#ford has like three sniper rifles

[jellyskink]

How would Bill react to someone having a crush on Ford or vice-versa? I know this isn't exactly "BillFord" but would Bill feel threatened regardless?

ONE of them feels threatened, but it's not Bill

[katehuntington]

Title: Black Dog - part five Word count: 5600± words Episode summary: When  Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part five summary: Dean and David hike up White Horse Mountain, and the hunter stumbles on something he never expected to find. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only!  Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of  torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​​ & @deanwanddamons​​​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

     “There. That’s our car.”

     David points at the Ford Escape ahead, which is parked alongside the road next to a stream. Dean peers through the windshield and nods, satisfied. He didn’t actually think it was possible, but David is as good at chart reading as Sam is. The nineteen-year-old remembers these backroads well. 

     Even though the timing isn’t perfect, now that the end of the day is approaching fast, the kid with the heart of a lion is determined to find his family and bring them home. If this creature turns out to be a wendigo, a hunt at night adds a bigger risk, but according to David, the weather is going to take a turn within the coming days, leaving not much time to lose. Then there’s the factor of those three missing hunters. The old wise man down in the village presumed them to be dead already, but a presumption isn’t definite. Dean will not write them off without finding either solid proof or dead bodies, and every minute passing slims the chances of their survival.

     As the hunter pulls over, he observes his surroundings. A fallen tree blocks the road ahead. It has been there for a while by the looks of it, because besides the SUV of David’s father, two other cars also await their owners to come back. One is a 4x4 Jeep with huge antlers attached to the grill, the other is a two-seat Land Rover with way too many bumper stickers on the rear end.      “I’m guessing those are the hunters’ cars,” Dean presumes.

     He turns off the ignition, the guitars and drums of Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog cut short, then he gets out of the Impala. The frozen ground crunches under his boots, the breath he blows out forming a small cloud as soon as it collides with the cold air. David takes his example and exits the car as well, moving towards the Ford.

     “There’s equipment inside that we’re going to need,” he says, while trying to have a look through the window.      Dean walks around his Chevrolet and slides the keys into the lock of the trunk. “Like what?”      “You know, the ten essentials. Ice axes, crampons, snowshoes, all that,” David sums up.      “Apparently I don’t,” Dean mutters, realizing it’s a good thing David decided to come along for the ride. His father had taken him and his brother on survival training plenty of times, but never in these snowy conditions on treacherous mountain tops.

     David curses, as he tries to open one of the doors. “Damn it, Dad locked it.”      “That’s where my equipment comes in handy.”      David turns around to see what Dean is talking about. He has opened the trunk of the Chevrolet and takes out a steel lath which is slightly bent at the end. David has seen it before in movies; it’s used for carjacking. For a second he glares at Dean. Why would he carry something like that with him? Skillfully, Dean slips the lath between the glass and the rubber frame, and with a quick motion, he unlocks it, without leaving a scratch.      He steps back and gestures to the car door. “Knock yourself out.” 

     Stunned, David glances from the SUV to Dean as he starts to wonder what this guy does for a living. Before he can ask, the stranger fires a question at him, though.      “How long did it take you to get over that ridge?” Dean wonders.      “About three hours. It’s getting dark already, so it might take a little longer than that,” David admits, watching Dean head back towards the slick, black car. “Where are you going?”      “I need to make a call before we go on this little adventure,” he notifies before he lowers himself into the driver’s seat.

     He closes the door and sighs, then takes out his phone. For a few seconds, he stares down at the little device in his hand, unsure if he should go through with what he’s about to do. Sam chose to walk away from him when he offered him a choice, Dean should not be the one crawling back to him. Or should he? Does he need to be the bigger man here? The first one to restore contact? If he does, he needs to do it now. The signal is bad down in the valley, not to mention up there between the clouds. 

     Pressing the speed dial before he can decide otherwise, Dean presses the dial button, but is eventually put through to voicemail. He can’t help but wonder if Sam just denied his call or that he’s unable to come to the phone. While the standard message plays, he starts to get worried. His little brother better not be in some kind of trouble. Then the final beep sounds in his ear and he leaves a message.

     “Hey, Sammy... It’s - it’s me. I just wanted to let you know that, uh... I’m in Darrington, Washington State. Dad was right, there is a case here. I’m not sure what it is yet, but I’ll figure it out. Anyway, I’m going into the woods and won’t be able to contact you any time soon, so…” He pauses and takes a breath. “I hope you’re doing okay, Sam. Leave me a message when you get this.”

     After those words, he hangs up and stares at his phone. Why couldn’t he say it? Why couldn’t he pronounce that simple word? Is it that hard to tell his brother that he is sorry about that fight? Apparently it is. With a deep sigh, he gets out of his car and notices David is already waiting. He has two backpacks ready and is carrying all sorts of tools on him.      “You’ll need this,” he offers, handing Dean a backpack.      Dean takes it and hooks his arm through one of the loops, then he turns to the trunk of his Chevrolet.      “Good, now let’s bring on the good shit.”

     With those words, he opens the lid and lifts up the double bottom, revealing his weapon collection. David’s eyes widen and stare down the trunk. Pistols, shotguns, knives, grenades, a sniper rifle, axes, crossbows. And is that…? Is that a grenade launcher? Every single weapon you could possibly think of is stored in that car. 

     Frightened, he looks over at Dean. “Are you going to kill me?”      Dean looks aside, puzzled. “What? No, of course not.”      He takes his gun from his waistband, unloads it, and replaces the bullets with silver ones. Curious yet scared, David monitors his actions.

     “Do you know how to handle a rifle, David?” Dean asks while he packs a set of flare guns and extra cartridges. It still bugs him that he’s not sure what he’s dealing with yet, which is usually step one when it comes to hunting. He doesn’t want to waste more time, though, with so many lives lost already, so he’s gearing up for every creature still on the list.      “Yeah, Dad took me deer hunting a few times,” the young guy replies, still doubtful.      “I’ll tell you one thing, it ain’t deer we’re gonna hunt,” Dean comments.

     He hands the young guy a loaded pistol, which David puts away behind his belt. Dean loads a shotgun with rock salt, in case he finds a spirit in these woods. When he’s done, he gives it to David as well as a flare gun.      “Shoot first, ask questions later,” he orders.

     “What are we hunting exactly?” David likes to know, slightly freaked out.      “Probably a skinwalker, which is a creature that is able to change into any animal it wants, and if we’re really lucky, it’s a wendigo, which is an incredibly fast and close-to-perfect hunter. But it could also be a daeva, ” Dean rambles, as if he’s reading from a boring history book while preparing his own shotgun.

     David's jaw drops. What did he just say? Is this guy for real? Or is he about to hike up a mountain with someone who should be admitted either to a mental institution or locked up in jail? That would be the obvious explanation, but after what he experienced, he knows it’s not the only scenario. This stranger, who he had never seen before in his life, is the only one who believes his story and has taken him seriously. He wonders, though. What’s the scarier thought? Going into the woods with a possible mad man, or to seek out something evil, something supernatural, in the wilderness? 

     Dean notices his guide’s reaction as he slams the lid of his car and locks it up. He figured the kid needed some time to comprehend, but they need to get going. The hunter turns to David again, skillfully loading his rifle single-handedly.      “Welcome to my world.” 

     Leaving the teenager in complete shock, he walks past him and expects him to follow, which he eventually does, once he snaps out of it.      “So… we just kill the monster?” he asks as he catches up with Dean, looking aside.      “Not ‘just’. These creatures are damn fast, so it’s gonna be a hell of a task.” Dean gives the directions clearly, knowing they will need some time to sink in. “If you see any kind of animal, you shoot it with that gun I just gave you. If you see something that looks slightly human, torch the fucker.”      “What if it’s something else?” the only remaining Cleveland questions.      “Then you run like hell and let me take care of it,” Dean orders.      David nods, trying to process the information. “And the shotguns?”      “Oh, I took those just in case we run into an evil spirit,” Dean adds nonchalantly.

     The young guy, who is exposed to way more new information than he can digest, stops dead in his tracks, leaving Dean in the lead. Completely staggered, he stares at him, bug-eyed. Did he just say ‘evil spirit’? As in a ghost?

     “You’re insane!” he concludes.      “If you have a better explanation for all this, please share,” Dean returns, growing impatient.      David catches up with him again, observing him while they march up the trail.      “You do this for a living? You actually hunt these things down?” he asks, both stunned and curious.      “It doesn’t pay well if that’s what you mean, but yeah. Someone has to do the job,” the hunter admits.      “And I thought I had it bad in college,” the teenager scoffs under his breath.

     Silence follows as the company of two starts their journey up the steep hills at the foundation of Whitehorse Mountain. It’s a good thing Dean has endurance, because it’s a tough trail they’re following. They parked the car at 750 feet, far below the Lone Tree Pass, and crossing these terrains isn’t exactly a walk in the park. Downed evergreens make it difficult to move fast, almost as if the woods are trying to slow them down, knowing what’s up there.

     They are about two hours on their way when they hit snow. The thin layer of white allows the two young men to make good time, and it doesn’t take them long to reach an open area. Ice crystals reflect the mystical moon rays, the only source of natural light they have. Dean might be wearing several layers of clothing, but he can’t shut out the freezing temperatures completely. His hands tingle and his nose and ears feel cold, the brisk night air uncomfortable against his skin. The hunter turns up the collar of his jacket to protect his neck from the elements, but silently wishes he had brought a scarf at least. 

     The snow that fell yesterday reached lower altitudes than it did last week, announcing winter. David’s flashlight shimmers on the silver surface as they cross the open space. Cautious, Dean scans the area holding his torch up, shining it in the direction where he’s looking. David, on the other hand, checks his altimeter.      “We’re at 2400 feet,” he notifies.      Dean checks his watch, it’s almost ten-thirty. “We’re not gonna reach the Lone Pass Tree before midnight, are we?”      “I’m afraid not. Want to set up camp?” David proposes.      “No, we’re not gonna close our eyes in these woods. Something’s off,” Dean replies, alert.

     The skilled hunter can’t put his finger on it, but the hair in the back of his neck is straight up. He looks around, his focus flicking over his surroundings. He lets the light glide along the edge of the forest, when he sees a hint of a shadow. It moves so fast he barely captures it, yet he immediately draws his shotgun, which alerts David.      “What?”      “Shh…”  Dean hushes him and gestures to follow him. “Stay close. Keep your eyes open.”

     Scared yet brave, David takes out his gun and does as told. The only thing they hear are the noises coming from the woods and the snow rustling under their shoes. Dean wants to get out of this clearing as fast as possible; they are sitting ducks out here in the open. 

     With his hunter instincts on high alert, Dean crosses the field, the stock of the shotgun against his cheek and the back end firmly against his shoulder pocket as he peers past the barrel. His father, having served in Vietnam, taught his sons everything he knows about 360 degrees combat. The military training has proven his worth  throughout his career in hunting evil, and today is no exception.

     The two make it to the treeline, finding shelter in the shadows of the forest. After a few hundred yards, Dean stops dead in his tracks, spotting something that doesn’t fit the picture. What appears to be the remnants of a campsite comes into view, and he lowers his weapon. He realizes it’s probably the three missing hunters, but as they approach, it becomes clear that the creature he’s tracking has beaten him to it.

     The place is completely trashed. A fire has died out, fresh snow covering the blackened logs. The tents, which were set up in a triangle around the only heat source, are shredded to pieces. Strips of canvas sadly hang from the tentpoles, the soft breeze moving them back and forth. Blood that leaked from the groundsheet and tainted the ice should have been a warning, but the young Cleveland pulls back the cover anyway, regretting it the second he beholds what’s inside. He stumbles away, instantly throwing up and dumping his half-digested meal into the snow. 

     Dean watches the young guy for a second, who wipes his mouth and stares back at him, pale as a ghost. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the first dead body the hunter has come across, yet he still pushes away the torn canvas with caution. He can understand David’s response, because it’s anything but a pretty sight. Inside lies what remains of one of the men. His torso has been ripped open and bodily fluids have splattered everywhere. Bite marks and scratches have torn his clothes, revealing the disemboweled body. His face has been eaten away, his remaining limbs already turning black. Scavengers have been snacking on his flesh, yet the frost that covers him has taken away the worst of the smell.

     With a sigh, the hunter steps back and investigates the other tents, finding the same dramatic portrayal behind every curtain. He spots the rifles by their sides; they got ambushed. The fact that all three of them are still in a sleeping position indicates that the attacks happened at once. It’s not just one predator who has made this area their hunting grounds. There are at least three of those creatures out there, which makes them outnumbered.

     His flashlight catches the torn-up canvas. The fabric is cut up by razor-sharp claws by the looks of it, four digits instead of five.      “I can tell you one thing, it ain’t no wendigo,” he concludes, ruling out the lonesome monster.

     But if it isn’t a wendigo, then what? Dean glances up at the sky through the branches. The moon was full a few days ago, yet now it’s partly shadowed; it can’t be a werewolf either. When he redirects his gaze back to the ground, he spots an imprint of a paw, stained with crimson. It looks like one of a wolf or some other canine. The experienced hunter is putting his money on the monsters being skinwalkers, until he looks back into one of the tents. The guy’s chest is ripped to shreds, but his heart is still there. So what the hell could this be then?

     Pondering, he steps back, making eye contact with the teenager. David is trembling slightly, and Dean would do anything to break the picture that will be forever framed in his mind. The kid is scared for life.      “You good?” he asks sympathetically, holding his gaze.      His question is answered with a nod of the head. David swallows with difficulty, but then he exhales, collecting himself.      “Let’s keep moving, there’s nothing we can do for them,” Dean says. “Turn off your flashlight, it will only make us easy targets. Those things could be anywhere, so stay close, alright?”

     David nods silently once more, doing exactly as Dean tells him. They move away from the site where the horrific event took place and traverse left, further into the forest to a wide-open strip, leading to the slopes of the Lone Pass Trees. The tall evergreens seem to try and cut out every bit of light, isolating them from the rest of the world. Darkness overshadows the boy and the hunter, who have both drawn their weapons. 

     For a moment, Dean closes his eyes and listens, trying to identify the many sounds of the night. Then he opens them, giving his pupils time to adjust. They are being watched, the hunter can feel it in his bones. He taps David on the shoulder to tell him to stop. Alerted and highly aware of what’s going on around him, Dean holds his shotgun up. If it’s a forest spirit, the rocksalt is going to hurt, but if this thing turns out to be a daeva, it’s only going to buy them a few extra seconds. 

     Then he notices it, something sneaking at ten o’clock. A branch twitches softly, but it’s enough for Dean to aim the barrel in the direction where it came from, trusting his trained ear. In a reflex, he steps in front of David and pulls the trigger, shooting a slug from the barrel, immediately taking cover behind a tree and pulling his guide with him. It’s a good thing he does, because whatever it is, it shoots back. He hears the rock salt hit the target right before the slug from the other weapon splinters the bark right next to his head. As he turns his face and shuts his eyes, protecting them from the wooden fragments, he hears the creature scream out. 

     “AAH! God damn it!!”

     Dean’s eyes widen as he feels the tree trunk against his back. No fucking way. Impossible. Yet, he knows that voice, he knows it way too well. The hunter carefully peeks from behind his cover. “Uh-oh.”      “What?” David whispers, scared. “What is it?”      “This is far worse than a wendigo or a skinwalker,” Dean comments under his breath, after which he puts on a louder voice. “Zoë?”      A short silence follows as it seems to sink on their opponent who she just had a face-off with. When the realization hits, hell breaks loose.      “Dean Winchester, you fucking ASSHOLE!!” Zoë curses.

     She has her arm clamped over the area where Dean just unleashed the insides of his shotgun. The agonizing injury has her coughing, the wind knocked from her lungs just moments earlier. Zoë has never been shot with rock salt before and although she knows it won’t kill her, it’s certainly not a pleasant experience. 

     “You two know each other?” David assumes, surprised by this unexpected development.      “Unfortunately, we do,” Dean comments.      “You fucking SHOT me!!” she cries out, infuriated.

     Dean grimaces, cowering at her harsh tone; he’s dead meat. He just fired a gun at Zoë Sullivan and actually managed to hit her. He’s not sure if he will live to tell the tale. Then he remembers the little prank she pulled on him in Paragould. As his facial expression changes, he glares around the tree.

     “Well, you deserved it!” he shouts back, a part of him regretting his words the moment he pronounces them.      “WHAT did you just say to me?!” Zoë returns, in disbelief.      “You wrecked Baby!” Dean argues.      “Baby? What are you… Oh, you have got to be shitting me!” she snaps, frustrated. “You shot me over a fucking car?!”      Immediately, Dean’s eyes widen and he scoffs, insulted. “It’s a--”      “- ‘67 Chevrolet Impala,” the huntress interrupts. “Big fucking deal!”      “You know what’s a big deal? You shot me too, back in Rochester. With a real bullet!” Dean counters.

     Another pause follows, the quiet moment allowing her ragged breaths to be audible. Dean can hear her cough and groan. Shit, she’s in a lot of pain.  

     “Zo?”      “Yeah?” she moans.      “Sorry.”      The huntress huffs. “You will be when I’m done with you.”      “You’re not gonna shoot me, are ya?” Dean questions, before he dares to come out of hiding.      “No, I guess we’re square,” she sighs.

     Dean appears from the shadows while Zoë tries to crawl up, her forearm still tightly pressed against her chest. Seeing her on the ground has the older Winchester sibling fasten his steps towards her. He offers his hand, and when she glares at him she notices the concern in his eyes, despite the dim light. Reluctant, she places her palm in his and allows him to pull her in an upright position, after which the hunter crouches down next to her.

     “You alright?” he checks, peeling her warm coat away.      “Had worse,” Zoë croaks, clearing her throat with difficulty.      The winter coat she’s wearing has cushioned the rocksalt somewhat, but bruising is already evident, blood surfacing through her skin.      “Shit,” he cusses, his voice laced with guilt. “David, give me some light, will ya?”

     Perplexed, the huntress looks past Dean at the young guy who pulls a torch from his backpack. She assumed the tall figure behind the hunter was Sam, since the two siblings are so unhealthily co-dependent on each other.      Zoë snaps her head back to face the older Winchester brother, then hints at David. “You brought him here?”

     Before the hunter can answer her, the flashlight flips on, its rays exposing the state the woman before him is in, silencing him instantly. A blood splatter has painted her neck and chin with red, her brow and temple badly bruised. Crimson has dripped down from her forehead and dried into her pores, a cut on her cheekbone is still bleeding. No way in hell that a bit of rock salt caused that.

     Dean gapes at her. “Jesus, Zo. What the fuck happened?”      “I got into a little fight,” she admits carelessly.      Not satisfied with that answer, he sternly stares into her eyes. “With what?”      “Doesn’t matter,” she mutters, pushing herself off the ground, half accepting Dean’s support when he helps her. “I still can’t believe you dragged the kid with you.”      “He needed a guide,” David answers before Dean does. “I thought you were with Wildlife Services?”      Confused, Dean shifts his attention from Zoë to David and back. “You talked to him?”      “Of course I did. You think I would work a case without a background check?” she snaps, pulling herself loose from the hunter’s grip once she’s on her feet.      “Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean now asks David.      “I didn’t think it was relevant. I had my statement taken by several people. How was I supposed to know that she’s a hunter too?” the young guy excuses.      Now it’s Zoë’s turn to Dean in shock. “You told him?!” she cries out.      “He deserved to know, Zoë,” Dean defends.      “He deserves to live and so do you,” she returns firmly. “The both of you need to get off this mountain. Now.”      “No, not without my family,” the brave teenager states, determined.      “You’re no good to them dead, David. Believe me, you will end up the same way as your father and sister if you don’t go back,” she lectures.

     Confused, Dean watches the exchange, unsure what Zoë’s words could mean. “For fuck's sake, Zo. What are you hunting?”      “It’s taken care of, but you two need to leave. Now!” she replies firmly. “You can come back for your family’s remains, I promise you that. But not tonight, unless you want to suffer the same fate.”

     Her brown eyes bore deep into David’s. Her promise is sincere, but so is the warning. A pressing expression strengthens her words, convincing him to listen. There is something about her that forces David to understand he must do what she tells him to. He looks from one hunter to the other, then he nods as he swallows apprehensively.      “Okay,” he agrees.      “Here, take this with you,” she hands him an amulet.      Dean recognizes it as the demon protection necklace Zoë stole from his trunk back in Rochester. When he took the pendant back, he was sure he had left it in the trunk of the Impala, but she must have snatched it again when he wasn’t looking. Why would she need the enchanted jewelry? What is hiding in these woods that the amulet would work on? Demons? But that doesn’t fit the leads at all.      Wanting to get a grip on the situation, the hunter tries to read her, but Zoë gives him nothing.

     “Run and don’t look back”, she tells David.      “And the gun?” David gives the man who accompanied him on this quest a wondering look, the 9mm Glock burning behind his waistband.      “Keep it. Might come in handy,” Dean insists, also handing him a card from his pocket. “This is my brother’s number. When you get back to the village, give him a call and he will help you.”      “You’re going with him,” Zoë decides strictly.      The older Winchester sibling glances from David to the injured woman. Her breathing is still elevated, but her gaze is as penetrating as ever.      Dean doesn’t back down, though, his green eyes are as piercing as she has ever witnessed them. “No, I’m not.”      The huntress rolls her eyes skyward, trying to tie down the anger that is building in her stomach. Now is not the time for the hunter to fight her, yet she has to convince him fast before they run out of time. “Dean, listen to me--”      “I’m not gonna bail,” he makes clear, his father’s orders in the back of his mind.      “You are not part of this case,” Zoë hisses, suppressing her rage.      But Dean doesn’t falter. “I am now.”

     The smart woman who has made quick-thinking her middle name, turns away from him, her hands moving to her head, fingers raking into her brown locks. When she swings back around to face him, he sees a desperation in her stance he has never witnessed before.      “For fuck’s sake, Dean! Listen to me for once! If you stay, you will DIE!!” she cries out, retreating her hands from her hair and gesturing wildly.

     The complete change of demeanor stuns Dean. Trying to unravel her odd behavior, he watches her, noticing the shimmer in her eyes when the moonlight catches them. It starts to dawn on him that she’s not sending him away because she doesn’t want his help. There is so much more at stake than just pride.

     “I don’t want your blood on my hands, Dean,” Zoë continues, her voice much softer now. “Please, just… Please go.”

     Compared to her harsh words a moment ago, these come out as a pleading whisper. He could have sworn he heard a tremble, her words laid thick with fear and sadness. Nothing about this picture seems right. Could it be that the mighty huntress is actually scared? 

     It only fuels Dean’s determination to remain by her side even more. His green eyes turn softer, a mix of comfort and compassion filling them. “I’m not leaving you alone on this one, Zo.” 

     She breathes out a shuddering sigh, admitting the loss. It’s not often that it happens, but Zoë doesn’t argue further. The commitment in his tone, the way he’s looking at her right now, she knows that a nation’s army couldn't change his mind.      David seems to realize it too, because he steps back and intends to leave. “Good luck,” he wishes them.

     Both Dean and Zoë give him a nod, after which he disappears into the darkness of the forest. When he’s out of sight, the remaining hunter turns back to Zoë. She can’t look at him, aware that she has already lost the battle and that Dean has sealed his fate. She and the older Winchester brother might not get along, but this is not what she wishes for him. Now that he chose to stay, he chooses to die. Not okay with this in the slightest, she shakes her head and looks down at the icy soil at her feet.

     “You shouldn’t have followed me, Dean,” she sighs, trying to keep the tears at bay.      “I didn’t,” he returns, truthful.      “Oh, come on,” she scoffs. “How else would you explain that you end up here on the--”      “Dad sent me.”

     Stunned, she looks up, his words a complete shock to her. Several questions start to swirl inside in her mind. John? John sent him here? How did he even know she would be on this mountain? On this exact spot? And why would he send his son on a suicide mission? 

     “Why in hell would he jeopardize your life?” she counters, frustration and fury thick in her tone.      “Maybe because he thinks yours can be saved,” Dean brings to mind.      Zoë chuckles and turns away from the Winchester son who bears such a resemblance to his father, taking a couple of steps away from him while she tries to wrap her head around the situation.

     “Is that funny to you?” he questions, hostile, her cynical laugh rubbing him the wrong way.      “It is, because last time I checked, saving my ass is about the last thing your old man wants to do,” she returns, venom in her voice.

     Her acquisition puts John’s son off once again. He has noticed her disrespecting and aggressive attitude towards his father several times before and he can’t resist continuing on that matter this time.      “What the fuck is your problem with my father?” he asks defensively.      “Can we please not do this? Not now,” she intervenes, seemingly tired, after which her gaze wanders. “You shouldn’t have come.”

     Dean observes her intently, unable to comprehend what is happening. Zoë Sullivan who doesn’t want to pick a fight? That’s a new one. Her choice of actions alerts Dean, even frightens him a little. However, nothing will ever make him reconsider the decision to stick around. Dad gave him a job to do and finding the huntress here, clearly in deep shit, can’t be a coincidence. He approaches Zoë, forces her to look him in the eye by gently gripping her shoulders and turning her to face him.

     “Zo, what are you hunting?” he asks, emerald greens staring at her.      “I’m not hunting, Dean,” she answers, her voice only having a fraction of its usual strength. “I’m ending this.”

     In the far distance, a church bell rings. Startled, Zoë snaps her head to the side, staring into the direction of the valley as the single carillon chimes. Midnight is here. 

     Three… four… five… 

     Time becomes valuable when it runs out. This is it. This is the moment she has feared for exactly one year now. This is the moment that she has to pay her dues. 

     Seven… eight… nine…

     “Zo?”      Dean tries to call her back, hoping to get her attention, but she has shut herself out. The woman before him is identical to the girl he met four years ago, when she was possessed and the carpet got pulled from under her. Panic and fear swim in her eyes and tears begin to pool just above her bottom eyelashes. Unable to respond, she listens to the sounding of the bells, pulling in irregular breaths. She’s on the verge of breaking down.

     He isn’t sure how to handle her, the huntress who has seen so much evil and has endured so much pain. She never gives in to fear, never wavers, never gives up, until now. And still, Dean doesn’t have a clue what is going on, but he is starting to fear the worst himself. 

     Gently, he slides his hands down her arms until he’s holding her by the wrists, tightening his grip to get her to look at him. Finally, Zoë turns her head and stares back, teardrops coming down her bruised and bloody face. Despite the lack of light, he can see them glisten with sorrow. 

     Ten… eleven… 

     Then the last call of the church bell echoes through the valley. It feels like the drums stop right then and there and the floor is about to disappear from under her, which will force the seemingly unbeatable huntress to fight the noose. Her entire form trembles under Dean’s touch. She can barely say a word, because she knows they will be one of her last. And so she whispers the most fragile, truthful, and frightening message that has ever left her lips, only for him to be heard.

     “I’m so sorry.” 

Dun-dun-dun! Hope you enjoyed the cliffhanger. Feel free to rant about after the read. Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate  every single one of you, but if you  do want to give me some extra love,  you are free to reblog my work or  buy me coffee (Link in bio at the  top of the page)

Read part six here

[avengerscompound]

Undercover - Chapter 3

Undercover: A Winterhawk Fanfic

Series Masterlist Previous //

Buy me a ☕ Character Pairing:  Bucky Barnes x Clint Barton x  F!Reader

Word Count:  1589

Rating:  E

Square filled:  @star-spangled-bingo​ - taken captive, @clintbartonbingo​ - kidnapping

Warnings:  Canon-typical violence, action, blood, wounds

Synopsis:  You go on an undercover mission with your boyfriend Bucky and Clint Barton.  When you and Clint have to pretend you’re in a relationship feelings become confused.

Chapter 3

You sat at the small table with Bucky on one side and Clint on the other the three of you slowly making your way through the pizza on the table.  You still felt a little off.  Sluggish more than anything.  Like you still need sleep and your brain wasn’t quite keeping up with what was going on around you.

You also felt really out of place in this dingy pizza place.  For some reason you couldn’t quite explain even to yourself, you’d let Clint talk you into dressing for the mission before you went out to eat.  So you sat between them in a black, figure-hugging, slip dress, while beside you Clint wore black suit pants and a tank top and bucky was in a pair of black jeans and henley.  You looked like a trio of goths who had just come back from an all-day orgy where you’d gotten extremely drunk and were still hungover from it.

To be fair, Bucky’s body armor and the rest of Clint’s suit was hanging in the back of your van.  Clint was a disaster and it was just better not to risk pizza grease on his suit, while you were all pretty sure that going out in full body armor might blow their cover.

“So, we’re trying to get to the source of the weapons.  We’re not finishing the transaction.”  Bucky said.

“Gee thanks for telling us our job, Cap.”  Clint snarked.

“Don’t call me, Cap.”  Bucky shot back.

“Then stop acting like you’re the boss of this mission.”

“I am the boss of this mission.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose.  “Oh my god, I’m gonna clunk your heads together.  We’re in public you dumbasses.”

Thankfully both men were smart enough to look sheepish.  You picked up your coke and glared at them both over it.  “Besides I’m the boss.”

“Yes, boss,”  Clint said with a salute.

“We know what we’re doing.  It’s gonna be fine.  Just take your spot and keep watch.  Plant the tracker on the trucks and the cars.

Bucky nodded.  “Right.”

“Now, eat your fuckin’ pizza.”

“You have been hanging around Bucky too much.”  Clint teased.

Bucky frowned and his hand went to your knee.  You ran your fingers over the back of his knuckles.  “I’m trained for this.”

He nodded.  “I know…. It’s just…”

“I know.”  You said and kissed his cheek.

Clint sat back and wiped his fingers on a napkin.  “Alright.  Guess I’m ready.  How long have we got?”

You looked at your phone.  “An hour.  Guess we should head over.”

The three of you head back out to the van and the boys got dressed before you drove over to the site.  You did a slow drive by and Bucky scoped the area for somewhere for him to sit.  “Okay, I’ll be on the corner of that building there.”  He said pointing.  “I’ll put the trackers on the vehicles and get back up there while everyone is inside.”

“Sounds like a plan.”  You agreed as he got out of the van.  “Be careful.”

“I’m more worried about you two.  Don’t take anything from them.  Just do the exchange and upsell.  That’s it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  You said and kissed his cheek.

“You’re infuriating you know that?”  He asked.

You smirked and nodded.  “We’re almost done.  Then we can go home and chill.  Few days tops.”

He gave a brief nod and stalked off into the shadows as Clint pulled out.  “Really stresses him out being on a mission, huh?”

“Yeah, lot of unresolved issues I guess.”  You said.  “Wish he’d just quit.  Go to college or something?”

Clint snorted.  “College?  What would he study?”

“Astronomy maybe?  Or like electrical engineering.”  You said.

Clint raised an eyebrow.  “That actually makes a lot of sense.”

“I know.  I’m super smart.”  You chuckled.  “He won’t do it though.  He has too much guilt over his past and he won’t stop trying to right it.”

Bucky had moved quickly into position, setting up the sniper rifle in the corner that was cloaked in the shadow of the building behind it.  He watched as you and Clint pulled up and were frisked by security.  Then as they moved to the back of the van and took out the Kree tech.  There was some talking in the carpark that seemed to take way too long.  Bucky started to wonder if he’d get a chance to place the tracers when a black 18 wheeler pulled into the parking lot.  He watched as it pulled into a loading dock and then set his sites back on you and Clint.  One of the men with you gesticulated wildly in the direction of the truck and then everyone moved inside.

Bucky counted to ten, just waiting to make sure you didn’t all come back out again and then made his way down the fire escape.  He didn’t like this bit and honestly wished there was someone else here to help.  If there was a firefight on the ground he could hold his own, but he liked having eyes on everything happened.

He guessed maybe that feeling was intensified for Clint.  He hated being in the middle of things.  He could do the spy stuff but he liked being the eyes.  This mission was really a mess the more he thought about it.  They should have brought Natasha.  Hill even.  Unfortunately, they’d been on their own missions and Clint was the only spy left.

Not that he wasn’t actually liking him being there.  It was nice having him around.  Like Clint had said.  It was like old times.  Clint was an annoying shit but he was a good person and quite funny really.  He had a way of making it so Bucky didn’t worry too much about something.  Sometimes Bucky needed that.

Bucky made his way into the parking lot, keeping to the shadows.  He kept his eyes peeled and listened for movement.  If he got caught doing this, the mission was blown and everything they’d done so far would be a waste.

He put tracers on all the cars and under the body of the truck. He figured the truck was the important one but it couldn’t hurt to have everyone followed.  When they were all in place, he hopped the fence and made his way back to his spot on the roof.   He was about halfway up the fire escape when there was a gunshot.

It came from the site and he wheeled around to see if he could catch sight of what happened.  The truck started and pulled out while at the same time the group came out with what looked like you, unconscious and slung over one of their shoulders.

For the briefest of moments, he wasn’t sure what to do.  If he went up he would be able to see what was going on.  He would probably even be able to blow out the tires of a few of the cars but he didn’t want you in a car accident and he had no idea where Clint was.  On the ground, he could take chase and it might be quicker to get there, but he wouldn’t be able to see everything.  For some of the time, he wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.

All that passed through his head in a matter of seconds before he leaped over the railing of the fire escape.

It was a 6 story drop and super serum or not, he knew the landing would hurt.  He used his prosthetic to catch himself on the stairs two floors above the ground.  It wrenched his shoulder painfully, but was nothing he’d not felt before.  He landed heavily on the ground jarring his legs.  He’d been thinking about that more lately.  He was a person, not a thing that could be tossed aside if it broke.  Now though, now all he could think about was you and Clint.  He had to get to you.

He ran flat out, but it wasn’t as fast as the cars pulled out.  He didn’t know which one you were in.  They were all the same Ford Taurus with tinted windows and he couldn't see the license plate of the one you'd been thrown into before he'd jumped.

When he leaped the fence the last two cars were pulling out.  He pulled out his handgun and fired taking out the back tires from the car in the rear and the rear windshield of the one in front.

He ran to the car whose tires he blew out.  The driver and two passengers all jumped out and started firing on him.  He dived for cover behind the wall that surrounded the warehouse and fired three shots.  They took out two of the men and clipped the other.  He was about to run over and knock the guy down.  Best out where they were taking you from him when he heard a shuffling and the door opening behind him.

“Buck…”

Clint’s voice was strained and raspy.  Bucky wheeled around and saw him.  He leaned against the door with his whole weight.  It was the only thing keeping him upright.  His hand was pressed against his side, but it didn't hide the huge red mark that was blossoming on the side of his shirt.  Bucky ran to him, the guys in the car completely forgotten and arrived at Clint’s side with enough time to catch him.  “They knew who we were.” Clint coughed.  “We gotta get her back.”

// NEXT

[vulpinmusings]

Ski’tar and Friends part 20: Show Stoppers of Songbird

This week, Ski’tar, Vemir, and 6 attend the biggest concert event of the year.

Part one Previously Archive

Following our mission to Apostae, we took a couple of days to rest and restock. Vemir decided to get a prosthetic arm to replace the one he’d been missing since before we first met.  As he was showing it off to us, we received a rare surprise: actual physical mail.  There was an envelope of each of us, and inside were invitations to join Zigvigix in attending a Strawberry Machine-cake concert, one of the biggest entertainment events of the Pact-year.  Since it would be a nice change of pace, and because Vemir is a massive closeted fan of the band (he was trying too hard not to look interested through the whole event), we decided to accept the offer.

Our hopes for a relaxing day of no trouble were dashed the morning of the concert, when Historia-7 commed us for a last-minute mission.  By happenstance, Historia had tracked one of the mystery people hiding behind Arch-energy Consortium to a private villa attached to Songbird Station, the very venue where SMC was performing.  Since Vemir, 6, and I were going to be in the area anyway, Hisroria wanted us to hunt down the man and grill him for everything he knows, and to do so without letting Ziggy know about it.  It seems our Shirren friend’s depression over the Scored Stars incident has interacted poorly with some augments he has and put him at a high risk for a stroke if he were to get too stressed by, say, his favorite band’s concert being ruined by shenanigans.

I was very close to refusing to work on a “vacation,” but my friends just agreed to the task and I wasn’t about to leave them hanging.

Songbird Station is built out of an asteroid and probably had a past life as some sort of temple, given the slap-dash way the technology was set up behind the scenes.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  As our shuttle was making its final approach, Ziggy showed us a hologram of the friends he’d lost at Scored Stars and revealed his desire to ask Strawberry Machine-cake to put on a public tribute of sorts for them after the show.

The lobby was packed with beings of all descriptions, creating a living sea of pink and red, loud music, and spontaneous dance parties. After making sure Ziggy was properly distracted by the fan activities, 6, Vemir, and I held a quick conference to decide how to go about locating our target, Lansio.  I hacked a computer to see if he was on some sort of guest list, but came up empty, so we tried to find someone official-looking to ask.  We chose a harried-looking security guard who was posted by the door to the maintenance and station power area, but as we tried to make our way over we got caught up in a dance mob. Well, 6 and I got caught in it.  In the name of maintaining cover, we bowed to the mob’s pressure and danced for a bit.  Well, 6 danced and won himself a t-shirt. I tripped over myself.

You’d think an Ysoki would be more naturally agile than an android…

There was another momentary detour as I bumped into a tele-view done with a misaligned balance gyro and felt compelled to fix it for the sake of the Ysoki using it to attend the concert remotely.  He transferred me some credits for my trouble, so that was a nice bonus.

We reached the security guard as he was arguing with a couple of lashunta about needing to apply pacification mods to their weapons. When the lashunta left, Vemir went up and offered up his sniper rifle for pacification, and 6 and I followed suit with Sixer’s sword and my laspistol.  Having thus charmed our way into the guard’s good graces, we asked him if he knew Lansio.  He told us Lansio had a villa in the residential section, but didn’t know if he was home.

Right then, the power went out for a couple seconds.  When asked, the guard told us that had been happening intermittently in the last few hours and no technicians had gone to check on it yet.  Concerned about Ziggy’s health and remembering a similar problem from Elytrio, I convinced the guard to let us into the maintenance area to check the station’s power generator.

After heading through a hallway thick with wires that had been strung onto the walls and ceiling, we entered the reactor room to find three strange, pale figures that were glowing and seemed to have only a passing familiarity with the concept of materiality.  For lack of a better identifier, I termed them “Gremlins” for their child-like but innately destructive nature.  They were clustered around the reactor, chattering among themselves, until 6 got their attention. They spoke of the reactor as if it were an egg about to hatch, and then one of them came up and poked me.  Its finger phased into my chest and I felt something in me change in a most unpleasant way.

I flipped out and shot the gremlin.  While my laspistol had been pacified, it still somehow set the thing on fire.  It laughed as if being tickled, and its two buddies started to advance on Sixer and Vemir, curious what would happen if they got touched.

We weren’t going to have any of that, of course, but defending ourselves proved difficult because the gremlins kept phasing through things and easily reforming from being sliced or shot through. Toosie managed to hold the first Gremlin’s attention away from me and whatever had changed in me decided to pop out and off me, but Vemir got mutated twice – first with some kind of external and very stinky gland and later with a second set of eyes – and Sixer’s hand was changed into a bio-mechanical claw.  The scuffle only ended when one of the Gremlins got the idea of jumping into the reactor and 6 seized the controls to keep the power stable.  That gremlin wound up evaporating, and the other two quickly surrendered when I told Toosie to try dragging one of them to the reactor.

The gremlins promised to stop playing around, but said the reactor had already been messed with by someone else and was building up to something.  I took over the controls from 6 and took a look at the code.  I found a foreign algorithm, but I couldn’t make much sense of it because it involved a lot of magic.  What I did manage to decipher revealed a process to vent the atmosphere out of the villa owned by Lansio.

Vemir cut the stinky gland off of himself, but couldn’t do anything about his new eyes despite them being so light-sensitive that he was effectively blind.  We guided him back out to the lobby and over to the gift-shop area to buy a bandanna to cover the eyes.  We then forded the sea of fans to reach the entrance to the private villa section.  Vemir had to shove off an over-enthusiastic collector of SMC merch and I was waylaid by another dance mob and, rather make a further fool of myself, I had Toosie bull through the crowd so I could continue walking.  Somebody found that to be a crime worthy of throwing a full can of soda at my head, but I shrugged it off.  Vemir then wound up playing taxi for three little snake-like girls for a bit and earned a crystal headdress for his trouble.

The door to the villa area was only blocked by a simple rope and nobody that we passed inside gave us more than a brief glance, so we had no trouble getting to Lansio’s address. Nobody answered my polite knock, but Vemir heard frantic movement inside, so we invited ourselves in.

Lansio was working hurriedly at a laptop, so 6 rushed up and threw him against the wall.  I moved up in the android’s wake and checked the computer, quickly determining that it had been rigged to explode.  As Toosie and Vemir came in and took up positions, an attack drone like the ones we’d fought and obtained from the bad weapons deal emerged from a hidden spot in the wall.

Lansio drew a cane-sword and tried to attack me, but I blocked the blow with my prosthetic arm and decided to take the laptop to a less busy part of the villa to disarm it.  Toosie and 6 busied themselves trying to subdue Lansio and get the wrist-watch I would need to finish my work, while Vemir tore the attack drone apart with his retractable wrist-spike.  In short order, Toosie got the watch for me, the drone was disabled, and 6 had thrown Lansio out the back door.  I disarmed the laptop’s explosive countermeasures, but the data it held had already been wiped.

6 started to drag Lansio back inside for questioning, until I reminded him that the place might still lose atmosphere at any moment.  Vemir handled most of the interrogation.  Lansio didn’t know anything about the malicious code and the only name he had for his boss was “the Benefactor,” but it was at least something.

We debated a bit about what to do with Lansio, weighing the risks of leaving him to alert his compatriots to what had occurred against the difficulty of getting him back to the Society without tipping Ziggy off to our mission.  Finally, we decided to kick the problem upstairs into Historia’s lap.  After we filled her in, she said she had some strings she could pull to have station security handle Lansio for us.  She also told us that the malcious magic-code had a degree of artificial intelligence and was trying to escape into the info-sphere.  It was currently contained inside the holographic projectors being used for Strawberry Machine-cake’s show, and so long as it was there we would be able to “kill” it by destroying the hologram that it would inhabit.

We rushed back to the theater area and used out Starfinder credentials to get backstage in the hopes of being able to deal with the evil hologram before the show began.  Unfortunately, according the band manager, there simply wasn’t time for that and the show simply could not be delayed.  Our only option was to battle the hologram on-stage as a pre-show performance, with SMC providing a musical back-drop.

It was the coliseum of Brilliance Station all over again, but there was no other option, so I accepted the holo-costume projectors given to me and walked out with Vemir and 6 to hopefully not make a complete fool of myself.  

The malicious code decided to take the form of a giant pink robot armed with a plasma sword and large rifle.  When the music started up, the thing struck a pose before engaging us, which was a nice touch.

I opened with a couple of grenades that bounced off and exploded harmlessly, while 6 landed a good shot with his frostbite rifle and Vemir sniped it in the head.  The hologram-bot reeled to the beat before momentarily shifting into a tank-like form and unleashing a shockwave of electricity that knocked Toosie over.

As my drone picked itself, up, Vemir and I moved to flank the bot while 6 hacked at it with his sword and got smacked by the large plasma sword in response.  Toosie and 6 then hacked at the bot’s feet until it fell to its knees, and Vemir blasted it with his arc pistol, to great effect.

In a desperate position, the hologram raised its rifle and fired in an arc that hit everyone but me, and the Vemir took it out with another arc pistol shot to the head.  The hologram exploded in a shower of sparks and a wave of electricity, and the lights went down as the music stopped.

After a moment to raise the audience’s tension, the lights came back up to reveal a large holographic image of Zigvigix’s lost friends, and Strawberry Machine-cake’s lead, Captain Carmine, came out to deliver a moving tribute to those Starfinders lost to Scored Stars. At this point, I figured that Historia had pulled a few more strings than she’d implied to us, for the sake of Ziggy.

Vemir, 6, and I were given an unprompted moment to say something, which we muddled through, and then we quickly got off the stage so the actual show could go on.

We made our way into the audience to join Zigvigix, gave him some vague explanations, and finally got to enjoy the show.

Afterward, the band gave us some of their merchandise along with some actually useful gifts.  We had to fend off some reporters looking for details of what had happened before we could get onto out shuttle and return to Absalom Station.

I complained a lot throughout this adventure, but looking back on it now, it wasn’t really that much of a headache.  At least, after putting aside the mutations caused by those gremlins.

[a-mad-scientist-approaches]

The Cipher Conspiracy (13)

*wheezing* *panting* *crying* *insert GIF of Squidward, with bloodshot eyes and a distressingly run-down appearance, kissing a manuscript brokenly* I’M BACK

Listen. Listen. I could talk about all the stuff that’s been going on and wave all my excuses in the air like a white flag while shouting “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!” but we all know what’s really important. So without further ado :D

AO3

1  2  3  4  5  6  7  8  9  10  11  12  13  14

Chapter 13: The Plan

Sacramento, California (USA)    ∆

The gunshots were so loud Addi and Fiddleford heard them through two floors. Without another word, Addi sprinted for the door, drawing her weapon. With a brief gesture she signalled to Fiddleford to remain where he was. Anyone trying to get to Ivan would meet a drawn-taut Southerner who was grimly determined to survive whatever the world threw at him for the next three months he was still employed as a spy.

She took the stairs.

The corridor to the SAIC’s office was jam-packed with FBI agents. Addi barged through, the fact that the shots had stopped doing nothing but increasing the number of worst-case scenarios parading through her head. There was no silence. People were on the phone, people were demanding answers as to what the hell was going on, and no one was stupid enough to go near the danger zone.

Except me of course, Addi reflected.

“Wait, you can’t go in there-!”

She shoved the last person out of her way, her speed not slowing in the slightest, slid around the tiled floor of the corner on her knees, head ducked, gun up, shoulders and body crouched small to minimise the target she was presenting herself as. Her eyes flicked from point to point, analysing the windowless scene, well-lit, receptionist’s door open, room clear, office beyond, closed door, bullet-holes, no Carla-

BANG.

Another – solitary - gunshot burst the lock, making a brief spark against the metal, propelling the door open and Carla dived out of the dust-filled, shadowy room beyond. She rolled when she hit the floor, sprang up, and shoved the door closed again, coughing, and moved out of the reception so fast she blurred-

“Oof!”

- and suddenly Addi was flat on her back, ribs and chest aching, staring at the ceiling while Carla groaned from wherever she was sprawled.

“Ouch,” said Addi. Then-

“You’re alive!” She burst out, scrambling up. Carla hacked out a dusty cough.

“What happened? Those were gunshots!”

“Rea- eally? I didn’t notice,” wheezed Carla, rolling onto her side and pushing herself up. Addi allowed her a second to breathe – she wasn’t unreasonable – and then got all up in her business.

“Were you hit? Where does it hurt? Did you see who was shooting? Are they still in there? Did you get them? What-”

“Can you – wait – a – second-” Managing to fend off Addi’s frantic check that she still had all her major body parts, Carla straightened up, inhaled steadily, and answered briskly, “I sustained a gunshot wound to the nowhere, I hurt everywhere you crashed into me, whoever it was was in the building opposite – I couldn’t see them, and-” an expression of distaste – “no, I didn’t get them. Okay?” She looked back at the office she’d just burst out of. “Looks like the secretary took off as soon as he heard me laying down cover fire, so he shouldn’t be hurt. The assassination was like your assignment, right? So the Special Agent-in-Charge was the only target and now that he’s been seen to no one else should be in danger-”

“He’s dead?”

“As a doornail.” Carla answered shortly and then steamrolled on as if there had been no interruption. “Whoever it was is probably long gone by now, if they’re smart.”

“Actually-”

“The secretary must have alerted the building to what was happening, so we should expect an influx of agents soon, which on the upside means that people are finally going to start listening to me about the Cipher Conspiracy and we can get all that – that – stuff sorted out – by the way, what did Wexler say after I left? Addi? Addi, hellooo, are you okay?”

Addi surveyed her. Carla raised her eyebrows defiantly back, looking for all the world like she was utterly unmoved by someone being killed right in front of her. That is, if the shaking hands, or the pupils blown a little to wide to be normal, or the way her mouth was motoring away but her voice was monotonous like she wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying all weren’t taken into account.

Addi’s silence propagated.

Carla slowly closed her mouth, but almost immediately began tapping her foot, clearly still needing an outlet to burn off adrenaline. She broke the locked gaze she’d been holding with Addi.

“Carla, if you need to take a moment-” she began gently.

“No.” Carla shook her head immediately. “What I need is to stop the Cipher Wheel. Now. Before any more people . . . or Stan, or Ford . . .”

“Or you,”

“What?”

Addi took a breath. She would love to allow Carla a moment to process, to calm down, but at the moment that wasn’t possible. Carla was right. Their first concern was to stop the Cipher Wheel.  

“That assassin hasn’t gone anywhere. Wexler said that Cipher’s still trying to stop your Cipher Wheel investigation, which means he takes out the SAIC to frame Oracle Division . . . and you, to stop the investigation. You’re being targeted.”

Carla was frozen to the spot. Addi started forward to reassure her that there was no way she was going to allow anything to happen, when instead Carla’s dark eyes narrowed and she started pacing.

“That’s a stupid plan.” She degraded. “Assassinating me when I’ve been claiming for so long that there’s a conspiracy out to get us all? That’s the perfect way to convince everyone I’m right! At least try to make it look like an accident. Come on, Cipher, you can do better than that!” She said in vicious triumph.

“Uh . . . well, I don’t think you should be so happy about this, but alright. Whatever gets this guy caught. But actually . . .” Something clicked in Addi’s head. “But I don’t think it matters at this point whether people know about the Cipher Conspiracy – he has the memory gun, he can do what he likes.”

“Which means he wants me dead because I’ve been a pain in the ass,”

“Basically,” agreed Addi.

Carla laughed victoriously. “He’s getting cocky. He thinks he can’t be touched now – which means he’s coming after all of us now, not just me.” She looked at Addi, a spark of a plan in her eyes. “Those agents who attacked you – and Stan!”

“And Ford!” Addi realised suddenly. “Cipher wanted to take out Ford himself – and Oracle Division’s been after Cipher so long that I bet that’s the case for Fiddleford and me as well.”

Carla was nodding, and Addi felt a grin grow on her face to match hers.

“We can set a trap,” They said together.

And that’s when the crowd of FBI agents around the corner managed to gather their courage and flood the corridor with chaos.

“FREEZE!” Yelled approximately fifty people, weapons drawn (which would make for an interesting firefight, given that half of them were pointing guns at the backs of the other half, Addi noted).

She faced them with a disapproving expression, feeling Carla step up authoritatively beside her.

A whistle so piercing it could have cleaned glass sliced through the noise. Carla held up her badge and spoke rapidly.

“Senior Special Agent Carla McCorkle. I just witnessed the successful assassination of the SAIC, which was brought on by events connected to my current major investigation into the Cipher Wheel. The gunshots you heard were mine, fired from my Bureau-issued regulation weapon to cover my own escape from the assassin, and you can be assured the assassin was not me – inspection of the body will show the murder weapon as a high-calibre sniper-rifle, of which my associate here will be able to give a far more detailed account of.”

The agents stood silently, open-mouthed and staring as a good percentage of their questions were systematically answered.

She must have some kind of super-hearing, to decipher all that yelling, Addi decided.

Carla waited expectantly. When no one moved, she said pointedly, “Maybe you’d like to inspect the body to make sure I’m not lying?”

Five agents hurriedly peeled off to do their jobs, then stopped outside the door to the office, one opening his mouth.

“Yes, it’s safe. The assassin will have relocated to another vantage point to wait for me, their next target, and NO, I did not see what they looked like!” Carla raised her voice to drown out the rising hubbub that greeted that statement. “Questions one at a time, please!”

One person actually raised a hand in response to that school-teacherly statement.

“The- the Cipher Wheel investigation? But that’s not a real-”

“At this point I’m not even going to dignify that with an answer. Next!”

“Who the heck is she?” A man pointed at Addi.

“Adeline Marks, Oracle Division,” Addi answered, the sheer Federal-ness of the situation having her halfway through reaching for a badge that wasn’t there before she stopped herself.

“What the heck is Oracle Division?”

“All you need to know is that we didn’t black out Manhattan, which we may or may not be in the midst of being framed for - it's a little unclear,” Adeline told him.

“So who the heck blacked out Manhattan?!”

“The Cipher Wheel! Haven’t you been listening?” said Carla impatiently. “Now, I have a lot of things on my to-do list today, including but not limited to: an agent of the Bill Cipher himself in a holding cell who I need to finish interrogating; an assassin after me who I need to stop from killing me; a fiancé I need to find; and an anarchist organisation of spies to take down. So, now that the man in charge of this field office is dead: who’s in command?”

Everyone went back to staring at Carla open-mouthed.

She clapped her hands sharply, the sound cracking in everyone’s ears.

“Come on, come on, we’ve got to get a move on! Who’s in charge?”

The agents looked at the dust-covered, blood-speckled, tense and fiery-eyed apparition of a woman in front of them, of whom many even outranked.

“Um . . . you?” someone ventured.

And she replied, after a moment, “That’s right,”

∆

“You see, no matter how hard you try, Agent McGucket, nothing you do will ever be enough to stop us,”

Fiddleford stared absently into the distance, ruminating.

Jheselbraum’s been outta contact for over twenty-four hours now. Granted, the whole a’ Manhattan bein’ pretty effectively taken to ground was not something we ever counted on happening, but even still . . .

“-the Cipher Wheel will not be stopped. We will tear down your-”

She’s the head of one a’ the most secret organisations in the world. She wouldn’t let a little th- a thing like an island bein’ blacked out stop her from doin’ her job.

“-about it. Even if you multiply every iota of your power exponentially, it would not come close-”

If she’s out of contact, it’s because she wants to be. She’s setting something up. And with any luck, her absence is foolin’ Cipher into disregarding the threat of Oracle Division. So all we need to do is be prepared for when she surfaces. What do I need? Phone on, obviously, ready to leave at any moment . . .

He frowned. For some reason, he was finding it hard to think.

“-burn to the gr-"

“Would ya shut up?” He snapped at Wexler. “Some of us are still workin’!”

The enemy agent, still cuffed to the interrogation room’s table, looked startled.

“But . . . this field office is in ruins! Multiple assassinations have been carried out, your agency is in shambles, McCorkle is dea-”

“Negative on all o’ that. It’s been done and sorted for twenty minutes now,” Fiddleford said impatiently.

“Wha- but no one’s come in to tell you that!”

Fiddleford huffed out a sigh, pushed himself off the wall he was leaning on, and dug his phone out of his pocket, waggling it at Wexler. “The text function is mighty useful,” he said dryly.

Before Wexler could respond, his triumphant monologue having been severely derailed, Fiddleford rapped his knuckles sharply on the two-way mirror.

“Done in there yet?”

A muffled “Yes!” answered.

Nodding to Wexler, Fiddleford finally left the room, turned right, waited for the stream of slightly baffled-looking senior federal agents to exit the monitoring station next door, and rejoined Addi and Carla inside. A junior agent replaced him in the duty of standing guard over Wexler.

“All sorted?” asked Fiddleford.

Carla nodded, stretching out some of the tension in her arms. “Everyone’s up to date on the situation and, for now at least, listening to me. Is it bad that I want them to stay unbalanced so I can stay in charge?” she added with a reckless grin.

“Eh. I think you’re doing good,” shrugged Addi. At some point she’d seated herself cross-legged on top of a table. In the interrogation room, apparently not wanting to waste a perfectly good evil monologue and keen to take advantage of a new listener, Wexler was continuing with his misplaced dramatic gloating to the junior agent: a listener who did not appear to be as inconsiderately inattentive as Fiddleford.

“What about the assassin?” he said.

“At the moment the general consensus is that I should stay away from windows. Anyway! Let’s figure out our next move,”

Not missing the sudden subject-change, Fiddleford didn’t press it. There were more urgent things at hand, after all, and if his friend thought she was fine for now, he was going to trust her.

“We’ve thought of something,” said Addi, glancing at Carla.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Yep. We think Cipher might be after us personally,” she gestured between him and herself. “Although not Carla, evidently. Ford, however, got his own special visit from the guy, and after the way Stan interrupted it, I’ll bet it’s the same case for him. When I think back to the way those agents cornered me in the elevator, their tactics weren’t lethal, and since you’re Oracle Division as well . . .”

Fiddleford nodded his understanding, feeling more upbeat with every word. “So we’ve got a line-a’-sight right to Cipher. We can get close to him-”

“-somehow-”

“-and we can be sure he’s not goin’ ta off us immediately,”

“The bad news is that Stan and Ford are still out of contact,” Carla said soberly, tapping her fingers on her folded arms. “That’s three hours and thirty-eight minutes since Stan left for the forest, and he still hasn’t come back with Ford. And it’s not like we can just send out a search party; that area is huge, and just about the whole field office is busy notifying every branch and division that will listen about the Cipher Conspiracy,” she seemed to cut herself off, but she didn’t need to say anything more anyway.

Cipher couldn’t have gotten to them already, could he?

No one wanted to say it.

“Fer now let’s just focus on Wexler,” Fiddleford said eventually. “When he cracks, he should get us some more Cipher Wheel operatives, and we can start pushing back for real,”

“Right,” Addi said quietly. Carla nodded shortly, twisting her shirt sleeves.

If Cipher does have them . . . what must they be goin’ through?

The manically cheerful and heady jangle of a banjo cut through the sombre silence.

“Sorry, tha’s me,” muttered Fiddleford, pulling his phone out of his pocket again. And stared in disbelief at the screen.

“What is it?” asked Addi.

“Well . . . Jheselbraum’s back.” He grinned. “And she’s got a new mission for us,”

A string of coordinates from an unidentified number graced the screen. Below it was a photo, showing a very startled looking Stanford Pines, eyes wide open and pupils contracted to the size of pinheads, and an equally surprised Stanley Pines, who, in contrast, had his hands half raised to shield himself from something, his eyes shut tight, and his mouth open in a silent yell. An accompanying text said:

(I forgot the flash was on)

El Dorado National Forest, California (USA)    ∆

“You don’t trust her, do you?”

Ford jumped a little as Stan came up to stand next to him. He glanced at the view Ford had been surveying, apparently deep enough in thought that he hadn’t noticed Stan crunching over all the leaves and twigs between the house and Ford’s position in his approach. There was nothing to see really. Just trees.

Staring at his thoughts then.

Ford frowned. “Of course I do. We went over it, didn’t we? Addi and Fiddleford work for her, they trust her, they’re well-treated, they’re happy, and you gave your personal vote of confidence. See? No reason not to trust her.” He turned back to the forest as though the matter was settled.

Yeah, not in Stan’s book.

“For a lot of people it would be,” agreed Stan with just enough emphasis on “a lot of people” to make Ford frown at him again.

“You’re insinuating that I’m not a lot of people,”

Perfect!

“Well yeah, you’re just one person. Haha!” Stan beamed broadly, hands spread apart to invite the whole forest to applaud his conversational and comedic mastery.

Ford crossed his arms. “You’re insinuating that I’m a paranoid mess who’s suspicious of anyone and everyone and who refuses to place the slightest reliance on another person in defence of the moment they don’t, won’t, or can’t, do what needs to be done, invariably bringing chaos and ruin down on whatever we had achieved, and hurting me again in the process,” he rephrased.

Stan dropped his arms and put his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “That’s pretty . . . well . . . spot on.” Ford nodded shortly and turned back to the forest.

“Except for the part that you’re only doing that ‘cause you’ve been lied to and psychologically scarred for the better part of five years and you’re only now just realising it and you’ve got no way of dealing with it. Which means all this is pretty reasonable,”

When Ford remained motionless, he nudged him and said quietly, “Just so you know, I’ve been in similar places. Not exactly the same, because, I mean, what are the chances of that? . . . But, yeah, similar. Which means I know how to help you outta them, too,”

Ford didn’t do anything much at that either, but he did uncross his arms. And Stan wasn’t sure if he imagined it or not, it was so slight, but he might have nodded as well.

“So, y’know, I’m not blaming you for not trusting her.” He waited to see if Ford would respond.

“I do trust her,” his brother muttered, a little petulantly.

After some consideration, Stan said, “No you don’t,”

“Everyone I trust trusts her. Ergo, I trust her,”

“Not really,”

“Stan, she has a plan for taking down Cipher. I’ll trust anyone who says they can do that,”

“Doubt it,”

“I trust her!”

“Ehh,”

“I do.” A pause. “But . . . alright, I may have some . . . small . . . reservations. Although they are quite persistent,”

Stan nudged him encouragingly again. “I’d be worried if you didn’t, Ford. I mean, I’m worried anyway, but I’d be checking to see if you ran on batteries and had circuitry under your skin by now if you were fine,”

Ford huffed out what may have been a weak laugh, meeting Stan’s eyes for a brief moment before looking away again.

They looked at the trees suffusing the space around them.

“Do you trust me?” Stan asked suddenly, figuring it was best just to get it over with quickly.

Ford stared at him in surprise. “Why do you ask that?”

“Well, what with the whole dragging-me-around-the-world-without-telling-me-why-and-not-knowing-when-or-if-I’ll-ever-see-you-again thing. And you also drugged me rather than let me come with you out here. And I’m not blaming you if you don’t!” Stan amended quickly. “I just – I dunno, I wanted to know,”

A quizzical expression came over Ford’s face.

“Forget it,” Stan said hurriedly, backtracking as fast as he could. “Stupid question. You don’t need to say it. And don’t worry about it, either. I mean, it’s not like I’ve done anything to-”

“Of course I do, Stan,” Ford said loudly over him. “Out of everyone, you are the person who should have the least doubt about that,”

There was something really warm and buoyant in Stan’s chest, like his own personal hot air balloon, complete with cheering passengers and a bright, primary-coloured theme.

“Really?” He asked.

“Really,” And Ford actually laughed. “I trust you, Stan. No reservations.” He slung his arm around Stan’s shoulders as easy as anything. “Knucklehead,” he added.

“You’re the knucklehead,” Stan muttered. He put his own arm around Ford’s shoulders all the same, and they went back to watching the trees.

That is, until Stan noticed that he’d put his arm right across the partially-wet blood stains down Ford’s back, which was sufficient enough to ruin the warm moment.

“You need new clothes,” he said, wiping his hand on his pants.

“Well, the only ones around are yours, so unless you want to swa-”

“See anything interesting?” asked Jheselbraum, approximately two inches behind them.

“AHH!”

Stan was pretty sure every critter in a hundred metre radius must have been frightened off by his and Ford’s combined yell, but on the upside, he took the agility of Ford’s reflexive response to mean that he was recovering well.

“I’m off back to the city,” Jheselbraum continued pleasantly, as if the two of them hadn’t just made a standing leap to about six feet away from her. “Agent McGucket and Agent Marks should arrive soon, however there’s apparently a situation back in Sacramento that I should be able to provide some order to.” She rolled her eyes. “The FBI is not handling the revelation about the Cipher Conspiracy well. Good luck, Stanford, Stanley.” She shook both their hands and strode confidently off through the undergrowth towards where her car was concealed. Stan felt a brief pang that it didn’t look like he was going to get to see Carla as soon as he would’ve liked. But it wouldn’t be too much longer, he hoped – steadfastly ignoring the fact that the last time he’d thought that he’d embarked on a covert spy operation around the world for two straight weeks. He’d see her soon enough, and they had a plan to take down Cipher, and he’d make sure it hurt the guy, and all this craziness would be over, and he could go back to cooking dinner for his girlfri- fiancée (fiancée!) on weeknights. She’d be fine in the meantime. It wasn’t like an assassin was after her.

“Well. I guess we just have to wait now,” said Ford, heading back towards the safe-house.

“What’s new?” Stan shrugged, following. “Don’t know why she stuck around this long, to be honest. It’s not like we’re going to get into trouble the second we’re alone,”

He ducked down to scratch his knee, which probably saved his life.

A brief whistle heralded the passage of a dart as it flew over his head. It struck the door right beside Ford’s hand, and vibrated.

Stan stared at it.

Ford stared at it.

They looked at each other.

And then they threw themselves behind whatever could even vaguely serve as cover, just in time for the hail of darts.

“Should I just-” Stan ducked back as another passed through the leaves of the shrub he was shielding himself with – “not say anything?! Ever?!”

“Maybe! Yes!” came Ford’s muffled shout from where he was tightly sandwiched between the wall of the hut and the door.

∆

Addi wasn’t able to stop smiling, she found.

The reasons, as she listed to keep herself occupied on the drive, were thus:

1.       They had a vague idea – no, a plan, definitely a plan – for how to maybe get an opportunity where they could possibly take out Cipher. Perhaps.

2.       Stan had found Ford.

3.       Jheselbraum had found Stan and Ford.

4.       Ford was safe.

5.       Didn’t the director say somethin’ about stitches? And mind-control? And trauma?

6.       . . . Ford was mostly safe.

7.       Jheselbraum was back in contact, and according to her, Oracle Division was still very much operational, despite Cipher’s attempt to knock them out of the game with the Manhattan blackout.

8.       The FBI had been calming down by the time they had left.

9.       Ah’d say they were still a little strung out, Addi.

10.      Yes, well . . .

11.      Carla had had a wicked grin on her face which probably meant Wexler wasn’t going to stand a chance. Agreed?

12.      Agreed. Despite still havin’ an assassin after her.

13.      Meh, she can take him.

14.      And once Wexler’s cracked, then the rest a’ the Cipher Wheel’ll be toast too.

15.     Yes.

16.      And finally, they were going to meet Ford right now! And Stan as well. What? What is it? Why are you grinning at me?

17.      Oh, shut up.

18.      She had a good feeling about this.

Fiddleford’s car ran over a tree root, causing the whole vehicle to jolt.

“How close are we to the coordinates, anyway?” Fiddleford asked, wrestling with the steering.

Addi checked her phone, the FINDURLOSTAGENT app struggling with the weak signal in the middle of the forest, but coping.

“We should be right on top o-”

Fiddleford hit a man.

The seatbelt across her chest yanked her back into the seat and the whole world seemed to jolt as Fiddleford slammed on the brakes. She was staring at her knees and the belt was cutting into her neck, and her heart was pounding. The next course of action was obvious.

“You hit someone?!” She yelled at her partner.

“No!” He said indignantly. “He ran out in front’a me!”

“I can’t believe you hit someone!”

“Neither can I! This entire sector’s s’posed ta be closed off!”

Addi fumbled with her seatbelt and lurched out, wincing at the dent in the bonnet.

“Oh my gosh, are you oka-” She froze at the sight of the prone, groaning man on the ground.

“What’s wrong?” Fiddleford had followed her out. His face went slack. “Is he dead?”

There was another pained groan.

“Oh thank God,” Fiddleford sighed.

“He’s . . . got a tranq gun,” Addi said in puzzlement. She looked closely at the clothes he was wearing. Black was a theme. So was Kevlar.

A fourth person came onto the scene, dressed in the same tactical gear, and observed the situation. His buddy, on the ground, with two people standing over him, in front of a scraped-up car that had clearly been forcing its way through the denseness of the surrounding no-access-allowed foliage and which also had a large, person-shaped fold in the hood.

“You okay, Rob?” He asked cautiously.

“They hit me with their car, man . . .” Rob moaned.

“But he’s not dead, and that’s what counts!” Fiddleford interrupted quickly.

The newcomer didn’t seem too bothered one way or the other, which was the next red flag in Addi’s head.

“Possible hostiles have entered the area,” he said into his mike. “Two of them,”

Fiddleford tensed. Addi surreptitiously reached for the gun in her jacket.

“. . . who even drives out here . . .”

“Shut up, Rob.” The man levelled his tranquiliser at them.

“Uhhh . . . we’re with the FBI?” Fiddleford tried vainly.

Addi tackled him, rolled, came up on one knee, and heard a plink as the dart collided with the car, closely followed by the much louder explosion of her gun as she sighted at Rob's friend. He grunted and stumbled backwards.

Kevlar vest.

She re-aimed, fired, and he dropped. She whipped around for Fiddleford.

“You okay?”

He ignored her, already up and pulling back one of the unconscious Rob's sleeves, under which the edge of a tattoo was visible. It seemed that the dart had ricocheted off the metal of the car and hit Rob instead, tying things up rather nicely in Addi’s opinion.

Fiddleford looked up at her.

“Cipher Wheel.” He held up Rob's arm. A heart with an arrow through it was inked there, an exact match to one of the symbols in Oracle Division’s database. “They’re here for Stan and Ford,”

The dead agent’s mike crackled.

“. . . sending reinforcements . . .”

∆

“Two new targets incoming, sir. First strike team down,”

"Huh. Looks like Jezzy’s up and about then, and she’s sent in her mutts. Well, what are you waiting for? Send in the rest, same orders for those pesky agents from that stupidly named division (whichhasn’tevenbeenabletopredictanythingsince1981justasidenoteforya). Ha! What am I saying? You know how to do your job! DON’T YOU?”

∆

Addi rounded a thicket and found a small clearing with a decrepit old hut in the centre. There was no one in sight, but signs of conflict covered the area: tranquiliser darts were present on just about every surface.

She and Fiddleford looked at each other.

“Think they’re still here, or . . .” He muttered lowly to her.

Before she could respond, a bush groaned.

“Is it over?” It said.

“Well, they’re not firing anymore. I don’t know about over,” replied the swung-wide door of the hut. It sounded a lot like-

“Ford?”

There was silence. Then Stan’s head peeked over the top of a shrub and the door/shield swung closed as Ford released his grip on it.

“You made it!” Stan exclaimed pushing himself to his feet with obvious relief on his face. “I thought we were toast. Please tell me you parked close by,”

“Just a few minutes away,” Fiddleford reassured him. “We should hurry, though. Ah’m pretty sure we met your strike team just as they were circlin’ around to another vantage point, since this one was clearly doing nothin’. They have back-up on the way,”

“So we should get away from here as fast as possible,” nodded Stan. “Alright, let’s go. Addi?”

She registered that he’d tapped her shoulder, but she didn’t look away from Ford and he hadn’t looked away from her either. She took him in. He looked tired, and far gaunter than he should, and there was bl- there was an uncomfortable amount of blood on his shirt. She couldn’t believe it hadn’t even been a full day since she’d last seen him. She didn’t know if it was possible to feel homesickness for a time, but there wasn’t a lot she wouldn’t have given to go back to that morning and redo everything, make sure that whatever had happened to him was null and void and ensure that he was safe.

“Oh boy. Guys?”

There was a sigh and Fiddleford pushed her in the back in a manner that suggested she should hurry up. She didn’t care.

Ford seemed to find his voice.

“Adeline, I am so s-” was as far as he got before she cannoned into him and hugged him as tightly as she could.

“Don’t be,” she told him, shaking her head firmly and trying to let go of a sudden, slightly irrational surge of anxiety that was rearing its head now that she finally had him back. He’s not going to disappear again, he’s not going to disappear again.

“Ford, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for, it’s not your fault, none of this is your fault. I’m just glad you’re safe,”

She felt his fingers dig into her back a little. “I’m- I’m glad you’re safe too,” he said into her shoulder, and she definitely noticed his silence on the other things she’d said and she really wanted to hurt Bill Cipher.

Ford lost his struggle to keep quiet.

“I’ve made huge mistakes-”

“So?” She pulled back slightly from the embrace to glare fiercely at him. “Fiddleford just hit someone with a car and I killed his friend in front of him. Do I look like I care?”

His mouth dropped open a little. “Wh- you- Uh, no, but-”

“No. I am so far from bothered by the things you’ve been manipulated into, Stanford.” She took his hands, made sure she had his full attention, and said firmly and with as much determination as she’d ever possessed, “I don’t care what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you want to fix it now.”

“I don’t care either Stanford, just so’s yer know,” came Fiddleford’s voice from behind them.

Ford blinked, looking between her and Fiddleford for a moment. And then he smiled with only a hint of hesitancy and kissed her cheek, hugging her again which she was all too willing to return.

“We really should leave before we’re assassinated, though,” he said seriously.

∆

In fairness, Stan thought, we did make it.

Reunite with Addi and Fiddleford, cue sappy stuff from the lovebirds (and more reinforcement that Ford’s not to blame). Check.

Creep through the forest on high alert so we aren’t surprised by the incoming Cipher Wheel back-up (which was just great, by the way). Check.

Get to Fiddleford’s car because it’s closer than the Stanleymobile, still on the look-out for bad guys. Check.

Get shot at anyway. Check.

But as far as Stan was concerned, they did get within spitting distance of the car, so, even if it wasn’t really a win, they hadn’t lost yet, and therefore they tied. And considering that Carla had captured one of the Cipher Wheel agents, but the Cipher Wheel agents hadn’t captured any of them, his side was still winning overall.

The positives just stacked up, and yet for some reason Stan wasn’t feeling that lucky as he dove behind a shrub and ate dirt for the second time in twenty minutes.

He really didn’t feel the love of the universe as it turned out an enemy agent was already behind it, taking potshots at the others. He punched Stan in the face.

The world rocked forwards overhead ninety degrees and suddenly the ground was flat against Stan’s back while he stared at the sky.

He wasn’t so stunned that he didn’t realise what the consequences would be if he let the guy stab him with the tranquiliser in his hand that he had been in the middle of loading into the gun.

Stan caught his wrist in both hands and shoved him back, pushing himself up to his elbows, into a sitting position, onto his knees, then flung himself forwards and brought the guy to the ground. The gun went spinning away. They landed awkwardly, Stan in a far less secure position than was good for his health and future liveliness – with his shoulder below him and one arm trapped under the guy, who immediately took the advantage and twisted, forcing Stan onto his back again, catching Stan’s suddenly free and punching arm in a tight hold, but he overbalanced, and now they were turning again, and Stan pressed as much of his weight downwards as possible, trying to get his opponent in a choke hold and then something under them shifted-

“WHOA!"

- and in Stan’s defence he was a bit busy to have realised that the tree roots they were grappling on top of had made a precipice of soil and rock, over which he was now tumbling –

The other guy was underneath Stan when they landed and with a pained choking noise all the breath went out of him and his torso seized in response. Stan took a second orient himself, sighted, and dealt a blow that knocked the man out cold. He scrambled up, breathing hard, and a dart whispered past his elbow away to his two o’clock so he turned into the trajectory and luckily the sniper wasn’t too far away, in fact, they were almost unreasonably close to be using the ranged weapon they were.

He ducked, rolled, saw the barrel training his movements, dodged the other way as it fired, leapt forwards into their agent’s space where the gun would be next to useless except as a club and shoved the shooter back into a tree. Their head cracked against it and they dropped at his feet, and a sharp knee put them out of action completely. He stayed in place for a count of two, listening for anything and everything around him, heard a distant gun go off, a proper firearm, not a tranquiliser, then turned in that direction and sped off, keeping his path as close to the trees as possible until he ran into a doubled-over Fiddleford-

They bounced off each other like billiard balls, but managed to stay on their feet.

“Stan! Y’alright?” Fiddleford said, fighting for breath. Stan nodded but made frantic shushing noises and dragged him down behind a suitably dense thicket. They had no idea where the Cipher Wheel agents were, or how many of them were in the forest with them. No need to give them a sound to pinpoint their position – like that gunshot had done.

On one hand Fiddleford had a bloody nose and looked a little out of it, but on the other there were two motionless agents on the ground from the direction he’d come running from. On the . . . third mutant hand that had probably sprung out of the metaphorical guy’s chest, Fiddleford, based on his lonesomeness, didn’t know where Addi or Ford were either.

“Please tell me you have a gun,” Stan said.

Fiddleford held one up.

“Oh thank- aaand it’s empty. Why do you have an empty gun?”

“Well it’s not like I knew it wasn’t stocked when Ah picked it up!” Fiddleford said, affronted. “It’s whoever was th’last agent to use the car’s fault! Ah used the last bullet just a’fore ya got here,”

So the shot he’d heard hadn’t been Addi or Ford. Which meant they had no direction to go in to find either of them. And finding them would be hard enough anyway, in this Cipher Wheel-infested forest.

“We need to get back to the Stanleymobile. It’s a bit far but I think me and Ford did a good enough job hiding it that they won’t have found it yet. Ford’ll be heading for it if he’s got any sense-” which was another point entirely, but Stan was going to ignore it for now – “and hopefully Addi’s with him,”

“Lead the way,” Fiddleford motioned, but he must have definitely been more dazed than he was letting on because he stood up without any thought as to what his cover would be if he did.

A dart promptly sprouted from his shoulder.

“Move!”

Stan barrelled into him, taking it as a good sign that Fiddleford was at least alert enough to pull the dart out as soon as possible, and trying to ignore the pretty bad signs of him starting to stumble and drop back after a mere forty feet of sprinting through the trees and trying desperately not to trip.

An agent appeared in front of them and they swerved around her. In opposite directions.

Doesn’t matter doesn’t matter he was still on his feet and going we’ll just regroup right after you get past this thicket –

He got past the thicket and immediately looked to his left for Fiddleford. He wasn’t there. Stan skidded to a stop and listened to the thundering of his heart and the panting of his breath and the noises all around him. The agent wasn’t following him. No footsteps came from the direction Fiddleford should have taken. No one was to be seen at all.

There was no sound but the rustle of the forest.

∆

There was someone right on the other side of the tree. Ford didn’t dare breathe. Beside him, Addi’s fingers were going white as they tightened on her gun – their only weapon, since Ford’s had been kicked out of his grip six minutes ago. Addi had only just managed to keep hers, and she had a jagged tear in her jeans with a long but thankfully shallow knife cut underneath to show for it.

Slowly, he tugged on her hand, drawing her forward and away. They took care with their steps. One snapped twig, one crunched leaf, and it would be over.

Another agent came into view ahead, and only the random chance that she happened to be looking the other way at the time saved them from discovery. Addi led them urgently to the right.

Over a small stony outcrop, zig zag through more trees, and two more agents were methodically sweeping the area.

Addi bit down on a curse and they backtracked again. Ford pulled her down behind a hillock. Ears straining, he waited for the agents to pass out of range once again, but unlike all the other times they had ducked out of view, he didn’t immediately resume their motion. This wasn’t working. The forest was too densely populated with enemy agents for their strategy so far to be feasible, and he wasn’t going to risk yet another all-to-close encounter.

As if she had read his mind, Addi whispered, “This isn’t working,”

But there was a solution. He didn’t like it at all, and he knew it wasn’t going to go down well with Addi, and knew that it wouldn’t have a good ending at all. He’d do it anyway.

“I’ll distract them while you keep going,” Addi said. His head snapped around, a fierce and hopefully also forbidding expression leaping to his aid – anything to reinforce the sheer terror that had just plummeted its way into his stomach.

“What?!” He hissed. “No. Absolutely not. That’s practically a guaranteed prelude to your capture, torture, and murder. If anyone is going out there, it’s me,”

If anything, she seemed even more motivated than before. The expression did not seem to have worked.

“Stanford, I have the only gun. I’m going,”

He snatched it swiftly out of her hand. “Not anymore,”

Her expression was outraged enough to make him regret the action. She flicked him hard on the nose and snatched it back.

“Yes, anymore. Besides, I don’t know the way back to Stan’s car. You do. Therefore,” She made a shooing motion.

“Nonsense. You’ll find it easily,” Ford said, but he was grasping at straws and she knew it.

“In this forest crawling with people who want us dead. Sure.” She stopped him before he could retaliate. “Ford.” He looked at her. She let some of her guard drop, and he was struck silent by the pleading in her eyes.

“Have you seen yourself lately? There is no way I am letting Cipher anywhere near you. Not again,”

She really wasn’t going to budge on this. He’d be frustrated as all hell with her if there wasn’t a warm, touched feeling curling its way around his chest and settling in below his heart.

This way was going to be so much harder.

“Adeline . . .” He shook his head, then gave in and kissed her. After a moment, he let his hand drop onto the knife-wound on her leg. She broke away with a pained gasp and a flinch and he apologised frantically and then reached into his pocket and drew out the tablets; one was already gone from when Stan had taken it.

Addi stared and slowly went still as he offered it to her.

“For the pain,”

She didn’t move.

“Addi, please,”

“Are you trying to drug me?” She said suspiciously.

Well. Good one, Stanford.

She was glaring at him now.

“I- well, yes, but that doesn’t mean it won’t help with the pain-” He shut up. Clearly, words weren’t going to work, so he instead he tried taking her hands - which meant she hardly had to move at all in order to sink the tranquiliser dart she’d found on the ground into his skin.

“That’s how you drug someone,” she told him and he still heard her over the roaring in his ears and the feeling of something new flowing up his arm and fear in his throat and God he loved her but he was also too panicked and angry and there were more important things at the moment so he couldn’t tell her right then-

Was the world going dark? No. Just for him.

They’d been crouched for too long for there to be any hope of adrenaline keeping him awake.

This couldn’t be happening.

He tipped over and Addi grabbed his shoulders, lowering him gently to the ground. Her voice was far away and distorted, like he was underwater, but he still heard, “You’ve been the idiot enough. Now it’s my turn. We have a plan, I hope . . .” and he was still awake enough for the note of fear in her voice to mean something. He wasn’t awake enough to do anything about it though. The next time he saw her, he would. He would see her again, and he would keep her safe. Despite her having more of a track record with that than him at the moment. He’d have to even that up. He would, when he saw her again . . .

Gravity Falls, Oregon (USA)    ∆

The man on the wall – Bill consulted the Journal – Fiddleford McGucket, his name was, previously referred to as “F” until sentimentality had gotten the better of Pines and his resolve to seem all secretive and clandestine had crumbled like a castle on the beach, the absolute clod. Anyway, the guy – Fidds – managed to raise his head despite how much he was shaking and sweating, blinked, and looked around, not that he was able to see much. No lights were on. Bill grinned in the dark.

He – the guy – Fiddlesticks – looked uncomprehendingly at his hands, one after the other. Bill looked too, still unnoticed where he was sitting with his feet up on one of the workbenches. Pretty basic. Not that interesting. Four fingers and a thumb. Manacles holding him to the wall. Guy was pretty distressed for such an obvious situation. It wasn’t like there was any misconceptions to be had, so that at least eliminated the element of the unknown from the situation, which Bill had gathered was one of the usual terrors people had. McGucket didn’t seem to care, becoming frantic as he tugged uselessly at the iron.

“Oh Fiddleford, Fiddleford, Fiddleford. What to do with you?” he drawled – Bill, not Fiddy McGiddy, who had frozen and finally realised he wasn’t alone. Pretty rude, since Bill’d been there for about an hour already.

“I’ve been having fun, I have to say. An actual Oracle Division agent right here in front of me! How often does that happen? A criminally low amount, Fiddleford. Criminally. And it’s especially nice this time, because you-” he gestured at him with the memory gun, grinning all the wider when McGucket’s eyes widened and he (somewhat inconceivably) stiffened even more – “Farm Boy, are a friend to one Stanf-”

“Whatever yer goin’ to do ta me, just do it,” snapped McGucket, attempting to bore holes into Bill with his suddenly rock-steady gaze. “I don’t care in the slightest what you’ve got ta say, Cipher,”

“Likewise, Widdleford. Props for the ‘brave show of defiance’,” Here Bill rolled his eyes and added air quotes with his fingers to match the hot air that that phrase was. “But I’ve seen it before, and I’m getting bored of it. Which is not good news for you, Southern Boy!”

The elevator trundled down as Bill swung to his feet in one gleeful movement, making McGucket flinch. Bill laughed.

“Well, I’d say don’t worry,” he told him, “but you’d . . . y’know.” He gave the memory gun a little shake, McGucket’s eyes following it, transfixed.

“Now where have YOU been?” He thundered in the direction of the elevator.

“She woke up in transit, sir. Had trouble putting her out again,” said Whocaredwhathisnamewas. Good guy, though. Reliable. Or maybe that was his friend? Ah, what did it matter. They both stepped into the basement, struggling a little with their package.

“Looks like she’s waking up now. Hi Blondie!” Marks shifted a little and shook her head, feet scrambling a little to try and take her weight. She was waking up more with every second, thankfully. Torturing an unconscious person? What a mood-killer. With a nod, he indicated for Whocaredwhathisnamewas and What’shisface to shackle her beside her partner.

“Any sign of Pines and Pines 2.0?”

“No sir. It’s likely they’ve escaped: half our people were taken out by the time we captured these two,”

Well that was annoying.

Although . . . he did have the perfect incentives to get them back here . . .

By the time those other two had taken the elevator up again, Marks was fully conscious and probably regretting that fact. Bill enjoyed the fear on her face for a moment, then paced sedately around back to the workbench, twirling the memory gun casually on a finger and hearing her intake of breath as he did.

“Now, I know a bit – well, I say a bit - about Mister Wacko here,” he said loudly over Marks’ frantic whispering to McGucket. “But you, little miss, I have pages about you.”

He held up Pines’ journal in the silence, the gold six-fingered hand gleaming in what light there was.

“Don’t know what this is, huh? No wonder. It’s not like you’re his girlfriend or something, right?” He laughed again, and flipped it open to show her the writing.

“It’s-”

“Encoded. How unfortunate. Why, you’d probably have to know Stanford himself really well to work this out – probably need to have at least, oh, five years of friendship with him, plus the knowledge of all his deepest darkest secrets, wouldn’t you think? What a pity that I don’t have anyone like that.” He tossed the book over his shoulder carelessly, hearing it split open to a random page as it landed on the bench, and leaned in close. “Oh wait – I do. ME. And boy, does that thing have a lot to say.” He tapped the memory gun softly against her forehead.

He heard her stop breathing for a second, but like her good ol’ buddy next to her, she was a tough one. She wouldn’t be cowed by a not-so-idle threat in the darkened basement of a place she had no idea the location of where no one was coming to save her. Nope, more than that was necessary for her.

“If you hurt us there won’t be a power on earth that will stop Oracle Division and Jheselbraum from coming down on you like a ton of bricks,” said Tough Gal, and congrats to her, for there was barely a tremor in her voice.

“Heard it all before, lovely. Mostly from your friend! What’s his name again? Nevermind, it won’t matter soon anyway. So, you sit tight and I’ll be with you in just a second.” He hummed idly and spun the dial on the memory gun, basking in the feel of it in his hand and the atmosphere of the room, and especially the way McGucket was pressing himself back into the wall in a useless attempt to escape and the way Marks was intent on throwing herself forward in a useless attempt to attack him.

“Hmm, what to type, what to type . . .” Bill looked at the open journal, and brightened. “Well, how about that! Let’s go with your wife’s name for now, Fiddsy-pie. We’ll get to the other memories of her later, but for now, how about we just drive you a little insane over the fact that you can’t even place a name to that face? Let’s see: M-A-D-E-L-I-”

“If you touch him, I swear I’ll-”

“Oh, shut up Blondie, there’s a good victim. Besides, not much you can do at this point is there? Ha! I’ve been frying his brain for the past hour and he can’t even remember it! Alright buddy, ready for the next round? Three, two, one, GO!”

[harrythegreekblr]

Russian Weapons Company to build factory in Detroit

Russian Federation President Vladimir Putin (above) test firing a sniper rifle.

Putin made three of five kill shots hitting the head, liver, and abdomen.

The target was at 1,968 feet.

Video below dated Sept. 19th last year.

Putin was a former sniper.

https://sputniknews.com/military/201809191068177933-putin-tests-new-rifle/

Russia making their assault rifles and other weapons in Detroit?

Who is going to stop them?

Russia is already making them in:

Pompano Beach, Florida (Miami)

Las Vegas, Nevada

The corporate paperwork has been filed indicating a third factory.

Detroit.

It was filed by the RWC Group LLC based in Tullytown, Pennsylvania on:

Dec. 18th

Jan. 4th

Jan. 17th

Their attorney is Joshua M. Farber in Pittsburgh.

https://www.clarkhill.com/people/joshua-m-farber

RWC Group LLC is owned by Russian Weapons Company (RWC) in Moscow, Russia.

And Russia’s Minister of Defense.

Aleksey Krivoruchko.

https://brassballs.blog/home/kalashnikov-arsenal-alexey-aleksey-krivoruchko-minister-defense-russian-federation-owns-florida-las-vegas-pompano-beach-weapons-factory-rwc-stellcon-new-frontier-paul-whelan-borgwarner-kamaz-russian-weapons-company-transkomplektholding-llc-miami

RWC (Moscow) also owns:

Kalashnikov Group, makers of weapons that include AK-47 assault rifles

Arsenal, who makes Kalashnikov rifles in Bulgaria and Las Vegas, Nevada

Tulammo, who makes ammunition in Russia and Round Rock, Texas

RWC owns:

Kalashnikov USA (Pompano Beach, FL)

New Frontier Armory LLC (Las Vegas, NV), and

Stellcom USA LLC (Pompano Beach, FL)

https://rostec.ru/en/news/interest-of-private-investors-in-kalashnikov-s-capital-increased-to-75/

https://en.kalashnikov.media/

Russia has been unable to export their goods to America since Dec. 22nd, 2015.

https://www.treasury.gov/press-center/press-releases/Pages/jl0314.aspx

To get around the law, Russia has and will continue to manufacture goods like weapons in America.

https://brassballs.blog/home/kalashnikov-arsenal-alexey-aleksey-krivoruchko-minister-defense-russian-federation-owns-florida-las-vegas-pompano-beach-weapons-factory-rwc-stellcon-new-frontier-paul-whelan-borgwarner-kamaz-russian-weapons-company-transkomplektholding-llc-miami

Michael Tiraturian of Miami signed for RWC Group LLC on Dec. 18th, 2018.

He gave Peter Vyskovatykh, his business partner, corporate authority to buy and sell property for RWC Group.

Both their signatures are attached in the document linked here:

https://www.scribd.com/document/439228937/Russian-Weapons-Company-PA-corporate-filing-to-sell-Pompano-Beach-FL-factory-Dec-18th-2018-two-pages

Michael and Peter are also partners in Solomon Asset Management LLC of Sunny Isles, Florida.

https://www.bizapedia.com/fl/solomon-asset-management-llc.html

Bravo Logistics LLC was created Jan. 4th in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

Their corporate filing number is 6817048.

Owned by the Russian Weapons Company (RWC).

https://www.corporations.pa.gov/Search/CorpSearch

The shortest shipping route to Europe from the U.S. is Philadelphia to Hamburg, Germany.

Gulftainer, another Russsian state-owned company, is still trying to buy the Port of Philadelphia.

https://brassballs.blog/home/todays-600-million-50-year-deal-allows-arms-dealer-gulftainer-to-ship-russian-made-club-k-missiles-to-wilmington-delaware-for-cia

The Russian Weapons Company (RWC) has already selected their Detroit law firm, Seyburn Kahn, to look at commercial properties.

On Jan 17th, their attorney, Mark S. Cohn set up Rostec’s new business venture in Detroit.

It is called RWC-TC LLC.

Registration number 802277137.

https://cofs.lara.state.mi.us/CorpWeb/CorpSearch/CorpSummary.aspx?ID=802277137&SEARCH_TYPE=3

Front runner for the new Kalashnikov USA weapons plant is Detroit.

On Jan. 22nd, Kalashnikov Concern, Russia, announced its AK-308 assault rifle was redesigned for NATO.

https://sputniknews.com/us/201501221017235662/

On Oct. 24th, 2003, Severstal, a Russian state-owned steel company, bought Rouge Steel, formerly Ford Motor of Dearborn, Michigan.

https://www.forbes.com/sites/joannmuller/2012/06/06/betting-on-america/#6656d202c8eb

The Ford plant had been closed for 20 years.

https://www.fordforums.com/threads/u-s-a-rouge-steel-sold-to-russians.51838/

On Sept. 16th, 2014, the Russia sold the former Ford Dearborn plant to AK Steel Corp.

https://www.crainsdetroit.com/article/20140916/NEWS/140919725/severstals-700m-dearborn-operations-sale-to-ak-steel-corp-complete

Borg-Warner is in Auburn Hills, a suburb of Detroit.

They have been partners with Russia since 1988.

Borg-Warner specializes in making chassis for Russia’s military vehicles.

In Russia.

And Russian controlled Eastern Ukraine.

https://brassballs.blog/home/paul-whelans-employer-borgwarner-has-been-partnering-with-russia-since-1988-making-cabs-for-kamaz-all-terrain-monster-trucks-used-for-all-terrain-military-vehicles-moving-missiles-through-african-desert-and-frozen-tundra

https://rostec.ru/en/news/interest-of-private-investors-in-kalashnikov-s-capital-increased-to-75/

Alexey Krivoruchko was the majority owner and former Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of Kalashnikov USA in Boca Raton, Florida (Miami) until 2015.

He was forced to transfer ownership to others. Kalashnikov is on the sanctions list.

With proper legal documents, Krivoruchko still maintains control of Kalashnikov USA.

And avoids being shut down by the Department of Treasury.

Alexey still owns and controls the New Frontier Armory LLC in Las Vegas, Nevada.

The place where the Las Vegas shooter, Steven Paddock, bought his AK-47.

https://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/las-vegas-shooting/two-nevada-gun-shops-say-stephen-paddock-passed-background-checks-n806921

New Frontier Armory is owned by Stellcon USA LLC based in Tullytown, Pennsylvania.

Their parent company, RWC USA LLC was created in Pennsylvania on March 17th, 2011 as the only dealer of Kalashnikov products in the U.S.

The owner of RWC USA LLC?

Alexey Krivoruchko.  

www.rwcgroupllc.com

Their parent company is in Russia.

It is called the Russian Weapons Company.

https://kalashnikovgroup.ru/?utm_source=kalashnikov.com&utm_medium=referral

Confused who owns what where?

That is the purpose of all these Russian companies.

It buries the Russia weapons trade in America.

With federal government approval from:

Congress

State Department

Treasury Department

https://sputniknews.com/us/201501221017235662/

Vladimir Putin, President, Russian Federation (above)

[computerguideworld-blog]

5 Real Computer Hacks You Didn't Realize Were Possible

New Post has been published on https://computerguideto.com/must-see/5-real-computer-hacks-you-didnt-realize-were-possible/

5 Real Computer Hacks You Didn't Realize Were Possible

If Hollywood is to be believed, every single thing around you can be hacked. Is your home heated with natural gas? All a hacker needs is a Die Hard movie and a computer to blow that shit up like a volcanic eruption. Do you use a smartphone? Uh oh — a sufficiently skilled hacker can detonate that thing like a hand grenade.

We all like to point and laugh at the ridiculousness of Hollywood computer crime, but here’s the thing: With everything around you, from guns to doctors to airplanes, growing ever more connected in what nerd-types call “the internet of things,” Hollywood’s “everything is hackable” trope is becoming less dumb every day. For instance …

5

Electronic Billboards Can Be Easily Hacked (To Play Porn)

via Tech Crunch

Electronic billboards, aka the bane of every poor bastard unlucky enough to work a shift that requires driving home after sunset, are gradually spreading to every intersection in America. Normally the image they’re searing into your retinas is informing you where to buy a new Ford or how many appetizers you can get at T.G.I. Friday’s for $10, but one spring Saturday in 2015 at an upscale neighborhood in Atlanta, commuters and diners at a pizza joint were instead treated to the presumably unappetizing image of a giant splayed asshole.

via IBTimes “Gr- Grandpa?”

A concerned driver called 911 to report the “totally disgusting” image, and the FBI kicked off an immediate investigation, because apparently the FBI’s time is much less valuable than we previously assumed. It turns out all it takes to hack into one of these eye-broiling behemoths is to track down its web interface, type in a password that the sign’s owner probably never changed from the default, and boom! You’re free to put a gigantic floppy anus on display for the world in glorious, larger-than-life LED.

And this isn’t an isolated incident. Back in 2010, downtown Moscow traffic came to a standstill when a giant billboard displayed hardcore porn and drivers found themselves with a sudden shortage of hands for driving. More recently, a public billboard at a bus stop in Sweden displayed a continuous porn feed as a group of men huddled in close to watch (but not too close, because that would be weird). More recently, a hacker known only as Johnny Cockring used the aforementioned default credentials to hack into two Alabama billboards and upload Photoshopped images of then-presidential-hopeful Marco Rubio in hardcore gay porn:

Twitter/Cockring_Johnny Scads of Alabama commuters are still unconsciously humming “Y.M.C.A.”

So, yeah — all you need is a set of default login credentials and an adorable hacker name and you can break into one of these electronic eyesores and really brighten up someone’s evening commute.

4

Remote Surgery Bots Can Be Hacked To Murder You Mid-Operation

University of Washington

It’s a staple of science fiction that future doctoring will be entirely offloaded to robots, because an electronic surgeon probably can’t go on a three-day Kahlua bender just before digging into your sensitive heart meat. And while we’re not at the level of fully robotic doctors yet, we are making great strides in that direction. For instance, surgeons can’t always be where a necessary surgery is needed, but they can tinker with your innards from thousands of miles away via remote-operated robots. The first such procedure took place in 2001 (a fitting year for technological breakthroughs), when a surgeon in New York removed a gall bladder from a patient in Strasbourg, France. That’s some next-level Captain Picard future shit.

iStock/UberImages “What level are you on?” “Digestive tract, but I can’t beat the cancer boss.”

Luckily for that patient, there was no hacker standing by to carve his Xbox Live name into the patient’s liver. But while the dedicated fiber connection used for that surgery would have prevented such shenanigans, it’s since become clear that the internet is a much cheaper means of linkage. And when has relying on the internet ever gone horribly wrong?

Researchers led by Tamara Bonaci at the University of Washington demonstrated that, with some fairly simple remote hijacking hijinks, they could make a Raven II surgical robot’s arms twitch like it hasn’t gotten its digital meth fix. Worse still, they could just as easily take total control of the robot using their knowledge of the Interoperable Telesurgery Protocol … the specs of which are freely available to any random asshat who’d like to brush up on the ins and outs of long-distance slicing and dicing.

SRI International “Med school’s for noobz.”

This means that, rather than your life being in the hands of a doctor with years of training, you could be at the mercy of a misanthropic hacker, a jilted lover seeking revenge on your fun bits, or a bored teenager looking to use your heaving carcass to play Surgeon Simulator minus the “simulator” part.

Bossa Studios “Oopsie! Where’s the restart button?”

As an added bonus, Bonaci’s team discovered that the robot’s video feed was publicly accessible. So the most horrifying prospect of all is that someone could intercept your hemorrhoid surgery, set it to the tune of Selena Gomez’s “Hands To Myself,” and turn it into a viral YouTube sensation (or put it on an electronic billboard).

3

Sound Waves Can Steal Data From Your Computer

Key45/Wiki Commons

Given today’s online environment of Fappenings and commonplace credit card account breaches and entire hospitals being locked out of their own computer systems by ransomware, there are probably those among you who yearn for the olden days, when getting online meant enduring the death howls of your dial-up modem screaming at AOL to allow you to check your ever-loving email. If you happen to be in that camp, we have bad news for you: Even if you stomp your Wi-Fi router into unrecognizable shards of plastic in a vigorous attempt to become a digital recluse, it won’t be enough. Not when every computer comes equipped with the capability to sing your most sensitive information to a nefarious hacker.

Back in 2013, German researchers at the Fraunhofer Institute For Communication, Information Processing, And Ergonomics produced a proof-of-concept malware capable of transmitting data via sound waves outside the normal range of human hearing. Using standard laptop speakers, the researchers were able to transmit sensitive data such as passwords for distances up to 65 feet. That may not sound overly impressive, but this range increases greatly when multiple infected devices are employed to repeat their whispers to one another in an “acoustical mesh network,” like a game of Telephone in which the ultimate payoff is not a hilariously jumbled story but your un-hilariously un-jumbled bank account and Social Security number.

Thierry Dugnolle/Wiki Commons “0 … 4 … 8 … purple monkey dishwasher …”

Then, in 2015, security expert Ang Cui pushed the concept a step further by altogether eliminating the need for speakers and all-too-whimsically dubbing the resulting technology “Funtenna.” By inserting just seven lines of code into the meager brain of an off-the-shelf laser printer, Cui was able to fiddle with its electromechanical components and effectively transform the printer into a radio transmitter.

Though the resulting signal was weak (printers were designed to produce hard copies of school reports and teenage poetry, not output radio signals), it could easily be picked up from outside a building by an AM radio receiver or a geophone — a device readily available on Amazon for use in ghost-hunting, of all things. Of course, the only ghost being hunted in this case is that of Ben Franklin. So an enterprising hacker could theoretically steal every piece of data on your computer using nothing but your on-board speakers, and you wouldn’t even hear it happening.

2

A Sniper Rifle Can Be Aimed And Disabled Via Wi-Fi

Lee Hutchinson/ARS Technica

Becoming a sniper requires rigorous training, tip-top physical fitness, perfect vision, and a brain like a calculator to factor even the most minute environmental variables into every single shot. Of course, if you have an uncontrollable urge to remotely perforate things and quality-used-car amounts of cash burning a hole through your bank account, you could also just buy a computerized sniper rifle from TrackingPoint, because being able to order mile-away murder over the internet is the world in which we now live.

Lee Hutchinson/ARS Technica “I’ll pay double for a nut-shot guarantee.”

Each rifle in TrackingPoint’s Linux-powered lineup comes equipped with a hi-tech scope that weaponizes math for you. Much like an accountant who depends on QuickBooks to do all the actual accounting, these rifles use “the same lock-and-launch technology found in military fighter jets” to “help shooters of any skill level shoot better than the best shooters who ever lived,” according to their website. Because guns were apparently not quite easy enough to use. While that in itself sounds downright liquid-terror-shit-inducing, if you spotted the mention of “Linux-powered” a moment ago you’ve probably already inferred that the real danger comes not from the man holding the gun but from his technologically savvy douchebag of a neighbor.

Lee Hutchinson/ARS Technica Complete with d-bag shades.

Security researchers and happily married couple Runa Sandvik and Michael Auger (because the couple that hacks together stays together) spent a year hacking into a pair of TrackingPoint’s $13,000 self-aiming rifles just to see what they could make them do. And the results are alarming: After compromising the rifle via its Wi-Fi connection (for those wondering why a rifle has Wi-Fi: It’s so you can stream video of your shot to Facebook, which we’re pretty sure is the Seventh Seal), the researchers were able to fiddle with variables such as wind, temperature, and the weight of the ammunition to remotely re-aim the rifle wherever they damn well pleased.

In one demonstration, they caused the rifle to miss an intended target by more than two feet by simply cranking up the ammunition’s weight value. The couple could even remotely disable the rifle’s firing pin, essentially transforming it into the world’s most expensive Metal Gear Solid cosplay accessory. One thing they could not do, thankfully, was actually fire the rifle remotely — there’s a mechanism in place requiring a manual trigger pull in order to make big gun go boom. Because, you know, safety first.

1

A Plane Can Be Hijacked Mid-Flight (With A Laptop)

iStock/kasto80

In the movies, a laptop is like an enchanted fucking talisman. With it, you have the power to make traffic signals succumb to your will. You can heftily inflate your bank account with one forceful flick of the Enter key. You can cause the commercial airliner on which you’re sitting to do a sick-ass loop and head straight back to Syracuse to retrieve your forgotten disco pants.

OK, we may have just reached the pinnacle of faux-hacking absurdity with that last one. There is no possible way you can simply whip out a laptop and remotely commandeer a commercial airliner’s flight controls … unless, that is, you’re (former) cyber-security wizard Chris Roberts. Then you can absolutely do that exact thing.

Fox News You can also grow the shit out of a wizard beard.

After getting enthusiastically booted from a United Airlines flight in April of 2015 for jokingly tweeting his intent to hack the plane and activate its emergency oxygen masks, Roberts’ previous discussions with the FBI regarding his concerns about the rampant hackability of commercial passenger flights came to light. In fact, an FBI search warrant details how Roberts hacked into the in-flight entertainment systems of various airplanes up to 20 times between 2011 and 2014.

If you’re thinking he just wanted to watch Pacific Rim without coughing up his credit card number, think again. You see, on certain plane models, the in-flight entertainment systems were inexplicably connected to the cabin control systems, which in turn were even more inexplicably connected to the plane avionics systems. That’s how, according to the FBI documents, Roberts was once able to issue a climb command to one of the airplane’s engines, “resulting in a lateral or sideways movement of the plane during one of these flights.” That’s right — Roberts, using a laptop from his seat in coach, was able to make the airplane fucking move.

iStock/Lilyana Vynogradova “I’m just trying to rock the crying baby in 14A to sleep.”

For his part, Roberts claimed that he only ever accessed engine controls in flight simulations, not while aboard actual flying jetliners brimming with jet fuel and a hundred other passengers. But then that’s precisely what we’d expect a guy who revved up a jet engine just for laughs to say.

Alex creates biopunk dystopias here and dream thrillers here.

What’s The Best Fictional School To Attend? In the muggle world, we’re not given the opportunity for a magical hat to tell us which school we should go to. Usually we just have to go to the high school closest to where we live or whatever college accepts our SAT scores and personal essay. This month, our goal is to determine what would be the best fictional school to go to. Join Jack, Daniel, and the rest of the Cracked staff, along with comedians Brandie Posey and Steven Wilber, as they figure out if it’s a realistic school like Degrassi or West Beverly High, or an institution from a fantasy world like Hogwarts with its ghosts and dementors, or Bayside High, haunted by a monster known only to humans as Screech. Get your tickets here!

For more ways to tap into the Matrix, check out 5 Hacking Myths Dispelled By A Real Hacker and 6 Real Cyber Attacks Straight Out Of A Bad Hacker Movie.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out If Movie Hackers Were More Like Real IT Guys, and other videos you won’t see on the site!

Also, follow us on Facebook, and let us hack your webcam so we can watch you sleep.

Read more: http://www.cracked.com/

[uniteordie-usa]

How America Armed Terrorists in Syria | The American Conservative

http://uniteordiemedia.com/how-america-armed-terrorists-in-syria-the-american-conservative/ How America Armed Terrorists in Syria | The American Conservative Three-term Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard of Hawaii, a member of both the Armed Services and Foreign Affairs committees, has proposed legislation that would prohibit any U.S. assistance to terrorist organizations in Syria as well as to any organization working directly with them. Equally...

Three-term Congresswoman Tulsi Gabbard of Hawaii, a member of both the Armed Services and Foreign Affairs committees, has proposed legislation that would prohibit any U.S. assistance to terrorist organizations in Syria as well as to any organization working directly with them. Equally important, it would prohibit U.S. military sales and other forms of military cooperation with other countries that provide arms or financing to those terrorists and their collaborators.

Gabbard’s “Stop Arming Terrorists Act” challenges for the first time in Congress a U.S. policy toward the conflict in the Syrian civil war that should have set off alarm bells long ago: in 2012-13 the Obama administration helped its Sunni allies Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar provide arms to Syrian and non-Syrian armed groups to force President Bashar al-Assad out of power. And in 2013 the administration began to provide arms to what the CIA judged to be “relatively moderate” anti-Assad groups—meaning they incorporated various degrees of Islamic extremism.

That policy, ostensibly aimed at helping replace the Assad regime with a more democratic alternative, has actually helped build up al Qaeda’s Syrian franchise al Nusra Front into the dominant threat to Assad.

The supporters of this arms-supply policy believe it is necessary as pushback against Iranian influence in Syria. But that argument skirts the real issue raised by the policy’s history.  The Obama administration’s Syria policy effectively sold out the U.S. interest that was supposed to be the touchstone of the “Global War on Terrorism”—the eradication of al Qaeda and its terrorist affiliates. The United States has instead subordinated that U.S. interest in counter-terrorism to the interests of its Sunni allies. In doing so it has helped create a new terrorist threat in the heart of the Middle East.

The policy of arming military groups committed to overthrowing the government of President Bashar al-Assad began in September 2011, when President Barack Obama was pressed by his Sunni allies—Turkey, Saudi Arabia and Qatar—to supply heavy weapons to a military opposition to Assad they were determined to establish. Turkey and the Gulf regimes wanted the United States to provide anti-tank and anti-aircraft weapons to the rebels, according to a former Obama Administration official involved in Middle East issues.

Obama refused to provide arms to the opposition, but he agreed to provide covert U.S. logistical help in carrying out a campaign of military assistance to arm opposition groups. CIA involvement in the arming of anti-Assad forces began with arranging for the shipment of weapons from the stocks of the Gaddafi regime that had been stored in Benghazi. CIA-controlled firms shipped the weapons from the military port of Benghazi to two small ports in Syria using former U.S. military personnel to manage the logistics, as investigative reporter Sy Hersh detailed in 2014. The funding for the program came mainly from the Saudis.

A declassified October 2012 Defense Intelligence Agency report revealed that the shipment in late August 2012 had included 500 sniper rifles, 100 RPG (rocket propelled grenade launchers) along with 300 RPG rounds and 400 howitzers. Each arms shipment encompassed as many as ten shipping containers, it reported, each of which held about 48,000 pounds of cargo. That suggests a total payload of up to 250 tons of weapons per shipment. Even if the CIA had organized only one shipment per month, the arms shipments would have totaled 2,750 tons of arms bound ultimately for Syria from October 2011 through August 2012. More likely it was a multiple of that figure.

The CIA’s covert arms shipments from Libya came to an abrupt halt in September 2012 when Libyan militants attacked and burned the embassy annex in Benghazi that had been used to support the operation. By then, however, a much larger channel for arming anti-government forces was opening up. The CIA put the Saudis in touch with a senior Croatian official who had offered to sell large quantities of arms left over from the Balkan Wars of the 1990s. And the CIA helped them shop for weapons from arms dealers and governments in several other former Soviet bloc countries.

Flush with weapons acquired from both the CIA Libya program and from the Croatians, the Saudis and Qataris dramatically increased the number of flights by military cargo planes to Turkey in December 2012 and continued that intensive pace for the next two and a half months. The New York Times reported a total 160 such flights through mid-March 2013. The most common cargo plane in use in the Gulf, the Ilyushin IL-76, can carry roughly 50 tons of cargo on a flight, which would indicate that as much as 8,000 tons of weapons poured across the Turkish border into Syria just in late 2012 and in 2013.

One U.S. official called the new level of arms deliveries to Syrian rebels a “cataract of weaponry.” And a year-long investigation by the Balkan Investigative Reporting Network and the Organized Crime and Corruption Reporting Project revealed that the Saudis were intent on building up a powerful conventional army in Syria. The “end-use certificate” for weapons purchased from an arms company in Belgrade, Serbia, in May 2013 includes 500 Soviet-designed PG-7VR rocket launchers that can penetrate even heavily-armored tanks, along with two million rounds; 50 Konkurs anti-tank missile launchers and 500 missiles, 50 anti-aircraft guns mounted on armored vehicles, 10,000 fragmentation rounds for OG-7 rocket launchers capable of piercing heavy body armor; four truck-mounted BM-21 GRAD multiple rocket launchers, each of which fires 40 rockets at a time with a range of 12 to 19 miles, along with 20,000 GRAD rockets.

The end user document for another Saudi order from the same Serbian company listed 300 tanks, 2,000 RPG launchers, and 16,500 other rocket launchers, one million rounds for ZU-23-2 anti-aircraft guns, and 315 million cartridges for various other guns.

Those two purchases were only a fraction of the totality of the arms obtained by the Saudis over the next few years from eight Balkan nations. Investigators found that the Saudis made their biggest arms deals with former Soviet bloc states in 2015, and that the weapons included many that had just come off factory production lines. Nearly 40 percent of the arms the Saudis purchased from those countries, moreover, still had not been delivered by early 2017. So the Saudis had already contracted for enough weaponry to keep a large-scale conventional war in Syria going for several more years.

By far the most consequential single Saudi arms purchase was not from the Balkans, however, but from the United States. It was the December 2013 U.S. sale of 15,000 TOW anti-tank missiles to the Saudis at a cost of about $1 billion—the result of Obama’s decision earlier that year to reverse his ban on lethal assistance to anti-Assad armed groups. The Saudis had agreed, moreover, that those anti-tank missiles would be doled out to Syrian groups only at U.S. discretion. The TOW missiles began to arrive in Syria in 2014 and soon had a major impact on the military balance.

This flood of weapons into Syria, along with the entry of 20,000 foreign fighters into the country—primarily through Turkey—largely defined the nature of the conflict. These armaments helped make al Qaeda’s Syrian franchise, al Nusra Front (now renamed Tahrir al-Sham or Levant Liberation Organization) and its close allies by far the most powerful anti-Assad forces in Syria—and gave rise to the Islamic State.

By late 2012, it became clear to U.S. officials that the largest share of the arms that began flowing into Syria early in the year were going to the rapidly growing al Qaeda presence in the country. In October 2012, U.S. officials acknowledged off the record for the first time to the New York Times that  “most” of the arms that had been shipped to armed opposition groups in Syria with U.S. logistical assistance during the previous year had gone to “hardline Islamic jihadists”— obviously meaning al Qaeda’s Syrian franchise, al Nusra.

Al Nusra Front and its allies became the main recipients of the weapons because the Saudis, Turks, and Qataris wanted the arms to go to the military units that were most successful in attacking government targets. And by the summer of 2012, al Nusra Front, buttressed by the thousands of foreign jihadists pouring into the country across the Turkish border, was already taking the lead in attacks on the Syrian government in coordination with “Free Syrian Army” brigades.

In November and December 2012, al Nusra Front began establishing formal “joint operations rooms” with those calling themselves “Free Syrian Army” on several battlefronts, as Charles Lister chronicles in his book The Syrian Jihad. One such commander favored by Washington was Col. Abdul Jabbar al-Oqaidi, a former Syrian army officer who headed something called the Aleppo Revolutionary Military Council. Ambassador Robert Ford, who continued to hold that position even after he had been withdrawn from Syria, publicly visited Oqaidi in May 2013 to express U.S. support for him and the FSA.

But Oqaidi and his troops were junior partners in a coalition in Aleppo in which al Nusra was by far the strongest element. That reality is clearly reflected in a video in which Oqaidi describes his good relations with officials of the “Islamic State” and is shown joining the main jihadist commander in the Aleppo region celebrating the capture of the Syrian government’s Menagh Air Base in September 2013.

By early 2013, in fact, the “Free Syrian Army,” which had never actually been a military organization with any troops, had ceased to have any real significance in the Syria conflict. New anti-Assad armed groups had stopped using the name even as a “brand” to identify themselves, as a leading specialist on the conflict observed.

So, when weapons from Turkey arrived at the various battlefronts, it was understood by all the non-jihadist groups that they would be shared with al Nusra Front and its close allies. A report by McClatchy in early 2013, on a town in north central Syria, showed how the military arrangements between al Nusra and those brigades calling themselves “Free Syrian Army” governed the distribution of weapons. One of those units, the Victory Brigade, had participated in a “joint operations room” with al Qaeda’s most important military ally, Ahrar al Sham, in a successful attack on a strategic town a few weeks earlier. A visiting reporter watched that brigade and Ahrar al Sham show off new sophisticated weapons that included Russian-made RPG27 shoulder-fired rocket-propelled anti-tank grenades and RG6 grenade launchers.

When asked if the Victory Brigade had shared its new weapons with Ahrar al Sham, the latter’s spokesman responded, “Of course they share their weapons with us. We fight together.”

Turkey and Qatar consciously chose al Qaeda and its closest ally, Ahrar al Sham, as the recipients of weapons systems. In late 2013 and early 2014, several truckloads of arms bound for the province of Hatay, just south of the Turkish border, were intercepted by Turkish police. They had Turkish intelligence personnel on board,according to later Turkish police court testimony. The province was controlled by Ahrar al Sham. In fact Turkey soon began to treat Ahrar al Sham as its primary client in Syria, according to Faysal Itani, a senior fellow at the Atlantic Council’s Rafik Hariri Center for the Middle East.

A Qatari intelligence operative who had been involved in shipping arms to extremist groups in Libya was a key figure in directing the flow of arms from Turkey into Syria. An Arab intelligence source familiar with the discussions among the external suppliers near the Syrian border in Turkey during those years told the Washington Post’s David Ignatius that when one of the participants warned that the outside powers were building up the jihadists while the non-Islamist groups were withering away, the Qatari operative responded, “I will send weapons to al Qaeda if it will help.”

The Qataris did funnel arms to both al Nusra Front and Ahrar al Sham, according to a Middle Eastern diplomatic source. The Obama administration’s National Security Council staff proposed in 2013 that the United States signal U.S. displeasure with Qatar over its arming of extremists in both Syria and Libya by withdrawing a squadron of fighter planes from the U.S. airbase at al-Udeid, Qatar. The Pentagon vetoed that mild form of pressure, however, to protect its access to its base in Qatar.

President Obama himself confronted Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdogan over his government’s support for the jihadists at a private White House dinner in May 2013, as recounted by Hersh. “We know what you’re doing with the radicals in Syria,” he quotes Obama as saying to Erdogan.

The administration addressed Turkey’s cooperation with the al Nusra publicly, however, only fleetingly in late 2014. Shortly after leaving Ankara, Francis Ricciardone, the U.S. ambassador to Turkey from 2011 through mid-2014, told The Daily Telegraph  of London that Turkey had “worked with groups, frankly, for a period, including al Nusra.”

The closest Washington came to a public reprimand of its allies over the arming of terrorists in Syria was when Vice President Joe Biden criticized their role in October 2014. In impromptu remarks at Harvard University’s Kennedy School, Biden complained that “our biggest problem is our allies.”  The forces they had supplied with arms, he said, were “al Nusra and al Qaeda and the extremist elements of jihadis coming from other parts of the world.”

Biden quickly apologized for the remarks, explaining that he didn’t mean that U.S. allies had deliberately helped the jihadists. But Ambassador Ford confirmed his complaint, telling BBC, “What Biden said about the allies aggravating the problem of extremism is true.”

In June 2013 Obama approved the first direct U.S. lethal military aid to rebel brigades that had been vetted by the CIA. By spring 2014, the U.S.-made BGM-71E anti-tank missiles from the 15,000 transferred to the Saudis began to appear in the hands of selected anti-Assad groups. But the CIA imposed the condition that the group receiving them would not cooperate with the al Nusra Front or its allies.

That condition implied that Washington was supplying military groups that were strong enough to maintain their independence from al Nusra Front. But the groups on the CIA’s list of vetted “relatively moderate” armed groups were all highly vulnerable to takeover by the al Qaeda affiliate. In November 2014, al Nusra Front troops struck the two strongest CIA-supported armed groups, Harakat Hazm and the Syrian Revolutionary Front on successive days and seized their heavy weapons, including both TOW anti-tank missiles and GRAD rockets.

In early March 2015, the Harakat Hazm Aleppo branch dissolved itself, and al Nusra Front promptly showed off photos of the TOW missiles and other equipment they had captured from it. And in March 2016, al Nusra Front troops attacked the headquarters of the 13th Division in northwestern Idlib province and seized all of its TOW missiles.  Later that month, al Nusra Front released a video of its troops using the TOW missiles it had captured.

But that wasn’t the only way for al Nusra Front to benefit from the CIA’s largesse. Along with its close ally Ahrar al Sham, the terrorist organization began planningfor a campaign to take complete control of Idlib province in the winter of 2014-15. Abandoning any pretense of distance from al Qaeda, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar worked with al Nusra on the creation of a new military formation for Idlib called the “Army of Conquest,” consisting of the al Qaeda affiliate and its closest allies. Saudi Arabia and Qatar provided more weapons for the campaign, while Turkey facilitated their passage. On March 28, just four days after launching the campaign, the Army of Conquest successfully gained control of Idlib City.

The non-jihadist armed groups getting advanced weapons from the CIA assistance were not part of the initial assault on Idlib City. After the capture of Idlib the U.S.-led operations room for Syria in southern Turkey signaled to the CIA-supported groups in Idlib that they could now participate in the campaign to consolidate control over the rest of the province. According to Lister, the British researcher on jihadists in Syria who maintains contacts with both jihadist and other armed groups, recipients of CIA weapons, such as the Fursan al haq brigade and Division 13, did join the Idlib campaign alongside al Nusra Front without any move by the CIA to cut them off.

As the Idlib offensive began, the CIA-supported groups were getting TOW missiles in larger numbers, and they now used them with great effectiveness against the Syrian army tanks. That was the beginning of a new phase of the war, in which U.S. policy was to support an alliance between “relatively moderate” groups and the al Nusra Front.

The new alliance was carried over to Aleppo, where jihadist groups close to Nusra Front formed a new command called Fateh Halab (“Aleppo Conquest”) with nine armed groups in Aleppo province which were getting CIA assistance. The CIA-supported groups could claim that they weren’t cooperating with al Nusra Front because the al Qaeda franchise was not officially on the list of participants in the command. But as the report on the new command clearly implied, this was merely a way of allowing the CIA to continue providing weapons to its clients, despite their de facto alliance with al Qaeda.

The significance of all this is clear: by helping its Sunni allies provide weapons to al Nusra Front and its allies and by funneling into the war zone sophisticated weapons that were bound to fall into al Nusra hands or strengthen their overall military position, U.S. policy has been largely responsible for having extended al Qaeda’s power across a significant part of Syrian territory. The CIA and the Pentagon appear to be ready to tolerate such a betrayal of America’s stated counter-terrorism mission. Unless either Congress or the White House confronts that betrayal explicitly, as Tulsi Gabbard’s legislation would force them to do, U.S. policy will continue to be complicit in the consolidation of power by al Qaeda in Syria, even if the Islamic State is defeated there.

Gareth Porter is an independent journalist and winner of the 2012 Gellhorn Prize for journalism. He is the author of numerous books, including   Manufactured Crisis: The Untold Story of the Iran Nuclear Scare (Just World Books, 2014).

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