#// is going to take a shot for every piece of the kit he assembles.

[ferromagnetiic]

Absolutely NO ONE could have been able to prepare Linn for one of Kid's infamous birthday parties. She was very aware of there being lots of drinks; finding herself too indulging in one or other intoxicating liquor, however, was not on her list tonight. And all after telling herself she will be responsible and stay sober. Oh well. That was something the mink was promising hours ago. Time really was fleeting. Her little fluffy head is fogged up, waddling clumsily around the table and trying to maneuver her feet towards the birthday boy in question.

     ❝ CAPTAAAAAIN   !   How arr yoo doin'   ? ❞     Her rough tongue brings out only slurred words, accompanied by happily narrowed eyes. Bloodshot already. Patting her captain's broad shoulder with a prideful purr, Linn managed to position a finely wrapped box, not even small, onto the redhead's lap.     ❝ A li'l somethin' frum the ship's kidden, y'know   ? ❞     An embarrassing giggle, which most likely will be a weapon of teasing tomorrow.

Knowing her captain oh so well, the feline got her hands on a starter kit for wood and metal work. Something you would not gift a grown adult, rather a child between six and ten years old. He liked tinkering, right   ?   Maybe the shopkeeper misread her description of searching for a present for a tech fanatic 'kid' wrong. Unfortunate name his mother picked for him in that case.

     ❝ C'mon on now. Open it. Open ~ . . . ❞     Idly 'holding' his drink, taking a sip juuust to make sure it was not poisoned, and soon having trouble gulping down the burning liquid, a sharp breath. The cat lounges against his arm, eyes fixed on the box. He must like it.     ❝ Fffuck whad the hell arr yoo zzrinkin'   ?   Kerosene   ? ! ❞

     【 KID'S BIRTHDAY 2024. 】 @medicus-felini

           The cat's pissed.      Completely and utterly sloshed. The celebration has only just started, and she's obviously completely lost herself to the juice already. She rarely partakes in casual daytime drinking nor wild drunken partying alike, so Kid supposes it's inevitable that she would succumb to her intoxication faster than the rest of them. She's slurring her words and giddily stumbling around, but she looks like she's loving every moment of it, so he can't say he has any objections. It's nice to have her joining them; he was concerned she might become overly paranoid and start trying to lecture him about not accidentally meeting his untimely end by poisoning his liver. As long as nobody needs to get their stomach pumped after she inevitably blacks out later, it would all be fine.

She ambles over to him like a newborn kitten just learning where her feet are, and then she is swiping his drink from him and barely downing a single sip from the glass. Copper eyes follow her movements, though he does not intend to restrain her before the liquid has slipped down her throat.

❝ Naw, nooh kerosene; gotta ask Heat for that. Tha's absinthe. Bit much for the ship's kitten, ay? ❞

Though he is usually averse to being touched, tonight he is hammered, he is surrounded by people he loves, and he is happy. With scarcely enough time for her to catch her breath, he abruptly ensnares her with his right arm to pull her tightly against his side in a drunken embrace. His body radiates warmth, and his breath carries traces of all the drinks he has already finished, but he still holds her directly against him anyway.

❝ Oi, oi. Bein' spoiled, am I? Figured ye'd just write me a prescription. Nooh a half chewed rat, is it? ❞ The part about the dead rat is obviously a joke. The part about the prescription is also a joke unless she decides to actually take him up on it.

His smile is broad, all teeth, like he's thoroughly entertained by her inebriation. Taking the box she's delivering to him, he continues to squeeze her even more firmly against his torso, pinching her between his arm and his body as he uses both hands to unwrap the gift in his lap. It was beautifully presented until he peels the paper apart, and he automatically hands the decorative ribbon to her for her to play with if she pleases.

The picture on the front of the box and the colorful letters leave no amount of room for questioning what it is. A children's woodwork project kit, which when completed will create a little wooden boat with metal wheels on the underside so it can roll across the floor. There are no sharp instruments involved; only pre-cut pieces of wood, some screws, tiny metal wheels that must be assembled, and a square sheet of soft sandpaper. It was the kind of simplistic design that even tots barely out of their infancy could piece together without much assistance from an adult.

As soon as he's registered what it is she's given him, he's lifting the top of the box to peer at the pieces inside. The wooden blocks, intended for the smallest of hands, feel vaguely familiar, despite the fact he was never gifted a set like this in his youth.

The memory is hazy, but he still distantly remembers almost twenty years ago — making his own toys out of whatever pieces of scrap he found lying on the ground. In the days before he had anyone on his side, he built his friends out of tin cans and pieces of wire. He vaguely recalls one in particular; a soup can 'robot' with a menacing smile he painted on for its face. The can he used for his head had originally been crudely stabbed open with a knife, and the ends of the wire he used for his body were exposing needle-sharp tips, so every time he played with it he would end up with fresh cuts and smears of blood on his hands — yet, despite that, he carried that little silver doll around like his favorite toy for as long as he could hold on to it.

          He doesn't remember exactly what became of it. It was just a painted tin can, after all.

That younger him would've fawned, thrilled, and marveled over the cast metal and limewood underneath the press of impatiently indulgent fingers. A toy of similar caliber would’ve never made it into his possession, no matter how much effort he invested in saving up. It's a few years late, but that's just how things work out sometimes, he supposes.

Red lips abruptly plant themselves on top of the Mink's hair, delivering a swift kiss to her head, staining her in a perfect blotch of lipstick; an obnoxious patch that would doubtlessly remain for the rest of the night.

Had someone else amongst his crew been the one to hand him such a ridiculous gift, he would've perhaps taken it to be a good-natured prank; or an affectionate tease at best, aiming to bait him. The whole lot of them: playfully, wonderfully annoying in the only way that's familiar to their petulant captain. It seems unlikely that Linn would be guilty of committing the same crime. She was the sweetest of their bunch — and would sooner profusely apologize than risk aggravating him.

Hell, Kid won't even allude to the fact that it's been a pretty damn long time since he last considered an entry level kit like this as being anywhere near challenging. Gag gift or not, the sight of her earnest excitement made it clear that the present had come from a good place with thoughtful intentions. He merely snorts, and continues to drawl.

     ❝ Ah, yer a guid girl, Linn.           Thank ye. ❞

          With that, he's then replacing the lid back on top so he doesn't disrupt any of the pieces inside, mindful to not let anything fall out only for it to become lost for the rest of time underneath a chair.

     ❝ ...Hoo plastered d'ya think I can get if I take a shot for e'ery piece I put together? ❞

          The gift is so well appreciated it will now be turned into a drinking game.

#tw drinking #tw alcohol #medicus-felini #medicus felini #kid's birthday 2024 #【 ⚙ ˊˎ | GET OUT OF MY WAY | ask. 】 #【 ⚙ ˊˎ | RECKLESS TONGUE | ic. 】 #// DRUNK LINN IS SO CUTE AND I LOVE HER #// aghjkh why is she so adorable what the hell #// love u fungy love u linn #// also you know where this is going with that sandpaper (: #// thank you for this ask it made me smile so much #// i enjoyed imagining them being drunk and silly together #// kid getting so drunk he can't remember his own name and struggling to put this wooden boat together because he's just GONE #// i was imagining him like. #// is going to take a shot for every piece of the kit he assembles. #// the kit: CONTAINS 74 PIECES! #// kid ends up being the one who gets his stomach pumped later. that was foreshadowing. #// (i'm joking no he doesn't he's fine.)

[littlemisspascal]

The Last Mandalorian

Chapter One: The Warrior in Carbonite Part 3

Fandom: The Mandalorian / Pedro Pascal

Eventual Pairing: Din x Togruta!Female!Reader

Word Count: 4,320

Rating: G

Summary: A series that is a mixture of Mandalorian, Star Wars, ATLA, and my own imagination. The Imps have seized control of the majority of the galaxy, including your homeworld Shili. You and your sister Ahsoka have developed a daily routine despite the stormtroopers keeping your village imprisoned. One morning you make a startling discovery that will change the course of your lives forever.

Warnings: I don’t know much about starship mechanics so probably nothing in this is accurate but it’s fanfiction people so cut me some slack please, reader gets a nickname 🥳, plot plot plot, discussion of loss of loved ones, worldbuilding, dialogue heavy, this is a slow burn but it’s also ridiculously self-indulgent so I’m including as many cute getting-to-know-you scenes as I can, reader is 17 and Din is 19 so I’m going to warn this as underage even though nothing sexual or even vaguely romantic happens in this chapter.

Author Note: Thank you anyone and everyone who has read even a sentence of this story! Special thanks and love to @dindja for creating this stunning, fantastic, amazing piece of fanart for me 💖💖💖 I still can’t believe how perfect it is. I mean, I’m such a sucker for pinky promises it’s not even funny and this is just beautiful 😍😍😍

Part 2

Cross-posted on AO3

For as grand and wide-reaching as the Galactic Empire has become in its ten years of existence, it had relatively small beginnings. A group of radical Force-wielders banded together under the leadership of an old, beady-eyed man named Sheev Palpatine who believed it was his divine destiny to seize control of the entire galaxy, rewriting the ancient laws to match his own beliefs. His cult, the Sith Order, gained attention by attacking Jedi temples, capital cities, places with large populations until every corner of the galaxy had heard of them. Most regarded them with fear, but over time they began garnering a startling amount of followers who were discontent with the status quo and willingly drafted themselves as soldiers in Palpatine’s fight for control.

At first everyone in your village thought Palpatine and his cult of followers weren’t worth worrying about—after all, Shili was a peaceful planet that never drew much attention to itself. But within the first year of its inception, the Sith Order captured Ryloth and the similar peaceful characteristics between the Twi’lek planet and Shili were too glaring to overlook. A seed of anxiety took root in every Togruta’s mind after that, and continued to grow with every planet seized as the years progressed.

The Decimation of Alderaan didn’t start as a tragedy, believe it or not. The Mandalorians, Jedi, and Alderaanians combined their numbers in an all-out fight against the Sith Order. It was the largest battle ever fought in the history of the galaxy, thousands of souls willing to die to defeat Palpatine’s followers. For the first three days of warfare, the fight seemed to be in favor of the allies with many noteworthy Sith members reportedly killed in the fray, such as Palpatine’s second-in-command Dooku and lethal Zabrak assassin Maul. You remember there was a sense of hope felt within your village as everyone listened to the news reports blaring across the Holonet. A belief that things were finally, finally going to return to normal after so much chaos.

But on the fourth day, the Sith Order brought their own ally onto the battlefield.

At the time there wasn’t a name for the droids that slaughtered every opponent they faced. They were described as indestructible, unharmed by blasters and the intense heat of Mandalorian flamethrowers. Not even lightsabers could damage them. The allies didn’t stand a chance, brutally murdered one by one, their dying screams echoing across the Holonet, forever haunting listeners far and wide.

The Dark Troopers were unleashed upon Mandalore afterwards and out of the ashes rose the Galactic Empire, except, in a twist nobody—not even the Sith Order—saw coming: Palpatine died before taking on the title of emperor, passing away in his sleep. A mediocre ending for the monster who permanently altered the foundations of the universe. One of his loyal followers from the cult’s early beginnings took control in his place, a vile man with a penchant for spilling blood and a deceptively bland name: Gideon.

Only seven years-old then, you didn’t understand the unbalance in the Force your aunt kept referencing. You didn’t understand the meaning of the word genocide either. But you did understand the galaxy would never be the same ever again, and the lesson was only further established as truth when the Imperials seized your village. 

There is no normalcy to return to anymore.

And as long as Emperor Gideon remains in control, there is no future to hope for either.

__

Silence reigns in the aftermath of Maar’s explanation as the long list of tragedies hangs heavy over the four occupants. There is tension in the air as you await the Mandalorian’s response to the extinction of his people, whether that be an outburst of anger or tears, and each passing minute only intensifies the nervous energy thrumming through your veins. Your leg starts to bounce restlessly, a bad habit you have had since childhood.

The Mandalorian stands eerily motionless. Your eyes keep flicking from your lap to his visor though you know it is rude to stare. His helmet hides his expression, but you don’t need to see it to know he is floundering right now, mind scrambling to piece together all the details thrown at him. From personal experience, you know the loss of a loved one hits like a tidal wave, hitting you over and over again until you must decide if you are going to stand up or surrender to drowning. Grieving the loss of your parents is the hardest experience of your lifetime to date.

But this...this is vastly different. The Mandalorian didn’t just lose his loved ones. He has lost his friends, neighbors, comrades, acquaintances, everyone all at once. This loss isn’t a tidal wave. It is a kriffing avalanche, burying him ten feet under in total darkness, and there is no one he can count on to save him. 

Finally, after the longest five minutes of your life, he shifts, resting his hands upon his belt with an unexpected air of seriousness. “I need to go.”

You frown, head tilting. That is his reaction?

“Go?” Ahsoka echoes, sounding as incredulous as you feel. “Go where?”

“To look for survivors,” he answers, blunt and harsh, the words forced through clenched teeth. 

Ahsoka is struck silent, and you feel your heart break on his behalf. Your mother’s stories about the Mandalorians had always included, one way or another, their lifelong bonds with each other. You had felt those ties when you had connected with the Mandalorian, believed for a moment as strongly as he did that his fellow warriors would come search for him, that his absence would be noticed and missed amongst them. And here he is now, still desperately clutching to them, unable—or, perhaps unwilling is more apt—to believe a stranger telling him those bonds have been cruelly severed. 

“What you need is to rest,” Maar says, gentle yet firm, letting her authority as the eldest in the room seep into her tone.

He shakes his head, not backing down. “I’ve been asleep for ten years. I don’t need any more rest.”

“Your ship, it, uh,” your shoulders hike up defensively when his visor snaps in your direction, pinning you with its blank stare. Clearing your throat, you continue with a slight grimace, “It’s going to need some repairs before it can take off. I can help you fix it.”

Ahsoka looks over at you in surprise, and then in worry. You don’t blame her, especially since the offer had slipped out without you consciously meaning it to. Once again, the Force is calling the shots and you are just along for the ride, a passenger in your own body.

He considers you for a long moment, then asks, “What do you know about the mechanics of a gunship?” 

If anyone else had asked you that same exact question, you would have bristled at their condescension and retracted your offer in the next breath. But with the Mandalorian, there isn’t even the slightest hint of patronizing courtesy. It is a serious question prompted from genuine curiosity.

You sit up straighter, smiling at him now. “Enough to confidently say I’m your best shot at getting off the ground.”

__

“What’s your plan, exactly?” Ahsoka asks you, braced against the wall with one eye on you and one on the Mandalorian across the garage, patiently waiting for you to finish assembling your tool kit. 

“Huh?” You reply distractedly, trying to decide if you should bring your carbon chisel or not. 

“You don’t have one, do you?”

Not. There are bigger concerns than a bit of carbon scoring. You move to grab your favorite screwdriver with a tapered socket, only for Ahsoka to snatch it away, holding the tool hostage.

“Hey!”

“Have you thought about what you’re doing?” Ahsoka asks slowly, staring you directly in the eyes. “Once you fix his ship, he’s gone. And he’s taking our best chance at escaping Shili with him.”

A quick glance over your shoulder shows the Mandalorian studying the scattered BB unit parts on your workbench. You are missing a few vital components needed in order to bring the little droid back to life after a stormtrooper shot a plasma bolt through it for accidentally bumping into his leg, and haven’t had any luck convincing the village traders to track them down for you when they went to the capital. 

“We can’t keep him here against his will,” you manage at last, turning back to your sister. “Otherwise we’re no better than the Imps.”

When Ahsoka doesn’t say anything, you shrug a shoulder, adding, “Besides, I think I’m supposed to fix it for him. The Force seems pretty insistent about it.”

She makes a face at that. “I liked you better when you ignored your Force instincts. You didn’t make me worry as much.”

A laugh escapes you, embarrassingly loud in the otherwise quiet space, and your cheeks immediately start burning. Ahsoka’s lip twitches like she wants to smile, but instead she schools her features into a blank expression when the Mandalorian’s head turns at the sound. Only once he diverts his attention elsewhere again does her stare lose some of its intensity, looking less like she wants to dissect him beneath a microscope. You can practically see her protective-older-sister-instincts buzzing, reacting to the warrior’s presence. 

As much as he is a chance at providing an escape, he is also first and foremost a complete and total stranger. Even worse, he is a complete and total stranger who knows how to handle weapons. 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.” You squeeze her arm reassuringly. “Shouldn’t take longer than a couple of hours. You’ll be so busy smoothing the Elders’ ruffled feathers you won’t even notice I’m gone.”

Ahsoka finally relinquishes the tool, exhaling a quiet sigh. “You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.”

__

Walking side by side with the Mandalorian in silence isn’t awkward, per se, but it definitely isn’t comfortable either. He is close enough your arm keeps accidentally grazing against his, the cold brush of metal against your skin startling you each time. You would have considered his nearness strange if you hadn’t heard Ahsoka threaten to castrate him if you wound up hurt before she sent him flying at the juni tree branch outside your window with an unnecessarily strong push of Force. 

To his credit, the warrior handled her rough treatment with the same ease he has handled everything else thrown at him. You are beginning to think Mandalorians don’t just wear beskar—they are made of it too. Other than the few glimpses of frustration earlier in Maar’s office, he keeps his cards close to his chest, impossible to read. 

He watches everything though, reacting to the slightest of movements and sounds. Constantly alert. You are certain he is watching you right now, despite the fact his helmet is facing forward, your nerves prickling in response to the sensation of eyes upon you.

To your surprise, he is the one to break the silence first. “You sneak out often.”

It is a statement, not a question. 

You suppose the dots are easy enough to connect to reach that conclusion. Still, the certainty in his voice has your heart skipping a nervous beat. He hasn’t even known you a day and yet he is privy to secrets no one outside your community is aware of. “Yeah,” you nod your head after a brief lapse of silence, “Ahsoka can’t train in the village. Not with the stormtroopers around.”

“Has your village tried to run them out? Fight back?”

It is only because you know he is just trying to understand your village’s predicament with the little bits of information he has that you don’t snap at him for being so insensitive. He has no idea what these past five years have been like for you all. No idea the amount of losses and sacrifices the community has suffered. 

Your grip on your tool kit tightens. “I was twelve when they came. The community is mostly traders and hunters, not trained fighters. The few weapons we had were nothing compared to their blaster rifles, but some of the adults tried to defend the village, including our parents. They...” You swallow, or try to, at least, your throat suddenly dry as sand. “Our aunt looked after us until last year we woke up one morning to find a note she’d left to join the rebellion. We haven’t had any contact with her since.”

The Mandalorian’s gloved hand brushes against your knuckles. This time you think it might have been on purpose.

“I lost my parents as a child, too. There was a riot and they died protecting me,” he offers his own private details with the same reluctance as one volunteering to have their teeth pulled out. “The Mandalorians took me in, raised me as one of their own.”

You say nothing about the way his breath slightly hitches when he says Mandalorians, appreciating his openness as it puts you both on somewhat equal footing with each other. 

“I owe it to them to look for survivors,” he tells you, and your montrals detect the quietest hint of a plea in his voice. 

“I understand,” you answer, keeping your tone light to preserve the fragility of this moment. This kind of situation doesn’t happen often—two strangers on the same wavelength, exposing their vulnerable underbellies, desperate to be heard and yet skittish at the same time—and it is oddly therapeutic. 

A decision is made right then and there in the span of a heartbeat. And even more significantly, it is 100% your own choice without any intervention or manipulation from the Force. 

You stop walking, causing the Mandalorian to halt as well. He scans the area for a threat, then visibly jerks when he turns back to find you have your hand held out towards him, pinky raised high, reacting as if you are pointing a weapon at him.

“I don’t understand,” he says, blunt and almost suspicious sounding. Are you just imagining it or can you actually hear him frowning? “What are you doing?”

“Haven’t you ever made a pinky promise with someone before?”

“...A what?”

You snort, ducking your head to hide your smile, and then reach for his hand. Surprisingly, he doesn’t protest your touch.

“A pinky promise,” you repeat as you make his hand form a fist, curling his fingers towards his palm, and then adjust his pinky so you can wrap yours around it. He watches the whole process wordlessly. “It’s a sacred vow shared between two people. The Elders say once it’s sworn, the promise can never be broken.”

He cocks his head, skeptical. “Never?”

“Never,” you reaffirm with a nod. Licking your lips, you look at his visor, right where you instinctively know his eyes are staring back. “I promise I’m going to help you. No matter the odds.”

And something leaks into your voice then, something resolute and binding and otherworldly. A tremor shoots down your spine, too quick for you to make sense of it.

Your sister’s words echo in the back of your mind, ‘You shouldn’t make promises you don’t know for certain you can keep.’ 

You try to pull away, self-doubt gnawing a hole in your stomach, only for the Mandalorian to wrap his pinky tighter around yours, holding you still. A gasp escapes your lips, muffled by the bleeding sincerity in his voice as he swears:

“I promise I will be there when you need me. No matter the odds.”

And although your sister could undoubtedly provide you with a long list of reasons why you shouldn’t, you believe his promise to be true.

__

The Mandalorian heaves a heavy sigh at the sight of his crashed ship. 

“I can’t do much about the landing gear,” you inform him, believing honesty to be the best policy for cases like this. “And I brought some foam-jet for the cockpit viewport, but it’s not a permanent fix. You’re going to have to find someone offworld to replace them.”

“Right,” he agrees absently without turning his eyes away. It occurs to you then that this ship is the closest thing to a home he has now. One of the few precious relics from his past he can still physically cling to. 

“Does your ship have a name?” you ask.

He looks at you, as if coming back to self-awareness, and answers, “Razor Crest.”

A good name, you think. Strong. A bit mysterious. Just like its owner.

You nod decisively. “I like it.”

His modulator crackles faintly, a quiet noise produced from a sudden exhale of air. You blink at the unexpected sound, surprised to realize you recognize it. A laugh. The Mandalorian just laughed at something you said. What is next in store for you? Are akul going to sprout wings and start flying?

He steps around you, heading for the side entry door still open from yesterday with its ramp laying on the ground, pebbles shifting noisily beneath his boots with each step. You don’t realize you are staring, oddly entranced by the swish of his cape and his purposeful strides, until he calls out your name to ask if you are coming.

You nearly drop your tool kit in your haste to follow after him into the Crest’s interior, ignoring the flaring heat radiating from your cheeks. 

For the next few hours, you and the Mandalorian work in companionable silence, engrossed in rerouting wires and welding damaged components with your trusty hand torch. The gunship is older than you initially assumed, perhaps even as old as yourself, and you idly wonder if the Mandalorian found it in a scrapyard somewhere or maybe inherited it from another Mandalorian. You notice the way he handles each piece with an experienced and respectful touch; the same kind of care someone reserves for their most cherished possessions. Anyone with eyes can see how much he loves the Crest just by watching him.

Once you have finished sealing the numerous cracks dissecting the cockpit’s viewport like a spiderweb with foam, you approach the Mandalorian to see his progress on returning power to the dashboard. He is on his back beneath the steering controls, rearranging a mess of wires, and barely acknowledges your presence when you squeeze yourself into the tight space next to him.

“The red wire goes before the white one,” you point out, noticing the mistake immediately. “Fire hazard.”

He pauses, looks at where you have gestured, and corrects his error without criticizing your intervention. You bite back a smile, pleased to be heard. Within your community, even though you have proven your skills time and time again, some of the villagers, usually men, don’t always adhere to your advice, thinking you are too young and too female to know about technology, until they inevitably make their problems worse for themselves and come back to you with their metaphorical tail between their legs. 

You help him reattach the cover plating once he has finished, screwing the bolts back into their corners, and then watch, fingers crossed, as he attempts the ignition sequence, flipping a series of switches.

None of them light up with even the faintest flicker of life.

“Dank farrik,” he growls under his breath, slamming a fist upon the console.

You take a tiny step forward, hesitant to direct his frustration your way. “Can I try?” 

He tilts his head, probably thinking he knows this ship better than anyone and if it doesn’t work for him then you aren’t going to have any luck either.

Eventually he steps back with a shrug, uttering a simple, “Sure.” 

Although you can’t remember the last time you were on a ship, it doesn’t take long to refamiliarize yourself with the various controls and screens once you take a seat in the pilot chair. When your hobby for fixing broken machines changed into a passion you wanted to pursue as a future career, you started memorizing any reading material you could find on the Holonet, including the flight manuals for different classes of starships. You flip through the stored information in your mind about gunships as you press a few buttons on the panel overhead, trying out different sequences for a response.

When your third attempt fails, you bite your lip, racking your brain for a solution. You think about Huno’s kitchen droid and how you had been on the verge of ripping off one of your head-tails trying to repair it after one of its fuses blew, causing it to malfunction. Your tools and knowledge hadn’t been able to fix it in the end. It had required a special remedy to bring it back to life.

You lay your palms flat on the console, just as you had held onto the droid’s square torso. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the Mandalorian fidget, as if he wants to come closer but is hesitant to crowd you. You ignore him, pressing your fingertips harder against the metal, visualizing in your mind the unseen gears, cables, and components stiff and powerless. You imagine the parts working properly, a current of electricity running through each wire, life ultimately returning to the entire ship, and whisper under your breath a request to the Force.

“Please work, please work, please work…”

An invisible pulse of energy burns down the length of your arms and discharges through your fingertips, strong enough you jerk backwards against the seat. Every button and screen on the dashboard lights up all at once, beeping with alarm at being so rudely resurrected.

You sit there helplessly, stunned and breathless, hands twitching in your lap. The kitchen droid hadn’t required even half as much energy to restart, barely a pinch. Now your body feels like you have been thrown against the electric fence a dozen times. Wordlessly, the Mandalorian comes to your side to help, punching buttons and turning knobs until the alarms quit blaring. A distant part of your brain thinks the Razor Crest as a whole seems strangely soothed by his presence, not quite as cold and dark, but it is hard to follow that train of thought due to the distracting pain throbbing along your temples.

“That’s quite a spark you’ve got,” he says, not unkindly or accusingly, just a statement of the obvious. He looks down at you, not outright asking for an explanation, but giving you the opportunity to open up if you wanted to.

“Yep, that’s me,” you reply, forcing a cheerful smile, praying it doesn’t resemble a grimace. “Sparks Tano at your service.”

He chuckles again, oblivious to how your heart stutters at its raspiness. “Thank you, Sparks. I appreciate it.”

“Well, we’re not done yet.” You rub at your temples under the guise of adjusting your headband. “I need to take a closer look at the engines before we attempt flying out of here. I—”

“I’ll do it,” he cuts in, already heading for the ladder. “You stay here, see if you can update the navicomputer settings.”

You know he knows that updating the navicomputer is child’s play for you. Clearly you aren’t as great at concealing your pain as you thought you were and this is his way of giving you a break. A small part of you is irritated at being treated like a porcelain doll, but you push those negative feelings aside as quickly as they develop. Your aunt always used to remind you and Ahsoka it was okay to accept help when it was offered, that needing support didn’t in any way make you weak. 

“Hey, wait a second,” you call out as you spin around in your seat, freezing him right before he disappears from view into the hull. He holds onto the ladder, waiting patiently for you to continue.

“Back at Maar’s place you didn’t introduce yourself and it’s weird just calling you Mandalorian in my head,” you say, awkwardly drumming your fingers on top of the armrests. He doesn’t answer, eliciting a sigh from your mouth after a drawn-out beat of silence. “What’s your name? You do have one, right?”

“I do, but I can’t tell you it,” he admits at last. “By Mandalorian Creed, only other Mandalorians or my riduur—my spouse,” he corrects, seeing your confusion, “are allowed to know my name and see my face. This is the Way.”

He doesn’t linger to hear your response, dropping down into the hull with a resounding thud. You slowly turn back around, staring absently out the glass. Every culture is unique, including your own, but you think there is something especially interesting about the Mandalorians’. It sounds like a lonely existence, only able to show your face while in select company. What would have happened if he had been unconscious and you had slipped the helmet off his head? What consequence would he have faced? 

And if there truly aren’t any Mandalorians left besides him, his spouse will be the only one to ever know him completely. It almost sounds like a love story, if not a little bit heart-wrenching. 

Two high-pitched dings from the console jerk you out of your thoughts with a wince. You look for the source, finding the radar lit up and actively scanning the area, and bristle when you see a pair of red dots moving across the screen. 

Not even a minute later you are sprinting out of the cave, ignoring the Mandalorian’s alarmed shout from the roof of the Razor Crest. They’re early, you think with panic, looking towards the sky where two starships with Imperial logos are heading straight for your village. Why have they come back so soon?

You push your legs to run faster, your surroundings a blur beyond the trail in front of you, but the effort is meaningless. You won’t make it back home before they land.

And when your absence is noted, bloodshed is not a possibility. 

It is a guarantee.

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[talkfastromance4]

Running Back to You-- Luke Hemmings (wwii au)

Not quite sure what this is, but I felt it within me and I had to write it out. After watching 1917 and Dunkirk, plus Memorial Day and listening to “I am a Poor Wayfaring Stranger” this sprung to life. I’ve been in a writing funk and this helped me out of it, I guess so yeah, might not be good. 

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: graphic violence, mentions of blood and injury, indicated smut(very slight), bombings, gunshots, war mentions, WWII references

Masterlist

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. *copyright is listed below*

• • • •

He awakes with a jolt. In a manner of seconds his mind plays back a reel of his dream that he’s desperate to cling onto. It’s of you. 

In this dream you’re walking along the boardwalk, a pretty pink dress with a pretty pink cloud of candy floss between your fingers. The sky is a clear robin’s egg blue, no cloud in sight. Shrieks of laughter from children still echoes in his ears but he’s chasing after you. He was about to spin you around so you’d smack into his chest, your eyes alight with giddiness as he would lower his lips to yours, tasting the sweetness of the candy floss. 

The bomb that went off from the German aircraft disrupted his dream and his space of peace. Peace is hard to come by in this war, any moment of solace is treasured. Luke has been robbed of his.

The aftereffects of the bombs are always the same; frightened shouts from other men, rapid gunfire blasting into the night sky as if they created the holes for the stars and yells of agony from the wounded. Wrong place at the right time.

They’re all in the wrong place right now. Luke hugs his rifle closer to his chest, it knocks his dog tags together. He clutches them with his other hand desperately, he can feel the flying rate of his heart beneath his dirt covered fingers. Sweat tickles his upper lip, his nose is running and the safety of his dream--and his girl--are well gone now. 

He looks to his left, Michael, a friend he’s made in the last seven months reflects the same face of terror and alertness back at him. His helmet is askew and there’s dirt on his face mixed with his sweat. Their eyes ask a silent question, how long will this last?

“How long was I out?” Luke croaks. His throat is dry as sand, voice cracking from lack of water.  Clearing it won’t help, will only burn more.

“Two hours, maybe,” Michael rasps back. He licks his lips then winces, the salt from his sweat and copper taste from his blood taints his tongue. “You seemed out. What were you seeing?”

“My girl from back home,” Luke’s response is quick. He could talk about you all day; he thinks of you every minute. You’re the only thing keeping him sane during this horrific war. 

“She a pretty bird?”

“The prettiest,” Luke smiles then shifts his gun against a large rock. He digs into his many pockets, but the photo of you is always over his heart. He holds it up for Michael to inspect, the edges are a little worn, but your smile is radiant. 

“She is a looker,” Michael nods then flips it over to read your little note. “‘Come back to me my love.’ She sure loves ya, huh?”

“Yeah, I got lucky,” Luke grins taking the photo back. “Fancied her all through school and I finally plucked up the courage to ask her to the dance. Been together ever since.”

“I didn’t see a rock on those pretty fingers of hers.”

“I’m going to give her one when I go back home,” Luke nods affirmatively. “And we’ll live on the seaside by the boardwalk.”

“My girl’s—”

“GET DOWN!”

Michael and Luke scramble into position, fetal position with hands locked behind their heads just as another bomb fell. This one was closer, dirt, rocks and other debris scattered over their backs. Luke is aware of all the yelling, wails of pain and orders shouted in roll call of their troops, but he’s also fixated on you.

**

Luke’s boots squelch through the mud as he and Michael near the small town they’re set to liberate, to search for survivors and to take down any enemy. A nice family on the outskirts of town on a farm were very hospitable to them as soon as they saw the patches on their shoulders.

They aren’t the enemy.

Luke sang with them, the first time he’s had a guitar in his hands since he was with you on the eve of his departure. It was a bittersweet moment, enjoying the young children dancing and frolicking on the wooden floor while images of you and him dancing that night flashed across his mind.

With it being his last night, the sense of urgency was heightened and soon Luke was undoing the white buttons of your dress while your nimble fingers worked on his belt. It was the first time the two of you did anything like that, bodies trembling, breathing ragged. Your love was sealed with heated kisses.

“You never finished telling me about your girl,” Luke says, averting his eyes from the broken windows of shops. Blackened paint from the swastika’s drip down on the red bricks, papers scatter along the cobblestone road.

“Not to offend but my girl is a bombshell,” Michael grins, and Luke smiles back. Their friendship continues to grow the more they go through, Michael is always cracking jokes even in this dark time.

“What’s she like?”

Luke listens to Michael rattle off everything about his girl. How her hair is the softest thing he’s ever felt, her cheeks are always pink, and she smells of lilac all the time. They always share a milkshake at their favorite diner that has the best burger and fries.

“You and your girl should come with us when we’re back,” Michael adds nudging Luke in the shoulder.

“She’d like that,” Luke nods. “In her last letter, she told me she’s been wanting nothing to eat but fries and a strawberry shake.”

“What do you—”

Luke and Michael are blasted apart. Luke goes flying backwards, his back hitting the rough brick of a building, some of it tumbles onto his chest and knocks his helmet. Shouts from his other men are faint, the sound of the blast must have damaged his hearing slightly.

Through the smoke and floating papers, he searches for Michael who is flat on the ground. A small pool of blood forming by his head that is now bare of his helmet, his arms splayed on either side of him.

“Michael!” Luke screams and crawls his way off the sidewalk to his injured friend. Shots are going on all around him, the attacker has been taken down.

Luke is coughing through the smoke, his eyes watering and as he looks down at his friend, he sees the source of the blood. Michael’s left eye was hit with shrapnel or part of the grenade, rendering him unconscious as the wound bled.

Luke’s own hands are bloody and dirty as he searches for a pulse and finds a faint one, then he tries to find something to wrap his head in. The small knapsack the farm family filled with bread and cheese was made from a large handkerchief.

The bread and cheese tumbles to the soot covered ground as Luke rips the fabric into longer pieces. Michael groans when Luke dresses his head with the fabric, the blood blooms on the white cloth instantly, as if a poppy bursting free.

“Mike! Can you hear me? Talk to me,” Luke spits urgently and tightens the makeshift bandage over his friend’s eye. “Come on, tell me about your girl and the milkshakes. What’s her favorite?”

“V-vanilla,” Michael chokes out, he tries to open his other eye.

“Vanilla? Can’t believe your bird likes plain flavors,” Luke tries to joke with his friend, and it works. Michael’s lips curve slightly.

“Says it . . . reminds . . . of me.”

“Because of your hair? She’s funny, I can’t wait to meet her. Can you sit and stand?” Luke helps lift Michael up just as another soldier comes to their aid. He helps hobble Michael to shelter where the other troops have assembled.

“I’ll get the medic over, he can clean the wound,” the young man who helped with Michael says.

Luke holds Michael’s hand as his face continues to redden from the blast and his own blood. The medic, Calum Hood, gets to work immediately when he comes by.

“Keep him talking, he may go into shock, but he seems strong,” Hood instructs popping open his first aid kit.

“What else can you tell me about her?” Luke asks hastily. Michael’s bright green eye zeroes in on Luke, which makes Luke suck in a breath. Such a bright color while his face is dirty and bloody.

“I can smell her lilacs, Luke,” Michael sighs. “So pretty.”

“I bet they are,” Luke nods.

Calum hood glances at Luke when he removes the handkerchief. There’s a big gouge where Michael’s left eye should be. Michael squeezes Luke’s hand.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” Michael licks his chapped lips.

“Mich—”

“It’s fine. Rather my eye than my life, eh? Reckon I’m still better lookin’ than you,” he jokes then flinches when Hood pours alcohol on the wound.

“You’re right about that,” Luke smiles. “I better watch out, you might steal my girl from me.”

“That’s just the beast in me.”

**

Luke and Michael are silent on their trip back home.

The medical officer Hood recommended that Michael stay behind while the rest of the troop liberated a small encampment of a Gestapo Officer that was in high ranks. Michael refused and persisted that he won’t stay behind. He signed on to help and defend and he will do it with one eye.

As soon as their troop marched onto the land of the officer, they heard a series of gunshots. Luke and Michael reached the house first, so they witnessed the horror first. In the study, the Officer and his family lay sprawled on their now stained wooden floor; the gun in the Officer’s hand as he drowned in a river of his family’s blood.

There were about fifty prisoners kept in the basement and in makeshift barracks in the backyard. All of them were ghosts, malnourished, dirty and filled with terror. One of them cried into Luke’s chest while the other soldiers coaxed the others out of hiding. One of their men spoke fluent German, his name is Ashton Irwin and he assured the prisoners that they will be safe now. They won’t be hurt.

The horrific sights hang dauntingly between Luke and Michael as they rode back to the Army hospital in France. The pair were never apart except when Michael was in surgery to repair the damage around his eye. Michael was asked if he’d like a glass eye, but the thought was mortifying so he opted for an eye patch.

Both clung to each other on the boat ride home and woke each other up on the train as they had the same nightmares. Nightmares of what they went through, of what they saw. Luke clutched your picture tightly against his chest, he stared at your face in the moonlight as the train rattled on.

Luke is tired. His feet are tired yet he’s aching to be near you again. He pulls his dog tags from his pocket that now has a diamond ring looped on the chain. Michael helped him pick it out while they were in France. He can’t wait to come home to you.

“She’s going to say yes, stop over thinking,” Michael tells him while the train pulls into the station. They both jump when a man bangs on the window, a gleeful smile on his face as he congratulated them for being home. “I wish it was just us on the platform.”

“Me too,” Luke replies grimly.

While they were at the hospital in France, one of your letters was forwarded to him. You wrote of your fear and worry for him, that you haven’t heard from him in weeks. You confessed your love every other line and Luke wished he could hold you, assure you that he’s almost home.

It’s been almost a year that he’s been gone. Each step of his boots was away from you, but they were also running back to you. Luke notices the tremble in Michael’s hands, an after effect from his accident but it’s been heightened from nerves.

“She’ll be happy you’re alive,” Luke assures him. Michael nods robotically. He’s nervous what his girl will say about his eye.

The two get off the train together, both searching for their loves. Being taller than nearly everyone helps, and Luke finally spots you near a pillar next to a bench. Without a second thought, he abandons Michael (for now) and pushes through the crowd of families being reunited, forcing his feet to move faster to you.

You’re already crying by the time he reaches you, his arms encasing you tightly as he breathes you in. You’re both grasping each other securely, whispering ‘I love you’ in each other’s ears. All his woes seem to disappear the longer he’s in your arms and he pulls away to plant a kiss on your lips.

“I have something for you,” he rushes out and reaches for his dog tags.

“I have something for you, too. I��Luke!” you gasp when he dangles the ring in front of you. You kiss him quickly in response, hoping he’ll understand that you mean yes. He slips it on your finger while it’s still looped on his necklace.

“What’s your—”

A small baby’s cry makes him freeze, then he finally takes in your surroundings. There’s a black baby carriage to the left of you, a pink blanket peeking out. Luke’s eyes widen as he looks between you and the carriage.

“There’s someone who’s been waiting to meet you,” you tell him. You slip your hand in his leading him to the carriage.

Luke collapses onto the bench, staring at the most beautiful baby he’s ever seen in his life. He grasps the edge of the carriage as the baby girl stares up at him, she has your eyes. You lift her from the carriage, carefully placing her in Luke’s awaiting arms. Tears fill his eyes as he kisses his daughter’s head, then you sit next to him and he holds his whole world in his arms.

“I’ve been running back to you,” he whispers to his girls.

• • • •

Copyright talkfastromance4 © All works is intellectual property of the author. All rights reserved. Any redistribution or reproduction or any part or all contents in any form is prohibited. You may not, without written expression and consent from the author, distribute works amongst other social media platforms

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[thistleclaws-hatred]

Ashfur’s Revenge - Novella - Chapter Five

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This novella is inspired by @dark-rose-designs ’s post. 

“Squirrelflight, you’re back!”

“With kits? I didn’t even know you were expecting!”

“Thank StarClan Leafpool was with you! Are you all well? They look fine!”

“Brambleclaw, look! You’re a father!”

Ashfur walked out of the warriors’ den, seeing Squirrelflight walk into camp with three little kits at her paws. He blinked, surprised. Kits? Brambleclaw’s kits?

Brambleclaw ran over to his mate, licking her in between the ears, “Why didn’t you tell me you were expecting?”

“I knew that you would’ve taken me off of patrols,” Squirrelflight flicked his ears with her tail. “But they’re all strong and healthy.”

“No complications?” Ferncloud asked, looking down at the kits.

“Her milk has already stopped coming,” Leafpool meowed as she entered the camp, “No herb will make it come.”

Ferncloud gasped. “I hate to ask Ferncloud, but can you help me nurse them until they’re fully weaned?”

The gray queen nodded furiously. “Of course!” She bent her head and purred as the black kit batted at her muzzle, green eyes filled with wonder.

“Did you name them?” Brambleclaw asked, he looked like he might burst with pride.

“The black one is Hollykit,” Squirrelflight pushed her towards her father with her white paw. “The golden one is Lionkit, and the gray one is Jaykit.” She bent down and looked at her three kits, “Guys, this is Brambleclaw, your father.”

“You're our father?” Lionkit asked, staring up at the large tabby tom. Brambleclaw bent over, licking his son gently.

“Yes, I am,” Brambleclaw purred loudly. Ashfur could basically hear his purring from where he sat. He was happy the clan had three new, healthy kits, but he felt the same disgust he felt when he looked at Squirrelflight, the moment he looked at the kits.

“Just one thing Brambleclaw,” Squirrelflight meowed, moving closer to her mate and lowering her voice, “Jaykit is blind.”

Brambleclaw sat back and blinked, then shrugged. “He’s still my son!”

From the gorse tunnel came Firestar and Sandstorm, both of them holding prey in the jaws. “Squirrelflight, you’re back!” Firestar meowed happily around his squirrel.

“And, she has kits!” Brambleclaw puffed up his chest, directing the leader’s attention towards the three playful kits.

Firestar dropped his prey and dashed forward, looking over the three kits and curling his tail high over his back. Sandstorm was checking over Squirrelflight and then purred, “Grandkits!”

“Welcome to fatherhood,” Dustpelt shoved Brambleclaw with a shoulder. Brambleclaw nodded and twitched his whiskers.

“I’m going to make sure our kits,” he pressed closer to Squirrelflight, “And you, all have the best piece of fresh-kill everyday.”

Leafpool told Firestar their names and Firestar instantly bounded up the highrock and called for a clan meeting. Anyone that had slept through their arrival made their ways into the clearing. “Today, I have the wonderful honor of welcoming three new kits to ThunderClan!” He yowled as the clan assembled below him.

Ashfur glared up at his leader, then shot a furious glance over at Squirrelflight and Brambleclaw, both of whom were pressed up against one another, keeping their tails around their kits.

“Today we welcome Brambleclaw and Squirrelflight’s kits! We welcome to ThunderClan Hollykit, Jaykit, and Lionkit!” Firestar’s voice echoed around the clearing. The clan below erupted into meows of congratulations and cheer.

Only Ashfur didn’t engage in the cheering. He watched as Brambleclaw began to play with his kits, his own eyes dark. Those should’ve been my kits. I would’ve been a much better father! He thought angrily.

           Nearly six moons had passed. The kits had become a nuisance to the clan, as all older kits did. Ashfur took a lot of time to observe them. He never played with them and almost refused to bring them prey, but he liked to watch them. Hollykit was the curious one, always asking questions and generally being annoying. Lionkit was the largest of the three, his broad shoulders resembling Brambleclaw’s stature, he was also the biggest troublemaker. Jaykit with lithe and lanky, his fur not thick nor thin. Everyone let Jaykit get away with everything because he was blind. 

Ashfur walked out of the warriors’ den, feeling the warmth spread across his spotted pelt. “Ashfur, I want you to go on the fox patrol with Spiderleg, Mousepaw, and Whitewing.” Brambleclaw called to the gray tom from where he sat. “We need to drive that fox out of our territory as soon as possible. Her and her pups.”

Ashfur nodded and walked over to where the other three were. He still wasn’t a fan of Brambleclaw, but the deputy was the deputy so he had no choice but to obey. Spiderleg said they were going to investigate near ShadowClan and the patrol set out. Ashfur noticed Thornclaw also leading a patrol to chase out the foxes.

Ashfur brought up the back of the group, looking behind them every few seconds to check for any sign of the fox. He saw movement in a bush and froze, narrowing his eyes and tasting the air. Lionkit? He looked closer and saw a flash of gray fur. All three of them...

He shrugged. Wasn’t his problem. He bounded ahead to catch up with his patrol, sniffing around for the foxes. “No sign of them here,” Whitewing meowed. Mousepaw sighed, he had been looking forward to helping fight off the foxes.

“We might as well hunt,” Spiderleg said, “But if anyone scents the fox, yell for the rest of us.”

Ashfur nodded and went back to where he saw the three kits. As he got closer he heard the yowling of kits. They’re in danger! He looked around for them. It wasn’t very hard to find them almost being buried alive inside of an old rabbit hole. I should help them. He moved forward but stopped. No I shouldn’t. Those are Squirrelflight’s kits, not mine. That’s her own mistake. She should be watching her kits.

He dashed off, looking over his shoulder just as a russet flash moved towards the kits. The fox had found them. Before the fox could attack them though, Thornclaw’s patrol burst from the undergrowth, attacking the fox viciously. Seeing Thornclaw make eye contact with him, he leaped out and helped the patrol. “I heard the sounds of battle and came to help!” He defended himself, hoping Thornclaw wouldn’t see through his lie.

The patrol drove the fox away and reached in to save the kits. Jaykit had soil covering his entire face. Poppypaw began to dig out clumps of dirt from his mouth before they carried the three kits to the camp. Why did you have to save them? You should’ve left them to die. Ashfur thought angrily, feeling a stinging sensation in his flank from where the fox had thrown him into a bramble bush.

Ashfur glared at Lionkit, rolling his eyes when the kit tried to look at him for help. “You dug this hole, now sit in it.” All Ashfur could see was Brambleclaw’s amber eyes whenever Lionkit looked at him. It filled him with a fuming hatred. None of you should have ever been born. You’re lucky these guys came to save you.

          “From this day forward, until you earn your warrior name, you shall be called Lionpaw.” Firestar meowed, looking down at his clan, “Ashfur,” he beckoned forward the gray warrior, “I hope you pass on your bravery and strength to Lionpaw.”

Ashfur nodded and touched Lionpaw’s head, while the apprentice brushed his shoulder with his muzzle. Lionpaw was brimming with excitement, his pelt fluffed up. From the corner of his eyes Ashfur saw Squirrelflight brush under Brambleclaw’s jaw happily. The two nuzzled one another.

Ashfur also caught the look Brambleclaw gave him. “Don’t hurt my son.” Ashfur flicked his ear and faced Firestar as the ThunderClan leader finished the ceremony with Jaypaw. I’ll train your son however I want. Ashfur thought bitterly.

Ashfur flicked his tail for Lionpaw to follow him, “I’ll show you the borders today and the best places to collect moss for the elders’.”

Lionpaw followed eagerly, “Okay!” His voice squeaked. Ashfur looked back at him and for a moment, blue eyes met amber ones. Ashfur thought of Brambleclaw the moment he saw those amber eyes and looked away from his apprentice, hatred fueling his steps as he picked up the pace.

             “Today we’re doing some battle training,” Ashfur began. “So, attack me.”

Lionpaw tilted his head, “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Ashfur meowed cooly. “And remember to keep your claws sheathed.” 

Berrypaw and Brambleclaw sat off to the side. Berrypaw was a few days from his warrior ceremony, but Brambleclaw had insisted that they tag along with Ashfur and Lionpaw’s training session.

Lionpaw looked his mentor up and down, usually during battle training Ashfur gave him tips, but now he wasn’t sure what to do. Ashfur waited for Lionpaw to attack, flicking his tail impatentialy. Lionpaw leaped up, aiming for Ashfur’s shoulders. Ashfur whipped around to one side, striking Lionpaw as soon as he landed.

Lionpaw growled and spun around, knocking Ashfur’s front legs out front under him. When Ashfur crashed to the ground, Lionpaw battered his ribs with quick blows. Ashfur looked up, seeing those stupid amber eyes. Brambleclaw! He spat and lurched upward, rearing onto his hind-legs and slashing Lionpaw’s ears with claws unsheathed.

Lionpaw ducked and swiped his claws along the back of Ashfur’s hind-legs. Ashfur fell onto all fours with a hiss of pain and kicked out, landing a solid strike on Lionpaw’s skull. Lionpaw crashed to the ground and struggled to scramble to his paws. When he did, he dodged Ashfur’s next attack and bit down on Ashfur’s paw, feeling drops of blood flow into his jaws.

“Enough!” Brambleclaw grabbed Ashfur by the scruff and threw him to the side, while Berrypaw did the same with Lionpaw.

Oh StarClan, that wasn’t Brambleclaw...That was Lionpaw. Mentor and apprentice locked eyes, panting. “Good battle,” Ashfur praised.

“That wasn’t training,” Brambleclaw thrust his muzzle into Ashfur’s face, “If you have a problem, take it up with me.”

Ashfur spat. I do have a problem. It’s with you and Squirrelflight. She broke my heart, I’ll destroy the two of you. Not today, but one day. He turned around and headed back towards camp. “Are you okay Lionpaw?”

“That was the most fun I’ve had training in moons!” Lionpaw was basically bouncing back to camp. “We should do that again.”

“Maybe when your father isn’t watching,” Ashfur whispered in his ear. He’s grown. He’s almost as tall as me now. A few more moons and he’ll be bigger than me! He really is Brambleclaw’s son...

Squirrelflight was less than happy with Ashfur when they entered the camp. She ran over and began licking Lionpaw furiously, glaring daggers at Ashfur, “What is your problem?”

Ashfur flinched back.

“Don’t tell me this was training gone wrong! If you have a problem with Lionpaw, you can take it up with me,” She spat, lashing her tail. Ashfur blinked in surprise. He had never seen her this angry. Not since Hawkfrost...

Ashfur’s heart lurched. It had been several moons since he had thought of the tabby and white tom. He felt his heart ache at the memory. Ashfur locked eyes with Squirrelflight and folded his ears back, “I know how to train my apprentice.”

#ashfur's revenge #ashfur #ashfur's revenge - chapter five #chapter five #my writing #warriors novella #squirrelflight #brambleclaw #leafpool #firestar #lionblaze #thunderclan #hawkfrost #warriors #warrior cats #shadowclan #riverclan #windclan #hollyleaf #jayfeather

[fancat-not-fangirl]

Midnight Sun

a/n: From the Land of the Ice and Snow (Part 3). Dean’s POV

()()()()()()

The first thing that Dean noticed when he regained consciousness was that everything hurt. Especially his stomach and right shoulder. They were burning and stinging and Dean tried to get up but the pain lanced through his body and his vision went white. Which brought him to the second thing that he noticed. Everything around him was white, and he was cold. So very very cold. His back was cold and his sides were cold and when he stared up into the sky his face was cold.

But it was the third thing Dean noticed that fueled him to disregard the first two and make a move to get up again. Sam was gone. Kidnapped by the psychopaths that had shot Dean and wanted revenge on the Winchesters. The psychopaths that had plans to hurt Sam. 'Make him break'. And there was no way in hell that Dean was going to let that happen. Not to his Sam.

Dean let out a grunt of pain as he propped his left arm under him, then his right. The pain came again, stronger this time, but Dean gritted his teeth and pulled himself to his feet. The ground seemed to rock and sway beneath him, and he took one step before stumbling to his knees. Dean huffed a breath before trying again. And again. His vision swam and came in and out of focus, making him nauseous.

The Impala. He had to get to the Impala. He's driven while shot before, and he could do it again. He would do it again. Because those men had Sam and who knew what they were doing to him now. He could hurt, or worse, dead. Dean steeled himself against those thoughts and focused on getting to the Impala. Finally his bloodied hands found her black shape in the storm of white swirling around him. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean cursed to himself as he glanced down at the slashed tires of his beloved car. "I'm sorry, baby." He mumbled to her, patting her roof and leaving a bloody mark on the white snow covering the Impala. He would have to walk. He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious for, but hopefully it wasn't for too long. They'd have had to have at least a five minute head start, but there was no way that Dean would be able to make it with two bullets lodged in his shoulder and stomach. With a grim smile, Dean reached into his pocket and found that his keys were still there. He unlocked the trunk of the Impala and grabbed the first aid kit that the Winchesters used for emergencies like this. Except usually it would be Sam stitching his brother back up, not Dean doing it himself.

But it's happened before, it'll happen again.

With practiced but shaking hands, Dean removed the bullets with minimum outcries of pain. For the first time Dean thanked the freezing wind and snow around him, as they had made him almost completely numb from the cold. Dean made a split second decision and simply tied two pieces of cloth around the bullet wounds. He didn't have time to bandage them properly. Not when Sam was in danger.

Still dripping blood from his hands and wounds, Dean made his way to the road, stumbling every few steps. The wind had picked up now, and Dean found himself pushed to his knees more times than he could count. He finally made it to the road, where the fast falling snow had almost covered the car tracks. Almost. Dean could still make out the faint indents in the snow from the Ass Assembly's car.

Gritting his teeth against the pain all over his body, Dean set off on the road, following the car tracks. Surprisingly, the wind had died down for once since Dean woke up. And he had to admit, everything was so peaceful without the howling. The trees were covered with blankets of white, and the frozen water on their branches looked like crystals. Dean firmly decided that if he ever got out of this alive, he and Sam had to go back here and take a walk. Without the wind everything looked picturesque. Dean could hear every snowflake hit the ground, could feel as the snow fell around him. And then his foot slipped and the snow wasn't the only thing that was falling. Down down down, rolling down the slope off the road and into the snow. Dean cursed himself for not realizing that there was an immediate hill going downward on each side of the road. And of course, like an idiot, Dean had chosen to walk on the side of the road, too close to the slope.

It took Dean a second to realize that he was lying face first in the snow, so with a painful groan he turned over. And stared. The view from where he was laying on his back was breathtaking. The overhanging branches gleamed and shimmered in the moonlight, which was so bright that it looked more like a sun. Hah. Dean thought to himself. A midnight sun. He tried getting up, but found that he couldn't. Everything hurt. His head, his stomach, his shoulder, his legs. He should just stay here. Sam would come for him. He always did. And while Dean would wait, he could marvel at the soft falling snow and the trees and the crystals. Maybe he could just close his eyes and sleep. Sam wouldn't mind. All he had to do was close his eyes. After all, he was so tired. So very tired and everything around him was just so pretty-

The sound of a motor jolted Dean out of his thoughts. A car. Dean was sure of it. A car just drove down the road. He couldn't tell from which direction it came or where it was going, but it snapped Dean back to his senses. Sam. He needed to get to Sam. Growling and grunting Dean clambered back to his feet. And looked down. Where he was laying was a pool of blood. Bright red against the white snow. Like a flower. Dean was sure somewhere, someone would have looked at it and made a poem, but he sure wasn't going to right now. Because he had a job. Sam. Protect Sam.

Dean gritted his teeth and started walking. And stopped. The snow was falling fast, so fast now. And the wind had suddenly picked up. And Dean couldn't see a few feet in front of him. And the trees. Dean turned in a full circle. They all looked the same. All black against the white. But he had to keep moving. Or he'd freeze. Or he'd never find Sam. So Dean chose a direction and set off. It turned out that trudging through inches of snow was much harder than walking on the road. It was softer. Soft like snowflakes. Soft like pillows and beds and all Dean wanted to do was collapse here and fall asleep because all looked so soft.

But no. Sam. Sam needed him. And Dean Winchester wasn't someone that chose himself over others. He put Sam first. He's done it before, he'd do it again. He'd always do it. I'm coming, Sam, I promise.

"Dean!" The sound echoed through the woods. It bounced off of every tree, every crystal, every snowflake. But it couldn't be possible. Sam was gone. Sam was gone and Dean needed to save him. So he kept walking. Only the snow under his feet wasn't as soft as it was before. Dean looked down. Instead of being greeted by a white glimmer, he was faced with an icy blue hue. One that was splintering and making noises that sounded far too much like ice to Dean's liking.

"Dean!" This time it sounded closer, and Dean raised his head. And saw Sam, sprinting through the trees, whipping his head in every direction, looking for his brother. The wind was still blowing and howling and pulling, and Dean realized that Sam couldn't see him. Not yet.

"Sammy?" Dean found that he couldn't speak above a whisper, but somehow by some miracle, Sam's head snapped towards him and his eyes widened as he took in the sight of his bloodied brother. The look of relief was replaced with horror as another crack split the air and the splintering lines under Dean grew and grew and grew. Sam was running now, running faster than Dean thought was possible, but they both knew he wouldn't make it.

Dean heard a sound like a whip and someone screaming his name, and then in a world of white, Dean was swallowed by the dark.

#my fics #more hurt!Dean #yay #and more cliffhangers #mwa ha ha

[findswoman]

Sparks

Lasat OC childhood/preteen origin story in five short chapters, in which a shy kit from a Lasan mining town discovers powers she didn’t know she had. This is that thing you’ve been getting occasional tidbits of on WIP Wednesdays and Six-Sentence Sundays. I thank Raissa_Baiard for beta reading.

Chapter 1

The small town of Flowstone Vale, nestled at the edge of the Gosrrallan Mountains of Lasan’s mid-northern continent some twenty-five klicks southeast of the capital of Lira Zel, was proud of its mining heritage. While by no means the largest, it was one of the planet’s oldest mining settlements, dating from the arrival of the earliest settlers from Lira San. Even after millennia the Flowstone Vale mines were among Lasan’s richest sources of copper, strontium, and quorodium ore. Virtually everyone in town was employed by the mine in one way or another, whether in the mines themselves or in mining administration or research. Even the Royal Lasat Mining Ministry boasted several high-ranking officials hailing from “the jewel of the Gosrral.”

Even the kits of Flowstone Vale took part in their hometown’s mining industry. From the age of twelve dust seasons, every kit would spend most of the interseason school break periods working at the mine. The younger kits started with lighter tasks in the above-ground part of the complex, such as sorting and cleaning the ore or repairing miners’ tools and equipment. Older kits, once they had experience in these above-ground tasks, would assist with routine extraction and hauling underground. Although these tasks were performed by machines and droids most of the time, it was considered essential for the young Lasat of the village to learn them, both to instruct them in the fundamentals of the mining trade and to foster in them an appreciation of their local heritage. And the kits of Flowstone Vale, in turn, looked forward to their shifts each interseason: for them it was a chance to build toughness, show off their skills, and take a step toward adulthood.

*

It was the first day of the growing season–harvest season interim. An orange-gold sun hung low in the sky, casting a flamelike glow on the buildings and headframes of the mine complex. On the terrace outside Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two, the newest group of kits were gathering. A few were still taking their leave of their parents, who hovered nearby with instructions and reminders, but most were talking or laughing or playing loudly with each other. The unit foreman, a wiry, blue-gray-furred Lasat male in gray coveralls with a large metal whistle hanging around his neck, stood on the steps of the long, squat, metal-walled building, glancing at the regulation chronotower atop the administration office a few buildings down. Two other miners, in the same coveralls, walked about with databoards taking attendance.

At the back of the group a slight, pretty girl-kit with lilac fur stood quietly by herself, fidgeting with one of her two long, dark braids. She had arrived before any of the others, for her father was a foreman elsewhere in the mine, and her mother worked in the mining ministry in Lira Zel. Occasionally she would glance nervously around her, at the mine buildings, the chronotower, the other kits, and the unit foreman. The foreman’s assistant stopped and eyed her quizzically as he walked by taking attendance.

“You’re Trilasha’s daughter, aren’t ya?”

“Yes, sir,” came the meek reply.

“First name?”

“Shulma.”

“Shulma,” the assistant repeated, marking it down on his databoard, and moved on.

Presently the electronic chimes of the chronotower began signaling 0700, and the foreman blew a shrill blast on his whistle. The kits quieted and followed him into Unit Aurek-Two; the last few parents said their goodbyes and departed. Shulma, the lilac-furred girl with the braids, still hung at the back of the group, half-hiding behind a group of tall boys. Once they had all assembled in the vestibule of the building, the foreman addressed them.

“ALL RIGHT, LISTEN UP! Just a few things before we get started. Today you’re gonna be separating ore from the base rock and sending it over to Unit Besh-Two for crushing and cleaning. So, first thing you’re gonna do is go over there”—he gestured to a rack at one side of the room crammed with aprons and other protective gear in the same gray as his coveralls—“and put on your aprons and foot covers. Then you go inside, go to one of the stations, and the distribution belt will bring you the yield from the last extraction. Your job’s easy: use your vibrochisels to cut the ore out of the host rock, throw it in its correct collection basket, and toss the host rock into the waste cart. Now how do you know which is which?”

The foreman tapped his databoard. A full-color, high-resolution holoprojection materialized high on the wall, showing rotating chunks of different types of ore—copper, lead, tin, strontium, quorodium. These, he said, were the metals most likely to turn up in this morning’s yield from shafts 38 and 39. He detailed the physical qualities of each, covering color, texture, hardness, and conductivity; he explained how to tell apart those that could be easily confused with others. Shulma listened closely, trying to keep it all straight in her mind as she craned her neck to see.

“Got any questions?” the foreman asked at last.

No one did.

“You’re Lasat miners now. And as Lasat miners you gotta do your job right. All the ore has to go into the collection baskets, and all the host rock goes into the waste cart. An’ that means all of it. Now Trothidd, Gondrav, an’ I are gonna come around to check on you all. You better not let us see any ore pieces bigger than a claw tip in the waste cart, or any host rock pieces bigger than a claw tip in any of the baskets. And don’t you dare let us see anyone slacking off. Otherwise you’ll find yourself staying after to scrub down the counters and belts. And your parents know it. Got that?”

Various half-hearted sounds of assent went up from the kits, including a barely audible “yes, sir” from Shulma.

“An’ another thing. When I tell you to do somethin’, the only correct answer is ‘Yes, Foreman Novalos.’ Understood?”

“Yes, Foreman Novalos,” chorused the kits.

“Good! Now get your gear on and get to work!”

*

Now suited up in their aprons and foot covers, the kits began filing into the main workspace of Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two. At one end of the room, the old mechanical distribution apparatus hung on the wall and ceiling above a low metal rolling door. The door opened, and in trundled a large mine cart, heaped with rock chunks. At once the distribution apparatus sprang into operation, clanking and rumbling as it scooped the rock chunks from the cart onto distribution belts that took them around the room and deposited them in the collection bins on the counters that lined the room.

The kits got to work. Shulma, feeling unsure of herself amid the noise and chaos, took a spot in the far corner of the room, farthest from the distribution apparatus and as separate as possible from any other kits. She sat on the stool that was there, took a piece of rock from her collection bin, and examined it. It was formed almost entirely of dull gray host rock except for one knobby corner of bronze-colored material—probably either quorodium ore or one of the copper ores, from what Foreman Novalos had told them. She ran her finger over it to feel its texture—

—and twitched with a gasp as a yellow spark shot up from under her finger. She glanced quickly around; fortunately Foreman Novalos and his two assistants were in another part of the room.

Well, Foreman Novalos had said that some ore types had a tendency to pick up a static charge under the right conditions, and it was a dry day, after all. Shulma picked up the vibrochisel and got to work, picking away at the edge of the knob of ore until it was fully and cleanly separated from the rest of the rock. Even with the sparking, she had been able to tell from its very jagged crystalline texture that it was one of the copper ores.

Shulma picked up the ore chunk to throw it into the basket for copper. As she did, several yellow sparks shot up. She shuddered and yelped slightly as she dropped the rock back on the table, her fingers twitching with shock.

What was happening? This wasn’t just static charge or dry air—that much Shulma could tell—but what was it? She looked at some of the other kits at the sorting counters nearby. They were all working through piles of the same kind of ore—and none of it was sparking.

She put a fingertip on the ore piece on the table, watched another tiny glint arise, and took her finger off again. It reminded her a bit of an old fairy story her mother liked to tell her: the story of Bright Valthya, who had lightning in her touch and could command the Sacred Light from the very stones on the ground. Of course, she knew it couldn’t be anything like that. She was just little Shulma Trilasha of Flowstone Vale.

Once again she glanced about. The foremen had still not noticed her, but they were making their rounds: Trothidd walking down the rows with his hands clasped behind him, Gondrav helping one boy hold his vibrochisel properly, Novalos berating another who had accidentally put all his tin ore in his quorodium basket. They would soon be nearby. She simply had to go on with her work.

Quickly, but gingerly, Shulma began sorting through the collection bin for another rock piece. First she looked for one that was all or mostly host rock and tossed it in the waste cart that stood behind her, between her row of counters and the next. She found another similar piece and did the same—then another and another. After that she found no others, so she looked to see if she could find at least a different kind of ore, in case that would make a difference and not shock her. But virtually all the rocks in her bin contained the same kind of copper ore, and even as she sifted through them sparks flew up and stung her fingers.

It was only at the very bottom of the bin that she found a rock that looked different from the others. It was large, part milky-chalky white, part brilliant, light blue crystal; she recognized it from Novalos’s introduction as strontium ore. She craned closer to admire it and take in its beauty. What Lasat did not know strontium: the mineral that flowed in their blood, that beat in their hearts, that gave the soil and mountains their hues of blue and purple! She reached for it—

—and multiple bolts of crackling golden energy sprang up to envelop both her hands. Electric pain coursed upward through her fingers, through her arm, and through her whole body. A blinding white-gold-iridescent blaze exploded like a supernova into her vision, engulfing everything around her.

Three Lasat-shaped figures emerged from the light: a strongman with a spear, a comical dancer leaping and laughing, a tiny kit reaching skyward. From different directions they ran toward each other, colliding and merging into a single, large, magnificent figure—

—who had bright leaf-green eyes and the brightest, handsomest smile Shulma had ever seen—

A searing ache shot through Shulma’s head, from one temple to the other and back again. She felt herself crying out, dropping the piece of ore, collapsing onto the counter...

...and then nothing.

*

Shulma jolted awake with a shriek as rough hands shook her, pulled her from her stool, and spun her around. Foreman Novalos scowled down at her through angry amber eyes.

“Well, well,” he growled. “Won’t Trilasha be charmed to learn how his little girl was slackin’ off on her very first shift!”

“But Foreman Novalos—please—”

“None of your buts! You think I’m gonna listen to your silly excuses?! YOUR HEAD WAS ON THE COUNTER!”

“Please, Foreman Novalos—”

“You’ll be stayin’ after to scrub down those counters and belts and baskets, y’hear?!”

“Yes, Foreman Novalos…”

“Now get back to work!” He shook her loose. “Karkin’ incompetent lot of kits they give me!”

He stomped off, grumbling. Shulma cast a wistful glance at the beautiful blue-purple piece of strontium ore, now lying on the floor. She didn’t dare pick it up. Instead she returned to her counter and her collection bin, her head still aching and tears welling in her eyes.

*

Later that afternoon, all the other kits had gone home. Shulma was left all alone to clean the work surfaces in Ore Processing Unit Aurek-Two—the countertops, the distribution belts, the collection bins, the sorting baskets, and even—“for making excuses”—the large central cart that had brought the rock pieces up from the shafts, which now stood empty on its length of track at the end of the room.

Wistful tears flowed as she worked. Her very first shift at the mine, and what a silly mess she had made of it! All because her curiosity had gotten the better of her and she had just had to mess about with that piece of strontium! Shouldn’t she just have left it alone after seeing even what just the copper ore could do to her hands? At least, she thought with bitter relief, the rock dust and dirt that remained on the counters and belts didn’t seem to be producing any unusual effects. She paused from scrubbing a collection bin to look out the window, where the sun was just beginning to sink in an orange haze behind the mountaintops. By this time she had thought she would be home like the other kits, supping with Mama and Papa and the boys and cheerfully recounting all the things that had happened on her first-ever mine shift—an occasion that was supposed to be a happy one, or at least a novel and exciting one, for a kit of Flowstone Vale.

Every so often Novalos would come in to inspect her work (lest she be so bold as to slack off on him again). So far he had at least found nothing to complain about outright, but his scowl seemed craggier and angrier with each visit, and whenever he left he would mutter something about being kept beyond his usual quitting time. Shulma glanced up at the chrono on the wall; he would probably be coming in again soon, and as she was almost done with this row of counters. If she at least got started on the central cart, he would see that she wasn’t being lazy.

Once she had finished the row, she rinsed the scrub brushes and cleaning cloths and returned them to either the appropriate supply bin or the soiled cloth hamper. Then, from a hook on the wall near the distribution apparatus, she took a long-handled tool with a metal-bristled suction-brush at one end and a broad, flat vibroscraper blade at the other, and brought it over to the central cart.

The cart was immense, almost as tall as she was, and she craned over to look inside; its inner walls were coated with musty rock dust, and the bottom and lower edges of the sides were thickly crusted with gray-white mineral deposits. As Novalos had instructed her, she was to first use the vibroscraper to break up the heavier deposits, then dust the sides and clean up all the residue with the suction-brush end.

With some difficulty, she reached the long tool into the cart with the scraper end touching the built-up mineral crust on the cart bottom, then activated the vibroscraper and began chipping away. Masses of fierce yellow sparks flew up with each strike, climbing higher and higher up the metal handle even as the crust crumbled and broke—

—and Shulma could have sworn that the cart moved.

Wait, that couldn’t be; wasn’t its brake set? All the brakes of all the waste carts were set; certainly this one was, too? It had to be just her imagination. Sparks or no sparks, she simply had to keep working.

She struck at the mineral crust again, and several things happened at once.

A fountain of yellow lightning shot up around the handle of the scraper. The cart lurched forward on its track with such violence that Shulma was pulled off her feet and thrown into it head first, directly into the golden blaze.

And the cart continued rolling, through the open rolling door, into the shaft, picking up speed…

“NO!” Shulma screamed. But it was too late. Cart, kit, and scraper, all suffused in masses of yellow lightning, were now careering at full speed downward into the shaft. All Shulma could do was hang onto the scraping tool for dear life as the wild motion knocked and battered her against the sides of the cart. She clenched her eyes shut against the unrelenting pain, the building brilliance—

—for it was not a dark mine tunnel that she was hurtling through but a fiery maze of gold-orange stardust blended with blinding, color-changing light. Twisting, turning, jolting, pitching, swerving—where to?—

—until everything crashed to a halt, to darkness and cold.

to be continued

#star wars #star wars rebels #star wars fan fiction #fanfic #fan fiction #lasat #lasan #lasat oc #lasat ocs #finds writes

[iwillgodownwithclintasha]

Venezuela Chpt 1

Title:

Venezuela

Category: Movies » Avengers

Author: Assemble-the-Avengers

Language: English, Rating: Rated: K+

Genre: Romance/Hurt/Comfort

Published: 09-29-12, Updated: 11-28-12

Chapters: 10, Words: 16,172

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Natasha gently lifted Clint's injured leg onto her chair, moving forward so that she wouldn't put any harmful pressure on it. Although, as she scanned her eyes over him, taking in the glass imbedded in his skin, the multiple cuts and bruises, dilated pupils, suggesting a concussion, and the steady swelling of his right wrist, she doubted that a slight bump would make it all that much worse.

Clint watched her take inventory of his visible injuries, worry growing quickly in her eyes. He caught her attention, looking at her with a convincing expression that she translated to mean, 'I'm ok.' The slight twitch of her mouth indicated that in no way did she believe him. He sighed shakily, his body tensing in effort of hiding the wince that threatened to make an appearance. Natasha could feel his leg tense behind her back, giving him away despite his attempts.

"We'll have one of…" Stark looked at each of his teammates. "Everything." He said, bringing Hawkeye and the Black Widow out of their silent conversation. The dirty, yet miraculously unscathed, waitress nodded tiredly and made her way across the restaurant, carefully stepping over the piles of debris.

Steve's head was propped up on his hand, barely managing to keep his eyes open. Bruce's eye lids were dropping quickly. Tony slouched in his chair, exhaustion quickly catching up with him. Thor stared ahead blankly, too drained to focus. Natasha leaned against the table, maintaining eye contact with her hawk. He was acutely aware of every pain in his body, the adrenaline having worn off.

Another younger waitress made her way around the table refilling everyone's water glasses. Steve thanked her, downed the entire cup and went back to focusing on staying awake. Natasha leaned forward, grimacing as her entire body protested to the action, grabbed Clint's glass and handed it to him, doubting he could move painlessly, and not wanting to find out. He raised an eyebrow in thanks as he took it from her.

When their meal arrived, everyone ate their Shawarma quietly, slowly. Natasha placed the basket of unknown food on Clint's lap, watching slightly amused as he inhaled the entire sandwich-like wrap. Her faint smile faded instantly as she realized that Loki had probably never fed him. He definitely hadn't let him sleep, that much was clear by the dark circles under his blue eyes.

Tony threw a french fry at the Captain when his cheek finally slipped off his fist and into his sandwich.

"Right, I think we're done here." Bruce mumbled pushing to his feet. Tony slapped a crinkled one-hundred dollar bill down onto the table as he stood, walking over to the Captain. "Thor?" Bruce called, nodding toward Steve. The god nodded once and stood behind Tony as he tried unsuccessfully to wake their teammate.

"Plug your ears." Natasha instructed everybody. They did as instructed, watching in confusion as she pulled a gun of the holster on her thigh. She fired it into the nonexistent ceiling, sliding the gun back in its holster as the Captain flinched awake.

"It's just us, Captain. You ready to get out of here?" Bruce asked. The man nodded drowsily as he got up from his chair. His knees buckled and his hands came crashing down onto the table to steady himself. Tony stepped up under the Captain's right arm, and Thor came up on his left. Between the two of them, they managed to keep the super soldier upright until they reached the tower, where he collapsed in a heap of exhaustion, blood and bruises.

Natasha glanced warily at Clint before getting off her chair and carefully lowering his left leg to the ground. She helped him to his feet and got under his left arm.

Once the assassins stepped off the elevator, Tony quickly waved them towards a pair of bedrooms down at the end of the hallway. Ignoring the second bedroom, they made their way to the closest one. She leaned him up against the wall while she dragged the desk chair into the oversized bathroom.

"Easy." She warned, helping him lower himself into the expensive looking chair. Clint let his head fall back and his eyes close as he fought to keep his breathing even through the pain. "List 'em." She ordered as she pulled the first aid kit out from under the sink.

"A couple of seriously bruised ribs, concussion, not sure with my right wrist, crashed through a window, and I think my knee's fractured." He listed immediately. Natasha sucked in a breath as she rose to her feet. "How bout you?" ignoring him, she dropped down, pulling the zipper down on his vest. He flinched as she eased it off his battered body. She undid the Velcro on his Kevlar vest next, eyes widening as she took in his black and blue torso. "I got rammed by a couple Chitauri. I'm fine, Natasha." He promised, tilting her head up so that she had to look at him.

"Take these. Now." She demanded, emptying a few painkillers into his hand.

"They aren't gonna make a dent in any of this Tasha." He argued even as he dry swallowed them. Deciding to deal with the imbedded glass first, she fished around in the first aid kit for a pair of tweezers.

There was only one particularly deep laceration on his shoulder that required a few butterfly stitches, but other than that, she was finished relatively quickly. Then she moved onto his wrist. Upon further speculation, she decided he had only severely sprained it. Gingerly lifting his large tan hand into her small pale one, she began wrapping it tight enough to keep the swelling down. Once she had finished, she lowered his hand back down to rest beside him. Then she steeled herself enough to deal with his chest. Crouching down in front of him, she reached to press on the darkest areas. He gasped in pain, his hand flying out instinctively to grab her wrist.

"Clint…" she chastised, pulling her hand out of his grip. She offered her non dominant hand and he took it without hesitating. Their entwined hands dropped to the side, pulling painfully at Natasha's injured shoulder. She probed his ribs for another minute. "Cracked one. The others are only bruised." She muttered. "I'll get you ice when I'm finished." She promised, dropping his hand. He nodded. She undid his black belt and helped slide his cargo pants over his swollen knee. She hissed out a curse. "How'd you walk on this?" she whispered.

"You know as well as I do that you can walk on a fracture, Tasha." He sighed. She shook her head and wrapped it tightly, forcing herself to ignore his flinching.

"My turn." Clint fixed her with an insistent look that she knew meant that she would lose the argument in the end. That didn't mean wasn't going to argue anyway.

"No, Clint, I'm fine. Get in bed before you do more damage to yourself." She scowled. He saw something flicker in his eyes that he rarely saw, but he had seen it enough, every time he pulled out of a coma, to recognize it; fear.

"I'm sorry I scared you, Natasha. But now you need to let me patch you up. That's how we do this remember? You patch me up, I patch you up. So please sit down, and cooperate." He ranted softly. She grumbled something unintelligible and sat down on the edge of the bathtub. "List 'em." He repeated, looking her over.

"Dislocated shoulder, sprained ankle, energy burn on my right side…." She trailed off. "Think that's it."

He motioned for her to get out of her cat suit. She slid out of it, wincing when the fabric ripped away from the bloody burn on her side. Clint's jaw clenched when he saw the painful looking abrasion. He dragged his eyes away from it to meet her eyes. "Shoulder first?" he checked.

"Shoulder first." She agreed. He gripped the forearm of her injured arm, positioning his injured hand firmly against her bare waist. He looked at her in asking if she was ready. She nodded once, holding his gaze as he pulled her arm back into place. She bit down on her bottom lip as relentless pain shot up and down her arm. He lowered her arm down to her lap before helping her lift her leg onto his lap so that he could wrap her ankle. Clint took a strip of gauze and folded it into a square, wiping at the energy burn in attempt to get as much blood and dirt away from the injury as he could. As he massaged burn cream into the wound, he tried to ignore her fingers digging into his good shoulder; she needed a pain outlet just as much as he had. He sprayed antiseptic over another piece of gauze, pressing it firmly against her side before taping it down. She glanced at him thankfully, before standing and helping him to his feet.

They climbed into the bed, facing each other. Clint watched her curiously as she stared blankly at his eyes. He had a feeling he knew why she was doing what she was doing, but he chose to ignore the part of his brain claiming that she was hoping his eyes would turn bright blue again. Suddenly, the memory of a deep purple bruise on her stomach that he had noticed but hadn't paid much attention to resurfaced. He pushed up on his good arm, ignoring the pain that came from his ribs with the action. Flipping her over on her back, he ran a hand over the bruise.

"Natasha…" he breathed. She tensed, praying that he wouldn't ask, because she couldn't lie to him. "I… I did this, didn't I?" he traced over it with a feather light touch.

"No. Loki did." She answered fiercely.

"But it was my fist." He prompted.

"Yes." She answered quietly. He fell over on his back, running a frustrated hand through his hair and over his face. "Clint…" she called, getting on her knees. "Clint Barton, look at me." She demanded, waiting until she could see his blue-grey eyes. "Loki did this, to me, to you. He used magic to take over your brain." Clint flinched. "So tell me how this is your fault. What you could've done to prevent any of this."

"If I'd been stronger…" he started. Natasha's eyes flashed precariously.

"Stronger? Clint, if you were any stronger you'd might as well be a super soldier. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, and come back to me. I've come close enough to losing you enough for one week." She ordered angrily, desperately trying to keep the pleading tone out of her voice. Clint nodded hesitantly. She knew he hadn't stopped blaming himself, but he had for now. She'd deal with the next breakdown when it came. She settled into the mattress beside him, the sound of her partner's beating heart lulling her to sleep.

Their wake-up call didn't come until 4:30 the next afternoon. Jarvis informed them that Director Fury demanded their audience, in the living room. Natasha could imagine Tony's anger at the realization that the man was in his tower without his explicit permission. Clint's still tired blue eyes met her green ones and they smiled ironically; they knew better than most that this job never ended. Both were even sorer than they had been the night before.

All of Clint's weight was suddenly distributed on Natasha when his knee buckled after helping him off the bed. They stumbled back into the window, causing the glass to quiver.

"Sorry." He apologized, shifting his weight back onto his own two feet. "You ok?" he asked quickly. She looked at him disbelievingly, to say 'Seriously?'

"Yes, I'm fine, Clint." She assured him, even as she rolled her hurt shoulder. "Really." She promised, noticing his guilty look. They dressed and headed out into the communal living room to see a shirtless Steve Rogers sitting at the bar, hands pressed to the heavy bandaging around his bare stomach.

"Chitauri got a few hits in with those energy rifles." He explained. Natasha smiled sympathetically.

"Know how it feels." Her hand came to touch her own bandaging subconsciously. Bruce stood completely unharmed against the wall. A slightly bruised Tony sat on the couch, glaring at Nick Fury who stood by the door. Pepper sat quietly by Stark, playing with his hand. "Ms. Potts," Natasha greeted.

"Call me Pepper, Natasha." The strawberry blonde insisted. Natasha nodded respectively.

"Where's…" Clint started.

"Thor is with Loki." Fury answered the oncoming question. "You are all required to attend Loki's send off at 1700." Clint tensed. "Excluding Ms. Potts, of course." He added.

"Director," Natasha was prepared to argue for Clint's sake.

"I understand that this will be difficult for some of you," he said, sending a fleeting suggestive glance at Hawkeye. "But it's not open for discussion. After this, you're all on one-week leave." He said informatively.

"Yes sir." Natasha responded. Fury turned on his heel and left.

Clint sat on the bed, staring distractedly at the floor. Natasha stood by her duffel bag, pulled out a pair of black skinny jeans, a red tank top, and a black tee shirt, and changed into her selected outfit. She hissed in frustration when she tweaked her shoulder painfully. Walking over to where Clint's bag had been deposited on the floor, she leaned over it and picked a pair of black jeans and a red tee shirt before throwing them at her lost in thought partner. Clint looked up as two articles of clothing flew at him.

"Thanks." He called after her as she made her way to the bathroom. Clint pulled his black jeans over his wrapped knee, and what may as well have a muscle shirt over his head. "Hey Tasha…" he called. Before he could finish the request, his belt she had removed yesterday landed on the bed. He smirked as he reached over to pick it up, ignoring the protest from his ribs. He pushed himself off the bed, walking toward his open duffle bag. He searched through it for his watch, fastening it on the wrist Natasha hadn't wrapped. Flexing his wrist, and judging the amount of pain he was willing to tolerate versus giving Loki the satisfaction of seeing him hurt, he quickly unwrapped it, tossing the dressings in the trashcan. Leaning against the wall, Clint pulled his well worn combat boots on, tucking the laces into the top of the shoe. Natasha frowned at his wrist, but she could guess why he'd done it so she kept quiet. "Oh, two inch heels and a sprained ankle. That's sure to end well." Clint said sarcastically. Natasha shrugged her left shoulder.

"Worn taller with worse." She argued, shutting him up. "Sun glasses," she tossed his dark aviator glasses to him.

"Jacket," he replied, tossing her tan leather coat in the air. "I say," he said stepping closer. "That we go to Paris for our week off." He suggested.

"Rome." She purred in his ear. By the way his heartbeat quickened beneath her palm, she knew she'd just won the argument.

"Ok." He agreed easily, smiling a smile she hadn't seen in while.

"Ready?" she asked.

"Yeah." He lied, while his eyes screamed 'No.' She took his hand in response. 'I'm not going anywhere.' He seemed to relax more after that.

#clintasha #hawkeye #blackwidow #clintbarton #natasharomanoff #avengers #marvel #clintashafanfiction #clintashaangst #iwillgodownwiththisship

[lightofpage]

Hurts Like Hell

Ch. 3 The old familiar sting

Ch.2

Ch.1

The Friday night that he called found Karen in her usual spot on Friday nights, sitting at the sixth bar stool in at Josie’s with Matt and Foggy on either side. Foggy was showing them old college photos he had found of Matt and him while Matt told the stories that each photo captured a moment of. She was snorting with laughter over a Jack and coke.

Karen was still laughing when her phone rang. It was an unknown number and she didn’t have to guess who it was. She walked quickly to the door outside waving her phone at Foggy when he called out to her.

She stepped outside into the cold night and she was breathless when she answered the phone.

“Frank?”

“Karen”

His voice sounded strained, like he was in pain. Karen froze.

“You're hurt, where are you?”

He listed off the address and a key code as Karen frantically pulled a pen and pad of paper out of her purse and wrote down his address.

“I’ll be there soon.”

The line disconnected and Karen hoped that he hadn’t passed out and dropped the phone. She was typing the address into Google when she heard the door to the bar open and Matt call her name.

“Karen? Is everything ok?”

She turned to him wide eyed, her heart must be racing. Karen assumed he heard everything-stepping outside hadn’t done shit against his hearing.

“Matt, I have to go.” She wasn’t in the mood for an argument, not with Frank possibly bleeding out.

“I know. If you need help, call me. If it’s bad, we can take him to Maggie and go from there.” There was concern in his voice, but also compassion. Karen felt like crying.

“Thank you, Matt, I’ll let you know.”

He nodded and she jogged to her parked car across the street. She was 17 minutes away. 17 minutes. A lot could happen in that time. Karen tried not to imagine the worst possibility, instead replaying all the shit he’d been through. Torture, shot to pieces, broken bones…

Frank Castle seemed invincible and Karen prayed that tonight wasn’t the night she learned he wasn’t.

At every stoplight her fingers tapped anxiously against the steering wheel of Ben’s car. She pulled up to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city.

She closed the car door and approached the entrance, one hand gripping the .380 in her purse. Karen typed in the code and the door opened with a buzz. There was one flickering light in the hallway that lead upstairs. At the top the door opened up to an office overlooking the warehouse below.

Inside was a cot, a table littered with magazines and half assembled firearms. There slumped on the floor by the cot was Frank. The flip phone still open in his hand. His eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow.

“Frank!”

She ran to him and knelt beside him, “Frank, c’mon-you gotta wake up for me.” His Kevlar vest was strewn across the floor beside him, the white skull was now mostly red. His shirt was cut and there were three bullet holes in his abdomen. It looked like he had started bandaging them before he passed out, but the pressure dressing was already soaking through.

Karen grabbed the gloves out of the first aid kit that was in disarray on the floor next to him. She grabbed more gauze and pressed hard against one of the wounds. With one hand on the gauze she added a second layer to the dressing.

His eyes flickered open and she breathed a sigh of relief as she moved onto the next dressing.

“There’s two more in my back that I couldn’t reach.”

Frank looked pale and Karen’s hands shook as grabbed the trauma shears to cut the rest of his shirt off. He leaned forward with a pained groan.

“Goddamnit Frank.”

There was so much blood. She grabbed more gauze and pushed down hard.

“Yeah, it was a rough night.” He muttered weakly.

“Frank I can’t do this alone. I can’t- there’s so much blood.”

Karen hated hearing the tremor in her voice, it was a reminder of the stakes at hand.

“No hospitals.”

“I know, I know-but you’re losing too much blood, you need fluids-you need…”

He slumped forward into her, passing out. Karen shucked off one of the gloves and pulled out her phone, muttering an angry “Fuck you Frank Castle” as she found Matt’s number.

The phone rang for but a moment before he answered.

“Karen?”

“Matt, I need your help” She told him the address and nodded when he told her he’d be there soon.

While she waited, she worked on holding pressure praying to a God she no longer believed in. It was not a pretty sight when Karen and Matt took a shoulder each and got Frank to the car. The stairs down were particularly challenging.

They laid him down in the backseat, Karen would worry about the blood stains later, and drove to Clinton Church. Karen grit her teeth the whole way, too frequently she looked in the rear view mirror at his bulking form.

“He looks like shit Karen and his heartbeat is thready, but it's regular. He’s been through worse.”

Matt said after ignoring her own erratic heartbeat for as long as he could. Karen nodded, holding back tears. Her grip on the steering wheel tight.

“Thank you, Matt. I know this isn’t…I know he’s not…” She struggled to find the words. Her brain a mess of horrible outcomes.

“You love him, right Karen?”

There was no anger or judgment in his voice, just a matter a fact statement. Karen glanced over at him, her eyes wide in shock. It was so not like Matt.

“I do. Yeah, I do.”

It was the first time she admitted it to anyone. Matt nodded, “Then you have my help. Always.”

This time the tears did fall.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

Once again, it was a struggle to take him inside the parish. Another set of stairs. When they got him to the basement, Maggie was already prepped, fresh bandages, an IV pole and fluids already set up and waiting for a patient. They laid him down and Maggie got to work placing an IV. Frank’s eyes flickered open and he started to resist. The group scrambled, shouting at him to stay still, but it was Karen’s voice that reached him.

“You’re safe Frank. Not a hospital. You’re safe. Let them help you.”

He settled and her hand stayed on his shoulder as Maggie continued. When the IV was placed and the bag of fluids started running, she took his blood pressure and sighed when she finished releasing the valve on the sphygmomanometer and the air hissed out.

“It’s low of course, but not as bad as it could be.”

Karen smiled for the first time since the ordeal began, “Good. Thank you, Maggie, thank you so much.”

Maggie smiled fondly, “Of course. We’ll take care of him, you should get some rest.”

Karen shook her head, “I’ll stay, if I can?”

Maggie nodded. Karen felt a hand brush her arm and she turned to face Matt.

“His heartbeat is stronger. He’ll get through this. Don’t worry about work-stay however long you need to.”

Karen hugged him tightly, “Thank you Matt, seriously.”

Matt smiled and took his leave. Karen pulled up a chair, her hand clasped in Frank’s. She stared at this broken man, remembering how his path had crossed with hers. More like she stepped in the way of his. She had his face memorized since the day he left her in the woods. Every line of his furrowed brow, the small smile he flashed her in the café, and his eyes…she’d seen too much to think they’re empty, haunted yes, but full and clear.

Karen was pulled from her thoughts as Maggie started to change out the new bandages. Karen cleared her throat, “So, still helping those in need?”

Maggie glanced at her with a sly smile, “These church doors will always remain open to those who have nowhere else to go.”

“Even for…” Karen glanced over at Frank.

“Even for the Punisher, yes.”

Maggie’s hands were swift and gentle as she threw the soaked gauze away and cleaned his wounds. Karen’s gaze wandered as she took in all of Frank’s scars, it scared her how much she cared for him.

“It looked like the bullets didn’t pass clean through, we’ll work on getting those out when he’s more stable.”

Karen swallowed and gripped his hand tighter.

“He’s lucky to have you.” The kindness in Maggie’s voice was soothing, a balm for Karen’s aching heart. Karen smiled at her words, “I don’t know about that.”

Maggie cocked her head, her eyes bright, “Now why would you doubt that?”

Karen shrugged, “My presence in his life, uh-,” she took a deep breath, “I think is a distraction. One that he doesn’t want.”

She looked away, missing the fluttering movement of Frank’s closed eyes and the twitch of his lips. Maggie did not.

“Mmm, well. He seems to be a very focused man.”  

She finished the bandage and pulled the covers over Frank before taking a seat on the edge of his bed, facing Karen.

Karen let out a laugh, “That’s one way to put it.”

Maggie leaned forward, meeting Karen’s gaze, “But he’s still a man. He’s not a machine. Whatever his cause may be- revenge…justice…it can only last for so long before it takes its toll. It can still break a person, even one who seems infallible.”

Karen brushed away a stray tear as Maggie continued, “And in those moments, we all need somebody.” Maggie took placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, “I remember what happened that night, Karen. You were prepared to die. You could have run, but you stayed...you were ready to sacrifice yourself for those people.”

Father Lanthom’s death was still fresh in Karen's mind, as with everyone else’s death, but being in the church again made her memories stand just behind the door of every thought.

“Don't make me sound so heroic." Her words were bitter, "I was ready and Father Lanthom... he shouldn't...he shouldn’t have done that.” Karen sniffed.

“My point is Karen, you are brave and you are strong. You have the strength to help a soul such as Frank's. Father Lanthom was a man of God, one of the few true men of God out there. He was ready to make that choice. You are not at fault. That mad man who threw the knife is.”

Maggie’s expression was calm and she was so sure. It almost made Karen want to believe her, but the guilt still brewed heavy in her blood.

“Still, so many people,” Karen gasped, her shoulders shaking as a sob tore through her, “So many people have died. Because of me. I’m not a good person, I’m no-,”

“Karen,” Maggie laid a hand over Karen’s. “It’s not your fault.”

Her eyes were red and her tears felt heavy.

“It’s not your fault. There is evil in this world and you are not part of it. We don’t always have a choice as to the path that God puts us on or what tragedies will befall us while we are on it. This man, you? My son? Everyone has a role to play, even if we don’t know it. Sometimes pure goodness can’t win against such forces-sometimes it takes the Punisher. Sometimes even those who are in favor in the eyes of the Lord must carry heavy baggage. A bad person wouldn’t feel this hurt so deeply, Karen. Forgive yourself.”

“I don’t know if I can,” She whispered.

It was quiet in the basement. They sat in silence for a moment, surrounded by statues of saints. Ordinary people called to do more, to be more.

“Then love. Keep loving. Sometimes it's the only answer.” She said it fiercely.

Karen’s blue eyes were glistening as she stared at the older woman.

“You will find the truth-even if it is hard to see-when you love.” Her words lingered in the quiet room as Maggie stood, gathering her supplies. She placed them on the side table and allowed Karen time to collect herself.

“You should rest. He will make it through the night.”

Maggie was not surprised to see the woman shake her head, “No, I’ll stay. Thank you.”

Shrugging her shoulders, Maggie turned to leave. She paused for a moment, and turned back to face Karen, “You see all these saints Karen?" She gestured to the statues, "A wise man once said 'Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.' We do not know what God has in store for us. We must live our lives fully to find out.”

A somber smile fell over Maggie’s face as she walked back up to the rectory.

Karen continued to sit by Frank’s side, Maggie’s words ran through her mind as she watched Frank’s even breathing. She found comfort in it. She sighed and folded her arms on the mattress, letting her head rest in her arms, knowing full well her body would protest in the morning. Right now she didn’t care, she wanted to sleep at the side of the man she loved. It didn’t take long for her breathing to slow and sleep to take her.

Frank opened his eyes and looked at Karen. He softly ran a hand through her hair and she sighed in her sleep. He'd heard every word and it broke his heart. Frank knew this is the fight he would lose too. He’d been at war with himself over her and this was his breaking point. He wasn’t alone in his pain. He wasn’t alone in sorrow. He was reckless, only surviving the next day so he could fight another night and it was killing him. So maybe-maybe he’d allow himself this one good thing while he has it.

#long post #sorry #Guys I know I'm posting a lot but I gotta get it all out before going back to work lol #so this was only going to be 2 chapters but now I'm not sure how many #kastle #kastle ff #kastle fic #kastle fanfic #kastle fanfiction #IDK if there are even any punisher spoilers #daredevil season 3 spoilers #yes

[markoftheasphodel]

je me lance vers la gloire

A belated Nagamas gift for @sshining, a fill for the prompt The Deliverance trio/Celica squad (echoes). Can be Canon, modern AU, game of thrones-esque FE steeped in the reality of war and politics, comedy, romance, adventure, angst, crossovers.

How about RBG Trio with cameos from Genny & Mae+Boey, 1970s band AU, intimations of Forsyth/Python/Lukas and a splash of background Lukas/That Girlfriend?

Summer. New York City. 1975

Forsyth skirted around Python’s dead weight on the air mattress as he crept around the apartment collecting their mail and trash. Once he’d shredded all the mail into tiny scraps and wadded it up with all the other refuse in one nondescript plastic bag, he concealed the trash in one end of his duffle bag. Forsyth walked down the six flights of stairs with the sort of purpose that usually prevented anyone from asking him what he was doing there at such an hour.

Fake it ’til you make it, Python called it, but it worked. It really did.

Forsyth opened the rear stair to the alley and got a blast of sticky summer heat along with the general sense of foulness he’d gotten used to since coming to the city. One of the local strays, the black dog with white feet and one white pointed ear, was hanging out by the dumpster, and Forsyth took a moment to scratch the dog on its white ear before he slipped the refuse out of his duffle bag, tucked it into the corner of a dumpster, and just kept walking towards the Y. The only time he made eye contact with anyone was to look at the newsstand guy, who was sitting there melting next to the stack of screaming headlines.

“President to New York: DROP DEAD!”

That hurt. Forsyth had kind of liked the President, had defended him to Python as a decent guy who was in over his head, maybe. He could only imagine what Python was going to say when he finally got around to reading the news.

-x-

Lukas contemplated the headline for a long moment, appreciating the bold blackness, the heft of every letter. He picked up his X-Acto knife and began to cut them apart, the better to admire each one.

-x-

Forsyth could hear the sound of drums echoing all the way down the stairwell as he came back to the walk-up after his workout. Not that it worried him; the racket they made wasn't much worse than the guy with the tool-and-die setup on the first floor. Rehearsing wasn't the illegal part of their situation, it was living there in the industrial space to begin with. They'd get evicted if anyone found out about their mail or their hot plate, but not for Python banging drums at eight in the morning.

Banging wasn't the right word. Too atavistic, Forsyth thought as he huffed up the stairs. What Python was doing was more nimble, more clinical maybe. The opposite of primal.

Forsyth had a smile on when he flung open the door to their walkup to behold Python at the drums, his shirt coming apart at the seams but his hair catching the morning light just so, as though it'd been arranged one lock at a time for that scene, that moment of entry.

-x-

Lukas showed up when Python was putting on his eyeliner and Forsyth was making a beer run.

“Hey, stud,” Python greeted the Lukas in the mirror. If Andrea had been tagging along he wouldn't have said it because Andrea didn't always think Python was funny, but there was obviously no Andrea of the black clothes and black moods in the mirror and Lukas only smiled in response.

They carried on a three-way conversation, Python addressing the reflection before his eyes as the real Lukas spoke to his back, while they waited for Forsyth to show up with the beer. Lukas was dressed today like he belonged on a tennis court instead of an industrial loft with exposed pipes and he was holding a satchel filled with notebooks behind his back. He and Andrea came from a place where they didn't have to take showers at the Y or hide trash from the landlord and it showed. If Andrea'd been there, Python would have tried to get some cigarettes off her; she could afford them.

Forsyth clattered in with the beer and some tale about the sad dogs in the alleyway. Python cut him off with the ting of a cymbal and they fell into rehearsal, Forsyth adding his plaintive guitar on top of the drums while Lukas read weird poems he'd assembled from newspaper headlines pasted onto index cards. It wasn't rock or jazz or anything with a name to it, just the sound of three odd souls reverberating off the pipes and the mirror while the city fried around them.

They were never gonna get famous like this and it was all right with Python.

Winter. 1976.

This was the life. Grabbing dinner from the old lady at the knish bakery a few doors down from The Last Mile, chowing down on rough mouthfuls of kasha that tasted like the best thing he’d eaten all week as he marched through pools of filthy slush on his way back to the club. They'd started sound check without him, and the spare and angular sound of Forsyth's guitar skittered over the bass line with a nervous tension that wasn't like anyone else in the city.

Python set the paper bag bulging with knishes down on a ledge as he watched Forsyth bounce sounds off Lukas. In every band Python'd ever played in from the time they were kids, everybody wanted to be the guitar hero— except Python himself, who’d always wanted to rule over a drum kit. Everybody wanted to sing, whether they could carry a tune in a bucket or not. Everyone wanted to be a rock star.

Forsyth wanted all those things and so Lukas slid on over to playing the bass without a peep of protest. Maybe he actually liked it; Python noticed a look of wonder about him at times as Lukas explored what the fat sound of his new instrument could actually do. When Lukas drew something out of the bass that evoked the sense of black snakes writhing in the muck of a swamp, Python sometimes felt something turn in his gut, like this moment might somehow matter down the line.

Then he remembered they were still three weirdoes from different walks of life improbably playing in a black hole of a dive together, because things like that happened in New York City, as inevitable as murder.

-x-

Boey and Mae told her not go out on her own because nobody'd caught the serial killer yet, but Genny had gotten adept at sneaking around when they were in school and getting into The Last Mile was easy now. She just walked in like she was supposed to be there with her notebook and pen, and if anyone asked Genny gave them the names of magazines that didn't exist. Sometimes she pretended to be from Canada.

That evening when the wind blew cold down the littered streets, the band Genny was hoping to see at The Last Mile wasn't there. They'd moved on to a better club, outside the Bowery. Some new trio was in their place.

Genny wasn't sure at first if they were all boys or not. The drummer had a strange kind of grace, a little feline and a little androgynous (how Genny loved the sound of those words) and his arms somehow were slender with the most wonderful muscles, like the saints’ statues that fascinated her in the priory. The bass player was tiny-- taller than Genny, but everyone was, and very small compared to the gangling singer who fired off strange sounds from his guitar. They held their guitars like weapons, Genny thought, but not like the careless boys who used guitars as stand-ins for guns and other things that shot. These were sacred weapons.

Genny had stars in her eyes and visions of ancient samurai swords in her brain and when the bass player looked at the singer or the singer glanced back at the drummer, she could almost see strands of light connecting them as they played their odd music.

Genny wrote it all down in her notebook. She was very good at writing in the dark.

-x-

Andrea went back to Rhode Island or wherever it was she was from and Lukas used his family money to get them all a place where they weren't in danger of being evicted by the cops. Now all their crap was intermingled the same way their bodies fell into a strangely chaste tangle most nights— Python's wood shop pieces that were never going to make him famous either mixed up with Forsyth's guitars interspersed with Lukas's books and all the strange things that spilled out of his satchel, index cards and notebooks and clippings from magazines.

Lukas carried multiple copies of that weird and glowing anonymous review they'd somehow earned at The Last Mile. Forsyth taped one copy to the fridge and he looked at it every day like something in it sustained his soul. Python thought it was nice but it didn't mean anything. They had a fan, that's all. A nameless fan at that.

He was more concerned about the other things that Lukas carried in his satchel, like the vaguely creepy lyric sheets made of letters cut out of newspapers, almost like Lukas writing a ransom note to himself.

“I’m sadder than you’ll ever know," Python read from one of these sheets, and he wondered if this was some breakup song for Andrea. "What’s that from?"

"Just a song I've been constructing," said Lukas, because he "constructed" things instead of just writing them.

"Okay. What's it about?" asked Python.

“A serial killer," Lukas said through a delicate smile.

“Okay, so it’s topical,” said Python, thinking of the Son of Sam. Topical was probably bad, the way all the great “anthems” of the sixties were laughably dated now, but then again he wasn’t the lyricist so that wasn’t his problem.

-x-

Forsyth saw the literal word on the streets, the proclamation that punk was coming. It meant nothing; he'd read Jack London and Burroughs both and he knew the layers of meaning in the word and didn't care. Some day he'd go home and his father was going to know that the money spent sending Forsyth to college hadn't actually been wasted, but punk wasn't going to get him there any more than the dopey mumbling rockers that he and Python escaped would've.

Maybe the word didn't exist yet.

Forsyth moved through the city that took him in in as it took comers from every corner of the globe, straining to hear some note that'd never been played before, hoping any moment he'd be in the thick of the revolution they'd been promised. He looked past the dead dogs in the gutter and the sordid headlines, because something was coming.

Winter. 1977.

They moved up from The Last Mile to a slightly better species of dive bar and that's where destiny found them. Python noticed him first; he had a radar for squares and this guy was it, baby. He had to be close to thirty, wearing a bowl cut that was about a decade out of date. Nice jacket, though-- real leather instead of pale-blue plastic. Expensive.

“He’s a phony,” said Python, the jacket notwithstanding. “What’s he even doing here?”

He was scouting for talent on behalf of an actual label. Python would've respected him more if this guy, Clive, had been scouting for tail. The second time he brought his girlfriend, though, tall and blonde and exquisitely put-together, looking like money and yet hanging out in a dive with no complaints. The girlfriend, Mathilda, was the one who echoed what that weird anonymous article had already told everyone. They sounded fresh, maybe in a foreign kind of way like fake-Japanese or something with pentatonic scales, and Lukas “looked cute” with his big bass in his hands. That carried some weight with somebody. They got signed.

-x-

"Allow me to do the negotiating," Lukas said to Forsyth, and Forsyth let him. They ended up with a contract that guaranteed things that Forsyth never even thought about, like tying the royalties for songs to the rate of inflation. Lukas was a genius. Lukas was going to make them a fortune.

-x-

When someone broke into their apartment and made off with three guitars, Python couldn't help but notice that Clive bought Lukas not one but two replacements while Forsyth had to go down to the pawn shop and fend for himself. So that was how it was going to be from now on.

Again, if he thought Clive had a thing for Lukas, he would’ve been kind of okay with the disparate treatment, but he knew it was because Clive thought Lukas was the brains, the leader, the essential person who kept a steady stream of words coming through Forsyth’s lips. Clive couldn’t conceive that they were a trinity, each of them as important as the other.

Squares, thought Python. He almost wouldn't mind if the city really did burn this year. Almost.

-x-

The label put them on a package tour with another trio, a group whose guitarist was a girl with two tails of pink hair and whose drummer wasn't white. This was fresh and exciting, and Lukas was pleased to share the bus with them. As they were three and three, he shared a seat with their keyboard player, a tiny girl with a cloud of apricot-colored hair. She was their writer, and like Lukas carried a stack of notebooks, though in her case he saw doodles and what appeared to be short stories in place of his own word collages.

He noticed some other things in her notebook.

"Do you speak French?" he asked on the third day of the tour.

"We learned French and Latin both in school," said Genny in her sweet and small voice.

"What would be the best way to express the phrase 'I hurl myself towards glory'?" Lukas put on the subtle smile that tended to get him what he wanted, and Genny helped him craft the thorny yet crucial middle section of the song that was going to make them.

“I’m glad we’re touring with you,” Genny said on the third day, as the silver moon shone over the sea that glimmered out the window. “I was afraid they’d have us with punks, but then I saw you and I knew everything was going to be fine.”

Lukas heard the shudder in her voice at the idea of spike-haired cretins spitting gobbets of phlegm all over the bus and pissing out the window. Of their group, only Python with his well-tended hair and strategically torn clothes looked even vaguely punk, and Python had too much pride to spit up in public for amusement. He heard the caress in her voice aimed at them, or at him, just as clearly. It pleased and unsettled him in one moment that this tiny girl thought they were safe. But then Genny asked him, in the voice of a someone setting up the trap of a hypothetical question, what he thought of the term New Wave for the sort of music they were doing.

“Some would say there are no new waves at all, only the ocean,” said Lukas, and he looked past her cloud of curls out the window, counting the cars along the turnpike until Genny fell asleep on his shoulder.

To be continued, maybe.

(Yes, it’s the RBG Trio as the not!Talking Heads. My mind made connection between Lukas and David Byrne while I was playing the game last year. Hopefully this fit the bill in some fashion)

#nagamas #fire emblem ficcing #valentia love #long post #text post

[narrans]

One Shot | September Prompts

NINETEEN | Murder

Ali elected to rest in the living room that night. She didn’t feel like going back to her room and they would need to leave in a few hours anyway. After her conversation with Thomas, Roman, Remus, and Logan about the events that transpired after she left, she was exhausted but also excited. Thomas informed her that the grand rescue in the apartments was the next morning, just hours away. Too exhausted and too excited to sleep, Ali simply closed her eyes while laying on the couch. Logan offered to stay with her, on the nearby coffee table of course, but Ali assured him she was all right and that Logan would need more rest than her to help the children once they were in the Shelter’s custody.

Logan, Roman, and Remus spent a considerable amount of time requesting help from the other residents. If they were proficient in first aid or could even wait around and offer comforting words, every little bit would help. Nearly a dozen borrowers came forward after several group meetings to offer their assistance tending to injuries. One of them, much to Patton’s insistence, was Virgil. Though Virgil hadn’t been back personally to see Ali, Patton would stop in from time to time and bring back pamphlets and with illustrated pictures which Ali made. A fair amount of trial and error went into the craft, but Ali found the perfect font size and spacing in Word to craft homemade books. There were only a dozen or so books, as the process was quite time consuming, and all related to medicine and first-aid. Still, it was the thought that counted. Logan further refined the art once he and Ali began talking more frequently. Virgil had become quite proficient in first aid medicine and, in a way, became next in line for instant care. The attention wasn’t always welcome, but it was worth being bothered to see the way Patton beamed with each healed injury.

These thoughts swirled through Ali’s mind as she mentally prepared a list of potential supplies the borrowers would need. She knew she would be needed to provide instruction, but it would be more comforting to a child to have someone their own size handling their injuries. Bandages, gauze, sterile wipes, Neosporin, even small doses of medication were set aside. Ali knew all of the supplies were in a crate in the kitchen. She didn’t need to check. Everything was organized as it should be. She didn’t need to check. Yet, that nagging voice asked her once again to make sure everything was perfect and in order. Ali turned onto her side and stared at the window. It was still snowing large, peaceful flakes. Frost lined the window in intricate patterns, designs so precise they looked hand drawn. Watching the snow seemed to do the trick to sooth her mind. She yawned and stretched, drifting like the snow into a restful sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sleep, though dreamless, worked wonders. Ali learned later she was only asleep for two hours or so before the team arrived to get set up. The borrowers waited both eagerly and anxiously on the counter in the front room as the team loaded out all of the equipment they might need. Roman and Remus offered to go with Thomas, who declined diplomatically. The situation was going to be hectic, emotional, and possibly dangerous. Thomas urged that they prepare for long hours once they returned and that the rules of borrower freedom still only applied in the house. Valid points which Roman and Remus did not argue with. Instead, they bid them fond farewells and safe returns. Not surprisingly, Hickory did not make an appearance.

The house, bustling with excitement and nervous tension an hour ago, was now still with bated breath and anticipation. Roman spent his time sharpening the pin he kept at his side and pre-cutting pieces of tape for bandages they would unfortunately need. Remus spent time stretching. Even though Roman was the faster climber, Remus was the faster runner. If their fears were correct, he would need to run supplies from one end of the room to the other in a hurry. Logan paced along the counter until delegating himself to laying out the supplies in neat piles based on potential injuries. Having supplies pre-assembled seemed logical to him. Virgil and Patton arrived some time later with the other volunteers. Patton began encouraging and quizzing Virgil on what to do in different situations after hearing the team had already gone. The others simply paced silently.

They didn’t know what to expect, and yet they did at the same time. There was a silent understanding that whatever they were about to encounter would be unpleasant, scarring even. Yet, even now, they knew they were needed and accepted their partnership with the humans. This wasn’t for the humans. This wasn’t even for them. This was to prove they could come together, even for a moment, and fix something together.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ali could only hear her heart pounding in her ears. They decided to break up into two groups, one in the van and one in Thomas’s car. Ali was in neither. She made it a point that they needed the room and having her on her motorcycle would let her take anyone needing emergency medical attention back to the Shelter much faster. Also, she couldn’t stand Joan’s driving. The ride gave her clarity and focus. She had seen hundreds of gnarly accidents, but only now felt uneasy and sickened as to what she and the others might find. The apartments were in sight just down the road. She took in a deep breath, held it, then exhaled. She could do this. The others could do this. Now was not the time to begin doubting the road ahead. They pulled into the lot next to the side door where the emergency exit was located.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything happened fast. Too fast, yet not fast enough. They prepped their body cameras and packed lite, only bringing the essentials. Each step made their feet heavier than the last. It was not going to be pleasant. They entered the apartment with the accompanying officers. They managed to get into all of the rooms without issue Each member of the team felt the same, twisted pit knotting their insides as they surveyed the scene. Ali had seen rough scenes from accidents and crashes, ODs and savage attacks. This was worse. She thanked the Lord Almighty she had the experience to push her feelings out of her head. Instinctual training seized control and let her work without the slightest hesitation. Joan and Talyn, on the other hand, had to step out once or twice while they gathered themselves and more supplies. The same phrase echoed distantly in the air, barely registering as intelligible language.

“You’re going to be okay. It’s alright. I am so sorry. You’re going to be okay.”

The officers kept the perpetrators restrained and out of the area, but not before one of them managed to shove Thomas. They all did what they could in the moment to stabilize the children, but there was so much more that needed to be done. All in all, there were 37 of them, far more than they originally estimated. The team quickly, but carefully, brought everyone back to the vehicles.

Ali stayed behind for a moment and sifted through everything one last time. Had they missed anything? Anyone? She checked the closets, floorboards, and even a few drawers. She was about to leave when she thought she heard a sob by the table, which was covered in cigarette butts and cluttered papers nearly four inches thick, most likely overdue bills and spam. Ali approached cautiously and shifted some of the scraps of paper aside. Just underneath was an older money box made of metal. It was slightly rusted on one side and, as Ali listened, was the source of the sob. She also noticed what looked like a fresh bloodstain near the lock. She gently lifted the lid and saw one final child. The child, a young girl, was clutching at her elbow where the rest of her arm should have been. She was paling fast and, at the sight of Ali, wavered and fainted.

Ali scooped up the child, feeling her resolve beginning to break. The others were already heading back. She would have to get her kit from her motorcycle. She began applying pressure to the wound and rushed past the officers and the scum they took the children from.

“Proud of what you’ve done?” Ali growled under her breath as she cupped the girl in her palm. She could have sworn she heard the officers gasp as they glimpsed at what – who – she held in her hands. Ali bounded down the stairs toward her bike. Once there, she ripped open her satchel and wrapped the girl’s stump with gauze as tightly as she dared. The team was probably no more than five minutes ahead of her. Much to her relief, she still had her other spare glove in the side pouch. She slipped the girl into the glove, ensuring her head was above the wrist hem but that her legs were elevated, and placed her by her collar before zipping up her coat. [The glove should function as a blanket. Hang on. You’re safe. Just hang on.] Ali thought desperately as she sped away onto the road back to the Shelter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took some speeding, but Ali managed to arrive as the team loaded the final kids into the Shelter. Ali was amazed, but not surprised, at the efficiency of the borrowers who agreed to help. Remus was darting back and forth with supplies Logan and Patton pulled together. Many others, such as Roman, were talking with the kids, encouraging them and ensuring they were safe now. The vast majority of them refused to leave the safety of the bags, it being the only safe place they had been in a long time. Virgil and two others were moving from bag to bag, performing triage as to who needed help first. Thankfully, Joan and Talyn were busy in the kitchen fixing food which would help the kids regain their strength but not hurt them as they did not know how much the children had eaten recently. Cups of water and orange juice were distributed along with dozens of bottle caps. The flow of efficiency could not have gone smoother.

Ali took the time to set up at a separate area nearby. Based on what she remembered, none of the other children possessed life threatening injuries and, if the others needed her, they could get her attention. Ali gingerly lifted the glove from inside her jacket and set it on the table before removing the girl. Her chest rose and fell, but barely. The bandages were already soaked through and needed to be changed. Priority one was to stop the bleeding. Ali went to work, stanching the wound and keeping the girl’s legs elevated. It took some time, but the bleeding did stop. The girl’s breath was ragged and labored, but she was breathing.

“Ali?” her attention was snapped from her work to the voice on the counter just to her left. It was Patton. He seemed a bit frazzled and tired, but a pleased and hopeful gleam remained in his eyes.

“Yes?” Ali hadn’t realized how tired she sounded. She smiled lightly to compensate.

“Uh… Virgil has a couple of questions, and some of the others wanted you to look over what they’ve done so far. Are you at a point where you can come over?” asked Patton. Ali nodded and delicately place the girl she was working with onto her glove. Patton’s eyes widened to the size of saucers as he received his first glimpse of what Ali had been doing so silently for so long. Ali only now realized the blood smears on her hands. “What happened?” He asked, his knees and voice shaking. He stumbled over and brushed a few strands of long, matted hair from the girl’s face. Ali shook her head briskly. She couldn’t think about everything now. She could break alone later.

“I don’t know. I can venture a guess though,” Ali muttered. Tears gathered in Patton’s eyes as he placed the back of his hand on her forehead.

“She’s covered in a cold sweat, but she’s burning up,” he said frantically. Ali nodded.

“She lost a lot of blood because of her injury. She needs to stay hydrated.” Ali glanced over at the rest of the table. “Patton, I know you’re tired and I hate to ask this, but would you stay with her while I see what the others need? Maybe try and give her something to drink?” At Patton’s nod of agreement, Ali retrieved one of the cups of water along with a few paper towel shreds. “Just squeeze the water in her mouth. Not too much. I know you’ve got this.” They exchanged wary smiles as Ali maneuvered to the opposite side of the table while wiping her hands clean with a baby wipe. None of the children elected to leave the bags just yet and, at the moment, Ali could only see a few shadows near the entrance. Thankfully, the borrowers thought of this scenario and created portable light sources to better illuminate the interior.

“Virgil?” called Ali. After a moment, Virgil stepped out and glanced up at Ali. He was still a little apprehensive, even after all of this time, but was taking a leap of trust.

“Yeah, I’m here. Did Patton fill you in?” asked Virgil. Ali shook her head.

“He only said you and some of the others had some questions and wanted me to check some of the work. That’s all,” replied Ali, giving him a slight smile. “How are you holding up?” Virgil folded his arms under his poncho and shrugged half-heartedly.

“Barely,” he grumbled. “Patton is going to be a wreck later. I’m okay, for now.” Virgil turned back to the bag and the shadows. “Hey Roman. Could I get you to help me for a sec?” Virgil disappeared back into the bag for a moment until he and Roman returned carrying out a kid whose leg looked slightly twisted and discolored. His cheeks were tear stained and his face was plastered with terror. Still, Ali could hear Roman muttering something to him which seemed to be keeping the kid calm. Roman’s charm had the power to sooth the most frayed nerves.

“Ali, this is Oaklan. Oaklan, this is our friend Ali. She’s going to help us out with your leg, okay?” Ali nodded, careful to be even slower in her movements. Virgil explained that he was having trouble setting the child’s leg and there was some strange swelling in the area. Ali examined it, without touching of course, and felt torn. The leg seemed to be broken and compartment syndrome had set in. If winning over her audience was her job, Ali would be failing miserably. Her job was to save their lives. She couldn’t worry about being liked in the moment.

“I think he has compartment syndrome,” she said finally. Neither Virgil nor Roman had heard of it. “It sometimes happens after a break or a fracture. Without getting too technical, it’s going to keep getting more painful if we don’t do something.” The child, Oaklan, whimpered and shoved his face into Virgil’s shoulder, as if refusing to make eye-contact would make Ali go away.

“Okay. So, let’s do something!” urged Virgil. Ali inhaled sharply, a reaction which the borrowers noticed. “What?”

“The solution is slightly less painful.” She steadied herself with a breath as she reached into the box of supplies for some lidocaine cream. “To relieve the pressure, we need to make an incision in the affected area. If we don’t, pain is our last concern.” Oaklan whimpered again and started to shake.

“Is there an alternative?” asked Roman. His voice sounded strained between being positive and worried. Ali stared into Roman’s eyes for a moment.

“If we wait, it could get a lot worse,” said Ali.

“How much worse?” Virgil said, his tone bordering demanding. Ali force herself to separate emotions from the situation.

“Worse could be loss of limb or a fatal infection.” At this, Oaklan began sobbing. Ali could barely make out his muffled words.

“Don’t take my leg. Please don’t let her take my leg.” Virgil and Roman soothed the child as best as they could, reassuring him they wouldn’t let that happen. Roman’s jaw clenched and storm clouds formed over Virgil. They knew what they needed to do. Ali explained the procedure, pausing when necessary to not alarm Oaklan, and assured them the lidocaine would help with the pain and it would be over before he knew it. They brought him over to the side and braced themselves. Roman volunteered to make the cut Ali indicated. Three. Two. One. With a quick and careful flash of Roman’s pin, it was done. Oaklan, even with the pain relief, screamed and passed out, but he was out of immediate danger. Virgil began stitching and bandaging the wound while Ali attended to the other questions. Thankfully, the other injuries were not as severe.

Once the questions were answered, one of the borrowers, Persi, asked for warm water and washcloths so they could wash off the children. Ali, grateful for the mental break, retrieved the items and cut up several washcloths into varying lengths and sizes and placed the supplies outside of each bag. Thomas and the others were also retrieving supplies and necessary items when Thomas’s phone began to ring. He hurriedly wiped his hands clean and stepped aside to answer. There was a pause and a couple of short replies. Ali found it hard to process words at the moment. His tired eyes suddenly brightened. His jaw slackened in surprise. This was enough to gain the team’s attention.

“You’re kidding,” said Thomas disbelievingly. “Yes… Yes… I’ll be sure to let them know. Thank you.” Hearing only one side of a phone conversation was one of the most frustrating encounters, at least it was in Ali’s opinion. Thomas turned, completely bewildered and elated at the same time.

“What’s up?” asked Joan.

“Yeah, did something happen?” chimed in the others. Thomas steadied himself, his breath hitching in his chest with excitement. A cautious smile spread across his face.

“The humans we rescued the kids from are being charged with murder.” The team fell completely silent while their brains processed the information. Everyone filled in the same moment with excitement.

“Are you joking? Please tell me you’re not joking,” stammered Talyn. Thomas shook his head vigorously.

“Not joking. All of them. Every single one. That was Amy-Leigh Hoover, one of our attorneys. The police chief came in, saw the scene and some of our video clips, and had them all arrested.” Thomas’s voice was trembling with excitement. Everyone was torn between shouting in elation and keeping their voices down to not alarm the children or the other borrowers. The compromise was a rapid group hug, everyone jumping and laughing as they collided and clung to one another. Ali could hardly believe it. This was their chance! She joined in the fray after exhaustedly stumbling to her feet. Tired tears glistened at the corners of her eyes.

Logan, taking notice of the humans’ reaction of something after talking into that phone device, set down the strips of tape he prepared and walked to the edge of the table. For the moment, he seemed to be the only one who noticed. He watched the excitement die down as the other members of the team hurried to the kitchen to begin preparing dinner. Ali, on the other hand, came back, tears in her eyes and a heartwarming smile on her face. Logan felt slightly confused, given what they had been dealing with for the entire day.

“What is going on?” he asked. Ali knelt, now at perfect eye-level with him. Roman, Remus, and a few others gathered near the entrances of the bags where the children were recovering. Many of them looked both curious and skeptical but listened into the conversation.

“Great news Logan! Those monsters, the ones who did all of this to the kids, are being charged with murder.” Logan stared at her, perplexed for a moment, as did the other borrowers. At their confused silence, Ali continued. “Don’t you see what this means?”

“Not… exactly,” muttered Roman. Logan, however, seemed to catch on.

“Murder, in both the first and second degree, is applied when one human kills another human.” Logan’s wheels were turning faster and faster. Logan found his excitement raising with every moment, making his words come to him faster and faster. “If the perpetrators are being charged with murder, it means that the children are being treated as human. At the very least, they are being treated like sentient beings. This case could set precedent and overturn a lot of regulations about borrowers currently in effect.”

“Wait,” Roman shook his head as though her were being pelted with Logan’s words. “You’re saying that the laws and rules will be lifted? The humans can’t experiment or keeps us as pets anymore?”

“If we win the case, yes. This could very well be the beginning of borrower freedom.” The silence among them was quickly overridden by sheer excitement. Though hopeful and excited, there were still hints of hesitancy in each of their hearts; but now, right now, they let their excitement seize them. Virgil, hearing this, ran to Patton’s side, nearly tackling him where he worked. Roman and Remus clasped arms which quickly turned into a mock battle. There were cheers and shouts, some of them alarming the children, which quickly quieted the adults. At any rate, a spark of hope was on the horizon.

Ali returned to Patton’s side where the girl appeared to be in a deep sleep. Patton had cleaned some of the blood from her face and remaining arm but focused his efforts in giving her water and keeping her forehead cool. He had pulled a blanket over the rest of her torso and legs to keep her from shivering. Ali relieved Patton so he could return with Virgil. At any rate, she needed to check the child for any other injuries. The prospects of what was to come excited Ali, yet there was a pang of sadness tugging in the back of her mind. She wished, in that moment, that she could share the news with Hickory – who hadn’t been seen or heard from since the day before. Ali hoped Hickory was alright and knew, deep down, that conversation was also on the horizon.

#borrowers #thomas sanders #infinitesimal!sides #borrower!logan #logan sanders #virgil #borrower!virgil #borrower!patton #patton #g/t #human #tiny #borrower #fear #rescue #medicine #injury #celebration #blood #scared #murder charge #legal #inspire #inspire others #sanders #remus #roman #frightened #its okay #safe

[omfgtrump]

The Tale of Two Viruses: Part 14

With the horrendous murder of George Floyd taking center stage in our country, this piece should probably be entitled “The Tale of Two Viruses and One Cancer”. But, first to the viruses.

To witness The Don this week is to beg the question: Is there still a pandemic going on? Has the great America tamed the virus? What’s all the fuss over 100,000 people dying? People die every day. Anyway, most of them are from nursing homes; you know, just a weigh station before the good Lord takes you away anyway. So what’s the fuss all about?

The delusional man with the little hands and devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

Many lost are black and brown people and because they are already a sickly bunch it’s actually their fault.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

America needs its meat, so sorry plant workers, we give so little shit about you that OSHA hasn’t bothered to set up federal safety guidelines for you.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart is telling us they have little value, little value.

The delusional man with the little hands and the devil’s heart had to be convinced to fly the flag at the White House half- mast to honor the dead. Maybe for him, half-mast is wimpy, like a flaccid penis. Doesn’t project strength, like wearing a mask.

And guess what The Don was doing as we approached 100,000 dead? You guessed it: playing golf. Mr. Mulligan was tired of being cooped up and wanted to set an example to the country’s premature reopening by taking to the links. As he bragged about hitting his One Iron as far as Tiger Woods, moved his ball to better positions (called cheating!), took do overs of shots he didn’t like (mulligans) and then took whatever score he earned on a hole and lowered it by two (cheating again),ultimately declaring how extraordinary he was (bloviating grandiosity), the country was in mourning.

The Don was peeved that all this talk about mourning was going on as it was harshing his mellow, creating an unwanted hitch in his swing.

He turned to his caddie, and rumor has it, this is the conversation they had:

The Don: I thought Memorial Day was a celebration, a review of all the great things I have done as president. This whole virus thing is just so unfair to me, it’s trying to upstage me. Nobody upstages me.  I just say move on, the virus is dead to me. Isn’t that hilarious, the virus is dead to me. I will kit it!”

Caddie: Amazing, but how will you do it, Mr. President?

The Don: Just watch. I will tweet it away. Bam!

 Joe Scarborough, the MSNBC host, implying that he was under investigation for murdering a former staff member in 2001. “A blow to her head? Body found under his desk? Left Congress suddenly? Big topic of discussion in Florida.  “Big topic of discussion in Florida…and, he’s a Nut Job (with bad ratings) Keep digging, use forensic geniuses!”

Caddie: That’s a real zinger Mr. President. Though from what I read Scarborough wasn’t in Florida at the time of the death.

The Don: So? Anyone who can be so nasty to me could be a murderer. Here’s a great retweet. Boom!

“The only good Democrat is a dead Democrat.” Can you hand me my 9 Iron? Shit. That shot doesn’t count. You know what I mean?

Caddie: “Absolutely, Mr. President. I never even saw you take that shot.

And look at these cool retweets I am making by John Stahl. Remind me to invite him to play golf with me. Pow Pow.

Kamala (Harris) “Willie’s Ho.” (This is a reference to Willie Brown, the powerful California State Assembly speaker who was her mentor and onetime boyfriend.0

(Laughing) Stahl called Stacey Abrams “Shamu,:

And Stahl said this about MSNBC’s fake news host Joy Reid: “When you’re born butt-ugly, changing your hairstyle every day is only going to make you look phonier than your nonsense, pathetic show.”

The Don: (Swings his club) Now that’s the 9 Iron shot I wanted. Remember, I got to the green in one shot.

Caddie: Absolutely.

The Don: Trying to focus on your shot while tweeting is tricky. Makes you more error prone. Putter please.

And look at Sleepy Joe in the black mask. Quite a look. I am going to destroy him in the election.

How about this retweet. Shazam! Isn’t it the coolest thing ever?

And his demise is going to begin at the in-person Republican convention in August. Can you believe the nerve of the Democratic Governor of North Carolina saying it might not be safe?  The nerve. If he won’t do it other Republican governors will. And to show America how amazing we are no one who comes to the convention can wear a mask!

Shit. The wind messed up that putt.

Caddie: I know, sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Shit, the wind messed up my putt again.

Caddie: I know sir, never saw it, don’t count.

The Don: Now that I think of it the ball really should be much closer to the hole because the original shot was held up by the wind.

Caddie: Sure thing.

Shit. Let me move closer. Kerplunk. (The sound of ball in cup.) So satisfying a sound. Amazing how I one putted this from the edge of the green; I challenge any pro to do that.

And can you believe what Twitter did to my post about mail-in voting? That’s war! Do they know who they are dealing with?

Caddie: That was something. No one should ever start a war with you. But there is one thing. It seems what you are trying to change, you know, the law protecting folks who post on Twitter from being sued for spreading lies about people that might, as they say, come back and kick you in the butt.

The Don: That’s ridiculous. Why would I do something so stupid? What’s my score going in to the 10th hole?

Caddy: Um, let’s see. Do you want the real score or you know, the one you want it to be?

The Don: You know, the same way we deal with the virus.

  Now to the cancer.

Let’s state some simple, but harsh, truths.

America’s very being is founded on violence through its genocide of its indigenous people.

America was built on the backs of slaves.

Our constitution refers to black people as three fifths of a person. That is the foundation of the White Supremacy that rules this country.

The majority of the people in prison are black and brown, though they make up a smaller percentage of the population.

Despite some progress in their civil rights, blacks on the whole, suffer from gross economic inequities, are still targets of voter suppression and disenfranchisement and are targets of egregious and unrelenting police brutality.

If you are black, you can be gunned down for going out for a jog.

If you are black, a police offer can enter your home without a warrant and shoot you while you are in your own bed.

If you are black you can be suffocated to death by a knee in your throat by a white police officer in plain sight, all the while yelling that you “can’t breathe.”

The day to day stress black people endure just because of the color of their skin is impossible for white people to comprehend. They live in a world that continues to see them as more dangerous and more expendable because of the color of their skin.

For blacks. The “Land of the Free,” is for white people. For blacks it is more the “A People Under Siege.”

Black people are tired (and so am I) of platitudes that promulgate American decency.

Black people are tired of hearing that “America is better than this,” when we see riots in the streets.

Let’s be real: The rage we see is real. The pain we see is real. The White Supremacy we see is real. The cancer of American racism is real. The fact that black and brown people are dying from the virus at much higher rates is real and reflects the underlying cancer of racism.

The trope of American exceptionalism is taking a beating. The bottom line is that unless we are honest with ourselves and truly acknowledge our original sin of enslaving an entire people and its impact and treat it like we would a stage 4 cancer, America will never be exceptional.

I would like to believe this country can change. I would like to believe that we have the courage to do so. To not have this courage is to perpetuate the lie that “All men are created Equal…

The Don did not create this but he has built his brand sowing division, promoting hate, excusing (and encouraging) White Supremacy and has made comments during his presidency that have stoked the fires for the moment we find ourselves.

The Don’s responses to tragic death of George Floyd and the protests that have ensued is to quote Walter E. Headley, Miami’s former police chief, who in 1967 said, “When the looting starts, the shooting starts,

One of Trump’s most revealing tweets since the rioting began was a boast about the prowess of the Secret Service — and to threaten to sic “the most vicious dogs, and most ominous weapons” on the crowds outside the White House if things intensified.

We need to rid ourselves of this toxic White Supremacist before any healing can begin. We need a leader to bring us together, not further apart. I am not sure America is up to the task but as MLK said: We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice.

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#IFTTT #WordPress #trump #politics #potus #capital hill #washington dc #white house #america #usa

[aahhlliiss-writes]

Meet Me in the Hallway

The first of my one shot series inspired by each song on Harry’s album! And also, the first piece of writing I’m ever posting - eeeeh! 

Let me know what you think, and if you have any requests for future oneshots, you can ask me HERE.

2165 words.

WARNING - Drug use, sexual assault, workplace assault.

Harry sighed softly, rolling his head from one side of his pillow to the other. His torso was exposed, a lightly tanned arm resting on his stomach, with a sheet covering him from his inked butterfly down. His feet were stuck out the end of the light fabric, a habit Harry had developed when he was little. He hated the feeling of being too tucked in, especially in those hotel beds where the sheets are so tightly secured under the mattress it feels impossible to move.

His eyes half opened and then closed again for a few seconds before properly opening, taking in the bare back and messy hair of the girl next to him. He smiled, reaching his hand out and tracing a strong, lean finger up and down her spine. She shivered, snuggling her head against the pillow and subconsciously reaching down to tug up the sheets for more warmth. Harry let out a soft chuckle, shuffling in behind her and wrapping a strong but gentle arm around her waist, his lips pressing a soft kiss to nape of her neck. He breathed in, taking in her scent. He loved her like this, naked and natural, skin bare and hair undone.

“Hey miss,” he murmured, nuzzling in against her neck. “S’time to wake up I reckon.” She groaned, but her hand found his regardless, smaller fingers lacing in between his. 

“C’mon sleepy. Got to geddup. Got work,” he added, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. 

“I know,” she grumbled, turning in his arms to face him. “Five minutes?” she looked up hopefully, a hand reaching up to his face and fingers skimming along his cheek and the outline of his jaw. His eyes flickered, enjoying the touch. 

“Five minutes,” he agreed, pressing a kiss to her forehead. 

She grinned, moving with him as he rolled onto his back, her head moving easily to rest on his chest. It was a position they fell into often, and it felt so good. Harry’s large hand rubbed over her bare back, his lips moving to kiss the top of her head every few minutes. She let her hands explore him, one running up and down his side, the other tracing patterns on the arm that lay at his side. They stayed like this for five, maybe ten minutes, ignoring the day they would both soon have to face. Finally, she sat up, gazing down at Harry and kissing him properly for the first time that morning. 

“Gunna have a blaze,” she murmured, “and then I’ll get ready.” She shuffled out of their embrace, sliding out of bed.

Harry stiffened immediately at her words, brow furrowing slightly and teeth nibbling his lower lip anxiously. His girlfriend, his woman, his one and only, had been smoking weed since the day he had met her. It had never really bothered him, sometimes he even got in on it himself, but lately she had been smoking more and more. Every night for the last two weeks in fact. This was a first though. She had never smoked in the morning. Harry knew that things at work were stressful, and that their relationship had been splashed across every tabloid imaginable since they attended their first event together officially, but that still didn’t seem reason enough for her to become so consumed by the habit.

He watched her as she pulled her little kit from their bedside table, assembling her pipe and loading the bud into the small metal bowl. He couldn’t speak, and yet he had so much to say. He watched her with wide eyes as she lit up, sucking deeply on the pipe before blowing out a thick, pungent flume of smoke, eyes closing in pleasure as she did so. He noticed that her shoulders dropped and she slumped forward, almost as if she had been waiting for some form of relief and had finally gotten it. He stayed like that, frozen in shock and anxiety, watching her closely as she smoked the whole lot.

“That’s better,” she giggled softly, her eyes now bloodshot and body heavy with the drug. 

The sound was alien to Harry, not at all her normal laugh, and he snapped out of the terrified trance he was in, his concern for the woman before him suddenly much more important than the fear he felt from the thought of confronting her. 

“Love. Hey… Miss. Look at me,” he murmured, his voice soft but stern. She turned, hazy eyes drinking in the sight before him. 

“You… You’re so sexy…” she whispered, dropping to the bed and crawling towards him. “Want you… Want to feel you…” she mumbled, licking and sucking a trail up his chest till she reached his neck and jaw.

He couldn’t help it, she turned him on. But now was not the time. He swallowed, hands finding her upper arms, halting her movements. 

“What are you doin’? Why’ve you gone and smoked before work?” he asked softly, eyes concerned and probing as they met her gaze. 

She frowned, breaking their gaze as she pulled away from him. “I wanted to. Just a bit of fun,” she stated bluntly, arms folding across her body. 

Harry sat up, leaning in towards her, his hand moving to gently squeeze the bare skin just above her knee. 

“S’not a bit of fun when it’s first thing in the mornin’ and you’ve got a big day ahead of you,” he paused, watching her closely for any form of reaction, but nothing came. “Love… ‘M worried about you.”

She snapped suddenly, scrambling off the bed. “It’s not your fucking place to worry! I’m fine! I just wanted a little smoke in the morning!” she yelled, exasperated by his words. 

She darted around the room, desperate to get dressed as quick as she could. “You’re so fucking sensitive. It’s like… You’re kept in this fucking bubble of safety. You’ll get drunk, but never wasted. You’ll go out, but you’ll always come home. You’ll get high and fuck me in a bar bathroom, but this?! Oh yeah, this is too fucking much for perfect Harry Styles,” she continued, spitting the words from her mouth like venom. “Well I can’t. I can’t anymore. Okay?! Every time I get stoned you judge me. I just know it. It’s my favourite thing, okay? It’s… It’s…” she paused, her voice softening and eyes filling with angry tears as she finally looked back at him. “It’s the only thing that keeps me from losing my fucking mind.”

And she was gone, bedroom door slamming behind her, soon followed by the front door. A few stray tears trickled down Harry’s cheeks as he sat, frozen, trying to take in all that had been said. No more than a few minutes passed and there was a buzz from the bedside table, his phone screen lighting up with her name.

“I know you’re in the studio today, I’ll get my stuff while you’re gone. Don’t call me.”

Harry shook his head in disbelief, fingers darting across the key board as he typed angrily, and then deleted everything he’d written. He repeated this a couple of times, and then gave up, throwing his phone down on the bed next to him. He couldn’t believe her. Sure it had only been eight months but they had something special. Something neither of them had ever felt before, and Harry knew that was the truth. There was no way she was throwing this all away over a silly fight. Her words rang in his head, and he let himself cry, bracing himself against the familiar mattress he was sat on.

##

The day had passed quickly, and Harry had been distracted for most of it. He felt guilty for what felt like wasting a day in the studio but he just couldn’t get his mind off what had happened. It was almost like he didn’t believe it could have happened. She never yelled, never lost her cool. Sure, they fought, but they were always able to solve it and he just couldn’t understand why she had gotten so upset. He was just concerned and trying to look out for her.

He pulled himself from the car he had been dropped home in, muttering a weak thanks in the direction of his driver and shutting the car door behind him. Stepping out of the elevator, he turned to walk down the quickly darkening hallway to his apartment door, stopping in his tracks when he saw her. She was weeping, slumped over her knees and pressed against his door, body shaking as each sob moved through her. He moved to her quickly, dropping to his knees in front of her, his hands prying hers from her tear-stained face. Every ounce of anger he had felt bubbling away in him since the fight disappeared, and all he wanted was to make the devastated girl in front of him feel okay. 

“Hey… Hey hey hey… Oh love. C’mere… C’mon… What are you doin’ in the hallway sweet thing? C’mon…” he murmured, wrapping her up his arms. 

“D-didn’t… C-couldn’t go in…” she forced out, pressing against his familiar frame. “S-said I’d be g-gone…” she whimpered. 

Harry sighed, almost in relief that she was even there, lips pressing to the top of her head. “Silly thing. Just a fight… Don’t want you to actually go,” he whispered. “I need you to tell me what’s been goin’ on in that head of yours though my love,” he said, cupping her cheeks and bring her eyes up to meet his.

“I-I… Yeah. I have to tell you something,” she whispered. 

“I figured as much…” he answered. “C’mon now. Up you get. Inside we go…” he murmured, gently helping her up through the door and to the couch. He settled her there, grabbing the mink blanket from the arm of the couch and wrapping her up in it, kneeling at her feet to remove her shoes. Once satisfied that she was as comfortable as possible, he sat down heavily opposite her, one arm resting on the back of the couch while his other hand found her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What’s happened?”

And so the story came, falling out of her mouth in quick, desperate stream. She told him about her boss, and how he had started to ask her stay late, and order in dinner for them both. And then he had asked her out and she had said no, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Night after night of him making her stay late and then feeling her up, until finally, he forced her down against a table. If she didn’t sleep with him then and there, she’d lose her job, that’s what he’d said. And then security had walked past, and she’d taken advantage, bolting from his grip and running out of the building. Since that evening it had been day in day out of avoiding him at all costs, leaving work in secret and locking herself in her office.

“And I didn’t want to tell you ‘cause I didn’t want it to get out and I don’t want to lose my job and I don’t know what to do and I just keep smoking and smoking ‘cause it’s the only thing that makes me feel good anymore, it’s the only thing that relaxes me and I just don’t know what to do. And I… I can’t lose you,” she finished, breathless and wide eyed, fixing her gaze on Harry’s face.

Harry swallowed, trembling with rage. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him,” he whispered, hand pulling away from her thigh as he clenched his fists. 

He took a moment, shaking his head and drawing a deep breath to calm himself. This was fixable, he could deal to the terrible boss. What was more important now was the woman before him. 

“Love… Never again will you hide somethin’ like this from me. You hear? You are the most important thing to me. And I won’t have you hidin’ shit like this. I love you. So much,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “No more smokin’. We’ll sort the bastard out. We’ll get you someone to speak to. You know, just so you can get your head straight after all this,” he continued.

“C’mere.” he murmured, opening his arms, waiting patiently as she moved into them, her body warm against him. “There you are. We’ve gotta get you better yeah? Gotta get this all sorted,” he reassured, hands moving slowly over her back. “M’always here. Always got you,” he whispered. “

Thank you,” she murmured weakly, finally relaxing against him, her face nuzzling in against his neck. “I love you. I’m sorry,” she said. 

“You just relax now miss. Time for that in the mornin’” he murmured. “Love you too,” he added.

A comfortable silence settled over the pair as they slowly drifted off, warm and safe, and completely wrapped up in each other.

#oneshot #harry styles #harry styles oneshot #one shot #harry styles one shot #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #writing #creative writing

[itsworn]

1140-plus RWHP 2015 Dodge Challenger

In any form of racing, they key formula to great speed is power to weight. To quickly translate that for the masses it means: If you want to go fast, lighten the load.

Adam Montague’s 2015 Dodge Challenger Hellcat is one of the quickest in the world at 9.11 seconds in the quarter-mile. Adam has proven time and again his ability to make great power from a Stage III Mopar engine as his happy customers at Spankin’ Time Motorsports will attest. With his own personal car, he affectionately calls “The Grinch,” he makes in excess of 1,144 rwhp — so much for being happy with that factory Hellcat power output of 707 hp at the crankshaft.

From this angle, you can’t really tell that this is one of the quickest Hellcat Challengers in the country. At the time of this writing, the car delivered a best time of 9.11 seconds in the quarter-mile.

But while most performance fans look to lighten the load to generate the fastest timeslips from their performance cars, Adam likes his comfort (and a challenge). His Mopar sports a full interior with sound deadener, trunk liner, factory hood, sound system, etc. However, one area where Adam has reduced weight is with his choice of driver.

His daughter, Nicholle, is the pilot of The Grinch — so named because the car is Lime Green and regularly does particularly mean things to the competition. Having learned a lot over the years watching her dad build and tune fast cars, it was a natural progression for Nicholle to move from crew member to pilot.

Nicknamed “The Grinch” for its uncanny ability to spoil the day for other racers who dare to challenge this Sublime Green Challenger, this car is motivated by over 1,170 rwhp.

“My middle daughter, Courtney, retired from driving, and Nicholle clearly was interested in being her replacement,” Adam says. “To give her a trial by fire, her first challenge was behind the wheel of a specially prepared 2015 Mustang with a Whipple supercharger that we assembled at my shop. The hand off was quite unceremonious. I handed her the keys to the Ford, pointed to the car, and said ‘have fun.’ She did great.”

So with the new pilot having passed her check our run, the natural progression was to move to the ultra-quick Adam-built Challenger, which since that time has become the scourge of all SoCal Mopar racers. The results speak for themselves.

Piloting this amazing machine is Nicholle Montague, who set the Low E.T. of the Meet for Hellcats at 2018 Mopars at the Strip in Las Vegas. Born with a natural talent for drag racing according to her dad, Nicholle is as consistent on the Tree as she is at generating quick e.t.’s.

“Our 2015 Hellcat has served as a great testbed for trying out many new combinations for customer cars,” Adam says. “The introduction of the Hellcat by Mopar back in 2015 really changed things with regards to these kinds of cars and gave me a base on which to build some outrageously fast performance cars. Despite making over 1,140 rwhp with this engine, much of the build centers around the original Hellcat setup (original crank and block are used in The Grinch) that I upgrade before stuffing it full of time-tested internal components.”

A key piece of the engine’s power generation abilities come from the huge 4.5L Whipple screw-style supercharger that feeds the engine through a host of very cool ancillary induction pieces. For example, to pack the supercharger tight with fuel and air, Montague bolted up a ported Whipple throttle body rated 1,150 cfm and a completely fabricated from scratch custom intake that was designed through a tremendous amount of trial and error on his in-house dyno.

Lest you think the numbers are fabricated, this chassis dyno readout tells the true story on the Grinch Challenger. That’s 1,140 rwhp and nearly 1,000 lb-ft of torque at the tire.

Over the last four years, Adam has run through a Mopar dealer’s parts department–amount of parts testing and devouring all kinds of components that were supposed to be unbreakable. As he was to learn over time, nothing is totally unbreakable but his current combination, including CP Carrillo pistons and Manley Pro Series I-Beam connecting rods, Factory Hellcat block with ARP studs and crankshaft, and CNC’s factory cylinder heads, works great even through his combination continues to evolve every day.

Adam’s special grind Crower blower camshaft is backed with Manton rocker shaft, collars and pushrods and incorporates the Comp Cams phase limiter for Variable Valve Timing and an HP Tuner to dial in the entire combination. While the rest of the induction system is heavy modified with twin 525L fuel pumps and 1,600cc Five-O-Motorsports Black Ops injectors, a number of key factory Hellcat systems are retained, including the stock fuel lines, transmission, and convertor. That says volumes about how well the Mopar folks did their homework.

This photo was taken while Adam was fabricating the larger inlet system. The Grinch Challenger uses a massive 4.5L Whipple supercharger running 26 pounds of boost and an enlarged intercooler that sits below the supercharger.

For Adam, his effort speaks loudest every time his daughter Nicholle puts the hammer down and collects a win light. While earning the Low E.T. of the meet award for Hellcats at the 2018 Muscle Cars at the Strip event in Las Vegas was impressive, the fact that this full “form” Challenger will probably have tipped into the 8-second quarter-mile range by the time you read this is really amazing. With the dedication Adam has shown to reaching this plateau, knocking down additional barriers in the future is a lock.

2015 Dodge Challenger Hellcat Adam Montague, Lake Arrowhead, CA/Hurricane, UT

ENGINE Type: 6.2L Chrysler Hemi Bore x stroke: 4.090-inch (bore) x 3.580-inch (stroke) Block: Specially prepped Hellcat block with ARP head and main studs Rotating assembly: CP Carrillo forged aluminum pistons, Manley Pro-Series I-beam connecting rods, factory Hellcat crankshaft, SST Blower piston ring pack Compression: 9.5:1 Cylinder heads: Factory stock HellCat ported for increase flow to take advantage of Whipple supercharger, cc’d by Thitek. Camshaft: Crower custom blower camshaft, race short travel lifters, Manton rocker shafts, collars and pushrods, Comp Cams phase limiter for VVT Induction: Ported Whipple 4.5L supercharger and 26 pounds of boost, 168mm throttle body, 1,600cc Five-O Motorsports, Black Ops series injectors, Fore Innovations twin fuel pumps  (525-lph each) with MSD fuel booster, stock fuel lines at fuel rail, set up as return-less fuel system, conversion to of E85 fuel, tuned with HP Tuners Oiling system: Factory HellCat, JBA cat-less mid-pipes Exhaust: TTi 2-inch primary tubing headers with factory X- pipe and muffler system Ignition: Factory stock ignition Cooling: Factory original cooling system including factory intercooler layout Engine/vehicle built by: Adam Montague, Spankin’ Time Motorsports (San Bernardino, CA)

Another shot taken during the fabrication period, this inlet system is a total custom effort by Adam who handbuilt all of these parts. Note the large plenum at the back of the supercharger developed to help create a free flow of air into the back of the blower after breathing through the massive 1,150-cfm throttle body opening.

DRIVETRAIN Transmission: Stock Hellcat, eight-speed ZF automatic with overdrive, one-piece DSS driveshaft, 4-inch aluminum Shifter: Factory Challenger shifter Rearend: Factory unit with 2.62:1 ratio gearing, DSS axles

CHASSIS Suspension: Factory original front and rear design with BMR upper and lower rear control arm kit Steering: stock power steering box Brakes: TCE Wilwood 15-inch brake conversion Paint: Factory Sublime Green Interior: Simpson 5-point harness and 10-point Carlin Fabrication rollcage

WHEELS & TIRES Wheels: 17×5 (front) and 15×10 (rear) Weld Wheels RTS Tires: 27.5×17 Hoosier Tires (front) and 315/60-15 Mickey Thompson Street ET (rear), 21 pounds of air at track for best traction

This is what the engine compartment looks like in final form with the Whipple supercharger painted black and the 5-inch air inlet in tubing.

Adam has worked with a variety of different fuel injectors, but prefers to use the Five-0-Motorsports Black Ops units. For this application, he uses 1,600cc injectors.

The air inlet takes a significant amount of reworking to fit within the engine compartment. An S&B air filter is used to draw cool clean air into the engine.

The drive system uses an eight-rib belt, and the pulley configuration generates 26 pounds of boost a peak. That’s a ton of horsepower as shown by the dyno sheets.

Figuring out the difference between a factory stock interior and the cockpit of a 9.11-second quarter-mile missile would clearly be impossible. Even the factory shifter is retained along with the original console.

One tip off to the racing intentions of the car is the 10-point Carlin Fabrication rollcage system that tucks nicely around the interior components. We cheated on the last photo and avoided showing the door bar that cuts across the entry point.

Sticky Mickey Thompson ET Street slicks are used to net the fastest time from the Grinch. These tires measure P315/60R15 and wrap around lightweight Weld Wheels and 15-inch Wilwood disc brakes.

Up front, Adam mounts Hoosier tires measuring 27.5×17 and RTS Weld Wheels to match the rear arrangement. The same 15-inch Wilwood brakes and calipers are used here as well.

Knowing how to make Mopars (and a few Fords) go fast has become a solid business model for Adam. The parking lot at Spankin’ Time Motorsports is always packed with performance cars. Here you can see the assortment of customer cars that benefit from the lessons learned from The Grinch, and its creator.

All in all, The Grinch really doesn’t tip its hand as to its power potential through exterior review. A trained eye will spot the mounts for the parachute on the tail that have become a requirement, since the car runs over 150 mph in the quarter-mile.

The Grinch uses the stock struts and shocks but the biggest aid for weight transfer during acceleration is through the addition of an upper and lower BMR Rear control arm kit.

The factory exhaust headers were ditched in favor of a set of TTi headers that use 2-inch primary tubing. The factory Hellcat X-Pipe is retained along with the factory mufflers.

The factory front splitter is intact and keeps the air out from under the car on high-speed runs. Other than the obvious air intakes where the high beam headlights used to reside, you just might miss the fact that this is one of the fastest Hellcats on the planet.

The post 1140-plus RWHP 2015 Dodge Challenger appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network https://www.hotrod.com/articles/1140-plus-rwhp-2015-dodge-challenger/ via IFTTT

#IFTTT #Hot Rod Network

[hucc]

HUCC v Occasional Casuals Saturday 9th June 2018 Hamstead Heath

Match report by Himalayan Correspondent Nick Taylor

Curry goat cricket anyone?

Curry goat cricket: West Indian term for a friendly, low stakes game in which the food to be consumed off field, is more important than the result on it. A curry goat match is the Windies' equivalent to the English Beer match

The occasional casuals as I had been warned felt that cricket was an excuse to have a ‘few’ beers whilst playing a friendly game of cricket with their pals. Notorious for their kit bags being the orange Sainsbury’s variety with the contents of a six pack and a box. The last two encounters had been close affairs a tie and a victory, the sun was out we were playing in civilisation not rural England it was going to be fun, even if we had to resort to potentially approaching it as if were time for curried goat.

Spurred by the three victories in 2017 and a frustrating draw first up in 2018, enthusiasm was high.  Ol coming back from a year out called an early arrival for some apparently needed practice to blow of the cob webs. The outcome was seven Umprires arriving at least 30 mins before the agreed time. Unheard of. It also transpired that Matt and Gary organised had a private tuition session during the week. Not that practice had ever done us any good!?!

The squad was a mix of old and new, we had the welcome return of the official original Umpire, indeed Rob is squad No.1. The team looked a strong bowling outfit this week Ol, Manny, Jack, Simon, the new kid on the block Harry, the old kid that was a chip off the old block, Gary Aubin, we were looking solid with the ball.

Matt presented Anthony with the match ball, ball was a generous description, it must have been stitched my an arthritic blind man, square more than egg shape. We offered up a 30 over ball as the next best thing. 

Anthony won the toss and as is skip’s common custom we opted to bat first.  The skipper of the casuals would have also opted to field first as they celebrated the fact that they would rather have a second innings that leant itself to boozing rather that fielding. It appeared their skipper had lubricated himself already. Anthony and Dave open, 35 overs a piece, we are off.

Manny and I officiated until drinks, it was a steady start letting their most economical and dangerous bowler, who ended with 7 overs no wickets for 14, do his thing. After 10 overs we 35 without loss. By drinks Anthony had clubbed a few to the boundary and indeed brought up another well deserved 50 just before the break, by which point without loss we were 85 after 17. 

Drinks in this game did mean drinks and an extended break saw the Casuals open a variety of beverages, the World Cup branded Kronenberg was a favourite. They are however seasoned professionals and a few cold ones may indeed help, much like a game of pool always need a few before the shots come off. With the Hampstead Heath buzz from the cafe and the sun beaming down Harry and I decided to follow suit, by the looks of things were weren’t getting a bat today and a Corona doesnt really count. Does it?

Anthony was ably abetted by Dave who in his own mould saw off the good and played the bad, another opening umpire innings eventually culminating in his second highest total for the umps. We need an archivist adjudication.

Anthony was looking, and by his own admission feeling good and as the Parliament Hill spectators settled through the gates and onto the boundary (in the pub at the end of the game they turned out to be the self appointed HUCC Ultras) skip holed out in the deep for 64. One follows two as is so oft the case and Dave was bowled for 28. Well played. We were 100 odd for 2.

Simon got a good one bowled and Rob came in to shore up an end whilst Jack came in on a mission to connect with what ever he threw his bat at. Rob slightly unfortunate to test the arm of one of their more able fielders who hadn’t touched a drop by the look of it, as it came in rather fast and accurate from just past square leg umpire to be run out. Jack burned out taking 20 off about 10 balls with 4 boundaries, bowled.

Ol was in next with what looked like virgin new pads, bought last season just before the injury and not had much of a run out. They took him and us to the end of the innings 11 not out, with your reporter frantically running with Ol to get us to 162 for 5.

Tea was a rather liquid affair for the opposition but they did provide several filled to the brim bread bags full of various interesting sandwiches, some pork pies and home made brownies. No curried goat.

As ever the slip cordon of doom assembled for catching practice as a warm up with Matt getting his hands warm and ready for action, and there was a lot of action behind the stumps to come. 

Ol opened up and considering he hadn’t turned his arm apart from earlier in the net warm up was metronomic from the off starting with a couple of maidens. Supported by Si at the other end. Ol had new wheels for the season and they were warming up nicely. Manny came on first change and after a bout of self deprecation for a couple of wides, his tracking was back and on the money.

We kept it tight in the field as a unit and they crept to an almost equivalent score to ours at the same point, after 9 overs they 32 without loss.

Then the tide started to turn and more chances came, a tough chance to Matt driving to his right behind the stumps. Matt had been practicing in the week and just needed another chance. Ol got their opener first, bowled. Manny then took their third man for a duck caught behind off the edge to Matt. You could tell behind Matt’s grill there was hunger for more and more there was.  

Ol bowled their second opener and then not wanted to turn the gas off his new wheels Anthony kept him on to bowl through. 7 overs 2 for 13, nee bad sir.

Harry came on after Ol having bowled a few in the first game, started very strongly on a pitch that was quite hard to get any variation he managed to make one rear up into their very competent looking number four and off the splice it looped to Matt well bowled Harry victim number two for Matt. He could taste blood. 4 down for 50 in the 16th.

Manny carried on and was causing all sorts of issues and chances came nearly every ball. Their middle order batsman swinging away not sure whether in frustration or lubrication but Manny spotted it and next ball fuller, straight, bowled. 61 for 5

Jack was next up and a few smiles and warm drunken words had already been exchanged between their captain who was looking very rosey red from sun and Kronenberg. We asked him when we saw Jack coming in next whether he wanted a lid and he said well only if he’s going to bowl beamers, we repeated do you want a lid?

Sure enough next ball he only just managed to duck out of the way, a few choice slurred words came back at us behind the stumps, we were only concerned for his welfare and that we weren’t confident he could weave out the way. He stuck around for a bit until Jack caught his leading edge and boom another for Matt behind. Jack then bowled another beaut wrapped a guys toes plumb in front. Their score book went a bit wobbly towards the end when i think they had lost a bit of interest or the use of their hands to write. They were 80-odd for 7. 

Jack then got his third with a super forward driving caught with the assistance of forearms, stomach, legs and the chin of Manny. Would have gone upstairs but we all saw close in that it hadn’t touched the floor and the batsman walked.

Anthony then turned to his seasoned professional who had been practicing with Matt in the week. It game plan time. A brief word between the two and they trot back to their positions. Plan. Execute. Reward. Garry ‘I love you Dad’ Aubin comes steaming in, lands one truly in the right spot, makes the batsman play, finds the edge we all go up in unison. 1st ball, boom Gary has a wicket and Matt has 4 for the match. Practice will now become compulsory.

We wrap it up next over with a few looseners from your reporter and then one that is straight to the either drunk or non cricketer at number 11 who lets it hit the wicket. All out for 98.

It wasn’t a curry goat game but there was plenty of good humoured cricket and beer. I wouldn’t say we won because they was pissed but it helped.

Unbeaten 2018.

Anthony 64

Jack 3/11 

Hackney Umpire Man of the Match: Jack Lewis

Up the Umpires!

[madeline-morris-blog]

☼ - Camping with them, ✚ - Bandaging their wound, ❇ - Stargazing with them (For Robin!) and ♞ - Playing a game with them, ❄ - Staying close to them to keep warm (For Lucius!!)

 -Under Readmore for length … I couldn’t stop myself and I apologize (also mentions of injury and blood)-

♞ - Playing a game with Lucius

Madeline had been busy helping to organize the file for her father’s new case when her mother stepped through the threshold and wrapped her arms around her daughter’s shoulders. “You at a good stopping point, Kit?” She asked pressing a kiss to the top of her daughter’s head. “Sure- what’s up?” Mads said, shooting a grin up to her mother. “Lucius is here, and he’s a bit too quiet today.” Her mother explained, winking to her daughter in a knowing manner. “Perfect.” Mads agreed, getting to her feet and walking with her mother out of the study and down the hall to where Lucius was waiting on the couch, his feet dangling a little ways above the ground. Lucius was one of her mom’s cases, but he was also one of Madeline’s favorites. She would just as easily watch over and protect him forever if given the opportunity. “Lulu?” Madeline called, her smile brightening when his head snapped up and he looked hopefully towards the sixteen-year-old. For a five-year-old, Lucius was easily one of the quietest kids she had ever met. Which only meant Madeline had to entice the smiles and giggles from him- a task she was more than happy to undergo. Slipping up beside him on the couch, Mads immediately reached for him to bring him onto her lap, his bright blue eyes never leaving hers. “Mah-line?” He whispered, wrapping his hands around one of hers. Without a second thought, Madeline flipped him onto his back and lifted his little t-shirt, blowing raspberries all over his stomach until he was shaking and squealing in laughter. “Are you a silly little boy, Lulu?” Madeline asked, missing her mother snapping a quick picture of the two before silently leaving the room. “Who’s a silly little boy?” “Mah-line!” “Me?” She called, laughing at his accusation. “Never!” She replied, fixing his shirt back down and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Would you like to play a game, silly Lulu?” She asked, nodding to the floor where they usually begin. Wiggling in her lap, Lulu slid off her knees and went to the floor, his grin unmistakable. “What shall we play?” She asked, moving to stand before him and crouching down to his level. “Hide and seek?” She offered, remembering his fondness for the game. “Yah!” He said, practically wiggling in excitement at the idea. “Alright, I’ll hide first. You find me.” Madeline encouraged, waiting until he began to nod to step back a little, Lucius trying to follow her. “Uh-uh-uh,” she paused, holding out a finger. “You stay here. Put your hands over your eyes, and count to five, ok? Then come find me.” Waiting until his hands slipped over his eyes, Madeline bee-lined for the couch, jumping over it as he ended his choppy counting. He too headed straight for the couch, his peeking telling him all he needed to know about where Madeline would be. Once he rounded the couch’s side, Madeline opened her arms wide and cheered, pulling him in for a tight hug and little kisses all around his head. “You did it, Lulu! You found me!” She cried, happy to hear his giggling pick up again. “Alright, it’s your turn now, Lulu. You go hide and I’ll count.” Planting one last kiss on his forehead, Madeline dutifully covered her eyes and counted up to ten, her happiness buzzing through her. Once she reached the highest number, she immediately popped her head above the couch and looked around, instantly seeing his little feet sticking out from behind a curtain. Humming lightly to herself, Madeline took her time going around the room, calling out places and ignoring the little giggles that continued to resound from the curtain. “Hmmmm,” she mused, pulling up another cushion from the chair by the windows. “He’s not in the chair… I have no idea where my sweet little Lulu could be!” She called out, tapping her chin inquisitively as his little feet began to dance under the curtain. “What is this? Is my curtain moving?” She gasped, feigning shock as she drew back the fabric and found her little guy smiling and jumping at her legs. “Lulu! It’s you!” “Mah-line! Mah-line!” He cried in triumph, excited as she lifted him up and held him by her face. “You and I, little guy. We’re going to stay together, alright? And I promise that I will always find you.” She swore, feeling her heart warm at his sloppy kiss on her cheek. This was one of the rare kids who stole Madeline’s heart and left an impression of himself in its place.

❄ - Staying close to Lucius to keep him warm

The storm that passed through Charming left a stiff breeze in its wake, chilling anyone who had been caught in the downpour to immediately feel the cold in their bones. Madeline hadn’t thought twice about grabbing an umbrella that morning, sure that she would make it home before the rain. Once she looked out her window and saw the downpour, she could do nothing more than secure her files in her briefcase, gulp down her irrational fears, and walk through the sheets knowing it wouldn’t make a difference if she ran or walked. Besides, with the way her knees shook at every crack of thunder, it wouldn’t have been smart to attempt a run. It wasn’t until she rounded the corner of her street that she became aware of someone coming towards her, his figure undeniably familiar. Squinting through the deluge, she knew it was a man, skinnier, moving with a simple grace. All at once it hit her and she smiled, speeding up to meet him half-way. “Lucius! What are you doing out in this rain?” She admonished, shielding her eyes as she took in her son. “I could ask the same thing,” he called back, grinning towards her. Ignoring the shakiness of her hands from her shot nerves, Madeline jutted her chin for home and wrapped an arm around him. “C’mon, for someone who’s already cold this won’t help you any.” She reasoned, quickly dragging him up her steps and into the comfort of her home. Ignoring the the puddle that already began to form underneath them both, Madeline dropped her briefcase to the ground and tugged off his rain coat before dragging him to the sofa and throwing him a blanket. “Time for you to warm up,” she explained, visibly flinching at the new round of thunder. “I’ll make some tea.” “Or…” he started, walking over to her and throwing the blanket around her wet shoulders. “You can sit with me and relax for five seconds.” He knew as much as she did that storms never sat well with Madeline. A piece of her parents’ death she could never overcome; a fear of storms. “C’mon, you said it yourself I need to warm up,” he reasoned, grateful when she seemed to relent and move with him to the couch. When they finally sank down onto the cushions, Madeline sighed and tilted her head over to rest on him, tugging the blanket closer up around them with one hand and maneuvering her arm around him at the same time. “Thanks Lulu,” she murmured, knowing this was for his benefit as much as it was for hers. “I’m still making you that tea.”“Yeah yeah, just stay here for a second, alright?” He asked, leaning into her warmth. Smiling, Madeline let them sit in a comfortable silence for awhile, her hand sketching idle patterns into his shoulder. “I love you Lulu,” she murmured quietly, keeping her eyes on the picture frame of the two of them. “Love you too, Mom.”

☼ - Camping with Robin

It had been Robin’s idea to go camping- something Madeline could attest to not having done since college. Apparently the idea of such a length of time without a tent in sight sent him into a small shock. That Friday he kidnapped her from work, allowed her to grab a few clothes from her closet, and then brought her right out into Lord-knows-where in the woods. And that was that. This was all practically Robin’s backyard, so she didn’t ask a single question through the hike, merely joking and laughing with him as they reached his intended spot. “Alright, I’m chopping wood, think you can handle the tent?” He teased, knowing Madeline would either get it up or die trying. Shaking her head at his challenge, she dropped her bag and reached for the tent, levelling him a look. “I may be a little rusty, but I think I can handle a tent.” She reasoned, almost waiting for him to come up with a comment back. When it didn’t come, she smiled towards him and went to work, the tent being assembled after only a few mistakes and housing what made up Madeline’s closet for the weekend. With that done, she sat on a log and watched him chop wood. After shedding his overshirt, he began to work, his movements holding her focus until he started to laugh and paused in his chopping. “You enjoying the show?” He asked, his happiness fusing with Madeline’s. “I thought I’m terribly sorry Ranger Rick- I didn’t realize I wasn’t allowed to watch the show. And here I was thinking you were trying to teach me some camping skills.” She teased, standing to her feet and moving up beside him in challenge. “You want to try?” He chuckled, offering her the axe. Smile in place, Madeline rolled her eyes and mimicked his actions by unbuttoning her flannel and stripping down to her t-shirt underneath. “Where am I aiming for, exactly?” She questioned, taking the axe from the very amused ranger. “Look for a crack, and try to hit it there. Or y’know, straight down the center,” he offered, using his hands to rotate her until she was in proper form. “Strike when ready, Madelicious.” Robin teased, moving out of range. Letting out a quick laugh, she aimed and struck the wood, a few inches from center. “Well that’s disappointing,” she mused, putting her foot on top of the wood as leverage to release the axe. Trying again, she aimed for the same crack, finally splitting it into two slightly uneven pieces. “Not bad for your first try,” Robin piped in, a proud smile crossing his face as he took the axe from her and wrapped her in a quick hug, his lips meeting hers. Once they separated, he continued to look down at her, a crooked smile meeting a beaming one from her. “You have anything else to teach me?” She asked, a brow cocked in challenge, her hand moving up to cup his cheek. “Madelight, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He promised, dropping the axe behind him with a dull ‘thud’ as she leaned up to kiss him once more. 

✚ - Bandaging Robin’s wound

“I have no idea how you managed this,” Madeline said, her head shaking in disbelief as she stared at his torn up arm. There were deep scratches and random bite marks scattered across its length, the blood drying on some spots and still oozing out of others. “Y’know, I’m a mystery Madelight. I surprise even myself sometimes.” He offered, shifting slightly and biting his tongue to stop from wincing. The badger had certainly had its way with Robin, despite his best attempts at dodging or stopping its attack. Someone had to save it from the trap, and he figured it may as well be him. Letting out a heavy sigh, Madeline got to work preparing her supplies. “You’re not going to have a fun time with the disinfectant,” she warned, holding the bottle aloft and moving to stand beside him rather than at his feet. “On three?” She suggested, pressing a quick kiss to his forehead as a sort of apology before grabbing a part of his arm unravaged and offering him a sympathetic grimace. “One,” she began, not bothering to wait and simply washing his arm in the clear liquid, and gently rubbing it into the deeper cuts feeling him tense and mutter quiet curses. “I thought it’d be worse if I got to three,” she said as a substitute for an apology, pressing another small kiss on his cheek. He was shaking worse now, which she knew was part of her fault. “I’m sorry.” She offered, feeling him shake his head at the apology. “You’re the one helping me, Madevine. I’m fine, or on the way to being there, at least.” He said, his mouth twisting into a bittersweet smile. “Keep going- worst is over, I presume. Unless you got some pliers or needles in that bag, then this is gonna get a whole lot more unpleasant.” Taking a small breath, Madeline returned to her work, bandaging up his arm and working to make sure the bleeding stopped before offering him some Tylenol and water. He took both dutifully, tossing back the pills and chasing them with water before he simply looked up at her, smiling. “What? Do I have blood somewhere on me?” She asked, looking down at her clothing, trying to make sure she wasn’t a mess. “Nah, you’re good. Just… can’t thank you enough. Wouldn’t have been too keen to that alone.” “I like to think we make a pretty good team,” Madeline reasoned, her tension easing when he pulled her down beside him on his camper couch. “One of the best,” he agreed. “Do I want to know how you got those battle scars, Ranger Danger?” She asked, moving closer and sliding an arm up his back, rubbing idle circles down its length. “So it all started…” he began, his eyes twinkling with the story. 

❇ - Stargazing with Robin 

Pressing her palm into his, Madeline followed dutifully alongside Robin, trying not to jump at every crack or murmur the forest made. If Robin was confident enough to do this, then she trusted him to not lead her into a dangerous area. It didn’t necessarily calm her racing heart, but that was just a side effect of being with him, it would seem. “You said stargazing… Robin I don’t mean to dampen your plans here, but we’re in the middle of a forest. I feel like it’s a little hard to stargaze with branches in the way.” She reasoned, jumping at another sound and ultimately giving up by just grabbing his arm and holding onto it instead of his hand. “You alright, Madelight?” He couldn’t resist the rhyme, it seemed. “Just peachy… just a little…” She couldn’t seem to find the right word. “A little? … what? On edge? He suggested, pressing a kiss against the side of her head. He tried to choose a night that was a little lighter on purpose, but nothing too close to the full moon. “We’re almost there. Just around this bend here,” he promised. Once they rounded it, Madeline gasped and paused, looking between him and the clearing. In the middle sat a small blanket, lanterns placed all around it, a few blankets and pillows beside it, and a tiny basket on the far corner. “Robin Hewitt…” She breathed out, turning to face him with a touched smile. “You told me you never went stargazing. It’s the least I could d-” She cut him off with a kiss, leaning on the tips of her toes to reach him properly on the uneven terrain. “It’s perfect. Thank you, Robin.” She whispered, running a hand through his hair and down to his cheek, giving him another quick kiss before returning to his side. “I feel like I should mention we may also get a small surprise. If I planned all of this right.” He mused, wrapping an arm around her waist as they walked towards the little picnic. “Please tell me John won’t be making an appearance,” Madeline teased, remembering how he supposedly helped women get closer to him through his scare antics. Laughing, Robin shook his head and glanced down to her. “Nah, he’s got his own engagement tonight. I’m hoping for something a bit more special.” He promised, the pair of them finally reaching the blanket. Once they settled down, lanterns off with Madeline nestled close to his side and her arm draped over his chest, she finally got to see his surprise. Not only were the stars incredibly from their spot in the middle of the woods, but the firefly display they were greeted with was a spectacle of its own. 

#Ask #luciusharper #.Lucius. #.Robin. #robinhoodtf #TW:Blood #{literally a 5 hour project AT LEAST} #Past #Relationships

[itsworn]

How to install 21st century handling and ride quality in your classic Chevelle

Suspension technology has come a long way since the 1960s. The 1964-’72 Chevelle delivered exceptional ride quality and handling for its time because it was a body-on-frame vehicle in a field of unit body competitors from Ford, Chrysler, and AMC. The Chevelle delivered on every level because it was clearly the best intermediate car of its time. Of course, times have changed and what was once great now feels outdated.

If you’re on a tight budget, you can upgrade your Chevelle’s suspension with polyurethane bushings, adjustable shocks, lowering springs, and thicker sway bars fore and aft. However, if you’re seeking a quantum leap in ride quality and handling, QA1 offers solutions that will bring your classic car into the 21st century.

We’re working with a big-block 1967 Chevelle hardtop that suffers from clunky handling and a noisy ride. Having a big-block in front creates its share of handling issues and the suspension is shot from a half century of use. Oh sure, we could just replace the bushings, springs, shocks, and sway bars and call it a day. However, Joel Rode of Hot Rod Specialties wouldn’t be a happy man and his classic Chevelle experience would be a whole lot less than it could be.

A big-block Chevelle needs all the help it can get in terms of handling and ride, so we turned to QA1 for a solution. Chevelles are heavy in the nose and they tend to plow, but they don’t have to. Adjustable coilover shocks; beefy sway bars fore and aft; thick, tubular upper and lower control arms with super-tough polyurethane bushings; and extra-added structural integrity make a night and day difference in handling.

1. This is our big-block 1967 Chevelle as it stands with a worn-out factory suspension and stock ride height. We’re going to fit it with a complete QA1 suspension system to lower the ride height, improve the handling, and get better a ride quality.

2. Although the Chevelle’s suspension has been refurbished over the years with ball joints, shocks, and stabilizer links to keep it going, it has never had a real upgrade in a half century of operation. Those stamped steel factory control arms need to go.

3. Joel Rode, of Hot Rod Specialties, gets right down to business busting ball joints and tie-rod ends loose and tossing the old parts into the refuse bin. A good, sharp blow to the steering spindle shocks the ball joints and tie-rod ends loose. Rarely will you have to use a pickle fork to bust them loose.

4. The old shocks are unbolted and removed from the hole in the bottom of the lower control arm.

5. Having access to a vehicle lift makes this process easier, but it can also be done in your home garage. With the vehicle properly secured, place a jack stand under the ball joint area of the lower control arm to keep it and the coil spring supported. Unbolt the spindle and gradually unload the jack stand by slowly raising the lift. Keep in mind that a coil spring under tension contains a tremendous amount of energy. They can maim and kill if you are not careful. Stand away from the coil as the tension is released from the coil spring.

6. Be prepared for moments like this. The lower control arm pivot bolts won’t come out in some cases due to header clearance issues. We’re cutting the pivot bolt to get it out because QA1 provides new Grade 8 hardware with their control arm kits.

7. The upper control arms are where camber and caster alignment adjustments are made, using shims, on these old Chevelles. Once locked into place, the shims hold the alignment quite well. Take note of where these shims are before disassembly. Reinstall them in the same locations when you install the new QA1 control arms, which will get the alignment close enough so that you can drive to an alignment shop for a check and adjustment.

8. We get a rush of excitement looking at these QA1 pieces for the Chevelle’s front end. These tubular control arms sport super-tough polyurethane bushings with zerk fittings for regular preventive maintenance. They will last the life of your Chevelle and deliver handling and ride quality like never before. QA1 coilover shocks are fully adjustable, enabling you to control stiffness and ride height.

9. The QA1 upper control arms are offset, meaning you can dial in more negative camber by simply rotating the upper control arm shaft 180 degrees if you’re going road racing or autocrossing.

10. The upper control arm bolts in place of the original, with shims used for alignment purposes. Although shims are a pain to use for camber and caster alignment, they hold alignment better than any other means. Unless you hit a curb, or nail a pothole with great violence, this approach to alignment does it best.

11. Joel methodically assembles the adjustable QA1 coilover shocks using molybdenum grease between the adjustment rings and the shock body for ease of ride height adjustment.

12. The QA1 coilover shocks attach to these lower shock mounts, which bolt to the lower control arm with four Allen screws. These lower mounts provide excellent support.

13. The adjustable QA1 shocks are bolted on up top and are prepared for attachment to the lower control arms. Installation works just like removal did. Support the vehicle at the framerails with a floor jack and place a jack stand beneath the lower control arm. We’re using vehicle weight to compress the spring and secure the lower control arm.

14. Here’s the shock’s top attachment point, as original with a stud and urethane grommet.

15. These billet aluminum tie-rod adjusters have to be one of the best innovations we’ve seen for classic Chevys. Late-model vehicles have employed these adjusters for years. QA1 makes it easier than ever to set toe, and these can’t deform under load like the stamped steel stockers. Take the new tie-rod ends and adjuster and set them up to the same exact length as the original tie rods.

16. Here’s the driver-side QA1 tie-rod assembly installed and ready for alignment.

17. The QA1 stabilizer links have polyurethane bushings for greater stability. Joel applies polyurethane lubricant to eliminate noises.

18. It is a matter of opinion which way to install stabilizer link bolts: head up or head down. Joel prefers head down.

19. We’re working with a typical Chevelle rear suspension with coil springs, trailing arms, and a 12-bolt GM rear axle. This one is filled with 2.73:1 cruising gears. We won’t be going drag racing any time soon.

20. Joel begins his regiment by supporting the axle with screw jack stands. This support is important to axle stability while we’re changing out the control arms, springs, and shocks.

21. QA1 has provided us with a complete rear suspension system for our Chevelle. Joel can tell you firsthand what a difference the QA1 kit has made to his Chevelle’s handling and ride quality. That difference comes from adjustable coilover shocks, bulletproof trailing arms, and a sway bar the Chevelle never had in the first place. It means stability like never before.

22. With the rear axle carefully supported, Joel begins pulling the rear suspension apart. He begins with the upper trailing arms.

23. When you examine the QA1 and the factory upper trailing arms side-by-side the difference in integrity is clear. Brute tubular stock is unyielding in its strength, which keeps the axle centered and stable.

24. Polyurethane bushings have been hammered into the 12-bolt axlehousing. The old rubber bushings were shot and way overdue for replacement.

25. The lower trailing arms (also known as control arms) are removed next at the chassis and the axle.

26. The new QA1 lower trailing arms are installed with the zerk fittings pointed down for easy access. The bushings have been lubed for quiet and reliable operation.

27. The QA1 coilover shocks and springs are assembled as shown and set up uniformly for installation. Once you have your Chevelle on the ground, you can adjust the ride height, take it out for a little road work, and then recheck the ride height.

28. Our QA1 coilovers are installed and ready for a ride height adjustment. You’re going to want a solid, level surface on which to adjust the ride height.

29. The QA1 rear sway bar is a terrific addition for this big-block Chevelle. Joel tells us it’s a night and day difference from what he had underneath before. The ride height is lower and the handling and ride quality are incredible.

30. The rear sway bar connects to the lower trailing arms as shown via a billet-aluminum block and Grade 8 hardware from QA1. This is, without a doubt, a nice piece.

31. The ride height has been lowered about 1 inch front and rear. Additional coilover adjustment can bring it down even further, or raise it up if needed. The QA1 suspension package gives us complete adjustability coupled with exceptional handling.

Sources

Hot Rod Specialties

909.215.5516

QA1 Precision Products

800.721.7721

qa1.net

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