#Sanität

[itsyveinthesky]

Wie absolut strunzdumm sind die Leute eigentlich.

Ich komme auch wegen der ansteigenden Gewalt gegen Feuerwehrleute (!!) echt nicht klar. WTF ey. Jedes Jahr verdummt diese Gesellschaft mehr.

[schnaf]

heute ist kein guter tag um über fußball nachzudenken. eher ein tag zum vergessen lol. aber damit eben doch wieder denkanstoß.

ich fragte mich in letzter zeit immer wieder.... warum ist es nicht so wie es früher war? ich supporte den verein immer noch, hab da immer noch die connection, das schon. aber... spieler. früher habe ich spieler gestannt. heute nicht mehr. und mir wirds immer wieder bewusst und dann guck ich mir unsere aktuellen spieler an und denk mir "hm joa ders ganz brauchbar" aber letztendlich stanne ich doch nicht, weil ichs nicht fühle.

und heute wurde mir sehr bewusst, warum. weil die aufm papier "ganz brauchbar" aussehen, aber dann.... stehen die aufm platz. punkt. ende. mehr nicht. dIE STEHEN DA RUM und sind so "uuuuh ein ball, wer geht da wohl hin, oooooh ich bin sehr gespannt" und keiner rührt sich auch nur n bisschen.

man kann spiele verlieren. oh junge, hätt ich n problem damit, würde ich woanders stannen. aber man kann halt auch spiele verlieren und trotzdem stolz rausgehen. aber nicht mit dieser mannschaft. das war schon letzte saison so, bis hin zum klassenerhalt nach abpfiff aka klassenerhalt dank h*ffenheim und jetzt? jetzt spielen die gegen ne mannschaft, die zwei klassen tiefer spielt........... und tun NIX.

also abgesehen dass die saison ein heidenspaß wird................

vor n paar jahren, als ich noch spieler stannte, war die mannschaft nicht gut. spielerisch gabs da nicht sooooooo viel zu holen. aber sie konnten kämpfen. sie hatten bock. sie konnten beißen. und dafür hab ich sie gestannt. heute? keinerlei stanmaterial.

[ortus-argentum]

Sanitätsbarren Tragen

Zu Viert Ein Ziel Jeder einzelne Die Welt auf dem Rücken

Der Fünfte Verblutet Das Feuer unserer Freundschaft Scharlachrote Bäche Auf dem getragenen Altar

Auf Drei Ein Ruck Auf schmerzen gespuckt

Nur noch Zwei Schritte zu Robben Verzweifelt dem Ende Entgegen

Das Ganze, Eine Ewigkeit

-----------------------------------

Original Art and Poem by Ortus Argentum Ein Gedicht über Kameradschaft und Krieg

[feuerwehren-org]

In der Reportage "Mensch Retter" begleitet RTLZWEI Rettungs- und Ärzteteams in ihrem beruflichen Alltag und geht auf die Menschen ein.

[mhmedia]

Vor 20 Jahren - Der Verteidigungsminister im Feld

Twitter Instagram Soundcloud YouTube Es gab Feuer, Rauch, Sonnenschein, Natur, “verletzte” Soldaten und Peter Struck. Der Verteidigungsminister wechselte selten den Gesichtsausdruck und bei bestem Wetter gaben die Soldaten alles um diese Übung für ihren Chef spannend aussehen zu lassen. Peter Struck (SPD) besucht die Unteroffiziersschule der Luftwaffe in Appen, während seiner Sommertour am…

[der-saisonkoch]

Bernd - Unfall

Bernd – Unfall

[endlich-spricht-es-jemand-aus]

...Denn RETTUNG kommt aus heiterem Himmel ! 8-O

TATÜ-TATA !!! WEG DA !!!

Platz da !!! Aus dem Weg !!!

Die GEWALTSAMEN Retter sind da !!!

8-O

Die gewaltbereiten Sani-TÄTER bahnen sich rücksichtslos ihren Weg zum verantwortungsfreien "Opfer" !!!

Unfälle kommen aus heiterer Waghalsigkeit !

Schließlich ist der Mensch das EINZIGE Wesen, das KEINE Eigenverantwortlichkeit kennt.

Gewaltsame Sani-Täter und verantwortungslose "Opfer" ... im Dienste der allgemeinen Massenpsychose mit gesellschaftlichem Auftrag !

Mal ordentlich gleichgetaktet durchdrehen... um den Götzen der Haftung zu huldigen, und vor dem Pflicht-Denken abbittend zu Kreuze zu kriechen. Das geht selbstredend am besten, wenn man für Eigenverwantwortlichkeit BLIND ist, und für ehrliche Ängste zu UNbewußt / UNachtsam !!!

Von wegen “Unfälle kommen aus HEITEREM Himmel” ! 8-P PAH !

Ich habe echt Angst, Ihr redet Euch diese unfaire Manipulationen sogar WIRKLICH ernsthaft ein. 8-o

8-(

Bitte übernehmt VORHER so etwas wie Eigenverantwortlichkeit …oder steht wenigstens HINTERHER, wenn Ihr sogenannte “Unfälle” endlich provoziert habt, auch dazu. OK ?

Eigenverantwortung hat NICHTS mit HAFTUNG zu tun !

[mapecl-stories]

Der zerstörerische Aufprall: Ein ungeklärter Unfall erschüttert Wiefelstede

Der Tag begann in Wiefelstede, einem beschaulichen Ort im Landkreis Ammerland, mit einem schrecklichen Ereignis. In den frühen Morgenstunden fuhr ein Autofahrer mit voller Wucht in die Fensterfront eines Hauses. Der Aufprall war so heftig, dass das Wohnzimmer des Hauses einem Trümmerfeld glich.

Doch es war nicht nur das Haus, das in Mitleidenschaft gezogen wurde. In dem Wohnzimmer lag ein Mann, der gerade friedlich schlief und von den Trümmerteilen des heranrasenden Autos getroffen wurde. Er wurde leicht verletzt und kam mit dem Schrecken davon.

Während der Mann aus dem Sofa befreit wurde, hörte man seine leise Stimme durch die Trümmer hindurch: "Was ist passiert? Bin ich verletzt?"

Ein Sanitäter beruhigte ihn und antwortete: "Sie wurden von den Trümmerteilen des Autos getroffen, aber zum Glück sind Ihre Verletzungen nur leicht. Bleiben Sie ruhig liegen, wir kümmern uns um Sie."

Der Fahrer des Unglücksautos stand neben seinem beschädigten Fahrzeug, den Blick starr auf das Haus gerichtet. Ein Polizist näherte sich ihm und fragte besorgt: "Sind Sie okay? Was ist passiert?"

Der Fahrer antwortete mit zittriger Stimme: "Ich weiß nicht, ich kann mich nicht daran erinnern, wie ich hier gelandet bin. Ich bin einfach von der Straße abgekommen und dann war alles nur noch Chaos."

Die anderen Bewohner des Hauses waren inzwischen aus ihren Zimmern gekommen und schauten entsetzt auf die Trümmer. Eine Frau rannte zu ihrem Nachbarn und rief: "Oh mein Gott, geht es Ihnen gut? Ich habe den Knall gehört und bin sofort hergekommen."

Der schwer erschütterte Nachbar antwortete: "Mir geht es den Umständen entsprechend gut. Aber ich mache mir Sorgen um unsere Sicherheit, so etwas hätte schlimmer ausgehen können."

Währenddessen interviewte ein Polizist einen Zeugen, der den Unfall beobachtet hatte. Er fragte: "Können Sie uns etwas über den Unfallhergang sagen?"

Der Zeuge antwortete: "Ich habe gesehen, wie der Fahrer in einer viel zu hohen Geschwindigkeit um die Kurve gefahren ist. Dann hat er die Kontrolle verloren und ist direkt auf das Grundstück gefahren. Es ging alles so schnell."

In den folgenden Tagen kamen die Bewohner des Hauses zusammen, um ihre Ängste und Sorgen zu besprechen. Eine Frau sagte mit zitternder Stimme: "Wir müssen unsere Sicherheitsmaßnahmen verbessern. So etwas darf nie wieder passieren."

Die Geschichte von dem unerklärlichen Unfall verbreitete sich schnell in der Gemeinde. Bei einem Treffen im Rathaus sagte der Bürgermeister: "Wir müssen als Gemeinschaft zusammenhalten und uns gegenseitig unterstützen. Wir werden unsere Sicherheitsvorkehrungen überprüfen und verbessern, um die Bewohner zu schützen."

Die Menschen in Wiefelstede würden sich in den kommenden Wochen bemühen, das Unglück zu verarbeiten und ihr Leben wieder aufzubauen. Doch die Erinnerung an diesen schrecklichen Tag, an den Fahrer, der von der Straße abkam, und an die Verwüstung, die er hinterließ, würde noch lange in den Köpfen der Menschen bleiben.

[stochastique-blog]

hmm...

Auch heute sind unsere #Einsatzkräfte im #Dienst! #bos112 #reitturnier #sanitätsdienst #sanitäter #rettungsdienst #absicherung #pferd #springen #sandienst #balz https://www.instagram.com/p/Cd0qTUSNfy2/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[raisindave]

[Chapter 69] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

Content warning: Descriptions of injuries that could make some readers uncomfortable.

Is it wrong to feel relief right now? On one hand, your job is complete, and there are no more expectations from the linguistics team. On the other hand, there are still hostages trapped in the theatre, and the riskiest part of this entire operation is yet to begin. You're still expected to be on call, and it's entirely a possibility that you'll be expected to quickly resolve some other unforeseen mystery. It seems your two peers don't know what to do with themselves either, as the three of you stand in uncomfortably still air in the dark void of the vacated restaurant. It felt like you no longer had the authority to draw a breath, like any stray atom might hinder the raid that's moments away from starting, just past those long curtains. 

The commotion behind you nearly made you jump out of your skin, and you and your peers turned to gawk at the opening door like a pack of meerkats. An unknown man and woman entered, barely making eye contact as they surged into your space. Your fingers instinctively slid over a cloth-wrapped bundle of cutlery from one of the dining sets to defend yourself, but the lettering on their matching coats loosened your tension. Thick navy coats with orange shoulders marked with blocky text reading "sanitäter," they're just paramedics. A tall female medic with blocky glasses and a lanky man with faint yellow hair, making brisk eye-contact as she knelt to reveal a trunk of equipment. 

The male paramedic said something in German directed toward you, but you were too stunned to churn the words into thoughts. Your eyes were out of focus, but the KKpt spoke an affirmation in return that satisfied his statement. You watched as he shoved what's essentially your life's work onto the wood floor, a cascade of papers and pens, clearing space on one of the larger tables. The female paramedic clicked a silvery metal staff into a pillar, hooking a sack onto the device. They worked fast, hijacking your now redundant workstation to fashion one of their own. Just as your mind started to consider that this might be a med bay for evacuated hostages, familiar voices broke through the glass barrier of the front door. 

You'd be easily forgiven for not recognizing them at first. For a moment, your muscles considered raising the alarm that two civilians had just wandered into this top-secret facility until your brow softened at the sight of familiar faces. Blue latex gloves guided the two soldiers to recline on the cloth tables, immediately examining the wounds in a flurry of triage. They muttered to one another, functioning like a well-oiled machine to ferry tools and vials into upturned palms. 

Soap having his bicep exposed, thanks to his tacky sleeveless shirt, made it easy for the male paramedic to point and pinch at a jagged slash just below his shoulder. Unfortunately for Soap's unsightly wardrobe, a second gash along his chin dripped fresh blood across his chest as he was forced to lie on one of your tables. All while carrying on with Ghost about a similar encounter in Thailand. The paramedics pointed wooden sticks at every seeping slash across his body, even probed at pink dots along Soap's wrist, battle scars from a kerfuffle with a pigeon. Ghost on the other hand looked worse for wear, on paper that is, just in time for Gaz to push through the doors. He took no time to make his presence known, catching a nod from his abed comrades with a bold grin pulling at his cheeks. 

"Nice jumper, LT. Does it come in men's?" Gaz boldly snarked at Ghost's eccentric red and blue sweatshirt as he approached. 

"Can't say, Garrick, but I think you come in men enough to be the expert," Ghost cut back cruelly, making Soap holler in laughter and immediately crushing Gaz's onslaught.  

The female paramedic lifted the fated jumper over his shoulders, revealing a tight beige vest underneath, now blooming with red on his right side. Meanwhile, her partner prepared a small tray of equipment, one of which was a long hooked needle that made your skin grow numb. 

"Cheeky cunt," Gaz rocked on his heels after striding to stand at the table Ghost was being treated at, rolling his jaw in agitation as he grinned. 

Soap's expression, however, told the story of a sweatshirt he wished he hadn't leant to Ghost for this mission. Now for more reasons than one, the poor piece was shovelled into a biohazard bag, spattered with your lieutenant's blood and likely that of a few of his attackers as well. Just then did you notice Soap's tattoo along the top of his forearm as he punches Ghost in the shoulder, a circular shape resembling some emblem. It's hard to say for sure. 

"Where is Cricket, anyway?" Soap chimed as one of the paramedics temporarily pinched his shoulder injury shut with a wound closure strip.

The mention of your name made you snap out of your blank, eavesdropping stare at the floor. By the time they had spotted you, an awkward silence had taken hold. Your jaw opened to speak while your tongue fell heavy.

"Hello," you spoke, immediately questioning the eeriness of just standing in the corner silently watching them. 

Luckily, that train of thought was brought to an end as Price entered, and the spotlight was redirected. An odd sense of relief washed over you as he struck up a conversation. 

"You did a good job stopping a trowel from embedding itself into a wall, Simon," Price noted sarcastically as latex gloves pried the piece free from Ghost's chest, not even winging as what looked like alcohol was swiped over the slash. 

"Another brag rag," Soap sneered. 

"I'm starting to run out of room on my uniform," he sighed as the medic applied fibrous tape to temporarily seal the gash. 

"Maybe they'll start sticking them to the back like pin the tail on the donkey," Price huffed, eliciting a snort from Gaz. 

They banter like they both don't have hooked needles prying closed weeping gashes on their skin, reclining in their positions like it's a day at the beach. Skilled gloves hooking under pale, flayed skin, heaving to pull dark threads through the other end along Ghost's abdomen. Your eyes darted across every movement of her hands, her firm grip and tedious stitching, imagery that would otherwise make you winge. It's a 50/50; either the paramedics don't speak English, or they're simply used to hearing whatever unhinged banter tends to go on in a military hospital. You can't help but be weirdly hopeful it's the former as your eyes absently wander over more of the scene. This is more of Ghost's body than you've ever seen before. While you got to see some exposed shoulders and the whole of his tattoo sleeve back in that Polish hospital, your exploration was cut short by sprawling bandages just under his pectorals thanks to broken ribs. Now, he lay significantly more exposed, forced to expose his soft underbelly by an insistent medical team. But his underbelly was anything but soft. It took every fibre of your being to stop yourself from sweeping over every curve and divot of his lower abdomen, angular lines along the sides of his pelvis and a soft trail of hair leading down to the buckle of his jeans.

"I heard you had to put a guy to sleep out there," Soap nodded to Gaz, resting his free hand behind his head. 

"A little sloppy, not my best work. Captain's guy didn't wake up though," he retorted, tilting his gaze. 

"It was either me or him," Price sniffed. "Like takin' out the trash," a cheeky and arguably cringeworthy reference to his manner of disposal of the assailant. 

"Sick bastard," Soap chuckled, having his jaw wrangled by the male paramedic's grip on his wound. 

"Glad to see we're all in good spirits then," the captain ordered.

At the angle Price was standing, you couldn't help but see some of the printed images on the pages under his crossed arms. Printout stills of the photos Soap took in the oracle's apartment. As he rocked on his hips, occupied by a lively discussion with Soap and Ghost, you managed to spy images you hadn't been sent. Different angles from around the apartment, some blurs of colour and what looks like a cork pinboard, a flash of blue and black, and a grey backpack. Your attention must've been so laser-focused on the cipher that you missed something notable right under your nose, and the building tension in your forehead dissipated when he made his way over to your position. 

"Good work out there, all of you," Price stood before the three of you. 

"These two were a treat to work with," you smiled, nodding at the professor and Korvettenkapitän.

KKpt tapped her forearm on your bicep, looking like she was considering the formality of pulling you into a relieving hug, opting instead to frown and nod sternly. The professor, however, seemed entirely distracted by the view across the room, not even registering Price's presence. What an odd pair. 

"-Now, I'd love to stay and chat, but I've got' to talk to Miss Laswell," Price swaggered toward Laswell as she held the door open for him to follow. 

He left after bumping his fist on Ghost's shoulder, though Ghost looked like he was considering snapping and biting the man like a poorly trained dog. As hilarious as that may have been, your lieutenant's self-discipline prevailed. Ghost's eyes flashed to meet your vacant stare, and you blinked away the blankness. There was an agitation in his eyes that startled you, and for whatever reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to match his challenge. You were just so tired. Days of minimal sleep and exhausted mental faculties were catching up to you, not to mention the early phases of starvation blighting your system. As much as you might want to, you can't return to your dingy motel boxspring until at least a few hours have passed, or as long as it's socially acceptable. The boys are packing up anyway, and Laswell or whoever will be expecting a debrief. 

Your next task was remarkably unremarkable compared to the past few days, noting every strategy and conclusion and wrapping it up in a tidy package that will align with official reports. KKpt was the champion of the idea, though; you initially had every intention to sit and rest your head on your forearms for a few hours, spying through the heavy curtain whenever you heard the commotion. She pushed you to write, and it was a blessing in disguise. Your pen worked to expand on crude bullet points you'd laid out, forcing you to make sense of the chaotic few days. Shouting and uproar outside caught your attention. From your angle across the street, an entry team of what looked like ten German SEK officers stood crouched under the front door of the Kino Der Toten theatre, ducking in synchronicity for a soldier swing a battering ram to crash through the wooden barricade. A flash of silver caught the corner of your eye, and your heart softened as rows of frail schoolkids were ushered in aluminum blankets into ambulances, safe at last. The peace of mind made the remaining hours pass easier, like the elephant in the room had vanished.

It didn't even cross your mind that that may have been the last time you'd see those two, but you were already halfway up the stairs to your motel room with your cake across your forearms before you realized. You'll probably catch up with them in the morning before you head out to whatever shitshow mission they have you on next. That wasn't a concern right now. You fought with gravity to find the key in your back pocket and shuffled into the motel room without a second thought. There's that same mustard yellow floral pattern you'd come to recognize, haphazardly applied to nearly every surface. The boxy TV in the corner will have to serve as a temporary counter, as it just now occurred to you that you have no form of refrigeration for this cake. This birthday cake. Happy fucking birthday. Alone in a run-down motel in Germany, the only friendly faces are people who are paid to be there, allies in a technical sense. Not a word from the friends you'd last seen on your previous birthday; they've not even bothered to take note of the date since your absence.

The plump strawberries on the chocolate cake were what got you. Recognition softened the muscles in your face, and it took less than a second for tears to sting in your eyes. Those were your sister's favourite fruit. She'd fight you for them with tooth and nail at the breakfast table as little girls, the treats you'd left for her months ago on that mountaintop in your hometown. What would Carolyn think of what you've done with your life? The thoughts were all too much to try to withhold. Tears prickled along your waterline. Your vision had already blurred the yellow florals into a haze that your fingertips couldn't even swipe away. They just kept coming. Heaving breaths crashed into your chest in hiccuping spasms, and aching muscles made instinctive pacing a painful labour. 

Before you could consider burying yourself in those musty sheets, you were already shedding the shell jacket Laswell gave you, shucking layers free as you made your way to the shower. In one way, showering has always brought you comfort, in another, a thorough shower is a luxury you've been deprived of in your days of brutal studies. It also comes with the benefit of washing away streams of hot tears that sting in your throat and crinkle your brow. Water gradually grew in temperature as your impatience forced you to immediately step under the faucet, streaming cold water down your face and hair. You hadn't even fully undressed, haphazardly slinging soggy socks onto the floor of the yellow fibreglass shower unit. Panic and dread wracked your system, and you didn't even bother stifling weeping sobs. Lukewarm water spilled over your senses, forcing you to squeeze your raw eyes shut and fight harder for breath. Electric muscles compelled you to wash yourself and rid yourself of whatever metaphorical and literal filth you've accumulated, not that this hard water stained shower would leave you much cleaner. 

When you glanced over your shoulder to swipe a handful of bar soap over the limb, your heart stopped entirely. You weren't alone in the tiny bathroom, as a dark figure was in the corner of your vision. He stood cross-armed across from you, leaned against a wall-mounted sink, visible in the crack you'd left in the shower curtain when you haphazardly drew it. He didn't look pleased, but it's hard to say when he's wearing that dumb skull plate stitched over his mask every day. 

"What do you want?" you spat, easily translating your despair into aggression. "Did you come to chew me out?"

"I'm thinking about it," he stood, cold and level. 

"Well fucking get on with it," you jabbed calmly, splashing water over your face to drown lingering tears. "Make yourself comfortable."

Ghost took the time to pause, considering his words carefully while you hotly wanted him to spit out whatever you'd transgressed. While one side of your brain was entirely prepared to fight him with bared teeth, the other urged you to relent and surrender to your despair, curling into a helpless fetal position.  

"You can't back-talk to me in meetings, you know this," he sounded irritated. You caught a glimpse of pale gauze under his black tee when he lifted his arms to cross them. "I thought I was pretty clear that you won't be getting any special treatment because of our transactions."

He brought forward memories of you snapping at him for stating the obvious when you were in that restaurant with KKpt and Kraus. Your fuse was short, but you spoke with an attitude to your comrade, superior, in front of your captain and Laswell. That's the kind of shit that'll get you a written reprimand or, God forbid, an Article 15. Far from acceptable in the military, especially in your tenure. It'd long since slipped your mind in the shitstorm that's been the last few hours, though he still made sure to spare you a few scathing glares to make it clear that he hadn't forgotten. 

"I had a lot on my mind. I fucked up, okay? I'm sorry," your voice venomous and hateful. "Just show me where to sign already."

"'You wouldn't act like that to Soap or Gaz,'" he used your same words from back in the bunker against you, challenging you with your own logic. "If this situation is to continue, you have to learn to separate it from work and be professional."

"Fine," you sighed, still hot with agitation but stripped of munitions by his reasoning. "I can't help but remember you being pretty unprofessional with Gaz and Soap earlier when you were getting stitched up." 

"That was banter with my comrade," he tilted his head back. "It's not the same as disrespecting someone's authority in a strategy meeting." 

"So it's only okay when you do it?" 

"It's only okay when it's after the task is completed."

"And what, so you just let yourself into my room? That's also pretty unprofessional," your lip curled into a frown, loosely resembling a snarl. 

"I got you a birthday gift," he shrugged, tilting his head to a small yellow box he'd balanced on the porcelain sink he was leaning against. 

You turned to face away from him as an odd sense of shame made your face run cold. Warm water rained in hard streams against your skin. You couldn't bear the sight of another person right now. What's gotten into you? Why are you turning every situation into a self-flagellating pity party? You used to have so much more respect for yourself, be able to bark back and hold your ground if someone pressed you. You'd failed to uphold your end of the bargain, and he'd come to scold you for it. His work will always be a bigger priority to him than you, and you'll be discarded and forgotten the second you're no longer of immediate use to this travelling circus. 

A bootstep in your direction made you flinch and cringe, but it slid back to its original position over the tile. Tears made the sight of him blurry when you turned to see him again, a mass of black and white standing at the porcelain sink. 

"What if-" a knot in your constricted throat made you tremble. "What if I asked you to leave right now?"

Milliseconds felt like hours, and the steady thrum from a shambling shower head pelted you with water that progressively lost its temperature. It felt like the life was being sapped from you by this shitty water heating. Rejecting another man made your skin prickle with anxiety; the thought of him, too, slamming his fist across your cheek if you rejected his advances flashed into your mind. A flickering lightbulb overhead made your mind imagine the act too, just as said bruise had begun to fade into your cheekbone. 

"Then I'd ask you to lock the fucking door behind me," his voice was just above a whisper, tinted with humour but still bassy and clear. 

He didn't hesitate or even look your way, smoothly lifting himself from his leaning angle against the sink and ducking through the door with a click. It startled you how quickly he accepted your answer, like you were almost expecting some resistance. He's the one who deserves the pity card, he's the one who suffered a serious injury today, though you'd never guess by his disposition. A strange sense of panic swept over you, like you were scared of being alone, scared of pushing another person out. What else do you have now, if not a few government-mandated co-workers and a strictly physical relationship with the man you'd just kicked out. The closest thing you have to any sort of physical intimacy is a person you're strictly disallowed from holding. Despair in isolation never suited you, and your voice shot out as a lifeline in the sudden silence. 

"Si-" your foggy mind almost slipped to break another rule, another transgression for him to chastise you for. "Ghost."

But he'd already gone. The door had clicked behind him, and the sound of heavy water streaming from a squealing facet had drowned out your squeaking voice. He has every reason to leave. You've worked yourself into a hysteric mess. A burden to this elite task force that lacks the emotional control to be worth hanging onto, he's probably regretting laying a finger on you to begin with. 

Why did there have to be strawberries on that cake? A bitter reminder of the passage of time with the symbol of your sister's mortality represented in a nostalgic fruit. That bundle you'd left on the mountain as an offering is coming back to haunt you, scorn you for your inaction. At first, you thought it was a lack of agency, but that fell through. Maybe feeling like you have no control was the root of your dissatisfaction, but that only caused you to make out with your lieutenant and a handful of other ignorant choices. Then maybe it was your lack of mental stimulation, that reading and filling your mind with case studies would soothe your agitation, but that too fell through. Now, your hunch led you to think that a lack of recognition for your work is the downfall of your self-worth. While it was a factor, and one that Ghost has helped you remedy, ultimately, you shouldn't have joined a career like the military if you wanted to have your boots kissed every time you do what's expected of you. 

Here you are, another year of borrowed time lost, time you should've spent in the soil beside your father and sister. And what do you have to say for it? You've filled a role that would easily be substituted by the next bright-eyed linguist and obeyed your wise masters like the good dog you've become. Comfortable with your collar and willfully heeling as it constricts tighter around your windpipe. You're not cut out for this, you're just not. Your fingernails raked over slippery shoulders, trying to spark feeling back into skin that's slowly being sapped of warmth. Splashing water didn't help, trying to drown your melancholy and not spend your birthday as a weeping mess. Again. But there was a presence in the bathroom. You were too numb to flinch, but he was there, back at his post, leaning on the sink. Knees crumpled from under you, and your face twisted into an ugly frown. Your arms shot out for him, and his forearms caught you before the moisture accelerated your fall into his shoulder.

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Master List

[falleraatje]

How it started vs. How it's going

(ein Snippet über Leos Gedanken am Unfallort)

Die Sonne ist untergegangen, aber dunkel geworden ist es trotzdem nicht. Die Lampen der Spurensicherung erhellen den Unfallort und das Blaulicht des Krankenwagens taucht die Landstraße in seltsames Licht, das alles ein bisschen unwirklich erscheinen lässt. Es ist das zweite Mal heute, dass Leo von Rettungskräften konfrontiert wird – nur dass es diesmal nicht vergleichsweise glimpflich ausgegangen ist.

Er kann seinen Blick nicht von dem Autowrack abwenden. Auch wenn er weiß, dass es nichts mehr bringt, muss Leo weiter hinschauen und sich fragen, ob er irgendetwas hätte tun können.

Das letzte Mal ist gerade erst wenige Stunden her, und da konnte Leo auch nichts tun. Pia und er sind viel zu spät am Ort des Geschehens eingetroffen. Und auch wenn Adam auf den Kommentar des Sanitäters, dass er sich auch eine saftige Gehirnerschütterung eingefangen haben könnte, nur abgewunken hat, hat Leo sich trotzdem gewünscht, dass er früher da gewesen wäre.

Aber Adam ist okay. Vermutet Leo jedenfalls. Er würde gerne sagen, dass es ihn sowieso nicht mehr interessiert, was mit Adam ist, aber gerade schafft er es nicht einmal, sich selbst zu belügen.

Die Fahrerin des roten Kleinwagens ist tot. Gestorben, nachdem sie wahrscheinlich dem gleichen Pick-up begegnet ist, der Leo kurz davor fast zum Verh��ngnis geworden ist. Er spürt immer noch die Stelle in seinem Rücken, wo sicherlich schon ein riesiger Bluterguss prangt, den er sich bei seinem Sturz über die Leitplanke zugezogen hat. Doch ein paar blaue Flecken sind nichts im Vergleich zu der Szene, die hier vor ihm liegt.

Er hat alles versucht, das weiß er. Und doch bleibt er in seinem Kopf jedes Mal bei diesem verdammten Was wäre wenn hängen.

Was wäre, wenn er schneller gewesen wäre? Wenn er das Auto irgendwie hätte aufhalten können? Was wäre, wenn er einfach bei Adam geblieben wäre, um das alles ein für allemal auszudiskutieren?

Gebracht hätte ihm das nichts. Die Fahrerin wäre trotzdem gegen die Leitplanke gerast und gestorben, bevor ihr jemand helfen kann. Und Adam wäre trotzdem noch ein Arschloch.

Dass Adam das zugegeben hat, spielt keine Rolle. Es ändert nichts daran, dass Adam Leo so lange mit seinen Sorgen alleine gelassen hat, obwohl Adam auf einen Streich all seine Probleme hätte lösen können. Und es ändert noch weniger an der Enge in Leos Brust, als der Sanitäter ihm mitteilt, dass leider nichts mehr zu machen war.

Im Grunde genommen hat Leo das schon vorher gewusst. Er hat gemerkt, dass sich nichts tut, egal wie sehr er versucht hat, sie wiederzubeleben. Aber das zu hören und danach über Todesursachen und Spurensicherung reden zu müssen, macht es nicht besser. Vor allem nicht, als im Unfallfahrzeug das Telefon klingelt.

Leo hat sich noch nie so sehr gewünscht, einfach auf Autopilot schalten zu können. Er ist gut in seinem Job und er mag die Routine sogar, weil sie ihn jedes Mal zuverlässig durch alle noch so unangenehmen Situationen bringt. Doch heute lässt sie ihn im Stich: beim Telefonat mit dem Mann des Opfers, bei der Unterhaltung mit der Spusi, und am allermeisten, als Adam auftaucht.

Leo hat keine Ahnung, wo Adam überhaupt herkommt. Er selbst hat ihn definitiv nicht angerufen. Irgendwie muss er von Pia oder Esther davon gehört haben und im Gegensatz zu den Kolleginnen ist er sofort hier aufgetaucht.

Normalerweise würde Leo in diese Tatsache viel zu viel hineininterpretieren, aber heute spart er sich seine Spekulationen, ob Adam einfach nur sehr motiviert an seinen Job herangeht oder ob er unbedingt herkommen wollte, um Leo in dieser Situation beizustehen. Es ist scheißegal, was Adam sich dabei gedacht hat, weil Leo im Gegenzug auch nicht an Adam denkt.

Wozu brauchst du ein ganzes Spusi-Team an einem Unfallort?

Auf einmal hält Leo es keine Sekunde länger hier aus. Adams Hand auf seiner Schulter scheint ihn runter zu ziehen und Leo schüttelt sie ab, so schnell er kann. Es war kein Unfall.

Es ist ihm egal, ob Adam ihm hinterherschaut, als Leo den Unfallwagen hinter sich lässt und hinter der Polizeiabsperrung verschwindet. Leo wird diesen Mord aufklären, das schwört er sich, der Toten und ihrem Ehemann, dessen Stimme immer noch in seinem Kopf widerzuhallen scheint.

Ist sie tot?

Ja, denkt Leo und die Landstraße scheint für einen Augenblick vor seinen Augen zu verschwimmen. Das blaue Licht fährt wieder und wieder über ihn hinweg und nun wo Leo den Unfallort hinter sich gelassen hat, scheint das Rauschen des Waldes ihn komplett zu umhüllen.

Ganz kurz glaubt er, dass Adam ihm folgt, aber Leo bleibt alleine neben der Leitplanke stehen. Seine Hand ballt sich zur Faust und er muss sich zwingen, einmal tief durchzuatmen und seine Finger wieder zu lockern. Er weiß sowieso nicht, was er erwartet hat. Eine Entschuldigung sicher nicht.

Es tut mir leid, hätte er vorhin am Telefon sagen sollen.  

Er konnte die Fahrerin nicht retten, aber er wird alles dafür tun, um die Täter zur Rechenschaft zu ziehen.

Dabei ist es auch egal, ob Adam glaubt, dass es ein Unfall war – Leo weiß, dass es nicht so war. Und in diesem Fall kann er wenigstens etwas tun und dafür sorgen, dass ein Mensch Gerechtigkeit erfährt.

[breadjustbread]

Me with friends were watching Emesis blue again, when I suddenly remembered that in German dub instead of “Medic” or “Doctor” characters yell: “Sanitäter!” (Sorry if I wrote it wrong-) so I made au where Scout and Medic are cleaning service and Spy and Solder are orderlies-

If you wanna know more about it, tell me-

[thatswhywelovegermany]

Man stirbt nicht mit einem Hurra auf den Lippen, sondern mit einem Schrei, einem Wimmern und Stöhnen, einem Brüllen vor Schmerzen und einer Verzweiflung, die unbeschreiblich ist. Die Angst packt einen, der Körper ist zerfetzt und blutet aus, man kriecht über die Erde und brüllt »Sanitäter! Sanitäääter!«; und dann liegt man da, von Schmerzen zerrissen, und keiner hilft einem, die Erde bebt unter den Granateinschlägen, die Panzer rollen auf einen zu, man sieht sie kommen, man möchte wegkriechen, aber es geht ja nicht, man ist ja nur noch ein Klumpen blutigen Fleisches, und die Ketten kommen näher, immer näher, man sieht den Tod, man weiß, daß man gleich in die Erde gewalzt wird, ein Tod aus 30 Tonnen Stahl, rasselnd wie hunderttausend Kastagnetten. Und dann schreit man, schreit und betet und ruft nach der Mutter...und krepiert. Das ist der Heldentod!

You don't die with a 'Hooray' on your lips, but with a scream, a whimper and groan, a roar of pain, and a despair beyond words. You are gripped by fear, your body is torn to shreds and bleeding dry, you crawl over the ground and yell »Corpsmen! Parameeeedics!«; and then you lie there, torn apart by pain and nobody helps you, the earth trembles from the impact of the shells, the tanks roll towards you, you see them coming, you want to crawl away, but it's not possible, you're barely a lump of bloody flesh and the chains come closer, closer and closer, you see death, you know you're about to be rolled into the ground, a death made of 30 tons of steel, rattling like a hundred thousand castanets. And then you scream, scream and pray and call for your mother... and die a wretched death. This is what the death of a hero looks like!

Heinz G. Konsalik (1921 – 1999), German writer, war correspondent in world war II.

[der-saisonkoch]

Bernd - Unfall

„Uns haben sie verraten.“ „Mal sehen. Das schaffen wir auch allein.“ „Unsere Solidarität ist euch gewiss.“ „Danke.“ Am kommenden Morgen der gleiche Ablauf. Das Wetter ist wunderschön. Zum Testen haben die österreichischen Kollegen Rückgleise mit gebracht. Die würden bei Erdbewegungen nachgeben. Die sind nur leicht gesichert bis zu einem gewissen Grad an Belastung. Bernd will die am kommenden…

[wrathzy]

Project Sanitater-88:

In October 2018, an anonymous user from the Russian imageboard website Dvach, similar to 4chan, published the links to two videos on the platform. These videos revealed the abhorrent works of the Russian Neo-Nazi extremist group "Project Sanitater-88," responsible for pummeling and killing homeless people in Moscow using blades and hammers. The Germanic word "Sanitäter" translates to "paramedic," particularly back from World War II, and the "88" symbolizes the letters "HH" or Heil Hitler.

The Dvach staff deleted the videos, but they were subsequently uploaded on other domains, including a page of a Neo-Nazi group called the "White Hunter Society" for a contest in which members of similar groups shared videos of barbaric attacks. Not only did this grasp the attention of Russian police, but it also piqued the interest of anonymous users of Dvach. The army of anonymous users identified the uploader as St. Petersburg student Vitaly Tkachenko, who was seventeen years old at the time. Vitaly was arrested, along with another teenager around his age.

It appears that the videos uploaded by Vitaly were copycats of similar atrocities committed in Moscow a few years prior. From 2014 to 2015, a crew of Neo-Nazi youths, 20-year-old Pavel Voitov, 25-year-old Elena Lobacheva, 23-year-old Artur "Narcis" Narcissov, 19-year-old Maxim "Zakirka" Pavlov, and 21-year-old Vladislav "Persik" Karataev, went on a rampage. Infamously known as "The Cleaners," this band of young militants murdered more than 15 people. The killings were motivated by their desire to "clean the city" and their disdain for alcoholics and vagrants.

The victims, some of which were either intoxicated, homeless or guest workers, were lured into vacant areas, mostly at night, before being struck with a hammer and stabbed to death with blades afterward. While police had few to no physical or virtual leads to follow, they suspected these killings were by the same individuals and merged them into one case. The police and the FSB eventually tracked the cellular devices in the areas where the murders transpired. Now that they had got their lead, the hunt was on.

On February 15, 2015, Pavel Voitov and Artur Narcissov assaulted a janitor in Vykhino, but he resisted the attack, forcing the two to flee the scene. The janitor then notified the authorities and described the attackers. On February 19, 2015, the police and the FSB managed to apprehend Pavel Voitov and Elena Lobacheva after their home was located through CCTV cameras. During the search, five knives, an unregistered firearm, clothing with the janitor's blood on them, and a hammer were collected. They also found Elena's computer, which contained photos of the victims with their bodies severely mutilated and a step-by-step instruction guide on how to kill people.

Investigators would then arrest Maxim Pavlov, Vladislav Karataev, and Artur Narcissov. All suspects confessed to the homicides during an interrogation. The gang also admitted being inspired partly by serial murderer Alexander Pichushkin, the "Chessboard Killer," convicted for murdering 49 people in Moscow. On October 23, 2017, the Moscow City Court sentenced Pavel Voitov to life imprisonment, Elena Lobacheva to 13 years imprisonment, and Maxim Pavlov to 9 years and six months in a penal colony. Vladislav Karataev was given a 16-year sentence, and Artur Narcissov to 9 years and six months, both to be served in a corrective labor colony.