#freight handler

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"STOLE FROM SOLDIER GIVEN 3-YEAR TERM," Toronto Star. June 12, 1943. Page 2. ---- Freight Handler Took Cigarettes From Parcel ---- Halifax, June 11 - (CP) - Sentence of three years in penitentiary was imposed on Ulric Gallant, waterfront freight handler, convicted of stealing cigarettes from a parcel addressed to a soldier overseas.

Gallant was arrested following the disappearance of articles from a mail bag being loaded aboard ship here.

[rgf-settings]

Downtown Chicago, c.1930

via

[knucklebl4rt]

leans on my cheap art tablet. may i introduce you fellows to my favourite ror2 ship of all time. a loader and her cargo rat. a stowaway and his handler. call that western freight

year old lines by @litebulbs-art, colours by me

[glossysoap]

⛓️📝: ooo another angsty rtc hc while you wait for chapter 7:

warnings/notes: reveal of readers trigger words, moreeee of reader not remembering the boys, and reader has a russian accent now lol picture yelena belova’s accent if ur more fem or bucky’s accent when he speaks russian if ur more masc!

the picture perfect soldier.

ready to take orders, eliminate targets at any moment. ears listening for those ten phrases that trigger your bloodthirsty instincts. those instincts always remain, even without the phrases.

longing. rusted. furnace. daybreak. seventeen. benign. nine. homecoming. one. freight car.

you’re always, always listening for those words. in everyday conversations that don’t even involve you. in conversations that you overhear on the street. a random person talking about their rusted engine. a random person mentioning how they need their home furnace repaired before winter rolled around. a random parent talking over the phone, making arrangements for their daughters seventeenth birthday.

in those situations, you have to force yourself to shut down at any mention of those phrases. you tune out the noise and steel yourself.

at the strange base you’ve been contained in, it’s no different. you steel yourself and ignore any hushed conversations or barked orders that don’t pertain to you.

your face bears no emotion. brows never furrowed, eyes never crinkled, mouth never quirked up.

your teeth are always bared and your jaw is always set, keeping your mouth almost wired shut in order to remain quiet and obedient.

eyes are always blank and focused straight ahead, never making eye contact with anyone. even when addressed or ordered by the unfamiliar soldiers, you never make eye contact.

especially not with the tall man in the skull mask or the loud man with a weird hair cut who act like they know you. you can’t shake the feeling that it’s another manipulation tactic.

maybe hydra had started recruiting from the united kingdom, you thought.

you’re the exact same when you are brought into 141’s custody for the first time. where you undergo a mandatory psych evaluation.

you’re stone faced the entire time (truly from the very moment you see any of your old team), head held high, jaw set and eyes staring straight ahead. sporting a perfect posture, one that was seared into your memory no matter how many times your brain was put back in a blender.

back straight, head up. handcuffed arms resting on the table. when you eyed the metal rings locked around your wrists, you almost scoffed at the thought of that being strong enough to restrain you. even without your metal arm, you could shatter it in five seconds flat.

even as the bearded man and the blonde woman sat across from you, you sat up perfectly straight and stared straight ahead.

of course, they wanted to test your memory. they probably needed intel, probably wanted to see how easy you would be to break.

they started with asking for your name.

“do you remember your name?” the bearded man asks, voice gravelly. another brit. maybe hydra really has moved their operations.

“first name? last name? anything?” the blonde woman asked, almost pleaded. it almost sounded sincere.

you couldn’t place anything, no name or ranking. so you gave them the one ‘name’ you can ever remember being addressed by. your serial number.

“zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero.” you ground out, voice different than before you were captured.

your tongue curled as you pronounced each syllable when you spoke. your handlers and doctors had fed the russian language into your ears for months, almost two years. their voices had conditioned the accent into you, permanently changing the way your mouth moved and the cadence in which you talked.

your voice didn’t hold that warm pattern anymore or that twang from the states. it was now tainted with the same coldness and ruthlessness that you had experienced in the cold russian winter.

the bearded man’s piercing blue eyes widened a fraction when you spoke, and the blonde woman’s lips fell into a frown.

“right.” the bearded man sighed. he sounded dejected as he stood from his chair and left the room with the frowning blonde woman.

the second they left the room, they were bombarded by questions by the task force.

“how the hell did they get that arm?” gaz.

“why don’t they remember us?” soap.

“how are they? are. they. okay?” ghost.

“all they said was zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero. nothing else.” price answered, dragging a hand down his face.

“what the hell does that mean?” gaz muttered, brows crinkling.

“zero nine, zero one..” soap muttered the string of numbers under his breath, trying to figure it out. like it was a riddle.

ghosts’ eyes were shut as he leaned his head back against the wall. he was already running every possibility through his mind. was it a passcode? a serial number? a date?

his eyes snapped open. it was a date.

“zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero. it’s a date.” ghost muttered. everyone looked at him to continue.

“january ninth, twenty twenty.. the day they were captured.”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[polizwrites]

Just to Live One Day Out There

This is a fill for today’s  @flashfictionfridayofficial  prompt [#FFF251 Out There]  as well as the  @buckybarnesevents  Build a Bucky Bingo May prompt:  Bucky’s Trigger Words, 

Fandom: MCU/Marvel Pairing: [none - Bucky POV] Rating: General Tags: Winter Soldier, internal monologue, longing Summary: The Soldier reflects on the passage of time between missions, and wonders if things could be different. Word Count: 312

<< Ready to comply. >>  It was the answer he always gave. The only answer he could ever give to the words that brought him back to life and compelled his loyalty.   The words meant another mission, another set of objectives, another target. But they also meant a small measure of freedom and discovery  that he cherished for as long as he could.  

Every time he was awakened from his  dreamless sleep, the passage of time struck him like a blow. Of course his briefings rarely mentioned the date, or anything else considered to be extraneous to the mission.  That said, he had been trained to be observant and couldn’t help but notice how the world changed each time he was allowed out in it.  

First were the subtle alterations, such as new medals on his handler’s uniform or another set of line in his face.  Then came the larger changes - the weapons, the cars, the fashions.  Even the air smelled different from what he vaguely remembered, although he couldn’t explain how.   

Some deep sense of curiosity led him to wonder - most likely not for the first time -  what would happen if he walked away from his mission.  He knew they had trained him well enough that he could simply disappear into this brave new world and not leave a trace behind.  The skills he used to accomplish the goals he’d been assigned could perhaps be turned to a new purpose: that of creating a new life.   

But then he remembered the words and how they served as the  leash that tethered him to his masters:      <<  Longing. Rusted. Furnace. Daybreak. Seventeen. Benign. Nine. Homecoming. One. Freight car.>>   The combination was some sort of spell that kept him bound to do their bidding.  And he knew that once the mission objectives were complete - the leash would tighten and bring him to heel once more.   

[imaginesbymk]

IMAGINE — THE CLOUD 9 EMPLOYEES FINDING OUT YOU AND MARCUS ARE SECRETLY DATING AFTER DINA PLAYS SECURITY FOOTAGE.

REQUESTED BY ANONYMOUS

“THIS IS the tenth one I saw digging through a half-eaten bag of beetroot.” Dina was too eager to get the meeting over with and prove whatever point she was trying to make, which of course was the raccoon infestation in the store. Instead of seeing a raccoon feasting on produce, the surveillance footage showed something completely different — something shocking.

Everyone in the room shared elicited gasps and whispers when the screen showed you and Marcus in the far corner of the warehouse, where the two of you assumed the cameras couldn’t reach there. He had you pressed against the shelves of freight he made his warehouse handlers stack neatly, just for it to shake back and forth as the two of you were… working.

“Ladies, take notes! Am I right?” Justine laughs, receiving no praise or responded laughs from anyone.

Feeling the dread Amy and Jonah must have felt when it happened to them, you could only wish you disappeared at this very moment. Even as you were frozen in your seat, you could feel Marcus staring at the back of your head. You finally turned to look at him who stood at the back of the room, where he often leans against the lockers during meetings. You’ve never seen his face turn so pale.

“Marcus and y/n?!” Mateo gasps. “Oh your poor thing, you need to start loving yourself.”

“You watch way too much porn, dude,” Garrett says to Marcus so casually, taking a sip of his drink.

[drunkchasind]

The OG 4 (created for CP77)

The Witches (from an original setting)

The Grey Warden (from Dragon Age)

Some informations about them under the cut:

Name: Faye Seela Valo (tag faye valo)

Alias: V

Pronouns: She/her

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 5'9.5'' (the .5 is important)/176 cm

Partner/Love interest: Ozob Bozo (shippy tag faye x ozob)

Age: 27

Random: She's from Vancouver, Canada, but following the passing of her best friend, she left home and ended up in NC after wandering on the west coast for a while. She's an incredibly independant person and knows how to look after herself, but she can easily prove her value, which helped her secure work and contacts quickly in NC. She shares a workshop with Iris, working as a mechanic specialized in mechatronics.

Name: Harrison Joseph Sutherland (tag harris sutherland)

Alias: John Lambert (from gang years)

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 6'2''/188 cm

Partner/Love interest: various flings, nothing serious after the death of his one true love (Ludivine Hamilton)

Age: 36

Random: He's the older brother of Faye (on their father's side). An avid biker with a fondness for troubles (or is it that he's a magnet for them?). He's a piece of work, BUT he'll get any job done with the wanted results, making him a good merc during his time in NC. He used to be in a gang during his youth/early adulthood, so tricky situations are not something that stress him out; one might even say he enjoys it.

Name: Iris Isabelle Lorne (tag iris lorne)

Alias: 1ZZ1

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 5'11''/180cm

Partner/Love interest: Declan ''Brick'' Griffin (shippy tag iris x declan)

Age: 33

Random: A very resourceful and imaginative techie, who's outgoing and has a pretty chill view of life. Was raised in a deranged stepfamily and decided to leave it all behind to make her own path. Despite being in a long-lasting relationship with Brick, she never joined Maelstrom (as it was a wish, for them both). Every so often, she does hang out with some specific members, though :)

Name: Devon Adrian Maggard (tag devon maggard)

Alias: Lt. Maggard

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 6'4''/193 cm

Partner/Love interest: Jessamyn Murphy (shippy tag devon x jessa)

Age: 35

Random: Following a car accident (the same one that cost the life of his brother), underwent an extensive ''rehabilitation'' that gave him back the ability to walk, but at the expense of a ''cyborgening'' which remains heavy to deal with. He's a MaxTac lieutenant (later, commander), naviguating - and ruthlessly adapting to- the many grey zones that come upon him.

Name: Jessamyn Eva Murphy (tag jessamyn murphy)

Alias: Hræsvelgr

Pronouns: She/Her

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 5'8''/173 cm

Partner/Love interest: Devon Maggard (shippy tag devon x jessa)

Age: 34

Random: Chosen sister of Egon. She's in charge of ''informations acquirement'' for the organization COVATECH, specialized in botanical biochemistry and evolutionary developmental biology. More importantly, she's the handler of the sentient AI YGGDRA-517, that inhabits the walls of the organization.

Name: Egon Hyena Stelnar Munroe (tag egon hyena munroe)

Alias: Hyena

Pronouns: She/They

Sexuality: Lesbian

Height: 6'/183 cm

Partner/Love interest: only flings

Age: 32

Random: Chosen sister of Jessamyn. Now, this one is a bit explosive. Thriving in chaos, with a taste for fire. And how do you control chaos? By giving it Purpose. She serves as an enforcer during certain tasks, as well as associate for tracking informations holders, to aid her sister.

Name: Srovren Antonius Ismir Halligar (tag srovren halligar)

Alias: Greyson

Pronouns: He/Him

Sexuality: Bi

Height: 6'6''/198 cm

Partner/Love interest: Isaura Forsythia

Age: 43

Random: Ex-military, stranded from his homeland. He runs a garage, which also serves as a front for a shelter to those in need. The shelter is runned with the help of Elsimi Laurela, a ripperdoc, and Doran Sedras, ''freight coordinator''. He has an illegitimate daughter with his long lost lover.

Credits for the divider x

[postalvalhalla]

Delivery Bot

DEL-137 wheeled a box onto the dock. "Delivery!" he called out. "It's the latest Cyberstar bot - Freight Handler Expert."

The warehouse bot paused. "Strange. I'm the only bot at this location."

"You're being replaced?" DEL-137 asked. "That sucks, But even robots wear out. What can you do?"

The other bot studied the invoice. "Oh - this is actually YOUR replacement."

There was a long pause.

"Tell you what," said DEL-137. "Help me toss it into the trash compactor…."

[unluckyhorseshoecrab]

a good night to be having emotions about Chicago by Carl Sandburg

"

Hog Butcher for the World,

   Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

   Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;

   Stormy, husky, brawling,

   City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys.

And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.

And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger.

And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them:

Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities;

Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness,

   Bareheaded,

   Shoveling,

   Wrecking,

   Planning,

   Building, breaking, rebuilding,

Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth,

Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs,

Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle,

Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people,

                   Laughing!

Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation."

[chounaifu]

the cigarette is briefly pulled back from between his lips, arm resting against the railing as he looks back towards the goldenrod skyline, draped in the dusky hues of the setting sun. " one of the only things i haven't forced myself to forget about the time before radio tower was the night before it. "

It was the first time the two of them had returned to Goldenrod together; individually, Proton and Archer frequented the ward for business reasons, but never simultaneously. The Game Corner was still operating at full capacity, which meant that Proton found himself in the city on a monthly basis. Often times, he found his mind wandering to ghosts-- coworkers who had perished on duty on that day. The street of the entertainment district was full of these ghosts. What a coward he was, incapable of looking at them in the eye when he passed by.

There was always enough soju flowing at the izakaya to make the phantoms disappear.

A smoke break on the roof of one of the Rocket-owned buildings in the western part of the city allows the two of them to linger in silence for a while. Traveling together for work purpose didn't necessarily mean that the pair would be spending much time together. Proton had freight for the Game Corner to attend to, while Archer had spent the entire day attending meetings with foreign investors.

Archer breaks the silence, and it causes Proton to stop breathing for a moment, lips parting somewhat, pupils sharpening in surprise.

They had a rule that they agreed upon years ago, an unwritten law that they adhered to without question: we don't talk about what we do, or what we feel, when we're alone.

. . . Of course it's Archer who betrays this creed. It shouldn't shock Proton at this point, not because he is a lawless man, no no, that's far from the truth. He keeps his promises and believes in the structure given to him. But between the two of them, it had always been Archer who turned suggestion into action. How fitting for the man who took up the helm of leadership when they had been abandoned.

Proton's brows furrow, and he huffs through his nostrils, finishing his cigarette and tossing it to the ground, crushing it with his boot. He folds his arms on the railing, turning his head off to the side.

Were they actually about to talk? He swallows, and Proton swears he feels nails slip down his throat.

"-- Y'know, I'm way more of a coward than anybody else," Proton admits quietly, eyes lidding somewhat as he props himself up on an elbow while slouching on the guard rail, slouching with his chin in his hand.

"There was a part of me that wanted to run so fuckin' badly. Not--" he lifts his head and shakes it, still looking away. "Not because I didn't wanna go through with the plan-- but because I knew there was no way back. We were either gonna get the job done, or burn ourselves down tryin'."

And a lot of them did. Proton was prepared to be one of them.

"I wanted to get outta there because," he exhales sharply, taking his hat off and scrubbing a hand through his own hair. Ah man. Nobody's taught him how to speak after muzzling himself so thoroughly.

"Well-- 'cause I wanted to get you outta there too."

A loyal hound dragging his handler away from the fire to prevent an act of self-immolation.

He turns his head and looks at the other man, and he swears he still sees that sorrowful, vulnerable look on his face, drenched in the red light of the radio tower that had flooded their hotel room through the window that night.

"-- You thought we were gonna die too, didn't you?" Proton asks, bringing a thumb up and brushing it against his own lower lip, "That's why we gave in to each other."

Giving in is the most sane way to describe it-- they'd clung to one another in mournful passion with mouthfuls of blood, like beasts struck with starvation. Like terrified lovers who did not want to die with regrets. Though, perhaps the most horrifying thing was not that their lives were at risk-- but that they wordlessly acknowledged a very human emotion that was rooted between the two of them.

That's why the madness he's been struck with has never dissipated.

And so he straightens himself back up somewhat, leaning against the other executive, and slipping an arm around his waist. Proton keeps his head angled to look at him-- thinking back to the way he slipped out of that hotel room like a coward afterwards, instead of ending things the way they had started, with their lips against each other-- he finally returns the kiss.

"We have to go," he speaks up, aware of what time it was. A business contact was meant to meet them in the business car of the Magnet Train back to Saffron.

"Staying in one place for too long is risky."

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"The SDPC [Social Democractic Party of Canada] at the Lakehead appears not to have been content merely to contest elections. In 1912, having recently formed a union, the mostly immigrant workers of the Canadian Northern Coal and Ore Dock Company went on strike for better wages, hours, and working conditions. Bloodshed resulted when company officials, using local police and the militia, tried to suppress the striking coal handlers. The chief of police, two constables, and two Italian strikers were wounded. Fearing a general strike, the CNR quickly acquiesced to the demands of the coal handlers.

There was much in this incident that recalled earlier labour strife at the Lakehead. A new element, however, was the growing influence of radical socialists, who were thought to have sway over the coal handlers and to have been instrumental in their inclusion in the trade union movement. Prominent among the activists were “members of the Social Democratic Party of Canada,” including the party’s organizers for Port Arthur and Fort William, the Cobalt miners’ union leader James P. McGuire and the Reverend William Madison Hicks, as well as Herbert Barker, a volunteer organizer for the AFL. In April 1912, the three men led a number of English-speaking socialists in Fort William in establishing Ontario Local 51 of the SDPC. Initial members also included W.J. Carter; an architect named Richard Lockhead; Sid Wilson, a member of the British-based Amalgamated Carpenters; and Fred Moore, owner of the printing press that printed Urry’s The Wage Earner. Significantly, most of the members appear to have been Finnish or Ukrainian. Before the strike, members of the Fort William SDPC had spoken at meetings of the coal handlers and, in the case of Hicks, played an active role by leading a parade of workers in confronting Port Arthur mayor S.W. Ray on his way to read the Riot Act to the strikers. The meeting between the two men and the violence that ensued were coincidental, according to Morrison, as

the Social Democratic party posed no real or imagined menace to the citizens of Port Arthur … what alarmed the English-speaking community was the newly won influence of the socialists with the immigrant workers.

Supporters of the ILP [Independent Labour Party] of New Ontario such as Urry found themselves “at odds with radical socialism” as

not only had the socialists played a prominent part in the strike, though not the riot, but they were also attempting to organize Thunder Bay’s entire waterfront.

...

Calls for Hicks’s arrest began to appear in newspapers in both cities and the surrounding countryside. On 1 August 1912, officials arrested him for his role in a “tumultuous assembly … likely to promote a breach of the public peace.” Shortly after Hicks’s arrest and conviction (although he received a suspended sentence), SDPC organizers began an active campaign to take control, or at the very least undermine, the ILP-led Trades and Labour Councils. Following the strike, they sought to stage a general strike on the waterfront and, ideally, spread it throughout both Port Arthur and Fort William. As Jean Morrison writes, however, this was “a move disparaged by the British labour men for its disregard of the law which required negotiations and conciliation preceding strikes by transportation workers.” The attempt failed and widened the rift formed during the municipal, provincial, and federal elections of 1908 and 1911 and the labour unrest earlier in 1912.

...

The SDPC was also not left untouched. In preparation for the 1913 Fort William civic election, Urry and Hicks jointly developed in opposition to the SDPC a manifesto describing the class struggle in general and the issues facing the region’s workers in particular .... On the recommendation of the Elk Lake, Porcupine, and Cobalt locals that Hicks be expelled, the matter was referred to the Fort William membership. Despite facing the possibility that its charter would be revoked, Local 51 refused to expel Hicks and launched a vigorous defence on his behalf. The convincing agitator had a coterie of true believers, who “defended him to the last ditch refusing to believe that Hicks would do anything wrong.” He also had his critics, evidently including the 400-strong Fort William branch, which, it appears, sided with the Dominion Executive and expelled Hicks.

...

With Hicks departed one highly personalized version of a response to the ambiguous legacy of Lakehead socialism. Both the ILP and the SDPC grew rapidly during 1913. The labour councils in the twin cities began to discuss unity, in the form of construction of a joint Central Labour Temple. The Finnish branch of the SDPC in Port Arthur also called out for working-class and socialist unity. Moreover, as a more tangible indication of potential unification of the socialist and labour movements, SDPC organizer Herbert Barker was elected president of the Port Arthur Trades and Labour Council in April 1913. As so often proved to be the case, however, such incipient unity was challenged by the region’s sheer class volatility. The strike by street railway workers in May 1913 was a volcanic moment. As David Bercuson writes:

The walk-out provided a focal point for much of the hatred and bitterness that had developed between labour and its enemies in the twin cities for several years.

Rioting and violence were sparked by the CPR’s attempts to use strikebreakers. When strikers overturned a streetcar operated by strikebreakers, police arrested one of the participants and, when a crowd tried to get him out of jail, fired into the crowd, killing a bystander. Local newspapers tried to pin the violence on the socialists, who were allegedly responsible for agitating the crowd. The railway workers belonged to the Trades and Labour Councils in both cities and, in a show of solidarity, both councils called for a general sympathy strike. These calls went unheeded and most workers returned to work after four days of protest. In response, Urry, James Booker, McGuire, Bryan, and many members of the SDPC met at the Finnish Labour Temple. They criticized the local trades and labour councils “for not being radical enough to resist the ruling of an unscrupulous upper class.” They hoped the councils would become “more radical.” Not surprisingly, the obviously inflamed right-wing media in the twin cities characterized the meeting as one of “sedition, anarchy, socialism, violence and most everything else calculated to worry orderly society and responsible government.” It was not a critique of the Lakehead workers reserved for the mainstream press. Mayor John Oliver of Port Arthur summed up the situation well when he argued that the continued unrest in Port Arthur and Fort William was not wholly due to working conditions. Making specific mention of the strikes of 1909, 1912, and 1913, he suggested that the unrest had been the result of socialist agitators. Oliver wrote:

There is hardly a night in the week that inflammatory speeches have not been made by several agitators … something will have to be done to either remove them or check their actions.

Interestingly, Frederick Urry and J.P. McGuire were specifically named for their alleged advocacy of a general strike. McGuire was further singled out for his reputed suggestion that it would be an easy thing to cut telephone, telegraph, and electric lines."

- Michel S. Beaulieu, Labour at the Lakehead: Ethnicity, Socialism, and Politics, 1900-35. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press, 2011. p. 37-38, 40-42

[floweringgravetender]

Commission for Absoladi_art on insta!

Neon lights glistened as rain poured down onto the city streets. A small group of people took shelter under a local bridge. Noelani sobbed softly to herself, a needle in her hand aimed toward her shoulder. A half dozen more strewn about by her feet. None of the others around her seemed to care. She pressed the plunger in and felt the cold liquid ease into arm and slowly dispersed. After a moment, she felt a kick, and she began to lose her vision. She leaned back and closed her eyes, accepting her fate. In her last moments she could feel arms reaching around to grab her as if angels themselves were bringing her to the afterlife.

Eventually, she could feel life again. Blaring lights burned her eyes through her closed eyelids. She opened her eyes to find no afterlife, no pearly white gates, and no holy beings waiting to take her to the next life. Doctors and machinery surrounded her, beeping and medical jargon filled her ears. She tried to struggle, but felt her extremities bound tightly to the table she laid on. She continued to writhe and began to try to scream, but she found nothing would come out. She continued to struggle. A few doctors noticed her and ran to the bedside, grabbing her arms and legs and holding her down.

Noelani began to panic, with no way to protest and no way to fight back the doctors had full control over her. Then a buzzing noise rang out, drowning all other noise in the room. As the room filled with noise she felt a sharp sting on her calf. She tried to resist to no avail. The pain persisted, reaching the threshold of unbearability. The pain shifted down from her upper calf to her ankle. By now her whole leg was burning, it was as if someone had shoved a hot blade lengthwise up her leg. Then she felt a thud on the table. She couldn’t see what was happening, but she felt it. She could feel as parts of her calf were stripped away and parts were added on. She tried to scream. She tried to shout. She tried to fight. She tried to run. But nothing worked. She was at the mercy of these unknown doctors.

Noelani was unsure of how she was even awake. The pain was so grueling she began to vomit behind her gag. Someone hunched over her and shoved a tub down her throat to suck out the liquid. Tears streamed down her face in a torrent. These people ripped open her legs, cut and sliced and tore and mutilated. She felt every little incision, every little break, every little thing. Yet for some god forsaken reason she was still aware of it. She eventually lost feeling in her legs. The tears dried onto her face, her eyes unable to cry anymore. She stared into the eyes of the men and women around her, they all avoided her gaze as yet another machine moved toward her. Another loud buzzing began to ring into the room and the same pain Noelani knew all too well drove into her chest like a freight train. With this, the final nail in the coffin was struck, she felt her consciousness drain from her body.

Noelani woke up in a daze. She felt like she was floating for a moment. Looking around she saw she was no longer in the operating room. It looked like the backroom at a zoo where the handlers prepared for a show. As she sighed a plume of bubbles appeared in front of her face. She opened her eyes a bit more to see she was suspended in a vat of water, tubes and wires poking and prodding her skin. She began to thrash around, knocking some of the tubing out of her skin and rubbing some of the wires off. 

Doctors rushed in and opened the tank, reaching in to try and stop her. But Noelani took this opportunity to try and get out of the tank. She was able to overpower the doctors easily, considering they had to stretch to even reach the latch. She threw herself to the grounding and tried to get up to run but her legs felt numb, like they weren’t even there at all. She turned to see the group of doctors running toward her. Without any control of her legs she tried to crawl away before feeling the sharp pain of someone's boot pressing into her lower body.

Noelani turned to see a man in a red suit standing over her. She looked toward his boot to see the unthinkable. She had no legs at all. They had been replaced by what looked like a mechanical mermaid's tail. “What the fuck is wrong with you people” she muttered, tears beginning to bellow in her eyes.

The man in the red suit crouched down beside her, “you should be more concerned with what's no longer wrong with you my dear,” he whispered in a thick accent Noelani didn’t recognize.

“W-what do you mean? What did you do to me?!” she cried before taking a weak swing at the man.

He simply leaned back to dodge the blow, “we turned you from a rat on the street,” he said, pulling his face close to hers and aggressively grabbing her chin, “and turned you into one of the greatest technological advances of our generation.”

Noelani found herself short of breath, “how could you do this to someone else!” she strained to shout, “I may have been a nobody but I’m still a person!” she wailed.

The man in the red suit checked his watch, “you may want to be careful darling,” he said standing up, “it may be hard to breathe soon because… well you’re better suited for water now.” He chuckled as he turned to walk away. Noelani tried to scream but, as the man predicted, she was struggling to breathe. She flailed about wildly on the floor, begging for help, until someone finally came and placed her back in the container. She was nothing more than a pet fish in a tank now.

[scapegrace74-blog]

The Man from Black Water, Chapter 2

A/N Here is the second chapter in my weirdo crossover tale.  In it, Jamie goes looking for a way to save his croft and meets several new people; some helpful, some hostile.

A note about Henry Beauchamp.  We don’t meet him in Outlander canon, but the general impression I get from the fandom is that he is seen as a kind, avuncular sort of man.  This is not that Henry.  While he loves his daughter and has a lot of fine qualities, he is belligerent and prejudiced. The character in the movie is played by Kirk Douglas.  ‘Nuf said.   Keep that in mind as the story evolves.

Also, I’ve taken a bit of creative liberty with the distance from Dundee to Netherton, which needs to be in the shadow of the Highlands for plot reasons.  Jamie didn’t really make Rollo run 25 miles in a day.

For previous chapters and a maps of characters in this story to the movie, see my AO3 page.

Jamie had visited Dundee once before, accompanying his father on a trip to purchase a plough horse when he was twelve.  The place had been chaotic and filthy then and hadn’t improved in the past seven years.  Still, it was the nearest Lowland town and a likely spot to seek employment.  

He hitched Donas to a rail outside the mercantile store and commanded Rollo to stand guard over the horse and saddlebags, which contained most of his worldly possessions.  The dog whined and sniffed the air, no doubt just as overwhelmed as his master by the unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells.  He sat down obediently, however.  Jamie gave him a quick pat and a piece of beef jerky, hoping to counteract the tempting odours wafting out of a nearby tavern.

Looking about, Jamie tried to get his bearings.  All around him men, women and children bustled about with a kind of purposeful frenzy.  Dressed in his best homespun shirt, tweed coat and trousers and the ubiquitous Highland tam, Jamie nevertheless felt woefully underdressed compared to the silk waistcoats and black bowlers that many of the passing men wore.

As he stood, Jamie noticed that most people were moving down the main street towards some common destination.  Unable to come up with a better plan, he followed them, emerging in a large square bordered by a rail siding along the far periphery.  The reason for the flood of foot traffic became apparent. A passenger and freight train had recently come to a halt, its locomotive still huffing out huge expulsions of steam.  A crowd milled about, chattering and restive with anticipation, as though awaiting some grand event.

“Excuse me, sir,” Jamie addressed a man standing nearby.  “Is there a celebration o’ some kind happenin’ t’day?”

The man laughed as though Jamie had told a very fine joke, his neatly waxed mustache jigging beneath his nose.

“Aye, ye could say as much.  Beauchamp’s new colt arrives today.”  Leaning in, the man added in a conspiratorial whisper, “They say tis worth a thousand pounds.”

A thousand pounds was more money than Jamie would ever see in his lifetime.  He couldn’t imagine what possible purpose a horse of that value might serve.  Still, his curiosity was roused, so he thanked the man and made his way to the edge of the crowd where he would have a better view of this legendary beast.

The freight gangplank was lowered, and the noise of the lookers-on rose in pitch as everyone craned their heads and spoke at once.  The colt was indeed beautiful, glossy black with the gracefully lean frame of a thoroughbred.  The horse’s ears flicked forwards and back, no doubt nervous to be descending from the still-huffing train into a loud, confined space.  A dog began barking furiously, and that was the final straw.

Jamie saw the danger approaching with the inevitability of a brewing storm.   Agitated, the colt reared, yanking hard against his handler’s grip.  The crowed gasped as one as the man struggled to regain control of the animal, who was now bucking and spinning in a tight circle. Refusing valiantly to let go, the slight man was pulled off his feet, landing in the dust just in front of the horse’s still-thrashing hooves.

Instinct and good sense had Jamie elbowing his way forward, grasping the lead and trying to calm the terrified animal before someone was seriously hurt.

“Let go, lad,” he gruffly advised the handler, who despite being face down in the dirt, still didn’t relinquish control of the lead.

With no time for politeness, Jamie tugged on the rope, ripping it from the man’s hands.

“I said let bloody go!”

Speaking softly in Gaelic until the animal calmed, Jamie turned to offer his apologies to the handler, who had done nothing wrong besides stubbornly refusing his help.  What he saw shocked him mute.

Masses of dark brown curls had escaped the confines of a wayward cap, framing a pale, delicate face that was flushed red with fury.  Whisky coloured eyes snapped hot sparks in his direction, radiating equal parts indignation and embarrassment.  The handler’s long work coat had fallen open to display dusty trousers accentuating shapely legs that made Jamie want to avert his eyes.

“If I had wanted your help, lad,” this vision spat in the Queen’s English, “I would have asked for it.”

Without so much as a by-you-leave, the alluring Sassenach lass grabbed the rope from his numb hands and stalked away, leading the becalmed horse behind her.  Jamie stared after them as the throng dissipated.

“I believe we’re all indebted to you, young mister…”  A well-dressed gentleman Jamie had noticed disembarking from the train was extending a hand in his direction.

“Fraser.  James Fraser.”  He grasped the man’s shockingly smooth palm in his own rough one.

“Ned Gowan,” the man replied in kind.  “Well, Mister Fraser, let me thank you on behalf of the Beauchamp family, since Miss Beauchamp inadvertently failed to do so.”

“Inadvertently,” Jamie repeated, absorbing the news that not only was the trouser-clad handler a woman, but apparently the daughter of the colt’s wealthy owner as well.

“If ever there’s anything we can do for you,” the man went on while glancing down the street, clearly preparing to leave.

“I’m looking fer work, sir,” Jamie blurted out, suddenly remembering the entire purpose of his visit to Dundee.

It turned out that Ned Gowan was the Beauchamp family lawyer, and not a stock agent as Jamie had originally assumed.  He nevertheless pled his case that he was an able stockman with his own mount and herd dog, motivated by the desperate need to retain control of his family’s farm.

“A crofter?” Mister Gowan asked.

“Aye, from up Glenshee.”

“A damn shame Gladstone wasn’t able to push through the recommendations of the Napier Commission, otherwise you’d at least have some legal rights to your hereditary land.  I suppose I better write you a letter of introduction, since the Tories have let you down.”

Jamie had no idea what the man was referring to, but happily accepted the lawyer’s offer of a letter, sure to open doors that his appearance and Highland accent might otherwise leave closed.  

After a night spent sleeping beneath a bridge, he rode towards Netherton, the Beauchamp estate.  Surely a man capable of paying a small fortune for a horse would have both the need and the means to employ a labourer to mind his stock.

As Donas loped towards Netherton with Rollo bounding beside them on the verge, the scope and scale of the Beauchamp family operations became apparent.  Stone and timber fencing enclosed fields that extended as far as the eye could see, prettily lined with wych elms where they ran alongside the road.  In each pasture, herds of Aberdeen Angus cattle grazed, at least a hundred head in the nearest fields alone.  After several miles, the manor house came into view in the distance. Its crenelated towers spoke of a medieval pedigree, but Jamie knew no lord worth his salt would build a castle in such a flat, indefensible position.  Like their French-derived name, the Beauchamp manor was a recent arrival to Scottish soil.

In fact, it was Henry Beauchamp himself who had migrated north from England in the 1850s, looking for adventure and prosperity.  The rough borderland between the rapidly industrializing Scottish Midlands and the yet-wild expanses of the Highlands provided both in equal measure, and it wasn’t long before Henry was buying a hundred-acre plot just north of the River Ericht.  Profits beyond his wildest dreams were the consequence of the immense hunger of the booming cities of Dundee, Aberdeen, Perth and Glasgow.  It wasn’t long before the Beauchamp estate was expanded to five hundred acres, with an imposing baronial manse in the latest style rising above the floodplain, announcing to all who approached that Netherton was the home of a powerful man.

Brian Fraser had instilled in his son from a young age the principle that every man was equal, no matter his station and influence. Resisting the urge to be intimidated by the opulence on display, Jamie instead lifted his chin and cantered towards the nearest barn.

“A Highlander?”

Henry Beauchamp was a trim man in his mid-fifties with deep set hazel eyes and a stiff brown mustache that obscured his upper lip.  When Jamie had presented his letter of introduction to the first Netherton employee he met, he’d been pleasantly surprised to be directed to the stableyard, where the estate’s owner himself was supervising the inoculation of a small herd of cattle against cow pox.

“Cut the heifer out, Angus,” he called to one of the workmen before turning his attention back to Jamie.

“Aye, sir.  My folk hail from Glenshee, up the Black Water.”

Something transitory passed across the older man’s face, and if pressed Jamie would have called it heartache.  In a moment, it was gone.

“I’ll give you a try.  Usual wages and keep.  Make yourself known to Dougal Mackenzie, the foreman.”

“Thank ye verra much,” Jamie said sincerely, amazed at his good luck. A gruff nod was his only reply.

Civilities thus dispensed with, the Englishman turned his attention back to his cattle.

[andreisvechnikov]

🪽💣👑 :)

another great trio of questions let's gooooo

🪽 Name a NHL player whom you would: Sacrifice to the Gods, Do Hard Crimes With, and Save the World With.

Sacrifice to the Gods: Nikita Kucherov. with his great stats and big body, he's exactly what hungry gods would want to devour

Do Hard Crimes With: Roope Hintz. he has the vibes that he'd be down for anything and have fun doing it!!

Save the World With: Quinn Hughes. huge tragic hero energy, he would get the job done, even if it meant sacrificing himself (he already does this for his team)

💣 Blow it up: pick one NHL team. Change its name, mascot, logo/colors. Tell me why you chose the new elements.

okay obviously for me this has to be Chicago. their new color would be light blue and red to match their flag. their new name would be either the Huskies or the Brawlers based on the poem "Chicago" by Carl Sandburg: "Hog Butcher for the World/Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat/Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler,/Stormy, Husky, Brawling, City of the Big Shoulders."

👑 If you could add an award to the NHL awards, what would it be and who would be its inaugural recipient?

in the vein of the Hart/Lindsay award, I think there should be an award specifically for best playmaking! I think the players should vote for it and it wouldn't focus on just goals/stats but more on who is really pushing their team further with their hockey IQ etc. I can't pick just one recipient but the first nominees should be: Nathan MacKinnon, Mitch Marner, Sidney Crosby. Leon Draisaitl and Jack Hughes are definitely up there too.

ask me a (Kinda Weird) Hockey-ish question

[olimar-posting]

what IS your rank? and louie's if you know

Senior Freight Handler. Louie's position is up to him to share.

[p-isforpoetry]

"Chicago" by Carl Sandburg (read by Gary Sinise)

Hog Butcher for the World, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of the Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the farm boys. And they tell me you are crooked and I answer: Yes, it is true I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again. And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces of women and children I have seen the marks of wanton hunger. And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer at this my city, and I give them back the sneer and say to them: Come and show me another city with lifted head singing so proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning. Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job, here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft cities; Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a savage pitted against the wilderness, Bareheaded, Shoveling, Wrecking, Planning, Building, breaking, rebuilding, Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with white teeth, Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man laughs, Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never lost a battle, Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse, and under his ribs the heart of the people, Laughing! Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat, Player with Railroads and Freight Handler to the Nation.

Source: The Poets' Corner