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mrsalwayswrite · 2 months ago

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Snow & Fire (Buck Cleven x reader)

Summary: What began as admiring the first snowfall turns into something much more as Buck joins her outside, threatening to melt the surrounding snow with the growing heat between them.

a/n: reader is female and from Georgia, USA. those are the only defining factors.

This was inspired by the prompt 'snowfall' for @creators-club 24 Days of Christmas Writing Challenge.

Warnings: none really, couple swear words and mild spicy

Words: 2500

Even through the despair and suffering, through the biting cold and the empty stomach, she was helpless but to stare in wonder.

While everyone else hid away inside the mediocre warmth provided by their bunkhouse inside Stalag Luft III, she sat on the step outside. It was dangerous and foolish. It was asking for trouble. Nazi soldiers patrolled the compound, guns and dogs by their side, itching for a fight to break up the monotony of the days. The temperature dropped as winter descended and with the Red Cross packages delayed in getting to the prisoners of war, or confiscated by the Germans, winter clothing was lacking amongst the prisoners. All excellent reasons for her to remain in the bunkhouse with the airmen. Safety. Warmth. Survival.

Yet she stayed on that step, staring up at the gloomy, gray sky, the sun hidden by thick clouds, unable to drag herself away.

The snowfall was beautiful.

Little, delicate snowflakes drifted down to the ground like glistening sugar or feathers from angel's wings. So slowly they fell, as if gravity held no meaning. A graceful dance to the hard, cold ground.

What surprised her the most was how silent it was. An almost sacred hush hung over the compound as the snow fell, as if this was a holy occurrence. Perhaps it was in a way. For as time passed, those delicate snowflakes, easily melted if caught on a finger or tongue, gathered on the ground and buildings. What used to be a compacted, dirt ground transformed into a gleaming field of white. The dull buildings glistened with the coating of snow on them, giving them a cheer never meant for them. Even the trees surrounding the compound, sentries guarding the otherside of the fence, appeared less menacing. Those that lost their leaves within the past months now appeared less like skeletons standing watch over those who dared to oppose the Third Reich. The evergreens seemed to embrace the snow, just missing the candles and bobbles to create a holiday cheer. Something certainly lacking in the Stalag Luft.

Unaware of the eyes watching her, she held her hand out, marveling as the snowflakes fell on her skin. The pinprick of iciness was no longer noticeable with how cold her hands were.

“What're you doing out here?”

That smooth, gravelly voice was easily recognizable, particularly from those in the 101st Bomb Group. Tipping her head to the side, she could see the man standing in the doorway. “Afternoon, Major.”

Buck Cleven hesitated for a moment before stepping outside and closed the door behind him. To her surprise, he sat down on the step next to her, their thighs almost touching due to the short width of their perch. His sharp gaze scanned the area around them, eyes lingering on the security tower with its Nazi occupants as he adjusted his signature blue scarf around his neck.

“It's not safe for you to be out here alone.”

“Yeah…I know.” She could feel his gaze, feel the unasked question. Needing to occupy her hands suddenly, she tugged her coat closer around her body. The coat was about two sizes too big for her, meant for a man and not a female navigator. She was lucky to have it.

She was even more lucky to have miraculously earned the friendship of Buck Cleven. When others argued and fought that a female navigator was an abomination, he stood resolutely by her side. That simple act was enough for many of the airmen at Thorpe Abbotts to eat their words. They may have grumbled amongst one another but as time passed and she showed her exceptional capabilities as a navigator, those remarks lessened. Another element that cemented their friendship was their sobriety amd thus their shared trials of corralling their other friends after a night of drinking.

Never would she breathe a word of the crush she had developed as time passed. It was almost impossible not to fall for him, with his dashing good looks, charming and kind personality and his aura that seemed to draw people in. She was helpless against it, yet that truth never dared touch her lips.

“I've never seen snow before.” She murmured, breaking the silence.

“Really?” He asked in response to her quiet admission.

She hummed, sticking her tongue out to catch a snowflake on it.

“How have you never seen snow?”

“I grew up in Georgia on the coast. I've lived through hurricanes and blisterin’ summer heat…” she shrugged, “but it's never snowed.”

“Huh. I guess I didn't think about that.”

“Well, not all of us can grow up with snow capped mountains in our backyard.” She teased.

He huffed a laugh and knocked his shoulder into hers.

“It's beautiful though. Like… I don't know…. Reminds me of that powdered sugar my Ma’d use to make frostin’ for Christmas cookies.”

He hummed in agreement. “I can see that…guess I never thought of it that way. It's always just been snow to me, even as a kid. Always cold and wet.”

“That's a shame. I'd have loved to build a snowman as a kid.”

“I did once…behind a bar.” He hesitantly said, as if dragging the words from the depths of his memories, his blue eyes clouded with the dark memory. “My father lost his bet. He came out mad…and drunk. He kicked it over and said I was too old to make childish things like that.”

“I'm sorry. That's…” Words failed her, unable to decide on a word strong enough to show how terrible his experience sounded. Her heart broke for a young Gale, his innocent joy destroyed by the anger of a parent. Silently, she reached over and squeezed his hand, hoping he understood what her voice failed to convey.

“Christ, your hand is freezing.” He quietly scolded. Immediately, he folded his hand over hers and reached for the other one in her lap. With both of her hands clasped between his larger hands, he tried to rub heat back into them. “You'll likely lose fingers if we don't warm you up.”

“Sorry.”

“You need to take care of yourself. We'll see about finding some gloves for you. I will ask around.”

“That's not–you don't need to do that.”

“We can't have you losing your fingers. I heard they are vital for our navigators.”

She snickered. “Yes, sir.”

A small, intimate smile blossomed on his face as he brought her hands to his mouth and began to blow warm air on them.

As his breath touched her skin, sparks zipped up her arms to her heart, making it flutter and dance like a startled bird caught in a cage. A near silent gasp slipped from her lips at the sensation. She stared wide-eyed at him, spellbound by the man next to her. Even if she had any inkling of pulling away, she would have been unable to with the sheer intensity of his blue eyes, pinning her in place even more than his hands around hers.

It was overwhelming and thrilling.

What possessed her next, she would never know. Perhaps the cold had addled her brain or it was his intense gaze, making her feel like they were the only two people in the world, that made her lose her inhibitions. Perhaps it was the sparks dancing along her nerves endings, making her want to draw closer, to give into the sensation completely. For she allowed her finger to reach out and gingerly trace his bottom lip.

She remembered how some of the women back at Thorpe Abbotts would gossip and guess about what kissing Major Buck Cleven would be like, since he was quite chaste with his attention even though he was single. He was friendly enough with the women but never sought certain…affections, like others did.

Although now, she could rationally say that even slightly chapped, his bottom lip was still pillowy soft and probably would be spectacular to kiss. Even the new scars on his cheeks only enhanced his features, appearing like lines on a runway, directing towards his plush lips that were begging to be worshipped.

He stilled at her movement, neither pulling away or drawing closer. Yet with that single action, the air surrounding them shifted, like a heavy fog curled around them. His eyes…their intensity doubled. His gaze transformed to heavy-lidded and piercing in the blink of an eye.

Feeling emboldened, her thumb slowly traced his upper lip. His eyelids fluttered shut as her thumb moved to trace the seam of his lips. She could feel his shaky exhale, feel the faint tremble in his hands under her touch.

Thinking she had taken it too far, she gently started to tug her hands back but his grip only tightened, refusing her escape. Instead, his eyes snapped open, a heated gleam in his gaze, a naked want unmasked as he stared unabashed at her.

Eyes pinning her in place, he kissed the finger still in place to caress his lips, then slid down her knuckles. Somehow the simple action, those gentle kisses held an edge of indecency to them, of temptation, that stole the very air from her lungs and made her core clench.

“Buck?” She breathed out, unsure what she was actually asking for, just needing to say his name, to somehow ground herself instead of floating away in the heady moment.

With a faint groan, he turned her hands over and placed a tender kiss on each of her palms, making the skin tingle. As if that was not enough, as if each touch of his lips to her skin loosened what chains of propriety held him back, he surrendered, diving in for more. Those perfect lips followed a trail from the palm of left hand down to the inside of her wrist, pushing back the edge of her coat with his nose. At its destination, he placed a hot, open-mouthed kiss there, branding her with his lips.

Her breath hitched in her throat, liquid fire pouring into her veins with each press of his lips to her sensitive skin. Unable to move away, unwilling to remove her gaze from this fantasy before her. Even with the thin winter coat covering her, she felt laid bare before him.

Without pause, his mouth moved to her right palm, repeating the action. Those delectable lips caressing her skin to press an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of her wrist.

“Buck.” This time his name came out in a needy whine. A desperation for him. An exquisite need for more. For him to quiet the burning fire he began or allow it to build until it consumed them both. She wanted to taste his lips, to feel them pressed against hers and become drunk on him alone.

Yet somehow the utterance of his name broke the spell surrounding them.

A sudden tension caused his body to stiffen before he slowly sat up ramrod straight. His beautiful eyes focused on her hands clasped between his but now on his thigh instead of against his mouth, where she would much rather them to be.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…” He softly spoke, his voice almost hoarse like it pained him to speak.

“S'alright, I–” she gulped audibly, throat dry and mind reeling from the desire still causing her body to ache for him, “I didn't mind.”

“We're too exposed out here. Anyone could walk by and see.”

“Oh…right.”

“Not that I don't…” He paused, as if reevaluating his words. “When I kiss you for the first time, I'd rather it not be somewhere where a Nazi could walk up and interrupt.”

She slowly blinked, his statement bouncing around within her head. “When?”

“Yeah, when. I've been thinking about it for some time now.”

“Oh, ah, yeah…that's…probably a good idea. I'd be upset if we were interrupted.”

He smiled with such sweet adoration yet laced through with undeniable hunger, it threatened whatever was left of her resolve to melt away like snow.

They sat outside together for several more minutes, stealing shy and longing glances at each other and holding hands. The heady fog lifted from around them, allowing her to breathe again and not feel like her heart was beating out of her chest. An air of anticipation replaced it, planting a sense of yearning that bound them. An almost tangible desire for a shared kiss. To cement whatever this was between them, this newfound fire they both wished to drink from.

Delicate snowflakes continued to drift down around them, causing the Stalag Luft to look like a snow globe.

“Hey, what are you two dodos doing out in this damn cold?” Major Bucky Egan asked, leaning against the doorframe behind them.

“Aren't you from Wisconsin?” Buck teased, glancing back at his best friend.

“Yeah, and it's damn cold. Why aren't ya inside?”

“Just watching the snowfall.”

“Uh huh, is holding hands helping you see the snow better?”

She felt a flush heat her cheeks at Egan's comment, but spoke up, hoping it would distract the other major. “D’ya think there'll be enough snow to make a snowman tomorrow?”

“Uh…” Bucky squinted up at the gray sky. “I guess if it keeps falling at this rate. Are you planning on making one?”

“I've never made one before.”

“So a prisoner camp is the best choice?”

She shrugged, undeterred, especially when Buck squeezed her hands in his.

“Well, if you don't want frostbite, I'd say you two should come inside, crazy idiots.” Bucky murmured the last two words. He rapped his knuckles on the doorframe, staring at the two before stepping back inside the bunkhouse.

In silent agreement, Buck and her stood up to return inside, but not before he stole a quick kiss to the inside of her right wrist once again, making her insides turn to jello. He held the door open for her, allowing her to retreat from the cold, then followed her into the long hallway which divided the many rooms overcrowded with bunk beds for the downed airmen.

With the click of the door closing behind them, she reached out and snatched his hand before he could move away. Tangling her fingers with his, her heart hammered in her chest as she whispered her request.

“Want to help me build a snowman tomorrow?”

“Sure.” He replied without hesitation, a beaming smile on his lips and delight in his eyes. “It's a date.”

With a cheeky wink and squeeze of their fingers, he slipped into his room, which was closest to the door.

Attempting to smother the silly smile she could feel on her face, she took a deep breath and walked past Buck's room, only to lose the battle against her smile as she overheard Bucky giving him shit about being outside in the cold and asking if Buck was finally admitting to his pining for her and if that was why they were holding hands.

With a heat warming her inside and out, she walked further along to the room she shared with the surviving men from her plane. She could not wait to play in the snow tomorrow for their date…and perhaps she could orchestrate something for that desired kiss. Neither snow nor Nazis were going to keep her from kissing Buck Cleven if she could help it.

#cc24DaysofChristmas #masters of the air #mota #buck cleven x reader #gale cleven x reader #buck cleven x oc #gale cleven x oc #buck cleven #gale cleven #john egan #bucky egan #john bucky egan #gale buck cleven #ww2 #mz writes

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sai-int · 2 months ago

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Panther | Genesis

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MASTERLIST AO3

cw: strong language, depictions of violence, 8.7k words

DEC - 1999

The snowfall that winter was an anomaly. In Georgia, snow was a rare visitor, quickly turning the world outside into something almost unrecognizable. The ground was blanketed with a thin, delicate sheet of white, covering the earth with a tranquility that felt foreign to me. The air was crisp, the world hushed beneath a muted sky, as though time itself had slowed in reverence to the falling flakes. It was a brief stillness—an illusion of peace—before the inevitable return to the harsh rhythms of my Pa's world.

My Pa , unlike the rest of us, paid no attention to the snow. To him, the quiet of the world was an inconvenience, something to be disturbed, something that demanded a response. He didn't see the serenity in the falling flakes; instead, he sought the violence that could rupture it. I recall him stepping onto the back porch with his hunting rifle in hand, the barrel gleaming under the pale light, the weight of the gun heavy in his grip. The contrast between the serenity of the snow and the aggression of his actions struck me even then.

He would set up bottles, lined them along the fence posts on the property line, and shoot at them with mechanical precision. Each shot rang out, loud and jarring against the stillness, the sharp sound of the gunfire shattering the calm like glass. I remember watching from the window, my small hands pressed against the cold glass, as I studied the way he aimed, how the trigger squeezed under his finger with calculated ease. It was a ritual, a display of control over the world around him. But to me, it felt more like an act of desperation, as though the peace of the snow itself offended him.

One memory from that time remains vivid, its imprint on my mind as clear as the day it happened. I was four years old when he took me on my first hunting trip. To him, it was a rite of passage—an initiation into the world of men. He had insisted that I come along, despite my reluctance, and it was less a father-daughter outing and more of a test. I had no desire to kill, no understanding of why someone would want to take the life of something as innocent as a rabbit. But to him, that wasn't an option. He needed me to be tough.

I remember walking through the woods beside him, the crisp winter air biting at my cheeks, the ground hard beneath my boots. It was all a blur of cold and confusion, a sense of being out of place in a world I didn't fully understand. Then, we found the rabbit—small, brown, and unsuspecting of us as we watched it from a far.

My Pa's voice was like a command, rough and unyielding as he placed a too-big rifle into my hands. "Shoot it."

I froze, the weight of the rifle in my hands feeling unnatural, too heavy for someone so small. My heart hammered in my chest as I looked at the creature through the cross-hair, its life hanging in the balance, and I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. I began to cry for the animal, for the violence that he was demanding.

I can still hear his voice, low and sharp, as he growled, "Y'gon' shoot it. This how thangs work. You pull that trigger, or you ain't never gon' be worth a damn to nobody. Weakness'll cost ya everythin'."

I wanted to explain to him that it wasn't about weakness—that I just didn't understand why I had to be the one to end another life. But I couldn't. I was too small, too frightened, and my tears mixed with the cold air, freezing against my skin as I tried, and failed, to comply.

He didn't say anything after that. He just snatched the rifle back from me, the rabbit hopping away, unfazed. The silence between us was heavy with the unspoken weight of his disappointment. He didn't need to explain his anger—he didn't need to explain anything.

That was the first order I was ever given: to take a life. And the first lesson I learned was that no explanation was necessary. It didn't matter if you didn't understand it, if it didn't make sense, or if it shattered something inside of you. The world was harsh, and if you didn't act, you were weak. And weakness? Weakness would cost you everything.

AUG - 2000

Growing up in the South had a way of making me feel like the world was smaller, more confined—like I was tucked away in a corner where no one could hear me scream, even if I wanted to. The outskirts of Macon were quiet. It was the kind of place where the only things that mattered were the things that were close to you—your house, your family, your church. If you were lucky, you'd get a taste of something bigger, something outside of the small-town grind. But for most of us, there was nothing more than the dirt roads, trees that stretched on for miles, and swamp.

The heat in Georgia was relentless in the summer, and the thick humidity hung over everything like a weighted blanket. I grew up knowing nothing but isolation, nothing but the quiet sound of cicadas in the trees and the common, distant rumble of thunder. My mother, a soft-spoken woman with a gentle smile, was as much a product of her surroundings as the tall oak trees that shaded our porch. But my dad—he was different. He wasn't shaped by the ground he walked on. His roughness came from somewhere deeper, somewhere colder. And it was festering under the surface.

By the time I turned five, the quiet nights that used to be filled with bedtime stories were replaced with the sound of Pa's anger. My Ma's gentle hum as she went about the house was drowned out by his yelling, his demands. I remember hearing the creak of the floorboards, the heavy boots thudding against the old wood as he came home from work. And if he wasn't greeted with his beer, if dinner wasn't on the table and hot, it was like a switch flipped inside him. The man I knew as my Pa would vanish, replaced by something darker. His face would contort with rage, his hands would go to places they shouldn't, and his voice would shake the foundation house.

It wasn't something I could ignore, no matter how hard I tried to. At five years old, I could understand. Old enough to know that something was wrong with the world around me, something was ugly.

I watched it all, even if I wasn't meant to. Ma tried to keep it together, trying to act like everything was fine. Her eyes would flicker with fear whenever he walked into a room, and I hated it. But I couldn't stop it. I could never stop it.

I tried to help. I tried to stop him. I would run to my dad's side, pulling at his pant leg, begging him to stop. But my Ma would just shove me into the closet, that same damn closet I had been hidden in so many times before. She locked me in, like she always did so I couldn't see. But I couldn't stop myself. I always watched through the key hole.

I once heard her scream as he shoved her down the basement stairs. The sickening sound of her body hitting each step, the sharp crack of bones breaking—it froze me where I stood. My legs felt like lead, refusing to move even as my heart begged me to run to her. When my father stomped off, his rage momentarily spent, I crept to the basement door and opened it just a sliver.

She was lying in a twisted heap at the bottom of the staircase, her body crumpled like a broken doll. My voice trembled as I called out, "Ma? Are you okay?"

For a moment, all I heard was her shallow, labored breathing. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, she murmured, "I'm alright, B...Bumble Bea. Close the door..."

I didn't understand. The words didn't make sense, but the raw pain in her voice did. My hands shook as I pushed the door shut, leaving it cracked just enough to keep her in my line of sight if Pa came back. I stood there, unable to do anything, listening to her hurt, feeling the weight of my own helplessness.

I was five, but the shame already settled in me, the feeling that I wasn't enough to protect her, to stop him. I wasn't strong enough. I wasn't enough for her.

SEP - 2003

The years that followed blurred into an overwhelming haze of tension, fear, and helplessness. Each day felt like an endurance test—an effort to survive in a house where danger lurked in the form of unpredictable rage. My existence became about one thing: remaining unnoticed. The darker the mood in the house, the more I learned to fade into the shadows, to stay just beyond his reach, hidden but hyper-aware of the chaos unfolding just out of view.

I learned to be invisible. The kind of invisible that becomes second nature, where a person doesn't speak unless spoken to, doesn't move unless absolutely necessary. In my case, that wasn't just a survival mechanism. It was my only means of keeping myself safe from the unpredictable violence that was unleashed on our home. I would find refuge in quiet corners, under tables, behind curtains, anything that shielded me from my Pa's wrath. And yet, no matter how far I buried myself, I couldn't unsee what he was doing to her.

There was no escaping it.

The bruises, the blood, the hollow look in my Ma's eyes—these things became etched into my memory, irreversible. The years blurred, but the moments of violence remained seared into my mind. I couldn't block out the sounds of her screams, the smacking of his fists against flesh, the muffled pleas for him to stop. And yet, no matter how much I wished I could erase the image of him hurting her, I never could.

Anger started to take hold. It didn't arrive like a wave crashing onto the shore. No, it grew inside me, slow and steady, festering like a rot in marrow of my bones as I watched her slip further away. She was disappearing. The woman I had known as my mother—strong, proud, full of light—was being chipped away. I could see the sadness in her eyes, but more than that, I felt it all swirling inside of me with every blow, every tear she shed.

One night, the house felt like tense, air thick enough to choke on. When it storms here, it doesn't just rain; it roars, it shakes, it consumes. And that night, Pa's drunken voice was the lightening, bright and harsh, flashing through the house as his footsteps stomped from room to room.

Ma tried to quiet the storm, her voice soft, trembling like the first drops of rain, but it never stopped the flood. It never worked. It never did.

But tonight was different. I wasn't hiding in the shadows. I wasn't sitting quietly, I was waiting for the loud boom that always followed the harsh strikes of white. I was waiting. I couldn't let him hurt my Ma anymore.

And then it came. I saw him—his hands tightening around her neck from behind, forcing her to watch her own suffering in the hallway mirror, the panic in her eyes reflected back at her. But I saw it all: the fear, the desperation, the way her skin flushed purple with the struggle for air.

And suddenly, all I could think—the only thing I could think—was that this was my shot.

The gun. I could picture the location in my mind: the drawer beside his bed, the cold metal of the gun resting inside. My legs carried me there before my brain had time to catch up. The door creaked open, and I pulled the drawer open with a shaking hand, grabbing the weight of the cold steel.

But then something shifted. My mind dragged me to a year ago, to that hunting trip, to the feeling of the rifle in my tiny arms as I aimed at the rabbit in the field. I couldn't pull the trigger. I had seen the innocence in the creature, and I couldn't bring myself to take its life. It would've been a predator's kill—a kill he had delighted in.

I ran back to my dad with a raised gun and shaky hands. I saw him through the rear-sight of the heavy pistol, his face twisted in a mask of rage, her eyes rolling back and fluttering shut. I only saw a monster. For a moment, everything felt still. Here I was, holding a gun once more, only this time the target wasn't innocent

I felt the anger flood through me—hot, fierce, primal. It wasn't the kind of anger you felt when someone took your toy, or when someone pushed you on the playground. No, this was something deeper. Something older. A hatred so pure and aged it had boiled my blood and imbedded itself into my DNA for life.

I had to use both index fingers to pull the trigger.

The noise was deafening. The world seemed to halt, the shot reverberating through the house. Pa crumbled, his grip loosening on my mom, his body collapsing in a lifeless heap onto the floor.

My breath, my heart—it all stopped for a moment. My ears still rung as I dropped the gun. My body slumped to the floor, staring at the crumpled figure of the man who had terrorized us for so long. My mother sat, equally as crumpled next to his body. She just stared at him, not a single sound leaving her.

The police arrived around an hour later, distance and all that. Their flashing lights painted the house with an eerie red and blue glow. They spoke to my mother, who was dazed, her eyes blank, unable to process what had just happened. They spoke to me, too, asking questions I didn't know how to answer. They called it self-defense, said I was justified. But I knew that wasn't true.

I had killed him. And nothing, not the justification, not the police reports—could ever change that.

JULY - 2009

The aftermath of my Pa's death was a strange, hollow silence that hung over everything. Ma became a ghost of herself. The woman who had loved me, who had held me when I was scared, when I was sick, became a quiet, broken shell. She drank to forget, but all it did was make her disappear more. She wasn't cruel or neglectful, but the years of living with my Pa had broken her spirit in a way even his death couldn't fix. She was just... lost.

I took care of her. I had no other choice. I bathed her, dressed her, cooked for her, did everything I could to make sure she was still alive. With every passing day, I saw her slipping further away, her eyes distant, melancholy etched into her smile lines. She still showed me love in her own way. She'd hum appreciatively when I brushed her dark hair, she'd hold my hand tight when I'd kiss her goodnight, but it was never the same. I couldn't stop seeing how I had failed her, how I had become the reason she was like this.

I hated it. I hated how I blamed myself. If I hadn't shot my Pa , if I had just been able to save her without everything falling apart... I couldn't shake the thought that it was all my fault.

By the time I was fourteen, things had only gotten worse. I should've been thinking about school dances, hanging out with friends, or grades. But there were no dances, no friends. There was just survival. My dad's life insurance policy had been helping us get by with the bills, but it ran out. Some legal jargon I couldn't understand, something about premiums or what-not. But we were broke. My Ma couldn't work and I had to step up.

I dropped out of high school to find a job. I wasn't old enough, but it didn't matter. The world had already passed me by, and the only thing left to focus on was survival—paying the bills, keeping the roof over our heads, making sure there was food on the table. I took the GED as fast as I could and somehow passed. I went looking for work and it was always the same bullshit. Sorry, you don't have enough experience. Sorry, you're too young. They didn't see me, not really. Just another desperate face, another invisible person trying to survive in a world that had no more room.

After running into nothing but dead ends, I grabbed Pa's old '85 Yamaha VMAX and made the hour-and-a-half ride to Atlanta. I wasn't supposed to be behind the wheel of anything, let alone a motorcycle—too young, too reckless, too desperate—but I didn't have a choice. The bills were piling up back home, and Mama was too far gone to even notice, let alone help.

So I swallowed the knot of fear in my stomach, swung my leg over the bike, and hit the road. One of the few useful things my sorry excuse for a father ever taught me was how to ride, and for once, I was grateful for it.

The bike's engine rumbled as I pulled into the city, my hands tight on the handlebars as I parked the bike behind a dumpster. I covered the bike with trash from the dumpster, hopefully it was enough to keep it hidden. The feeling of control kept the jitters at bay. I couldn't go back home empty-handed. I had to make money, and fast.

I'd learned to be observant over the years—street smarts, the kind you don't get in school, picked up from stealing from the supermarket and pickpocketing people on the bus. I kept my head down as I wandered Atlanta's gritty streets, sticking to the shadows. But I'd soon learn the shadows were the last place I should've been. I avoided the pimps who tried to recruit me—fat men sizing me up like I was something they could own. But I knew better. I'd learned the dangers of men young, and I wasn't looking for that trouble. I wasn't that desperate. Not yet, anyway.

It didn't take long for me to spot something else— some men on street corners, cash in hand, glancing over their shoulders as they leaned against brick walls. I didn't know exactly what they were selling, but I had a good guess: drugs. I watched them until the sun dipped and the streetlights flickered on, hiding behind some trash cans, trying to figure out how to approach. I knew opportunity when I saw it.

I took a breath and forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last, my chest tight with the pounding of my heart. I told myself the same thing over and over: The quicker I did this, the quicker it'd be over, and I could go home. When I finally reached them, my voice came out steadier than I'd expected, cutting through the night like I belonged there.

"Can I sell with y'all?"

They stared at me like I'd lost my mind. One of them snorted, a sharp burst of laughter breaking the silence, but I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, shoulders squared, my gaze steady and unblinking. The moment stretched out, my heart pounding in my ears, until their amusement faded and realization set in. I wasn't joking.

After a few seconds, the one who'd been laughing stopped and looked me up and down. "You serious, kid?" he asked, his tone skeptical but curious.

"Yeah," I said, my voice steady. "I can sell. You gi'me the product, 'n I'll sell it."

They exchanged glances, skepticism etched in their faces. One of them narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly. "You a cop?" The question hung in the air, sharp and pointed. I shook my head, keeping my expression steady. Maybe it was the look in my eyes, or maybe they just appreciated that I didn't flinch. Either way, their doubt began to waver.

One of them finally reached into his jacket, pulling out a few small bags of what looked like weed and pills. He pressed them into my hand, the plastic crinkling against my palm. The weight felt heavier than I'd expected, like it carried more than just product—like it came with expectations, risks, and consequences I couldn't yet see. "A'ight," he said, jerking his chin toward the street. "Go sell it, then. Let's see what you got."

I didn't hesitate. I walked off, my steps quick and deliberate, hitting the pavement with purpose. Truth was, I didn't know the first thing about selling drugs, but I knew people. I'd learned to size up a situation in seconds—how to make someone feel at ease, how to convince them they were getting a good deal when they weren't.

After my dad was gone, I haggled with vendors, pleading for lower prices on vegetables or fruits—or flat out stealing it if I had to. If you didn't know how to play the game, you didn't survive. Maybe that was the lesson my dad had been trying to teach me.

I found buyers easily, hustling from one corner of the city to another. My heart pounded, but I kept my face calm, my voice steady, making people feel like they were getting something special.

Still, unease gnawed at me with every sale. This wasn't who I thought I'd be, but I couldn't dwell on it. All I could think about was getting home to Mama, keeping the lights on, and holding everything together. Whatever fear I felt didn't matter—not compared to what was at stake.

I sold to the pimps who'd tried to recruit me earlier, knowing they were good for the money. I handed over the product with a forced smile and pocketed their cash like it was nothing. It felt like a game I didn't fully understand—but I assumed I was winning.

An hour later, I returned with cash in hand and no product left to sell. The rush was still pulsing through me as handed the money over to the men, hoping the cut I'd get would at least cover the water bill. They stared at me, wide-eyed, as if they couldn't believe I'd pulled it off.

One of them cursed under his breath as he counted the cash. "Holy shit," he muttered. "She's good."

I could see the respect in their eyes, and just like that, they decided I was worth something. Without another word, they grabbed my arms and led me to their boss. I didn't try to fight them, but I didn't want to get too involved in this shit.

After what felt like an eternity being dragged through the city, we finally reached some non-descript building. A sharp double knock on a metal door, and it creaked open, letting us inside. I was immediately stunned by the lavish interior—something straight out of a movie, or so I thought.

As we moved deeper into the building, I could feel the shift. The men who had brought me here—rough around the edges, always sizing people up—were still leading the way, but it was clear they weren't the ones in charge. Foot soldiers, workhorses. The men inside the building, with their sharp suits and cold eyes, had a different kind of presence. They moved with purpose, their steps deliberate and calculated. They were all so... Tall. The workhorses, by contrast, looked awfully simple. I couldn't imagine what I looked like compared to them all. A plain flannel and jeans on my body, barely scraping 5 feet on top of that.

It was obvious now—the street guys weren't in control. They were just runners, doing the dirty work for someone bigger, someone more dangerous. The men in this building weren't hustlers. They were businessmen, and I could feel it deep in my gut: the real power, the real influence, sat with them. The way they carried themselves—it wasn't about quick deals on street corners. It was about long-term strategy, about empire-building. And I was apparently about to meet the man at the top.

We stopped at the end of the hall, in front of a plain wooden door. One of the men knocked twice, and moments later, the door was opened from inside. Inside, the room was nearly pitch black, lit only by a single desk lamp casting a weak, uneven glow. The only other source of light was the glowing tip of a cigarette, hovering in the darkness, the smoke curling upward like a snake.

As we stepped inside, the door clicked shut and my eyes fought to adjust to the darkness. The man behind the desk leaned forward, shifting into the pale light of the lamp. The sudden shift revealed his cold eyes, calculating, the kind that seemed to strip you bare. I could see two guards standing silently at the sides of the desk, their eyes locked on us, watching every move. The dim light barely touched the sharp edges of his face, but enough to make it clear—he was the one pulling the strings here.

He didn't even glance at the men who'd brought me in. Instead, he took a long drag from the cigarette dangling lazily between his fingers, exhaling the smoke slowly, deliberately. The cloud curled in the dim light, thick and suffocating, filling the space with a stifling presence. For a moment, I thought the smoke might choke me, but I forced myself to breathe through it, to ignore the burning in my throat. I can't be weak. I thought. Weakness would cost me everything.

One of my escorts stepped forward, handing over the cash I made to one of the guards. "She made this off a few eighths and some pills," he said, his tone flat, not bothering to conceal his surprise. The guard took the stack of cash, examined it carefully, and counted it with deliberate precision. Then, leaning down, he whispered a number to the boss. The boss didn't respond immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his eyes flicking between the cash and me, narrowing as he took me in.

"Hm," he hummed, the sound devoid of emotion. "You have got guts. I will give you that."

I didn't reply. My heart hammered in my chest, each beat a reminder of how out of my depth I was. I had no clue what was happening, but everything about this man—this weird Russian mob boss sitting before me—screamed danger. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as if he were weighing me, deciding whether or not I was worth his time. The power he exuded, the control he commanded—it hung thick in the air, suffocating, and I knew instinctively that disappointing him was not an option.

"What is your age, Little Bird?" he asked, his Russian accent thick and foreign on my ears.

He took another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a cloud of indifference as his eyes never left me.

"'M fourteen." I picked at the skin of my fingers behind my back.

"Tell me your name," he said, his tone as bitter as the smell of tobacco.

The more he asked, the deeper the pit in my stomach grew. I hadn't expected to end up on the radar of some ritzy Russian mobster. My throat tightened, panic rising as I struggled to swallow. All I wanted was some quick cash and to get the fuck home.

"Beatrice," I said, the name feeling strange in the heavy silence, like it didn't belong here. My accent sounded out of place in this room, as if I didn't belong at all. He looked at me, his gaze piercing, studying me, sizing me up. For a moment, I could feel my pulse in my ears. I didn't know if I was being judged or evaluated. I couldn't tell. But I had a sinking feeling that this man—this ruthless man—had already decided what he wanted from me.

"Beatrice." He repeated my name, letting it roll off his tongue, his accent twisting it into something almost mocking. "You have got... potential, Bird." His smile was thin, predatory. "Why are you here? Money?"

I swallowed, fighting the urge to fidget under his gaze. The smoke still hung thick in the air, and the weight of his stare felt like it was pressing against my chest, making it hard to breathe.

"Money," I said, my voice steady, though my pulse hammered in my throat. "What else is there?"

The street men were then dismissed with a curt nod, they shuffled out quickly, their eyes lingering on me for a moment before the door closed behind them. The room felt smaller without them, the weight of the boss's gaze intensifying.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice firm as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

I sat, not wanting to refuse him, not wanting to give him any reason to see me as anything other than compliant. I folded my hands in my lap, trying to keep my body still, but my nerves were running wild under the surface.

He leaned back in his chair, the dim light from the lamp casting shadows on his sharp features. He took another drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke slowly, his eyes never leaving me. "You want money. Why?"

I swallowed, trying to gather my thoughts. "My Ma... she's sick. I have t'take care of 'er."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he were sizing me up. "Tell me more," he said, the words almost like a command.

I hesitated, unsure of how much to say. I wasn't used to talking about my mom, not like this. But the pressure to explain, to justify my desperation, pressed against me, and the words spilled out before I could stop them.

"She's... she's been strugglin' for a while. She don't work... So, I'm the one who keeps the bills paid, who makes sure there's food in the house." I shifted in my seat, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm doin' everythin' I can to make sure she's okay."

He didn't react to my words. He didn't seem to care, really. But there was something in the way he was looking at me, like he knew there was more. His eyes flickered from mine to my hands balled in my lap.

"You are still hiding something," he pressed, his voice laced with an edge that made my skin prickle. "Tell me now. I don't deal in dishonesty."

I felt the walls closing in. I wanted to keep my mouth shut, wanted to pretend that there was nothing else. But I couldn't. His gaze held me, like he knew what I was trying to bury.

"My Pa," I began, my voice barely a whisper. "He was always drunk, always violent. He'd get worse every time he came home. It wasn't just the beatin's. It was everythin'. I never knew if it was gon' be worse one day or the next, but I thought it was just gon' go on forever, like he was always gon' be there, hurtin' her—hurtin' us." I paused, swallowing hard, my chest tightening as the memories flooded back.

I forced myself to look at him, my hands trembling. I wasn't sure what I expected him to say, but I wasn't prepared for the look in his eyes—appreciation, even amusement. As if this was something he could work with.

One of his lips was curled into a thin smirk. He wasn't disgusted, didn't seem surprised. If anything, it was like he'd found something he liked.

"You killed him?" His voice was smooth, and the question came out like an invitation, like he wanted me to say more.

I nodded slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

"I didn't wanna," I said, my voice strained, a stray tear sliding down the apple of my cheek. "But he wouldn't stop. He was hurtin' her. Everyday. I couldn't let 'em do it anymore. So I—" I swallowed, the phantom feeling of the gun's recoil causing my wrist to ache. "I had to stop 'em."

He didn't flinch, didn't grimace at the confession. His smile only deepened, a glint of admiration in his eyes.

"Good," he said simply, as if I had told him something he'd been waiting to hear. "You did what needed to be done." There was a pause, a dangerous calm settling in the room, and then he leaned forward, his voice dropping lower. "You have got fire. But fire... fire must be controlled. You will be scorched if you do not."

"You want to make it out? You have got the guts. That is more than most. But if you want to keep your head above water... you will need control. Of yourself."

I felt the weight of his words, but I wasn't sure what he was offering. My heart raced in my chest, adrenaline pulsing as I stared at him, waiting for him to spell it out.

He didn't disappoint.

"I will make you an offer. Something no one else will. You can work for me, but not just any job. You will work with the big players. Sell to people who matter." His gaze never wavered, and his lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You will have enough money. But you must always play by my rules."

My mind raced as I contemplated his offer. I thought of my mom. I thought of everything I had done to keep her safe, to hold everything together. I didn't have a choice. I had to take this offer, no matter what it meant.

But I needed to hear it from him.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper as I met his eyes.

"Ivankov," His accent twisted the syllables, smooth and cold as he rose from his seat towering over me. He smirked, the slightest hint of approval flickering across his face as he extended his hand to me.

Without hesitation, I extended my hand, my palms sweaty but determined. He met my hand with his, his grip firm, unyielding. I felt a shiver run through me as his fingers closed around mine.

The deal was done.

Ivankov stood up from his chair, his gaze sharp and unblinking as he gestured toward the door. "Come with me." His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, something that made my feet move before I even thought about it.

I followed him through the halls of the building, my every step echoing off the cold marble floors. We stopped in front of a room near the end of a hallway. Ivankov knocked twice, and the door opened with a groan. Inside was a small, concrete, dimly lit room. At the center of it was a man—bound, bloodied, and beaten beyond recognition. He was slumped in a chair, his face swollen and bruised, naked and shivering. They had skinned parts of his limbs. I felt like I could smell the rot in the air as I met his wide eyes.

"He is a rat," Ivankov said flatly, his voice almost bored, as if this was something he saw every day. He probably did. He stepped beside me and the door clicked shut behind us.

The man's eyes darted to me, and all that came out was a shrill cry. "Please! I didn't tell anyone! I swear! I'm not a rat! You've got it all wrong, please!" His voice broke, frantic.

Ivankov didn't flinch. He walked around the man, inspecting him like an animal to be slaughtered. "This man has been leaking information," he said, his voice low and cold. "He's betrayed me. And I want him gone." He turned toward me, his eyes calculating. "You've proven yourself capable. You can finish this."

He reached into the back of his waist band and handed me his gun. "You killed your Pa, right? You can kill him too. It should be easy."

The way he said 'Pa' made my stomach churn. I looked at the man, trembling in the chair. Was this just like my father? My hand shook as I held the gun. The man's eyes pleaded with me, I tried my hardest to read him. But as the tears soaked his face, I couldn't help but wonder if he was lying. What if he actually snitched?

"Shoot him." Ivankov's voice was sharp in my ear, commanding, as if he was waiting for me to prove myself. "If you hesitate now, you lose everything. You go back to your mother with nothing. Is that what you want?"

I could see my mother's face in my mind, her weak, broken body, her terrified eyes whenever he would come home drunk. The gun in my hand suddenly felt colder. The decision I was making felt heavier.

I couldn't go back. I couldn't fail.

With a trembling breath, I raised the gun, my finger hovering over the trigger. I heard the man sobbing, begging, screeching, pleading, howling for his life, but I couldn't stop. My chest was tight, and I could feel my pulse in my ears.

The shot rang out, louder than I expected, and the man slumped forward, gone, in an instant.

Ivankov watched the scene with a strange satisfaction, his lips curling into a thin smile. "Good," he said, his tone smooth and approving.

I didn't feel anything. The gun slipped from my hand, clattering against the floor as I stood frozen. The room tilted, spinning, but I couldn't stop it.

It was like I had crossed some invisible line, one I'd been afraid of my whole life. I'd failed back then, couldn't bring myself to shoot the rabbit. I was scared, too weak. But now... Now it didn't matter. The thing I couldn't do as a child had been done, just not in the way I thought. It wasn't a rabbit, but a man. And I wasn't sure if that made it better or worse. All I knew was that I'd stepped over the line, and I doubt I could step back now.

OCT 9 - 2012

For the past three years, I've found myself stuck in a life I never imagined for myself—one forged by necessity, not choice. The weight of it presses down on me daily, and the monotony is suffocating. I've been turning the idea over and over in my mind for days now, and I know it's time. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep living this way. Each day, I sell to some big wigs that think Cocaine and LSD are their own ethereal beings. Each night, I sit in those dimly lit rooms, counting money, stacking it neatly, but all I can feel is its weight—not just the cash, but the responsibility, the fear that comes with it. It's like being trapped in a web, and the harder I struggle, the more tangled I get. There has to be a way out.

I've been thinking about it for a while, but now, more than ever, it's clear. I'm done. I turned seventeen a while back, past old enough to get a decent, minimum wage job. Sometimes I wonder why I never tried. Maybe it's fear—fear of leaving behind what I know, even though it's grimy, dangerous, and it's slowly juicing the life out of me.

The bills and the food are all covered for the house. Ma can handle the basics, but I'm not around enough to make sure she's really okay. And that gnaws at me, too. She can handle the basics but that's not enough for her. After everything, she deserves more than to see me only two, three times a week.

I don't know what Ivankov will say. I don't know if he'll laugh it off or get angry, but I can't go on like this. The very thought of this life, of being stuck in this world indefinitely...

So tomorrow, I'll talk to him. I'll tell him I'm done.

OCT 10 - 2012

My boots thump against the floor as I walk toward Ivankov's office, my heart pounding in my chest in rhythm with my boots. With a swift knock, the door creaks open, and Ivankov looks up from his desk, one eyebrow quirked as if he's waiting for me to say something. His face is unreadable, but there's a glint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Ivankov," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need t'talk to you."

He gestures lazily to the chair across from him, a casual smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Sit, Bird." he says, using his annoying nickname for me like it's just another day, like we're having another ordinary conversation.

I sit, but I can't shake the tension in my muscles. I swallow hard, my mouth dry, but I push forward and force a brief, cordial smile.

"I'm done," I say, my voice firm, though inside I'm anything but. "I want out."

He stares and then he laughs, a deep, rolling sound that fills the room. The noise cuts through the thick silence like a knife.

"You are joking, right?" He leans back in his chair, still laughing, shaking his head as if I've just told him the world's dumbest joke. "You want to leave? After everything you have built here? After everything you have done for me? You are a funny one, Little Bird. "

I shake my head, trying to steady myself. "Ain't no joke, Sir. I'm done. I can't do it anymore."

The laughter dies. Ivankov's eyes turn cold, calculating. The smile falls from his face like a mask slipping off, and for the first time, I see the darkness in him fully. The air grows thick, and my heart skips a beat.

He stands, slow and deliberate, his chair scraping against the floor. He steps around his desk, towering over me, his presence so overpowering it makes the room feel smaller.

"Do you have any idea what you are asking for?" he spits, his voice low and dangerous. "Do you think you can just walk away? Do you think I will let you?"

My pulse races, and I take a breath, my voice is steady. "Been thinkin' 'bout it for a long time. I can't live like this anymore. I-I'm done."

He's fully rounded his desk, his hand gripping the edge of the desk as if holding himself back. I can see the anger swirling behind his eyes. If looks could kill, I'd be as dead as Pa.

In that instant, he grabs the fat of my cheeks tight in his grip, pulling me to my feet with a force that makes my neck burn. "You think you can just leave? You took a life to be here. You cannot undo that."

I stare up at him with wide eyes, fear clawing at my insides, "I don't want t'be a part of this anymore," I say, my words muffled from his grip.

Ivankov's grip tightens for a second, his face millimeters away as he searches my eyes for what feels like eternity. Then he releases me with a slow exhale. His face softens, and for a moment, I'm not sure what's coming next.

"You want out?" He says, his voice far too calm now. "Fine. You can go."

I blink, not sure if I heard him right. "What?"

His expression remains cold, but something darker flickers in his eyes. "You can leave," he says, almost too calmly. "Go home, that is your choice, yes?"

He leans back, tapping a finger idly on the desk. "But remember, Little Bird, some doors, once opened, are never truly closed."

His words hang in the air, unsettling, like the quiet before a storm. The faintest smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it's not amusement—it's a warning. I stare at him for a long moment, trying to read his face, but it's impossible. Finally, I nod, a mix of relief and disbelief flooding through me.

"Thank you," I say quietly, my voice tinged with gratitude, but I know it's not the end. It can't be. But it's a start.

Ivankov doesn't answer. He just watches me with that cold, calculating look in his eyes, like he's already moved past me, already thinking about something else. But I know the deal is done.

Soon enough, the door to Ivankov's office clicked shut behind me. My chest was tight, my legs unsteady, but I forced myself to walk. Step by step, I made my way through the halls of the building I had fatefully walked into some three years ago, the walls that had swallowed me whole and reshaped my life. I didn't look back.

The night air hit me like a slap when I stepped outside. It was cold and sharp, a stark contrast to the suffocating heaviness of that office. I still used Pa's old Yamaha—I named her Cindy—She was parked right where I'd left her just a few minutes ago. She was a relic of the life I was desperate to return to. I slung my leg around the bike's seat, feeling grip of the handle bars as I put the key in and revved the bike.

The engine roared to life, loud and unapologetic, as I pulled away from the building. As the distance grew, so did my breaths. The tension in my chest started to loosen, little by little, replaced by something I hadn't felt in a long time: hope.

I didn't drive far. Just a few miles down the road, I pulled into the lot of a cheap, nondescript motel. The neon sign buzzed and flickered overhead as I handed over a few bills for a room key. It wasn't much, but it was enough for tonight—a place to hole up, to think, to breathe.

The room smelled faintly of mildew and stale cigarettes, but I didn't care. I locked the door behind me and collapsed onto the squeaky bed, staring up at the ceiling. For the first time in years, I felt the smallest semblance of lightness.

I thought of Ma, of how her face would look when I told her I'd be home more. The thought was enough to bring a smile to my face, small but genuine. She wouldn't have to manage everything on her own anymore. I'd be there to cook dinner, to clean the house, to sit with her and make sure she was okay.

I couldn't wait to tell her. To see her face light up when I'd tell her, "I'm staying."

My mind wandered back to Ivankov's words, the weight of his presence still lingering like a shadow. The unease was there, buried beneath my excitement, but I pushed it aside. I couldn't let it take this moment from me. Not yet.

Tomorrow, I'd start over. But tonight, I allowed myself to dream of what starting over might feel like. For the first time in years, the future didn't seem so far away.

OCT 11 - 2012

The sunlight burned through the cheap motel curtains, dragging me awake. I blinked, groggy, the light too sharp for how little I'd slept. My BlackBerry buzzed on the nightstand. 10:03 a.m.

Today was it. Today was the day.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, a dull ache in my back from the lumpy mattress. Today was the day. I was going home. A flicker of excitement lit in my chest, growing as I hurried to get dressed. Pulling on my jeans and jacket, I couldn't stop the small smile from spreading across my face. It was the happiest I'd felt in years.

The drive was just over an hour, but it felt like the minutes crawled by. The bike hummed beneath me as I wound through familiar roads, the wind flowing through my hair as each mile brought me closer to the house I hadn't truly called home in years.

When I finally turned onto the dirt path leading to the house, my excitement hit its peak. My heart raced as I imagined Ma's face when I told her the news, when I told her I was coming back for good.

I clenched hard on the brakes, the bike skidding to a messy stop in the dirt. My hands gripped the breaks so tight my knuckles turned white within seconds.

The front door was wide open, hanging off its hinges, creaking slightly in the breeze like a goddamn warning.

"No," I whispered. My stomach twisted, my skin cold and clammy. "No, no, no."

I flung myself off of the bike, not caring if it smacked the ground. Gravel sliced under my boots as I sprinted toward the house, skipping the steps on the porch and launching myself to the door.

"Ma?!" I screamed, my voice cracking.

The second I stepped inside, the smell hit me—rotting wood, smoke, and something sour that made me gag. Everything was destroyed. The couch was flipped, cushions gutted. Glass crunched underfoot. The floorboards were ripped up, jagged splinters sticking out like broken teeth. Cabinet doors hung open, contents spilled and shattered.

"Ma!" I screamed again, louder this time, desperation making my throat raw.

I ran through the house, my heart hammering so hard it felt like it might burst. Each room was worse than the last, the destruction almost methodical, like someone had wanted to erase every inch of this place. But she wasn't in any of them.

Then I saw her door.

Closed. Untouched.

My stomach lurched. My legs felt like lead, but I forced myself forward. My fingers shook as I gripped the knob, sweat slicking my palm. I pushed the door open, slow, like the room might explode if I moved too fast.

The air inside was heavy, suffocating. Her room was clean, pristine compared to the rest of the house.

She lay on the bed, her back to the door, her figure bathed in the soft glow of morning light streaming through the window. The sun caught her dark auburn hair, setting it aglow in a way that reminded me of my own. She was unnervingly still. I could see specks of dust dancing in the sun beams, as if the air had been disturbed only moments before.

"Ma," I whispered, the word barely audible. My chest tightened, breath shallow and quick. "Ma?"

I stepped closer, my hands trembling so badly I had to ball them into fists. I reached out, my fingers brushing her shoulder. It was stiff. Cold.

"No."

I turned her over.

Her face was pale, eyes glassy and fixed on the ceiling. Blood caked the single gunshot wound in her forehead, the edges blackened. Her shirt was ripped open but still pooled around her shoulders, her skin exposed so erotically it made bile rise in my throat.

And then I saw it.

You can't escape this.

The words were carved into her stomach, from her sternum to her lower abdomen, jagged and raw, like whoever had done it didn't care about anything except making them hurt. Each letter oozed with coagulated blood, deep enough to see her innards, the edges of the gashes still angry and red.

My legs buckled, and I hit the floor next to her, gasping and gagging for air that wouldn't come. My hands covered my face, but I couldn't block it out. The image was seared into me, burned into my brain like a brand.

I couldn't scream, I couldn't shout. I could feel my entire body just break.

She would never move again.

I clawed at the floor, my nails splintering and cracking in half, but the pain barely registered over the suffocating grief and rage.

It's like a lightning strike to the soul. It doesn't just hit—it consumes, electrifies every nerve, leaving you raw and trembling as if your entire body is being ripped apart from the inside. It's a jarring, all-encompassing wave of pain that doesn't stop at the surface. It rushes through your veins, floods your lungs, and leaves you gasping for air you can't seem to find. It's not just the breaking—it's the moment before, when you feel everything at once: the shock, the disbelief, the unbearable weight that crushes down before the full force of the storm hits. It is devastation in its purest, most visceral form.

I'd thought I could leave, thought I could walk away from all of it—the deals, the danger, the blood. But I couldn't, and now I was entirely alone.

Ivankov would regret the day he dared to cross me. I didn't care how long it took or what it cost—I'd find him. And when I did, he'd wish for the sweet release of death, a mercy I'd never grant.

This wasn't over—not until I had him kneeling, drowning in the fire he saw in me.

Pa had tried to tell me. I didn't get it back then, but I did now.

Weakness will cost you everything.

#♱ angel’s writing #⌖ panther sai int #cod men #simon ghost riley #ghost cod #cod #call of duty #soap cod #johnny soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #simon riley x oc #ghost x oc #cod oc #fem oc #cod oc art #ghost riley #ghost mw2 #simon riley x reader

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chongoblog · 4 months ago

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assumption is that you have a strong love/hate relationship with living in the state of georgia but you generally like it here aside from all the loud conservatives (fellow georgian o7)

Kiiiinda. The thing about Georgia that I kinda feel is that the closer you get to Atlanta, the more progressive the people tend to get. Now admittedly I’m about a 45 minute drive to Atlanta which is a LITTLE far, and I have neighbors with Trump signs, but it’s definitely not out in the boondocks.

Outside of the political angle I love Georgia. I like hot weather, so it’s perfect for that (with the rare snowfall for variety). I went camping a lot as a kid, and being close to the Appalachians is awesome. If I really wanted to go to the beach, that’s only a few hours drive. Atlanta is a genuinely awesome city, from the good food to the aquarium and World of Coke Museum to Centennial Park (Fun Fact: My name is on one of the bricks there!) and that’s just scratching the surface!

Georgia’s rad.

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alchemicalterror · 3 days ago

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I'm not sure if it snows much in Gotham, but I know you're from Georgia, so have you ever had a snowball fight? Or made a fort? I come from Canada, so when we were little, we would make snow forts at recess. For whatever reason, the grade always ended up divided, and there was usually a war between two or three forts and the kids that "belonged" to them. We would also set up a snow/ice block economy, and I was usually the store owner. You traded a few smaller snow balls for a bigger one. I liked it because I liked carving the blocks into fun shapes using the mesh fence (and also because it meant not getting hit with snow balls). Anyway. I guess Canadian children are strange.

So I remember this one time when I was a kid, back in the 1960's or so - '68, I think, but don't quote me on that; you gotta understand I was a teenager at the time - I remember that Georgia had record snowfall.

Folks went mad about it, whole cities shut down. We didn't have a television, and there weren't no way pa was gonna drive in to the pub to watch the news reports in town, so we had to make do with hear-say on the radio in the living room, but I remember clear as day all the warnings folks got. Athens was at a stand-still, even Atlanta - State Capital - all but called in over the inclement weather.

And it was beautiful, I remember. Hadda go out in it, make sure what few animals we had were warm, chickens and whatnot. A real winter wonderland. Ma bundled me up in about every shirt I owned all at once, and at least three pairs of pants, that morning.

Now, Gotham gets snow. It's a lot further north than Georgia, closer to Canada and all, and even if it weren't, Dr. Fries likes things a particular way this time of year, but that record snow fall back in my younger years still sticks with me. Besides, I didn't move here til I was thirty.

It was a whole two inches deep. That's 5.08cm for those of you using a sane measuring system.

No, can't say I've got much experience in snow-related childhood activities.

#Answers #lesanyanyas #Jonny Blogs #Jonathan Blogs #Jonathan Crane #The Scarecrow #DC Askblog #Independent Jonathan Crane #mod art #lore #dcau askblog

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wof-adoption-au · 7 months ago

Text

Intro Post & Rules!

Hello, world! We haven't been seeing many visitors lately, so we figured we'd get on the grid and advertise! Stop on by the Possibility Rescue and Adoption Center!

There's really too many of us to keep track of with text, so we all have our own emojis and the dragons we work with, as well as our roles!

Thank you so much for reading! We hope you stop by!

~ ☀️

Clyde - Clay - 🪵 - Adoption Specialist, MudWing Specialist

Talia - Tsunami - 🌊 - Rescue Specialist, SeaWing Specialist

Georgia - Glory - 🪻 - Adoption Specialist

Samuel/Sammy - Starflight - 📜 - Medic

Sunny - Sunny - ☀️ - Rescue Specialist, Founder, Hybrid Specialist

Molly - Moonwatcher - 🌓 - Caretaker, NightWing Specialist

Winston - Winter - ❄️ - Caretaker, IceWing Specialist

Phoenix - Peril - 💥 - PR

Tyrhtel - Turtle - 🐢 - PR

Quinn - Qibli - 🌵 - Caretaker, SandWing Specialist

Kristen - Kinkajou - 🌈 - Caretaker, RainWing Specialist

Umar - Umber - 🌰 - Rehabilitation Specialist

Ben - Blue - 🫐 - Rehabilitation Specialist, SilkWing Specialist

Charlie - Cricket - 🦗 - Medic, HiveWing Specialist

Sage - Sundew - 🌿 - Medic, LeafWing Specialist

Sabrina - Snowfall - 👑 - PR

Lola - Luna - 🦋 - Rehabilitation Specialist

Aaron - Flame - 🔥 - Caretaker, SkyWing Specialist

-This blog is for an AU I hold very near and dear to my heart: dragons are kept as pets! The main cast works at a rescue center with their dragons! This is a roleplay/ask blog, so while questions are important (and appreciated), it can run fine on its own! However, asks help make everything a lot more fun!-

-If you have trouble telling who everyone is by their human names, check the dragon names! I kept those the same to simplify everything!-

-This blog is run by @yellow-computer-mouse, so if you'd like to talk to me, go ahead and stop by there! My emoji is 📻-

-The tagging system works like this: the assigned emoji for a character and then yaps/asks. Yaps is for text posts and asks is for questions! If you don't clarify what character a question is for, it will go to whoever I feel like.-

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jillsandwhichs · 5 months ago

Text

Heart on my sleeve

A Valenfield Story, Chapter 2, Talkative

Masterlist

Pairing: Jill Valentine & Chris Redfield

Summary: It's Jill's second day at the RPD and whilst having lunch, her and Chris talk and she gets to know him a little bit better

WC: 4.2k

Type: SFW

A/n: Hi! Hope you all enjoy. Please check out my masterlist, there's a lot of stuff there. You can get to know me, you can see the rules of my blog and then you can see all of my fanfictions. You'll be able to find the previous chapters to this fic and upcoming ones. You'll also be able to find my Wattpad & AO3. Comments, reblogs & likes are appreciated. Thank you

Slamming her car door shut, Jill let out a large sigh. She scanned the massive 'R.P.D' logo rested on top of the establishment.

This is her life now.

The fact she is now working for an elite police force is like a dream come true. She went through hell like training to get her. She never once stopped having her own personal ambitions and goals, and now look at her! While she didn't personally apply, rather she was seeker out by Captain Wesker, it still feels all the same. Actually, it makes her feel even better - Knowing she was recruited for her skill set.

So far, working for the S.T.A.R.S unit has been pleasant. Whereas it has only been a day, it's been a handful but in a good way. Not only has the work been flowing nicely, her co workers are also kind. Despite the fact she's only interacted with three of them, they seem cool enough. Especially Chris. She really knows nothing about him besides his music taste and a drabble of his family life but other than that, he seems like a great guy and considering he's her desk partner, she'd love to know more about him.

The other person she spoke with - Other than Chris and Captain Wesker, was Barry. He's the oldest one on the team and he is just so sweet! He told Jill all about his wife and two little girls, they seem like absolutely cutie patoties and Jill already adores them. She can tell that Barry is sort of the mentor of the squad, everybody goes to him for advice. Jill also heard from him that Chris isn't necessarily liked on the squad and to just be careful, his fuse is short. But Jill doesn't see what he's talking about, but maybe he just hasn't had enough time with her to show his true colors yet.

Outside, the day was becoming abloom. It was frosty out, then again, it was six in the morning, of course it is cold. The snowfall was light but evident, some cars in which must have been parked for awhile already have snowflakes covering them. Jill isn't used to this complete cold weather and icy snowfall all day long, she's from Georgia. Of course it snows there, but no where compared to how much snow R.C endures year round. It's a significant change but not one she can entirely complain about.

The only downside to the winter here is how the roads get, she was warned ahead of time that work may be cancelled sometimes due to harsh weather. Not only that, apparently blizzards are horrible, they can cover up someone's entire door step. That's freaky.

In hand, Jill had some files she was given yesterday, ones that she'll have to turn in to Captain Wesker. She spent a decent chunk of her evening working on them, hopefully they're to his liking. It's also unknown when she'll get her uniform, for now Wesker just told her to dress casually. So today, she is wearing a navy blue sweater with jeans, in case of an emergency, it is indeed an outfit she can do hard labor in. Although, the coldness emitting from outside would add to the struggle of it.

She entered the building for only the second time ever, taking the view in. The Police Department was genuinely beautiful. One thing that specifically caught her eye - And many others, is the statue rested in the back. It's referred to as 'The Goddess Statue'. It is a fitting name, it's a gorgeous piece of artwork. Jill is aware of the R.P.D and it's magnificent history. This historic building was once an art museum rather than a Police Department. They even kept one of the art rooms for old times sake.

If Jill had to complain about one thing son far, it would most definitely have to be the walk from the entrance, all the way to the office. It's a hassle, but her legs do get a workout. Not that she needs it or anything, but she doesn't mind gaining more and more strength through everyday activites.

Eventually, she entered the dimmed hallway that leads up to her assigned office. Whenever she walks in it, she gets chills. It's just so weary, the atmosphere drops and it gets silent - Up until you get to the S.T.A.R.S office door, then you either hear Barry's loud laughter or Wesker scolding someone yet again.

Jill ambled into the office, being greeted by Barry and Brad, whom she hasn't really gotten to speak with yet.

"Jill! Glad you could make it another day." "Me too, Barry." Jill chuckled, holding the papers closer to her now. "Hey Jill, welcome to the team, I'm Brad." "Hello Brad, pleasure to meet you." She shook his hand back. When needed, she could definitely remain professional and modest. "I hear you were one of very few women to complete the Delta Force training. Man, I gotta say, that's impressive. Nice work." Brad praised her. "Well, thank you, it was tough but I like a challenge." Jill smiled. She appreciated the appraisal.

Jill took a brief scan of the office, her gentle eyes landing upon her desk, noticing Chris wasn't even there. Does he have a different schedule? Did he skip work? Is he sick?

"Oh, where's that Chris guy at?" Jill asked the two men whom are standing before her. "Uhh." Brad began, glancing back at the shared wooden desk. "No clue, Chris is the rebellious type though, who knows what the kid got himself into this time." Barry scoffed, his burly arms crossed over his fibrow chest. "You know, you told me Chris can be a bit of an ass and I still have yet to see it." "Oh sweetheart, you've been here a day. I hope you don't see it but there's a likely chance." Barry bellowed, placing a hand on her shoulder.

Jill just quietly chuckled alongside with him.

"I'm guessing he won't show up today." Brad shrugged, his eyes shooting from the front wooden door and make to Chris's lengthy desk. "Enjoy the free desk space." Brad added on with a snicker, treading off to his desk in the corner of said office. Jill's face contorted into one of concern. Was it common for Chris to stray away from work? Just yesterday he seemed to have healthy work ethic. She always assumes the best of people.

"Does Chris usually opt out of work?" "It really depends, I don't know why he would today, then again, he hasn't said much to me recently." Barry hushly spoke. She nodded slowly in reply. It wasn't a big deal or anything. She just thought it'd be nice to get to know him somewhat better, besides, they'll be desk buddies for who knows how long. This isn't like Middle School where a seating chart is needed in order to be changed monthly.

"Well, thanks, I'm gonna go talk to Captain, he needs these." Jill said, showing her personal papers off. "Up and at em, sunshine." Barry laughed himself up again, finally making his way back over to Brad.

Wesker's personal office, which is a smaller sized one inside of the main office is directly by the front door. Jill gave the door a couple knocks before she then heard the man welcome her right on in. She opened up the door, his office smelt so good compared to the main one. She spotted a candle lit behind him, resting on his brown file cabinet.

She took in the sight of his office. It was packed full of trophies and awards, he must be a very skilled man. It also seemed oddly cleansed, as if it's dusted everyday and vacuumed consistently. She could tell Wesker was the nit picky type, but definitely not to this extreme.

Clearing her throat, Jill began to speak up. "Hey, just wanted to give you these." She chuckled, setting her work in front of him. Wesker's fierce eyes trailed from her beautiful face, to the led covered papers; She put an intense amount of work into them. Like she thought of earlier, she's aware of his perfectionism, she wanted to appeal to that standard of his.

He took ahold of the papers, articulating the words in his head as he read them off of the page. Jill stood there, sort of awkwardly, not knowing if she should stay or leave, he hasn't said a word yet.

After a minute or two, Wesker took all of the papers, spinning around in his black mesh chair and slipping them into one of the filing cabinets. A wave of happiness clashed over Jill - She won't have to rewrite them! "So?" "So? What?" Wesker responded, his tone plain. "Oh, sorry, I thought you'd say something about them." "What is there to say? You did as I asked of you, thank you." Wesker replied, he seemed very nonchalant. At least he wasn't a difficult boss. "Well then, cool." Jill gave him a quick smile and nod before exiting his space.

Mission accomplished!

Everyone but Chris was in the office. Jill's just assuming he decided to skip work, according to the others, that isn't surprising.

Heading over to her desk, Jill sat down, letting out an expire as she powered up the computer. Today, she just has to watch out for emails. She was told numerous times that it's not rare if they go out on missions, but it isn't common. She'd love too soon.

Once the PC turned on all the way, she logged in using her provided username and password, allowing everything to load in before she did anything. These old finicky computers can go out on you with one wrong move; These ones are from just a couple years ago though, even so, it still applies. Jill took a glance at Chris's desk. He had a lot on it. There were CDs, notebooks, notepads, glasses, tacks and some other knickknacks.

Not only that, above his desk he has a big brown leather jacket hanging. The insignia on it appears to be an angel of some sort holding a weapon. The words above it read 'Made in Heaven'. Jill isn't stupid, she knows the pop culture reference. He did mention having a matching jacket with his younger sister. Jill finds it to be cute. It's definitely his style. To her, he seems to still dress like he's in highschool. Baggy jeans, long sleeves, letterman jackets. It's stylish though.

Jill would say her style is much more casual. Sweaters, skinny jeans, leggings, long sleeves and rarely anything else. She only owns a few outfits of formal wear and that's only because she assumes there'll be events she must attend where the formality is to dress accordingly. She can't even remember the last time she wore a full face of makeup with an elegant outfit. Maybe when she was ten and playing dress up.

The computer booted all the way up, allowing Jill to get to work, at last!

About twenty minutes later, the office door swung open. The room went silent and all eyes went to said door. The sound of squishy watery shoes was heard, and a rubbery leather sound. It was Chris and Jill didn't look all too surprised. Only a little. She suspected he'd be home all day and not even make it into work but here we are. He isn't completely drenched but his clothes appear to be soaked in some spots. She has no clue what could've happened to him; It isn't even raining.

Once Wesker spotted him, Jill knew it was over for Chris. He seems so intimidating, like he'd just give you a look and you'd know he's enraged with you. Luckily, Jill hasn't seen that look and hopefully she never will. He closed his office door, set his hands on his hips and looked the muscular man up and down. It seemed straight up out of Fight Club or something. "Chris, why are you once again late?" "I had to do something, then my car broke down and I fell into a puddle." He grunted out, running his fingers through his hair.

"Oh yeah? And what was more important than work?" "My younger sister." "What did Claire need?" Wesker knew Chris's sister by name. Interesting. "Family business. Listen, can I just get to work? I'll write an extra whatever and do what you want to make up for it." Captain Wesker contemplated what Chris said. His face had it written all over that he was upset, but not angry, which was odd. You'd think if you've done this numerous times, your boss would end up becoming furious. But Wesker just seems irritated by it, no more.

"Very well then." Wesker hummed out. "Get to work, you'll have another report to do." The man chuckled, turning around and going back into his office. Chris yielded his head back, letting out a groan has both of his hands rubbed his damp face. He dreaded his walk over to Jill, not even because of her, but because it was such a walk of shame.

As he sat down, Jill looked at him, giving him a slight smile. She wasn't affected by his entrance at all, she just found it rather silly is all. Chris gave her a nod back before whispering, "Sorry." Jill was utterly confused. Why was he apologizing to her? He didn't do anything, or did he? "Uhm, why?" "I dunno, just saying sorry if I distracted you at all or anything, damn." Chris scoffed and switched on his PC. Okay, is this what they meant by he's an ass at times?

"Sorry..." Jill whispered, turning back to the PC, the light on it reflecting onto her face. She'll just work until it's lunch break. She can't wait to get some food in her system.

Many hours later, it is now noon and finally, she's able to eat. She brought her lunch in today, it's just resting on the corner of her desk. She already plans to eat now near the east gate. Ever since she got a tour of the RPD, she can tell that'll be one spot she visits a lot. There's nothing necessarily special to it but she likes how quiet it is and now you get a nice view of the city if you're high enough on the steps.

She brought in leftovers from her dinner last night - Chinese food. She doesn't have many groceries considering it's only been a few days since she moved here but gosh, the Chinese was delicious and she most definitely will be ordering it again. She also plans to order from somewhere called 'Jims Crab' tonight, it's just a block or two from her place and she's heard great things about it through the web.

Once Jill saw Brad walk out of the office, she knew she was going to be able to as well. She grabbed her pal and made her way outside.

From the S.T.A.R.S office, the east gate wasn't too far but it wasn't very close either. It was either the east gate or she eats in her car, she'd rather sit outside and eat. It isn't hot nor too cold, as of right now at least. It was freezing this morning. Hell, Jill's fingers were so cold, they felt numb to the touch. Felt like they'd break if she bent them a particular way. But the sun is out now, gleaming upon the Police Station and she is guessing it's heated up the outside world somewhat.

Walking through the waiting room and past the artroom, she opened the door that leads to the east gate. She wasn't wrong either, it felt just right outside. It wasn't snowing either, but snowfall is expected to begin later in the day.

The sound of the stairs clickety clacking beneath her was noisy, they were steel and had little to no snow covering them. Jill already decided she'd sit on the last few steps, that way she wouldn't be in anyone's way if they had to come through. The step wasn't wet from the snow either, which was a plus for her. She dreaded having a wet bottom for the rest of the day. With the open space beside her, she set her pal there, that way she'd be able to just keep her food in her lap.

For yesterday's dinner, she ordered quite a bit. She had purchased Orange Chicken, Lo Mein, Beef on a stick and Coconut Chicken. To be fair, she plans to save it for the next few days, but it was a lot. For work though, she just brought in some Orange Chicken and Lo Mein - Her personal favorites. She also made sure to not forget chopsticks, she doesn't wanna eat with her fingers, it's so unprofessional and gross to do in a work space. She remembers one time at her old job, one of her coworkers saw her eating dumplings with just her hands and he never stopped teasing her about it. Now she's always sure not to.

She unclicked the tabs attached to the container, shoving it into her pouch. She began to dig in literally immediately; It was safe to say she needed to fuel her body with tasty food. On top of her orange chicken, onion chives were set on top of the array of it. With the Lo Mein, broccoli surrounded it. She did have some of it last night but the taste is too good to pass up again.

Taking her chopsticks, reusable ones, she began to pick up a piece of chicken, taking a bite out of it. It was so good. Jill's eyes practically rolled behind her head. She knew the Lo Mein will be so delicious too.

Continuing to eat, she hadn't even noticed the door above her open up. But once she did, she glanced upwards, seeing Chris standing there with his own personal pouch. He must like to eat out here as well. The way he was looking down at Jill - It made her feel speechless. His eyes were so pretty and entrancing. The sunshine mixed with the bright snow caused a ray on his eyes, making them glow gorgeously.

"Hey, do you need me to move?" Jill asked if Chris, getting ready to step up and leave. "Nah, that's fine, I can go somewhere else." Chris stated, beginning to turn around but Jill couldn't stop herself, she wanted him to stay. This was a perfect opportunity. "No, that's okay, just eat here." Jill replied softly, scooching over to make room for Chris. Chris obviously hesitated. It appears he doesn't feel too comfortable with her yet. Jill doesn't blame him for that, they only met just yesterday.

Chris obliged, tightening the strap of his pouch on his shoulder. He popped a squat beside Jill and zipped open his bag. In it, he had a sandwich and chips - Classic.

Jill couldn't help but smile to herself, he smelt good. He smelt very manly and musk. She's just a fool sometimes.

"How are you today?" She broke the silence, taking a sip of her iced tea. Chris took a double take at her; He most likely didn't expect her to start up a conversation. "I'm alright, you?" "I'm okay as well." Jill responded, continuing to eat. Chris gave her a nod, taking a large bite out of his sandwich, he was probably starving. After the morning he has seemed to have, she wouldn't be surprised if he hasn't ate yet.

She decided to break the ice. Break the awkwardness. Just make conversation overall.

"How long have you worked here?" "Almost a year now." Chris chomped down some chips. Jill scanned his face. He was attractive. Though, she'll never admit such. "I see. You like it here?" "I do, for the most part." Chris added on. "Other than that, it's a pain in the ass." Chris snorted. Jill let out a giggle, slurping up some noodles. "Oh yeah?" Jill bit down on some chicken. "Yeah, this job has its ups and downs, it's pros and cons... Eventually you just get over it and learn to manage and handle it." "I see, well, I think I enjoy it so far besides the amount of paperwork." Jill snickered, licking her fork.

"Thought you weren't going to show up to work today." "Oh?" "I just heard you miss work here and there." "Let me guess, Barry?" "Yep." Jill said, sipping her beverage. Chris scoffed, tossing his sandwich back into it's ziplock baggy. "I wish Barry would just keep to himself sometimes." "It's not that big of a deal though." "To you, sure, but he has not right to butt in on my life." "I get how you feel but I did ask him, I was curious." Jill hummed to Chris, her food was already almost gone. "I guess that's different." Chris sighed deeply, his eyes going from her to his food every so often.

The silence between them would last for a minute before they'd speak again. Oddly enough, Jill didn't mind the quietness. It felt rather serene. When other people are silent around her, it feels weird. The atmosphere feels icky. But with Chris, she just feels safe. It feels peaceful.

"Is your lunch good?" Jill questioned him, glancing down at his food. "Average, yours?" "Great. The Chinese food is good." "Oh yeah it is, sometimes I get it for lunch." "What do you usually order?" "God, it depends. Sometimes Mongolian Beef with Sesame Chicken and other days I'll get Noodles with Egg Rolls." "All of that sounds sooo good." Jill drew her words out, her mouth watering up again as she thought of all of the other foods he listed off.

"I plan to go to 'Jim's Crab' tonight, do you know if it's any good?" "Been there a couple times. Not the worst, not the best. I think it's just worse for me because seafood always makes me feel a bit sick." "Understandable." She responded, giving him a nod, her face having a smirk on it. "But hey, give it a shot Jill, maybe you'll like it." He gave her a quick smile. She had yet to see it. Barry said he rarely smiles. Did he lie?

Chris seems like an alright guy. Jill is still confused by what Barry and Brad meant. Maybe she still has yet to see it, she has only been here a day but the two of them made it seem like he was borderline verbally abusive. Does Chris just not like Brad or Barry? Or just Brad? Because from what she's learnt, Barry is a sort of father figure to Chris, there's no way he has any sort of resentment towards the man.

"Is the 'Moon's Donut's' spot any good?" "Fuck yes." Chris chuckled out, swallowing the last bit of his sandwich. "Jill, the food from there is heavenly, you should most definitely get some on your way to work tomorrow." Chris expressed, clear passion for the place. Jill couldn't help but snicker at his words. He seemed so jolly. "Maybe in my run this weekend I'll stop by and give it a go." "You go on runs too? No one else around here does." "Of course I do, I did back at my old place as well." Jill replied to Chris's surprised and surprising words.

She couldn't wait for her run. She'll toss in some earbuds, connect it to a cassette and begin her run. It's always so calming. It's sort of a way to relax the mind. All of her problems seem to dissipate when she's on the go. Her cardio gets pumpin hella quick. It's even better when it's cold out, she swears more and the second she gets home, she takes a nice hot shower. The contrast from the previous cold air makes it all the more better.

"I have a question, Jill." "Shoot it." Jill then shot him a look. "Wanna run together? I mean, this weekend, when you do? It's just nice to not always have to go alone. From time to time, me and Brad will but he's sometimes a buzz kill." Chris chuckled out to her. "Aw, well sure, I'd like that. I got to ask, how is he a buzz kill?" "Geez, he'll complain. Oh it's too hot, too cold, his feet hurt, body is sore... Just very annoying at times." "Yeah, sounds like it." Jill replied with a snort, beginning to put her food away. She didn't finish it all the way but their break is hitting the brink of being complete. Chris has already done the same.

"You're done?" "Yeah, it's almost 12:15 so I just wanna get back to the office, don't wanna be late my second day here." It was a good way of thinking, Chris thinks so. "Guess you're right." Chris also stood up, placing the strap onto his shoulder once again. "Walk together?" Jill said with a kind voice. Chris didn't say anything at first. Starstruck was what he was feeling. No one tends to even want to walk with him and now, someone is asking him? And it's Jill? Paint Chris surprised. "Sure." Chris nodded slowly, "Ladies first?" He stepped to the side, giving her room.

Jill giggled, stepping in front of him.

The two of them had a lovely talk on the way to their office.

#resident evil #jill valentine #chris redfield #valenfield #valenfield fanfiction #valenfield fanfic #chris x jill #jill x chris #re1 #re1 remake #albert wesker #barry burton #not a one shot #this is a series #tumblr fyp

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vampireninjabunnies-blog · 2 years ago

Note

🧣 for Esther?

You got it. It's mountain man time.

Esther could see her breath as she trudged through the snow behind Jacob. She wasn't used to the heavy snowfalls of Montana yet and hadn't thought to buy better clothes for it. All her winter clothes suited Georgia winters and we're frankly a bit threadbare. She was freezing but hated spending John's money and still hadn't wrapped her head around the idea that marrying him meant she wasn't poor anymore. So she followed behind Jacob the snow coming nearly to her waist on the trail of some stupid moose.

John was in Missoula handling something for the project. Keeping Joseph out of trouble no doubt or maybe Jacob. As much as she adored Jolene she was pretty sure none of the Judge wolves existed legally.

"You okay there kitten? Need a hand?" Jacob teased, grinning at her. A youthful playfulness lighting up his face that made him resemble John more than usual. Handsome in his own way despite his many scars.

She grumbled at him in response picking up the pace as best as she could. Resenting ever so slightly the ease in which his long legs allowed him to traverse through the snow. One of the few moments in her life she lamented being so damned short. She normally enjoyed it, especially when John would go out of his way to reach things for her or the way she could curl up with him and be completely wrapped up in his warmth. Not today though.

It had been her idea to join Jacob and his hunters. She was bored, a little lonely and she liked Jacob. His quiet, rugged demeanor reminded her of her brother Micheal. So when Jim had offhandedly mentioned that they'd be out hunting today she jumped at the chance to go. And if she was with Jacob she usually didn't have to worry about Joseph hovering about and getting on her nerves.

Hunting was generally something Jacob did with John not Joseph. She wanted to bond with her new siblings, hunting seemed a good opportunity to do so with Jacob and while John demanded she stay far away from Faith's activities, especially the flowers, they'd still managed to find common ground. In fact she was quite fond of her new sister. But she just wasn't sure how to connect with Joseph.

Jim signaled them up ahead pulling her from her thoughts. He pointed toward the large animal about seventy yards away. Jim began to ready his arrow when Jacob stopped him. Motioning to Esther.

"Let kitten give it a go. After all she wanted to come so badly." He was teasing again. She smirked at him, stepping just ahead of them and readying her bow. She waited patiently for the animal to raise its head and then loosed her arrow.

She grinned smugly at Jacob as he watched the animal go down, the arrow planted deeply in its left eye.

"Damn I didn't know you had that in you. We should drag her up here, make her a hunter." Jim called out as he made his way over to the moose.

Jacob looked at her, admittedly impressed. "John's shit with a bow, so where'd you learn that?"

"My daddy used to take me and my brother hunting. And I was on my college archery team. Champion three years in a row."

He laughed at the way she held her head when she spoke. Pride radiating off of her. Thinking that maybe John might have bit more than he could chew with this one. Jim stopped her when she went to retrieve her arrow, pulling out his phone.

"John's gonna want to see this. Let's get a picture before we call the other hunters to drag this big fucker up to the veterans center."

Jacob helped her hold it up by its antlers so Jim could get a good shot. Grinning just as broadly as she was.

When they finally got back to Jacob's truck Esther was shivering nonstop, her clothes nearly soaked through from all the snow. He made a mental note to tell John to get her some new winter clothes figuring she hadn't bothered to mention it. He waved Jim off to go make his rounds, pulling a big fluffy blanket out of a bag he kept in the back. As much as John seemed to enjoy hunting with him, he really was such a damn baby about actually roughing it. So Jacob always made sure he had as many creature comforts on hand as he could.

She'd already sat herself in the passenger seat, engine on and heater going full blast. Trying to warm her small hands. He wrapped the blanket around her, smiling as she almost disappeared in it, nothing but her grinning face visible.

"John will kill me if you get sick out here kitten. Let's get you home and in some dry clothes."

She nodded snuggling deeper into the soft warmth of the blanket, leaning over to rest on his broad shoulder. He hadn't been on the road back to Holland Valley for more than ten minutes before he heard her snoring softly, glancing down to see she'd fallen asleep. She was a lively one and she was sure to give them all a whole lot of trouble. But he liked her and was glad she'd found her way into their lives.

#oc:esther seed #jacob seed #oc:jim richards #fluff #our favourite mountain man #far cry 5 oc #oc asks

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fatal-iistic · 2 years ago

Text

Ties That Bind (Pt. 2)

Summary: There’s objectives to be followed, but First Lieutenant Blair Moore can’t help but deny the unwavering loyalty and devotion into protecting one soldier in particular.

Pairing: Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x F!Original Character

Words: 8.7k

Warnings: Swearing, war, minor character death, injury/gore (minor descriptions)

January 8, 2021

Eastern Sovereign Base Area, Dhekeila, Cyprus

Lieutenant Blair Moore's reputation reaches John Mactavish before he can physically locate her.

Major Sprik mentions offhandedly in Soap's arrival debrief of "the American girl" and how at home she's already become amongst the British soldiers. Rumors swirl that she'd beaten anyone willing to compete in a pull-up contest, and one could spot her in the obscene hours of the morning running laps around the base.

She is intense, if anything (Sprik uses a more derogatory term, one that irritates Soap, if anything).

Sgt. Mactavish last saw Lieutenant Blair Moore in person when swaddling the Greater Caucus foothills in Georgia nearly a year prior in search of Al-Qatala's newest successor, Khaled Al-Asad. Though absent in presence, Soap can't help but think about her every so often. She is a remarkable soldier, formidable and smooth. But Soap recalls the fleeting rays of humanity and humility shining through her rugged exterior.

After their three days in Georgia wrapping up a failed ops in locating al-Asad, it's time enough for Soap to find himself drunk on that woman. She's an enigma – densely cored emotions and perspectives shelled by a rugged exterior. Surges of personality harken closely to Captain Price, shared components that Soap is certain stem from years of experience in the field. Hypnotized, that boy, Soap, is.

He’s a fool. There’s no plausible deniability for that case. He’d dated one girl seriously in the past, right at the tail-end of primary school when he’d signed with the army. Wore his heart on a sleeve, that boy did. His ma was convinced no other woman could strike John’s attention when he’s become smitten with one individual. John MacTavish truly believed he’d make that girl his bride, but when the demands of service and the demands of a relationship did not coexist harmoniously, the girl broke his heart.

Soap reckoned he would keep his sights focused on what mattered: serving the great good, serving his country, saving lives. His track record thus far has been immaculate (love life, or perhaps the lack thereof; not military disciplinary record).

And then there was is Blair Moore.

Their zigzagging trajectories. Two comets always passing but never colliding.

He doesn't see her for months following Georgia. He's eventually summoned to Verdansk, but Blair is seldom to be seen. He wistfully admits to his own consciousness that he's disappointed by this fact, but does not allow the perspective to plague his mind too heavily. Viktor Zakhaev is at large in Kastovia. There's a mission at hand.

Now.

It's January of the new year.

Viktor Zakhaev is several weeks dead and underground. On one hand, Al-Asad remains at large and fully dangerous. But the world's superpowers decide to celebrate one less terrorist, resting their heavy heads on their pillows and popping champagne at holiday parties.

Task Force 141 does very little to sleep on their conflicts. One less psychopath with access to weapons of mass destruction is one less threat, sure. The cesspool he was plucked from remains abundant and as murky as ever. Al-Qatala remains a threat, burly in numbers, intel, weapons, and backing. People were still dying at the hands of AQ.

Christmas slips by as quickly and quietly as the soft snowfall Soap watches from the window at his flat in Edinburgh. Days of sleeping in his own bed, and crushing family members in giant bear hugs, and overeating his mother's cooking until he feels remorse. He wouldn't take those days for granted nor trade them for the world, but he's almost itching when Captain Price calls him up. Unsurprisingly, the enemy never slumbers, and Soap would be flown down to Cyprus for another operation.

Details are hazy. Al-Qatala smugglers undertaking operations in a town just outside of al Mazrah. Intel pointed more toward drug smuggling, but sources also cited a potential for arms dealing and clandestine rendezvous with foreign figures. If it smelled and looked like a fish, it was fishy.

What tempers his emotions is the news of who he'd be conducting the mission with. Lieutenant Blair Moore.

She'd been in the Middle East for months. Operations in the Republic of Adal, Iraq, and Saudi Arabia, among other places. Brushing shoulders with some of the world's richest individuals in Dubai and Riyadh. Collecting. Coercing. Confiscating. She's a master of covert affairs, coupled with an intense understanding of violence and timing.

John MacTavish can't tame his frivolity when he arrives on base in Cyprus (God, he feels like a schoolboy. Not a military-trained weapon of war).

Soap manages to solicit a late lunch ration from the mess hall before making his way out to search for Lieutenant Moore. Pvt. Reyes informs Soap that some soldiers were racing with Blair near the garages. So to the garages, he departs.

When he reaches the group, races are no longer being held. Blair is perched nonchalantly on a crate in her fatigues, cheeks touched rosy. She looks like a queen on her throne, shoulders rolled back as she laughs at something said by another soldier. Four other soldiers flock close to the crate, either propped against the building wall or lying docilely on the pavement. The other half dozen spectators mill about on their feet, passing jabs and jokes at the spent soldiers. Blair had just bested them; it didn't take further investigation to come to that conclusion.

"Oi, Mactavish, you come to get yer ass whooped too?" Sgt. Kelley calls out as Soap approaches.

"I think we've shamed the British Army enough by the looks o' it," Soap observes with a scoffing laugh. "I don't even need ta' know the stakes ta' know Lieutenant Moore would butcher me pride."

"Coward," a private whistles.

Soap is a millisecond from disciplining the private when Blair's airy laugh cuts through the tension.

"Ah, ya'll need to lighten up. Besides, I could use a break," Blair interjects spiritedly. Her deeply-Texan accent makes Soap smirk, so evidently different from the dialect of the UK-ers on base – her inevitable twang made her stick out like a sore thumb. She hops off her crate and strides towards the approaching Soap. "'Bout high time ya made it here, Sergeant Mactavish." Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief.

"I told you before, call me Soap," he pokes.

Blue eyes sparkle in the mid-afternoon sun, as blue as the Mediterranean waters off the coast. "Ya haven't changed much, Soap," she remarks calmly. Her tone is genuine. Warm like an embrace. "I'm leadin' the team brief tonight. We'll do a recap tomorrow morning before wheels up."

"In the meantime, will you keep torturing these boys?" Soap indicates to the men still sprawled on the ground, blue eyes gleaming with a chuckle.

"They're already toast; anything else would be a war crime." She points her boots east, gesturing at Soap with an invitation to follow. "Walk with me, sergeant."

The two stroll along the sidewalk, quiet as the sea-salt breeze playful bats against their bodies. It's a beautiful winter afternoon here, the temperature is moderate for this time of year in Cyprus, but either soldier comes from snow-laden yards and blustery winds. They go without jackets, letting the sun kiss their bare arms.

Soap withholds his glances at Lieutenant Moore, but can't help but admire how her muscles ripple in her arms. One is completely covered in tattoo ink, images of dark trees and shadowy creatures, coupled with an intensely-detailed creature with a deer's skull and horns, adorn her skin. Haunting images. Fitting for the coarse woman.

"It's a wendigo," she notifies chirpily.

Soap blinks, dumbfounded. "Huh?"

She holds up her arm, pointing to the creature. "A wendigo. An evil spirit told of by the Native tribes in the Western Plains. They would kill and eat their victims."

Soap grimaces with a snort. His subtlety epically falters; not much escapes Blair's keen eyes. "Ain't that fitting, Moore," he rasps.

"You should see my other tattoos." She winks. A note of immodesty lilting on her tongue, something so fine Soap isn't sure if he's imagining the playfulness.

He blushes. "Uh…what?"

"Exactly." Her laughter is jovial, too much for a woman who can murder a man with her hands. A stark contrast to the woman he remembers in combat and under the duress of locating al-Asad in Georgia. Here on base, an amount of laxity manifests in the woman's persona.

Playful like a lynx.

Soap comes to the deliberation that he both admires and fears this woman, just as one would a natural predator. It's best to leave them at a distance, but Soap can't help but feel desperately entranced into her magnetic field. Hypnotized by her silken laughter and the mirth simmering in her eyes. The world is at war, all day, every day, but that detail doesn't burden him at this moment, here in the Cyprus sun.

"How about yours, Soap?" Without warning, she grasps his right arm, twisting it to inspect the artistry on his forearm. "That? Has to do somethin' with 141, huh? How patriotic. Price get one on his ass, too?"

Soap chuckles. "Fat chance."

"You're a proud soldier, through and through, hm?"

"Yes, ma'am," he replies back with a lopsided smile.

Blair pauses as she takes in Soap, her shoulders rolling back. Something brews behind Blair's eyes (blue; he reminds himself that his favorite color is blue, the color of her eyes). A storm at sea. Rigel, the brightest blue supergiant in the constellation of Orion. The toxic flesh of a dart frog. She possesses a minacious color of blue. Soap begins to brood that if he remains enraptured for too long in that gaze that perhaps he’ll turn to stone.

(But she is not Medusa, and he is not King Polydectes.)

The ice of her eyes lightens. Less like a storm. More like the gentle lap of ocean waves on the shore. A sapphire in the sunlight. The feathery plume of a kingfisher.

"I'm glad you have my back again, Mactavish. It'll be an easy op."

***

The chopper's rotors slice through the air as the machine prepares to take off again.

All seven soldiers kneel on the pavement until the metal bird levitates off the ground and suspends itself upward into the air. They remain fixated on the ground, faces tucked down as desert dust shifts in a cyclone around them. It takes until the helicopter is a safe distance back into the sky for the dust storm to relent. Another few minutes pass until it settles, and the soldiers maneuver to their feet.

The town outside of Al Mazrah is two hundred yards away from their landing site. The way is led by a trampled-down path created by the previous soldiers and Adal villagers, traversing these exact steps over time. They were sending a small team in to assess the direct danger. Six SAS soldiers. And then Blair — the latter informally labeled as their interpreter for the mission (it was simpler on paper than putting her down as a PMC consultant or combatant).

Even though the town had been labeled well and friendly to outside soldiers, any soldier worth his salt stayed on guard. Insurgents still slept in the bedrooms of these homes. They coerced, threatened, and harmed to get the job done. Any one of these villagers could have been paid or had their family and well-being menaced to produce cooperation. There was no absolute distinction between ally and enemy in this territory.

The trek through the taut desert grass is tense. Even a simple mission like this is riddled with anxiety. Enemies could be in any corner. Bombs planted under any surface. The local insurgents didn't play in terms of fairness and justice. They took the playing field and doused it in gasoline and fire.

They haven't been on the ground for more than five minutes before Blair feels sweat trickle along her spine. Uniformed, booted, and gloved, hardly an inch of skin is showing on Blair's body. It is the best principal she remains well-suited, the long blonde braid the only thing revealing her femininity. Protection from the sun. Protection from scrutiny from a majority of the villagers. Somewhere an old instructor says, “Protection from skimming bullets” (not that feeble material would safeguard from direct hits).

Blair props her M4 against the bulk of her vest. One hand caresses near the muzzle, the other trained close to the trigger (index finger kissing the cool gunmetal). If a firefight breaks out, seconds of time become either inefficacious or invaluable depending on the level of preparation. She keeps her cerebrum honed on her training, reflexes she's harnessed over the years in the field, holding those truths like a crux to her being. While adrenaline still runs in abundance through her bloodstream, she's tamed it to heighten her senses rather than hinder them.

The path remains unkempt but safe. No explosives. No concealed traps.

They step foot onto the cleared ground, following around residential buildings with fenced-in gardens and a few farm animals. It's a quiet afternoon here, Blair observes. Even the three pastured cows they bypass offer a hushed judgment from across their field.

The buildings become denser.

Private Shaw leads the way into the uneven streets of the town, McKinley and Kelly in step just behind him. Walsh and O'Conner are next, with Blair and Soap in succession at the rear. They walk with purpose, constantly scanning the scenery around them. Residents gaze back at the patrolling soldiers, hugging closely to their doors and not engaging any further than passing glances. They seemed heavily reluctant to acknowledge the presence of the Marines.

Blair's eyes sweep from corner to corner. Her mouth feels cotton dry. A wallowing pit of despair consumes all in her stomach. There's something deep within her gut.

This doesn't seem right.

But why.

She can't halt the troops based on feeling alone.

Bile burns from within. Her muscles scream with protest. Deep within her instinct, every fiber tells her to stop. Not to carry on.

Then something registers, white hot, in her cortex.

"Hold it," Blair commands with an absolute sense of resolve. Each soldier stumbles to a halt, pivoting to meet Blair's command with wide eyes.

"This doesn't feel right," she announces.

"Feel right?" Sgt. McKinley echoes, a bit of ridicule laced in his tone.

Eyes scan across the street and to the nearby homes. While the presence of foreign soldiers was typically met with a mixture of fear and excitement, Blair could not bring herself to accept the eerie quiet of the town. Only men stand in the doors or windows, gazing out with edgy curiosity at the Marines. She's been in many hostile environments, but most townspeople aren't part of the rogue militia – if anything, they are victims, scared and desperate for a way out. Albeit cautious, they typically respect and are receptive to foreign soldiers.

The people around them were craning on their toes, staying placidly behind the safety of their walls. As if watching and waiting, bracing for the impact of something ominous that Blair and the other soldiers couldn't see.

"Look around. There's no women or children," Blair mentions, blue eyes squinting to the horizon. She motions to the buildings around them.

"Children?" Not just McKinely repeats her words; nearly all six Marines join the chorus.

"The children," she repeats, firmer. She ignores the patronization radiating from her peers. "They usually meet us on the way from the landing pad, and not even a single one came out. Odd...isn't it?"

She thinks of little girls, hair twisted into ponytails or fashioned braids, totting younger siblings on their hips. They'd often been magnetized to her no matter what country Blair had visited – able to pick out the woman amongst the platoon, despite being covered in gear, head to toe. Soldiers would trade them a candy bar or a beanie baby to garner their favor. The small gestures won the adults as well. These soldiers, armed to the nines, aren't as bad as their local insurgents made them out to be.

An illumination of recognition lights up across the faces of each soldier. Enough of them had been on deployment before to know the cohesive bond between civilians and foreign soldiers. Even when language barriers and cultures from two ends of the spectrum wedged them apart, nothing could stop humans from being social. Their natural instinct to bond with other humans outmatches the tides of war.

Soap straightens, eyes sweeping back across the street. The town square is only a few dozen yards away. The town leaders await the SAS Marines and their interpreter to discuss the local smugglers. But that task would be put on hold.

A grip of stifled fear seizes the group of soldiers.

"Shaw, radio Wardog for immediate extraction," Soap commands. "Fall back to the landing zone."

No sooner have the instruction left his lips, the vehicle, a few meters ahead of Shaw and Kelly, ignites with a blast. The shockwave sends Blair crumbling across the ground, landing violently. She's lucky for her vest and helmet, the articles taking the brunt of the force from being tossed like a ragdoll. The smack of her guarded head still causes her ears to ring, and her vision blurs like bleeding watercolors for a moment.

Muscles tense as she fights through the scrambling of her neural circuits. Just as her training should, Blair's reflexes react swiftly to the situation. Cocking her rifle, she sends return fire into the street. There's an eruption of offensive shots, coupled with hostile shouts, as the enemy slinks out of their hiding places to rain bullets down on the soldiers.

"Return fire! Return fire!" Blair shouts.

Walsh, McKinley and O'Connor slip into cover and begin to counter their enemies' shots.

The state of Shaw and Kelly is questionable, and Blair hardly grabs a glimpse of where their bodies remain following the explosion. She can see Walsh grab his gun, firing rounds at several soldiers flanking him, and he doesn't last long before enemy fire brings him to the ground.

"Man down!" Another soldier cries.

The events unfold precariously.

It's incredible how seconds and minutes in a firefight seem to writhe by as if swimming in molasses. The viscosity of time is lost to the relentlessness of the moment. Blair can hear her rasping breaths and the roar of blood echo in her ears. It overtakes the distressing tinnitus from the bomb blast but mutes the shouts from the enemies and her comrades.

Two tangos to the left. Behind the truck, near the hood. Blair's inner voice instructs her motor control. She eases past the wall of her cover, catching one of the men popping above the truck's hood. She fires certainly, the man dropping to the ground. No sooner has he fallen, his comrade reveals himself and becomes victim to Blair's precision. Blair ducks back behind cover, bullets spraying around her.

The brick chips from the bullets, debris stinging against the exposed flesh of her face. Blair shutters, flinching away deeper into her cover.

Soap hunkers down behind the wall of the nearby building. He steps out to better aim at the enemies before suddenly crippling to his knees. He propels himself back into cover.

He's hit.

Blair feels the blood drain from her face. She sees O'Connor down the road. An enemy soldier slides closer, unloading bullets into the soft-spoken Irishman.

Her stomach sinks. They're royally fucked.

Firing several shots, Blair makes haste from her position over to Soap. She grasps the straps of Soap's vest, hauling the man to his feet before wedging her shoulder into his side.

"We need to get the fuck outta here, sergeant," Blair snaps.

They hobble down the alley, ducking behind buildings. She leads him further and further from the town square, slinking past small residential shacks and their ruddy, fenced-in yards. Soap is panting, sweating profusely from the shock the body has inevitably tapped into. Blair glances about, locating a rundown garden shed in one of the yards. She pulls Johnny into the shed, shutting the door behind her. She nearly crumples onto the ground on top of Soap, back propped against the door.

"Fucking fuck," Blair curses, jostling the M4 in her arms. "We are so fucked."

Soap is clutching his leg, retracting one hand coated in blood. A withheld groan rattles his chest, the man arching his head back and knocking it against the feeble boards of the shed wall. Blair shoots him a warning glance before sidling up closer to her comrade. She reaches behind her, jutting her shoulder uncomfortably to tear the medical bag from its straps on the posterior of her vest.

"I tooka bullet in my thigh," Soap grimaces. A breath hitches in his throat as he shifts his leg to catch a better glimpse of the crimson staining his pants.

Blair scoots, sitting perpendicular to Soap and propping his wounded leg on her lap. In any other setting, Soap knew he would've blushed. Her blue eyes don't unfocus themselves on the task, the woman fervently tearing packets of gauze pads open and antiseptic.

"It went into your lateral thigh," Blair observes plaintively, using two fingers to separate the shredded fabric of his pants. "I need you to prop up your leg. Bend at the knee." She doesn't wait for his active maneuver, and instead is already moving a protesting Soap before her command is finished.

"Whatcha tryin' to look at, Moore, my ass?" Soap growls, his additive response more solicited by the pain than any sort of emotional component, meaningful or otherwise.

Soap's prickly or suggestive remarks don't faze the Lieutenant. She's patched up soldiers a dozen times over, easily, and been in the same role of Soap as well (blast those bullet wounds, they'd knock you out of duty for weeks even if they were superficial). Pain mixed with the angst of a mission gone wrong is a hell of an irritant.

"I'm lookin' for an exit wound, douchebag," Blair snarls back, eyebrows furrowed. Her gaze never departs the bloody mess along his leg. "Don't get yer hopes up, Mactavish."

Despite himself, Soap stomachs a laugh. "Well, fuck me."

She clucks her tongue. "Not with a bullet wound like this, Mactavish," Blair replies cheekily. This time she flashes a gleam in his direction, smirking. "And definitely not in this shed."

"Where's your sense of adventure?" He hums.

Her back straightens a bit. A sudden air of normality, Blair's rigid normality, beseeching her once more. "Dead like our comrades in the town square," she responds, suddenly pressing a collection of treated gauze into the wound. Soap gives a surprised yelp, teeth slashing along the insides of his cheek to stifle the sound.

"Easy there, Mactavish," Blair murmurs. "It's a nasty wound, but you ain't dyin' on me."

"Medics always got sucha great sense o' humor," Soap accuses.

"Good thing I'm not a full-time medic," Blair reminds. She takes an unlawful amount of wrap, twisting the fabric around the outside of Soap's pants to hold the gauze she wedged over the wound in place.

Soap draws in several composed breaths. They bear a burdensome silence between them, Soap steeping in his pain while Blair listens attentively to the noise outside. They're far enough away from the commotion of the town center, but Blair keeps her guard raised. If the insurgents knew that only some of the soldiers had been caught by their attack, they'd be searching. As advanced of a tactical officer as she is, Blair can't make up for a sheer disproportion of numbers and Soap's currently-handicapped aim.

Neither can tell how much time passes before Soap draws in a long exhale and releases a sigh. He reverts his gaze upon Blair, who's painfully zoned out as she keeps in tune with their environment. In the dim light of this rickety old shed, Blair's stony demeanor is only shadowed further. Jaw clenched. Blue eyes icy. Wisps of her straw blonde hair stick to the sweat along her cheekbones. She's so direly beautiful, a fact Soap scolds himself for considering in a time like this.

And maybe it's the adrenaline mixed with the dismay, the fear that singes the tips of his senses as they lay cooped up in a rundown shed. The exemplification of otherwise diminutive emotions. But Soap can't deny the intense admiration for the woman who dragged his wounded ass out of the fire.

The attention manifesting back into Blair's body is clearly visible as her frame straightens and her eyes focus on Soap. She squints a bit, unearthing his admiring gaze.

"What's on your mind, Soap?" She prompts, almost innocently.

Soap snorts, shaking his head. When that response does not relent Blair, he decides to admit ruefully. "Yer the prettiest medic I've ever had, L.T.," Soap jests, masking his true intentions.

Blair snorts.

"Unfortunately, it seems like any blood in yer head is gone," Blair refutes.

"Well, if I die, 'least I got that off my chest," Soap replies with a touch of dramatics.

"We need a call in exfil," she ignores his remark. Gears are always turning, keeping in line with the objective. "We need to get out to the landing pad or beyond. But I'm not riskin' our hides with the heat on so high. We'll wait until nightfall."

"Aren't there dangerous creatures out at night?"

She offers an apathetic shrug, lacking concern."It's either a snake bite or a bullet in the head. I think I'll take my chances with the snakes."

Soap lifts his wrist to look at his watch. A coarse chuckle shakes him, the man wincing from the pain that pulses through him. "My watch is still on London time."

"We landed just a hair past 1300 hours," Blair informs. She squints up at the light streaming in from between the boards of the shed roof, as if she could determine the time by the rays. "We easily have…six hours…until dark”

"Tell me some good news, Rogue," Soap requests haughtily.

"You're alive."

Soap laughs lowly. It's rough and coarse, a vibrato that makes the hair on the back of Blair's neck stand at attebtion. "An optimist, aren't ya?"

"After all this time? Can't you see that I bleed sunshine and rainbows?"

His response is muted. The pain does wonders in altering Soap's nature.

"Mactavish," she states, resting her hand on his forearm.

"Call me Soap. Or Johnny. I don't care."

"Johnny," she tests the word against her tongue. For a fleet second, Blair seems consumed in her own thoughts. Reality snaps back into her prefrontal cortex; her blue eyes flick back to Soap's face.

"Joanna," she states. Soaps's only response is an unassuming, deadpan stare, to which Blair continues, "That's my legal name. I stopped going by that after we left my father."

"Left your father?" Soap echoes. She worded it in such a complex way. Confusing without context. It wasn't that her mother had left her father, but a collective we. A group effort. An entire family untangling itself from one entity.

"He…" she frowns, catching her breath in her chest. Suddenly, her gear feels cumbersome and her skin too taut against her body. Blair gulps, wringing her fingers against the security of her assault rifle. "Johnny Boy, I'm not sure you're ready to unearth my shitshow of a life."

"We have nearly six hours," he reminds with a fatigued smirk.

"Nothing of my past is normal."

"I didn’t ask for normal."

She resents him. Only because the code she's imprinted to her mind, the structural walls she's constructed over these years, don't yield to logic in his presence. Whereas others in the past, their brash judgment and lack of comprehension of Blair's uphill battles, made it evidently clear of their inability to withstand Blair's story, Soap had been opposite to dozens and dozens of their comrades. He's warm. Inviting. Like the sun in the springtime.

Chapped lips part, Blair contemplating the layout of her words. They burn like acid against her throat. A story she hasn't recounted in years.

"I was raised in a cult," Blair states. The sentence seems to flow from her lips before she has much sentience over them. A blustery confession. Her heart races from the adrenaline of its liberation.

She doesn't continue. Leaves that fact hanging in the air between them, dropped like a grenade and left to eplode. Soap's jaw drops indignantly when he realizes that she's concluded her life story in one sentence.

"What? That's it?" He snorts, unimpressed.

"That's it?" She echoes incredulously. "How many people do you know that were raised in a cult."

"Enough to know that story ain't finished at that, Blair Moore," Soap criticizes.

"What do you want from me, Soap?" Blair grouses.

"A damned good story to keep me mind off this wound. Or ya could listen to me bitch for the next few hours. The choice is yer's."

Blair scowls at Soap, sucking her cheeks in as she ponders her options. She drums her fingers against her rifle. A heavy sigh escapes her lips.

"My father was crazy. Still is," she starts, biting down on her tongue. The heat crawling along her skin as she thinks of Carl Moore beats anything the desert sun could provide. "He was in the Army for several years before being discharged. From there, he worked as a PMC. Eventually, he had some revelation, some calling that God was pushing him to do His work. So he enrolled in college to become a minister. He never graduated but still managed to kickstart a church in Texas."

"This isn't just some rip-off of Jim Jones, ain't it?" Soap jests.

"Nah. Google it when we RTB; it's valid." Blair shakes her head. She gives a deflated chuckle, her insides are aching but the weight of her recollection actually births a sense of freedom. "Hell, you might even see pictures of me as a kid. Pigtails n' everything, holdin' an assault rifle."

"Jus' another gun-lovin' American, no?" Soap tries to reason.

Her lips twist up with a rueful expression. "Perhaps, but when you start roping in the couple hundred people followin' ya, and you start delving into the deep end of politics, and the end times, it gets murky," Blair mentions. She sighs, a hollowness in her chest. "My dad...he was convinced that the government was hiding the AntiChrist. By the time I was born, he was making our home into a stronghold. My sisters and I were hunting and handlin' guns before we even had the training wheels off our bicycles."

"So you were just a dream for the Army to recruit, huh?" Soap quips.

Blair flashes him a scowl.

"Okay. Okay. I'll limit the commentary," Soap surrenders immediately, hands thrown up, "ya owe me more to this story, though."

She huffs. "To answer your question. I had a menagerie of religious trauma, emotional manipulation, and anxiety that stemmed from bein' trained as a soldier since I was two," Blair responds stonily. Her jaw clenches, fingers tapping anxiously on her rifle. "My father was a mean man. Strict too. Made my drill sergeants in basic look tame."

"What happened to him? To your family?"

"That's where I suggest you read about the coverage of the incident. From my perspective, federal agents were raiding our home to drag us and torture us into becoming followers of the Anti-Christ," Blair explains. "Really, my father had shot one of their agents sent to arrest him for evading parole. Led to a whole siege and raid. I almost shot an agent's head off during it all."

Soap snorts. "Your shot has improved since then."

"Thankfully," Blair exhales.

"And after that?"

"My family? We were victims. They tried to integrate us back into society," Blair replies (normal, they had wanted them to be normal despite no part of her upbringing was even in the same atmosphere as normal). "I did it all. The therapy. The doctor's eval. My sisters blossomed in the 'real world,' and I could hardly be more than what Dad manufactured me to be. I got in trouble. I wasn't interested in schoolwork, but I'd ace my exams. Hung out with the wrong people."

"So your only option after primary was the Army?"

She nods. "My only option was the Army," she repeats back to him. Her chest shutters. Ribs sore. She still feels the overpowering mass of her mother's grave disappointment, even fifteen years later. "My mom nearly had a stroke over it. We never saw eye to eye after that. I'd come home for leave, and it was always weird. We stopped talkin' nearly a decade ago."

"Oh."

Soap frowns. His mind wanders to his own family. They'd never understand the brutality and sacrifice he had to make, but he knew open arms and a fresh meal were waiting for him every time he came home on leave. Blair doesn't have that. She hasn't in ages.

"Joanna," Soap states, trying to divert that conversation from the bombshell Blair has just dropped on them. "It's a pretty name."

"Huh?" Blair blinks.

Even in the dim light of the shed, the bright blush of color washing Soap's cheeks is evident. "It's–uh, a nice name."

"My dad used to call me Jojo. Or Little Jo," Blair muses with a snort. "My sisters said I was always his favorite. But it left an even bitter taste in my mouth. Can't even use my real name without feelin' sour. I need to associate it with somethin' other than my bastard father."

"Well, ya could associate it with this damned shed."

She gives a loud, singular laugh – something more akin to a crow's squawk than anything human. Catching the sound on her tongue, she whips Soap an alarmed look – both mortified by her caw and acutely aware of how little noise they could have allotted. They held their breaths for a few seconds as if the timing afterward would erase the infringement she'd made.

"I guess that standard was set low," Blair remarks quietly, shaking her head with a controlled chuckle.

The two soldiers orbit back into another silence. It's at this point that Soap catches a yawn, body shuddering.

"Ya alright?" Blair quizzes.

"Exhausted," he sighs.

"Take a nap, Soap," she advises. "I'll keep watch. If I see or hear anythin', I'll be sure to wake you up with the gunshots."

He blinks, contemplating her offer. She scoots across the ground, situating herself beside Soap.

"It isn't 5-star, but I make a half-decent pillow," Blair instructs. "Catch a nap. Or so help me God."

He hesitates, mouth dry and hands shaking, before pressing his shoulder into hers and resting his head along it.

"Sleep tight, sarge," Blair breathes.

"Thanks, L.T."

The injured man slips off quicker than Blair anticipates. The military always bred oddities, one being the exceptional ability to sleep just about anywhere. However, Blair didn't expect Soap to knock out in less than five minutes. She stays alert, listening to the world outside of this damned shed.

Her senses feel pumped full of anxiety. At least the head-pounding adrenaline has subsided as she sits, reminiscing about her past to Soap. But there's nothing except the safety of the walls back at base that will allow Blair to relish in relaxation. Not in this shed. Not in Adal territory. Not with a collection of heavily-armed men back in town, probably sweeping the area for any survivors.

A manifestation of protectiveness flickers and flares from within the woman. She likes to perceive it as a conjunction of maternal instinct coupled and complimenting her resolute loyalty to her comrades as a soldier. Regardless, it is a hell of a stimulant. Even while her eyelids felt heavy and her body ached, Blair remains devoted to protecting her slumbering comrade.

Underneath the intense façade of soldier-like machismo, Blair also cradles the mere notion that she found favor with Soap. His willingness to see a human underneath her rigid soldier stature and all the blight she carries from her past. The sensation births a trembling warmth in Blair's chest, threatening to inhabit and overtake the empty space rented out between her ribs, spilling out into the light.

It scares her. It overwrites many competent functions of her somatic system, sending her into a muted frenzy of worry.

There are people Blair would take a bullet for. Any of her comrades. Any part of her squad. Anyone on mission with her. (She'd been manufactured for this.)

And then there are people Blair would die for.

That list was humble in quantity. Her mother and sisters, and her niece and nephew she'd never met, take the top echelons of that list. Kate Laswell meets the standards as well.

Some of the nominees are dead. That's how many vacancies persisted.

Sierra. Her first love. Twelve years gone.

Conrad. Partner. Confidant. Buried four years ago.

And now John MacTavish fits the bill.

It's a fool's errand to be divulging down this path. More often than not, anybody Blair gave a damn for wound up dead or ostracized from her. She isn't sure if either could be sustainable for her exhausted heart.

Beside her, Soap snores softly in his sleep.

Blair grimly smiles. She revels in his warmth, though it makes her slicker with sweat even in their shaded refuge. The closeness and contact, and her constant lack thereof, is poisonous yet something her body craves.

She catches herself nestling the side of her cheek against the top of Soap's head. He smells like polymer and dust.

There is no estate to entertain these consuming thoughts. The situation is extremely inappropriate, yet when all she can do is sit and listen and keep a hand on her gun, the thoughts scream over the white noise in her brain.

Fingernails dig into her palm, creating crescents in the calluses. She chews on the inner flesh of her mouth. In an attempt to divert the rage of emotions crashing tumultuously against her soul, Blair starts to imagine disassembling her rifle and cleaning it. She'd give her M4 the queen treatment back at base. Defaulting back to her factory settings, the one of a soldier, is the only thing capable of distracting her from the terror of giving a damn over John MacTavish.

She's onto round five of mentally disassembling and reassembling her gun when her consciousness slips. It isn't a fruitful slumber, but Blair loses acute awareness of her surroundings until a gusty enough breeze causes the boards of the shed to groan. She snaps back into wakefulness, pulse galloping.

Listening to the world around her, Blair realizes their little refuge is nearly bathed in darkness from the waning light beyond. The sky is a shade of navy, touched with a paling orange-yellow off in the western horizon. Somewhere an evening bird sings.

Blair releases a long inhalation from her lungs, settling her blood pressure. She'd fallen asleep, but they had been safe.

"Soap," her voice rattles his slumber. When he doesn't move, she places her hand on his forearm and shakes him. "Johnny."

He stifles a yawn, eyes blinking rapidly. "Hmmm?"

"The sun is goin' down. Let's get movin'."

Blair clamors to her feet, reaching for Soap's hands to haul him to a standing position. Soap gives a low groan as he places weight onto his wounded leg, wincing.

"We're gonna climb up into the hills. We gotta take the long way to the helipad."

"Can't just walk through town?" Soap quips. His voice sounds like it courses over gravel. Pale blue eyes blink away the sleep.

"Unless their opinion of us has changed since earlier…fat chance," Blair replies.

Blair steadily opens the shed door, rifle in arms, as she scans the evening terrain. These houses remain quiet. She wonders how long the residents will persist with hunkering down, turning face to the insurgents and their plans. It makes for perfection for two out-of-place soldiers, though. She doubts at this point the insurgents will be sweeping this area in hopes of locating the remaining soldiers.

The scene is clear, Blair motions to Soap for the all-clear. They thread between the outlying homes, Blair hovering close to Soap. The steep rocky slopes prove to be a challenge for the wounded soldier. He's a tough motherfucker, but Blair sees through the act.

Eventually, Soap stumbles, landing on his bad leg with a yelp. Blair hops down the slope to his side, pulling Soap onto his feet and wedging her shoulder into his side.

"Can't quit on me now, Soap," Blair growls.

They've trucked a distance before Blair eases Soap down. The landing pad is just over the next hill, but between Blair's own impatient dismay and Soap's deteriorating vigor, she determines it's a decent post to contact HMS Resolve. She takes out her radio and a small transponder from her pack. Working the wires, she rigs up something that can transmit a signal.

"This is Alpha Five-Two to Resolve Actual, do you read?"

Static bleeds back through the radio. Blair repeats the same call-out nearly a half dozen times before another voice finally breaks through.

"Resolve Actual to Alpha, status update. Over."

Soap and Blair flash one another a relieved glance. There's a heaviness that nearly uplifts itself completely from Blair's tightly wrung shoulders.

"Things went sour. We've lost five men," Blair rattles off. "Sergeant Mactavish and I are in the hills taking cover. Over."

"We can ready and send Wardog to extract you."

"Copy, Actual. I'll set a flare when we hear the angels chorus."

"Noted, Alpha. Readying a team and a bird now. Out."

Blair sinks to a seat on the dusty ground, finally releasing a sigh that's built up from the tension in her diaphragm for the last few hours. Her heart still hammers against her ribs, aching from hours of high stress. The moment the relief floods, Blair becomes acutely aware of the throbbing in her head, the ache in her left shoulder, and how scratchy her throat feels. She was in awful shape but still functional.

"We're gettin' out of here, Soap," she announces triumphantly, despite the burden of her discomfort.

Silence follows.

"Johnny?"

Her neck nearly snaps as she pivots to face her comrade. He's slumped on his seat upon a boulder, inspecting the soaked-through gauze.

"I'm bleedin' again," he wheezes.

Blair springs forward, kneeling down.

"You ain't gonna lose all yer blood, Mactavish. Take a deep breath. The shock and panic are gonna do you in sooner if anything."

She's crass. Words clipped. Coddling Soap at this moment probably won't nurse him along. But while her words are sharper than a cleaver, her hands are gentle. She fidgets to procure more gauze and wrap, packing it over the previously-instated supplies.

"Good as new, soldier," Blair remarks. She reaches and grabs Soap's palm, squeezing it. "We're gettin' out of here, you and me. Ya hear me?"

Soap twists a weak smile to his lips. "Yes, ma'am."

He manages to limp close alongside Blair up and over the last hill, boots sliding on loose stone with teeth gritting. At the landing pad, the duo crouch near the desert bushes near the edge. Blair scans the vicinity, grabbing her radio once more.

"Resolve Actual, this is Alpha. Requesting an ETA. Over."

Blair decompresses her lungs. Eyes rivet to the sky as if she could spot their guardian angel amongst the darkness.

"Alpha. Wardog One is six clicks from your location. T-minus ten minutes."

"Copy."

Tearing the package of flairs from her pack, Blair quickly strikes them to life. She tosses them to the edges of the cement of the landing pad, clearly marking the ground for Wardog to locate them. The area glows a surreptitious red, the smell of charcoal, sulfur, and fire burning against Blair's sinuses as she hunkers back next to Soap.

Commotion. Blair squats lower to the ground as she fixes her eyes on the town two-hundred-some yards away. The lights of the homes sparkle in the distance, but the noise exceeds that of a typical winter evening.

There are gunshots. Blair can't tell if it's in response to the sudden illumination of the landing pad or for other reasons, but she hunkers closer to the ground.

"Think you knocked on the hornets' nest, Moore," Soap remarks hoarsely.

Blair huffs, teeth grinding. "Knew it wouldn't be an easy extraction."

Across the two-hundred yards that plant them between the village of insurgents and the landing pad, she can perceive shadows galloping down the path. The gunshots seemingly pointed in their general direction -- though until they start striking the helipad's pavement, she cannot confirm or deny that these men were coming for the two 141 soldiers. Blair tenses, raising her rifle without hesitation.

"Looks like we're going to make friends," Blair expires.

Getting a good shot in the dark with minimal light is difficult. Blair sees her shots more as warnings. She doesn't need enemies down; she must keep them from lodging bullets into their skulls and sending them home in body bags. Beside her, Soap fires rounds into the long shadows of night.

Something explodes.

Blair is still determining what is launched in their direction. Still, it misses the actual target of the soldiers and desecrates the ground several meters off. The shockwave throws either soldier. Bones groan, and nerves sing as Blair is sent several feet across the land. She smacks her helmet against the concrete, brain-rattling like loose pocket change.

She combats the shiver of heat and pain that pulses through her body. Immediately she schools her dazzled eyesight for a glimpse of Soap, her heart thundering against sore ribs.

He's there in the dust, frame slumped.

"Soap!" She hollers, fingers scraping against the cement. Her eyesight is blurry from the smoke. She digs her fingernails into the ground for traction, fingertips hot from the pain.

Above the noise, through the shrill ringing of her injured ear drums, Blair can hear the radio crackle, "Alpha Five-Two, this is Wardog One. We are two clicks out from your location."

She throws herself over Soap, her torso flush to his back, and her limbs splayed to cover his own. She looks like a lioness protecting her cub, the features of her face sharing the same primordial savagery. Unholstering her pistol, she keeps firing shots into the dust to dissuade the enemy further. Once the magazine empties, Blair shifts back to her assault rifle.

The sound of chopper blades cutting through the air hums in the distance.

"Wardog Two, we are taking heat. I repeat–" Blair can't finish the call before her arm is shredded by a bullet. It tracks the lateral aspect of her shoulder, clipping skin and soft tissue but never fully entering her limb. Blood sprays. The woman bites down on her tongue to prevent a yelp from escaping her lips.

She falters off Soap's body, hitting the ground with an unceremonious thud. She remembers locking eyes with Soap, the man reaching out to grab Blair's hand and lacing his fingers through hers.

Not like this, comes a guttural cry from within Blair.

She pushes up on her free elbow. She's lost territory of where her pistol is. Her assault rifle digs into her chest, but the shredded flesh and crimson seeping from one arm makes Blair question the quality of her gun handling. Panic bubbles like boiling water in her chest, frothing over into an icy hot sheet throughout her torso.

From the skies, the chopper's blades cut through the air. Shots ring out from the helo, reigning down on the enemies present somewhere beyond the billow of dust enveloping Soap and Blair.

Blair's rattled thoughts are fractured by the crack of gunfire beside her. Soap musters a second wind and fires back at their enemies. Bullets ricochet off the cement, sizzling by both soldiers dangerously. Something nicks Blair along the cheek, whether it was a stray bullet or debris coming from another explosion, this one falling much shorter than the previous strike.

"Can't see much–" Blair hears Wardog warn, words clipping in and out of static even though they're only meters above. "Get clear, Alpha!"

Pushing up to her feet, Blair seizes an amount of Soap's uniform and hauls the man upward. They skulk to the far edge of the landing pad; eyes cast upward as the twister of dust whipped around them. It's an afterthought that both soldiers hold one another. Soap teetering on his wounded leg, and Blair's energy nearly sapped dry.

Their bird in shining armor.

Dust spits into Blair's sclera, mixing with sweat to create a burning in her vision. Eyelids squint shut. Fingers curl tightly around the straps of Soap's vest, body sidling closer. She tries to reopen her eyes, making out the form of the helo, the door sliding open, and boots hitting the ground.

Two soldiers assist Soap onto the helo, while another helps Blair limp to the bird. She nearly collapses onto the floor within the sheltering walls of the helo, head dizzying as the chopper begins to ascend while shots still ring out from the sides. One of the soldiers prop her up, shoving a plastic bottle of water in her direction and prompting her to drink.

The flight back to the HMS Resolve is terse. Blair remains glued to Soap's side, brushing off the medic who evaluates them both. Both soldiers are wrecked. Dust and blood and sweat drench their uniforms. They look more like prisoners than soldiers, which Blair could contemplate their entrapment in the shed for six hours akin to a jail cell.

"You're a tough motherfucker, sergeant," Blair rasps to Soap. She uses her frame to prop Soap’s upper torso up while the medic combs over his wounds. One arm snakes around his ribcage, a half-hug to support Soap’s waning energy.

His pants leg is permeated in blood, looking more crimson than camo. He hugs a swollen arm close to his chest, an injury the medic mumbling about potentially being sprained or broken.

A wiry, exhausted smile tugs at the ends of the Scot's lips. He looks bone-weary, beyond the ability to offer Blair much of a gesture.

Blair would rather be in a hundred places than in the Med Ward at ESBA. While the doctor assesses Soap, Blair sits across the room behind a curtain with a nurse. She cranes to listen in on Soap's condition. He is alive. He has all his limbs. But a pit of worry still festers deep in her gut.

"You need X-rays on the wrist, Sgt. Mactavish," Doctor Hanson reports, "And surgery to take that bullet outta your leg. But we'll have to transport you to Limassol General for that."

Blair fights to keep her focus as Doctor Hanson rattles off more details. The Limassol General Hospital was about an hour down the coast. They'd patch Soap up nicely. He is out of the woods – she hadn't completely failed in getting her comrades to safety.

Her stomach burns. She's been in squads and platoons with hundreds of other people. She'd failed many of those people during times of duress and combat. But she hadn't felt more resolute and devoted to ensuring Soap, of all people's safety. Blair inwardly chastises herself for the subtle fringes of attachment.

"Lieutenant," The nurse presses.

Blair snaps back to attention.

"Doctor Hanson can double-check, but you should be set to be discharged," she presses.

"What about Sargeant MacTavish?"

"He will most likely remain here until he's transported," the nurse replies.

"Then I'm staying."

"Lieutenant–" the nurse starts.

"I just lost a whole squad. I'm not leaving my last man," Blair argues, her voice rising.

"Blair," Soap heaves. She swings past the curtain of her space, retreating to his side immediately. "I'm alive. You look like hell. Go get some sleep. I'll still be breathin' by the time you get back."

She clenches her jaw. Eyes look ready to cry – or maybe that is just the reaction from the dust and sweat not quite evaporating. She'll play on the side of innocence, the adrenaline of her blossoming devotion to Soap still not comprehensible, and she's unwilling to face it head-on.

"Okay," she relents. Her chest caves in.

"Okay," he echoes with the ghost of a smile.

As she follows the nurse out of the room, Soap calls, "I owe you one, Blair."

She pivots.

Pausing.

"Joanna. You can call me Joanna."

#john mactavish x original character #call of duty fanfic #cod fanfic #johnny soap mactavish x original character #blair rogue moore

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brookstonalmanac · 5 days ago

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Events 1.28 (after 1920)

1920 – Foundation of the Spanish Legion. 1922 – Knickerbocker Storm: Washington, D.C.'s biggest snowfall, causes a disaster when the roof of the Knickerbocker Theatre collapses, killing over 100 people. 1932 – Japanese forces attack Shanghai. 1933 – The name Pakistan is coined by Choudhry Rahmat Ali Khan and is accepted by Indian Muslims who then thereby adopted it further for the Pakistan Movement seeking independence. 1935 – Iceland becomes the first Western country to legalize therapeutic abortion. 1938 – The World Land Speed Record on a public road is broken by Rudolf Caracciola in the Mercedes-Benz W125 Rekordwagen at a speed of 432.7 kilometres per hour (268.9 mph). 1941 – Franco-Thai War: Final air battle of the conflict. A Japanese-mediated armistice goes into effect later in the day. 1945 – World War II: Supplies begin to reach the Republic of China over the newly reopened Burma Road. 1956 – Elvis Presley makes his first national television appearance. 1958 – The Lego company patents the design of its Lego bricks, still compatible with bricks produced today. 1960 – The National Football League announces expansion teams for Dallas to start in the 1960 NFL season and Minneapolis-St. Paul for the 1961 NFL season. 1964 – An unarmed United States Air Force T-39 Sabreliner on a training mission is shot down over Erfurt, East Germany, by a Soviet MiG-19. 1965 – The current design of the Flag of Canada is chosen by an act of Parliament. 1977 – The first day of the Great Lakes Blizzard of 1977, which dumps 3 metres (10 ft) of snow in one day in Upstate New York. Buffalo, Syracuse, Watertown, and surrounding areas are most affected. 1980 – USCGC Blackthorn collides with the tanker Capricorn while leaving Tampa, Florida and capsizes, killing 23 Coast Guard crewmembers. 1981 – Ronald Reagan lifts remaining domestic petroleum price and allocation controls in the United States, helping to end the 1979 energy crisis and begin the 1980s oil glut. 1982 – US Army General James L. Dozier is rescued by Italian anti-terrorism forces from captivity by the Red Brigades. 1984 – Tropical Storm Domoina makes landfall in southern Mozambique, eventually causing 214 deaths and some of the most severe flooding so far recorded in the region. 1985 – Supergroup USA for Africa (United Support of Artists for Africa) records the hit single We Are the World, to help raise funds for Ethiopian famine relief. 1986 – Space Shuttle program: STS-51-L mission: Space Shuttle Challenger disintegrates after liftoff, killing all seven astronauts on board. 1988 – In R v Morgentaler the Supreme Court of Canada strikes down all anti-abortion laws. 2002 – TAME Flight 120, a Boeing 727-100, crashes in the Andes mountains in southern Colombia, killing 94. 2006 – The roof of one of the buildings at the Katowice International Fair in Poland collapses due to the weight of snow, killing 65 and injuring more than 170 others. 2021 – A nitrogen leak at a poultry food processing facility in Gainesville, Georgia kills six and injures at least ten. 2023 – Protests begin after police beat and kill Tyre Nichols.

#Events

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almostasenior · 7 days ago

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Few And Far Between-Palm Trees And Snow

Winter storm Enyo in Savannah Georgia

Lake Mayer Community Park-Savannah, Georgia Rare Savannah Georgia Snowfall 2025 Winter storm Enyo, January 25, 2025. Have a happy day 🙂 Alice Sunday Trees – 570 Facebook Pinterest WhatsApp X

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johnhardinsawyer · 8 days ago

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Straight from the Heart

John Sawyer

Bedford Presbyterian Church

1 / 26 / 25 – Third Sunday after Epiphany

Luke 4:14-21

Nehemiah 8:1-10

“Straight from the Heart”

(Fulfilling the Scriptures)

This past week, snow fell on Macon, Georgia – my hometown – for the first time in a long time. One of our family friends in Macon said that his grandchildren were seeing snow for the first time in their lives. Now, for those of us who live in New Hampshire, snow is a fairly regular occurrence, but snow in Macon, Georgia is a rarity. I lived in Macon for eighteen years and can only remember one or two snowfalls that amounted to more than flurries. So, this week, Amy and I were curious how our friends and family back home were doing during Snowmaggeddon 2025, so we checked with Channel 13 WMAZ. [“Straight from the Heart”].

If you’re not familiar with 13 WMAZ [“Straight from the Heart”] it’s basically the WMUR of Middle Georgia – the most popular local TV news station. So, if you want to know what’s going on in middle Georgia, 13 WMAZ [“Straight from the Heart”] is the place to go to get the news. We’ve been gone from middle Georgia for twelve winters, as of this year, but we know that if we need some local news, we go to 13 WMAZ [“Straight from the Heart”].

Oh, and did I mention that, for years, 13 WMAZ [“Straight from the Heart”], had a little song that they used to remind everyone that they did their work of local news, weather, and sports in the heart of Georgia and they did this work straight from their hearts, with love and dedication.

When we talk about the heart in a literal sense, we are talking, yes, about the amazing organ made of muscle that resides in our chest which beats 100,000 times a day and pumps blood, and oxygen, and nutrients throughout our bodies from before the time we are born until we draw our final breath. But when we talk about the heart, we are also talking, in a figurative sense, about that which is central and essential to who we are. Even though, scientifically, we know and feel things with our brains and our physical hearts do not have the capacity to think or feel, we will often say that we know or feel something in our hearts. In addition, to talk about “the heart” could also mean something which is central and essential to something that we know or believe. For example, years ago, there was a popular song on Christian radio called “The Heart of Worship” which was about how the true heart of worship (and all that we do, here) is Jesus.[1]

If I were to ask you to say what you believe the heart of the Christian faith is, or what the heart of the gospel is, or what the heart of the Bible is, and if you were to speak straight from the heart, I wonder what you might say. I wonder if there is something – some guiding verse of scripture, some guiding principle or theological doctrine – that you trust to be truein your heart about God, or about your faith, that you hold so deeply and it gives your life meaning, and purpose, and connection. The Bible is so rich and full of meaning for so many people. It’s fascinating, though – and maybe not surprising – different people tend to latch on to different parts.

So, if someone tells you, “I believe in the Bible,” it would be wise to ask, “In what ways does the Bible speak clearly to you, and define your belief system, and world view? What is the heart of the Bible for you?” There are some who aredrawn, especially, to the blood and suffering of Jesus. There are others who concentrate, primarily, on the legalistic side of things when it comes to personal purity. There are others who will focus on God’s call for justice to the oppressed. And others, still, who focus largely on the teachings of Jesus. There are some, at present, who are making a big deal out of being subject to the will of the governing authorities from Romans 13. And there are others, who are making a big deal, about not doing this – following after the example of prophets, apostles, and even Jesus, himself, speaking truth to power.

For all kinds of reasons, our hearts are drawn to different aspects of who God is and what the Bible has to say. Maybe this is due to how we were raised, or what we learned in school, or our life’s experience, or maybe just our personal preferences. Years ago, I was amazed to learn that Thomas Jefferson had a Bible with all of the miraculous parts cut out. Jefferson did this, at first, with a razor blade and glue, so that he could just read the moral and ethical aspects of Jesus’ teachings.[2] He felt that he didn’t need to bother with the rest.

So, what is the heart of the good news – the heart of the Bible, the heart of God’s message to all humankind? Well, it can be so simple and so complicated. In today’s two scripture readings, we find an example of each.

In our scripture reading from Nehemiah this morning, we find the people of Judah, back in the heart of their homeland after fifty years of exile. They have been seeking to rebuild the city of Jerusalem, and it’s been hard work – building a huge wall in fifty-two days.[3] But the work is still full of so much joy and hope, because for fifty years, they have been longing for good news from their homeland, and now finally, they are able to see some good news taking shape by the sweat of their brows, the work of their hands, and – most importantly – the blessing of God. So, everyone has been working hard to rebuild the walls of Jerusalem. And, on a day of rest from all of this hard labor, Ezra, the scribe, has gathered all of the people together – all of the elders and priests, with beautiful names that sound a little strange to our ears, and everyone else, too.

This meeting of all the people is a moment of unity and connection, gathered around a common source of knowledge, and history, and guidelines and expectations for the building up of a faithful community of people. For the people of Judah, the ancient Law of Moses was something that they all held in common. The law, which reminded them that there is, but one, God, and that this God is to be loved and worshiped above all else, and that the way the people treat one another truly matters, was something that tied them together. It reminded them of God’s promise from centuries before: I will be your God and you will be my people.[4] In today’s story, this promise draws them together as one. And being reminded of this after so many years of hardship is a deeply emotional thing for everyone who had been away from home for so long. This is why, as today’s story goes, after the reading of the law, all of the people begin to weep.[5] They are moved in their hearts and rededicate their lives to the holy and hard work of rebuilding, with God’s help.

In today’s first scripture, reading, we hear the story of a different gathering – one that ends, not in unity, but in division. Jesus enters the synagogue in his hometown of Nazareth. He has been away – getting baptized, and tempted in the wilderness, and calling some disciples – but now he has returned. He is surrounded by his home congregation. He doesn’t need a nametag. Everyone knows him. And he asks to read a portion of the Prophet Isaiah – the part of Isaiah that was written close to the time that today’s reading from Nehemiah took place: a time of great need for God’s help and restoration.

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Luke 4:18)[6]

These ancient words are like an inaugural address for Jesus. They are the heart of his message and lay out all that he has come to do. Jesus finishes reading, and then boldly says, “Today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.” (4:21). Just so you know, Jesus says these words before he actually goes and does any of these things. But, a few short chapters – and a bunch of miracles – later, when John the Baptizer’s disciples come and ask Jesus, “Are you the Messiah?” Jesus tells them,

Go and tell John what you have seen and heard: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, the poor have good news brought to them. (7:22)

Now, we don’t really have time to get into the full response of the hometown crowd, today, except to say that they are not pleased. In their minds, Jesus has said something blasphemous – speaking with the voice of a prophet and saying that he has fulfilled these prophetic words about caring for the poor and oppressed. Jesus goes on to talk about God treating foreign outsiders with mercy instead of insiders.[7] And it really makes people mad. He was not the first to get in trouble for talking like this and he wasn’t the last, either.

The town of Nazareth is built into the side of a pretty steep hill and folks actually grab Jesus and try to throw him off of a cliff. Thankfully, he passes through them and goes on his determined way.[8]

But it this story does raise the question: Is the heart of the Bible, the heart of the good news, the heart of God’s message to us, something that brings us comfort or challenge or both? If we are comforted, I hope that we don’t get too comfortable to be open to something new that God might do in our midst, or too comfortable to offer ourselves in love and service. If we are challenged – and I hope that we all are, no matter who we are – then I hope we are challenged in ways that help us grow and make us more open to the leading of the Holy Spirit.

One last thing: if there is anything that both comforts and challenges me, it is the loving promise of God that is offered in our baptism. In baptism, God is saying to us, “I love you. You are my child. I am pleased with you.” This good news comes straight from God’s heart. And, it would seem that, in baptism, we are become part of God’s heart.

This is so comforting, because all who are baptized belong to God in a deep and abiding way. And it is so challenging, because God calls us to live up to and live into our belovedness. There is no way that we can live up to this challenge but there is good news: God is so loving and so full of mercy.

For me, and for so many, God’s love and mercy is the heart of the good news. There are so many ways that we can interpret this good news and share it with all the world – ways that bring comfort and challenge.

May we do so as humble vessels of grace, and healing, and peace, and justice, and wholeness, and hope – straight from the heart.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gljs4N7ZoD4.

[2] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jefferson_Bible.

[3] See Nehemiah 6:15.

[4] See Genesis 17:7, Exodus 6:7, Ezekiel 34:24, and Jeremiah 32:38, among other places.

[5] See Nehemiah 8:9.

[6] See Isaiah 61:1-2 and 58:6

[7] See Luke 4:24-27.

[8] See Luke 4:29-30.

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refugedepot · 10 days ago

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youtube

The Gulf Coast is recovering from a historic winter storm that brought record-breaking snowfall, icy conditions, and deadly cold from Texas to Florida. Snowfall totals shattered records in cities like New Orleans (8 inches) and Milton, Florida (9.8 inches)[2][6]. At least 11 fatalities have been reported due to icy roads and hypothermia[2][6]. Travel remains hazardous, with widespread road closures and over 1,800 flight cancellations[2][5]. While the storm has mostly passed, freezing temperatures and black ice continue to pose risks[6].

Sources

[1] Dangerous 'rare winter storm' hits Gulf Coast with historic snowfall https://www.nbcnews.com/news/us-news/dangerous-rare-winter-storm-gulf-coast-historic-snowfall-texas-georgia-rcna188500

[2] Sun soaked US gulf coast turns white after historic winter storm https://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/world/us/sun-soaked-us-gulf-coast-turns-white-after-historic-winter-storm/articleshow/117472947.cms

[3] Snow blankets New Orleans during historic Gulf Coast winter storm https://www.foxweather.com/weather-news/new-orleans-lousiana-winter-storm-january-2025

[4] Winter Storm Enzo Bringing Rare Snow And Ice To Southeast Coast https://weather.com/storms/winter/news/2025-01-21-winter-storm-enzo-forecast-south-gulf-coast-snow-ice-historic

[5] Florida faces greatest winter storm threat since 1989, sees heaviest ... https://economictimes.indiatimes.com/news/international/global-trends/us-news-florida-snowfall-florida-faces-greatest-winter-storm-threat-since-1989-sees-heaviest-snowfall-in-states-history-emergency-declared/articleshow/117461823.cms

[6] Rare winter storm sweeps across Gulf Coast, bringing heavy snow from Texas to Florida: Here's the latest forecast https://www.yahoo.com/news/rare-winter-storm-sweeps-across-gulf-coast-bringing-heavy-snow-from-texas-to-florida-heres-the-latest-forecast-154429062.html

[7] Historic Winter Storm Impacts Gulf Coast Jan 21, 2025 - YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=23YRm1lj1i0

[8] A Gulf Coast Miracle— The Historic Blizzard of 2025 https://www.powder.com/news/gulf-coast-blizzard-january-2025

[9] Rare Southern winter storm brings historic snow, halts travel in parts of region https://www.washingtonpost.com/weather/2025/01/21/winter-storm-south-gulf-coast-snow-ice-forecast-impacts/

[10] Snow in the South: See photos of people experiencing rare Southern snowfall https://www.usatoday.com/story/weather/2025/01/22/snow-storm-south-photos/77879541007/

#Youtube

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newstfionline · 11 days ago

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Thursday, January 23, 2025

Historic Snowstorm (1440) A rare winter storm swept across the southern US Tuesday, bringing record-breaking snowfall to multiple states along the Gulf Coast and prompting first-ever blizzard warnings in areas like Lake Charles, Louisiana. As of this writing, at least 10 people have died from exposure to the cold or crashes on icy roads. The highest snowfall total recorded was 10.5 inches in Rayne, Louisiana, a modern-day record (though the area may have received 20 inches in 1895). New Orleans received its biggest snowfall based on modern records; and both Pensacola, Florida, and Mobile, Alabama, shattered 130-year records. The storm caused widespread travel disruptions, with airports in Houston halting operations and more than 2,200 flights canceled across the country. States of emergency have been declared in Louisiana, Georgia, Alabama, Florida, and Mississippi as the region battles dangerous travel conditions and power outages.

C.I.A.’s Chatbot Stands In for World Leaders (NYT) Understanding leaders around the world is one of the C.I.A.’s most important jobs. Teams of analysts comb through intelligence collected by spies and publicly available information to create profiles of leaders that can predict behaviors. A chatbot powered by artificial intelligence now helps do that work. Over the last two years, the Central Intelligence Agency has developed a tool that allows analysts to talk to virtual versions of foreign presidents and prime ministers, who answer back. “It is a fantastic example of an app that we were able to rapidly deploy and get out to production in a cheaper, faster fashion,” said Nand Mulchandani, the C.I.A.’s chief technology officer. The chatbot is part of the spy agency’s drive to improve the tools available to C.I.A. analysts and its officers in the field.

To get rid of ‘drug-addicted’ rats, Houston police clean up evidence room (Washington Post) Houston police say their evidence lockers are filled to the brim. They have backpacks, ATMs, thousands of bicycles, notes from a nearly century-old homicide case and an infestation of rats that have been feasting on the copious contraband. “We got 400,000 pounds of marijuana in storage that the rats are the only ones enjoying,” Houston Mayor John Whitmire (D) said at a news conference earlier this month in which he vowed to organize—and where feasible, discard—1.2 million pieces of evidence held by the city. Allowing seized narcotics to pile up can attract pests, said Peter Stout, who leads the Houston Forensic Science Center. Stout said that the Houston police also have hired exterminators. “But this is difficult getting these rodents out of there. … They’re drug-addicted rats. They’re tough to deal with.”

Deportees (NYT) Carlos Navarro was eating takeout outside a restaurant in Virginia recently when immigration officers apprehended him and said there was an order for his removal from the country. He had never had an encounter with the law, said Mr. Navarro, 32, adding that he worked at poultry plants. “Absolutely nothing.” By last week, he was back in Guatemala for the first time in 11 years, calling his wife in the United States from a reception center for deportees in the capital, Guatemala City. Mr. Navarro’s experience may be a preview of the kind of swift deportations coming under President Trump to communities around the United States, which is home to as many as 14 million unauthorized immigrants. In his inaugural speech on Monday, Mr. Trump promised to “begin the process of returning millions and millions of criminal aliens back to the places from which they came.”

Homicides have plunged in a drug trafficking hot spot (CSM) Considered the least safe city in Argentina, Rosario has struggled to address violence. That has changed in the past year. Homicides have fallen 65%, a success attributed to increased police presence, more coordination among different levels of government, and a change in local law that is allowing the prosecution of gang members operating from prison. Petty crime has increased, possibly a result of a spike in poverty attributed to President Javier Milei’s fiscal austerity. But in September, the city went a month without any homicides for the first time since 2013.

Starmer says the killings of 3 girls must bring ‘fundamental change’ in how Britain protects people (AP) Prime Minister Keir Starmer said Tuesday that the killing of three girls at a Taylor Swift-themed dance class must lead to “fundamental change” in how the British state protects citizens and a reckoning with new threats from violent individuals whose mix of motivations test the traditional definition of terrorism. Starmer said the government must also answer “tough questions” about how authorities failed to stop a violence-obsessed teenager before he stabbed the girls to death in the seaside town of Southport in July. In a televised statement, the prime minister said that a public inquiry would tackle failings in the case of Axel Rudakubana, 18, who wounded a further eight children, their instructor and a passer-by. Rudakubana was referred three times to the government’s anti-extremism program, Prevent, when he was 13 and 14, and was in contact with multiple state agencies—all of whom failed to spot the danger he posed.

Turkey is determined to expand its influence in the new Syria (Economist) No country has as much to gain from a stable Syria as Turkey, and few have as much to lose if it implodes. Turkey is home to more than 3m Syrian refugees, and wants Syria to be safe enough for many to return. Nor does any other outside power have as far-reaching an agenda for Syria. Turkey wants to smother Kurdish autonomy in Syria’s north, help build a new Syrian army and regain influence in a country it once controlled for 400 years. Signs of the outsize role Turkey expects to play in the new Syria are hard to miss. Turkey’s president, Recep Tayyip Erdogan, has offered to help Syria come up with a new constitution. Turkey’s foreign minister, Hakan Fidan, and its top spy were the first high-level foreign dignitaries to visit Damascus after Hayat Tahrir al-Sham (HTS) took power. Turkish businessmen rushed after them. A day after the rebels entered Damascus, Turkey’s top construction and cement companies saw their shares surge. The country’s national carrier, Turkish Airlines, will resume flights to Syria on January 23rd. As a result of offensives Mr Erdogan launched against Kurdish insurgents in Syria’s north, Turkish troops already occupy parts of the country. Syrian rebel groups bankrolled by Mr Erdogan’s government police the enclaves. Turkey provides basic services, including education and health care.

India's scammers stealing savings (AFP) Within five hours while sitting at home in India, retired professor Kamta Prasad Singh handed over his hard-earned savings to online fraudsters impersonating police. The cybercrime known as "digital arrest"—where fraudsters pose online as law enforcement officials and order people to transfer huge amounts of money—has become so rampant that Prime Minister Narendra Modi has issued warnings. Singh told AFP that money was his life savings. Singh, from India's eastern state of Bihar, said the web of lies began when he received a call in December, seemingly from the telecom regulatory authority. "They said... police were on their way to arrest me," Singh said. The fraudsters told Singh that his ID was being misused for illegal payments. Terrified, Singh agreed to prove he had control of his bank account, and after spiraling threats, transferred over $16,100. India registered 17,470 cybercrimes in 2022, including 6,491 cases of online bank fraud, according to the latest government data.

Israel Embarks on an ‘Extensive’ Military Operation in the West Bank (NYT) Israeli security forces on Tuesday embarked on a military operation in Jenin, a Palestinian city in the Israeli-occupied West Bank, as Israel turned its focus to an area seen as a hotbed of militancy just days after a temporary cease-fire took hold in Gaza. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu of Israel said in a statement that the operation, the latest in a string of West Bank raids over the past year, was aimed at “eradicating terrorism” and would be “extensive and significant.” The Palestinian Authority’s health ministry reported that eight people had been killed and at least 35 injured during the first hours of the operation. For Mr. Netanyahu, the operation in the West Bank could serve as a distraction from Gaza, where Hamas gunmen paraded through the streets even before the cease-fire started on Sunday, a show of force signaling that it had survived the 15-month war despite Mr. Netanyahu’s vows to destroy it. Shortly before the operation, Trump rescinded sanctions on Jewish settlers, and Jewish extremists attacked Palestinian villages.

Reflections on Gaza’s ceasefire (Religion News Service) As the long-awaited ceasefire in Gaza begins, it is met with cautious hope. Families who have endured unspeakable suffering are daring to dream of a reprieve, yet they remain naturally skeptical. This agreement, the very same deal proposed over a year ago, could have saved countless lives had it been accepted then. The Qatari Prime Minister recently underscored this point, stating no lives needed to have been lost if Israel had accepted the deal when it was first proposed, calling it “basically 13-months of a waste of negotiating the details that has no meaning and is not worth a single life that we lost in Gaza or a single life of the hostages lost because of the bombing.” Reports further reveal that figures within the Israeli government—such as Itamar Ben-Gvir and Bezalel Smotrich—have been the primary blockers of this agreement, despite claims by U.S. officials like Antony Blinken that Hamas was obstructing progress. Every moment of delay was a deliberate political choice, and those choices cost lives. In Gaza, hope is not just a feeling—it is a survival mechanism. A friend there recently described the mood on the streets as one of jubilation, despite knowing full well Israel has violated ceasefires numerous times in the past and has already shown intent to return to war after phase two of this agreement. He explained that, in some ways, this premature celebration is a subconscious act of manifesting the best-case scenario. The people are choosing to hope, even when every rational instinct tells them otherwise.

M23 rebels in eastern Congo seize a town on a key supply route to the provincial capital (AP) M23 rebels seized the town of Minova in eastern Congo, a key supply route for the provincial capital Goma, authorities said Tuesday, leading to a mass exodus of people in the face of a new offensive by the rebel group, which has taken several strategic towns in recent weeks. M23, or the March 23 Movement, is a militant group composed of ethnic Tutsis who broke away from the Congolese army just over a decade ago. The group rose to prominence in 2012 when its fighters seized Goma, the capital of North Kivu province and eastern Congo’s largest city, on the border with Rwanda.

Fitness lessons from around the world (NYT) For many people in the United States, staying in shape means getting in your car and driving to the gym. Movement is something on a to-do list, siloed off from the rest of daily life. That mentality is quintessentially American, according to Natalia Mehlman Petrzela, a professor of history at the New School and the author of “Fit Nation.” “There’s this crazy paradox where America is, in many ways, the center of the commercial fitness industry, but it’s also a place where by pretty much every measure people are extraordinarily unfit,” she said. But there are other ways of approaching exercise. In many nations, movement is baked into everyday life. In Brazil, beaches are often filled with people playing games together, and in Japan, a three-minute exercise routine known as radio-taiso is nationally broadcast every day.

#headlines #news

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