#OF COURSE he also visits soldiers and kids and wounded and regular people and families and veterans and ...

[the-jam-to-the-unicorn]

💔

[clawcommanderabsinthe]

Angel of Yesterday

Absinthe was walking back to the Bridge of the Curzes Revenge. Moments before she had a talk with Arden after their solo charge against the Word Bearers ended in them getting gravely wounded. She had realized how her own Plans were not only egotistical but also actively endangering her friends and Crew. And thus she had made a decision.

Bursting through the Door of the Bridge she grabbed the microphone of the Vox sytem and send a message to her crew which was currently split on their two Ships.

"Night Lords, Space Wolf, Word Bearer, Iron Warrior, Servs and Human Crew. Hear my message. I have to tell you that I was dishonest. I lied. My Goals never were to become Empress. My Goal was to die. I am no true Heretic. I never was. I can't agree with either System but I know that I still wish to protect the People who rely on Soldiers like us. Farmers, City folks no matter the age or planet. I want to save the people once more. I don't want to serve a Primarch. No Bureaucracy. No Kings and No Gods."

Absinthe became more and more passionate in her speech.

"BUT WHO I WANT TO SERVE ARE THE CHILDREN AND INNOCENT PEOPLE WHO GET PRAYED ON BY BOTH. We are no shiny Ultramarines. We are no benevolent Salamanders. We are killers, butchers. Traitors and Deserteurs. But we still can be Protectors. I will not lie to you again. Our help won't be appreciated. We will never get our own statues. But we will know that when Imperium and Chaos wanted us dead or integrated into their ranks that we protected the people while also staying ourselves!"

She stopped and sighed. "Those that wish to leave can do so freely. Those that leave can board the Deicide and leave. I will not hunt or judge you. Those that want to stay will join me on the Curzes Revenge... No. On the 'Claw of Retaliation'. Claw Commander Absinthe out."

Absinthe turned around, ready to face backlash and hate. To her surprise nothing of the sorts happened. On the contrary.

Nocturnus stepped forward. "Commander. I think I speak for everyone aboard our ships that we would go into the Warp and back with you. Look at us. We would be alone amd lost without you unifying us. You are our Leader. So lead us forward to a new path"

Absinthe saluted her crew, her friends. She truly was blind before. She didn't see how important they all were for each other. That she didn't need to find a new family. She already had one.

"I am honored to be your Commander. Okay lets go. Nocturnus. I want you to calculate a course towards the Atta system. The 8th world there is a Agriworld which will soon be attacked by Red Corsairs. We can thank our friend Anvil for this information given how long he worked with them. We will intercept them and kick Hurons sons off of that World."

Nocturnus didn't waste any time and started his calculations as Absinthe turned towards Anvil, Olaf and Pete. "Follow me"

Hours later, Absinthe was helping those 3 with preparing Drop Pods and Petes new Terminator Armor.

"Its my old Atramentar Power Armor. I don't fit into it anymore but it will serve you well. I can't think of a better Terminator than you"

"I appreciate the gesture Lord Absinthe."

Absinthe gave the Iron Warrior a short smile before turning her attention to a nearby servitor. "Prepare my Armor. And... Uh.. Put on the black cape. No skin."

---

The Agriworld of Atta 8 was peaceful even by our standards. Most potential Attackers were more interested in the nearby Ultramar Sector. That made big defensive builds unnecessary but that was a fatal flaw in this case.

The Corsairs coming was announced by rustling in the corn underneath the sapphire blue sky. A small farming town was their target. Score it and set up camp to raid the surrounding area that hosted the only spaceport of the planet. With the Sun in their back, the Corsairs landed in the fields. Their Ships looking like Blood Raven ships to the untrained and unknowing Farmers eye. Thus the Farmers didn't fear them once they stepped out. Nothing ever happened and noone expected Chaos Marines here.

"I greet you Lord Blood Angel! What makes you visit our small town?"

The Corsair Captain grinned, exposing his filthy, warp tainted Mouth. "Blood Angel huh? BOYS. APPARENTLY WE'RE BLOOD ANGELS"

The Corsairs laughter was disturbing and horrible. The farmers instantly realized that this situation could be very well their end. The Corsair Captain smirked as he revved up his Chainsword. "Oh whom should I kill first? I haven't met my Quota for Khorne yet and I don't want to keep the old man waiting hahahahahah"

The Townsfolk screamed and cried in horror as they ran. It was of course useless since Hurons Boys could just outrun them but pure instinct drove them forward.

The Pirates were about to rush after them when one of them turned to the Captain. "Boss. There are Drop Pods raining down nearby. Apparently they come from those two Night Lords Ships we picked up earlier."

"Night Lords here? What do they want here? Aren't they busy flaying on some fucking Hive World or getting killed by Tyberos or Guilliman? Ugh fine. Boys we hunt the farmers later. Let's take care of those Bat-winged idiots first."

As the Captain ended his speech the Drop Pods hitted the ground. Absinthe was the first and only to emerge. "Captain Teach i assume? I heard a lot about you and your Pirates."

"Heh. Heard that boys? The big girl called us famous. You must be that newcomer. Absinthe right? I faintly remember that you killed Captain Bellamy and his guys. Have to thank you for that. They were a thorn in my remaining eye"

Absinthe laughed. "Oh don't thank me. It will not make me spare you"

"Spare us? You and your 5 drop pods? We're 30 Marines and you are one big Night Lord plus 4. Give up lassie. Go home and flay some Prisoners"

Absinthe laughed as the sound of clicking Bolters was heard all around them. Out of the softly moving corn, more and more Night Lords stepped forth until they numbered 60. Then Pete, Olaf and Anvil emerged from their pods.

"Corsairs. I offer you a choice. Join me and fight for the people of the Galaxy or die like the Rats you are. Its your choice. Fight for a cause or die for a greedy Bastard that sees you as cannonfodder"

A moment of silence fell upon them. It felt like hours. The Corsairs thought. Then. One by one they dropped their guns and surrendered to Absinthe.

Only the Captain was too far gone. Corrupted by greed and the Warp. With loud screams he charged at Absinthe while throwing grenades behind him into the Village. "IF I CAN'T GET THE LOOT NOONE WILL"

He fell faster than he could realize that his life was over. With one fluid movement Absinthe had ripped off his disgusting head using her Lightning Claw "Protector", once a weapon of Terror used by Night Haunter it now would serve as a Tool of protection and peace.

While Absinthe stared at the dead body of the Captain, the others were busy putting out the fire the Grenades caused and building new Huts by using the Drop Pods in which the distraction came. Truth is that most of them were hiding there long before the Corsairs arrived. The corn had given them a perfect hiding spot to await Absinthes arrival so they could surround the Pirates. Everything went according to plan.

Soon the People returned. They had witnessed how the Pods dropped and returned after they were sure that the situation was peaceful.

"Thank you for saving us Master.", the elderly Man that greeted the Corsairs earlier now spoke to Absinthe. "What legion do you belong to?"

Absinthe sighed and removed the Cape she had put over her Shoulder to hide her Legions insignia. "I am Claw Commander Absinthe the Orphanmaker. Leader of the Night Lords 1st Claw."

Absinthe was prepared for screaming and attacks of hatred against her but all she got was a chuckle from the old man. "Orphanmaker? That doesn't seem fitting at all for someone as benevolent as you! You protected us and made us new Homes until we can rebuild our regular houses. Think about it my Lord"

Absinthe was surprised but smiled. "I will. Goodbye old Man. And tell noone of this. The Inquisition would execute you all probably."

"We won't spill a word", the elder and the entire village made a gesture as if they lock their mouths with a key and throwing the key away. A gesture Absinthe knew from Nostramo but remembered that it originated on Terra. As Absinthe turned around to leave, a small child. A girl no older than 7 approached her, trying to give her a doll made from straw and fabric. Absinthe kneeled down and smiled.

"That's a beautiful doll. Thank you. I'll make sure that she gets a nice place on my ship. I promise"

Absinthe and her men then returned to their Thunderhawks as well as the two new the Corsairs left behind when joining the 1st Claws Ranks. Only the Drop Pods were left behind and told the Story of the Night Lords that came to protect.

------

Later that Day. On the Bridge of the Claw of Retaliation, Absinthe was sitting in her command seat, holding the small doll in her hands and thinking about the mission and the gratitude the people expressed.

Nocturnus approached her after he took note of all losses and captures of the Strike. "That was good work Commander. We got new Soldiers, Gear and Thunderhawks. The Drop Pods can be replac....you look as if something is worrying you"

"Not worrying...just..that old man and the kid. They are right. Orphanmaker is a bad name for someone who wishes to help and protect People instead of killing and terrorizing them"

Nocturnus nodded. "Yeah. Hmm...What about Angel of Yesterday?"

Absinthe chuckled. "What? Nocturnus don't make me laugh. That's... What does arden always say? Cheesy?"

"No no. Think about it. You have returned into this world after 10000 years. You live after ideals that are nearly forgotten but to the People, to those you wish to protect, you are a Angel by living these ideals. Think about it. Goodnight Commander."

With that, Nocturnus left the bridge to Absinthe and the Servitors and humans that keep the ship on track.

"Angel of Yesterday.....heh. yeah...i can be that", The doll was placed on the command seat as Absinthe left for her quarters.

(@slaanesh-is-my-boy and @chapter-master-darius as promised I tagged you guys because you voted for the Corsairs)

[stone-man-warrior]

January 30: 2021: 10:33 am:

===================================================

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1355540075891798020

Read Alpha-Graphic Terror Comm at Reuters UK Twitter:

“Staph infection at the COVID queue”

Translation:

“There is a problem at the COVID Corona Testing and Extermination Euthanization Center Easy-Up Kiosk near you”

The Billing Office is specified in the Tweet, however, all of the “reach” of the billing office is specified. In USA that includes Medicare, as whole, including all of Social Security Administration.

Those in UK or other nations would include any government assisted health coverage payment system, such as Medicare is in USA, as the “Billing Reach” specified as “Billiards” (Bill Yards, where the “yard” is the extended “reach” or “stride”) hidden in the text of the Tweet.

==============================

10:58 am:

(record will show that the SAGClubMed Junket Jet did a low & slow flyover above my home at 10:58 am, headed south)

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1355253179227791364

This Tweet reminds me of a personal experience at Disneyland Buena Park in around 1998.

The Submarine Voyage attraction is what I am reminded of, and I have not mentioned this before:

The ride attendant on the submarine (Submarine Driver; Boat Captain) was in distress of some kind while the passengers were onboard the ride. As the ride went around it’s route, the attendant (Boat Captain) was saying a lot of coded words, as if to reach out for help, without getting hurt for saying what she really wanted to say. The idea of “restoration”, “remodel”, “The entire lake here was emptied in (insert date) and all of the features, all of the corral, all of the fish animatronics, were all changed and upgraded, and the track we are riding on was streamlined... (etc...). The Boat Captain was especially vocal while inside of the submarine cave tunnel, all about change, remodel, empty and refill the lake, new visuals, and other mentions about the submarine itself having undergone some changes at some point. The Submarine Voyage at Disneyland turned into a lesson about the condition of the water, plants, and animal life depicted there as having all been drastically and completely changed, while at the same time, there was absolutely no visual clue that anything had been changed at all at that Submarine Voyage over the course of many visits to Disneyland I made over about 30 year time frame... about fifteen visits between 1965 and the present day, that day was the last and final visit.

Also, at Disneyland, in the line for the attractions, and while actually on the ride as it is in motion, children are kidnapped, taken, walked off with, and actually snatched from the seats on the ride. Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, Matterhorn Bobsled, Small World, and Roger Rabbit are some where I saw kids snatched from the seat of the ride while in motion, my own kids among them.

There is a recurring thing that happens in the lines, they are set up like switchback trails, where small groups of two to four people stay at the turn-a-round, and tell others to “cut in front of us”. That same thing happens at the water parks in Southern California, and in Las Vegas. There is more to say about the people who stand at the switch back turn-a-rounds in the lines, but is not a place of focus, what is important is that I can recognize that the same tactics used at Disneyland Buena Park were also being used at water parks such as Raging Waters, and two in the Las Vegas area, I forget what they are called.

There is a concept called “The Midway”, is a condition that existed in Chicago at the The Midway.

Search:

“Plaisance at the 1893 World's Columbian Exposition in Chicago”

Basically, the concept of “The Side Show” was created as a result of the World’s Fair in Chicago in 1983, where the main events were at the fairgrounds, but, that was a little dry, too mainstream, not enough Risque’ for many who wanted more thrilling, more adult, seedier entertainment content. So, they attended the Midway, a park where entertainers and attractions were set up on the coat-tails of the main event at the World’s Fair. It’s like when you go to the big grocery store, but the Dollar Store is next door, so, you go there too.

The “Midway” concept has been adopted and used as a weapon by the terror army’s, the Christian Pirates, Screen Actor Guild, as a place where victims are taken, not just suckers who part with their money, but I mean the Midway Side Show event has historically been a killing field arrangement, probably since the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair, and the Midway Plaisance that “Popped Up” next door.

One reason I mention the Midway again, is that more recent contemporary terror is all mainstream now. The killing is no longer confined to the shadowy alleys where the Midway Side Show has been riding the coat-tails of more mainstream attractions, instead, the killing is done in the daylight, during regular operating hours, at the places where people shop for food, and the killing is delivered direct to the doors of the victims who are killed at their homes and work places when they answer an advertisement for a service, any service that brings a technician, mechanic, skilled craftsman, delivery, or Jehovah’s Witness to the front door, is where the Christian Crusade Killings have progressed to. If they cannot get the victim to go to a hospital for extermination, then, they arrange that you will need a service person to come to repair something that was intentional broken by sneaky bastards who’s primary objective is to make the victim require a service call. In the activity of a service call, there is enough noise, vehicles, items brought in and out of the home, that a murder “Kill & Replace” can happen without anyone noticing.

What started with a side show at The Midway, went mainstream at the Grocery Store, then to the Hospital, and is now delivered to the door of the victim for the kill.

===

I told you the story of the Midway, so I could tell you this other story:

Knott’s Berry Farm

Think of it as “The Midway” for Disney Mainstreet USA in 1960 - 1985 or so.

A side-show killing field.

==================

12:19 pm:

Some personal experiences I have survived when service calls and deliveries happened at my house, and turned into an offensive attack to kill me, not in any particular order:

I bought a drum set, when a doctor told me I should get some exorcise, and I asked if he could write a prescription for an “Elliptical Trainer” (is like a stationary bicycle exercise contraption) so I could get some help from Medicare to pay for it, since it had gotten too dangerous to do outdoor exercise activity, and the doctor said “no”, you should get a drum set, medicare won‘t pay for that either.

So, I had an old drum set, but, it was old and broken, and Bonzoleum wound up with all of my cymbals anyway, so, I decided I would take the doctors advice, and buy a new drum kit, to start drumming again, and get some exercise at the same time.

Sweetwater Music had just the thing I wanted. So, I ordered a drum kit.

The kit arrived a few days later, Fed-Ex in the driveway at the gate.

There were two big packages and a small package.

The driver tossed the biggest package out of the door of the Fed-Ex truck, it tumbled onto the ground. I asked if he needed any help to throw the other package out the door of the truck... he said he could handle it, and out came the second package, then three men with machine guns jumped out of the truck in the driveway. One of them also had the smaller package with him, and tossed that at me.

I lit my lighter a lot.

Two of the three launched into the air, their nitrous oxide tanks ignited when I lit my lighter.

The other one with the machine gun burst, his guts all came out of his stomach.

The driver assisted that one back onto the truck, put the truck in reverse, and sped away.

I came inside with my new drum kit.

This other terror bastard showed up that night with a female accomplice, putting nitrous into my house through a bedroom window where I was unpacking and setting up the drum kit, putting the heads on their, and being amazed at how cool and heavy duty the new bass pedal was, at a reasonable price.

The two at the window was a local drummer I know, Jed... “Crack Head Jed” known for his way of cracking heads. Jed is famous, as I have mentioned before, as a terror soldier who collects and kills the house cats of the victims he kills, he cuts their heads off, and puts the cat heads into a big glass container he has... the cat heads keep meeeowing for up to two weeks after their heads come off. He uses that as a “Shock & Awe” way of taking victims, when he invites someone to his house (at the house nearest the Grants Pass High School school bus parking garage).

I was was part of a band for awhile called “Redwood Dogs”, Jed was the drummer, “Scotty” (a cook at Laughing Clam restaurant) played guitar, I was singer, front man. I didn’t stay long in the band.

It turned out that Juseph Myers of 560 Jackpine arranged that I would encounter Scotty and Jed, meet them and see that they were musicians without a bass player or singer, two members of the Myers nbc/Universal/Comcast “Green Jello” terror cell, and, the arrangement was so the two could learn about who I am, what friends and family I have, to make a false friendship, and arrange that Myers extended terror cell could attack me later on.

========

Another:

I bought a guitar online from Guitar Center in Newport Oregon. The guitar was used, was one that I had been searching for for about 8 years at the time, it was not a secret that I was looking for that particular guitar, and one showed up at Guitar Center in Newport.

The guitar arrived Fed-Ex. The driver did not come down the driveway, instead he parked on the road at the end of the driveway. I was waiting for the delivery, watching status online, and knew within an hour of when it would arrive.

I walked outside when I heard the Fed-Ex truck.

The driver saw me approach to get the delivery, he put the truck in reverse and started to drive away. I chased after the Fed-Ex truck, the driver was shouting something about that he was surprised that I was not one of the “Strong” terror cell, was talking to someone else as he began to drive away with my guitar.

I jumped onto the truck and demanded he stop fucking around, to give me the package I ordered.

There was more bullshit that happened with that, but was done in a seemingly unrelated set of events over the next few days. I don‘t recall exactly what took place in the aftermath of that Fed-Ex delivery from Guitar Center of Newport Oregon.

What is remarkable, is that the guitar has a backplate cover for the electronics that has all of the signatures of the Metallica band. It’s notable that I broke Hetfeild’s nose in 1993 when I punched him for shouting at my daughter. Since the Fed-Ex delivery, all of the Metallica members have been killed in defense at or near my home. And, Bobby Trujillo was my bass player at the time when Hetfield’s nose was broken at my house in So Cal at the time, and, that event is how Hetfeild met Trujillo.

The story of the backplate is weird, and includes that I went to a Lincoln Park concert in Portland at the Rose Garden in around 2003. There, at that show, the members of Metalica where signing autographs in a side room special invitation party. They were not on the marquee at the Lincoln Park show, but were there to sign autographs at a private invitational gathering at the Rose Garden.

There, I saw Shane Welch and said hello, asked what he was doing there, “Small World”... he is someone I met while attending collage here at Rogue Community Collage, and is another one of the Juseph Myers nbc/Universal/Comcast Green Jello terror cell members, and he was with another guy I met later on, Marc Cobb, who years later after that Lincoln Park show, rented a house from me. But at the show, at the Metalica private autograph session, Shane and Marc Cobb both had the same kind of guitar electronics back plate that they had signed by all of the members of Metallica that day at the Rose Garden.

Ten years passed, and I bought that Guitar from Newport Oregon Guitar Center to find that the electronics backplate that either Shane Welsh or Marc Cobb had signed by Metalica. was on the guitar I bought online... the one the Fed-Ex driver wanted to run off with.

The day that Hetfield’s nose was broken, is the day he came to pick up the lyrics for the song “Enter Sandman“ which was written by my daughter that week in around 1993, and, I had created the graphic album art for the Metallica Black album cover that it’s contained in. As a result, I hid that snake in the artwork, Hetfield only wanted all black on the cover, with the Metalica logo. So, I punched him when he yelled at my daughter, then I hid that snake in the art so that it would only show up in a view at the printer, not on the computer view. The record producer loved the snake, Hetfeild hated it.

He has held a grudge ever since.

================

One other:

The local terror bastards had broken my water well, it was leaking bad, water squirting everywhere.

I called the phone number that is on a sticker on the water well equipment, “Juaquine Well Service”. The people answered the phone call: “Hi... new Juaquine Well Service”. I made sure I called the right place, asked to repeat what they said, and again it was “new Juaquine Well Service”. So I asked why it’s “new” when I called a number from a sticker that was put on the well equipment more than twenty years before I called. The explanation was the Juaquine Well Service is under new management now, and they just added the word “new” to the name, and continue to use the same phone number, to maintain the customer base of the previous management, who it turns out, had put many thousands of stickers that say “Juaquine Well Service” on all of the well equipment that Juaquine Well Service installed of repaired over many years.

So I scheduled a Well Service Repair Call.

The repair technician showed up in Lorena Chapman’s red Toyota Tacoma truck but had a magnetic door sign on it that said “Juaquine Well Service” like the kind real estate agents use.

I could see immediately that there was going to be an attack as soon as the red Toyota came down the driveway.

So I played along.

I waited for the attack to happen, and it did when others showed up in the creek bottom hiding, had snuck through the woods from Chapman‘s, to Strong’s, then to my creek near the water well.

The Well technician had a concealed .25 custom gun, and shot me with it while holding a clip board and pretending to write an estimate of repair costs.

He fired, the bullet struck me, he lunged at me to tackle me after the shot, I defended, and the Juaquine Well Repair Technician wound up with his arm filleted, splayed open from forearm to wrist, when I defended with a fingernail clipper.

The .25 guns have no barrel. The bullet brass serves as the barrel. They hold two shots, and are small enough that they fit on a key ring. They injure, but don‘t kill, and the wound it makes is scary, looks bad, but is superficial.

So, Juaquine Well service attack failed, and the technician drove away with his arm splayed open wide, and I had been shot in the chest.

======

One more, of dozens of service call survivals stories:

Building inspector from Josephine County Building & Safety:

I need an inspection for a house I started to build, have not been able to complete due to increase in terror occupation of Josephine county Oregon.

The inspector arrived alone, had a look at what was needed, and then looked at other work that had already been inspected and signed off on. The fake inspector was claiming that a particular wall was not framed correctly, required special engineering. He was looking at the wrong wall. There is a wall the required special engineering, special HD-7 and HD-10 Hold Downs, and other anchoring and special nailing schedule, on a different wall than the one the inspector was claiming was not correct. All of the engineered components are installed, inspected, and signed as completed.

He demanded I show him the engineer’s plan, so, I went to get that, when I returned, there were three other men in the house, they had my daughter, and put her on the table saw that was in the house, and the saw was turned on as she was sitting on top of the table saw.

I had to unplug the saw from outside quickly to keep my daughter from being cut with the table saw.

I don‘t remember any more than that.

But that happened from a call to a building inspector.

========================================

2:27 pm:

I am pretty sure the terror bastards killed my family since then.

I don‘t have any reason to believe they are alive, and if they are alive, they could be held captive, or made into “Partner”, “Companion“ forced surgical victims.

I am the one who survived.

The few explanations are exemplary of what became of all of the US Citizen inhabitants of Oregon. Most, however, were simply gasses with nitrous oxide and Medazolam airborne gas at the Walmart in around 1999 - 2004, captured, and tossed into a giant blender they had in the parking lot when a fake asbestos abatement construction project was underway at the Walmart.

There, the restrooms at the front of the store had a hole in the block wall, where an “exhaust fan tube”, a big one, four feet diameter, was positioned for what looked like ventilation. There was gas being released inside the Walmart. I think the gas they were using was such that it made the people need to use a restroom when exposed to it. I went into the restroom there, and in the stall was someone who was grabbing people who came into the restroom, and taking them through that “ventilation tube” out into the parking lot. There was a very large construction site size blue trash bin, about forty feet long, ten feet tall. I saw people being taken through that tube, so I went outside, saw the blue bin is where it was routed to, the bin had a ladder on the outside, I climbed the ladder, looked inside to see that the people were in that bin, and being put into a modified chipper/shredder, a very big commercial size chipper/shredder with some special hopper attachment on it to accept the size of the material being put into it. The people were alive, and crying for help as they went into the shredder.

Someone approached me there while I was on the ladder on the bin. I told him I was looking for a construction job, so, he directed me to the service counter inside the store.

My family was inside the store, so, I found them, told them to just behave as usual, continue to shop, then we’ll pay for the groceries, then go home, and that is what we did that day.

There were shopping carts filled with purses and wallets being lined up at the service counter in the front of the store. It was in the afternoon hours when these things happened, and it was a nice sunny day outside.

Other days, I put terrorists into their own contraptions, not a Walmart, but at Flemming Middle School, where there was three incinerators where the children were put into if they did not do as they were told. I went there, to talk with the armed guard that looked over the incinerator area everyday at  10:00 am to put a guard into the incinerator for about two weeks.

That did go over very well. The terrorists demanded that the person responsible for that step forward, or they would kill a student every hour until that happened.

They did kill some students, so I stood up that day at whatever the event was at the school, a sports event, and said I had done it, then, one by one, all of the students stood up, and said that they had done it.

About a hundred kids were all saying they were the one that put so many guards into the incinerator. The event was at the North Valley High School, not at Flemming where the incinerators still are, more than twenty years later.

Later that week, all of the students at the high school were killed, piled into a heap at the automotive shop class by the baseball field. There were tires, plywood scraps, junk, and about two hundred students in a big heap, about twenty feet tall. Grants Pass Rural Metro Fire Station sent a fire truck over to do a controlled burn of the heap of dead and dying high school students. Many were not dead, just could not move. They were left there in that heap for a few days so others could see what happens to he hero’s.

no help has come.

There are no helpful people for a thousand miles in any direction.

There are no signs that helpful people are near.

There are no helpful people, and there is no US national Guard anymore. The national guard suffered the same treatment as did the highschool, middle school, and elementary school students.

Most of the smaller students were taken on field trips and never returned to the schools.

Please send help.

Bring your own hospital.

If helpful people do think about saving USA here in Oregon or anywhere on the West Coast, you have to remove Twitter from the internet first, otherwise the news media will report everything that happens in coded news stories, and many hundreds of thousands of Christian, innocent looking terror soldiers will swarm you with confusion, bullshit, detour, road block, gas, and any other thing they can do to make a bottleneck to trap you while you are gassed with anesthetic, surgical grade gasses, nitrous oxide, and other “Boutique” poisons the terror army has developed, produced, and are stockpiling in underground, and above ground places.

Study this account.

Pay attention to the tunnel information.

Don‘t make any friends here, they will trick you, and trap you, then blame you for things you did not do.

By pass all of the local authorities.

Shut down Twitter permanently first.

===========================

3:50 pm:

I suspect that SAGClubMed Junket Jet, and one other smaller airplane flyover today dropped a load of anesthetic gas while flying over.

The jet airplanes historically have not participated in the release of airborne gasses, but I feel that is going to change dramatically over the course of the next few weeks.

I am feeling like I want to lay down and sleep, heavy eyes, diminished concentration on what I am trying to do is part of the symptoms, blurry vision is the most prohibitive for the moment.

=====

Email from Chicago Music Exchange and Vintage King Audio today basically says that some “Britain/Vatican source bass” is on the way to deal with problems. The email suggests low frequency, infra-red channels technology, and is also a “Citizens Band” message in the code.

There is a sort of “stay under the RADAR” message included.

The email comm says that there is a “Back to Basics” idea with regard to the “British/Vatican Source Bass”... to me, the message looks as if a terror army equivalent of US navy Seal or US Army Ranger special team of British Knights is called to service to solve problems in USA (Josephine County Oregon). There is a “nhs” sort of statement, so, suspect 3501 Excel Drive in Medford Oregon is a place of interest.

“Excel” = Cross Cell = “Terror cell of the Cross”

“Excel” = E + X + C + El = Power Cross Holy See Ell = “Holy See Cross Cut Power” = “Vatican Section Power” = Vatican Sexton Power = Vatican Directive Power = “Director of Pirate Power”

... “Vatican Section Power” = “Pirate Power Slice” (apple pie; Drugs Source)

There is a specific decode: “Asa Heroin nhs” That translates to: “Asa Hutchinson at Social Security Administration”, or, “Drug Enforcement Administration is at Leading national state health insurers” as you prefer to see it. Most terror pirate code is very loosely translated.

In SDA terror army households, a “Hutch” is a “China Hutch” is where the “China White” is stored, symbolically.

Asa Hutchinson is a SDA terror operative from day one, in charge of SAG/SDA terror army heroin distribution, trafficking, post production activity to get the heroin rations to the SDA soldiers.

(reminder, the innocent looking Seventh Day Adventists are all heroin addicts. They are controlled through addiction to heroin. Those who control the heroin distribution also control the terror army. Should control of the heroin distribution change management, then, the new management controls the terror army, millions of soldiers globally. That is what Afghanistan is for, and the British control Afghanistan poppy production, through the perception of US armed forces present there, who are really Canadian and French who killed and replaced the US armed forces there, are wearing US uniforms, using US equipment, look and sound like US military but are all British ruled Canadians mostly.)

Repeat: The email is saying low frequency, red. I know of unknown technology that is infra-red based tech, like the television remote control technology, but is somehow enhanced with digital, or some other communications capable magic. Was developed as a side effect of US Military contract communications technology in around 1990′s from private sector contractors who are the leaders of broadcast signals, such as broadcast television companies are. I think there is a delay that happens naturally as a result of ultra low frequency infra-red wave forms used for communications such that the naturally occurring delay attribute increases over distance of the signal, more distance, is more delay. 15 second delay in transmission to reception over about 500 feet is part of this technology.

==========================================

4:51 pm:

Examples of terror communication being told, and refined, with loose interpretations that all combine to hone the decoding terror operatives in on the exact message being told:

not in any particular order:

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1355260734670860288

https://twitter.com/BBCWorld/status/1355672335970410498

https://twitter.com/BBCNews/status/1355651199291285510

https://twitter.com/BBCNews/status/1355586041755947009

https://twitter.com/ReutersUK/status/1355591723771158530

(Twitter is watching everything I do today very closely, and are reacting to my online activity in real time to foul me up. They are inserting those “see new Tweets” labels everywhere that I want to take a screenshot today more than ever before.)

Those Tweets above are all parts of some very specific message being said. I don‘t know what the message is, but there are many other parts to it. The key to the comm lies on the smokestack climbers video, especially where the climbers leap from one hand hold to another hand hold. (could be instructions to use a different base of communications instead of Blu-tooth handshake directed at the terror army, millions of them all with iPhone and Android smart phones connected to one another). There are more parts. I will try to find some of the more “direct from the source” variety, and those will be far from face value of these others.

=========

This is the source:

https://twitter.com/Pontifex/status/1355493463563886592

There will be other iterations of the same communication coming from British, Canadian, and US top government accounts today.

Listen to what this terrorist bastard is saying on behalf of Joe Biden:

See that he is referring to a switch in communication methods.

https://twitter.com/StateDept/status/1355621811652685824

This is the part when Twitter puts out an All Points Bulletin to send assassins to kill me:

Happens all the time.

https://twitter.com/search?q=Denmark&src=trend_click&vertical=trends

and this is the part when Twitter sics LAPD (Rampart Division and CHP [not specified, is default with every Tommy Burger... ]) on me for the kill. This part does not happen all of the time, is just Twitter doing a “Double Down”, so, that means the terror bastards at the Grants Pass In-n-Out Burger terror cell, and the Grants Pass 7th St. Burger King are going to be here at my house in about one hour from now. It’s 5:33 pm.

https://twitter.com/search?q=LAPD&src=trend_click&pt=1355678723974995972&vertical=trends

“Cheeseburger... Cheeseburger.... Coke! no... Pepsi! no... Coke! .... FRY!”

========================================================

5:41 pm:

Mariam Websters terror command to “Go back to old communication tools” (pre-smart phone custom made devices, some are made with “electronic cigarettes” where the “butt” contains a battery, and are fitted with the same kind of transmitter that was put into my jaw in 2011. A small paper cone speaker is also fitted into the e-cigarette communication devices. They were custom built at Radio Shack near you, and the ones in Grants Pass, there were two Radio Shacks not long ago. (look for tweets about Shaqueal O’neal for more Twitter comm about switching out the iPhone for the older ways).  The e-cigarette’s were invented solely as a means of providing to the terror army a set of parts necessary for building the covert communication devices made from the butt of the units.  The old 1980′s 900 mghz cordless phones were also a source of parts to build covert communication tools from the handset transmitter and receiver. The terror bastards put the e-cigarettes into their ears, like earplugs, so, some recent photographic evidence of the same “switch to old ways” is presented this week with photos and videos featuring individuals wearing some clunky looking ear phones, white ones, odd shapes.

====

5:57 pm:

Until Twitter is shut down, there is no way to stop the communications between global terror leaders, and the millions of terror soldiers that are commanded with use of Twitter from “Verified Accounts”.

Until Twitter is shut down for good, the terror and mass murdering is guaranteed to continue, and in all reality the failure to recognize the eminent danger to the world that is presented by Twitter and Google, is a subsidy and endorsement of terrorism by the global security who fail to recognize the threat Twitter presents to the world, and the mass murder of many millions of people that Google and others are responsible for.

Maybe the global security community can hook up with Robin Hood to buy up a lot of Twitter stock, and Google stock, to go ahead and fund the terrorist bastards while they are jacking off, and failing.

===================================

7:10 pm: Documentation of continuance of personally threatening terror conditions in the neighborhood:

Terror “Shark” assassin accompanied my walk to the mailbox, looked like Janice Freeberg’s old Ford Crew Cab F-250 Diesel, creme colored. The vehicle appeared to have left the Chartrand 376 Jackpine RCMP terror cell, and may have proceded to the Terror Air Force “Air Support” terror cell at 535 Jackpine, where Janice “Jay Bob“ Freeberg is the terror Air Force Regional General.

Inside the mailbox is a fake notice from Carpenters Pension Trust. Is a mocked up letter of bullshit, with fake logo, and inconsistent with real Carpenters Union correspondence.

The fake Carpenters Union mail is in the same stylings as was the Josephine County Tax Assessor attack of late 2020, when someone by the name of Constance Roach was claiming I owed more taxes, because they said I owed more taxes on my property, and included much attacking from local terror cells. The fake correspondence method of attack is used as a shell within which a seemingly legitimate set of circumstances that require the victim to make repeated phone calls, postal mail, online activity, and personal visits to physical locations, and/or visits to the home or business of the victim by the offensive terror cell doing that kind of attack. The people involved in such attacks that are based on false representation from authority figures are often people who work at or in association with the entity being represented by the fake correspondence, and therefore have access to much personal information necessary to do the foolery, while gaining more knowledge of personal information of the intended victims prior to making the hit attempt.

One of the reasons such fakery is so successful for killing and capturing slaves is that all of the terror cells have been issued at least one Stingray or Kingfish Surveillance Unit, or, a Huawei Hong Kong Knock Off version of the Stingray or Kingfish Units, one’s that have many additional features, are more functional than the name brand Harris products are.

The victim makes the required phone calls in response to some kind of official looking correspondence, such as a notice from the County Tax Assessor’s office who is stating in the notice that the increase in tax has already been applied arbitrarily one sided without justification or cause for tax increase. The victim is told to jump through some hoops, make some calls, to do an appeal of the bogus correspondence. The problem is with the amount of Stingray surveillance Units that are in the hands of all of the terror cells, so, when the victim sees the increase in tax, and that it’s already been applied, then sees the deadline for making appeal, and makes the necessary phone calls, those terror cell operatives are already standing by, waiting for that call to be made. The call to the real tax assessor, is re-routed to a fake tax assessor who sent the bogus correspondence. The people who do this kind of attack are highly specialized, are well equipped, have a lot of money, and have gained a lot of real estate for the Screen Actor Guild who they truly represent. The idea is to kill or capture the victim and extended family, gain ownership of the victims real estate, vehicles, banking and other assets, and to gain that persons ID in it’s entirety, where the property is transferred to SAG for control, and is used as a residence for a terror family who replaces the original victims, or, the better properties are snapped up by individual SAG members, such as is the case that happened to my father’s estate in Las Vegas, it was stolen by these kinds of SAG special teams, while I was targeted for Take-out as a result of my father’s death, and the ensuing Probate that resulted of his estate, valued at well over a million dollars without even considering his business holdings.

The Stingray units are only a small part of the bigger picture of terror communication manipulations, much of which is detailed in this account elsewhere, and is extremely complex.

Once the SAG takes possession, through these kinds of elite groups of terror cells who specialize in “Whale Hunting”, and all is processed, the ID of the victim is used separately, in different direction, where there are actors who continue to portray the murdered victims at staged doctors appointments, and the health record of the murdered victims is obtained through the Social Security Administration, which also has been taken over by the SAG parts of the Christian terror army, the leadership of the terror army. They obtain MAX Medicare Part-D prescriptions of preferred narcotic pain medicines prescribed in the name of the murdered victims. Those medicines are put into a pool of access where SAG members are able to pick and choose what drugs they want, all for free, all are medicines that belong to a murdered disabled or elderly US Citizen. The system is called ClubMed, I refer to it as SAGClubMed to avoid confusion with the vacation company with same name.

Further result of the Fake Correspondence terror is that the replacment terror family members that are recruited from Canada, are instructed to Vote for the SAG Shills that SAG arranges on the ballots at election times, for all offices, from State Governor, to City Water Master, and every elected office there is, without exception, there is a SAG Shill on the ballot for each office, on both sides of the ticket.

So, I got one of those today in the mail.

==============================

8:24 pm:

Also worth a mention is the pain in my side as I walked out to the mailbox, looked to see where that Shark Truck had gone, saw some tail lights at Freeberg’s, heard some voices from Freeberg’s and simultaneously from Monroe’s, and, there was the sound of perhaps a wounded animal coming from Dietrick’s SAG/SDA Heroin Trafficking Central terror HQ at 601 Jackpine.

======

8:38 pm:

Also worth a mention is the odor of two-stroke motor oil that was hovering around my front door upon return from the mailbox, presumably left their intentionally in response to my sentiments towards the national security personnel who only want to jack off as the nations population is killed systematically by the movie actors and musicians they love to get all of that Schwagg from... back stage passes, signed autographed hats and tee shirts, private autograph session and some fast ass from Taylor Swift, and those one way two-week cruise boat rides they love so much featuring Kenny Wayne Sheppard and Joe Bonamassa bringing home the best blues on earth.

Two-Stroke oil... Bardahl is my guess... at two am, even the Bar Doll looks good.

The nsa empowers the terror army with their ignorance of the existential threat to the entire world imposed by Google, and Twitter, of which, removal from the internet is what is required to save their own lives, and the lives of others, just to get started.

=========

8:51 pm:

Heater Update:

Still frozen.

===================

9:19 pm:

I suppose I should mention the two terror soldiers who came in my house last night during the thawing of the compressor unit. They were each wearing Pixel Suit electronic camouflage technology, and both sustained substantial head injuries before leaving.

A third one was encountered outside, by the heater compressor, and wound up in the creek (frozen, very cold water in there) over by the fence line at Monroe’s property and mine. That one launched away of nitrous ignition, also was wearing Pixel suit camouflage, while a fourth one was not harmed, remained outside by a storage shed, on the Chapman side of the fence. So far, Sparacino Li’l Pantry terror cells are suspected, as a Theresa Sparacino replacement (third one) and Nicole Sparacino (the original) and perhaps a Kyle Myers of 560 Jackpine (Fred Meyer Department Store terror cell), and a Nora or Rita, or Rena Myers, or replacements of them are suspected to have been the intruder/attackers.

Nicole would have been the one in the creek.

I have no further assessments.

no help has come.

There are no signs of helpful people anywhere.

Please send help.

Send US Military, there are no police or national guard for more than a thousand miles in any direction. All were killed many years ago, some may still be held captive.

Bring your own hospital, all of the medical facilities are occupied and controlled by the terror army. They have been extermination centers where US Citizens are killed, for more than twenty years, Asante Health is the leading medical oriented terror cell, having taken control of the vast majority of hospitals and medical clinics in Oregon. Oregon Health Science University entire campus and Vetarans Administration Hospital there is all terror controlled, forced experimental surgeries are performed on victims who go there for treatment. OHSU is a close second in leading medical terror to Asante Health terror cells.

==============================================

10:17 pm:

That “Cloud Backup) message is part of the attack last night.

That one showed up this morning and yesterday was the first time I’ve seen that one. It’s sometimes present, and sometimes is not present.

norton and all of the Symantec products serve the Centurylink ISP terror cell. If I accidentally hit that button, all of my computer content will wind up on the computers of the terror army, and clones will be made to mimic my accounts, and bait investigative people, if there are such people.

[giraffles]

We Kiss The Dusk Goodnight

this is an A/B/O au fanfic

because I have a Problem, here it the abo/omegaverse fic literally no one asked for but I’m in too deep now to stop. I really don’t know where this came from okay. JUST TAKE IT. and don’t kick me out of the fandom pls

warnings for language, some implied sexual content, and age gap. and actual smut eventually. I’M GETTING THERE OKAY. 

We Kiss The Dusk Goodnight (Bulge/Bruce/Manabu)

The next morning, over a third cup of coffee, Bruce delivered an ultimatum.

“We have to figure out who the hell it is,” he muttered into a mug, “Before they send half the station into a rut.”

Or, the omegaverse AU no one asked for.

you can also read the first chapter here on AO3!

He knew from the moment that Bruce slammed into him in the dark hallway that something was different. It wasn’t as though their relationship was new, or that meeting like this for a tryst was uncommon, but there was something heavier in the air between them. But what it was escaped Bulge, and it became harder to focus once he had a handful of Bruce’s hair and a mouthful of tongue. Trying to think about what may have changed took a backseat to getting their clothes on the floor of his quarters, and was suddenly irrelevant when Bruce started snarling possessively at him. Pack dynamics be damned; fucking with another alpha was an experience that never ceased to deliver. Or maybe he was just getting old, and any little thing would seem extra thrilling now.

     "Come on,“ was the near desperate whine as Bulge fumbled with the lube, "It’s been too fuckin’ long.”

He never would have described Bruce as wanton. Pushy, yes. A little needy, maybe, once in a while when some kid off their suppressants happened to walk by headquarters. Able to act downright devious when the mood struck him. And yet he’d never quiet seen him like this, bucking back, giving in, but also making Bulge work for every inch. And you know, he found he liked it. Gender and sexuality historians already had a field day with the SDF and the tight knit platoons that were both packs and most certainly not packs– they would have loved to have a look at a captain and his first officer falling in like this.

It wasn’t as though relationships of, ah, mutual benefits, didn’t happen. But those were usually throw away things, one night stands or scheduled with heat cycles, with attraction but not necessarily affection. Not the unwavering loyalty and connections that being soldiers-in-arms created. The SDF turned a blind eye to most incidents like this, as the higher ups (and by extension, the enigmatic supreme commander) didn’t care what they did as long as they got their jobs done. Ironic that a military organization had some of the most lax and open views on matters.

     "Damn,“ he swore, every sense on high alert, "Someone must be presenting.”

     "Fucking cadets,“ Bruce growled, his nails digging into Bulge’s shoulders, "They let them in way too young.”

It’s an empty complaint, because the age and timing of presenting could never really be guaranteed. Every time science and society thought they had it figured out, a new batch of outliners skewed the data again, proving that biology and evolution did whatever they damn well pleased. And that people don’t always like to fit into the molds the world set out for them. Strict roles were all but obsolete in this day and age, relics of times long past, even if some conventions died hard. Like the fact that most of those who ended up in combat units just happened to be alphas. Betas were most common after that, with omegas and the rest of the spectrum coming in last.

The next morning, over a third cup of coffee, Bruce delivered an ultimatum.

     "We have to figure out who the hell it is,“ he muttered into a mug, "Before they send half the station into a rut.”

Bulge agreed wholeheartedly, because the wheel universe stopped for no one, bodies going haywire or otherwise. “They may not even realize what’s happening.”

     "Fucking kids.“ Bruce repeated his sentiment from the night before. Bulge couldn’t admonish him, not when he knew it actually came from a place of concern. Someone could get hurt while in the wild throws of base desires. Scuffles might break out between unbonded parties, causing a headache for all involved and a HR nightmare. Most people could exercise discretion. Most, but not all. Bulge ran a hand over his face.

It was going to be a long day.

One long day turned into another, and then another, and they still couldn’t figure out who was running headlong into heat. Being in such close proximity to so many people meant that most went scent blind, and the prevalent use of suppressants dampened pheromones in general. Bulge hoped it was just someone who had missed a dose or two, or maybe some visiting family member, but something told him that it wouldn’t be that simple. If only for the fact that it came and went with such regularity that it had to be someone on SDF shifts. But without invading each person’s personal boundaries, it was impossible to pinpoint who. Performance in the Sirius platoon was already suffering; it was hard enough to rein his own short temper in, much less keeping Bruce in line and Manabu from butting heads with him. Louis was pointedly uninterested in the whole affair, and David did his best to diffuse situations, but everyone was on edge.

     "No, the other console Yūki, get it together–”

     "I have it together!“ Manabu snapped back, "Stop distracting me!”

     "Stop it, both of you,“ It honestly felt more like babysitting than leading a platoon through drills, "Get a hold of yourselves.”

Bruce huffed and Manabu went back to sulking, even brushing off Louis’ reassurances. The sooner they found whoever was the source of this, the better. For all of their sakes.

     "That’s enough for today.“ He sighed, even though it was early for them to be stopping. There was no point in continuing however when everyone was so wound up; He swore he caught David murmuring a prayer of thanks. At this rate, it was Sirius that would be having the first casualties, especially with the way Bruce kept fixating on Manabu-

Oh lord. Manabu.

If there were any merciful deities left in the cosmos, then please let him be wrong. Please don’t let it be the wide eyed and enthusiastic son of Wataru, too fresh and young and inexperienced to be dealing with such matters.

Bulge had always assumed Manabu was an alpha, like the rest of them. Like his father and brother before him. It would have made perfect sense from multiple standpoints, and regardless, he might be reckless and naive, but he wasn’t stupid. Not stupid enough to go off medications in an environment like this.

     "Manabu, a moment.”

     "What?“ Came the annoyed reply, though he quickly corrected himself, "What is it, captain?”

There was no easy way to start this conversation, especially with Bruce giving them a sideways glance as the rest of Sirius platoon disembarked. Sometimes his first mate did have some tact and stayed silent, leaving Bulge alone with a nervously fidgeting Manabu.

     "Manabu,“ he began anew, "I need you to be completely honest with me.”

     "About what?“

     "Tell me you’re on suppressants.”

Manabu went bright red, hands curled at his sides as though he was resisting the urge to cover his face. “W-who told you?”

     "No one. Everyone on the base can smell you, Manabu. You have been taking them, haven’t you?“

At that he did cover his face and sink into the nearest chair. Bulge felt a protective urge swell up in him, caught somewhere between concerned captain and alpha instincts.

     "Manabu, it’s alright-”

     "But it’s not,“ he sounded so utterly miserable, "It’s not okay and I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

     "Nothing is wrong with you.“ Frankly, Bulge was alarmed that he would think there was. Who on earth had lead him to believe that? Then he remembered Tabito, the tiny mining planet, full of nice people. Traditional people. Stubborn people. God damn it to hell. "Manabu, look at me.”

It took several long minutes, but finally those brown eyes peeked out from behind his fingers. He looked so small in that moment, so unsure and shaken. Bulge wanted to reach out to him but knew it was a dangerous idea. Even a simple touch could have catastrophic results.

     "There’s nothing wrong with you,“ he repeated instead, "It’s normal.”

     "But I’ve been on the stupid pills for forever!“

     "Sometimes they stop working.”

     "Are you serious,“ Manabu groaned, "Oh my god, just kill me. Better yet, let Bruce kill me. That’ll make him happy.”

If only he knew about the way the first officer sometimes looked at him. Because of course Bulge noticed, and couldn’t fault him for it when the traitorous thoughts had passed through his own mind. But this was Manabu, fierce and compassionate and utterly oblivious. “Can you, ah, take care of it on your own? Or should I find someone to help?”

Manabu returned to being covered in flush and made a strangled sound. What he would have given in that moment to have Wataru back, just for this awkward conversation. Bulge wasn’t cut out for family life, much less pack duties, an certainly not prepared to give a pep talk on someone’s first heat.

“I can do it, I’ll be fine,” And then softer, “Probably.”

     "You’ve got to be kidding me.“

     "Bruce,” he grumbled back, “Give him a break. It’s not his fault.”

     "I know it’s not.“ And yet his first officer was pacing in the break room, agitated and probably ready to pick a fight with the next man who looked at him wrong. Which is exactly why Bulge had decided it was better to stick close to him. "Of all the people, why did it have to be him?”

Fate was a cruel thing like that. It didn’t much care for the wants and needs of the individuals subject to it’s whims. Yet he couldn’t have agreed more.

     "It’ll be fine.“ He said, even though he was unconvinced of that. Manabu had said he would be okay, but the young man’s track record on things was less than stellar. Just how many times had he disobeyed a direct order or accidentally gotten himself into trouble? ”…probably.“

     "This is insane.”

     "There’s not much we can do about it, save removing him from active duty.“

     "Have you?”

     "Yes,“ he nodded, "I’ve put in for the whole platoon, actually.”

That stopped Bruce, who looked back at him in confusion. “Why?”

     "Because none of us are in any state to fight.“ And, he doesn’t say, there was no way he would be leaving Manabu alone at the base. Not a chance in hell.

     "Stupid kid.” Bruce said without heat. He was worried. He’d never admit it, especially not to Manabu himself, but Bruce worries after him. Sure, he shrouded it in snark and biting words, kept him at arms length to spare himself any future pain. But he did care. Just in a roundabout way.

He felt the unease acutely. The outdated, nagging animal part of his subconscious wanted him to go out and fawn over the omega, stay close, so close, to him and make sure he was alright. Which was unnecessary, and oppressive; Manabu was his own person. And, he could only hope, not too proud to ask for help if he needed it. Then again, he was notoriously stubborn.

Maggie from Spica poked her head into the room. “Excuse me sir, but there’s a… situation.”

Bulge felt his stomach hit the floor and keep going. It hadn’t even been more than a few hours. Bruce swore, and had dashed out the door before he could move.

     "I’m going to kill him,“ Bruce spat once Bulge had caught up with him, "And then he’ll never be a pain in my ass ever again.”

If the spike in pheromones was distracting before, now it was downright overwhelming. Sticky sweet and alluring, enough to make his teeth itch. Tinged with a hint of panic and desperation. He remembered Manabu’s panic attack from one of their first missions, remembered the way that he could crumble so easily under too much stress, even if he came back from each fall that much stronger. He was alone somewhere in these halls, lost and scared, and Schwanhelt Bulge was going to find him.

It took every measure of restraint he had in his being to not rush the members of Vega platoon and then to keep Bruce from doing the same. They were all in a circle, ringing a huddled mass in front of the vending machines, who he could see shaking from ten paces back. Bulge gathered up what little calm he could before speaking.

     "Murase,“ he began evenly, "What is going on here?”

The leader of Vega turned his scarred face to them, lips curled in a snarl. “You haven’t kept your pup on a tight enough leash.”

If he was seeing red, then Bruce had to be absolutely livid. Bulge didn’t normally buy into the stereotypes of alphas beings hot-headed and temperamental, but there was no denying the tension crackling between the two groups of men. Vega actually had less alphas than Sirius, but that didn’t stop their two betas from being just as aggressive as their peers. He could appreciate the no nonsense, tough as nails approach to their platoon; what he didn’t appreciate was them hassling one of Sirius’ youngest members. Especially one who at the moment was so vulnerable.

     "Why do you keep this whelp around, anyway?“ Murase grabbed Manabu’s arm in an attempt to haul him upright, "He’s fuckin’ useless-”

     "Unhand him.“ Bulge growled, enough alpha tone sneaking in to make even Bruce flinch beside him, "This is none of your damn business.”

He sneered, but let go of Manabu, who crumpled onto the floor once more. In an instant Bruce was between the Vega men and him, radiating an aura of bloodlust. Bulge had no doubt it would come to blows if the veteran SDF members didn’t back down. Yet after several agonizing minutes, they did just that, with Murase shaking his head as he lead them away.

     "You should keep a better eye on that pup.“ Was Murase’s parting shot, and Bulge stared them all down until they had gone round a corner, then out of sight. A soft whimper brought him back to the moment.

     "Good god,” He crouched beside Manabu, who was still curled in upon himself, shuddering all the while, “Manabu?”

His head shot up, brown hair tousled, eyes wide with naked fear. Bulge’s reaction was automatic, as he reached forward and gathered the smaller man into his arms, where he clung to Bulge like a lifeline. He was nearly soaked though with sweat and it was hard to tell if his trembling was from being cornered by Vega platoon or something else entirely. Manabu let out a soft sob.

     "I’m s-sorry, I’m sorry,“ he hiccuped over and over again, hands wound tight into the fabric of Bulge’s coat, "I’m s-so sorry, I’m-”

It was pure torture, being wrapped up in him like that, when he smelled so enticing and his skin felt so hot. Yet it was alarming, because Manabu’s distress became his own, putting his mind into danger mode. It was so confusing too, to have to choose between the feeling of wanting to bundle him up and keep him safe, or throw pretenses out the window and fuck him silly right there.

No, the second one was most certainly not an option, not without Manabu’s explicit consent. The idea that Bulge had even considered it for a moment was insane. But as Bruce had said, this whole situation was insane.

     "It’s alright, I’ve got you,“ were the words he managed to get out while his heart tried to hammer it’s way through his chest, "You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

No, it was Bulge that should be apologizing. He should have never left Manabu unprotected. So what if they weren’t a real pack; he was still the ranking officer, the highest alpha in their group. He had a duty to them all to keep them safe and cared for. It didn’t matter if it was on the battlefield or not.

     "Captain,“ Bruce hissed, "What should we do?”

A good question. A very valid question. “Go to his room and get all of his bedding, then meet me at my quarters.”

Bruce took off without any further prompting, leaving him with a wreck of an omega to somehow get back to his own room. Bulge shifted Manabu so he could cradle him bridal style, and tried not to think about how sore he was going to be afterwords. Manabu may have been shorter and slighter than his father and brother, and done growing at just past twenty, but he was heavier than he looked. Especially when he became dead weight in Bulge’s arms. The only thing working in his favor was the death grip Manabu had on his shoulders.

     "I’ve got you.“ He said again, knowing that repetition of reassurances was one of the few comforts he could give at this point. Manabu stayed deathly quiet.

His captain’s quarters would be the safest place for the boy at the moment. It had extra security measures, was further away from the general dorming area, and most importantly, had space to breath. Not that the accommodations for regular officers were lacking, but there was extra square footage came along with his captain’s bars. It wasn’t a luxury Bulge often got to take advantage of, considering how often they were off world or completing missions, but he was glad for it. Now they just had to get there.

More than one head turned when he stormed down the halls with Manabu in hand, but none of them had enough of a death wish to stop him or ask questions. There was no use trying to hide what was happening; anyone with eyes and a nose could tell. Besides, sudden heats or failed suppressants were bound to happen from time to time, and only the most petty or immature would hold it against someone. He made a mental note to ask Yuki later if she could find a different medication, or some other resources for Manabu. Certainly her expansive medical database would have something that could help. In the meantime, Bulge was resigned to his fate as a stand-in pack leader.

     "What were you doing outside of your room?” He wondered aloud, not expecting the silent and shivering Manabu to answer. But after a sharp intake of breath, he did;

     "I just wanted a drink,“ Manabu mumbled into his neck, "I’m sorry.”

     "It’s alright,“ he tried to think of something, anything other than the hot body pressed against him, "I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

A heady, impulsive promise, but it felt right. It felt like proverbial stars aligning and Fate taking the helm, and he let it happen. Consequences could wait until a later date, maybe when they were all more clear headed and fully aware of the repercussions. But not right now. Manabu let out a soft sound and buried his head into his shoulder.

Finally they made it to his door, where an agitated Bruce carrying sheets and blankets was already waiting. He knew the code to get in, Bulge had shared it with him years ago, but it seemed he still waited for permission even after all this time. A nice gesture, but unnecessary given their history. (Yet, this was also not the only hangup Bruce had, his relationship with relationships being rocky at best. Bulge had been there for most of them and knew it was hard to come out unscathed, and not to mention his own lovers lost.) Still Bruce was the one to punch the password in, and the first to enter, heading straight for the bed as he’d already figured out the plan. Bulge’s bed wasn’t terribly large, but it still dwarfed the tiny bunks given to new recruits, and therefore was perfect for nesting. Even if Manabu didn’t understand it completely, having a place to nest would undoubtedly help. He tried not to think about the implications of having an omega in heat in his bed, even if their options were limited. Destiny Station might have protected heat rooms, he wasn’t sure, and in any case he felt better by having Manabu where he could keep an eye on him.

     “You have to let go, Manabu,” Bulge sighed to him when he continued to cling tight, “You’ll be safe here.”

     “Don’t want to,” Manabu murmured back, “You smell nice.”

     “Nope, that’s it,” Bruce said through gritted teeth, beginning to physically pry Manabu off of him, “You’re not allowed to make more of a fool of yourself than you already have.”

Manabu made little unhappy sounds, but they got him onto the bed. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, sweat sticking stray hairs to his face. Bulge had heard that the worst part of being an omega was the loss of autonomy— of becoming a slave to whim and instinct, left in a state that they were often taken advantage of in days of old. (And, as much he loathed to admit it, it still happened on backwater planets where society liked to backslid into unconscionable habits.) The amount of power he could wield over Manabu right then was ridiculous; and worst of all Manabu would let him do whatever he wanted. Whatever either of them wanted, actually.

Which was why Bulge was focusing on getting Manabu’s boots and coat off before hiding him under the sheets. Then he was going to take a bath in a tub of ice and try not to die.

     "Would you hold still?“ Bruce snapped at the younger officer, who was being very wiggly, trying to snuggle up to Bruce while he peeled off his SDF jacket, "Are they always like this?”

     "Yes,“ Bulge replied a little too quickly, remembering Catalina and the one time his off duty night happened to coincidence with her heat cycle, "Don’t be too hard on him. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing.”

At least the abject terror that had engulfed Manabu before was gone. Small things to be thankful for in a trying time. Fear was now being overtaken by desire, filling the room with heavy want, and he needed to get out before he went mad from it all.

     "I’m going to go get Yuki.“

     "But I’m fine now!” Manabu protested, and Bruce threw a blanket over him so that his next round of complaints were muffled.

     "Stay with him, I’ll be right back.“

Bruce sighed as he pushed more bedding on top of Manabu. "Yes, sir.”