. “If that were a talent, he’d be running this camp by now. Not me.”

Ndoye’s grin widens, showing teeth, and he leans casually against the edge of the nearest cot. “Perhaps he has hidden ambitions. One day, you will see, eh?”

You shake your head, tying off the fresh dressing with a precise knot. “If his ambitions involve using up the last of our supplies, then we’ll have a real problem.”

Ndoye chuckles, the sound rich and unhurried. “You are too kind,” he says, his tone amused. “The patience of a saint, I think. I would not last ten minutes with that one.”

“Patience has limits, Dan,” you reply, brushing past him to the supply cabinet. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, but is there a reason you’re not at your post?”

Ndoye tilts his head, his hands resting loosely on his hips. “Ah, yes. I bring you news… Word around camp is that reinforcements are coming soon.”

You pause your ogling of the cabinet, glancing at him. “Reinforcements? From where? How many?” The thought twists uncomfortably in your mind, considering the lack of supplies and bare rations you’d all been living on already.

“From everywhere, it seems. America, England, Australie… Some from Brooklyn, even.” He smirks, tilting his head at you. You’d spoken to Ndoye of your hometown from time to time, describing the gritty streets, the scent of hot pretzels mingling with smoke from chimneys, and the way the borough never truly quiets, even in the dead of night. It was a world away from the sun-scorched camp you both now called home. He seemed to enjoy the stories too—a far cry from his quieter upbringing in Senegal. You’d grown fond of his stories as well, as fantastical and unbelievable as he often made them sound.

“Let me guess,” you say, raising an eyebrow. “Heroes in their own minds?”

Ndoye laughs, a deep and infectious sound. “Perhaps. Or perhaps just more men trying to survive, like all of us. We will see.”

You roll your eyes but can’t suppress a small smile, closing the supply cabinet and leaning on it. “If they’re anything like Ambley, I’m filing for an early discharge.”

“Oh, no, no,” Ndoye says, shaking his head dramatically. “You cannot leave me here alone with these men. Vous êtes ma préférée, tu sais.”

“Favoritism isn’t very becoming of you, Corporal,” you reply, though your voice softens and you find yourself smiling anyway. You nudge the side of his arm lightly before turning back to your inventory. “Now go make yourself useful before someone decides to put you on latrine duty. You’re too clever to be shoveling shit.”

“Yes’m.” He grins, saluting lazily as he turns on his heel and strolls back to his post outside the tent.

***

The afternoon sun beats down mercilessly, turning the sand outside the infirmary into a shifting, golden glare that makes your eyes ache. Inside, the air is no better. Dust clings to the canvas walls and settles on every surface, mixing with the ever-present smell of antiseptic and sweat. You’ve long given up wiping it away—it’s a losing battle.

You pause your work to stretch your back, glancing toward the small table in the corner where someone left a tin cup of water. It’s lukewarm by now, but you drink it anyway, grimacing as the metallic tang coats your tongue. It’s the same water everyone else drinks, hauled in barrels from god-knows-where, and you try not to think about the strange taste.

Outside, the low murmur of voices drifts through the heavy air, punctuated by bursts of laughter that sound more forced than genuine. The men joke and jeer to pass the time, their voices rising and falling like the hum of insects in the desert heat.

You turn back to your task: reorganising the dwindling supply shelf. A neat row of bandages sits next to a tin of aspirin that’s been half-empty for weeks. The morphine ration is nearly gone, and you dread what will happen when the next serious injury comes in. A stack of neatly folded linens catches your eye, and you count them twice to be sure. Six. Barely enough to get through the week, let alone any emergencies.

A shadow falls across the tent, and you glance up to find Corporal Ndoye leaning against the entrance, his usual grin replaced with a more contemplative expression.

“Two visits from you this week. Now I really am starting to feel like a favourite. Is it a blister this time?” you ask, not bothering to hide your smirk as you set the needle down.

“Non,” he replies, stepping inside. “Though I am sure one of these fools will come running in with something soon. It’s been… quiet.”

The way he says it makes you pause. Quiet wasn’t always a relief in places like this—it could be the kind that preceded a storm.

You nod toward the supply shelf. “Quiet or not, we’re running low on just about everything. Any word on when those reinforcements might actually arrive?” You silently pleaded that with reinforcements, also came supplies.

He exhales, crossing his arms. “Two days, per’aps three. That is the rumour.”

“Rumours don’t fill stomachs or replace bandages,” you mutter, tugging at the edge of your apron nervously.

He chuckles softly, though there’s no humour in it. “No, they do not. But they give the men something to talk about. That is important, no?”

You open your mouth to respond, but the sound of raised voices from outside cuts through the moment. Ndoye’s head tilts sharply, his expression hardening. Without another word, he strides toward the tent’s entrance, and you follow, curiosity prickling at your thoughts.

Outside, two soldiers stand chest-to-chest, their faces red with anger. One of them, a wiry young private whose name you can’t recall, gestures toward the water barrel while the other—a broad-shouldered corporal—glares down at him.

“I told you,” the corporal snaps, his voice low and sharp. “You’re done. Don’t take more than your share.”

“It’s my turn!” the private shoots back, his voice cracking with desperation. “You’ve been hogging it all morning!”

Ndoye steps between them before you can intervene, his presence commanding immediate attention. He doesn’t shout—he doesn’t need to. The corporal mutters something under his breath, backing off with a scowl, while the private stumbles away, muttering to himself.

The tension lingers in the air as Ndoye turns back to you, folding his arms across his broad chest. “Reinforcements cannot come soon enough.”

You nod, glancing toward the horizon. The camp feels smaller than ever, its routines fraying under the weight of too many days and too few resources. You wonder, not for the first time, if new faces will truly ease the strain—or if they’ll simply add to the burden.

***

The mess tent is stuffy, the heavy canvas walls barely blocking out the relentless afternoon sun. The air is thick with the smell of old coffee and damp fabric, and every seat at the makeshift tables is filled. Soldiers crowd together, some leaning forward on their elbows, others sitting back with arms crossed. You linger near the back, clipboard in hand, the edge digging into your palm as you try to gauge the mood.

The commanding officer stands at the head of the tent, his silhouette sharp against the light streaming in through the open flap behind him. Captain Barlow is a wiry man, all angles and precision, his voice clipped and sharp as he addresses the gathered men.

“As most of you have heard by now,” he begins, his tone brisk, “we’re expecting reinforcements within the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

A murmur ripples through the room, and you catch snippets of conversation.

“’Bout time.”

“Think they’ll bring any decent food?”

“Bet it’s just more green recruits.”

Barlow raises a hand, and the voices die down. “Before anyone gets too comfortable with the idea, let me remind you that this isn’t a pleasure cruise. The reinforcements are here to bolster operations, not babysit. Supplies will remain tight until the next convoy arrives, so don’t expect miracles.”

That earns a few groans, and someone mutters loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Then what’s the point?”

Barlow’s gaze snaps to the speaker, a young private sitting near the middle. The room goes silent. “The point, Private, is that they’ll be picking up where some of your comrades left off. Or would you like to volunteer for double patrol duty instead?”

The private shrinks under the weight of the captain’s glare, mumbling a half-hearted apology.

Barlow exhales sharply, turning his attention back to the group. “We’ll be taking in a mixed contingent—American, British, and Free French. Among them is a sergeant who’s been noted for his leadership in field operations. I expect you to show the same respect you’d show your own.”

You notice a few raised eyebrows at that. Soldiers already worn thin by heat and hunger don’t tend to take kindly to new authority figures, especially ones with reputations that precede them. It also meant yet another officer for you to size up and promptly keep out of your infirmary’s business.

Someone from the far end of the table speaks up. “What about supplies? Are they bringing any extra rations, or are we supposed to stretch what little we’ve got?”

Barlow hesitates for the briefest moment before answering. “They’ll have their own initial provisions, but until the convoy gets through, we’re all operating on limited resources. Make it work.”

The tension in the room ratchets up another notch. A sergeant seated nearby folds his arms across his chest, his voice low and rough. “Reckon that means they’ll be eating our bread and sleeping in our cots. Nice of them.”

“Sure that shit’s mouldy, but it’s our mouldy bread.”

A smattering of bitter laughter follows, but it’s cut short by Barlow slamming his hand down on the table.

“That’s enough,” he barks. “These men are coming to do a job, the same as you. If anyone has a problem with that, they can see me directly.” His gaze sweeps the room, daring anyone to challenge him. No one does.

You feel the weight of their frustration pressing against your own unease. The reinforcements could be a lifeline, but they could just as easily upset the fragile balance the camp has clung to. Your mind drifts to the dwindling supply cabinet.

“Dismissed,” Barlow says finally, and the room begins to empty, soldiers filing out in clusters. The low hum of complaints picks up again as soon as they’re outside, the tension spilling back into the open air.

You linger near the edge of the tent, watching as Ndoye approaches, his expression unreadable.

“Thoughts?” he asks, leaning casually against one of the wooden poles supporting the structure.

You shrug, though the knot in your stomach betrays your attempt at nonchalance. “Hard to say. Would be nice to have some more hands on deck, mix things up. But I don’t know… They’re being incredibly vague about the supplies.”

He hums in agreement, his dark eyes scanning the dispersing crowd. “You’re not wrong. New faces bring new stories, new tempers. But perhaps they bring something else, too. Hope, maybe.”

You snort softly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Ndoye tilts his head, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Always the skeptic.”

“Always the realist,” you correct. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

“Rodeo?” Ndoye tilts his head as you turn to leave.

“Rodeo. Erm… Horses, whips and cowboys and… You’ve really never heard of a rodeo?” You grin in disbelief, placing your hands on your hips.

“Why would you be whipping cowboys?” His eyes bore into you earnestly, though a smirk tugs on his lips.

“Dan…”

“Relax, mon chou. I jest.” He winks, striding past you. “Made you smile, though.”

You resolve to return to the infirmary. The supplies need organising again, and there’s no telling how the next few days will unfold.

Chapter II

[captain-price-unofficially]

A VA-25 A-1H with a special "bomb" in 1965 on USS Midway. The "bomb" was a damaged toilet which was going to be thrown overboard. One of VA-25's plane captains saved it and the ordnance crew made a rack, tailfins and nose fuse for it.

[cuprohastes]

Canadians

So I saw this:

Which is cool and all, and I'm not planning to fact-check it. But a few points to consider:

There's a Canadian place called Vimy Ridge. That place happens to be in France. Because in World War One, the French and Germans fought each other to a truly hellish stalemate, only meters apart. Grenade throwing range. They were there so long the French built a kilometre long resupply tunnel.

Anyway, the Canadians took the place in something like 72 hours.

Partly because they're Canadians and as a military force they don't fuck around.

Mostly because they built a scale model of Vimy and trained their troops mercilessly to handle it.

And in return, despite the thousands of men the French lost, they hailed the Canadians as heroes and built a huge monument and carved the name of every single person who died, everyone that they could identify. French, Canadian, German. Everyone. Because it was such a horrific moment in history they wanted everyone to remember the toll, and that it should never be repeated.

Then they gifted the battle site to Canada. So technically it's a Canadian Enclave. It's also got a forrest: For every casualty they planted a tree.

Then they populated it with sheep to keep the grass down, because the ground is full of century old ordnance. Which sometimes still detonates: This is bad for the sheep but good for the volunteer staff who don't end up as the latest casualty of WWI on a technicality.

The Canadians of course went on to fight in Afghanistan and the Gulf, holding the record for being the biggest thing a terrorist has to worry about. You might have the entire US army backed up by the Brits to deal with, but it's statistically Canadian special ops that are going to get you.

Anyway. Canadians, lovely people, great sense of humor, but if Der Trumpenfuhrer thinks he can roll into Canada and annex it, it's not gonna happen the way the orange Nazi thinks it will.

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 19

Prompt: Monster

Words: 1900~

TW: Ambiguous Death, Angst, Gore (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

I asked if I should be nice and none of y'all gave me an answer, so here we are. We must all reap what we sow eventually.

Enjoy!

“Bravo Six to Ghost, over.” Price’s voice crackled in over the comms, the signal had been fritzing more and more the closer they had gotten to the compound. They’d resigned themselves to using proper radio lingo in an annoying try at getting any kind of clarity. It was making Ghost’s hair stand on end, there wasn’t a more foreboding omen than comms going bad. 

“Go for Ghost, over” He radioed back, signalling for Soap to find cover against the wall of the compound with him.

“Cle- lease- -ound, -ver.” Price garbled.

“Bad copy. Say again. Over.” Ghost reached up to press his headset tight against his ears, struggling to parse Price's syllables through the encroaching static. Ignoring Soap’s concerned gaze as he peeked back in between scanning for tangos. Evidently, Soap wasn’t hearing Price’s communications at all. 

“-ay agi-. -lear- rele- hound. Over.” Came Price’s careful enunciations. 

“Read Back: Clear to release hound. Over.” Ghost confirmed, feeling that he had the jist, but not willing to let another thing go tits up on this mission. He could see Soap perk up, his shoulders squaring and a big anticipatory grin baring his teeth. 

“A-. -irm. Affirm. Aff-. -er.” Price resorted to repeating himself on the first try -against regulations- to make sure his message got across without having to Say Again, sounding just as annoyed as Ghost felt. 

“WilCo. Out.” Ghost ended the exchange, nodding at Soap for him to get himself ready. 

Ghost stepped away from the building and Soap walked into the meager cover offered between his body and the wall. Taking the guns, ordnance, mags, and various other fragile or valuable bits and bobs that made up Soap’s kit, Ghost packed them away into the slots he’d kept open for them on his own kit as his Sergeant passed them over. Soap then handed over his much emptier plate carrier and Ghost started undoing it to yank at the straps until it could be rebuckled into its secondary configuration. Ignoring Soap stripping down to his skin behind him, other than to snap his fingers and silently demand his Sergeant hand over his cargos after he’d stepped out of them. Ghost folded them as flat as he could and shoved the trousers up under his own plate carrier, for lack of a better place to put them. 

“Ready, L.T?” Soap checked in before he pulled the trigger. 

“Ready.” Ghost confirmed, turning fully away. Ostensibly to keep watch while Soap was vulnerable, but it also had the added benefit of shielding himself from having to watch Soap convulse. 

Twisting and arching, his skin bubbling and roiling, giving way to a tawny pelt of wolf-fur that erupted to cloak him, as his bones warped and cracked, snapping together and apart in new and old and completely instinctual ways. The occasional grunt and whine was punched free of Soap’s lungs as his innards and outtards shifted as they liked until he was on four feet, looming over the only man that would dare stand so close. 

Hot breaths wuffed over Ghost’s nape as the werewolf scented at the man until his instincts identified him to be pack, and his tongue promptly darted out to give him a friendly lick. 

“Ack,” Ghost recoiled, dodging away from the beast, “Johnny, quit that.” 

Where once there had stood a man, now towered a mad scientist's wet-dream. The best traits of wolf and man combined into one overgrown mutt. 

Johnny was an odd mix of the Hollywood wolf-man and a massive timber wolf. His limbs were overly long, but were all the same length, carrying a flat-backed barrel-chested torso that had an emaciatedly tight belly, all topped by a short muzzled face with big ears and bigger teeth. 

With a wag of his stunted little tail, Johnny leaned back into Ghost’s space to snuffle at his chest, ducking down and pressing his nose dangerously close to below Ghost’s belt. Pushing Soap’s fat head away before he accidentally nutted him in the bollocks again, Ghost held open Soap's equally as transformed plate carrier and started wrestling it onto him, ignoring his complaining whines. 

The big baby didn’t like the way it rubbed against his fur. 

“Okay, Soap,” Ghost said, latching the last buckle closed and reaching up to pat at his hip, “You’re ready. I’ll be on your six.”

Soap proved that there was something resembling a brain rattling around amongst all the fluff he kept between his ears when he immediately headed for the entry point that had been previously plotted out for him. Ghost paced along in his wake, clearing rooms and amiably double-tapping his sloppy instinctual kills. He couldn’t be too upset with the inefficiency of Soap's methods, when they released the hound precise kills were no longer the name of the game. A cacophony of upset whines and scrabbling thuds drew him forward to where Soap was whinging at a set of reinforced doors secured by the bane of the werewolf's existence, round doorknobs.

Ghost opened the doors and waved Soap through, then turned back to clear the last few rooms he hadn’t finished before Soap distracted him. He was on the second to last room when a horrific yowling scream rent the air and sent him sprinting towards the doors that Soap had vanished behind. Never before had he heard Soap make a sound filled with such terrified pain and he never wanted to hear it again. 

His wish wasn’t granted. 

Soap’s wailing cries kept echoing out to him as he charged recklessly through the building. Hesitating when the screams led him into a stairwell, then nearly breaking his knees as he leapt down the flight of stairs leading to a basement that hadn’t showed up on any of the blueprints they’d had for this compound, cursing himself for pausing for even a moment. 

He encountered his first bit of resistance as he turned down a narrow dank hall with flickering lights that occasionally rained sparks in a way that would be imminently concerning, if Ghost wasn’t so single mindedly focused on getting to Johnny. There was a cluster of people, all conveniently facing up the corridor to where the sounds of Johnny’s agony were coming from. Ghost slid through the huddle without wasting more a moment on each of them to ensure that they wouldn’t be making a problem of themselves later on. He met several other groups and took care of them with the same uncaring ease, their only significance being that they were in his way. 

Bursting through the only door this entire hellscape of a basement contained, Ghost saw Johnny. He was staked to the ground by some torturous cobbled together contraption. It was a hefty flat grate that had tens of long silvery spikes jaggedly attached to it, like an inverted pike trap, with an unnecessary amount of chains strung between it and the ceiling. Ghost could easily guess at what had happened to Johnny. 

He’d come in just as one suicidal bit of deadmeat was shaking at the thing to jostle the innumerous bits of metal stabbed through Johnny, presumably, just to make the werewolf scream. 

A red haze of rage, stoked to levels that rivaled divinic, fell over him and Ghost moved. The plagues called upon Ramses paled in comparison to the punishments Ghost wrought upon the people in that room. Karmic justice, customized and hand delivered. There was no judge nor jury, just the bliss of an executioner with a newly woven noose. 

When he calmed enough to have a hand on his own reins again, Ghost was stood panting over the same man that had been tormenting his wolf. Blood was running from Ghost in rivers, splattering onto the cement floor and dripping over the man's shaking boots as he scrambled to squeeze himself further into the corner he’d been chased against. 

“I- Il Mostro!" He stuttered, gazing up at Ghost with wide eyes filled with feral prey-animal terror. 

Pulling out his least favourite knife, Ghost carved a smile into the man's belly, careful to knick all his organs on the way through, then turned away. Leaving him desperately trying to pick his guts up off his lap, while trying to hold himself closed at the same time. 

“Johnny?” Ghost murmured, dropping to his knees at Johnny’s head, gently petting shaky fingers over the blood-matted fur between his eyes. 

Johnny’s eyes rolled, his breaths wheezing and wet, the growing lake of blood -Johnny’s Blood- pooling outward, soaking warm through Ghost’s trousers. 

“Johnny?” Voice pitching up into a desperate questioning denial, Ghost cupped his hands under Johnny’s head, lifting it to pet his thumbs over Johnny's cheeks, giving him as hard of a shake as he dared when Johnny’s eyes started fluttering. 

“No, no, no. Johnny!” Ghost tapped frantically at his face, “Open your eyes, don’t you dare. Johnny!” Hazy blue eyes slitted open, gazing unseeingly in the direction of Ghost’s voice. 

Scanning over the contraption, Ghost spotted the winch that must lift it back up to the ceiling and was halfway to his feet when he belatedly remembered his medical training. With that many through-and-through stab wounds, pulling out the things daming the blood would be the fastest way to kill Johnny. Wait. Medical.

Medical!

“This is Ghost, requesting immediate medical assistance! Soap is down! Multiple perforating stab wounds. Compound Alpha, Lowest floor, South room! Over!” Static blatted damningly from his radio, “This is Ghost, requesting immediate medical assistance! Compound Alpha, Lowest floor, South room! Does anyone copy? Over!” 

Receiving no response again, Ghost’s eyes darted uncertainly between Johnny and the door. If he could get above ground maybe his radio would be able to transmit, but he would have to leave Johnny. 

With a tormented groan Ghost leaned down to press an anguished kiss to Johnny’s muzzle. He gently laid Johnny’s head back down on the hard ground, then raced through the door and up the stairs as fast as he could force his legs to move, panting his distress call through the radio as soon as he cleared the stairwell. 

He barely waited long enough for the medics to be confirmed as on route before booking it back towards Johnny. The stairs warped before his eyes, the corridor twisting longer and longer, his panting breaths echoing back to him off the walls. After an age, he threw himself back into the room, skidding the last steps to Johnny on his knees. 

Johnny was quiet. 

He couldn’t even hear the wheeze of his strained breathing. Why couldn’t he hear him breathing?

“Johnny?” The hand he reached out shook, trembling at every joint. He placed it hesitantly on Johnny’s muzzle and realized it wasn’t just his hand. His entire body was shivering, shakes wracking through him in uncontrollable waves. 

The medics clattered in through the door and shooed Ghost out of the way, nudging him further and further away until he was outside the room, looking in on the chaos.  The hustle and frantic terse voices seemed distanced from Ghost by a much farther length than just the doorway that separated them. He felt far removed from what he was seeing, yet at the same time, he felt like he was inside Johnny’s chest.

Watching that beautiful heart slow, and stutter, and stop.

A great hew and cry went up among the medics, one starting up chest compressions as best they could, while the others fluttered about the spikes like butterflies drawn in by the blood. 

“Come on, Riley,” Price coaxed, planting a hand on Ghost’s shoulder to turn him away, “Let them do their job.” 

Ghost doesn’t know how long Price had been stood beside him, watching the tragedy unfold, but he numbly let the Captain guide him away. He dimly registered that Price was trying to distract him, talking about a disrupter that Gaz had taken down, but there was barely enough life left in him to keep moving forward. 

He’d left his heart on the cold cement to bleed out at Johnny's side.

Thank You For Reading!

Fun fact: 'Over and Out' is incorrect radio lingo, as is saying 'roger wilco'. In both of this situations you're supposed to say one or the other. Roger and WilCo are interchangeable, but Over and Out are not. Over is for when you expect a response, and Out is you ending the conversation. Technically its very frowned upon for the person of lesser rank to say Out and end the exchange, but I figured that Ghost and Price wouldn't care about that.

The plan originally was that after Ghost kills everyone and gets called a monster is that he turns into a dashing white knight and saves Johnny. For the contrast, you understand. But then I thought about how impossible coming back from those kinds of wounds would be, and I'd already set up the comms being unreliable, and it all panned out from there. Afterall, what monster, but a man, dares shed tears.

Oh! If you were wondering about the trousers, when Johnny shifts back he's naked, so Ghost was carrying his pants for him to put back on.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[fuckyeahmarxismleninism]

Washington creates the tariffs it imposes on the rest of the world using a deceptive formula that doesn’t calculate a country’s tariff level but simply the trade deficit, which Trumpism equates to tariffs. Thus, poor countries like Cambodia that barely import products from the United States — virtually any product Cambodia might need will be purchased more cheaply from China, which, in addition to being closer, hasn’t bombed the country to the point of littering its land with unexploded ordnance — are outstripped by their exports to the United States, products manufactured in the country due to the relocation of U.S. industry. 

[sgiandubh]

When clueless, silence is golden

I was just browsing around while looking for something completely different and stumbled upon this quintessential Mordorian POV:

Disclosing a username is crass and I usually never do this, unless really necessary and relevant. So spare me the ad hominem argument you usually fumble around with, Disgruntled Tumblrettes. Yet, for all its intellectual paucity, this is interesting dissection material, since clearly this person hasn't got the slightest idea of what she is so confidently talking about.

First scenario at play: The Tasting Alliance, 'a company no one has ever heard of', booked and paid for the suite.

Not necessarily booked, nor necessarily paid, madam. In the real business world you are so clueless about, these arrangements are seldom - if ever - monetized. It's rather all about barter.

That company no one ever heard about - except, perhaps, #silly and totally irrelevant Forbes (https://www.forbes.com/sites/joemicallef/2023/04/13/the-tasting-alliance-and-reserve-bar-are-set-to-launch-top-shelf/?sh=b45f7085f6f1) - is the parent company of the San Francisco World Spirits Competition (SFWSC), largely acknowledged as at least one of, if not the world's leading spirits award contest. Google is your friend, you should try it some time:

The operative info here is that this evaluation comes from the Beverage Trade Network, a professional portal for spirit dealers. Having determined this, Tasting Alliance's IG number of followers is completely irrelevant, since we are talking about two very different targets, here. Its real leverage and weight on the global market does not really need the boost of an aggressive social media presence and the kind of events it hosts are not your favorite junior hockey league or elementary school cake and bake sale.

Let's look a bit further. It takes one click to get on the Tasting Alliance's website (https://thetastingalliance.com/). Granted, not all the information you need to understand its business model is right there and I had to go dig a bit (not without some help - merci encore!) to even get a grip on how these wheels are really turning.

The way they sell themselves is sober and confident. And completely disinterested in social media impact, to be honest:

So, in lieu of glitz and sequined bras, we have a success story in its own right, which started in Frisco in 1980, then continued in 2000, with the addition of the San Francisco World Spirits Competition. Further expansion followed in 2018, with the New York World Wine & Spirits Competition and 2019, when Dias Blue set a firm foot on the emerging Asian market, with the Singapore World Spirits Competition.

I doubt an explanatory drawing is needed as to the why of this expansion choice: it's all about baijiu, the old/new Chinese sorghum spirit and the everlasting love of the Far East for anything fermented. Lao-lao, the unspeakable Laotian homemade rice whisky, comes immediately to the mind of this blogger: the last bottle I saw, somewhere along the unexploded ordnance ridden Route 13, had a plump snake inside, as a naïve Viagra of sorts. Took a mouthful and thought I was going to die - but when spending the night in a longhouse with the Tai Lü people, you can't afford a faux-pas, can you? /end of travel memories intermezzo

By all my estimations, The Tasting Alliance is very profitable business. Let's unpack ( for current fees, see source: https://callingallcontestants.com/contest/2023-san-francisco-world-spirits-competition/):

Considering the 500 USD fee /entry (550, in 2023) in the competition and the fact that in 2022 there were approximately 5000 entries in the Frisco spirits' competition, we have a very rough turnover estimation of 500x5000= 2.5 million USD. That figure is just for one of the spirits competitions, mind you, and does not take into account what the winners probably pay for the right to mention their medals on their bottles (I am yet to see them on the SS gin bottles, btw), nor the multiple sidekick profit (e-shop sales, consulting and/or other distribution deals, etc). So, at the end of the day, I would comfortably multiply that base by 4, assuming a similar scale for all the other events they organize, which takes the yearly turnover at around 10 million USD and keeping in mind this is very probably a conservative estimation. I also assume costs are negligible, taking into account the discretion with which major players traditionally operate on that particular niche. Real expenses are probably limited to the activity of a handful of offices, sparingly and intelligently staffed. Advertisement is probably bartered and social media, well... you just saw the effort, haven't you?

But then there's the brand's real power on that market and this is the right time to talk about influence and impact. Perhaps this recent (2021) Men's Journal article will help us see better: https://www.mensjournal.com/food-drink/inside-the-san-francisco-world-spirits-competition

With a bit of luck, this could happen:

Sounds familiar? Of course and I bet that was S's strategy. If you imagined him doing the same exhausting booze tour every year (groping on top and seriously cringe on the sides), I think you might want to reconsider. I told you Sassenach Summer was a sandbox for more serious things to come and until now I have no reasons to change my mind. He did it for a reason and, mind you, that reason is not that the booze did or does not sell. It does. Restaurants start to feature it. Podcasts are being produced. The press starts to mention it (that recent New York Times article is evidence enough). This is not Lucky Luciano dealing in bootleg alcohol during the Prohibition and making obscene money over a fortnight. This is a serious business project that was delayed by COVID. That's all. And it takes time and patience and consistence. We know he has all those aplenty.

We also have the totally inane take on production costs for that podcast. It suddenly made me remember again my media expert past. It is with complete and educated confidence that I tell you: a potential 5K USD extra cost for renting that damn suite for the day is peanuts, even for a two-minute clip (let alone, in reality, a podcast interview, and I stand corrected if wrong), if such costs are covered by The Tasting Alliance. But my money is on a barter with The Shutters on the Beach, which would be, again, common business practice.

Second scenario: 'Shutters comped the room for free promo (...) for an actor most people haven't heard of.' You can throw timelines down my throat as many times as you wish and tell me he already stayed there several times and yell and screech, but here is what I think. Shutters didn't comp that suite for S, an actor most people haven't heard of, a decent, hard working start-up entrepreneur. If so (I doubt it), it would be logical to think Shutters comped that suite for The Tasting Alliance, which has a long documented history of partnerships with hotels that host their competitions:

So Shutters might have comped that room for a major player of the alcohol lobby world, happy that S, a returning client, picked them out of several possible options, because it was convenient. I don't believe for a second he stayed there.

This guy knows what he's doing and C's gin success completely depends and I bet will rely on that relentless networking effort. If anything, the Keepers of the Quaich recent development is only confirmation of all the above. But that's another story - very soon on this page.

IYKYK. The rest is uneducated cackle. But Mordor people were never the brightest bulbs in the fandom's chandelier, were they?