#bush marksmanship

[bookloversofbath]

African Rifles & Cartridges :: John Taylor

[iluvzaddies]

run rabbit run (1)

pairing: yandere!childe x reader

warnings: unhealthy behavior/relationship, violence, nsfw

inspired by: episode 8 of the hbo series “the last of us”

summary: you are out of food as well as medical supplies, so in order to save your father, you take matters into your own hands. you unexpectedly run into a young master in the forest, who is after the same rabbit as you. since he is persistent on getting the rabbit, you make a bargain with him. he develops a liking to you and decides you are his new personal little rabbit.

you breathed in the cold air of snezhnaya, the land of eternal winter ruled by the tsaritsa.

snow crunched under your boots as you roamed around the forest, looking for something to hunt.

you had nothing but a thin coat on, a pair of worn out winter boots, and a rifle slung over your shoulder like a bag. you were freezing, but you were more concerned for your father’s life than your comfort in the weather.

you see, your father had gotten injured on his way home. he fell off his horse and fell on something sharp, which caused him to have a huge gash across his stomach. you found him unconscious nearby and dragged him inside your home. you laid him on the couch by the fireplace, wrapped a piece of cloth around the area of the gash to stop the bleeding and put a blanket on top of him.

the cupboards were completely empty. no food or medical supplies in sight. his horse had ran off and you had no other transportation. there was no way you were able to walk all the way to the marketplace in the current weather, so you had no choice but to hunt for some food and find some herbs since you had no medicine as well.

“come on, come on.” you gritted your teeth in frustration, clasping your hands together and warming them up with your hot breath. “are there no animals around here?”

right on cue, a rabbit hopped out of a bush. the rabbit was beautiful. its fur was as white as the snow and its eyes were as red as gemstones.

too bad you had to kill it.

you slowly approached it, grabbing your rifle and pointing at it. as you were about to pull the trigger, you accidentally stepped on a twig. the rabbit jolted in alert at the sound and frantically hopped away.

“shit.” you cursed and ran after it.

you tried to shoot it while running after it, but an arrow came out of nowhere and pierced through its tiny body, making you stop in your tracks.

what the hell.

“excellent marksmanship, master.” you heard a gruffy voice.

“that was too easy.” followed by a cocky voice.

the man with the gruffy voice and the man with the cocky voice surrounded the rabbit. they looked like they came from a powerful house, especially the one with the ginger hair. compared to your winter outfit, they had thicker and expensive-looking coats, so no doubt they came from a powerful house.

the rich. you hated the rich.

“hey!” you shouted as you aimed your rifle at the both of them. “drop your weapons or anything you have on you, now!”

they turned their heads to find a young lady with a big, heavy rifle, cautiously approaching them.

they looked at each other in confusion.

“move a muscle and i’ll put a bullet right between your eyes.”

“excuse me, what are you doing out here? this is our territory.” the butler coughed.

“this is an open space. a forest, for christ’s sake. this isn’t your territory and neither is it mine.” you spoke strongly. “but that is my rabbit.”

the young master, instead of scoffing in disbelief at your behavior towards him, smiled. his life was boring despite being loaded, but today might be different. you had peaked his interest. he felt a sense of excitement and arousal.

“oh, is that so? is that your arrow then?” he pointed at the arrow— his arrow— which was poking out of the rabbit’s corpse.

“i told you not to move a muscle!” you aimed your rifle directly at him.

he put his hands up in surrender position, a smile still plastered on his face.

“or i swear i’ll–“

“put a bullet right between my eyes. i know.”

“if you dare do that, you will be severely punished.” the butler butted in, but shut his mouth when you glared at him and told him to “shut the fuck up.”

the young master laughed.

“you, why do you even need this? can’t you afford to eat something?” you asked.

“i don’t plan on eating this, i’m not fond of rabbit stew. my mother though, she loves lapin coats or rabbit fur coats in other words, which originated in fontaine. says it’s really soft and warm. you bear hatred towards people like me and i don’t blame you, but would you at least give this one to lil ole me? for my mother?”

“i don’t give a damn–“ wait, you could make a bargain with him. you would rather die than associate yourself with the rich, but your father’s life was on the line here, so it was either your dignity or him, and you chose him. “let’s say i accept, what would you give me in return?”

“well, what do you want?” he asked.

“medical supplies.” you answered quickly.

“that’s it?”

“and food supplies; meat, veggies, just anything nutritious.”

“alright then, my home is not too far from here…”

“no, one of you is staying here with me and one of you is going to get me what i want.”

“sheesh, alright. can’t even be hospitable with you.” he turned to his butler. “bring back a first aid kit, two bottles of penicillin, a syringe and food you can grab your hands on.”

his butler nodded, but was hesitating to leave.

“it’s not code. just do as i say.” he leaned into his ear. “why are you hesitating? do you really think a mere girl could stand a chance against me?”

“very well, master.” he sighed. he grabbed the dead rabbit and made his way back to their residence, leaving you and the young master (whose name you had yet to know) alone.

“you can lower the gun now. i don’t mean any harm.” he noticed your tense form and tried to reassure you, but you were too hardheaded.

“where’s your bow?”

“don’t know.” he shrugged.

what did he mean by that? was he messing with you? your gaze shifted onto his waistline and you saw a vision attached to his belt. a hydro vision, to be exact.

realization hit you. fuck, he was a vision user. you were lucky he didn’t have anger issues. otherwise, you would have been dead before you could even treat your father.

“where are you looking, hm?” he asked teasingly.

“nowhere.” you looked away.

he chuckled. he found you peculiar, but intriguing. you were like no other woman he had ever encountered in his life. you didn’t know who he was and how much power he held. he could snap your rifle like a twig if he wanted to. no normal civilian in their right minds would ever think to threaten him or even approach him.

“so, what’s your name?”

“nunya.”

“what–“

“nunya business.”

“pfft. come on, i’ll tell you mine. my name is childe or tartaglia, whichever you prefer.”

“uh huh, what about i call you dickface? that suits you better.” you remarked. “master dickface.”

again, he wasn’t the least bit offended. he was amused. strangely amused.

what kind of man did you run into?

(part 2)

[ashton-ryder]

ASHTON RYDER | 32 | PhD STUDENT, EX-MARINE

Biography | Playlist | Connections

Ashton, 32, is a astrophysics PhD student at NYU, often teaching bachelor lectures as part of his post-graduate program alongside his research. He's been in New York for the last 4 years, renting in the Wexley in #306 ever since. Before that, he had spent a bulk of his time with the military, fresh out of high school, following his father's footsteps, taking his Physics bachelors and masters while serving. A mishap of a mission left him the only survivor of his team, suffered a bad injury and he stepped away from being a marine raider for good. His father was a military pilot though he died in combat and Ashton was mostly raised by his mother, an elementary school teacher, growing up in a small town in Minnesota. Moving to New York was hard but he needed to find something else to do with his life, to prove that he isn't completely useless yet.

Useful Skills Military Combat, Gun Marksmanship, Reconnaissance, Extreme Conditions, Good Swimmer, Jet Piloting, Basic Medical Aid and Trauma Care, Theoretical and Practical Physics, Can debate for hours on the theories of Dark Matter .

Additionals.

Full Name: Ashton Finley Ryder Nicknames: Ash, Ryder, Fin (ice hockey days) Birthday: November 3, 1991 Birthplace: Taylors Falls, Minnesota Current Home: The Wexley, #306, 4th year resident pre-outbreak Religion: Loosely raised Catholic / Currently Freethinker Orientation: Asexual, Biromantic MBTI: ISFJ, The Defender Enneagram: Type5 Wing6, The Troubleshooter Alignment: Lawful Neutral Zodiac: Scorpio Face Claim: Luke Mitchell . Voice Claim: Luke Mitchell (i) | (ii) *ii - tw mentions of abuse .

Physical Attributes.

Height: 6'1" Build: Muscular, Athletic Exercise Regime: Alternate days USMC conditioning training Allergies: people that walk slowly in NYC, people beating around the bush, & lilies. Hair Colour: Dirty Blonde Eye Colour: Deep Blue, that turns deeper when he cries Glass/Contacts: none, but sometimes if his eyes are strained he has reading glasses Dominant Hand: Right, but mildly Ambidextrous Tattoos: only one, solar system running across the inside of his left forearm Scars: Too many to count, the most prominent, ugly one that never healed right is the one on his left shoulder, operated on by Dr Tobias Piercings: Earlobes and Helix on both ears Outfit Clothing Style: Sweaters, idk what else to tell you, whatever Charlie and Ria styles him with

Background Information.

Hometown: Taylors Falls, Minnesota Current Residence: Manhattan, New York Spoken Languages: English / Russian / Spanish Driver's License: yes + military license Occupation: Ex-marine. PhD student and lecturer at NYU

Familial Information. Relationship Status: Single Mother: Amelia Kayley Ryder, Elementary School Teacher, Taylors Falls, MN / status unknown (possible open connection) Father: Ben Colin Ryder, U.S Army Officer, Captain / deceased, KIA Siblings: None Other: Rose Siblings, as close as family. Pets: A german shepherd called Dawn, that Ash trained as a military dog beside him during his service, she listened to no one but him and so when he left the force, Dawn couldn't work with any other soldier and retired for Ashton to adopt her back home, currently living with his mother in Minnesota.

Headcanons

Starting with the military, Ashton applied to the marines very early on before getting accepted into the Special Ops as a CSO and Marine Raider. Was in service for about a decade before leaving it all behind.

Ashton is always in this serious mode, small smiles come by only ever so often and fun is a hard concept to grasp. Few can bring that side of him back.

Despite a few years in, he finds it hard to decide on the mundane things in life. He has no preferences for anything really. If you ask him what his favorite food is, he probably wouldn’t know how to respond. He can’t even decide his favorite food, let alone everything else in his life. He has one constant in his life and that’s enough for him.

Being young and dumbly spontaneous, he had a tattoo on his left forearm of the solar system at 18 to just be able to look at something and feel. Remember that there are things so much bigger than themselves.

Ashton teaches- taught the bachelor’s classes once in a while and the students will often gossip on the military vibes the class had. And those that couldn’t handle it dropped the class, but the ones that do stay on, often come out of it thankful that they did.

The Outbreak brought him back into his military instincts, trying to help out where he can to protect the building still standing in protecting them, but Ashton is also one to be more willing to go out, to scout, to scavenge.

Weirdly enough, he’s still working on his research paper, apocalypse be damned, he was finishing this residency and research paper one way or another. Or perhaps he just needed some kind of normalcy, to keep moving, because he knows the idleness will destroy him.

Ashton back in his military days was a skilled jet pilot and a good shot with the highest qualified level of marksmanship. Now if only he had a plane and a gun…

His apartment is a library of its own, well, if you’re ever looking for a book to learn about Kepler’s second law of planetary motion.

Supplies (on Day 0):

library of astrophysics books

NYU staff and student pass

mid-range telescope

laser pointer

mini solar power generator

tactical flashlight

compass

M18 handgun & 9mm bullets

military combat knives

old dog tag

water bottle

bucket of realism

[modern-amenities]

Today we set out on an infiltration and disruption pilgrimage just outside of Kharkiv. The rain, mud, sounds of artillery shaking the ground had tested my resolve as we rode into what seemed like certain death.

I had never questioned as if an objective were to be my last, but today was different. My heart seemed as though it knew today was going to be the day I died. And the fond memories of the comfort back home found themselves to be ripe in my mind. I drew similarities in my vehicles tattered seats which reminded me of my soft bed back home, everything from the dried pork tenderloins I had purchased from a man in Bakhmut seemed as though I was eating a meal I had prepared in my own kitchen. But this was all simply an attempt at soothing my nerves which betrayed me in every way.

The reality of my situation set in as soon as our vehicle received peppering of 7.62x39 cartridges on its bullet proof glass, fear quickly transitioning into focus as my small regiment of 4 men assembled defensive positions behind a small embankment. As we proceeded to return fire to a seemingly invisible enemy our squad leader radioed in reinforcements, our detrimental situation exemplified in our efforts to kill. The thoughts of one another and our families supplied a sense of fear as they would have no idea of our ventures which took place in hell.

My rife and my squad leaders were equipped with LPVO variable optics which increased their effectiveness up to 200 yards of accurate fire, I laid underneath our caravan and scouted the seemingly endless woods which surrounded us until I saw a muzzle flash, followed by a parting of leaves in a bush. I held my breath and watched as these rounds continued to leave my combatants rifle towards my squads general direction but I couldn’t hear anything. No sounds of gunfire, no sounds of my squad members shouting commands, only the sound of my beating heart which mimicked that of an idled engine. Then a pale white face appeared behind the flashes of their weapon, my crosshair aiming slightly over his head at the 150 yard mark, the features of his face marking a handsome young man aimlessly firing. I pulled my trigger not fully understanding my actions as I used all of my concentration to follow the fundamentals of marksmanship, within a split second after, I watched as his neck jerked backwards in an inhuman motion as my 5.45 cartridge split the crown of his nose. A bright pinkish/red mist ploomed from his face as he lifelessly dropped his head over his rifle. My heart felt like it was about to explode out of my chest as I watched through the scope of my rifle. Suddenly a yell came from the tree line opposing us and another man knelt over his fallen comrade in attempt to administer aid, I fired 4 more rounds from my rifle. Causing him to fall forward out of the tree line towards my squadron as he screamed in what I can assume was for help. I heard as the suppressed rifle from my squad leader shot towards him in an uncountable amount of times. “2 combative personnel eliminated” I whispered into my radio.

We grabbed the general positioning of our enemy as we laid in wait, the sounds of whistling incoming artillery filled the air as my squad scrambled for cover. The terrifying whistle of the sky we called it grew louder as I tucked my body in between some rocks and laid in the fetal position. A heart pounding explosion followed by 4 more pounded our enemies position. Our signal to reboard and move out. And so we did.

My first time removing life from someone. Was all I could think about, his face, the thoughts in his mind before I took the shot. It was enough to cause me to vomit in our APC as I stared at my hands, that of a killer.

Forward to Kharkiv.

[beleester]

>#we're literally the gun violence country this is just getting embarrassing now

Looking at the news articles carefully, I think the gunman didn't actually get a shot off - the news articles say things like "shots were fired in the vicinity of Trump" and CNN says that a Secret Service agent saw the gunman in the bushes and opened fire, causing him to run away. So, less of a marksmanship failure and more of a stealth failure.

what do you MEAN they FUCKING MISSED???

[sworn-in-blood]

JESSICA "JESS" BARLOWE

-

extra :

✧﹒playlist ✧﹒pinboard

✧﹒faceclaim : kristen stewart (happiest season : abby specifically)

names/nicknames :

✧﹒jessica barlowe ✧﹒jess. ✧﹒"J"

orientation/identity :

✧﹒cisfemale ✧﹒unlabelled, fem lean

✧﹒she/her

languages :

fluent french & english , limited spanish, russian, arabic & mandarin .

physical characteristics :

Standing at about 5'9' , Jess typically sports short blonde hair , parted and clipped to the side , along with hazel eyes . Her typical wear consists of thicker jackets with inner pockets , semi-casual wear , gray suits , and darker colors , such as forest-greens , browns , blacks and greys . She wears a slight amount of eyeliner/eyeshadow on a regular basis . Tends to wear a lot of silver rings on her hands - a few of them seem to still have bloodstains on them if you look at it underneath the right light .

age :

birthdate: 04.05.1974 .

24 during RE1/RE2 . Age differs depending on verse/time period .

hobbies :

✧﹒marksmanship ✧﹒gunsmithing

✧﹒poetry ✧﹒travelling

fears

none on record .

occupations :

A mercenary by trade , Jess has been one ever since her young adult days . Familiar with what it takes to get a deal done , she has a price for every single thing that she offers to another - or what they ask of her . There's nothing she's opposed to doing for the right reward - with her own personal intentions thrown in the mix , however .

tattoos :

N/A

scars :

Gunshot scar on left shoulder . Knife scars on her knuckles and left palm .

alignments :

✧﹒neutral evil ✧﹒

love languages :

comprehensive :

A NO-NONSENSE PERSONALITY , Jessica doesn't typically tolerate people trying to beat around the bush with her , or choose to be vague and unclear . She tends to be efficient and cordial with her business dealings - though there's a cold air that surrounds her .

NEUTRAL , Jess isn't one for taking a side . She'll take whatever deal is offered in the best way , and cares very little on what that entails for her - be it protection , assassination , smuggling , information trading , or blackmail - it matters little to her in the grand scheme of it all . She knows how to play the market - and others - often using her own reputation and capability to steer things in the direction that most favours her . Veiled threats , mentions of history , past deals , nothing is off limits if it needs to be used .

LIKES HAVING THE CARDS IN HER FAVOUR ; Jess is someone who prefers to believe she has the upper hand . Be it with her knowledge or her capability , either work . Doesn't typically enjoy being talked down on , and likes to stay ahead of the competition . She can tend to cover her tracks exceptionally well , and is difficult to track down when she wants to be - especially considering the files that she's gathered other organizations are likely forming on her . She tends to move around very frequently , and never stays in one place too long . Jess is extremely confident - or , at least , appears that way to others , and always acts as if she is in control of the situation .

RELIABLE , Jess built her entire reputation around her work , and her drive to get things done for her clients . Her name is well-known in the underground bioweapon markets most especially - she's the one you want to hire if you need to get something sensitive done . Secretive and often isolated , Jess works alone more often than not , but possesses several contacts in several different places - some hooked with bribery or blackmail , some genuine friends . She isn't typically one to let details slip , especially when it comes to her work - she keeps everything under tight wraps .

COMPOSED AND COLLECTED , Jess possesses a mask that rarely falls . She's cordial enough until she doesn't have to be - which is where her brutality occasionally makes an appearance . Jess has little qualms when it comes to violence , and doesn't often care about keeping things clean unless she's specifically asked to . Despite what may be thought of her - Jess doesn't enjoy lying , and typically only does so when she absolutely needs to .

history/backstory :

Growing up Elèanore Auclair in a wealthy family within the midst of France , Jess was never typically one for the world of aristocracy , or the boring parties that tended to be held on occasion . She tended to lock herself away in her room and go over her studies , or rather , that's what she would have had her parents believe . Rather , she often snuck out to explore around . Jess often kept to herself , more often than not - and had a smart tongue all throughout her childhood , which tended to land her in trouble with those around .

Often preferring activities not exactly befitting someone of her stature , she often got herself involved along the lines of different kinds of martial arts , along with convincing a family friend through a great deal of time to teach her marksmanship . It wasn't particularly something that her parents wanted her to learn ; not when she was to manage their state and affairs when she grew up - which was not exactly something she wanted to do .

Upon her 18th birthday , she gathered some of her things and set out in the dead of night , believing that she wanted to make her own way in life ; and didn't want to be dictacted by rules and societal pressure . She changed her name to Jess Barlowe during this time period as well .

Advertising herself as a freelancer , Jess knew she was capable of much more than simple diplomacy . She had a skill when it came to some forms of confrontation , and she enjoyed it .

A year passed as she worked on what she had to offer . Her first kill came at an alleyway outside of a shady bar - she had been hanging around inside , taking a curiosity almost in a place she almost never typically would go to .

Upon exiting the alleyway , she had a young man , couldn't be much older than she was , blocking the entrance to the main street . He advanced on her , a small blade in his hand , demanding to know why she had hung around so close to him and his table - Jess knew very well what had transpired . Thieves , drug dealers , it was something that wasn't exactly to discuss in such a public space .

It was a few moments , a blur in her head , really , then he was slumped on the concrete , head cracked on the stone underneath . Crimson begun to stain her boots - and Jess wasn't as horrified as she thought she would have been . She was quick to leave , washing away the evidence on her clothing , namely her boots , and often recalled back to it .

She possessed a knack for finding things that people tended to keep hidden , and often used old contacts from her family's knowledge to advance herself through the next couple of years , soon garnering a reputation for information . Jess was more widely known by certain others as just "J" , often preferring to keep her identity as hidden as she could , so she would be difficult to track down .

Jess was soon approached by a member of the Umbrella corporation , which ended up being the catalyst for her mercenary work . She worked for them during a brief stint , transporting bioweapon research and providing easy access through different security points , while also continuing to teach herself the art of marksmanship and knife skills , though still kept up with her martial arts training .

Jess soon grew to add to her list of services , especially as she began to grow older and take on more contracts , her name beginning to start making the rounds in the underground bioweapons markets , along with several other persons .

Upon the fall of Umbrella in 2004 , she began to focus more on her other contracts , for several other persons of interest . A formidable individual , Jess grew to be lethal when it came to her encounters - especially when it came to certain situations . Such was business - was her main ideal - and she held very little qualms about it all . Jess still continued to have a taste for the finer things - at least , when it came to her jewellery , occasional wine , and her dress sense .

Jess took on contracts ranging from assassination to simple blackmail , and everything in between . She took up an interest in cryptography , and more often than not , her communications between clients were encrypted and coded to her own specific key . She left very little to be found , and what she did was more often than not intentional . A dangerous individual , Jess knew what she was doing .

The B.S.A.A. and the D.S.O were quick to notice mentions of "J" appearing within linked cases , and soon began to draw parallels with them all . They began building a case - but there was extremely little to be found - almost as if she was just a whisper in the wind when it came to the business that she made . She caught wind of it rather quickly herself , and since then has remained even more cautious of her dealings , and never stayed in one place longer than a few days to a couple weeks if she could help it .

strengths && weaknesses :

strengths

Jess' strength lies in her ability to stay under the radar ; to communicate and stay on top of what's happening around her . She doesn't typically enjoy being left in the dark , and will do what she can to glean information from various sources - if only so that she can add to her deck . Jess isn't threatening when it comes to a first glance - but there's a cold , unsettling air when it comes to talking with her in person , that cannot quite be described . She's a strong close-combat fighter , and has decent marksmanship , but shines with a pistol . Jess knows how to be quiet ; and knows how to keep her communications confusing to others and sensible to herself and the client she is making a deal with . She is very rarely impulsive .

weaknesses

Jess tends to dislike being left in the dark ; or not being in control of the situation . She tends to rely on her words and her verbal capability far more than her physical , and relies on her reputation to sway clients and opponents , but at the same time isn't afraid to prove what she's known for . Jess does not have a lot of empathy or concern , and typically only cares for her own station and wellbeing , though not to the extent that it would blind her completely .

family && relations :

✧﹒father

ANDRE AUCLAIRE - UNKNOWN

✧﹒mother

HARPER AUCLAIRE - UNKNOWN

✧﹒known relations

UNKNOWN

✧﹒close friends/allies

UNKNOWN

verses:

-

#v. power belongs to those who take it

a verse surrounding any work involving/for the umbrella corporation as a mercenary . typically takes place from prior canon to around 2004-ish .

#v. we are the outcasts

a verse typically surrounding any work involved with the connections organization . typically surrounding the events of just prior to re7 , and other assorted time periods .

#v. call me a sinner , call me a saint

a verse surrounding any work to do with the underground bioweapons black market or any business deals done with those involved .

#v. bloody hands with diamond rings

essentially a wandering verse . this is used for anything that isn't directly related to events in a game , such as downtime or other incidents/deals/meetings or anything else in between . still typically extremely active mercenary during this time .

tags:

#––– ❛ aesthetic 【 who told you what was down here? 】

#☆ ⠀ ⠀ 𝒔𝒐 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒐 𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒄𝒆 ⠀ ⠀ ╱ ⠀ ⠀ visage.

✦𓂅 stay for the night i'll sell you a dream ╱ roleplay

⩇⩇:⩇⩇ 𝐈𝐌𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐇𝐄 ✧﹒ headcanons

⌗ analysis.   ﹙ a lavish distraction from a disappointing atmosphere  ﹚

[rabchunter]

Pass It On Young Sports Taster Day England at Jacklands Fishing Lakes Tickenham NR Nailsea North Somerset.

It was At George's Day and what better way to celebrate it than one of our famous family Countryside Taster Days.

We had Fly and Course Fishing, Air Rifle and pistol Shooting, Birds of Prey, Ferrets, Gun Dogs, Bush Craft, The Big Cat Man, Farm Produce and Crafts, we even had feeding the lambs with bottles, we had so much more for the sea of Young Sports and their Families who attended.

The rain held off mostly and as I looked around a sea of smiling faces could be seen, yet again we produced a monumental awesome Taster Day.

Sending a massive thanx out to all the Volunteers and sponsors for without you this would not be possible.

Special mention to The Really Wild Adventures Marksmanship Team and Fishing Team for their continued awesome support, The Big Cat Man, Grass Roots Bush Craft, Burdens Birds, Weston Ferret Rescue, and Jacklands Fishing Lakes for hosing us, there are so many to thank I am sure I have missed some out but I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

See you at the Pass It On Young Sports Air Rifle Range every Thursday and on our next Taster Day booked for October check out our website link below 👇

Teach Them Right, Coach Them Well, for TOGETHER WE CAN INSPIRE.

www.pass-it-on-young-sports.org.uk

www.reallywildadventures.co.uk www.theolehedgecreeper.co.uk

#theolehedgecreeper #passitonyoungsportstasterday #passitonyoungsports #passitonyoungsportsambassador #reallywildadventures #reallywildadventuresmarksmanship #reallywildfishing #countrysportsday #feedinglambs #ferrets #birdsofpray #bushcraft #thebigcatman #countrycrafts

[pedros-mustache]

nighthawks (6)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: ~6.2k+

warnings: smut (18+): piv sex, hate!sex, outdoor!sex. also: canon typical violence and weaponry, sparring violence, mention of blood, animal death (bird), language, x fem!reader

a/n: you didn’t think it was going to be all smooth sailing after the last chapter, did you? massive thank you to @pleasedin​ for inspiring portions of this one & reviewing before release! i will admit that i am quite nervous about this chapter for whatever reason, so (please) let me know what you think. xoxo 💛

DAY TEN

“For Maker’s sake, Mando, we’ve been at it for hours. I can’t hold my arms up anymore.”

Din adjusts his foot to rest on the swell of his seat, a boulder he’s made his throne in this unpopulated lowland of the Outer Rim. He flicks a wandering insect from his knee, dropping his forearm to hang over his leg. He ignores your request for respite.

“Keep going. A few more times.”

Your jaw tightens, eyes gone to steel. Furrow creasing your smooth brow, you blink—a slow, calculated movement—then gesture with your left hand: a slap to your breastbone and three spread fingers flung in his direction.

The apathy of his helmet hides his scoff. He rolls his eyes as you reposition yourself at the firing line. Message received, loud and clear. Sentiment returned in kind:

Fuck. You.

Three days Din has put off catching an arms dealer in the Wastelands, allowing the man to go free so that he can roast under the Hegoran sun, wasting breath on an ill-conceived initiative. Three days filling your empty head with the simple mechanics of marksmanship. Three days—seventy-two excruciating hours—and you’ve yet to clear his second target configuration. 

You are a logical fallacy, a celestial blunder.

After obliterating the bush from two hundred yards off, Din assumed you’d take to firearms like Grogu to that Frog Woman’s eggs. He’d prepared himself to adjust your stance; maybe correct your aim once or twice. Judging by the way you so easily worked the Amban rifle, he’d assumed you would clear his crude shooting range with an elegant, naive ease. He was wrong.

You can’t hit a target for shit.

It bothers him, and it bothers you too. Perhaps more so. 

As the hours drag on and you fail to strike the metal sheets he’s arranged across the grassy plains, your frustration mounts. Sweat glistens on the back of your neck, hair piled high atop your head. You shed your tunic some hours ago, and he watches the way the muscles of your back ripple with fatigue. You weren’t lying when you said you could barely hold your arms aloft. When you go to resume your stance, the tendons at your shoulder blades quiver, and your arms fall, a muffled grunt your only acknowledgement of yet another failure. 

You turn to face him, picking at the tight band of your breast binder. A word, unfamiliar to his lexicon, drifts to mind: beautiful. He blinks the thought away. 

“Mando, please.” You swipe a line of perspiration from your chin. “I can’t—” You look away. “I can’t do it.”

How many times has he thought the same? An untold number. I can’t go on—I can’t go on—I can’t go on.

Din drops from his boulder. The soft ground gives beneath his boots as he makes his way across the divide. Long strides through the prairie grass, gaze locked with yours. He can see every imperfection through the honed focus of his visor—every faded scar, every uncertainty and foolish hope carved in the fabric of your skin. He can see every perfection too. He marks them each one by one, tally for tally in a mental chart of his own making. 

A bird caws, diving from the heavens in a twirl of orange and yellow feathers. You turn to watch as it swoops along the stream and snatches a golden fish between its teeth. The fish writhes and quivers to its death. Heavy wings beat the valley air as the bird rises, smug and satisfied, riding a stiff afternoon breeze. Your shoulders lift on an inhale, and the smallest glimmer of a smile pulls at your mouth. A shame, really, that he should be the one to wipe the moment of serenity from your face.

Pew.

The bird—majestic in all its untamed glory, free from the confines of human and alien toil—drops to the ground in a sizzling heap. Dead, shot through the heart on an upward spiral. 

You squeak, jaw scraped and bloodied by an astonished fall to the earth. 

Din returns his smoking blaster to his holster. “Your problem is you think too much,” he says. 

Stepping around your stiff body, he goes to retrieve the dead animal by the neck. It weighs heavy, stomach bloated by a lifetime of good meals and unthreatened living. He huffs. 

Oh, that I could be a—

With one hard tug, he rips the neck from the body and tosses the head aside, silencing his inner fantast. Just as well, too. Such attractive, glittering wonderings have burned him in the past. He accepts what he is: broken, deformed by his own brutality, more machine than man. The life of a bird—so unhindered, so free… No, that isn’t the path for Din Djarin. 

This is the Way.

The snap of muscle and bone separating must click your brain into gear because you twist to face him, and your body pulses with indignation. Steam blusters from your nose in short, unhinged breaths. A muscle in your eyelid twitches. Yet somehow, amidst the vibrant display of emotion pinching your face, you manage to find your tongue. You speak with a clarity only capable of a woman possessed—inhabited—by rage.

“What the everloving fuck was that for?!”

Din crouches and begins plucking feathers from the animal’s body. He drops the array of bleeding sunset plumage in a pile by his foot; the assortment could prove useful in the future for trade or rare currency. Waste not want not.

Tilting his head back, he gives you a once over. “You’re tired. Hungry. You haven’t had a good meal in days, and it’s affecting your concentration.”

“I’m not eating that bird.” 

“You either eat this or go on failing basic shooting maneuvers.”  

“I’m not eating that bird,” you say again, inflection rising in time with your frustration. “I won’t do it. You didn’t need to kill it!”

Din stands, and you take a step back, shoulders jerked high in self-defense. Glovetips made red by the blood pooling at the pale flesh beneath the bird’s feathers, he levels a finger at you. Your eyes dart from his visor to the offending finger, and for a moment, he thinks you’re going to bite him, dig your teeth into his knuckle, but you swat his hand away instead. Your nails alone prick the skin hidden under his glove.

“You think you’re tough?” Your scowl narrows, hands gone to fists at your sides. “You aren’t tough. You’re just a little girl, running away from home, still swaddled in some asinine concept of morality. The bird doesn’t matter. Surviving matters. The end always justifies the means.”

Frowning, you shake your head. “That’s not true. I’m not running.” A lock of sweaty hair falls in front of your eye; he flexes his hand to keep from sweeping it aside, the sudden, inmost urge a knife to his chest. Fuck, you beguiling thing. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He puts his hands on his hips. “Don’t I? I’ve seen kids like you before and unless you learn to smother that thing in your chest you call a heart, you’ll never make it. Now sit down and eat the fucking bird when it’s ready.”

You’ll never make it—the phrase gives you visible pause. He knows you, has discovered your secrets between arguments and harsh glares. He has known you since that first day in the dusty cantina closet: you want this. You want to whistle through the galaxy and fight tooth-and-nail to bring scoundrels to a twisted form of justice. You are not simply a girl running from home, and he knows that. But he will lie with a serpent’s tongue until you get out of your own damn way. Only then, when you are sharpened to steel and empty within, can he and his dreams be rid of you.

You fall to your ass, elbows braced on bent knees. A sigh tickles the hair at your face, and you flick the loose strands behind your ear, looking off into the distance, away from him. He holds still, forearm poised above the naked bird. 

You are… bewitching. He can think of no other way in which to describe the potency of your presence. You dangle him over a bubbling cauldron by a string. You have left him in a pit of his own making and the pendulum swings low, the rusted blade of your tongue inching closer, closer, nearer his heart. Since the moment he laid eyes upon your haughty, self-assured bravado, he has been caught in your web and he cannot break free. 

He struggles in vain to regain his control—loathes you, taunts you, smacks your bare ass with his palm until you gush over his thigh, fucks his fist while you hum foreign lullabies in the shower. But he is treading water, sinking fast, and he knows it. He knows you. 

Surely, he knows you.

Turning back to the bird, he activates his flamethrower and scorches the animal until its skin rises to a healthy char. It’s a crude cooking method, and the grass around the bird withers to ash, but it will have to do. He is a man of purpose, not propriety. Satisfied, he steps back, gestures to the meal, then sits—away, his back against the boulder he sat upon earlier.

His retreating footsteps pull your gaze from the horizon. You lift your voice to grate his ears. “What? No seasoning?” 

He shakes his head, averting his eyes when you pull one of the thick, meaty wings off the bird. Saliva pools in his mouth. Like you, he hasn’t eaten anything other than rehydrated cubes since leaving Nevarro. Maker, what he wouldn’t give for a bite of the bird’s tender breast. But he can’t—not now—when you tear your teeth into the meat merely a few yards away—when he can practically see the juice drip down your chin. Later, when he can remove his helmet and imagine sinking his teeth into your own flesh, marking your sink with angry bruises.

His cock twitches in his flight suit, and he sighs.

You speak between bites of meat. “It’s not bad.” Turning the wing over in your hand, you study the sinews, pluck a long string of flesh from the bone, dangling it over your mouth before dropping it down your throat. He swallows hard around his Adam’s apple. “D’you want some?”

His response is automatic. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Mando.” Bending at the waist, you rip a hunk of meat from the center of the bird and move to sit on your knees in front of him. You offer the food, and he takes it. “I’ve definitely had better but…” You shrug.

Reticence blankets the valley. Din avoids watching you eat, passing the cooling meat between his palms. You pick and pull at the wing, a measure of peace smoothing the tiredness at your brow. You needed a break—he did too—and though the afternoon wind is hot, it seems to do you well.

“So.” Wing finished, you toss the bone to the wayside and wipe your hands on your pants. “I gather you don’t ever take that bucket off your head.”

The truth of the matter is too complicated, too personal, for Din to divulge, so he gives you his age-old reply, ingrained so deep within his tongue it falls from his mouth without hesitation. The words taste bitter and false, but he says them anyway. 

“Mandalorians remain covered outside of their clan. This is the Way.”

“Well, in that case.” 

Leaning forward, your breasts brush his knees as you pilfer the chunk of meat you’d previously offered. You grin as you sit back, and it must be the first time he’s ever seen you truly smile because it stops his heart, wrenches the air from his chest like the rise of a bellows, and drops a stone in the pit of his stomach. He resists the urge to shove you away with his boot.

“This clan of yours. Where are they?” you ask, head tilted in question. 

His tongue catches between his teeth. “Gone.”

“Oh.” You drop your chin to your chest, lips pursed in thought. “I guess we have one thing in common then…”

“Doubt it,” he mutters.

Lifting your face, you pin him with a look he cannot read. “We’re both alone.”

DAY ELEVEN

It rains, and Din stays in his bunk from morning until night.

He watches you from a viewport in his room. Small though you are from the height and relative distance of the Sunder, he can see you—see you practice your posture and stance, see you fire into the storm, see you hit your first target. You jump in triumph, girlish in your glee, smile breaking the determined scowl of moments prior. 

Part of him wishes he had been there to hear the laughter peal from your mouth, but for the sake of his own fragile heart, he is grateful he remains hidden aboard his ship, protected by layer upon layer of brusk and beskar and an unwillingness to change.

DAY TWELVE

A new day, the sun peaking over the horizon like a shy child, small fingers spread wide in search of a good morning embrace.

Din rouses you from slumber by pounding his fist on the galley door. 

He hears you rustle out of bed—or whatever you sleep on; he isn’t sure—with a muffled demand for patience, footsteps heavy no thanks to your grumpy disposition every morning. (And afternoon—and night… Kriff, you are a piece of work.) When the door whooshes open and you stand before him rubbing sleepy eyes, clad only in a threadbare tank, he looks away. Your nipples pebble against the fabric, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Since fucking you that first time, he has been incapable of anything but a pulsing want. He doesn’t care who you are and how you mock him day in and day out, only that he has felt the walls of your heat smother his cock and he would kill to feel it again.

“What do you want?” You glare at him, voice scratchy with sleep.

For you to wear some fucking clothes around me for once. 

“Put some clothes on,” he grits. “We have work to do.”

Muttering a complaint, you oblige, and the door shuts on your return to the galley. He drops his shoulder against the wall as he waits, arms crossed, head muddled to a thick paste. Last night he dreamt of you, and his hand still trembles after desperately fucking his fist in the fresher. 

In his dream you sat astride his hips, his cock buried deep in your cunt. A heavenly glow haloed your head as you writhed atop him. You planted your hands in the center of his bare chest, and you saw him for his true self, the man beneath the mask, the boy his mother sang to sleep at night. His neck had lifted, his lips nearing yours. He could feel the warmth of your breath on his face. A kiss—his first—he wanted it—he could taste it—

He woke before he got the chance.

You exit the galley and cock your head toward the turbolift. “Let’s get to it I guess.” 

In the narrow turbolift, his wide shoulders consume the majority of the circular space. You lean against the wall, hands behind your back, eyes focused on the overhead light that burns an intense white. He can smell the soap you keep in the shower: the rectangular bar sits on the tile floor, flower petals pressed within the fat and lye, the aroma of citrus clinging to your skin after each use. That simple possession remains the most feminine thing you own, and it boggles his mind each time he steps in the fresher after you. 

The whirr of the lift his backdrop, he studies you. Not for the first time in his life, he is thankful for the invisibility his helmet provides. He’s sure his eyes roam your face like those of a fascinated schoolboy newly awakened to the possibility of women and sex. But while he is no stranger to sex, he is a stranger to this burgeoning appetite for you. He does not understand it—certainly not after all the hell you’ve given him—so he studies you and your face, searching for the answer to his quandary as though it might be hidden on your person.

It isn’t, and a low flame of disdain ignites in his stomach.

“I hit a target yesterday.” 

Your quiet voice startles him, and he inhales sharply as he centers himself. Back to reality, back to the place where you tease and taunt and he gives as good as he gets—because he hates you.

“Hmm.” He hooks his thumb in his belt. “About time.”

“I know.” Your lips curve into a subtle smile, gaze shifting to the floor. “I’m a slow learner. My sister—” You suck in a breath, exhaling slowly, before continuing. “My sister always says I have the brain of a pollywog when it comes to absorbing new information.”

A pensive note embitters the end of your sentence, and if Din were a better man, he might ask what truth brings such a shadow over your face. But he is not a better man, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care to know where you’re from, to whom you belong, or where you got that silver scar on the back of your wrist. 

The turbolift comes to a halt, and the doors slide open on a whisper. You follow him into the cargo hold, footsteps doggish behind his long strides. There is a hum about you; an anticipatory buzz that chips away at his nerves and stokes the flame in his chest. You’re eager this morning, riding the high of your success without his aid, and it annoys him. 

He stops short, and you bump into his arm, falling back a step in surprise. “What–”

“Get off my ass,” he bites. 

Lips parting, you scoff. “I’m sorry—come again?”

“You’re practically stepping on my heels. Step back before I shove you back.”

Your face hardens (Good, he thinks). “I’d like to see you fuckin’ try, Metal Man.”

To your credit, you heed his warning, choosing to walk by his side through the dewey prairie grass rather than behind. Your buzz has turned to a roar. A chorus of angry insects seem to molt from your skin, prepared to attack in defense, and he wonders what has made you so choleric. Like many things, your changeability confounds him. You are quick to anger, quick to speak, slow to learn—yet zealous. He cannot train you here forever; he’s already wasted too much time on this lush planet. But your temper… If your temper doesn’t kill you first, he will. Somehow you’ll have to learn like he did: the fewer words, the fewer emotions, the better your chance of making it to another day.

He leads you to the same flat patch of land that has doubled as a training ground the last few days. Beneath the wide Hegoran sky, he feels dwarfed, a single grain of sand on an infinite beach. The feeling settles in the back of his neck like an ache.

Removing the blaster from your holster, you stand in front of him. The thick braid you’ve fashioned in your hair keeps most fly-always off of your face, but the few rogue strands which frame your cheeks twist his gut. He wants—he wants, he wants—to brush that hair away from your face so it cannot bother you, but he doesn’t. He shoves the urge beneath so many others locked away in his chest. 

You fiddle with a safety lock on the side of your blaster, and something about the way you roll your lower lip between your teeth paints his visor scarlet. He flexes his hand then reaches out to grab your wrist. Wrenching upwards, he pulls you close—close enough to see fear flash in your eyes, explosive and raw—before he drops you to the ground with a swift kick to the shin. He moves to pin you to the hard-packed earth, but your boot connects with his chest on a hard kick.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. Let the games begin. 

Din circles his hand around your ankle and tugs. Sliding across the ground rucks your tunic up your back, exposing your skin to the elements; and he would feel bad, perhaps wonder if your flesh breaks and bleeds, but you strike, unfettered foot colliding with his crotch. He grunts, lurching forward at the waist with a muffled groan as pain lacerates through his body.

You take the opening.

Shooting upwards, you catch the unarmored place between his shoulder and his chest with your deltoid muscle. He tips, thrown off-kilter, but manages to fist his hand in the loose material at your waist as he falls. You tumble with him, clawing at his cowl. 

You land on your side with a hard exhale, fingers caught around his pauldron as you struggle to push him to his back. “Godsfuck, you are the worst!” 

Din grits his teeth. He thought—shit, his vision blurs when you elbow his helmet—he thought you would be easier to beat than this. You’re a small thing compared to him, and hand-to-hand combat makes up the majority of his bounty hunting repertoire. Maker, he underestimates you in every way, and it only further drives him into a rage.

He is better off alone, and he can’t get the smell of your soap out from beneath his nose, and he dreams of you—dreams of fucking you—and he hates that this is what his life has become.

His momentary distraction once again offers you the upper hand on a silver platter. You force him onto his back, swinging your leg over his body so that you straddle his hips. Sitting into your seat, you grab his cowl and pull the heavy fabric toward your body. Wound the way it is around his neck, the cowl squeezes tight, restricting airflow. He grunts—when did he get to be so tired?—and inches his hand toward the far side of your waist. One hard push and you pitch to the left.

As you fall, you pull the cowl with you, legs locked around his hips. He is powerless to stop the roll of his body over yours, and then he is falling—you both are falling—slipping over a ditch hidden by tall grasses. You release the cowl in your shock, and fresh air massages the aching parts of his brain. Over—and over—and over—rolling down the embankment like active bombs. Instinctively, he clutches you to his chest.

Din skids to a halt first. His helmet crashes against the ground, and the rhythm of his fall knocks the helmet up, exposing his neck and mouth to the sunlight. Ice cold dread floods his veins, and he shivers, hands shaking as he slams the ancient covering into the place.

You didn’t see, though. You didn’t see, and he knows because the momentum of the fall threw you off of his body and to the side. You didn’t see, and he knows because had you seen—had that last vestige of his threadbare Creed been sacrificed to a pitiful girl like yourself—he would have snapped your neck the moment he found strength enough to stand. 

You struggle to your elbows a few feet away, hair askew and chin bleeding. He lunges for you, falling to his stomach with a hard oof, and catches your elbow before you can rise to your knees. “Give up,” he growls.

Your head whips to the side, eyes wide, not with fear, but with determination. “You haven’t won yet, Mandalorian.” You twist your elbow out of his grasp. “I’d sooner die than get on my back for you.”

So much running, a lifetime of fighting—how much further can he go? 

He flops to his back, wishing for all the world that he could massage his temples with a weary hand. His cock squeezes, aching for release. Godsdammit, how—why—do you do this to him?

Sweet and syrupy, your laughter peels at the layer of hatred clogging his ears. Without warning, lazy in your intention, you straddle his body once more. Your weight settles on his hips, small hands pinning his pauldrons to the ground. He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Did I win then? First fight and I win?”

You sound so satisfied, so smug and secure in your own abilities. And sure, maybe you made him dance for you a bit, but you didn’t win. Absolutely not. Din Djarin is a Mandalorian, a fighter by nature, a hardened warrior. You—a girl, green to the roots of your hair and impulsive to a fault—did not best him in a simple sparring exercise.

You sit back, releasing his shoulders. He opens his eyes and watches the way you fold your arms over your chest and tap your chin in mock thought. 

“Hmm.” You stare into the clear sky, prolonging his agony with the gentle pressure of your ass on his hardening dick. “What do I think I deserve for defeating the big bad Mandalorian? A good meal or maybe—”

It is easy to flip you onto your back and tuck you beneath his breadth. Din is strong, and if he had wanted it to, this charade could have ended long before it began. But he committed to training you for Karga’s purposes, and he’ll see that through. His dedication to his word remains his biggest shortcoming.

He pins one of your wrists above your head, splaying his hand over your hip to keep you from moving any further. You thrash under his hold like a wriggling fish. Blood trickles down the line of your neck, spilling from the place where you bit into your lower lip as you fell. He has the sudden urge to lick the wound clean with his tongue, but he lowers his head instead. 

“You didn’t win,” he says. “You win when your opponent is out cold or dead.”

“Guess I’ll”—you knee lifts in an attempt to knock him aside, but you only manage to smooth your thigh over his erection; he bites his tongue to stifle a hiss, unsure if you felt his desire—“have to try harder next time.”

“If I release you, do you promise not to fight?” 

You still. He watches a series of calculations filter through your mind, the equations and conclusions shining in your eyes, before you nod.

Din lets go of your wrist and loosens some of the tension in his shoulders. He anchors himself to the ground with two flat palms on either side of your waist. “You did good.” The acknowledgment tears your attention away from prodding your swollen lip. “Scrappy and uncoordinated but good. We can work with that.”

You smirk, hooking a nail on your teeth. Your eyelashes flutter, thick with trouble and the promise of another long night of self-pleasure. He steadies himself by picturing the inside of an Ebranite carcass. “So you gonna reward me or not?”

He balks. “No. You don’t deserve a—”

Fitting an arm around his shoulders, you shove his body against yours. Your legs part of their own accord and circle his waist. Vice-like, they seal in the small of his back, forcing his hips to meet the open space between your legs. Wicked, wicked thing that you are, you grin. Your cunt lifts and drags against his bulge. Warmth seeps through his flight suit. Fuck, he hasn’t even touched you and already he knows you are as needy as him.

Din can scarcely breathe. 

A reward. You want a reward, and you pull him close as though he has the key to your satisfaction.

Glancing down to the dwindling space between your bodies, he tilts his hips forward, enough so that his throbbing cock presses against your covered mound. You suck in a breath through your teeth upon contact, and he pushes forward again. “That? You want that as a reward, little one?”

“Yes.” You nod, and your warm breath fogs his visor. “I want that.”

He ruts into you, lazy and shallow. “Then take it.”

A single brow arches in challenge. “Come and get it.”

He frowns. Unsure of your meaning, he goes to ask, but you rear back—shut your eyes—slam your forehead against his helmet. 

The impact doesn’t hurt him. It startles him enough to force him to his ass in surprise, but it doesn’t hurt him. How it doesn’t hurt you, he cannot fathom; yet you’re up and running before he can regain his senses.

He scrambles to his feet, shouting “Fuck!” as he races after you.

The chase is short lived. Arms pumping, he closes the distance between you without effort; he is soon close enough to hear your braid smack against your back as you run. He snags the neck of your tunic when you misjudge a bend and skid, falling to your side on the edge of a grove of trees. 

Pushing you to your back, he drops to brace your thighs with his knees, lungs burning with the force of his breath. Need turns his blood hot. 

“Think you can run from me? Think you can get away from me that easy?” Fitting his fingers over the waistband of your pants, he rips them over the swell over your ass. You squirm, bucking your hips so that the pants shimmy down your legs and pool at your ankles. Your cunt glistens in the afternoon sun, and he can’t help but run his thumb through the wet gloss drenching your lips. “Fuck, look at you.”

“If there hadn’t been so many leaves…” You paw at his chest plate until your fingers slide beneath the metal, an anchor for your boneless body. “I wouldn’t have slipped if there hadn’t been leaves like that.”

Snorting, he shuffles his knees further down the length of your body. “Yeah, the leaves did it.”

Din drenches his first two fingers in your juices before sliding the digits into your cunt. You release a hard breath, angling your head to the side, mouth open and unhinged. Any pretense of bravado melts from your person, shed like a snake’s skin at his languid touch. You squeeze his fingers tight, and he considers removing the gloves so that he can truly feel your warmth. But no—you don’t deserve that.

A gentle moan cracks your throat when his fingers push against your tight walls. “You like that?” he asks.

It’s a rhetorical question—like so many of the questions he asks in this unholy place—but you answer regardless. “Yeah.” You hiccup, grinding your pussy against his palm. “Yeah, I like it, Mando.”

Perhaps it is the careful way your tongue caresses his moniker—or perhaps it is the way your slick is cradled in the palm of his hand like some profane offering—but he can’t hold himself back. Not anymore.

He removes his fingers, but before he can unzip his flight suit, you bring his wrist to your mouth. Eyes shut, you catch his fingers drenched in your desire between your teeth. His mind stutters, wheels creaking on an ungreased line. Your moan vibrates against his hand, and your tongue slips and slides over the well-oiled digits until he thinks he might cum in his pants.

He drags his hand from your mouth and undoes his zipper. Flattening his palm to your face, he averts your eyes with a harsh push on your cheek. When his cock unfolds from the constraints of his pants, he nearly weeps. 

“Fuck, Mando,” you mumble against his hand. “If you’re really so small that you don’t want to let me see it then maybe this isn’t—”

Notching the head of his cock at your entrance, he thrusts to the hilt of you in one easy push. Your back arches, a strangled cry ripping from your throat. He smirks.

“Does that feel small to you, little girl?” Needy pout puckering your lips, you shake your head back and forth until he steadies you with a hand at your chin. “Stars, you are tight.” He thrusts once, twice. “Put your legs around my back.”

You comply without hesitation, and the lift of your hips forces him that much deeper in your airtight channel. He can feel your heartbeat, rapid and erratic, against the smooth flesh of his length. His tongue runs dry, and he brings himself to the overflowing well of your cunt.

“You gonna fuck me or not?”

He grumbles something about patience before fitting his hands in the curve of your waist. Drawing his hips back, his cock follows, slow and guided by a far-away-need for this moment to last until the end of time. He withdraws until the leaking tip of him pushes against your clit; he thrusts forward at the sound of your sigh. His unhurried dance continues until your hips begin to match him thrust for thrust. You moan each time your clit brushes his pubic bone.

Din shakes his head and moves one hand to your hip. “Stay still.”

Your eyes snap open, frustration glittering in your unfocused depths. “Fuck me harder then!”

“No. My way.”

You roll your eyes and snake a free hand between your bodies to fit your thumb over your clit. “I’ll just touch my—”

Precocious, ungrateful, impertinent thing.

Leaning forward, Din slaps one palm over your eyes and lifts his helmet with the other. He finds flesh—whatever flesh he can locate through frantic movements—and bites down. Your cunt spasms around his cock, but your tongue unleashes the depths of your displeasure.

“You fuckwad! You bit me!” 

You smack his helmet, but it doesn’t matter; the shield is already back in place and he’s tasted your skin, even if only for a millisecond. Pungent with sweat, tinged with citrus and flowers. His hips jerk upwards, and he slows his withdrawal to grind against your mound.

“You can’t just shove your dick in me then bite me like an animal! Who am I kidding? You are an animal! I swear, you are out to—”

“Shut up.” Din finds your open mouth and forces his fingers over your tongue. He depresses the muscle until you are forced to silence. “Shut. Up.”

His tempo increases, body slamming against yours until he can hear nothing but the wet slap of his balls against your ass. You whine around the fingers trapped in your mouth. Your hands scrabble for purchase against his shoulders. He can feel you tighten at each thrust, and the squeeze of your cunt drags him beneath the veil of unglued pleasure. Faster, harder, swirling his hips on errant thrusts so that your mound catches on his skin.

His breathing turns to labored huffs, head tilted down as his muscles grow heavy. He’s close. His balls tighten against his body, and he knows he will come before you do. You drive him to this: unhinged release, catastrophic desire despite the mouthy cadence of your voice.

He finds his release when he removes his hand from your mouth. You groan loud enough to rustle a bird in the treetops, and he pulls out of your pussy in time to spill his seed on the ground. 

You push onto your elbows, eyes glazed, lips curved into a sardonic smirk. “Really?”

Din glances up. He sees your smirk and the sheen of sweat along your collarbone. Hair tumbles around your shoulders, ripped from its braid, and you seem to him like a painting, glossy and perfect in all your imperfections. 

When did you become beautiful to him?

He knows you cannot see his eyes holding yours, but he maintains his stare anyway. He slaps your cunt with the flat of his fingers. 

You gasp. 

He does it again, and you grab his wrist, sealing your warmth against his palm. 

“Do it,” he murmurs. “Go on, pretty girl. Fuck yourself on my hand.”

Something carnal explodes behind your eyes, and you whimper, bearing down against his hand as you writhe in search of your pleasure. You grit your teeth, eyes shut in concentration, working toward the peak with a fierceness known only to yourself. He wraps a hand around his stiffening length and gently massages the head of his cock. 

When you cum, you shudder, gasping, gasping. 

He rubs your clit with his thumb until you force his hand away. You open your eyes, and he sits up from his lounge, back to you, folding his cock back in his pants. He could go again—wants to go again—but he’s already fucked you one too many times.

He looks over his shoulder when you nudge his arm with your foot. “What?”

You smile, made soft by your orgasm. “I still think I won, Metal Man.”

//

In the shower, hot water beating down on his scarred and naked flesh, Din fucks his hand. He lathers his palm in your soap and drenches his cock in the clean essence of you. He braces his hand against the fresher wall, stroking his length until he cums over the white tile.

Beautiful—beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful.

He straightens his back on a slow inhale, curling and uncurling his tired hand. He does not understand this change building in his chest. You are the same as the day he picked you up; he is not. He does not understand it. If there is anything he understands in the universe, it is himself, and you have made him unrecognizable without reason.

Din bends to pick your soap off of the shower floor. He turns it over in his palm, searching, pleading for the answers to his desperate questions. He picks his nail through the soft soap—

Then snaps the bar in half.

NEXT CHAPTER

[kindwarrior]

👆🏻this is some remarkably flawed reasoning

1. After decades of the Mena, Arkansas drug cartel (CIA) controlling the POTUS from 1988 to 2016 through both “D”s and “R”s (Bush, Clinton, Bush and Obama — and note: the cartel controlled both candidates from the Bush vs Gore* election until 2016), it’s ridiculous to frame this as D vs R rivalry. Since Clinton’s second term, wherein Hillary got the FBI files on all the sitting members of congress and used it to purge the House and Senate (through blackmail, threats and wet work) of authentic opposition to the cartel’s power, the “establishment” “R”s have functioned as the “controlled opposition”, serving the same masters, the cartels, as the “D”s, but providing the needed illusion that the elections mattered and Republic remained intact.

At the time of the shooting Trump had not yet named a VP. Without a VP (and unless that VP was as committed to MAGA as Trump) the MAGA movement would loose it’s traction in the Republican Party, allowing the “controlled opposition” (Carl Rove, Liz Chaney, Lindsey Graham, etc.) faction to regain control of the party and run a cartel controlled candidate. Biden’s toast and the cartel doesn’t care, very much, which party as long as it’s a candidate they control. Trump’s assassination, coupled with Biden’s cognitive gaffes and “bullseye on Trump” comment would have provided ample pretext for a “change of batter” in the DNC while providing the insurance of a cartel friendly candidate in the RNC.

* — Gore was the cartel’s preferred candidate in 2000 but they had leverage on Bush Jr. so no big hiccup when their guy lost Florida but it warned them they needed better control of election results. Hence the Florida controversy became the pretext for moving away from paper ballots to Dominion electronic tabulation.

2. All of this is true enough but I’m pretty sure the cartel is worried about the blowback of sticking with Biden. They’ve been building the narrative of retiring Biden for some time now, hoping to scapegoat the DNCs increasingly bad reputation on him before introducing their new candidate.

3. This gets into science fiction. Someone caught a picture of the air turbulence of the bullet whizzing past the president’s ear. Remember the shooter did not have a bipod on his rifle nor a wind gage. At over 400’, I don’t know of any marksman that could have pulled of a grazing shot like that on purpose (either they’d have missed completely or inadvertently killed their target 99 times out of 100). So you either have to assume amazingly accurate marksmanship with Trump, balls of tempered steel, risking his life with this low probability marksman stunt, just to get a visual -or- some studio magic trick involving fake blood, fake bullets, the deliberate murder of bystanders and some magic method of adding bullet turbulence to smartphone photos or, the most probable, Trump’s unexpected and unscripted turn of the head to address a chart turned a kill shot into a grazing ear shot.

Also note: The director of the Secret Service (Kimberly Cheatle), an anti-Trump Biden appointee, replaced Trump’s regular security detail with a largely green unit, for unexplained reasons, just for this event. She had previously, inexplicably, reduced the size of the Secret Service protecting Trump. I could go down the path of her likely involvement in this assassination attempt (because I believe she was involved) but I don’t have to, to make my point: it would be difficult, if not impossible, for Trump to orchestrate a staged assassination attempt when the Secret Service assigned to him were all total strangers, just brought in for this event, leaving the Trump campaign unfamiliar with who they are and what their procedures would be.

Let the theories start to roll!!

But I was wondering the same thing last night!!

[navigatrixnarrations]

Sharpe’s Beacon Part 5

Summary: A bit of mutual pining and back-story, as a treat.

Word Count: 2604

Warnings: Canon-typical violence. Interrupted sexual assault. Mention of past abuse.

Catch up here: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Davy is struggling to stay awake. Trying to hide it though she is, Sharpe sees the yawns she’s stifling, the way she jerks her big eyes open as her lids keep drifting shut. Could be she’s simply waiting for him to dismiss her, could be she’s enjoying his company as much as he’s enjoying hers. 

“Go catch some proper kip, Davy lass. The stars will keep.”

She starts to respond, but whatever she was about to say is cut off by a yawn, one graceful, long-fingered hand covering her mouth too late to conceal it. 

“Or will I have to carry you to your tent?”

Her full lips turn up in a smirk. “That would cause talk, Sir.”

Aye, it would, if anyone were to see, and there’s the trouble. Just because it’s an open secret in Intelligence that she’s a woman, it doesn’t mean she can let the rest of the army know (though Sharpe has no idea how the entire world hasn’t caught on, looking as she does).  

She pauses at the opening of her tent to glance back at him over her shoulder. “Good night, Sir.”

Sharpe laces his fingers behind his head and lays back on the bench, finding the constellations Davy had just shown him. And there it is, the North Star, the one that doesn’t move in the night sky, the one that she said shows the way. Sentimental git, he scolds himself. He retires to his own tent, an endless gulf of two sheets of canvas and two paces separating him from Davy. Eventually, he sleeps.

Davy lass. She can hear Sharpe’s voice in her mind as she readies herself for sleep. She doesn’t think she imagined the affection in the way he said it. First time she’s ever been called a pet name by any man. Not by her brute of a husband, may he rot in Hell, that’s for certain. Davy prides herself on being a good officer and a better soldier, and those hard-won victories would be lost in an instant if she were found out. Stevens would have if she had let him, but she couldn’t allow him to. She couldn’t let her Sergeant that close, no matter how much she wanted to. She winces. Their last conversation was an argument, really, and then the damnable Frogs came with their damnable mortars, tipped off by a traitor who will pay, she will see to that if it kills her…

She’d gone to have a piss in the bushes, and Stevens followed at a distance. Steadfast as always, facing the other way while she pulled up her trousers. She paused to admire his broad shoulders that threatened to burst the seams of his jacket, the dark hair pulled back from his angular face in an old-fashioned plait. Women noticed him whenever they were in a town. If only things were different, but they were as they were, and no amount of sweet nothings murmured in her ear could change that, could mitigate the risk of losing everything she’d worked for. 

“When we’re alone, it doesn’t have to be about rank or the army or anything else but us!” There was strain in his voice she’d never heard there before, not in battle, not when he’d been wounded. “It could be just us. Why can’t you let it be just us?”

“Sergeant, now is not the time for this conversation.”

“It’s never the time for this conversation, is it, Lieutenant.” Stevens didn’t try to disguise the bitterness in his voice, and she couldn’t be angry at him for that; she was angry at herself.

The next day, he pushed her out of the way of an incoming shell. Tears prickle her eyes, and she’s too exhausted to hold them back. 

The next day passes with parade and drilling, marksmanship practice and equipment repairs, and Davy is sure she’ll go mad with impatience. There’s a traitor somewhere amongst them, and though her ears are open, nothing about any of the men she encounters, officers or enlisted, raise her suspicions. At least, after half an afternoon of marching ‘round a field, they’re given the rest of the day off. Come morning, the Light Company will be on picket duty. She goes to vent her frustrations at Hogan, but at her approach he simply holds up one finger: it’s not a good time. Too many non-Intel officers about. Too many ears of unknown loyalties. She suppresses a heavy sigh and returns to Sharpe, who she finds alone, sharpening his sword by the Chosen Men’s tents. She sits beside him and begins sharpening her much-used bayonet. “Where are the others, Sir?”

“Harper’s still at the infirmary with his son, and the rest are whoring.” His eyes go to her bandaged arm and shakes his head slightly at her. “You’ll tear it open.”

Davy glances at him sidelong with a sly half-grin. Years ago, when Hogan thought she might have the makings of an assassin of the powerful, he sent her for lessons in proper manners for a young lady, in how to dance and flirt and charm men. She’d lasted nearly a week and several fistfights with rich little bitches who tried to trip her or pinch her before the instructor declared her hopeless at faking high society; young ladies of breeding, she was informed, do not brawl. “And you’ll stitch it up for me again if I do, Sir.”

Sharpe’s face stays serious, even grim, and she fears she pushed too far, presumed a closeness with him that would allow such banter where no such closeness yet exists, but his voice, when it comes, is as gentle as his hands had been when treating her wound. “Never doubt that.” Davy allows herself to smile at him, just a bit.

Sharpe forces himself to sound jovial; that slight smile of hers has gone straight to the pit of his belly. “I’m in no mood for the officer’s mess, and Cooper was going on about a tavern. Might be our last chance for owt but rabbit for a while.” Side by side, they walk the mile into town.

A sharp scream, quickly muffled, echoes from a doorway off the high street. Three arseholes in the gold-trimmed red coats of lieutenants have backed a townswoman into it, one drunkenly trying to open her blouse while the other two pin her by the arms. She’s fighting, cursing and kicking at them. “I do like a cunt with some fight in her,” slurs one. And then he goes slack as Sharpe yokes him with an arm across the throat, pulling him off the woman and flinging him to the ground where he kicks him in the solar plexus, causing the bastard to crawl away gagging.

Davy, meanwhile, has tapped a second on the shoulder, bringing a swift, vicious knee to his balls and then under his chin when he whirls to face her. Together, they drag the third backward, Sharpe using the barrel of his rifle as a bar across the arsehole’s throat. Davy turns toward the woman, who gives her a grateful nod then flees.

Sharpe knows their sort: snobs who bought their officer’s commissions and are too cowardly to do real fighting or dirty their soft hands, but live to brutalise anyone they see as beneath them. When he was enlisted, he served under any number of such so-called gentlemen.

“Do you know who we are?” slurs one. His eyes go from Sharpe to Davy and back. “It’s a death sentence to strike an officer.” He starts to lurch toward Sharpe, and Davy fires a warning shot over his head. He halts, his expression flickering between fear and fury before settling on the outrage that rich men reserve for any poor person who dares stand up to them.

“Aye, it is,” Sharpe agrees, “Lieutenant.” Davy has seen enough of Sharpe to know he’s leading the posh little gobshites to a trap of their own making. “Just as it’s a hanging offence to assault civilian women.” The corner of his mouth twists upward and his green eyes go dark, and Davy thinks she never wants to be on his bad side. “Now, who’s your superior?”

“Why should I tell you, you ragamuffin?”

Sharpe turns to Davy. “Lieutenant Davy, do you reckon these gentlemen are knowingly disobeying a lawful order?”

Davy looks at the three, her expression deadpan. “I’ve known Major Sharpe to execute mutineers without so much as a tribunal. I can’t say I favour your chances, even if he were to return you to your commander.”

“M-Major?” Then, remembering he’s posturing before his mates and too drunk to reason, the lieutenant sneers. “You?”

“Aye.” Sharpe’s chin goes forward mockingly. “Me.”

“Surely you’ve heard of Major Sharpe,” Davy adds. “He’s the one who captured that Frog eagle. Saved General Wellington’s life.” She pauses and adjusts the strap of her rifle. “Has the General’s ear, the Major does, and the Colonel’s.” She glances at Sharpe, and then back at the three, her face going hard as it had when she was knifing a voltigeur. 

“I…we…we apologize, Major Sharpe. Please don’t tell Captain Fotheringham.”

“I’ll think it over. Meanwhile, it’s straight back to camp for you. Don’t let me hear about any other misbehaviour.” He looks at them coldly. “Dismissed.” 

They nearly trip over their own limbs as they take their leave.

“Thank you, Sir.” Davy’s voice is quiet.

“For what?”

“For intervening. Most men wouldn’t think to, much less carry through.” Her eyes look far away and she shakes her head as though shaking off dark thoughts. What did men do to you, Davy, lass?

She swallows hard in answer to the question on his face. “I told you how when I was thirteen, I was married off to a brute of a man. Came to learn he paid the orphanage for me. When he wasn’t beating me until I could barely stand, he was having me pick pockets for coin I never saw even a glint of after. Said if I didn’t bring in enough that way, he’d have me earn it on my back instead. And he would have, too; he ran a few other girls.” Liked having it off with them, too, then telling her how much better they were in bed than she. When she retorted that was because they knew how to pretend that they liked fucking him, he, well, there’s no need to dwell on what he did to her next, but it hurt to walk for days afterward...

Sharpe exhales, a harsh, angry breath. How dare that, he can’t call her former husband a man, can he, that fucking bastard. How dare that fucking bastard.

Davy inhales, bracing herself for what she’s about to tell him. “When I was sixteen, he was threatening me with a knife, again, and I couldn’t take any more. He kept me underfed so I’d be too weak to fight back much, but he got overconfident, so I pretended to faint then stabbed the fucker in the gut and slit his throat with his own knife. I promised myself I’d never again be any man's prey. I’ll not stand by and watch other women go through that, either, not if I can stop it.” She stares at Sharpe defiantly, expecting to see disgust. Instead, there’s an unexpected softness in his green eyes, softness and respect.

“We’re survivors, we are.” He takes her hands in his. “They tried to destroy us, but we put them in the ground.”

He’s still holding her gaze just as he’s holding her hands, in a surprisingly tender grip for a man as fierce as he. Men have only ever caused me pain, but this man is different, she thinks. If only he wasn’t her superior. If she makes a move on him, he’ll likely decide she’s little different than a whore, trying to use him for her own advancement or creature comforts, and she can’t bear for him to think that of her.

At the tavern, Davy excuses herself to freshen up. Sharpe lounges at a table while he awaits her return. He slips the knife from his boot and hefts it in his hand. Honed sharp and perfect for fighting but well-balanced and small enough for throwing in a pinch, it fits his hand as though it was made to. 

Harper’s voice tears Sharpe from his reverie. “That’s a fine blade, Sir. I haven’t seen it before.”

“Davy gave it to me.”

“Ah.” Harper’s expression is entirely too innocent. “A thoughtful gift. She must think highly of you to give you a knife in the hand and not in the gut.”

Sharpe changes the subject. “How’s your boy?”

“Fever broke and he’s right as rain. He and Ramona are asleep now. “ Undeterred by his Major’s attempt at talking about owt but his feelings, Harper’s next words are as pointed as Davy’s knife, despite his casual tone. “‘Twas kind of the Lieutenant to make sure I could be with them, so it was. She’s a good one, our Davy.” Sharpe doesn’t respond, and Pat goes on. “I told her you’re a good one, too, Sir.”

Sharpe’s voice is as wry as his expression. “Stick with soldiering, Pat. I can’t see you making a go of it as a matchmaker.”

Harper shrugs, unrepentant. “I see the way you look at her. We all see it. Like you haven’t looked at any woman since Teresa.”

“Don’t,” Sharpe growls. Harper has gone too far, mentioning his dead wife. But he can’t deny the truth in his Sergeant’s words. 

“I see the way she looks at you, too. All of us do, Sir, and we give you our blessing.” 

Sharpe doesn’t answer, but he stares at his Sergeant from beneath his brow, and Harper tilts his head with a knowing look. “It isn’t disloyal to care for her, Sir. It doesn’t replace what you lost. Might do you some good. Might do her some good, too, so it might.”

“I said don’t, Sergeant.” 

Harper stands. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then, Sir. But you can’t have your heart shot for mutiny when it does what it likes.” 

Aye, where Davy is concerned, his heart refuses to obey any order he might give it. It’s begun to set itself on Davy, begun to set itself on her with a vigour he never expected to feel again, let alone this quickly. The problem is what to do about it; he’s keenly aware of the power differential, even if his men wouldn’t mind or resent her for it. After what that bastard of a husband did to her, he can’t blame her if she’s gun-shy with men, and what’s more, he never wants her to feel trapped or powerless again. And so he fights beside her, treasures her every smile and pithy comment. Has a man ever touched her with kindness, with care? Harper’s words echo in his head: You both made it work because you both wanted it to work. Would Davy want it to work?

In the foundling home, there were a stray cat who’d regularly come ‘round the yard. A sleek, vicious little tabby. She were skittish at first, but eventually she learned that Sharpe wouldn’t grab at her, and she’d come to him to take food from his hand, would lounge, purring, on his chest in the evenings and let him run hands made sore and raw from picking oakum through her soft fur. Davy reminds him of that cat. Maybe she’ll come to trust him, once he gives her enough reason to. Maybe she’ll come to him.

[serararku]

The Addict’s Edict Finale

Era slowed her breath and flattened her ears against her head, with her bright blue eyes twinkling in the shadows. She crawled on all fours through the foliage and beneath the cover of the bushes. Her heart pounded against her chest and temples as she scanned the area; her prey was as cunning as he was quick, and she couldn't afford the luxury of underestimating his reflexes. So she stalked him from the dark like a ghost in the fog. The time to strike was close. She could sense it.

"Scurryin' about ain’t gonna help you none!" Thalen called out, stepping into view. He balanced his magitech rifle on his shoulder as he searched for her, with pupils so dilated she could barely see the yellow of his eyes. Era lowered herself when his gaze swept across her hiding place, but she released her bated breath when he turned to the side. "Is Isenhart's youngest pupil scared a lil'ol me? You ready to yield and drop this farce?" He jerked his head in the opposite direction. "Can't hide forever, lass. Alls you gotta do is knock me on my ass with that stick. Easy peasy, aye? Come on out n'get your ass-whoopin' while it's hot!" His back was turned and his guard was lowered -- it was now or never!

Era dashed out from the foliage and raced across the pond, as silent as a shadow and as quick as a coeurl. She held her bokuto with one hand, letting the tip of the wooden blade brush against the surface of the water. She saw Thalen’s ears point in her direction just as she almost made it to the other side. The Gunslinger whipped around to fire off a shot, but was blinded by a spray of water when she flicked the sword at him. Thoomp! The burst of aether cut through mist and smoke before diving under the surface of the water.

Era reappeared from above, aiming to give this loudmouth a concussion with a downward swing. Like lightning he whipped his revolver up and pointed it over his shoulder! Thoomp! The bokuto bounced backward in Era's grasp when the aether burst ricocheted! Off balance and airborne, she grit her teeth as she tried to correct herself, but he had already stepped out of harm's way.

Her heart was pounding in her head when she landed, bringing the blade across to bounce his rifle away before he could aim at her! She whipped the bokuto back to smash against the side of his head, but he ducked and leaned back! Era stayed kept on the pressure, swinging high when she tried to knock him out, and low when she tried to throw him off balance; but the bastard was quick -- far quicker than she's ever seen him move in her life! When he spun on his heel to avoid another swing, he scraped his cupped fingers along the ground and threw a handful of dirt at her face. She closed her eyes and sputtered for a full second, and that was enough.

Thalen swung the back of his hand as hard as he could, smacking the bokuto out of her grip. Then he lunged forward, driving the butt of his rifle up and slamming her right in the stomach with a weighty thud!

"Haaugh!" Era buckled over and dropped into the dirt, gasping for air and in the fetal position. Reluctantly she opened her eyes and saw her weapon just a couple yalms away; Thalen once again had his back turned, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and basking in his victory. He was talking but she couldn’t really hear him -- she had one last trick up her sleeve. Clutching her stomach as she crawled, she hurried as fast but as quietly as she could to reach her discarded wooden blade. If she could get to her weapon before he had a chance to noti- BLAM BLAM BLAM!

Dust kicked up by her hand, stopping her dead in her tracks. Dust picked up by live rounds. She turned around to see Thalen pointing his hand cannon at her. She completely forgot about his 'pride n'joy'. "I win, princess." He sneered, spinning the sidearm on his finger before sliding it back into his holster. "I told you a swordsman ain't no match for a bastard with a clear shot."

“Woohoo! Yeah! Way to go Thalen!” Coroh cheered and clapped once it was perfectly clear victory of this duel was going to him. Mizuna on the other hand, who was here purely to ensure no one got seriously hurt, finally let out a breath she had been holding for what felt like forever.

Era rubbed dirt from her face as she sat upright, wallowing in her crushing defeat; eight moons of training under Hadriel and she still couldn’t defeat some drunkard with a spare pistol. “You cheated...”

"Cheated? Heh heh heh..." Thalen repeated, chuckling. "You think honor'll protect you when the chips are down? It won't. How did facin' your foes head on go back in Mor Dhona again? You got shot to hell, aye?"

“A real swordsman wouldn’t be beaten so easily…”

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, Era.” He offered his hand to help her to her feet, his eyes still dilated with attentive excitement. “How’d you think Garlemald conquered Doma and wiped out most of them swordmasters in the first place? With bullets, that’s how. Lots n’lots a bullets.”

She was reluctant to accept his offered hand, but she didn’t want to look like a sore loser; she was definitely sore though. “Hadriel can deflect bullets… I’m sure he can.”

“Aye, I’m sure he can too.” Thalen saw the frown on her lips and heard the subtle pout in her voice -- he felt good about today despite his crippling thirst, as it was always a treat to knock a blademonger down a peg or two. A grunt and a heave later and Era was back on her feet. “But that takes a lotta focus n’strain on the body to move that fast. Even the greatest Samurai can only move so fast for so long. They’ll run outta stamina long before I run outta ammunition, I can assure you of that.”

She dusted off her backside and nodded -- she couldn’t argue with that logic. “You think you can take on Hadriel with that peashooter?” Almost immediately he threw his head back and laughed in an exaggerated fashion.

“Of course I could!” Thalen chortled, pretending to wipe a tear from his eye. “And for the record… this is a ceruleum powered magitech mini railgun revolver. I could blow a squirrel’s brains out from twelve-hundred yalms with a clean shot, and at max power I could punch a hole as large as a hrothgar’s head in Garlean black steel. Course… the knockback would shatter my arm. But that’s besides the point! It’s deadly accurate and packs a wallop!”

“All that jargon is worthless against a katana wielded by a real master.” Era yawned, plucking her sword. “If you fought Hadriel, you’d be dead before you could draw your pistol…”

“Say it with me: railgun revolver.” Thalen turned to wave at Mizuna and Coroh, who were at a healthy distance. “Sure, if’n he could get me within swingin’ distance of that blade I’d be minced meat. But gunslingers like me fight at a distance, lass. And I’d be able to know where he’s at long before he can get near me.”

Coroh ran up first, still excited at that display of marksmanship. “Wow! That was really, really cool…! Can you teach me how to shoot like that?”

“Baby steps, darlin’.” He smiled, ruffling her hair. “Learn the bow n’I’ll teach you how to shoot a sidearm, aye. Plenty of folks at the estate are handy with precision guns too, so you’ll never be short a teacher.” He gestured to Era before grinning wickedly. “But show’s over. Let’s go ahead n’get outta here. I got jobs to do, gil to make, n’a thirst to quench.”

“Why don’t you take Coco along with you, S’era?” Mizuna chimed in, casually approaching the group with her hands deep in her lab coat pockets. “I need to speak with K’thalen alone.” Thalen and Era exchanged looks before the Samurai tentatively nodded, gesturing for the gushing Miqo’te girl to follow her to her chocobo Kwehzimoto.

With a lift and a plop, Coroh was in the saddle with the reins in her hands before Era climbed up to sit behind her. “Goodbyyyeee!” Coroh hollered, waving at them both as the two girls took off toward Ul’dah in a cloud of dust.

Mizuna watched them disappear along the horizon, waiting for them to be long gone before she turned to look up at him. “You can see aether.”

“Eh?” Thalen snorted, crossing his arms. “What’s this now?”

“You knew Ms. Rarku was hiding in those bushes. You knew where she would reappear when she vanished in that puff of smoke, and you dodged all of her swings perfectly.” Mizuna dressed him down with her gaze. “Half of those dodges happened when you weren’t even looking at her.”

“That’s just instinct, Doc.” He waved his hand dismissively, turning to make his way to his fenrir motorcycle. “Been sparrin’ with the hothead for moons now. She’s as predictable as the sunrise.”

Mizuna slowly blinked, before pulling a rubber stress ball from her pocket. She said nothing as she watched him wander away, halfway to his bike, before she lifted her arm and chucked it as hard as she could at him; Thalen ducked as soon as it was released from her hand, letting it soar clean over his head to bounce off into the dust and haze of the desert wastes. “I’ve made no indication I would do that. How can you call that instinct?”

He dusted off his hat before sliding it back onto his head. “Pfeh… I never let my guard down ‘round women, that’s why.”

“You can see aether. The only reason you dodged that ball is because it was in my pocket for bells. My aether had rubbed off on it, and you felt it leave my hand.” Mizuna took long strides to reach his side again. “I’ll need to run more tests to be sure you can help me with my problem…”

“A problem?” Never before had Thalen been so confused, and that’s saying something. “What kinda problem?”

“It’s confidential.” Mizuna tucked her hands back into her pockets and quickly changed the subject. “I also wanted to talk to you about your… addiction. If you have a moment to talk with me?”

“Doc, you ain’t comin’ on to me, are you?” He furrowed his brow and straightened his back. “Cause I got this rule where I nev-”

“I’m not hitting on you.” Her tone was curt and annoyed. “I’m referring to your drinking problem.”

Thalen relaxed a bit, his hand reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “I ain’t got no drinkin’ problem. Can’t a man enjoy a drink or two at his leisure?”

“If it was just ‘a drink or two’ we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” Mizuna eyed him up and down before continuing. “You’re a grown man. I can’t force you to change your ways… I don’t know why you drink exactly, but I know you don’t drink because you like to have fun. You’re killing yourself trying to escape something… or someone. But you can’t run from whatever is haunting you forever, K’thalen. Trust me… I’ve seen what trying to drown your sorrows in alcohol can do to a man.”

Thalen wasn’t in the mood for another addiction lecture. He’s suffered through interventions before, from ‘friends’ who wouldn’t or couldn’t understand. The fact that this scaled wannabe mother of his could even suggest she has any idea of what it’s like to deal with his inner demons made his tail bristle, his face scrunch up into a snarl, and words laced with poison leap from the back of his throat. “Like who… you’re husband?”

Her faint smile vanished and she slowly blinked at him. The stone mask slipped onto her face as she slowly inhaled, but Thalen knew better than to trust a blank expression. “Yes. Like my husband.”

“Ah…” He sputtered, still more angry and irritable than embarrassed. “Sorry, Doc. I… didn’t mean it.”

“My husband tried to drown himself in liquor trying to forget the agony of losing not one, not two, but all three of our children. He became an angry, violent drunk, and although he never hit me… I could tell he wanted to. Alcohol has that effect on grief. But the pain can never stop until you face it head on.” She slowly inhaled as her gaze drifted to Ul’dah in the distance. “You’re one of the greatest shots I’ve ever seen. Maybe the fastest quickdraw in Eorzea. Alcohol is not your buddy. If you won’t cut back for your sake, think about the people around you who are concerned for your wellbeing. Their lives are affected too.”

Thalen gulped dryly, the familiar stinging thirst stabbing him in the back of the throat. Mizuna brushed past him and sat down on the backseat of the motorcycle, with the slightest scowl on her face.

“Take me home.”

---

Mentions: @hadriel-ffxiv​

[justablogfullofrandomrandomness]

Okay, over the past couple of days I've been writing something. It's the Avatar episode The Blue Spirit told from Zuko's perspective. Hope you enjoy, I worked pretty hard on it.

I had many..... What some may call.... Misadventures while searching for the Avatar. Some that people know about, others that are a close kept secret. Especially that one day. But, I'm not above admitting I do think about it a lot. I'm still confused by it. But, it's not like I can ask anyone about it. No one knows, and I'm not going to tell anyone about it, ever. However, the Avatar knows, and if he knows there's no question whether or not his friends know too. But it's not like I can go talk to them, we're enemies. Nothing will change that, not even this. Let me start from the beginning. Not the 'beginning' beginning, the beginning of this story. It started at the Pohuai Stronghold, one of the most secure bunkers the Fire Nation had. Nearly impossible to break into, but I didn't need in. I just needed on the tower. The black hood and the blue mask I wore were a precaution, in case I was seen, which I wasn't planning on happening. But if I was, no one would know it was me. And my Uncle says I don't think things through. I think them through enough! I climbed up the wall in time to hear the conversation between Zhao and Colonel Shinu.

"Absolutely not." Shinu was saying, clearly furious. "The Yuyan Archers stay here. Your request is denied, Commander Zhao."

"Colonel Shinu, please reconsider. Their precision is legendary. The Yuyan can pin a fly to a tree from one hundred yards away without killing it." I looked down to where the Yuyan were practicing their marksmanship. They clearly lived up to the legend. "You're wasting their talents using them as mere security guards." Zhao continued. I hated that guy so much.

"I can do whatever I want with their talents. They're my archers, and what I say goes." Shinu snapped. Zhao scowled at him.

"But my search for the Avatar is-"

"Is nothing but a vanity project. We're fighting a real war here, and I need every man I've got, Commander."

"But-" Shinu cut him off again.

"That's final! I don't want to hear another word about it." Zhao glared at him, but before either could do anything else, a bird screeched. We all glanced towards it as the Messenger Hawk flew to the tower.

"News from Fire Lord Ozai?" I heard Zhao asked. There was the sound of paper rustling. "It appears I've been promoted to Admiral." Zhao remarked, no doubt with a smug smirk painted across his face. "My request is now an order." Zhao walked out to the balcony and looked down at the Yuyan Archers. His archers now. I scowled from behind my mask. The last thing Zhao needed was more power. He was big enough of a problem as a Commander. I climbed down the tower, deciding it was time to leave.

The next day I was back on my ship, in the navigation room. Lieutenant Jee and I were hovering over a map as my Uncle played Pai Sho with some other crewmates in the corner. It was weird, ever since the storm, everyone, especially Jee, had been treating me different. More tolerant. I know Uncle said something to them, but what exactly he said, I wasn't sure. It didn't matter, though. At least they all weren't at my throat anymore.

"We haven't been able to pick up the Avatar's trail since the storm," Jee was saying. He pointed to the map. "But if we continue heading Northeast-" He cut himself off when a large shadow passed the window. It was another Fire Navy ship, and one of the bigger ones.

"What do they want?" I questioned.

"Perhaps a sporting game of Pai Sho." Uncle spoke up, rubbing his hands together. When the soldiers boarded the ship and entered the navigation room, they held out a scroll for us to see. It was a wanted poster for the Avatar.

"The hunt for the Avatar has been given prime importance. All information regarding the Avatar must be reported directly to Admiral Zhao."

"Zhao has been promoted?" My uncle asked, his finger resting on a game piece as he considered his move. "Well, good for him." He finished, pushing it across the board with a smile. The two crewmates he was playing against groaned. I looked away from the soldiers.

"I've got nothing to report to Zhao. Now get off my ship and let us pass."

"Admiral Zhao is not allowing ships in or out of this area." The soldier said. I scowled.

"OFF MY SHIP!" I shouted, filled with rage. Uncle didn't seem to be paying much attention to what had just happened. He was focused on his game.

"Excellent, I take the pot." He pulled the money towards him. "But you're all improving. I'm certain you will win if we play again." I turned away from the others, looking out the window. I went up to the deck and started running myself through Firebending moves furiously, needing to blow off some steam. I knew Zhao's promotion was going to give me issues, but I had no idea it would quite literally halt my search. I didn't know what to do. I kicked one last blast of fire, exhausted, breathing heavily.

"Is everything okay?" I heard my uncle ask from behind me. "It's been almost an hour and you haven't given the men an order."

"I don't care what they do." I snapped.

"Don't give up hope yet. You can still find the Avatar before Zhao." I turned around, looking at him desperately.

"How, Uncle? With Zhao's resources, it's just a matter of time before he captures the Avatar." I turned away and moved to the side of the ship, looking out at the water. "My honor, my throne, my country, I'm about to lose them all." In the two and a half years I had been searching, it had never felt more impossible. I screwed my eyes shut, driving my fists into the metal rim of the ship. "No, I can't lose them. I will not. I refuse to let Zhao win." I pushed off the side and walked off.

"Where are you going?" Uncle asked me as I passed him.

"To figure out a way around Zhao's restrictions. I'll be back." I went to my quarters and looked at the swords on my wall for a moment before taking them down and forcing them into a scabbard. I went to my table and pulled out the blue mask, looking down at it's wide grin. Whatever was going to happen, it would be for the best. It was what needed to be done. I left alone. I didn't need any help from anyone else. They would only slow me down.

When I arrived near the closest village, I quickly changed into a black outfit with gloves and a hood, only touch of color was the blue mask. I listened carefully, hoping Jee was right about his predictions. That's when I overheard some guards walking down the dark street by the alleyway I had crouched in.

"The Yuyan Archers didn't even have to try, I heard they took him down in an instant."

"Guess all that talk about how strong he is was just a bunch of Firelord propaganda after all. Did they kill him?"

"Don't you know anything about the Avatar? If they kill him, he'll just be reincarnated and then they'll have to start their search all over again! No, they're keeping him at the Pohuai Stronghold until they can safely transport him or something. Either that or they'll just keep him there, which seems like the best option considering his reputation." My eyes widened and my breathing hitched as the guards conversation faded from my earshot. Of course they took him to the Pohuai Stronghold, because when was anything in my life easy? I sighed. It's okay, it was all under control. I just had to get to the stronghold and hopefully by then I would have thought of a plan..... Maybe now that I think about it, Uncle had a point about me not thinking things through. Don't tell him I said that.

A few hours later, I watched from the bushes, studying the area before me. It's like I said earlier, the Pohuai Stronghold was one of the most secure fortresses the Fire Nation had, and no doubt the Yuyan Archers would be there, guarding their prize. Sneaking onto a tower to eavesdrop on a conversation is one thing, but actually getting in? That would be difficult. Then I got an idea. There was a road nearby. If I timed it just right, I would have a chance. I waited in silence, mask hiding my face, it would be better if no one knew it was me. Especially the Avatar. After what felt like ages of waiting, I heard it. A supply cart. I waited for the opportune moment before quickly rolling under the cart, grabbing onto the bottom and holding on tight. It stopped at the gate, and a guard checked the back, looking to see if the supplier was trying to sneak anything in. I held my breath as I watched the feet on the other side of the cart, quickly slipping out the other side and climbing into the back behind a crate as the guard checked underneath.

"All clear. Go on in." The guard said. The cart started to move again. I was in. When the cart stopped to be unloaded, I slipped out, sneaking past the guards and running into a nearby stairwell. I could hear Zhao, giving his speech of victory.

"Until today, only one thing stood in our path to victory. The Avatar! I am here to tell you that he is now my prisoner!" Zhao shouted, his voice triumphant. Cheers roared from the crowd. I was crouched as I snuck across the wall, doing my best to ignore Zhao. I had to stay focused. I dropped a rope down the side of the wall and slid down, quickly ducking into a sewer grate. So what if I got a little wet? I effortlessly squeezed through the bars, more cheers roaring from the guards Zhao was entertaining with his gloating. I knew even then his hunger for power would be the death of him one day. I managed to get into the hallways without a hitch. Well, except for that one guard that I stumbled upon. Knocked him out and took his helmet, deciding I could use it. When I reached the corridor I knew they were keeping Aang in, I threw the helmet down. The metal clanked as it hit the floor, rolling to a stop at the guards feet. I heard footsteps of an approaching guard and when he rounded the corner, I took him out, gagging his mouth and hanging him from the ceiling by his arms with a chain. A few seconds later, two other guards turned to corner and stared at the first guard. They didn't even notice me up in the ceiling above them. Too bad for them. The fourth and final guard hadn't left the door. He knew something was wrong and reached for the horn on the wall to alert other guards. I ran down the hall and threw a knife, knocking the horn out of his hand. He saw me coming at him and instinctively shot a blast of fire at me, which I counteracted by throwing a bucket of water at him, and sweeping his feet out from underneath him. I hit him over the head with the bucket, just to be sure. Then I knelt down and pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocking the door and looking at the boy who had caused me so much trouble. The Avatar was chained, defenseless. Everything I had wanted the past two years, served up to me on a silver platter. I drew my swords and his eyes widened with terror. Undoubtedly, I looked like some kind of demon. But I didn't care. I ran at him with my swords and he screamed, screwing his eyes shut and looking away. He opened his eyes when he felt the swords cut the chains. He looked up at me in shock. I realized in that moment he really had no idea who I was. I stepped closed to him and broke the metal cuffs off his wrists and then did the same with his legs, sheathing one of my swords.

"Who are you?" The Avatar asked. "What's going on?! Are you here to rescue me?" I opened the door and gestured for him to follow me, ignoring his questions.

"I'll take that as a yes." The boy remarked, following me down the hall. I got a bit a head of him when I heard him gasp.

"My frogs!" He shouted. "Come back! And stop thawing out!" I took a deep breath and went back for him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and dragging him away from the half frozen frogs he was trying to stuff into his pockets. "WAIT! MY FRIENDS NEED TO SUCK ON THOSE FROGS!!!!" I had no idea WHY he said that, or what he meant by it, but I really didn't want to know. I lead him through the halls, back the way I came, and straight to the sewers. I could see the silhouettes of guards moving overhead and I gestured for the kid to press against the wall so we wouldn't be seen. He was worried, I could see it in his eyes, but I made no move to comfort him. Instead, I left my head through the grate, peering around. Once I decided the coast was clear I gestured for him to follow me up and I climbed out. The Avatar followed after me, having to jump up to grab the bars as he was much shorter than me. I lead him back to where I had climbed down on the rope and he started climbing up the wall, me following short after. We were halfway up the wall when a loud bell rang out. We'd been made.

"There! On the wall!" A guard shouted. Another guard ran up on the top of the tower and cut the rope and we both fell back towards the ground. The Avatar sent a blast of air beneath us, cushioning our fall so we didn't break anything on impact with the ground. Smart kid. We'd need that quick thinking if we were going to get out of here alive. I drew my swords, ready to defend myself. I pointed towards the open gate and I bolted for it, the kid right behind me. Guards ran at us from all different directions as Zhao shouted orders from above.

"Stay close to me." The Avatar said, running in front of me, sending a huge gust of wind at the guards who blocked our path. He got a little bit ahead of me and two guards ran at me at once with their spears. I stopped to fight them off, the kid not seeming to notice. More and more guards came and pretty soon I was surrounded, but I wasn't giving up. I had so much more to fight for. If I gave up here there would be no more hope. I felt a large rush of air and suddenly all the guards had been swooped away. The kid had come back for me. He was holding a spear with the sharp bit broken off. A makeshift staff. He looked at me for a moment before he waved his staff at me, sending my flying through the air, landing on top of the wall. I quickly got to me feet, ready to fight off the guards that were coming at me when the Avatar flew up to me himself, spinning the staff over his head to keep himself airborne. He grabbed me by wrapping his legs around my chest and we took off into the sky again. He struggled to keep in the air with my added weight, every once and a while dropping a few feet, during which I decided I wasn't a fan of flying. Spears flew at us from the ground and I focused on kicking them away before they pierced us, which only made us descend faster. We crashed on the middle wall hard, and I dropped my swords on impact. Only one more wall to clear and we were free. Well, I would be free. I pushed myself up on my elbows, my chest and stomach aching from hitting the stone so hard. The Avatar quickly got up, trying to grab his staff, but a guard kicked it off the ledge and started swiping at him with his sword. I got to my feet myself and grabbed the guard, throwing him off the wall. I quickly grabbed my swords again and we stood back to back. I ran at a couple of guards and the kid sent blasts of air at the ones coming at him. And then he took out the ones I was facing. But we didn't have much time to breath. Guards from below were propping bamboo ladders against the wall and were using them to scale it. The Avatar took multiple guards out at once, clearing off two of the ladders while I struggled on the one. There was only so little I could do with my swords compared to giant blasts of wind. But right now I wasn't the Fire Prince. I was a vigilante. As I knocked the final guard off the ladder, the Avatar handed me the two other ladders.

"Take this!" I looked down at the ladders in confusion as the kid jumped on the third ladder and it started to fall down. "Jump on my back!" He exclaimed. I quickly did as I was told, still holding onto the ladders. He took one of them from me and aimed it down so that when the other one fell, it stood up straight. I realized what he was doing. He was trying to propel us over the wall. "Give me the next one!" I handed him the next one and he did the same. The guards below seemed to see what we were doing and one set the ladder on fire, forcing the Avatar to jump off earlier than what would have been ideal. We both tried to grab onto the ledge, but neither of our grips were strong enough and we fell down the side of the wall only to be surrounded by Zhao's men. I drew my swords again, ready to fight. All at once, they fired their blasts at us, the Avatar quickly moving in front of me to block the blow with a blast of air.

"Hold your fire!" Zhao shouted, causing all the soldiers to stand down. "The Avatar must be captured alive!" In that instant I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the Avatar and held my blades against his neck threateningly. He tensed, but made no move to escape, knowing what I was doing. Zhao seemed to know too. We made eye contact for an intense moment before he spoke again. "Open the gate." He glowered, not breaking my stare.

"Admiral, what are you doing?" One of the soldiers asked.

"Let them out, now." The gates creaked open behind us and I slowly backed out, glancing behind me ever so often to make sure I wasn't going to back right into a tree. Now that would be humiliating. I didn't know how far I had to go, or what I was going to do after we escaped, only that I had to put as much distance between me and that stronghold as possible. I glanced behind me and looked up again just in time to see something flying towards my face. It hit my mask, knocking me back. I fell to the ground, and everything went black.

When I came too, I was staring right up at the roof of a forest. The sunlight pouring in through the leaves told me I'd been out for a long time. I groaned, glancing around, my vision a little blurry. To my surprise, the Avatar was sitting right beside me, on a tree root, his knees drawn tight to his chest. He didn't even look at me before he started to speak.

"You know what the worst part about being born over a hundred years ago is? I miss all the friends I used to hang out with. Before the war started, i used to always visit my friend Kuzon. The two of us, we'd get in and out of so much trouble together." He smiled, remembering the happy memories of his past. "He was one of the best friends I ever had. And he was from the Fire Nation, just like you." He finally turned to look at me. "If we knew each other back then, do you think we could've been friends too?" I didn't hesitate. I jumped up and sent a blast of fire at him, hoping to catch him off guard. The Avatar flew into the air, clearly expecting it, and disappeared through the trees. I looked after him for a moment before kneeling down to pick up my mask. That's when I saw he'd made a bed for me out of leaves. I shook my head. I would never understand that kid. When I arrived back on the ship, my Uncle was on the deck, playing his Tsungi Horn beside that horrible antique monkey that he bought from the pirates.

"Where have you been, Prince Zuko?" He asked as I walked past him. "You missed music night! Lieutenant Jee sang a stirring love song." I didn't turn around as I walked down the hallway, in no mood to deal with his antics.

"I'm going to bed. No disturbances." I said quietly, bringing a hand to my head, which was still throbbing from whatever knocked me out. I laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, a million thoughts running through my mind. He knew who I was. He knew it was me, and yet he still saved my life. But why? Why didn't he just leave me there for Zhao? His life would've been so much easier. He had to have known. So why didn't he let me die? I glanced to my side, looking at the Fire Nation insignia on the wall. Was I wrong? Hunting him? I shook my head, rolling over on my other side. No, it was my destiny. I had to capture the Avatar. It was the only way for me to return home. For things to return to normal. I pushed the seed of doubt to the back of my mind, not wanting to think about it, and I closed my eyes.

No matter how long I think about it, I never could figure out why he didn't leave me there. He's saved my life twice by this point, once at the stronghold and once at the North Pole. Sometimes I wish I could ask him why, or more specifically how does he find it in his heart to show people like me mercy. But I can't. No matter what, we will always be enemies until the day we die. But.... Maybe, just maybe he was right. Maybe we could've been friends, if things were different. But they aren't. It'd like I said, we're enemies. The Fire Prince and the Avatar. But.... No. I shouldn't even be thinking about it. I have to capture him. It's the only way for me to restore my honor. For my father not to think I'm worthless, and I am not worthless. I'll show them. One day.

[wftc141]

Voltron: Global Military Intelligence and Counter-Terrorism Unit-Chapter 13: The Crusade

                                                TWO MONTHS LATER

26/04/2018

1723 Hours

Colombia

The clouds cast over the partially empty dirt road, surrounded by the greenery of the countryside. The winds brushed off the fields and the trees outside a village a few kilometers nearby. Perfect place to be isolated from the crowds and perfect to slip by unnoticed. A second Voltron team, dubbed ‘Tigers’ have been deployed in Colombia to intercept a group of terrorists reported to have gotten hold of an unknown cargo, possibly a chemical weapon, from Europe. Coran and his analysts, Gold and Colbert, have been overseeing the mission through a drone watching the team down below amongst the clouds.

The team has been split on different sides of the road, blending in with the greenery among the hillside. Team leader Lieutenant Damon Halliday, former SAS, had been keeping watch on the road waiting for the convoy to arrive. He had his rifle ready, mounted on the grassy hill with two of his other teammates, Montgomery and Yeon. The last two of the five Tigers, Garceau and Okusanya, guarded the other side with Garceau being an experienced sniper for the team. 

“Got visual on the convoy.” Montgomery said.

Halliday took out his binoculars to check and noticed a faint sight of several vehicles from a distance with a truck towing a cargo container as well.

“I see it. Two vehicles and one truck.” Halliday acknowledged.

“Should we call it in?” Montgomery asked.

Halliday nodded and reached for his comms to report. “White Tiger to Zero, we have eyes on the convoy. Ready to strike, over.” 

“Copy, White Tiger. You are clear to engage, over.” Coran responded.

“Copy, Zero. Out.” 

Halliday then looked back at the convoy which was now closing in on their position and readied his rifle. 

“All Tigers engage!” 

The team opened fire on the convoy, hitting the vehicle tires and taking out the drivers. The convoy stopped as the terrorists got out to fire back. Montgomery and Yeon took out some of the terrorists on one side of the convoy while Garceau’s marksmanship picked off the remaining as well as Okusanya’s swift mowdown with his LMG. Shortly, the gunfire ceased and all of the terrorists were on the ground motionless.

“Clear!” Halliday said.

“Clear!” Garceau replied.

“White Tiger to Zero, hostiles are neutralized and the convoy is clear, over.”

“Copy,” Coran said. “Investigate the cargo. We need to identify its contents before deciding on our next move, over.”

Halliday then got his team to approach the convoy stranded in the middle of nowhere, weapons raised in case of anything happening. The team checked the bodies to make sure they’re dead before checking the truck. 

“Montgomery, Okusanya, check the truck.” Halliday ordered.

“Roger.”

The two approached the truck with heightened caution. Montgomery opened the door and dragged the body out to check inside the cockpit. Okusanya approached the rear door and felt for any way to open it. The rest of the team kept their distance while guarding the convoy. Halliday heard the doors open and turned towards the truck where Montgomery and Okusanya were as they stepped into the truck.

“Boss?” Montgomery called shortly. “We got ourselves something worse than just chemicals.”

“What is it?” Halliday asked.

“Uh,” Okusanya replied. “A bunch of mercury and sulfur, lots of toxic shit mixed into the barrels!”

“White Tiger to Zero, we got ourselves some sort of toxic substances, possibly a chemical bomb. Awaiting orders, over.”

A brief pause after Halliday relayed the report. 

“Copy, White Tiger,” Coran replied. “Retrieve a sample and exfil, over.” “Roger. Out.”

Halliday was about to get an order ready before he was suddenly rocked back by a sudden explosion. Shielding himself from the blast, Halliday stumbled away from the truck as the deafening ring echoed in his head. Once he looked back, Halliday noticed the truck engulfed in flames and slowly coated in black ash. He then realized something. “Montgomery, Okusanya! Come in, over!” Halliday shouted through his comms.

There was nothing from the other end. Halliday had no reason to deny that both Montgomery and Okusanya are dead, consumed by the explosion while they were inside the truck. His breathing continued to pace as he looked around, finding both Garceau and Yeon still intact. Halliday quickly rushed over to the two.

“You okay?” He said.

“We’re okay, sir!” Yeon replied.

“I’m good,” Garceau let out a cough. “Putain d’enfer. What happened to Montgomery and Okusanya?”

“They’re dead. They were inside the truck.” Halliday said.

“Merde! What now?”

“White Tiger to Zero, Red Tiger and Grey Tiger are KIA and the cargo is destroyed! Repeat, Red and Grey Tiger are KIA and the cargo is destroyed! We need an evac, over!”

“Negative, White Tiger,” Coran said. “Can’t send in an evac now but we’re noticing toxic substances from the truck heading your way. Get the hell away from it now, over.” Coran said.

Halliday looked over to the truck and noticed a mix of yellow and green clouds emerging from the burning truck. 

“Bollocks!” He cursed before standing up. “Tigers! Get clear from the truck, now!” 

The team wasted no time to get away from the convoy, forced to leave both Montgomery and Okusanya behind, though there was no way to recover what was left of them. Once they got to a safer distance, Halliday was about to reach for his comms.

“Hey, bossman,” Garceau said, grabbing Halliday’s attention. “I think we got company.”

Halliday looked at where Garceau was staring at and noticed a group of cars driving towards their position.

“The hell?” Halliday muttered as the vehicles closed in.

Suddenly, gunshots began to zip towards them. The team ducked down and tried to use the vehicles as cover. Halliday braced as gunshots hit the vehicles behind him.

“White Tiger to Zero, we’re under heavy fire from unknown hostiles! We need that bloody evac right now!” 

He peeked through the corner and noticed several gunmen coming out of their cars.

He couldn’t count the exact amount but there were a lot of gunmen with military-grade body armor over their clothes. Halliday managed to shoot some of them down but more took their places. He noticed his comms didn’t reach out to base and the response was nothing but static. He could hear anything from them. His team were struggling against the gunmen. Halliday noticed the gas slowly emerging further towards them. There was no other choice but to run into the forest.

“All Tigers retreat!” He shouted as he made a break for the forest.

The team ran towards the forest. Halliday looked behind his shoulder and noticed Yeon tripping over and falling onto the ground. Some of the gunmen reached Yeon and fired their rifles at him. Halliday looked away, knowing Yeon sealed his fate. Now it was just him and Garceau. The two stopped by some trees and took cover behind them.

“Where the fuck’s Yeon?!” Garceau shouted.

“Bastards got him!” Halliday replied.

He heard Garceau curse in French before hearing shouts from afar. Halliday noticed more gunmen chasing after them and opened fire. He managed to take out a few before running empty. As Halliday switched to his pistol, he looked at Garceau about to open fire with his rifle, only to get shot in the shoulder and fall over into a pit behind him. 

“Garceau!” Halliday shouted.

Out of newfound determination, Halliday got out of cover and fired across the forest to draw out as many gunmen as he could. He couldn’t see them through the canopies and the bushes shrouded among the trees. Suddenly, a bullet hit his leg and his arm. Halliday let out a shout before falling over onto the dirt, landing on some tree roots. He couldn’t feel his right hand as he struggled to reach for his gun while holding the wound to keep it from bleeding further.

Footsteps rustled and closed in. The rest of the gunmen arrived, approaching him with their weapons aimed at him. Some approached the pit Garceau fell into. Halliday noticed one of them bore a ski mask with sunglasses under his helmet, as well as more kitted out gear than the others. Halliday could assume this was the team leader. 

“¿Qué hacemos con a él, señor?” One of the gunmen asked the leader.

The leader glared at Halliday before turning to his men. “Llévalo a él con nosotros.”

“Sí, señor. ¡Agarrarlo! ¡Vamos!”

The gunmen approached Halliday and grabbed his arms, lifting him up to drag him away.

“Get your bloody hands off me, you bastards!” He cursed as he struggled to wrestle free.

Halliday continued to struggle and kick away fruitlessly while the gunmen held on without breaking a sweat. Suddenly, he heard Garceau shout from the pit before shots were fired. Halliday then noticed one of the gunmen rip off a tracking device from his vest before glancing at him. His comms are already screwed and his team is dead. Halliday has no idea who these people are but they are definitely involved with the terrorists. His impulse rocketed and he continued to rock aggressively as he shouted curses at his attackers. Suddenly, everything went black, not before he noticed a gunman thrust a rifle butt at him.

Coran, Gold and Colbert stared in silence, jaws open. They watched the whole ordeal unwind from their surveillance room in the hideout until they lost sight of Tiger and their leader Halliday. All of this started to go sideways when the truck exploded suddenly and then an unexpected group of hostiles arrived. 

“Bloody hell. What just happened?” Gold asked.

“A lot just happened, son,” Coran said. “We just lost contact with Tiger.”

“And the comms couldn’t reach out to them for some reason. It was working fine a while ago! Something must’ve jammed the signal.” 

“We’ll get to the bottom of this. We need to get Lion recalled.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Colbert asked. “They just took care of the Galra issue a few months back and they’re still off-duty.”

“I’m positive, Colbert. This isn’t just some simple issue. We just lost an important team from NATO and a man I call my friend to a group of unknowns. They’ll understand soon enough. Recall them.” 

Colbert knew it wasn’t her position to debate. She simply nodded and turned towards her computer.

“Yes, sir. We’ll send out the recall.”

________________________________________

27/04/2018

0647 Hours

Macon, USA

A white Ford Escape slowly drove by the side a few blocks away from a suburban house situated outside of Macon. The sun was still rising and the people inside were up and running. Once the SUV stopped, the doors opened and two people got out, both a man and a woman. Both of them wore jackets under their shirts and jeans with gloves. They walked up to the house down the path near the forest, adjusting their sleeves as they focused on the house. 

Once they reached the front door, Hunter 1 simply glanced at the camera from the left corner. These weren’t their average American neighbors. They were agents working under extremists, hiding in the US with plans in motion. The camera itself was way too advanced for a normal neighbor. 

 “Who is it?” A voice asked from the other side, with a good American accent.

“Девять-четыре-восемь-балалайка.” Hunter 2 replied.

The two waited for the response. They already acquired their password earlier on which could fool the agents that they are on their side. As soon as the door unlocked, the two pulled out their suppressed MP7s with Hunter 1 opening fire on the door. Entering the house, Hunter 1 walked over the body and stormed into the surveillance room to his left where he took out the agents trying to reach for their guns. None of them prepared for a surprise like this.

As Hunter 2 continued her sweep on the ground floor, Hunter 1 moved upstairs and heard footsteps from above and in a room and the sound of a window opening.  He knew they were trying to make a run for it. But they weren’t the only ones.

“Hunter 3, you got rabbits coming out of the house from the back.” He said.

Hunter 1 reached the upper floor to check the rooms which most of them were empty. He then heard some faint muffled shots from outside.

“Hunter 1, this is Hunter 3. Rabbits are down.” Hunter 3 replied from the comms.

After searching the entire house, Hunter 2 began gathering the intel from the servers in one of the rooms while Hunter 1 found a fuel canister and started pouring gasoline all across the house, over the bodies and everything else to cover their tracks before ending the trail by the front door. Once Hunter 2 left the house with the intel in tow, Hunter 1 lit a match and tossed it onto the trail. Flames lit up and spread towards the trail like wildfire and by the time it reached the end, the house was burning, smoke levitating to the sky. Shortly, the two met up with Hunter 3, an African-American male, carrying his sniper rifle and bag with the ghillie suit used for the operation.

 “All good?” Hunter 3 asked.

“Hell yeah, brother.”  Hunter 1 answered.

“Russia’s gonna owe us for this one.” Hunter 2 said.

“They should,” Hunter 1 briskly concealed his weapon as he approached the SUV. “We just took out their corrupt FSB team since they don’t want to kill their own.” 

“They would let us do this anyway since they’re in our country.” Hunter 3 said.

“We would’ve done the same thing if we had corrupt agents.”

“Would we?” Hunter 2 asked.

“Maybe.”

Once the team got into their SUV, they drove off and away from the burning house, leaving the rest to the police.

“Hunter 1, hostiles are neutralized and we have secured the intel, over.” Hunter 1 reported through his comms.

“Confirmed,” His supervisor replied. “Be advised, you are now given a new assignment. There will be a plane set for Colombia where you will work with Voltron. We have a situation that is urgent.”

Hunter 1 suddenly froze after hearing the name. He wanted to say no but that would be against his supervisor’s wishes. Hunter 1 scowled and eventually nodded.

“Copy, Hunter 1 out.” He grudgingly said.

Once he got off the comms, he slammed the steering wheel of the car, puzzling his teammates who looked at him confused. 

“Fuck!” Hunter 1 swore.

“Matt?” Hunter 2 asked.

Hunter 1 panted as he glared out at the windscreen facing the freeway. Both Hunter 2 and 3 exchanged glances, waiting for his response.

“The last thing I wanted was to see them again.” Matt growled.

________________________________________

27/04/2018

0745 Hours

Hawaii

Shiro let out a yelp as he jolted upright from a nightmare. As cold sweat ran down his body, his breathing rate was accelerated with his heart racing from the sudden experience from the nightmare. Shiro looked around frantically, finding himself in the bed he was in last night. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Although he noticed apart from the many nightmares he had for his entire life, this one saw him die.

“You alright?”

Shiro turned to his side and noticed his bedside was empty and saw Allura approaching him fully dressed. She must’ve heard him shout from his nightmare. Shiro gave himself a breather to calm himself down.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Just a bad dream, that’s all.”

“What was it this time?” Allura asked.

Shiro then saw a vision of someone familiar standing by his side. He swore he remembered that vision but he just couldn’t make it out.

“Shiro?”

The face was clearer and he realized he was the man from his nightmare.

“It was Adam…”

Allura’s mouth gaped wide as she stared in disbelief, knowing she herself knew Adam before. Shiro couldn’t believe his eyes either. He had never seen Adam in his dreams ever since Lahore.

“How did it-”

“Same as always,” Shiro quickly answered. “I wasn’t able to save him from that explosion.”

Adam was Shiro’s first. They both developed a bond that turned into love during Shiro’s time with the SEAL Team Six. Adam was a CIA agent who was killed in Camp Chapman in 2009. Shiro recalled trying to save him before the explosion consumed him right before his eyes. He had blamed himself ever since then and carried that guilt for his entire life.

“It wasn’t your fault, Shiro.” Allura said.

Shiro doesn’t reply. Suddenly, he heard his phone buzz from his nightstand and he reached over to see the message. As soon as he saw the message, Shiro immediately got out of bed and got dressed with Allura waiting for him. Voltron was calling them back in and surprisingly, it was earlier than usual.

________________________________________

27/04/2018

1146 Hours

Somewhere in Texas, USA

“700 meters moving down the rock side,” Lance reported using his spotter scope. “Got eyes on him?”

“Yeah, Got that son of a bitch.” Keith replied, focusing his sniper scope on the field as he laid on the hill frontside. 

The scope caught sight of a mountain lion sneaking it’s way to a herd of sheeps in the farm’s field. Calculating the distance and controlling his breathing, Keith pulled the trigger. The bullet looked to be heading straight for the mountain lion but it hit the ground below it, scaring it away. The two watch the mountain lion scurry away down the hill.

“Fuck! It’s gone.” Keith cursed, slamming his hand on the mat.

“Well, the good thing is…you scared it away.” Lance assured.

“The bad thing is he’ll come back. Fucking mountain lions.”

“I mean, can you blame ‘em? Circle of life.”

“My cattle aren’t food.”

“Technically, sheeps are food.” 

“I don’t eat sheep.”

Lance slowly glanced at Keith, surprised by his suddenness.

“Really?” He asked.

“Really.” Keith answered.

“What are you, an animal lover?”

“I am, actually.”

“But you were eating burgers.”

“That doesn’t count.”

“Fuck you mean it doesn’t count? You’re eating a dead cow, cabrón.”

“It was a mystery burger.”

Lance realized what he was talking about and scrunched up his nose.

“You mean that nasty, tasteless, bootlegged one that vegans eat?” Lance guessed.

Keith nodded. “Yup. You should try it.” 

“Do I look like a fucking cow to you?”

“Oh, so you’re saying vegans are cow eaters, huh?”

“I’m just saying I’ll take meat over plants any day now.”

“Your parents never gave you broccoli since you were a kid?”

“Dude, they had me eating meat so I could grow big and strong. Me and my siblings. Hell, my brother and sister fed the same meat to my niece and nephew.”  

“Uh huh. My dad did way worse than that. I had to hunt.”

“I thought you’re an animal lover?”

“I was hunting predators who were trying to eat my cattle.”

“Huh. Good point.’

The two went into silence, staring down at the field where the cows were, still chewing on the grass. 

“You know, I was wondering,” Lance asked. “How are you paying for all this?”

Keith scratched his face. “After my dad passed away from cancer, guys from his old Force Recon unit managed to take all of the bills and taxes so I can take care of the farm. They never told me how but I’m basically living free…for now.”

Just then, they heard sounds of rotors spinning faintly. The sounds began to get closer until the two saw a Blackhawk from a distance approaching their area. The helicopter lowered itself beside the field, causing the sheeps to scatter away, bleating as they galloped.

“Hey, Keith.”

“Yeah.”

“A fucking Blackhawk just landed on your field...right next to your sheeps.”

“Yup.” 

Leaving their equipment behind, Keith and Lance approached the Blackhawk and once they got close, they noticed Pidge get off the helicopter and approach the two, surprising them both. 

“Pidge?” Keith called.

“You two! Lets go!” Pidge demanded.

“What’s going on?” Lance asked.

“We got a mission, obviously! Get in!”

Keith and Lance exchanged glances and nodded before getting inside the Blackhawk. As the two entered, Keith got out his phone and dialed the number as the helicopter ascended from the ground.

“Hey Alice, I need you to watch over the farm…”

________________________________________

27/04/2018

0800 Hours

Sydney, Australia 

Hunk was just finishing up on the omelettes he was making. He was about finished with the side of the nearly complete piece of omelette. The scent of salt and eggs surrounded the entire apartment as the air passed through the open balcony door. Hunk had already prepared the fillings and the first omelette was just about done with the last one. As he finished up prepping the omelettes, he turned around and noticed Shay wasn’t up. 

After his mission in Brazil, he ended up spending some time with Shay at Sydney during his time off-duty. Flash-forward, the two went into a relationship and Hunk moved into Shay’s apartment in Pyrmont since he can’t really go back to Fort Benning. During his time with Shay, he got to learn a lot about her, both her work and her life outside. Hunk had noticed Shay had been sleeping in a lot more than usual, though he didn’t blame her.

Covering the breakfast to preserve the heat, Hunk headed into their bedroom where he noticed Shay still in bed, covers sprawled all across with one of her bare legs exposed. Her untied hair spread out over the pillow like seaweed. She looked as if she was spooning a pillow. Hunk could hear her light snores as he approached her, even when he was the first to wake up way before her. He even did a morning jog at six and she was still fast asleep. Hunk sat on the bedside and he couldn’t help but take a gander at her beauty even at its unkempt nature. He moved a lock of her hair covering her eye aside before slightly tucking it behind her ear.

The curtains were still closed so maybe that could wake her up. Hunk stood up and went up to the curtains and opened it up, letting the sun into the room. The light brightened the bedroom and Hunk got a clean view of the bay overlooking the city. Then, he heard a moan from behind and turned around, noticing Shay was slowly waking up. Hunk reached her side and checked up on her as her eyes slightly opened. 

“Morning, Hunk…” She lazily said.

“Morning, Shay,” Hunk replied, grinning. “Slept well?”

Shay turned over onto her back as she tried to close her eyes. “Mmm. Five more minutes, please.”

Hunk chuckled. “I already got breakfast ready. Bacon onion omelettes. It’s gonna get cold soon.”

He noticed a smile creep across her face while her eyes were still closed. 

“Okay, you win,” she muttered before sitting herself up. “I’m up. I’m up.”

As Shay stretched her arms, Hunk got off the bed and headed back into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. Shortly, as Hunk placed the plates of omelettes and glasses of orange juice on the table, he looked up to see Shay walking towards him wearing her sweatshirt and shorts from bed. Her hair was still left untied.

“Smells nice.” Shay said as she leaned over to kiss Hunk.

“It’s your favourite.” Hunk replied.

The two sat down and began to eat their breakfast. Shay took a bite of the omelette, sliding the fork into her mouth.

“So good as always.” She said as she ate.

Hunk chuckled. “Glad you still like it. I added something to make it tastier.”

“What’d you add?”

“Parsley.”

“Can’t really taste it but it’s still yummy. You should be my personal chef.”

Hunk chuckled as he watched her eat up. He knew Shay wasn’t the greatest cook surprisingly but he didn’t mind. As long as she likes it, he’s happy. The two continued to eat, talking about work and Shay’s sleeping habit. Then, she got into a different subject.

“You know,” she said. “You never told me why you wanted to be a soldier when you could’ve been a chef.”

“You never asked.” Hunk answered.

“I’m asking now.”

“Well, since you asked nicely, I always wanted to be a cook because my father was a cook back in the Navy. He was really good at it and I wanted to be like him.”

“But why the army?” 

“The attacks on my home gave me the motivation.”

Hunk then took another bite of the omelette before going for the glass of juice.

“You know, you never told me about your family or why you wanted to be a war correspondent for Vice.” Hunk said.

“You never asked.” Shay replied.

“I’m asking now.”

“Since you asked politely,” she paused for a moment. “I was never a huge fan of the military or the war. I only became a war correspondent so I can understand why people go to war...and see the cost of it.”

Hunk then noticed she'd stopped eating. Her expression darkened.

“I saw so many people in the Middle East die in front of my eyes,” Shay continued. “Men, women, children. I even lost close friends of mine. Everytime I sleep, I keep seeing flashes of everything that I’ve seen. I want everyone to see why war is hell and what the cost of it is.”

Hunk had stopped eating too but he was already finished by then. He never thought Shay would end up in a situation like this. Thinking about it makes Hunk feel ashamed for being a soldier, considering how many people he killed. Was he actually the type for Shay?

“I’m sorry you had to go through all this.” Hunk muttered, looking down to his hands on the table.

Shay looked at Hunk in confusion before realizing why.

“Hunk...I didn’t mean-”

Suddenly, Hunk’s phone started buzzing from his pocket. He pulled it out and after noticing the notification, he sighed. 

“Great.” Hunk muttered in disappointment as he stood up.

“Work?” Shay guessed, standing up as well.

Hunk looked at Shay, feeling bad to just leave like this. He really wanted to spend more time with her.

“I’m sorry-”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Shay said. “Get out there.”

Hunk was still upset that he had to leave Shay but he knew that there was no other option. Hunk then began to gather his gear from the bedroom and then made his way to the door. He was about to unlock the door.

“Hey.” Shay called.

Hunk stopped and turned around, noticing Shay approaching him. She then leaned forward, kissing him for a while before pulling away.

“Be safe.” Shay whispered.

Hunk smiled and nodded. “Will do.”

Just like that, Hunk walked out of the door and headed off to the elevator. Both Shay and Hunk prayed for the safety of each other and themselves.

________________________________________

28/04/2018

1132 Hours

Colombia

The Lions of Voltron, all dressed in their uniforms, have arrived at the US air base in Colombia. They were directed to a briefing room for a meeting where they will soon meet someone. The only members who were missing were Coran and his analysts. Some time has passed and nothing much has happened, leaving the team in the dark.

“Well, this is weird.” Lance said.

“In what way?” Keith asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? We just landed in Colombia and none of us knows what the hell’s going on.”

“Lance’s got a point,” Pidge said. “Not only that, where’s Lieutenant Smythe and his computer team?”

“I know you guys are concerned,” Shiro butted in. “Me and Major Brooks have no idea what’s going on either. But we were obviously called here for a reason. Why else would NATO go to all the trouble bringing us here?”

“Why not bring NATO’s best counter terrorism unit?”

The team turned around to the sound and noticed Coran standing by the door, accompanied by another person. He looked to be a Native American man in his 50s with long brown hair, a beard and a vertical scar on his right eye. 

“Well I’ll be damned.” Allura said, standing up and approaching the man alongside Shiro with a smile. “So glad to see you again.” 

Allura and the Native American man both hugged. 

“You too, Brooks,” The man said as he and Allura broke the hug. He then went up to Shiro for a hug. “Same goes for you, Shiro.”

“Yeah. Good to see you too, old friend.” 

Allura and Shiro then turned around to their team, who were unfamiliar with the man.

“Team,” Shiro said. “This is Bryce Kolivan, Station Chief of the CIA.” 

“And I’m guessing he’s the spook who handed us the mission to go after the Galra in Brazil.” Lance said.

“Sure was. Had faith that Voltron would get the job done.” Kolivan answered.

“So what’s going on here that you want us to handle?” Allura asked.

Kolivan’s grin faded and he let out a deep, grim sigh.

“Lieutenant Smythe was helping us intercept a terrorist group smuggling in some sort of unknown cargo, possibly a weapon, into Colombia from Europe.”

“Tiger was sent to interrupt the convoy,” Coran added. “They succeeded in eliminating the terrorists but unfortunately…they were ambushed. Four of the team members were killed while their leader Damon Halliday was captured. Colombian Special Forces have already recovered the bodies of Tiger at the scene, although they had to quarantine the truck containing lethal chemicals.”

The news hit particularly Shiro, Coran and Allura, although the others felt neutral since they never heard about another Voltron team other than them. Damon Halliday to Coran was a close friend and a capable soldier with lots to tell. The news that Halliday got taken was hard to get over.

“Who took him?” Shiro asked.

“From what we’ve gathered, we believe Halliday was captured by the Colombian cartel Los Cruzados,” Kolivan answered. “The cartel consists of local triggermen who either used to serve in the army or law enforcement. They’re very ruthless and deadly and have been described as potentially the Medellín Cartel’s successor as they’re already considered to be narcoterrorists. They have murdered numerous government and military officials to the point where the government themselves are afraid to fight back.”

“Do we have a location on where they took Halliday?” Allura asked.

Kolivan shook his head. “No need for that. I already have a Ground Branch team boots on the ground searching for him. Your intel team found Halliday’s last known location. Hopefully he’s still alive by then.”

________________________________________

1300 Hours

Colombia

Matt Holt cut through some vines as he and his team ventured through the Colombian jungle. Their supervisor had already pinpointed the location of their objective at a shack somewhere in the jungle. From the skies, they had two analysts of Voltron watching the team through a stealth drone. Jem and Stacy watched from the feed as the Hunter team moved through the jungle, closing in on the destination.

“Hunter 1 to Zero, we have reached the target building but no signs of any hostiles. Are you positive that this is the building, over?”

“Yes, Hunter 1. Positive.” 

“It better be, out.” 

Just as he got off the comms, Jem sighed as he stared at the screen annoyed before turning to Stacy.

“This is like - the fifth time this Hunter 1 guy kept bugging us on whether the location is right or not. Didn’t his CIA mates make it clear to him?” Jem said.

“He didn’t seem too happy to be working with us.” Stacy replied.

“Yeah. You saw the way he glared at us for most of the time when we first met, right? I mean, what is his problem anyway?”

“Hell if I know, Jem.”

The team stayed at their position for a while, not moving from their spot.

“Matt, are we good to go?” Hunter 3 asked.

Sighing, Matt signaled his team to move. The two watched as Matt and his team approached the building as seen by their heat signatures. The team stacked up by the entrance with Hunter 2 tossing a flashbang through the door gap into the room. After the loud bang, the team stormed in with weapons raised as they prepared to open fire. However, no shots were fired and Jem noticed the building was empty. The team then began to sweep the area for hostiles.

“Clear!” Hunter 2 said.

“Clear on my end!” Hunter 3 followed up.

Jem and Stacy waited for Matt who was still checking the rooms without a word. 

“Hunter 1 to Zero, we’re seeing nothing here, over.” Matt hissed.

“Intel said there would be hostiles there, over.” 

“Well, the intel you got was fucking wrong. Just look how Voltron turned out.”

Jem noticed Matt sounded like he has resentment towards Voltron for whatever reason.

“Hey Matt! You better come look at this!” Hunter 2 called.

Matt and Hunter 3 went up to Hunter 2 who was in one of the rooms. Once they got there, the two noticed blood stains on plastic wrapping alongside chopped fingers on a bloodied table, presumably Halliday’s. 

“Seems like they were here,” Hunter 3 said. “Somehow they knew we were coming.”

Matt didn’t say anything but he simply sighed before turning to his team.

“Lets get the fuck out of here.”

[indigosandviolets]

Assembly and Assualt

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x OC x George Luz

Word Count: 3,351

Summary: Andrew and Luz make it to the assembly area. Liebgott and Andrew have a sweet reunion and Andrew has his first taste of the food in France — a shitty cup of coffee. Andrew gets put on main assault of Brecourt Manor, where his marksmanship is truly put to the test.

Thanks again to @whatwouldidowithoutgeorgeluz for the BoB Script of Day of Days! This part would be nowhere near as good if it wasn’t for your script.

In this part, we get into some canon divergence, as I’ve inserted both Andrew and Luz into the assualt on Brecourt Manor. Luz wasn’t present for the assault, he was probably somewhere in the middle of Normandy trying to get to the assembly area.

Part Four of We Happy Few

Easy Company Assembly Area

June 6th, 1944, 0700

Andrew wasn’t going to be the one to tell everyone about the two Germans he killed. Like Luz had said, he was doing his job. He was going to have to kill Germans at some point, it was what he had to do, he signed up for it. But hearing everyone else, bragging about how many Germans they had already killed, seeing the POWs, it was a strain for Andrew not to think about it.

He lost Luz at some point due to Winters calling him over or a search for coffee for the two of them. Yeah, it was coffee. Someone had to be making it in an ammo box somewhere, and Luz was determined to get some. Anyway, Luz has left Andrew alone with his own thoughts.

“Hey, Pretty Boy!” Andrew heard someone call out. He knew who it was. He turned around to see Liebgott, a smile wide on his face.

“Hey, Lieb,” Andrew said, returning the smile. “How was the jump?”

“Not bad, not bad, aside from the plane beside us going down, it wasn’t too bad,” Liebgott tells him. “What about you?

Andrew laughed, “Not that bad. We were shot at, I’m pretty sure, it wasn’t too bad.”

“Could’ve been worse.”

“How’s that?”

“Could’ve been in the plane beside me.”

Andrew chuckled. It was fucked up to laugh at, he knew it was, but it got his mind off of everything. Andrew knew that he was off, he could feel it down into his bones.

“You talk to that Hall guy yet?” Liebgott asks.

Andrew shakes his head. “No, no, not really. Saw him, didn’t think to talk to him, why?”

“They’re calling that kid cowboy when he’s from Manhattan.”

“That’s like calling me a Cali Boy,” Andrew laughed.

“Well, at least he’s not from the middle of nowhere in Illinois.”

Andrew laughed at that. “Hey, my brother got out, didn’t he?” Andrew bore a solemn smile on his face, maybe that’s why Liebgott pulled him to the side.

“What’s wrong, Drew?” Liebgott asked, placing both hands on his shoulders. Liebgott was softer now, he could feel how tense Andrew was.

Andrew sighed. “There were two Germans on patrol last night. Me and Luz were trying to get here and they came across our path and I didn’t know what to do,” Andrew explains. “We hid behind a bush, and they stopped right in front of us,” Andrew tells. He can see every moment of it, ticking by meticulously slow. “I — Lieb, one of ‘em was a kid. Still had the safety on his gun.”

Andrew wasn’t crying over it, but the guilt washed over him like a wave washed over a pebble at high tide. Andrew wraps his arms around Liebgott’s chest, and Liebgott wraps his around the smaller man’s shoulders. Andrew winces a bit. He hasn’t taken the “posture” binding off in two days. He had flown in a plane and jumped out of it with the binding. He knew fully well it wasn’t good for him, but he had to keep it on.

Liebgott places a kiss on the top of Andrew’s head. “It’s alright, Drew,” Liebgott tells him. “You did what you had to do.”

“I’ve been trying to tell myself that all day,” Andrew says, pulling away. “I know this is war, Lieb, but I feel so fucking guilty. They’re nasty Germans, Lieb, and I still feel bad about it.”

“That’s cause you’re a human, Andrew.”

Andrew looks up at Liebgott. No one’s there. It’s just the two of them, no one’s looking. It almost feels like they’re back outside the movie, except they’ve already jumped out of the damn plane.

Liebgott takes Andrew’s chin, tilts his head up just a bit, and kisses him. It’s hungry, again, like Liebgott hadn’t gotten enough from the last time. There’s a passion there, a burning deep inside that Andrew feels as he kisses him back. Andrew pulls away slowly, looking deep into Liebgott’s eyes.

I’m so happy you’re alive, Liebgott’s face screams out. It’s like they can read each other’s minds. It’s a deeper feeling, now. That wasn’t just any kiss, it was something more complex than either of them could describe.

Andrew kisses him again, slower now. He savors it, holding onto every last second.

Liebgott breaks away this time. Andrew smiles at him softly.

“You still taste like cigarettes,” Andrew tells him.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Anything else you wanna tell me?”

Andrew thinks for a moment. I’m a fraud, Lieb. “You better get out of here before Luz comes back with my coffee.”

“And if I don’t?”

“He’ll get your ass court-martialed.”

Liebgott chuckles. He has no fucking clue, does he? “And not you?”

“He likes me.” More than that.

“Sure, sure,” Liebgott says. He goes in for a quick peck before walking away, a smirk on his face.

Andrew watched as the older man walked away and down towards Wynn and Guarnere.

You’re fucked, Andrew Marin. Royally fucked.

-

Luz eventually came back with two cups of coffee. “Un black coffee for ze handsome man,” he says in a horrible French accent.

“Needs work, Luz,” Andrew says before taking a sip of the coffee.

“Oh, mon ami, I’m just getting started!”

Andrew feels his face recoil as the liquid washes over his tongue. It’s bitter, burnt, it’s not even coffee.

Luz seems to think it’s in response to the French accent. “It’s not that bad, Jesus, I’ll quit it!”

He coughs as he swallows, shaking his head. “Who the hell made that?”

“Malarkey, I think,” Luz tells him, taking a sip. “It wakes you up, that’s for damn sure.”

“It tastes like boiled horseshit.”

“Better than boiled bullshit.”

“Isn’t that military issued?”

“Yep, straight from Eisenhower himself.”

Andrew chuckles, taking another sip. It’s not as bad this time, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t taste like shit.

He looks up from his metal mug to see Luz looking at him, his eyes soft, loving. Andrew smiles back at him, getting up and walking over to his side.

“Hey,” Luz says, quietly.

“Hey yourself,” Andrew replies.

“You’re cute when you laugh.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah.”

There’s barely any space between them. Andrew can smell the coffee on Luz’s breath. Despite it tasting like shit, it’s not that bad. Maybe because it’s Luz.

The kiss is gentle and sweet, like Luz. Everything seemed smoother around Luz, like nothing bad was going to happen.

Even though it did.

“You’re so handsome, Andrew.”

“Don’t say things like that, Luz,” Andrew tells him. “I might start to believe them.”

Another kiss. Luz’s hand moves to Andrew’s neck before he pulls away sharply.

“What?” Andrew asks, concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Be honest with me,” Luz says.

Oh no.

“Is the French accent that bad?”

You’ve got to be shitting me.

“It’s not...great,” Andrew tells him, sighing. “You’ve only been here for a day, you’ll get it in time.”

“Just what I thought you’d say, mon amor,” Luz says, draping his arm over Andrew’s shoulder.

Andrew chuckles. “You’re a romantic even in the middle of a goddamn war.”

“Better than what Sobel would be.”

Andrew lifts up his mug. “Better than Sobel.” he says, taking a long swig. Luz pulls the mug away from Andrew.

“Hey, now,” Luz says. “I don’t want you tasting like boiled bullshit.”

“Well, why not?”

“If I wanted to kiss that, I’d just go ahead and sleep with Eisenhower.”

Andrew let out a fake gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Luz smiles at him with the usual goofy grin. How the hell are we even doing this? Shouldn’t we be fighting a war? “Maybe I would.”

“Oh, General, please don’t take my man away! He’s all I’ve got left,” Andrew plays along.

“I’m sorry, Private, but he’s too damn charming,” Luz says, putting on a deep voice.

“Mercy me,” Andrew says before falling into a fit of laughter. Luz quickly follows, and the two of them were hunched over giggling in the middle of a war.

It only made the next few moments all the more real.

-

Being briefed was nothing to Andrew at this point. It was nothing to any of them. It was something they did, a mental prep before the full assault.

“The 88s we’ve been hearing have been spotted in a field, down the road aways,” Winters informs the men. “ Major Strayer wants us to take ‘em out. There are two guns that we know of, firing on Utah Beach, plan on a third and a fourth here,” Winters draws on his map, “and here. The Germans are in the trenches with access to the entire battery, and with machine gun cover in the rear. We’ll establish a base of fire and move under it hard and fast with two squads of three.”

Andrew only wondered what he would be put on. Probably covering fire.

“How many krauts do you think we’re facing?” Guarnere asks.

“No idea.” Fantastic.

“No idea?” Guarnere questions. He says what’s on everyone’s mind, at least.

“We’ll take some TNT along with us, to spike the guns. Lipton, your responsibility,” Winters says, and Lipton nods.

“Yes, sir,” The sergeant replies.

“Liebgott, you’ll take the first machine gun with Petty, A-Gunner,” Winters says, and Andrew’s heart flutters. A flutter. He knew damn well that Liebgott could take care of himself and he still worried about him. “Plesha, Hendrix, Luz, you take the other. Who does that leave?” Luz was on the same detail, just a different gun. They’d be fine, right?

Andrew raises his hand, along with Guarnere, Malarkey, Buck, the new guy Hall and Toye.

“Compton, Malarkey, Toye, Guarnere, Marin, okay. We’ll be making the main assault. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” they all say together.

We’ll be making the main assault. Andrew’s heart almost stops.

“Alright, let’s pack it up, boys,” Lipton says, and they all leave. Andrew’s still reeling. Main assault. Fucking shit.

-

“Three canons,” Buck says, and everything suddenly becomes far more real for Andrew. Yes, he had already killed people in this war but now it was time for what was supposed to be a mandated slaughter.

He sees Liebgott set up the machine gun. It was almost like he was watching a different person. Liebgott looked up at him for that split second with a face that screamed, Don’t get yourself killed.

“Take Ranney, envelop right, give covering fire,” Winters tells Ranney before turning to Lorraine. When the hell did he get here? “Lorraine, on the machine gun. Don’t give away your position until you have to. And I want that TNT as soon as you see we’ve captured that first gun. Go.”

Lipton replies with the standard “Yes, sir,” and they’re off to they’re position and Andrew’s back to his.

See, shooting at someone was very different than shooting at someone and being shot at in retaliation. The Germans seemed to have a never-ending cycle of bullets coming, flying by your head and shoulders and anywhere on your body that seemed to even slightly move.

Winters pulls the men away from Liebgott and Petty and through the trenches to the first 88. Then, of course, someone gets shot. It’s a damn war, everyone gets shot.

It’s Wynn who goes down and Andrew can’t tell where he’s been hit. Doc Roe isn’t here, and neither is Spina, so no one can call for a damn medic.

While Wynn is screaming about being sorry, a grenade is thrown into the trench. Winters yells at Toye to roll and he does, covering Wynn from the blast as well.

“Guarnere, Malarkey, Lorraine, secure that gun! Compton, Marin, covering fire!”

“Yes sir!” Andrew and Buck yell, and Andrew begins the fire while Buck checks on Wynn.

“Where’re you hit, Pop?” Andrew heard from behind.

“I can’t believe I fucked up. My ass, sir,” Wynn replies. The man’s been shot and he thinks it’s his own damn fault.

“Your ass?”

His ass? How the hell did he manage to get shot in the ass?

Winters and Buck haul him out of the trench and give him his gun. Popeye can make it back, he’s sure of it.

As Andrew keeps the covering fire, Buck drops his grenade.

“Grenade!” Buck shouts, and Andrew jumps out, back towards Popeye.“Toye! Get out of there!”

Except, Joe’s not out of there. Andrew’s heart drops as it goes off. Buck’s the first one back in there, to check on him, but Toye’s there, alive.

“Jesus Christ, fucking twice,” Toye says and Andrew can’t help but laugh.

“You lucky bastard!” Andrew laughs out. “Fucking twice!”

Approaching the second gun, no one expected any of the Germans to be alive after Buck popped another grenade into one of the fox holes.

“Nicht schiessen. Bitte, nicht schiessen. No make dead!” The soldier shouts at Toye, but to no avail. None of them know German. Would fucking kill to have Lieb here right now, Andrew thinks. He knows German, he can speak it too. Tell him enough to just shut the fuck up.

“Shut up,” Toye tells him, but the German doesn’t listen.

“Nicht schiessen. Nicht schiessen.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Toye points his gun at the German, which just makes him even more terrified.

“No make dead, no make dead-“

Joe finally decides to shut him up by punching him with his brass knuckles. How the hell did he keep those on the jump?

“Hey, Toye,” Andrew says. “Our goal is to kill Germans, not knock them the fuck out.”

“Got him to shut up, didn’t it?”

Andrew couldn’t argue with that.

As Andrew and Toye go back to covering fire, Andrew sees something truly bizarre come up from the trenches. It’s enough to make the Germans stop their fire.

It’s Malarkey, out in No Man’s Land, looking for something on the German’s. He’s checking their sidearms.

That man wants a goddamn Luger.

“He’s gonna get himself killed,” Andrew says. “He’s gonna get himself killed over a Luger.

Andrew swears he can hear Lieb yelling at Malarkey to come back, and he does, no sidearm in hand. Mission failed. Now get the fuck back here before the Germans realize who you are.

Malarkey rushes back, not a scratch on him, and he comes back around to the second gun with him and Andrew and Toye continue their covering fire. They’ve got to do it. Andrew feels the rush of a bullet pass over his head but he keeps firing. You have to. You’ve got no other choice.

Eventually, Andrew runs out of ammo. He looks around, frantically, trying to find something.

“Shit!” He shouts out before getting out his side arm. He’s got no other choice until someone finds something.

Andrew aims carefully and fires, hitting a German who just had his head a little too far out of the trenches. The man’s down — Andrew has either killed him or grazed him, but he’s down nonetheless.

No other Germans are up that far out. “Jesus, I need something, sir,” Andrew tells Winters.

“I’m trying, Marin!”

Like that, Sergeant Speirs was back with ammo, Some in his hand, some draped across his arms, but a good deal on his shoulders and neck. It was like he had raided the German’s supply house and took it all for himself.

“Winters, Hester said you needed ammo!” Speirs says, handing over some of it. “Mind if D Company takes a shot at the next gun?”

Winters nods and hands Andrew some ammo, but gives most of it to Malarkey to redistribute.

Andrew reloads and he’s back to his M-1, firing at the Germans.

He can only blink twice before Speirs has the first gun secured. What a hell of a man.

A bullet goes past — Andrew’s down into the ground. The wind’s knocked out of him and he’s looking around frantically. Everything is muddled, watered down. The pain is throbbing and white-hot and he can’t begin to think of where it’s coming from.

“Marin!” He hears someone shout — Lipton.

Lipton pulls Andrew up into a sitting position. Andrew can feel the warm wetness of blood trickling down into his ear and down the side of his neck. He reaches up and feels for his ear — it’s there, just not intact.

He blinks a few times. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” he reassures and grabs for his gun again. He can’t stop. The pain may hurt like a bitch but you can’t stop — nothing major was hit, so he has to keep going.

“Compton, police ‘em up, then pull out! Lorraine, Marin, Toye, move out!”

Andrew follows orders and he’s out and running back, M-1 in hand, like the rest of the men. Everyone’s still shouting, but it’s all a wet muddy pile of sound in one ear.

Lieb’s gonna kill you for this.

-

Andrew’s got his own little fire going and he’s “stew” out of an empty ammo box when Liebgott joins him. He’s cleaned up all the blood and discovered that a bit off the top of his left ear is missing. It’s not a lot, but it’s a hell of a lot more than a graze.

“I thought I told you not to get yourself killed, Drew.”

“You never said it,” Andrew replies, stirring the liquid in the box. “You looked it, though.”

“Same thing.”

“Not really, Lieb.”

“Andrew,” Liebgott says, making Andrew turn to face him. “I’m serious. If that bullet was just two centimeters to the right—“

“I know, Lieb, I know,” Andrew cuts him off. “You don’t think I’ve gone over the odds of it all myself?” Andrew pauses. “That Hall guy? He died, Lieb. I never got the chance to meet the Cowboy. Why do I get to live and he doesn’t?”

It’s quiet for a moment. Liebgott moves closer to Andrew, slipping his arm around the smaller man’s waist. He presses his forehead to Andrew’s.

“Promise me,” Liebgott says, “Promise me you’re not gonna die.”

“I promise,” Andrew replies, “If you don’t die either.”

“I promise.”

The kiss is soft, and Liebgott tastes like cigarettes and whatever alcohol he had in the douche and a half.

“Are you drunk, Lieb?” Andrew asks playfully.

“Nah, just a little bit of spirits to lighten the nerves is all,” Liebgott replies, pulling Andrew in closer. They kiss again, and Liebgott nibbles on Andrew’s lip before moving down and kissing along his jawline to his neck.

Andrew stifled a moan before he felt the little bit of a bite from Liebgott.

“Joe!” Andrew says, pulling away a bit. “You can’t leave any marks, we’ll get caught.”

There was that look in Liebgott’s eyes, one Andrew had seen a million times before. It was that sheer look of not caring, but now it was backed by a hunger, a deep want for more.

“I promise no one will see it,” Liebgott says before kissing Andrew again. Andrew nods and Lieb’s back to his neck, now unbuttoning the top of Andrew’s shirt. It’s just enough for Lieb to get to a spot that no one will see, and he’s quick about it too. Andrew’s back to buttoning his shirt back up in almost a minute.

“You’re a cheeky bastard, Lieb,” Andrew tells him, getting his food off of the fire.

“Not enough of a bastard to keep you from feeding me,” Liebgott says as Andrew pours some into Lieb’s mug.

“Oh yeah?” Andrew says, pulling away the ammo box. “Keep it up and see where that gets you.”

Andrew can’t tell if it’s a joke or not, but Lieb goes back for Andrew’s neck, kissing it one last time.

“Joseph Liebgott, I swear to god, I’ll beat your ass.”

“I wanna see you try, Drew.”

Andrew hits his shoulder with a spoon and Liebgott laughs. The sound seems to carry through the Assembly Area, all around them. Despite the still muddled part of his ear where Andrew hadn’t gotten out all of the blood, the sound of Liebgott’s laugh was as clear as crystal.

It was almost enough to make you fall in love with him.

-

tag list: @alienoresimagines @fromcrossroadstoking please let me know if you would like to be added!

[colourupuniforms]

Various Shooting Competitions in Australia.

Australia has a rich history in sport on the world stage. There are various sports played in Australia and Cricket is the National Sport of Australia.

Shooting is one of the few sports that encourages and caters for the participation of the young and old, males and females, able-bodied and disabled. Sport shooting is a family-oriented pastime. 

There are various shooting competitions in Australia. And people participate in such a way that makes the sport more interesting. Here are the various shooting competitions in Australia.

Action Match

Action Match is a dynamic handgun shooting competition catering to revolver and self-loading pistol shooters. While international rules dictate that the firearm’s calibre must be at least 9mm, due to Australia’s handgun regulations, Action Match competitors can use either a .38 Super or 9mm Parabellum self-loading pistol or a .38 Special/.357 Magnum revolver. 

The competition includes four firearm classes and four main courses of fire, with each course having its own time, distance and scoring conditions. Action Match also has a subdiscipline called Steel Challenge, which caters to both rimfire and centrefire handgun events.

Air Rifle Speed Target

Air Rifle Field Target is a simulated field-shooting competition that caters to springer and precharged pneumatic (PCP) air rifle shooters. The competition includes five firearm classes: Open Air Rifle, Open PCP, Open Springer, International PCP and International Springer, with shooters aiming to hit reactive ‘fall-when-hit’ targets of various sizes at often unknown ranges from 8 to 50m. 

As the name suggests, Air Rifle Field Target lends itself to being contested in a bush-type environment, although it may also be held on a more traditional range line.

Benchrest

Benchrest is a precision rifle shooting competition where shooters aim to put five or 10 shots into the smallest possible group on paper targets placed at 50m, 100, 200 and 300 yards. 

Groups are measured from the centre to the centre of the two widest shots in a group. Rifles are fired from rests, comprising a front rest to support the fore-end and a rear sandbag to support the rifle’s butt. 

Benchrest includes 10 main classes within this competition, with the differences largely determined by rifle weight and calibre.

Big Game Rifle

Big Game Rifle is a rifle shooting competition that aims to foster the collection, preservation and use of vintage and modern classic large-calibre big-game rifles, particularly those of British origin, including black powder and early Nitro cartridge firearms. 

The competition includes eight categories of matches and the courses of fire within these are largely determined by rifle types and eras, shooting times and shooting positions. The matches aim to simulate field-shooting conditions to improve the shooter’s firearm skills in the pursuit of large and dangerous game.

Combined Services

Combined Services is a rifle and handgun shooting competition that aims to encourage organised competitive shooting with a view towards a better knowledge of the safe handling and proper care of military or service firearms. 

The competition encompasses more than a dozen Service Rifle and Service Pistol classes in which competitors use original or faithful reproduction rimfire, centrefire and black powder military and other service rifles, carbines, revolvers and self-loading pistols shoot for score at paper targets of different sizes and from various distances and positions.

Field Rifle, 3-Positional, Scoped Air Rifle and NRA Any Sight

Field Rifle & 3-Positional is a rifle competition that aims to improve hunting marksmanship under rifle range conditions, while teaching them the capabilities and limitations of their equipment. 

Field Rifle uses rimfire and centrefire rifles and is designed around the four most used field shooting positions of rapid fire, standing, standing post rest and sitting/kneeling post rest over various distances, while 3-Positional uses the same rifles as Field Rifle, but is a slow-fire event that uses the prone, standing and sitting/kneeling positions.

Fly Shoot

Fly Shoot is a shooting competition that caters exclusively to rifles. The competition includes Rimfire and Centrefire matches generally shot at 200 yards and 500m respectively. Each match comprises five targets, with the target having a ‘fly’ 30mm in size as the X-ring and scoring rings around it. 

Fly Shoot is a unique competition as both the size of the groups and scores count towards a shooter’s final result. It is best to try to keep the five-shot group as close to the fly as possible for a maximum score.

Gallery Rifle

Gallery Rifle includes short- and medium-distance shooting events for rifles and pistols chambered in pistol-calibre cartridges. The international rule book comprises four main events: Gallery Rifle Centrefire, Gallery Rifle Smallbore, Long Barrelled Revolver and Long Barrelled Pistol, though the SSAA principally supports Gallery Rifle Centrefire at a national level. 

This event is based around scoped and iron-sighted tubular magazine lever-action rifles in .32-20, .38-.357, .44 and .45 pistol calibres. Gallery Rifle matches require the competitor to load and shoot very quickly either at stationary paper or reactive steel targets.

International Handgun Metallic Silhouette

International Handgun Metallic Silhouette is a rimfire and centrefire revolver and pistol shooting competition where competitors aim to knock down metal animal-shaped targets. The targets are placed on steel stands in banks of five and set at a variety of known distances, with the competitors having a certain amount of time to knock as many down as they can. 

The firearms used must fall into one of four categories: Production, Revolver, Standing and Unlimited, and there are three official matches: Big Bore, Smallbore and Field Pistol, with each match having its own categories.

Law Enforcement Activities

Law Enforcement Activities is a handgun shooting competition that aims to encourage organised competitive shooting of law enforcement-orientated Australian and international handgun matches. The matches involve the use of centrefire revolvers and self-loading pistols, which are shot at various targets from various distances and positions.

Lever Action

Lever Action is a shooting competition that caters exclusively for lever-action rifles. The competition includes two categories: Classic Calibre for as-issued rifles in any centrefire cartridge produced up to 1938 and Open Calibre for rifles in any factory, hand loaded or wildcat rimfire or centrefire cartridge. 

Lever Action aims to improve hunting marksmanship skills and includes contour animal profile targets and traditional paper ring targets. The matches require a variety of shooting positions and distances, and courses of fire can vary from 15 seconds to five minutes for five shots.

Long Range Precision

Long Range Precision is a handgun, rifle and black powder rifle competition that aims to refine and develop the accuracy of firearms, ammunition and equipment for shooting at extreme distances. 

The handgun events vary from rimfire to centrefire calibres and are shot up to 500m, while the rifle events cover .22LR to .50 BMG calibres and are shot up to 2000m. The core matches require the competitor to shoot five shots from a cold barrel, without the use of benches or wind flags, as they would in a normal field situation.

Muzzleloading 

Muzzleloading is an interactive competition that caters to the original and replica rifles, muskets, handguns and shotguns that were used during Australia’s colonial days. The firearm categories are very detailed, with each having its own classes and subsections. 

The rifle events are shot from the offhand, cross-sticks/prone, bench rest and sometimes kneeling/sitting positions, while the shotgun events are shot around stations placed various distances from the thrower, shooting 25 clay targets overall. In addition to range shooting, Muzzleloading shooters are often enthusiastic followers of historical events and re-enactments.

Practical Shooting

Practical Shooting is a quick and energetic competition that caters to rimfire and centrefire pistols, revolvers and rifles, and shotguns, with each having their own classes. 

Most matches comprise a minimum of three stages and the courses of fire are designed to offer challenging and active scenarios that test the capacity of the shooter and their equipment. 

The targets are mainly paper, cardboard or steel, and the competitor is scored on their accuracy and time in comparison with all the scores and times shot on the day.

Rifle Metallic Silhouette

Rifle Metallic Silhouette is an air, rimfire, centrefire, service and black powder rifle shooting competition where competitors aim to knock down metal animal-shaped targets. 

The targets are placed on steel stands in banks of five and set at a variety of known distances, with the competitors having a certain amount of time to knock as many down as they can. 

The various competitions are shot from a range of distance and positions, depending on the firearm calibre and category, but all competitions aim to improve hunting marksmanship skills under range conditions.

Shotgun 

Shotgun permits the use of any smoothbore shotgun up to 12-gauge to shoot clay targets. The competition includes four main competitions. 

Sporting Clays is usually held in a bush setting, with competitors shooting from six or seven stands and traps throwing targets to simulate hunting. 5-Stand has five stands separated by a couple of metres each, with traps throwing single or double targets in different directions. 

Low-Field and High-Field competitions are shot from pads level with or close to the trap house and the traps being above or below ground level.

Single Action

Single Action is a multifaceted competition that uses original or replica firearms that were commonly used in the Old West period of 1800 to 1899. 

This includes single-action revolvers, lever-action and slide-action rifles and carbines, lever-action and pump-action shotguns, and side-by-side shotguns without automatic ejectors. The targets are generally reactive and vary in shape and dimension. 

In addition to competition, Single Action shooters also preserve, promote and respect the skills, traditions and pioneering spirit of the historic American Old West, often adopting a shooting alias appropriate to the era.

Target Pistol

Target Pistol is an international rimfire and centrefire revolver and self-loading pistol shooting competition. There are six main classes and several side matches, with each based around the class of the handgun and ammunition used and many having their roots in different eras and types of service pistol shooting. 

The competition includes four main matches: National Match Course, 900 Match Course, International Mayleigh Match, and Short Course Match, and competitors have varying time restrictions to shoot single-handedly in the standing position at paper targets placed at 25 and 50m.

Various shooting competitions can have variety of different shooters uniform to wear. Design Your Own Custom Shooting Jerseys with Colourup Uniforms.

Explore our categories for more interesting Custom Shooting Shirts and Custom Shooter Polos.

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[smilestab]

@frenzystoked​ aka my wife ♥’d.

    ol’ bunny ears is easier to avoid within the walls of the estate. her marksmanship is unparalleled, and frank has certainly witnessed many a time floppy braids getting jerked forward with the sudden indention of a hatchet to the skull. this is all a game to her. a hunt. in a way, frank can almost relate to her. almost too well. for a while, that’s all it was to him too.

   he can’t hear anything other than the old, forgotten home creaking. he’s always been good at hiding his footsteps from the unwanted. he had to get good. she’s gone now it seems, not a peep from her in the last few minutes. he’ll slink out of here and into the bamboo trees once more.

   of course, when one of great big amazon’s hatchets has eaten a chunk into your leg, you find it more difficult to stay quiet. to move through the shadows. thankfully, frank’s used to pain. why, pain is commonplace. nothing could ever be more familiar to him. carefully, he slips into bushes, carefully holding his calf as he finally settles down, letting out a breath at last. 

   how many more damn generators?