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lo-vearchive · 1 year

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Forgive Me (Pt. 2)

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x female reader

Summary: After reconciling in your bedroom, Miguel disappears on you for a week. Giving up on any hopes of romance, your friends plan a night out for you to cheer up. Too bad your boss makes an appearance and catches you with an attractive stranger on a stormy night. Read Part One: here

Word Count: 4463 words

Content: Miguel being a rude bastard, Miguel asking for forgiveness (again), arguments, possessiveness, alcohol consumption, tobacco consumption, 18+ (minors DNI), no p in v but things get spicy at the end, female fingering, finger sucking, misogyny, insecurity, swearing, hurt and comfort, office sex (no p in v), questionable Spanish

Note: ANGST! Got carried away once again. Lowkey not proofread. I love angst and Miguel being vulnerable. If you are into angst, you will enjoy this. Feel free to correct my Spanish and ask for any other cw to be added. Thank you for the 1K+ notes on Pt. 1. Have fun, horndogs ;)

It has been seven days since you last saw Miguel O’Hara.

After spending a full 48 hours by your side, he had gone back to work. You decided to join him at Alchemax the next day but found his office empty. At first, you thought he was occupied with Spider-Man business, so you kept yourself busy with answering his overflowing email box. Slowly the sun set behind the skyline of Nueva York and the messages ran out, leaving behind a feeling of uneasiness in your stomach.

You [sent Friday, 6 pm]: Hey, are you coming to work today?

You [sent Friday, 10 pm]: I’m going home for the night. Call me when you are home. I miss you :)

You [sent Saturday, 5 am]: Are you okay?

You [sent Saturday, 1 pm]: I’m getting really worried. Where are you?

You [sent Saturday, 5 pm]: I emailed you in case you lost your phone. Call me asap.

You [sent Sunday, 7 pm]: I’ll see you at work tomorrow.

You [sent Monday, 9 am]: Lyla said you’re okay but won’t tell me what’s going on. Says I don’t have clearance. Please call me.

You [sent Monday 10 am]: Are you actually ignoring me?

You [sent Tuesday, 1 am]: My best friend you’re an asshole and I should never let you near my pussy ever again.

You [sent Tuesday 1:23 am] Are you ghosting me? You know we work together, right?

You [sent Tuesday, 3:30 am]: I hate you Miguel O’Hara.

Friday rolled around and your best friend had enough of your drunk late-night facetime calls. She gathered a group of your high school girlfriends and decided a night out in the town would be the perfect remedy. “Fuck him, babe,” Katy states, sliding a shot glass across the table. “You should report him to HR for being an ass.”

You laughed and tipped the glass into your mouth. The tequila burnt its way down your throat. “I’m just going to find a new job. I can’t be dealing with this shit right now.”

Your friend Soo let out a burp. “Did you let him hit it?”

You shake your head. “No,” you cough. “We came close to it, like above the pants stuff— do you think that’s why he’s ignoring me? Because I didn’t put out right away?”

“Bitch,” Katy chides, slapping the tabletop, “be fucking for real. You look like a busty, hot secretary from some comic book. He should be lucky you let him touch your tits!”

Your friends nodded along in agreement. Katy grabs the sides of your chair and spins it around, facing you to the restaurant bar. “You see that guy there?” she points at a man with messy blond hair in an open-collar white shirt. “He’s been eyeing you all night. Go talk to him right now.”

The tequila must have heightened your bravery as you found yourself walking across the dimly lit restaurant and to the wall. Stealing a glance at him from the corner of your eye, you ask the bartender for, “a rum and coke please.”

“You can add her drink to my tab,” the man says just like you hoped he would. “I hope you don’t mind. I saw your friends fussing over you earlier and you looked like you needed a drink.”

“Is it that obvious?” You ask, letting out a laugh. “You’re right, I do need a little pick-me-upper tonight.”

“My name is John,” he says.

You introduced yourself and slide in the empty seat next to him. “So, what’s going on with you?” he questions, sipping his beer.

You carefully lift your drink from the bar top and circled the rim with your index finger. “I’m not sure if I wanna’ trauma dump on a stranger.”

“Sometimes talking to strangers helps.”

You contemplate his words and sigh. Your friends would kick you if you said the name Miguel O’Hara again in their general vicinity. You chose to divulge a little to the mystery man. “Things got a bit complicated with someone I really cared about. Everything was going well and then he disappeared suddenly, and I don’t know why.”

John listens to you carefully, nodding to himself. “You know what I do when I’m confused?”

“What?”

“I take a smoke break to chill out,” he answers, standing up. “Care to join me?”

You downed the contents of your glass and follow him out a door that open to a back alley behind the restaurant. Rain pours down heavily, and you both huddle under a dingy metal shed. The cold air bites your arms sharply as John lights the end of his cigarette and brings it to his mouth. “It can be frustrating when you’re left without answers but a girl like you has nothing to worry about.”

You smile at his words. You take the cigarette off his hand and take a drag. The smoke fills your lungs, making your head spin a little. The light-headedness reminds you of how you felt last time when Miguel was in your arms. Airy, free, and light. No matter what you do, all your thoughts lead back to him. You shake away the memories and pass the cigarette back to John.

“What the hell are you doing out here?” a stern voice asks.

A man melts out of the shadows in the alley and into the light shining from a streetlamp above. You recognize him. “Miguel?”

He doesn’t look at you and keeps his eyes focused on John. “Who is he?” he asks with a deep frown.

“Listen, I’m off work right now,” you clear your throat, sticking your nose up in the air. “I don’t have to explain—”

“Look, man,” John interrupts, “no need to get all worked about this. We are just talking.”

Miguel lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah, right,” he spits and gets in his face. “You could have done that at the bar. Why the fuck are you out here alone with her? What were you planning on doing?”

“Mr. O’Hara!” you exclaim, stepping in between them. “You are out of line!”

He raises his eyebrows at your formality but keeps his attention on John over your shoulder. “Buddy,” John says, wrapping an arm around your waist and moving you to the side. “She is allowed to talk to whoever she wants. I suggest you leave us alone now.”

The touch doesn’t go unnoticed by Miguel. His nostrils flare and his eyes turned red with anger. He steps closer to John until he is looming over the poor man. You often forget how big your boss is compared to everyone around him. The scene looks almost comical with how John tries to puff out his chest. “Te calmas o te calmo,” (Calm yourself, or I’ll calm you down) Miguel snarls.

Whatever John sees in his face is enough to make him reconsider. He holds his hands up in surrender and backs away slowly. Stopping in front of you he pushes the half-burnt cigarette into your hand and whispers, “If this is the guy you were talking about, then maybe it’s a good thing he disappears. I’ll be inside if you still want to talk.”

He walks away from the alley and into the restaurant, leaving you with Miguel alone in the alley. You watch in silence as his body trembles, and you can’t tell if it’s from anger or the rain hammering away at his back.

He breaks the silence. “So, you’re letting strangers into our private business?”

You snort loudly. “You don’t get to speak to me like that,” you tell him, taking another drag. “Especially after disappearing on me. You can’t just strut back into my life and tell me who I can confide in.”

“I was tending to some urgent matters,” he says, brushing his wet hair away from his forehead. “So I took the time to handle them. I can’t be around you every second of the day acting as your lap dog.”

The heat from the cigarette burns your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?” you raise your voice, throwing your hands in the air. “You’re acting like I want you on a leash! I just wanted to know you were okay.”

“Clearly I’m okay,” he replies, rolling his eyes.

Your lips tug into a deep scowl at his tone. “Did you ever stop to consider how your actions affected me? How lost and confused I felt waiting by the phone every day?”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Miguel matches your tone. “You know I am a busy man, and that I have responsibilities. But you’d rather live in some fantasy land where I’m just some monster out to hurt you! You can’t begin to understand the weight I carry on my shoulders.”

Anger surges through your body. “How am I supposed to understand when you don’t tell me anything? Hell, your AI knows more about you than I do. It’s like you only care about missions or work and nothing else—”

“Sometimes in life, personal matters have to take a backseat,” he cuts you off, harshly. “Not everyone can put on a short skirt and high heels, waltz into work, type a few memos and then call it a night.”

“You misogynist fuck!” You scream back at him, resisting the urge to slap him silly. “I hate you!”

“I hate you too!” he yells back in your face with bloodshot eyes.

You spin on your heels and begin walking towards the main road. Rage begins to bubble inside you and reaches your throat. You turn around just as you reach the sidewalk and call out, “You know what? It doesn’t matter if you disappear again because I have hated you since the moment I met you. I hated you when everyone at work warned me about you. I hated you all those times you dismissed me like an afterthought. And I hated you when you came to my room that night begging for a second chance. So, I don’t care if you hate me, or think I’m useless or unimportant cause have hated you longer and harder and for better fucking reasons!”

You take another drag from the cigarette and then crush it underneath your pretty high heels. You make a right at the end of the alley and begin walking up the street. Warm tears spill down your face as you shiver in the rain. Katy was right, he was an asshole. An asshole that made you feel dumb for having a normal job or human emotions. But maybe you were just an idiot for falling in love with a man who didn’t respect you. Love wasn’t supposed to be this hard, but here you were feeling small and crying at the side of the road.

The sound of screeching tires brings you out of your self-pity. A sleek black car pulls up on the other side of the road and the passenger window rolls down. Miguel’s face emerges from behind the glass. “Ven aquí!” (come here) he calls out.

You ignore him and keep walking ahead. You have no idea where you are going, but you would rather eat rocks than speak to him.

From the corner of your eyes, you see Miguel make a sharp left, almost hitting oncoming traffic and pulling up beside you. “Get in the car!”

Your feet don’t stop moving so he slowly inches his car to match your speed. “Estoy harto. (I’m sick of this) Let’s talk!”

Honks and yells filled the night as people grew frustrated with his speed. “Stop,” you hiss, bending down to the window. “You are embarrassing me!”

“Get in the car then,” he says, with a clenched jaw. “You’re gonna’ catch a cold in the rain.”

“Stop pretending like you care,” you snarl, kicking the side of his car.

“A-YO LADY!” a man yells out of his yellow cab. “Get in the damn car! Your boyfriend is holding up traffic!”

A pleased smirk spread across Miguel’s face at the man’s remarks. You let out a frustrated grunt and yanked the door open, slipping into the passenger seat. “Put your seatbelt on,” he says, picking up speed.

You begrudgingly obey but wished that his car would get rear-ended so hard that his fat head would go through the windshield. “You look like you want me dead, babe,” he commented with a nervous laugh.

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, adjusting the belt over your soaking dress. “Where are we going?”

“Back to Alchemax,” he points at the GPS screen. “The freeway flooded, and it will be a while until it clears up. I have a spare set of clothes I keep in the office for overnighters. You can change while we wait for the storm to blow over.”

“I don’t want your charity,” you grumble, crossing my hand over my chest.

“I know,” he says. “I just want to take care of you.”

You disliked how your stomach felt at his words. “I left my bag behind at the restaurant.”

“I picked it up, it’s in the back seat.”

“I didn’t pay my tab.”

“It’s taken care of. Your friends know you’re fine, too. Just relax.”

Miguel leans over to turn your seat warmer on and warmth spreads across your chest and down your limbs. He drives in silence with only the soft white noise of radio static playing in the background. Occasionally you tear your gaze away from the furiously working windshield wipers and steal glances at his face. The headlights from other cars make the slopes of his cheek and the plumpness of his lips visible even on a stormy night. His warm complexion has turned pale, and you ponder if it was because of your interaction earlier.

You both pull up into the Alchemax parking lot and get out of the car. The security team must be watching through the cameras, wondering why one of their lead engineers was coming into work late at night with his drenched secretary. You quickly follow him into the elevator and up to the floor with his office. He opens the office door, and you slide inside into the dark space.

“Lyla,” he calls out and the room illuminates on command. “Lights.”

Miguel walks up to a storage cupboard and retrieves a towel in one hand and fresh clothes in the other. He passes them to you, and you quietly enter the adjacent washroom to change. You peel your damp dress off your skin and shiver as the chilly air hits you all over. Rubbing the towel quickly over your cold skin, you slip into an oversized t-shirt and shorts. It takes two knots of the drawstring, but you manage to keep the waistband tied around your naval.

You find Miguel waiting for you outside. He had changed into a shirt that hugged his slender waist and pants that hung dangerously low under his taut stomach. He pulls the towel out of your hand and drapes it over your head. His hands gently rub the threads against your wet hair in soft, circular motions. You lean into his touch involuntarily. “I can do it myself,” you complain but made no move to reach for the fabric.

“I know,” he replies. “I want to do it for you.”

“Please don’t.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re doing that thing again,” you said, “and it’s messing with my head.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you start acting kind after being mean,” you explain in a small voice. “I don’t like it. It’s confusing”

He tugs the towel back so you can look into each other’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he speaks, gently. “I just lost my shit when I saw you with him.”

“You cut off all contact when all I wanted was to know if you were okay,” your voice shakes as you stare at your feet. “You left me all alone, what was I supposed to do? Wait for you to change your mind?”

“I know I messed up, baby. I was wrong” he sighs, inching down his forehead to meet yours. “I should have communicated with you, but sometimes on missions, things get complicated. I don’t always like the things I have to do, and recently I’m having a difficult time making peace with it. It’s like the harder I try to do the right thing, the more damage I do. So sometimes, it’s just better to be alone rather than pretend I’m okay around other people.”

His words hurt your heart. You knew that his missions take a toll on him. In the past whenever you tried to inquire about its contents he wouldn’t answer. You wouldn’t push, afraid that he’d pull away, but it seems that he was pulling away regardless.

“When you’re gone,” you clear your throat, trying to speak through your narrowing trachea, “I worry that you might be laying dead in some universe, and I’d be none the wiser. I know that being Spider-Man is a sacrifice, but I don’t care about the world. I only care about you. So, when you treat me this way, it’s like I can’t breathe.”

He cups your face and places a soft kiss right on your cheekbone “Forgive me.”

“You say that a lot,” you remind him with a frown.

“I know,” he nods, “and I still mean it. I’m just an idiot who doesn’t know how to find the balance in life. I love that you care about me, and I want you to continue caring about me.”

“I don’t know, Mr. O’Hara,” you said. “I can’t ignore the way you speak to me at times. It feels as if you think we’re not equals. I am not some idiot. I am not beneath you just because I work under you.”

He groaned at the sound of his last name. Every time you called him that, it made the space between feel bigger. “I have seen a million universes, nena, (babe) and you are not beneath me in any of them,” he curls a damp strand behind your ear, “Unless we are in bed, then you’re definitely under me.”

“Miguel!” you chide, punching him in the stomach. “No es broma! (It’s not a joke) I’m being serious!”

He lets out an oof and backs away. His fangs poke out from underneath his curled lips and in that moment, he looks as carefree. He wraps his large hands around your arms and holds your attention. “I know broken trust isn’t easily mendable, but I’m going to try my hardest. I won’t leave you out in the dark or make you feel small. I’ll think twice before I open my stupid mouth. I’ll even ask Lyla to give you full access to my missions. Wh-when you see what I have to do- what I must do, please don’t hate me.”

“Miggy,” you pout, reaching for his face. “I was really, really angry when I said those things to you. I can never hate you. My heart won’t let me.”

His toothy grin appears again, and Miguel draws you into him. His smooth lips find yours and he cranes your head back to find the angle that leaves you breathless. You run the pads of your thumb gently across the slopes of his cheeks. It never ceased to surprise you that his skin was so soft under his stubble. Without breaking your kiss, your shuffle back and walk him to his desk chair. You smile into his lips as he shakes his head when you move him back and down to sit. His hands wrap around your wrists. “D-don’t leave,” he cries out.

You shake your head and take a seat on his lap with your legs dangling off the side. Miguel’s hands find your jaw and he turns your mouth to his. You wrap your fingers in his hair and tug him closer. You let out a content hum as his fangs softly dig into your lips, breaking the skin. The taste of metal fills your mouth, and you pull away to look at him. He sits in your embrace, with red-stained lips and is just as breathless. “Sorry,” he sheepishly says. “I usually have them under control. It’s just you’re in my office and in my clothes. It’s making my head spin a little.”

You laugh at his words and gently pull his hair back. Pressing a wet kiss to his exposed throat you ask, “Miggy, how come we haven’t had sex yet?”

“Honestly?” he lets out a choked moan.

“Honestly,” you hum, licking his jaw.

His hands suddenly grab you by the elbows and spin you around on his lap, so his chest is facing your back. His warm breath hits the nape of your neck. A shiver runs down your spine. “I haven’t fucked you yet because once I’m inside you,” he whispers into your ear, “I’ll never want to be anywhere else. I wouldn’t want to eat, sleep, work, or be Spider-Man. I think I’ll just want to stay buried in you all the time.”

“Miguel,” you moan, clutching your thighs together.

“Tsk-tsk,” he clicks his tongue. “Don’t hide from me.”

His large hand slips between your thighs and pushes your legs apart. He turns the chair around until you’re both facing his work desk. “Up,” he commands, slapping the side of your thighs.

You gingerly obey and place your bare feet on the edge of his desk. His hands slip under your shirt, and he fumbles with the knot. Impatient with the knots, he uses a sharp claw to cut through the drawstring. Your breath hitches as he pushes the loose shorts down your legs and off your feet. He wraps his fingers behind your knees and draws your legs apart. He puts his chin over your shoulder and bunches your shirt up to get a good look at your pink underwear. “Baby,” he coos. “You gotta’ let me have this once we are done. A little souvenir for when I’m away.”

Your stomach tightens at his suggestion. You glance at him and then the office door,. “Someone will see us,” you nervously gulp.

“You let me worry about that,” he says and presses a kiss to the side of your forehead, “and just relax. I’m not gonna’ let anyone else see my girl spread out like this.”

He runs his knuckles down your bare stomach and across the clothed cunt. Electricity shoots up your body and you almost curl up in his arms. Miguel’s fingertips find a quickly dampening spot on the fabric. “Huh,” he huffs. “Is this me or rainwater?”

You cry, arching into his touch.

“I guess it’s just me,” he grins against your shoulder.

He slides your underwear off your legs and tosses it on the table. It lands on a pile of paperwork you had put aside from him earlier in the week. Miguel stops breathing at the sight of your glistening, swollen pussy. A loud moan escapes your throat as his fingers part your folds and glide back and forth. You were sure that the security guards patrolling this floor would have heard you down the hallway. You almost miss his question over the sensations of pleasure spreading through your body.

“Do you want my finger inside you?”

You nod against his cheek and reach behind to clutch a fistful of his hair to brace for impact. He lowers his down until his thick, middle digit is nudging your opening. You must have been soaking his thighs with how easily his digit sinks inside. You bit your lip harshly to contain the sounds threatening to escape your mouth. It’s your turn to hold your breath when Miguel’s other hand begins to stroke your clit. Once, twice, thrice.

When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You clench around my finger every time I flick your clit.”

Not that you needed proof, but Miguel does it again and you shake with pleasure. “See?” he gasps, and captures your lips in a sloppy kiss.

He he pulls back to hold your eyes and you breathe his shaky breaths in. You close your eyes and imagine how it would look to hold his hard cock in your hands while he played with your pussy. He tears you away from your fantasy by hooking his fingers inside on an angle. You almost arch completely off his lap. He moves his free hand away from your clit and presses you back into him. His hard bulge pressed into your ass.

“Here?” Miguel moans and licks your lips. “Tell me where? Right here? Ah, here.”

His fingers find that spot again and he massages his fingers against it. You nod furiously and my hands move to claw forearms. He softly bites your shoulder in retaliation and his free hand resumes working against your clit, picking up rhythm. “Can I put another finger inside?” he asks, breathing hard. “I promise it will feel good.”

“Oh-kay,” you gasp, rocking your hips on his hand.

His index finger slithers into your pussy, and you forget how to speak. You begin to twist and turn in his lap. He pulls away from your clit to press down hard against your stomach so he can keep you in place. You slide your ass over his crotch with every movement of his fingers.

“Mig-Mig-Mig,” you pant, moving your hips to his set rhythm.

“Good? I bet that feels so good.”

“Gah—”

He presses soft kisses onto your cheek as you sink into his arms. You begin to tighten further around him. You realize that this is exactly how you always want to be—full of Miguel’s fingers, touch, and love. His tongue slips into your mouth as his fingers begin curling into you faster. Your moans and groans echo through the office. His left hand leaves your stomach and reaches for your clit again. It takes seven swipes, one for each day he left you alone, for you to seize around his finger. His mouth never leaves yours as he drinks all of your pleasurable cries.

Slowly, the current leaves your body and you’re able to take in your surround. Your cheeks burn with realization. Miguel had just fingered you open on his desk at your workplace. The very same desk you set up for him every morning. Your fingers slide up to his hair and you hide your face in the crook of his neck. “Don’t be shy now,” he chuckles, “One day I’ll fuck you all over this office, nena.”

You shriek and lightly slap his arm. Miguel gently slides his fingers out of your cunt, eliciting a soft groan, and brings his to his mouth.

He hums with eyes closed at the taste. “You taste so good,” he mumbles around his fingers.

“Ugh,” Lyla gags at a distance. “Be glad I activated noise cancellation.”

A/N: Thoughts?

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southeastasianists · 6 months

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Nearly seven years after the Myanmar military killed thousands of Muslim Rohingyas, in what the UN called "textbook ethnic cleansing", it wants their help.

From interviews with Rohingyas living in Rakhine State the BBC has learned of at least 100 of them being conscripted in recent weeks to fight for the embattled junta. All their names have been changed to protect them.

"I was frightened, but I had to go," says Mohammed, a 31-year-old Rohingya man with three young children. He lives near the capital of Rakhine, Sittwe, in the Baw Du Pha camp. At least 150,000 internally displaced Rohingyas have been forced to live in IDP camps for the past decade.

In the middle of February the camp leader came to him late at night, Mohammed said, and told him he would have to do military training. "These are army orders," he remembers him saying. "If you refuse they have threatened to harm your family."

The BBC has spoken to several Rohingyas who have confirmed that army officers have been going around the camps and ordering the younger men to report for military training.

The terrible irony for men like Mohammed is that Rohingyas in Myanmar are still denied citizenship, and subjected to a range of discriminatory restrictions - like a ban on travel outside their communities.

In 2012 tens of thousands of Rohingyas were driven out of mixed communities in Rakhine State, and forced to live in squalid camps. Five years later, in August 2017, 700,000 fled to neighbouring Bangladesh, after the army launched a brutal clearance operation against them, killing and raping thousands and burning their villages. Some 600,000 of them still remain there.

Myanmar is now facing a genocide trial at the International Court of Justice in the Hague over its treatment of the Rohingyas.

That the same army is now forcibly recruiting them is a telling sign of its desperation, after losing huge swathes of territory in Rakhine recently to an ethnic insurgent group called the Arakan Army. Dozens of Rohingyas in Rakhine have been killed by military artillery and aerial bombardments.

The military has also suffered significant losses to opposition forces in other parts of the country - on Saturday it lost control of Myawaddy, a town on the eastern border with Thailand. Most of the country's overland trade passes through this vital route.

The junta has lost large numbers of soldiers as well. They have been killed, wounded, surrendered or defected to the opposition, and finding replacements is difficult. Few want to risk their lives propping up an unpopular regime.

And the Rohingyas fear that is the reason they are being targeted again - to be cannon fodder in a war the junta seems to be losing.

Mohammed said he was driven to the base of the 270th Light Infantry Battalion in Sittwe. Rohingyas have been prohibited from living in the town since they were driven out during the 2012 communal violence.

"We were taught how to load bullets and shoot," he said. "They also showed us how to disassemble and reassemble a gun."

In a video seen by the BBC another group of Rohingya conscripts can be seen being taught how to use BA 63 rifles, an older standard weapon used by the Myanmar armed forces.

Mohammed was trained for two weeks, then sent home. But after just two days he was called back, and put on a boat with 250 other soldiers and transported five hours up-river to Rathedaung, where a fierce battle with the Arakan Army was under way for control of three hilltop military bases.

"I had no idea why I was fighting. When they told me to shoot at a Rakhine village, I would shoot."

He fought there for 11 days. They were desperately short of food, after a shell fell on their supply hut. He saw several Rohingya conscripts killed by artillery and he was injured by shrapnel in both legs, and taken back to Sittwe for treatment.

On 20 March the Arakan Army released photos from the battle, after it had taken control of the three bases, showing several corpses, at least three of them identified as Rohingyas.

"While I was in the middle of the battle I was terrified the whole time. I kept thinking about my family," Mohammed said. "I never thought I would have to go to war like that. I just wanted to go home. When I got home from the hospital I hugged my mother and cried. It felt like being born again from my mother's womb."

Another conscript was Hussain, from Ohn Taw Gyi camp, which is also near Sittwe. His brother Mahmoud says he was taken away in February and completed his military training, but he went into hiding before they could send him to the front line.

The military denies using Rohingyas to fight its battles with the Arakan Army. General Zaw Min Tun, the junta spokesman, told the BBC that there was no plan to send them to the front line. "We want to ensure their safety, so we have asked them to help with their own defence," he said.

But in interviews with the BBC, seven Rohingyas in five different IDP camps near Sittwe all said the same thing: that they know of at least 100 Rohingyas who have been recruited this year and sent off to fight.

They said teams of soldiers and local government officials came to the camps in February to announce that the younger men would be conscripted, at first telling people they would get food, wages and citizenship if they joined up. These were powerful lures.

Food in the IDP camps has become scarce and expensive as the escalating conflict with the Arakan Army has cut off the international aid supplies. And the denial of citizenship is at the heart of the Rohingyas' long struggle for acceptance in Myanmar, and one reason they suffer systematic discrimination, described by human rights groups as similar to apartheid.

However, when the soldiers returned to take the conscripted men away, they retracted the offer of citizenship. When asked by the camp residents why they, as non-citizens, should be subjected to conscription, they were told that they had a duty to defend the place where they lived. They would be militiamen, not soldiers, they were told. When they asked about the offer of citizenship, the answer was "you misunderstood".

Now, according to one camp committee member, the army is demanding new lists of potential recruits. After seeing and hearing from the first group to come back from the front line, he said, no-one else was willing to risk being conscripted.

So the camp leaders are now trying to persuade the poorest men, and those with no jobs, to go, by offering to support their families while they are away, with donations raised from other camp residents.

"This conscription campaign is unlawful and more akin to forced labour," said Matthew Smith, from the human rights group Fortify Rights.

"There's a brutal and perverse utility to what's happening. The military is conscripting the victims of the Rohingya genocide in an attempt to fend off a nationwide democratic revolution. This regime has no regard for human life. It's now layering these abuses on top of its long history of atrocities and impunity."

By using Rohingyas in its battles against the advancing Arakan Army, the Myanmar military threatens to reignite communal conflict with the ethnic Rakhine Buddhist population, much of which supports the insurgents.

It was friction between the two communities which in 2012 caused the expulsion of tens of thousands of Rohingyas from towns like Sittwe. In 2017, ethnic Rakhine men joined in the army's attacks on the Rohingyas.

Tension between the two communities has eased since then.

The Arakan Army is fighting for an autonomous state, part of a wider campaign with other ethnic armies and opposition groups to overthrow the military junta and create a new, federal system in Myanmar.

Now on the brink of victory in Rakhine State, the Arakan Army has talked about giving citizenship to all who have lived there recently, implying that it might accept the return of the Rohingya population from Bangladesh.

The mood has now changed. A spokesman for the Arakan Army, Khaing Thukha, told the BBC that they viewed Rohingyas being conscripted to fight for the junta as "the worst betrayal of those who had recently been victims of genocide, and of those fighting for liberation from dictatorship".

Pro-military media have also been giving publicity to what appear to have been Rohingya protests in Buthidaung against the Arakan Army, although local people told the BBC they suspected these were organised by the army in an attempt to divide the two groups.

The Rohingyas are now forced to fight for an army that does not recognise their right to live in Myanmar, thereby alienating the ethnic insurgents who may soon control most of Rakhine. Once targeted by both, they are now caught between the two sides.

Mohammed has been given a certificate by the army, stating that he has fought in battle on their side. He has no idea what value it has, nor whether it exempts him from further military service. It could well get him into trouble with the Arakan Army if it continues its advance towards Sittwe and his camp.

He is still recovering from his injuries, and says he is unable to sleep at night after his experience.

"I'm afraid they will call me again. This time I came back because I was lucky, but next time I am not sure what will happen."

#Southeast Asia #Burma #Myanmar #Military Junta #Rohingya People

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crowlines · 3 months

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I am closing the store at 11:59 pm EDT on Sunday July 21 (or shortly thereafter). Open orders at that time will be fulfilled ASAP, but no new orders may be placed until I reopen sometime in September (exact date TBD).

IMPORTANT: I will be moving my office across the country.

This means that if your package is returned to me due to an incorrect or incomplete address after I have started moving, I will not be able to retrieve it and reship it to you. Please carefully verify that your address and the size(s) of any clothing you're purchasing are correct because I will not be able to remedy it after sending it out!!

I will also be slower to reply to emails once I begin moving, so if you could check the FAQ in advance + contact your local post office for help with delivery issues, that would probably get you an answer faster (and would be much appreciated on my part)!

What does my office move mean for you as the customer?

I will be adding some more items to the clearance section soon, for the purpose of reducing inventory I have to move. That means that some discounts will only last until I move (e.g. July 21 store closing date), and when the store opens in September those items will return to either regular price or a less steep discount.

My move means that customers who live on or near the West Coast of the US will generally see faster delivery times from September onwards as that will be where I ship from (whereas East Coast customers will see longer delivery times compared to now). Not a huge deal though — the change should only be a couple business days faster or slower. You may also see me vend at in-person events occasionally in the future if you're on the West Coast!

I also want to open shipping to the UK and the EU once I'm settled in. It has been a long time coming and I wanted to stabilize my work and life situation before committing to this! I don't have an estimate on exactly when that will happen but I will update more on that later on. The new method of shipping would collect import charges from UK and EU customers at checkout to prevent customs delays / rejected packages at the time of delivery.

Thanks for reading!! Get your orders in ASAP or see you on the other side in September :- )

#store news #not art #long post

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callsignspark · 1 year

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Mar[r]y Me - part 8.5

pairing: Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw x Mariella “M&M” Vertucci (fem!OC)

summary: A love story told through friendship, laughter, and food.

series warnings: 18+ minors DNI, discussion of insecurities, difficult family relationships, discussions of food and alcohol use, discussions of body image, conversations on what it’s like to be a fat woman trying to date in today’s society, extreme fluff, warnings to be added as needed

word count: 2.3k

previous part | series masterlist | main masterlist

note: happy Friday! this is a short but sweet one! see here for my soft-tober announcement and here for a quick update on what's happening in the month of October! have a great weekend!

part 8.5 - McDonald's apple pie

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“I’d never dream of it!”

Mary snuggles deeper into the couch as Pierce Brosnan - her favorite James Bond - races through the streets of Ho Chi Minh City on a motorcycle with Michelle Yeoh handcuffed to his wrist. Her chest hurts; tight from an overwhelming urge to cry and a tiredness she can’t quite shake no matter how much she’s been sleeping lately.

The day had been spent with Danielle and the kids, and it had been fun. They had gone to the beach and gotten Thai food for dinner, the adults devouring pad thai while Annabeth watched Frozen again. It was nice; she loved her family, but she missed Bradley.

More than she thought she would.

They didn’t get a chance to properly say goodbye. He had received a hug and the same “be safe, see you in two months” as everyone else. There wasn’t a spare second to sneak away and kiss him goodbye; there was always someone near them the entire time.

All she could do was slip a good luck note into the palm of his hand and hug him for an extra second longer than anyone else. It was hardly anything, but he still gave her a big smile and a sneaky forehead kiss, whispering that his peanut butter bites were safely stored at the bottom of his pack.

For the millionth time since she sat with Mav in her office and they watched the carrier steam away, Mary wonders where Bradley is. Thanks to her security clearance, she knows he's floating somewhere in the Pacific, but nothing more.

Maybe he’ll come back with an even deeper tan.

Somehow, Bradley is always sort of tan, even in January. Yes, they live in California, where it’s beach weather year-round, but it’s like he was born with a built-in base layer of golden skin.

Bond is just about to magically escape from another precarious situation he’s gotten himself into when the doorbell rings. Mary peeks over the top of the couch, trying to figure out who could be at her front door. Her family is in New York, Slider went back to Pensacola last week, and the majority of people she knows in California are also in the middle of the ocean with Bradley.

The bell rings again, whoever it is knocking this time. She sighs - they’re not going away - and frees herself from her perfectly crafted blanket burrito, a poor substitution for the pair of strong arms she’s missing.

Carefully peeking through the side window, she’s surprised to find Flora standing there and quickly opens the door, a blur of red and pink taking over her vision.

“Happy birthday!” Flora yells, shoving an enormous floral arrangement in her face.

“Than- thank you?”

Mary tentatively grabs the vase, taken off guard, as Flora walks in and slips her clogs off. Dropping her huge L.L. Bean tote bag on the dining room table, Flora laughs at how Mary is frozen at the front door, flowers hiding her torso but not her confused face.

“Here, give me those, and you open this.” Flora pulls a box out of her Mary Poppins-sized bag and takes the vase back. She carefully places the arrangement on the island, fiddling with the stems so they look perfect.

“What is happening?”

“Well, your boyfriend came into my shop about three weeks ago and asked me if I would do him a favor. He was so sweet and pathetic; I couldn’t help but say yes.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Funny.” Flora hums, eyebrow arching in disbelief. “I didn’t say a name, but you knew who I was talking about.”

Mary flushes, the tips of her ears on fire as she tries to stutter out an excuse.

“It’s okay, Mary.” Flora takes pity on her. “I know it’s complicated, but let’s face it, that man would do anything for you. Which is why I’m here, on a Sunday night, with gifts.”

“Gifts?” Mary echoes. “Plural?”

“Mmhm. First up, a floral arrangement full of warm tones because “red is her favorite color, but all red would probably be overbearing” - which is a direct quote.”

“They’re beautiful, Flora.”

“He did a good job, and he deserves a reward for understanding that flowers are expensive and you can’t cheap out if you want a nice, big bouquet. Next is the box.” She slides the brown box across the table, fluffing the ribbon curls on top. “I have no idea what’s in that one.”

Mary carefully opens the ribbons tied around the box, her throat tightening when she takes the lid off. At the top is a notecard with Bradley’s handwriting.

She pulls the sweater out of the box, and her eyes start to water as she holds it up for Flora to see. It’s a light yellow, almost the same shade as the stick of butter softening on her counter, practically identical to the one sitting in her closet, a red stain still covering the front. The material is so soft she can’t help but press her face into it, tears escaping as Bradley’s cologne washes over her.

Fuck. I miss him so much.

This was anticipated; she knows how sad Dani can get during Reuben’s deployments. Knows how sad she would get when her best friend was gone for months. It’s only been two weeks, but it’s the longest they’ve gone without seeing each other. Even during the rough patch in January, they still got glimpses of each other at work. The worst part is not knowing how he’s doing. If he’s okay. She assumes he is; Mav hadn’t mentioned anything, and she’s pretty sure he would tell her.

It would be the only way she would find out. Mary isn’t naïve enough to believe that she would be a first-tier point of contact if he got hurt. They haven’t even gone on a date yet, and the only time they kissed was that day in her office.

She’s pulled out of the impending spiral by a gentle hand rubbing her shoulders, which she didn’t realize were shaking. She lets herself be comforted by Flora, the older woman pulling her into a hug, uncaring about the tears staining her shirt.

“Sorry.” Mary sniffles, pulling back after a minute to wipe her eyes. “I just really miss him, more than I thought I would.”

“It’s okay, I get it.”

“That’s right. I forgot about Jake.”

She realizes she said something wrong by the way Flora’s hand goes stiff on her back.

“Jake and I are not together.”

“Oh. He just- when we were talking, he kinda implied that the two of you were sort of seeing each other.”

“We’ve fucked a few times, we're not together.”

Mary blinks at her. Jake had never said anything about sex; he was lamenting that Flora didn’t want to see a movie he was excited about. Sad that the florist wouldn’t join him.

“Jake, I mean, I don’t know Flora very well, but I gotta say she doesn’t really seem like a zombie apocalypse kinda girl.” Mary gently soothed, trying to give equal attention to her email inbox and the mopey Texan. “Why don’t you find a movie you’ll both like?”

“I tried! She doesn’t want to go to the movies at all. I know she’s busy - like she runs a whole ass business all by herself - but it’s like she doesn’t even care that we’re gonna be gone for two months!”

“Did you tell her that you want to spend time together before you leave?”

“No. We’re just- that’s not-” Jake sighs, cut off by Mary’s phone.

They had never finished their conversation; Jake had a hop and Mary a meeting, and a few days later, he was shipping out alongside Bradley.

“Okay. I’m sorry, he didn’t mention that, so I must have misunderstood.”

“You probably didn’t.” Flora rolls her eyes. “Jake likes to talk like we’re together, but I’ve told him several times a relationship is not what I’m looking for from him.”

“Can I ask why?” She quickly backtracks when the other woman’s face scrunches up. “Oh my god, you absolutely don’t have to say anything. I wasn’t trying to push.”

“No, you’re fine. Jake is a great guy. He’s smart and funny and handsome, but we want different things in life. Things that can’t be compromised on and that I won’t ever change my mind about. So there’s really no reason for us to try anything serious. I told him that before they deployed, but I’m officially breaking it off when they’re back because I’m not sure he got the hint.”

“That makes sense; that’s probably the best way to go about it.” She nods, impressed by how strong Flora is in her conviction and a bit sad at the same time. Those two would be great.

“Sucks, though. He’s incredible in bed.”

Mary lets out a bark of laughter at the complete 180 in conversation. “That surprises me and doesn’t surprise me all at the same time.”

“It’s that atrocious arrogance of his, isn’t it?”

“Yes! An ego like that means a man is either totally overcompensating, or he knows he’s good, and he’s got the moves to prove it.”

“Oh, he’s got the moves. Believe me.” They laugh at the eyebrow wiggle that accompanies Flora’s words.

“I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta know. That ridiculous Texas accent he pulls out when he’s trying to charm someone-”

“-does he use it in bed? More frequently than you would imagine.”

“Okay… but, like, does it do it for you?”

“I plead the Fifth,” Flora says as she furiously nods.

“Stop! Wait! And the cowboy hat?”

She laughs harder, tears in her eyes as she gasps, “Both of us!”

“You’ve both worn it?!”

Flora’s confirmation makes them both howl with laughter, Mary bending over and holding onto the table for support. It takes a few minutes for them to calm down, wiping tears away as they catch their breath.

“Well, that’s got to be the least shocking thing I’ve learned about Jake.”

It makes them both start giggling again; the blonde man’s affinity for his home state is well-known, frequently coming up in conversation.

“I should get going. I have to be up early to set up for a funeral. But I have one more thing for you, well, two things.” Flora dips back into her bag, pulling out a brown paper bag and a square envelope. “From Bradley.”

“McDonald’s?”

“Well, he requested I get you an apple pie - it had to be an apple pie - from Sift, but by the time I got there this afternoon, all their pies were gone. So I improvised, and thankfully, Mickey D’s had just done a fresh batch.”

“Apple pie is my favorite.” Mary quietly says, peeking into the bag and seeing five pie boxes. “Thank you for doing this, Flora.”

“It’s no problem. Bradley was so cute when he came in; I couldn’t help but agree. It’s sweet how much he cares about you.”

“I’m starting to understand how much he really does.” A content feeling settles in her chest, warming her up from the cold sadness that was taking over earlier.

Only 60 more days until Bradley is home.

“You’ll probably want to warm those up before you eat them,” Flora says, slipping her shoes back on, getting ready to leave.

“Hey, we're having a girls' night and putting together care packages for the Daggers next week. You should come, you can help with Nat’s box. Plus, it’s great to have extra hands to help put them together.”

“That sounds fun; I’d love to join you guys.” She opens the door and hesitates for a second, turning back to Mary. “No one knows about me and Jake hooking up. I didn’t tell Nat because she wouldn’t understand, and I don’t think he’s told anyone either. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“No problem. I’m always here to talk if you want some fairly neutral input.”

“Fairly neutral?”

She shrugs. “I know he can be an idiot, but Jake is a good guy, and he’s also my friend, so I can’t be completely unbiased about him. Fairly neutral is the best I can offer.”

“Fair enough.” Flora smiles at her, yelling back as she walks down the steps. “We should grab dinner sometime! Have a good night!”

“Night!” Mary waves, happier than she’s been since the beginning of the month.

She locks the door after making sure Flora gets into her car safely, promising herself that she’ll reach out to friends more. No more moping around, being sad that Bradley is gone.

I’ve got to learn how to deal with this if we’re going to date. It’s not like he’s going to leave the Navy; he’s going to be gone.

Snapping photos of her presents, she starts mentally composing the thank you email she’s going to send to Bradley. The Lincoln is on a communications blackout for the first three weeks of the cruise, but she’s been sending him little updates. Letting him know when she’s thinking of him, hoping she isn’t filling up his inbox too much.

She plops back into her favorite corner of the couch, stretching out on the chaise that makes her get a little hot under the collar every time she sits on it.

“Let’s read this card.” She mumbles to herself around a bite of pie as Bond saves the world and gets the girl.

A photo flutters out of the envelope as she pulls the card out, and she loses her breath when she flips it over. It’s the two of them on Valentine’s Day. When she made him pancakes, the photo he said he was going to tape up in his bunk.

A promise he followed through on, his last text showing off his rack. Corners of the blue blanket neatly tucked in, and the photo of the two of them taped on the wall right next to his pillow. Mary looks at the photo he printed for her, smiling at the happiness radiating from both of them. The corners of their eyes crinkled, and her dimple popping out; she still can’t quite believe that Bradley Bradshaw wants her, of all people.

Then she reads the card, and her insecurities quiet down for the night.

if you would like to be added (or removed) from the tag list please send an ask!

fic tag | credit for dividers here

#top gun maverick fic #top gun maverick au #top gun maverick imagine #top gun fic #top gun au #top gun imagine #bradley rooster bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley rooster bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw x oc #bradley bradshaw imagine #rooster imagine #DSS universe #MM fic #elle writes #mar[r]y me fic

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usafphantom2 · 9 months

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SR-71 pilot recalls when a Blackbird buzzed Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp after protest women threw paint on that very same SR-71

RAF Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp

In 1981 a group of women, angered by the decision to site cruise missiles (guided nuclear missiles) in the UK, organised a protest march from Cardiff, Wales to RAF Greenham Common near Newbury in Berkshire. Here they set up what became known as the Greenham Common Women’s Peace Camp.

SR-71 T-Shirts

CLICK HERE to see The Aviation Geek Club contributor Linda Sheffield’s T-shirt designs! Linda has a personal relationship with the SR-71 because her father Butch Sheffield flew the Blackbird from test flight in 1965 until 1973. Butch’s Granddaughter’s Lisa Burroughs and Susan Miller are graphic designers. They designed most of the merchandise that is for sale on Threadless. A percentage of the profits go to Flight Test Museum at Edwards Air Force Base. This nonprofit charity is personal to the Sheffield family because they are raising money to house SR-71, #955. This was the first Blackbird that Butch Sheffield flew on Oct. 4, 1965.

According to Imperial War Museum, between 1981 and 1983 the protesters attempted to disrupt construction work at the base. Their methods included blockading the base and cutting down parts of the fence. In December 1982 more than 30,000 women gathered at Greenham to join hands around the base at the ‘Embrace the Base’ event.

SR-71 Blackbird at 1983 IAT at RAF Greenham Common

International Air Tattoo (IAT) 1983 was also held at RAF Greenham Common.

youtube

Posted by SR-71 pilot BC Thomas on his YouTube channel, the video in this post shows a Blackbird (flown by Thomas himself with John G. Morgan as RSO) arriving at Greenham Common for the 1983 International Air Tattoo.

Thomas recalls in the video description;

‘I was the pilot in this video, but did not fly the SR-71 out of RAF Greehnam Common. I was the “mobile control” officer when the aircraft departed and the pilot was Maj Jim Jiggens, a USAF Thunderbird pilot and formally a US Army helicopter combat pilot in Vietnam.

Protest women throws paint on SR-71 Blackbird

‘On the evening of the air show featured in this video, women, who were protesting President Reagan’s decision to station intermediate nuclear missiles in England, broke into the security cordon around the air show aircraft and threw paint on several, including this SR-71.

‘Owing to the unique metals associated with the SR-71, the removing of the paint required special maintenance procedures to assure that no “hot spot” would develop on subsequent flights. It was quite a hassle and we were not amused over this incident. Jim and I planned a farewell departure for the protesters who were encamped in a squalor of tents just outside the main gate.

SR-71 Blackbird noise on the protesters at RAF Greenham Common

‘Jim obtained clearance for a “closed pattern” and turned to a downwind leg, descended to about 50 feet above the ground, and flew directly over the protestors’ encampment. It was early and probably most were asleep, but not for long. Jim was flying about 250 knots and selected afterburner in both engines as he was approaching the tents. As the SR-71 accelerated to 350-400 knots, he pulled up and focused the plume (and noise) directly on the protesters. It was a magnificent sight.’

SR-71 pilot recalls when a Blackbird buzzed Greenham Common Women's Peace Camp after protest women threw paint on that very same SR-71

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

Thomas concludes;

‘As we were leaving the base immediately after Jim’s departure, the gate guard (British) said to me: “I say, that was a jolly good show, but next time, please warn me before you do it.” I also had the honor to prefer charges against the women, but the British government later declined to prosecute.’

Greenham Common today

In 1987 US President Ronald Reagan and Soviet President Mikhail Gorbachev signed the Intermediate-range Nuclear Forces (INF) Treaty, which paved the way for the removal of cruise missiles from Greenham.

Today Greenham no longer belongs to the military. Part of it is a business park and the rest is common land.

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Twitter Page Habubrats SR-71 and Facebook Page Born into the Wilde Blue Yonder for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

Photo credit: Mike Freer – Touchdown-aviation via Wikipedia

SR-71 pilot recalls when a Blackbird buzzed Greenham Common Women's Peace Camp after protest women threw paint on that very same SR-71

This model is available from AirModels – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS.

Linda Sheffield Miller

Grew up at Beale Air Force Base, California. I am a Habubrat. Graduated from North Dakota State University. Former Public School Substitute Teacher, (all subjects all grades). Member of the DAR (Daughters of the Revolutionary War). I am interested in History, especially the history of SR-71. Married, Mother of three wonderful daughters and four extremely handsome grandsons. I live near Washington, DC.

@Habubrats71 via X

#Youtube

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helloservicesofficial · 1 year

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peachyloveswriting · 2 years

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Could you do #5, #38, #39, #59 #87 and #127 with head engineer mark ? Thank you ;w;

INFECTIOUS --- (Head Engineer x reader)

SUMMARY: A mysterious sickness takes you in a hold with no way to cure it. Stubborn and determined, you push forward at your own peril.

CONTENTS: major character death, major angst, angry Mark.

PROMPTS: #5 “I want to take care of you!” / #38 “Are you hurt?” / #39 “I’m going to make sure you get better.” / #59 “You need to take a break.” / #87 “Get back in bed, you’re sick.” / #127 “You nearly got yourself killed!”

TAGLIST: @batty-the-red-koolaid-man @abbzzzzz @dragonangel201 @crustydustycowboi @crazy-obsessed-enby

NOTE: Kinda rushed, might rewrite, anyways r.i.p reader

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

"Cap'n. You need to take a break." Mark suggests as he steps into your office. Tugging the suit off your body and flapping your shirt you huff, the sweat rolling off your forehead.

"Mark..." You wheeze. Your tired eyes meet his and they struggle to stay open. Mark's face turns from neutral to concerned within seconds.

The room around you closes in and immense heat washes over you. It's hard to control you body movements as your head grows heavier and heavier. Your hands tremble and quake while your body shivers uncontrollably.

Watching your head hit the desk Mark panics. Tossing his tablet down onto a near by seat he rushes to your side. "Y/n!" He calls out. His hands messily tug at your shoulders, trying to sit you up. As he does his face grows pale. You're completely limp in his grasp as he sits you up. For a moment his heart drops. Your chest is barely moving and his fingers begin searching for a pulse point.

Hurriedly rushing to the door, he calls out. Everyone's heads snap his way as he makes the announcement. The rushing of footsteps rise and a group of doctors begin rushing their way towards your office. Mark watches as they rush in, picking you up in their arms to rush you away.

"Infirmary immediately. We need to act now!" One of the nurses calls out as she jogs along side them. "Calling quarantine! This might be foreign."

As Mark jogs to keep up he's stopped my Celci who holds her hand out to block his path.

"Wait. Let me go with them." Mark struggles against her as he pushes forward. Breaking her guard he pushes past only to be snatched back by his uniform.

"Mark. No. They're calling quarantine. This could be deadly." She warns him.

Turning around he pulls her hand away from his uniform to turn and rush the other way. "Even more reason." He calls as he goes.

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

When you first landed on this planet the only concern was predators lurking about. Luckily there happened to be none. However, something that no one considered was the foreign sicknesses that would eventually take hold. Sadly you just so happened to be it's first victim. Even Mark's not able to see you no matter the clearance level he has.

As it stands everyone is concerned for your well being. Well, only the crew seeing as the colonists don't really know you.

Only hours after you were taken to the infirmary you were announced to be in critical condition. The moment those words entered his head he was desperate. Pushing through the crew, Celci chases after him.

"Mark, don't do it." She warns as she follows him. Everyone watches as Mark turns to face her with anger evident on his face. "With them out of commission I am temporary captain, meaning you follow my orders. So don't stop me." He growls.

Shocked, Celci freezes in place watching as Mark storms towards the infirmary. Frowning, she turns to walk back towards the rest of the crew. As she does Gunther rests a hand on her shoulder, a reassuring look in his eyes.

"Just leave him be for now. It's obvious this has him really messed up."

Celci looks up at him and nods. "I know. I'm just trying to keep him from doing something he shouldn't."

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

Storming away from Celci with his hands clenched into fists and his mind racing, Mark heads for the infirmary. As he nears it's entrance one of the stationary doctor raises his hand to stop him.

"No entry beyond this point." He says.

Mark shoots him a glare and grabs his hand to shove it away. Mark stepa forward and the doctor steps in front of him.

"Move." He orders. But the doctor doesn't budge.

Restless, Mark grabs his shirt and tosses him to the side. Breathing heavily he steps through the door. Upon hearing the door open anyone in immediate view turns to look. Seeing it's not medical personnel a small nurse follows by his side.

"Excuse me sir but you're not allowed to be in here." She says.

Stern, his gaze doesn't falter from your room. There's doctor rushing in and out of that one room and he knows it has to be you.

"Leave or we'll use force." She warns.

Again he doesn't listen and presses forward. Soon enough two bulky guys step into his path, blocking him from moving forward. They rush forward reaching to grab him.

"Don't!" Mark calls out as he throws a blind punch. His wrist is grabbed and he pulls away. Their grasp in firm even as he struggles against them, kicking the person away as much as he's able.

"Let go!" He begs as he fights to break free of the guys grasp.

Another hand grasps his other arm and he's shoved to the ground. Grunting, he struggles against them only to fail. As he squirms underneath their hold a voice calls out.

"Don't let them leave!" A nurse shouts.

Looking up he's surprised to see you stumbling towards him. Seeing you sets his veins ablaze. Successfully he mule kicks the guard holding him down and slips free of their hold. Scrambling forwards rushes towards your stumbling form.

"Hey! Get back!" A guard yells from behind.

As Mark finally comes close enough you fall onto him, his hands grasping at your sides to keep you steady. Your breathing hard, little rasps escaping your lips with each breath.

"Mark?" You croak. Your voice is so broken and small compared to what it was supposed to sound like. At this point you don't even look like you any more.

"Are you hurt?" He asks as he pulls you closer to him. He can feel your hands grasping at his shirt, their hold loosening.

"No. Why are you here?" You rasp into his shoulder. He can feel his lungs begin to burn. He grasps at you tighter. "You could've go yourself killed coming out here like that."

You hum. "Answer my question."

Swallowing harshly, Mark pulls away from the hug and picks you up in his arms. The guards stop behind him, unable to do anything with you in his arms. The nurses and doctors all watch with fear of you life the longer you're away from the bed.

"let me get you back to your bed. You're sick." He's biting his lip as he looks down at your sunken face. The light in your eyes has faded and a murky film takes it's place.

"Mark, you're not answering my question." You urge him.

As he walks you back to the medical bed the nuses begin to move from his path, allowing him to make his way through. He's quiet, his eyes becoming glassy.

"Mark."

He stops beside the bed and looks down at you. "Yes?" There was no mistaking it, the sign at the foot of your bed.

"Why are you here?" You ask again.

Taking a deep breath he leans over to slip you back onto your bed. Grabbing the chair behind him, Mark pulls it close to the bed and sits down. "I want to take care of you is all." He admits as the tears begin to build in his eyes.

Frowning, you lift a hand to his face. "Mark I'm fine. There's no need to be upset."

Silence fills the room as he leans into your cold hand. Raising his hand he covers yours with it. There's a sad pitiful smile tugging at his lips as he begins to sob. It's quiet at first, the touch of his hand on your soft, but he quickly crumbles beneath your touch, his grasp grows tighter.

"I'm going to make sure you get better." He chokes out as he watches you frown. "Please. Smile. Smile for me." He begs.

Confused, you do it any way. A small smile forming on your features as you look up at him. "There's nothing to worry about Mark. Calm down."

The medical personnel look on with sadness in their eyes, some even turning away with tears in their eyes. They know it will be rough, for everyone, but for him....it would be bad.

The longer he holds your hand to his face the heavier your arm becomes, the smile on your face never fading as your movements come to a slow but approaching halt.

His bottom lip quivering Mark confesses. "I love you y/n. Both as a captain and a great friend. I wish I could have known you better." Closing his eyes he lowers his head, the sobs shaking his body. "I'm sorry." He mutters.

Name: Captain

Age:??

Birth: ??

Status: deceased

Time of death: 7:06 PM

#markiplier egos x reader #markiplier x reader #markiplier cinematic universe #ahwm x reader #iswm x reader #head engineer mark #head engineer mark x captain #head engineer mark x reader

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runebreakercosplay · 11 months

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⚠️ [LEVEL 3 SECURITY CLEARANCE REQUIRED FOR FULL ACCESS]

_______________________________________

Item #: SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️

Object Class: Euclid

Descrpiton: SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ is a creature of unknown origin taking the shape of a dog. It is capable of imitating other canid shapes. It was located in ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ where multiple people have been reported missing. Several witnesses have stated that they saw a dog near the forest and that the missing people approached it trying to help, thinking it was a runaway dog. Attempting to approach SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ caused it to retrieve further back into the forest. The victims followed it and were never seen again. It is unclear what happened as they were no traces or remains found.

Several field teams consisting of Class-D Personnel were sent to secure SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ but are currently MIA.

Mobile Taskforce ALPHA 9 is sent to investigate the events and secure SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️. _______________________________________

Addendum 1:

MTF Alpha 9 arrived at the scene ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ local time. The team consists of commanding officer ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ callsign Badger; senior field agent ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️, callsign Hiker; three D-class personnel and SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️, callsign Roach. The taskforce operates in pairs to investigate the area.

The following is an excerpt from Aplha 9's radio transmissions.

HIKER: We found some paw prints leading into the forest. Gonna follow them.

BADGER: Copy that. Do not approach if you see any dog like creatures.

ROACH: Guys we got movement. North-west of our position. Couldn't see what it was.

BADGER: Stay at your location, we'll come to you.

BADGER: Hiker, gather at Roachs location.

ROACH: Yes, sir.

HIKER: Got movement as well. Seems to be- wait where's-

HIKER: Badger, i lost D-9817. He was right beside me a few seconds ago. There's some-

BADGER: Hiker, status update.

BADGER: Hiker?!

BADGER: Shit! - Roach, staus?

ROACH: Still here, boss. All quiet, no more movement.

BADGER: Copy that. Move to Hikers last location,we'll meet up there. -be careful.

ROACH: Yes, sir.

_______________________________________

Addendum 2:

MTF Alpha-9 was able to secure SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️.

It is to be contained at Site ⬛️⬛️.

SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ is responsible for the disappearance of senior field agent ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️, six D-Class personnel and at least 12 civilians. It is currently unknown how or why SCP⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ causes the disappearance subjects. Experimantion will start immediately after the arrival of SCP ⬛️⬛️⬛️⬛️ at its containment unit.

#scp #scp cosplay #scp foundation #scp fandom #mtf alpha 9 #i am quite new to this fandom and don't know all the lore so i decided to make up my own lore #and i wanted to make up a lil scp story as a post description for insta and it kinda got out of hand lol #cw guns #it's just softair guns but ill put a warning anyway #please ignore the cable from the headset. it got loose while crawling through some bushes and no one noticed it :/#long post

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edgineering-writes · 9 months

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Blighted Inquisitor - an Against The Storm fanfic

I am Blessed by our Crimson Queen.

Directly touched by Her Hands.

Not like helped by my aunt, a Queen’s Hand, but literally. I begged Her to kill me, to end my suffering and free me from my service to Her as a gift for the Blighted things I have done.

She, in Her wisdom, refused my plea, and with words of Power on Her lips, She slipped a stone of sacred flame around my neck. This bound the blight that had seeped into my very bones, lessening my pain and granting me control over myself that I had not had since before… Well, before I was blighted.

I pen this account of myself that you might know me. What I have given, what I have taken, and what work I do in the shadows that our Queen may reign forever. I have been anointed as the Queen’s Inquisitor. I seek blight throughout the realm, for it is easy to find that which echoes with my own blighted being. My retinue of Firekeepers, Rune Blessed, Storm Walkers, and others are the purest of each clan. And I, the Blighted One, lead them.

It is irony written in fire when we must purge a blight. One and all we have relic fire throwers, the finest craftsmanship of the Brass Order using tooling from before the Blightstorm. My retinue has flames that range from natural orange and blue to blood red, and even the four of my most blessed throw flames of pure white. I? Regardless of how pure a source I use, even if I borrow another’s thrower, I throw sickly green flames that loose acrid clinging smoke. It takes little to see just how blighted my soul is, even dedicated to the Queen.

I was human before the blight twisted me. Like any good Viceroy in the field, I was muscled as a beaver, skilled at penmanship as a harpy, as competent a fire keeper as a lizard, but still human. My right hand is forever stricken and clutched as a claw, though I hold my tool still. This scorched length of wood, blackened and twisted, topped by rusted red iron was once a hatchet. If you see me lift it, run. It is now my badge of office, and my executioners tool. There is no edge to it, the metal will not keep one. But it is a channel, which will light ghastly green and any touch putrefies instantly.

If rumor reaches the Crimson City of a viceroy turning to corruption for profit, I go forth. Pray I do not find proof. To risk the Queen’s people is to damn yourself to my touch. If your blight has spread to your settlement, it will all burn. If not, then die knowing your settlement will be brought to prosperity by the best of us.

—---

For those of the Queen’s Hand: may my story be a lesson of the risk we take.

The BlightStorm was coming. The cycle was nearing an end. But we had a seal more than half completed. I did not want to abandon the work so close to finishing. Pavun Runebeak, the greatest of the Stormwalkers, brought the last settlers from the capital and warned me to break off the work. I had a choice to leave with him, take what settlers would go, and sacrifice the willing on the chance they could finish the seal.

It was the third day of drizzle, the 42nd year of the cycle. I asked my firekeepers their opinion, I walked among the wood cutters, I sat with the scribes, they all willed us to push on. We were so close. Pavun, Queen preserve me from having to look him in the eyes ever again, refused to leave when it became clear we all were going to push on.

Clearance was short that year. Too short. The guardian seal burst apart, still only partially formed. We had 12 hours warning. The Blightstorm was upon us, and there was little we could do but wait for the end. But these keepers looked at Pavun, then to the scribes. “We have half the Queen’s Rite, we could keep him safe.”

It took 6 hours to collect the resources we needed. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in the settlement pledged themselves to keeping the blight from the hearth and Pavun untouched. We did not care for our own safety, just his. We took the resources of the settlement, and moved them into a ring around the hearth. My four firekeepers, yes, my four blessed lizards that still will carry me half the time, took up a fire orb each and chanted in rounds. From the first darkening of the horizon until the Blightstorm faded. 13 days. Their rite did not break, their voice did not falter.

The woodsmen kept a flow of clean, pure wood, oil and coal moving. They, without words, drew a line and lots, those outside the line gathered from the wood, those between the lines sorted and cleaned, and those inside fed the piles for the keepers to burn. When the storm broke, those outside stood at the wood’s edge, bowed and walked off. I could not speak by then, but I doubt anything would have kept them in place. They gave it all for us, including to keep those remaining pure.

My scribes wrote, edited, fought, and perfected the Rite. To each moment, day, each epoch, every turn they noted down. The Queen’s Rite that holds the Blightstorm from the Crimson City was distilled down, to keep just this ring safe, just this hearth and these few people. They listened to the song of the wood, the crackle of the fire and the words of the keepers, and from that gleaned the sacred Rite.

I walked among them all, encouraged, cooked food, hauled water, anointed with oil, changed sheets, and kept the small things going. I want to say they did this for Pavun only. No, they did it for me. I still don’t really understand why. Except for the beavers who gave themselves unto the wood, I was the only one touched by the Blight. I was struck sick, weak, and wasted when the storm broke and a new cycle began.

My firekeepers bore me on the remains of the hearth. I begged them to leave me, to burn me in the last of the fire but they did not hear. I resigned myself to speak the account to the Queen’s Hands when we returned to the City. But it was not my aunt who met us at the gate. Or rather, not just one of the Queen’s Hands, but almost all. And at the front, Her glory brought tears to my eyes as the pain of looking at Her stole the words from my throat. My Queen waited. She who saves the clans waited. For me.

Pavun Runebeak spoke of my work, my dedication. He got it wrong. He said it was my work, my dedication. They did it, my retinue, not me. But She saw fit to keep me. She is my Queen, my salvation, beyond what She does for all, She saved me.

I was stupid, and nearly cost Her the great Stormwalker, and 43 souls of my settlement. You will find in my work I am more liengent on the beaver clan than others. We were 53 before the storm. 6 walked into the wood. I do not know what happened to the other 4. I likely never will.

When coaching new Viceroy, please, oh Hand, stress upon them to not risk the end of the cycle. It is better to be in the City a year early then see the Blightstorm from beyond the Queen’s reach.

#writing #Against the storm #fanfic

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omegaremix · 4 months

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Pandemic Blues (Spring).

When Dad passed away, I knew it was a new era. No more of his presence meant things would change on the inside and out, for better or worse. He almost had hit the U.S. average of male life expectancy by a pinch (78.54 years to his 78.19) so he’s had about his money’s worth. God couldn’t have cashed him out at a better time.

To start 2020, I took two weeks off from work for the first time in the six-plus years I’ve been with the company. I’ve met friends I haven’t seen in ages. I’ve abandoned non-successful projects in the name of self-care. I’ve re-wrote my diet for the better now that Dad wasn’t pumping me with free food ‘round the clock. I’ve also become the store champion in revenue for the year once again, and learned how not to get stress get the best of me. I had only one sunny day out of the twelve off in February which was extremely disappointing. As all you devils know, heading to New York City never leaves my mind. I promised myself that I’d make a visit to both Modern Pinball and Sunshine Laundromat, visits I’ve been waiting three years for. I came close. I did visit the city in early March for a check-up and visited Central Park as I called up my Godmother Laura to make Easter plans, leaving only after a half-an-hour when it started to get dark. By then I’d started to receive inklings of pending changes. The coronavirus was only in the back of my mind, and you normally don’t think of these things unless it pertains to you. I dialed up my aunt Theresa and she told me that the city schools and offices were contemplating closing down. I brushed it off like it was nothing, until…

It was a weekend at work like any other. A regular Sunday. Then it started. A customer asked me for nine mid-range laptops for himself and his co-workers to work from home. I sold them all to him. That’s a $3,100+ ticket. Another older man came in looking for five printers and ten monitors for his business. I could’ve hit the jackpot if only we had enough but we didn’t, but we piece-mealed whatever we could from other stores and that was another $1,500+. More customers and business owners came in to buy buy buy whatever they could to work at home with no limit and we now had a weekend clearance sale we never planned for. Every man and woman for themselves rushed in to save their jobs and tried grabbing whatever they can. When the weekend was over, they wiped us out of all our essential stock. Webcams, budget laptops, and monitors went clean off the shelves. We were fucking bewildered.

One outstanding memory I had of last year’s outbreak was seeing someone eye-ing over all-in-ones. After twenty minutes of no one asking him for assistance, I finally got him. He already had as much time under his belt deciding which way to go: Windows or Mac? He had lots of questions for me, and took me on a world tour of my own department to see which of three units he wanted to take home with him. Fine by me, because being in the presence of his brown-eyed peanut-butter haired daughter was all that mattered. Imagine Jessica Chastain in her late twenties and neck-length hair wearing a green St. Patrick’s Day shirt with a beige clover on it and blue jeans. Somewhat conservative and reserved but she was nice 100% all throughout. That’s more I could say than most people on the island or in my life I’ve met. An hour later, her dad finally decided on a high-end unit. “Wrap it up” he said. “Thank you for your time and purchase” I say, and it’d be the only time I would ever see her. Eventually, I noticed more customers coming in wearing masks. A different father-and-daughter pairing didn’t get it right wearing theirs under their chins, a half-assed way to at least fend themselves from the poison going on. Later on, two young female best-friends asked me for a Nintendo Switch. When they saw I had the Animal Crossing version, they suddenly asked for two more. Done. Knock yourselves out.

Within one week our store changed operations on a near-daily basis. We shortened our hours, then limited our total number of occupants to appointments only. By mid-week our store was closed to the public and it was all phone-orders and curbside pick-ups. Salespeople became impromptu warehouse and back-end runners. We couldn’t believe what we were experiencing. We were literally witnessing the slow gradual death of our traditional operating model. Corona- finally arrived and everyone was on edge not knowing what was coming next. Then we got the call from corporate: “all New York stores to be shut down indefinitely until further notice. Pack it up and go home. Expect a call from us in a few weeks”.

This was unreal! Our positions were in limbo. It felt like we were let go yet still employed otherwise. Meaning: furlough. We’d be fortunate enough to hold our titles and be kept on the payroll while we were mandated to stay home. Later as I learned, the ‘essentials’ as deemed, still had to work on through as a necessity to others; pegged to deal with the public who had no foresight as to how serious it would be. Before heading home indefinitely, I walked next door to the market. Never had I seen meat and paper shortages. Bare shelves of canned goods, frozen vegetables, pasta, and rice like the world was ending. There was no timetable for lockdown or how it’d last. I was now in competition with everyone else to stay alive. Count my high cards that an long-term food shortage was not the case.

27, 47, 81.

If only Dad would’ve lived long enough to see this unfold. He’d be forceful enough for me to stay home with him like some early exits from my location did. I can imagine that even if my bro- didn’t yell at him to stay home, Dad would say “hey, fuck you!” and drive out to see his friends. He literally fell of heart failure, and if that didn’t get him, would the -virus? Could he survive it with his expiring health and the spectre of death on impatient delay? Since Dad fed me almost daily, he’d feel very sad and broken if he couldn’t bring food home for me. He’s not here on this Earth anymore to do that, so it was time to change it up. The haunt of immuno-compromization had me thinking to cut the crap and go healthy.

245, 332, 417.

My ex- Yenny, the most cautious person in the world, sent me directions on how to make my own mask which I did out of old worn-out tees. Welcome to the new real dystopia. The first aesthetic of the pandemic was in the form of this makeshift cloth mask dampened with my own carbon-monoxide emanating the smell of damp stale cotton. Back to the neighborhood Chop N’ Drop I go. I stockpiled on fruits, vegetables, broth, anti-oxidants, juices, dark chocolates, nuts, and seltzer water. The moment of spending money on real food was the moment I started making real meals; the mixture of Idaho and sweet potatoes, celery, carrots, and vegetable broth aerated a distinct spring of fumes forever tied to these months in isolation. A daily carousel of apricots, oranges, cauliflower, tomatoes, and green peppers were a wonderful much-needed addition I had to have from now on. Visits to Bullseye had plenty of food, albeit the shelves were disorganized and the essential workers were overwhelmed. Idolatry was only steps away and to stock up on whatever non-perishables I could find, then threw them on the belt where the young silent Spanish girl who didn’t feel like being there was waiting for me at the register.

I noticed all around me that things were a little…different. Most of us were given things we never imagined. You’d never think of being home for months to have the opportunity to catch up on a life they once had no time for. People finally caught up on cleaning, pursing through personal belongings, old photos and memorabilia, reading lists and vinyl records that piled up. Imagine all the things said about not having to travel to work, or staying home to work, or not working at all. They were right. No such thing as stress. No managers shoving daily quotas or finding faults down your throat. No awkward moments, lack of courtesy, rudeness, or interruptions. No immature adults turning into bus-ride children competing for your attention or older women stamping their feet when being reminded of how out of line they were. It was total bliss.

486, 548, 753, 819.

Most of us had all the time in the world to shit ourselves in our front-row seats for what we were seeing. It’s all happening next door in New York City, fatally crowned the epicenter of the worst pandemic of our lifetimes. We were The Death Nation. The deaths came at such an expedient rate that literal dead bodies were lined up outside the city’s funeral parlors. By then, restaurants closed. Businesses closed. Stadiums, theaters, arcades, bars closed. Schools and universities were canceled. Even Easter, the next social holiday in line…closed. The nation’s unemployment rate spiked high as 15% as people pounded on the doors on a broken system to have their unemployment benefits or loans in hand as soon as possible. No meta-game suffered distinctly than the music and venue industry. Artists, operators, and promoters had their livelihoods taken away from them in an instant; forced to make a living improvising on live-streaming. They just lost their selves overnight. Now, they held on tight for their own stability and sanity; hoping to reach for that brass ring while riding on a lagging carousel engulfed in flames.

Over at WUSB, the show still had to go on. Our general manager disallowed any further staff to enter the studios. As most planned to live-stream from their homes, I opted to send my shows in. For the entirety of spring (and summer) I’d hand my shows in our engineer’s at-home automation for broadcast. Saturday 10:00PM Eastern Standard Time on the dot, no error. I had all the time in the world to post on Ω+, my portfolio VMFX, and get Our Lady Omega finally up to speed without worry of deadlines, distraction, or needless interruption. It was when I rifled through many auditions burning on the hard drive. Cleaners From Venus’ “The Jangling Man” couldn’t have come at a better time, signifying a cancelled Easter intended to be spent with my Godmother now at home. I never heard it ever but it yet it sounded familiar before. The cassette fidelities and a certain ‘89-’90 recorded feeling that took me back to my Nintendo youth becomes a new forever memory. Shoegaze and post-punk cuts such as Ing’s “Closet”, Milly’s “Talking Secret”, Es’ “Hidden Track”, and Miserable’s “Loverboy”, to name a few, have indisputably defined the pandemic era’s soul.

But enough of that for today. Down comes Mario, my five year-old nephew who’s yearning to play. Dad / Pop is no longer here, so it’s me he’s looking forward to seeing every day to try and win me on Uno or Candy Land while ginger-superior Madelaine Petsch / Cherry Blossom or Hayley Orrantia were on the flat-screen. We had nights where he’d chose a deck from my collection and we’d make separate piles out of suits. He’d play some good ones, too: the “Junior” of Hearts, the “Mom” of Diamonds, and the “Dad” of Spades he calls them. Aces were “sooper!” and the jokers had their own narrative: a clown on the unicycle was riding to 7-11 to get some Slurpees for us. (Once in a while, a horse-head or the word “MAVERICK” in cowboy caps- for those wild ones.) What kind of an imagination is this? And he loved Monopoly, too. We played so much that it inspired another aesthetic forever tied to the pandemic. Solid oranges and sky blues against the CRT’s, and Monopoly symbols of trains and utilities helped create sets of icons for a series of graphics templates I’ve made.

800, 814, 1036.

Red bottles with blue and red labels of now-discontinued blue liquid soap. Blocks of green and white cleanser cubes cased in plastic. Bulbs of blue and purple diffusing liquid. Cucumber sanitizer. They’re all symbols of cleanliness. All the time in the world posting, sound-editing, and layouts prove exhaustive at times. It’s 1AM Eastern Standard Time in New York City / Long Island and an open window allows the smoky cold chill of a 50°April breeze to vacate downstairs. It’s an invitation to step outside and admire the clear moonless skies. No clouds, only the stars above. I sit in my backyard to hear near-total silence emanating from the expressway. The asphalt rushes were a bare minimum because no one had a reason to travel. The utmost quiet was enough for the nostalgia to vacate right in. The cold, clear, quiet spring Saturday and Sunday nights spent with my Plainview circle of friends. We’d talk shit about everyone we knew, what our favorite Green Day, The Offspring, Collective Soul, or Nine Inch Nails songs were, and matching up with the alternative girls I never met before. The post-dinner April starlights spent shivering with Cath- off the busy Sunrise Highway admitting how much I missed her and how it felt when she succumbed to the heroin demon, the drives down random gas stations to save her ass, or the rare night rides from campus to take her home after my Wednesday radio stint. The temperatures also matched the experience of visiting Central Park for the very first time while an essential contact was in the back of my mind, her text asking how my day in New York City waited for me when I arrived home. It kills me that these are rare moments I’ll never have back. To this day that I’m still paying emotional interest on them.

142, 103, 101.

Rinse, repeat. For two months there was no place to go. No work shifts, classes, ballgames, weekend traffic, or Sunday dinners demarcating the days of the week. Saturdays were Tuesdays. Sundays were Mondays. No one ever humanly experienced a blur of time where every day was literally the same. Then a phone call. “Operations are re-opening. Be here Sunday and ready to start packing.” What my manager should’ve said to me: “be ready to be crucified”. I told myself it’s the last week of May. Three days to get back into it. The spoils of staying home from work once again with financial security and benefits intact will end. Slowly but surely things will pick up again. The floodgates will soon open and here come the entitled Karens, ugly kniving fishwives, dumbshit Tony’s From Brooklyn, and whatever unkempt messes who somehow still manage to breathe will tug my shirt for attention or see me as a whipping boy for their insignificant grievances I never asked for.

If the quarantine made many lives a nerve-wracking unbearable hell for some people, then what happened next would be the breaking point: footage posted of Minneapolis police murdering George Floyd sent people into the streets in an outrage, and rightfully so. Short-Term Memory America didn’t learn and repeated their mistakes once again. No surprise there. The unnecessary needless precursory murders of Breonna Taylor and Armaud Arbury led up to the state’s latest nationwide collapse of unrest.

It took the latest event of racism and murder for everyone to finally come outside since the start of the pandemic and show what they were hiding for the longest time. Frustrated adult-male mouth-breathers acting out like total jerkoffs throwing their childish ignorance and building blocks in more reasonable mature people’s faces, and unattractive vanilla pig females turned into cartoon versions of themselves as they yapped multitudes of n-bombs and were damn proud of it. Cutting noses and spiting their own faces; doing whatever it takes at all costs to preserve their personal right and false constructs in treating people-of-color like garbage. Bulletin-board bruisers and ultimate keyboard warriors finally brought it out for all of the world to see. Others, however, had enough of their friends, family, co-workers, and fellow human beings being shot, beaten, or killed based on the color of their skin. They came to protest, picket, fight in the streets, and set it all in flames because enough was enough…enough of a corrupt racist celebrity president who’s done absolutely nothing except write off white supremacists and dismissed the coronavirus as a hoax. It all came down to this after living in an irrational anything-goes backwards presidency, all because the Fascist-in-chief cared for no one but himself, his family, and those who pledged their allegiance to him.

If the last four years provided us some out-of-this-world ridiculousness, what else would’ve been possible? We’ve experienced a hell like no other. We genuinely lived in fear that we could reach the point of no return. No one had any idea what was in store for us or how bad it could’ve been; during an election year, nonetheless.

Where I’m heading is another story. I drive home down Rt. 25 and there are clusters picketing on the side of the road. One supporting Black Lives Matter, one for Tr*mp 2020. Summer’s on her way and the new heat was here; the allegory of pent-up frustration and emotion which everyone was feeling exacerbated by the pandemic. The possibilities were spring-loaded in the back of my mind and made me on edge, not knowing what could happen.

All I, and us, could think about was when this would all end, and when we could go back to life as we knew it. We were holding out on all hope that something had to give. When will we be open for business again? When would be all go back to what it used to be, or what would ‘the new normal’ be? Will we change course and advert a national crisis, or will be dig ourselves a totalitarian grave so deep we won’t crawl out of? Will we have reason, rationality, science, humanity, and common sense back again, or will we have hatred, nastiness, cruelty, and contempt kept in place for tradition’s sake and have it rammed down our throats until we die sick of it?

It was the three most surreal months of my life. True uncharted territory; no map, no compass. And Spring wasn’t even over. Not just yet. As everything was unfolding and unraveling, something else was headed my way. A season that was anything but normal was going to end on an even more bizarre and curious note. Not in the form of more shutdowns, sickness, emptiness, or despair; but of someone who reached out to me.

(To be continued.)

Cleaners From Venus “The Jangling Man”

Damp “Death, Sex & Arby’s”

Ing “Dust”

Crumb “Ghostride”

Future Islands “Day Glow Fire”

Lisel “Digital Light Field”

Milly “Talking Secret”

Stardeath & White Dwarfs “What Keeps You At Night”

Miserable “Loverboy”

Districts “Cheap Regrets”

Snarls “Walk In The Woods”

Es “Hidden Track”

Strobobean “Keep It Together”

Katie Tempest “People’s Faces”

Penelope Isles “Round”

Shopping “All Or Nothing”

#omega #music #mixtapes #playlists #personal #Long Island #racism #Cleaners From Venus #Ing #Crumb #Future Islands #Milly #Miserable #Kris Esfandiari #Districts #Es #Strobobean #Kate Tempest #Shopping

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mandomover · 2 years

Text

The Rookie

Part Ten - The Helicopter

Peña is in the helicopter as he tries to stop Gacha from above.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of smoking, gunfire, Angsty feelings

Words: 2000ish

Next ¦ Masterlist

Javi

I'm on the south west side of the mansion in the helicopter, hovering, but unable to do much else right now. The rich canopy too dense and tall to get clearance and blocking alot of what we can see on the peripherals of the action, only the mansion itself and a thirty foot ring clear of it, visible clearly.

Besides the pilot, there's me and another officer manning the heli's gun. We're doing surveillance and awaiting orders but it's a difficult situation to be in when you can see everything at once and nothing at all at the same time.

We're just watching in silence, watching the detail spread out below and move forward, the rhythmic thwap of the propellers barely masking the sounds of gunshots from below. It looks good, they're moving forward but it's anybody's game to play for right now.

I've worked with plenty of Colonel's in my time who aren't afraid to hide behind their rank in a safe space barking orders but not Carrillo. I can just about see him from where I'm sitting now, never one to shy away from the violence and the job front and center. I see Rookie next to him, keen to please and prove herself in any given situation no matter the risks, a gut instinct she'll do what it takes to cement her place on the team. I couldn't not see her. She pulls me in like a magnet. I know it's dangerous to let myself be pulled in by her but there's something about her. I can't put my finger on it, even though I'm fucking trying.

While she's probably in the most vulnerable position on the front line, she's probably in the safest position too near Carrillo and Trujillo, one of the search bloc officers who I actually trust implicitly. They're few and far between down here when trust and honor are bought and sold like chickens at a market. Even though I'm not surprised, I'm impressed she's thrown herself in the deep end. Always does. Always will.

She looks focused. I can see from here her brows are pulled tight, determined and the want to do her best and please others emanating from her like a bright light.

Don't think about her right now. Don't think about her at all. Don't. Think. About. Her. Don't-

BOOM.

My face falls as I throw myself as far against the edge I can go, and concentrate on what I can see below, grasping hold of the handles to steady myself.

A fucking crater has appeared where I was just looking; trees and sand and- jesus- bodies, scattered about.

I can't see Rookie or Carrillo.

My whole body is tense and tight, my knuckles white as the grip the handles, cutting off the blood supply to my fingers I'm gripping that tightly.

I gulp, and gulp again, vomit threatening to rise in my chest, as I desperately search for Rookie and Carrillo, despite knowing I should be looking for Gacha.

Focus.

I can taste blood in my mouth, a dirty coppery taste where I've bitten the inside of my cheek to stop me shouting out, shouting down for Rookie and Carrillo, to someone fucking move and find them.

Focus on Gacha.

I lift my eyes up, checking the perimeters again. No signs of anything outside the ring of trees.

I count to three, breathing deep, slow breaths before I look back down at the hole in the sand.

Two people are moving, one on the ground and one standing. I can tell one is Carrillo. Even clearly injured he's holding his head high and back straight. He's helped the other person up to their feet and I can see now that it's Rookie. She's on her feet so she must be OK. Thank god. She's up.

So refocus on Gacha.

But there's a niggle in my brain, just because she's on her feet doesn't mean she's OK. She's the same as me, a fucking carbon copy of me ten years ago. She'll be up and acting like she's OK even if she's not. It's what I do. She has the determination and grit to do anything that girl puts her mind to. And while I admire that, it scares me too. She reminds me of me so much, I'm drawn to her, but while she'll walk the same lines I walked and get herself the places she wants to go, she'll probably make the same damn mistakes I did too. And I can't watch her break under the pressure she'll put on herself when she does. She deserves more than that. Deserves more than me to help her find her way in this rat race. Deserves the world. She's unsteady on her feet. Holding out for Carrillo. Get her the fuck out of there now. She's done, she needs to see a medic. She's taken out enough of Gacha's henchmen. No one would think any less of her for backing out now. No one except herself. I know she'll soldier on.

I can't smoke up here so I have nothing for my hands to do to distract myself. I end up biting my thumbnail, ripping away at the skin surrounding it, the sharp pain allowing me to focus on it instead of the fallout from whatever caused that hole and who it hit. I know the drill. Focus on the task at hand.

Everything else can wait. Everyone else can wait.

But I need to know if she's OK. Really OK. I know I had strict instructions to allow them to approach silently, but surely now there's a fucking hole on the ground they know they're being surrounded. I could radio in, and just check if everyone is OK.

Focus.

My earpiece crackles into life and I hear Carrillo's voice shouting in my ear.

"Peña, Gacho and his son are in a red chevy pick-up!"

"Copy."

I bark at the pilot, and we swing round and away from the trees and house, searching for the road out.

I've seen her. She's fine.

I take a deep breath.

Focus.

We find, and follow the road twisting in amongst corn fields, stalks as high as the truck itself, the red chevy chewing dust and spitting it out in its wake. The heli slowly gains on the truck but the truck is hammering hard down the road.

The heli drops slightly, swinging round so the open face is adjacent to the truck, giving me and the gunman a perfect vantage over the road.

"Red chevy in sight," I tell Carrillo.

"Don't let him get away, disable the vehicle!"

I nod, despite Carrillo not being able to see me and tell the gunman, "disable it, now!"

The officer takes aim with the machine gun behind the truck so he can line up his shot, bullets raining down. He pulls slightly on the handle of the gun and it lifts the nozzle, pulling the spray of bullets up and further down the road, chasing the chevy. Dust and gravel billow up like smoke, swallowing the truck whole.

My heart is in my throat as I scan the scene, finger poised on the radio to let Carrillo know what's happening.

Fuck.

The truck races through the dusty cloud, jerking and bumping along, barely staying between the cornfield lined track, but it's still moving.

"No use, we've gotta go in again," I grimace.

"Just stop him, do whatever it takes!" Carrillo's voice has an edge of panic and I try to not let it infiltrate through to me. I need to stay calm and focus on this mission. Just as I sign off, I hear a metallic ting as a bullet hits the roof of the chopper, perilously close to my helmet.

"Fuck, we're taking fire!" I shout, to both the pilot and Carrillo. The pilot lifts the helicopter up, rising quickly and away from the road, the chevy getting smaller but still in view, sticking out like a sore thumb against the green canvas of the landscape. I lean one arm against the lip of the open frame, and when the gunman visibly relaxes, pulling away from the scope, I clap him on his shoulder leaving my sweating palm there. If I were to lift it, I'd try to rip the gun from his hands and shoot down myself. I try to follow his actions and relax my shoulders but they're raised and anxious.

"Circle round and come at him from a different direction, we can't afford to loose him," Carrillo says, obviously able to see the helicopter from his vantage point.

"Yessir."

I relay this information to the pilot, who sweeps off into a figure of eight, bringing us wide around the truck so we're now facing it, flying towards the barrelling chevy.

"Peña?"

I ignore Carrillo, waiting for the right moment to instruct the shooter, who is watching me, green eyes fixed on mine, wide and hesitant but determination clear to see. I inhale deeply and when I know that it's time, I squeeze his shoulder and jerk my head, his own head snapping back to the scope on the barrel. He pulls the trigger, and a spray of bullets rains down again, this time lowering the gun which drops the bullets along the road the opposite direction. Unmistakable pings. The car carries on, my shoulders more tense than before as I wait for a sign, for anything.

"Peña?!"

The car spins about, slamming to a halt on the gravel, tires screeching and burning, a delayed reaction to the bullets it took seconds before. I let out a breath I didn't even realize I was holding as it comes to a halt and I signal to the pilot to circle lower.

He complies and as we circle round, I can see Gacha squeeze himself out of the driver's seat of the chevy. His face is pained and I can tell he's scared. I have seen it plenty of times on the faces of men just before they lose their final battle but it still shocks me to see the vulnerability in a man like him. He's holding a silver pistol, reflecting the glint of the sun as he waves it manically about, gesturing at the chopper and the truck. He's screaming at the chopper now, face puce, but words lost under the beating of the wings.

His face contorts suddenly, as if just realizing he has an audience and let's go of that vulnerability, snarling up at the chopper. He aims and shoots, bullets flying towards us but none hitting their mark. His arm recoils slightly each shot he takes and it's precious seconds before I realize he's still shooting but there's no bullets anymore. I'm watching Gacha, desperation evident as he flings the pistol itself at the chopper, and I'm incredulous as I tell Carrillo, "he's out of ammo, we can take this son of a bitch alive."

There's a pregnant pause on the radio as I wait for Carrillo's response to come in.

"It's your call," he says stoically.

I open my mouth to tell the pilot to land the helicopter, but then I can see Carrillo's fucking face in my mind from the conference room, telling me just to bring him in cold. Then the faces of Carrillo's police officers swim through my vision; murdered for doing their job, mutilated for daring to do a job they believe in, bodies missing coz they didn't stoop to Escobar's level. I know what needs to happen. I know I need to just shoot this motherfucker down.

This is the thing about war. It's pretty simple. Ugly, but simple. There's two sides. And they're clear. It's everything before war and after war that blurs the lines. But right now, I know what I need to do, whose side I'm on.

But just because I know what side I'm on, doesn't mean I'm happy with the solution.

My inner demons fight with themselves over the right answer but I stand firm as my mind shakes down my heart and I hear myself, as if I'm having an out of body experience. I don't like it. I sound stiff. Icy. Unforgiving.

"Darle plomo."

@iamskyereads @wildemaven @ellenmunn @tantamount-treason @axshadows @rav3n-pascal22 @stevie75 @movievillainess721 @lulzbrokenbyfantasy

#javi peña #javier pena x reader #javier x reader #javier peña #javi pena #javier pena x you #javier pena fic #javier pena #javi p #pedro pascal fanfiction #the rookie #narcos fanfiction #narcos fanfic #narcos

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ppenguinpperson · 6 months

Text

The Admission of RT002-465

Zh. I. Alferov National Institute of Anomalous Research LOG: XXXXXX Written by Dr. Gabriela Kozlova (EN. XXXXX) 23. 08. 2009 Authorized by Dr. Gabriela Kozlova (EN XXXXXX) 23. 08. 2009 Regarding Anastasia Komarova (Lacking ID)

BASIC INFORMATION Subject is 13 years old (F). It came to the facility on 21. 08. 2009. We have not been able to reach the subject’s legal guardians. It is presumed they are avoiding contact with us/law enforcement. Subject voluntarily gives information on itself, but it is not clear whether it’s telling the truth. The information it’s given us, and information that has been brought to our attention by observing it, goes as follows:

First name: Anastasia Last name: Komarova Mother: Anna Komarova Father: Anatoliy Komar Date of birth: 01. 09. 1995 Place of birth: XXXXX, XXXXXX Address: XXXXXXXX, XXX, XXXXX/XX Disabilities, allergies: — Appearance: 158 cm, 62 kg – Eyes are blue. Skin is white. Hair is long and ginger. At the time of capture, the subject was wearing a school uniform (white shirt, black skirt, black shoes) with its hair in 2 braids. No scars, no piercings, no birthmarks. Subject’s appearance holds no abnormality. Extra information:

It is presumed the subject is mentally unstable. It cries at random times with no fixed schedule. It yells at staff if displeased. It refuses to eat the food and wear the clothes we provide it with. It only calms if it deems it has been treated fairly.

It is presumed the subject’s homelife was unhealthy. See above. The subject claims both legal guardians were aware of its anomalous nature and chose not to report it.

The subject’s mutation has regenerative qualities (read for more information).

The subject’s capture is unusual. I wish to document it for future reference. All parties were interviewed separately, but recounted the events in a near identical manner. The event prescribed here took place 21. 08. 2009, ~10:15-11:00. The security guards (EN XXXXXX, EN XXXXXX), posted at the entrance of block A. claim the subject approached them ~10:15 AM. They claim it requested to be let inside the institute, and declared itself a mutant. Neither of the guards have the ability to detect anomalies, and due to the subject’s human appearance, neither believed it was telling the truth. Both claim it grew distressed upon being repeatedly denied access. XXXXXX claims he panicked when it approached him. He then raised his gun at the subject (Note: At the time, he was not aware he was in contact with an anomaly), in what he claims to be self defense. XXXXXX claims he had no intention of shooting the anomaly. From my office in block A, I heard 2 gunshots ~10:20. Dr. XXXXXX (EN XXXXXX) and Dr. XXXXXXX (EN XXXXXX) can confirm. XXXXXX shot the subject in the chest, in its left lung. He claims he missed the second shot (This is true: a bullet was found in the grass where the incident took place). He shot it with the Glock 22, which has bullets 10 mm diameter. Both guards claim nothing happened between ~10:20 and ~10:30 while they were alone with the subject. After ~10 minutes of the subject being injured, XXXXXX called for help. Dr. XXXXX, Dr. XXXXXX, and I rushed it to the 2A operating room. (Note: This is NOT something we should practice in the future. I agree the situation was difficult , but we CANNOT afford to operate on people when we don’t have clearance to, especially CHILDREN. Had the subject turned out to be a human, it would not only have died, but we would have been liable. Do NOT do this again.) The subject should have been in critical condition, but it was only moderate. The subject managed to speak short coherent sentences (It repeatedly said “Help me” and “Don’t shoot me”). The subject was exhibiting abnormal behavior during preparation (ex: not bleeding as much as expected, not coughing up blood, not passing out from blood loss). It turned unconscious when Dr. XXXXXX administered anesthesia. We successfully managed to reach the bullet located in the left lung, only to find an anomaly. The lung tissue had already begun to grow over it and fixed the bullet in place. The bullet was successfully removed with minimal damage done to the subject’s lung. Halfway during the operation,~10:40, the subject woke up. It should have been unconscious for another few hours. No more anesthesia was administered so as to not risk its health. Subject was restrained for the rest of the operation. The operation ended ~10:50 when the subject was deemed stable. Subject later confirms the events prior to administration of anesthesia. It only claims it was not ‘distressed’, as the guards and I claim, and instead says it was perfectly calm. It is presumed it is lying about this to appear more mature.

REQUESTS Written Dr. Gabriela Kozlova (E.N. XXXXX) 23. 08. 2009 Authorized by Dr. XXXX XXXXXXXX (E.N. XXXXXX) 25. 08. 2009 Regarding Anastasia Komarova (Lacking ID)

Request to give the subject proper ID. Request it to be categorized as Regenerative Type. Request for the third digit of the ID to be 2. Request for the last three digits of the ID to be standard (Ex: RT002-XYZ – I do not know how many Regenerative Types we’ve had.) Request for minimized contact with other subjects. Request to be primary handler of the subject. Request to get different clothing for the subject.

REASONS: Reason for Type: Subject is breathing well despite being shot in the lung. Dr. XXXXX and Dr. XXXXXX can confirm the visuals of tissue growing over its wound. Subject agrees that this Typing would be accurate. If my request for Typing is denied, I request more tests to confirm my theory. Reason for Class: Subject has not yet shown traits that would deem it deserving of 01 treatment. Subject has not yet shown violent tendencies and claims its Anomalous nature holds no dangerous properties, which I am inclined to believe. Undeserving of 04 treatment. Subject is very eager to help and has repeatedly stated, I quote, “I love you”. Classing it as 03 could discourage it from cooperation. It is deserving of 02 classing. Request for Other:

Primary Handler: Multiple times, it has expressed gratitude to me for ‘saving it’, and has requested me multiple times for unimportant reasons, such as ‘feeling lonely’. In any other case, I would request to be as little involved with the subject as possible, but because this one has spent its life disguised as a human I suspect it’s important for it to build an attachment to the institute. I will keep the relationship strictly professional. I will not pursue this request if it is denied.

Clothes: Subject refuses to wear what has been picked out for it. It claims that ‘(it) didn’t come here to be treated like a little kid’. It will be easier giving it the clothing that it wants. This would provide comfort and build trust.

RESPONSE: Written by Dr. XXXX XXXXXXXX (EN XXXXXX) 25. 08. 2009 Authorized by Dr. XXXX XXXXXXXX (EN XXXXXX) 25. 08. 2009

ID: APPROVED (Subject will receive ID) Type: DISAPPROVED (It is too early for Typing) – APPROVED request for more tests (On the requirement that there are results) Class: APPROVED (On the requirement subject will be demoted to 03 if it shows signs of aggression, or to 04 if it shows signs of desire to leave) Other:

Primary Handler: TBD (02 Class subjects do not usually get PHs. I was planning to let group AA get control of it, but it’s true it’d be useful to create an attachment early on. Many factors to consider here.)

Clothing: APPROVED (Don’t push it, it’s not getting new clothes. There’s a bunch of old clothes that should be the subject’s size in block C. Give it those.)

CONCLUSION: Written by Dr. XXXXX XXXXXX (EN XXXXXX) 02. 09. 2009 Authorized by Dr. Gabriela Kozlova (EN XXXXXX) 02. 09. 2009 Regarding RT002-465 (Anastasia Komarova)

ID: RT002-456 Primary Handler: Dr. Gabriela Kozlova (EN XXXXXX) and team AA Extra Information: RT will have no contact with other subjects for a minimum of a month. This includes giving it its own room for the time being. RT’s legal guardians have agreed to pay child support until the subject turns 18 years old. RT will receive a psych. evaluation. RT’s antics will not be tolerated. RT will receive checkups by its PH twice a week for the next month. The PH will then monitor it as he/she sees fit. RT’s mutation is still a mystery. Take care to keep it alive during experiments.

#probs not gonna post this on ao3 #<- UM that was a lie. posting it there #nastyart #gabriela kozlova #fanfic #kinda ..

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