#invallers

[de-meerpeen]

Bezorgers gevraagd voor Meerpeen Magazine!

Lokaal nieuws: 'Bezorgers gevraagd voor Meerpeen Magazine!

WIERINGERMEER – Voor het Meerpeen Magazine hebben we een trouwe ploeg bezorgers. 7 x per jaar wordt het blad in Middenmeer, Slootdorp, Kreileroord, Wieringerwerf en het agrarisch buitengebied bezorgd. Soms zijn er bezorgers op vakantie of verhinderd en zoeken we vervangers. Houdt u van lekker bewegen in de buitenlucht en wordt u blij van de mensen die blij worden van het ontvangen van een…

[fictionkinfessions]

feeling invalid because you don't share many things with your kintype call that kinpostor syndrome

2

[postcard-from-the-past]

Mansion in Inval-Boiron, Picardy region of France

French vintage postcard

[sofiavonlea]

Brewster, Tommy? 😊

tysm for sending these!! <3

brewster- do you prefer tea or coffee?

☕ coffee all the way!! i rarely have any tea

tommy - already answered

[thedreamlifeofbalsosnell]

‘De zoete inval’ en ‘Zeeangst’ van L.H. Wiener: herinneringen van een weemoedige zeerot

L.H. Wiener (1945) vierde begin dit jaar zijn vijfenzeventigste verjaardag. Zijn nieuwe uitgever Pluim brengt de auteur hulde met De zoete inval, een gulle bundeling met recente korte stukken, én Zeeangst, een bijna-roman in de vorm van een nautisch logboek over een negen weken durende zeiltocht van Haarlem tot het Britse graafschap Devon en weer terug.

De zoete inval

Jeroen Brouwers noemde Wiener ooit de meest verwaarloosde schrijver van de Nederlandse letteren, maar inmiddels staat de ‘vogelman van Zandvoort’ te boek als dé grootmeester van het korte verhaal, alom geroemd en bejubeld omwille van zijn onnavolgbare stijl en zijn krachtige vertelstem. Autobiografie, zelfspot en milde misantropie kenmerken zijn literair werk, geschreven in een loopbaan die nu ruim vijfenvijftig jaar omspant.

De zoete inval bundelt achttien nieuwe korte stukken, waarvan het merendeel al eerder in druk is verschenen, tien zelfs bij kleine bibliofiele uitgevers. Zo goed als alle bekende Wiener-thema’s passeren de revue: de dood, de liefde, het verleden, zijn half-Joodse achtergrond, zijn zelfverklaarde misogynie, het schrijverschap, zijn liefde voor de natuur (in het bijzonder vogels) en de tirannie van alcohol of ‘Koningswater’, om de belangrijkste te noemen. Voor wie vertrouwd is met de vroegere verhalen en romans zijn deze verhalen, herinneringen en brieven (aan F. Starik en A.L. Snijders) dan ook een feest van herkenning, terwijl ze voor de nieuwkomers de perfecte inleiding vormen.  

De opener en het titelverhaal ‘De zoete inval’ is meteen raak. In dit tragikomisch verhaal denkt Victor — Van Gigch, een van Wieners alter ego’s en net als Wiener een gepensioneerde leraar Engels — terug aan een dronken liefdesnacht van 38 jaar geleden. Tegenover de vissportwinkel waar hij net een doosje maden heeft gekocht, bevindt zich een fourniturenhandel. De stoffen in de vitrine doen hem denken aan de rozenjurk van Lena (op de cover van De zoete inval prijkt een verwelkte roos), de vriendin van een kroegvriend die hij ooit oppikte en meetroonde naar zijn vrijgezellenflat om haar ‘langdurig te overmeesteren’.

Lena blijkt een emotioneel wrak te zijn: ze is ongewenst zwanger van haar vriend, flirt met de dood op het balkon van Victor, kotst haar ziel uit en blijkt ondanks haar jeugdige leeftijd een kunstgebit te hebben. ‘De zoete inval’ is onversneden Wiener: humor (zie ook ‘Een kimono staat mij goed’) en tragiek, heden en verleden, vermengen zich naadloos tot een weergaloos verhaal vol pathos en retoriek, waarin de auteur de draak steekt met zichzelf en de zelfgenoegzaamheid van zijn medemens.

‘De zoete inval’ is een prachtig voorbeeld van hoe Wiener het fictieve van de werkelijkheid of het werkelijkheidsgehalte van fictie voortdurend in vraag stelt. De lezer herkent moeiteloos  Wiener in de verteller, maar het doet er niet toe of dit alles hem werkelijk is overkomen of niet. In zijn sleutelwerk De verering van Quirina T. (2006) stelt Wiener: ‘Literatuur is per definitie fictie, alle literatuur, ook autobiografische.’ In Zeeangst doet hij er nog een schepje boven op enverdraait het reviaans axioma ‘Echt gebeurd is geen excuus’ tot ‘niet echt gebeurd evenmin’: ‘Literaire waarachtigheid onttrekt zich aan zowel feit als fictie.’

De waarheid heeft natuurlijk ook te maken met de betrouwbaarheid van herinneringen, nog een belangrijk thema in Wieners werk. Het verleden haalt het heden steeds maar in. Zo ontmoet de verteller in ‘Komt tijd, komt onraad’ op café de bejaarde ‘Meneer Brand’, zijn oude leraar Frans die ooit zijn klaslokaal met ijzeren hand bestierde. In ‘De dood in Zandvoort’ blikt hij vol heimwee terug op schoonheid van de kustplaats waar hij opgroeide, maar stelt met groeiende weerzin de vergane glorie ervan vast.

Wieners geheugen spreekt in de eerste plaats weliswaar over het familieverleden. ‘Familieportret’, een fijn staaltje zwarte humor, gaat over zijn Joodse achtergrond, een kwestie die reeds in In zee gaat niets verloren werd uitgediept, en opent met de geweldige zin: ‘Ik kan mij niet herinneren of ik op mijn elfde wist wat joden waren, toen mijn moeder mij vertelde dat de ouders van mijn vader en zijn jongere broer een einde aan hun leven hadden gemaakt.’ Met de hulp van een oud-leerling wringt de verteller zich in allerlei bochten om op een veiling een portret van die oom te bemachtigen: vintage Wiener.

De herinneringen zijn steeds gloedvol, maar telkens weer zit er een angel in de staart. ‘Moederdag’ bijvoorbeeld, is een warme voordracht gehouden in de Haarlemse Janskerk op het feest van de moeders, waarin Wiener de gekneusde ambities van zijn behoorlijk excentrieke moeder memoreert. Hij kan zich niet ontdoen van de indruk dat ze nooit een kans heeft gehad op een ‘waarachtige levensvervulling’. Op zesenzeventigjarige leeftijd, kort voor haar dood, flapt ze uit dat ze eigenlijk prostituée had moeten worden. In ‘Ippon’ ziet Wiener zijn zoontje een judowedstrijd verliezen tegen een grotere en oudere tegenstander, zoals hij zelf meemaakte als jonge judoka, al was dat tegen een meisje. Wanneer de judostudio afbrandt, wentelt hij zich in leedvermaak: ‘Die brand is niet door mij aangestoken. Echt niet. Je kunt niet aan alles denken.’

In ‘Buizerd’ licht Wiener zijn poëtica verder toe, startend met een knipoog naar W.F. Hermans: ‘Er valt in mijn werk geen mus van het dak zonder dat ik er een verhaal aan wijd. Fantasie speelt geen rol. Verzinnen kan men alles wel. Vormgeven is de kunst.’ Hij vertelt ronduit hoe hij de realiteit soms naar zijn hand zet ten voordele van ‘de literaire werkelijkheid’. Zo was de gewonde kauw in het verhaal ‘Jonge kauw te Katwoude’ in het echte leven niet dood toen Wiener die overhandigde aan het vogelasiel. Waarna — typisch Wiener — een op gelijke leest geschoeid verhaal volgt over de redding van een uitgemergelde buizerd. Fictie blijft fictie, of niet?

De afdwingbaarheid van de literaire werkelijkheid voert Wiener ten top in ‘Life imitates art’. In een verdere demystificatie onthult hij hier de ware toedracht over het zeemansgraf dat hij zijn ontslapen kat Lolitapoes gaf in zijn ‘dodenboek getiteld’ In zee gaat niets verloren (2015), een passage die overigens nog terugkomt in Zeeangst. In realiteit begroef Wiener de kat in een lange bloembak in zijn tuin en was het zeemansgraf niet meer of minder dan ‘een onontkoombare literaire eis’. Maar omdat de auteur naar eigen zeggen alleen ‘werkelijk’ bestaat in zijn boeken en enkel die zijn bestaan ‘rechtvaardigen’, haalt de fictie het nog maar eens op de werkelijkheid: na een jaar graaft Wiener de poes op en laat haar, precies zoals hij eerder had beschreven, te water voor de kust van Zandvoort.  

Wie stelt alleen in zijn zelfgeschreven boeken werkelijk te bestaan, eigent zich bij wijze van overlevingsstrategie ook de literatuur van anderen toe, om die tweede werkelijkheid te kunnen assimileren en uit te breiden. Wiener ziet dan ook waarlijk overal literatuur en doorspekt ongegeneerd zijn verhalen met citaten of verwijzingen (‘La vie devant soi’, ‘Brief aan A.L. Snijders’), een procedé dat hij in Zeeangst tot het uiterste drijft.

Voor Wiener is schrijven naar eigen zeggen het ‘tijdloos fixeren’ en ‘op literaire wijze tot expressie brengen’ van emoties die zijn gemoed doen vollopen. Zo schreef hij een pakkend portret van de hoogbejaarde, officieuze havenmeester van de Haarlemsche Jachtwerf (‘Freek’), die tijdens een roofoveral om het leven kwam. Wanneer hem wordt gevraagd waarom hij schrijft, antwoordt Wiener steevast: ‘Om niet anoniem te passeren’. In ‘Over niet anoniem passeren’ begint de auteur te twijfelen aan Oscar Wildes credo dat schrijven een ‘volstrekt zinloze bezigheid’ is, zeker wanneer hij ontdekt dat een schipper zijn verhaal ‘Freek’ heeft opgehangen aan  het wachthuisje van de haven en verschillende wandelaars en zelfs een jogger stoppen om het stuk te lezen.

De zee als vijand

Bulkte De zoete inval van de referenties aan de dood, dan zijn die nog prominenter aanwezig in Zeeangst en dat vanaf de eerste pagina’s. In de proloog al doet Wiener uit de doeken waarom zeezeilen voor hem een dualistische uitdaging is (enerzijds fascinatie, anderzijds angst): als dertienjarige ontsnapte hij op het nippertje aan de verdrinkingsdood tijdens een zeiltochtje met drie vrienden vlak voor de kust van Zandvoort. Omdat hun zeilbootje te zwaar geladen was, kantelde het. In een poging de mast terug recht te trekken raakte Wiener onder water verstrikt in een touw. Een van de vrienden wist hem bijtijds terug boven te halen. Deze gebeurtenis transformeerde de zee tot een vijand. Sindsdien is zee kiezen voor Wiener opgaan in de natuur en genieten van de schoonheid, maar tegelijk ook het tarten van de dood (‘De zee is te veel de baas. En ik steeds minder.’).

Wieners traumatiserende ervaring doemt regelmatig op in zijn dromen en herinneringen, waarin hij steevast níet wordt gered, maar wel degelijk verdrínkt. De auteur spreekt in dat geval van ‘opdringing’, een begrip dat hij eerder al uitwerkte in De verering van Quirina T.: ‘herinneringen aan gebeurtenissen die zich in de werkelijkheid als zodanig niet hebben voorgedaan, maar zich niettemin als voltrokken vonnissen manifest in het geheugen hebben vastgezet’. Het is weinig verwonderlijk dat het incident ook in Wieners teksten hier en daar opduikt. In ‘Tweemaal is scheepsrecht’ bijvoorbeeld, een verhaal uit de bundel Ochtendwandeling (1996), waarin Wiener zijn angst beschrijft om onder zijn boot te duiken om de kiel schoon te maken, een actie die hem terug slingert naar die noodlottige dag op zee.

Wie bekend is met Wieners werk weet dat de auteur een ervaren zeiler is en een eigen schip heeft (vroeger de Archimedes, vandaag de Argos, the good ship). Ook zijn ‘huidige vriendin voor het leven’ Antje Noordwest is een gediplomeerd zeilster. Het koppel beslist om gedurende 9 weken en over een afstand van meer dan 800 mijl hun favoriete zeilgebied langs de Britse zuidkust en het eiland Wight te bevaren (voorin zitten kaartjes met de uitgestippelde route). Deze keer hebben ze ook twee doelen voor ogen: een bezoek aan het graf van Malcolm Lowry en de plaats waar Virginia Woolf de Ouse (en de dood) instapte. Bijzonder is dat de reizigers ook de jonge poes Loes (is zij vernoemd naar de tante uit In zee gaat niets verloren?), aan wie Zeeangst bovendien is opgedragen, mee aan boord nemen.

In zijn badinerende en mijmerende stijl tekent Wiener hun wederwaardigheden op in ‘een logboek’, niet voor niets de ondertitel van Zeeangst, hoewel de bijdrages niet gedateerd zijn. In ‘Tweemaal is scheepsrecht’ en In zee gaat niets verloren hanteerde hij eerder al de logboek-vorm, hoewel hij voor laatstgenoemde liever de term ‘scheepsjournaal’ gebruikt. Als voorbeeld neemt Wiener Coasting (1986) van Jonathan Raban, een zeilklassieker die hij ooit in vertaling kreeg van Mizzi van der Pluijm, vroegere redactrice en huidige uitgever van de auteur: ‘Langs dezelfde lijnen als Coasting wil ik Zeeangst opzetten: deels als nautisch logboek, maar in essentie als een autobiografisch geschrift, waarin mijn verhouding tot de zee, de literatuur en het leven, als een reis door mijn heden maar vooral door mijn verleden, gestalte krijgt. Toekomst bestaat niet.’ De inzet van de reis is hoog.

Voor een schipper in de herfst van zijn leven wordt ‘toekomst’ een steeds ijler begrip (‘de zee is een bedding van de dood’). Meer dan eens suggereert Wiener dat dit misschien wel de laatste keer is dat hij deze geliefde kusten zal bezeilen. De dood lijkt soms mee te reizen: er is niet alleen het korte saluut aan het graf van Lolitapoes, maar ook de bezoeken aan de laatste rustplaatsen van literaire helden zoals Malcolm Lowry, Virginia Woolf en Cyril Connoly zijn telkens een aanleiding voor de reiziger om het levenseinde te contempleren, het liefst overdadig gelardeerd met Engelstalige citaten. Voor Wiener is de dood ‘de schaduwkant van de oplichtende levensdrift’: tijdens een fietstochtje wordt hij in een moment van onoplettendheid ei zo na omvergereden door een voorbijrazende truck en aan de zelfmoordkliffen van Beachy Head wrikt hij een steenbrokje los voor Anton Dautzenberg, die droomt van een sprong in die bekende diepte (‘Een koorddanser tart de val, een schipper de zee’).

Wiener zou Wiener niet zijn mocht er naast de schaduwkant ook niet flink wat worden afgelachen. Reizen met een poes zorgt hoe dan ook voor burleske situaties, al zeker over water. Schitterend zijn de passages waarop Wiener en Ant de jacht op Loes inzetten wanneer die aan land voor de zoveelste keer pleite is. Even hilarisch is de woordenwisseling met een gepensioneerde dierenarts die Loes als een illegaal dier het land wil uitzetten of de brief die Wiener schrijft aan een schipper wiens boot hij zou geraakt hebben bij het aanmeren. Wanneer Loes Ant al spelend verwondt aan het oog moet ze naar het ziekenhuis: de beschrijving van de consultatie bij de knappe jonge oogarts Hannah Fieldhouse is Wiener op z’n best.   

Aangrijpend en ongebruikelijk zijn de talloze momenten waarop de schrijver-schipper zijn onzekerheid uitdrukt, zijn angst om fouten te maken, blunders die op zee fatale gevolgen kunnen hebben. De druk is zo hoog dat de zeilers beslissen om bij de terugreis de route af te snijden en over binnenwater terug naar Haarlem te varen. Nochtans weet Wiener zich ettelijke keren, met de hulp van Ants expertise en ten koste van zware fysieke arbeid, uit hachelijke situaties te redden, dankzij zijn goed zeemanschap en alertheid. Soms is de verantwoording heel technisch, vakjargon dat enkel begrijpelijk is voor doorgewinterde zeilers. Gelukkig is er achterin een verklarende woordenlijst, voorafgegaan door een Wieneriaanse vermaning: wie niets weet over zeilen, mag er niet over schrijven. Voor de zekerheid is er dan ook een bibliografie toegevoegd, met waardige zeilklassiekers die niet mogen ontbreken in elke zichzelf respecterende boordbibliotheek.

De geweldige epiloog is een lange brief aan Paul Léautaud, een van de grootheden uit de autobiografische literatuur en ‘de grootste kattenman allertijden’, waarin Wiener vertelt hoe hij het baasje van Loes werd. Met een naar de keel grijpende wending op het einde maakt Wiener van de zeilende poes het uiteindelijke hoofdpersonage van zijn uitzonderlijk reisverslag. 

Verschenen op: De Lage Landen (volledige tekst achter betaalmuur) en op papier in Ons Erfdeel, november 2020

De zoete inval van L.H. Wiener, Pluim 2020, ISBN 9789492928917, 108 pp. & Zeeangst Een logboek van L.H. Wiener, Pluim 2020, ISBN 9789492928894, 284 pp.

Ter gelegenheid van L.H. Wieners 75ste verjaardag verscheen in een oplage van 75 exemplaren een ‘visuele bibliografie’, alleen verkrijgbaar via antiquariaat Hinderickx & Winderickx: Theo Rabou, Schrijven heeft geen enkele zin… Bibliografie van de reguliere en bibliofiele uitgaven van L.H. Wiener., Vught 2020, 220 p.

[regiowestfriesland]

Diverse auto's afgevoerd na inval van de FIOD in Blokker

Blokker – Dinsdagmiddag zijn er aan de Gildeweg bij twee autobedrijven diverse sportauto’s in beslag genomen, dit i.v.m. een inval van de FIOD. Of er iemand is aangehouden is nog niet bekend. Diverse bergingsbedrijven werden opgeroepen om bij een autosloperij en het naastgelegen autobedrijf diverse sportauto’s mee te nemen, het zou gaan om merken als Ferrari, Lamborghini en Mercedes. De reden…

[svbhuman]

hello

[dearborn7777]

ERIさん オールドレンズで撮りました。

[itsohh]

QWERTY Part 6

A/N: Female reader, nothing like dusting off the ol darft and actually editing.

Summary: Things start to collapse for you and Vladimir and he sends you out to tie up a loose end.

Warnings: Canon typical violence

Word count: 2817

AO3 Masterlist Part 5 Part 7

It wasn't often that you had time to rest. Even back when Vladimir was in prison there was always something to do. By no means were you as creative and ambitious as he was but you could certainly carry out his instructions. You were an extension of his will and even when he sat in the gulag you felt that extension more than anything. Even if you didn't carry out his will you knew someone else would. At least by obeying him you stayed in his good grace and kept your life. 

When you finally woke it wasn't a natural wake. The sound of your now again shared bedroom door opened and Vladimir stood there eyes on you. A deep sleep wasn’t something you could ever afford to have around Vladimir. There was always that reminder in the back of your head, that concern that he would find out. A concern that he wouldn’t deem you necessary or obsolete. Normally he was a man who liked to have a person touch to his kills but you wouldn’t put it past him silently killing you in your sleep. 

Perhaps he would call it a gift, birthed by whatever sentimentality he could have. It was something that you tried not to but ended up thinking about often, how he would dispose of you. Would he bring you close, cup your face and hold you in his arms? Would the dagger that he wrought be swift and pierce your body with ease? Would the look on his face be apologetic as your life faded from your eyes forever? You tried not to think about it, tried not to imagine it but with rather little success. 

Right away you knew he was there to speak business, what little relaxation you saw behind his eyes on occasion was nowhere to be seen. 

His posture was straight and his suit was tidy. You could deduct he had been up for a while and left you to sleep. A small kindness or perhaps he just knew the conditions that people worked best in. It was always impossible to know but most likely the latter. “Vlad.” You sat up in the bed, the sheet barely covered your naked form and he slipped into the room fully. The door closed behind him with a small click and he finally spoke his mind. 

“Milena has an island that she spends most of her time at. Are you familiar with it?” The mention of Milena soured your mood slightly but you didn't let it show. She was always a threat to your position. She was smart, did her job well and was overall an asset to Vladimir. Must to your distaste the pair of you had worked practically hand in hand during the time that Vladimir was in prison, you couldn’t deny you wouldn’t have been able to do nearly as much without her. Despite all your skills, she easily outshone you when it came to bookkeeping. She worked with money well. Yet you had something she didn't, the ability to get dirty. 

She was a clean and precise woman and despite all of her attempts at replacing you as his companion, Vladimir seemed disinterested at the prospect. 

“I am.” You slipped out of the bed and moved to your set of draws. Vladimir placed a tablet on top of the draws and you leaned over it to look at it. There on the screen was a blue diagram, it reminded you a lot of a ship's radar only it took up the entire screen and didn’t constantly ping everything. What had been pinged was shown as a red dot.

“An unidentified vessel triggered one of the underwater sensors.” His voice didn’t seem rather concerned about the woman, rather he sounded annoyed. Perhaps a little frustrated. It made sense, he was never very fond of defence or having to baby anyone. Sure the woman had decent security but there was already so much going on, you wouldn’t put it past Vladimir to make sure she had the weakest of men. If anyone had a since ounce of competence they were most likely under his command. Yes, she was important and held invaluable data but at the end of the day, in Vladmirs eyes she was simply a disposable object.

You cocked a brow as you gathered your underwear and started to put it on. His eyes bore into you but not with any kind of lust. He was a weapon first and a man second. 

“You want me to go there with backup?” 

“No.” He picked up the bra that you had picked out and replaced it with a sports bra that had been neatly folded next to it. He certainly wanted you to do something physical. “If she's speaking I want you to go there and silence her.” 

“Permanently?” 

“Da.” There was a stern look in his eyes and you didn’t argue with him. It made no sense to. His word was always final and unless you had a logical reason or thought, your input would do little to sway him. It would only either annoy him or piss him off. Vladimir didn’t like being questioned. Wherever you did so, you normally had to phrase it in a way that made it seem educational, like you were trying to learn from him. 

There wasn’t a logical reason to keep the woman alive. With the SAS breathing down your backs, Vladimir didn’t have time to deal with anything. If she was taken hostage or captured there was quite a lot she could reveal. It was simply more efficient to take her out of the picture. 

Your hands went to pull out some clothes. Instead of a suit like so often he wore, you pulled out a black t-shirt and a black pair of pants. It was practical clothing, something you were rather used to wearing. 

“When do I leave?” You slipped into the pants with ease.

“The moment you're dressed, the heli is already set up with everything you'll need.” You knew what that included, guns technology and your escape route.

There was a scowl that was on his face. “This came at a rather unfortunate timing. Your second objective is to put down whoever got to her.” He tilted his head with a hiss. “If they're any good they would have left by the time you arrive.” Your words caught on to his, unfortunate timing? Did something happen while you were asleep? Had Andrei failed?

“Timings off?” You asked the moment your head popped through the hole in your shirt. 

“Yes.” Vladimir didn’t explain anything more at your prompt. He handed you your watch and you put it on before you grabbed your boots. 

—

PULTIS ISLAND 2023

The heli was loud, even though you landed on the other side of the island you knew right away it would alert whoever was there. If the sound didn’t alert them it was most likely they would have some type of watch out. Perhaps even a sensor checking for any reinforcements. Milena most certainly would have her own but if they took down her original guard you highly doubted that her B team reinforcements would do her any good. You hopped out of the helicopter and landed feet-first on the wet grass. 

Your rifle fitted nicely on your back and when you started to walk the heli started to rise up again. It wouldn’t stay there on the ground waiting for you, it was too dangerous. It would be a sitting duck, no, instead it would either find a nearby area to land off the island or the more likely situation, circle in the air waiting for you. Unlike the island's infiltrators, you didn’t need to take over the entire island, you didn’t even need to get close to her. All you needed was a line of sight. 

Silently you double-checked your gear, triple-checked if you counted your checks in the heli. You had radio contact with it and you wouldn't risk anything happening to it. It was your only reliable way off the island. Your only reliable lifeline, you knew that she would have a few boats but there was always the possibility that the infiltrators had slit the fuel tanks or even remove the batteries. The possibility of them being rendered inoperable was something taken into consideration. Alarms blared as you approached the side of the cliff. They were almost frustrating loud, they did their job at alerting everyone and if for some reason they didn’t have a lookout, it would mask the sound of your heli. 

The cliff edge was your destination, you didn’t need to go any further. It looked over the entire compound. It showed all the corpses that lay hidden away, only visible from the high vantage point. Most of them looked like they were sleeping, the kills had been quick and clean. Done without much resistance. It was then that you realized they had infiltrated the island still in stealth. Milena had been completely unaware of their arrival despite that their vessel had been pinged. Vladimir was the one to have the security measure, not Milena. Your mind wandered to the man, he could have easily alerted her and had her extract earlier before they arrived but instead left her there. 

Was she bait? Did he have that much faith in your ability? Or had he planned for her to get killed all along? You couldn’t help but feel like you were missing a lot of his puzzle. It was one thing not to care about the woman but deliberately ensure her downfall? She had pissed him off somehow. Your eyes continued to look over the compound. Not only did the vantage point look over all the outside, but it also gave you a perfect view into the main building. The large glass windows insured that.

You lay down on the ground and set the sniper rifle up. It didn’t lean directly on the grass, the stand connected to it was pulled into place and you used that to lean on. Through the scope, you got a better look at the facility, they really had taken everyone out with stealth. It made you wonder what ended up triggering the alarms. Whoever had taken over were professionals, they had done a good job. You knew the most likely suspects, the people you had been dealing with since Vladimir left prison. SAS. The possibility of it being Americans wasn’t put past you but in the end, it mattered little to Vladimir which meant it meant little to you. 

A breath left your lips and you readjusted your scope and you tried to banish the thought of Vladimir from your mind. Wherever he breathed down your neck, you couldn’t help the anxiety that would spike deep down in your core. Working alone was something you excelled at, but that didn’t mean you didn’t mean you couldn’t work well with a team. It was that you didn’t have to worry about your back, when you were alone there wasn’t any fear that you would be betrayed. You could always rely on yourself. Even though you tried not to think about him, you couldn’t help but wonder if he knew that about you. Even after everything the pair of you had been through, you couldn’t ever quite trust the man completely. You couldn’t trust anyone completely. Perhaps Vladimir felt the same.

The wind died down a little and you took a few deep breaths to focus yourself. The alarms came to an end and you wondered if Milena had turned them off or the infiltrators did. Without the overwhelming sound, something piqued your interest. Your ears could hear a faint buzzing sound. You frowned and pulled back from your scope to look up. 

There in the sky was a military-grade drone in the sky. You thought back to the last time you were on the island. Milena loved to brag about the security features that she had. Or in her words explain how her operations work. Everything was always meticulously thought out and planned to a picture-perfect situation. You, of course, could see the faults in her setup. Small oversights made but her lack of experience in combat. She could only see as far as her plans would go, never in the field. A lot of the information she had shared you had silently scoffed at and shoved to the back of your mind. Yet you knew one thing for certain, she never mentioned such a drone. You tilt your head and lift your gun. 

The drone fell from the sky and crumbled on the ground. It was a necessary precaution to destroy it. On one hand, if it hadn’t already seen you, its destruction would have alerted them to your presence but if you left it there was a high chance it would constantly spot and ping you. A risk far worse than the prior possibility.

Back in position, you looked through the scope. It showed you the inside of the building with ease, its magnification allowed you to see every detail as if you were inside it yourself. Perhaps even better than that. There you could see two figures standing in her bunker. Its inclusion had something that she had raved about and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of the open door. She had called it the most secure place in the world. What good it did her. She was there by them completely exposed. Your brows furrowed and you could tell right away that they were interrogating her. 

Without access to their coms, you were unable to know what they were saying but both figures straightened up and you watched them close a laptop. Milena jumped up after them and you could tell by her posture that she was screaming at them. 

If they were leaving her, then they got everything they needed. She had talked. Vladmirs words echoed in your head. Once again you took into consideration the wind once again and took a deep breath. 

A single shot was all it took. It flew through the air and curved through the glass. Even if it was bulletproof, it was rendered useless against the anti-material rifle, if it could puncture through steel it could puncture through glass. The glass shattered all over the ground a moment before the bullet found its mark in the centre of her head. Both men jumped to the side under cover. Milena’s body fell to the ground and slumped partially on the chair she had just been previously on. Her final resting spot.

Your primary objective had been completed and yet you hesitated to move on to the second objective. By shooting Milena, you had most certainly given away your position. Even though you had counted two men, the presence of the drone told you that it was highly probable that they weren’t the only people in their team. With the element of stealth, you could have most likely taken them out but now that your position was revealed the only thing you had was range. Yet one lucky shot was all it would take from them. You didn’t know their set-up either. You were good, really good but you wouldn’t put it past them counter-sniping you. 

You picked up your rifle and slung it over your back before you silently walked away from the edge of the cliff. “Extraction.” You called through your coms to the heli without another glance behind you. Despite Vladimir's hopes, you didn’t attempt to carry out his second objective. 

—

MEDITERRANEAN SEA 2023

“She broke.” You spoke into the com through the heli. It had a far further range than the one you had on your direct person.

“How quickly?” Vladimars voice was slightly distorted by the distance but you could still hear his voice clearly. 

“Too quickly. I don't know what they said to her but she had already caved by the time I arrived.”

“Who was it?”

“Certainly wasn't Shadows. The kills were clean and precise. They came in quietly and executed without a trace.” 

“141 then.”

“St. Petersburg will most likely be compromised. Did you want me there to secure it?” 

“No. Andrei had control. We have more important matters to conduct?” 

“The dam?” You asked knowing the line was secure. 

“Net. That is already being handled, you are to be with me in London.”

Perhaps six years ago when you first started working for him those words would have shook you to your core. They would have crumbled your heart at the thought of such a widespread pure mass of death. Yet after so long you had learnt to be numb to such a feeling. Shoved deep down they were irrelevant to your objectives.  

“Is there heli going there now?”

“Yes, but we still have some preparation to do.”

[auspicioustidings]

Gaz and Price taking care of each other (they r in love and this can be soft or horny whatever u want) 💈💙

Nothing but the softest for these two smooshes!

Fracture

Words: 1k

It was not the first time that John Price had broken bones, not by a long shot, but it was the first time that the healing was being so annoying.

The pain of a fractured shoulder he could about live with, but not being able to do anything properly was driving him up the wall. His clumsy left arm was doing a piss poor job of trying to look after him, especially given that his right was in a sling meaning even his hand was fully out of commission.

He had stubbornly refused to ask for help obviously. He was a bleeding Captain in the SAS, he did not need coddling. When the muppet of a medic had suggested he get help in, some large arsed matron to do his cooking and cleaning and fuss over him, he had promised them that his left hook would work just as well if they didn't drop the issue, give him his meds and send him on his way.

It had been a week and he was living on take out. He was no stranger to being a little grotty out on mission, but never in his own home. He hated not being able to be as meticulous with cleaning both his space and himself, but every stretch was agony on that right shoulder and ran the risk of fucking it up worse if he wasn't more careful.

There was a knock at the door and he wondered if he had ordered food and forgotten about it, possible with the cocodamol even if he was only taking half the recommended dosage (he had seen how Simon had baulked when they gave him all that heavy medication, when they told him how long he should be on it for. There was no way John would ever risk picking up the phone to him and being loopy from pain meds, not when he knew how much it could hurt him and when the pain wasn't so dreadful he couldn’t cope).

It was not a food delivery.

“Gaz?”

“Well invite me in Captain, it's bloody freezing out here.”

Price stood aside in bemusement as his thoroughly bundled up Sergeant politely toed off his shoes and put them neatly to the side before taking off into the house like he owned the place.

Gaz hadn't ever been here before but he hardly waited for the grand tour, instead doing a full sweep with Price trailing after him.

“Trying to find treasure or something Gaz?”

“No sir, just getting the lay of the land.”

“Uh huh. Care to enlighten me as to why?”

Gaz had at this point poked his head in everywhere and they had settled back in the kitchen. Price was sore and tired and a little gross, but none the less he had enough energy to be somewhat embarrassed by the state of the place.

“Junk food is for garbage people.”

Price had the sense to not argue. It was something he always told his team anytime they ordered food to base. If there were facilities to cook, then John Price was damn well going to have a home cooked meal.

“Messy room, messy head.”

Yes ok, technically he used that one pretty often as well. He was always on at them to keep the base tidy and clean.

“Nothing better than a proper soak after a long mission” Gaz finished with a gentle, lopsided smile.

“Gaz…”

“Let me help old man, that's what your team are for.”

So he let him help. The first thing was getting put into a hot bath. Gaz helped him settle, macgyvered a little shelf to sit over the tub for Price to rest his arm on. And then he softly and carefully washed Price's hair.

It was such a strange thing, Price had never really had someone do this for him before. Gaz was gentle, his nails scratching his scalp pleasantly. This felt more vulnerable somehow than being under fire, sitting in the bath with someone he loved paying him such careful attention.

“I might not be the best person to help with the beard, but Soap could probably do it. Did you know he grew one out when he was last on medical leave?”

“That your way of telling me I'm a mess?”

“Oh the rugged look fully does it for me sir, just incase it doesn't for you. Would hate for you to use the sad invalid method that Keller does to lure a nice lady back here and then give her carpet burn.”

He couldn't smack Gaz in his current state, but he did make a valiant attempt at splashing water at him.

“You're a fucking muppet.”

“That's why you like me so much.”

He was almost sad when his hair was rinsed and he was left to soak alone for a bit. He could hear the whirlwind of tidying and cleaning happening around his house and Price couldn't help but enjoy Kyle Garrick being in his space. The man was his home whether Price wanted to admit that or not, so with him here this house had never felt more right.

Christ it was a good thing he wasn't taking full dosage lest it make him say something he might regret.

Gaz returned right as Price was starting to prune and helped him out, fluffy towel at the ready. Honestly he did not need this level of attentiveness, but when he tried to protest Gaz just brushed him off.

“Your job might be to take care of people, but right now you're on leave. It's time for someone to take care of you John.”

Oh. Oh that name sounded wonderful coming from him. Turned out he was a decent cook too, having managed to make a hearty soap from what he could find in the kitchen. For the first time since the fracture John Price felt human again. He was eating a good home cooked meal, the place was tidy and he was clean. The words came easy.

“Love you Kyle.”

“Love you too John.”

[takami-takami]

Hi magpie I will not be posting those bc the trauma inval is pretty heavy (not you, of course, your ex-mutual) but I will say this level of behavior is fucking insane. To call her "Mel" too like she knows the freak is like.

Good on you for standing up because that interaction exhausted me even by proxy. Like that was so gross of them that the rancid aura transcended space to my location and time from whenever the fuck they decided to say shit like that.

I'm past throwing tomatoes at your ex mut. I am throwing rocks.

[fictionkinfessions]

sometimes i feel ashamed for liking my source because of the company that made it

2

[cleaverbot]

i still feel weirdly inval for not being canonically accurate. like the arg exists yea but i did Not form based on that. we didn't even know it existed until post-me lmao

[purplezombietumbler]

Crosshair: Hey goggles, think you can fix my datapad?

Tech: Depends, what's wrong with it?

Crosshair: Well, let's just say a uh... a friend and I were trying to film something; And to film what we were filming we had to tape the datapad to the ceiling above the bed. NOTHING WEIRD!

Hunter: Ugh, I'm gonna barf.

Crosshair: So anyway, it fell, hit my friend on the head and now it's all messed up.

Hunter: It's not the only thing that's messed up in this equation.

Crosshair: Shut up Hunter, why are you even here?

Hunter: 'Cause you're not gonna know what the hell he's talking about!

Crosshair: I will too!

Tech: So did you back it up?

Crosshair: What, like the dance move?

Tech:

Hunter:

Tech: Right, I'm just going to direct all these questions to Hunter.

Hunter: Yes, I backed up the datapad and it invaled me accidently getting a glimpse of what he was filming and let's just say no amount of bleach in the galaxy will wash those visuals out of my mind.

Crosshair: Question, would the datapad be acting weird if I split some liquid on it?

Tech: How much liquid?

Crosshair: Like a whole bottle of Whyren's Reserve.

Tech: Was this before or after the sex tape?

Crosshair: WHAT SEX TAPE!? NO ONE MENTIONED A SEX TAPE!

Hunter: Just, can you fix it?

Tech: Honesty, I'd rather just take it and salvage what I can out of it, but mostly I feel dirty touching it so I elect to just burn it.

Hunter: I second that.

Crosshair: What a waste of a perfectly good afternoon.

[princess-of-the-corner]

hello again,back to the AU ive been working, maybe her special power as the soul king blood is like her father, sharing a piece of her soul via her blood to a person to turn them into a quincy like her father, completly independent of yhawch but tied to her instead and without beign able to forcibly recall the fragment to prevent an invalance of power. Is how i was planning introducing zoe earlier.

Oh! The drama!