#vehicle parts identification

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Masterpost and Prologue

dead on main fic, intro + four chapters.

Summary: The Red Hood starts off his righteous campaign with a lot of nerve but no legal identification that will let him behind the wheel of a car. Public transportation really doesn't have the panache he needs to start off as a fearsome crime lord, so he needs a driver. He finds Danny Fenton, a grungly college student trying not to be noticed by any government agencies or vigilantes.

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Links will be added to chapter list as the story posts. Chapter one will go up on July 14th. Updates are approximately every other day.

LINKS/ chapter count

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

prologue

“No, Habibi,” Talia said calmly into the phone. “I will not falsify you an American non-commercial driver's license for motor vehicles. If you cannot prove yourself to Gotham without American motor vehicle operating permissions, you will never prove yourself. Rise above this challenge.” Talia covered the phone for a second but he could hear her talking to someone else about tile options.

“It's an unnecessary challenge,” Jason argued, doing his level best not to let his tone go up. It was undignified to whine. He was a man now. “The important parts of the challenge are the tactical planning and the skills.”

Talia sounded like she was filing her nails. “Tactically plan to take the bus. Or walk. Walking is free and healthy.” 

Jason made an indignant sound but she mercilessly hung up. The worst! She made the top three of his worst mother figures, easily.

“She's just doing this so I can't go drinking.” He scowled into the air. “I don't even want to!” His voice broke mid whine, which was an insult to add to all the injuries visited upon him by the cruel whims of women who weren't even his legal guardian. He was an adult in most countries!

The worst part was that Talia didn't care about underage drinking. She just didn't want to hear shit about enabling him from Bruce when he eventually figured out that Jason was alive, 19, and in Gotham. His passport claimed he was 21 because it had to for him to travel alone, but she knew damn well no one used their passport as ID in bars. 

He couldn't just go get a license. Jason sulked viciously and threw himself into fixing his plans to accommodate for this. 

He was legally dead and living under a fake name. If he tried to sign up for the driving exam, it'd be too much scrutiny on his paperwork. But he was not taking the bus around as a crime lord. It lacked panache. More importantly, it didn't go where he wanted it to go.

Fine. He didn't need her help. He didn't need anyone's help. He just needed to download Uber. 

That was how Jason wound up wiping a mob lieutenant’s blood off of his hand onto his pants so that he could use the guy's touch screen phone. Victor Woodward's account put in a request for a ride to the Gotham police headquarters. He killed time kicking ass in all the Words with Friends games that Victor had ongoing, which was really gonna surprise anyone who normally played with that boob. Victor’s last ever play was ‘cat,’ for fuck’s sake.

A few minutes later, a skinny teenager pulled up in his clanker and opened the door. Jason put on a smile and hefted his duffle bag a little higher on his shoulder. 

“Hi! Victor?” The guy, Danny, waved his phone at Jason.

“That's me!” Jason lied breezily. “Can I put this in the trunk?” 

“Go for it.” Danny popped the trunk open from inside the car. He watched Jason with his big blue doe eyes.

For an instant, Jason thought that Danny might have seen something. Paranoia reared up. Was there blood visible? Was it easy to tell that the shapes in the bag were heads?”

The moment passed. Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Jason got in the car and let satisfaction wash over his body as the weirdly timid kid pulled them out into traffic at a snail’s pace. Whatever. They wouldn’t get stopped for a traffic violation when the driver was cautious.

He’d done it. His debut as the terrifying Red Hood, hunter of the wicked and bane of the Batman, was launched. And he didn’t need a license to do it.

[zebuie]

FASHION KILLA’

pairings; photographer!ellie x celebirty!reader.

SYNOPSIS; A photo shoot seems like a simple job, until you fall head-over-heels for the photographer.

Warnings— fingering (r receiving), eating out (r receiving), hair pulling (e receiving), think that’s all.

ways to help palestine

“okay, you ready?” Wren, your manager, asked while waiting for you outside the car. She held her hand out to help you get up from your seat. You took her hand and stepped out of the vehicle. In front of you, a tall, beige-colored fancy-looking building stood in your way. As you walked your heels, they made a sharp click noise across the sidewalk, sounding like a million little taps from your Valentino black heels.

As you walked your way up to the building, Wren stayed close by your side. At the front door, a security guard stopped you and checked your identification. Once that was cleared, he opened the door for you, and you walked through the lobby with a sense of purpose. Inside, you found yourself surrounded by a flurry of activity as people hurried around you, getting everything set up for the photoshoot.

For all your days in the modeling business, you have seen many photoshoots come and go. But this time, there was something different when you stepped onto the set. The lights dazzled and danced across your skin, highlighting your features in a way that completely captivated you.

You couldn't help but feel a sudden attraction to the talented photographer as she guided you into more and more poses for the photoshoot. Everything seemed to click into place, and you felt completely mesmerized and enraptured by her. you soon learn the photographer's name is Ellie,

the way she looked at you when you were talking to her manager made her heart skip a beat. A staff member snapped their fingers in front of Ellie's face, and she quickly came back to reality after realizing she had gotten a little distracted.

“Hey, els? you listenin’?” the staff member asked, “we're in the middle of a photoshoot, remember? what? you’ve gotta a crush on her or something? come on, take the damn pictures, already! gosh.” the staff member snapped at Ellie, “sorry-no it’s just..forget it.”

your thoughts kept drifting back to ellie, her green eyes and her touch, her everything. you thought about what it would be like to kiss her pink chapped lips, to feel her long veiny fingers inside of you..

The photoshoot continued, but you could not help but let your mind wander. you didn't know if it was just a crush or something more, but she was getting aroused just at the thought of her together.

a few hours later, the photo shoot finnaly wrapped up, you were dead tired, exhausted but relieved. you couldn’t believe you pulled this off and got through this photoshoot, you were sitting in a room all alone on your phone, Ellie came over from behind you, a subtle smile as she walked over.

Ellie broke the silence first and her raspy voice filled the silent empty room. “hey, I’m Ellie.” she said as she held her hand out for you to shake. she introduced herself with a warm smile, which set you at ease.

"You started to introduce yourself, "I-I'm…," but Ellie cut you off with a chuckle. "Oh, I know who you are," she said, her tone playful.

The room fell still as the two of u shared an awkward moment. You finally found your courage and asked, "Can I kiss you?" Ellie started to blush and stuttered, "Oh—," before you just went ahead and began kissing her, leaving her with no time to reject or object.

Ellie's initial surprise quickly turned into a warm, welcoming embrace as her lips parted under your touch. The kiss grew increasingly passionate as she gently wrapped her arms around your neck, pulling you closer. You felt a wave of happiness wash over you as their tongues intertwined in a sweet dance, deepening the intensity of the moment.

Eventually breaking for air, Ellie gazed at you lovingly with red cheeks, whispering "I want more." Her soft fingers traced along your cheek before slowly trailing down your neck to rest on your chest.

As Ellie's fingers traced their way down your body, she paused just above the edge of your panties. Her eyes locked with yours as she hesitated for a moment, her breath warm against your skin. With a soft sigh and an encouraging smile, you nodded gently,

giving her the go-ahead. She slid her fingertips underneath the material of your underwear, tracing slow circles along the sensitive flesh beneath. “Fuck-Ellie…” Your hips unconsciously bucked towards her touch as waves of pleasure flowed through you.

Sensing your growing desire, she delved further into your core – sending shivers of ecstasy coursing through every inch of your being. Her strokes grew slower and more deliberate as she pushed you closer to blissful release - her other hand softly caressing your face in synchronization with her tender ministrations.

The rhythm of Ellie's fingertips intensified as she skillfully worked you towards climax. Her mouth moved down your body, her warm breath causing goosebumps to rise on your skin as she paused for a moment between each kiss, “Ellie pl-please..” teasing and tantalizing you further.

You could feel the heat building within you as her touch grew more urgent and insistent - waves of pleasure crashing over you in a euphoric tide. “S’okay baby..relax-I got u…” ellie whispered. Your muscles tensed tightly beneath her touch just before climax claimed you with unbridled force, wracking your entire body with intense bliss while Ellie continued to stroke and kiss every sensitive spot,

Without any hesitation, Ellie moved lower between your legs, her lips brushing against the damp folds of your pussy. u lightly grabbed her hair, you were a complete whimpering mess. Her soft breath washed over your sensitive flesh as she parted you with gentle fingers before delving deeper – her tongue teasing at your clit, She probed inside you with two fingers while her tongue continued its magic on your hard little nub, sending wave after wave of pleasure crashing through every nerve ending in your body. You grasped onto the couch tightly as a climax built rapidly towards its peak – Ellie suckling gently on your most tender spot,

The intensity of Ellie's actions sent shivers down your spine as she drove you wild with a perfect balance of teasing and pleasure. You could feel the heat radiating from her mouth enveloping your swollen clit as she moved lower, trailing wet kisses down to your dripping entrance.

She pushed two fingers deep inside you, filling you completely while curling them just so - stroking that sweet spot within that made it impossible to hold back any longer. With each thrust of her fingers and lashing of her tongue, wave upon wave of ecstasy engulfed you until finally – in a blinding flash of passion – climax consumed you in its warm embrace. Your muscles tensed around Ellie’s hand as pleasure overtook your entire being, leaving nothing but satiated bliss in its wake.

[mbari-blog]

Serving up the tiniest cuteness 🥰

Zooplankton can be subdivided into two major groups. Holoplankton (copepods and krill) spend their entire lives as plankton and thus provide major food sources for pelagic fisheries. Meroplankton (larvae of animals like barnacles, mussels, annelids, and fish) spend only part of their lives as plankton.

Copepods like the one in this video can be found in massive numbers across the world ocean. They play an important role in ocean food webs as predators—they eat even smaller diatoms and phytoplankton—and prey on animals like jellies, fish, and filter feeders.

Zooplankton are notoriously difficult to sample. Despite opportunities for mixing, individual zooplankton are tiny, and species are often patchily distributed. Coastal oceans are physically dynamic, high-energy environments. Winds, currents, and upwelling fronts affect the availability of nutrients and distribution of food that control zooplankton growth and dispersal. To tackle these challenges, the MBARI team developed the SIMZ program to explore more efficient zooplankton sampling and identification methods.

Traditionally, tow-nets are used to sample plankton along paths through the water. Because these paths often cross smaller environmental patches, they frequently lack the precision to associate zooplankton species' distribution and abundance with particular physical and biological processes. MBARI engineers have equipped an autonomous underwater vehicle (AUV) with gulpers—bottles that rapidly inhale discrete water samples—to better understand the spatial patchiness in zooplankton abundance. The AUV is equipped with sensors that measure things like temperature and salinity, and onboard computer software that instructs the Gulper AUV to recognize and autonomously sample specific environmental patches, such as upwelling fronts or chlorophyll layers. This "surgical" approach to ocean sampling allows SIMZ researchers to study the effects of specific physical processes on zooplankton distribution and diversity.

[matan4il]

Update post:

Today, there was an attempted terrorist attack at the Meggido junction in Israel. The hammer-wielding terrorist was thankfully caught before he managed to carry out his planned crime. He's 17 years old, and you can bet the anti-Israel crowd will use his age as "proof" that Israel arrests and jails kids, without mentioning what these minors are being imprisoned for, instead of condemning those who brainwash children into carrying out terrorist attacks. Just one reminder out of many such attacks, in 2018 a 17 years old Palestinian terrorist killed a 45 years old Israeli man, so please no one pretend like minors are harmless, or ignore that when teenagers commit harmful crimes in other countries, they're arrested there, too.

It was obvious that some people have made up their minds about the incident with the WCK workers even before the investigation started, so I expect its conclusions will get perverted and ignored, too.

That same anti-Israel crowd will also ignore (unless they'll use it as ammunition against the Jewish state, by actually claiming that Israel, a nation still reeling from the genocide of Jews, and the continued killing of its citizens by antisemitic terrorists, is intentionally killing its own, because there's just no cartoon villain crime they don't think they can pin on the Jewish state) the fact that there's another IDF investigation that's been released today, which said Efrat Katz was accidentally killed by a helicopter rocket while trying to stop the Hamas terrorists who were kidnapping her into Gaza. The helicopter pilot didn't realize at the time that there were hostages in the car as well, this was only deduced later, from the testimonies of other people kidnapped by Hamas. In other words, as horrific as this truth is, accidents do happen during war. The worst, most tragic ones, and we can't undo them, no matter how much we want to. But they happen to every army, and are not actual evidence of intentional killings, or intentional war crimes. Just like someone having been killed is in general not enough to prove a murder took place.

This is 68 years old Efrat Katz.

The WCK incident report is now out, and I am linking the source publication, so that no possible bias can be attributed to re-phrasing by journalists from any side.

As was the initial impression (for those who don't simply want to believe in every evil, dehumanizing lie about Israel), it turned out to be a tragic accident, that entailed many factors, first and foremost misidentification, in part due to Hamas. As I've pointed out more than once, Hamas steals humanitarian aid. Due to this, the WCK operation had hired armed guards to protect it from looting. Tragically, one armed guard was identified without question on one of the WCK's trucks, and was mistaken for a Hamas terrorist, while at least one other armed terrorist was also identified and thought to be in the convoy's private cars. The vehicles did have the WCK sticker on their roofs, but at night, that wasn't visible to the IDF soldiers. Since the whole convoy was misidentified, the drone fired more than once at more than one vehicle, but this is linked to the same single mistaken identification. It means that even though this shouldn't have happened, the soldiers who fired at the convoy really did believe they were targeting terrorists, which is their mission.

The IDF has expressed sorrow over this incident more than once, has taken responsibility, has conducted an investigation, and following its results, two high ranking officers have been removed from their posts, and two more were severely reprimanded, which means this will be in their file forever, and will influence any future decisions made about their service.

This is 72 years old Nadjda Astreks.

She lives in the southern town of Ofakim with her husband, Alexnder. In the above photo, she's pointing to the bullet holes in her kitchen, left by the terrorists on Oct 7. The couple don't have a bomb shelter in their own home, so they had to go out to a public one when the rocket attack began at 6:30 in the morning. When they returned, is when the terrorists shooting at the buildings began, and the confused couple didn't know what to think or do at first. They went out, and saw the girl from across the street falling. Alexander approached her, only to see a pool of blood, and realize that she had been shot to death. A soldier who was running in the direction of the terrorists told them to go back to the neighborhood bomb shelter, where they ended up hiding for hours, without food and water, or proper toilettes, without knowing what's going on outside for a big part of that. It was fellow residents from their neighborhood who faced the terrorists and saved the people there, but the first ambulance for the injured was only able to make it there at three in the afternoon. Nadjda said that even much later, she's still having trouble eating, whenever she thinks of everything that happened on the day of the massacre.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[britt-kageryuu]

If the Turtles and Splinter were to be accepted by humanity, to a point because there are still jerks out there who won't like them, I can only wonder how they would go about getting citizenship. If only because they're turtles and a huge rat, and they don't always have any human genetics.

At least part of this is because of Mutant Mayhem, because they would have to get things either through donations, or some of them getting a job, since it wouldn't be good for them to be stealing anymore.

The jobs part has been kinda covered, but the idea of Donatello having to fake the background check histories to get them jobs, unless the people really don't care to do one.

Or they go the self employed route, and have like YouTube, Etsy, Spotify, an elaborate tech company empire... or whatever that one Mikey did with the party costume character business.

Anyway the whole getting legal identification thing would definitely the more tricky part, unless someone in the government speeds up the process, then the whole also getting legal drivers licenses for all their vehicles that need special licenses. Imagine Donatello getting a license for the Turtle Tank, or any of the other custom Turtle Vehicles.

But the question of is they would stay in the underground areas they call home, or move elsewhere is up for interpretation, though the idea of them moving isn't very likely, but the Turtles taking over like an abandoned military base, or something seems kinda plausible. Even if it's unlikely.

An odd addition to this is the idea of a building inspector (or someone similar) checking the various lairs is kinda funny. Because how would they be able to see if everything is up to code, since the Turtles could just argue "It was like that when we moved in." Or "This place was in much worse shape years ago!"

Have fun with these ideas, and enjoy the new round of creativity I may have given you!

[minnesota-fats]

Snow Bat

Ch 1

Danny, a homeless kid living on the street. Bruce, a rich kid obsessed with trying to find his parents' murderers. They both meet one rainy night at age eighteen, and from that night forward their fates are intertwined forever more.

All is as it should be.

Danny remembers the night like it had just happened—but I guess you will witness it first hand. He had situated himself on a street corner, not busy enough to have a constant set of eyes on him—but then again no one really batted an eye at a homeless kid here in Gotham. Though, Danny did not consider himself a kid anymore. Not after all he had been through, though that doesn’t matter right now. Danny was sitting on the concrete walkway, not really paying attention, just sitting in thought on what he should do next. He had gotten this far, but he still needed to figure out what to do next. He had come into town with a bag of clothes and a wallet full of money. Thought that didn't last long when in a shitty part of town, known for muggers and killers.

Danny didn't really put up much of a fight either, he was too tired to really do anything and most importantly he didn't want to use the abilities that he has. Sure, it would have made getting away easier but when did Danny ever do things the easy way? So, in the end he was down one bag of clothes and any identification and money. Though while on the run, you don't really want people to know who you are. The only purpose his ID had was just to serve as a reminder of who he was, now with it gone, Danny can really start anew. He just had to figure out what he was going to do.

Danny didn't really register the rain until he felt it stop pelting his head aggressively. He looked up and was confused to see an expensive looking umbrella positioned over his head. Danny followed the hand holding the umbrella to see a young man who was surrounded by a halo of the street lamp shining directly behind him.danny tilted his head to the side to examine the man, he had stormy gray blue eyes and slicked back black hair that started to lose shape as the rain began to wet it and his suit jacket. Danny could feel his heart skip a beat, something very noticeable when your heartbeat is as slow as his. The man looked down at him and tilted his head to mimic Danny's own head tilt.

The young man’s name is Bruce Wayne, heir to the Wayne family fortune. He had been walking around to clear his head after he had a fierce argument with his father figure Alfred. Bruce had stormed out of the vehicle and began walking away in a random direction. Bruce knew that Alfred wouldn't be too far behind, knowing how protective he was of Bruce. During his walk however Bruce had spotted what looked like a kid no older than eighteen, sure he was the same age, but Bruce hadn’t considered himself a kid for a long time despite what others around him might say. He tightened his grip on the umbrella and without much thought he walked closer to the young man. As Bruce got closer he could see the man had a busted lip and swollen downcast eyes. There were smudges of blood on his dirty hoodie and a steady stream of pink bloody water dripping from his hair. It is clear to Bruce that this young man had just been on the losing side of a fight or at least a beating.

It reminded Bruce of how he used to get into fights in primary school after- Bruce didn't want to think about that right now. Bruce walked toward the man and used his umbrella to shield the man from the rain. When the young man looked up, Bruce couldn't help but admire how bright this man's eyes were—at least the one that wasn’t swollen shut. The young man in front of Bruce had unbelievably blue eyes that almost looked purple as the light shifted when the young man tilted his head to the side in confusion, Bruce mimicked the movement.

Bruce knelt down to be at eye level with the other man, “what happened?” He asked, voice smooth and unassuming.

“Got my shit stolen,” Danny says with a shrug, his voice sounding hoarse from the disused. Danny coughed and cleared his throat, “what does it look like?”

Bruce looked him over, “you seem to have suffered several contusions that range from a not so serious looking busted lip to a concerning head wound that may or may not need stitches.”

Danny tilted his head the opposite direction, “oh,” was all he could think of saying, dumbfounded by the sudden medical analysis.

“If you would like I can take you to the hospital,” Bruce offered, “my car is just around the corner.”

Danny’s eyes widened, “no! No hospital,” he exclaimed. His back straightened up as he tried to lean forward, but the sudden movement made him feel dizzy. “I, umm…. Can't afford it….” He tries, sounding unsure.

Bruce looked harder at the young man in front of him, “money isn't an issue,” Bruce starts. But the tension in the man's form made him reconsider his approach, “But if you want I can treat you at my home,” He offered.

Danny calmed down at what the man said, “No, it's ok. I'll be fine,” he starts as he leans back down against the wall, not taking his eyes away from the man in front of him. “I don't want to impose.”

“Then do you have somewhere I can take you? I’m not leaving you here alone.” Bruce says, stubbornly.

“Really buddy, I’m good, I don’t need-” he tries but Bruce cuts him off.

“I promise you, I won't hurt you,” Bruce tried again, “If you want you can even stay the night, have a warm meal and shower. I just want to help you.”

Danny looked at this man again, really looked at him. Danny could feel that this guy really meant it, he wanted to help danny—no strings attached. Danny let out a groan before leaning forward and shaking his head in annoyance. Danny looked back up into the man's eyes, “fine,” Danny grumbles out, “only for a hot shower. But if you're a serial killer I'm gonna be real pissed off.”

The man smiled and reached out his hand for Danny to take, “don’t worry, my name is Bruce. What’s yours?”

Danny accepted Bruce's hand and groaned as he helped hoist him up, “name’s Danny,” he responds, “I think I might have a broken rib or two,” he admits, swaying a bit as he clutched his side.

“To be expected when mugged in Gotham,” Bruce said darkly. The comment made Danny snort a bit in laughter. Bruce smiled a bit as he pulled Danny closer to him so they could both share the umbrella, Bruce could see the man tensed up a bit before resting into Bruce’s side. It was like that Bruce led the injured man to the edge of the sidewalk just as a sleek black car drove up and parked in front of them. Danny seemed to tense up again at the sight of the car, looking like he was ready to bolt. Bruce made sure to keep his posture passive, hopefully to convey that they were not in any danger.

The front window rolled down to reveal the familiar face of Alfred, “I see you have made a friend, Master Bruce.” He commented as he moved to get out of the car.

“No need to get out Alfred, I got the door.” Bruce says softly and he pulls Danny along and opens the back door. He holds the umbrella up above the door to allow Danny to get in first. As Bruce guides him down to sit Danny groans again as settled in. Bruce smiled at Danny reassuringly before he closed the car door and ran to the other side to get in. Once in the car Bruce looked forward at Alfred who looked through the rear view mirror at his ward, “to home please, Alfred, I promise my friend here a warm meal and shower,” Bruce explained before looking back at Danny, “after I check his wounds,” he says directing that part to danny who just groaned in annoyance before looking out the window.

Alfred smiled softly at the display of fragile trust, proud of his ward’s stubbornness when it comes to others safety.

Hopefully, this will be good for both young men, the old butler thought as he took note of the state the new man was in.

If only he knew how significant this meeting actually was.

Only time will tell.

—

Remaining chapters on ao3:

Link

[somedaylazysomeday]

Hooked

Billy Butcher x fem!reader

You're called to tow Butcher's truck. He's unsurprisingly offended by that. (Takes place before the pilot of The Boys)

Rating: Mature. Minors DNI

Word Count: 4,600

Warnings: Swearing, veiled threats, feelings of helplessness, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of injuries from a fight, insults, and frank discussions of sexuality. (Butcher is his own warning, tbh)

Next | Masterlist

---

When most people said they were on a run, it meant that they were getting some exercise. Or going to the store. Or maybe fleeing from enemies. 

For you, a ‘run’ meant that you were out to tow a car from an illegal space. Honestly, it felt like fleeing from enemies sometimes, but that was only because the customers of your Uncle Bo’s tow service and impound lot didn’t want his product. Like any customer service job, you had your share of unpleasant interactions. 

This particular one was an easy pickup. Some guy had parked on private property and the owners were having his car towed. Simple, quick, legal. Those were the best jobs, at least in your opinion. Bo tended to favor jobs where he could get a little extra for helping or inconveniencing the right people.

You didn’t need to pay attention to the familiar motions of placing the lift under the car’s front wheels. It was an older car with significant damage to the paint and body, so you didn’t have to worry that you and Bo would be sued for scratches or dents. In fact, there were good odds that the car had been abandoned on the property. 

Still, you kept an eye on the surrounding neighborhood as you worked. This wasn’t a good part of the city. Just because you could take care of yourself in a nasty situation didn’t mean you wanted to get in one. 

“Hold on, love,” an accented voice called. “That’s mine.”

You turned, already dreading the conversation. You had been helping your Uncle Bo long enough to not be cowed by many people, but that didn’t mean confrontations with angry vehicle owners were fun. 

Fortunately, this vehicle owner - dark-haired and wearing a long coat - didn’t seem to be angry… yet. He also didn’t seem to need any input from you to keep the conversation going. “I’ll need you to lower my car back down. I’m on official business. Agent Butcher, CIA.”

The skepticism was clear on your face, you were sure of it. “Do you have some kind of identification?” 

His eyebrows lifted, but not in disbelief. No, it was like he took your words as a challenge, one that he relished. He fished inside his black leather duster and retrieved a wallet. He flashed a shining badge at you, making sure you could see the identification card displayed in the opposite panel. “That all you needed?” 

“Yeah,” you agreed, climbing back into the bed of the truck you drove to pick up tows across the city. The parking brake was already locked, so engaging the lift mechanism only took the press of a few buttons. 

Your new friend was finally displeased. With a face like thunder, he stood outside of the truck and frowned up at your open window. You had already locked the doors, of course, but you were ready to start rolling up the window if needed. This wouldn’t be the first time you’d had a pickup get violent.

“Last chance, love,” he growled, accent thicker than ever. “Let me car down or I’ll have you charged with obstruction of justice and inconveniencing a federal officer.” 

That surprised a laugh out of you. The man looked equally surprised, though with a lot more displeasure than you felt. “It’s not a crime to inconvenience a federal officer.” 

“C’mon,” he urged, leaning heavily against the outside of your door. It was hard to claim that he was breaching your personal space through a truck door, especially when his expression changed to one of pleading. “Do me one favor. Just one.” 

“Fine,” you conceded with a sigh. The triumphant smile that flashed over his handsome face convinced you that you were doing the right thing. “Here’s your favor: get a new forger.” 

“Pardon?” he asked, frowning. 

“The CIA doesn’t carry badges,” you told him. 

He tilted his head at you, pulling out the wallet once more. He flipped it open to display the badge. “Hate to argue with a beautiful bird, but what would you call this?” 

“I would call that an FBI badge with ‘CIA’ written across the top.” You reached out through the window to tap on the identification badge with his face on it. “The CIA doesn’t carry badges to show the public. They just have these ID cards. Get a new forger or change your cover story.” 

You pulled your arm back into the truck for just long enough to retrieve a business card from the collection stored on top of the passenger sun visor. “Pick up your car here between six and ten pm, or anytime after nine tomorrow morning.” 

That face was darkening again, but you didn’t give him the chance to say more than a syllable or two before you were pulling away from the curb. His car on the back of the truck made it more difficult to weave through the heavy traffic of downtown, but you managed. You had been navigating these streets for most of your life. Nothing about this was any different than every other day. 

When you dropped the ragged car at the yard, Uncle Bo examined it with an expression of deep skepticism. “Tell me none’a those bumper scratches are from you.” 

You scoffed. “How long has it been since I scratched a bumper?” 

“Years,” Uncle Bo admitted readily. “You’re getting better.” 

“Admit it,” you jabbed, “you’re going to leave this business to me when you finally decide to retire.” 

Uncle Bo snorted loudly. “If you’re still around the tow yard when I decide to retire, sure. You’ll have earned it. But you better not hold your breath - I’ve got years of steam left in me.”

“I’ll remind you about that next time I catch you napping in the office.” You turned, patting him on the shoulder. “Speaking of, I’m going to go enter this in the books. The owner caught an attitude. We’ll probably hear from him again and I want to make sure all of our paperwork is in place.” 

“Good idea,” Uncle Bo agreed. “I’m heading out for the night, but I’ll have my phone if you need anything. And I don’t nap in the office. My poor old eyes need rest!”

You didn’t bother replying to the age-old argument. Bo was already gone, and you were working the late shift. The lot stayed open until ten most nights, and all of Bo’s other employees had the day off. All two of them. They were both mechanics, and since they had planned to service all of the company vehicles early the next morning, you were stuck at the yard alone that night. Bo would have to cover tomorrow night, his tired eyes be damned.

You weren’t proud to admit that you had zoned out while entering the crappy sedan’s information into the tow yard log. This wasn’t a bad job, but there had to be something more out there. Working a dead-end job at a towing company wasn’t how you wanted to spend your life. Maybe it was time to start job-hunting. Again. During a recession and a notable lack of jobs on the market. 

The groan you let out was slightly muffled when your forehead hit the log book. 

The rest of your shift was spent at the desk in the back room, scrolling through employment sites on your phone. Tragically, the shitty job market hadn’t improved in the week since you had last checked. It seemed like your options were to stay at the tow yard, work in another equally unfulfilling job, or go back to school and learn to do something useful. 

At two minutes past ten, you let your phone clatter loudly onto the table as you began to gather your things. You had chosen to wear a thicker jacket than normal that night. It wasn’t quite winter yet in the city, but it was close enough that the darker hours were unpleasantly chilly. The thick material was warm against your hand when you grabbed the jacket and started to put it on. 

And, of course, that was when the phone started to ring. 

You stared at it for a long moment, dismayed. It was almost five past ten by that point, which meant you were five minutes past any obligation to pick it up. But you couldn’t risk losing business for your uncle. And if he was happy with the work you had done, he would complain less when you left early the next day. 

Cursing your own work ethic, you picked up the phone. “Yeah?” 

“I’m here for my fuckin’ car.” 

You seriously debated hanging up immediately. It was close, but you managed to hold onto your temper. “We get a lot of that here. Wanna give me some details?” 

In a longsuffering tone, your charming caller gave you the license plate number. That information confirmed your suspicions: this was the same man whose car you had picked up earlier in the day. 

“I’ll meet you at the gate,” you told him. “Did you bring a form of payment to settle your bill?” 

“I’ve got your money,” he growled. 

“Great,” you said, then hung up. 

You were glowering as you stomped outside into the chilly night. Bo was going to have to pay your overtime. Family or not, you refused to work for free.

“Finally,” the man growled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Don’t wanna stand here all damn night.” 

You stopped, crossing your arms. “We’re closed.” 

“Now you tell me?” the man demanded. His accent was even thicker than it had been earlier, a rough British twang. His face was in shadows, but he was clearly irritated. “What the fuck are-?”

“I’ll help you get your car,” you interrupted tersely. “I’m just letting you know that I’m helping you when I don’t have to. Because I’m a great fucking person. You’re welcome. Now give me your ID and stop being an asshole or you can come back when we’re actually open.”

To your shock, he kept his mouth shut and held his ID out for you through the gaps in the chain-link fence. You took it, double checking the name against the one that the car had been registered to. An image labeled ‘Billy Butcher’ smirked up at you from the laminated card until you handed it back. 

“Give me your keys and the money. I’ll bring your car.”

Butcher huffed at that. “Not a chance. Let me in and I’ll get my own car.” 

“We’re closed,” you reminded, putting your hands on your hips. “I’m not letting you into the yard when I’m the only one here.” 

“Fine,” he gritted out, offering a wad of cash. A moment later, a set of keys was also slipped through the fence, dangling from his fingers. 

You frowned as you took the money and keys. Were his hands dirty? They looked dark around the knuckles… Quickly, you peeled off the correct number of bills and handed the rest back to him.

“Not taking a tip?” he asked, cocking a dark brow at you.

“I don’t need to steal your money.” With willpower, you managed to keep back a comment about how seeing idiots like him getting their cars towed was payment enough. 

“Be careful with her,” Butcher warned. “She’s temperamental.”

He stepped closer to the fence as he cautioned you, and you fought back a gasp. Butcher looked like he had gotten in a few fights in the few hours since you had picked up his car. One of his eyes was black, his lip was split, and one side of his face was beginning to swell. With that image in your head, you could see that his hand wasn’t dirty. His fingers were bruised, dried blood flaking at the joints of his knuckles.

“I’ll be right back.” 

Butcher didn’t say anything else as you walked off deeper into the lot, but it didn’t matter. You were lost in thought, trying to remember the signs of a concussion, and you were unlocking the door of his shitty sedan before you thought to wonder why you cared. 

Uncle Bo always liked to say that you were too soft-hearted to live in the city. You had always answered that with a snort and a rude comment, but you were starting to wonder if he may be right. 

A quick search on your phone brought up a list of symptoms, and you were keeping them fresh in your mind as you pulled the car up to the gate. As soon as you had thrown it into park, you slid from the stained seat and unlatched the chain. 

“No stupid moves.” You backed up slightly when Butcher stepped through the gates. “I’m armed.” 

Butcher looked you up and down, amusement on his face. “Whatever you say, love. ‘Sides, I don’t want nothing from you except my car.” 

You gestured invitingly toward his car. Butcher slid into the seat, caressing the steering wheel for a moment longer than you were comfortable with. He slammed the door, then rolled the window down. “See ya around.” 

Your reply - not that you intended to give one - was interrupted when he revved his engine and it promptly died. 

Butcher sat in shocked silence for a moment. He broke it almost immediately with a loud curse that he punctuated with a slam of his palm against the steering wheel. “Didn’t engage the battery disconnect, did you.” 

“Didn’t know you had one,” you said. “All the shit you said when I towed your car and you didn’t think to tell me you had a battery disconnect?” 

“Too busy findin’ out me badge is bullshit, weren’t I?” he hissed. 

“The disconnect couldn’t have been on when your car was towed,” you pointed out. “If it had been, it would have been on this whole time.” 

“I wasn’t planning to be away from my car that long.” Butcher whacked the dashboard for good measure. “Just needed to scope out the supes. Twenty minute job, then I was gonna be back in and driving away.” 

“The supes?” you repeated, frowning. “You were illegally parked in front of the Vought building. That’s why they called me to come tow you. You were spying on them?”

“Someone has to!” he snapped. “Everyone thinks those fuckers are up in their tower, waiting to protect the helpless and all of that shit. But they’re not. They’re a bunch of selfish cunts, and the only things they use their powers for is to get ahead or get off. And you’d better hope you’re never in their way for either of those, or you’ll be gone without anyone to ask what happened to you.”

The silence that fell after that was heavy and awkward. You nodded too many times, eventually finding the voice to say, “I need some coffee. Want some?” 

Butcher gave you a look so full of disbelief that you almost apologized outright, but he gave a slow nod. “Yeah.” 

You retreated to the office, filling two cheap paper cups with the pot of coffee you had unwisely brewed at eight thirty. Butcher hadn’t told you how he took his coffee, but he had answered one of your more pressing questions: he was definitely concussed.

Ultimately, that was none of your business, but it was still a little concerning. If you let him leave and he crashed his car, would it be your fault? Probably not in a legal sense. You could always claim that you hadn’t known he was injured. But would you be able to handle the guilt if he died or killed someone else? 

The moral questions tumbling through your mind kept you so focused on your thoughts that you handed Butcher his cup in utter silence, staring at him. Eventually, he swallowed a sip of the black coffee and begrudgingly said, “Thanks.” 

You blinked. “No problem. So, dead battery?” 

Butcher scowled into the open hood of his car. “Yeah. Does this a lot.” 

“I can get you a replacement,” you suggested. “As long as yours is decent and just needs charged, I can switch it out for another one for free. Or I have jumper cables if it’ll hold a charge long enough for you to get where you’re going.” 

With a slow shake of his head, Butcher said, “Nah, the battery is shot. And the alternator was holding on by a thread. This will’ve bumped it off for good. I’ll need a full replacement for both before I can drive this thing more than a mile or two.” 

Well. You sighed. “I can’t help you with a full replacement for either. I know a mechanic around the corner, but he’s not gonna be open this late. Best he’ll be able to do is tomorrow morning. At least it’ll be easy to get over there.” 

Butcher gave you a sidelong glance. “Suspiciously helpful for someone working after hours.” 

“I get paid overtime,” you replied, not missing a beat. “Besides, maybe I’m trying to earn a place in heaven.” 

“I know a faster way.” Butcher took another sip of coffee while you waited, brows lifted. “Get a drink with me.” 

The non sequitur made you blink. “What?” 

“A drink,” he repeated, exaggeratedly slowly. “Something better than shitty coffee. With me. In a bar - I’m not going to a fucking dance club.”

“How did we get from you threatening me to wanting us to get a drink?” you asked.

Butcher smirked, and you suddenly understood the expression ‘curl of the lips’. “I’ve never threatened you, love. Trust me, you’d remember. But it’s been a shit night. Shit week, actually. The only good part of it so far has been you. Best I can figure… you’re the only thing that can keep tonight from being a waste of my fuckin’ time.” 

“Flattering,” you said dryly. But you didn’t turn him down. You couldn’t claim to be interested in Billy Butcher. At least, not romantically. You thought he was interesting in a tragic comedy kind of way. More importantly, you thought - if you played your cards right - you might be able to convince him to see a doctor and make sure he didn’t have some kind of concussion-induced brain injury. 

“You know what?” you asked, watching Butcher brace for whatever horrible thing he thought you were going to say. “I could use a drink. But I get to choose the place.” 

He was quiet for much longer than you had expected, but he nodded at last. “Don’t choose somewhere shitty.”

You rolled your eyes, snatching the coffee cup from his hand. Despite his complaints, it was almost empty, and it sailed neatly into the trash can when you tossed it with an expert hand. “I’ll call my mechanic on the way.”

Butcher paused to lock his car before you left. It was a futile gesture since you would lock the yard’s gate behind you, but he insisted. Besides, it gave you a chance to call the mechanic. You even had time to find a route to your favorite bar that led past a 24-hour health clinic. All you had to do was make light conversation until you made it to the doors…

“Why do you work at a towing company?”

You blinked at the abruptness of the question, but gamely answered it: “My uncle owns it. I’ve been helping him since I was a teenager.” 

Butcher grunted. “Most people leave their first job.” 

“And what about you?” you asked, a hint of challenge in your voice. “Why do you do what you do? What do you do?” 

“I help keep supes from killing us all.” 

“Yeah,” you agreed awkwardly. “They seem like a real threat to society with all of the crime-fighting and donations to charity.” 

“Public relations, love,” Butcher told you, “nothing more.” 

“Of course they use public relations,” you replied, trying to ignore the little tingle that went through you at him using that pet name in that tone. “Most businesses have to do some kind of public relations. Especially big companies like Vought.” 

Butcher snorted. “They don’t use PR to neaten up their image; they use it to cover the mountain of shit their pet psychopaths get into. And that lot ain’t heroes. They’re a bunch of cunts with too much power and not enough people to tell ‘em to knock it off. They’re dangerous, and what makes ‘em that way is people like you who think they’re heroes.”

“Okay,” you said slowly, trying to decide between pacifying him by agreeing or antagonizing him so you could hear more of his ranting. It was fascinating and oddly entertaining, and you found yourself slowing down so you could keep talking before he got to the clinic. “But what about-?” 

“They ain’t good for society,” he insisted, interrupting you without seeming to notice. “You’re probably more of a hero than they are, and all you do is inconvenience good people.” 

“You were parked in a fire lane,” you reminded him, getting irritated. “If anyone was inconveniencing people-” 

“Have you ever thought about the people who are around for a supe fight?” Butcher asked, ignoring your excellent point. “Collateral damage, they say. Supes ruin a lot of lives, and it’s supposed to all be worth it.” 

“Sometimes,” you conceded. “But it all depends on the situation, right? If you’re just basing it off of lives saved versus lives lost, doesn’t it make more sense to sacrifice a few to save a lot of people?”

Butcher narrowed his eyes at you. “Spoken like someone who’s never had to see a kid crushed by a car or a couple cut in half by a laser beam.” 

“What are you doing about it, since you hate supes so much?” 

“Fuck-all,” Butcher told you. At your strange look, he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Seems like it most days, anyway.” 

“And on the other days?” you pressed. 

“The other days…” He frowned, staring at the dirty sidewalk in front of you both, but he didn’t really seem to see it. “Some days, I help people. Help ‘em from being the next statistic Vought sweeps under the fuckin’ rug, you know?” 

You didn’t, not really. But something about the weariness in his voice was familiar, and you felt its echo in your chest. “Yeah, I know.” 

Both of you fell silent after that, but it wasn’t uncomfortable or stilted. You were at ease beside him as you walked. In fact, you were almost a little sad when you saw that you were rapidly approaching your secret destination.

Halfway up the block, a small medical clinic advertised its services with signs in multiple languages and a well-illuminated caduceus symbol. The automatic doors opened at odd intervals to let patients in or out, spilling light across the sidewalk every time. It was staffed and reliable without being crowded, and everything in the clinic was ruthlessly clean. It was the place you took Uncle Bo, your coworkers, and yourself if something happened at the tow yard, or if someone was feeling under the weather. They had always been good to you, and you knew they would be good to Billy Butcher, too. 

“Maybe we should stop here for a minute,” you suggested, pausing by the door.

Butcher glanced up at the sign, dark brows furrowing. The next instant, his eyes were roaming up and down your body and face. “You hurt?” 

“No, but you might be.” Butcher sighed and started walking again, but you didn’t budge. “I’m serious! You might have a concussion and that can end up ruining your life.” 

Butcher rounded, now several feet ahead of you. “You really think I don’t know what a concussion feels like? Just call me a pussy. It’s faster.”

You rolled your eyes, but caught up with him as he started walking away again. After a block of irritable silence, he glanced sidelong at you. “Are you actually interested in a drink? Or did you just want to get me to a doctor?” 

“Bit of both,” you answered after a moment of consideration.

“Makes one of us,” he muttered. “Don’t know how much I feel like having a drink now. You’ve ruined my appetite.”

“Wanting a drink doesn’t count as an appetite.” You weren’t entirely sure why you were still following Butcher down the sidewalk. 

“Is this what you do?” he demanded, stopping short and rounding on you. His face was all righteous fury, dark brows stabbing upward as his nostrils flared. His hands braced against his hips, splaying his coat until he looked like a big creature puffing itself bigger with rage. “Nag people to make yourself feel more important? It’s annoyin’ as fuck.” 

You had stopped short to keep from running into Butcher, so it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing that you dropped your eyes to the bit of sidewalk between you. After a few breaths to get yourself back on an even keel, you met his eyes again. 

“I’m sorry,” you apologized freely. “I didn’t realize I was bothering you so badly. I’ll have one fo the technicians call you tomorrow morning with details about your car.”

It was your turn to whip around and start walking in the opposite direction. You weren’t entirely shocked when a second set of footsteps began to echo yours. You glanced up at Butcher. “You don’t have to come back with me. I’ll make sure your car gets to the mechanic shop tomorrow.” 

“Not gonna let you walk back there alone, am I?” he asked. “There’s too many dumb fuckers about for that.” 

There was clearly no point in arguing with him, so you didn’t bother. You wrapped your arms around yourself, even though it made you walk like a duck. The evening was just tipping from cool to cold, especially with the wind picking up. And the lack of conversation between you and Butcher somehow managed to be colder than the autumn night.

“If it makes you feel any better,” you started, breaking the silence, “I don’t think that you’re concussed. Not anymore.”

“Yeah?” Butcher pressed when he had finished giving a loud snort. “What am I then, doctor?” 

You stared him full in the face as you replied, “A conspiracy nut with a vendetta against supes. But you’re pretty harmless, all things considered.” 

Butcher laughed at that, loud and sharp. The joy made him look more savage, his teeth flashing sharply white against the darkness of his facial hair, and you needed a moment before you could pull your eyes from his face. “Can’t argue with none of that, love. But if you think I’m anywhere near as dangerous as an uncontrolled supe, you haven’t been payin’ attention.” 

“Maybe you’re not, but I don’t see any supes around here,” you pointed out. “Controlled or otherwise.” 

“Thank fuck for that,” Butcher muttered. “Well, seein’ as I’m not so dangerous after all, maybe we should go get a drink.” 

“Thought you weren’t in the mood anymore,” you said, a challenging little tilt to your chin. 

Butcher stroked his chin, thoughtful eyes on you. “I could be persuaded. That is, if you’re still in the mood.” 

“Not really,” you admitted, watching him deflate slightly from the corner of your eye. “But I have some energy and frustration to burn off. You interested in helping out with that?” 

It took a moment for Butcher’s parted lips to form words, and you watched the process patiently. “Are you propositionin’ me?” 

“Yes,” you confirmed. “Are you offended by that?” 

“Offended you beat me to it.” Butcher’s grin had gone from disbelieving to wolfish in less time than it took to get that sentence out. “And I accept.” 

“Good, we’ll go to my apartment,” you decided. “It’s close and clean.” 

“Had me at ‘close’,” Butcher told you, trailing close to your heels. “Lead on, love.”

---

Author's Note - This definitely isn't a substantial enough plot to need two parts, but I ran out of time to edit. Explicit part two coming tomorrow!

[captain-mj]

Lazarus

Might do a part 2 to this?

Ever hear about the book of revelations?

Something happened. The only reason Soap knew was because it was hard to not notice how secretive Price got. 

“What do you think it is?” 

Gaz sat with him, both staring at Price’s empty seat. “Don’t know. It’s gotta be bad, right? Why else would he just not talk to us about it? He told you anything, Ghost?”

“Not a word.” His gloves hands were tapping hard on the table. “Keeps walking out to answer phone calls. I think it’s something in Britain. His accent thickens when he comes back.” 

Soap sighed and stretched, popping his back. “Isn’t he from London? Doesn’t that mean it’s someone from there he’s talking to?”

Ghost grunted but Gaz just grinned. “Don’t think it’s someone he has waiting for him at home? Maybe he picked up someone on leave and he hasn’t told us yet.” 

They all knew that wasn’t it, but it was a lot nicer to joke about that than anything else. Lot nicer. 

Then, Price told them all they would be dealing with a mission in Manchester. He said it with such a grave tone, Soap had anticipated a lot worse. Middle of Siberia since it was winter or Buckingham Palace was going to be blown up in an act of war. Possibly even the fucking Pentagon. Something worthy of the way that Price gripped the desk and looked afraid. 

So to hear that it was Manchester was a little confusing.

“Manchester?” Ghost asked, tilting his head. Ah. Ghost grew up there. That’s why Price seemed so nervous.  He was probably worried about how Ghost would hold up. 

Soap didn’t know everything, but he knew enough about Ghost to know Manchester was not a good place for him.

“Yes. I need all three of you. Something… happened there.” Price glanced at Ghost again before looking down at where his hands were white knuckling the table. “Get your gear together. We leave as soon as everyone is ready.”

Gaz nodded. “We’ll get ready as soon as possible, sir.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. We’ll be going by vehicle so meet me in the base garage.” Price wrapped his knuckles against the table before departing. 

The unease that had started earlier only intensified. It suffocated them until even Soap struggled to think of things to say to fill the silence. Ghost was his normal, quiet self. He looked out the window and drifted as Soap liked to call it. But Price, who usually was willing to joke around since he knew the long silences would get to Soap and Gaz, was silent. Which left it up to Gaz and Soap to keep everything going. They spoke loudly, cheerfully, trying to burn out the thick fog of tension. 

It didn’t really work but it was an improvement. 

Ghost put music on about mid way through, some rock music that sounded a bit older. 

“Your mom.” Price asked and the oxygen left the room as Ghost slowly turned his head towards him. His eyes widening to an almost comical degree. 

“What did you say sir?”

“Your mom. You told me once that she likes the Beatles, right? Especially Hey Jude.”

Ghost stared at him and Gaz quickly glanced at Soap, horrified that Price would so… casually drop something so personal about Ghost. 

“Yes, sir. She did.”

Price nodded. “Right…”

“Why do you ask, sir?” Ghost’s voice had slowly gotten cold and taut. Ready to snap at any moment. 

Price didn’t answer. They kept driving. Soap and Gaz avoided talking about music for the rest of the car ride. 

They pulled into a facility that looked… rather dark. Something about it was very unsettling. All concrete and rebar. 

Ghost followed Price, looking at him warily. He glanced back at them and Gaz stared back, both of them silently communicating about how weird it was for Price to be acting like this. 

They were checked in and when the person at the desk, who looked to be heavily armored but not armed, went to check Ghost’s identification and Price was quick to stop her. Ghost held the fake id in his hand, always keeping one on him, but he followed Price’s lead and slowly put it away. 

There were cell like rooms dotting the main hallway. Each one unnerving and quiet. People were in a few of them, most of them just… staring. Several hand dirt all over their hands or over their face, even though their clothes were clean. 

Ghost checked each one. It was because of instinct, nothing more. He checked each person, slowing after a second. Some were… familiar. Just vaguely. Their faces bouncing around in his brain. They flinched away from him, unsettled by his skull mask. 

Something was wrong. Something was deeply wrong. He kept slowing down, trying to piece these people together. One of them he finally recognized as working at a store when he was a teen. 

What were they doing here? 

“Get that fucker away from me.” A man barked at them, glaring at Ghost. “Swear to god, he’s fucking insane. You need to lock him up.” The man was medium height with bright blue eyes and a shock of dirty blond hair. He’s looking at Ghost like he’s afraid. 

Soap opens his mouth, intent on asking when Ghost throws himself against the bars like an animal. “I’m going to fucking kill you. I’m going to rip your goddamn insides out.” He reached between them, so erratic and violent and unlike Ghost that it startled the three of them. Then they were trying to drag him away from the bars. 

Ghost turned back on Price like a snake, dark eyes the only indication of anything. “You knew? How long has he been here? Did you know he was alive the whole damn time?” He managed to get his hands around Price’s throat, clearly ready to kill him. 

Price just barely got a grip on his wrists, trying to keep him from cutting off the oxygen to his brain. Soap tried to physically yank Ghost back while Gaz tried to pry his fingers off of Price. 

“Fuck you, John. You brought me here. Knowing that man would be alive. I thought I killed him. He should be dead. You should be fucking dead.” Ghost hissed at the man. 

“This is why you weren’t allowed back in the military.” The man spat at him, full of venom. 

Ghost staggered and swung back to him. “Fuck you, Sparks.”

“Riley. You’re fucking insane. Still hiding behind that fucking skull. I told you, all you had to do was come to the fucking-”

Something happened to the bars, like a shock. It made Sparks jerk back. 

“Simon.” Price rubbed his throat, clearly not as upset as anyone else would be. He understood why Ghost had the reaction, even if no one else did. “Let me explain. Something happened. We’re not sure if they’re… the real people.”

Gaz looked at Price, finally managing to tear his eyes off of Ghost. “What?”

“Dead people just… came back. To life. We’re trying to figure out what exactly happened. The reason we’re here is one of the cemeteries affected was the one of the biggest Protestant cemetery in Manchester.”

Soap took a deep breath.

“John…”

-

Ghost had been glaring at this mystery person for twenty minutes so far. Where most people would shake or beg for their lives, this man just stared back. 

Fluffy natural blond hair and gorgeous green eyes. He had a thick manchester accent just like Ghost. “Are we going to do this all day, Simon?”

The three witnesses snapped their heads to look at Ghost. His hands were flat in front of him but incredibly tense. “Who are you?”

“You know the answer to that, but I’ll give you some time.”

“The person you’re mimicking is dead.”

Mystery guy looked at himself. “Nah, I look fine. Just had to get the dust off. What are you trying to do? Prove it’s me? Prove it’s not me?”

Ghost stared at him. “You’re not him. He died a very long time ago.” There was a tense silence.”

“How can I prove it? Name every street name for coke? Tell the people watching us where you hid your dirty mags?”

“...my magazines?” Ghost sounded genuinely surprised.

“Third plank under your bed.”

“Lucky guess.”

He groaned and got comfier. “Si, come on.”

“You’re not Tommy.”

“You know I am.” It’s why you’ll look me in the eye.” ‘Tommy’ leaned forward. “Don’t be like this. You know it’s me.”

Ghost shook his head, hands clenching. “Can’t be sure.” 

“What do you want? I can showing you the tattoo on my ribs you gave me. Talk about how, despite griping, you held me the entire night I was shivering from withdrawals. Though I’d die in our childhood room until you sat next to me. Same way Mom did when you had nightmares.”

Mom. 

Childhood bedroom. 

They were siblings. 

Soap frowned. He felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner. The hair and manner of speaking. 

It was difficult to imagine a baby Ghost having nightmares or going to his mom or even just… being little. Another idea that felt very foreign was Ghost taking care of someone like that. He was a good person that cared a lot and very deeply. But it felt so sweet and sincere. Maybe it was just that Soap had a hard time imagining Ghost off duty. He liked to sometime. Try at least. He admired the man and maybe he had a little crush on him. The idea of him being a big brother and a very good one at that was… 

Interesting. 

“Not proof.”

“I thought you were going to come out to me when I asked you to be my best man.”

“You said thought. Doesn’t mean anything.”

Sopa and Gaz glanced at each other, silently raising eyebrows as they examined the fact that Ghost did not deny the coming out part. Or acknowledge it.

Tommy sighed. “I’ve known since I was 14 and caught you and Jason making out behind the school house.” Ghost went to interject, but Tommy cut him off. “You haven’t cried since Dad made you go to the concert. You apparently cried on the way back and Dad beat you so hard he broke something in your face. Closest you came ever again was when I told you that Joseph’s middle name was Simon. He was a premie. Two months early and tiny. Could fit in my hand so I knew he could fit in yours. You insisted on checking on Beth first, claiming you were worried about her, but we all knew you were just scared to hurt him.”

Ghost was quiet. Not his eerie practiced quiet he used to scare recruits. A vulnerable, almost mournful quiet. 

“I once asked when you’d finally settle down. I was careful to never say wife to you. Said you didn’t see a point because it would never be what Beth and I have. Didn’t say anything but I thought you were an idiot for that. Cause you wouldn’t have what Beth and I do. You’d have what Simon and whoever got lucky has.” Tommy smiled and leaned forward. “You’re my best friend. You know me. You knew me strung out. You knew me when you crawled home from Mexico. And you know me three years after I died. Because I’m your best friend too.” 

Ghost stared and Soap felt like he was intruding. For a moment, he though of pulling Gaz and Price away, but if this was a trick and this guy was dangerous, he’d be living Ghost, an emotionally vulnerable Ghost apparently, all alone.

“Yeah, Price. He’s definitely Tommy.” 

Tommy laughed. “You’re a giant sap. Just wanted me to call you my best friend, didn’ you?” He tilted his head at him.

Ghost stood up and glanced around the room, like he was trying to find a reason he could leave. Tommy stood up and hugged him. Like it wasn’t a big deal to touch Ghost. The Ghost. Simon Ghost Riley. Simon hugged back tentatively. 

“I’m right here, big guy. Love you too.” 

Ghost crumbled into him. He mumbled something to Tommy who patted him. “I know. I know. Missed you too. Guys can we have a moment?”

“Price was still staring at Tommy with what they now recognized as a shock and awe. “Yeah, come on sergeants.” He backed out, keeping his eyes on them.

“Captain. Who was that?”

“A dead man?”

“Suicide mission?”

Price shook his head. “Murdered in his home. Had nothing to do with the military. 

Soap nodded. “How many people came back to life?”

“So far? We have no clue. But it’s a lot.”

“How many does Simon know?”

“A lot.”

[mask131]

The myth of Apollo (5)

And here is the last part of Françoise Graziani’s article « Apollo, the mythical sun » (begun here).

IV/ The mystical Sun

The interpretation of the Sun as a symbol of royalty was already present during the Renaissance but was truly amplified by the baroque era. This iconological interpretation was first punctually associated with the panegyric (Ronsard in his “Elegies” wrote “Henry, the Sun that inspired me”), then to the emblematic, as the royal crown was depicted as a crown of sun-rays. While Tyard saw a positive symbol within the idea of the Sun “Prince and rector of the sky”, the baroque poet Drelincourt, in 1677, compared it to a “superb King, who shines in his Court, Crowned with rays” – but only to better accuse the celestial body of being a simulacra of God, a “weak painting”. Within the same idea, Du Bartas substituted the false pagan god to the real God: “The world is a cloud through which shines, not the bow-shooting son of the beautiful Latone, this divine Phoebus, but…”. It is very revealing that Drelincourt presents a critical and desacralizing interpretation of the sun, where it loses its mythical name and function… while writing within the court of Louis XIV, right as the king ideologically concretizes the literary allegories by depicting himself within Versailles (the “house of the Sun”) as Apollo, as the sun on earth. Drelincourt concludes his sonnet “About the Sun”, by insisting that the Sun is just the “portrait of the Primal Cause”: “your brightness is but a Shadow, and you are not the Sun anymore”. The mythical Sun is a false sun, but it is replaced in the metaphorical heaven by the real mystical Sun, the Christ, that the Renaissance paintings sometimes depicted under the traits of Apollo. As a reflection of the true God, as the interpret and the vehicle of God’s light, the Christ was a solar character, whose death was thought as bringing a “night” to the Western world (it was how the poets metaphorize the eclipse that occurred during the Crucifixion). This identification, very common within the mystical baroque poetry, was sometimes pushed to the point of including (in a very unusual way) some episodes of Apollo’s legends within the Christian allegory (such as Hyacinthus or Clythia).

V/ The Sun of intelligence

The mystical sun is, in a paradox that determined all poetic interpretations, linked to the decline of the mythical sun. And yet, the mystical sun is born from a very old topos, the one of the Deus Pictor: if God is a painter, and the Universe his painting, than the Sun (and the poets claim it since the Hellenistic times) is his brush. In the baroque era, the solar myth, heavily used in a metaphorical (not quite allegorical) way, leads this motif towards the realm of abstractions. Every time it appears, it is linked to two elements: on one side, the Sun as a divine principle and an instrument of creation which becomes the double of the poet (a poet that now dares associate himself with not just Orpheus, but Apollo). On the other side, the diurnal travel of the solar eye becomes the metaphor of the process of writing. Numerous baroque texts play on the similarity between the words “rayons” (the rays) and “crayon” (the pencil), to show the Creator in his picturesque and scriptural functions. In a similar way, it is traditional to punctuate long poems by various sunsets and sunrises, described in such a way that they establish an analogy between the rhythm of the days, and the rhythm of the poem itself.

It is for example the case within G. B. Marino’s “Adone”, where, at the end of the poem, the Muse answers Apollo’s call, and comes to “end the thread of this long canvas”, and the end of the last day is described in textual terms: “The sky is of paper, the darkness of ink, the ray a feather / Which with the sun erases the ending day to write / to the West, in letters of gold, the end of the long travel.” Within “Adone”, Apollo is present under different shapes. He is found, in a metaphorical way, in the character of the hero, Adonis, which ultimately is just a gaze that crosses the various spectacles of the universe (celestial world, terrestrial world, cultural world) and is often compared, due to the “shine of his youth”, to Apollo. As the sun is the eye that brightens the world, that reveals the world and that allows it to be, the first creating gaze over the poem is done by the poet itself ; but there is another sight, the image of the human eye that reads and interprets the great Book of Nature. Adonis, within Marino’s poem, plays this role of reader, the double of the creature to which the secrets of the creation are hidden. He is, too, a “false sun”, and this is why Marino show him as a passive hero who, throughout the poem, does not understand what he sees: it is a reverse image of the philosophical sun of the Renaissance. He symbolizes the human soul, in the idea that the human soul only perceives the appearances, and mistakes itself for the sun because it was created in tis image. Marino’s Adonis is a “lonely eye” to which the gods (Venus and Hermes) reveal secrets, but the only world that receives the light of his gaze is the one of the book, of which the real writer is Apollo, “he who brightens the wise minds”. He who shines upon the minds embodies the last avatar of the god of Poetry: the divine Intellect, he who makes the minds shining and insightful, he who gifts human with both invention and divination. The solar sign valorizes the human Intellect, and more so over the individual intelligence. The god doesn’t “inspire” anymore, but he does more by “shining” upon the artistic works.

Apollo is more and more disguised as time passes by, to the point of losing his name – he is substituted so much he is even refused the qualificative of a god. He keeps however, as a mythical sign, a great coherence. The abstract uses of the Sun as metaphors for the divine eye contain very clear remains of its mythical nature. The connotations tied to the solar figure are simply the transpositions, on a metaphorical plane, of the elements tied to the god. The frequency of his use throughout the 16th and 17th centuries proves its almost ritualistic value, even though literature splits itself from the myth. As such, it seems that, as soon as the poetry does not bear the myth of the inspiration anymire, the figure of its titular god is slowly abandoned. Even though the invocation of the Muses persists, as a convention or as a periodical element, all the way to the 19th century. The names of “Apollo”, “Muses” and “Lyre” are enough to designate, by metonymy, and outside of all myths, the very concept of poetry.

VI/ Hyperion

With Romanticism, Apollo becomes the Archer again. The divine inspiration of the poet is not an illumination or a revelation anymore, but a shock, a stupefying possession. The poet, as Hölderlin writes, is “struck by Apollo” and, confronted by the presence of the god, he can’t be understood by other humans anymore. The poetic vocation is assimilated to a curse, and to a suffering. Within Hölderlin’s work, Apollo is fused with both Jupiter, he who strikes with the blinding lightning, he who “shakes and vivifies”, and with Dionysos, to condense itself ultimately in the figure of the Christ. He also especially identified with the one who was, according to Hesiod, his grand-father, the titan Hyperion. Just like Hyperion, of which he bears the name in the allegorical novel of Hölderlin “Hyperion”, the poet is a fallen and exiled titan, whose rebellion (pre-apollonian actions) are doomed to failure, but who keeps the vague memory of his solar origin and of his mission, while still being, like the sun, doomed to loneliness. A loneliness which, in this context, bears both a positive aspect, as the solitude which brings exaltation, and a negative aspect, the solitude which makes the poet a cursed man or a mad man. Apollo and Dionysos become one within the Romantic conception of madness as a sign of both divine election and mystical drunkenness. The fundamental ambiguity of Apollo is found back within the duality of the poetry, perceived as both a grace and an eviction. This duality was felt by the Romantics on an individual plane, and not on a conceptual plane like in the Renaissance.

An exceptional occurrence of the figure of Apollo within literature must be studied, quite close to Hölderlin’s own interpretation. Apollo appears as the subject and the hero of a 19th century literary work in only one piece, an unfinished poem by Keats which was also called Hyperion (1819). This brief epic of a Miltonian style depicts the fall of the Titans, banished by the New Gods, and the rise to divinity of the young Apollo, initiated by Mnemosyne. Within Keats’ writing, just like within Hölderlin’s work, Apollo is treated as the symbol of a “new beauty”, and as the tutelar god, not to say the embodiment, of the New Poetry. For both men, the accent is put on the “divine future” of Apollo: for Keats, Apollo only becomes a god when, thanks to Mnemosyne (who is in mythology the mother of the Muses), he understands his divinity, and this accession to Knowledge is a painful process. Apollo, before striking the poets, suffers himself from an “agony as burning as death is cold”. And he screams painfully when he was his epiphany. Within Hölderlin’s, the name Hyperion symbolized, by an antonomasia, the splitting of the hero, a hero turned to the Ancient Gods, that feels himself as their interpret, and yet is destined to inaugurate the renewal of the Teenager Sun through a New Poetic Religion. The poet which is speaking here is not yet born, and Hyperion represents the mythical prehistory of he who will only become a god, a pure lonely spirit, the “Hermit of Greece”, free of all heroic temptations, only after Romanticism. In a similar way, Keats brutally interrupts his poem right as Poetry is born.

[droctaviolovecraft]

TW: "THE HOUSE FELL MARGINALS!"

"I killed so many bandits that I feel like Cabo Bruno."

Identification: Mr. Policeman

Lead Researcher: Dr. Öctavio Kalev

ANM #: ANM-911

Classification: Assistant 🔵 | In service 👮

Anomaly Type: Sentient, Military Entity

Damage Type: [Unidentified]

Control: ANM-911, or "Officer Hoyt," is authorized to operate within the designated perimeter of the Lisbon Natural Reserve (LNR), Portugal. The area, measuring 10 km², is monitored by a combination of the Institute's covert surveillance drones and undercover personnel. These assets are to observe but not interfere with ANM-911’s nighttime operations.

Due to ANM-911’s nature and its useful role in eliminating criminal elements, the entity should not be contained or antagonized unless it poses a direct threat to MOTHRA personnel or civilians. Any interaction with ANM-911 must be handled by personnel with Level 3 security clearance or higher and should be limited to verbal exchanges. Civilians who come into contact with ANM-911 should be amnesticized after encounters, with memories replaced by common folklore about a ghostly police officer haunting the LNR.

Although ANM-911 primarily acts against criminals, it is known to misinterpret undercover MOTHRA Foundation personnel as outlaws. All personnel must display special identification badges containing anti-recognition sigils to avoid hostile interactions with the anomaly.

Description: ANM-911 is the anomalous form of a former police officer named "Officer Hoyt," who was part of the now-dissolved "Eagles of Freedom" task force that operated in Lisbon, Portugal, in the late 19th century. This task force focused on combating anomalous criminal activity in the region, particularly within the Lisbon Natural Reserve. ANM-911 retains Officer Hoyt’s physical appearance, though heavily distorted.

The anomaly resembles a tall humanoid figure dressed in a torn, worn police uniform with a badge bearing the name "Hoyt" and an insignia from the now-defunct task force. ANM-911 carries a steel baton that is abnormally durable and covered in what appears to be dried blood. Its most striking feature is its glowing red eyes, and when agitated, the entity’s mouth stretches to an impossible width, grotesquely distorting its face.

ANM-911’s primary anomalous trait is its ability to identify individuals with criminal backgrounds. The exact mechanism is unknown, but Hoyt can instantly determine a person’s criminal history and intentions, even if concealed or encrypted. ANM-911 has been observed locating criminals within a 10 km radius, tracking their movements, and confronting them with extreme speed and precision. It is equipped with an anomalous vehicle: an old police car resembling a mid-20th-century model, with faded paint and rust. This car can travel at incalculable speeds regardless of road conditions and appears immune to physical damage.

When ANM-911 locates a criminal, it confronts the individual aggressively, resembling a caricature of an irate police chief. ANM-911 issues loud, sarcastic warnings, often laced with profanity, before demanding the criminal perform humiliating or exhausting tasks. Common orders include:

Performing 500 push-ups on the spot

Reciting the complete set of local police rules and regulations

Publicly confessing their crimes in detail

Crawling for 1 kilometer on all fours, barking like a dog while ANM-911 threatens to strike with its baton if they stop or slow down

Singing the national anthem while doing jumping jacks—ANM-911 insists it be sung loudly and in perfect pitch, hurling insults if they falter

Writing an apology on the ground with their nose—ANM-911 forces criminals to kneel and use only their nose to "write" an apology for their crimes on the ground

Counting every blade of grass in a 10-meter area—ANM-911 demands that criminals count and report each blade of grass, often interrupting them to restart if they seem to have missed any

Balancing on one foot while reciting the alphabet backward—The criminal must balance while ANM-911 patrols around, ready to strike with the baton if they lose balance or mispronounce a letter

Saluting and complimenting each tree in the area—ANM-911 orders the criminal to stop at every tree, salute it, and offer a flattering compliment as if addressing a superior officer

Performing 100 jumping jacks in the mud—ANM-911 forces criminals to perform exhausting jumping jacks in the mud, sometimes splashing more water on them while mocking their form

Cleaning its police car using only their tongue—ANM-911 orders criminals to use their tongues to clean its old, battered police car, pointing out missed spots or spreading more dirt to prolong the task

Pretending to be an airplane while running through the forest—The criminal must run through the forest with their arms outstretched, making engine noises while ANM-911 follows closely, mocking their "flying skills."

These tasks, though humiliating, are designed to break the criminal’s will without direct violence, allowing ANM-911 to exert control over their behavior through psychological pressure and embarrassment.

Officer Hoyt uses his baton in a threatening manner, though rarely follows through unless the criminal resists or attempts to flee. In cases of evasion or aggression, ANM-911’s anomalous abilities become more pronounced. It can stretch its limbs to inhuman lengths, enabling it to capture escaping individuals. Furthermore, ANM-911 has demonstrated a high degree of regenerative ability, recovering from gunshots, amputations, or other significant injuries in seconds.

The entity exhibits increasing aggression in response to the severity of the criminal’s record. Minor offenders are subjected to verbal abuse and forced to perform tasks, while those with violent criminal histories or records of anomalous activity are treated with greater hostility. In these cases, ANM-911’s physical distortions intensify, with its body contorting into unnatural shapes as it approaches its target. It can pursue these criminals relentlessly, showing no signs of fatigue or injury.

Once ANM-911 apprehends a criminal, their fate varies. Minor offenders are typically left incapacitated but alive, while serious criminals often disappear after their encounters with the anomaly. MOTHRA Foundation investigations have found no trace of these individuals post-encounter, leading to speculation that ANM-911 either transports them to an unknown location or exterminates them in an undisclosed manner.

History: Officer Hoyt was a highly decorated police officer within the Institution’s internal security division, tasked with overseeing anomalous investigations in urban areas. As part of the "Eagles of Freedom," Officer Hoyt was known for his unorthodox but effective policing methods, earning a reputation for being tough on crime, especially within anomalous communities. However, after an ambush by an organized crime syndicate involved in anomalous trafficking, the entire task force was killed in action, except for Officer Hoyt, whose body was never recovered.

It is unclear how Hoyt became ANM-911. However, his behavior, speech patterns, and choice of targets align with his pre-anomalous identity. ANM-911 still believes he is fulfilling his duty, though with extreme and distorted methods.

ANM-911 Addendum-1: Recent reports indicate that ANM-911 has expanded his patrol area within the Lisbon Nature Reserve. He has also begun targeting high-level anomalous criminals, some of whom are connected to the Institution’s ongoing investigations. The organization is debating classifying Hoyt as a "Helper" since his actions have aided in the apprehension of several anomalous threats and criminals.

The relationship between ANM-911 and MOTHRA remains tenuous. Although he does not recognize the current Institution personnel’s authority, he seems to have residual loyalty to the organization, particularly those who align with "law and order." Efforts to re-establish formal communication with ANM-911 are ongoing.

ANM-911-Beta Incident: During a routine investigation of a smuggling network in the LNR, two Institution agents were mistaken for criminals by ANM-911. Despite showing identification, ANM-911 aggressively pursued the agents in his police car, causing significant damage to the surveillance vehicle. Only by evacuating the area and using advanced amnestic grenades were the agents able to escape.

ANM-911-03 Audio Log – Lisbon Nature Reserve Patrol

Date: 03/14/2023

Time: 02:17 AM

Incident Type: ANM-911 Criminal Apprehension

Personnel Involved: N/A (secret recording device placed in the area)

[Sounds of an old police car skidding to a halt, gravel crunching under the tires. Faint nighttime sounds of the reserve in the background. A door slams open forcefully, heavy boots hitting the ground quickly.]

ANM-911: [Yelling] "STOP! You think you can outrun me?! YOU THINK YOU'RE FASTER THAN THE LAW, YOU FILTHY PIECE OF SHIT?!"

[A man's panicked breathing can be heard as footsteps drag through the dirt.]

ANM-911: "STOP RIGHT THERE! You're not getting away, you scumbag!"

[A wet thud is heard as ANM-911 grabs the man, throwing him to the ground. The man's groan of pain is audible.]

ANM-911: "HOW TALL ARE YOU, CITIZEN?! I DIDN'T KNOW YOU COULD STACK SHIT THAT HIGH! What are you, 5'7", or just a waste of space that learned to stand up?!"

[The man stammers, trying to respond.]

Man: "I—I don’t—"

ANM-911: [Shouting over him] "SPEAK UP! Where are you from, HUH?"

Man: I—I—I—I’m f—from—

ANM-911: YOU CAME OUT OF YOUR MOTHER'S CUNT! YOU HEARD THAT?! Yeah, I bet she’s real proud of the fine criminal specimen you turned into!"

[The man sighs and groans as ANM-911 moves closer. The sound of steel hitting the ground, presumably ANM-911’s baton, echoes in the audio.]

ANM-911: "You think you’re tough? YOU THINK YOU’RE SOME KIND OF BIG-SHOT HITTER? You rob people, huh?! You think the law doesn’t apply to you, huh?! WELL, GUESS WHAT—IT’S YOUR LUCKY DAY, BECAUSE I’M HERE TO REMIND YOU, YOU’RE NOTHING BUT A GODDAMN LOWLIFE!"

[ANM-911 kicks the man in the back. Heavy breathing from both can be heard. ANM-911’s tone becomes eerily calm, dripping with sarcasm.]

ANM-911: "Tell me, how long you been at this, citizen? Huh? I BET YOU THINK YOU’RE SOME KIND OF EXPERT THIEF. LOOK AT YOU. I bet you’re REALLY PROUD OF YOURSELF, breaking into homes like a sewer rat. What was it? A few wallets? Maybe a nice watch for mommy and daddy? I SERVED 28 YEARS IN THE MILITARY, CITIZEN, only got booted after I killed a few deserving punks like you… that’s why I joined the police… [ANM-911 smacks his baton against his palm.]

Man: [Gasping, trying to speak] "I-I didn’t—"

ANM-911: [Interrupting, mockingly] "OH, YOU DIDN’T KNOW? You didn’t know it was ILLEGAL to rob people? Or is that something you just forgot? JUST LIKE YOU FORGOT TO GROW A BRAIN?!"

[ANM-911 stands over the man, tapping the baton in his hand.]

ANM-911: "Alright, citizen. You know what’s coming next, don’t you? Get up. ON YOUR FEET. No? Too tired? GREAT! I LOVE seeing criminals suffer."

[The sound of the man coughing and struggling to stand is barely audible.]

ANM-911: "Now listen up, you piece of trash. You’re gonna drop down and give me 500 push-ups RIGHT NOW. And after that, you’re gonna recite every police rule in this area. If you miss a single one, I SWEAR I’LL MAKE YOU START OVER. GOT IT?!"

Man: [Stammering] "I-I can’t—"

ANM-911: "YOU CAN’T WHAT?! BREATHE? Oh, too bad, because I DON’T GIVE A DAMN IF YOU CAN’T BREATHE! YOU’RE GONNA DO THOSE PUSH-UPS UNTIL YOUR ARMS FALL OFF. And if they do? GUESS WHAT? I’LL BEAT YOU UNTIL YOU LEARN TO USE YOUR LEGS INSTEAD OF YOUR ARMS!"

[The man begins doing push-ups, wheezing and coughing between reps. ANM-911 paces back and forth.]

ANM-911: "LOOK AT YOU. Pathetic! My grandma could do better push-ups, and she’s been dead for 20 years! You’re EMBARRASSING YOURSELF, and frankly, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING ME! Is this what passes for criminals nowadays?! I’VE SEEN DEAD SQUIRRELS WITH MORE FIGHT!"

[The sound of the man gasping, his heavy breathing, as he continues trying to do push-ups.]

ANM-911: "Faster! You think prison’s gonna let you off easy, huh?! You’re lucky I found you first. Prison guards? They’d make you their personal puppet. Yeah, you’re getting off easy now!"

[The man collapses on the ground, panting.]

ANM-911: [Laughing] "Ah, tired already? That’s fine. You’ve got all night to become a REAL MAN, citizen. We’re gonna get REAL cozy. You, me, and my trusty baton. If you’re not doing push-ups, maybe I’ll just drag you behind my car for a while—SEE HOW LONG YOU CAN KEEP UP! HAHAHA!"

[The audio cuts off as ANM-911’s laughter echoes in the distance.]

[...]

End of Log

[lonestarflight]

"Rockwell concept for an air-launched spaceplane produced as part of the Advanced Military Spaceflight Capability study."

"In December 1980, Don Hart of the Air Force Rocket Propulsion Laboratory at Edwards Air Force Base wrote a memo describing a proposed Air Force Space Sortie Vehicle that would be launched from the back of a 747. Ehrlich says that he knew Hart at the time, and that it is possible that Hart got the idea of the Space Sortie Vehicle concept from some work that Rockwell was then engaged in. “I’m not sure which came first, Don’s or ours, or they may even have been shared concepts,” Ehrlich remembers. He said that around 1978 or ’79 the Air Force was interested in a concept that they then called 'On-Demand Launch.' Rockwell learned of the Air Force interest and began working on several concepts. In 1979, the Air Force initiated an Advanced Military Spaceflight Capability Technology Identification Study (known as AMSC) and Rockwell was ready for it. The AMSC study actually preceded and ran concurrently with the Air Force Space Sortie Vehicle outlined in Hart’s December 1980 memo.

Ehrlich had taken his lifting body knowledge with him to Rockwell. The FDL-5A shape seen pulled out of the C-5 in the artist impression is the more angular version, with the single tail. But when Rockwell started working on the AMSC, they considered a spacecraft with drop tanks and mounted above a 747. The shape they used in that study was the more rounded version, with winglets. 'Different mission, different shape, but retaining the critical aerodynamic features which were key,' Ehrlich explained. The craft could be wider because it did not have to fit inside an aircraft. The Rockwell craft also had three rocket engines in its tail.

The Rockwell approach was to use the V-shaped drop tank only for hydrogen. The spacecraft itself would carry both oxygen and a little bit of hydrogen for the final push into orbit. This simplified the tank design, and since the tank was the expendable part of the spacecraft that reduced cost.

But Rockwell ran into the same limitations experienced by other companies that looked into the Sortie Vehicle Concept. Such a craft could only carry a relatively small payload. But it also required drop tanks, and that increased the expense. The Air Force wanted a cheaper vehicle and the only way to achieve that would be to develop one that was fully reusable."

Date: late 1970s/early 1980s

source

[matan4il]

Daily update post:

Yesterday, the IDF managed to prevent an independent Palestinian terrorist attack, by killing the would be terrorist on his way to execute his plan. Based on the type of weapons that were found on him, had he managed to carry out the attack, there probably would have been a lot of fatalities.

Also yesterday, the UN Security Council had an emergency session to discuss the UN report on the sexual violence of Hamas on Oct 7 and since (with the hostages). This was thanks to Israel asking several countries to request this session, and the US, the UK and France obliged. Believe it or not, more than 5 months after the biggest massacre of Jews since the Holocaust and the single bloodiest day in the Israeli-Arab conflict, that was the FIRST time that the UN has met to discuss what happened to people in Israel on that day. Let it sink in that the UN has discussed earlier and more frequently the situation in Gaza, than the massacre that started it. And that the UN still doesn't consider Hamas a terrorist organization. Israel again asked for this to change during yesterday's session.

Remember how I wrote about Yussuf and Hamza al-Ziadna, 2 of the 3 Muslim Israeli hostages, still held in Gaza after more than 5 months? Well, yesterday at the UN, Ali al-Ziadna, Yussuf's brother and Hamza's uncle, confronted the Palestinian ambassador, demanding to know why the Muslim Israeli hostages have not been released to fast and pray during Ramadan, as all Muslims should get to, and how could Hamas call themselves Muslims... (I'll just correct one thing he said: while Hamas released 23 of its 32 Thai hostages without asking for anything in return, but as part of the November 2023 deal to release the Israeli hostages, 9 Thai citizens are still in captivity. I do not want anyone to forget these men, they must be released and reunited with their loved ones, too)

The BBC has already been accused by members of the British Parliament of being institutionally antisemitic. Now, it seems like the British broadcaster is insisting on further proving those accusations right, as its head chooses to defend the BBC's use of an unsubstantiated witness account from a "journalist" known to be working for Iran, and who has in the past praised terrorists killing Israelis (his testament matches Hamas' narrative) regarding the stampede incident in northern Gaza. But, you know. Good on the Jews and the Jewish state for controlling the media. *eyeroll*

This is 58 years old Rami Davidian.

He's a farmer from moshav Patish. On Oct 7, he got a message from a friend, asking Rami to save his kid, who was at the Nova music festival, where today we know was the single deadliest scene of all the place Hamas attacked during the massacre. Rami went in, and saved the kid and 12 others in his vehicle, while also directing others to moshav Patish. This led to more people hearing about it, and calling Rami as well, giving him details about their loved ones, and asking for his help in rescuing them. Rami went back in, again and again, to an active shooting scene controlled by murderous terrorists, for hours, and he kept getting people out. Once, to save the life of a young girl, he approached the terrorists, and speaking Arabic to them, he lied that he's a Muslim Arab like them who came to warn them of nearing soldiers, and that they must flee, leaving their victim behind. Rami didn't know this, but on that day, many actual Israeli Muslim Arabs were murdered by Hamas for "working for the Jews," which the terrorists claimed made these Arabs even worse than the Jews. But miraculously, the lie worked for Rami. Once the IDF arrived and Rami was no longer needed to save the living, he helped with the identification and bringing to burial of the dead. After everything he had done for others on that day, risking his own life repeatedly, 2 days ago Rami gave an interview, and said that it's the survivors of Hamas' sexual violence who are the real heroes. Thank you for everything you did and who you are, Rami. Together with other people who risked themselves to save others, whether Jewish or not, you are gibor Yisrael (hero of Israel).

This is 19 years old Itay Chen.

He's one of the Israeli hostages that in the past 5 months, I have heard his parents speaking about their fears over not having gotten a sign of life, and hopes for his release countless times. As Itay has an American citizenship, they even personally met with Biden to plea for their son's life. Today we got the announcement that he had in fact been murdered on Oct 7, and it's his body that's being held captive by Hamas. I have no doubt that Israel will still do whatever it can to get it back, and allow him to be brought to kever Yisrael (Hebrew term for Jewish burial. Literally: Israel grave), and it would even release convicted terrorists to make that happen (it has done this before), but obviously the "price" for a living hostage is higher, not to mention that the thought of someone alive and suffering in captivity comes with a greater psychological pressure and urgency, so Hamas intentionally and cruelly let his parents spend months not knowing, hoping for what Hamas already know was impossible, fly all over the world, and beg for something that no one could give them. I just have no words for this type of ruthlessness.

May his memory be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[theriverperson]

The surface did not have nearly as many convenient rivers as River had hoped, which meant the majority of the time they were going somewhere these days their boat simply grew legs and walked. It got the occasional amused giggle, when in the Underground, but here on the surface the humans tended to stare.

And that made them uncomfortable.

Not uncomfortable enough to walk somewhere though. Land had this way of being disorienting, in a way that always took an adjustment period any time they had to actually get on it. Which was often nowadays, irritatingly. Many places had a 'no vehicles' policy.

They also had to use the sidewalk. Because apparently their boat was not 'street legal', whatever that meant. Something about causing accidents and needing licenses and other such nonsense that River chose not to worry about because it annoyed them and they did not want anything to do with it.

They had also not bothered yet with getting 'proper identification', because one apparently needed a little card to let humans know they were who they said they were before they could use the roads. Really, what had the world come to? They did not recall things being quite this complicated before all of this.

That was why they were currently located in the park, floating along on a nice pond they'd discovered and generally just enjoying some serenity away from the noisier parts of the city when they took note of a human they'd seen before. An interesting one, judging by the various possibilities that always danced around her.

Possibilities they had not shared with anyone because they remembered there had been some mages that had stayed friendly and they did not want to risk how others might react if they knew the possibility humans with magic might still exist. However uncertain. Visions were not always truth, they reminded themself as they directed their skiff a bit closer towards the curious woman.

"Hello there," they said with a smile in their voice, their skull obscured by the shadows of their hood. "You look like you've read an interesting book or two in your time. Any you care to share?"

[dorianepin]

fandom / parasociality: 

i think the complication at the end of the day is the prevalent assumption that fandom a) has moral value b) is something that can be quantitatively "proven" and c) must act as a conditional precursor to universal human values and not simply a state of engagement separate from our individual moral compasses. the problem is that for most people who experience a unilateral and unconditional relationship toward a single person or concept, that emotion has to be negated with an equal and opposite adverse reaction, which is why so many are prone to constructing universal judgments to justify their attitudes toward those outside the limitive scope of their personal fandom. 

and these attitudes themselves aren't necessarily a problem, fandom nor the identification of fandom isn't necessarily a problem either, since fandom isn't inherently a good or bad thing or even really discrete in the first place and therefore has no moral value, is simply a vehicle for community and a composite image of recognition. but it's the relationship between these things that allow said attitudes to seemingly legitimize irrational actions with actual moral consequence.

in short f1 is so interesting because people are binary like their lives depend on it........ your team can only ever be sabotaging your favorite driver specifically because everyone and everything is a threat to the success of their career, failure always demands accountability from those who have incurred your distrust, those who haven't been marked as relevant in your personal projection. human beings are socialized off of sympathy but to a highly regimented and provisional degree; the more a man fails, as long as you like him, he's in fact more of a good person who has simply been wronged, not someone who could possibly have shortcomings, not someone who has been given a chance that a majority of this world has never been given, not someone who can be evaluated objectively as a professional athlete and operational piece of a larger working structure.

i find it kind of... idk, exhausting to see both sides of the arguments around lando because you get the >oh he can't be depressed because he's a millionaire people and then the >why don't you guys care about mental health lando is so vulnerable and can do no wrong! ripostes and it's like at the end of the day neither of these things are even relevant to the situation lol. it's the need to weaponize every inconsistency, the need to advertise that your empathy is conditional...... idk.

the funny part is that if you went up to oscar and were like oh i'm so sorry mclaren have been sabotaging you and ruined your race and that zbrown doesn't love you like he loves lando after he wasn't able to perform to his own personal standard he'd think you were losing your mind. "liking" someone and being a "fan" are such nebulous ideas anyway, these declarations are completely individual and self-imposed, there's no need to insist that i like someone or to declare my admiration of them as a person in order to review statistics or objectively assess their performance because what does any of that change anyway 🤷‍♀️

it is what it is though................

[sjsmith56]

Two Steps to the Left - Part 3

Summary: With the serum in hand, Bucky heads to the secret lab to undergo the full super soldier treatment. Once there he meets his future counterpart who was the voice that guided him.

Length: 6 K

Characters: Bucky Barnes (WW2 and Modern), Steve Rogers, Colonel Phillips, Peggy Carter, Bruce Banner, Howard Stark.

Warnings: The elephant in the room - Steve leaving Modern Bucky behind.

Author notes: Hope you like this.

<<Part 2

⚡️ ⚡️ ⚡️

Transformation

The four of them were in a staff car, Colonel Phillips, and Bucky Barnes in the back, Peggy Carter and Steve Rogers in the front, heading towards a secret installation.  In the trunk, inside a strong case, was the supply of serum that Steve and Bucky liberated from the German concentration camp. 

"You know, Dr. Zola asked to be there when we put you through the treatment," said Phillips.

Bucky looked at him, surprised.

"You told him no, didn't you?"

"No, I said we could come to some sort of arrangement," he answered, then he smiled.  "I lied.  There was no way in hell I was letting that mad scientist anywhere near you, Sergeant.  Has your voice indicated anything about their arrival?"

"No, I told him where we were going, and he said they would be there."  Bucky looked out the window.  "Thank you, Colonel."

"For what, son?"

"Believing me.  I didn't think anyone except Steve would, but you and Agent Carter did.  I just hope that the treatment you used for him works for me."

"I had my doubts about Rogers," admitted the Colonel.  "I always thought we needed the strongest, meanest sons of bitches to defeat the Nazis, then HYDRA.  But Dr. Erskine proved that you need the right man.  From what I know of you and Captain Rogers' personal history, you're two of a kind.  I think you'll be just fine, Sergeant.  I believe that you are the right man."

He nodded his head at Bucky then looked out the window.  Bucky looked at Steve, driving the vehicle and Peggy sitting next to him, looking at him.  Every so often Steve would look at her in a way that Bucky knew meant something.  They were in love.  That was certain.  He smiled then looked out the window himself.  Never did he ever think Steve would find the right girl before he did.

"Turn right at the next crossroads," said the Colonel.  "Then turn left at the sign that says William's Dairy Farm."

"Yes, sir," answered Steve, slowing down at the crossroads and turning right. 

About a mile beyond that they saw the dairy farm, with black and white cows spread out on the lush green fields like something out of a painting.  A sign on the left indicated the next turn was into the farm and Steve downshifted, turning onto the gravel road.  As he pulled into the space between two buildings a man in farmer's clothes came out of one of the buildings, a barn, approaching the window on the driver's side.  By the time he reached it he had a gun in his hand.

"Colonel Phillips, Captain Rogers, Agent Carter and Sergeant Barnes," said Steve. 

"Identification cards, please," said the man.  He looked carefully at all of them, then nodded.  "Drive inside the barn and leave the vehicle.  You will be shown where to go.  Mr. Stark is already here."

He stepped back, the gun mysteriously disappearing and Steve drove inside the barn.  They stepped out and he opened the trunk, picking up the case.  Two armed soldiers appeared from a doorway and approached them.  They waited for a moment then walked through another doorway which led to a hallway.  At the end, a pair of doors opened, and they entered what appeared to be an elevator.  The two soldiers stayed outside but closed the doors.  Slowly, the elevator descended until it opened into another hallway.  Two armed soldiers opened the doors for them, then escorted them to a single door and set themselves up to guard it.  As they entered the large lab, a number of technicians that Steve recognized from his procedure looked up then returned their attention to their work.

"About time you got here," said a loud voice and Howard Stark approached them, wearing a white lab coat.  He gestured to the box.  "Is that the serum?"

"Yes," said Steve.  "We took as much as we could, but Dr. Zola said we needed less."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't believe him," said Stark.  "Based on the figure he gave the Colonel there was no way that amount of serum would do the trick.  I suspect he wanted to be here to watch you fail then offer his expertise, making up an excuse to get Sergeant Barnes off to a HYDRA lab."

"How do you know this, Stark?"  The Colonel was not amused.

"Because Dr. Banner here knows his stuff."  Howard gestured behind them.  They turned around to the sight of a large green skinned man in glasses and a lab coat.  "They arrived just after I did, directly into the lab via something they called a portal but won't explain to me.  Dr. Banner, may I introduce Colonel Phillips, Steve Rogers, who you knew in a different time, Agent Peggy Carter, and this time period's version of Sergeant Bucky Barnes.  The modern one is sitting over there watching all of us."

It was rather amusing to see how gently Bruce Banner shook hands with all of them.  His calm voice and manner surprised all of them.  Modern Bucky came forward.

"May I introduce you to the voice in your Bucky's ear, James Buchanan Barnes," said Bruce.

Younger Bucky stared at the older version of himself.  "How old are you?"

"By the calendar year, 108 years old," replied Bucky.  "Based on my memories of when I wasn't in cryostorage I'm about 39 years old.  It's good to see you again, Colonel, Peggy ... Steve."

"What's this about Zola's calculations being wrong?" asked Colonel Phillips.  "I thought I had him telling me the truth."

Bruce smiled.  "Truth is relative to a man like that.  We had the SSR records of Steve's procedure, including the dosage and that was with the serum that we consider the purest.  Zola's serum was based on the imperfect version given to Johann Schmidt and should be considered a copy of a copy.  You lose effectiveness at each level away from the original.  The amount he calculated for you wouldn't have been enough to lock in the serum.  Not only that, but it would also have resulted in Sergeant Barnes still being susceptible to brain reconditioning if HYDRA ever recaptured him, which is what we think Zola was planning.  It's a good thing you brought extra as we think we're going to need it all.  But first, I wish to examine Sergeant Barnes, height, weight, preliminary blood work, that sort of thing."  He noticed the look on their faces.  "I am an MD plus I have seven PhDs.  I worked on a super soldier serum myself, which is why I look the way I do as I didn't get it quite right.  I'm not inclined to allow anything bad to happen to Sergeant Barnes."

Bucky looked at his counterpart who nodded and he relaxed.  He and Bruce went to another room along with a nurse for his physical examination.  Stark took the box to a team of technicians who tested the contents of one vial then showed Bruce the results.  With his approval they began transferring the contents into a series of vials that were sized to be used in the pumps attached to the radiation chamber.  As he surmised, the amount brought was barely enough.  Only two of the original vials were still unused. 

While Howard continued to work on the settings for the chamber, the Colonel, Steve, Peggy and modern Bucky relocated to where he had been sitting.  He offered Peggy his chair, which she took then leaned against the counter with his arms folded.  The Colonel noticed he wore gloves, staring at them.

"I fell from the train in my timeline," said Bucky.  "Survived the fall but lost my left arm in the process.  HYDRA gave me a new one, a monstrosity with only one purpose ... to kill.  When I finally escaped, I lost the arm in a fight with ... another individual who didn't believe I had been their weapon unwillingly.  I was given sanctuary in another country who undid the programming done to my brain and they gave me a new arm.  It's certainly nothing you would see now so you'll excuse me if I keep it covered to avoid contaminating this timeline.  Our presence here is doing enough of that."

"Why did you come then?" asked Peggy.

He smiled softly at her, amazed at how the real woman was just as beautiful as he remembered her.

"It was a lot to ask of your Bucky to believe me," he replied.  "When more of this timeline became known to us and we realized what Zola was planning, Bruce offered to come and oversee the procedure, being somewhat familiar with the details.  He felt uncomfortable coming alone, so I agreed to come with him.  Everyone here has to swear not to tell anyone of our presence."

"Why did you contact Sergeant Barnes in the first place?" asked the Colonel, his face stern.

Bucky sighed and looked away for a moment.  "Bucky will be needed to make sure Steve survives an upcoming mission.  Then both of them will be needed to join a multi-universe task force against a formidable enemy who threatens all timelines.  That's why we're doing this and it's also why we've been permitted to do it, with limitations.  That's really all I can tell you at this time.  It is for the greater good, Colonel and if it works, everything should continue as it would have, with the exceptions that certain individuals will have a different future, like Bucky and Steve, for example."  He shook his head, slightly dismayed.  "See, I almost said too much there.  Please, let's take this one step at a time and get Bucky through the procedure."

He walked away from them, relocating to another quiet corner of the lab and sat on a stool, avoiding eye contact.  After a few minutes he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.  Colonel Phillips huffed a little, then asked a passing technician if there was something to drink.  The man led him to an office, pointing out the bar against the wall.  Steve and Peggy stood where they were watching the hustle and bustle of the people in the lab, while occasionally glancing at modern Bucky.

"He carries a great burden," she said.  "Whatever he went through in his timeline is with him still."

"Yeah," replied Steve.  "I'm just surprised that he hasn't said anything about me in his timeline.  What happened to me?  I would have thought with something this important I would have been involved, yet other than saying I was there, he hasn't said anything else."

She shook her head.  "You could ask him, but I don't think he would answer.  He's changed from the man he was.  It's sad, really."

As the time passed, they both relocated to the office, deciding to relax in the more comfortable chairs there.  They each had a drink, sipping it quietly.  Finally, modern Bucky appeared at the door.

"They're ready," he said.

The other three got up out of their chairs and came into the lab.  Younger Bucky was sitting on the edge of the bed portion of the radiation chamber.  His feet were bare, his shirt was off, and he wore a pair of loose hospital shorts.  Bruce was attaching some small strips to him, placing them in certain positions on his body.  He turned slightly as the others approached.

"I brought some modern technology with me," he said.  "These will monitor the changes he is undergoing inside the chamber from the moment the serum is injected through the application of the Vita-Ray radiation.  It will tell me if he has achieved maximum serum efficiency so that we don't accidentally overdose him with the radiation.  No offence, Howard, but your dials aren't the most accurate.  It was the technology of the time, but you could just as easily have killed Steve when you dosed him during his procedure."

Stark raised his eyebrows slightly.  "How will those little strips tell you all that?"

Bruce reached inside his lab coat and brought out a small device, calling it a tablet computer.  Immediately, Howard put his hand out wanting to examine it, but Bruce held on to it. 

"Sorry, it's too soon for this type of technology and it only works because it is configured directly to these strips.  All I can tell you is that it will be about 50 years before society begins to develop this."  He looked at the younger Bucky with concern.  "It's going to hurt, a lot.  I know that based on what my timeline's Steve told me about this procedure and what Bucky told me of his.  Your treatments were spread out over months but were always accompanied by electroconvulsive therapy, which was applied at a level that we now consider barbaric.  But that was HYDRA.  They didn't care about hurting you because they were always pushing your limits to see how much pain you could withstand and how long it took you to recover from it.  It turns out that you withstood a lot.  The difference here is that the moment the monitors show that you are at maximum I'll signal to cut the radiation.  If at any point before then if it's too much for you, you can stop it, but we can't repeat it after.  This is an all or nothing procedure.  Do you understand?"

Bucky nodded then he smiled and offered Bruce his hand, shaking it.

"Thanks, Doc.  I wish more doctors were like you.  You explained everything and I appreciate that." 

Bruce smiled at him and stepped away.  Steve placed his hand on Bucky's shoulder and nodded.  Peggy touched his hand and smiled at him.  That left modern Bucky standing there.  They had barely talked since their arrival. 

"You can do this," said the older version.  "Bruce is a good man, and he won't let anything bad happen to you.  When you're done, you and I will go someplace quiet and have that drink.  I brought something special from the future that has a bit of a kick.  I think you'll like it."

"Okay, I have lots of questions," answered the young sergeant.  He looked past him at Steve and Peggy.  "Do they get married?"

He was puzzled at the flicker of pain that appeared in his counterpart's eyes then the older Bucky smiled.  "Yeah, they get married.  If you get through this and the next part, they can get married sooner."

He took the glove on his right hand off and shook hands with his younger version, then joined the others behind a barrier with a small window of thick glass at eye level.  A technician came, placing a pair of dark goggles over Bucky's eyes, then helped him lie down.  A series of pumps, attached to the larger vials they transferred the serum into lowered themselves onto Bucky's body.  There was one on each side of his chest, each arm above the elbow and below the elbow, and one on each of his thighs.  The lights were dimmed in the lab, except for a spotlight on the chamber.  Bruce, wearing the goggles around his neck, stepped forward and called out to each station, asking if they were ready to proceed.

"Bucky, we're going to inject the first batch of serum then switch to the second batch.  It's going to burn like hell but it's important that you stay as still as possible.  You good?"  Bucky gave him a thumbs up.  "Ready for first infusion of serum in three, two, one.  Activate the pumps."

The pumps began injecting Bucky with the first batch of serum.  Immediately, he could feel the increase in temperature in his skin then deeper as the serum was absorbed by his muscles.  The burning sensation started just before Bruce called for the second batch to begin.  As the serum was forced into his body, the sensation of burning alive increased exponentially and Bucky braced himself, clenching his jaw.  He became aware that the moving parts of the chamber were shifting into position to enclose him.  Desperately he filled his mind with everything and anything he could think of; baseball statistics, the plot of the last movie he saw, dancing with different girls at different dances.  When it became too much he yelled, and Bucky's voice sounded in his head.

"Steady.  They're just applying a hose to the chamber to increase the pressure while the radiation is applied.  You've got a couple of minutes more to do this and you can see it through."

The sound of a gas entering the chamber was followed by a sensation of being pressed into the cradle that held him then the chamber began shifting to an upright position. 

"Radiation being applied now.  Keep your eyes closed." 

Even with his eyes closed and wearing the goggles Bucky could see the light as it filled the chamber.  The pain levels amped up even more and he yelled for all that it was worth.  Then the light powered down and he could hear Bucky's voice in his head.

"It's done.  Bruce said you peaked exactly where he expected, and he stopped the procedure.  Just relax as they shut everything else down."

Breathing deeply, Bucky kept his eyes closed.  The pumps were pressed uncomfortably into his skin, then were suddenly released and raised as he felt the cool air of the lab flow over him.  He opened his eyes, but the goggles were so dark he couldn't see out of them.  Then a hand took them off and he blinked at the bright light focused on the chamber.  A chorus of murmurs audible to him were jumbled at first, but he could hear individual words then phrases as his ears adjusted.

"Perfect."

"Unbelievable."

"My goodness, he's magnificent."

"Buck?" It was Steve's voice, spoken softly, and he looked to his friend.  "Hey, how are you?"

"Not sure.  It feels strange, like everything is magnified."

"Yeah, your senses have increased.  You've grown as well."

Bucky looked down, noticing first of all that his legs were incredibly muscular but were in proportion to his now definitely longer limbs.  Steve offered a hand to him, and he noticed his forearm was also more muscular and the veins in his arm more defined.  When he stepped out of the chamber, he realized he was back to being taller than Steve again and couldn't help but laugh at that.  As he looked down, he was surprised to see that his physique was leaner in the waist but also more muscular in the chest and shoulders, and he definitely wasn't a welterweight anymore.  Bruce stood in front of him, making him feel small again but he smiled at the doctor.

"I'm good?"

"Yeah, perfect response," said the green-skinned man.  "The level of serum was enough, and you absorbed all of it.  In fact, you should already be hungry so let's get some measurements down, and the basic tests, then get some food inside of you.  How do you feel?"

"Good, like I could jump like Superman." 

"We'll test that, along with your strength, flexibility, speed and endurance, but I'm pretty sure you and Steve are pretty equal now."

Bucky went with him back to the examination room with a nurse following them.  Howard was already distributing glasses to everyone and filling them with scotch, finishing with the Colonel, Steve, Peggy and modern Bucky.  He raised his glass to them.

"Here's to Sergeant Bucky Barnes, America's second super soldier.  He'll need a catchy name and a promotion.  Captain Brooklyn.  Captain Manhattan.  The Brooklyn Boxer.  We'll come up with something.  I'll have to come up with a new uniform for him and find another shield.  If only I had more vibranium."

Bucky shook his head and looked at Steve, raising his eyebrows.  The blond smiled, sipping his drink.  Then he gestured to Bucky, and they stepped away from the others.  Nothing was said at first then Steve cleared his throat.

"Can I ask you a question?"  Bucky nodded.  "Why are you doing this and not me?  Am I not alive in the future?  I mean, I just thought if the threat was as bad as you say I would be part of this ...."

Immediately Bucky sighed then wished he could take it back.  He took several moments to choose his words. 

"You were around but then you made a decision and now you're not.  I don't want to say more with so many ears around because it is need to know.  I promised Bucky a talk and a drink with a kick.  I think you should join us so I'm only saying it once, just to you two."

Walking away without looking back he rejoined the Colonel and Peggy.  Steve looked at him for some time, wondering what happened in the future that made him ... leave.  His thoughts were interrupted by the younger Bucky's return to the lab, dressed in fatigues.  Two technicians and Steve were to accompany him to the surface to test his speed and strength, then he would return to the lab for the remaining tests.  While he was gone, Bruce and Howard spoke about some improvements that could be made to the chamber and serum delivery system.  They returned to the others and the older Bucky insisted that the existence of the two remaining vials be kept secret, known only to those staff who were there in the lab, to continue the work of Project Rebirth.

"If HYDRA, Army Intelligence or the CIA gets wind of these vials they'll try to steal them," said Bucky.  Noticing their confusion at the term CIA he explained further.  "The OSS became the CIA.  They'll become more secretive over the years, establishing their own network of spies that aren't always going to be doing the right thing.  There's one other thing."  He looked at Bruce who nodded his agreement with Bucky's disclosure.  "You need to find another soldier.  His name is Isaiah Bradley, a sergeant, and he's part of the other super soldier program that will be run by Army Intelligence and the CIA."  Colonel Phillips frowned.  "Yeah, they'll tell you it doesn't exist, but it does, using black soldiers as Guinea pigs for a serum that should never have seen the light of day.  He's the only survivor and he deserves to be treated with respect.  He was sent after me in 1951 and almost killed me.  They kept him imprisoned for 30 years, supposedly for the security of the country but it was their way of keeping a good soldier in slavery.  Promise me you'll find him and make him part of the SSR as an equal super soldier to Steve and Bucky."

"I promise," said Phillips, solemnly.  "You really can't trust some people to tell you the truth, can you?"

"No sir, you can't.  Give your trust out sparingly.  I'll give you a list of names of military personnel and others with a HYDRA connection before we return.  Remove them from power and make sure they don't do to this timeline what they did to mine."

As they waited for the younger Bucky to return, the older version wrote that list down.  Bruce and Howard kept conferring, with the former refusing to answer many of the latter's questions about future technology, saying he would just have to wait or discover it for himself.  After about an hour, Steve, younger Bucky, and the two technicians returned, appearing enthusiastic about the results of the physical testing.  A meal was laid out in a conference room, which they all took advantage of, then Bucky presented the list of names to Colonel Phillips, allowing him, Peggy and Howard to leave and begin their investigation of the people he identified as HYDRA supporters.  Closing and locking the door behind them, he brought out four glasses, then produced a small flask.  Bruce smiled.

"You're sure you want to give them that?" he asked.  "Once it's gone, they won't be able to get anymore until you know who shows up."

Bucky shrugged.  "They can save it for very special circumstances.  Might cut through any misunderstandings that might arise when they meet him and show him the flask."  He looked at his younger counterpart and Steve.  "This is Asgardian mead, once made on another planet until it was destroyed, and their surviving people took refuge on Earth.  Their champion is a Demi-god named Thor, and yes, he's the Norse god.  He'll become a friend of our planet and at some point, will stand with you to protect it against a being who would destroy the universe.  Take it sparingly, as even the stuff they make on Earth has a kick, and you will definitely get drunk if you have too much."

He poured out a finger's worth in each glass then, then took the smallest of sips, watching their reaction as they picked up their glasses.  Bruce downed his in one gulp, explaining it had little to no effect on him.  Cautiously, Bucky and Steve took a small sip, reacting positively to it then looked at the two modern men for what was coming next.

"In a few weeks, you're going to attack the base where Red Skull is," began modern Bucky.  "I wasn't there, so I only know what was filed in the mission reports.  Us being here may change things but ultimately what has to happen is Bucky, you have to make sure that Steve survives.  I don't know how you're going to do it because the chance of both of you being on the aircraft is unknown."

They looked confused, so Bruce told them what the history books in their timeline said about the attack on Red Skull's fortress, the battle in a giant aircraft between him and Captain America, and the decision by Steve to ditch the airplane into the Arctic to keep the bombs on board away from populated areas.  Then, he told them how Steve was thought to have been killed in the crash but the discovery of the wreckage in 2011, led to the unthawing of his body, and the miracle of him waking up with all of his attributes and faculties intact.  From there they told them about the formation of the original Avengers and their defence of Earth from alien invaders. 

"So, I survived to help the future against these beings," stated Steve.  "Won't they need me then, in that future timeline?"

Modern Bucky and Bruce looked at each other, then Bucky shook his head.  "No, because there's more than one universe.  In fact, there are many thousands of them, and the being who was originally behind that invasion, a Titan named Thanos, exists in many of them.  He used another being for that first invasion but when the Avengers defeated the invading force, he began to look for other ways to get what he wanted from us.  When he did finally invade us himself, we lost, and he basically wished away half of the population of our universe.  I disappeared for five years, along with trillions of others, all randomly disappearing.  When Steve and the remaining Avengers found a way to undo that, an earlier version of him found out and appeared, only this time with the goal of destroying our universe completely and rebuilding it the way he wanted, without anyone challenging him, especially the Avengers.  This time we were successful, and the lost people reappeared.  There's another version of Thanos who found out that we defeated him and he's rallying all his versions, in many timelines.  We're doing the same, rallying all of the super soldiers, all of the versions of Thor, Bruce, other past and future members of the Avengers, trying to bring them together sooner.  If Thor is successful, you could be meeting his counterpart in this timeline soon.  Another champion called the Black Panther will approach her grandfather Azzuri and try to convince him to make himself known to you.  He's the King of Wakanda, and the vibranium in your shield was stolen from there, so it may be awkward, but he has super soldier abilities.  There are others, and if they begin coming out of the woodwork then it will be you two who will connect with them and form the Avengers that you'll need to defend this timeline.  A soldier named Isaiah Bradley will be needed but he hasn't become a super soldier yet, so you have to wait until he is and make sure he's part of your group.  Even if the danger appears over, you still need the Avengers because HYDRA wasn't defeated.  They just hid in plain sight, although the list I gave the Colonel will root a good portion of them out.  There will always be a need for someone to protect the planet and you two are the beginnings of that.  But first, Bucky, you have to make sure that either Steve doesn't go down with the aircraft, or you find a way to get to him after he takes it down.  We can give you the coordinates of where to find him as it's common knowledge in our time.  I wish I could tell you more about the how, but at least you have the advance knowledge and the strength to make it happen."

Both younger men nodded their heads and sipped their drinks then Steve cleared his throat.

"What happens to me in the future?  You said I'm not there."

Older Bucky's jaw clenched, and a muscle twitched slightly until he breathed out.

"After all that you had been through, starting with the realization that HYDRA was still around, plus other things that really don't matter now, you chose to return to the past so that you could have a normal life.  I'm not going to lie and say I was okay with it because I wasn't.  I was still a mess after all my years of being a prisoner and unwilling weapon of HYDRA.  You gave up a lot to help free me, and I thought you were going to help me get used to living in the 21st century, then you just left and went back to 1949, back to Peggy.  You didn't look for your younger self, you didn't look for me, you told no one about HYDRA.  The person who provided the portal says it was because there are rules in time travel, rules about changing the past and it was explained to that Steve that he couldn't interfere, so he didn't."

"But you're here," said younger Bucky.  "You're changing this timeline.  Why is that permitted?"

"Because Thanos has already destroyed several timelines and those whose job it is to keep the timelines going aren't strong enough to deal with him, because he's attacking them too.  He's going to destroy everything they pledged to protect, and they need our help.  So, we were permitted to make changes, like making sure Bucky didn't fall off the train, and putting him through the full procedure now so that HYDRA won't be able to change him, ever.  Whatever consequences those changes make in your universe will be dealt with by that authority.  When you're needed, you won't get much notice.  A portal will open wherever you are and whoever comes through will say these words, "Time to go."  You drop everything, get ready, and when the portals reopen you go into them.  If it appears that you won't be successful in that timeline, another portal will allow you to return and the original members of that timeline will destroy it, taking that Thanos with them before he can do it."

"And if it's our timeline that is under attack?"  Steve looked at all of them.  "Who do we call to bring in help?"

A portal opened at that moment, and a woman with a bald head walked through, ignoring it when it closed behind her.  Her appearance was otherworldly, as she wore intricate robes the colour of saffron, but her face was both young and old at the same time.  She gazed kindly at all of the men before speaking.

"That would be me or my successor," she said, calmly.  "My name isn't important, but I will know before you do and will have raised the alarm.  James is the emissary of his time and when you two join the battle in another timeline you will be amongst many versions of yourselves, as well as other versions of Bruce, and anyone else who is either an enhanced or regular human who have the skills and desire to help protect that timeline.  No world will be alone to fight against Thanos, I can promise you that.  Until then you live as normal a life as you can.  You can marry, and have children, as they will inherit your abilities and will carry on your legacy, and you prepare for when you are needed."

"You're a wizard," stated the younger Bucky, a look of wonder on his face.

A ghost of a smile appeared on the woman's face.  "A sorcerer but it's just semantics.  Even we have been challenged by this threat to all universes, but we will do our part along with others to stand united against it."  She turned to the older version of Bucky and Bruce.  "It is almost time for you to return to your original timeline.  I will let you take your leave of the others then open a new portal for you."  She looked at the younger pair of men.  "Until I see you both again."

With a shifting of her hands, she opened a portal and disappeared into it.  Pushing the flask towards the two, Bucky and Bruce stood up.  Before they got to the door, Steve called out one more time.

"I'm sorry," he said to the older Bucky.  "I'm sorry for leaving you behind."  He looked at both the younger and older version.  "You know I love her."

"I know both versions of you did," said the older man.  "You didn't come to the decision lightly.  I was gone for five years with all the others, and you blamed yourself for that.  You thought we were all dead, just as you thought I died when I fell from the train and thought it was your fault.  I think you just reached a point where going back seemed to be the only chance to be happy.  It was good to see you again, but it still hurts."

He opened the door and left without looking back, followed by Bruce.  The Colonel, Howard and Peggy were still examining the names on the paper that modern Bucky prepared for them but left that task recognizing that the two men from the future were preparing to leave.

"We've told Steve and Bucky what they need to know," said modern Bucky.  "They can fill you in."  He turned to Peggy and smiled softly at her.  "You're just as beautiful as I remember but you always had eyes just for Steve.  Marry him, as soon as you can.  Your bond is strong, and it will bring him home."  He faced the Colonel.  "You're a stubborn old man but that stubbornness helped win a war.  Now the war here is against HYDRA.  Don't ever give up that fight."  Finally, he faced Howard Stark.  "When you get married and have children, make sure you make time for them.  They'll be just as much a legacy as your inventions will be.  Money isn't everything."

Bruce just shook hands with all of them, then he and Bucky stood away from the others.  The circle of sparks appeared out of nowhere and the two of them entered it as soon as it was large enough.  When they left, the others were silent, each of them contemplating what they had learned.

Part 4>>

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[1980sactionfigures]

FIGURE / TOY IDENTIFICATION HELP NEEDED

Hi everyone - I still have a few pieces I'm trying to identify as I'm parting ways with my old stuff. If anyone out there can help me ID any of these pieces, it would be greatly appreciated. Some notes on them:

This *may* just be a cover for an appliance and not a toy, but it's been in my old toy boxes for decades now, so double-checking.

This is a "flick" gun and was in a bag of ImagiNext figures but does not appear to go with any that I had.

This bow originally had a real string, looks to be made for 4" or possibly 3.75" figures. I *should* know this one. I thought it went to a Captain Power figure but can't find anything of that nature.

This appears to be some sort of piece to a hinge/gear. Has embossed stamped "KK 2"

This little white "T" may just be a connector piece to an accessory tree or similar, but want to be sure.

Small gun, handles too small for GI Joe but may still go to a 3.75 figure, but likely something smaller.

I'm certain this military figure is just a generic dollar store guy (he feels cheap) but I'd still like to know which dollar store line.

Canopy for some sort of smaller vehicle. Transformers? MASK?

No idea what this little doo-dad could be.

Yellow claw, very likely goes to some line for younger kids

Arrow with guiding mold - About the same size as a GI Joe accessory but they aren't known for that additional plastic.

I thought this went to Crystar but can't seem to find it in any images with a figure

This orange piece may be a building block for a construction set?

I thought this oar went to Stalker v2 from GI Joe but that does not appear to be the case.

THANK YOU ALL AGAIN FOR ALL YOUR PREVIOUS HELP! LOVE YOU ALL!