#midwest chapter 3 preview of sorts

[carmenpeach]

[himjopper]

the flea & the acrobat (jim hopper fic)

pairing: hopper x reader, stranger things chapter: 1/? chapter rating: teen, 18+ (mention of violence, fear, mild swearing, mention of sexual intentions) summary: you’re an FBI agent from the behavioral analysis unit, living in the big city and enjoying the hustle and bustle of the 80’s crime scene. you’ve worked your ass off to get respect around a male dominated field, earning yourself a promotion as the head of your department after you helped solve a missing persons case that swept the nation just short of a year ago. the case closed, but something happening in a small town in Hawkins, Indiana is making your bones chill with its similarities to your closed case. a young girl, barbara holland, is missing and you’ve got a hunch on how to bring her home. little do you know, Hawkins isn’t exactly textbook and you need the locals’s help. a/n: helloooo!! so I actually only got back into writing literally from just reading all the drabbles and fics on here about hop and I was deserperate to get in there myself. this started as a one shot and bc I have a difficult time uhh shutting up, it became a full fic. pls enjoy and feel free to msg me with ideas and inspiration it helps a ton!! special thanks to @chiefharbour for existing and getting me out of a writers block that had actual cobwebs <3 gif credit: @hawkinslibrary​

You loved the city.

You loved the traffic and the sound of cars honking, the occasional couple arguing, the screech of tires and never ending hustle. You loved the constant rain and the way it ruined your hair every morning at 8:07AM when you’d leave your apartment to get your double espresso before you stepped into the office just to be greeted with missing persons case after missing persons case. These were all things you told yourself, every day, every morning, and every night.

On cue, the pager on your hip beeps wildly. An involuntary groan comes from your throat while you try to preview the message and head into the building.

“Scotch, I need to talk to you about the Snake Hole Case-“

Your eyes look up to address the older gentleman in front of you who reeks of too much cologne and cheap cigars; he’s just a detective and he’s never been very confident in your abilities even though you’ve been the lead profiler in your division for the last two years and you have 36 solved cases under your belt.

Regardless, you give him your distracted attention as you both stride hurriedly down the hall leading to the conference room you should’ve been in ten minutes ago. The office is bustling and there’s a fax machine ringing in the distance but your rushed heeled steps are louder even on carpet.

“This better be worth my time, Hayes, I’m late for a meeting as is and I have a phone call with Seattle’s Chamber in fourteen minutes in counting.”

The shorter man quickens his step in attempt to catch up to you. “Snake Hole, the original killer was-“

You cut off his excitement with your bluntness as usual, “Gene Schwartzman, white male, 43-years-old, small town stores clerk, no children, never married, alcoholic, absolute low life...”

Hayes snorts, “Right, but he had a pattern, an obsession with younger women with a specific and detailed description, mirroring his own mother, and that’s why he would retaliate-“

Your heels come to a halt as you step in front of the older detective. His lips are chapped, his bottom teeth have ridges from obsessive grinding, the normally groomed hair is parted in every which way, there’s an ink stain on his dress shirt’s pocket. It’s not like him to be so out of sorts. He was obnoxious, sure, but not messy.

“That case was closed a year ago. What are you trying to tell me, Hayes?”

Nervously, his tongue darts out to lick his lips before he speaks. His voice remains low so only the two of you can hear.

“I think... I think we’re seeing an admirer of Schwartzmen mirroring his case. He never got to finish his pattern-“

“We were able to catch him before the final murder. We solved his puzzle first-“

“Someone in Indiana is trying to finish the job, Scotch. I think you need to see this.”

He holds your gaze for a moment as you’re replaying the details of the Snake Hole case in your memory. His hand grips the manilla folder that he extends out to you.

There’s suddenly an impatient call for you to go into the room just down the hall to join that meeting. You’re already twelve minutes late now and before you can respond, there’s another louder call of your name.

You take the folder from the detective and return his low volume, “Get one of the assistants to cancel the phone meeting I have with the Chamber, you and I need to talk. I want to know what’s going on in Indiana. Get me in contact with the local PD, as soon as possible.”

                           · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Everyone could tell you were distracted the whole meeting. Every second you weren’t looking at the file tucked under your half-assed notes was a second wasted. Your behavior was fidgety and as you clicked at your pen the whole half an hour, you couldn’t stop thinking about the secret admirer Schwartzmen has in Indiana of all places. The original murders took place a year ago in Alabama, made nationwide headlines for weeks and there was even a public memorial for the victims and their families. Schwartzmen confessed on tape and immediately thrown in prison to rot. Everything felt so final. What was the connection to Indiana? You finally got to read over the file on your lunch break with your third coffee before 1PM. Red nails drumming on the wood of your desk, frustrated. There’s a Missing poster of a younger girl, she’s sixteen, decorated with freckles across her face. Round cheeks, even rounder glasses, red hair and seemingly innocent. You hated that the bitter but smart detective Dennis Hayes of all people was going to be right. Unfortunately, Miss Barbara Holland of Hawkins, Indiana fit the description too well. She might even be closest in resemblance to Schwartzmen’s actual mother and it made the acid from your stomach rise up to the back of your tongue.

A knock at your door finally makes your eyes look away from the young girl’s school photo.

“Scotch?”

It’s Hayes and he’s holding two styrofoam cups, hopefully full of caffeine.

“Come in, please, sit.” You wave a manicured hand towards the chair in front of your desk and he takes a seat as he carefully places one of the cups next to your current (and nearly empty) mug.

“I’ll make this short,” Hayes begins. “I know your hands are full with other cases where they’re asking you to profile who kidnapped a dog from a park and robbed a granny at the mom and pop shop at noon-“

You roll your eyes at his brief condescending comment towards your line of work as if he could make his arrests without your insight.

“But you gotta admit, Scotch... the resemblance here is uncanny.”

And it was. Uncomfortably so. She was nearly a spitting image of Schwartzmen’s mother, down to the same yearbook photo we plastered on the screens of every television in America mirrored this young Barbara Holland’s. Schwartzmen was an orphan until the age of 12, he had grown up in his adolescence without a mother and resented the nameless redhead who left him at a church’s doorstep to be found. Angry and feeling abandoned, he grieved the loss of what he never had by murdering young women who resembled the only photo he had of his biological mother: her yearbook photo. The same yearbook photo you cleared with the media to be broadcast to America during the investigation a year ago.

A part of you feels responsible for a split second and there’s a tinge of guilt in your stomach thinking you put her at risk when you let the media have the photo of Schwartzmen’s mother, the very inspiration for all his heinous murders. Did someone see this young girl in Indiana and think she was an opportunity that couldn’t be missed? Was sixteen year old Barbara Holland just an innocent and unfortunate puzzle piece? You’re both staring at the file with some local news from Hawkins along with some notes from the Snake Hole case. It was more frustrating how little Hawkins had on Barbara’s disappearance. It was as simple as one minute was there, the next minute, she wasn’t. Good girl, good grades, good friends, what happened?

You break the thick and focused silence first.

“Did you get me the number for the state police?”

“Indiana State Police don’t have much on it, it’s mainly the Hawkins PD that seems to have more information. It’s a small town. They had two missing kids in the same month-“

Your brow furrowed together, “Two?”

Hayes leans back further in the chair, arms crossed over his chest nonchalantly.

“Young boy, no older than twelve, he turned up alive after some searches, seems unrelated to this case. There’s still no body found for the sixteen year old, goes by Barb. I think we need to get involved.”

This almost makes a snort leave your body.

“We? Hayes, no, I’m going alone.” He opens his mouth to protest but you continue with your voice stern, “I know the Schwartzmen case, I worked on it first hand, I’m going to Indiana. This is just another disorganized killer and the fact it’s only one girl missing gives me some hope. Some sad sack in the Midwest trying to get a shot of fame by comparing himself to Schwartzmen, recreating the profile, maybe make the public wonder if he’s still locked up, whatever. She’s a missing girl, but it doesn’t mean she’s dead. If this is mirroring Schwartzmen and the Hawkins PD hasn’t caught up to that, it’s my responsibility to involve myself to help them be a step ahead.”

Detective Hayes stands up from the chair then with a proud smirk on his face.

“You’re welcome, you know. You can say it.”

You scrunch your nose at him then.

“I could, but I don’t feel like it.”

Hayes chuckles as he turns on his heel to leave your office. “Well, enjoy Indiana, Scotch.”

You grunt in response behind the coffee cup, your lipstick leaving a print on the white foam.

As you’re about to hear the click of your office door closing signaling his exit, Hayes peeps his head back in. “Oh, you’ll have fun talking to that chief of police, by the way. Goes by Hopper, or somethin’ like that. Hung up on me twice and told me to go fuck myself on the third attempt. Seems like a hard ass, so. Maybe flirt a little, show a little leg when you touch down in Hawkins.”

His wink and sneering grin made you sick. Just when you thought this detective was useful. You draw in a patient sigh before looking back at him.

“Detective?” Your hands folded under your chin to appear sweeter.

Hayes steps more into the doorway to listen, he’s already eyed your crossed legs and heeled shoes. Pervert.

“The only time I’m going to show a little leg is before I kick your ass.”

The smile dropped from his face and it was followed by the slight slam of your office door. You smirk to yourself and prepare the arrangements to fly to Indiana to meet with Hawkins PD and hopefully bring Barbara Holland home.

[segadores-y-soldados]

Old Habits - Battle of Route 66

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10564407/chapters/24145257

Old Habits chapters 7, 8, and 9 are up!

Chapter Summary: 

[Select Your Hero]

Map: Route 66

Defenders: Reaper, Widowmaker, Talon Agents - Henri, Louis, Francesca, Iñigo; Deadlock members

Attackers: Helix Raptora - Captain Khalil, Lieutenant Fareeha Amari, Saleh, Aizad, Mahmud, Tarq, Okoro (non-combatant); US soldiers

Destroyers: Sombra, Soldier: 76, Jesse McCree

[5...4...3...2...1...]

Chapter Preview 1:

“...Did ya just call yerself ‘shadow?’” Jesse drawls out against the tiles of the steps he’s laying on, pretending like that’s the part of the conversation he’s fixated on.  Really though, he’s buyin’ time to get these handcuffs off.  His fingers find the switch -

“I assume it’s a codename,” the other man, an American...Midwest accent, maybe?  Hard to tell, they’re all so bland when they’re from Ohio or Illinois or wherever - Jesse’s fingers flick the button and the small door to the compartment slides open.

“El soldado está correcto, it’s a nickname,” the woman - Sombra - replies happily with a small flourish of her hand, “It’s not like anyone cares about my real name anyways, and Sombra is just...so much more badass, yes?”

The soldier behind him shrugs, and Jesse just kinda mumbles something about wishin’ how he got a cool codename, when, shockingly -

Sombra bends down and helps prop him into a sitting position.

He jolts a little at the touch of her slight fingers, but she doesn’t even seem to notice, saying to him cordially, “You got yourself in a real situation here, vaquero.”

He feels the small lockpick drop into his normal fingers.

“Yeah, well, they dun blindsided me and then cuffed me, and then threw me on the floor and that was when an explosion happened?” Jesse sighs, quietly snapping the pick into the small pinhole of the handcuffs, and the masked soldier props himself up more too, eyeing both of them warily, rifle never leaving his hands and his aim never shifting off the woman.  Jesse continues seemingly without care, rambling, “I’m ‘fraid I’m a bit lost on the rodeo that’s goin’ on ‘round here, what’s this I hear ‘bout a bomb?”

“The United States military was transporting a special new bomb on that train,” Sombra answers him easily, and Jesse’s grateful that she’s so forthcomin’ with that handy bit of info, though he had managed to piece some of it together.

That said, that don’ make him stomach the situation any easier.

“...They dun transported a new bomb by train?” Jesse asks, feeling the lockpick switch some of the pins in the cuffs, “Are they fuckin’ dumbasses?”

“Yeah,” the soldier decides to join in, voice gruff and firm and...irritatingly familiar but Jesse don’ know why and at the moment, he don’t care much.  The soldier pulls himself up, sighing, “They certainly are.”  Sombra looks up at the soldier and gives him a wicked grin and the soldier continues to aim his rifle at her when -

“TA-DA,” Jesse declares loudly, jumping up with a flourish of his arms as the handcuffs fall off of him and Sombra is jerking back, swearing something in Spanish, and the soldier is snapping the rifle in Jesse’s direction, but the cowboy literally just grabs Sombra by her collar and hoists her in the air before she can get away.

Aw, she’s kinda cute like this.

Like a kitty that he’s pulled outta the river.

“PENDEJO, PUT ME THE FUCK DOWN,” she’s hissing and flailing angrily, taking swipes at him, but he holds her out at arm’s length, chuckling at her, “Missy, you outta know that every good bandito can get out of handcuffs.”

“You would have a fucking lockpick in that damn secret compartment,” the soldier mutters, just barely lowering the rifle a tad.

Huh.

Well ain’t that somethin’. Chapter Preview 2: 

“Sir!” Aizad replies, as Khalil launches himself into the air.  Fareeha follows suit a second after, rocketing into the skies, feeling a tremendous relief to finally be out of the cramped, cluttered tin can of a train car and -

Something glints on the cliffs below her and reflexively, she lowers her propulsion, dropping a few feet as something whizzes right where her head was a second before.

“SNIPER,” she shouts, both aloud and over the comms, “EVERYBODY DOWN!  GET TO COVER!”

Fareeha rockets back to the road, aiming for what she hopes is cover - there’s a slight sandstone ledge just south of the road, right before the sheer drop into the canyon, and she swoops in low, breathing a quick sigh of relief as her feet hit the ground.  She ducks behind the ledge as Khalil and the others plop beside her.  Khalil is shouting at them:

“Okoro, get to somewhere safe and hole up, I do not want you involved in this at all - I need you to keep our comms and systems up and running.  Pharah, take your half and flank to the west, I want you on the other side of that wreckage - get as close as you can to those لصوص (tn: thieves) as possible, but be wary of getting too close.  My team, we are gonna scope out those snipers and push them back, remember to weave in the air!  You have space, those snipers do not!”

“Sir!” they all shout, but suddenly Okoro is saying loudly, “Captain, the Deadlock gang have acquired the package.”

“What?” Khalil demands, as they peer over the ledge out towards the wreckage -

The massive men - six, maybe even seven of them - are guiding something round, white, large, apparently extremely dense, already prepped on a hover carrier out of a train car and onto the road, and Fareeha feels her breath leave her as Mahmud gasps, “Is that a bomb??”

“And a big one,” Khalil mutters to her right, and Fareeha can practically imagine the anger on his face behind his visor, “خرة (tn: shit), these American military, not telling us what we were guarding, we were guarding a bomb the whole time - ”

“CAPTAIN,” Fareeha screams, as her eyes slide past him to the edge of the ledge just to the right of him -

Three individuals dressed in all grey - grey uniforms, grey body armor, grey tactical visors - and hefting sleek, black rifles have rounded the corner and are squaring up for them -

Talon.

Talon agents are here.

“GET BACK,” Fareeha hisses, snapping her wrist up and firing her concussive blast towards them.  The mini-rocket hits them with a shock wave, and the three Talon agents are blown backwards several feet, with only one of them staying upright, the other two stumbling over themselves as it knocks them away. Chapter Preview 3: 

“PULL BACK,” Reaper’s shouting at the three goons who got blasted the fuck back with a concussive rocket, “ASSHOLES, THOSE ARE HELIX MARK VI, IF THEY FIRE A REAL ROCKET YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD.”

Louis is, remarkably, the only one who stays on his feet, although now that they’re all wearing their visors it’s getting difficult to tell who’s who.  The other two roll backwards, flipping over a few times before slamming into the cliff wall behind them.  Reaper could fucking push both of them off the ledge and into the depths of the canyon with how annoyed he is at them, but that’s not important right now.

Three of the Helix fliers pop up from behind the rock ledge, hovering just a bit above the ground - low enough to get shelter again, but just high enough to give them a subtle height and maneuverability advantage over the Talon and Deadlock ground units.  He hears Widowmaker and Henri fire off a few more rounds, but distant screams are the only reward for that - they’re aiming at the U.S. military soldiers who are stupidly rappelling down from the stable parts of the train still up on the tracks and making themselves easy targets.

“Widowmaker, Helix units, on the ground, below you!” Reaper growls out over the comms before he fucking dematerializes -

- and reforms himself directly behind the three Helix fliers.

God, that hurt like a FUCK.

He punches one of them in the back to make up for it.

FUCK THAT FUCKING HURT TOO

WHY DIDN’T HE JUST FUCKING SHOOT THEM LIKE A REGULAR ASSHOLE

“Sir, behind us!” another Helix flier screams, before launching himself high into the air and god, that’s gonna make them a fucking bitch for the snipers to track.  The sir - the one Reaper assumes is some sort of squad leader - says something in Arabic before his own propulsion generators kick in and he too shoots up high, beyond the reach of Reaper’s shotguns.  The one that Reaper had hit shoots off to the left, just above where Widowmaker and Henri are sniping out and -

“WIDOWMAKER, ABOVE YOU,” he shouts into the comms as the three Stooges cluster back to him.  On the bluff ledge above him, he sees her drop to her knees and Henri follows suit, disappearing behind the edge of the cliff.