#Real Fake Passport

[seeker-of-peace]

.

[chloeworships]

These could be fake passports.

Maybe it’s time for your countries to upgrade your passports like Canada recently did IF you haven’t already. I love the new passports.

Sometimes seeing tigers is a reference to India as well 🇮🇳

[schizowitchic]

never leaving the house without makeup on actually because why did i get id'd for a FUCKING ENERGY DRINK today. like i am definitely over sixteen. i look over sixteen. do i only look over sixteen with makeup on? did that one tesco employee not like the look of me? every other employee is like "yeah let me just approve the age for you" and doesn't ask questions. this woman (who literally could not have been much older than me) apparently decides that today i do not look over sixteen. and the only difference is that i did not have foundation etc. on just eyeliner. so like. uh. what was going on there.

[universal-identicalness]

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[counterfeitdoc]

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[documentslineservices1]

[globalwidedocument]

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Renewal: As passports have expiration dates, you will need to renew your passport before it expires if you plan to continue traveling internationally. Renewal procedures vary by country, but generally involve submitting a renewal application, providing updated photographs, and paying the renewal fees.

It's crucial to familiarize yourself with your country's specific passport requirements and regulations to ensure a smooth and hassle-free travel experience. Stay updated on travel advisories, entry requirements, and visa information for the countries you plan to visit.

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[eldritch-bf]

Every chapter Henry Townsend is in I hate him a little more.

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Okay but imagine for a second

You’re Bruce Wayne, Batman

The richest, smartest man in every room you have walked into since you turned 20

Every bit of information is at the tip of your fingertips money, brawn and brains are no object

And then you take in a child

Named Dick Grayson

From the circus, who has the most flimsy proof of his existence you’ve ever seen with a birth certificate that looks too worn to properly make out the parents named without knowing them before.

No passport despite traveling all over the globe

No form of identification

So you give the kid an ID and everything is fine

He becomes Robin

Joins a team

Becomes nightwing

Runs all the teams

Becomes Batman

Runs himself into the ground

And then Dicks in his 20s and he’s sick

Really sick

It’s not viral, fungal, parasitic or bacterial

No one else you know has this

And he’s getting sicker

He can’t walk without help and spends all his days wrapped up in blankets fighting off never ending shivers.

He mixes up his brothers names and sometimes outright forgets some of the kids

He didn’t recognize Kori a few weeks ago and hasn’t remembered her since

So Everytime he blearily asks “who are you again?” They All answer with the knowledge that this might be the him decaying blue eyes don’t spark with recognition

The first time it happened it was horror and tears “an Oh my god! I’m so sorry I love you you’re my brother” over time it’s devolved into an “oh right…hi Jason”

And the doctors ask for his family history

Maybe. Maybe there is something that could save him, bring him back or stop this descent… this fall from happening to the most untouchable man that’s ever lived.

(Tim threw up after he saw Dick burst into tears, head resting on Alfred’s shoulder when he realized he couldn’t walk without help- they need to stop this)

So they dig

And dig

And dig

And nothing

There’s no evidence of the Graysons before John, the Lloyd’s before Mary.

Neither had been to a doctor anytime in the states at least

Bruce had redone all of Dicks vaccines once he acquired guardianship of him.

There was nothing

Nothing on his aunts or the uncle that was his namesake

There’s just nothing

Bruce realizes he doesn’t even know Dicks ethnic background. 1000s of tests he’s ran and he doesn’t even know if Dick has ever been to his parents home countries

They do every test they can come up with to try and fake a comprehensive family history

Mary Grayson was a fake name

So way John

They don’t know the real ones

Bruce finds out the mother of his son is Syrian and Romani and the boys first father is Afghani and Italian.

He finds out Mary’s father fled from Syria during the 60s and settled in Germany

He finds out that John Grayson and his brother were orphans together

He can’t even tell you which one of them gave Dick his blood type.

He knows everything

He’s the smartest man in every room he’s ever walked into

And he won’t be able to save his son

Because the boy who holds Bruce Wayne’s very heart in his hands knows that the best way to stay in the shadows is simply to show so little everyone will fill in blank spots with jarring inaccuracies so seamlessly they won’t even notice they did it.

They’ve called everyone

And Dick just keeps getting sicker

[marvelfanfn2187a113]

Where to Run

Sam and Dean Winchester & little sister!reader

Requested by @deansobssessedgirl

Synopsis: you’re on the run from the British Men of Letters, and you meet your big brothers for the first time.

Entering the United States unnoticed had gone better than you thought it would. As soon as you got through passport control, you dug into your backpack—the only luggage you had brought with you, and it contained all you owned—and pulled out two pieces of paper. You considered them both for a long moment—one, an over a decade-old letter with the name of a small city in black ink in the middle of it, and the other a list of cities, one circled in red.

The list would take you to a nearby Men of Letters bunker in Lebanon, and the letter…

The letter might just lead you to your father.

…

“And you’re sure we haven’t already been to this one?” Sam asked his big brother as they pulled up to a storage facility.

“Of course I’m sure. I would’ve remembered one so close to Lawrence,” Dean said.

“What do you think dad kept in here?” Sam questioned, his curiosity getting the better of him as Dean led the way to the right storage room.

“Who knows?” Dean shrugged. “Let’s just hope one of these works.” He jangled a small set of keys on a ring that John had left in the car—they contained a spare key for the Impala as well as John’s old truck, and several storage facility keys. Dean had thought that he and Sammy had been to all of John’s secret storage places, but after scanning John’s journal for the hundredth time, he caught sight of an address scratched in the corner of a page with a storage number.

“It’s this one,” Sam spoke up, grabbing the keys from Dean and trying a few before one finally worked.

The room was small, but packed full. Sam and Dean—after carefully scanning for traps—split up and began to go through their father’s things.

“Hey, I think this file cabinet’s locked,” Sam said from one corner. Dean lifted his head, but didn’t go to his brother’s aid, too busy going through a box of odds and ends.

“Or you just didn’t pull hard enough—maybe if you had any muscle in those noodles—“

“Ok, ok,” Sam interrupted with a scoff. He rolled his eyes, but didn’t dismiss Dean’s theory—he yanked hard on the file cabinet, and it jerked open in a cloud of dust. Coughing, Sam reached down to shuffle through what was inside. “Hey, there’s only one file in here.”

“Fascinating,” Dean said in a tone that said exactly the opposite.

“There’s a birth certificate inside,” Sam said, and suddenly his voice caught. “With…with dad’s name on it.”

“Dad’s birth certificate?” Dean asked, mildly intrigued.

“Dean…not dad’s.”

“What?” Dean was by Sam’s side before Sam had even seen him move.

“Y/N Winchester, born to John Winchester and…Jane Doe.” Sam frowned, his brow crinkling. “I wonder why dad would use his real name when the mother used a fake.”

“This can’t be real,” Dean insisted. “I mean…I know with Adam…but another one?”

“Let’s see,” Sam mumbled, putting the certificate inside and checking the rest of the file. “Pictures.” Sam held up a stack, which Dean immediately snatched from him. Sam ignored this, because he’d found his own details to focus on. “And letters.” Sam grabbed the first letter from a stack of dozens, and began to read. “Dear John…our girl turns one today…”

Dean tapped Sam’s shoulder and held up a photo of a little Y/H/C girl blowing out a singular candle on a pink cake.

Sam moved onto the next letter, skimming it.

“Dear John…I put Y/N in gymnastics because it’s the only way I can get her to work on strength training and endurance.” Sam’s brow crinkled in confusion, but he was distracted when Dean held up a photo of the same girl, a few years older, in a gymnastics leotard on a balance beam.

“What do you think she meant by training?” Sam asked. “Do you think she was a hunter?”

“Could be.” Dean shrugged. “Maybe that’s why she signed her letters Jane Doe.” Dean pointed to the bottom of the letter, where “love, Jane Doe” was written.

Sam was about to pull out another letter when his fingers froze on the paper.

“Dean…”

“Hm?” Dean asked distractedly, still going through photos.

“Dean look at this.” Sam flipped the paper around, and on the back of it was a watermark—an indicator of who made the stationary.

It was the Men of Letters insignia.

…

“Lebanon, please,” you said to the taxi driver. “I’ll direct you to a more specific location when we get there.”

The man shrugged, unbothered, and began the journey.

You desperately wanted to go to Lawrence in search for your father, but you had to be realistic—you hadn’t eaten all day, you were jet lagged and exhausted, and you needed a plan of action. You needed to recover and regroup, and you needed to do it in a secure location; you needed to feel safe. In fact, you were so wound up that you flinched when the radio came on.

“—o one seems to have any information on who is causing the recent string of murders. The chief of police has offered no comment, other than a warning that the people of Lawrence should stay indoors when possible, and be alert. But there’s no denying the oddity of the case—the mass murderer seems to have some kind of vampire ideologies, with each of its victims drained completely of their blood. In other news—“

“Hey, driver!” You called out, and he glanced over his shoulder to indicate he was listening. “I changed my mind. Take me to Lawrence.”

…

“It’s gotta be another djinn.”

Dean would’ve groaned if he didn’t have a mouthful of hamburger to swallow first.

“Not those again,” he said after a gulp of beer washed down the last of his burger. They’d finished going through John’s things—Sam taking the file of your pictures and documents with him—only to leave and stumble upon a case. Dean had wanted to stop at a diner on the way back home, but he hadn’t expected to walk past a news stand to see a paper with “vampire killer” written across the front. It took Sam less than ten minutes of reading the paper, as well as a little time on the internet, to render the paper completely wrong.

“It doesn’t fit with a vampire. No teeth marks, no signs of struggle, the bodies were found in a different location from where they were taken—it’s definitely a djinn.”

“Ok, so silver knife dipped in lamb’s blood.” Dean sighed. “We happen to have one of those?”

“I think we still have the one we used last time in the trunk,” Sam said.

“Then let’s get going.”

…

You picked up a machete after being dropped off by the cabbie, hoping beyond hope that the radio had been right (even if they were kidding) about it being a vampire—there were several monsters known to drink blood, and if it was anything other than a vamp then things might get tricky. Normally you would be more prepared, but it wasn’t like you could get your weapons through customs when traveling to America, and you’d had to travel light so you could move more quickly. The British Men of Letters worked quickly, so you couldn’t take any chances. And buying up strange kinds of weapons near an old Men of Letters bunker was definitely too high a chance to take, so all you could do was hope that it was a vamp.

You’d done so much research about Lawrence that you barely even have to wonder where the creature might be hiding out—while researching Lawrence, you’d almost automatically noted the places where a supernatural being might be inclined to hide, so all you had to do was see which one was closest to the bodies that were dropping.

Then you were ready to hunt.

…

“I’m telling you, this has to be it. It’s nearly equidistant to all the bodies, and it’s the perfect place for a djinn to hide out.”

“You don’t have to sell me on the location, I believe you,” Dean told Sam. “But you do have to tell me how to get there.”

“Turn right here…yeah, and a left at that stop sign, and then we’re there.”

“So are we just not gonna talk about it?” Dean asked after a beat of silence as he followed Sam’s directions.

“Talk about what?”

Dean scoffed. “I don’t know, maybe our little sister?”

“I don’t know what to say, Dean,” Sam sighed. “There’s no address anywhere in the documents or the letters, and we don’t even know her mother’s name, or if Y/N even goes by Winchester. Her mother used an alias, it makes sense that the kid would go by one, too. We have no reason to believe that she’s going by the name on her birth certificate, so we don’t have the first clue on how to find her.”

“Well it feels like we have to do something,” Dean argued. “I mean we don’t even know if this kid knows about dad—for all we know, she thinks he’s still alive. She deserves to know.”

“Why the sudden interest?” Sam questioned. “You didn’t seem all this interested when we found out about Adam.”

“That was different,” Dean sighed. “With Adam…Adam was just some normal, innocent kid who saw dad once a year for a baseball game and knew nothing about the life. This kid—Y/N—with the talk in those letters about training, and the Men of Letters insignia…she’s in this life, Sam, I can feel it. And since dad’s not around anymore…I think it’s our job to make sure she’s ok.”

“And I’d be happy to do that,” Sam insisted. “If only we knew how to find her. But for now, let’s do what we can do—take out this djinn.”

…

The sight of a car in the parking lot of the abandoned warehouse worried you—even if it was a beautiful car.

“Chevy Impala,” you mumbled to yourself. “67, I think.” You shook yourself, moving your mind back to the task at hand, rather than the conversation you were having with yourself. Hopefully the car here didn’t mean that its owners were anywhere near the warehouse—the last thing you needed was some innocent people getting in the way and getting hurt.

Seeing no one around, you hefted your machete and headed inside.

…

Dean gestured at Sam to be quiet as he peaked around a corner. Signaling that the coast was clear, Dean led the way through the warehouse, the silver dagger gripped in his steady hand. Dean was just signaling Sam to wait so he could check around another corner when—

“Hey!”

“Jeez—what?”

Dean stopped himself just short of cutting not a djinn, but a Y/H/C girl wielding a machete that was aimed at him.

“Hey, easy.” Dean took a quick step back, raising the knife and his hands in the air. “We’re not—“ Dean’s words died in his throat when he got a good look at your face.

“Dean,” Sam breather from beside him. “It’s—“

“No kidding.”

“What are you talking about?” You demanded, lowering the machete just a little bit. “Who are you guys, what are you doing here?” You didn’t want for an answer. “You have to get out of here, there’s a—“ your eyes fell to the silver dagger.

Sam’s gaze followed your own to the weapon in Dean’s hand before he looked back at you.

“It’s not a vamp,” he said, gesturing at your machete. “It’s a djinn.”

You lowered your machete completely.

“You’re hunters?”

Dean couldn’t keep the astonished smile off his face.

“And you’re Y/N Winchester.”

The machete was back up in an instant.

“Who are you?” You demanded for the second time. “Men of Letters?”

“Easy, easy,” Dean said, taking a step back as you advanced on them. “I’m not—“

“Guys!”

Sam’s warning proceeded the arrival of the djinn by a split second—just enough time for Dean to dodge the blow that the djinn tried to land on him.

“Hey!” Your call turned the attention of the djinn, who grabbed hold of your arm before you had the chance to move away. He twisted your arm behind your back until your machete was crashing to the ground and you were crying out in pain.

“Here!” Dean’s call came a second before the silver dagger was hurtling at your face. You snatched it up with your free hand and twisted it so it was facing the djinn a moment before you plunged the dagger into the djinn’s side. He howled with pain and released your arm, giving you an opportunity to spin around and stab again, this time in the neck.

The djinn went down without a sound, and the thud of his fall echoed through the empty room. For a long moment, only the sound of heavy breathing could be heard. That is, until Dean took a step towards you.

“Back off!” You yelled, raising the blood-soaked dagger.

“Are you serious?” Dean scoffed. “Hey, I just helped save your life.”

“I’m not going back!” You were starting to look panicked as you backed away from the brothers. “So-so just tell Lady Bevell, or Ketch, or Mick, or whoever recruited you that I’m done! I’m not a part of the Men of Letters, and I never will be!”

“Hey, hey, easy,” Sam soothed. “We’re not Men of Letters.”

“Then how do you know who I am?” You challenged.

“Because of John Winchester.”

Sam’s response froze you in your tracks.

“J…John Winchester?” The dagger was slowly lowering. “You know him? You know where he is?”

The hope in your eyes was like a punch in the gut to both brothers. However, it was gone in an instant and replaced with a harsh suspicion as you raised the knife higher again.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“That’s how we know who you are, kid,” Dean insisted.

“Here—“ Sam’s hand was halfway to his pocket when you pointed your knife at him and he froze. “Easy, ok? I’ll go slow.” He slowly reached in, and you relaxed slightly when he pulled out a small bundle of papers. “We’ve got letters that your mom sent to him, with some pictures.” Sam held them out, and you hesitantly took them, thumbing through the stack while occasionally glancing warily at the boys.

“They stop,” you mumbled.

“What?” Dean asked.

“The letters, they stopped…at least ten years ago.” You looked back up at the boys as you spoke. “Is…is there more, or…”

The despair on the boys’ faces spoke for itself. Your lip was already quivering as you tucked the letters away, still holding onto the knife but keeping it pointed down.

“Is he…is he dead?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. “About ten years ago.”

Sam could tell you were trying not to cry, trying to act like they hadn’t just ripped the rug out from under you.

“You know, I—I didn’t even know him—“ your voice cracked. “But I…gosh, I re-I really wanted to.”

You let Dean take the knife from you after he put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Um, so.” You wiped your hand over your face, trying to brush away any stray tears as you tried valiantly to pull yourself together. “So how did you two…”

“He’s…he’s our dad, too.” Sam said. Your eyes widened slightly as you absorbed this information.

“Wait, you…were you…from his wife?”

“You knew about her?” Dean asked.

“Not really,” you admitted. “John…dad, he…he never liked to talk about his past, but he did mention his wife in one of his letters…he said her death was what made him become a hunter.” Your lips quirked up as you remembered. “He said if I ever saw a yellow-eyed demon, send it to hell for him.” Your eyes went back to Dean and Sam. “Is…is that how he died? Hunting demons?”

“Kind of,” Sam said. “It’s…it’s a long story.”

“What about you?” Dean said suddenly. “If you know Lady Bevell and the rest, and you know they’re here recruiting, then you’ve got something to do with the Men of Letters. Not to mention their insignia on the back of those letters.”

Just the mention of the Men of Letters had you on edge again.

“Maybe we should talk about this at a more secure location,” you suggested. “There’s an old Men of Letters bunker not far from—“ you cut yourself off when you caught the look between the two brothers. “What?”

“We know,” Sam said. “We’ve been living in it.”

Dean noticed your fingers twitch, as if you were thinking about reaching for a weapon.

“And I’m supposed to believe you’re not Men of Letters?”

“Our grandfather was one,” Dean said. “He left us a key.”

You seemed to consider this. Dean watched as your eyes got a faraway look, and he knew you were trying to remember something.

“Mom said that John was from a line of the Men of Letters. It was one of the ways she tried to get him to join.” You shook yourself of the memories. “Fine. I’ll go with you, but that doesn’t mean I trust you.”

Dean couldn’t help the way a smile twitched just slightly on his lips before he dropped it.

“Fair enough.”

…

You were quiet the whole way to the bunker, and although your brothers had questions they sensed you were tired and on edge, so they refrained. Dean kept glancing at you in the rearview mirror the whole way, and he was happy to see the way you slowly put your guard down—mostly out of exhaustion—as you relaxed into a light slumber.

You awoke with a start when Dean pulled into the bunker’s garage, the echo of Baby’s engine reverberating loudly.

“Home sweet home,” Dean crowed as you stepped out of the Impala. You didn’t say a word as he led you inside, but the moment the three of you settled down around the kitchen table, you finally started to talk.

“John met my mother on a hunt. She was just visiting America, vacation or something, but she happened to stumble on a case. They met…and well, I came along.” Both brothers noticed you skipping over the details, for which they were grateful. “But while mom was still pregnant she tried to convince dad to join the Men of Letters.” Sam noticed the way you kept switching between dad and John, as if you either weren’t sure what to say, or you weren’t sure what the boys were comfortable with. “He didn’t like the idea, and he didn’t want that for me, either. They fought about it, and mom left the country to go back to England. She was still pregnant…” Dean saw your fists clench and unclench as you blinked rapidly. “Dad, he…he never saw me in person. Any-anyway, she still wrote to him, and she let me read his letters. She said he deserved that much, at least. Dad was always telling me hunter things—I think he was hoping I’d end up a hunter, like him.”

“Why did you?” Sam spoke up. “I mean, if your mother raised you with the Men of Letters…”

“She kept a lot from me,” you said. “The…morally ambiguous parts.” At Dean’s strange look, you scoffed. “Ok, let’s be real, the straight up evil parts.” This got a grin from both brothers. “But she, uh…” the lightheartedness in the room was gone in an instant. “She died last year, and well…people stopped lying to me. I realized all the crap they really did, and I ran.”

“And what, they’re after you?” Dean questioned. “I mean it’s not like the mafia, right, I mean you can just leave.”

You nearly laughed out loud.

“I wish they were as sloppy as the mafia. No, you can’t just leave, especially not me—just because I’m a kid, doesn’t mean I couldn’t have over a decade of Men of Letters’ secrets stored in my brain. That’s why I came here, I…I wanted to find dad. To find family, protection.” You took a deep breath. “I want to be a hunter, not a Man of Letters.”

Dean found himself speaking before he even thought about what to say.

“Why do you have to be either?”

“What?” You said at the same time as Sam. Dean glanced between you before continuing.

“You’re just a kid—you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You don’t have to be either, you could be whatever you want.”

You blinked up at Dean, as though the thought had never occurred to you.

“I…I don’t…”

“Look,” Dean began. “Don’t decide just now. John may not be here, but we’re family too, kid. There’s an empty bedroom down the hall, you should get some sleep, get settled in…then maybe we could talk about this hunting stuff, ok? The important thing is, you’re safe here. Let’s just say we don’t like the British Men of Letters anymore than you do. They’re not getting in here, and they’re not getting to you. Everything else can wait for later.”

You felt a smile—a true smile—etching its way into your face for the first time in so long. You looked up at this man—your big brother—and you couldn’t help but feel that everything was going to be ok. Whether you decided to hunt or not, or whether the Men of Letters came after you, you knew one thing for sure—

You really had found your family.

Taglist:

@nyotamalfoy @mrvlxgrl @chocorade @aestheticdaisies @inlovewhithafairytale @that-wannabe-vangoghgurl @casmustdiee @987coley @deadlymistletoe

[franziskamylove]

absolutely no way apollo justice knows his birthday. he was the only thing to survive the sahdmadhis' house fire, thalassa disappeared immediately, and dhurke didn't even know jove's real name for 2 decades. god knows how he even immigrated to america without a birth certificate or a passport or like.. anything?? he does not know shit, they probably forged his documents and gave him a fake birthday and now he just celebrates that, unable to shake the empty feeling that its probably not the right date and he will never know for sure. all of his documentation is full of fake information that he cant even amend and he will just have to live with that

[sheepispink]

୨✧୧˚ BUSINESS CLASS ˚୨✧୧

A/N: This is a seperate oneshot that link to my series ‘The Escort Protocol’, but it work as astand alone too! Technically this would take place after chapter 3ish.

✧ series masterlist ✧ resident evil masterlist

✧Summary: You’re Agent Kennedy’s escort, and despite his initial hatred for his job, he finds annoying you a good amusement. Meanwhile he’s the bane of your existence most days. But when it comes to the end of it, you know you have each others back, and besides, an escort always needs to stay beside their agent.

✧ cw: fluff, minor injuries

✧ WC: 2.8k

You may be flying in style but the trip there was far from it. Sat on the metro at 7pm, the soft whirr of the machinery is all you can hear as it takes you to the airport across the state. The flight is an overnight one, annoyingly, and you’ll be departing at 10:30 so you told Leon to be there at 7:30 latest. Luckily for him, he gets driven there in a fancy car whilst you're stuck on this grimey ride with a bunch of men who keep staring at you strangely. This is awful, maybe you shouldn’t have agreed to Leon’s insistence on you being his escort or maybe you should’ve just stolen his gun just for this ride. You’ve got all the documents at the ready in your folder, both passports, licenses and all this other yap.It makes no sense why they need all this but then again, you’re just a measly escort; it’s best you don't ask questions. The passengers look at you like you're crazy when you double check the documents for the 4th time this hour, your hands slipping into the folder over and over again. You know you couldn’t even go back if you forgot some but you like to be extra, extra prepared, or maybe you’re just very nervous of screwing your first proper job. Either way, you’ve got about 2 stops to go now which is good, seeing as you’re right on schedule. Your fingers play the edge of your formal trousers, you’d normally just wear a skirt but you figured it’d be more comfy on a plane and a little more classy. Plus you kind of like this look; it looks like you're his bodyguard if you get an earpiece to match.

Practically, dashing out the doors when it’s at your stop, you make your way up the stairs after scanning your metro card. Flagging down a cab was easier than you expected and you ended up at the airport much earlier too; this could even be a record time.Your phone buzzes as you pull your small suitcase behind you, a look of panic covering your face as you struggle to grab your phone with your hands full. Eventually you place down your folder of documents into the side pocket of your suitcase, something you had practically squealed at when you shopped online for it.

“Hey, you there yet?” Leon’s voice rings out from the phone as you hold it up to your ear.

“Yes, my cab got me here a little faster than expected. Are you close?”

“Uh.. there was an accident on the motorway, but i’ll be quick.”

“Mr Kennedy- I told you to let me book the cab earlier-“ You murmur, trying not to show your annoyance because this would’ve been solved if you handled it.

“Call me Leon and yeah- maybe the cab only came 10 minutes ago but i’ll be there asap. Dont even sweat.”

“But-“

“Oh no- my wifi-“ One of the most experienced agents in the DSO just made fake crackling noises in your ear before hanging up on you. Sometimes you question if your job is even real.

With a groan, you check the time for check in which is only and hour and ten minutes away, but knowing him he’d need a million things before the gate opened. You’d buy some snacks in the meantime but it doesn’t really seem professional to you, and to be honest, airport food is way out of your budget. The small vending machine looks tempting though.

His promise of being there soon turns from 10 minutes to 15 which switches to 20 until it’s growing closer to eight o clock and he’s still not here. You’re typing in his number aggressively at this point, even though you’d never actually raise your voice at him in the slightest. All of a sudden two hands land on your shoulder and you scream, immediately scrambling away with your first instinct to grab the documents and nothing else. You watch Leon burst out laughing at your reaction as your cheeks burn pink— thank god this was a relatively empty area.

“Sir-“ You begin, clenching your teeth as you walk over to put the documents back.

“-Leon, and that was the most entertaining thing i’ve seen all day. Why were you even that terrified?” He chuckles some more, taking a seat in front of the large glass windows that show the planes lined up outside .

“It doesn’t matter anymore. We have twenty minutes until check in and an hour and a half for the gates to open, so you should get anything you want now. Yknow, go toilet, get snacks..”

He crosses his legs and closed the handle on his suitcase, smirking up at you. “Or you could go get it for me.”

“Or I can go get them for you.” You mimic in a high pitched voice, a pissed look on your face now that you’re halfway across the airport as you wait in the fast food line. Of course he wanted a milkshake and chips right before the plane ride and of course he’d use the fact he paid for your ticket against you. For being in a fancy airport, the service sure isn’t good and you’re sure you’ll be the last to board at this point. Finally, you get the milkshake cup and fries, walking 10 minutes until you find him listening to music whilst watching the planes get prepared for departure. You gently poke his shoulder before placing the food on the armrest of the chair he’s sat in.

“One milkshake and one fries, sir.”

“Leon, and thanks.” He pops a fry into his mouth and then picks up another, smushing it against your lips with a smirk.

“Your payment, escort.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and munch down the fry before taking a seat in the chair beside him. “It’s not escort- and thanks, i guess? Anyway, pass me your luggage i’ll go put it through.”

He hands you his luggage which weighs a ton for some reason, and you wheel it over to the conveyor belts. Whilst you scan it in you let out a long sigh, this was going to be a long trip with him like this. Yeah, he was as strong and productive as an actual agent now but it doesn’t mean he’s actually going to act like one. When you return, he’s already sending you off again to buy him something else and something else until you feel like a tourist at this point. Why does a man need this many snacks for a 6 hour flight??

You’re bringing him the last thing he asked for, a small gift for his friend Claire who he knows is in the area. A small smile rises on your lips as you look at the one you picked out; most of these brands would be disgusting but as a girl, you know exactly what any girl would want. Chocolates—the fanciest around of course. The happiest person alive is who you would be if someone got you this; you’re practically salivating at the thought as you spot him sitting in his lounge chair. Placing the box of chocolates down, he gives you another cheeky grin and you mentally groan, waiting for his next request.

“Throw this in the bin while you’re up?”

Internally, you’re fuming as you step towards the bin nearby until you hear the strange whirring, your head turning to the source of the noise. An out of control mobility chair slams straight into you, causing you to fall to the floor with a groan. You rub the back of your head which was thankfully intact even though you couldn’t say quite the same for your shattered glasses or the large cut on your hand from said glasses

Your teeth grit at the sudden pain, cutting into the flesh of your lips as you look down at yourself. Well shit. The boarding gates were opening in half an hour and you were sitting on the musty floor with his trash smeared on you.

“Hey—escort?”

He turns around from the loud crash sound, his expression filling with amusement until he realises you’re actually hurt and then he’s throwing his headphones off and quickly making his way over to you. He feels a wave of guilt in his stomach as he helps you up, one hand rubbing your shoulder while the other picks up your injured hand carefully. “You’re okay, I'll go buy you some bandages, okay? Sit down okay? I’ll be quick, promise.”

You hold the handkerchief he kept in his pocket to your hand whilst he practically runs for the nearest pharmacy, speechless and unable to respond. With your spare hand you rummage through your own small bag, looking for your spare glasses. You were thankful you had extra obviously, but you loved that old pair and unfortunately it was in the bin now. You had one job and you just had to go mess it up, didn’t you? Anyone would know to actually look around when they walk, and now you had a damn agent fetching things for you. Now you just felt like shit not to mention you looked like it too. Maybe you should’ve quit this job, you had barely the skills for it—

A warm coat settles on your shoulders before gentle hands take yours. He sits you on the benches there, taking a seat beside you before he rips the packet of bandages open with his teeth, his eyes filled with guilt and concern as he wraps the thick fabric over the cut.

“Your um, your outfit got a little messy from uh.. my trash.” He murmurs as he pulls the collar of the leather to hide your chest a little more before sitting back, looking unusual without his own signature one. The one that sits on your shoulders now.

“You really don't have to I-“

“Shut up, you got hurt, I’m a damn agent— I can throw out my own trash.” He looks like he had just run you over himself and even though you kind of want to just go home and hide under your covers, you can't help but smile just a little.

“It's not anyone's fault. It was just an accident, no one could have seen that.”

“Will you be okay without glasses by the way?”

“I have spares.”

You pull on your old glasses, a little nerdy but not the worst and he grins at the sight.

“You know, if you weren’t so organised I'd make sure you slapped me in payback.”

You give him a playful poke, and finally let a grin rise. “I can't do that anyway?”

Eventually you’re waiting beside Leon to enter the boarding gate. His eyebrows raise in amusement and he chuckles when he sees you watching in awe at how the pair of you skip the security line due to your status. Your eyes widen and you practically turn your whole body to watch all the other passengers get swatted down, something you’d be in if it weren’t for Leon. He likes watching your reactions, it’s very amusing to him. Especially your face when he bandaged up your hand; it was all sheepish and ready to be scolded for negligence or the like. He can't help but rest his arm on your head; the height difference is not that big, but he’d get a cramp in his arm if it meant seeing you hide the glare you want to give him behind a professional calm.

“Shocked? We’re allowed in first with no fuss; just DSO perks.” He winks at you and ruffles your hair before letting his arm down as the gate begins to let first class passengers through.

You take charge as his escort, showing the documents and getting both boarding tickets checked before leading him through onto the actual plane. You can practically feel his smirk as he watches you take in the sight of first class with awe. But you’re in business class today because you’re his escort and luckily this airline has those fancy business seats in the middle. You finally reach your area, taking his backpack off of him and placing it in the overhead luggage. You place your own handbag underneath the seat; there's a ton of things useful for every situation. With a quick glance, you peek around at the perks of business class with awe. It looks so clean and fancy, even if it's a little less secluded than first. You turn to see him already getting comfortable in his large seat, reclining a little before picking up the remote for the tv. After a quick rummage in your bag for headphones, you sink into the plush seat of the chair and try to hide the obvious excitement of it all. Though, you lock in quickly as you remember you still have lots of work to do and a schedule to finalise for him. Damn, sometimes you think you should be upgraded to an assistant.

It’s one thirty am when he pokes your shoulder, trying to get your attention whilst not disturbing anyone. He watches as you shift your headphones to rest on your neck before looking at him.

“What's wrong?” You whisper, the way you tilt your head is very amusing to his tired mind.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” He asks, quite curious although he has a bunch of other questions like if that nasty cut on your hand is feeling better. But he’s not used to such blatant displays of care; he’d barely cared about himself up until you came along and forced him to.

“No. I can't really sleep on planes.” He hears you whisper, and for some reason there's a twinge of guilt in his gut at your words. You look exhausted from everything today. He barely lifted a finger whilst you handled the entire trip and, whilst it was fun and you’re being paid, he feels a little bad.

“Well, are you hungry?”

“…I.. No- no I'm fine.”

You slip on your headphones once he nods and turns back to the movie he watches, making sure to dim your screen as much as to not disturb others. But then again, this is business class, you doubt they can be bothered by you with their dividers up. You’re tapping away at some new things, reaching to sip your water only to unfortunately find that it’s empty. Though before you can mourn it, a familiar hand places a bottle, snacks and an energy drink onto the pull out table you had propped your laptop up on.

You glance up at him with surprise before mouthing a ‘Thank you’ with a small but bright smile. He just gives you a quick nod before turning away, back to his movie.

Soon enough, a soft snore rings out and you’re met by the sight of Leon’s cheek smushed against his hand as he dozes off. In fact, pretty much everyone is asleep apart from you. A small feeling inside you tells you that the flight attendants probably think you’re insane but you brush it off quickly as you reach into the complimentary bag they provide for business class. You pull out the soft blanket and drape it over him before reaching over to turn the bright screen of his tv off. One last glance at his drowsy form has you smiling as one would do with a cute animal, you’ve never seen someone who is usually cocky this… squishy. You almost try to poke them when you hear the steps of a flight attendant and quickly turn back to your laptop, a furious wave of embarrassment filling you. Maybe you should get some sleep too and it’s only a few hours now until you arrive.

You let out a long sigh, getting up to head to the bathroom, unaware that Leon’s eyes had peeked open when you got up. He had been half awake since you rustled the complimentary bag; he has always been a light sleeper. He peeks over at your laptop, tempted to snoop before he sees the small notes app you have pinned in the corner. It’s a bunch of random things, half of which he had no idea was relevant to your work or the DSO. But then again, when did he ever actually do his paperwork? A small text catches his eye though, the bottom line and typed in only 10 minutes ago.

‘Buy Leon a travel pillow.’

He can't help but grin at that, and the bunch of other random notes you have about the job including his coffee order. Don't get him wrong, he hates this job but that doesn’t mean he can't enjoy it from time to time.

[lunarmothim]

shadowbound- john price x reader

part i: prague - the patch had been left on your doorstep two months ago, the threat clear. it was a warning, the only headstart you were going to get.

word count: 4.4k tags/warnings: language, assassination attempt, abduction, brief torture, allusions to ghost's backstory. price is an asshole and reader is a menace. afab reader.

notes: is it overly ambitious of me to start two series at the same time? probably. am i gonna do it anyway? absolutely. idk what this is really, i just wanted to do a bit of a reader on the lam kinda thing, bit of a hunter/hunted dynamic ;)

this has been edited! about 200 extra words, bit of clean up. chapter 2 will also be getting some edits for continuity :)

Prague had been an impulse decision. A dart thrown at a map, a large city with a population of over a million and a booming tourism industry, plenty of places to hide. A fake passport had gotten you over the border of Czechia easily enough, but with how far you wanted- needed- to run, only the real deal was getting you back out.

Which is how you find yourself sitting at a quaint cafe on the river, exposed and anxious, trying your level best to pretend to be a normal person, a regular nine-to-fiver just enjoying a cup of overpriced and overly sweet coffee and a Danish the kind cashier had sweet-talked you into buying. The key word being trying, because you're anything but a nine-to-fiver- you're not normal, and you shouldn't be here, out in the open and so fucking vulnerable.

You need the documents you'd paid way too much for way too badly to leave, though.

So you sit there, sweeping the area again as you sip your coffee, willing your rapidly bouncing knee and the fingers tapping against perforated cast aluminum to be fucking still. You try to quell the rapid staccato of your heartbeat drumming painfully against your ribs, to fill your lungs with careful, measured inhales, to expel the anxiety in each exhale. It doesn't work. It never works. Your knee continues to bounce, your fingers continue to tap, your eyes continue to dart across every face you see until you settle on them.

Two men sitting at a table nearby, clearly trying to blend in just as much as you are but are far too tense for the early morning ambiance of a quiet Prague cafe, and oh god, are they looking at you? They're dressed casually, but the way they hold themselves screams Military. Danger. Your shoulders tense as you lift your gaze from them to pretend you're just looking around, but your knee finally goes still as you prepare yourself to run.

Even more concerning than the men, though, is the slight glint of light you see atop one of the buildings across the street.

Fuck. You're moving without thinking about it, clearing the railing surrounding the patio half a second before the shot splits the air and a bullet lodges in the wall near where your head had just been. Startled screams, muffled by the blood rushing in your ears, shatter the still tranquility of the morning, and you have to duck as the brickwork of the wall you're sprinting past explodes under the impact of another bullet.

Rapid heartbeat pulsing more adrenaline through your veins, you duck down the nearest alleyway you pass, another shot striking the ground behind you as you run full-tilt toward the railing you can see at the far end of the alley, blocking the short drop to the river below. A gruff voice yells something unintelligible behind you, but you pay it no mind as you jump, planting a sure foot on the iron and launching into the air. You suck in as deep a breath as you can manage, straightening your entire body into one sleek line as you plunge down into the icy water of the Vltava.

The shock of the cold nearly punches the air right back out of your lungs. You fight the heavy drag of your clothes as you swim up, gasping in a breath when your head breaks the surface, opening your eyes to look around for your escape route. You're relatively safe for now, the sniper's sightline blocked by the buildings lining the river and the levees along the bank, but you only have so long before they find a new vantage point and a lot less cover in the water.

The chatter of your teeth aches deep in your jaw as you swim to the opposite side of the river, hauling yourself up the levee. Ignoring the startled noises of the people walking along the bank you spare one last glance behind you, scanning the horizon for another scope flash and disappearing into the crowd when you don't find one.

You keep your head on a swivel as you wind through the gaggle of tourists and locals alike, people side-stepping out of your way and giving you curious looks as they take in your sopping state. You glance at each of them in turn, looking for anyone who lingers a moment too long, fully aware of your environment even as your mind races a mile a minute. Given how easily you'd been found at the cafe, it feels safe to assume your apartment had been compromised- not that you kept much there, your important belongings packed away in a backpack at the train station for situations just like this one. In that vein, it also raises the possibility that your contact had been burned, too, and now you were going to have to figure out another way out of this damn country. That is a complication, an irritation, but also a problem for another day.

Right now, you need to get your bag and get the hell out of this city.

The train station is relatively packed this time of day, people boarding and unboarding en masse on their way to work or wherever else they spend their days, and it's easy to blend in despite your still dripping clothes, weaving through the crowd until you reach a tall row of orange lockers. You fit the key into the lock on yours when you crouch down, pulling out your go bag and giving it a quick once over before zipping back up and tossing the key into the bottom of the locker.

With your lifeline secured, you allow yourself the tiniest sigh of relief- you're one step closer to freedom. You'll get to a different city, figure out the passport situation once you're somewhere safe.

Slinging your pack over your shoulder, you push up to your feet, turning back toward the exit… and freezing.

You're staring down the barrel of a gun, and one of the men from the cafe is holding it.

Wide eyes travel up the suppressor, over the sleek black body of the pistol, and up to assess the man, quickly taking in stern blue eyes under a black toque tugged snugly down to his ears, mouth set into a scowl amidst a questionable beard choice, brown mutton chops shot through with salt and pepper. He has a broad build- broad shoulders, broad chest, with brawny arms and thick, powerful thighs. He looks like a man who could crack you in half without breaking a sweat, and his partner, a few steps behind him with a weapon and a questionable hair choice of his own, is built the same.

Well, you can't help but think as you slowly raise your hands to show that they're empty, if I'm about to die at least my executioners are nice to look at.

"Who are you?" The man in the back with the mohawk barks in a thick Scottish brogue, piercing blue eyes fixed as firmly on you as his gun is.

"Does it matter?" you answer carefully, and you can tell they're not expecting an American accent by the way Mutton Chops inhales sharply, drawing your gaze back to him, to the pistol still pointed between your eyes. "You can't detain me like this, I've done nothing wrong."

"You were shot at in broad daylight on a crowded street," Mutton Chops growls back, and you can't help but flinch at that. Now that you're not in active danger- from that threat, at least- you wonder if anyone had gotten hurt in your attempts to get away from the sniper. "You can imagine why we might have some questions. Startin' with your name."

His tone suggests there's no room for argument but you mull it over for a moment all the same, narrowing your eyes at him. Blood zings copper against your tongue as you chew the inside of your cheek, considering whether you should be honest, lie, or just keep your mouth shut.

The decision is made for you when Mutton Chops' finger shifts on the trigger guard. You spit your name out through gritted teeth, eyes flitting between both men as you weigh your odds of getting away if you just hit them with your backpack and make a run for it. Low, if your assessment of them at the cafe had been correct and they are military. You'd probably be dead before you got the first strap off your shoulder.

"Why were ye bein' shot at?" Mohawk again, eyes cold and calculating as he sizes you up. He doesn't look like he knows what to make of you or this situation you'd all found yourselves in.

"Ask the cunt who shot at me," you snap, and you regret it in an instant when the barrel of the gun closes those last couple of inches to press to your forehead. You shrink back at the cold, unforgiving kiss of steel, trying to game some semblance of distance, but all it does is bump your backpack against the lockers behind you. This draws attention to your pack, and before you can blink Mutton Chops is grabbing you by the arm and yanking you around, pulling your backpack off with one hand and tossing it to Mohawk, the other firm between your shoulderblades as he shoves you into the lockers. Fuck. It takes everything in you to keep your cool, turning your head to look at them from the corner of your eye. "Fuckin' hell, at least ask before you manhandle me-"

"Shut up." The hand on your back pushes harder, forcing you to exhale with a soft wheeze. Mohawk is digging through your backpack, tossing your belongings carelessly to the floor, and your heart leaps into your throat when he pulls out your gun. The suppressed pistol touches the back of your neck in response to the discovery, stormy blue eyes meeting what little of yours he can see.

"What's this, then?" Mohawk asks, holding up your P890 with a raised brow and a harsh frown.

"You were holdin' one not two minutes ago and you don't know what a gun is?" Pissing them off is a bad, bad idea, but you can't help the sarcastic comment that slips from your mouth. Mohawk's lips press into a tight, irritated line, and the gun digs in- right at the base of your skull, where your spine meets your cranium. It'll be quick at least, painless probably, but right now that bite of metal hurts. "Ow, fuck-"

"Quiet." Mutton Chops pushes harder, and you whimper as the metal of what feels like a combination lock digs painfully into your chest. From the corner of your eye you see him glance at Mohawk, still throwing your scant belongings to the ground. "Gonna guess you don't have a permit for that thing?"

"Can't be quiet and answer your questions at the same time," you wheeze, planting your hands against the lockers. The slight push against the metal to give your chest room to expand properly pushes you back into the gun at your neck. "Make up your mind-"

Something dark, something dangerous, something that screams at you to run, run fast and run fucking far, flashes in his narrowed eyes, a storm over the ocean. This is it, you think, squeezing your own shut in response as the gun digs further into your spine. I went and ran my stupid mouth, pushed too hard, and now I'm going to die for it.

But the shot never comes. Both men are dead silent, and when you dare to slowly crack your eyes open to look, you see why. A circular patch sits in Mohawk's hand, a grey remnant of your past life with worn stitching where your thumb had rubbed over it repeatedly. The patch that had been left on your doorstep two months ago, the threat clear.

It was a warning, the only head start you were going to get. It was all they'd left, not even a note to tell you why- though you could guess- but you'd heard your commander's voice in your head clear as day. I'm comin' for ya, and I like to play with my food. Run.

"We need to leave, now," Mutton Chops barks suddenly, and you barely have time to process before his gun is off the back of your neck and the hand between your shoulderblades is grabbing you roughly by the bicep. A yelp of pain and surprise is ripped from your lungs when he hauls you away from the lockers, leaving your belongings scattered across the platform as he drags you toward the stairs leading back up to the street.

"Get off me!" Your angry shout goes entirely ignored, both by your unexpected captors and the people passing by that avert their gazes at the sight of their weapons. His hand is a vice on your arm, pulling you along like you weigh nothing despite your attempts to dig in your heels. Too open up there, too exposed. "Fucking let go-"

"Not a chance." All of the air rushes out of you when Mutton Chops slams you face-first into the tile wall of the staircase so hard you're sure the handrail will leave a bruise across your stomach. He holsters his gun just long enough to wrench both of your arms behind your back and secure your wrists with zip-cuffs, and the fierce, raw anger in his eyes that you catch in your periphery has you shrinking in on yourself, making yourself small under his fury. "You're gonna come with us, and if you don't wanna tell us why you have a fuckin' Shadow Company patch on ya, we'll make you tell us."

Your mouth goes dry at the implication. "Torture is a war crime."

"I prefer the term enhanced interrogation." With that he yanks you away from the wall again, dragging you kicking and fighting up the last few stairs to where a van is waiting on the curb. He's not nice about it when he slides open the side door and throws you bodily into the interior, and the only thing that keeps you from slamming into the far side of the van is a pair of legs belonging to another man who lets out a surprised noise. "Bag her."

The door slams, and for the second time in what feels like hours but has probably only been ten, fifteen minutes at most, there are unwanted hands on you.

These hands are surprisingly gentle though, lifting your head to fit a stale-smelling black bag over your head, leaving you bound and blinded. Defenseless.

"Sorry about this, love," a kind voice murmurs, but you know better than to trust it- you've seen the good cop, bad cop routine before. They must run it often if, even in the confusion you'd seen on his face when the van door opened, he'd immediately fallen into his role.

"Go fuck yourself," you growl, twisting at the zip-cuffs. You're not getting out of them, but it makes you feel a little better to pretend.

"Watch yer ankles, Gaz, she's a feisty one," the Scot's voice sounds like it's off somewhere in front of you, the passenger seat maybe, an edge of amusement in his tone. Gaz. One name out of three. A nickname, maybe, or a callsign. "Bit like a feral cat, might bite."

"You can fuck right off, too," you spit at him, tugging more intently against the zip-cuffs binding your wrists. You should really quit while you're ahead, shut up before they decide it's too much trouble and just shoot you and dump you back in the Vltava, but you're cold, you're wet, and you're pissed.

Maybe feral cat wasn't too far off.

"Watch it, princess, or you'll get some duct tape too." The new voice has you stopping cold. Definitely English, deep and gravelly and edged with a deadpan kind of danger that has the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Something tells you that Mutton Chops' handling of you had been a gentle tickle compared to what this man could do to you.

But your mother had always said you had more guts than sense. "Eat a bag of dicks, you fucking cunt-"

"Kid's got a foul mouth on her," Mutton Chops' voice filters back from the front, and you growl under your breath. "Duct tape's not a bad idea."

"Got some righ' here, Captain," the Scot says cheerfully, and you bristle at how easily you'd been dismissed as a threat if they feel comfortable enough to joke around in front of you. You force yourself to focus on the second identifier instead- a rank. Definitely military, then.

"So what's the story here, anyway?" the one called Gaz asks, and you feel a boot nudge your leg. The tap has you growling, squirming your body across the uncomfortable metal of the van's floor to get away from it. He hauls you right back with an almost embarrassing ease. "We come here to meet an informant and end up with a random American?"

"This." The rip of velcro, and a sharp whistle cuts through the vehicle, followed by a quiet grunt.

"What's a Shadow doin' in Prague?" the deep voice rumbles.

"That's what we're gonna find out."

When the van stops you focus on the opening and subsequent slamming of doors. The side door slides open and you lunge immediately in the direction of the breeze you feel against your skin- you don't make it very far before hands are grabbing you again. Your feet are barely under you before they're dragging you over what feels like loose gravel, up a short set of steps, over a threshold, up a longer set of steps. Safehouse. Two floors at least.

You're shoved bodily into a chair, and you squint against the sudden intrusion of light as the bag is ripped off your head, wincing when several strands of hair go with it. Your gaze flits around the room, skating over the four men that come into focus in favor of cataloguing every minute detail of the room from the frigid metal beneath your thighs to how the small space is devoid of anything but a table shoved against the wall next to the door.

Once you've taken in what little you can of your surroundings, you let yourself look at the men. The first to catch your gaze is Mutton Chops- the captain- towering over you, brawny arms folded over his chest. He's flanked to his left by Mohawk, leering at you with a wolfish grin that shows far too many teeth, and to the right a tall black man with dark eyes shadowed by a faded blue ball cap.

A few steps behind them all is the largest man you've ever seen. Built like a brick shithouse, you have to crane your head back until it hurts to see his face, and a violent shiver rolls straight down your spine when all you see is dead, empty eyes staring back at you through the holes in a piece of skull sewn into a black balaclava.

Fear twists like a hot knife in your gut- you know just looking at him that all the others had been child's play so far. This one looks like he could crush the life out of you with one large hand. He looks like he'd enjoy it.

Your train of thought is broken when the captain crouches down to your eye level, and you have to force yourself to drag your gaze away from the man in the skull mask to meet his cold blue stare. "Here's how this is gonna work. You're gonna tell us why you have this-" he holds up the patch, making sure you can see the rook and spade logo stitched into it- "truthfully. If you lie, if you refuse to talk, we'll have to resort to more… encouraging methods."

"Given how you treated me on the platform, I'm surprised you didn't want to start with that," you taunt, and at the same time you want to kick yourself- tell yourself to shut the fuck up because what exactly do you hope to accomplish by continuing to rile up men who aren't above torturing you for answers? You must have a fucking death wish. Still, you can't stop yourself from sticking your foot further into your mouth, lowering your voice and leaning closer to his face. "Bet you get off on that shit, don't you, Captain ? Pushing women around, trying to scare 'em. Hurting them." Something flashes in his eyes before they harden into steel, fingers crushing the patch into his palm.

"Last chance."

"Fuck you."

"Have it your way. Ghost." The captain rises, nodding to the man in the skull mask before leading the other two out of the room. The door slams shut behind them, leaving you alone with the one he'd called Ghost.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. "What's with the mask? You ugly under there or somethin'?" The only response you get is dead silence, not even the sound of his footsteps as he walks over to the table and starts laying out his weapons. You imagine he's probably heard the question a million times, but that doesn't keep you from poking, distracting yourself from the leather bundle he's currently rolling out across the table. "I get it, I guess. If I was torturing innocent people I wouldn't want them to see my face, either."

"Never met an innocent Shadow." In this enclosed space you can almost feel the deep timbre of his voice vibrating in your bones. He's slow, methodical as he runs his fingers along the tools he's laid out, picking some of them up and examining them before putting them down again. What he's doing isn't lost on you- he wants you to see. An intimidation tactic, one you'll never tell him is working. "You have until I turn around to change your mind and start talkin'."

"Are you deaf? I've been doing nothing but talking-"

"Defense mechanism, yeah?" He picks up a wicked looking combat knife, turning it over in his gloved hands. You watch the motion, note the pattern of bones on the back of the gloves to match his mask- at least he's committed to the aesthetic. "You're scared, so you're runnin' your mouth. Seen it before. Everyone breaks eventually."

Satisfied with his choice he turns slowly, those dead eyes meeting yours again. He's idly running a finger along the edge of the blade, gaze boring into yours with an intensity that makes your earlier interaction with the captain feel like a childhood staring contest.

"Maybe I had it wrong earlier," you muse, tipping your head back to keep your eyes on his as he stalks toward you, ignoring that twist of fear, shoving it down to a rolling boil in your gut. "Maybe you're the one that gets off on hurting women."

You aren't expecting a reaction- nothing you've said so far has gotten anything more than cold indifference from him, but that stops him in his tracks. You can see the line of his shoulders go taut, a tense muscle ticking in his jaw beneath the mask as he processes what you've said, and the brief flash of something you see in his eyes feels almost familiar.

It almost looks like fear.

You can't help but prod at it.

"What, I hit a nerve?"

You must have, because he closes that last bit of distance in two long strides to crouch down in front of you, the hand not holding the knife grabbing you by the jaw with bruising force. His eyes are narrowed and absolutely frigid- whatever you'd seen there before is gone, replaced by a fury that, were you standing, would bring you to your knees.

"I don't get off on it," he growls, fingers squeezing into your cheeks like he's trying to impress his fingerprints into your teeth. "I'm doin' my job. That job is to deal with threats." You can't help a gasp when he releases you with a solid push of your head, but he doesn't stand up.

Instead, he brings that knife up to drag it slowly along your thigh- not enough to break the skin, but to remind you that it's there. The promise of what's to come if you don't start telling him exactly what he wants to hear.

It's a familiar threat, and a tired sort of resignation settles over you as you watch the blade catch on your jeans, ripping a tiny hole in the dark denim. The tip presses slowly into your thigh until flesh splits beneath the steel, and oh god it burns, but you just drag a sharp breath through your teeth at the sight of the blood beading on your skin, staining the steel crimson.

He stops there, just the tip of the blade pressed into your skin, his eyes burning holes into your skull. "Tell me 'bout the patch."

For the first time since they'd taken you in the train station, you're silent. He takes it for what it is, and you exhale slowly as he drags the knife down your thigh. Steady, perfect. It'll scar nicely, you think, cocking your head to the side as the blade digs in slightly deeper near your knee. Not like the ugly, unsightly scars the commander had left across your torso and back.

Suddenly the blade flicks up to your chin, pressing into the soft flesh and forcing you to tilt your head up until you meet his eyes again. His stare is almost curious, detached but still scrutinizing, searching for something. You stare right back, wondering what he's looking for, what he sees.

Ghost is a lot harder to read than the captain and the Scot had been, more of an unknown. You don't like unknowns, don't like anything you can't predict, and you think you could spend years trying to decipher even some small part of the man in front of you and get absolutely no where. On a primal level, that irritating little instinct scratching at your hindbrain, that terrifies you.

"Hm." The noise draws your attention, eyes refocusing slightly on the skull mask in front of you. You watch wordlessly as he rises to his feet again, setting the knife on the table and rapping twice on the door. You can hear hushed whispers when it opens, see the captain shaking his head. The door shuts again, and your eyes track Ghost picking something else up from the table- the hood you'd worn in here.

He drops it unceremoniously over your head before noisily cleaning up his tools and leaving you alone in the dark.

part one - masterlist - part two

please like/reblog if you enjoyed! :) top/bottom divider by: me line divider by: @/saradika-graphics

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Shalom Yoran 

Selim Sznycer, aka Shalom Yoran, was a Polish Jew who escaped the mass murder of all the Jews in his town, including his parents, and wanted to fight Nazis. However, when he tried to join a Russian resistance group, they rejected him for being Jewish, which led him to create his own militia of 200 Jews who hid in the forest and carried out acts of sabotage against the Nazi occupiers.

Selim Sznycer was born in Poland in 1925. After the Nazis invaded Warsaw, the Sznycer family fled to a different part of Poland, the town of Kurzeniec, occupied by the Soviets. But in 1941 the Germans invaded the Soviet Union. and despite their best efforts to escape the Nazis, Selim and his family found themselves living under Nazi occupation once again.

The Jews of Kurzeniec were forced into a squalid ghetto. Not far away was a Russian POW camp, where the prisoners were suffering from abuse, starvation and disease. Local Soviet partisans were forming militias to fight the German occupiers, and Selim heard about the nascent resistance movement from an escaped Russian POW.

The day before Yom Kippur in 1942, Nazi high command gave orders to “liquidate” the ghetto – meaning kill all the inhabitants. From a contact in the resistance, Selim learned of the horrific plan, and he and his brother were able to escape from the ghetto and hide in a nearby barn owned by Polish peasant, Ignalia Biruk, who took in the terrified Jewish boys at great risk to herself. From his hiding place, he heard the sounds of all the Jews in the ghetto being massacred, including his own parents. He later remembered his mother’s last words to him, “She told me, ‘Go fight… try to save yourselves, avenge our death and tell the world what happened.’ These are the words that guided me through that dark period, what gave me strength to fight, and what inspires me to share my story today.”

That winter, Selim, his brother and three friends hid in the Polish forest near the Sang river. They survived the brutal cold by building an underground bunker. A few kindly locals periodically gave them some food, but most of their provisions were stolen.

Selim wanted to fight the Nazis who had taken everything from him, and in 1943 he and his small group approached a Russian partisan unit, but they wouldn’t allow the five Jews to join because they had no weapons. Desperate to join the fight, Selim persisted, and finally the unit commander told him that if they returned to Kurzeniec and blew up the Nazi munitions factory, they would be allowed to join the resistance group. The Russians assumed the Jewish boys couldn’t possibly survive the dangerous mission, but they carried out the bombing successfully and returned to the forest, only to be told the real reason they were rejected: they were Jewish.

Undeterred, Selim wandered the forest in nearby Belarus looking for Jews who wanted to fight. He formed an all-Jewish resistance unit featuring 200 fighters. After the Germans were defeated at Stalingrad, Selim and his group harassed and sabotaged the retreating German soldiers. They blew up bridges and railroad supply lines. In 1944, Belarus was liberated by the Soviets, and Selim and the other Jewish resistance fighters went from the firing pan to the fire: they were drafted into the Red Army, where they were viciously persecuted for being Jewish, enduring beatings and near-starvation. Selim managed to escape and flee to Italy, where he illegally fought with the British Army until the war ended in 1945.

Selim used a fake British passport to emigrate to Palestine, then occupied by the British who severely restricted the number of Jews who could enter the territory. Like many Jews, when Selim got to Israel he dropped his Polish name and started using his Hebrew name: Shalom Yoran. He joined the Israeli Army and became a decorated Air Force officer. He built a successful career developing the Israeli aircraft industry. He was a founding member of the Museum of Jewish Heritage in New York and a governor of Tel Aviv university.

In 2003, Selim/Shalom published “The Defiant,” a memoir about his experience as a resistance fighter during the war. He dedicated the book to his parents. Shalom Yoran died in 2013 at age 88, survived by his beloved wife Varda, and their children and grandchildren.

For fighting Nazis and avenging his parents’ deaths, we honor Shalom Yoran as this week’s Thursday Hero.