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cameronspecial · 9 months ago

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Assisting In Deception (Part 6)

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings: Heavy Make Out and Mentions of Sexual Thoughts.

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 2.9K

Summary: Y/N's jealousy leads them to some office fun and Rafe surprises her outside of work.

Masterlist

Sofia Fiore is one of Cameron Developments' most important clients. Having a social media following of twenty-six million, the up-and-coming social star is good for business. This means that when she asked to speak to Mr. Cameron personally, she got her request granted. It’s no secret that Rafe is a young and attractive individual, and she makes it quite obvious that she thinks exactly that. Rafe sits rigidly at his desk while Sofia’s shoulders are relaxed against the back of her chair and she crosses one leg over the other. They stretch out so that her feet graze Rafe’s shoes under his desk. Y/N begins to grow annoyed at Sofia’s high-pitched voice.

“And I want it to be done by next year. I need somewhere pretty to entertain all of my male guests,” she notes, eyebrows raised in a suggestive manner. Rafe ignores the obvious suggestion of her words, “I can assure you that we will do our best to finish it on time. Now, you said you wanted something in Manhattan. I can take a look after the meeting at different properties for sale and go over the possibilities in another meeting.” Sofia nods at his statements and he can feel her heeled foot, going up his leg. He straightens even more and moves Sofia’s foot off of him. Unbeknownst to the two, Y/N is standing at the door, watching the whole thing. She loudly clears her throat and heads over to place the paperwork to sign on his desk. When she leaves the room, she opens the door even more.

“Perfect! How about we wrap up the meeting with some coffee?” Sofia suggests, not waiting for an answer before going to sit on the couch. Rafe passes a look to Y/N through the door, asking her to do what the client wants as he goes to sit on the loveseat instead of the couch beside the woman. He doesn’t want to entertain her any longer, but she is essential to the company. Seeing where he sits, Sofia gets off of the couch to sit beside him. Very close. She swings one leg so that it is practically over both of his legs. Before he could nudge it off, Y/N walks in and jealousy bubbles in the pit of her stomach. She walks by and ‘accidentally’ knocks Sofia’s leg off of Rafe. Y/N sets the coffee down and goes back to her desk. Her ear is still open to the conversation they are having. Sofia places a hand on his bicep, “So do you work out?”

“I don’t think that is an appropriate question for work.”

“Aww, come on. Just indulge me. Maybe, you can help me figure out what equipment to put in my gym. Or help me with a workout.”

“I do work out, but that’s beside the point.”

“I think that's the whole point.”

She moves her hand on his chest and starts to trail it down. Y/N doesn’t think that Sofia can take a hint and she is sick of her flirting. She makes her last entrance into the office. Y/N sits herself on Rafe’s lap, swatting Sophia’s hand away. She turns his head towards her and gives him a passionate kiss. She places her lips near his ear and says loud enough for Sofia to hear, “What should we get for dinner, babe?” Rafe is a little disappointed that she doesn’t use his usual nickname but is very pleased at how hot he finds her jealous. “Ms. Fiore, my assistant will get back to you with another date for the next meeting. Goodbye,” he doesn’t even look in Sofia’s direction as he dismisses her with a wave of the hand. Her heels decreasing volume signals she finally got the message and has left the room.

Rafe gets up to close the door; Y/N raises with him. He turns towards her with a dark look in his eyes. He stalks towards her until her back hits the wall, slamming his hand on the wall above. His finger finds itself under her chin and he lifts it towards him. “What you did is very unprofessional,” he chides, tapping her chin. She stares into his eyes, “She wasn’t getting the message, Boss.”

“You don’t have to worry about her, Butterfly. I only have eyes for you.”

He smirks down at her and smacks his lips onto hers. Her hands find their way to his hair, running through it. He brings a hand down to the back of her leg and brings it up to his hip. Her gentle tugs on his hair cause him to moan into her mouth. He hikes the other leg up, putting some weight against her chest with his to keep her from falling while he adjusts her. He carries her over to his desk and places her on top of it. “Rafe, do you want to get lun-” Topper pauses as he walks in because of the sight before him. His jaw drops and he stands there for a minute. He moves out of the doorway, closing the door behind him. Rafe and Y/N pull apart, fixing their disarray clothes and hair.

“If you guys are going to have sex in the office, you might want to lock the door before this turns into an HR issue,” he advises, lounging on the couch. The couple join him in the couch area. Rafe gives him an offended look, “We were not going to have sex. Someone just got a little jealous of Ms. Fiore.” Topper gives Y/N a funny look. “Aren’t you guys fake dating?” Y/N glares towards Topper, “You know we are!” “That didn’t seem fake to me,” he begins to argue. “But really, you have to be more careful about professionalism at work. This relationship is supposed to fix a PR scandal, not cause one.” He gets up to leave but turns to make one final comment. “Oh. And Rafe, you are going to lunch and paying to help make up for what I just saw.”

——

Work after the Fiore incident was really stressful for Rafe. The Board members came to complain about everything and he was in back-to-back meetings. He let Y/N leave earlier in the day when it started to look like he was going to stay late. He called her once he was finally able to get some time to himself and she told him to come over, which he did right away.

The door swings open to Y/N in her sleeping shorts and tank top. Her shorts are so short that when she turns to guide them to her room, the bottom of her bum peeks out from the material. It takes everything in him not to bring her pussy onto his face, but the setup in her room helps him resist. The room is filled with the sound of ocean waves and the scent of citrus. The room is dim, lit only with candles instead of the overhead light. She orders him to lie down on the bed and squirts some massage oils onto her hands so she can start rubbing his forehead in concentric circles. He sighs in relaxation, enjoying the warmth of her fingers. Once she stops the messaging, she peppers his face with kisses and he can’t get enough of it. She grabs one of her towel headbands and pushes his hair back with it. Next, she goes to get something from her desk and returns with a package in her hand. The face mask is placed on his face, smoothing out the wrinkles in the sheet. Her giggles sound throughout the room at how adorable he looks.

A few minutes later, she takes it off for him, giving him a kiss on his nose. “Can we cuddle?” he pouts, needing a little more of her physical touch. She grins at his request and lies down on the bed beside him. He turns into her touch, placing his head on her breasts. One hand laces through his hair and the other goes to his bareback. Her nails start gently scratching his scalp and back. This soothes Rafe to sleep pretty quickly. Y/N smiles down at him sleepily and gives him a kiss to the temple.

——

The next morning Rafe wakes up with his head still on Y/N’s chest. Her eyes are still closed and her soft breathing almost lulls him back to sleep. However, he wants to get up and cook her breakfast as thanks for what she did last night. He slowly removes himself from her grasp, heading towards the kitchen. Juni sitting at the kitchen island stops him in his tracks. “Morning, Big C. Did you enjoy your pillow?” she taunts with her lips pulled wide and her teeth showing. He gives a playfully annoyed look, “My pillow was great. Thanks for asking. I’m about to make Y/N and me some breakfast. Do you want some?”

“Sure, I’d love some.” He looks through the fridge and starts pulling out some stuff to cook. The eggs are cracked and whisked together before being put into a pan to make scrambled eggs. As he moves on to making the bacon, he starts to think about what Juni calls him whenever they see each other. “Hey, I got a question for you,” he thinks out loud.

“Shoot.”

“Why do you call me Big C? Why not Big R for my first name?”

“I’m not sure I should say, Big C.”

“Ohh, come on. You can tell me. I won’t get upset. Promise.”

“Fine. Well, as you know, your last name starts with a C. But I also call you that because I just know that you have a bigass cock. I mean you radiate big dick energy. Y/N doesn’t know that’s why so don’t tell her. She’d kill me.”

The laugh Rafe lets out could move the earth and it certainly moves Y/N from her sleeping position in her bed. She sleepily walks into the kitchen with her hands rubbing her eyes, “What has you so happy this early in the morning?” “Nothing, Butterfly. Juni just told me a really good joke,” he lies, bringing her to his side to give her a kiss. Y/N shrugs off the lie and gets to work on snacking on the stuff he already cooked.

——

Alexander, Juni, and Y/N are all watching a movie in his apartment. It was one of the rare nights in which they all didn’t have work at night or early in the morning, so they could stay up for as long as they wanted. Alexander excuses himself to get the pizza from the front entrance. “What do you think of Alexander?” Juni questions, looking at the doorframe where he just walked out from. Y/N looks at her with a smirk, “I think he is a really great friend.”

“Not as a friend, but as a romantic interest, Sweetie”

“Ahh. Well, he isn’t my type, but he is definitely cute. I mean he’s a hot firefighter for heaven's sake. What isn’t there to like?”

Juni nods in agreement, “But do you think maybe he prefers guys more than girls? He’s dated mostly guys since we’ve known him.”

“I’m not going to pretend like I know what it is like to be bi or bi preferences, but maybe the reason for that is because all the people he’s liked just so happened to be males. Not the other way around.”

“True. I’ll think about it, Sweetie”

Alexander returns soon after with the pizza and the friend group eats their slices. Eventually, Y/N gets a call from Rafe and she heads back to their apartment to take the call. “So she’s definitely falling for Big C,” Juni comments to break the silence. Alexander chuckles, “Yeah, I think maybe I should follow her lead and fake date one of my co-workers.”

“Well, how about you fake date me instead? Or better yet, you can just date me.”

“You want to go on a date with me?”

“Yeah, only if you want to.”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that ever since we met.”

She grins at him and gives him a sweet kiss. They break apart, a little more comfortable with the idea of a romantic relationship, so they cuddle as they watch the rest of the movie.

——

Y/N has to leave work early today to get to the other side of town. Rafe offered to drive her, but she knew that he had an important meeting that he shouldn’t miss. She packs up her stuff to leave and goes to his office to say goodbye. “I’m going to head out now. I’ll call you when I’m done at Nancy’s exhibit,” she informs, leaning down to give him a kiss. He leans into the kiss, “Okay, send me a text when you get there. Also, take lots of pictures for me.” She giggles at his excitement to see Nancy’s art and nods. He really wishes that he could go. His eyes follow her out of the room. He prepares for the meeting, genuinely disappointed that he can’t be there for Nancy or get to spend time with Y/N. And then he remembers that he is the boss. If he doesn’t want to be in a meeting right now, he doesn’t need to be in one.

He dials Topper's phone line and tells him to come to his office. “I need you to lead the meeting and have your assistant take minutes. I’m leaving earlier,” Rafe orders, patting his pockets to make sure he has everything. Topper’s face turns to confusion, “Why? Where are you going?”

“I’m going to meet up with Y/N.”

“Rafe, do you really think it is a good idea to go?”

“What’s wrong with going?”

“You don’t think you are getting a little caught up in this fake relationship? I mean, you guys are kissing when there is no one around and even though you already went to the wedding, you guys haven’t called off your relationship. Everyone has forgotten what the contractors have said.”

“I really don’t see the problem. We both know the relationship isn’t real. It really isn’t any of your business anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going before I am late.”

——

The hallway of the gym is crowded with excited family members and friends waiting for the gym doors to open for the class exhibit. Rafe’s tall stature helps him easily spot Y/N and her parents in the crowd. He fights his way to her, tapping on her shoulder to get her attention. She turns around perplexed but it quickly turns to elation when she sees who is there. She jumps to wrap her arms around his neck, “Boss, what are you doing here?” He laughs at her excitement, placing a kiss on her cheek. “I realized that I owned the company and could get others to attend meetings for me. This is more important,” he explains. Nate overhears the conversation, “That is very sweet, Rafe. I know Nance will be very excited to see you.” “Thank you, Nate. I am very excited to see her art,” he admits with his arms wrapped around Y/N’s waist. The doors finally open and they rush in to get to Nancy.

The massive smile on Nancy’s face when she sees her family is heart melting. Her eyes land on Rafe and her cheeks heat up as red as a tomato. She gives everyone a hug. “So little artist, show us your work,” Rafe demands, turning over to the section saved for the youngest Y/L/N. Nancy nods, pulling him over to her paintings. Every time Nancy and Rafe are in the same room, her full attention is on him and he is wrapped around her finger. His eyes glance over her work when they are drawn to one particular. The vibrant colours attract his eyes first and the shallow depth of field of the painting draws his eyes to two people. Y/N wears her dusty blue dress, wrapped in Rafe’s arms. His eyes are on her and the love he has for her is glaringly obvious. Nancy really captured his feelings at that moment.

Y/N comes up behind him and snuggles herself under his arms. She looks at the painting with a fond smile, “It’s beautiful, Nance. I love it.” “How much?” are the only words Rafe can utter. Nancy’s lips fall agape, “Excuse me?” “How much do you want for the painting?” he clarifies, approaching the painting to look at the detail.

“Oh, you don’t have to pay for it. I can just give it to you.”

“No, I want to pay for this one. That way you can put it on your resume that you sold a painting. Is ten thousand enough?”

“No…no…no… That is too much. I didn’t pay for supplies and I didn’t even spend that much time on it.”

“Nonsense, I’ll put it towards your post-secondary education. You can use it for art school. I insist.”

Phoebe and Nate try to argue with Rafe that he didn’t have to pay, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

——

Rafe stares at the level and adjusts the frame of the painting based on it. Once he is satisfied that it is straight, he gets down from off of the bed. She walks into the room after doing her nighttime routine to see where he placed the painting. “You aren’t really going to put that there?” Y/N asks, settling herself into his bed. She stares up at the painting above. Rafe is heading to the bathroom but stops, “Of course, that way I can stare at your beautiful face before I go to sleep when you are not with me.”

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usafphantom2 · 5 days ago

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Israel Executes Long Awaited Buy Of F-15IA Advanced Eagle Fighters

After a break of almost three decades, Israel has ordered more F-15s, which will spearhead its air force alongside F-35 stealth fighters.

Posted on Nov 7, 2024 12:54 PM EST

Israel will buy 25 F-15IA fighters, marking the first new Eagles that the country has acquired since November 1995, when it ordered F-15I Ra’am jets. This summer, Israel had been given U.S. approval to by as many as 50 F-15IAs, as well as upgrade its F-15Is. Whether more F-15s or upgrades are added, the current wars in the Middle East mean that further acquisitions of combat aircraft are likely.

Boeing

Israel will buy 25 F-15IA fighters, marking the first new Eagles that the country has acquired since November 1995, when it ordered F-15I Ra’am jets. This summer, Israel had been given U.S. approval to buy as many as 50 F-15IAs, as well as upgrade its F-15Is as part of an overall package valued at $18.82 billion that you can read about here. Whether more F-15s or upgrades are added, the current wars in the Middle East mean that further acquisitions of combat aircraft are likely.

The Israeli Ministry of Defense announced today that it was buying the 25 F-15IAs at a cost of $5.2 billion. The ministry signed the contract with manufacturer Boeing yesterday, noting that an option remains to buy the other 25 jets.

An earlier Boeing graphic showing a heavily armed F-15IA. Boeing

The Israeli Ministry of Defense confirmed that deliveries of the F-15IAs will start in 2031, with between four and six aircraft being supplied annually.

“This procurement marks a significant milestone in deepening the defense cooperation between Israel and the United States, reflecting their mutual commitment to regional security,” the Israeli Ministry of Defense said on X.

The director general of the Israeli Ministry of Defense, Maj. Gen. (res.) Eyal Zamir; the head of the Israeli Ministry of Defense’s Mission to the U.S., Aviram Hasson; and the Senior Deputy Head of the Mission, Offer Zavatzky, during the signing of the F-15IA deal yesterday. Israel Ministry of Defense

“The new F-15IA will be equipped with cutting-edge weapon systems, including state-of-the-art Israeli technologies,” the ministry added. “The upgraded aircraft will feature enhanced range capabilities, increased payload capacity, and improved performance across various operational scenarios.”

As we have discussed in the past, the F-15IA will be based on the F-15EX used by the U.S. Air Force.

Boeing and the U.S. Air Force have both heavily touted the aircraft’s range and stores-carrying capabilities as key features of the design. While this is seen as being particularly valuable for operations across the vast expanses of the Pacific with the U.S. Air Force, Israel has also long prized the Eagle for its ability to strike targets at long range with heavy loads of ordnance.

A USAF F-15EX Eagle II armed with 12 AIM-120 AMRAAMs.

A U.S. Air Force F-15EX Eagle II armed with 12 AIM-120 AMRAAMs. U.S. Air Force

USAF/SSgt Blake Wiles

As for the weapons Israel will likely procure to arm the F-15IA, the official press release when approval for the sale was granted mentioned only AIM-120 Advanced Medium-Range Air-to-Air Missile (AMRAAM) launchers as well as the internal M61A Vulcan cannons. As it stands, the current F-15I Ra’am carries almost the entire range of Israeli Air Force air-launched weapons, defensive and offensive, and from U.S. and domestic production.

The ability of the F-15IA to potentially carry outsize weapons, including hypersonic missiles, as well as simply larger numbers of legacy weapons, is also something that will very likely be of increasing interest to Israel. The recent operations against Iran have demonstrated Israel’s expanding use of air-launched ballistic missiles, which would also be a perfect fit to arm the F-15IA.

An Israeli Air Force F-16I armed with the Rampage air-launched ballistic missile. U.S. Air Force

For the Israeli Air Force, the 25 F-15IAs will provide an additional Eagle squadron, which will double the number of strike-optimized F-15s available to the service. Currently, the 25 F-15I Ra’am jets serve with 69 Squadron “Hammers” at Hatzerim Air Base.

The Israeli Air Force also operates squadrons flying the older F-15A-to-D Baz, which operate in air-to-air and air-to-ground capacities, but which are by now very long in the tooth, having first seen combat as long ago as 1979. Successively upgraded, and also bolstered through transfers from U.S. Air Force stocks, these jets are stationed at Tel Nof Air Base, and you can read more about them here.

Israeli Air Force F-15A-to-D Baz fighters from 106 Squadron “Tip of the Spear.” Amit Agronov

Israel’s continued demand for F-15s of any kind has seen the surviving Baz jets progressively upgraded to keep them in frontline service. Potentially, the incoming F-15IAs might replace one of the two Baz squadrons, but that remains unclear at this point.

There’s also the option to upgrade the F-15I Ra’am to a standard similar to the F-15IA — known as F-15I+ — although the Israeli Ministry of Defense didn’t mention the status of this in their announcement.

An Israeli Air Force F-15I Ra’am. Israeli Air Force

More generally, however, the F-15IA purchase is seen by Israel as an investment in long-term strategic capabilities, with these being under particular scrutiny right now as tensions with Iran continue to build, after several rounds of hostilities already this year. After all, the F-15 has — and will continue to be — Israel’s primary long-range strike weapon.

“The Ministry is executing a comprehensive strategy to enhance the IDF’s operational capabilities,” said the director general of the Israeli Ministry of Defense, Maj. Gen. (res.) Eyal Zamir. “We have secured procurement agreements worth nearly $40 billion since the onset of the war,” Zamir said, referring to the conflict that began in the Middle East after the surprise attack on Israel by Hamas militants on October 7, 2023.

Also part of this longer-term strategy of enhanced military capabilities is the purchase of a third squadron of F-35I Adir stealth fighters, earlier this year. An agreement for that deal was signed in June this year. Covering 25 F-35Is worth approximately $3 billion. This will expand the Israeli Air Force Adir fleet to 75 aircraft. The latest batch will begin to be delivered in 2028.

Israeli Air Force F-35I Adir stealth fighters. Israeli Air Force Israeli F-35I Adirs. Israeli Air Force

Buying the F-15IA and F-35I will provide the Israeli Air Force with two complementary platforms, both of which are among the most capable anywhere in the world, especially when it comes to long-range strike. Israeli F-15s, in particular, are also used for forward networking and command and control nodes, vital for managing long-range operations. On the other hand, both the F-15IA and F-35I are also more than efficient for air defense, including against drone threats, as well as air-to-ground operations closer to Israel, such as the ongoing conflicts in Gaza and Lebanon.

An Israeli Air Force F-15I flying along the border with the Gaza Strip near Sderot in southern Israel on October 27, 2023, amid battles between Israel and the Hamas movement. Photo by JACK GUEZ/AFP via Getty Images

Together, the Israeli Ministry of Defense described the joint F-15IA and F-35I acquisitions as “a historic enhancement of our air power and strategic reach — capabilities that proved crucial during the current war.”

That last statement would appear to be a direct reference to the Israeli Air Force’s retaliation strike on Iran last October 26, which came in response to Iran’s massive October 1 missile barrage on Israel. The Israeli strikes appear to have involved both F-15I and F-16I fighters, which largely launched exclusively standoff strikes from outside Iranian airspace.

Of course, Israeli interest in buying more F-15s goes back many years, but the developing security situation in the Middle East seems to have prompted a decision to finally be made.

The sale of 25 F-15IAs was obviously welcomed by Boeing.

“Boeing takes pride in its longstanding partnership with Israel, a relationship that dates back to our nation’s establishment,” said the President of Boeing Israel, Maj. Gen. (ret.) Ido Nehushtan.

While Boeing is now building F-15EXs for the U.S. Air Force, that service is currently looking to buy 98 of the jets, so another batch of 25 F-15IAs is significant. It could also help secure further export orders. Indonesia has formally committed to buying up to 24 Advanced Eagles, but the deal is yet to be signed off by the U.S. government, while Poland has also been earmarked as a potential customer.

An Indonesian delegation, led by Minister of Defense Prabowo Subianto (center) during a visit to Boeing’s St. Louis facility. Boeing

There is also growing speculation that Israel could be poised to buy more AH-64 attack helicopters from Boeing. Much has been made of the efforts of a handful of Israeli Air Force AH-64s to intervene on October 7, 2023, and it seems increasingly attack helicopters, rather than drones, are being seen as critical to counter any such incursions in the future. The Apaches have meanwhile become an important tool to deal with hostile drone incursions into Israeli airspace, too.

Long before October 7, the Israeli Air Force had been pushing to acquire another 40 of the latest AH-64E versions and earlier this year, it was reported that the sale of 12 AH-64Es was being discussed between the Israeli Ministry of Defense and officials from the Pentagon and U.S. State Department.

When asked recently about a potential Israeli AH-64E order, a Boeing spokesperson told TWZ that they “suspect that we will see additional requests coming in from Israel for these capabilities.”

For the time being, the F-15IA is headed to Israel, with the announcement of a formal order. With the Israeli Air Force facing current and future challenges in the Middle East, it’s no surprise that the tried and tested Eagle has been selected to help the country maintain its tactical superiority in the region.

Contact the author: [email protected]

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starqueensthings · 1 year ago

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Dork Love: Part One (of probably three because I can’t be tamed)

AO3 | Next Chapter

Summary: A scowling stranger brings a damaged riflescope into your store for repair and, always willing to defer responsibility for the sake of charity, you take on the challenge. When you return it to him, he brings along another… obstacle. An adorably goggled, bad-postured obstacle who seems as infatuated with your intelligence, as you are with his twinkly (magnified) eyes.

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also be read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you squint)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 6355 Words.

A/N: This masquerades as a Crosshair fic at first, but I was insistent on writing something other than Medic!Reader for this one, and Tech is not the kind of man that develops intimacy quickly so it’s structured as a slow burn with a little more backstory. Extra thanks to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading this one… twice. She catches all my made up words (slajacked? embarriered? LOL) and makes my disjointed writing readable. LYSM ❤️

A heavy sigh, laden with guilt and culpability, left your lips at the sight of the impending workload behind your cash register. The teetering stack of acrylic trays, each holding the paid invoice of an order in need of processing, sat benignly on the counter, awaiting the moment that you would finally succumb to the gnaw of responsibility and turn your wandering attention to them. The smattering of plastic containers that you’d locked the door on without even a breath of anxiety, your overstimulated mind full of assurances that you’d gift them your undivided attention the following morning, had somehow mutated into a looming tower of things to do and the desperate desire to defer them again now consumed you.

The impeccant ring of the bell that hung above the door had thankfully silenced, and the void of its tinkling alarm saw a peaceful moment of respite and a fresh mug of caf wreathed by hands covered in dried lens polish and seemingly permanently stained with the ink of your trusty red lens pen.

In spite of the lingering exhaustion and the continuous ache in your feet, every complaint that threatened to spill from your tongue was swallowed and substituted with a quiet murmur of appreciation. Since you’d purchased the optical store from your uncle, you’d been blessed with an expanding clientele and an increasing revenue, though despite the economic growth, the inception of your ownership had been fraught with challenges. Your uncle was, and always had been, a kooky and eccentric old chap, and one that had stubbornly deferred his retirement from the industry for decades too long. His later, wizened years had seen him develop a peculiar and surreptitious habit of concealing his deteriorating mind with impugnable, makeshift repairs on his already ancient optical equipment. More troublesome than his DIY endeavours, however, was the recurrent burying of evidence, ensuring that his mounting financial hardship was conveniently camouflaged and ‘misplaced’ with the several hundred overdue invoices. Three consecutive years later, and thousands of credits funnelled regrettably yet optimistically into the pocket of an accountant, the metaphorical dumpster-fire that you purchased from your father’s zany older brother had finally turned profitable.

The storefront was auspiciously located on the uppermost level of Coruscant’s nefarious ‘Underworld’, meaning the demographics of your clientele was as diverse as the galaxy was. Politicians, concealing their bulging wallets beneath expertly-sewn and ornate robes, were some of your favourite customers to interact with, as years of experience in medical sales had seen you master the tactful art of disengaging lowball negotiations. Paradoxically, it was the impoverished customers making their way up from the callous clutches of the lower levels that posed your biggest challenge; their often heartbreaking stories of systemic neglect fueled the philanthropic flame that flickered deep in your gut. The inception of the war had enchained many in the shackles of financial hardship and desperation, and while pleading ignorance and naivety was the route that many Coruscanti citizens opted to take, the desire to temporarily close your shop and traverse the galaxy doing missionary work was becoming difficult to stifle.

Yet you were as logical as you were benevolent, and despite the constant pull towards a life of nomadic altruism, the fact remained that you had invested too many days and even more credits resurrecting this business to simply abandon it in its infancy.

The squeak of the rolling desk chair echoed around the quiescent room as you sat yourself down behind the computer, determined to use the hot caf in your hands as a catalyst to ignite the engines of motivation into life. The chrono on the wall ticked on, unaffected by the looming task list that you continued to abscond from; moments stretched to minutes, your hands poised and motionless over the keyboard, and the resolve to work kept simply evaporating, wafting into the air and vanishing faster than the steam from your mug.

‘Damnit, I forgot to water my plants this morning…’ Your eyes were affixed on a the pair of prescription swimming goggles nestled in the tray that you’d perched in front of you nearly twenty minutes ago, yet the mental image of your limp fig tree, neglected the decency of water for the second straight week, was all your unfocussed eyes could see. ‘But I should probably prune it before I water it… and if I’m going through the hassle of pruning it, I should probably repot it fi—’

The sudden jangling of the bell broke you from your listless stupor, sending a startled jerk through your shoulders and pulling your gaze upward to the figure stepping into your space. The detail of his appearance remained momentarily obscured, shrouded in the shadows cast by the bright sunlight pouring in the door behind him, though it was immediately apparent by the rigid armour that enveloped his tall frame that he was a soldier or mercenary of sorts.

“Hello,” you called to him, alerting him of your presence behind the counter, but his response to the greeting and the small smile you’d hitched onto your face, was nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement, his eyes narrowing slightly as they darted around the walls of your shop.

Curiosity tipped your head to one side, and you watched him with reserved intrigue as he neared the counter, his big, metallic boots thunking heavily on the wood floors with every step. The armament that adorned his figure was dark, and unlike anything you’d seen before. The clone troopers on Coruscant typically wore protective suits of white plastoid, and were conversationally quite warm and friendly, but this man’s presence, complete with a frown and a crosshair tattoo, issued none of those vibes.

“What can I do for you?” you probed, ignoring the protest of your aching feet as you stood and met him across the counter. He hastened to fold his arms over his chest, throwing into sharp relief the sniper pole extending proudly from his left shoulder bell.

“What do you know about scopes?” he asked you, the smoke that bathed his words raising the small hairs on the back of your neck.

“What kind of scopes?” you quizzed back to him, wrenching your eyes from the intimidating tool on his shoulder. “Oculars? Speculars?”

“Rifle.” In stark contrast to the way he carried himself— slithering and softly, as if he funneled every effort into not preventing his movements from making a sound, his reply was direct, curt, and impatient, and despite your best efforts to repress it, the contradiction pulled a small smirk onto your face.

“I should have known,” you answered apologetically, gesturing with a flick of your eyes towards the pole on his pauldron, and for the second time in as many minutes, he forewent a spoken response, instead flicking his eyebrows and letting the ghost of a laugh huff from his nose.

“I studied a decent amount,” you continued, bewilderment budding inside of you as the peculiar stranger reached around to a pouch on his belt and retracted a toothpick. “But we don’t sell them. We’re mainly a spectacle sho—”

“I’m not buying,” he interrupted with another impatient little shake of his head. “There’s something… off… with mine.”

The intentionally vague nature of his complaint prompted the arch of your left eyebrow to raise, and it was with genuine perplexity that you replied. “Off? In what way?”

The rhythmic dance of toothpick across scowling lips filled the silent space of his hesitation, and the shadow of scepticism flitted behind his eyes as he peered down his nose at you.

“It sounds idiotic,” he muttered through teeth clenched around his wooden pacifier, “But the visuals are being distorted… and it seems to be at random.”

Your brows furrowed against the continued ambiguity of his complaints, and though you would never voice it aloud, his grievance did sound somewhat idiotic and nonsensical. Intermittent distortion through a set of lenses was not a concept you had ever come across, as typically someone’s vision was either clear, or it wasn’t. His hesitation to provide the description now seemed warranted, and it was your turn to entertain a scowled moment of hesitancy as you fought to digest his undetailed explanation.

“I’m not following you,” you sighed, both coming up short on an explanation and growing increasingly wary of his man-of-few-words attitude. “Do you have it with you?”

He unfolded his arms from their knot across his chest, exposing a thin, black plastoid case previously invisible by the tight ensconce of his gloved hand. The rigid container looked vaguely familiar to you, though your mind barely had a moment to dawdle in potential recognition before he was deftly unlatching the closure on the lid and pulling the scope from its velvet bedding.

Eyes widening with wonder, you collected the tool from him, your outstretched hand instantly sagging under the unexpected weight of the equipment. Your exposure to military grade weapon accessories, and knowledge of the various optical tools available for combat was limited, but one did not have to be an expert in the field to know this was a highly sophisticated, and highly coveted tool.

“Sometimes I’ll line up a shot with no issue,” he divulged, his sharp eyes dissecting your movements as you rotated the scope delicately in your fingers. “Other times, the image of the target seems warped. But I haven’t been able to establish a pattern, and none of my brothers see anything wrong.”

“Hmm,” you acknowledged, concentration pulling your lips tightly to one side. “That’s definitely… odd… and it seems random? Intermittent?”

He offered nothing but a small grunt of confirmation, supervising your twiddling of the tool with unwarranted intensity as if poised to pounce should you dare to mishandle his prized possession, but curiosity had entirely banished your unease of his demeanour, and it was eagerly that you returned the ocular to your eye.

The Snellen chart, hung at eye level across the room and inscribed letters of varying sizes, became the recipient of your attention; while designed to measure how effectively one could see at a specific distance without their glasses on, it acted appropriately well as a makeshift visual barometer for your diagnostics. Though despite alternating eyes, rotating the scope both clockwise and counterclockwise, and shifting your position behind the counter to create a variance in lighting, you failed to see anything that was overtly distorted or warped. The notion that you may not be able to solve the stranger’s problem simply because you couldn’t see it to diagnose it, pulled a disappointed frown onto your lips, usurping the confident determination you’d felt only minutes previously.

Still, he watched you mercilessly, impatience and expectation etched into the every superficial crease on his forehead. It was only as you moved to the lower the scope, prepared to sadly explain that he’d have to try elsewhere, did your departing gaze finally catch a micro glimpse of the issue. The distortion was there… but barely, and his brothers’ failure to corroborate the issue became instantly validated.

“Interesting,” you mused under your breath, locking your gaze on the minutely warped quadrant of the chart and turning the scope slowly in your fingers. “I think I see what you’re talking about,” you continued quietly, your refusal to lose sight of the issue subconsciously keeping the tone of your voice hushed. “It… it doesn’t seem like an issue of direct clarity, so the integrity of the lens coating must be intact… and the reticle itself is orientated at the correct rotation, so that rules out the first focal plane…”

Your hushed diagnostic rambling trailed away to silence as a theory emerged to the forefront of your mind. Before his frowning lips could wrap themselves around a sardonic response, you lowered the equipment from your eye, gripped it tightly in your hand, and flung your arm aggressively downwards, a motion reminiscent of trying to force a small amount of ketchup through the opening of a large bottle. His posture straightened hastily, and his horrified expression on his lithe face combined with the sharp gasp that slapped his throat, had you momentarily fearful he might pluck the toothpick from its clamp between his teeth and toss it at you like a javelin.

“Kriff, be careful.” It was not a request but a demand, leaving his lips in a hiss that suited his demeanor much more than that curt impatience he’d emanated earlier. “That’s my favourite scope.”

His warning went ignored, a prideful self-satisfaction smothering the duress of his mistrust as you peered through the scope again and found the resolution you had expected. “Ha,” you cheered in a whisper, orienting yourself towards him again. “Look now. Tell me if it’s any different.” You held the weighty scope out to him and gestured to the chart across the room. Still tinged with the horror brought on by your seemingly impulsive disregard for his property, his scowl intensified, exacerbated by a budding sense of scrutiny, but despite his dubious disbelief, he took the tool from your extended palm and brought it to his tattooed eye.

The speed in which he ran the scope through his own set of visual diagnostics was nothing short of remarkable, and it was this behavior, not the hissed warnings of care that reinforced his attachment to the tool. “Hmm,” he eventually grunted, his expression now impassive. “Seems normal actually.”

Eager to share your theory, you shifted your weight to your elbows. “I’m thinking the second focal plane might have dislodged in the chamber somehow,” you advised him. “Is there quite a bit of recoil from your rifle?”

A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, almost entirely banishing the tension in his brow and softening his expression to a nearly unidentifiable degree, and it was only barely that you contained the smile threatening to engulf your own features. “She’s got a bit of a kick,” he admitted slyly, flicking the toothpick noisily with the tip of his tongue. “But that’s not going to change. So what now?”

You sighed through your nose, gaze affixed on the piece of equipment clutched in his long fingers as a merciless tug-of-war erupted in your mind. It had been years since the opportunity to tinker with something as niche and unique as a long-range rifle scope had fallen into your hands, but the mountain of work already awaiting your attention was formidable, and could not be ethically delayed any longer.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you offered, sheer curiosity sending a right hook in the direction of your better judgement. “But I won’t be able to identify the root of the problem, or the solution, until I take it apart and run diagnostics on the individual pieces.”

His softened expression receded entirely, the soggy strip of wood in his teeth continuing to dance across now scowling lips as he cocked a dark eyebrow and glowered at you, but you matched the reemergence of mistrust with a neutral stare, drumming your nails lightly on the desk between you and watching the cogs of indecision turn behind his eyes. His top lip flattened slightly, tense with threats and warnings of caution that he longed to voice aloud, but he was as aware as he was cranky; his desperation for a solution seemingly outweighing his skepticism, and he restrained every admonishment lingering on his tongue.

“Like I said,” he snarled, refusing to soften the glare he was sending your way. “It’s my favourite scope.”

You swallowed against a mixture of disappointment and offense, embittered that this unnecessarily stern man had actively sought your help with his problem, but was too suspicious and wary to grant you the permission to fix it, despite having seemingly identified the root of the issue before his eyes. You hitched an ingenuine smile to your face and shrugged, perching yourself back on the seat of your squeaky desk chair and pulling the swimming goggles towards you. “It’s your choice,” you reminded him, rousing your slumbering monitor to life with the prod of your finger. “You can leave it and be no worse off… or I can take it apart and have a go at fixing it.”

Silence ensued in the following moment, a quiet broken only by the occasional click of wood against molar and the rhythmic tapping of your fingers on the keyboard, but despite his seemingly steadfast refusal to accept your offer, he didn’t move from his perch against the counter.

“Fine,” he grumbled, taking you by surprise and immediately stealing your attention back. “But I fly out at sunset, so I’ll need it back before then.”

“I can do that.” Thrilled by the valid excuse to delay ordering it (and its neglected comrades) for another few hours, you happily pushed the acrylic tray housing the goggles away from you and stood from your chair. “I close up shop before then anyways. Actually, there’s a shooting range about a block west of here. I can meet you there in a couple hours, and you can fire off a couple shots to see if my handiwork holds up.”

“Deal.” He stood up straight and plucked the strip of wood from his lips, flicking it to the floor at his feet without a second thought. “Name’s Crosshair.”

“Crosshair,” you repeated after offering your name in return, and with a gesture towards the tattoo around his eye you said: “Should have known.”

***

The sun that had so refreshingly bathed the planet that afternoon was readying itself for another night of slumber, sinking ever lower toward the horizon with each passing minute, and its void in the musty industrial building sent a shiver down your back.

A small alcove set into the wall, adorned with a smattering safety notices, acted as a landing zone for those entering and exiting the active firing lanes. An obnoxiously heavy, rolling durasteel door separated the two areas, and it was with an almost comical level of exertion that you managed to roll the door ajar just wide enough to squeeze through the gap. The audible rumble of the long-ago seized wheels was lost amongst the echoing din that bathed your ears in the room beyond; each of the two dozen lanes occupied by a duo of armed beings, jeering at each other over missed shots and poor grips.

If the sniper pole protruding menacingly from his shoulder wasn’t enough to make him easily distinguishable in the shadows opposite, then the stunning contrast of his silver hair and his dark armour certainly was, and it was with haste that you crossed the room toward his pacing position. The separation from his prized possession seemed to have rendered him, shockingly, more impatient than hours previously, the soggy toothpick between his frowning lips dancing ceaselessly while the thumb on each of his hands aggressively cracked the knuckles of its neighbouring fingers. But while his appearance and obvious restlessness had initially captured your attention, it did not hold it. Something else caught your eye… someone else.

A second man stood in close proximity to the sniper, almost identical in height though the stoop in his posture, brought on by the intent downwards gaze toward the device clutched in his hands, ensured a less imposing presence than his broad shouldered, glaring neighbour. He seemed at first glance, to be an extraordinary dichotomy to his companion, the perfect ying to Crosshair’s yang; where one’s hair shone brightly in the light of the buzzing fluorescent bulbs overhead, the other’s reflected the dark of shadowed corners, where one’s cuirass was deliberately painted dark, the other’s remained white, adorned with colour only minimally, and where Crosshair’s impatience was evident, with his sharp eyes darting mercilessly around the room, his companion seemed content to remain still, gaze affixed to the screen only inches from his nose.

‘Must be one of his brothers,’ you concluded as you approached the loitering duo.

Crosshair detected your arrival almost immediately; the intensity of his unrelenting gaze as you crossed the room to his position rendered your friendly “hello,” completely redundant. A double-take interrupted the greeting poised on your tongue for his companion, the unexpected allure of his features, thrown into relief by close proximity and the fleeting shift of his attention from the device in his hands to you, rendered you briefly inarticulate.

He continued to look remarkably different from his brother at second glance, with a squarer jaw, fuller lips, a more substantial frame (disguised by poor posture, a slight bow in his legs, and significantly less armour), and a set of dark goggles framing a pair of stunningly warm, brown eyes.

“Any luck?” Crosshair probed impatiently, opting to forgo niceties for the second time that day.

“Yeah, some,” you assuaged with a nod, tearing your gaze away from his brother. “My first assumptions were largely correct. The second focal plane must have dislodged in the scope’s housing at some point. Unless you knocked it pretty forcefully against something, a theory I can rule-out based on the otherwise pristine condition of the equipment, it was likely the extended period of repeated recoil that caused the dislocation.”

The large, goggled eyes had directed themselves to you again, this time almost urgently and paired with an abrupt jerk of his head in your direction. The jarring motion stole your attention mid-sentence, the recited explanation rolling off your tongue turning laggy and discombobulated under the intensity of his wide-eyed, astonished stare. Your eyebrows lifted slightly as you turned to face the slack jawed stranger, but no sooner did your gaze fall onto his blushing face, did he avert his focus from you again.

“Okay, and?” Crosshair asked, his probe prompting you to frantically try and find the lost train of thought from the previous second.

“Honestly,” you continued, redirecting your attention to the sniper, “With how minutely displaced the lens was, I’m impressed you even noticed.”

“Impressed?” Crosshair repeated, cocking an eyebrow in apparent disbelief. “Why?”

“Well… mathematically, any change in the relative vertex distance between focal planes will cause a deviation in the refracted ray, thus distorting the perceived real image…” The goggled man’s head snapped violently upwards again, his eyes widening to the size of dinner plates as his attention darted back and forth between you and his silver haired brother. “...but the second focal plane was only dislodged by about a millimetre. You must have pretty fantastic eyesight to pick up on such a small visual misalignment.” A fleeting glance to your right confirmed that the goggled man’s twinkly brown eyes were affixed on you, and it was with a foreign sense of budding shyness, that you extended the plastoid box out to Crosshair.

“Did you fix it?” he queried, collecting the offering and promptly unlatching the lid.

“Only temporarily, unfortunately.” A disappointed grimace weighed down your response. “It likely happened during the initial dislodging, but the bevel that holds the lens in place is significantly chipped. I’ve re-embedded it into its grooved housing, but I wouldn’t rely on it being a permanent solution.”

The disappointment that saturated your explanation did not seem to be mutual as the sniper wasted no time dropping to a knee beside you and pulling the pack from his shoulders. He retrieved the scope from its enclosement first, abandoning its container to the stone floor at your feet, before collecting and clicking together the deconstructed rifle parts that he wore on his back. Eager to avoid being accidentally knocked by the intimidatingly long rifle barrel being mounted into place, you turned and took a small step sideways.

The toe of your boot, however, didn’t descend as gracefully as you’d intended, instead snagging itself upon something domed and rigid, simultaneously sending your right ankle tipping sideways, and your arms outwards in a frantic motion to stabilize yourself. It wasn’t until you’d steadied the breath in your lungs that your eyes located the tripping hazard, ready to kick it away lest you step on it again. Embarrassment flooded your veins. It was a boot…

“Oh kriff, I’m sorry!” you cried, immediately relieving your fingers of their iron grip around the goggled man’s forearm. “I should have looked before I moved. Did I hurt you?”

Fuelled by the pounding of your heart in your chest, a heat rose quickly and earnestly to your cheeks as dazzling brown eyes widened behind those goggles again. An awkward silence expanded in the air between you as he failed to answer, and you hastily shifted your attention to Crosshair’s retreating figure, reconstructed rifle pointed upwards to the ceiling as he headed towards the nearby shooting lane.

“You did not. Our footwear is impregnated with a multilayered durasteel core that is able to withstand over 150kg of pressure, and you do not appear to have a mass equivalent to or exceeding that. However, the unanticipated need to anchor yourself with my arm nearly caused me to drop my datapad.”

It may have been the curt, matter-of-fact tone in which he spoke, another complete inverse to the slithery smoke of his brothers voice; it may have been the awkward and inelegant cadence of his reply; it may have been the adorable shift of his goggles on the bridge of his nose as he averted his gaze from you again that triggered a flutter in your gut, but for the second time, you found yourself momentarily tongue-tied.

“That would have been bad,” you somehow managed to force out under the duress of the giddy smile fighting to adorn your lips.

“Indeed,” he breathed.

His attention returned bashfully to the illuminated screen in his hands, the tops of his ears reddening slightly against the brush of his dark hairline, and you took the deviation of his gaze as an opportunity to survey his goggles. It was not the untraditional choice of eyewear that warranted your curiousity, as a strapped goggle was an entirely appropriate choice for a soldier who was likely constantly active, nor was it the recording device, mounted expertly along his right temple and aglow in the dim lighting of the corner either. It was his lenses: tragically thick, horribly smudged, and inducing a degree of magnification that you saw only rarely in the industry.

‘Poor hyperopes,’ you thought to yourself, the inherent squint of his eyes as they fought to focus through a series of ungodly fingerprints pulling an adoring smile onto your lips.

“Sorry if this is a little strange but… can I clean your lenses?” You spoke deliberately lightly and aloofly, intent on ensuring that he took no offense to your offer, and it was with a subdued tentativeness that you watched the adam’s apple bob in his throat.

“Clean my lenses?” he repeated, returning his gaze to you with dark brows knitted slightly in befuddlement.

“Yes,” you confirmed, blindly reaching into your bag for your trusted, green microfiber cloth. “They are filthy, and I don’t know how you can see anything.”

An unexplained affection welled inside of you as his thin fingers nimbly shifted his goggles again, exposing the repeated gesture as a soothing motion; the smallest of irrelevant movements acting as a pacifier against situations where discomfort threatened to provoke him.

“I did not realize the poor nature of their condition,” he admitted, indefinitely suspending the back and forth of his attention by stowing his datapad away into one of many pouches around his waist.

“You wouldn’t,” you answered with a small shrug and a smile, watching his features tense momentarily under the duress of pulling his goggles off. “Hyperopic, or ‘far-sighted’ people, by nature, struggle to see anything in the immediate vicinity of their gaze. That’s why they can never tell if their glasses are dirty or their lenses are scratched. So… you can’t help it.”

“You… are correct.” He answered slowly, his tone still dripping in what sounded like pleasant astonishment as he extended his goggles out to you. “A mutation in my genetic structure caused an innocent yet bothersome bilateral malformation of my corneas, resulting in a significant degree of hyperopia.”

“That’s probably putting it lightly.” A small chuckle left your mouth as you swaddled the left lens with your cloth and began to deftly wipe away the sea of fingerprints. Much like Crosshair had while his precious scope was being tended to in the foreign clutches of a stranger, this man watched your practiced hands intently and possessively as you worked to polish away any signs of a smudge.

The fluorescent bulbs suspended two-dozen feet above you were nowhere near as effective as the optical-grade backlit yellow panel that sat in the corner of your workshop, but were just luminescent enough to affirm you’d removed the last of the oily smears before you pocketed your cloth. A knowing smirk peeled its way across your lips as you shifted the lenses to-and-fro in front of your mildly squinted eyes, observing how the biconcavity on the front surface bent the reflection of the overhead light. “What’s the nature of your prescription?” you questioned as your left eye closed and your fingers rotated his goggles. “I’m assuming just based on the Against-Motion principle, that you’re probably around a +8.00? Maybe a +9.00?”

He blinked rapidly and repeatedly, seemingly trying to rid his vision of the anatomical blur that would forever plague him in the void of his goggles before answering.“I… am not certain of the exact dioptric correction,” he divulged, now grinding his knuckles into his eyes. “But I believe your estimation to be accurate. I am impressed that you could make such a determination based loosely on the principles of magnification alone.”

“It’s my job.” While you were able to modestly shrug away the giddiness of his inferred praise, your composure was no match for the accentuation of his sharp jawline, thrown into relief as the first hint of a smile tugged his cheek toward his ear. “I handle dozens of lenses every day,” you continued, averting your eyes to the goggles you held out to him. “I’m well practiced.”

“That is obvious.”

The affable response waiting just behind your smirking lips was halted in place by the return of the sniper as he reappeared at his brother’s side, his lithe face impassive and his rifle already snuggled into its cradle in his pack.

“Big improvement,” he uttered, the nod of appreciation that followed his words filling you with a mixture of relief and pride. “What do I owe you?”

“Not a thing,” you answered with a dismissing wave of the hand. The sight of notoriously scowling lips now taut behind a satisfied smile was enough to support that delaying your nefarious to-do list, while undeniably irresponsible, was the right decision. “It was actually nice to have a bit of a challenge for once. Like I said, it’ll hold for a while but it’s not a forever fix.”

“Disappointing.” Faster than it had come, the sly smile on his face disappeared, replaced in a breath by a glum grimace as he plucked the toothpick from the tight clamp of his teeth and flicked it to the floor at his feet. “Pretty sure that model is out of production now.”

“Sure is,” you confirmed, sympathetically matching his grimace with one of your own. “I did some research today—” (goggles snapped his head in your direction again) “—from the limited information that I could find, your model was the last that incorporated a biconcave first focal plane. But… I actually found an alternative tucked away in my workshop.” You reached a hand blindly into your bag, the keys to your speeder jingling as you roughly pushed them aside in search of the stiff plastoid box you’d shoved into the depths before leaving work. “The internal components are the same, but the barrel attachment clip differs from yours.”

Crosshair spared the offering only a microglance before the crease between his dark brows deepened, his top lip flattening at the thick layer of dust that blanketed the white plastoid case. You grinned apologetically at the sight of his disgusted expression, and an understanding began to click together like puzzle pieces in your mind. Crosshair’s man-of-few-words ethos was not one of implied supremacy as you had initially presumed, he simply communicated more effectively with his expressions and mannerisms than he did with words.

“The box looks like it hasn’t been touched in centuries,” you admitted, pushing the case into his chest, “but the scope itself is pristine. You’re welcome to keep it if you think it’s suitable.”

His gaze danced across your features skeptically as if dissecting it for any sign of an ulterior motive that hadn’t managed to previously identify, but the reassurance you offered by means of a small smile must have silenced his concerns, as he moved to unlatch the container and flip it open.

It was barely an hour after Crosshair had departed your establishment that you realized why the plastoid case that housed his scope had seemed vaguely familiar to you, and it was with a sense of excited urgency that you’d jogged to the back corner of your workshop and snatched the step stool from beside the broom. Tucked away on the top shelf of a precariously hung cupboard above the lens polisher and caked several decades worth of dust, the white box sat seemingly waiting for you. Countless times in the past had it been regarded as nothing but left over detritus from your uncle, unceremoniously pushed aside and ignored as you fervently looked for something else among the clutter, but today, as recognition had flared inside of you, it’s time in the spotlight had finally come.

The sniper’s abnormally long digits pulled the foreign scope from its foam mattress, hovering it in front of his tattooed eye while turning to orient himself toward the target sheets on the opposite wall.

“Hm… not bad actually,” he relented a moment later, turning back around and holding the scope out to his brother. “Tech, do you think you could modify the barrel attachment?”

So his name is Tech. The wordless introduction ensured another flush of your cheeks, and eager to repress the giddy smile that threatened to expose you, you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and ignored the brown–eyed man still passively gaping in your direction.

Crosshair shook the scope impatiently in the space between them, seemingly hoping the motion would shatter the muted reverie in which his brother was currently enthralled. “Tech? …Tech.”

“Um… yes,” Tech confirmed to your surprise, having collected the tool from his brother and agreeing to the task without even sparing it a glance. “Yes… I am able to… attach… myself.”

The chuckle that threatened to spill from your lips forced your gaze to the floor. The weathered and worn painted concrete beneath your boots was nothing but the epitome of lusterless and drossy, but in this moment of featherbrained awkwardness, you’d never seen a more interesting floor.

“Maker, since when can you not talk?” Crosshair hissed through clenched teeth.

Hot in the face and growing increasingly embarrassed by both the awkwardness of the conversation and the rapid emergence of this schoolgirl crush, you turned your attention back to your bag, thrusting your hand into its depths once again and pretending to dig around for something. Your peripheral vision saw Tech shift his goggles on his nose again, and immediately retract the datapad from his waist pouch.

You cleared your throat quietly before adjusting your bag on your shoulder and swinging your keyring noisily around your finger. Tech was blushing furiously and had turned his gaze to the screen of his small device, fingers dancing across the multicoloured buttons as if he’d injected rocket fuel directly into his knuckles. Crosshair, on the tail end of an elaborate eye roll, shook his head impatiently and huffed.

“You sure about this?” he asked you, tapping the lid of the plastoid box in his hands.

“Absolutely,” you answered without even the thought of hesitation. “It was just taking up very limited cupboard space so, if you want it, it’s yours.”

He nodded once, surveying your expression fleetingly once more before tucking the parcel under his arm. “Thanks again,” he mumbled, tossing you a casual three-fingered salute of acknowledgement before turning on his heel and heading the opposite way to the heavy, sliding door.

The sudden abandonment at the hands of his brother seemed to have roused Tech from his vigorous tango of typing, and his magnified eyes flickered to yours only briefly before darting towards the door. Mild amusement pulled another smile to your lips as discomfort erupted across his features; his jaw tensed, his posture straightened, and despite having spent the previous dozen minutes intermittently gawking at you, he now avoided your gaze.

“You better go,” you smirked, gesturing towards the disappearing head of silver hair. “It was nice to meet you. Good luck going… wherever it is that you’re going.”

“The ideology of ‘luck’ is illogical,” he intoned, raising a know-it-all finger into the air, the gesture somehow only intensifying your affection for him though he continued to evade eye contact, “but the sentiments are appreciated. And it was a pleasure gaining your acquaintance as well.”

His stooped frame made it barely three long paces before an urgent idea erupted in your mind. “Tech, wait!”

He turned his slumped shoulders back around to face you, mild curiosity etched into the small furrow in his brow as he lowered his datapad and held it limply at his side. “Keep this,” you offered, extending out the green microfiber cloth to him. “You need it more than I do.”

He stared, adorably flummoxed, at the fabric in your hand. “Keep it in one of your six hundred pockets,” you added with a goofy smirk and small gesture down to the series of cargo belts that seemingly adorned every inch of his tall frame. A mildly affronted expression ghosted across his face, but it was succeeded almost instantly by the same small smile that had sent your heart aflutter earlier. He took the cloth from you with a small nod, tucking it into the pouch perched just above a dangling spanner wrench on his hip, before muttering a quiet “goodbye” and continuing toward the door.

#the bad batch #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x reader #tech x gn!reader #tech x you #starqueenswrittenworks #starqueensedits

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bomberqueen17 · 8 months ago

Text

farm life

Am at the farm. Just gonna witter on uninterestingly about that behind the cut because I"m too tired to be interesting.

Initially we were going to make chicken sausage this week but BIL decided not to, but then when I said I was coming anyway, he decided to cut up some chickens.

In past years they've always sold out of chicken parts way before they've sold out of whole chickens. But a couple of years ago a chef friend told him there was nothing really wrong with thawing a chicken, cutting it up, and refreezing the parts, and initially we were just thawing whole chickens to cut up to grind into sausage, but we did some tests and determined that actually, no, there's really no discernible loss of quality in the parts. So now we don't sell out of chicken breasts in December anymore, but can keep bringing them to market all winter.

So this year we took the whole chickens out of the store, stopped bringing them to market, and are *only* selling the parts, and are saving the whole chickens to thaw and cut up and refreeze as parts. It's working great. It's more work, but it's more profit, and also more sales. People just don't buy whole chickens that much.

So anyway we cut up 88 chickens, and saved like 60 of the carcasses into a pair of huge stock pots. Packaged all the parts up, labeled and weighed them, then put the stock pots on to boil. Today we packaged 89 quarts of chicken stock. I was going to deep-clean the commercial kitchen, but it's not ready for the full spring treatment: we're still washing eggs in there, which means baskets full of chicken-shitty eggs are coming in and getting set on the floor. So I just cleaned and sanitized the heck out of the stuff we were using, and also the floor drain, but have held off. In April when the temps don't go below freezing at night anymore, when the vegetable washing station can move out of the eviscerating room so the egg washing can move back in there, *then* I will haul all the big equipment out and wash the whole room from the ceiling to the walls to the floors to the back of the grinder, under the mixer, under the fridge, under the freezer, all of it is getting powerwashed within an inch of its life.

But not this trip.

Next week we're making pork sausage.

I have been taking my dose of adderall at 8am immediately before I go out to work. It's hard to judge the efficacy, actually, because I'm so busy and so rarely totally self-directed. The real test would be to have me have a day of idleness and half a dozen things I need to accomplish. But I can concretely observe that I don't get a sort of dizzy head rush when it kicks in anymore, and I don't crash around 3 or 4 pm anymore. No, instead I'm just physically exhausted at that time, but it's understandable that I would be, because despite my best efforts to work out all winter, I am in no way prepared for the amounts of heavy lifting, repetitive movements, and sheer mileage you have to walk around here.

Today I finished cleaning the kitchen and then spent a couple of hours with my trusty old pruners, helping Farmsister and Veg Man harvest pussy willows to sell at market in decorative bundles. They just chainsawed the trees off a couple inches above the ground, and then we went at them with pruners and only took the nice branches, and the rest are going through the woodchipper to be mulch. VegMan pointed out the line they'd cut back to last year: this is how you coppice willows, and you can harvest them like this every year. They were fifteen feet tall, all new growth.

Soon we'll have daffodils. Mom had too many at her house, and a couple years ago she and Dad dug up buckets and buckets of them and brought them over and we dug a trench in the hillside and tipped them in. And now they're about ready to be divided again, LOL.

We have pullet eggs too. The chickens are laying pretty well, manageable amounts. We've started packing the eggs by weight, which is a little time-consuming.

OK that's enough wittering. Have I got any photos? Hmm.

the view from the little creek down into the Quackenkill, alongside the back of the old granary. Morning, sun coming through the trees and lighting up the red-stained old siding, the neighbor's house visible at the other end of the cut.

2. A pig friend, muddy snoot questing toward the camera in the sunshine of the winter livestock barn, which has a plastic south-facing roof to let in all the light it can.

3. Farmsister, in her chainsaw chaps and safety gear, chainsawing down the pussy willows in front of the solar panels. (They measured, before they planted the little trees; they'd have to be 40 feet tall to block the light on the solar panels in any season, which I don't think a pussy willow would do, but it's still important to prune them back whether we harvest them for the catkins or not.)

That's all, happy spring. I'm so tired.

#about the author #farm life

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snapmite1998 · 1 month ago

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Crimson Dawn’s Use of Smugglers: Evading Republic and Law Enforcement

Overview

In their pursuit of dominance and expansion, Crimson Dawn consistently engages in illegal activities requiring discreet and secure transportation. To evade the Republic and law enforcement, they hire experienced smugglers who excel in navigating dangerous routes and avoiding detection. These smugglers play a crucial role in transporting illicit cargo, which includes weapons, spice, stolen goods, rare artifacts, and more, ensuring that Crimson Dawn’s operations remain uninterrupted and profitable.

The Role of Smugglers

1. Expertise and Skills

- Navigational Mastery: Smugglers are skilled pilots capable of navigating the galaxy’s most treacherous routes. Their knowledge of lesser-known hyperlanes and hidden pathways allows them to avoid heavily patrolled areas and checkpoints.

- Stealth and Evasion: These operatives are adept at using stealth technology and evasive maneuvers to avoid detection by Republic forces and law enforcement. They utilize jamming devices, cloaking fields, and other advanced technologies to stay off the radar.

2. Discreet Operations

- Covert Cargo: Smugglers specialize in transporting illegal cargo without drawing attention. This includes using false compartments, hidden storage spaces, and other deceptive measures to conceal their illicit payload.

- False Manifesting: To cover their tracks, smugglers often use falsified documents and manifests. These forgeries ensure that any inspections or scans performed by authorities don’t reveal the true nature of their cargo.

Types of Illegal Cargo

1. Weapons and Armaments

- Advanced Weaponry: Smugglers transport an array of advanced weaponry for Crimson Dawn, including blaster rifles, disruptors, thermal detonators, and heavy ordinance. These weapons are destined for use by Crimson Dawn forces or for sale to allied factions.

- Black Market Arms: Access to black market weapons also means that smugglers often transport highly restricted or experimental technology, ensuring Crimson Dawn maintains a technological edge over its rivals.

2. Spice and Illicit Substances

- Spice Trade: The lucrative spice trade requires discreet and reliable transportation. Smugglers haul valuable spice from production sites to distribution points, evading customs and law enforcement along the way.

- Recreational Drugs: In addition to spice, other recreational and controlled substances are smuggled across the galaxy. These shipments generate substantial profit, funding Crimson Dawn’s operations.

3. Stolen Goods and Artifacts

- Rare Artifacts: Smugglers transport stolen relics, artworks, and valuable cultural items. These treasures are either sold to collectors or used to bolster Crimson Dawn’s dark side research.

- Pilfered Technology: Advanced technologies, including droid components, starship parts, and scientific equipment, are frequently stolen and smuggled. These items enhance Crimson Dawn’s capabilities and resource pool.

4. Sentient Cargo

- Human Trafficking: Tragically, smugglers are also involved in transporting slaves and trafficked individuals. These sentient beings are often bound for Zygerrian slave markets or directly to Crimson Dawn’s labor camps.

- Prisoners of War: During conflicts, captured enemy combatants, political prisoners, and notable figures are smuggled to secure locations for interrogation, ransom, or forced labor.

Hiring Process and Contracting

1. Selection Criteria

- Reputation and Reliability: Crimson Dawn hires smugglers based on their reputation for reliability and discretion. Only those with proven records in successfully completing missions without detection are considered.

- Network and Connections: Smugglers with extensive networks and connections within the underworld are highly valued. These connections facilitate smoother operations and provide additional layers of protection.

2. Contractual Agreements

- Payment and Incentives: Smugglers are well-compensated for their services, with payment structures that include upfront fees, hazard bonuses, and percentages of profits from the cargo they transport.

- Secrecy Clauses: Contracts often include strict confidentiality agreements, ensuring that all information regarding the nature of the cargo and the specifics of the mission remains undisclosed.

Methods and Tactics

1. Stealth Ships and Modified Freighters

- Custom Modifications: Smugglers frequently use heavily modified freighters and stealth ships. These modifications include advanced propulsion systems, reinforced hulls, and state-of-the-art cloaking devices.

- Hidden Compartments: Ships are equipped with hidden compartments and false panels to store illicit goods, making it nearly impossible for authorities to uncover the true cargo without extensive searches.

2. Diversion and Deception

- Decoy Ships: To further avoid detection, smugglers sometimes employ decoy ships. These ships lead law enforcement on wild chases, allowing the true cargo to pass through unnoticed.

- Transport Convoys: Smugglers might also travel in convoys, blending in with legitimate trading vessels to avoid raising suspicion. These convoys use coordinated flight paths and communications to maintain cover.

The Smuggler’s Journey

1. Pre-Mission Preparations

- Route Planning: Before embarking on a mission, smugglers meticulously plan their routes, identifying potential hazards, checkpoints, and safe havens. This preparation minimizes the risk of exposure.

- Coordination with Contacts: Smugglers communicate with their contacts within Crimson Dawn to ensure all aspects of the mission are understood and that contingency plans are in place.

2. Execution

- Real-Time Adaptation: During transport, smugglers remain adaptable, ready to alter their course in response to unforeseen challenges. Their ability to think on their feet is essential for evading patrols and navigating dangerous territories.

- Delivery and Handover: Upon reaching their destination, smugglers execute a discreet handover of the cargo, ensuring all items are securely transferred to Crimson Dawn operatives without attracting attention.

Impact on Crimson Dawn Operations

1. Sustained Illegal Activities

- Continuous Supply: The efficient and discreet transport of illegal cargo keeps Crimson Dawn’s operations running smoothly. This continuous supply line is critical for maintaining the organization’s power and influence.

- Expansion of Reach: The use of expert smugglers allows Crimson Dawn to extend its reach into new territories without alerting law enforcement or rival factions, facilitating further expansion and consolidation of power.

2. Financial Gains

- Revenue Generation: The illicit cargo transported by smugglers represents significant financial value. This revenue funds various aspects of Crimson Dawn’s enterprise, including weapon procurement, bribes, and the construction of projects like the Blood Star.

- Economic Control: By dominating the illegal trade through these smuggling operations, Crimson Dawn exerts considerable economic control over the black market, reinforcing its position in the criminal underworld.

Conclusion

Crimson Dawn’s strategic use of experienced smugglers for the transport of illegal cargo highlights the organization’s adaptability and cunning. By hiring skilled operatives from the galaxy’s most dangerous and discreet circles, they ensure the seamless execution of their illicit activities while avoiding the scrutiny of the Republic and law enforcement.

This reliance on smugglers not only sustains their illegal operations but also enables them to expand their influence and control within the galaxy’s underworld. As long as Crimson Dawn and its network of smugglers remain in place, the organization’s power and reach will continue to grow, unimpeded by the watchful eyes of the authorities.

#star wars #star wars fanfiction #star wars what if #darth maul #savage opress #feral opress #dryden vos #crime syndicate #crimson dawn #criminal activities #smugglers #Darth Maul: A New Dawn #check out my fanfic #my fanfiction #my story

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reasonsforhope · 2 years ago

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"California just cracked down on pollution from transportation in two major moves, part of an effort to improve air quality and cut carbon emissions at the same time.

On Friday, the California Air Resources Board unanimously approved a rule that would ban the sale of diesel big rigs in the state by 2036. The mandate, which will apply to about 1.8 million trucks — including those operated by Amazon, UPS, and the U.S. Postal Service — is reportedly the first in the world to require trucks to ditch internal combustion engines. The news came one day after California became the first state to adopt standards to limit pollution from trains.

Trucks and Diesel

The regulations are intended to improve air quality and trim carbon emissions from transportation, the source of about half the state’s greenhouse gases. Trucks and trains spew diesel exhaust, full of soot that contains more than 40 cancer-causing substances, responsible for an estimated 70 percent of Californian’s cancer risk from air pollution.

The trucking rule requires school buses and garbage trucks to be emissions-free within four years. By 2042, all trucks will be required to be “zero-emission,” meaning there’s no pollution coming out of their tailpipes. The deadline comes sooner for drayage trucks, which transport cargo from ports and railyards to warehouses — typically short routes that require less battery range. New drayage trucks must be “zero-emission” beginning next year, with the rule applying to all drayage trucks on the road in 2035.

Currently, medium and heavy-duty vehicles account for a fifth of greenhouse gas emissions statewide. In August, California clamped down on pollution from passenger vehicles with a plan to end the sale of new gas-powered cars in the state by 2035.

People breathing pollution from freeways and warehouse hubs have long called for stricter air standards. In the port cities of Long Beach and Los Angeles, some 6,000 trucks pass through every day, exposing residents to high levels of ozone and particulate matter, pollutants linked with a range of problems including respiratory conditions and cardiovascular disease. Long Beach residents who live the closest to ports and freeways have a life expectancy about 14 years shorter compared to people who live further away...

Trains and Locomotives

According to the new rules, the state is banning locomotive engines that are more than 23 years old by 2030. It also bans trains from idling for more than 30 minutes, provided that they are equipped with an engine that can shut off automatically.

The stage for the rule was set by a single line buried in the Biden administration’s proposed auto emissions rules, in which the Environmental Protection Agency said it was considering allowing states to regulate locomotives. Still, California’s new rules may spark a legal battle with the rail industry, which argues that the state doesn’t have the authority to make such sweeping changes.

Though railroads only account for about 2 percent of the country’s carbon emissions from transportation, switching to trains powered by batteries or hydrogen fuel cells would provide some benefits in the effort to tackle climate change. The public health gains would be even bigger: The California Air Resources Board estimates its new rules for trains, passed on Thursday, would lower cancer risk in neighborhoods near rail yards by more than 90 percent.

“This is an absolutely transformative rule to clean our air and mitigate climate change,” Liane Randolph, the chair of the air quality board, said ahead of the vote on the trucking rules on Friday. “We all know there’s a lot of challenges, but those challenges aren’t going to be tackled unless we move forward … if not now, when?”"

-via The Grist, 4/28/23

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thetreetopinn · 3 months ago

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I've been considering learning how to sew recently--not by hand, I can do a little of that already. I'm not great at it. My hands shake too much to be good at it--essential tremors fucking suck. But using a sewing machine seems like something that could be useful or even dare I say it... fun.

My mom has an old Bernina machine from like... 1970. It's a workhorse. All metal internal parts, heavy duty construction. The thing would probably be worth $1000 if it was sold new today. She has a second machine from around the same time that belonged to my grandmother and she's suggested that I could have it if I wanted it.

I'm intimidated by my mom's sewing machine, and by extension, my grandmother's.

So, I thought I'd follow Adam Savage's advice for folks just getting into a new hobby/skill. Buy the cheapest equipment you can find so you can practice and learn on that before you sink any real money into better gear. I've been looking around online and you can found sewing machines for like $100. Sure they probably don't last too long and they probably get bogged down a lot. I guarantee you they're not as good as my mom's Bernina. But it's good for practice, right? Develop some basic skills before you move on to the big toys?

This is why you buy a kid who's just learning to drive an old beater that doesn't matter if it hits a fence or gets dinged or whatever, so long as the kid is safe and is learning to drive. You don't give a 16 year old a brand new luxury SUV as their first car. They have to learn the basics first.

I went to a fabric store today to look at what machines were available, maybe ask someone who knows more about this stuff than me what their opinion was. They were super busy and I didn't want to waste anyone's time, so I just stood there staring at the sewing machines. They didn't have any on display like they used to. Just the boxed up units ready for sale.

I would rather learn on a cheap $100 machine and break something THERE rather than learn on a seriously piece of equipment and break THAT... because I know I will. It's what I do. I ruin things. I break things. I make things worse.

I didn't talk to anyone. I didn't buy anything. I talked myself out of the whole idea. Because I know myself. I have a habit of trying something new and then giving it up very quickly after starting because I lose interest or I feel like I'm not good enough at it to keep going.

I left the store feeling like a fucking failure and I've been in a sour funk every since.

I fucking hate my brain. I hate that I get this way. I hate that it's so fucking easy to push me into depression. Virtually no effort required.

Can someone please tell me that I'm not the only one who ends up feeling like this about stupid, inconsequential shit like this?

I feel like I'm insane or broken or something... like I'm un-fucking-fixable.

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zuma-sales-llc · 3 months ago

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New JLG 1055 Telehandler. This beast is all about power and precision, whether it's lifting heavy loads or navigating tough terrain. The perfect partner for any construction site 💪🏗️

#heavyequipment #construction #equipment #industrialequipment #machinery #jlg #telehandler #forklift

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jacksan2027 · 2 years ago

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Discover the Power of our Quality Used Rock Breakers

If you're considering buying a used rock breaker heavy equipment, it's important to do your research and make sure you're making a wise investment. A used rock breaker can be a cost-effective solution for your construction or mining business, but it's essential to inspect the equipment thoroughly before purchasing to ensure that it's in good working condition.

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#Tooth point #sale spares parts #marketplace #marketplace for heavy equipment #rock breakers #yantralive

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subtile-jagden · 1 year ago

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Oswald Boelcke - Part 2

Fighter Pilot and Celebrity

In early 1915 French flyers started to carry heavy machine guns with them in order to attack German reconnaissance planes. This endeavor was not very fruitful, a hit was pure luck. But it inspired all sides to experiment with armed aeroplanes and gave way to air battles and the establishment of air warfare. Two weeks after setting up the unit, they were sent to Douai where heavy fighting was going on; British and French forces tried to break through the German lines.

In his new unit, Boelcke met an ambitious and talented pilot, he quickly befriended: Max Immelmann. Immelmann reported about this new acquaintance: “Soon it turned out that we fit together very well. We don't smoke, hardly ever drink alcohol, but we like to eat cake. Boelcke is a capable sportsman. He is an extraordinarily calm and level-headed person with reasonable views. He flies excellently.”

With the sale of a number of letters from Boelcke's estate in recent years, the suspicion has crept in that Boelcke and Immelmann didn't like each other. In one of the letters to his mother, Boelcke criticizes Immelmann's self-representation. Immelmann and Boelcke became "famous" at the same time, their successes followed one another. While Boelcke was reluctant to be used as a propaganda figure, Immelmann enjoyed the press hype surrounding him. In my opinion that does not mean that Boelcke didn´t like Immelmann; it is very possible that he simply did not agree with him on this issue. To call them adversaries due to that goes too far. They clearly got along well and even if they grew apart after they parted ways, both knew that they are fighting on the same side.

By mid-1915, German aircraft were also equipped with machine guns and Boelcke was able to change from his reconnaissance plane to a two-seater fighter plane. During this time the famous aeroplane constructor Anthon Fokker was in Douai to show his new single-seater fighter plane. Boelcke spent a lot of time getting familiar with this new weapon. In June he and his companion had their first victory, they were able to shoot down a French Parasol. Boelcke as humble as ever told his parents to not give his letter in which es described the fight to the press: “Father asks if he may publish my report in the newspaper. You know I don't hold publicity in high esteem. But if you really want to, I will not oppose it. But without a name, of course!”.

By July Boelcke was able to get a Fokker-Einsitzer (single seater). Now he would be doing the flying and the shooting. “My ideal has been reached with the single seater: now i can be the leader, observer and fighter all at the same time”. A sentiment that was shared by many of the soldiers: Manfred von Richthofen and Rudolf Berthold also spoke of wanting to fly and fight alone, to take sole responsibility for everything that happened. He now spent his time patrolling the lines, searching for French artillery fliers and disrupt them in their doing.

And so starts Oswald Boelckes exceptional career as a fighter pilot. But as always, a hero can´t just be a hero in one field of activity: so while Boelcke became a national hero by flying, he also became a hero to a French boy who fell off a bridge into a river, almost drowning, as he had never learned how to swim. Witnessing the accident, Boelcke jumped into the river, saving the boys life. Oh my, that would make for a great movie, though it would possible be called unrealistic.

Boelcke was a young man and therefore interested in girls. He fraternized with the German nurses, even took one up in his plane.

He also met a nice French girl when he was invited to have dinner with Prince Aribert von Anhalt. “I slipped out of the conversation and was introduced to the lady of the house where the prince lives - a very nice mum with an even nicer daughter Ninette, who I immediately became friends with and whom I now visit almost every day to chat in French with her - of course only because of that!”

In September 1915 Boelcke got transferred to Metz, to a “Brieftauben-Abteilung”. This “Carrier pigeon company” was of course just an alias for the actual use of this unist: single seater fighters with the sole purpose of shooting down any enemy airplane. Boelcke was invited to Berlin to evaluate the new Fokker fighter plane, by that time he had already made a name for himself as an expert and his opinion was valued. Boelcke spent the rest of the year shooting down enemies.

By January 1916 he had eight victories, the same as Immelmann. Both were surprised when it was announced that they would be awarded Germany's highest military medal, the Pour le Mérite. By then Boelcke was a superstar in Germany; every newspaper reported about him and printed his picture. From every corner in Germany he got letters sent to him. While he was happy about all the sympathy, he was also a little uncomfortable with all the attention: “That's all well and good - if only I didn't have to answer such an awful lot of letters! The other day, the German Automobile Club sent me its "golden ADAC badge of honour with diamonds" and recently they made me an honorary member of the Academic Air Fleet Association - I don't know what to do with all these new honours”.

In June 1916 he was ordered to set up a squadron of only fokker single-seaters, the pioneer of the later fighter squadrons. But he was not to be their leader, as shortly before going operational Boelcke was forbidden to fly by the Kaiser himself. As a consolation he was sent on a journey to the orient; this was of course the result of Immelmann's death shortly before. Boelcke visited the Balkan, Bulgaria and Turkey, then he stayed at the Eastern Front for a short while but he returned prematurely because the Somme offensive was in full swing and everyone was needed at the Western front.

While visiting his brother at the Eastern Front he recruited two excellent pilots for his Staffel: Manfred von Richthofen and Erwin Bohme. Both reported on the honour that had been bestowed upon them by being chosen by the famous Boelcke. “Boelcke was supposed to leave again the next morning. Early in the morning there was a sudden knock at my door and the great man with the Pour le Mérite stood in front of me. I almost hugged him when he asked me if I wanted to go to the Somme with him.” (Manfred von Richthofen). “Imagine my astonishment when Boelcke suddenly walked up to me the next morning and simply asked: Do you want to go to the Somme with me? I have never called out a happier yes in my life.” (Erwin Boehme).

And so Boelcke returned to France after six weeks away, with a new task and with new students, both of whom will unfortunately be involved in his death.

#Oswald Boelcke #WW1

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the-lone-writer94 · 9 months ago

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We'll Meet Again (Part 1)

Thank you @livingbreathingrocknroll for the idea!

Rex Brown x Female Reader

Summary: Set in 1983, you (female reader) have just moved to town, and have joined a band, but there's another rising band in town.... Pantera, and it so happens that the bands have a longstanding feud against each other. The other problem is you happen to have fallen for Pantera's bass player.

Age rating: 13+ (Steamy make out scene and mention of drugs)

Word count: 3,915

Summer of 1983

I pulled up at the Fotomat kiosk, the little yellow hut gleamed beneath the sun as I averted my gaze. I yanked on the hand brake and shifted my body to face my side of the car window.

I heard the muffled sounds of music that seeped through the booth, as I peered through the window.

“Hello?” I called out.

Moments later, I heard the sounds of shuffling before a scrawny guy emerged. He had medium length light brown hair that was layered and was slightly teased with hairspray on the top, and wore a light blue sleeveless vest, exposing his slender yet toned arms. He had chocolate brown puppy dog eyes which I found myself being lost in his eyes.

“Hi,” he said.

Suddenly, I found myself shifting back into reality. “Hi,”

“What can I get you?” He asked.

My brows furrowed. “What? I’m here to drop off some film.”

He seemed taken aback. “Oh, of course.”

My arm extended as I dropped off the roll into his hand, our fingers caressed as I did so, sending electrical pulses through my veins. I flinched, and I felt my cheeks turning red.

He fumbled with the stack of tickets as he scribbled something across it, then he handed it to me. “That’ll be two dollars.”

I handed him the cash, and our gaze connected with each other. “I’ve not seen you around?” He inquired.

“I moved here two weeks ago.” I responded.

He cocked his head to the side, as I noticed his gaze traveled over my shoulder. “You play bass?” He asked.

I spun around, I had completely forgotten my bass was in the passenger seat. “Yeah,” I said.

“Me too.”

“Oh cool,” I answered, as I felt like a complete idiot for not trying harder to continue this conversation.

“Hey, listen would you like to-” he began, but then paused.

Suddenly, I jumped as the sound of the car horn roared behind me. I turned my head back to see a car had pulled up almost an inch away from me. A man bellowed from the top of his lungs. “Come on man!” As the car continued to drive closer towards mine.

It had been instinct and fear, that I had immediately turned the ignition and drove away, as I cursed beneath my breath that my time was cut short with the cute bass player from the Fotomat kiosk.

—-

The sounds rippled through the amplifiers, so deafening that it almost shattered my eardrums. I released the breath that I hadn’t realized I had held, as I opened my eyes and my senses returned back to me.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t playing the stadium at Madison Square Garden, but I was in some dank basement. The walls were covered in bootleg posters we had printed from the Xerox place, empty beer bottles and pizza boxes scattered in every inch of the corner, almost making it impossible to walk through, there was also a stench of body odor that lingered and hung in the air, which caused my nose to twitch. Then, our equipment which we had scoured from garage sales, fixing them up as best as we could.

“Whoo!” Billy, our lead singer of the band screamed. “That was heavy dude.” He commented.

Rob, our drummer, wiped the sweat away from his forehead and exclaimed. “Totally!”

“Don’t you think the bridge needs some work?” I asked.

Rob scoffed. “Who cares. Practice is done, let’s all go to the Pit.”

“She’s right,” Billy agreed, “if we want to beat Pantera then we have to perfect our songs.”

“Dude, what’s your problem with Pantera?” Tom, our guitar player added.

“Who is Pantera?” I asked.

“They’re one of the rising hottest bands in town.” Rob answered.

Billy’s nostrils flared. “There’s only room for one band in this town, and that is us!”

“We’ll be fine dude, we’ve got something they don’t.” Rob said.

“And what’s that?” Tom asked.

Rob gestured to me. “A hot girl.”

I raised my middle finger at him. “Fuck you, asshole. I’m more than that.”

Sometimes, Rob had a tendency to make me want to kick him in the nuts. But then, I would swallow my anger because deep down he was actually a total sweetheart, and also his cousin was one of my friends. After having moved into this town two weeks ago, and not knowing a single soul. One afternoon, I met Scarlet, Rob’s cousin, at the record store. We both immediately hit it off, and she had hooked me up with joining the band.

Rob smirked and waved his hand nonchalantly. “Yeah, yeah.”

“You do give us an edge.” Tom added.

“Are we going to the Pit or what?” Rob demanded.

Billy sighed. “Fine, let’s go to the Pit.”

The Pit wasn’t exactly where I wanted to be on a Saturday night. Whilst the name of it was intriguing, the reality of it was sad.

After all there wasn’t much for nineteen year olds to do. The Pit was located in an abandoned bowling alley on the outskirts of town, with a huge parking lot that had been sealed shut. The winning factor about it was it was in a remote part of town, far away from society where we were free to do as we wished. Several idiots had managed to break in, and anointing it to be the hangout spot of youth delinquency.

Rob pulled up a block away from the Pit, already a cluster of cars had formed and surrounded the area. Muffled beats traveled throughout the air and a blaze of orange lights illuminated from the center.

“This should be fun.” Rob said, and removed himself from the car.

We all followed in Rob’s heels as we drew nearer and nearer towards the Pit. From a distance, I saw the sea of bodies that were scattered around the parking lot. Music blasted from the boombox which was set up in the corner, and the sounds of overlapped chatter echoed.

Immediately, Billy spat in disgust. “Fuck, those assholes from Pantera are here!” He fumed. “I’m leaving!”

“Dude, chill.” Rob said, and added, “just ignore them.”

My gaze drifted over towards the crowd, and my heart lurched as I recognized the familiar face. The guy from the Fotomat kiosk.

Suddenly, our gazes locked and he smiled. I watched as his lips moved, he had said something inaudible to his group of friends before he stalked his way over towards me.

“Hi again,” he said.

My cheeks flushed. “Hi.” I said, from my peripheral vision I could sense the death glares that Billy was giving me.

“I’m glad I ran into you,” he said and took a sip from his red plastic cup. “I’m Rex. The bassist in Pantera.”

“Oh,” I said, as I then proceeded to murmur my name.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Hmm, sure,” I said.

He spun around and I followed him on his heels. We snaked our way through the crowd as he paused before an ice box. He flipped the lid open and laughed nervously.

“There’s not a lot of options,” he said.

I shrugged. “I’m good with beer.”

He reached down and grabbed a can of beer then handed it to me. I opened up the can and took a swig. The ice from the icebox had more or less melted, and the beer was now lukewarm, which wasn’t the most appealing. However, I wasn’t all that fussed.

“So where did you move from?” He asked.

“California.”

“No shit, nice-” he responded, then added, “what are you doing here?” He laughed.

I smirked. “I know right… I moved out here to be with my mom.”

“Fair enough.” He responded.

“So you say you’re in a band… Pantera? Was it?” I asked.

Rex nodded. “Yeah, we’re actually releasing our first album next week and we’re playing at the Basement and then a party afterwards, you should come.”

“Oh, that’ll be cool. What sorta sound do you guys make?”

“We’re very into KISS and Van Halen.”

I nodded. “I saw KISS in Fresno ‘79. Yeah, I caught Ace Frehley’s guitar pick, and made it into a necklace.” I explained, as I pulled the necklace which was tucked underneath my shirt.

Rex closed the gap between us as he lowered his head towards my neck. “Rad.” He responded.

Just then, I felt a presence looming over me, as Billy cleared his throat. “Hello Rex.” He said in a threatening tone.

Rex scoffed. “Billy.”

“I see you’ve met our bass player.” Billy challenged.

Rex’s eyes widened. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh-” Billy continued, “your little buddies better watch out.”

Rex scoffed. “Dude, you need to chill-”

“I’m not gonna chill.” Billy hissed. “We’re gonna crush you at the Basement.”

“Whatever dude, we’re releasing our first record.”

Billy’s eyes widened. “Of course, it’ll be easy to release a record when your buddy’s dad owns a studio.”

“Woah man, you better watch it!” A guy with huge wavy hair stepped besides Rex.

Rex spun around and placed his hand on the guy’s arm. “It’s alright Dime.” He murmured.

Suddenly, I felt something on my arm, as I turned around and watched as Tom pulled me aside. “You don’t wanna get in the middle of this.” He said.

“What is their problem?” I asked.

Tom sighed. “It’s a long dumb story. Basically, Rex runs a little side project of his own at the Fotomat kiosk he works out. He sells drugs in the Fotomat roll bags,” Tom explained.

Something clicked in my mind from my encounter with Rex earlier at the Fotomat kiosk. He must have assumed I was there to buy drugs off of him.

“Anyway, I guess Billy has a big mouth and was going around town telling everyone about it,” Tom continued, “so Rex just charged him like double. And, I don’t know, I guess this started this whole feud.”

“Really?” I asked, as my brows furrowed.

“I don’t know, man.” Tom sighed, as he took a huge gulp of his beer and burped.

—--

A couple of days had passed, and my mind had utterly been consumed by Rex. After the incident at the Pit, I had contemplated whether I wanted to even go near the Pantera show and party.

I turned around and lay on my back, my gaze fixated on the ceiling. Suddenly, I felt something collide against my face.

“What the fuck?” I yelled, as I grabbed the teddy bear and flung it aside.

Scarlet was seated on the ground, with several magazines sprawled before her. “Hello, I’m talking here.”

I shook my head. “Sorry, my mind is just somewhere else.”

“I can see that. What were you thinking about?”

I shifted in my position and faced Scarlet. “Do you know anything about the band’s feud with Pantera? Tom told me that it’s because Rex charged Billy a lot of money for the drugs and he wasn’t happy about it.”

Scarlet scoffed. “I wish that’s all it was.”

“So there’s more?”

“Way more,” Scarlet began, “one night Rex made out with a girl at some party, and then that same girl made out with Billy. He wasn’t too happy about it.”

I felt a weird sensation coursing through me after hearing the story. “I mean, these things happen. Seems a bit dramatic to start a full on feud about it.”

“I think there’s more, but it’s hard to tell what are rumors or not,” Scarlet explained, and then added, “why do you wanna know?”

I shrugged. “I met Rex at the Pit a few nights ago… I don’t know, I just thought he was cute and he invited me to Pantera’s party.”

Scarlet’s brows furrowed. “You think Rex is cute? That scrawny guy?”

“Yeah,” I said and averted my gaze from Scarlet.

“He’s got those huge puppy dog eyes, I guess… but no, I like my men rugged and burly… like Tom Selleck.” Scarlet lusted, as she drooled.

“Anyway,” I said and changed the subject. “I’m just thinking if I should go.”

Suddenly, Scarlet shot up and stalked towards me. “Don’t do it,” she warned, “I’m serious… your bands have always been at war with each other.”

“Oh come on, stop being so dramatic.” I said, and waved my hand.

“Seriously,” she urged and said my name sternly, “if you wanna be in the band, stay away from Rex.”

I rolled my eyes. “It can’t be that bad.”

Scarlet shook her head. “This band is going places, I’ve heard from Rob that there’s talks about an executive from Mercury who is interested in you guys.”

“Oh my god, Mercury!” I exclaimed.

Scarlet nodded. “Just don’t piss Billy off by doing something stupid, otherwise he’s gonna kick ya out.”

“Fine, I won’t.”

“Seriously, you and Rex. It’s fucking Romeo & Juliet, alright. It’s forbidden.”

—-

My eyes fixated on the calendar, it was the day of Pantera’s album release party. Multiple scenarios flashed in my mind.

I hadn’t seen Rex since the night at the Pit, and it was driving me insane. Everytime I close my eyes, I would vision him. The way he smiled, and the way our skin caressed when we touched.

But then, I didn’t want to jeopardize my position in the band. I had been in a lot of shitty bands during my time in California, and I just know that this is it.

As I watched the hours pass by on the clock before me, I suddenly found myself in my closet. I put on a beat up KISS T-shirt, paired with leather pants I had bought for ten goddamn bucks at a thrift store in L.A., then a chunky leather belt and black platform shoes. During those several moments, it was as if I had been possessed, I knew what I was doing, but I couldn’t stop myself.

After I had gotten ready, I got into my car and drove to the Basement towards Pantera’s show. I still had trouble navigating my way around town, the last time I had gone to the Basement, Rob had driven all of us. It was also the very first time I had performed with the band, and my mind was beyond somewhere else, that I had downed several cans of beer before the show, and my memories of that night were both fuzzy and a haze. For all it was worth, that night could have been a figment of my imagination.

The map was sprawled on the passenger seat beside me, earlier when I had left the house. I had quickly drawn out the route from my home to the Basement, darkening the lines on the map in pencil. Every now and then, I glanced down at the map and then back to the road again, as I continued down onto Route 75.

I peered down at my wrist watch, time was certainly against me, as my foot pressed down on to the gas pedal, and the engine roared.

Finally, I took a right turn down onto Park Lane and carried on straight, until the familiarity of the road came flooding back to me. In the distance, I managed to make out the Basement on the right hand side.

I swerved into a spot just several paces before the club, and switched off the ignition. My hands trembled, and I felt beads of sweat pouring down from my forehead. I wiped it away with the back of my hand, and suddenly urged for a cigarette.

I closed my eyes and exhaled, as I tried to repress the nerves.

Once I had brought myself together, I removed myself from the car. Just when I was about to stalk towards the club, I heard a voice calling out my name.

I spun around and flinched, as I watched Billy and Tom before me. “What are you doing here?” Billy asked. “Are you going to Pantera’s show?” His brows furrowed.

“Hmm,” I said nervously, then shook my head, “no- I’m just meeting a friend nearby, she’s from back home and wanted to check out the sites.”

“Here? There’s nothing around.” Tom questioned.

I nodded and shrugged. “I don’t know why,” I lied.

“Right?” Billy responded with a hint of skepticism in his voice.

“What are you guys doing here?” As I immediately found a solution to change the subject.

“We’ve just been hitting record store to record store, cause Billy wants to get the ABBA album-” Tom said and then paused, as Billy shot him a cold glare. Tom cleared his throat, “I mean Black Sabbath album.”

“Uh huh,” I said as I raised an eyebrow.

Abruptly, Billy shook his head. “Look, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but Pantera is bad news okay.”

“What happened?” I asked, proceeding with caution.

Billy’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to get into it now,” he hissed, “you’re a good bass player, and I think with you in the band we actually have a shot of getting signed. I would hate for that to not work out because of someone.” He said.

I stared into Billy’s eyes. The venomous glare sent shivers down my spine. “You have my word Billy.” I responded.

“Good.” He answered, his expression softened. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night for practice. And you’re right that the bridge in that song is a little off- we should work on it more.”

“Totally.” I agreed.

“See ya tomorrow.” Billy said.

“Later.” Tom added.

I watched as they stalked away from me. My gaze drifted over towards the Basement, my heart pounded against my chest. Conflicted thoughts bounced through my mind, as I contemplated my next moves.

Perhaps, I would come clean to Rex that I wasn’t to see him.

I swallowed the fear, and stepped towards the club. As I descended down into the Basement, a thick layer of smoke clouded above me. My eyes widened at the amount of people that crowded in the club. The lights were dimmed low, with neon red gleaming from the stage area. The sound of heavy riffs and drumbeats emerged from the speakers but the sound was drained out by the overlapping sounds of chatter that echoed through the club.

Suddenly, a wave of dread washed over me, and realization had struck me what a terrible idea this was. I couldn’t risk this for a guy.

Abruptly, I spun as I tried to bolt from the club, only to have collided into something, or someone. It took me several moments to realize the person who stood before me.

Rex.

“Hey, you came.” He said and flashed a smile.

“Actually… I’ve gotta go-” I said, and stepped forward.

“Woah, wait,” he urged and grabbed my arm gently, “is everything alright?”

“Yeah,” I said nervously, “it’s just-” I paused, unable to find the words.

“Is this because of Billy?”

“No… I mean, yeah… kinda-” I stuttered. “Look, whatever went on between you and Billy, I don’t give a shit about that. But, I don’t want to jeopardize my position in the band. It means a lot to me.”

“Totally,” he answered, and then added, “but just because you’re in a different band doesn’t mean that you and I-”

I raised my finger in the air. “Don’t say it Rex,” I warned, “I gotta go.” I sighed.

“No wait,” Rex protested. “Let’s just talk about it, please?” He asked.

I gazed into his chocolate brown eyes, as I acknowledged the urgency behind them. “Alright.” I admitted.

He pulled me aside as we stepped inside a phone booth in the corner of the club. The booth was covered with stickers of bands, the stench of beer lingered. There were moments, when I didn’t necessarily want to fixate on what could have possibly gone on in here. Suddenly, I was very aware of the fact that our bodies were pressed against each other.

Rex closed the sliding door, and we were thrown into our own little private paradise.

“I don’t know what you’ve heard from Billy-” He began.

“Rex, you don’t have to tell me.”

Rex shook his head. “No, no, it’s fine… I was drunk, and I hit Billy’s car.”

My brows furrowed. “Oh,”

“Yeah, he was pretty pissed about it but I paid him for the damages and I thought we were good, but I guess not.” Rex said and shrugged.

I stared at him bewildered, trying to fit the different stories and the pieces together. “Well, I’m new in town and I just don’t really know anyone. Billy is a nutcase sometimes, but he and the guys have been good to me, and I don’t want to fuck that up.”

“And I get it, but I like you”

I sighed, “I like you too, Rex-” he opened his mouth, but then I interrupted him, “but it’s not going to work out between us.”

He stepped closer towards me, even with the platform boots he still managed to tower over me. I felt his hot breath caress my skin. “You know that day at the Fotomat when you handed me the film and our hands touched,” he said, his voice low and sweet like honey.

Suddenly, I felt Rex’s fingers graze along my hand. My jaw clenched and my heartbeat quickened. His touch continued, as his fingers draped along my arm.

I exhaled, and closed my eyes for a couple of seconds, as I felt Rex’s touch. My eyelids slowly opened, as I saw Rex’s face just a mere inch away from me. My gaze drifted over his lips, as I chewed on my lower lip.

It didn’t take long before the temptation had overshadowed and possessed me.

“Oh fuck it,” I heaved, as I grabbed Rex by the neck and our lips crashed onto each other’s. At first, I managed to taste the faint linger of cigarettes and beer, laced upon his lips.

Immediately, his hands rested upon my waist as he pulled me closer towards him. He deepened the kiss, and my lips parted allowing his tongue to slip inside. He pressed his body against mine, and pushed me into the wall. Then, he removed both of his hands away from my body as he pressed his palms against the wall, framing me inside, knowing that in this current state, I was all his.

My hands reached up towards his face, as my fingers edged along his jawline, feeling the short stubble framing his jawline and chin, I could only assume he was trying to grow a goatee.

Then, with one of his hands, he slowly caressed the side of my body and rested it on my ass grabbing down onto it, hard. Whilst the other reached into my hair. His fingers knotted in it as he gently tugged onto it.

Our tongues continued to join, as I moaned into Rex, which was enough for him to feel the urgency, as he pressed himself down onto me, deepening the kiss.

Finally, I broke away. I heaved, as I tried to catch my breath. Sparks remained in my chest, as I somehow felt slightly light-headed and tried to recollect what had just happened.

“Oh my god,” I blushed, knowing that my cheeks were now flustered.

His gaze locked with mine. In the distance, we overheard the thunderous roar of the crowd which chanted for Pantera.

“That’s my cue, baby.” He said, and smirked.

We stepped outside from the phone booth, and a wave of disappointment washed over me. Rex was my poison, and I was addicted.

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