#vehicle-mounted weapon

[historyofguns]

The article from The Armory Life, written by Will Dabbs, MD, explores the historical significance and enduring legacy of the M2 .50-caliber machine gun, commonly known as "Ma Deuce." Originating in World War I, the gun was developed at the behest of American General John J. Pershing to counter German observation balloons and aircraft. Designed by John Moses Browning, with ammunition developed by Winchester, the M2 has been in service since 1921 and remains a staple in military arsenals worldwide. The weapon is praised for its robustness, versatility, and reliability, capable of being mounted on various platforms, including vehicles, ships, and aircraft. Though more than a century old, advancements like the M2A1 model have upgraded its features, ensuring the Browning-designed machine gun continues to be an integral part of military operations today.

[rosemaryhoney27]

Dont mess with our daughter

Wrath of the Fentons

Jason Todd had seen a lot of weird things in Gotham. Lazarus pits, immortal assassins, fear gas-induced nightmares—hell, he'd been one of the weird things, once upon a time. But watching a bunch of black-market meta traffickers haul a very pissed-off redhead into an unmarked van in broad daylight was quickly climbing the ranks of what the fuck moments.

She wasn't screaming. That was the first sign that something was wrong. Most metas—or normal people—would be terrified. Instead, this girl looked annoyed.

Jason had been tracking this particular ring for weeks. They specialized in kidnapping metas with "unique features"—horns, glowing eyes, animal traits, things that marked them as different. The bastards made a killing selling them off to the highest bidder.

The girl—Jazz, he caught one of the thugs saying—fit their usual type. Her hands, bound behind her, had faint green veins pulsing under her skin, as if something otherworldly coursed through her. Her eyes flickered a ghostly green before settling back into a sharp, human blue.

Jason knew that look. It was the look someone got when they were waiting.

For what? Backup? Did she have a tracker? A hidden weapon?

He was about to interfere when Jazz sighed dramatically and muttered, "You poor, poor idiots."

Jason didn't have time to wonder what she meant before his comms flared to life with a frantic Oracle.

"Red Hood, stand down—I repeat, do not engage—the girl's parents are en route, and—holy shit—these guys have no idea what they just did."

Jason frowned. "Parents? Who—"

And then he saw the tank.

It barreled down the street, mounted with weapons that absolutely should not be street legal, glowing green with ominous energy. The side of the vehicle had a logo painted in jagged white letters:

FENTON WORKS

The doors flew open, and a massive man in an orange jumpsuit leaped out, wielding what could only be described as an anti-aircraft cannon converted into a rifle. His wife followed, a visor covering her eyes, her sleek blue bodysuit glowing with strange symbols.

"JAZZ!" the man bellowed, aiming the cannon at the traffickers as if they were just another ghost to blast into oblivion.

"Hey, Dad!" Jazz called, still completely unbothered as one of the thugs tried to hold a knife to her throat. "You might want to be careful. They think I'm a meta."

"Oh, honey," her mom said, pulling out a gun that looked like it belonged in a sci-fi horror movie. "They won't be thinking anything in a few minutes."

Jason took a slow step back.

He'd seen Bruce handle hostage situations with surgical precision. He'd seen Dick talk down armed criminals with nothing but charm and a smile.

He had never seen two civilians go full scorched earth on a meta trafficking ring without so much as a plan beyond "rescue daughter, destroy everything."

The traffickers barely had time to react before green energy blasts tore through their van, their weapons, and the street around them. The sheer destructive enthusiasm was a sight to behold.

One thug made the mistake of aiming a gun at Maddie Fenton. She shot him with a glowing net that phased through his skin before electrifying him into unconsciousness. Another tried to run—Jack Fenton threw what looked like a modified bear trap, which snapped shut around the guy’s legs and dragged him back, screaming.

Jazz, still tied up, sighed as one guy tried to use her as a human shield. "You do realize that you're standing between me and them, right?"

The thug barely had time to consider his life choices before Maddie calmly shot him in the leg.

Jason, crouched on a nearby rooftop, slowly exhaled.

Well. The ring was definitely out of commission.

As the Fentons loaded the unconscious criminals into their highly illegal ghost-proof containment units, Jazz finally noticed Jason watching. She arched a brow.

"Hey, Red Hood, right?"

Jason, still processing, just nodded.

Jazz smirked. "You look like you're having a what the fuck moment."

Jason stared at the still-smoking wreckage of what used to be a human trafficking operation and then at the grinning, trigger-happy Fenton parents.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

[therobotmonster]

What does the Comic tell us About the Brute Force Toyline that Never Was?

Brute Force was Marvel's failed attempt at joining in the toy-cartoon-comic fun back in 1990.

What isn't often talked about (if ever) is how much effort Jose Delbo (and whoever else was doing character design work in pre-production) put into planning for the realities of toy design, because it's not hard to suss out what was intended from the art alone.

Parts Reuse Was Planned From the Start:

The metal production molds are the most expensive part of toy production, so any time you can reuse parts across multiple figures is a savings. Each side has two unique members (Hip-Hop and Lionheart for Brute Force, Armory and Ramrod for Heavy Metal) three that share obvious parts with an opposing figure.

Uproar and Wreckless appear to use the same upper arms, upper legs, pelvis and probably chest. Uproar's bullets were likely planned as an accessory.

Surfstreak and Bloodbath appear to just have different heads, maybe tails, and either different accessories and limbs or just different accessories depending on execution.

Soar/Slipstream and Tailgunner appear to have unique add-on armor for the wings, heads, and legs. The wings might also been different, but I'd guess that when time came to mold plastic they'd have used the same ones.

Size Classes are Easy to Guess:

The "charge into battle" shot gives you every indication of what size everyone was going to be sold at. My guess, based on the art and the action features later shown off, is it would break down like this:

Small - Soar, Surfstream, Bloodbath, Tailgunner

Medium - Lionheart, HIp-Hop, Ramrod, Uproar.

Large - Wreckless, Armory, the toxic mutant (if they planned on making the off-theme guys)

Super Large - Heroic and Evil Transports

It's harder to place Heavy Metal since they don't seem to have add-on vehicles, but the art represents Armory as being huge and a major threat...

And uproar seems to have mass equal to Lionheart on his cycle, though he might have been packed in with the villain's large transport or had another add-on vehicle planned later.

It's likely that the vehicle-attached figures would have gotten solo releases, likely with different decos. As was the style at the time.

They Planned for Action Features, and I think I know what they were.

Furman and Delbo knew how to make a toy-comic, and everyone gets to show off their action feature in a toy-comic. Brute Force leaves some solid clues for what those features would have been. Now, there would probably have been launchers (Wreckless's Bearzooka), water-shooters (Surfstream almost certainly had one), etc, but I'm talking more about the showcase feature.

Surfstream and Bloodbath Were Low-Effort Transformers-

-or else they were biting MOTU Dragstor's style. Surfstream and Bloodbath clearly had both swimming/rolling configurations and upright figure configurations.

Soar (and likely Tailgunner) Had Blast-Away Armor

You don't do this trick twice in 4 issues if it's not your gimmick.

Wreckless and Uproar loved Hugs

My guess is there was at least some thought put into the possibility of Wreckless and Uproar having a "bear hug" feature that could work as general limb-swinging and chest pounding. In addition to the grabs Wreckless does a lot of right hooks and, oddly Uproar mainly fights with his mace for a character with bullet bandoleers. This one's harder to nail down because the actions are very obvious for bear/ape characters, but either a weapon-swing or a grab/bear hug seems really likely.

Wreckless's gun is the kind that you could mount on a figure's shoulder without them needing to hold it in-hand, so the arms might have been free for the action feature if my guess is right.

This Octopus Bastard Spins

You can't tell me Armory doesn't spin. perfectly radially symmetrical middle section designed in such a way the central body could spin while the legs and head stay stationary. arms that grip weapons or other figures, he's huge and clearly meant to be Heavy Metal's mega-weapon. He spins.

Hop-To Heroes

Now, if there's one thing the Brute Force characters do, it's leap. But the characters with the larger lock-on vehicle armor all leap out of the vehicle to attack a foe at least once.

I have to wonder if the vehicle figures were intended to be ejected from the vehicle as a leaping attack. (this would seem thematically in line with the armor-shed gimmick from Soar) This would be in addition to some general reconfiguration between low-riding "speed" modes and upright battle modes.

Ramrod would have had a headbutt gimmick.

It's literally all he does in the comic. I don't think he even has a gun.

Conclusions

Brute Force was intended into be a not just an action figure line, but a feature-heavy character driven line. The play patterns imagined were ambitious. I see Starriors, Transformers and Centurions DNA in there, and it would have been a lot more fun than Captain Planet for an eco-themed franchise.

The Marvel crew clearly learned a lot from the toy industry from working with Hasbro, Kenner, Mattel, Mego and numerous others through the years, and it shows. This concept started with toy ideas, it's just a pity no one was incentivized to make them.

[crystalbeetle888]

Wild Heart Pt. Intro

141 x Wolf-Hybrid Reader After trying for many years to leave the mercenary life behind, an old friend comes back into your life to offer you piece of adventure, and possibly something more. Warnings- Mentions of Violence, Course Language Words- 1,496

Master List Pt. Intro - Pt. 1

The rumbling sound of a car echoes throughout the valley. You can hear it miles before it breaks through the forest line. A black SUV with tinted out windows dives up the dirt road, dust clouds pooling behind it. You watch cautiously from the front porch, ears and eyes honing in on the unknown vehicle. You scrunch your nose at the pungent smell of diesel catching on the breeze. The car spins around on the road before stopping in front of the gate, built into the stone fence. Finally, the car door opens and a blonde woman steps out, “Kate” you sigh in relief. She waves her arm in a friendly gesture before making her way over across the long lawn. “You’re a hard person to find” She smiles warmly, “I did that deliberately” you reply shortly. The smell of human males on her causes you to anxiously watch the car for another to get out. “It’s just me for today,” She says, sensing your hesitation. Kate slowly walks up the steps to you before offering an open hand. You take it, and lower your head to sniff it. Smells of leather, coffee, toothpaste and floral deodorant are the strongest. But underneath all that, a musky smell stains her hands, likely from a handshake with a human male. The smell isn’t hard to miss, it’s often a sort of sweet woodsy smell with hints of spice. Usually the stench of harsh chemicals, deodorants, cologne, or cigarettes covers up their natural scent. 

You release her hand, convinced by her words “Come in then” you lead her inside, locking the door behind her. Kate sits at the dining room table whilst you enter the kitchen and prepare a cup of tea “I don’t suppose you're visiting me for a nice country holiday are you?” You put the kettle on and lean against the counter across from her. “Unfortunately no, I need to hire you for a job”.

You huff in frustration “You know I don’t do that kind of work anymore” “And you know I wouldn’t be asking if I had another choice”.

You sigh in annoyance “Just out of curiosity, I’m not committing to anything, but what’s the job?” Kate smiles, pulling out a yellow folder and placing it on the table, she opens it to reveal a series of photos “This is Viktor Petrov, he’s a part of a Russian terrorist organization operating out of Mount Pobeda. We have intel that he’s been developing bio-weapons and intends on distributing them to the highest bidder in a month's time at an black market auction in Tokyo. We need to intercept those weapons before they leave Russia and arrest Petrov.”

You scan over the photos of a tall blonde man enjoying himself at bars and strip clubs “Hardly the scientist type” you remark. “He’s ex-military, served eight years before becoming an entrepreneur” you hum in thought. “I still don’t understand why you’d need me” 

Kate sighs “My team and I have recently lost some of our trusted contacts and I know you’re familiar with the terrain” Kate pauses “It goes through Volt-Krov country and my men need an escort through the territory or else they won’t make it. I’m aware the local tribes-people aren’t too friendly with humans.” 

You purse your lips in thought and lean back in your chair, rubbing your face. “I don’t have anyone to take care of my animals whilst I’m gone” you deflect. 

Kate smiles knowingly “I can have someone come down tonight so you can show them the ropes, they’ll stay here as long as we need” 

You shake my head still unconvinced “I’ve done my time, paid my debt back to you”.

Kate nods in understanding, packing up her folder and standing “That’s alright, it’s always a pleasure talking to you” She places a card down on the table and you give her a tight lipped smile before escorting her towards the door, strangely the smell of satisfaction wafting by as she walks past you. “I’ll see you again soon” she calls out, waving goodbye as she leaves. You snorted in confusion ‘Why does the race of man always speak in riddles?’ You think, annoyed by her cryptic remark. Her car peels down the driveway raising up another dust storm. You shake your head and continue with your daily chores.

The night is crisp as you sit on your front porch with a hot chocolate and a cheeky little joint. You lay across the old leather couch, gazing out over the valley. The clear night sky twinkles and the lush grass sways in the gentle breeze. The moment is peaceful. Almost too peaceful. Your thoughts drift back to Kate and her offer, the itch for adventure slowly gnaws at your brain. You haven’t been off the farm properly in just over a year, let alone worked.

You audibly groan knowing that this urge won’t go away with time. With a reluctant huff you stand and make your way back inside. The card is black with only a number on it, your phone rings twice before she picks up “Decided to change your mind?” Kate asks.

“Yes… but this is my last job okay?” You state firmly. She hums “We’ll see about that, I’ll have someone there to pick you up and another to take care of your home at 0500 hours tomorrow. Pack for a long trip and get some rest, I’ll see you tomorrow night” She hangs up the phone before you can respond. 

After packing your suitcase with the essentials you flop onto your bed, your body buzzes with anticipation, unsure whether it’s from anxiety or excitement. You snuggle under the blanket and fall into a restless sleep. 

You wake from your slumber, your ears twitching at the sound of another car rumbling across the dirt road. The air is frigid, and the room dark. Sleep fogs your brain as you get dressed in a black tight ribbed tank top, no bra, loose boxers, and a pair loose cargo pants with a webbing slider belt. A loud knock sounds from the front door “Yeah coming!” You yell trudging through the house. Opening the door two women in army uniform stand there waiting “Come in” you welcome them. You can smell a nervous aroma coming from the two, even under the pungent aerosol deodorant. After showing Sam, who will be staying for the time being, the animals and house routines, You and Emma take your bag and bid her goodbye. Throwing your suitcase in the back you slide into the passenger seat of the sleek SUV “Get comfortable it’s going to be a long ride”.

Back at base, Kate debriefs the TF-141 on their newest arrival, and possible permanent teammate, if all things go well. Johnny, Kyle, Simon and John all sit around a table, the TV screen in front of them shows images of a large black wolf hybrid “This is the Hound, she is a retired mercenary with a long criminal record. She is currently en route to arrive here at 1800 hours. I want you all to be on your best behaviour, she’s not overly fond of humans let alone male ones, so don’t ask any stupid questions.” Kate looks towards Johnny who throws his hands up in defense “Why ya lookin at me?” Simon next to him shoves his shoulder “Cause you always spouting out some rightful shit.” 

Johnny gawks in disbelief “I do not” He argues back. Before either of them can continue bickering John interrupts “That’s enough” he barks gruffly, “I don’t like this Kate, the last thing we need is some untrained hybrid going off the rails” She nods at his concerns “That’s exactly why she’ll be living and training on base up until the mission. She needs to recognize you and your scents as a part of her pack, and we don’t have many other options for getting you through Russia safely.” 

“Won’t her presence just piss off the local wolves more?” Kyle asks. “No, fortunately the Volt-Krov have a predominantly male population, and they’ll generally leave females to their own business. Her larger size alone should be enough of a deterrent to the local males” 

“And if they don’t leave us alone” Simon asks. Kate changes the photos on the TV, images of the black wolf hybrid litter the screen. Her figure hunched over staring at the camera with bright golden eyes, prickled fur and gnashing teeth. Blood covering her matted coat, drips from her muzzle onto the stark white snow. The photos say more than enough, and Simon nods his head. “Those photos were taken three years ago when some hunters decided to trespass on her property” 

“Did she kill them?” John stares at the images, haunting eyes staring back. “She took an arm off one and a leg off another. She showed control and precision, she let them live”

John nods thoughtfully “Well, let’s hope we can use that”.

Master List Pt. Intro - Pt. 1

AN:let me know if you guys want more of this one cause I fully forgot about and won’t write more if no one’s interested. Much Love ❤️

[gf2bellamy]

rover — bellamy blake

pairing: bellamy blake x reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: based on 3x01 content warnings: drunk jasper , there's no gina , jasper sort of hitting bellamy

You scanned your room one last time, making sure you hadn’t forgotten anything. Your eyes lingered on the jacket draped over the back of your chair. The weather didn’t seem too bad, but the chill in the mornings could still bite. After a moment’s hesitation, you grabbed it, slinging it over your arm before heading for the door. 

The hallway was quiet as you made your way toward the common area, but Monty’s familiar voice carried through the stillness. It brought a faint smile to your lips. 

As you stepped into the room, your gaze immediately found your friends. Bellamy and Monty were wrangling Jasper toward the rover, their movements a little strained as Jasper resisted half-heartedly.  

Your chest tightened at the sight. You’d tried so many times to reach Jasper, to pull him back from the edge he’d been teetering on since Mount Weather, but it was like trying to hold water in your hands.  

No matter how hard you tried, it kept slipping away. 

Your attention shifted to Bellamy as he hefted his bag onto the rover. His dark curls were tousled from the early morning, and his brows furrowed as he greeted Raven, who was crouched under the vehicle, clearly tinkering with something.  

Even from where you stood, you could see the faint smudge of grease on her cheek. You watched as Raven went back to work while Bellamy went to the other side of the room to grab more guns. 

A light smile tugged at your lips as you crossed the clearing, “Morning, everyone,” you called out. 

Raven slid out from under the rover, brushing off her hands as she returned your smile. “Morning,” she replied, reaching for her jacket. “You ready for this?” 

You shrugged, a playful glint in your eye. “Could’ve used another hour of sleep, honestly.” 

“Join the club,” Raven said with a smirk before turning her attention back to the rover. 

As you greeted Miller with a nod and helped him load a bag onto the vehicle, a deep voice from behind made your heart skip. 

“Morning.” he said, his tone soft. 

You turned to see Bellamy standing a few steps away, his brown eyes meeting yours with a mixture of familiarity and warmth. He had that look he always wore in the early mornings—a little grumpy, a little tired, but still focused, always thinking ten steps ahead. 

“Morning, Bellamy,” you replied, a shy smile creeping onto your face before you could stop it. 

For a moment, his gaze lingered on you, as if he wanted to say something else. Then, he glanced at the bag in your hands, stepping closer to take it from you. “Here, let me.” 

“I’ve got it,” you protested lightly, but he was already lifting it with ease, tossing it into the rover’s storage compartment.  

Before you could thank him, a loud splash echoed across the room, and droplets of water splattered on your skin. Startled, you and Bellamy turned simultaneously to see Monty standing with an empty bucket in his hands. Jasper, now drenched, stood frozen, water dripping from his face. 

Your mouth fell open as you glanced between Monty and Jasper. That was certainly one way to snap Jasper out of his drunken haze. 

“Sorry, was that too cold?” Monty asked in a tone that was a little too innocent. 

For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath as everyone turned to Jasper, waiting for his reaction. The tension broke when Jasper let out an indignant yell and lunged at Monty. 

Monty barely managed to get out of the way before Jasper grabbed him, shoving him against the side of the rover. 

Bellamy was already moving, stepping in to separate the two before it escalated further. “Alright, that’s enough!” he barked, placing himself between them.  

You couldn’t help but flinch as Jasper’s gaze flicked in your direction, his movements erratic as he staggered closer—to you, and more concerningly, to the weapons stacked beside you. Bellamy didn’t miss it either. 

“Jasper, back off,” Bellamy said firmly, raising a hand to halt him. “You’re not helping yourself or anyone else right now.” 

Jasper stopped but glared at Bellamy, throwing up a mock salute like he was a captain in a bad comedy. “Aye, aye, Captain ,” he slurred before dramatically wiping his wet hand against Bellamy’s face. 

It was absurd and ridiculous, and even though the moment was tense, you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped your lips. 

Bellamy turned toward you, his brows raised in exaggerated offense. “Oh, that was funny to you?” he asked, pretending to be serious, though the corner of his mouth was already betraying him with a smile. 

“Kind of,” you admitted with a small shrug, grabbing the last bag and tossing it into the rover. 

Despite himself, Bellamy chuckled softly and shook his head. Something about you always had a way of easing the heaviness that seemed to follow him everywhere. He couldn’t explain it, but when you smiled, even for a second, it felt like the weight of leadership wasn’t quite so crushing. 

By the time you turned back, the others had started piling into the rover. Miller and Monty climbed into the back, Raven was already in the driver’s seat, and Jasper slumped into the passenger seat with a huff. 

You hesitated when you saw Jasper there. That seat was usually yours, your spot. It wasn’t about claiming territory—it was about routine, familiarity, something solid in a world that so often felt like it was crumbling. But you didn’t say anything. 

Bellamy, however, noticed. He always did. 

He nudged your shoulder lightly as he climbed into the rover, his voice low and teasing. “The backseat’s fun too, you know.” 

The comment caught you off guard, and your brows furrowed slightly as you glanced at him. But there was no judgment or teasing in his eyes, just a quiet understanding. He knew how much the little things mattered to you, even if you didn’t say it out loud. 

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Sure, it is,” you replied 

Bellamy reached out his hand, to pull you into the rover.  Without hesitation, you grabbed it, the roughness of his skin against yours sending a spark up your arm. He pulled you up with ease, and for a moment, neither of you let go. 

You sat down next to him, but he didn’t let go.  

Your palm pressed against his, warm and slightly damp, and you could feel the faint tension in his grip, like he wasn’t entirely ready to release you either. Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and you caught the barest hint of something in his expression—was it nervousness? 

Your heart thudded loudly in your chest, the sound almost deafening in your ears.  

Bellamy’s jaw tensed slightly, his gaze dropping to your hands for just a moment before returning to your face. His fingers loosened but didn’t fully retreat, lingering a second too long.  

Before either of you could speak or acknowledge the moment, a sharp voice broke through the air. 

“Try to keep up!” 

You both turned as Octavia appeared, sitting confidently atop her horse, her grin mischievous. She gave Bellamy a pointed look before galloping off into the distance. 

The sun streamed through the windows as you settled into the seat beside Bellamy, the heat on your skin almost matching the warmth in your cheeks.  

Shoulders brushing, knees touching—it was impossible to ignore how close you were. 

You tried to focus on anything else: the passing trees, the gentle hum of the engine, even the faint creak of the rover’s frame. But all you could feel was the solid presence of Bellamy beside you. Your heart pounded so loudly you were almost certain Raven could hear it. 

Bellamy, meanwhile, was just as distracted. He could feel the subtle bounce of your knee against his, the nervous energy radiating off you. He glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, noticing the way your fingers fidgeted slightly against your lap. 

After a moment of hesitation, he placed a hand on your knee, his touch gentle. “You okay?” he asked, leaning in closer.  

Your head snapped toward him, startled by the warmth of his hand and the proximity of his face. His brown eyes searched yours, but his own heart betrayed him, hammering in his chest as he awaited your response. 

“Yeah,” you said softly, nodding with a nervous smile. Your gaze flicked to his hand, still resting on your knee, before returning to meet his eyes.  

But the moment didn’t last. 

Jasper’s voice broke through the quiet as he suddenly burst into an off-key rendition of a song you didn’t recognize. Both you and Bellamy turned toward him, matching looks of confusion on your faces. 

“What the hell?” Bellamy muttered, his hand slipping from your knee as he shifted to look at Jasper. 

You glanced at Monty, your raised brows asking the silent question. He shrugged helplessly, an amused grin tugging at his lips. 

Then, to your surprise, Miller joined in, his deep voice adding harmony—or at least, his best attempt at one. Your jaw dropped as you looked at him, caught off guard but unable to stop the smile spreading across your face. 

Raven was next, smirking as she kept her eyes on the road but still singing along. Even Monty eventually caved. 

You looked back at Bellamy, who seemed just as bewildered as you were. But his confusion melted into a grin, the kind that softened his face and made him look years younger. 

As the singing grew louder, you felt a rare warmth bloom in your chest—a lightness that pushed away the ever-present weight of their harsh reality. 

Bellamy glanced at you, his grin still lingering as he leaned in slightly. “Guess we’re stuck with the world’s worst choir.” 

“Could be worse,” you teased. “At least they’re enthusiastic.” 

He chuckled softly, his gaze lingering on you a second longer than necessary. 

[zvaigzdelasas]

Israeli tanks, jets and bulldozers bombarding Gaza and razing homes in the occupied West Bank are being fueled by a growing number of countries signed up to the genocide and Geneva conventions, new research suggests, which legal experts warn could make them complicit in serious crimes against the Palestinian people.

Four tankers of American jet fuel primarily used for military aircraft have been shipped to Israel since the start of its aerial bombardment of Gaza in October.

Three shipments departed from Texas after the landmark international court of justice (ICJ) ruling on 26 January ordered Israel to prevent genocidal acts in Gaza. The ruling reminded states that under the genocide convention they have a “common interest to ensure the prevention, suppression and punishment of genocide”.

Overall, almost 80% of the jet fuel, diesel and other refined petroleum products supplied to Israel by the US over the past nine months was shipped after the January ruling, according to the new research commissioned by the non-profit Oil Change International and shared exclusively with the Guardian.

Researchers analyzed shipping logs, satellite images and other open-source industry data to track 65 oil and fuel shipments to Israel between 21 October last year and 12 July.

It suggests a handful of countries – Azerbaijan, Kazakhstan, Gabon, Nigeria, Brazil and most recently the Republic of the Congo and Italy – have supplied 4.1m tons of crude oil to Israel, with almost half shipped since the ICJ ruling. An estimated two-thirds of crude came from investor-owned and private oil companies, according to the research, which is refined by Israel for domestic, industrial and military use.

Israel relies heavily on crude oil and refined petroleum imports to run its large fleet of fighter jets, tanks and other military vehicles and operations, as well as the bulldozers implicated in clearing Palestinian homes and olive groves to make way for unlawful Israeli settlements.

In response to the new findings, UN and other international law experts called for an energy embargo to prevent further human rights violations against the Palestinian people – and an investigation into any oil and fuels shipped to Israel that have been used to aid acts of alleged genocide and other serious international crimes.

“After the 26 January ICJ ruling, states cannot claim they did not know what they were risking to partake in,” said Francesca Albanese, the UN special rapporteur on the occupied Palestinian territory, adding that under international law, states have obligations to prevent genocide and respect and ensure respect for the Geneva conventions.[...]

“In the case of the US jet-fuel shipments, there are serious grounds to believe that there is a breach of the genocide convention for failure to prevent and disavowal of the ICJ January ruling and provisional measures,” said Albanese. “Other countries supplying oil and other fuels absolutely also warrant further investigation.”

In early August, a tanker delivered an estimated 300,000 barrels of US jet fuel to Israel after being unable to dock in Spain or Gibraltar amid mounting protests and warnings from international legal experts. Days later, more than 50 groups wrote to the Greek government calling for a war-crimes investigation after satellite images showed the vessel in Greek waters.

Last week, the US released $3.5bn to Israel to spend on US-made weapons and military equipment, despite reports from UN human rights experts and other independent investigations that Israeli forces are violating international law in Gaza and the occupied West Bank. A day later, the US approved a further $20bn in weapons sales, including 50 fighter jets, tank ammunition and tactical vehicles.

The sale and transfer of jet fuel – and arms – “increase the ability of Israel, the occupying power, to commit serious violations”, according to the UN human rights council resolution in March.

The US is the biggest supplier of fuel and weapons to Israel. Its policy was unchanged by the ICJ ruling, according to the White House.

“The case for the US’s complicity in genocide is very strong,” aid Dr Shahd Hammouri, lecturer in international law at the University of Kent and the author of Shipments of Death. “It’s providing material support, without which the genocide and other illegalities are not possible. The question of complicity for the other countries will rely on assessment of how substantial their material support has been.”[...]

A spokesperson for the Brazilian president’s office said oil and fuel trades were carried out directly by the private sector according to market rules: “Although the government’s stance on Israel’s current military action in Gaza is well known, Brazil’s traditional position on sanctions is to not apply or support them unilaterally.

Azerbaijan, the largest supplier of crude to Israel since October, will host the 29th UN climate summit in November, followed by Brazil in 2025.[...]

The Biden administration did not respond to requests for comment, nor did Vice-President Kamala Harris’s presidential election campaign team.

Israel is a small country with a relatively large army and air force. It has no operational cross-border fossil fuel pipelines, and relies heavily on maritime imports.[...]

The new data suggests:

•Half the crude oil in this period came from Azerbaijan (28%) and Kazakhstan (22%). Azeri crude is delivered via the Baku-Tbilisi-Ceyhan (BTC) pipeline, majority-owned and operated by BP. The crude oil is loaded on to tankers at the Turkish port of Ceyhan for delivery to Israel. Turkey recently submitted a formal bid to join South Africa’s genocide case against Israel at the ICJ.

•African countries supplied 37% of the total crude, with 22% coming from Gabon, 9% from Nigeria and 6% from the Republic of the Congo.

•In Europe, companies in Italy, Greece and Albania appear to have supplied refined petroleum products to Israel since the ICJ ruling. Last month, Israel also received crude from Italy – a major oil importer. A spokesperson said the Italian government had “no information” about the recent shipments.

•Cyprus provided transshipment services to tankers supplying crude oil from Gabon, Nigeria, and Kazakhstan.[...]

Just six major international fossil-fuel companies – BP, Chevron, Eni, ExxonMobil, Shell and TotalEnergies – could be linked to 35% of the crude oil supplied to Israel since October, the OCI analysis suggests. This is based on direct stakes in oilfields supplying Israeli and/or the companies’ shares in production nationally.[...]

Last week, Colombia suspended coal exports to Israel “to prevent and stop acts of genocide against the Palestinian people”, according to the decree signed by President Gustavo Petro. Petro wrote on X: “With Colombian coal they make bombs to kill the children of Palestine.”

20 Aug 24

[daylesspax]

So, I’m sure other people have said this BUT!

TFOne spoilers ahead:

Transformers One’s uses of ‘transformation’ is impeccable. I think I truly got to appreciate it when the race contestants did their transformations and each was uniquely done! Yes, almost all transformations across franchises are unique, but it made me so giddy in the theater to watch it…

And then I saw how the roads changed and, well, transformed

The trains in particular, they survive the surface because, like the surface, the railway/railroads change and adapt to the ever-changing and transforming planet— because of course their railroads can transform!

I know I’m jumping around— but I also took note of it during the mining montage, about how caves regularly open, close, and shift around. They need special tools to keep rifts open long enough to mine, and as we’ve seen, mining is incredibly dangerous and it shows what miners have to put up with— their lives are constantly in danger because unlike human mines, where we have some certainty in the stability of the terrain, their mines are at risk of spontaneously closing or coming across an unstable energon vein. And also knowing that the material they mine is so volatile is just an extra layer! (And the fact the planet transforms so often leaves room to question why transformers themselves aren’t nomadic— how can cities like Iacon or the High Guard’s hideout exist? Does the Primis simply sense where his people are most concentrated and transforms to accommodate their homes? Do they use similar technology to the stabilizing sticks but stronger to keep the space open?)

Moving away from that tangent…

I would also like to pull attention to the incredible fight scenes! I have only seen the movie once in theatre so I can’t give a deep analyses into things I’ve missed, however, I’d like to share the things I picked up

I adore how incorporated transformation is to a transformer’s movement and what they can do with their bodies— they shouldn’t move like humans because they aren’t humans and I love it when transformers media does stuff with their bodies that makes sense. For example, Elita one spinning her entire torso/waist in a 360 to do a spin-kick rather than doing it with her full body because she doesn’t need to do that! There are no muscles, skin, or bones that could break if she did that!

Sentinel is able to transform his weapon and transform his arm to capture D-16’s rather than simply catching it with his normal fist

They’re able to move their kibble to suit their needs in either mode— my favorite example is when Optimus tears off Megatron’s tank cannon (the one mounted on top of his vehicle, not the black one in his arm) but Megatron fucking flips over and TRANSFORMS IT BACK INTO HIS BODY TO CONSEQUENTLY USE IT AS A WEAPON TO SHOOT OPTIMUS HOLY SHIT THAT’S COOL AS FUCK!

Optimus/Orion is also able to move his little rocket booster thingies on the sides of his arms both in and out of vehicle mode, making it really feel like it’s still the same mech and that the vehicle form is still attached to the mech and not just plain kibble that doesn’t move outside of transformation!

Another example of really incorporating the vehicle mode with the mech, uh— AIRACHNID??? She can just transform her head open (a little)?!! Her entire body is a thin, but deadly frame, and it’s obvious where each of her limbs are in vehicle mode, which I think is super cool!

And just… gods, this movie is good

[askarsjustsoswedish]

GENERATION KILL - MILITARY TERMINOLOGY AND SLANG USED IN THE MINISERIES (Part 1, A-M)

// I've been reorganising my files I thought this may be useful for some GenKill fans. //

All rights HBO

For Immediate Release                                                          June 25, 2008

.50 Caliber:  the standard heavy, vehicle-mounted machine gun used by U.S. forces since World War Two; aka “Fifty cal,” “the Fifty,” “M-2” and “Ma Deuce.”

5.56 Machine Gun Rounds:  the diameter of bullets in millimeters used by US forces in all rifles and light machine guns; aka “NATO rounds.”  Distinguished from Iraq’s Soviet standard military, which uses 7.62mm rounds in their weapons.

507 Maintenance:  U.S. Army unit that took a wrong turn into Nasariyah and was ambushed.  Note: This is best known as the unit to which Jessica Lynch belonged, though the platoon will not learn of Lynch by name, or her status as the most famous U.S. prisoner of war, until Part 3.

Alpha Company:  Bravo’s sister company in First Recon Battalion, commanded by the highly popular and respected Captain Patterson, the polar opposite of Bravo’s commander “Encino Man.”

America’s Shock Troops:  a catchphrase invoking Donald Rumsfeld’s plans of a lean, stripped-down invasion force modeled after German forces of WWII.  This is a deliberate reference to the German Shock Troops, the SS, used to spearhead blitzkriegs across France and Poland.  Ferrando takes pride in knowing his battalion will be the premiere shock-troop unit of the entire Marine Corps.

Amtrac:  a loud, ungainly amphibious vehicle used to transport Marines on the ground in Iraq; also used as a mobile fighting platform.

A-O (Area of Operations):  an A-O can be as large as all of Iraq or as small as the area around a Marines encampment.

Ass:  Marine slang for any weapon system or unit that packs a lot of fire power.  “We’re rolling with a lot of ass today” means “We will be accompanied by tanks or attack helicopters today.”

Assassin:  radio call sign for First Recon’s Alpha Company.  “Assassin Actual” is Alpha’s Company Commander, Captain Patterson.

Assault Through:  primary Marine tactic when encountering a close ambush, linked to the mantra drilled into every Marine since day one of boot camp when every Marine must repeat, “I am a Marine, and every Marine is a rifleman and a rifleman’s duty is to locate, close with, and destroy the enemy by fire...”  This is, in a nutshell, the doctrine of the entire U.S. Marine Corps.

AT4 Rocket:  the ubiquitous anti-tank rocket carried by Marine ground forces.  Fired from a self-contained plastic tube about a meter long and weighing just a few kilos, it can destroy a heavy tank.�� During the Iraq invasion most AT4s are fired into Iraqi homes to clear out potential enemy forces.

Atropine injector:  atropine is a chemical that counteracts certain nerve agents.  Atropine injectors are issued to troops who expect to be preparing or receiving chemical attacks, and in this instance, Iraqis.

Attriting:  to wear down; verb version of “attrition,” peculiar to the military.

B.R.C. (Basic Reconnaissance Course):  the school a Marine must attend and graduate from to become a Recon Marine; the most sought-after training course in the Corps.  Only about one percent of all Marines qualify to enter B.R.C. and half of those who enter fail to complete it.

Battalion Commander:  Lt. Colonel Stephen Ferrando, commander of the 370-man strong First Recon Battalion, call sign “Godfather.”

Beanies:  black-knitted watch caps typically worn by sailors.  A powerful status symbol; only Recon Marines are allowed to wear them within the First Division.

Belt-fed:  excited; refers to linked rounds fed through a machine gun.  Can also be used an intensifier, as in, “That guy is a belt-fed son of a bitch,” i.e., a real son of a bitch.

Blouse his boots:  to tuck pants-legs into the tops of one’s boots and keep them in place by wrapping a metal spring around the fabric just below the boot-top; part of Ferrando’s hated Grooming Standard.  Not only are the springs used in the boot blousing uncomfortable, blousing one’s boot ensures that all the ambient sand will pour directly into the wearer’s boot.

Blue Force Tracking Antenna:  an antenna for the Blue Force Tracker, a new computerized mapping system that – when it occasionally works properly – identifies the locations of all “blue,” or friendly, forces and the locations of all known “red,” or enemy. forces.  Locations of such forces across the entire Middle East are updated every 30 seconds.  Sgt. Colbert possesses one of only a handful Blue Force Trackers in the entire battalion.

Boonie Cap:  a standard issue floppy field hat, like a camouflaged version of the hat worn by Gilligan on “Gilligan’s Island”;  aka soft cover.

Bound past:  “bounding” is a specific form of maneuver favored by the Marine Corps, employed by two-man fire teams or the entire division.

Buck Fever:  too quick to identify threats; a hunting term that comes from the expression to “put buck’s horns on a doe,” i.e., seeing a valid target when there is none.

Butterfly Trigger:  a safety trigger that requires two thumbs to actuate.

C.G. (Commanding General):  always means General Mattis, Commanding General of the First Marine Division, when these Marines use the phrase.

C.O. (Commanding Officer):  usually applied to the Battalion Commander (Maj. or Lt. Col.), or less frequently the Company Commander (Capt.), but never to a Platoon Commander (Lieut.).

C.O.I., freqs covered, freqs plain:  Encryption lingo necessary to operate radios.

“Captain America”:  derisive nickname for Capt. Dave McGraw, commander of Bravo’s Third Platoon, sister platoon to the heroes in Second Platoon.  Note:  Although Captain America is a rank above Lt. Fick, as commanders of respective sister platoons they are peers with one another.

Cas-evac:  casualty evacuation; similar to the older phrase med-evac.  Cas-evac technically means an evacuation in a combat zone of a patient who has not yet been stabilized, but it’s become the cool way to say any form of medical evacuation.

“Casey Kasem”:  a mocking nickname applied to Gunnery Sgt. Ray Griego, Encino Man’s aide de camp, based on the smarmy host of the Top 40 radio show and the voice of Shaggy in the original “Scooby Doo!” cartoon series.

Charms:  brand name of a hard candy provided to U.S. troops in the meal rations, but seldom consumed due to the belief that they produce bad luck.

Cleared hot:  given permission to fire your weapon by a superior.

Cobra Gunship:  armored helicopter used only by U.S. Marines,  unique because Cobras work in extremely close proximity to Marine ground forces.

Col. Joe Dowdy:  Commander of Regimental Combat Team One, popular among his troops for his reputation of caring about their welfare.  Later relieved of his command by General Mattis for not being aggressive enough and risking his troops to achieve battlefield goals.

Command Vehicle:  Lt. Fick’s Humvee, configured like a pick-up truck with a canvas covering.

Completely outside of what First Recon does:  this battalion is trained to swim or parachute behind enemy lines, not to drive into attacks in Humvees.  Their motto is “Swift Silent Deadly.”

Condition One:  a verb that means to put one’s weapon on red con one; rack a round into your chamber.

Contact:  a visual or physical encounter with enemy forces, said when you either see them or they start shooting at you.

Cyclone:  fierce swirls of dust common to Iraq, which dance across landscape and in some cases will collide with a person, tent or vehicle.  They range in height from a few meters to several hundred meters; aka dust devils.

D.C.U. (Desert Camouflage Uniform):  any field garment with desert camouflage.

DASC and DASC-A:  Direct Air Support Communications headquarters, with one based on the ground and one based in an AWACs plane.

Deck:  keeping with their nautical tradition, anything Marines stand on is the deck, be it on a ship, the desert or the floor of a tent.

Delta Company:  a company of reservist Recon Marines expected to be attached to First Recon Battalion.  Delta will prove to be a bunch of under-trained, overzealous, poorly equipped cops-on-leave and office guys who know nothing about war.

Deuce Gear:  a web of straps and hooks worn as an outer garment, to which one affixes extra gear such as ammo packs and canteens; aka Load Bearing Vest or L.B.V.

Devil Dog:  a Marine.

Dip:  smokeless tobacco used by American fighting forces; a dip is a quantity of tobacco placed between one’s lips and gums.  To dip is the habit of consuming smokeless tobacco.

Donkey Dicks:  venerable Marine Corps term for a variety of phallic-shaped implements from engine hoses, to gas can funnels, to cleaning brushes for large mortar tubes.

“Echo Four Lima”:  refers to Corporal Lilley, whose pay-grade is “E-4” and whose last name begins with “L.”  In radio code phonetics, he becomes “Echo Four Lima.”  Sergeant Colbert, whose pay grade is “E-5,” would become “Echo Five Charlie” over the radio.

“Encino Man”:  Captain Craig Schwetje, Commander of Bravo Company, Lt. Fick’s immediate superior officer; the nickname is a reference to the dim-witted Neanderthal hero of the film “Encino Man.”  This Encino Man is a former football star, none too bright, with an ape-like face:  he is also referred to in phonetic alphabet code, in which “Encino Man” is changed to “Echo Mike.”

Enlisted Tent: Area where privates through to sergeants sleep.  The senior non-commissioned officers such as Staff Sergeants, Gunnery Sergeants, Master Sergeants and the Sergeant Major are technically of the enlisted ranks, and occupy an elite position somewhere between sergeants and officers.

Ephedra:  over-the-counter diet pills, now banned by Marines as a speed-like stimulant.

E-tool:  a collapsible shovel carried by all Marines; short for “Excavation-tool.”

F.O.:  Forward Observer; anyone spotting targets for Iraqi or insurgent forces.

Fedayeen:  a Baathist paramilitary unit trained in guerrilla tactics and established by Saddam Hussein’s son in the 1990s to infiltrate and terrorize the Shia populace, but in the current conflict, arrayed against the American invasion, they are also referred to generically as “insurgents.”

Fiddies:  fifties, i.e., .50 cal. machine guns; former ghetto car repo man Espera uses the gangsta counting system in which “fiddie” equals 50, a “buck” or a “hundo” equals a hundred, a “deuce” equals either two or two-hundred, a “grand” equals a thousand, etc.

Flak jacket:  a heavy yet flexible shrapnel-resistant vest.

Foot-mobile:  a person on foot.

Forty Mike-Mike:  40 millimeter; refers to either an individual 40mm self-propelled grenade round or the weapon that launches them, such as the M-19.

Foshizzle…Hajizzle:  a goof on Snoop Dogg’s hip-hop lingo to mean “for sure” and “Haji.”

Free-balling:  not wearing underpants.

Fucking Sixta:  Sgt. Maj. John Sixta, Sergeant Major for this battalion;  aka “The Fucking Retard,” “Mister Potato Head,” “The Coward of Khafji.”  His role and actions both dictate that he is despised by enlisted men.

Get some:  to “get some” means to do any thing really cool like run a fast mile or kill someone.  [Mo here: I’ve removed one extremely graphic sentence here, which basically says that the term can also apply to sexual conquest.] [O]ften used as an exclamation or cheer.  Latino Marines use the Spanish “Chingaso” and whites have adopted it, so “Get some!” and “Chingaso!” are interchangeable.

Godfather:  call sign of Lt. Col. Ferrando, as well as his battalion.  Ferrando earned the call sign because his vocal chords were removed after a bout with cancer, causing him to speak like Marlon Brando in the noted film.  Note:  Godfather often speaks of himself in the third person:  instead of saying, “I think…,” he will say, “Godfather thinks…”

Grape Beverage Base:  grape juice powder; the name printed on the packaging in the military rations.  Used by Marines rather than the more familiar civilian term.

The Grooming Standard:  not to be confused with Marine Corps standard grooming regulations, the Grooming Standard is Battalion Commander Ferrando’s much more exacting dress and grooming code for those who serve under him.

 G-Shock Wristwatch:  the popular xtreme sports watch, as essential to Marine fashion as Oakley sunglasses.

H & S Company:  the Headquarters and Supply company.  More than half the 370 men in the battalion belong to H & S, responsible for supporting the “line companies” or combat units, made up of Alpha, Bravo and Charlie Companies.

Habudabi:  a nickname for Arabs.

Haji:   an Iraqi or Arab or Muslim of any ethnicity, from the Arabic “Haji,” which is the honorific term for anyone who has made the trip to Mecca, the Haj.  Most Americans who use the term Haji are probably not referring to that pilgrimage, but to the once-popular children’s cartoon show “Johnny Quest,” in which the white boy hero’s turban-wearing sidekick was named Haji.  Not necessarily a pejorative term, Haji may be used as an adjective to describe anything Middle Eastern, e.g., Iraq’s customary flat bread is referred to as “Haji bread” or “Haji tortillas.”

Hardball:  paved road, as opposed to unpaved.

Herringbone:  to halt a convoy of vehicles at a 45-degree angle to the axis of a highway, much like the pattern of fishbones.  Herringbone can be used as a noun or verb.

Hitman Two:  “Hitman” is the radio call sign for Bravo Company and “Two” refers to second platoon, one of three platoons in the company.  “Hitman” can refer to the actual company commander of Bravo or the company itself.  All units have call-signs, rather like official nicknames, which are used in radio communications.  For example, General Mattis, commander of all Marine ground forces in Iraq, is “Chaos.”

Hitman Two One Actual:  Bravo Company’s Second Platoon Team One Leader, Sergeant Colbert.  While “Hitman Two One” refers to the entire team, “Actual” means the actual commander.  “Hitman Two” refers to all of Bravo Second Platoon, but “Hitman Two Actual” is the platoon commander, Lt. Fick.  In addition, “The Actual,” or commander, is also referred to as “The Zero.”

“I glassed it:”  “I viewed the object through binoculars or a rifle scope.”

“I got your six”:  “I’ve got your back”; from the clock point in which the hour of six is at the bottom of the dial, if you were oriented toward the 12 hour.  “On your three” would indicate something or someone on your immediate right.  “On your four” would indicate something or something on your right and slightly behind you.

I.A. (Immediate Action):  whatever you train to do when the shit hits the fan.

Javelin Team:  two Marines who carry and operate a powerful anti-tank missile called a “Javelin.”

K-bar:  a knife carried by Marines.

Kevlar:  a helmet; while civilians know Kevlar as the brand-name of a bullet resistant material, Marines refer to their Kevlar helmets simply as Kevlars.  Note:  Even though flak jackets are also made of Kevlar, they are never referred to as such.

Kill Zone, Kill Box:  the area where the enemy hopes to direct, channel and trap you in order to kill you, or where you hope to do the same to him.

L.A.V.’s (Light Armored Vehicle):  used only by the Marine Corps;  amphibious, eight-wheeled machines that look like upside-down bathtubs painted black.

L.O.D. (Line of Departure):  the border between Kuwait and Iraq.

Leatherman:  the all-in-one pliers, screwdriver and knife tool carried by Marines.

The L.T.:  nickname for a Lieutenant.  Note:  A specific lieutenant or other commanding officer is often also referred to as “The Sir.”

M.R.E.:  Meal Ready to Eat; standard military fare, food manufactured a decade ago and served as a complete, self-heating meal in a plastic bag.

M.S.R. Eight:  Main Supply Route Eight; any paved road is typically referred to as an “M.S.R.”

M.S.R. Tampa:  Main Supply Route Tampa.  Not only are roads designated M.S.R.s,  but American military planners have also given them names that will be easier for U.S. troops to pronounce than Arabic ones.

M-19:  a heavy, vehicle-mounted machine gun that fires armor-penetrating grenades instead of bullets; AKA MK-19, Mark-19, and Forty Mike-Mike.

M-249 SAW:  hand-held or bipod-mountable machine gun common to U.S. forces.  “SAW” stands for Squad Automatic Weapon and fires at a rate of 750 rounds per minute.  Notoriously easy to discharge by accident, hence Marine folklore:  “The SAW’s got a mind of its own, it wants to kill a motherfucker.”

M-4:  rifle carried by most recon Marines; similar to the standard U.S.-military M-16, but with a shortened barrel and collapsible stock.  Note:  Officers and POGs carry M-16s.  (2-3)

M-40:  standard, bolt action Marine sniper rifle.

Mathilda:  Northern Kuwait camp where these Marines stayed, with about 5,000 others, in the weeks before the invasion.

MOPP:  a nuclear, biological chemical protection suit; stands for Mission Oriented Protective Posture.  Can be an adjective, as in “we were MOPPED-up,” or “wearing our MOPP suits.”

Moto:  from motivational, anything that expresses the highly-motivated spirit of Marines.  Shouting “Get Some!” is a moto thing to do.  Moto films are the small movies and slide shows Marines make documenting the crazy things they see in this war.

Mud:  the white supremacist term for a non-white individual.

[hummingjay]

New oc for thee: SKUR "Großer Skua”

Under the cut are numerous doodles and SO MUCH YAP it’s very long so be warned.

SKUR

Schwere-Kommando-Ungeheuer-Replika

Heavy-commando-Behemoth-Replica

Großer Skuas, or Schwere-Kampf-ungeheuer-Replikas, “Great Skuas”, often simply referred to as Skuas, are heavy commandos utilized by the nation in dangerous raids. These units are large and bulky, wearing heavy armor and welding weapons that are usually too heavy not to be on a mount. They operate in small groups, usually one to three, commanded by a KLBR, STAR, LSTR, STCR unit, or with an infantry force.

Skuas use a wide variety of heavy weapons, from machine guns and grenade launchers to flamethrowers and shotguns. Whatever the weapon, they’re always hyper-powered and usually too heavy for most units to even carry, much less use. They can unmount vehicle machine guns and use them in a man-portable fashion. Their armor is strong enough to block shotgun rounds at point blank range. Despite their large, heavy appearance, Skuas are deceptively fast. They carry cargos of ammunition and gear, and can be used as workhorses for transport. 

Skuas are the perfect soldier in a way that an angel is the perfect human. They’ve been stripped from their humanity in a barbaric defiance of the natural order of creation, leaving an abomination whose sole purpose is bringing death in the most destructive manner possible. They feature skinless, fleshless, skull-like-heads, and many of their internal organs have been replaced with mechanics. They have no stomach and run instead on pressurized gasolines, and can create improvised fuels from processing and liquidizing organic matter, allowing them to attain fuel in the field and go without supplies for close to years. They can go without fuel for up to a week, and their fuel-processing systems allow them to live on diets of wood and even flesh. Their internal fuel systems and generators are located where their stomach and other organs used to be. Connected to the fuel system and remaining heart and lungs is a sophisticated engine that emits a low whir or hum. With no lips, their voicebox is located directly in the back of the throat, and sounds more mechanical than a normal replika. Their voice tends to be unsettling, like it’s not real or that it cuts through one’s ears. They will often cough the exhaust from their internal engine systems. 

Skuas do not feel pain, and will instead feel a dull pressure when damaged, only so that they’re aware of their wounds. They must be watched closely as they see no difference between a pinprick and decapitation. They feature air filters in the neck and are immune to toxins, and can breathe even through even the thickest smoke and dust. Advanced cooling and ventilation control systems allow them to survive in both extremely hot or cold environments. Their joints are more mechanical, mixing machine pistons with their pseudo-flesh to strengthen them. Their cranial construction and nervous system are organic and interconnected with their machine structures and systems. They lack conventional eidetic modules and utilize instead camera-like lenses that are more immune to flash-grenades and cannot be blinded by debris. A built-in decibel limit also prevents becoming deaf, temporarily or otherwise. Arteries and veins are seamlessly integrated with the other mechanical systems. Though they possess no stomach, intestines, liver, kidneys, and other artificial internal organs that replikas typically have, they still have their heart, blood, and lungs to pump oxygen into the fuel systems. 

Skuas operate well alone and in groups. One can be sent on a near-suicidal operation or can serve as support for a larger infantry. 

Skuas are generally led by a handler, usually an Elster, Kolibri, Storch, or Starling unit. Each handler type fulfills a different role. Elster units lead Skuas far into unsurveyed enemy territory with little information and even less support. Storch-led Skuas operate raids. Starlings lead Skuas among other infantry, and Kolibris will operate a wider variety of roles in-high-stakes operations. Roles may vary, such as Elster units leading a defense campaign or a Starling leading a raid.

The commanding handler of Skua units must be evaluated for loyalty, as Skuas are easy to manipulate due to their unwavering, unquestioning, and extreme obedience. Commanding officers’ sole role is to manage the commandos, dealing with maintenance and orders. While not higher ranking than other officers, having the deadly and intimidating behemoths under their command affords handlers an uncanny authority. Skuas will develop close bonds with their commander, and are extremely protective of them.

Due to their skinless, faceless nature, Skuas are difficult at best to read. It is hard to gauge their emotions by their voice, which itself is monotone and formal, and their demeanor is similarly difficult to gauge. Their commanding handlers are expected to understand the subtle signs that signify their mental state, such as a clenched jaw in anger, and the activation of ventilation systems located in the neck and spine when flustered. Skuas do not possess tear nor mucus ducts, and will emit sporadic growls and hums instead of crying. Similarly, harder, louder, more aggressive growls can be heard if the Skua is particularly angry. When especially happy or content, they will produce deeper, louder humming sounds akin to purrs. Skuas also lack sweat glands, using their internal cooling and ventilation systems to stay at optimal temperature. Oddly, a byproduct of their unorthodox nerve system is that they enjoy being pet. Handlers discover a ‘sweet spot’, usually located on the torso.

Skua personalities appear dull and empty. They speak in monotone voices and tend to be very passive. In combat, they are aggressive and destructive, yet calm, causing maximum damage in minimal time. They fight in an oppressive fashion, fighting in such a manner that enemy combatants hardly have a chance to fire back. Unlike other combat units, they show no affinity nor fondness for violence, it’s simply a task that must be done. Skuas are wholly and entirely obedient to commanding units, utterly unquestioning of the even most appalling orders. While deep down, a sense of morality can theoretically be found, said ethics are completely ignored when an order contradicts what little there is. They will not go out of the way to cause maximum collateral, but have no qualms about it. For these reasons, Skaus can also function as executors. Their obedience makes them easy to manipulate, and are generally under the command of a replika instead of a gestalt. Upon further interaction, Skuas will reveal a calm and soft personality, akin to MNHR type units. When interacting with other units, they will minimize movement, as they do not know their own strength and can cause injury. They tend to not speak, aware of the intrinsic unsettling quality of their voice.

Skuas are physically terrifying to most units. Faceless, monstrous, destructive, and smelling of exhaust, they’re avoided almost entirely. They serve as omens to mass destruction to the enemy. Skuas themselves have no particular fondness for specific units. If any treats them as more than a demonic tool, they will attempt to befriend the person. Showing affection to the unloved units is an effective and easy way to gain their trust. Underneath their corpse-like and violent exterior, Skuas are gentle souls. They are fascinated by gestalts and their lives, as well as other replikas, and display a childlike curiosity with the world. They stabilize their persona by drawing and sketching. They may tattoo each other’s armor so that others can tell them apart, usually drawing little more than numbers. Often, one can find Skaus hidden just off the area where Eules work, as they listen to their singing and music. They enjoy looking for flowers when off duty, and will decorate each other with them.

Naming conventions are random. They have no preference for names and are generally named by their commanding officer, sometimes others, very rarely themselves. More personalized names stem from commanders. More generic names will come from nearby compatriots. 

While technically female, Skuas are often referred to as “it” by others, not afforded the luxury of humanization. They make no movements to correct the notion. They are seen as unmanned combat vehicles rather than replikas, and they know it.  Handlers are to refer to them more humanely, and are to provide names if a unit doesn’t have one.

The gestalt template for the Skua unit was a gunner in an aircraft crew, chosen for their keen eye, unyielding loyalty, and will of steel. Skuas are to be kept on-ground purely as foot soldiers to minimize resurfacing memories. Degraded Skuas are extremely dysphoric and must never look into a mirror. When degraded, Skuas remain mostly obedient but erratic and confused. They become unsteady on their feet and will attempt to board aircraft. Obedience will not decline, but they will question unfamiliar commanders. Late-stage degradation will reveals mania and violence. Decommission degrading Skuas immediately as soon as degradation is confirmed. They can easily be disposed of by having their handler disarm them, though convincing their handler to do so may be difficult. Use anti-armor rounds for a quick operation.

[boinkingbattlemechs]

Cyclops

The Cyclops began production in 2710 as an assault BattleMech and headquarters unit for Star League Defense Force field commanders. A decent mix of weapons provided the Cyclops with both long- and short-range firepower and a sizable engine to keep up with mobile operations. The most important feature of the 'Mech though was its advanced electronics, especially the Tacticon B-2000 Battle Computer, which allows the pilot to effectively command up to brigade-sized units. Other aspects of the 'Mech are less than stellar however. The diverse array of weapons means the 'Mech does suffer somewhat from ammunition issues while meager armoring provides less protection than that found on similar machines, though it is enough to stave off attackers until reinforcements arrive. In particular the armoring on the head section, while as heavily protected as allowed by the internal structure, leaves the pilot and the sophisticated command and control equipment more vulnerable than usual. When operating as the command vehicle at regimental and higher echelons with an ample support apparatus and guarded by a headquarters lance, these deficiencies are far less noticeable and the Cyclops could be kept in reserve until employed to turn the tide of battle or exploit a weakness.

Unfortunately the Cyclops did not fare so well with the onset of the Amaris Civil War when the Rim Worlds Republic Military destroyed its primary factory on Caph in 2774. Spare parts for the machine quickly began to dry up, until by the end of the Succession Wars less than ten percent still had a working B-2000 computer. Lacking the critical part of being a command vehicle many Cyclopses were pressed into an assault role. Acting as the bodyguard or decoy for the real commanding officer, they proved to be swift if mediocre combat machines. As most enemies know about the vulnerable head and automatically target it in combat, many Cyclops pilots also began adding false head protectors to defend against impacts. A study by the NAIS after the Fourth Succession War would eventually find that these caused more harm than good by restricting vision and increasing shrapnel, ending the practice altogether.

The rediscovery of the Helm Memory Core kick-started a number of attempts to replicate the B-2000 computer, however there were no successful attempts prior to the Clan Invasion. Also, the invention of the C3 computer with its emphasis on small-scale networking, and a switch in doctrine to using DropShips as command posts, saw the Cyclops' command role decline. However Grumium Creations was eventually able to restart production of new variants of the 'Mech, and where it has participated a Cyclops with a working B-2000 has had noticeable effects. For this reason Cyclops 'Mechs with a working battle computer were reserved for high-ranking officers.

The Cyclops carries an arsenal built to handle almost any situation. For long-range combat and indirect fire, the 'Mech carries a Delta Dart LRM-10 missile launcher in the left torso along with one ton of reloads. For closer ranges the 'Mech has a variety of weapons. A Zeus-36, Mark III Autocannon/20 mounted in the right torso keeps all but the heaviest 'Mechs at a respectable distance and is fed by four tons of ammo split between the side torsos. The autocannon is backed up by two Diverse Optics Type 20 medium lasers, one in either arm, and a Hovertec Quad SRM-4 with one ton of reloads in the center torso.

The centerpiece of the Cyclops is its sophisticated holographic battle computer, the Tacticon B-2000. When combined with the Olmstead 840 tight beam comm suite with SatNav module, the Cyclops can effectively command a brigade across the surface of an entire world. Unfortunately the Cyclops is poorly protected relative to other assault 'Mechs with only ten tons of armor, and while its normal load of twelve heat sinks allows it to stay cool in most cases, they can prove to be inadequate in especially heavy situations.

[your-local-tyrant]

Armada Megatron Profile (AU)

Name: Armada

Height: 35ft at head height, 45 with shoulders and 8ft 3. In tank mode

Weight: 70 metric tons or 140,000lbs

Age: 1 million-4 million

Mental Age (In Earth Terms): 45-50

Gender: mech

Sexuality: bi/demi (prefers mechs, very picky)

Spark color: yellow

Sparkmate: none

Allegiance: Decepticon

Function: Leader/Commander/tyrant

Alternate Mode: H-shaped Cybertronic tank.

Weapons: back mounted fusion cannon, hidden blades, extendable horns, twin guns (on his turret), dark star saber and requies blaster (occasionally), minicon weapons (when equipped)

Skill: A majority of Armada's skills are combat focused. His life revolves around battle, so his mind is almost always thinking of new strategies and ways to tornent his enemies, he is able to change this plans on a whin or Improvise on the spot if he needs to which can make him dangerous. Whats even worse is that the tyrants fighting style is almost entirely self taught, so it can be very hard to predict and counter. During battles, he rarely thinks ahead and relles primarily on his strenth to win, but dont underestimate his attack, he hits hard and makes sure his apponents feel pain.

Aside from battling, armada also has some Limited medical knowledge. It's not the best due to being self taught, but what he knows does the job, he learned how to deal with Injuries because he's had to fix his own after battle with little to no assistance. Aside fron that, he does have extended biological knowledge that came from tearing apart and cannibalizing other bots. He used this knowledge to per form horrendous experiments on minicons. Since their anatomy is somewhat similar to regular cybertronlan anatomy, armada knows how to dismantle and completely rewire the minicons tiny bodies for power linking.

Personality: Armada is a battle hardened Mech who has Learned the art of Deception. His cold, cruel and psychopathic deneanor is often hidden behind a veil of finesse, formality, politeness and sophistication. He is not afraid to kill or dish out harsh punishments, even infront of others, Armada learned to grow up fast in harsh conditions and has a very hard time trusting others. If you do manage to gain his trust, he will take hits in battle for you and will perform occasional acts of service.

Stats:

robot Speed: 4/10

vehicle speed: 6/10

Hand-to-Hand Combat: 8/16

Long-Range Combat: 6/10

Strategy/Tactics: 8/10

Medical & Science: 6/18 Ned, 5/19 science

Tech & Engineering: 6/10 Tech 7/10 Eng

Stealth: 4/10

Quirks and habits: arnada often pops small chunks of metals, ores and occasionally bones in his mouth and will chew on the similar to gum. He also chem on his lower lip or other objects when stressed or bored

Backround:

He was sent to another timeline by a space bridge malfunction when he was younger. His memories were erased during the process and he woke up on a different cybertron believing that he was originally from that timeline. He knew nothing of this universe and was soon considered an outcast amongst the other bots since nobody had ever seen him before and he didnt exist in the records. Nobody trusted him and he was treated poorly within the major cities being frequently pushed around, beaten and even battered until he was on the brink of death.

he didn't belong here, that was obvious... so he stormed out of the city with a malace and taught himself how to fight and fix his injuries. One day he net a group of bots and ended up gaining their respect by defeating them in combat, becoming their leader. With them at his command and all his night, he would bring their group nany victories and gain vast reputation that quickly spread across the land. As thae went by he becane progressively more ruthless, more vicious and gained an Intense hunger for power and control.

A few thousand years passed and he'd eventually stumble apoun a group of smaller bots called minicons. He took the smaller bots hostage and after learning that they had incredible power inside their tiny bodies, he began torturing, brainwashing and even rearranging their construction just to get some sort of result. He wanted their power for himself and after many failures, he would finally achieve a successful power Link and go on the offensive. But the more he used the minicons power, the more he becane addicted to it and it wasnt long before he began doing multi-linkups

Once his decepticon soldiers had their own minicons, he began preparing for a full scale assault on the city. They would attack and succeed, quickly sending the autobot forces running. the city now belonged to the decepticons and it would become their prinary stronghold. From there, he would spread his rule throughout the planet

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 1: nothing's new

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: After nearly two years of peace, you are called back to the Capitol only to find that the future they promised you was a lie.

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Use of Weapons, Mention of Injuries, Minor Character Death.

Word Count: 6.5k

Series Masterlist | Next Chapter

Coriolanus Snow is many things, he thinks to himself, but incompetent is not one of them. So there had been the Lucy Gray hiccup. Helping her cheat the Games only for her to die at the hands of Dr. Gaul’s snakes after he failed to slip the handkerchief into their tank was inconvenient, to say the least. As was his brief stint as a Peacekeeper as punishment for his dishonest tactics following the discovery of a certain compact with her remains. Still, he had learned a valuable lesson. Love is no more than a disadvantage, a distraction lodging itself like an unfortunate bump in his flawless plan. And now, he is back, having traded Sejanus’s life for his own advancement. It was nothing personal, really. Personal is a luxury, the only one he can not afford.

Sure, the loss had hurt, but the District 7 boy made a fine victor and one he could control with a far greater degree of ease, given the detachment he felt in regard to the kid’s safety. New year, new him, new Games, and this time, things would be different. 

His proposals had gone through without much struggle, especially with Dr. Gaul practically eating out of the palm of his hand. He is the protege; his mentor is the kind of woman you do not cross without bearing the consequences. 

And so, on this fine morning, as he stands with the casual grace of a cat, elegantly perched on the corner of his desk, he can’t fight the grin that spreads across his face as he delivers the order he’s been waiting for weeks to give.

“Well? Go get them.”

It is a cold day in District 10, at least colder than most you think as you finish your daily sweep of the ranch and its expansive territory. You pull back lightly on the reins, bringing the horse to a slow stop.

“To name an animal, any animal, it’s counterproductive. Selfish even. Makes for a more difficult slaughter; always best to remain detached.” Your father’s words echo in your head as you dip your neck to whisper soft praise to the creature below, her hind branded with a string of three numbers: 039. Her label, to call it a name, would be to demean anyone granted the privilege of such a thing.

“That was good Bluebell, nice easy ride. Told you it would get better.” She is young. Young enough to spook with a fair amount of ease, but then so are you. Had been ever since your Games.

You dismount, hitting the ground with a soft thud before coming around to face the gentle giant and fishing a handful of sugar cubes out of your pocket. She nuzzles the food in your palm before beginning to eat, and you run a hand up and down the bridge of her nose. The world is quiet, dew still catching the light of the rising sun when you see it in the distance: the armored vehicle speeding towards the cabin housing the front office. It is not unusual for Peacekeepers to come and go from the building, but the night shift typically does not end until 8:00 am, and dawn’s colors still paint the lower half of the sky. Something is wrong.

Two men exit the vehicle, entering the small building before quickly reappearing at its entrance, a third companion in tow. He stands on the porch for one beat, two, a lazy hand draped over his eyes as he scans the field for something. Someone. And then he points. You. They are looking for you.

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your body screams at you to mount once more and ride as fast and as far away as you can, but you stay rooted. Frozen. You watch, helplessly still, as the car only comes closer, pulling to a stop on the other side of the fence, keeping the pastures separated from the open road. The Peacekeeper in the passenger seat steps out, boots scraping the gravel.

“Ms. L/N?” You only nod.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us; you’ve been called to the Capitol.” You feel like screaming, but your throat constricts, and all you can do is take slow, encumbered breaths as your body caves in on itself and you crumple to the ground.

“I– What?”

You do not mind the mud on your knees, and the slow chill that begins to spread from the places dampened by the wet grass is barely perceptible in your state of shock. Called to the Capitol. Your mind jumps back home, your brother and sister still tucked away, blankets to their chins. They would not rise for another thirty minutes at least. You picture your mother. Savoring a final moment of quiet in her busy day, sipping the coffee you’d left in the pot just for her. Your mind replays the goodbyes you had paid them this morning. Careless and quick, not like the day of the reaping. Just sloppy kisses pressed haphazardly to their foreheads and a gentle farewell on your way out the door.

“That’s not possible– It’s not– I haven’t…” There is an eerie stillness to the world at this time of day. One that only seems to press inwards, suffocating you. Distantly, you feel the soft pressure of Bluebell’s muzzle on your shoulder as though urging you to get up

Though the man in the driver’s seat seems annoyed by the inconvenience, his partner fails to shield the look of pity that flits across his face as he dips to pass through the fence, pulling you up and then back through the gap with him. He is not rough as he sets you in the backseat, not like the Peacekeepers you remember from your Games, or maybe he is; everything seems a blur as the car makes its way to the train station, and it is only as the compartment doors to close behind you that you think of Bluebell, left out in the pasture, probably licking fallen sugar cubes off the ground.

Treech releases a labored exhale as he tries once more to readjust his grip on the axe. It’s just a tree. He can sense the nearby Peacekeeper shuffling from foot to foot, anxious for him to get on with the process. This is not the arena. I am safe. I am home.

There is no time off granted to returning victors following their stint in the Games. Production is production, and there are quotas to be met, so Treech had arrived home, and the following morning, before the sun had kissed the hilltops with its light, he had risen to go to work. Only work didn’t come easy the way it used to, lulling him into a rhythmic sense of comfort with its repetitive motions, and each time he raised his axe, all he saw was them. The other tributes waiting to receive the killing blow.

Treech wipes the sweat from his brow in a single frustrated motion in spite of the cold, then, squaring his jaw, he takes a swing. Crunch. The axe lodges itself in Teslee’s head, and he stumbles back, eyes wide with fear. Only it is not Teslee. No. He blinks once, twice, and it is only a pine tree, and he is back in the forest, sinking under the weight of the Peacekeeper’s heavy glare. The man, stationed less than a yard away, begins to move towards him, and Treech prepares himself for another beating, the sharp threats from the last time still ringing in his ears.

“Officer,” a voice calls out in their direction as another man of higher rank, from what Treech can gauge, approaches the pair. The two men meet and begin to speak in hushed voices, eyes flitting in his direction every few sentences. They’re gonna fire me. Or worse, string me up in the square and use me as an example. His grip on the axe tightens. His axe. His father’s before him. He will not go down without a fight.

“Hey, you,” Treech keeps his eyes on the forest floor, silently praying to any higher power that will listen that he is not the you in question. 

“Hey! Hey, you!” He can hear the man approaching, but the sound of his footsteps is dulled by the pounding of Treech’s heart. He feels like a child in a bathtub, head halfway under the surface as the water beats at his eardrums, completely still and as loud as a tidal wave. A firm grasp settles around the fabric of his winter coat, far too thin for the cold but the best he can afford.

“Listen to me when I’m fucking speaking to you,” the Peacekeeper spits, and Treech’s mouth settles into a hard line, his hand curled into a tight fist, twitching by his side. The man before him huffs in frustration.

“Call came in from the Capitol; you’re on the next train out,” he moves as though he’s going to release Treech before yanking him back in, close enough to press his mouth to the boy’s ear. 

“You’re lucky the order came from above; if I had a say, I’d gun you down right here for the disrespect.” With that, he gives the kid before him a hard shove before beginning to stalk off.

“Let’s go.” But Treech feels as though the ground beneath him has disappeared. Back to the Capitol? Would they send him into the arena? He was done. Won his Games fair and square. He was supposed to be free. What more could they want?

The first thing you notice about the train is that it is the nicest thing you have ever set foot inside of. During your Games, and all those before and after, transport to the Capitol had been relegated to old cattle cars used to shuttle livestock across Panem, and the same had been true on your return trip. This is different. Every inch of the compartment is decorated with the lavish and ornate, all-cushioned seats and elaborate chandeliers.

The second thing you notice is the boy. He is older than you, you think, by several years. Five, maybe six. He seems out of place, tucked into the corner of one of the booths, sizing you up suspiciously. He looks familiar.

“I– Do I know you?”

“We’ve never met before,” he responds, cold and guarded. But there is something about him, his build, tall and broad, dark skin and brown eyes; you could almost imagine them looking soft and kind in a different environment. 

He keeps the sharp look on his face, and you have yet to move from the doors when it clicks.

“You won seven years ago; I remember you. District 11. Teff, right?”

“You’re the girl from 10,” he says, and his posture relaxes, if only by a fraction.

“Y/N.” You smile, and you mean it to be a comfort, but there’s a fear in your eyes that betrays the anxiety deep in your gut. Still, you move closer, sliding into the seat across from him and bringing your hands into a neat pile on your lap.

“What are we doing here?” It’s small and whispered as it escapes your lips, and your gaze refuses to meet Teff’s as you wait for an answer.

“I have no idea.”

It is several hours before the train stops again, and though they are mostly passed in silence, the occasional attempt is made at small talk. Whispered theories mingle among everyday questions. So, what do you do in District 11? Do you think they’re gonna kill us? There’s lots of horses back home, cows too. They can’t put us back in, right? Only once, that’s what they said. 

The next time the doors open, you are in 2, as indicated by the towering stone walls keeping it separate from neighboring Districts. Three people get on. One of the boys you recognize immediately: Octavian Blackwell, the first victor. His hair is dark, clipped short in a sort of military cut, and his eyes look as though they are carved from steel. Beside him is a girl, small and lithe, her posture relaxed and tense all at once. Antonia. The name echos out from some dark, cavernous corner of your mind. The first female victor, 3rd Hunger Games. The final boy is taller than both his counterparts, though leaner in build than Octavian; you wrack your brain, praying for some form of recollection, but he remains unfamiliar to you.

“More victors,” whispers Teff, and you watch as the three faces before you seem to come to the same realization.

“What the fuck is going on?” It’s the District 2 boy who breaks the silence, the one whose name continues to elude you. 

“Hector,” Antonia hisses, a warning lacing her tone, but her eyes betray a curiosity lingering beneath the surface. 

“They can’t put us back in, right? There’s not enough. Not to mention, half the districts wouldn’t even have tributes,” you sputter the words up, an involuntary torrent of concern spewing from your mouth. Your gaze flits nervously from face to face, and in spite of the many hardened exteriors, you can feel it beneath the surface, a brewing apprehension. Octavian breaks the silence.

“They won’t put us back in.” And he seems certain. He is old, you think. Not old in the way a grandparent is, but aged certainly. You had never taken the time to imagine a tribute outside childhood, escaping adolescence into fully formed adulthood, but here was Octavian, who must have been at least twenty-six, with several deep-set wrinkles beginning to mar his brow.

“Probably just rounding us all up to kill us, send a real message after those shitshow Games last year,” Hector grumbles, moving further into the compartment and thrusting himself into the booth across from you and Teff. “Just watch; I bet we’ll hit 4 next, then 7, and 1.”

The noise of uncomfortable shuffling seems to fill the compartment, and eventually, Octavian and Antonia settle into the booth beside Hector. You can’t help but allow the shell of a laugh to brush past your lips. A whole train car for the lot of you, and here you were, pressed into the two corner booths. Sure, the cage is bigger, but you still cower like animals. Like you’re back in those trucks ushering you from the train to the arena, gleaning a last moment of comfort as you brushed shoulders with the children you would watch die.

Hector was right. The train stopped at 4, though only one boy got on. Trawl, he’d won the 8th Games, just before yours. You remember distantly hearing of another victor from 4, a boy who was killed upon return. Murdered by the father of his district partner, who accused him of killing her. Stabbed him in the town square, they said. The Peacekeepers only watched.

The train grinds once more to a halt in 7, and quick glance outside the window reveals a station made entirely of wood, grand posts carved with ornate designs supporting the massive roof. You glance towards the door, waiting for him, the newest victor. You do not have to work hard to recall his name, Treech; the two syllables had echoed from every radio in your mother's house the day the 10th Games ended.

The doors open with a hiss, and he stumbles in as though pushed, a mop of curls obscuring his eyes. He seems dazed. As he lifts his head, you watch it happen. The same realization that had dawned on every victor to enter the compartment after you, but then his gaze only grows dull as though accepting some secret fate you had yet to be alerted of before he shuffles forward, taking a seat on a longer bench facing the door. Alone. 

It is several more hours before you reach 1, and although some hushed conversation continues to fill the train car, you sit in silence, casting worried glances at the quiet boy with his head in his hands. He is not crying, you think; his shoulders are too still, but his breathing remains too rapid to indicate sleep. Maybe he just likes to listen, you suppose, trying to grasp the newest direction of the chatter around you. Maybe he’s scared. As you turn once more to analyze his hunched shape, Trawl catches your line of sight, speaking up from beside you.

“Just leave him alone; if he wants to sit by himself sulking, that’s his problem,” he mutters close to your ear.

“For all we know, we could be walking into an ambush. Give him a break,” you say, moving to stand before making your way over to the place on the bench beside him. You are quiet for a time, unsure how to start, but as your lips begin to purse around a greeting, he interrupts you.

“I like your hat.” His voice is flat, a single eye visible from behind the curtain of his hair. You forgot you were wearing a hat. It was your father’s from his brief time on the ranch before transferring to the slaughterhouse, where he met your mom. Your hand darts up to trace the brim.

“Thanks, it was–” But then his tone registers, and you recognize the snark behind the compliment, “You don’t mean that, do you?”

“You some sort of cowgirl?”

“How do you know what a cowgirl is?” You ask, and your eyebrows draw together in surprise at the knowledge.

“Read about them in school once, before I dropped out.”

“I guess so. Usually, people just call me a ranch hand.” He lifts his head at this, and you realize he’s quite pretty on closer viewing.

“Doesn’t sound as cool.” The ghost of a smirk lights his face as he says it.

“No, I guess it doesn’t,” you say, grinning back. His smile is quick to fade, and he turns once more, fixing his gaze ahead, away from you.

“Why are we here?” He asks, his cocky demeanor gone in an instant. You ache to be able to provide him with an answer, but the same question has been clawing at you since the two men showed up on the ranch this morning. 

“I– I’m not sure.” He nods, and it is solemn, like a prayer, but he does not return his face to his hands, instead watching the miles of land roll by in a blur, no single thing occupying the space outside the window for longer than a second. You find yourself looking, too, imagining how it must feel to go 250 mph. You decide it's probably like flying.

By the time you reach 1 to collect its two victors, a searing silence has spread over the train, the atmosphere tense. The journey to the Capitol is so quiet you could hear a pin drop, and as the skyline appears over the barriers built to keep people like you out, you feel the apprehension shrouding the compartment begin to buzz. It is only then that Hector speaks, shattering the stillness with a single phrase.

“Welcome back to Hell.”

The sun is setting as the train pulls into the station, and you twitch nervously, scraping your nails against the pads of your fingertips. Beside you, Treech watches your movements with a fixed gaze as though pondering reaching out to still the repetitive motions himself. He does not, and you fail to notice his attention on you at all, eyes fixed ahead on the double doors. 

When they open, a swarm of Peacekeepers descends on the car within a matter of seconds, hoisting you from the seats, snatching at arms and shoulders in their attempts to muscle you out of the compartment. A startled yelp escapes your lips as the man with a harsh grasp on the collar of your shirt rips you forward and onto the platform, jostling your hat from your head. 

“No–” You lunge for the single remnant of your father, straining against the Peacekeeper working to wrangle you towards an awaiting vehicle, but it is no use. He wraps you in a firm pair of arms, lifting you, kicking and biting from the ground the remainder of the distance before tossing you onto the floor of the car. As you whip around to assail him once more, the doors fall closed with a thud, leaving you to pound futilely against them.

Eventually, your jabs lose their power, and you sink down, forehead pressed to the cool metal, biting your lip to prevent the oncoming tears from spilling over. A hand makes its presence known on your shoulder as the car begins to move, and you turn to glimpse Trawl, his face painted with concern. A quick once over of the vehicle reveals only half the victors had been loaded on: you, Trawl, and the two tributes from 1, Lux, who sits with both hands clasped primly in her lap, and Beau, whose only visible sign of distress is the repeated preening of his hair.

“My– My hat. It was my dad’s–” you stutter out as Trawl helps you onto the seat beside his, “I don’t– there’s nothing else left.” The concern in his eyes settles into pity, and you feel like shrinking under the weight of his compassion, tired of feeling helpless.

It is not long before the car pulls to a stop, and the doors come open once more. It is dark out now, and you can’t help but find it unusual, the feeling that you are being smuggled, rushed in under the cover of night. Typically everything is a display in the Capitol. If they are going to kill you, where are the cameras? You are ushered into an elevator, and one of the Peacekeepers extends an arm, scanning a card before pressing the button for the top floor. You think distantly this might be some sort of hotel. You have never been inside a hotel before. A simple ding alerts you to the fact that you have reached your destination, and you are jostled out and through the door directly before you following the swipe of another card.

It is a large room. You had always believed hotels came with the promise of a bed, but this seems more like a home: a kitchen with appliances you do not recognize, a luxurious lounge with a semicircular couch facing a large projection, and a man, his hair as white as snow.

“Please, let’s not manhandle our guests,” he calls out to the group of Peacekeepers herding you into the center of the room, and they back away, taking up posts on the surrounding walls. Their message is clear: you are not permitted to leave. 

You reach up to rub at the place where, only moments before, your arm had been kept in an iron grip when the door to the room flings open again, the remainder of the victors stumbling in. Teff comes first, ripping his bicep from the man beside him upon entrance, followed by Hector, Antonia, and Octavian, who seem more contained. Last is Treech, a newly formed bruise beginning to darken the area around his eye, and your father's hat held delicately in his hand, fingers pinched around the rim. He keeps his gaze fixed on the floor but lifts his head upon hearing your stifled gasp. 

“Come, make yourselves comfortable. I don’t bite, I promise.” The man at the front of the room speaks with a placating tone and words meant to dulcify, but he smiles like a wolf. No one moves.

“Let’s try this again. Sit down.” From behind you, you can hear the Peacekeepers beginning to shuffle from their stations, inching forward. Octavian is the first to budge. He takes a tentative step in the direction of the couch before nodding at Antonia and Hector, who follow close behind. You look to Teff and then to Treech, only a few feet away from him, still holding your father’s hat. The former surveys the room once before giving you a slow nod, and you move to sit. They file in behind you, Trawl quick on their heels, and the four of you occupy a single corner of the couch being sure to leave room for Lux and Beau. As he slides into the seat next to yours, Treech tenderly sets the hat atop your lap, and you mouth a subtle thank you that he leaves unacknowledged.

“Much better.” The man before you grins, and out of the corner of your eye, you see a look of recognition pass across Treech’s face.

“So glad you could all join us.” He claps his hands together before clearing his throat to begin.

“Now, I’m sure you’re all wondering what you’re doing here, and I want to assure you that in spite of the worries you expressed on the train, we are not going to kill you.” A chill passes down your spine at his implication: they had been watching you.

“See, you represent a new beginning. The birth of a different kind of Games. A better kind of Games.” A wave of confusion seems to pass over the lot of you. Though it is more like anxiety, and you feel a bit like you are drowning in it.

“Now, last year, well, that was quite the mess,” he says, nodding to Treech as though they are in on some sort of joke together. Your stomach turns. 

“But the important thing is, we learned something: the people of the Capitol need someone to care about. To root for, if you will. Which means it’s time for a new way of thinking.” He pauses as though for dramatic effect, and you can’t help but think his speech feels practiced. Had he smiled this morning, delivering his death knell to the bathroom mirror?

“Right now, the Games, they make people sad, uncomfortable even. Too much humanity, not enough spectacle.” Beside you, Treech tenses. “There is nothing commodifiable about the current structure. But if, say, we were to place a higher value on the victors and make you celebrities of sorts, then this blight becomes an honor.” The nine faces before him appear as though they are sculpted from stone; he clears his throat before continuing.

“And how, you may ask, do we plan to do that? Well, starting this year, the past victors will be in charge of mentoring the children from your districts.” Here, there is some breakage. Anger, plain and simple, seeping through the masks. Antonia begins to speak.

“Fuck no–”

“I’m not finished, thank you. Now, this will come with an array of new challenges. There will, of course, be interviews to prepare them for, something you obviously have no experience with, as well as a tribute parade.” Your nose crinkles in disgust as the sole image your mind conjures is last year’s tributes chained to a flatbed truck, Brandy’s dead body swaying from a crane above them. Brandy, who you knew. Who was only one year younger than you. Who had a talent for soothing any creature with which she came in contact and who cried for three days the first time she killed a hog.

“And you will be in charge of organizing sponsorships once they are in the arena, networking, and such. But not to worry, each of you will be given an escort from the Capitol, someone to help you navigate the trickier aspects of the job. And you will not go unrewarded either. Starting this year, victors will be granted financial compensation as well as eventual housing in a Victor’s Village, which will be put up in each of your home districts. Still, we will need to begin with a sort of reintroduction to teach the public what your new role as a victor is, and–”

“That’s not fair,” you mumble, so quiet you think no one hears.

“Excuse me?” The man’s gaze is icy cold, like a knife to the chest.

“That’s– That’s not fair. What about the kids in 12? 8? 6 and 5? If you do this, the same people will win every year.” You stare back, and when your hands begin to shake, you hide them beneath your thighs.

“I don’t typically give lessons in power for free; you should be grateful.”

“You’re evil.” And it is not a question. You are certain.

“Not evil, just practical.”

“The Capitol hates us, they think we’re scum. They’ll never get behind this,” Treech offers from beside you, and you see it on him, the mark of last year's Games. The toll they took.

“If the citizens of the Capitol think we care, they will too. I’ll put you on television with the goddamned President if I have to. This will work.”

“What if we won’t do it?” Teff demands, his voice low, tinged with a warning.

“You have a family, do you not?” The man asks, and the threat pools in his eyes, but he voices it anyway. “Would you like to continue having a family?” It is quiet for a moment, and the weight of his words feels heavier than anything you’ve ever carried in your life.

“We were supposed to be done. We won our Games,” It is Hector who speaks this time, rising from his seat. He pauses for a moment, then raises his brow as though in a challenge. “Well, I don’t have any family. Not anymore. Not thanks to this bullshit fucking system, so you know what? I think I’ll pass.” From beside him, Antonia claws at his arm, a pleading look in her eyes. It is too late. The man with the white hair nods, and two of the Peacekeepers on the back wall step forward. 

“That’s too bad. He can go.” They are on Hector in a matter of seconds, but they do not make for the door; instead, they seize him, one on each arm, and turn towards the hallway, splitting off from the large central room. Several victors move to stand, with Trawl and Octavian making an attempt to follow, but they are swiftly restrained, and you sit in silent shock as the sounds of Hector’s struggle become distant. A door slams. Then, a gunshot. After that, it is quiet. Your limbs feel stiff, frozen even. From your other side, Lux releases a stifled sob. Somewhere in the distance, you hear Teff throw up.

“Anyone else have any concerns they wish to voice?” It’s as though you have all stopped breathing.

“Wonderful. We’ll begin in the morning. You’ll each have a team here to prepare you for the press tour. Your rooms are numbered by district. Be ready at 5:00 am sharp. I’d hate to have any more incidents.”

“So, we’re trapped here?” You speak again, though the sound of your own voice comes as a shock. The man only sighs.

“This is not a prison, no. Though we would prefer you not leave the premises–” You don’t give him time to finish, making a hasty exit through the door where you came in.

“Just make sure she doesn’t leave the building,” he sighs with a haphazard wave of his hand in your direction.

You are at the bar when Treech finds you, two glasses of Posca deep.

He hadn’t meant to go looking for you, really, only to clear his head and get away from that room. Shortly after your departure, two men had entered with a stretcher and left only minutes later with it full, the vague outline of a body visible beneath a white linen sheet. He had followed them out and then quickly abandoned their company at the prospect of sharing their elevator, instead descending the stairs. From the 32nd floor. And there you were, right as the door to the lobby opened, hat on the bar and your eyes fixed on something he wasn’t sure was really there.

“No hard liquor here. At least not for us,” you huff, slumping in your seat and crossing your arms over your chest. 

“And don’t bother asking for the bottle either. They’ll just give you one of these. Nothing more dignified than drowning my sorrows in a glass that costs more than my mother’s house,” you wave a limp hand at the ornate flute before you, doing little to disguise the biting sarcasm in your tone.

“I’ll take what she’s having,” Treech mutters to the man behind the bar, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the counter, unwilling to bear the weight of the curious gaze being pressed upon the pair of you.

“Do you remember them, the other tributes?” You ask suddenly, as though the thought had been clouding your mind for hours.

“The other victors?” You shake your head.

“No. The other kids in the arena.” Treech freezes for only a moment, caught off guard, but it’s enough time for the truth to plaster itself across his face. Every day.

“Sure.” You don’t say anything, only sit patiently, waiting for him to continue. “There was– There was Lamina; she was from home.” I watched her die. I sat by and did nothing. “And there was Coral and Mizzen; they were from 4. And the youngest. She was from 8. Had these hearts made of buttons on her pants. Wovey, I think. From 12, there was Lucy Gray, the girl who sang. Reaper, he was the last to die. I killed him. Killed the girl from 3, too. Teslee.”

He feels his voice begin to waver and opts to stop talking. You sit in silence for a moment, trading quiet nods with the bartender as he returns with Treech’s drink.

“Rye.”

“Sorry?” Treech asks, still lost in the memories of his fellow tributes.

“He was the youngest. He had these eyes just like my kid brother, big and sad. He just stood there, I remember, when the games started. The boy from 2 killed him; just walked up and broke his neck. Couldn’t have been that hard; he was so small. But he looked so surprised like he hadn’t known it was coming, even after he hit the ground.” Treech thinks he might be sick, and beside him, the color has drained from your face.

“Twenty-four kids every year, and we’ll have front-row seats to all of it. The people in the districts, in the Capitol, they’ll forget, let a name or two slip, but we’ll see them all. Watch them train, see their interviews, pick them apart in hopes of a weakness.” Treech downs his glass in one go before signaling to the bartender he needs a refill. You push your flute in the same direction, looking the District 7 boy up and down as though you’d never given him too much thought before.

“I never envied you. The way the Capitol dragged you through the streets for all those funerals, put you behind bars in a fuckin’ zoo, had you play nice and pleasant before sending you off to slaughter. At least ours was quick. Picked us all up on the train, threw us in the back of a truck, and then dumped us in the arena. Nobody knew who we were. Nobody wanted to.” You break off in a laugh that is brittle and unforgiving.

“Maybe it’ll be better this way. I’m in the market for a new job. Turns out you’re no good at chopping trees when you can barely hold an axe anymore,” Treech jokes, but the smile on his face does not reach his eyes.

“They–” but you are quick to pause, halting mid-sentence as though contemplating continuing. You exhale softly before clearing your throat and lifting your eyes once more to meet his. 

“They had to fire me.” Treech’s brows lurch forward in confusion, creating two dimples in the flesh just above his nose. 

“At the slaughterhouse,” you supply. “They had to fire me. I couldn’t– I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t kill anything. The Peacekeepers, they just wanted me gone. I’m pretty sure they would have just gotten rid of me too, you know, set an example, but I knew the guy who ran the place. I used to give his daughter art lessons. He made a call, and I got transferred. Started working as a ranch hand instead.” You stop, and for a moment, Treech thinks you’ve finished.

“I kept thinking they were him. I would pick up the knife, and suddenly, it was like I was back in the arena, watching him die.” The last part came out in a whisper.

“They say what I did to that kid; they say it was mercy. A mercy kill. But I still killed him, and he’s still dead. And I have never stopped thinking about it.” You clear your throat once more and cast your gaze down, hoping to disguise the tears collecting in your eyes. Treech takes notice. He remembers a conversation not two months prior with his mother. The way his voice shook as he spoke. About the games. About the other tributes. He recalls the twisted expression of discomfort she bore, the pity, and above all, his own anger at feeling helpless. Wounded.

“Art lessons? You paint?” Relief, instant and undisguised, etches itself across your features. 

“Draw, mostly. Charcoal, pencil, anything easy to come by. I was gonna be a veterinarian before– Well, you know. I was practicing for scientific sketches, but I just sort of fell in love with the way they moved– animals.”

“You have a favorite?”

“Horses are the hardest. Cows– they’re soft, like people. Some people, I guess. I saw a fox once, little gray thing, sleeping in the grass. I think maybe I liked that one the best. My mom used to say it was good luck, a fox crossing your path. Though, I can’t imagine how. That– That was the day before my reaping.”

You sit in silence for a moment before Treech speaks again.

“You lived. Maybe that was it: the good luck.”

“Sometimes I wish I hadn’t. Like maybe everyone else got out easy, and here we are still living in a nightmare.”

“It won’t be like this forever,” he whispers, but it’s as though he’s pleading with some higher power that it might be true. “It can’t be.”

“Wake up, Treech. This is it for us. They are gonna drag us out here every year to flounce around the capitol, parading new kids to their deaths– or worse, whatever this is, the horrible aftermath–”

“There’ll be new mentors. New winners–”

“Yeah, in 1 and 2 and maybe 4. Don’t you get it? We’re the runt districts. We’ll be lucky if we see another Victor in the next twenty-five years,” Treech swallows hard, willing his mouth to stop tasting so dry; he can feel his heart in the pit of his stomach. “Maybe you ran with the pack in your games, but things are gonna change. Look around. They already are.”

[captain-price-unofficially]

Buggy (likely a British Saker LSV) armed with two Hellfire missiles.

I'm guessing this was related to the experiments of mounting other Apache weapons (like the 30mm) on similar vehicles, but alas I don't have more context for this photo. The photo here is apparently a scan from a print issue of Jane's, probably from the '80s or '90s.

Or some kind of GLH-L alternative being tested.

Interestingly they've recently banned the Hellfire from being used on vehicles, apparently due to it being damaged by shocks during ground movement.

[ff-rtp]

Soft spot

Helllooooo! This is going to be by far my biggest story . Please suport me !

Chapter1 Chapter2

Three women: an ambitious rookie cop, a rebellious ER doctor, and a quiet dance student, find themselves entangled in the dark, seductive world of Seoul’s Mafia.

On the other side: a brilliant Mafia boss, a cold-hearted enforcer, and a dangerously charming manipulator.

When their worlds collide, love and loyalty blur, and crossing the line may cost them everything.

Count :8.8k

Genre: Mafia AU | Angst | Romance | Drama

Pairings: Suho x Min | Chanyeol x Nari | Baekhyun x Sunny

Warning ⚠️: Violence and physical altercations, mentions of death/murder, weapons use (guns, knives, etc.), swearing, mild suggestive themes or sexual tension , mentions of blood/injury (e.g., medical descriptions or violence-related wounds), morally gray characters/actions.

Exo Ot12 !!!

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The office was a whirlwind of chaos as the mafia prepared to make another bold move, eliminating Police Chief Kang Hyu-cheol, the trusted right hand of Chief Im Dong-hyun. The air was thick with frustration and fear, tension mounting with each passing second.

Inside Chief Dong-hyun’s office, the phone on his desk rang incessantly, its shrill tone cutting through the suffocating silence. But Dong-hyun didn’t move. He sat frozen, his hands trembling slightly as the devastating news sunk in.

That was when his daughter, Min, burst into the office. Hyu-cheol had been more than her father’s right hand—he had been like an uncle to her, a steady and familiar presence throughout her life. But there was no time for grief, no space for weakness. Min forced herself to push aside the growing ache in her chest. She had to be strong. For her father.

“Dad…” she said softly, her voice laced with sadness, trying to mask the cracks threatening to form.

Her father didn’t respond. The only sound in the room was the muffled sobs he tried—and failed—to contain. As the cries turned into heavy, unrelenting weeping, Min’s heart clenched. She had never seen her father cry, not once in her life. The sight left her unmoored, unsure of how to react.

Slowly, she approached him, crouching beside his chair and gently taking hold of his arm, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“Dad,” she repeated, firmer this time, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. “I promise you, we’re going to stop them. They won’t kill anyone else. Not on my watch.”

Her father’s tear-streaked face twisted with anguish. He knew better than anyone that this was a promise far beyond her control. And the thought of her being the mafia’s next target wrenched his heart painfully.

“You are not getting involved in this case,” he said, his voice hoarse but resolute as he fixed her with a desperate look. “Do you hear me?”

His words carried a weight that even his sobs couldn’t undermine. They were not a request—they were an order. An order born of fear, love, and the unbearable thought of losing the only family he had left.

Nestled in the secluded, impenetrable depths of Gwanmok Forest, the mansion stood like a phantom of power and wealth. It was a four-story architectural masterpiece, hidden from the world by twisted, unlit roads and signal-dead zones. Its modern façade exuded luxury—glass, steel, and stone fused seamlessly under the faint glow of the evening sky. Outside, an elegant cascading waterfall dominated the courtyard, flanked by well-manicured gardens. Gigantic gates guarded the property, reinforced with cutting-edge security.

Inside, the mansion was a labyrinth of purpose. The underground basements housed an expansive training facility and an arsenal of weapons and vehicles. The ground floor featured a state-of-the-art casino, a lavish bar, and a sprawling living room. Offices filled the first floor, equipped with high-tech surveillance and hacking equipment. The third floor was reserved for the minions and staff quarters, while the fourth was strictly for the core eight members—the Mafia’s elite. This uppermost level hosted their bedrooms and an ultra-private meeting room where only they gathered to decide the fate of their empire.

The core members sat around a sleek glass table in the dimly lit meeting room. Suho leaned back in his chair, his piercing gaze scanning the room. A glass of whiskey rested in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light from the digital screens that lined the walls.

“So, I’m assuming you’ve heard already,” Suho began, his voice calm yet cold. “Someone killed Hyu-cheol. But now the police are sniffing around.”

Sehun slouched in his chair, twirling a blade between his fingers. His irritation was palpable. “We’ve got too many businesses running right now to deal with this. The last thing we need is the cops breathing down our necks.”

“What’s the plan, then?” Xiumin asked, his tone steady as he folded his arms. Ever the reliable one, he was always ready for action but measured in his approach.

Suho’s expression remained unreadable as he replied, “They’ll probably send someone after us. We need to stay vigilant.”

Baekhyun smirked, leaning forward with his usual mischievous air. “And who’s going to come for us now that Hyu-cheol is out of the picture?”

D.O., seated at the far end, didn’t lift his eyes from his laptop as he tapped away. “From my sources, Hyu-cheol’s superior is Im Dong-hyun. Chief of Police in the Violent Crimes Division. He’s been in his position for over 12 years but has never touched a case involving the Mafia. Until now.”

Suho swirled the whiskey in his glass, his sharp eyes narrowing. “What else do we know about him?”

D.O. connected his laptop to the large screen at the front of the room. “Plenty,” he replied, his tone even. As the screen flickered to life, a profile of Dong-hyun appeared. “He’s 52. Solved dozens of high-profile cases, with a success rate of 97%. Widowed. Has diabetes, mild form. But here’s the interesting part—he has a daughter. An only child. His weakness.”

The room went silent for a moment, the implication sinking in.

“Should I give you more details about her?” D.O. asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Suho gave a curt nod.

D.O. clicked through the files. “She’s 25. A junior officer in the Violent Crimes Division. However, she’s been kept on low-risk cases—probably her father’s doing. She’s green but ambitious.”

The screen shifted to live surveillance footage, showing Min with two women walking inside of a café.

“Is this live?” Chen asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned forward.

“Yes,” D.O. confirmed.

“Who are those two with her?” Chanyeol asked, his deep voice breaking his usual silence.

D.O. pulled up their profiles. “Kim Nari, 24, a dancer at the Korean National Opera. And Han So-yeon, also known as Sunny, 25, a resident ER doctor.”

Baekhyun’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned back in his chair. “A cop, a doctor, and a dancer. Sounds like the beginning of a bad joke.”

Kai, who had been silent until now, finally spoke. “What’s their relevance to us?”

“They’re not involved in anything… yet,” D.O. said. “But they’re close to her. If we want leverage against Im Dong-hyun, they might be the key.”

Kai’s jaw tightened as he glanced at the screen. “Leverage is one thing, but dragging innocent people into this?” His rebellious streak was always at odds with his sense of loyalty to their moral code.

“They’re not innocent if they’re in our way,” Sehun said coldly, his eyes fixed on the screen. “If they want to protect her, they’ll become collateral damage.”

Suho raised his hand, silencing the room. “We’re not making any moves yet. Dong-hyun hasn’t come for us directly. But keep watching. If he does, we’ll use whatever means necessary to protect our empire. Understood?”

A collective murmur of agreement echoed through the room.

As the meeting adjourned, the tension lingered in the air, each member retreating to their thoughts, knowing that the storm brewing outside was just the beginning.

“However…” Suho’s voice cut through the air, halting the members who were halfway out of their seats. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing with a faint smirk. “I’ll need you to keep an eye on them.”

Chanyeol let out an arrogant laugh, crossing his arms. “That’s newbie work. Why don’t we send lower ranked staff ? They got time to waste.”

Suho raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. His smirk deepened. “So, we have a volunteer?” he asked, looking straight at Chanyeol. The room chuckled lightly, Suho’s mockery evident.

Chanyeol rolled his eyes. “This is bullshit.”

“You think so?” Suho said with a teasing laugh. “Then maybe you’re not as elite as you claim to be.”

Baekhyun sighed dramatically, tossing his head back. “Enough of this. We’ve got the China export to handle. Don’t tell me you expect us to babysit on top of everything else.”

Suho’s tone turned sharp, commanding the room’s attention. “That’s why you’re here, Baekhyun. Because you’re elite. You’re not just muscles and charm, you can multitask.”

Baekhyun groaned but didn’t argue further.

“I’ll keep tabs on Dong-hyun and his daughter,” Suho continued, his gaze shifting across the table. “Chanyeol and Baekhyun, you’ll keep an eye on the other two—Nari and Sunny. D.O., keep digging into their backgrounds. Report everything to me.”

D.O. gave a subtle nod, already processing the assignment in his head.

Chen, leaning casually against the wall, spoke up. “Who do you think killed Hyu-cheol? Was it the China Mafia?”

“Probably,” Suho admitted, his voice laced with frustration. “But we don’t have proof yet.” His fingers tapped rhythmically against the table as he continued. “They’ve been waiting for an opening since they betrayed us years ago. They’ve grown fast, too fast. But let’s be clear: they’re still not on our level.”

The room grew quiet as Suho’s words sank in. Everyone understood the gravity of the situation. Betrayal wasn’t something Suho, or the EXO Mafia would forgive easily.

The café buzzed softly with the hum of casual chatter and the clinking of cups against saucers. Nari, Min, and Sunny had just stepped inside, their presence turning a few heads—not that they noticed. Min chose a cozy table near the back, away from prying ears.

“Thanks for coming,” Min said after they sat down, her tone heavy with unspoken tension. She rubbed her temples as if trying to massage away the weight of her thoughts.

“Is it true?” Nari asked carefully. “About the Chief of Police being murdered?”

Sunny leaned back in her chair, her expression serious for once. “Yeah,” she said, her tone low. “The ER was a mess when his body came in for the autopsy. You wouldn’t believe the chaos.”

Nari blinked, her curiosity piqued. “Wait, so you saw him?”

Sunny shook her head quickly. “No. I didn’t see him. It’s just… bad news spreads fast, you know?”

Min exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way she clenched her fists. “I swear I’ll catch them one day,” she muttered, her voice filled with determination.

Sunny, ever the chaotic one, leaned forward with a playful grin. “And what if they catch you instead?” she teased. “Imagine being kidnapped by a mafia boss. How thrilling would that be?” Her laugh rang out, light and carefree.

Nari rolled her eyes, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Why am I not even surprised you’d find something like that exciting?”

The three of them laughed, the tension momentarily easing. Still, Min’s eyes kept darting to the security cameras positioned around the café.

“Min, are you okay?” Nari asked, noticing her distraction.

“Yeah…” Min said, forcing a smile. But the crease between her brows told a different story.

Sunny clapped her hands together suddenly, snapping them out of the moment. “Anyway! Are you guys coming with me this weekend to the casino? I got invited by this guy who came to the ER, someone cut off one of his fingers. Poor guy.”

Nari’s eyes widened. “Wait, what? Are you sure it’s a good idea to go to a place like that with everything happening? The Mafia’s all over the city right now!”

Sunny waved her hand dismissively. “That’s why we’re taking Miss Police Officer over here.” She pointed dramatically at Min. “If anything happens, she can arrest them or something.”

Min’s lips quirked into a faint smile. “That might actually help me find some clues. Could be useful.”

Sunny grinned, victorious. “See? Even Min thinks it’s a good idea.”

Nari hesitated but finally sighed in resignation. “Fine. But if we end up in trouble, you’re the one explaining it to the authorities, Sunny.”

Sunny laughed, clapping her hands. “Deal. So it’s official, we’re going!”

As they continued talking, Min’s eyes lingered on the cameras once more, that nagging feeling of being watched refusing to leave her.

Next day , the ER was loud and chaotic, exactly like Sunny herself. The constant buzz of ringing phones, nurses barking orders, and patients crying out in pain seemed to mirror her personality. She fit perfectly there, like chaos personified in a white coat.

From kids with appendicitis to car crash victims, births to toddlers with high fevers, Sunny had seen it all in just one day. Yet, amidst the overwhelming energy of her job, her mind kept circling back to the conversation she’d had with Nari and Min the day before.

Mafia. The word held an allure she couldn’t quite resist. It wasn’t fear that gnawed at her, fear rarely fazed Sunny. No, it was curiosity, a deep itch she couldn’t ignore. And that curiosity was about to lead her somewhere she’d never ventured before.

The morgue.

The cold, sterile basement of the hospital wasn’t a place Sunny frequented. She’d avoided it thus far, preferring the chaos of the ER to the stillness of death. But now, her curiosity had gotten the best of her.

When she pushed open the heavy metal door, the temperature dropped immediately, sending a chill down her spine. The faint hum of the fluorescent lights echoed in the empty space.

“Of course, it’s freezing down here,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her arms.

“Sunny?” came a voice from across the room.

She turned to see Jayhun, another resident doctor, standing by a desk piled with papers. He looked up, slightly surprised to see her there.

“Hello, Jay!” Sunny said brightly, masking her discomfort. She walked over to him, her usual confident stride intact. “Can I ask you a few questions?”

Jayhun nodded, setting down his pen. “Sure. What’s up?”

Sunny leaned slightly against the desk. “Were you here when they brought in Hyu-cheol? The police chief?”

Jayhun’s brows furrowed, his focus shifting to her fully. “Yeah,” he said slowly, almost cautiously. “Do you want to know about him?”

Sunny nodded eagerly, but Jayhun was already flipping through some documents. He handed her a report, his expression unreadable.

Sunny scanned the page, her eyes widening. “Wow… was he stabbed? I was expecting something a bit more, what’s the word, classy from the Mafia. Guns or something, you know?”

Jayhun stiffened, his gaze narrowing. “How do you know it was the Mafia?”

Sunny, always quick with her tongue, shrugged nonchalantly. “Who else? He was working on Mafia cases, wasn’t he? Seems logical.”

Jayhun’s tone turned sharp, almost defensive. “You don’t know that.”

Sensing the tension, Sunny decided not to push further. “Right, right. Just speculation,” she said lightly, setting the report back on his desk. “Thanks for this.”

Jayhun didn’t respond immediately, his eyes still on her as she turned and left.

By the time Sunny returned to her floor, the usual chaos had resumed. Nurses rushed by with clipboards, and a patient’s groan echoed faintly from a nearby room. She headed straight to her locker, where she pulled out her phone and dialed Min.

Min answered on the second ring. “Sunny? What’s up?”

Sunny didn’t waste time. “I just came from the morgue. Hyu-cheol was stabbed, Min. Not shot, not poisoned—stabbed. Doesn’t that seem… off?”

Min’s voice was calm but laced with tension. “I already know. I got the autopsy report earlier today.”

Sunny leaned against her locker, frowning. “Oh. Well, doesn’t that strike you as weird? I thought the was all about guns these days.”

“They are,” Min admitted. “That’s what’s bothering me. They haven’t used knives in years, and the location where Hyu-cheol’s body was found, it’s not one of their usual spots. Something doesn’t add up.”

Sunny could hear the frustration in her friend’s voice. “So… what now?”

“I keep digging,” Min said firmly. “And I keep my father from finding out how involved I am. He’s already trying to push me off this case.”

Sunny smirked. “Good luck with that. We both know you’re as stubborn as they come.”

Chanyeol wasn’t happy. In fact, he was downright pissed.

Sitting in the shadows of the opera’s vast auditorium, he leaned back in the creaky wooden chair, arms crossed tightly over his chest. The rehearsal was in full swing, with dancers moving fluidly across the stage. But his eyes were glued to one figure: Nari.

She stood out effortlessly, not just because of her beauty but because of the way she moved. Graceful yet powerful, she commanded attention without even trying. Chanyeol hated to admit it, but she was captivating.

Still, that didn’t make this assignment any less irritating.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Baekhyun.

“What?” Baekhyun’s voice came through, annoyed.

“This is pure bullshit,” Chanyeol hissed. “Is Suho testing us or what?”

Baekhyun chuckled dryly. “I agree. We’ve got a billion better things to worry about than babysitting some girls.”

“At least yours is a little interesting,” Chanyeol shot back. “I have to sit here watching Miss Little Swan do pirouettes.” His tone was dripping with disdain.

Baekhyun laughed outright, clearly enjoying Chanyeol’s misery. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous of her talent.”

Chanyeol growled into the phone. “Shut up. Have you found out anything about Sunny yet?”

Baekhyun sobered slightly. “Yeah. My guy inside, Jayhun, told me she went to the morgue asking questions about Hyu-cheol.”

Chanyeol’s jaw tightened. “She’s nosy. That could be a problem.”

“No kidding,” Baekhyun replied. “But if she keeps poking around, it might actually help us figure out who killed Hyu-cheol.”

Chanyeol sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, if this turns into more of a headache, I’m done.”

Baekhyun snorted. “Yeah, sure. Like Suho’s going to let you off the hook that easily.”

Chanyeol hung up, his eyes drifting back to the stage. Nari was in the middle of a complicated routine, her movements so precise they seemed almost effortless.

The rehearsal had finally wrapped up after what felt like an eternity to Chanyeol. The dancers filed out of the auditorium, their tired chatter echoing through the space. But, of course, Miss Little Swan had to stay behind.

From his hidden corner, Chanyeol watched as Nari moved across the stage, repeating the same spin over and over again. Her brows were furrowed in concentration, her movements sharp yet fluid. She seemed completely unaware of the emptiness around her, completely focused on getting every detail right.

“Perfectionist,” Chanyeol muttered under his breath, tapping his finger against the armrest of his chair.

Just then, movement near the stage caught his eye. Yoomi, one of the cleaning staff, appeared, struggling to carry a basket loaded with cleaning supplies and brooms that looked far too heavy for her.

Before Chanyeol could even consider stepping in—though, realistically, he had no intention of doing so—Nari noticed the older woman. She stopped mid-spin, her expression instantly softening. Without hesitation, she jogged over to Minji and took the basket from her hands.

“Oh, Minji! You should’ve called someone to help you,” Nari scolded gently, her voice warm and full of concern.

Minji smiled gratefully, brushing her hands off on her apron. “Ah, you’re too kind, Nari. Thank you, dear.”

Nari set the basket down and straightened up, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “It’s nothing. You shouldn’t be carrying something so heavy by yourself.”

As they spoke, their laughter filled the otherwise quiet auditorium. Chanyeol’s brows furrowed slightly.

“You were amazing today,” Minji said, her eyes lighting up. “I was watching from the back. You’re more and more perfect every day.”

Nari waved a hand dismissively, her cheeks flushing faintly. “You’re too kind, Yoomi. I’m far from perfect. There’s still so much I need to work on.”

“Nonsense,” Minji said firmly. “You shine brighter than anyone else on that stage.”

Nari tried to laugh off the compliment, changing the subject. “How’s your husband? He was sick last week, wasn’t he?”

Minji's face softened at the mention of her husband. “He’s much better, thanks to those medicines you sent us. I don’t know how to thank you, Nari.”

Nari reached out and hugged Yoomi, her genuine warmth practically radiating from her. “Please don’t mention it. I was happy to help. I’m just glad he’s feeling better.”

Chanyeol’s eyes narrowed as he watched the interaction. There was something almost unnerving about how kind she was. That kind of kindness could easily get her in trouble. People like her, soft-hearted, selfless, were easy targets.

He leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms. He used to be like that once, before life beat it out of him. Nari didn’t seem like someone who’d been through that kind of hardship. She had no idea how cruel the world could be.

Too naive, he thought grimly. She won’t survive like that.

Just as he was starting to get lost in his own thoughts, a ringtone broke the silence, snapping him back to reality.

Nari fished her phone out of her bag and answered it, her voice light and cheerful. “Sunny? Hey! How was your shift?”

Chanyeol sat up slightly, straining to catch snippets of the conversation.

“Yeah, I’m done here… No, I stayed a little longer. You know how it is,” Nari said, laughing softly.

Her tone shifted slightly, a mix of excitement and nervousness creeping in. “Wait, where did you say? The casino? At the periphery of Seoul?”

Chanyeol’s interest was piqued. A casino?

Nari paused, biting her lip. “I don’t know, Sunny. That sounds… well, a little sketchy.”

Chanyeol smirked faintly. At least she’s got some sense.

But then she sighed. “Fine, fine. I’ll go. But if anything weird happens, you’re buying me lunch for the rest of the month.”

She hung up, shaking her head with a small smile.

Chanyeol’s smirk faded. A casino on the outskirts of Seoul? That was dangerous territory—too dangerous for someone like her.

Pulling out his phone, he dialed Baekhyun.

“Now what?” Baekhyun answered, his tone exasperated.

“They’re going to a casino tonight,” Chanyeol said flatly, his jaw tightening.

“A casino?” Baekhyun echoed, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Well, that’s… unexpected.”

“Yeah, and it’s one of those casinos. The ones Suho told us to stay clear of unless absolutely necessary.”

Baekhyun let out a low whistle. “Guess you’ll be working overtime tonight, huh?”

Chanyeol ignored the jab. “Just keep an eye on Sunny from your end. I’ll handle this.”

“Good luck with that,” Baekhyun said with a chuckle. “Sounds like your Little Swan is going to be a handful.”

Chanyeol hung up without replying, his eyes narrowing as he watched Nari gather her things and leave the stage.

“Handful doesn’t even begin to cover it,” he muttered, rising from his seat and disappearing into the shadows.

The Paradise Casino exuded a level of luxury and exclusivity that instantly caught their attention. Warm, golden lighting cascaded through shimmering metallic curtains that hung like drapes over sections of the vast room. Tables with sleek, polished finishes were surrounded by plush, leather chairs. The patterned carpets in deep shades of black and gold gave the space an air of sophistication, while the soft hum of conversations, clinking glasses, and the occasional cheer from a winning hand filled the air. Private rooms were tucked away on an upper level, accessible only by a staircase with glowing railings, reserved for the wealthiest or most dangerous guests.

Sunny parked the Mini Cooper, and the three of them stepped out, adjusting their outfits to shield themselves from the cold. Nari tugged at her dress uncomfortably as they approached the entrance.

“This place looks… a little too fancy for us,” Nari muttered, glancing at the extravagant decor visible through the grand glass doors.

“It’s perfect,” Sunny said confidently, adjusting her blonde bangs and flashing a mischievous grin. “A little glamour never hurt anyone. Plus, it’s not like we’re here to gamble our life savings—just to look around.”

“You’ve never been to a casino before, though, right?” Nari asked, frowning.

“Nope, but how hard can it be?” Sunny replied nonchalantly. “Besides, if anything goes wrong, Min’s got her cop badge, right?”

Min laughed as they stepped inside. “Yeah, sure, that’ll help. Too bad I couldn’t smuggle my gun in here. Don’t worry, though—I’ve got my intimidating glare.” She winked at Nari, who groaned softly.

“This feels like a terrible idea,” Nari whispered under her breath, but neither of her friends seemed to hear her over the upbeat jazz music playing in the background.

They found a cozy booth near the center of the room and ordered a round of cocktails. Sunny pouted when her virgin mojito arrived. “This sucks—I can’t even have a real drink.”

“You don’t need alcohol to cause chaos,” Nari teased, finally relaxing enough to join in the banter. “You’re a walking hurricane.”

Sunny laughed, raising her glass. “Cheers to that!”

As they laughed and sipped their drinks, they were completely unaware of the three pairs of watchful eyes tracking their every move from a shadowed corner of the casino. Chanyeol, Baekhyun, and Sehun sat at a private booth, blending seamlessly into the opulent surroundings. All three were dressed in sharp, tailored suits that screamed power and authority, their weapons concealed but easily accessible.

“This is ridiculous,” Chanyeol muttered, his eyes narrowing as he observed the girls. “Why are we babysitting?”

“Maybe Suho wanted to see if you’d finally develop a soft spot for someone,” Baekhyun teased, smirking as he swirled his drink. “Look at you, playing bodyguard.”

Chanyeol scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “At least your target has some spice. I’m stuck watching a ballerina who thinks the world’s all sunshine and rainbows.”

“You sound jealous,” Baekhyun quipped. “I, for one, am enjoying this. Who knows? Maybe something interesting will happen.”

As if on cue, a tall blonde man approached the girls’ table. All three of the men stiffened slightly when they recognized him.

“Luhan,” Baekhyun said under his breath, rolling his eyes. “What are the odds?”

Sehun smirked. “This might actually get entertaining. Luhan’s probably got a pocketful of drugs ready to spike their drinks.”

“We’re not letting that happen,” Chanyeol said sharply. His voice was low but commanding, leaving no room for argument. He gestured to one of the casino’s staff—a man loyal to their mafia—and whispered instructions. Within minutes, the waitress carrying the girls’ drinks accidentally stumbled, spilling the contents before they could take a sip.

“Crisis averted,” Baekhyun said, watching the scene unfold. “Luhan must be fuming.”

Back at the girls’ table, Luhan had introduced himself as one of the casino’s owners, sliding smoothly into the seat beside Nari. His charming smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and Min immediately felt her guard go up.

“Are you ladies having fun?” he asked, his voice dripping with charisma. “I hope the Paradise Casino is treating you well.”

“It’s nice,” Sunny said, shrugging. “But it could be more exciting.”

Luhan chuckled, leaning in slightly. “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to make your evening more… memorable.”

“Actually, we’re waiting for some friends to join us,” Min said quickly, her instincts telling her to lie. She met Luhan’s gaze with practiced calm, but she wasn’t sure if he believed her.

Luhan’s smile widened. “Of course. I hope you enjoy your time here.” With that, he stood and walked away, leaving a faint trace of expensive cologne in his wake.

“Creepy,” Nari whispered, shivering slightly.

Meanwhile, back at the corner booth, Sehun laughed quietly. “Luhan and his old tricks. Think he’ll try again?”

“Probably,” Baekhyun said, already losing interest. “He can’t help himself.”

Chanyeol’s expression darkened. “We need to keep them out of trouble. I’ll handle it if Luhan tries anything else.”

As Min decided to approach Luhan for more information, Sunny and Nari wandered over to the gaming tables. Sunny, with her usual confidence, tried her hand at a slot machine, while Nari stayed close by, clearly uncomfortable but putting on a brave face.

“Relax,” Sunny said, nudging her friend playfully. “It’s just for fun. Who knows? Maybe you’ll hit the jackpot.”

Nari forced a smile but couldn’t shake the feeling that they were being watched. Little did she know, Chanyeol’s sharp eyes were locked on her every move, his protective instincts kicking in despite himself.

Nari’s head felt heavy as the overwhelming glitz of the casino grew too much to bear. The loud chatter, the relentless lights, and the haze of cigarette smoke pressed down on her chest. She needed air. Spotting a side door near the back, she slipped away unnoticed by her friends.

The cool night air greeted her as she stepped outside into a dimly lit alley behind the casino. She exhaled deeply, trying to clear her mind, but her relief was short-lived.

“Lost, sweetheart?”

Nari froze. Two men emerged from the shadows, their grins wide and uninviting. Their suits were cheap, their demeanor cocky, and their intentions unmistakable.

“I was just leaving,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.

But they didn’t move aside. One of them stepped closer, his eyes shamelessly trailing down her sparkling black dress. “Leaving? Not so fast. Stay a while. Let’s chat.”

Nari’s stomach churned as panic began to set in. She instinctively took a step back, but there was nowhere to go.

“Don’t be shy,” the other one chimed in. “We don’t bite.

When the first man reached out, his hand brushing against her lower back, Nari felt as though ice had suddenly gripped her spine. Before she could react, a deep, commanding voice echoed from the darkness.

“I’d remove that hand if I were you.”

The air turned frigid, as if winter had arrived in that alley alone. Nari shivered, her dress doing little to protect her from the sudden chill. She turned her head toward the source of the voice and froze.

He stepped into the faint light, his towering figure dominating the space. Nari was tall, but he was taller—a striking man with fiery red hair that seemed to glow even in the dimness. His dark suit was pristine, tailored perfectly to his lean but powerful frame.

The two men immediately paled, their bravado vanishing. One of them stammered, “W-We didn’t mean any harm—”

Chanyeol didn’t let him finish. His piercing gaze bore into them, his voice low and menacing. “Leave her alone. Now. Unless you want to leave here in pieces.”

The menace in his tone was undeniable. The men didn’t need a second warning. They scurried away like rats, throwing fearful glances over their shoulders as they disappeared into the night.

Nari was rooted in place, her heart pounding in her chest. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Was he dangerous? Probably. But he had just saved her, and for some reason, that thought was oddly comforting.

“You okay?” his voice was softer now, breaking through her haze.

She nodded mutely, unable to find her voice.

Satisfied, he turned to leave, but just as he was about to disappear into the shadows, she finally managed to speak. “Thank you.”

He paused for a moment before glancing over his shoulder. His lips twitched upward, barely forming the shadow of a smile, but he said nothing as he walked away.

As she watched him disappear into the night, her thoughts raced. He was polished, expensive-looking, and dangerously handsome. But there was something about his cold aura that unsettled her. Who was he?

Chanyeol, meanwhile, felt equally distracted. He hadn’t planned to intervene, but seeing her there—vulnerable and out of place—something in him snapped. And then he remembered her from the opera. That kind smile she had given the cleaning lady. That softness. That light. It was a stark contrast to the world he lived in.

Something was wrong, and he knew it.

Nari returned to the casino, weaving through the crowd until she spotted Min and Sunny at a table. The two were playing some game she had only ever seen in movies, laughing and teasing each other like they didn’t have a care in the world.

Min immediately noticed her friend’s tense demeanor. “What happened?” she asked, her tone low and concerned.

“Nothing,” Nari lied, shaking her head. But she couldn’t hide the distracted way her eyes scanned the room, searching for a flash of red hair.

The atmosphere in the meeting room was thick with tension. Suho sat at the head of the table, his expression thunderous. Everyone else remained silent, knowing better than to speak when their leader was in this mood.

“I have information,” Suho began, his voice sharp and controlled, “that the Chinese mafia might be here in Korea.”

“‘Might’?” Baekhyun scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Do you mean ‘definitely,’ or are we just guessing?”

Chanyeol cut in, his voice calm but firm. “It’s confirmed. We saw Luhan earlier tonight at the casino.”

A murmur spread through the group.

“That means they’re responsible for Hyucheol,” Xiumin said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

“It’s not just about him,” Baekhyun muttered, swearing under his breath. “If they’re here, they’re not just sending hitmen. They’re here for us.”

“There’s another problem,” Chanyeol added, his tone darkening. “We saw Luhan talking to someone. The police chief’s daughter.”

The room went silent. Suho’s expression didn’t change, but the way his eyes darkened made everyone uneasy. He stared down at the reports in front of him, deep in thought.

“D.O.?” Suho finally asked, breaking the silence.

D.O. pushed his laptop forward, his tone calm but precise. “I hacked into the airport arrivals data and CCTV footage. It’s confirmed—they’re here. But they arranged to avoid all customs and registration checks.”

He clicked a button, and a grainy video played on the screen. Four men were seen leaving a private jet.

“They didn’t even try to hide,” Chen muttered, recognizing their faces immediately.

“So, all of them are here,” Xiumin said, his voice grim. “They’re up to something big.”

“That’s why we need to stay vigilant,” Suho said sharply. His eyes swept across the room, landing on each member in turn. “No distractions.” He put heavy emphasis on the last word.

The tension in the room was palpable. Everyone knew the storm was coming—they just didn’t know when it would hit.

The meeting room fell into a tense silence after Suho’s final declaration. Everyone exchanged heavy glances. They all knew the reputation of the China mafia—their cruelty, their resources, and their mastery of manipulation. It wasn’t just another gang. It was an organization that thrived on fear and annihilation.

“For now,” Suho broke the silence, his voice sharp and authoritative, “we stick to our assignments and routines. Nothing changes. I’ll assign more guards to the house and our bases. Stay vigilant.”

His gaze shifted to Sehun and Kai. “You two will find them. Track their movements, figure out what they’re planning. Report directly to me. No screw-ups.”

Kai nodded curtly, already processing the task at hand. Sehun, however, smirked as he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed.

“And while we’re out there doing the real work,” Sehun drawled, looking straight at Chanyeol and Baekhyun, “you two can keep babysitting.”

Chanyeol narrowed his eyes, his irritation visible, but it was Baekhyun who immediately fired back, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Aw, Sehun. Don’t be jealous that Suho doesn’t trust you with important tasks like babysitting. It requires tact, charm, and brains—three things you seriously lack.”

Sehun laughed mockingly, leaning forward. “Say that again after you’ve had your first successful mission in, what, a decade?”

Baekhyun opened his mouth to retort, but Suho slammed his palm on the table. “Enough!” His sharp tone sliced through the room, silencing them instantly. “This isn’t a game. Act like the professionals you’re supposed to be, or I’ll find people who can.”

The tension thickened as both Sehun and Baekhyun sat back in silence, their glares still burning.

Suho turned to D.O. with a slight nod, his voice measured but firm. “D.O., any progress on the police chief’s daughter?”

D.O. smirked faintly, sliding a folder across the table toward Suho. It was thicker than any of them expected. “A little,” he said, his tone smug.

Suho opened the folder, and his brows furrowed in surprise at the sheer volume of information. The others couldn’t help but glance curiously as Suho flipped through the pages—her academic records, family history, career achievements, and even candid photographs.

“Impressive,” Suho murmured, still scanning through the file. His tone was calm, but there was an edge of satisfaction.

When the meeting adjourned, the others filtered out of the room. Suho stayed behind, seated at the head of the table with the folder open in front of him. His eyes lingered on a photograph of Min at the police academy. There was something about her—a spark of determination in her eyes that caught his attention. “This girl…” he muttered to himself, tapping the edge of the photo absentmindedly.

The next day at the violent crimes office was as chaotic as usual—phones ringing, detectives arguing, and paperwork scattered across desks. Min entered her father’s office to find him pacing furiously, yelling into the phone.

“This is unacceptable! You’ve had this information for weeks, and you’re telling me now?!” Chief Im’s voice boomed, his face red with anger. When the call ended, he slammed the phone down, the sound echoing through the room.

“Wow,” Min said with a soft chuckle, closing the door behind her. “I haven’t seen you this mad in a while. What’s going on?”

Her father sighed heavily, running a hand through his graying hair. “This damn mafia… They’re causing problems again. Every lead is a dead end, and now this.”

“Well,” Min said brightly, leaning against his desk, “I might have some good news. But first, you have to promise to let me get involved.”

Her father shot her a sharp look. “Yoon-min, no. Absolutely not. This is dangerous work—too dangerous for you.”

“Dad, come on,” she said, exasperated. “You know I’ve been training for this my entire career. Trust me. I can handle it.”

Chief Im rubbed his temples, clearly torn. After a long pause, he sighed in defeat. “Fine. But listen to me—if anything happens, even the smallest thing, you’re out. Do you understand me?”

Min rolled her eyes but nodded. “Got it, Dad. Now, let me show you what I found.”

She placed a set of papers on his desk and began explaining. “I’ve been looking into the Guan-mok forest on the outskirts of Seoul. The satellite maps of the area have been tampered with—likely hacked. There’s no other explanation for the discrepancies I found. It looks like someone erased key details from the system, possibly to hide something. If my theory is correct, this forest is being used as a base or meeting point.”

Chief Im’s brows furrowed as he leaned over the papers, clearly impressed.

“But there’s a downside,” Min continued. “The forest is huge. There’s no signal out there, which means any search would be difficult and dangerous. And if they’re hiding something, there’s bound to be security—probably armed.”

Her father stared at her, a mix of disbelief and pride on his face. “How… How did you even find all of this?”

Min smirked and crossed her arms. “I have my ways. Maybe you should trust me more often.”

Chief Im sighed again, sitting heavily in his chair. “You’re just like your mother,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Min smiled softly. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Be careful, Yoon-min,” he said, his tone serious. “This isn’t a game. These people don’t play fair, and they don’t give second chances.”

“I know,” she said firmly. “But I’m ready.”

As she left the office, Min couldn’t shake the feeling that her father was holding something back—something that made him more anxious than usual. She resolved to get to the bottom of it, no matter the risk.

It was late, and the fluorescent streetlights cast long shadows over the empty parking lot as Sunny finally clocked out from her grueling shift at the hospital. She stifled a yawn, her legs aching from the endless hours on her feet. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since lunch. Cooking was out of the question—she was far too tired—so she decided to stop at a small convenience store on her way home to grab something quick.

Sliding into her car, she sighed deeply, cranking the engine to life. The short drive to the store felt like a blur, her exhaustion making every second drag. When she arrived, she parked near the front of the shop, noting how deserted the parking lot looked. A chill ran down her spine, but she brushed it off, blaming her overworked nerves.

Baekhyun was leaning against a car near the edge of the lot, a cigarette between his fingers. The soft glow of the ember illuminated his sharp features in the dark, his gaze distant as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Tonight had been another headache—Suho’s warnings about the Chinese mafia lingered in his mind, but Baekhyun wasn’t the type to stress outwardly. His moment of solitude didn’t last long, though.

A man emerged from the shadows. Baekhyun noticed him too late; the stranger lunged at him, catching him off guard. A punch landed squarely on Baekhyun’s jaw, splitting his lip and sending blood dripping down his chin. The taste of iron filled his mouth as pain radiated through his face, but Baekhyun quickly regained his composure.

“You really picked the wrong guy,” Baekhyun muttered, his voice low and dangerous.

The man didn’t have time to react before Baekhyun grabbed him by the collar, slamming him to the ground with a force that made the concrete echo. The stranger scrambled to his feet, realizing his mistake as he caught the cold, murderous glint in Baekhyun’s eyes. Without another word, he turned and ran, disappearing into the night like a coward.

Baekhyun wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand, muttering a curse under his breath. He leaned against his car, trying to gather himself when he heard the faint sound of heels clicking on the pavement.

Sunny emerged from the store, a small bag of groceries in hand. She was heading to her car when her eyes landed on Baekhyun. Her jaw dropped at the sight of his bloodied face, and the bag slipped from her hands, its contents spilling across the asphalt.

“Wait here!” she called out, rushing to her car to grab the first aid kit she always kept in her trunk.

Baekhyun straightened, surprised by her sudden urgency. Before he could say anything, she was back, gloves on her hands and a determined look in her eyes.

“Let me help you,” Sunny said firmly, her usual playful tone replaced by the authoritative voice of a doctor.

“It’s just blood,” Baekhyun replied dismissively, turning his face away. “I’m not dying.”

“Stop being difficult,” she snapped, moving closer. Her hands were steady, and her focus was sharp. “Sit still, or this will hurt more than it already does.”

Baekhyun froze, caught off guard by her no-nonsense attitude. He allowed her to clean the blood off his face and examine the cut on his lip. As her fingers brushed against his skin, he found himself staring at her. Her concentration was unyielding, her brow slightly furrowed, and her lips pressed into a thin line.

“There,” she said softly after a moment, stepping back and handing him an ice pack. “It’s not too bad, but you should keep this on for a while to stop the swelling.”

Baekhyun smirked faintly. “You’re pretty bossy for someone I just met.”

Sunny rolled her eyes. “And you’re pretty stubborn for someone bleeding all over the place.”

She packed up her kit, but her concern lingered. “What happened? Did someone just randomly attack you? If you want, I can call my friend—she’s with the police. She could help you file a report.”

Baekhyun let out a dry laugh. “A report? For some idiot who doesn’t even know how to throw a punch?” He wiped at the dried blood on his jaw. “Trust me, he’s not worth the trouble.”

Sunny frowned at his harsh tone but didn’t press further. “Well, with the mafia out there, you really should be more careful,” she said, half-joking but still somewhat serious.

Her words struck a chord, but Baekhyun hid his reaction behind a cold expression. “You’re one to talk. It’s late. You should go home.”

Sunny hesitated for a moment but nodded, realizing she wasn’t going to get much more out of him. “Alright. Take care of yourself,” she said, offering a small wave as she got into her car.

Baekhyun watched her drive away, her taillights disappearing into the distance. He touched the bandage on his lip, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “The mafia’s out there,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Something about her amused him, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

He flicked the spent cigarette to the ground, stepping on it before getting into his car. As he drove off, he couldn’t stop thinking about the strange girl who’d patched him up without a second thought. Maybe the night wasn’t so bad after all.

Baekhyun lay on his bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake off the memory of the interaction in the parking lot. The way Sunny’s hands moved so delicately, yet with determination, while treating his wound. Her serious tone, so unlike her usual playful nature, had stirred something deep inside him.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. The thought of her concerned face kept replaying in his mind, and it annoyed him that she had this kind of effect on him. He wasn’t supposed to care.

The next evening, Chanyeol found himself in the opera house, a place he never thought he’d willingly go to. The grandeur of the venue was almost suffocating, and he felt out of place in the first row among elegantly dressed patrons. But he didn’t care—his attention was solely on the stage.

The performance began, and as soon as Nari appeared, he felt the air in his lungs catch. Her costume was a deep red, adorned with intricate gold details that shimmered under the lights. A glittering tiara rested on her head, completing her regal appearance. Her long dark hair was perfectly swept back into a bun, emphasizing her graceful neck and delicate features.

She moved like she owned the stage—powerful and precise yet ethereal. Every leap and turn was executed with perfection, her slender frame defying gravity. Chanyeol couldn’t take his eyes off her. She looked fearless, unstoppable, and yet, in her quieter movements, there was a fragility that tugged at something in him.

When their eyes met during her solo, it was as if time froze. Her steps faltered ever so slightly, but she recovered quickly, resuming her choreography with an elegance that masked the momentary lapse. For Chanyeol, however, that brief connection lingered like an echo in his mind. Without thinking, he pulled out his phone and snapped a photo. He stared at the image for a second, frowning, unsure why he had even taken it.

When the show ended, the applause was thunderous, echoing through the grand hall. As the crowd began to disperse, Chanyeol stayed in his seat, watching the dancers congratulate one another. His sharp eyes scanned the room, noting how Nari stood off to the side, her smile radiant but solitary. No family. No friends.

As the room emptied, he approached the stage. She noticed him, her expression shifting into one of faint surprise before she stepped closer.

“Congratulations,” he said softly, his deep voice cutting through the quiet space.

Her smile widened, though he caught a glimmer of something else in her eyes. “Thank you. Did you enjoy the performance? Are you a fan of ballet?”

“I’m not,” he replied bluntly. “I was here by mistake.” His tone was cold, sharp, and he immediately regretted it when her smile wavered for a split second.

Nari tilted her head, studying him with quiet curiosity. “Then I suppose I should feel honored to have accidentally gained your attention.”

He didn’t respond, instead glancing around the now-empty theater. “No one’s here for you? You’re the lead, though.”

Her smile remained, but the sadness in her aura was unmistakable. “I don’t have anybody,” she said simply, her voice light, as if the statement was a fact she’d long accepted. Before he could respond, a voice called her name from backstage.

“Excuse me,” she said, stepping back. Then, as if compelled by something, he added, “You were amazing.”

She paused, meeting his gaze one last time, her smile softening. “Thank you.” And with that, she disappeared backstage, leaving Chanyeol standing there, his thoughts in disarray.

The atmosphere in Gwanmok Forest was tense, the dense canopy of trees blocking out most of the evening light. Min adjusted her flashlight, leading the team deeper into the woods.

“Are we ready?” she asked, her voice brisk and authoritative as she scanned the group of officers.

Her father, Chief Im Dong-hyun, shot her a stern look. “Min, don’t stray too far from me.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, though her excitement was palpable. She had a hunch about this place, and she was determined to prove herself right.

As the team trudged through the underbrush, Min’s sharp eyes caught something—faint tire tracks embedded in the dirt. She grinned triumphantly. “We’re on the right track,” she whispered to herself.

But as they ventured deeper, the forest grew eerily quiet, and the fading light made the shadows seem alive. Suddenly, the distant rumble of an engine broke the silence. Min’s heart raced as she and her father ducked into the bushes, switching off their flashlights.

A sleek black SUV came into view, its headlights slicing through the darkness. Behind the wheel was a tall man with striking red hair. He exuded an aura of danger, his sharp eyes scanning the forest as if he sensed he was being watched.

“Recognize him?” Min whispered.

Her father shook his head. “No, but he’s not in any of our reports. We’ve got confirmation—there’s mafia activity here.”

Min’s pulse quickened, a mix of fear and exhilaration coursing through her veins. But her father placed a firm hand on her arm. “It’s getting dark. We should regroup and come back tomorrow.”

Min hesitated, her instincts urging her to push forward. “Just a little further,” she pleaded. Without waiting for his approval, she moved ahead.

Soon, the forest opened up, revealing a massive, ominous castle-like structure. Min’s breath hitched. “This is it,” she whispered, barely containing her excitement.

Before they could approach, the other officers joined them. But their victory was short-lived. Out of the shadows, armed figures emerged, encircling the group.

“Drop your weapons,” a deep voice commanded.

The red-haired man from the SUV stepped forward, a smug grin on his face. “Well, well, what do we have here? A little lost police party?”

Min clenched her fists, her mind racing as her father stepped protectively in front of her. The tension crackled in the air, the standoff on the verge of exploding.

[pyreo]

I've never thought about this in the 11 years I've played but I just realised gw2 must look.. pretty zany to outsiders? It didn't even occur to me. I'm really glad it's in a low fantasy setting that allows for pretty much anything and I think it's inkeeping with the focus on player creativity in an MMO to have that kind of range.

Like I know the overall aesthetic can get wacky but because that's so fitting for a multiplayer game... it's never occured to me that anything looks odd.

Like, here's a screenshot of me, someone's bird, and some lovely folks from the last pride march

Like real pride marches, being over the top and loud is the point. We have the tools to do that, even in regular gameplay. I think it's fascinating that nothing about this feels out of place. Magic in this universe does practically anything you want it to. Technology varies from nonexistent to far beyond real life. There's a massive range but everything feels kind of.... justified?

Some people will wear fantasy armour and keep everything on a theme. Some people are going to group transform into giant frogs and some people are going to cosplay as Johnny Bravo. It happens. The game doesn't mind. It doesn't shy away from people being incredibly weird. I remember the devs recalling a decision they had to make about letting players jump on top of a plot-important table where NPCs sat for serious discussions. The decision was they they shouldn't stop people from doing that if they wanted to.

The openness of the setting means these are all things that could exist. People reanimate corpses here for the hell of it. The weapons are magic and can be literally anything. The mounts are all creatures that have been tamed, or vehicles someone could have invented. Even the living plushie mounts are lore-compliant because... magic.

But on top of this, this game has one of the most sincere stories of anything I've ever played? Whether it's to your taste or not, I don't think you could deny how much care goes into it. From terminal conditions to villains having tantrums over childish insecurities to symbolic anticapitalism to racial superiority rallies, it has treated its topics with dead-solid respect. It does not undercut its serious moments - but it allows you the privilege if you'd like.

Maybe it's the balance of being so immersed in that that's stopped me from thinking any of this looks silly. The players can be silly, sure. Maybe there's a kind of game-and-player suspension of disbelief. We tell our story, and you have your freedom, and for the most part they won't intersect (except for the infamous Wynne cutscene).

In the MMO space there's other ways to approach this. You've got ESO which holds back very tightly to its high fantasy setting. That's for people with different tastes who don't want anything aesthetic-breaking in their game, and they have to cut back the player freedom to get it while trying to introduce a steady stream of new armours that can't be too interesting. They have magic, but don't go too far. It also means you get deals begging you to come to the cash shop to buy, like, rags. Fun rags for your character!

Then inbetween those two there's 'your name has to be lore compliant but fuck it, flying convertible'

[falconfate]

Hello ranger’s apprentice fandom can we talk real quick about the stupidest thing Flanagan ever wrote

It’s about the bows. Yanno, the rangers’ Iconique™️ main weapon. That one. You know the one.

Flanagan. Flanagan why are your rangers using longbows.

“uh well recurve arrows drop faster” BUT DO THEY. FLANAGAN. DO THEY.

the answer is no they don’t. Compared to a MODERN, COMPOUND (aka cheating) bow, yes, but compared to a longbow? Y’know, what the rangers use in canon? Yeah no a recurve actually has a FLATTER trajectory. It drops LATER.

This from an article comparing the two:

“Both a longbow and a recurve bow, when equipped with the right arrow and broadhead combination, are capable of taking down big game animals. Afterall, hunters have been doing it for centuries with both types of bows.

However, generally speaking and all things equal, a recurve bow will offer more arrow speed, creating a flatter flight trajectory and retain more kinetic energy at impact.

The archers draw length, along with the weight of the arrow also affect speed and kinetic energy. However, the curved design of the limbs on a recurve adds to its output of force.”

It doesn’t actually mention ANY distance in range! And this is from a resource for bow hunting, which, presumably, WOULD CARE ABOUT THAT SORT OF THING!

Okay so that’s just. That’s just the first thing.

The MAIN thing is that even accounting for “hur dur recurves drop faster” LONGBOWS ARE STILL THE STUPID OPTION.

Longbows, particularly and especially ENGLISH longbows, are—as their name suggests—very long. English longbows in particular are often as tall or taller than their wielder even while strung, but especially when unstrung. An unstrung longbow is a very long and expensive stick, one that will GLADLY entangle itself in nearby trees, other people’s clothes, and any doorway you’re passing through.

And yes, there are shorter longbows, but at that point if you’re shortening your longbow, just get a goddamn recurve. And Flanagan makes a point to compare his rangers’ bows to the Very Long English Longbow.

Oh, do you know how the Very Long English Longbow was mostly historically militarily used? BY ON-FOOT ARCHER UNITS. Do you know what they’re TERRIBLE for? MOUNTED ARCHERY.

Trust me. Go look up right now “mounted archery longbow.” You’ll find MAYBE one or two pictures of some guy on a horse struggling with a big stick; mostly you will actually see either mounted archers with RECURVES, or comparisons of Roman longbow archers to Mongolian horse archers (which are neat, can’t lie, I love comparing archery styles like that).

Anyway. Why are longbows terrible for mounted archery? Because they’re so damn long. Think about it: imagine you’re on a horse. You’re straddling a beast that can think for itself and moves at your command, but ultimately independently of you; if you’re both well-trained enough, you’re barely paying attention to your horse except to give it commands. And you have a bow in your hands. If your target is close enough to you that you know, from years of shooting experience, you will need to actually angle your bow down to hit it because of your equine height advantage, guess what? If you have a longbow, YOU CAN’T! YOUR HORSE IS IN THE WAY BECAUSE YOUR BOW IS TOO LONG! Worse, it’s probably going to get in the general area of your horse’s shoulder or legs, aka moving parts, which WILL injure your horse AND your bow and leave you fresh out of both a getaway vehicle and a ranged weapon. It’s stupid. Don’t do it.

A recurve, on the other hand, is short. It was literally made for horse archers. You have SO much range of motion with a recurve on horseback; and if you’re REALLY good, you know how to give yourself even more, with techniques like Jamarkee, a Turkish technique where you LITERALLY CAN AIM BACKWARDS.

For your viewing enjoyment, Serena Lynn of Texas demonstrating Jamarkee:

Yes, that’s real! This type of draw style is INCREDIBLY versatile: you can shoot backwards on horseback, straight down from a parapet or sally port without exposing yourself as a target, or from low to the ground to keep stealthy without banging your bow against the ground. And, while I’m sure you could attempt it with a longbow, I wouldn’t recommend it: a recurve’s smaller size makes it far more maneuverable up and over your head to actually get it into position for a Jamarkee shot.

A recurve just makes so much more SENSE. It’s not a baby bow! It’s not the longbow’s lesser cousin! It’s a COMPLETELY different instrument made to be used in a completely different context! For the rangers of Araluen, who put soooo much stock in being stealthy and their strong bonds with their horses, a recurve is the perfect fit! It’s small and easily transportable, it’s more maneuverable in combat and especially on horseback, it offers more power than a longbow of the same draw weight—really, truly, the only advantage in this case that a longbow has over the recurve is that longbows are quicker and easier to make. But we KNOW the rangers don’t care about that, their KNIVES use a forging technique (folding) that takes several times as long as standard Araluen forging practices at the time!

Okay.

Okay I think I’m done. For now.