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papaver-decervicatus · 1 year

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Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 3, The Cat Returns

After the incident with Mouse in the Alps, König is put into frontline insertions instead of wilderness patrol following his noticeable change in demeanor. Life without Mouse goes on, or does it?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care

Authors Note: Again, I am just beside myself with the amount of love and support this silly story of mine is receiving. I will probably update this author's note when it is not 01:00 my time after a date. This chapter is a little longer to make up for the fact that the next chapters may take longer, as we are getting to the end of my stockpiled hoard of writings. Expect shorter, drabble bursts between bigger chapters!

Small note: if you see a rapid switch between the use of Mouse and Maus, it is meant to show that König's sense of ownership and possession of Mouse. In his thoughts, she is distinctly separate from her role as a military contractor, he thinks of her as his. I am sure I messed it up a couple of times, but if you see both it is not a typo!

Cura ut Veleas❣️~ Caedis

PREV | Pt. 3, The Cat Returns | 5k words | König POV | NEXT

It’s sometime in February, and the fighting has moved into a little town somewhere in Italy. They’re gathering intel on SpecGru, trying to figure out something or other.

König is not an intelligence officer. He is not subtle enough for that. Everyone knows this.

He’s a battering ram as a human, thick and tall and good at making closed doors open if they don’t fly off their fucking hinges when he hits them. He’s not stupid by any means, but he’s not stealthy the way the position would require.

He hasn’t seen her in three weeks. He hasn’t been on patrol at all, he’s been on frontline insertion. A place where his Maus is not.

He misses her voice in his ear. He misses the little things she leaves behind, the leaves she folds into animals, the rocks she arranges into shapes like smiles. His favorite was the piece of flint she knapped into sharp edges all around, into the vague shape of a heart- he reasons that was probably not on purpose but he’s distraught the second he gets it back to base and realizes the fragile thing broke to dust in his pocket. When he cuts himself on the flint shards and doesn’t patch them up, he thinks of it as penance.

He tries not to think too harshly about that. That she gave him her heart and he literally pulverized it. He's resolved that he won’t mention it in the comms. He doesn’t want to hurt her feelings if she did intend to give him a heart-shaped stone. It was the latest thing she’d gifted him and he was starting to think that its destruction was some sort of terrible omen.

It’s that moment he realizes just how badly he’s had it. Having it. Wanting it. Needing her. Their silly little game is all he lives for these days. It’s pathetic but he can’t stop himself.

Slicing and dicing and scouting and barging and battering and shooting and whatever else-ing enemies are little consolation for the gap she’s left in his life. He begs and barters and borrows around base for the books she recommended to him. He’s hoarding terrible jokes to tell her when he sees her (hears her?) again. Whenever he gets halfway decent food the first thing he thinks is “I wish I could teach Maus how to make Austrian food.” He thinks about dancing around in the kitchen with her before sharing a hot meal. He sees a particularly sturdy tree and wonders how long it would take her to climb it. When he gets cuts and bruises he thinks about her small, agile, soft hands patching him up instead of the sterile medics. He thinks about laying his head down on her plush thighs as she sighs and reads a book. He thinks about going hiking with her back in Austria, holding her hand the whole way up, then down, the mountain. He thinks about camping with her, kissing the top of her head as they sit by the fire. He fucking aches to make her mewl around his length in a lover's embrace.

She’s all he thinks about during the day. How to make her happy. How to be closest to her. How to see her again. She’s all he thinks about at night, too. How she might want to be touched. How she’d taste. How to satisfy her so thoroughly she’d never try to find someone else. He cannot stop himself from thinking about her in these ways, and the realization that he simply does not want to either is just as disorienting.

He had been making good progress, inching his way closer and closer to her. Every time he would abandon his post while on patrol and wander around until he found her, she would allow him to get a little closer. He’s no fool, she is a sniper. If she didn’t want him any closer, she would just take him out from far away. But she doesn’t. At first, he thought he was hallucinating the slowly closing distances. It took a full 50 feet of gained ground over a month and four meetings for him to even consider that she was allowing him to get closer. As ridiculous as it is, he refuses to get any closer than first contact, except for… that morning.

He doesn’t like to think of himself as superstitious, he prefers to think of himself as logical. Perhaps too many head injuries, too many kills, and too much war has ruined his complete objectiveness. When he got the transmission about the agent running away with files in his direction, he got a feeling. An instinct? A calling? It was the auspicious nervousness of a near-death encounter, an intrinsic sort of rush that any soldier learns to obey if they want to survive in a war. But this one was different.

His stomach flipped more violently than he’s ever known it and he felt thick lightning throughout his entire body. His vision nearly blanked as he looked down at his peace offering, he knew at once the feeling was not for him.

He didn’t hesitate to take off running for her position when he got the transmission about a rogue soldier strapped with explosives.

“Keep moving and I shoot,” Maus had said. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe it was the obsession he tried so valiantly to deny himself. Maybe it was the scratchiness of the radio feeding him pretty lies, but König couldn’t help but hear a sort of begging desperation in her voice. His heart lurches fast and heavy in his chest as he sprints, fearful energy enveloping his anxious mind. Something is very wrong here, he thinks but how the hell is he supposed to tell her that? Would she trust him? Would he even get there in time?

“It’s right under you, Liebling,” he rasped out through frantic breaths, so high on genuine concern for her that he could not help the blandishment that he offered her. If only she knew, maybe she’d just let him help her.

Somehow, miraculously, she listens (Good girl, Maus,) and turns her attention to the adversary gaining ground between the trees. The man is quick, but König is quicker, taking off through the snow like he did as a child. Running with reckless abandon, long legs carrying him faster and further than anyone else when he and his cousins would play capture the flag at his Oma’s house in Gauso. This prize, however, is much more important to him.

He feels an almost sick sense of vindication when her gun jams, but whatever positive emotion he felt for it is drowned out with a tidal wave of concern and fear when he sees her struggling with her rifle and the man beneath the trees taking aim at her.

Slicing that man clean between his ribs like a lion strikes a lamb was the second most satisfying experience of his life, greatly eclipsed by the settling of her weight against his chest when she trusted him enough to jump into his arms.

She looks so fearful beneath his stare and he shrinks away in an attempt to placate her nervousness, equally as fearful that he must have somehow damaged her by simply holding her. He has half the mind to berate himself about touching her, still bloody from the enemy and still a monster beneath it all.

He had never intended to actually give her the birchwood effigy. He originally started carving it on a restless night camping alone after a particularly suggestive series of flirtations over the radio.

(“Why did the bike fall over, Maus?”

“Tell me, König.”

“Because it was two tired.”

“HA! That’s terrible! You’re so tall, can you even fit on a bike?”

“Eh, sometimes, but the peddles are not so good.”

“What does that mean?”

“They are too small.”

“...oh. Big feet?”

“Ja.”

“You know what they say about big feet…”

“I do not.”

“Have trouble getting into pants in the morning, too?”

“Was?”

“You big, everywhere? I mean, with hips like those…”

“...” Fuck, bad time to get a boner.

“Oh come on, big guy, don’t get shy on me now~”)

The chunk of wood was too damp for kindling so he started gouging at its sides idly while waiting for his water to sterilize from boiling. He was just whittling with no real purpose until the absent image of a mouse started to appear in the pale material. From that moment of fireside recognition onwards, he’d been chasing a little prayer in her shape. He wouldn’t have considered it ‘done’ when he gave it to her but-

Her warmth was still in his fingers, her beautiful eyes trained on him, her fantastic form somehow devoid of his blood or his filth in his rescue attempt, well. He had been praying, hadn’t he? It’s only right to pay tithing to the thing you worship. He gave her the figure, and he did so with the only real regret being that he couldn’t give her more and that he almost sullied her perfection with his violence.

And to top it all off, when he wrenched himself away from her, heart heavy and entirely certain that she would never, could never, follow- she called him back and reciprocated. Like a siren’s call, he obeyed without prejudice, without regret, without even realizing he was turning backward to meet her. When he caught it in his hands he felt the weight of the world settle onto his shoulders in the shape of a little whetstone in the palm of his hand.

She gave him her lucky charm. She gave him a tool after recognizing his fondness for knives.

He simply does not have the words for the stringent emotion that thought invokes in him, the fire it ignites. When she apologizes for its quality or lack thereof (It is her charm, the thing that keeps her safe, and she gives it to me? And has to apologize for it? Just her charm? Silly little girl…) he bites back confusion and instead reassures her. The emotion in her eyes when he responds “All the more reason to treasure it,” is his favorite thing he’s ever seen. And yet, he knows he cannot take her with him. If he didn’t leave at that moment, he knows he would have starved to death on the spot waiting for her to follow him. When he turns away it is because his brain cannot comprehend a world in which she walks away with him.

He remembers walking off, dazed and in a trance with the whetstone in his hands, trudging off into some unknown heaven he had never anticipated escaping to. He walks all the way back to base and gets harsh stares and reprimands for returning a whole 5 hours earlier than he should have. He hears confused whispers and concerned words from the medics who give him the all-clear, and he has been placed on Frontline Insertion two patrols following this event as an attempt to cleanse his mind and body from whatever ‘walking sickness,’ Aksel called it, he picked up in the woods. (And in fairness, he would rather die than admit his treachery, not out of any misplaced moral but instead out of precaution for her safety.)

His days are miserably long without Maus and he kicks himself every night and day for unwittingly getting himself separated from her. Every time he gets back to base he cleans the whetstone and prays to see her again.

The KorTac base here is relatively large, he gets his own room in the barracks and he’s never been more thankful for it when on a snowy night, he dreams.

In the dream, it’s snowing and he wakes up in a car somewhere in the wilderness. The trees are bare but there are so many of them he just tastes cold and sees gray. Then the sudden urge to run overcomes him, and so he does. He sprints, to where? He doesn’t know. Familiarity laps at the corners of his mind, and his feet move on their own, like an animal stalking its way back home. He doesn’t need to be told where to go, he just does.

Then! He’s tracking the smallest prints in fresh powder snow, keeping up with the tracks as best he can as they get drowned out by new falling chunks of ice.

He’s burning. He’s burning. He’s burning. He doesn’t slow down.

Then, he follows the tracks beside a little creek cutting into limestone outcroppings until he sees some smoke in the distance, the tracks go into the creek and come out the other side towards the smoke.

Then he wades through the creek, it barely comes to his ankles and on the other side of the stream, the tracks are combat boots, not animal tracks. But they’re still small.

Then he starts running alongside the tracks as they disappear, the smoke gets further and further away until-

He finds a bright red, blood-toned shed. In the shed are recently discarded supplies mixed in with hay and various domestic and agricultural equipment. Something is nesting nearby, and his mouth waters at the prospect of a fresh meal. He rests his own packs there and goes to the house the shed is next to.

He nearly has to break down the door of the house, and the single room it leads to is impossibly small on the inside from how it looked outside. He looks around for any signs of humans, hostages, or hostiles, he’s got the thrum of battle in his ears. It’s one room, with a ladder leading to a loft space. There are a few cabinets, a sink, a counter, and a wood stove that pipes out to a small chimney. There are two windows, filtering in grey-cloud-toned twilight. That’s it.

Except- it’s not. The wood stove is burning. Someone’s home.

The ladder to the loft takes him no time at all to climb and on it, there’s a mattress without a bed frame with blankets piled high. Clothes are leading to the pile and a lit gas lamp is. It’s colder up here than down there.

There’s a lump on the mattress. It rises and falls, as though it breathes.

It gets up.

It turns.

It’s Mouse.

The blanket falls from her frame and he sees her in the light of a gas lamp at the foot of the blanket nest. Her neck cranes to look at him and she doesn’t seem surprised to see him. The lamp illuminates her form like a display light in a museum lights up a statue. Her soft skin pebbles into goose flesh and he smells smoke like the house is on fire. She’s naked from the column of her neck down to the exposed divet of her hip. She turns over to face him, breasts on full display, slightly falling into each other as her inviting lips part.

“I was worried you’d never come,” she says.

He’s on her in an instant, like a barbarian he doesn’t even bother to take off his shoes, he just kneels at the bed and lifts his hood enough to kiss her. At first, it’s only chaste lips in a fleeting embrace. Like everything, he waits until she signals for something more. When she timidly bites on his bottom lip, asking for more, he more than obliges. He complies with a fervency he chokes backward on in a futile attempt to control himself, terribly mindful that he may hurt her, or worse, scare her. The inside of her mouth is raw from chewing on it idly, she tastes like blood and rainwater and poppyseed. He wagers a guess that she’s twice as addicting as opium, though, when her fingers tangle into his hair underneath his hood and pull him closer, closer, impossibly closer…

Their breaths are hot as they mingle, he swears the line between her and him is fading by the moment and he gets an adrenaline rush to rival that of bloodlust. Her skin is soft and pliant beneath his large, steady hands. She is so small, so perfectly tailored to him, so soft to the rough bits of him that he cannot help but gasp in their embrace. The tantalizing curve of her smile melts into his lips as she giggles at his gasping.

She is everything like Modanifil, the second she is on his tongue she hits his veins faster and harder than any post-gunshot amphetamine-mimicking pharmaceutical. He hums and huffs into her as he notices that she really is tiny compared to him. She could fit snugly on top of him and not seep to the sheets beneath, he could toss her over a shoulder with ease and carry her miles across any terrain, he could protect the whole of her body with his own and not leave any weak spots. Like dovetail joints, a great carpenter must have made them to fit together. There must be a God, and he must have made her to perfectly fit beside (and dare he hope, inside?) her.

The only thing older than war to mankind is intimacy. You need soldiers for war, you need men for soldiers, and you need love to make those men. Battle is a cruel Rube-Goldberg machine of “if this, then that,” and it's all König has ever known. The rigid structure that bends and breaks for no one, the absolute rule of power and intellect even at a material disadvantage, the vain hope that you make a positive difference when in reality your life is worth a few millimeters of ballpoint pen ink as it scribbles out K and I and A.

War is all König has ever known, it's the only thing he has ever taken comfort in besides alienation and purposeful seclusion.

At this moment, he understands something older than war. He feels the most primal form of empathy and community and he fucking craves it. For the first time in his life, the hum of blood in his ears is welcome and he doesn’t mind the idea of surrender. War is nothing compared to this, compared to her. He is remembering how to be human, to be a man and not a soldier, and he smiles back into her mouth.

He spends a blissful eternity licking into her mouth, mapping the soft tissue with his tongue. He drinks the occasional squeak of surprise she lets out when he does something just right. Her exploration is reciprocal, careful, and agile just like she is on the field. Her hands grasp each other behind his head and he distantly hopes she never has to move them. One of his hands cradles the back of her neck and the other strokes her cheek. He pauses only long enough to bring her slender neck to his lips for a fleeting kiss— a silent signal that he wants more if she’ll give it— and he inhales like she is oxygen before continuing to worship her mouth with his. She smells like cinnamon and he’s desperate to get a taste.

He breaks away when she pushes him slightly. Before he can even think about having offended her, her thumb strokes the scar between his left nostril and the corner of his mouth like a honey salve in reassurance. She glances down to his hand on her cheek and he follows her implicit orders like a good little soldier attempting to impress his commanding officer. He raises his gloved hands to her mouth and she keeps them in her teeth to pull them off. Before his hands can go anywhere, as if she knows right where they’re going, she kisses his digits and suckles on his fingers. His unoccupied hand goes back to her cheek as she works at the other one. She hums and moans when he presses them in a little more, then a little more, then a little more, then-

She gently chokes and with tears in her eyes, she pants around them.

He could kill her. Now. He could slam her head back and choke her. Gut her with the knife in his waistband. Or worse, he could have his way with her. He could let feeble cries of God, no more! die on her tongue as he takes what he has wanted so badly. He could prove that he really is a monster.

The intrusive thought is ripped away by the overwhelming urge to do the exact opposite as her throat constricts around his fingers.

All this time, she hasn’t refused them. She doesn’t refuse them. She doesn’t refuse him.

She is giving him total control. Complete power and without hesitation. In her teary eyes, he sees a soldier’s trust, firm and unwavering. Ever faithful. Unquestioningly and genuinely she believes the man she’s at the mercy of will make her need no mercy.

She’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

He’s the one that takes the fingers out of her mouth. He is hellbent on rewarding this fidelity, his own pleasure be damned.

“König,” her eyes glaze over with worry. It’s a dangerous game they’re playing and they both know it. “Are you sure you want me?” She whispers, lips meeting the shell of his ear, he feels her fever pitch skin even through the fabric of his mask. His heart aches and he’s so angry with himself that she could even ask that. As if there were ever any questions. As if he has ever wanted anything else in his life like he wants this. As if there is anything else to want. As if there is anything else.

“Always, Maus,” he says instead of the million things he wants to because he cannot wait. She is right there. She has asked for him. This is all he wants. He kisses her perfect lips just once more and grunts once he tears their flesh apart. He’s too impatient to prove himself any longer to be bothered with waiting. He has nothing of worth for her, except the fragile hope that if he can keep her physically satisfied in ardent service this angel may let a pitiful man worship her a little longer.

Her desperate question and the obscene amount of her spit on his fingers are all the invitation he needs to dive between her thighs. He keeps one hand on her hip and the other at her left breast- and he sighs when his flesh meets and yields to his palm- and before he can latch onto her center and give her all the attention she so deserves-

“I knew you’d fall for it,” she says. Her thighs grab his head and twist.

His neck snaps.

When he wakes up in his cold barracks, decidedly alone and not in between her thighs, he pounds the bed in frustration. The bed that his Mäuschen isn’t in, the bed that’s not in the loft of some secret mountain hideaway, the bed that he sleeps in alone. The bed he considers leaving forever, leaving KorTac, running into the night, and taking her from her own quarters at SpecGru.

He’s thought about that. Long, long ago someone told him a story. In the story, spartan warriors would kidnap the women they wanted and have sex with them in the barracks. It was to claim their marriage rights because they couldn’t get married while in the military but had to be in the military. They were supposed to kidnap the women to prove they deserved them. It was just what they did. Not so dissimilar to the bride-stealing traditions his Oma had told him about as a boy.

He’s not sure if he believes that, but that night when he fucks his hand in frustration and bites his pillow to shreds, he lives in that fantasy.

Where he finds Maus sleeping in her barracks. He steals her away in the dead of night. In his fantasy, she’s willing. She whispers “I was worried you’d never come,” when he wakes her up. She throws her arms around his neck and he lifts her out of her bed and they run. They just run. Until they find a cabin. Or a tent. Or something. She lets him do whatever he wants to her and he asks for nothing in return. He’s waited for her for so long and he’d wait longer if he could just find the proving ground of the heat between her thighs and claim his rightful spot as the winner of her- then, and only then, he’d worry about his own satisfaction.

In the end, however, he cannot convince himself into escaping to her. The fantasy of her is potent and life-consuming, but he is also viscerally aware that it is just that. A fantasy.

It is not real and despite his choking desire to be with her, he is not entirely sure she wants him. In fact, he is quite assured of the opposite, that she would reject him without a second thought. That she does not want him, that there is nothing to want because he is just hulking gore covered in scars and a hood. He is less than human, maybe even less than animal, he enjoys war and his comrades consistently remind him that that is so far into abnormality he may as well not even be animate. His long etched scars and sins burn across his forehead, cheeks, and lips in a phantom pain when he pictures her own face. There is nothing for her in him and all the dreaming in the world isn’t going to change that innocent little mice don’t fall in love with things like him.

He wants so desperately to just be a fucking person for her. A person allowed weakness, a person allowed good-morning kisses, a person allowed terrible flirting, a person allowed to sit in the same room, a person allowed to touch and savor and make better another human. Allowed to heal, not harm. Allowed to save, not slaughter.

But he is a soldier, he’s not a person, and he’s not sure he ever really was a person in the first place.

He wants her. Wanting is an unusual sensation for him, long dormant and now suddenly hotter than hellfire. He wishes he could stop burning himself but every time he sees the flickering flame he gets a little closer, convinced this time he will walk away unscathed or better yet cleansed of original and perpetual sin. She could be his funeral pyre and most of what he’d think of that is “God, she’s pretty. I’m glad it was her.”

He could just take her, he is more than capable of it. If he really wanted to he could just reach out and sink his teeth in and have his way with her just like a Spartan King. But, then he would really and truly be a monster. He might not deserve better than ire and hate, but she certainly does.

The only thing he wants more than to have her is for her to want him. That hope is a delusion deeper than the ravine they met at, he’s sure. Even still, he cannot run the risk of scaring her off or going against her wishes.

So, König stays. In his cold bed, harsh snow beating against a rotting window sill, his only company the images of Maus he makes up in his mind and the perverse and shameful noise of wet-skin slapping.

He finishes twice in his hand that night, hot and pissed, and halfway to desertion when he finally falls into a dreamless sleep. He’s so exhausted and uncomfortable in his own skin and brain that he doesn’t even have the shame of being embarrassed about the ways he imagines her. His fantasy is punctuated by the all-consuming settle of her weight upon his chest somewhere warm and dry. He feels no shame when he wraps his arms around the bunched comforter on his chest, imagining it’s a slight body he faithfully cradles.

When he wakes up, however, that shame drowns him when he prepares to meet for orders in the morning. What kind of a man does that? Now he’s sure she will never want him. If she knew how obsessed he’s become that he cannot help himself from having dreams about her and cannot help himself from getting off to the idea that she killed him with her fucking thighs she would hate him and she would have every right to. He nearly claws his eyes out when he washes his face with cold water. He asks the mirror if he’s a monster, his clear and evident scarring from a lifetime of abuse and war does not need to answer in the affirmative for him to know it to be true.

Even more so than usual, those around him give him a wide enough berth that he does not need to do so much as walk in a straight line for others to scurry out of the way. He only half hears his orders in the morning briefing, he only glances at his map when he is sent out.

He tucks the whetstone into his right pocket when he goes on his patrol, beneath the familiar weight of his beloved field knife. His right hand burns from healing flint cuts and getting bucked into for hours, the rough whetstone doesn’t help but he still caresses it in his pocket like a prayer.

Once he’s in the woods his radio receives a message.

“I was worried you’d never come,” it calls to him, full like fresh dirt of relief over a buried urn of anxiety. His throat catches on the tone, the static hides none of its desperation.

He finds her in her tree.

He falls. He knows it’s fatal. He cannot recover.

There’s nothing he can do and nowhere he can go.

He’s in love.

“Always, Maus.” He says back.

He’s always in her sights.

Sometimes he wishes she would just pull the trigger.

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#Navigation -> Cat/Mouse/Den #König #König x reader #König x OC #König MWii #König COD #Char: Mouse

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elyseenmiel · 6 months

Text

The Great War

John “Soap” McTavish x F!Reader

Synopsis: During the Battle of Somme in France, a Sister Nurse aids in the war tending to the wounded soldiers, especially a handsome and strong-willed Sergeant MacTavish.

Word count: 1.3k

Tags: One-Shot, Historical AU, World War I, 2nd POV, Reader-Insert, Y/N is not used, Reader uses a patron-saint name, Reader is addressed as Sister Maria once, mentions of death, medical procedures, mentions of death, religious and war backdrop, theme, flirting, forbidden love, light angst

Ignoring the cacophony of machinery, grief, and pained screams, as well as the relentless rain and unforgiving wind, France was beautiful both day and night. You had never been to France, or Somme, before. France had a salty, iron odor that lingered in the air. As you attended to the wounded soldiers lying on the drenched and bloody beds, the nights were longer than the days passing by. Time was dedicated to writing in the small sacrament of penance book, no longer used to confess mistakes but rather to write the name and address of the wounded loved ones to send off a letter on their behalf.

As a Nurse, you were sent to France for the first time, to Somme, to assist on the frontlines, in a hospital close to the battle of English countrymen assisting the French allies against the Germans. Last Spring, the war office had decided to employ VADS in military hospitals in the mainland and abroad during the summer. A summer late in 1919, You were sent overseas by the Red Cross; it was your first time in France working in a hospital. You had only stayed back home, working in the local auxiliary hospitals throughout Britain. You were already thinking about assisting the war effort abroad while working in a small hospital, Princess Christian Hospital, so you worked hard to receive a favorable report as the standard to work overseas. Working in the hospital was your only and very first source of income. Before dedicating myself to the faith, office administration did very little to sustain and survive off the rations they received. You could only hope your father was fine back in England; he was not serving the war effort due to his ailing leg, which prevented him from doing heavy activities. Each break of day and break of dawn, the small shared rooms were filled with whispers of prayer for your father and the men teetering on the collapse in and out of the field.

One of the male orderlies went to Etaples to bring more food. During his break, he made a list of what we needed and asked a few of the wounded what they wanted him to bring back. He addressed you as Sister Maria. "Do you want me to bring you tea?" You nodded and thanked him; he said he'd try to bring back English tea; You only smiled. The wounded walked around the small hospital grounds. The patients lay on the pale grass outside on hospital grounds, some would eat a light snack, while others would beg the nursing sisters to play chess with them to distract them from the heavy artillery sounds that could be heard. A few wounded patients would request that their letters to their families be delivered to the local post office on their behalf. Collecting their letters, putting them in envelopes, and getting them stamped was not the issue. Mailing them in and seeing that they were sent and reached their loved ones was the issue, knowing that some had taken every bit of breath to say their goodbyes and their strength to hand you their letter was the issue.

John MacTavish was the only man who had every strength to write letters and even wildly request to send them himself.

The Scotsman perched over the small desk, crushing the cigarette against the bottom of the ashtray. He turns to look at you, his eyes flickering at the new dressings and clean nightshirt bundled in your arms. The corners of his eyes curved up with a smile adorning his rugged appearance.

“The hour is late,” he remarks already unbuttoning his nightshirt. He moves to the edge of the bed patting the space next to him. “Have ye missed me yet again?”

You settle on the edge of the bed instead much to the man’s persistent pleas of sitting side by side. “Oh, I wouldn't say so Sergeant MacTavish,” You say placing the supplies on your lap and the small makeshift bed cot. You handed him the nightshirt concealing your grin. “Did ye aye?” he chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. “This must be the millionth time ye come into the night.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not the reaper then,” You say unwrapping the old and marred dressing and pouring saline into a syringe. “I might not have a scythe, but I do have this,” you smirked with a slight wave of the syringe. “Consider yourself lucky.”

The Sergeant whistled, with a nod. “Yer much scarier than the Grim Reaper bonnie.” You felt his baby blue eyes on you, his intense gaze fixed on every move of your hands and head, making all heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. He was searching for your eyes, You knew that. He needed approval. You nodded to him, meeting his piercing eyes, so bright despite the dimly lit room. You gave it to him, just as when you first did.

His hand carefully and slowly trailed on your lap, gently resting his hand on your thigh and caressing it. You carefully flushed the wound, directing the stream of saline to wash away any visible contaminants. MacTavish gritted his teeth against the discomfort but remained still, continuing to rub circles gentler than before. His other arm wrapped around your hips, fingertips dancing on the black fabric of the tunic dress almost as if he was not only soothing himself but myself too. Using a cotton swab, you applied iodine to the wound and the surrounding skin, to prevent infection. His fingers pinched your waist with a grip. “Almost there,” You whisper, leaning closer to him, His strong jawline relaxing. “Keep your eyes open, keep them on me, Johnny.” His baby blue eyes widened slightly as he locked his eyes on your face. You glanced at him, his forehead coated with sweat and his lips parted with every breath he exhaled.

“Bonnie–”

“You’re doing so good.” You carefully applied a sterile dressing to the wound, securing it in place with bandages. He squeezed your thigh not with the feeling of pain, not in that moment. You grabbed the dress shirt as his hands stroked your lower back pulling you closer to him, careful to not rest your hands against his wounded chest. You rest your forehead against his. We let the silence envelop us, tranquility overcomes us for now. You shut all of the noise of the outside world except for his words of praise and lingering touch.

MacTavish will recover. His fingers cupped your chin with his thumb grazing on your lips. You know it. “Em’ not afraid.” He says, with a soft smile. Outside, the rumble of tanks and distant explosions punctuate the night air. your fingers brush lightly against MacTavish's cheek, tracing the rough outline of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a brief respite from the pain. You reach for a glass of water, carefully lifting it to his lips. He drinks eagerly, the cool liquid providing some relief from the throbbing ache in his chest. “The hour is late,” You say, “but it is far from over.”

“We can hold em’ off,” he mummers, “and we’ll be home Bonnie,” Johnny says offering a faint smile. “Together.”

You could feel a lump in your throat. The notion had never crossed your mind, let alone be entertained as a possibility. Dwelling possibilities are dangerous. You couldn’t bear imagining him anywhere else other than the bed cot where he was safe for now. The sea was no longer a comforting sanctuary and instead served as a patron for war. His breathing has become shallow, his eyelids drooping with tiredness. “We’ll go back home together.” You say, “For now, you should rest.” You wrapped the blanket around each other, shifting around for comfort. You sink down onto the makeshift cot beside him, your still entwined with his as we both drift into an uneasy sleep.

#john soap mactavish #john mactavish #soap x reader #john mctavish x reader #cod fanfic #cod mwii #cod mw2 #cod x reader #call of duty #reader insert #female reader #soap cod #soap call of duty #wrote this last summer #for an assignment lmao #research was done but there are inaccuracies :)#author is not british or french <3

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savetheundoneyears · 4 months

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HP WORLD WAR I VERSE CHARACTERS - A MASTERPOST

Save the Undone Years Main Characters:

Christopher "Kit" Enfield @potionboy3

Kit is a squib who ran away from home at 17, joining the army. His rank is lieutenant (later promoted to a captain). Kit is part of the "A company" and he gets along well with his men. His company respects him a lot and he's very liked in the army. He gets embroiled in the wizarding plot to overthrow the British Ministry of Magic when he sees Ares Gaunt using magic and foils a plot by the anti-muggle organization TOWER.

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Ares Gaunt @gaygryffindorgal

The second son of Marvolo Gaunt's elder brother Argus. Ares's family is known for its blood-supremacist views but Ares has attempted to cut all ties with them. At Hogwarts he was sorted into Slytherin. He's an auror and works as an undercover operative in the muggle army, posing as a captain for the "A company". Later he's promoted to the rank of major. His objective is incapacitating members of the terrorist organization TOWER. Ares is distantly related to Elian and Theo Goldcrest through their mother Kerina.

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Lunas Avery @cursed-herbalist

First-born son of the pure-blood Avery family, Lunas is an auror who works undercover within TOWER and infiltrates the German Ministry of Magic and Muggle army. He's a trained soldier and Royal Flying Corps pilot. He later joins the "A Company" along with Alexej Kavinsky. He wants to take down TOWER. Lunas was a Gryffindor at Hogwarts.

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Alexej Kavinsky @potionboy3

Alexej is the son of Anton Vogel, the head of the German auror office (later Minister for Magic and Supreme Mugwump). He goes by his mother's last name to avoid association with his father. He attended Durmstrang and joined the AM (Anti-Muggle) movement associated with Grindelwald. While being undecover in the German army, Lunas Avery discovered his identity, causing Alexej to flee the country and join TOWER for a while. He later becomes part of the "A company" along with Lunas Avery.

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Odessa Avery @cursed-herbalist

Odessa is the younger sister of Lunas and childhood friend of Kit Enfield. At Hogwarts she was a Gryffindor. She is a journalist, uncovering injustice and reporting on the events of the war. She later marries Kit.

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Leda Gaunt @gaygryffindorgal

Younger sister of Ares Gaunt. While at Hogwarts, Leda was in Slytherin. Near the end of the war, Leda finds out about Ares's involvement with TOWER and goes looking for her brother at the Front, disguisng herself as a muggle soldier.

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Other characters:

Sydney Barlow @gaygryffindorgal

A muggle-born wizard who spent years lying about his blood-status to avoid discrimination. He was sorted into Slytherin and once it was discovered he was actually muggle-born, joined the army along with his muggle half-brother Aiden.

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Melvyn "Melv" Enfield @potionboy3

Older brother of Kit, Melv works for the British Ministry as an Obliviator. Kit and Melv have a troubled relationship, not helped by the fact that Melv has feelings for Odessa. Crosses paths with Kit and Ares during their time in the frontlines multiple times.

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Joel Mayfair @magicallymalted

Joel is the medic of the "A company" that Kit and Ares are part of. He volunteered for the war not approving British Ministry's strict rules concerning wizard involvement. He's a a good friend of Kit's as the two are similar in many ways. He was sorted into Gryffindor.

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Ione Avery @cursed-herbalist

Younger sister of Lunas and Odessa, attended Hogwarts as a Gryffindor as well. Ione is creative and sensitive. Not willing to openly rebel against her parents she accepts an engagement to the son of a friend of her family, Zedric Faust. During Hogwarts she was involved with Colm O'Shea.

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Colm O'Shea @unfortunate-arrow

Presumably muggle-born Gryffindor who joined the British muggle army after his and Ione's break-up. He's a proud Irish and supports the Irish independence movement (getting him in trouble from time to time). He's part of the "A company" and gets badly wounded at the end of the war.

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Linus Sullivan @unfortunate-arrow

American young man who takes part in the war under the Canadian army. He got in trouble with the law after violating Rappaport's law. He later joined the "A company". In Ilvermorny he was sorted into Wampus.

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Maritza Krum @potionboy3

French ministry intelligence operative who has a famous family history. Maritza attended Durmstrang. During the war she helped Ares on several ministry related issues. She also met Linus Sullivan and the two fell in love.

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Anthony "Andy" Vallen @kathrynalicemc

A Ravenclaw and a brilliant scientist, experimenting with and disarming magical weapons of war. He crosses paths with Kit, Ares, Lunas, and Alexej during their search of said weapons. He later becomes a teacher for a muggle school.

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Joanna Vallen @kathrynalicemc

Joanna is the sister of Andy. She is an undercover intelligence operative and a Slytherin alumnus. She has a fake identity and she poses as a singer during the war to get knowledge from the troops.

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Klara Belikova @gaygryffindorgal

A childhood friend of Alexej Kavinsky, Klara attended Durmstrang with him. She left her immensely wealthy family behind because she didn't want to marry a man of her parents' choosing. Klara moved to France and reunites with Alexej there during the war.

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Ophelia Lovell @unfortunate-arrow

Ophelia follows her brother Eugene to war and becomes a nurse. Later she joins the owl air-force. She's also marries Eugene's childhood friend and Kit's good friend Patrick Simmons. Linus is her other half-brother. During her Hogwarts years she was sorted into Hufflepuff.

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Zedric Faust @potionboy3

Zedric was engaged to Ione Avery but she broke the engagement after learning that Zedric was part of the German Anti Muggle movement AM. He and Alexej were part of the movement together and Zedric tended to take a lot of credit from Alexej's actions rather than having the courage to act himself.

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Cayetana Narváez @endlessly-cursed

Caye is a Spanish spy. She picks up on rumours about the Dark wizard organisation TOWER and gathers intel about the war parties. It is her goal to collect as much information as possible and she isn't afraid of putting herself in danger to do so.

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Mysterie Charmsworth @potionboy3

Mystie is Odessa's childhood friend and like her, also a reporter. Unlike Ode, though, she would do anything for a good story. She was a Gryffindor at Hogwarts.

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Aiden Barlow @gaygryffindorgal

A muggle and the older half-brother of Sydney Barlow. Aiden is a decorated war hero, being a captain at the start of the story and advancing through the ranks as the war goes on.

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Adeline Blackburn @cursebreakerfarrier

Adeline is the youngest of three sisters born to half-blood parents and they all live in the rural north. After Hogwarts she becomes an auror and works as an investigative assistant during the war.

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Kateryna von Engelhardt @cursebreakerfarrier

Kateryna, Klara and Alexej were all friends during their Durmstrang years but grew distant after the death of their shared friend Fiete Tegeler. She is later involved with Zedric Faust.

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Conrad St. James @endlessly-cursed

Conrad is a French-Canadian journalist and photographer who works together with Mystie Charmworth. He attended Ilvermony and was sorted into Thunderbird.

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Irene Griffiths @camillejeaneshphm

Irene is a young nurse who tends to Kit's wounds when he is shot during a battle. At Hogwarts she was sorted into Gryffindor.

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Patrick Simmons @potionboy3

Simmons joined the army around the same time as Kit. The two are good friends. He's also childhood friends with Eugene Lovell and later marries his sister Ophelia. Simmons has no knowledge of magic.

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Andrey Belikov @gaygryffindorgal

Younger brother of Klara, Andrey lives with her in Paris after his parents disown him. He has a keen interest in fashion. He gets involved with Andy Vallen.

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#*character masterpost #will be updated with any new additions!#well at least the next three.... :)

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dangraccoon · 2 years

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Oyuba’din - Chapter 1: Reassigned

Original Character & The Bad Batch (currently no plans for romance, but this could very easily turn into a poly!batch fic ngl)

Summary: A Medic Lieutenant of the GAR has suffered an injury that by all rights should have been fatal, yet Jaine Vale has emerged from the battle relatively unscathed. After a brief discussion with a pair of higher-ups, Lt. Vale is transferred to a new unit for a new beginning.

Warnings: discussion of medical stuff, a wee bit of depersonalization, survival, talk of a fatal injury

Author’s Note: Hello! My name is Dang and this is the first fic I’m publishing for the Bad Batch, as well as the first I’m posting on this blog (I have posted for another fandom under another name). The title is a Mando’a word that I came up with. Don’t know if I got the language rules right, but it’s just a title. Comes from “oyu’baat” meaning universe and “dinui” meaning gift. “oyuba’din” would be a term for a miracle (lit. “universe gift”). Anyhoo, I hope you all enjoy this! Feedback is welcomed and appreciated greatly!

Next Chapter »

She should be dead.

That’s what everyone told her. The medical droids, the clone medics, the civilian doctors. “You shouldn’t have survived a hit like that, it’s impossible,” they had all said. Yet here she was, living out of spite it seemed.

It didn’t take long for her to become something of a legend throughout the clone ranks. The 212th medic who survived a blaster shot to the base of her skull? Obviously it must be a good story. She preferred not to think about it, even if the scarring from the blast wrapped around the back of her head and neck, small slivers cutting through her previously unblemished cheek and throat. Her hair was still cropped short from the medics assessing her damage.

She barely even had a name at this point. Lieutenant Jaine Vale barely existed without “blaster girl” following it closely.

Only your fellow officers seemed to use your name anymore; Commander Cody being a godsend. Not only had he continued to use her name, but he finally dropped the formality of using her rank and surname in favor of using her first name, as she’d nagged him to for nearly two years.

He came to her bedside in the medical bay nearly every day with a cup of caf, news from the frontlines, and a smile. She was convinced he was an actual angel.

It seemed like every day there would be new faces of medics and doctors coming to ask questions about her condition. If Cody happened to be there, they were shooed away, but if she was alone, she could expect to be poked and prodded and questioned for a while.

Today was one of those days. One of the doctors she had met previously had arrived with some colleagues. They droned on about her as if she weren’t in the room, only acknowledging her presence to inspect her injury.

She had stopped listening to the conversations weeks ago. She wished she were allowed a data pad to keep herself entertained. As her wound healed it had been uncomfortable, but at this point, nearly a standard month after the would-be fatal shot, she barely noticed it.

There was a sharp knock on the door and the doctors didn’t even look to her to see if she wanted it answered; they simply opened the door.

“Good evening, doctors,” an easy voice greeted. “I hope you will excuse me, but I am here to visit with my medic, and I was hoping to speak with her alone.”

She couldn’t place the voice. It was making her crazy. The doctors, clearly startled by the presence of this new visitor, mumbled a half-dozen apologies and shuffled out of the room. She was then left face to face with her general, Obi-Wan Kenobi.

She had never interacted with him personally, typically reporting directly to Cody.

Instinctively, she sat upright in her bed, as close to attention she could be.

“General Kenobi,” she said.

“Easy, Lieutenant,” he chuckled. “There’s no need for formalities here.”

She relaxed a little, but she still felt uneasy.

“May I call you Jaine?” he asked, quirking a brow at her lack of relaxation.

“Of course, sir,” she replied.

“Please, Jaine, call me Obi-Wan.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed. “I mean, yes, Obi-Wan.”

“Old habits die hard,” he mused.

It was quiet for a few moments, Obi-Wan enjoying the view from her window while she wondered why the general would visit her.

After, what felt like a lifetime, she finally asked “How can I help you, s- Obi-Wan?”

“I am just wondering what I could possibly do without you in my ranks, Jaine,” he sighed.

Her head started reeling. “What do you mean?”

“It seems, my dear, that the Force has different plans for you,” he turned towards her, sitting in the chair Cody typically occupied. “General Skywalker and I have meditated on your survival, and the next step your path was laid out before us.”

“I don’t understand, General. Am I being discharged?” she asked as the panic rose in her throat. She worked herself to the bone to get to where she is now. She couldn’t lose it all because she caught a blaster bolt to the neck, could she.

“I can sense your anxiety. You are not being discharged from the GAR if you do not wish; you are merely being transferred to another unit.”

Jaine’s head was spinning. Another unit? Was she not good enough for the 212th? What about the men? What did Cody think of this?

“Excuse me for a moment, Jaine,” Obi-Wan said, stepping out of the room.

He came back a few minutes later with Cody in tow, a scowl plastered across the Clone Commander’s face, despite the cheerful smile displayed by the Jedi General.

Jaine had gotten too anxious to stay in her bed and paced in front of the window.

“Should you be up, Jainey?” Cody asked, using the nickname some of the other troopers had given her.

“I’m fine, Cody,” she waved him off.

“But-” he started, only to be cut off by the general.

“Now, Cody, I believe the lady knows her own strength,” he scolded, shooting a kind smile towards Jaine, and missing the frustrated glare from Cody.

“Sir, what is my new assignment?” She asked impatiently. “In the event that I am finally released from bed rest, I would like to do some research on the men I will be serving with. I don’t like to walk into a situation unprepared.”

“Easy, Jainey,” Cody said reassuringly. “You’ve already met them.”

“Oh, kriff, Cody. Don’t tell me it’s the 501st,” she grunted before realizing her slip and apologizing to Obi-Wan.

“It’s quite alright, Jaine. Remember, I did train General Skywalker.”

She couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped her, and noticed the grin that cracked Cody’s usually serious expression.

“It’s not the 501st,” he chuckled. “It’s actually a specialized unit; Clone Force 99. Do you remember them?”

“Them and the messes they make,” she grumbled. “What could they possibly need a medic for? I’ve heard their success rate is 100%.”

“As I had mentioned before,” Obi-Wan chimed in. “The Force has revealed this path for you to both myself and General Skywalker, and higher command believes that Clone Force 99 could use a, how shall I put it, guiding hand.”

Jaine blinked at him and then at Cody, who looked like he wanted to crawl into a hole.

“Are you telling me that I am to be relieved of my current duties as a medic in the 212th so I can go and babysit five clones who don’t like to follow the rules?” she could feel her body shivering with anger as she looked between the two men.

“Well,” Obi-Wan hummed, his voice faltering ever so slightly. “Your duties would still entail being first and foremost a medic to the squad.”

“This position would put you more in a combat role. You would be in the field with the squad, not in a medical tent,” Cody explained, the furrowing of his eyebrows betraying his opinion on this transfer. “It would be dangerous. You’d be fit with a proper set of armor and weapons, as well as your standard medical kit.”

She squinted at Cody as he refused to make eye contact. “You don’t approve. What, am I not capable of combat?”

His eyes shot up to meet hers. “That’s not it at all,” he stammered. “I’ve become rather fond of you, as have the men. You’re like a sister to us. It was hard on all of us to face the possibility of losing you, let alone to see you go into battle without us.”

Obi-Wan gave a nod, despite maintaining a straight face. And they say the Jedi don’t form attachments, she thought with a chuckle.

She closed her eyes and took a deep steadying breath. She pushed all of her concern and frustration to the back as she tried to open her mind to the new possibilities. “General,” she said, facing him at attention. “I happily accept my new assignment, and hope to serve with the 212th Attack Battalion in the future.”

Thanks for Reading! - Dang

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tieflingkisser · 5 months

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Dozens of deaths reveal risks of injecting sedatives into people restrained by police

At least 94 people died after they were given sedatives and restrained by police from 2012 through 2021, according to findings by the AP in collaboration with FRONTLINE (PBS) and the Howard Centers for Investigative Journalism. That’s nearly 10% of the more than 1,000 deaths identified during the investigation of people subdued by police in ways that are not supposed to be fatal. About half of the 94 who died were Black, including [Demetrio] Jackson. Behind the racial disparity is a disputed medical condition called excited delirium, which fueled the rise of sedation outside hospitals. Critics say its purported symptoms, including “superhuman strength” and high pain tolerance, play into racist stereotypes about Black people and lead to biased decisions about who needs sedation.

[...]

Paramedics drugged some people who were not a threat to themselves or others, violating treatment guidelines. Medics often didn’t know whether other drugs or alcohol were in people’s systems, although some combinations cause serious side effects. Police officers sometimes improperly encouraged paramedics to give shots to suspects they were detaining. Responders occasionally joked about the medications’ power to knock their subjects out. “Night, night” is heard on videos before deaths in California, Tennessee and Florida. Emergency medical workers, “if they aren’t careful, can simply become an extension of the police’s handcuffs, of their weapons, of their nightsticks,” said Claire Zagorski, a paramedic and an addiction researcher at the University of Texas at Austin.

[...]

In Minneapolis, an oversight agency found the use of ketamine during police calls rose dramatically from 2012 through 2017 and body-camera video showed instances of officers appearing to pressure paramedics to use ketamine and joking about its power. The department told officers they could never “suggest or demand” the use of sedation. Facing criticism, Hennepin Healthcare halted a study examining the effectiveness of ketamine on agitated patients. The Food and Drug Administration later found the research failed to protect vulnerable, intoxicated people who had not given consent. By 2021, the American College of Emergency Physicians warned ketamine impacted breathing and the heart more than previously believed.

[...]

But the AP’s findings show risks of sedation go beyond ketamine, which was used in at least 19 cases. Roughly half of the 94 deaths documented by the AP came after the use of midazolam, which has long been known to heighten the risk of respiratory depression. Many came during police encounters in California, where ketamine is not widely used. Midazolam, a common pre-surgery drug known by the brand name Versed, is also part of a three-drug cocktail used in some states to execute prisoners. Other cases involved a range of other drugs, including the antipsychotic medications haloperidol and ziprasidone, which can cause irregular heartbeats.

[...]

Yet, over time, prominent medical groups and some experts pointed to overuse of sedation during police encounters and a disproportionate impact on Black people. Even supporters of the practice have acknowledged that the wrong patients at times have been injected. The deaths of Black men in police custody, including the 2020 killing of George Floyd, put pressure on the medical community to re-examine excited delirium. The ER doctors group in 2023 withdrew approval of the 2009 paper and said excited delirium shouldn’t be used in court testimony. Some doctors called that decision political and note the group still recognizes a similar condition — hyperactive delirium with severe agitation — that can be treated with sedation. But today no major medical association legitimizes excited delirium.

[...]

In more than a dozen cases reviewed by AP, police asked for or suggested the use of sedatives, calling into question whether medics were working for law enforcement or in patients’ interests. Officers often suggested their detainees had excited delirium.

#acab #police brutality #racism #antiblackness #usa #news

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beardedmrbean · 8 months

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The U.S. Justice Department on Thursday released a withering report into the hundreds of Texas law enforcement officers’ fumbled response to the 2022 Robb Elementary School shooting, finding “cascading failures of leadership, decision-making, tactics, policy and training.”

The long-anticipated 575-page report detailed the many failures of the May 24, 2022 response, but concluded the most significant was that officers should have immediately recognized that it was an active shooter situation and confronted the gunman, who was with victims in two adjoining classrooms.

It noted that since the 1999 Columbine High School shooting, American law enforcement officers have been trained to prioritize stopping the shooter while everything else, including officer safety, is secondary.

“These efforts must be undertaken regardless of the equipment and personnel available,” the report found.

Instead, officers wrongly treated the situation as a barricaded suspect, even as children and teachers pleaded for help with 911 operators. It took 77 minutes for officers to confront the shooter. Nineteen students and two teachers died that day and 17 others were injured in one of the country’s worst school shootings.

The federal review by the Office of Community Oriented Policing Services was announced just five days after the shooting. It was led by Orange County Sheriff John Mina, the incident commander during the 2016 Pulse Nightclub massacre in Orlando. In that incident, officers waited three hours to take down the shooter who had barricaded himself with victims in a bathroom.

A Justice Department and National Policing Institute review of that Florida law enforcement response was far less critical than the Uvalde report. It found that Florida officers mostly followed best practices, although it stated the law enforcement agencies in Orlando should update their training and policies.

In the Uvalde review, the federal team reviewed more than 14,100 pieces of data and documentation, including policies, training logs, body camera footage, audio recordings, interview transcripts and photographs.

The team visited Uvalde nine times, spending 54 days there, and conducted more than 260 interviews with people from more than 30 organizations and agencies, including law enforcement officers, school staff, medical personnel, survivors and victims’ families.

The Uvalde report’s release comes two months after ProPublica, the Texas Tribune and PBS’ Frontline published an investigation into the response after gaining access to a trove of investigative materials, including more than 150 interviews with officers and dozens of body cameras.

The material showed that the children at Robb Elementary followed active shooter protocols, while many of the officers did not. It detailed how officers treated the situation as a barricaded suspect rather than an active threat even as evidence mounted quickly that children and teachers were injured and with the shooter.

ProPublica and the Tribune have also revealed that some officers were afraid to confront the gunman because he had a deadly AR-15 rifle. With the Washington Post, the news organizations found that the medical response also was flawed and that two children and a teacher were still alive when they were rescued more than an hour later, but then died.

U.S. Attorney General Merrick Garland is expected to discuss the federal report at an 11 a.m. press conference.

#nunyas news

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coldshrugs · 5 months

Note

ty for the tag rant. it's very informative..

LOL thank you! i wasn't sure it was anything important. i just get so frustrated being on the frontline of giving people wild prices for medical care. it's bad. it's really fucking bad! the hoops these companies will put both the patient and practitioner through to avoid paying for services... it's straight up abhorrent.

and the medicaid patients! a couple weeks ago, someone with a medicaid plan (that my office happened to be out of network with) thanked me just for being polite to her on the phone?? we'd had a little banter during the convo, even though i had to tell her we were OON and unable to take new patients right now anyway. then i pointed her to another office in the area and googled the number for her. the stigma against folks using government aid bleeds into healthcare in shitty little ways, and she was shocked because as soon as she mentioned her insurance in her other calls, those places would get her off the phone as quickly and rudely as possible. just normal kindness made her day.

every day i witness the dehumanization of the poor and disabled in a system that is buckling under its own weight. i work in it. and those patients are me! my mom! my cousins! my friends! i grew up on medicaid and know firsthand the difference it makes. maybe my news for them will always be disappointing, but i will never make them feel lesser for using all of their available resources.

#asks #healthcare

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frogblast-the-ventcore · 7 months

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Colonel Liasa D'Argan (to the left in reference photo) - the commanding officer of the USS Sorcerer's embarked Starfleet Marine Corps battalion, 2d Battalion, 5th Marines, which traces its lineage and traditions to the United States Marine Corps, which supplied troops to the United Earth Starfleet as part of it's MACO initiative.

A sister unit to the original 2d Battalion, 5th Marines of the USMC (which still exists on Earth, as part of the United States armed forces, which sits under United Earth command via the United Nations), 2/5 is a veteran unit, having fought in the 2256 Klingon War, Cardassian Wars, Tzenkethi War, and the Dominion War, embodying their "Retreat, hell!" motto, borrowed from their terrestrial forebears.

A Dominion War veteran, the 62-year old Colonel Liasa is a member of the towering mammalian Jeselian species, standing over 9 feet tall, and projecting an air of command and decorum larger even than her size. Often commanding her troops from the frontline, swathed in standard issue SFMC powered armor, the Colonel also supplies her Marines for the traditional duties of protecting shore parties, VBSS duties, and assisting in shipboard gunnery (a section of 2/5 Marines is normally assigned to starboard Phaser Control Room #5 during space combat).

Colonel D'Argan has been married for 40 years to the Sorcerer's Chief Medical Officer, the Caitian CMDR Dr. Ny'Kara; the couple has nineteen children (twelve Caitian, six Jeselian, and one Jeselian-Caitian hybrid, the latter via an experimental version of the Phlox-Wilder hybrid fertilization method).

#star trek #star trek fanfiction #uss sorcerer #crew manifest

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theredhavendelegate · 4 months

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Iss. 10:

Field Workers on Strike! Picket Line or Firing Line?

Supplies of staple oats and root vegetables are expected in increase as efforts to revitalize agriculture in Redhaven’s countryside show promise. Farm workers speak hopefully regarding the new program and are more unified than ever, though some already complain of long hours and harsh management by Confederation overseers.

Scientific progress marches on at the estate of Lord Oswald Redhaven. Last week’s recruiting drive was a resounding success, and the bright minds up on the hill have already made a number of interesting discoveries, at least according to Head Researcher Earnest Bell.

The work is being carried out primarily in temporary science outposts on the edge of the Void Fields, where the fog meets the air. There was trouble at one of these outpost yesterday, however, as dissatisfied laborers and onsite medical staff rebelled due to repeated exposure to void-fog.

This stunning turn of events drew the eye of local police, Frontline Confederation officers and, eventually, occupying general Bradley Harrison himself.

The situation reached a fever pitch around midnight… ---

Eric lights a cigarette beneath a pitch black sky. It winks like a lone firefly, lighting the tip of his nose and his stubbled cheeks, flashing off his eyes beneath a pitch-black sky. He wears the jacket of a Frontline Confederation soldier, though the orange armband is torn off along with the rank patch. He leans against the tin wall of a temporary structure and glances to the north.

Lilac mist gathers about five hundred feet away, strange lights flowing behind it like syrupy will-o-wisps. Redhaven rises far to the south, a gathering of buildings with glowing windows and and street lamps, cyclopean eyes in the dark.

Something moves around on the edge of the city, many somethings, little lights and shadowy forms, first as a loose flood of hourglass sand, and then in termite formation. They come not within a mile, halting to surround the structure. They set up mobile lamps, more eyes to keep watch.

Eric tosses the butt of his cigarette into the wet grass and stomps it out. He turns and knocks once on the door to the building, calling, “Ingrid, they’re here.”

There is chatter from inside, the murmuring of a dozen voices, some small and worried, some cocky.

A rough woman with messy blonde hair steps outside and closes the door behind herself. She turns a freckled face towards the gathered horde and inhales sharply, “Shit. They aren’t playing around, are they?”

Eric nods. “Two companies, most likely. The 1st General infantry company, veterans of the civil war, the same people who occupied the city initially, and the 1st Redhaven auxiliary. Those are the locals who volunteered to fight for their own occupiers, mostly green opportunists.”

Ingrid squints between the formations, where they’ve created alleys for their lamps. There are small groups working within those alleys, maneuvering some kind of equipment. She asks, “What are those ones doing?”

Eric doesn’t answer initially. He pouts and wrings his hands, then finally relents, “Artillery. We—I mean, The 1st has an artillery corps. Six guns, mostly meant to counter tanks, but, well…a cannon is a cannon.”

Ingrid blanches.

Eric clears this throat after a moment and asks, “How’d it get like this? Weren’t the other unions supposed to back us up?”

“Well, they will. They haven’t gotten to meet yet though, that’s next week. The farm workers will have us for sure, Jens wouldn’t let us down, and if we keep taking losses and illnesses the way we have been this past week, there won’t be anyone left to go diving into the void for the eggheads. If we can get a meeting with someone tonight either way, we should be able to buy some time.”

Eric doesn’t respond, he just pulls out another cigarette and lights it.

Ingrid takes a shuddering breath and whispers, “Do you think they’ll actually use those guns.”

“I doubt it,” Eric answers, his voice flat and his throat dry. “Probably just a scare tactic, probably just a trick.”

A short man in a bowler hat and wire-rim glasses walks down an alley. Another man, this one tall, with olive skin and a large metal case, follows closely. They do not speak.

They work their way to the end of the alley. The man in the bower hat glances around the corner, and then the two cross the street at a trot. They continue like this for a minute more until they reach the base of an old stone tower with an iron door, the feather of Redhaven cast into its surface. The Valet produces a key and, with a gloved hand, inserts it into the door to reveal a dark interior, a rusting ladder at its center.

“After you, Hasan,” he whispers, the words piercing the silence like a needle through fabric.

The marksman nods and steps inside, loading the large case onto his shoulder via a canvas strap. Whatever is inside doesn’t make a sound as it’s upturned. He climbs the ladder, which whines with each step until Hasan reaches a square hole in the ceiling and clambers through.

The Valet joins him a moment later and both are gifted with a clear sight out over Redhaven’s countryside. A small army has assembled just beyond the city limits. The termites stand in even, slouching rows, and the aisles between them are lit with flickering lamps, candles on a table.

The hordes face off against a small, temporary building. The faint glow of a lit cigarette can be seen just before the door, emanating from the hand of a figure so far as to be faceless.

Ingrid Larsen mills about inside of the research outpost, which is damp and cramped. A dozen other figures are scattered around, bearing the worker’s uniform: calloused hands and wrinkled brows. A few glance up to her, three play cards without money, and the rest converse quietly or mill about.

The space is lit by gas lamp, dim bulbs hissing and flickering near the windows, makeshift funnels turning their soot to the outside, from which the clatter of the distant soldiery can just be caught.

“Ingrid,” Eric calls from outside. “Someone is coming this way!”

His voice is firm, a thin guise to his worry. Ingrid nods reassurances to the rest of the crew and exits, and she is greeted again by the moonless night of The Void.

The field between the science outpost and the soldiers is barren except for a single figure on horseback. He rides up with an air of simultaneous poise and impatience, clad in a great coat and the pointed hat of a general.

He comes to a stop less than five feet from Eric and Ingrid and they stare up at him. He looks down over a bushy black beard and moustache, assessing them like cuts of meat.

“Hello and well met,” he declares pompously. “You have the pleasure of parlaying with Bradley Harrison, general and commander of The Frontline Confederation’s 2nd northern assault army.”

The two continue to stare for a moment, until Ingrid answers simply, “Hello.”

He glares at her from his saddle and squints. “I have it on good account that you disgruntled laborers have taken the researchers of this outpost hostage. You are to release them immediately and surrender, so that you may be subject to the justice of Redhaven and The Frontline Confederation.”

Ingrid turns to Eric and frowns, then leans in to converse with him at a whisper. “Is this guy fucking nuts, Eric? I don’t even know where to start with this.”

The ex-soldier huffs and replies, “I might have an idea, just don’t piss him off.”

Eric turns to Harrison and lowers his head respectfully. He dons the tone of a simple worker and says, “Sorry about the confusion, Mister Harrison sir. There aren’t any researchers in the building, just us voidsmen. You can send a couple fellows inside to check if you like though, just to poke around. See, we just haven’t gotten the safety equipment we need, no hazard pay, and—”

Bradley cuts the man off. “My sources don’t lie, and I won’t stoop to negotiating with troublemakers. Release the hostages and surrender within ten minutes, or we will be forced to assault the outpost.”

Eric motions to respond, but the general has already begun to wheel his horse around. Harrison adds, “This will be your only warning,” before galloping off.

Eric goes wide-eyed. Ingrid watches the clouds of dust fade out behind the general’s horse and grumbles, “He must not be the type to respect common people. That was just another scare tactic though, right? Just trying to turn up the pressure on us?”

Eric doesn’t answer.

Hasan lays the metal case on the floor of the tower roof. “This is a cozy spot for a lookout,” he remarks.

The Valet, standing at attention by his side, responds, “The Carmine household is a patron of history. Towers and other such historical sites are littered throughout the city and maintained at their expense. Your own quarters beneath the town hall are also historic, a former dungeon from Redhaven’s earliest days.”

“Fitting,” The marksman comments playfully. He opens the case to reveal a long, ornate rifle. It’s stock and body are made of dark wood, ornately detailed with gold and silver inlay and colorful gemstones. The hexagonal barrel is polished to a shine, and there is a complex, multi-lensed scope affixed to the top.

He withdraws it from its perfectly-fitted, felt-lined home. His hands cradle it as if it was made of porcelain, and his fingers pass along its grip and mechanisms tenderly.

“Tell me again, servant of Carmine, why we are up here on such a dreary night.”

The Valet keeps his eyes fixed on the field. “The General is on rather thin ice. Negotiating with him is difficult, and he continues to make trouble on his own time that bleeds over into matters of state.”

Hasan opens the chamber of his rifle and inspects it, millimeter by millimeter. “I thought this was an over watch mission, not an assassination.”

“It isn’t,” The Valet replies coolly. “Unless, that is, General Harrison decides to cross the line.”

The marksman inserts a round into the chamber, a gleaming brass bullet with a dark, shining tip. “And where is that line? I wouldn’t want to make any trouble, the sort that might ‘bleed over into matters of state’.”

The Valet’s eyes flash, just subtly, and he fixes his glasses with two fingers. “Watch the big guns. If they fire even once, use their sound for cover. There is the potential here for collateral damage that we can scarcely afford.”

Hasan takes a step over to the tower’s edge and lays the barrel of his gun between two stone crenelations, then kneels down. He stairs through the lenses of his scope and sets their center-most dot on the head of a man on horseback. To The Valet, he replies, “That’s a good, clean line. I won’t have to think twice.”

The lines of massed soldiers have begun to droop. A few murmur here and there only to be silenced by their officers, and they increasingly unsling their weapons and set them stock-first on the ground.

A horse trots down the line and then back up. Its rider adjusts his pointed hat, checks his watch, then stops beside one of the mobile lamps. A senior officer nearby salutes and clears his throat. “The kidnappers haven’t made a move, general. What are your orders?”

Harrison’s permanently furrowed brow furrows more deeply, receding into itself, and he sighs. “They leave us no choice.”

The soldiers nearest tense up and their apprehension spreads through the ranks. A new wave of dissonant murmuring goes up and is hushed in short order, and the lines straighten out.

The faint light of a cigarette near the outpost extinguishes.

The general purses his lip and rides to a point at the head of the formation where the various artillery teams can see him. He calls out. “All artillery crews, to alert!” Their commanders hurry to position themselves and soon, the barking orders start to ring out over the field like bells.

“Targets are in the science outpost! Load and aim!”

A rattling, clanking, thunking chorus sings its grizzly promise to the sky and, each at their own time, the artillery teams call out, “Ready to fire at command!”

The general raises a fist. He breathes, and something catches his eye.

Someone is walking between the lines towards him. They are wearing some kind of rubber suit beneath a lab coat, and their face is concealed with a black filter-mask. They have a warning hand raised.

Harrison’s seriousness melts into something more resembling worry. He opens his fist to reveal his palm and shouts, “All crews, hold!”

The masked figure lowers their hand and nods gratefully.

Harrison grimaces and mutters, “What’s the matter now, Earnest. Sorry, Doctor Bell.”

The scientist adjusts his mask slightly and answers, voice all gravel, rust and haggard breathing, “There are…are…th—things in that outpost that…that we cannot easily…recreate, and the people are…v—valuable, in their own…right. It would set us back…q—quite badly to lose all…all that. Lord Redhaven would not…approve, and you know how the people love Lord Redhaven.”

The general sneers. “Really now? What do you propose then, should we just leave them alone in there with all your ‘irreplaceable’ research? And for what? Lord Redhaven’s altruism?”

Though Bell’s face is hidden, he seems to glower pitifully with his whole body. “You could…could simply…fire them. Th—they are…under your management, a thing which…which I recall you fought f—for quite determinedly…”

The scientist spreads his hands out in a placating gesture, and he turns his head around, seeming to look for something back in the city.

As General Harrison tries to track Doctor Bell’s gaze, a sourceless shudder runs up his spine.

His hands tighten around the reins of his horse and he swallows, then relents. “Fine. I…I need clearer directions in the future though, let Lord Redhaven know that comes from me personally. If these sites need to be guarded inside and out, then so be it. If something like this happens again, I won’t be deferring my authority.”

“I’ll b—bring it to…to him for…consideration.” The doctor adjusts his mask again and nods, then walks back down the line of soldiers.

The artillery commanders stare at Bradley for direction and, after a moment, he clears his throat. “All crews, stand down!”

Hasan raises his head. Far away and below, the soldiers of The Frontline Confederation part as a group of common laborers pass between them anxiously. “Is that it?” he asks aloud.

The Valet wipes his glasses with a kerchief. “I suppose so, and Miss Carmine will be most grateful for that.”

“What about Bradley?” Hasan asks, stepping away from the parapet and over to his gun case.

The Valet replaces his spectacles. “He’ll be quite angry, I’m sure. His authority is undermined, the outpost and its contents have been preserved, and the void workers that I’m sure he just fired have nowhere to go except into the arms of his enemies.”

Hasan wipes the fingerprints from his rifle and returns it to its felted home. “What kind of strategy is this, Valet? You agitate your allies, weave a web of uneasy alliances, manipulate the population, but never outright punish them, and, at great expense, furnish a personal marksman of the highest caliber, all so that he never actually pulls the trigger.”

The Valet glances at the marksman, then looks back out over Redhaven. He contemplates the question, then answers, “It’s a sort of fixed tension. If one side pulls too hard, the other sides react and compensate, bringing things back into balance. We agitate Harrison so that he clamps down on the laborers, who rush to the Blue Coalition for protection, who grow overconfident and overstep their bounds, and are in turn cut back by the Confederation. See?”

“That seems like a dandy way to keep your blood pressure high, but where do I fit in?”

The Valet laughs softly. “Well, even the best plan can fail.” He pushes up his glasses and flashes a grin. “You’re insurance.”

---

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#the redhaven delegate #trd #writing #unreality #writblr #series #short story #violence #civil disobedience #strike #threats of violence #TRD: Ingrid Larsen #TRD: Eric Sanders #TRD: Hasan Al-Jazari #TRD: The Valet #TRD: Bradley Harrison

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shadoedseptmbr · 8 months

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five-ish lines for Friday

Chakwas hummed and Aedan glanced over at her. "Actually, Commander, I've been a part of several medical conference committees that have considered issuing a similar report and recommendation." "What, to the turian approach?" She nodded, "Yes. While officers do tend to come from more stable backgrounds, enlisted are often drawn in to escape their situations. Physical contact, if positive and consent oriented, is frequently an excellent frontline remedy to stress, especially for those from adverse childhood experiences. Given our origins, mammallian litters and all, prolonged cuddles are better for increasing resilience, but soldiers will be soldiers."

#sept writes #this is pure crack #doc chakwas #prescribing cuddles for stress relief

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fallenwhumpee · 1 year

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Radio

• Masterlist •

Warnings: War settings, stitches, sedating, nightmares, mentioned gun.

General lay on the cot, their body weary from the recent injury sustained in the field. This was the first time in years that they had been forced to rest for more than a day, and the restlessness was worse than the war. Their eyes fixated on the radio in the corner. Sighing, they slid slightly to the edge of the cot.

"Don't even think about jumping out of that bed," Medic entered the room, throwing their bag down with a thud, their tone leaving no room for argument. "You're injured, and you're going to stay put until you're healed."

General rolled their eyes, knowing there was no point in arguing with Medic. They weren't exactly known for their bedside manners. But well, General was the worst patient they could have. If they could walk more than a minute, they would be back on the frontlines.

"Hello to you too," General sighed, glancing at the radio sitting on the nearby table. "I hope your day was well."

Medic snorted in annoyance. "I was stranded with the politicians. Can't trust half of what they say." They eyed General. "You're better off focusing on getting yourself back in shape instead of sitting on the edge. Your troops are waiting for any news they could have on you."

"I know," General replied, a hint of frustration in their voice. "Are they well? What were they doing with politicians?"

Medic grunted. "Look, worrying won't do you any good. You need to heal, and then you can ask about them. But until then, they'll manage without you for a little while."

As the clock ticked, General's restlessness grew. The prison disguised as the infirmary walls felt suffocating, and the distant sound of gunfire, real or not, only heightened their unease. They reached out, hesitating for a moment before turning the knob. The radio crackled to life, and General's heart raced as they listened intently to the roll call. Each name that was called sent waves of relief or anxiety crashing through their battered body.

"Team, report in."

There was a pause, then a voice came through the static. It was their squad, and they eagerly waited for their voices.

But before the call started, Medic burst back into the room, anger flashing.

"What are you doing?" Medic snapped, storming over to the radio and snatching it away. "You know you're not supposed to be listening to this."

General clenched their fists. "I just wanted to know if they were alright. I needed to—."

Medic shook their head, their voice tinged with disappointment. "You can't risk your recovery for this. You have to trust that they're doing their job. Now, lie down and try to rest. I have other things to do, and you only heal when you truly rest."

-•-

The room was bathed in the dim glow of moonlight as the night settled in, casting long shadows across the walls. Medic had dozed off on the empty cot near General's, their exhaustion catching up to them. But as the night deepened, a noise stirred them from their sleep.

Medic's eyes opened in an instant, scanning the room for the source of the disturbance. And there, on the cot, General was thrashing, hands clasping their wound. The sight sent a jolt of panic through Medic, and they hurried over to General's side.

"General, wake up!" Medic's voice was urgent as they gently shook the disoriented officer. "You're having a nightmare. It's okay, but you have to stop."

General's eyes snapped open with pain, their gaze unfocused and lost. They murmured incoherent words, their voice strained with worry and confusion. "They didn't answer the roll call... Where are they? Are they okay?"

Medic's heart sank as they realized General's state of mind. They were reliving the battlefield, their mind trapped in a moment of uncertainty and fear. With a mixture of guilt and determination, Medic spoke softly, their words carrying empty reassurance without proof.

"General, listen to me. You're not there anymore. You're with me, and you're safe." Medic's voice trembled slightly as they tried to comfort their wounded charge. "Your squad is doing their duty, just like you taught them. They're strong, and they'll come back. You trust them, don't you? They can take care of themselves."

General's eyes searched Medic's face, their gaze clouded with confusion. "Trust... Yes, I trust them. They're... good soldiers. Always... have been."

Medic nodded, their hands instinctively reaching to General's reopened wound. "That's right, General. They're doing their part, and you need to do yours."

Medic prepared a sedative, preparing themselves for stitching the wound back together.

-•-

Night had passed, and the sun began to cast its golden rays upon the world once again. In the small makeshift office, Commander sat across from Medic

"How is General doing?" Commander asked, their voice filled with genuine worry. "We have limited information from the frontline, but I know how much they rely on knowing what's happening."

Medic hesitated for a moment, not having the heart to tell Commander that they snapped at one of their well-known military officers.

"General seemed to relax after the roll call," they settled with the answer, their tone carefully neutral. "They're still on medication, so they might need a bit more time to wake up fully. But they're stable."

Commander nodded, their eyes flickering with understanding. "You know, ever since the war started, knowing what's happening has been General's way of coping. When they were too injured to fight, we would talk to them and update them on the situation. It helped keep their spirits up and gave them a sense of control."

"I... didn't know," Medic replied, guilt clawing at their throat.

"That's fair. General is a very reserved person."

"Does it have anything to do with..."

"The scars? Yes. Mostly." Commander sighed, looking around. "Our squad is specialized in gathering information, and we often do the first contact with whoever we're against. Do you remember how this war started?"

Medic nodded, remembering the news of a high-ranking officer being taken hostage and tortured, the first mission marching on the enemy and taking them back home...

"They couldn't recover for a long time, and we were called to the frontline. General was kept in the loop with a radio, and we got used to giving detailed reports over it." Commander chuckled. "To a point where it annoyed the temporary commanding officer we were assigned to until General came back." They turned away. "I believe that's enough. General won't like that we talked behind their back."

"They should be awake now, and they would probably appreciate some updates about the front."

-•-

General was semi-conscious as Commander entered, a warm smile on their face, and sat down beside the cot. They didn't need to be formal, battle after battle dismissing their ranks when they were alone.

"Hey, General," Commander greeted, their voice laced with genuine care. "How are you feeling?"

General's gaze shifted to Commander, a mix of exhaustion and gratitude in their eyes. "I'm tired, but that's not new."

"Good thing that I'm saving you from this misery, then." Commander took General's fruit. "The frontline is preparing for an attack, and this place is staying out of the radio's range. We wouldn't want our best to be in the dark, so you're coming with us."

General closed their eyes tiredly, just taking the water since they struggled to keep things down.

"I can't," they answered despite their mind yearning to say otherwise. "I'm afraid I'm not fit for battle."

As if reading their mind, Commander held their arm, keeping an assuring tone. "You're not going to be a liability for us, and maybe it'll finally keep you in the war room instead of running straight into the bullets."

#whump #whump writing #military whump #war settings #stitches #sedation #tw nightmares #mentioned gun #leader whump #leader whumpee

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celticcrossanon · 8 months

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Is Harry a qualified pilot?

Yes, he is. All the details can be found below. He qualified as a helicopter pilot (in the army) in between the two tours of Afghanistan. William qualified as a helicopter pilot in the airforce, hence his wings are different. (Andrew was a qualified helicopter pilot in the navy, hence he also can wear the gold wings. He has also not kept flying, but it seems that once you are awarded the wings, you keep them even if you are no longer allowed to fly as a pilot.)

It is entirely possible that Harry has not done the required flying hours to keep his license to fly, and there is no record of him flying a helicopter since he left the army or even during that second tour of duty in Afghanistan.

Hope this all makes sense. Yes, he did qualify as a helicopter pilot in the army. No, he has not done the required number of flying hours, each year, to be allowed to fly a helicopter.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prince_Harry,_Duke_of_Sussex

Hi JustSDV,

I also think that Harry has not kept up the required number of flying hours to have a current license.

I agree that the different colour of the badges could be due to the different branches of the armed forces. That makes sense. If anyone reading this is in the UK Armed Forces and knows for sure, please let me know.

I looked at photos and Harry’s badge is the same as King Charles’s badge, to my eyes (picture below).

I looked up the source for the wikipedia article saying Harry was a qualified Apache Helicopter pilot, and it was simply a “Fast Facts About Harry” media piece, so no more or less truthful than any other PR piece in my eyes (wikipedia, while useful, is only as accurate as the sources of the information)

What I want to know, and what I can’t find out, is how far did Harry get in his pilot training?

This is long, so I am putting it under a cut

We know he passed his ‘provisional wings’.

https://www.royal.uk/prince-harry-train-apache-pilot

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1TU7gZnuUY

The video shows a badge being pinned above Harry’s medals. Unfortunately, I can’t see the badge clearly.

From https://jobs.army.mod.uk/roles/army-air-corps/officer-pilot/ (scroll down to find it)

Training for the role

Step 1 To become an officer pilot you must first and foremost apply to become a British Army Officer. You will complete standard Army Officer training at the Royal Military Academy, Sandhurst. On passing the aviation aptitude, medical and flying grading tests, you will be eligible to be selected as a helicopter Officer Pilot.

Step 2 Over the next two years, you will learn to fly the Juno (H135) training helicopter. You will also learn about communications, navigation and tactics. At the end you will be awarded the Army Pilot Badge (your 'Wings') and get streamed on to your operational aircraft, usually the Apache attack helicopter or reconnaissance Wildcat. You'll then complete your conversion course (approximately 18 months) before arriving fully qualified at your frontline regiment.

Harry passed Step 1

Harry passed the first part of Step 2 on the training helicopter, resulting in the award of the badge that he wears above his medals, which I think is what the media called his “provisional wings” (they could be different badges, I do not know). That would explain the “X number of hours flown on training missions” in his CV - they were the hours spent as part of the course to learn the fly on the training helicopter.

Harry then went on to do the training on his operational aircraft, the Apache helicopter. That is the training where rumour says, that he failed the pilots exams. He qualified as a co-pilot/gunner, not as a solo helicopter pilot.

Where it gets murky is all the “Hero Harry” PR that was put out at the time, where the headlines screamed that Harry was an Apache helicopter pilot, and the actual text said he was a gunner/co-pilot and made no mention of him being an actual pilot who could fly the helicopter by himself.

Here is the prime example of misleading ‘Hero Harry” PR, from the royal family website: https://www.royal.uk/prince-harry-completes-apache-training

Note that the report says that Harry ‘completed’ the training, not that he passed the training. It says that he has been ‘assessed continuously’, not that he passed the assessment. He was awarded a prize for being the best Co-Pilot Gunner, the status that he held and the role that he fulfilled on his next military tour. As for being a “ fully operational Apache Attack Helicopter Pilot “, this appears to be spin on the Co-Pilot Gunner situation - Harry is technically a pilot, as he can fly and land the helicopter in an emergency, but he is not the one in charge of flying the helicopter, i.e. what we think of as the pilot. He is a co-pilot.

The PR ‘Hero Harry” version (the inaccurate one) is the one that was picked up by the media and used in all its reports on Prince Harry until recently, when the media began to report on him as a gunner/co-pilot as well as calling him an Apache helicopter pilot. Talk about confusing.

Jan 2023: https://inews.co.uk/news/prince-harry-helicopter-pilot-military-career-what-said-killing-taliban-troops-2069629

2 weeks ago: https://www.msn.com/en-us/news/world/prince-harrys-living-legend-award-sparks-military-backlash/ar-AA1mRYsk

Jan 12, 2024: https://www.newsweek.com/prince-harry-living-legend-aviation-award-military-backlash-1860191

Note that these recent reports say that Harry served as a gunner/co-pilot, while he trained as an Apache helicopter pilot (with no mention of whether he passed his training or not).

Retired military officer Colonel Richard Kemp said: “An Apache is crewed by two people - a pilot and a gunner. Harry was a gunner. He was number two in the aircraft. “

https://www.thesun.co.uk/royals/25319337/fury-prince-harry-legend-of-aviation/

Royal author Robert Jobson also says Harry was a gunner, not a pilot: “News of Harry's induction into the US Aviation Hall of Fame sparked ridicule, with royal commentator and author Robert Jobson dismissing the decision as "daft."Jobson questioned the move as he noted Harry's service as a helicopter gunner, while commendable, could not justify his inclusion in the notable list.”

https://www.express.co.uk/news/royal/1854566/prince-harry-living-legend-aviation-award-backlash

My conclusion is that Harry passed his basic training, earnt his Army Pilot Badge, was allowed to train further on Apache helicopters, and failed to pass his pilot exam for the Apache Helicopter, but did qualify as a gunner/co-pilot. He can fly and land the helicopter in an emergency situation, e.g. if the pilot is out of commission, so he is technically an ‘Apache Helicopter Pilot”, but he can’t fly the helicopter solo. Note that I do not know how this works - I do not know what exams qualify you for what role in the Apache helicopter, so this is me trying to make sense of things with limited information.

As for the badge above the medals, his “provisional wings”, I can only assume that it is the Army Pilot Badge referred to above, meaning that you have passed the course on the training helicopter but have yet to learn to fly an operational aircraft such as the Apache helicopter.

I have no idea what distinguishes the pilot of the Apache helicopter form the gunner/co-pilot, if anything.

That is the current state of my thoughts.

If anyone who has served in the UK Army knows anything more about this, feel free to let me know. I find the whole situation very confusing and wish that people would just write the truth about things and not bury it in PR spin.

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fyeahcompetentwomen · 1 year

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Elimination Poll Group 1

This is the first of two elimination polls that I'll post today. The top three scorers in this group of 10 will get the three spots left in Group 1 of the bracket! This poll only goes one day, so vote quick!

Endorsement/blurbs under the readmore!

Sarah Jane Smith, Doctor Who: Investigative Journalism! It's how she solves mysteries with the Doctor and the Bannerman Road Gang.

Janet Frasier, Stargate: Frontline doctor to teams dealing with alien crap nobody has ever seen before. She is having to write the book, there are no guidelines but she is so steadfast. There’s such a strength to her that makes me believe in her. Big heart too. Adopted the only survivor of her planet, a young girl, and somehow balanced the career as head medical officer of the SGC with being an amazing mother.

Una Chin-Riley (Number One), Star Trek: Canonically, she's a badass who has hopped around multiple departments in Starfleet and is serving as the First Officer of the flagship (where she is 'the best first officer in the Fleet'). She collects information and people tend to 'end up owing her favors.' Her Illyrian heritage gives her increased strength and a super immune system, which she successfully hides from everyone for decades while serving with distinction. When Captain Pike is kidnapped on Talos, she goes after him, breaks into the lair, and convinces the Talosians that humans would make terrible slaves by threatening to blow herself and all of them up rather than remaining imprisoned.

Zelda Spellman, Sabrina The Teenage Witch: High Priestess! Mortician! Midwife! Diretrix of the Academy of Unseen Arts (and its choir)! Teacher of ancient languages! Witch! Aunt and mother figure! There are not many things this woman is not competent at.

Barbara Gordon, DC: Batman but better. She’d the og batgirl, obviously kicks ass, but most importantly after batgirl she becomes oracle the smartest and most competent person in the extensive batman gang. she's the girl on the computer, she runs everything behind the scenes, she knows everything and if she doesnt know it she will find out if you give her two minutes also she's a wheelchair using queen

Emerahl / The Hag, Age of the Five: Magician so competent she reached immortality, clever enough not to want to be deitified. Works whatever jobs are necessary to reach her goals, from prostitution to healer.

The Armorer, Star Wars: She is a total badass: expert armorer, leader and mediator, warrior

Tara Cole, Leverage: Highly skilled grifter, the only one Sophie trusts enough to help out the Leverage team

Jancy True, Drawtectives: Investigating, being a detective, solving cases... herding junior drawtectives like cats...

William Patterson, Blindspot: Anything to do with computers or science or problem solving, she's your girl. She can hack, she can program, she can find answers, crack codes, solve puzzles, make connections no one else can, notice details. She kills at trivia because she knows everything. She's also highly competent in the field, with firearms and other physically demanding tasks. Her knowledge of science is profound (her father is Bill Nye the Science Guy. No, literally).

#bracket prep #elimination round #1 day poll #poll #group 1 #fyeahcompetentwomen #fuck yeah competent women

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sopejinsunflower · 2 years

Text

2022.001.005: In Your Presence

I wake up with a start, eyes shooting open and lying still on the bed, waiting.

The first thing I notice is how hot it is. The second thing is that it’s very bright. I finally turn onto my back and wince, using my hand to shield my face from the glaring sunlight flooding through the half-opened curtains. Once my eyes adjusted, I lay back on my pillow, eyes closed. It’s a Saturday and I would love to sleep in some more but that would require me getting up and shutting the curtains properly. I let out a groan, a little miffed at not being able to just drift back to sleep and continue whatever dream I was having.

I lie there for a few more minutes, testing to see if I can just ignore being boiled under the blanket from the heat of the sun. Nope. I sit up, glaring at the curtains for not reading the room and shutting themselves. Seriously, it’s the weekend!

The seven boys.

Guys.

Men.

Gorgeous, gorgeous men.

One of them sleeping in the room across from mine.

Well, good morning to me. I shuck the blanket off of me and pad my way to the window to throw open the curtains, letting in the morning sun. The tree growing out my window seems to be waving hello to me and I wave back. On the ground below, the gardener waves up at me, a little confused. Does he know that we have guests? Would he even care? I don’t remember ever really having a conversation with him.

I wash my face, brush my teeth then decide that a quick shower won’t do any harm. I wash my hair and even shave my armpits and legs. It takes me a full fifteen minutes to pick out a dress, pastel yellow with tiny white flowers. I pull my hair into a fishtail, a little makeup, then stand in front of the bedroom door, hand on the doorknob, taking a few calming breaths.

I’m a little more excited than I should be. Like a kid on Christmas about to run out of the bedroom to check the presents under the tree. It’s almost pathetic. I’ve been living in this huge, old manor for a month now and finally having company apart from the house’s employees is a breath of fresh air. And they’re around my age!

And handsome, don’t forget that.

I take a deep breath, count to three and open the door dramatically.

The hallway is empty.

Not just empty but as quiet as if there is no living being in this house except for sad ol’ little me with my shoulders sagging like a balloon emptied of air. That was anticlimactic. No gorgeous men standing around waiting for me to walk out my bedroom to greet me, no beautiful men waiting for me to go down to breakfast together, no handsome men asking me how my sleep was and did I dream of them? I jut out my lower lip, the disappointment hitting like a tonne of bricks.

Okay, that probably came out of some romance fiction. I don’t even know what I was expecting to find.

Then I remember; it’s Friday! It’s a weekend for me since I don’t have classes on Fridays but not for them. That’s it! Namjoon did say they always leave early to get to work so the four oldest must have already left. It’s a little after eight, about time they’ll be arriving at the office, wherever that is. I wonder what their jobs actually are. Since they are essential workers, it could mean they are frontliners. Doctors? Once more, my brain wanders over to some steamy romance trope with a medical team.

Doctor, she’s not breathing. She needs mouth to mouth. Stat!

I shake my head to clear it. I walk towards the stairs and look towards the east side of the house. The other three should be home doing their online classes, just beyond those closed doors. Have they gotten their breakfast yet?

I dawdle at the top of the stairs. I want to go check on them, like a good host would, but I’m worried I might be too much in their hair. They’re probably already in class. What if they think I’m hovering too much, disturbing them? I should just leave them be. We’re not exactly friends.

After a couple of steps down the stairs, I pause and run back up, having second thoughts. I go to the first door next to the stairs, not even sure whose room it is and knock so lightly it barely makes a sound. I’m suddenly nervous. I wipe my palm against my dress and try again, a little more confidently this time and wait.

No answer.

I try again, louder this time. Still silent.

Maybe it’s the room of one of the older ones? Should I try the other rooms? I move towards the room across the hallway but then stop myself. Let them be. With one last look at the other room, I left to go downstairs, my own stomach starting to grumble.

~~~

Jimin just can’t help the huge smile on his lips as he tries not to laugh. He watches you walk down the stairs, keeping his eyes on you until the crown of your head vanishes from his view.

God, you’re so adorable and you don’t even know it.

Jimin had gotten out of his room pretty early today just as the sun had risen and filled the dim hallway with bright rays. He wandered in front of your door, pacing the hallway, waiting for any signs of movement behind your door. Jin had poked his head out, scowled at Jimin then disappeared back inside. If anyone could have seen him, they’d think he’s a nuisance, walking back and forth when it’s not even eight. And he dressed up for you, too, the heels of his boots would’ve made a lot of noise on the hardwood floor if his feet weren’t just wisp of air.

But daylight brings invisibility again to the seven men and right then, Jimin thinks it’s a damn good advantage; he gets to watch you, uninhibited. When he finally heard you opening the curtains in your bedroom, he pressed himself up against your door, eyes closed, imagining you as he listened. You took a shower, a long one, and you mumbled a lot to yourself (he could hear your muffled voice through the door) as you got dressed (he could tell from the sound of hangers being tossed around) and he caught a few words that told him you’re taking a lot of time choosing your outfit today, which made him smile to himself fondly. It wouldn’t have mattered, love, he thought. You’re beautiful in a potato sack, didn’t I tell you that before?

Then, once ready, you stood right behind the door and Jimin stood back, waiting patiently. The door opened and Jimin beamed, standing almost toe to toe. “Good morning,” he greets softly. But the hopeful look on your face was wiped off, the corners of your mouth drooping. You look forlornly at him, no, through him and sigh, shoulders sagging. Jimin felt a dull sting in his chest, his smile only withering slightly. It’s sad to see you disappointed but it made his heart bloomed at the thought that you had been expecting to see them.

You had wanted to see him. Well, all of them, he guessed, but there’s no harm in indulging himself. It brought Jimin nothing but joy knowing that your first thought was them, him. He would rub it in the others’ faces about this the whole day today, how he got to be the first to see you, how pretty you look in that little yellow dress with the off-shoulder sleeves, exposing your beautiful collarbones as well as your pretty thighs just enough to remain sweet yet sultry. He would describe to them how your perfume had smelled first thing in the morning when it had just been sprayed on in intimate points that Jimin didn’t have to check to know where: behind the ears and inside your wrists which you then rubbed gently against your dress to transfer the smell.

If he remembers correctly, you would do the air walk with your perfume too, spraying it into the space in front of you and walking back and forth in the mist to get the scent on not too strongly. You do this method generally. But the latter method, well, it’s special. It’s when you want to make an effort, when you want the perfume to be just a tad bit more enticing. Jimin had chuckled to himself. It’s always the same, never changing throughout the centuries; little habits that make you, you. Little habits that become telltale signs.

When Jimin thought you were leaving down the stairs, you stopped and hurried back upstairs. It caught him by surprise to see you come up to his door and knock, small and timidly. He went to stand in front of you, leaning against the wall, facing you, arms crossed over his chest, watching you with an amused smile. What are you doing, darling? Did you come to call me down for breakfast?

When the first knock was barely audible, he urged you on. “Louder, honey. Even ants won’t hear that.” You knocked louder, with more confidence and Jimin is thrilled, feeling like you heard him. He pretended to open the door. “Yes? What is it, sweetheart?”

But you pouted and Jimin laughed affectionately. He half-expected for you to try the door as Namjoon warned you might but you didn’t. Instead, you look over across the hallway to Hoseok’s room, seeming to contemplate trying the other rooms. A slight jealousy poke at his heart but he pushed it down. No, he promised not this time. No jealousy, no negativity. You decided against the idea and turned back towards the stairs and left, for real, leaving him alone in the hallway now, staring after you.

“What are you doing?”

Jimin jumps at the sudden voice. Yoongi is standing halfway out of his room, eyes in slits and hair all ruffled from sleep. They might be ghosts but they still sleep. They go to bed each night, just as one normally would. Learning to remain on the bed when their physicality changes, now that took longer to adjust.

“You scared the crap out of me, hyung,” he says, a hand against his chest.

“Oh,” replies Yoongi nonchalantly, nodding. “I scared a ghost.”

Jimin pulls a straight face. “Hyung, go back to bed.”

Yoongi stares him down for a few seconds, narrowing his eyes even more. Satisfied, he turns and heads back inside his room, melting through the door without another word.

~~~

“Did they come down for breakfast?”

Mrs Oliviera stops halfway through picking up my empty breakfast plate and gives me an incredulous look. I return her look and repeat, “Did our guests have their breakfast?”

The look on her face seems to imply that the question is too hard for her to process, staring blankly at me as if waiting for some sort of punchline that doesn’t come. Then, as if her world finally catches up to mine, she says, slowly and deliberately, “Breakfast?”

Now, I’m irritated. “Yes. Isn’t that what people eat in the morning?”

She gives me a disapproving look, continuing to clear the table. The plates clang against each other a lot more noisily than she usually does. Her movements are hastened. Her lips are pressed together before answering, “Yes, they did.”

“Oh,” I reply, masking the disappointment in my voice. I had hoped to run into them. “They’re such early risers.”

Mrs Oliviera snorts but then catches herself, scurrying to the kitchen with her hands full. She never reemerges.

Like usual, when I have nothing to do, I take a walk outside, down to the creek with a pear in hand. I see the greenhouse in the distance and the gardener inside. Cherry blossoms are almost out, they were beautiful in the early spring but pretty things don’t last long. The trees still stand full, void of any flowers, making a good natural walkway down to the greenhouse. Sakuras lay flat on the ground, browned by time under my shoes as I walk.

The greenhouse is a thirty-metre giant geodesic dome with transparent glass, letting in enough sunlight during the day. By noon, the glass turns frosty, preventing the plants inside from getting too hot, and transparent again once the sun rays grow weaker. It’s intelligent technology but it mostly shows how much thought my grandaunt had put into the care of her flowers and trees. It’s also custom-made AKA costing a shit-tonne of money. I wonder what it must have been like for her living with all that money yet growing old and then eventually dying alone. Was it lonely? Or was it liberating to be able to not have to consider anyone else, doing anything that made her happy, like spending millions on the greenhouse?

I entertain the latter idea more than the first; it’s a lot more fun to think that she had had a happy, fulfilling life. She had a lot of adventures and a house full of evidence of that (now compiled into my stupid list). She didn’t have family but she had freedom. And who knows, maybe sometime in her long life, she did find a love that was just as a whirlwind as her life had been, and it makes me wonder where the guy is now, if there was one. Or girl. Did they end up just as happy as my grandaunt was? Did they settle down and build families when my grandaunt never did?

Sometimes I wish I had known her when she was alive.

I enter the greenhouse and the gardener looks up, and an instant smile is on his face. I say gardener but he’s more of the groundskeeper. A Korean man in his sixties but looking like in his forties, he has a very serene face with hands that look leathered from all the labour work he has done. As far as I know, he has been working for the house since he was young, taking over from his father, the previous ground’s caretaker. It’s not just the greenhouse but pretty much everything that grows in and around the land of the manor. Even the forests that grow around the estate seem to respect him, never creeping in on the boundary of the manor; you can clearly see the line between the wilderness and the manicured grass.

“Good morning, miss,” he calls out, waving with the secateur in one hand. He goes back to work, pruning the white roses delicately. This is the first time I come around when he’s here, the first time he’s ever greeted me with more than just a nod from a distance.

I look around the greenhouse alive with different types of flowers; from the variety of roses to the hyacinth to the daffodils and the forget-me-nots, from the irises to the tulips to the wallflowers and the lily of the valley. There are orchids, petunias, geranium, pansies and chrysanthemums. There are even ferns and some others I do not recognise or know the names of but pretty nevertheless. From pots to straight from the ground to little hanging baskets and trays, the greenhouse seems to be bursting with fragile lives, all at the hands of one man, Mr Chang.

“Good morning.” I approach him, leaning in a little to see what he’s actually trimming.

He moves back and looks at me. “Interested in botany today, are we?”

“I might be watching what you’re doing,” I say, “but nothing is compartmentalising.”

He laughs, going back to his task. “Once you learn what the plants need, you’ll know what to do.”

I laugh, too. “I’ll leave them to you. You’re doing an excellent job so far.”

“I’m glad to know I’ll be keeping my job even with a new employer,” he says kindly with a small smile.

I chuckle, moving away to look at the other plants around, walking in slow steps. “Your job’s safe with me.”

The plants all have a light mist over them, signalling that they had been watered not too recently. The sprinklers attached to the frame of the dome work on timers for the most part but the heavy bulk of the tending to all the floras individually is Mr Chang. He finishes up with the roses and moves on to the rhododendrons. “You seem to be in a very good mood today. Did anything good happen?”

I try my hardest to conceal the wide grin on my face, glad to be walking away from him and pretending to look at the tulips. They are at the end of their season, with only just a few purple ones left. “Nothing much, really. We have guests. Having more people in the house makes me happy,” I reply, the excitement clear in my voice. This is the most I’ve spoken with him. He seems nice. Warm.

He straightens up and turns towards me. “What, Ollie isn’t good enough for you?”

I furrow my eyebrows at him, unamused. He laughs, turning back to the shrubs. He continues to talk as his hands move. “Well, who are these guests?”

“There’s seven of them,” I reply, turning to walk back towards him. “Very handsome fellas.”

Mr Chang’s hands stop moving and he looks back at me. His face is unreadable but when he speaks again, he seems to be arranging the words carefully. “Seven you say? Where did they come from?”

I shrug my shoulders at him. “I dunno. I didn’t get to talk to them all that much. Oliviera put them up in the attic at first, can you believe that? It’s ridiculous when we have so many rooms.”

He stares at me for a while, like he’s thinking of a response. He flicks his eyes up towards the house and from here you can easily see the windows to the rooms. I can easily spot mine with the windchimes glinting in the sunlight. Then, his face softens again and asks, “I don’t presume they’re still in the attic?”

“No, of course not.”

He nods slowly, again, thinking. A smile slowly creeps up his face and his eyes have a twinkle in them. “So there are seven handsome men in the house with you, huh? Interesting.” He wiggles his eyebrows.

I laugh, shaking my head. “What does that even mean? They’re guests, Mr Chang.”

“For now,” he says, almost to himself. He goes back to the shrubs, snipping dead flowers and fussing with the bush. “Do you like them?”

My eyebrows go up at his sudden question. “I met them like last night.”

“They’ll be staying here awhile, won't they?”

“Yeah. How do you know?”

He shrugs. “Just a guess.” He finishes up and stands straight, arching his back to stretch. He puts away the secateur into the tool belt around his waist. He looks at me. “Do you think one person can love multiple people at the same time and equally?”

I stare at him at his sudden question. It’s an odd one, even odder considering the timing. “I told you, I don’t even know them,” I say lightly with a smile, walking towards the exit. “And what are you talking about? Like a poly relationship?”

He smiles almost sadly. “I’m not talking about them. It’s a theoretical question. Yes, I mean a polyamorous relationship where there’s multiple people loving the same person. I think it’s impossible. It’s a human flaw that we are not able to actually regulate our emotions. We’re not even fair to ourselves, how are we to do that with others, right?”

I mull over his words, weighing them around in my head. Something that he says struck me but I refuse to acknowledge the feeling. I shrug instead. “You have a point but I don’t know. A normal relationship is complicated enough. A poly to work would need double the effort but whether it would work long term, I don’t know.”

“But theoretically?” He looks at me expectantly.

I shake my head. “I really don’t know.”

The elder man goes back to work, going from one flower to the next, like a human bee, delicate in his handling. I remain in the greenhouse for another few minutes, taking pictures of some of the plants that pique my interest, and sharing some of them to a good friend of mine who works at a plant nursery. Some of these plants are rare, according to her, and hard to maintain and she wonders if she could come over to check them out and maybe talk to Mr Chang. I just passively said yes but she lives on the other side of the country and with travelling impossible now, who knows when she’ll actually be here.

I didn’t tell her about the men.

As I’m leaving, I catch something white darting across the grass and towards the forest tree line. Its long fluffy tail gives one last swish before it disappears out of sight.

“Yeah, she appeared out of nowhere just recently,” says Mr Chang, suddenly next to me looking in the same direction. “A little wild but I know she’s been eating the tuna I put out.”

“Do you think you can catch her?” I ask.

He shrugs. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do. She’s been using the vegetable patch as her personal toilet. Maybe bringing her indoors wouldn’t be such a bad idea.”

I nod, agreeing, a little excited at the prospect of having a pet. “Let me know when you get her.”

***

All Hoseok knows is that you spend a lot of time on your phone.

Too much, he thinks from his cross-legged position on the floor, eyes never leaving you who is sprawled on the long sofa. He tilts his head to the side, trying to look at your face from the right way up. Your upper body is hanging down the side of the sofa, your hair sweeping the floor. It’s the fourth weird position you’ve assumed in the one hour you’ve been here. Is that even comfortable? His neck hurts from looking at you like this.

Last night, after you went to bed, they had a sit down with Ollie, much to her chagrin. Her main job, aside from taking care of the house and bringing them dinner nightly, was to keep them in the loop while they are stuck in the attic. She was the bridge between them and the world they were cut off from but she’s been neglecting it for the past years, always rushing to leave and refusing to talk to them any more than a few words when she would clean the attic.

They had a million questions, so many things to catch up on and she reluctantly filled them in; the advancement of technology and the internet (people don’t use phone books anymore!), current fashion trends (that required the internet, accessed by a mobile phone with no buttons and a large screen, no antennas), current society and the lingo, and most importantly, this new Covid-19 pandemic. From the sound of it, it’s bad but at least being here means they are fully isolated and that the world has come to a halt. It’s a silver lining, for a short while.

Ollie found them an old Samsung that they used to spend most of last night ordering new clothes that fit the times and, well, they all went a little crazy. But money has never been a problem. If you’ve lived for as long as they did, you’re bound to collect a fortune. Or two. All packages had been addressed to the little cottage the employees live in. The clothes should be able to get them through this last bit of spring and through summer.

Suddenly, you’re laughing, a full on laugh that makes you snort and spittles lines the sides of your mouth. You right yourself after almost choking on your own spit, laying across the length of the three-seater sofa. Hoseok crawls over to you and leans on the armrest over your head to try and see your screen. As if on cue, you replay the video and Hoseok leans in closer.

It’s an orange cat sitting on a bed, grooming itself when it suddenly starts to fight with its own feet and rolls around the bed, bunny-kicking itself. You burst out into another bout of laughter, pressing your hands against your stomach. Hoseok can’t help but laugh along, sliding down to the floor, so amused he can barely hold himself up. In his ears alone, yours and his laughter mix in the air, the sound of two people enjoying each other’s company. He knows that you get along best with him when it comes to sharing humour; you both have the same explosive reaction, like twins from different parents.

Hoseok draws himself into a sitting position, his back against the edge of the sofa. Behind him, you’re still reeling in the last note of your laugh, wiping the corners of your eyes with the tip of your fingers. Hoseok sighs. “I can’t wait for you to show that video to the others.”

“I can’t wait to show this to the guys,” you say with a giggle and Hoseok’s eyes widen. He stares at you, eyebrows still in his hairline, mouth in a small O. He glances over at the window as if to confirm that the three o’clock sun is still up. He relaxes a little but is happy that you’re thinking what he’s thinking.

You let out a heavy sigh, letting your arms fall to your sides, your focus finally ripped away from your phone. Hoseok can finally look at you properly, his eyes roving over every inch of your skin, taking note of every little detail; every little scar, every little freckle, every little beauty mark. He memorised them the same way he would memorise an important map. Your looks always vary, and yet, in a cosmic way, the same. It amazes him every time.

Sitting up on his knees, Hoseok leans over your face so that he’s eye to eye with you, albeit upside down. “What are you thinking about, angel?” His voice is soft, barely a whisper. You’re looking up at the ceiling, unaware of the man staring into your eyes as if he’s trying to catch a glimpse of the soul inside.

“Who are they?” you mutter in a faraway voice, lost in thought.

Hoseok smiles. You’re thinking about us.

He watches you bring your phone up once again, covering his view of you, and he lets out a small grumble, but scoots close nevertheless to see what you’re looking at this time. You close the Twitter app and open up a search engine. You wiggle your thumbs over the screen, undeciding what to type. Your forehead creases a little as you think before finally you type in Namjoon in the search bar and press enter. Hoseok is alarmed but he’s not all that worried. There are tons of Namjoons in the world and the search result is pretty inconclusive, listing the many Facebook pages and Twitter handles and LinkedIn profiles, all of which are not related to the Namjoon somewhere in the house.

Hoseok is calm yet anxiety creeps in at the fringe, worried that you might actually find something on them. He doubts it but they’re not exactly sure how far and wide the internet’s net can cast. Or how far back in time. He’s positive none of their information is out there, given how new the internet actually is, but he can’t help but think of the possibility. He remains vigilant on the screen as you type in each and every one of their names, with much or less the same result. Hoseok notes that you don’t know their last names and could be the main reason why nothing substantial is coming up.

“Hmm,” you muse to yourself. “I don’t know their last names.”

Hoseok’s glad they addressed their online shopping to a different location. Their full names would've been on the packages.

You lock the screen, giving up on your search. You’re chewing on your bottom lip and Hoseok can clearly see the cogs turning in your head and the determination on your face. He sits back, wondering how to handle this. He’ll talk to the guys. It’s too soon for you to know anything. Too soon for the whole truth. But time has changed immensely since the last cycle and this timeline is much too advanced for their usual tricks. They have to be very careful with this one, with you. Any wrong move can ruin everything.

Any wrong move and they’ll easily lose you.

~~~

I have never been this excited for dinner my whole life!

I’m fidgety and a little on edge with nerves, sitting down at the desk and then standing up to move to the bed to sit down again, only to stand up once more and pace the room. My room faces the back of the house so there’s no way for me to see the boys come back from work. Alternately, I resort to listening for their footsteps up the stairs. I keep wanting to go downstairs, hoping to run into them but I worry that they’re not even back yet, so then I’d have to come back up and repeat. The three youngest also haven’t emerged from their rooms.

I’m growing impatient, unable to sit still any longer, my ears perked for any noise from outside to signal the boys. It’s almost 6.30PM and dinner will be announced soon. The sun is low in the horizon. Shouldn’t they be home by now?

~~~

“How long has she been pacing around in there?”

Jin is smirking pretty smugly, watching the bottom of your bedroom door. Your shadow is clearly seen moving back and forth and it amuses him so much to know that you’re anxiously waiting for them. He doesn’t even break away to look at Jungkook to answer, “A while now. She’s been antsy since the clock struck five.”

The seven of them are standing just outside in the hallway, grouped around Jin’s door, all eyes in the same spot; the slit under your door. With the sun sinking, the bedroom is overflowing with warm, orange sunlight that spills from under the door crack and halfway into the hall outside.

Jungkook groans. “Why doesn’t she just come outside? I want to see her face!”

Namjoon chuckles. “If she comes out, she might not run into us and would have to repeat going in and out, and by that time the you in her head would have been suspicious and she would’ve been caught waiting for us to come back. Then we’d know she’s been waiting.”

Jungkook stares at him, dumbfounded. Namjoon adds, quite proudly, “It’s basic women’s behaviour.”

Yoongi pokes him in the arm. “That’s sexist.” He leans against the wall next to Namjoon. “It’s more typical of y/n behaviour. Hasn’t she always been like this? Too shy to do anything outright and too proud to admit it when confronted.”

Jungkook groans again. “Ugh, I hate this part right here. I just want us to go straight to loving her.”

“To you it’s a repeat,” Jimin says. He’s sitting on the floor, hugging his knees. “But to her, everything is new. And if we jump straight into it, she’ll think we’re fucking lunatics.”

“And would hate us forever,” Taehyung adds on. “And run away and we’d have to wait another cycle.”

They remain quiet for some time, lost in their own thoughts. Yes, that has happened before. They had been too impatient, then.

The grandfather clock downstairs half-chimes for 6.30PM and they hear Ollie call out that dinner is served. Hoseok notices that she’s not as warm to you as she had been for Soon-hee. With Soon-hee, Ollie would not dare to dream of shouting from the dining hall like that, and would have come up and knocked on her door to let her know dinner is ready, politely, the way for a housekeeper to act with her employer. With you, she’s more dismissive and treats you like a misbehaving child instead. He should address this with her, see what her problem is.

Your bedroom door finally opens and you step out. You look over to the east side of the hallway, where the majority of their rooms are, hopeful.

You go to knock on Jimin’s door. “Hello? Is anyone there? It’s dinner time.”

Jimin clicks his tongue, disappointed that he couldn’t give you what you wanted right now; to come out of his room and accept your invitation. But all he can do now is sit there in silence, simmering in his own feelings. He can’t even bring himself to look at your face.

Taehyung is upset, mouth turned down in a pout as he watches you go to the next room and do the same. When you still get no answer by the third door, you give up, walking away to head downstairs with a look that rips their hearts to shreds. Namjoon sighs, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Jungkook watches after you, his eyes wide, mouth hanging open. Jin is shaking his head and Hoseok is silent. Yoongi gazes at the floor, face impassive as he tries to curb the turmoil inside him.

Jin finally straightens up, looking out the window at the setting sun. “Almost time now.”

~~~

At least one thing is good; the long table is set for eight.

I can feel myself instantly brighten up, bouncing over to my seat. Mrs Oliviera is setting my food down, the beef stew steaming wisps of smoke. She looks up when I enter. “Would you like some rice or bread with the stew?”

“Bread, please.” You take your seat as Mrs Oliviera places a few slices of toasted baguette on my plate. I gesture to the other empty seats. “I hope they come down soon. Have the others come back yet?”

Mrs Oliviera flicks her eyes briefly on me, placing down the bread basket and wiping her hands on her apron. She stares out the window, the sky turning purplish as the sun sinks beyond the horizon. She looks back at me, her face sympathetic. “They’ll be down soon,” she says and disappears into the kitchen.

You mean back soon, I think to myself but I shrug, not bothering to correct her.

I take a sip of the red wine and get started with the food, breaking the bread into smaller pieces and toying them in between my fingers. I guess I forget what it’s like to have housemates that aren’t exactly your friends. You have different schedules and different activities, basically different lives, that you probably won’t run into each other all that much, never mind in a big house like this. It’s the same as back then, living in that group home as a teenager and then in a shared house when I was in university,

Oh well. I shrug to myself and start to eat. I’ll see them when I see them, I guess. A few minutes later, Mrs Oliviera reenters the dining hall carting a trolley that looked familiar. She starts to serve dinner for the seven set places.

“Are they back?” I ask, pausing in between bites. “I didn’t hear anyone coming in.” I crane my neck to see out the dining hall but the front door’s view is blocked by a corner in the hallway, which is dark as the sun had already set but the lights haven’t been turned on.

She never answered me. She flicks her eyes over towards the window, the sun disappearing as day turns into night, and grunts a response. Just as I’m about to turn away, seven figures emerge from the shadows of the hallway and walk in, all with bright smiles on their faces, all looking at me as they take a seat at the table.

Jin sits closest to me and he looks at me with kind eyes. “Sorry for the wait.”

I shake my head, my appetite suddenly back in full force. “Welcome home,” I say lightly, not knowing how hefty the words are to my guests, the impact left them to inhale a short breath.

I’m more focused on my own feelings at the moment. I forgot what it’s like to have meals with company. The noises of the other cutleries or the occasional short conversations or just the light bickering among the boys feels somewhat cosy. I look around at them all, looking like they belong here at this exact table all along, in their assigned seats. They don’t look out of place nor do they look uncomfortable eating in a house that’s not their own. The scene is perfect, almost as if it’s been drawn in a painting.

I continue to eat in silence, smiling at their little back and forth with each other, answering their small questions about my day and returning the question. It’s nice. I love this feeling. It feels warm. It feels homey. And I can’t shake the distant feeling of familiarity even when it doesn’t quite make sense, a feeling I can’t quite verbalise that tells me I’m supposed to be here at this house with these people.

I came to Solomon’s Manor to escape the life I left behind, the money was the latter reason, an afterthought, an incentive in the grand scheme of things. I ran away from a miserable life of pain and heartbreaks, convinced that a year in solace would be just what I need to heal.

But for the first time in a long time, just sitting here having dinner with these seven strangers, I’m happy, content, not knowing that this is just the beginning of a very old story, about to be replayed for the hundredth time.

a/n: lmk what you think about this chapter in the comments or ask :)

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