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engineer-gunzelpunk · 1 year

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Heavy Harry And The Three Railway Engines (Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals, CW: Some coarse language)

This next one was actually the first RWS-type story outside of Sodor I ever wrote featuring my VR OCs. I was obsessed with the idea that the RWS books did exist within the Island Of Sodor, which is not an uncommon idea in the fandom...

But I don't think anyone did a story where locomotives outside of Sodor and existing in the same reality as Sodor actually read the RWS.

Heavy Harry And The Three Railway Engines

Newport Locomotive Depot and Works, late December 1950

The mighty VR H-Class Pocono H220 “Heavy Harry” has settled in his shed for the night. He has an express passenger train tomorrow to the border town of Albury all the way in New South Wales, the next state over across the Murray River, and needs plenty of rest. He is the largest locomotive built locally in Australia and the largest non-articulated loco in the Southern Hemisphere.

Somehow, it doesn’t really go to his head, probably because he pulls a lot of goods trains as well, overnights to Albury and back (VR seems to give everyone plenty of mixed work, not even the snooty S-classes are above pulling goods trains every now and again). It gives him ample opportunity to show his strength, for no other class of locomotive in Australia is stronger than he.

He is dark and shining in his majesty, painted in standard VR all-black; the imported American bar frames upon which his whole being is built, the pilot out the front and enormous smoke deflectors give him a proud and armored look.

Unlike the suave, stylish S-class Pacifics who are the lords of the fleet; who hid all their machinery under dark blue and gold streamlining, he unabashedly shows off his rugged mechanical lumps and bumps. He needs to be rugged if he is to mount the 1-50 and 1-44 inclines of the North Eastern Line on a daily basis, such as his purpose.

Near him is in the next berth the old fashioned, black VR A2 4-6-0 No 986 “Pluto”, who also pulls passengers, though not as often these days. He’s an older fellow that plays the doddering old man, but he’s sharp and cunning and won’t hesitate to take the piss out of anyone who he thinks is stupid.

“Your driver is coming to tuck you in and give you a kiss, Har’! Has he got a glass of warm milk?” giggles Pluto.

“He might be coming to change your adult nappy, Pluto!” snickers Harry.

“He’d better be dressed all sexy-like in a nurse outfit if he’s going to do that! Give me a sponge bath too! That’d make my night!”

They’re both laughing like crazy by the time Harry’s driver reaches them.

“Ready for bed?” his voice echoes.

“Just settling in, Driver…” says Harry

“Have a squiz at this!” His driver cheerfully, and shows him a tiny yellow book, The Three Railway Engines, “Just published! I bought it to read to me kids! I thought it would be fun to show you, Har’.”

Harry was curious at the little book.

“They have living locomotives in Britain as well?”

“Of course they do!… We’re not the only living ones out there! Its impossible!” barks Pluto.

Driver carefully reads the simple stories and shows up the pictures in front of Harry so he can appreciate them. Their faces are grey, like that of the Australian locomotives, but their classes and types are difficult to discern from the artwork.

Pluto listens in with interest.

“Blimey, Gordon is such a limp prick!” exclaims Pluto.

“That hill looks pissy as! Surely the A3 can’t be as great as they say if it struggles on a little hillock!.. “ snickers Harry.

They go to the next story.

“Pluto, there’s a 4-6-0 in this book!” exclaims Harry.

“Good for him! I hope he’s as splendid as me…” puffs Pluto, then suddenly the sound of snoring came from that berth.

“Heh! Old coot!”

They continue reading the stories.

After finishing the book, Driver asks “What do you think, Har’?”

“I’m not sure…”, Harry is a little uneasy.

“Whats the matter, boy? Don’t you like it?”.

Harry kept flickering his eyes to the side.

“I don’t like the story of Henry getting shut up in a tunnel… I don’t think he deserved his punishment…”, he looks down towards his bufferless footplate.

“He sure deserved his punishment! What a princess! Imagine stalling cuz you’re afraid of a few drops of rain? What a total pillock!” he laughed.

Driver thought it was very funny, but Harry didn’t think so.

“Sir, would you like it if the coppers threw you in jail because you went on strike over something?” he said with uncharacteristic solemnity.

Driver frowned at the realisation. He had joined the strike that year and Harry had struck a nerve.

“Have you been talking to one of the Communist locos, Har’?”

“No! Why? Didn’t you join the enginemen’s strike too? The one we locomotives wholeheartedly supported? And it made things better for everyone? Because that the promises that fucking terrible Pig Iron Bob bloke made didn't come true? ”

“Fair point, Harry… but striking for better pay and conditions is one thing… being silly over paint is another…”

“How do we know he’s being silly over paint? Just because the author said so?

'The stupid newspapers said you were all Communists or puppets of Communists! The other drivers were complaining about it!

‘They made the locos so silly-looking too! Like kiddies and children’s toys! Do they really look this silly in England?” grunted Harry.

“I don’t think these are meant to be literal, Harry…I mean, the paintings aren’t the most accurate depictions of locomotive types.. you can’t even see what classes they’re supposed to be…I mean, Henry’s a 4-6-0 in one picture and a Pacific in another!”

“Pacifics! Feh! Wankers!” yelled Pluto in his sleep ,“Too good for pulling goods eh? Why I oughta take them by the scruff and rub their noses in boiler sludge! ...” , snoring resumes.

“Do you think the Thin Commissioner would come down personally if one of us were to stall in a tunnel just to yell at the passengers, have them try to pull a 200-tonne locomotive with full consist, then lose his temper and brick it up?” asked Harry.

“No, Harry, that would be silly and absurd. But in the book, the Fat Controller is on the train… but I do get your point...”

“That Fat Controller must be a child, if his solution to Henry being silly in a tunnel is to brick him up and leave him there. The board of directors must have been spitting chips at that!”

Driver shrugged, “They’re just stories in a book, Harry. Not a thing to get upset over… I must admit now that you bring it up, it is a bit stupid in the way they seem to run it, leaving a perfectly good engine in his shed… then sending a wholly unsuitable locomotive to do a goods run on a steep hill… then bricking up another one in a tunnel...”

“Anyway Har’, best not think about it too hard… big journey tomorrow! Nighty night!”

Just stories… Harry thought.

And he put his discomfort away, and tried to get some sleep even though Pluto snored like it was going out of fashion.

Here are a couple of true events referred to for context:

Previous to the events of the story, there had been a major strike by the enginemen of the VR for better pay and conditions. Things that were promised to them when the war ended were not given to them. They were exhausted and a lot of the locomotives were in terrible shape because no one could afford to maintain them as often as they should. The railway workers union AFULE called a major strike which lasted for 55 days, and most of their demands were met by the VR.

The "Pig Iron Bob" referred to in the story is Sir Robert Menzies, the arch-Conservative Prime Minister of Australia at the time of the story. He was infamous as Attorney General for letting the sale of raw iron to the Empire of Japan even as it was clear they were allied with the Nazis and were committing atrocities all across Asia, such as the Massacre of Nanking.

The unions and every right-thinking Australian hated this and they refused to load iron on ships bound for Japan:

#rws #thomasallgrownup #Victorian Railways H-Class Pocono H220 'Heavy Harry"#ttte henry #ttte edward #ttte gordon #VR A2 Class 4-6-0 No 986 “Pluto”#Red And Black Steam On Southern Metals

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projectourworld · 1 year

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A kingfisher dives from the branch of a tree on the banks of the River Dodder, in Dublin, Ireland. Photograph: Brian Lawless/PA | wildlife pictures; Guardian Newspaper #kingfisher #riverdodder #ireland

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mariacallous · 2 years

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According to the beau ideal of Chinese politics—as with most authoritarian systems—high-stakes debates over policy and power are meant to be conducted behind a thick and soundproof curtain. The public, much less the outside world, should receive a glimpse of nothing more textured than a smooth and placid surface of the machinery of state. The aim here, of course, is to suggest serene unanimity and magnify the authority and prestige of the leader.

That, at least, is the theory. Over the course of a few awkwardly filmed seconds near the conclusion of a quinquennial session of the ruling Chinese Communist Party this weekend, reality seemed to briefly shred the gleaming veneer that is intended, revealing drama worthy of playwright William Shakespeare. The scene in question arrived at the moment of what was designed to be the crowning glory of China’s leader, Xi Jinping, after he had engineered changes to the party’s rules that would allow him, in principle, to remain at the helm of power as long as he cared to—or, for a 69-year-old man, the rest of his life.

Without audible opposition, Xi had also just effectively purged some of the only figures in his party who could be imagined as standing for policies and a style of governance different from his own. Those unceremoniously dismissed included his own premier, Li Keqiang, once considered a contender to lead China himself. Li had created a stir in August when, during a visit to Shenzhen, China, he proclaimed that “China’s reform and opening up will continue to move on. The Yellow River and Yangtze River will not flow backward,” which some experts hopefully took to signal continued flickering resistance to Xi. Ominously and remarkably though, the sitting premier’s comments were quickly scrubbed from the Chinese internet.

The weekend’s other prominent ouster involved the former party leader of Guangdong province, Wang Yang, who had once notably pronounced these very un-Xi-like thoughts: “We must eradicate the incorrect idea that happiness is a benevolent gift from the party and the government.” He advocated gradualist political reforms in China centered on creating more space for civil society as well as for “thought emancipation.”

Then, before the session could close with smiles all around, performing uniform faith in Xi’s greatness, something unexpected and still mystifying occurred. Seated to Xi’s left, his immediate predecessor, the 79-year-old Hu Jintao, looking surprisingly gray and frail, was suddenly rustled from his chair—to all appearances against his will—and led out of the hall, leaving an empty seat near the very center of the front row.

Hu did not exit the stage before first reaching for a sheath of papers that sat in front of Xi, causing Xi to grasp them. Almost all of the top leaders who were seated nearby stared determinedly ahead as if pretending that nothing noteworthy was taking place. But as one of the men who was ushering him out tugged at his shoulder, Hu spoke a few words to Xi, who remained expressionless as he nodded, and then Hu managed to pause again to tap his protégé, Li, on the shoulder before finally being moved off camera.

Predictably, news broadcasts in China edited out these scenes completely, but word got around quickly of the unusual spectacle.

Xi’s apparatus leaned on King Lear to provide an explanation. Hu’s actions were those of a doddering and unwell old man. Although possible, this is hardly the most likely or satisfying explanation of the day’s events. As political scientist Joseph Torigian wrote in his recently published book, Prestige, Manipulation, and Coercion: Elite Power Struggles in the Soviet Union and China After Stalin and Mao, “critical junctures are moments when politics are at their most ‘visible,’ and thus they allow us to theorize about limitations and possibilities for the future.”

Here, the possibility that thrusts itself immediately into consideration is that Hu, often dismissed as a faceless, weak, and ineffectual leader during his 10 years in power from 2002 until Xi’s anointment in 2012, had chosen this moment to publicly mark his disagreement with the management of the party under Xi, which has brought about an extraordinary and stifling concentration of power into one man’s hands.

To grasp the logic behind this interpretation requires a bit of history, particularly of how Hu himself rose to power and then sought to exercise it. Hu’s takeover in 2002, which was set in motion before the death of then-rapidly aging patriarch Deng Xiaoping in 1997, was meant to usher in a new era of regular, peaceful, and institutionalized transfers of power in a country that had never known such a thing. This was to take place on a firmly scheduled 10-year basis divided into two terms, which theoretically offered the party the ability to remove a bad or unpopular leader after a first five-year term in office.

The mechanics of Deng’s new system also took some of the power out of a given leader’s hands in terms of choosing his own successor, allowing the party to play more of a role in the elevation of future leaders. In Hu’s case, the power to name a successor was removed altogether from the hands of Deng’s immediate successor, Jiang Zemin, because Deng himself, whose authority was unchallenged in the late 1990s, placed Hu in line to eventually replace Jiang.

Hu’s time in office, which coincided with the six years I spent as a reporter in the country, is often caricatured as directionless—a supposedly wasted decade for China. In fact, his legacy in power is a highly complex one.

In some ways, this was a golden age for the country, with very fast economic growth and enormous strides in living standards for most Chinese. Hu was no democrat, of course, but the explosion of the internet made for unaccustomed space in terms of expression in the country. Hu’s premier, Wen Jiabao, sought to put a human face on government, publicly expressing concern for the poor and people left behind on many occasions.

Hu’s most important political initiative was an attempt to institutionalize a more collective style of rule than China had ever known. As political scientist Susan Shirk shows in her new book, Overreach: How China Derailed Its Peaceful Rise, Hu did this by creating balanced representation in the country’s most important decision-making bodies among different stakeholders, including the party apparatus, the government, representatives of provincial governments, and the military.

Most importantly though, he expanded the very highest instance of power in China, the Politburo Standing Committee, from seven to nine members and openly chose to rule as first among equals instead of as an all-imposing figure. Remarkably, Hu explained this as “an effort to prevent arbitrary decision-making by a single top leader,” which was one of Deng’s key fears after the long and capricious reign of former Chinese leader Mao Zedong.

This brings us to Xi, who has just very clearly sought to go about as far as one could in the opposite direction, vesting almost all power in his own person, surrounding himself with yes men and proven loyalists, and exacerbating that very risk.

Before discussing Xi any further though, it is worth spending a moment considering how things worked out under Hu. His collective style of rule may have been well intentioned, but it created big problems of its own. The buck seemed to stop nowhere, meaning that each member of the supreme Politburo Standing Committee was allowed to run his own fief in one sector or another of the economy or national security system, with members seldom opposing one another’s actions even in private on the intuited basis that this would prevent others from interfering with their own pet projects and patronage. Under Hu, it often seemed—in other words—that no one was in charge, and corruption took off on an alarming scale.

We will probably never know with any high degree of resolution what happened with Hu, who literally left the political stage on Saturday, probably never to be seen again—a cipher down to the end of his public life. What we do know is that the seemingly unscripted and unharmonious nature of his exit created an embarrassment for Xi, deliberately or not.

And the shadow of these events underlines a fundamental weakness to a Leninist system like China’s: a debility that no amount of tinkering by Mao (who presided over the deaths of two designated successors), Deng (who ousted Mao’s final designated successor, Hua Guofeng, for reasons that appear to have had much more to do with personal ambition and entitlement than with ideological or policy differences and then created a formula for future transitions), Jiang Zemin (who began his retirement according to schedule but clung to secondary titles for years and worked to undermine Hu’s authority and constrain his choices), and now least of all, Xi, is likely to be able to resolve.

Xi’s approach, in fact, resembles nothing so much as a return to the origin of Leninist systems—and particularly to the example of another ruler for life, former Soviet leader Joseph Stalin. Xi has built a personality cult and packed the new Politburo Standing Committee with political Lilliputians—men of small political stature who have no previous experience of central government and limited power networks of their own—who thus pose no challenge to him.

This includes Li Qiang, the man who is likely to be named Xi’s premier next year to replace the now-banished Li Keqiang. Few analysts can imagine Li Qiang—who was loathed in his previous post as the most powerful official in Shanghai, where he oversaw suffocating quarantines during a recent COVID-19 outbreak—as an eventual successor to Xi. And that seems to be the point.

As University of California San Diego political scientist Victor Shih argues in his new book, Coalitions of the Weak: Elite Politics in China From Mao’s Stratagem to the Rise of Xi, this is a tactic Mao introduced late in his rule, when his priority shifted from questions of ideological legacy or even the future of China to thwarting the rise of challengers and ensuring his own political longevity.

The lesson here is that Leninist systems are inherently unstable, in large part because both the ruling party and the top leaders govern above the law. As Americans have been powerfully reminded in the wake of the crisis surrounding the Jan. 6, 2021, attack on Congress, one of the most important features of any stable society is respect for laws of succession. But in China, all is still naked power struggles, usually well hidden from the public but unencumbered by firm rules; in such circumstances, good endings are not to be expected.

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dillonbrannick · 3 days

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I've been looking at Kazuo Oga's work (it's too good) the last day or two so I broke out the gouaches to paint this little scene of the river dodder.

#art #painting #artists on tumblr #gouache #dublin #ireland #traditional art #dillonbrannick

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streetsofdublin · 1 year

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WINDY ARBOUR SOME LOCAL GREEN SPACES

Windy Arbour, historically called Glassons, is a small suburban village in the Dundrum area of Dublin, Ireland. Situated between Dundrum and Milltown, along the banks of the Slang River (also Dundrum or Slann River).

PHOTOGRAPHED 25 APRIL 2023 Windy Arbour, historically called Glassons, is a small suburban village in the Dundrum area of Dublin, Ireland. Situated between Dundrum and Milltown, along the banks of the Slang River (also Dundrum or Slann River). The River Slang (Irish: Abhainn na Stéille), also known as the Dundrum Slang or the Dundrum River, a tributary of the River Dodder, is a stream which…

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#areas of dublin #DP1 #Dundrum River #Fotonique #Green Spaces #Infomatique #Nature #Quattro #sigma #Slang River #Slann River #small suburban village #William Murphy #Windy Arbour

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not-rude-ginger · 1 year

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Saw a post asking which river is "the river" for you and my immediate thought was, "Why would I call it the river, when I can called it Poddle, or Dodder, or Nanny? Those words are far more fun to say!"

Not knocking the OP, it was just where my brain went.

#random thoughts

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dragestil · 6 months

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🎵 “through me (the flood)” by hozier

📍 river dodder, dublin, ie

#music #nature #hozier #through me (the flood)#the other half of this path is flooded #couldn’t take video of a flooding river and not do this

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boxofbonesfic · 3 years

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Title: Talking Bird

Series Masterlist

Summary: Sometimes when you stare into the dark, the darkness stares back in kind. You’ve been living in hell the past three years, so you’re familiar with the look of devils—so you think. They see darkness in you, and they’re determined to make you embrace it. As soon as your good-for-nothing husband is out of the way.

Pairing: Dark!Steve x Reader x Dark!Bucky

WARNINGS: Mob!AU, DUBCON, Murder, violence, General criminal activity, Manipulation, Abuse (past abuse, but still), Abuse victim reader, Dubcon, Gaslighting, smut, unprotected sex, breeding kink, MINORS DNI!!

A/N: whew. it’s been a little bit, and i’m so sorry for leaving you all with that cliffhanger for so long, lmao. but here we are, finally at the pinnacle of our story! please let me know what you think, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. divider by @whimsicalrogers!

Chapter Nine: Like your brain can’t keep up with your beak….

Steve didn’t usually smoke, he’d given up the habit in his early twenties, only indulging when he was especially stressed or angry. He relished the burn of the smoke in his lungs, and exhaled it slowly through his nostrils. He’d watched the security footage ten times over, watched their sweet girl open the door none-the-wiser, watched them take her right out from under them.

He blamed himself of course—he and Buck had gotten held up at the club dealing with inconsequential bullshit. And by the time they’d known what was happening, it was too late, and you were gone by the time Bucky’s panicked driving had gotten them back to the house.

It had only taken Scott a few tries—and three hours, Steve had refused to spare more—to round up the list of names, all of the cops who’d been on their property that afternoon. He knows most of these names, all Fury’s best men. And the majority of them are the only ones Steve hadn’t managed to sway.

The only ones not on his payroll.

He toed the man’s limp leg with the gleaming tip of his black oxford.

“Four of you to arrest one little woman. Seems like overkill, don’t you think?” He asked, taking another deep drag on his cigarette. Steve’s eyes flick down to the copper colored nameplate on his uniform. Levi. It’s crusted with his own dried blood, gleaming dully in the low, yellow light. He coughed in response, spittle and blood dripping from his swollen, split lips.

Fury had next to nothing on them for Stane, nothing more than hearsay and rumors. It didn’t matter that it was true, that they’d removed the doddering old figurehead and absorbed his empire—not when the people who had the proof were smart enough to keep it to themselves. Or terrified enough not to talk, which yielded the same results either way.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this was the next best thing. Fury couldn’t get Steve, couldn’t get Bucky—but he could get you. Steve fought hard not to let the rage grip him again—after all, Levi would be less than useless if Steve beat him even more bloody.

Air whistled harshly through the gap in his now missing front teeth as Levi raised a bloodshot eye to meet Steve’s gaze—the other was swollen shut, courtesy of his trip.

“Are you going to make me ask again?” Steve’s expression was eerily calm as he squatted in front of the

“F-Fury said she was dangerous,” the words sounded jumbled and mashed, like it was hard for him to get them out around the jagged remains of his teeth.

“Where’s he keeping her? She isn’t in the holding cells, not in any of the Brooklyn precincts.” Steve spat, his hand fisting in Levi’s shirt as he yanked him up towards his face.

“Speak!” He shook him roughly, his head snapping back and forth weakly. Steve didn’t have much patience left to spare, not you’re out there alone without them to protect you—and not for him, certainly.

Steve knew how much you needed them, and they didn’t put Glenn in the fucking river just to let Fury take you away. Steve knew a show of force when he saw one, knew that the only reason Fury had brought fourteen men was to show that he could. That he could waltz past their wrought iron gate and take you to task for their crimes.

Well Steve would give the detective a show of his own.

“R-Rochester.” Levi’s voice was weak, the word garbled, but Steve understood it clearly. He dropped the cop like a ragdoll, stepping over his trembling body. “H-have her in… Rochester. Ab-abandoned station, off—” Levi coughed, and blood dribbled from his lips. “Off ‘63.”

His phone was already in hand, another cigarette planted firmly between his lips.

“Did you find her?”

“No. But I know where she is.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

The line went dead. Steve was already making his way up toward the entrance of the club. Steve’s always been good at plans, at making them, sticking to them. It’s what had gotten him this far; his stringent discipline, the knowledge of which rules to break, which to follow. Well, that and Bucky.

They hadn’t even had to talk about you—they’d just known. The moment they’d seen you with Glenn’s arm wrapped uncomfortably tight around your shoulders. Steve had seen Stane’s life, seen just what that necessary ruthlessness did when it went unchecked.

He’d seen himself, and it terrified him.

He’d seen both of them, if they didn’t find something to ground them. And how lucky indeed that they had met you. You needed a protector, and who better than the two of them? So beautiful, so damaged. And they knew just how to fix you. Everything Steve had ever wanted was within his reach—he just needed to grasp it.

Scott waited for him by the staircase, his ever-cheerful demeanor remarkably absent as he took in Steve’s carefully crafted mask of calm.

“You’re with me, Lang. Have Barton take care of our boy in blue.” There was no need for Levi anymore, not when Steve had already gotten what he needed from him. He could still feel the cold rage, the all encompassing fury at the discovery of your absence, and suddenly he was tempted to return to the low-level officer and kick his teeth in another time. “We’re going upstate.”

Scott nodded, before stopping for a beat to look back at the interrogation room down the long hallway. “Take care of him, or like… take care of him?” He asked, his eyebrows rising. Steve’s gaze went hard as he regarded the other man, and he watched the discomfort rise as Scott fidgeted. Steve wasn’t stupid—he’d gotten this far by not being in the business of needlessly killing cops.

“He was there, wasn’t he?” Steve said slowly, inspecting his red-flecked fingernails.

“Boss?”

“He was there. When they took her.” He clarified, producing a cloth from his pocket as he began to clean his knuckles, wiping the remains of Levi’s blood from his own flesh.

“Yeah, boss.”

“Then tell Clint to put one between his eyes.” There is finality in his tone that left no room for argument, and Scott ducked his head. “Meet us outside.”

The club upstairs was raucous, swinging with energy and music, a lively facsimile of the grim mood on the floors below. The crowd parted for him, closing behind him just as quickly as he made his way toward the exit. Bucky was already there, leaned against the hood of the sleek black Jaguar.

His hair was ruffled, the first few buttons of his shirt undone and sleeves rolled up. When Steve got closer, he could see the evidence of a fight all over him—evidence that Bucky has been doing some investigating of his own. Bucky runs a hand through his dark hair, his stormy blue eyes settling on Steve’s.

“They’re gonna fuckin’ pay.” He growls, and Steve nods. “They fuckin’ know better.”

“I know, Buck.”

“They took her from our home.” Bucky spat, and Steve watched his fists clench angrily around nothing. He scrubbed a hand down his face, and Steve notes his split knuckles. “The cops don’t cross us. We had a fucking deal.”

“Looks like it’s time to renegotiate it.” Steve replies tightly. He grasped Bucky’s hand in his, bringing it to his face. He traced the broken skin with his lips. “What happened?”

“Had a talk with Walker.”

“Our informant?”

“Wasn’t doing much goddamn informing if we didn’t know they were coming to try this shit.” Bucky retorted, though at Steve’s touch, the tension in his shoulders eased—just a little. He’d spent all day reminding Walker just how important it was that they be kept up to speed on Fury’s investigations. “Maybe now that he has about eight less fucking teeth he’ll remember to keep us in the goddamn know.” He took a steadying breath, exhaling slowly. “Rochester?”

“They’re trying to take her out of the city. Get her away so she’ll talk.”

“She won’t.” Bucky replied resolutely. “She’s a good girl. She’s our girl.”

Steve didn’t have time to respond as the door behind him slammed open. Scott was fixing his suit, striding towards them with purpose.

“Ready when you are, boss men.”

Bucky’s eyes go bright.

“Let’s go get our girl.”

—

The lights in the interrogation room were bright, but you’d gotten used to them fairly quickly. They always seemed to be on, and being that there was no window, you had no idea what time it was, how long it’d been since you’d been taken into “custody”. You laid your head on the cool metal desk in front of you, closing your eyes as you attempted to block out the endless buzz.

You’d been taken to the station, but only for a few minutes while Fury had you bundled into an unmarked vehicle. He’d gotten in the driver’s seat, and the cop from earlier, the one who’d asked you if you’d murdered Glenn, slid in the passenger door right beside him. Your eyes were sore from crying, and your wrist ached where it was cuffed to the table.

It had to have been hours since you’d been brought there, you were thirsty, hungry, tired. And most of all, you were scared. Your body was like a string stretched tightly between two points, taut and ready to snap at a moment’s notice. Worse still, no one had been in the room since you’d been shoved into it and cuffed to the bar that ran along the wall.

There was a camera in the corner, and the only sign it was on and someone was watching was the steady red light above it. You’d long since given up on pleading into the camera, so you couldn’t mask your shock when the door finally swung open.

Fury came in alone, settling himself at the table before folding his hands on top of it. New anxiety unfurled in your gut as you wondered if this was your punishment. Glenn had not been particularly Christ-like, but you supposed that didn’t stop you from being his Judas. You’d accepted Steve and Bucky’s thirty pieces of silver in exchange for your soul, only damnation had come sooner than you’d anticipated.

“I think we both know why I’m here.” He said, tapping his finger against the table softly.

“I’m telling the truth,” you said in a small voice, glancing up at him before pinning your gaze down on your nervously twining fingers. “I didn’t kill Glenn.” You’d been prepared for him to insist you had, to call you a liar and a murderer—what you weren’t prepared for, was his laughter.

Nick Fury scoffed at scrubbing a hand down his face. “I know you didn’t kill him.” He shook his head, while your spun. You gaped at him. Confusion wasn’t the appropriate word, though you felt that too. Shock, perhaps. Utter disbelief. “Glenn Thomas Aberdeen was stabbed thirty three times, but before that, he had his ribs broken. His orbital was crushed—he’d never have seen out of that eye again, even if he did survive. His hands were broken. Shot in one knee—but you know that part, don’t you?”

His voice drowned out every other sound—the forced air through the vents, your own pounding heartbeat. “H-how, I—”

“Oldest wound. Medical examiner places it around midnight on August 3rd—the same night witnesses place the two of you at Calore.” The name of the bar makes you shiver, you know Fury sees it. “Come on. You don’t have to go down for this. And for what? Some pretty tennis bracelets?” He nods down at your diamond-clad wrist.

They promised to take care of you, the voice reminds you. You’re not stupid enough to think that the police could protect you from either Steve or Bucky—or punish them for their wrath after it had been brought down around you. You’d been good. You’d played by the rules just like everyone said you should—only to end up used. Discarded. Unvalued. Abused.

“Why am I here?” You asked, looking up at him steadily for the first time.

“You drew the short straw. You’re the weak link in the chain, I’m sorry to say.” He leaned forward. “I have no reason to lie to you, ma’am. You’re a good girl. I don’t know how you got mixed up with the likes of Steve Rogers and James Barnes, but despite what they may have told you, I’m the good guy.”

You kept your expression neutral, though inside you recoiled. Good girls get nothing but pain. And sitting here, Fury seemed a lot closer to being the villain than the men who’d saved you from a slow death and an early grave.

Good girls get hurt.

Bad girls, at least, got tennis bracelets—and if they were Steve and Bucky’s bad girl, then…they got the world. And you knew it was wrong to want it, but you did—and you knew they could give it to you. They wouldn’t leave you out to dry, not like this.

“I know your boyfriends put Obadiah Stane in the dirt. I know they put your husband down too.” His gaze went cold. “Maybe you think they did you a favor. I saw the police reports, the doctor’s notes.” Of course he had—they were related, a matter of public record now. Your insides curled with embarrassment and disgust—now anyone who had the mind to look would know what Glenn had done to you, what you’d let him do for years.

But that’s where Fury was wrong—they had done you a favor. They were right. The world was ugly. It didn’t matter if Fury knew you hadn’t killed him—he was willing to let you get charged for it, he’d said as much himself. Olivia was all over the news, blaming you, fanning the flames of public hatred you knew would be quickly growing—so what was the point of fighting the tide any more?

Why not just be the monster Glenn always said you were?

Why not?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I saw you in the bookstore that day. You looked terrified. You don’t have to be, not of them. We can protect you.”

“You should be afraid of them, detective.” You replied softly, your brows furrowing as you realized that he too, was all too happy to move you like a chess piece across the board of this investigation. “You know what they’re capable of.” And he would discard you when you were no longer useful.

“You can go home tonight.” Fury replied as though you hadn’t spoken. “You can go home to your family and you can be innocent. Or you can lie for them, and sit in a cell until your court date. Your choice.” You almost wanted to laugh for the hopelessness of it all. Fury was worse than Glenn—he knew what your ex had put you through, and he was still willing to stick you in a cell, to interrogate you and leave you to rot when he was finished, all for the sake of his case.

“I wouldn’t make it off the FDR drive, and you know that.” Your stomach twisted with anxiety and nausea.

“The law is the law.” His voice carried a somber note, and you couldn’t discern the sincerity of it.

“And to the law, I’m expendable.” You looked down at your hands. You didn’t have anything left to say. Fury tapped his fingers against the table for a few moments before sighing.

“I hope you’ll reconsider.” The sound of the door shutting behind him seemed to echo in the little room. You knew what he was playing at—there were no formal charges against you, and they could only hold you for so long before either dropping the hammer, or letting you go.

You could only hope that Steve and Bucky got to you before your time ran out. The red light on the camera in the corner flashed, and you wondered again who was behind it—Fury, or the smug, scarred cop with the toothpick? They were the only ones you’d seen since leaving the station, making you question just how many people Fury trusted with the secret of your location.

You didn’t have to wait long again for another visitor, and when Nick returned to the interrogation room, the other officer was in tow, a scowl on his face. He sneered at you, and you looked away.

“So what now? You didn’t tell me you didn’t get this signed off on by Commissioner Pierce, Fury.” He unlocked the chain that secured your cuffs to the table. “We can’t just hold her—”

“If I get a confession it won’t matter. You think Pierce cares how I get it?” He snapped. He turned his eye on you, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Who else hasn’t checked in, Rumlow?” Your mind raced as you connected the dots—time was running out, that much was clear.

“Walker. Went dark about an hour after Levi.”

It should have inspired horror in you, the knowledge that two men were likely dead, and by the hands of the men who loved you, no less—but instead, you felt… protected. They’re coming for me. Rumlow pulled you roughly to your feet.

“Move it, girlie. Don’t fancy getting shot by your sweethearts.” You stumbled out of the room after him, your legs weak. It was an old police station, likely only used for special circumstances—like interrogating unnamed witnesses. He half-dragged you through the maze of desks, past the empty reception area, and out of the dusty double doors.

Late afternoon sun blinded you, and you blinked unseeingly, scrambling for your bearings. You didn’t know where you were, surrounded on all sides by trees that rose in a tight ring around the old station. Gravel crunched underfoot as you were led back to the same black unmarked car that had brought you here, and Rumlow shuffled you into the back seat. He slammed the door behind you loud enough to make you wince.

“Levi’s not answering, Walker’s scared shitless, says they know about his family. What’s the fucking plan, Fury? Because from where I’m goddamn standing it doesn’t look like you have one!”

Nick rubbed his temples as Rumlow’s voice increased steadily in volume.

“I thought this was what you wanted, Brock. You want big case promotions, you take big case risks.” Fury snapped, and you watched Rumlow’s eyes narrow. You didn’t like the look of him, and you liked him even less now. He pointed at you in the back seat.

“That’s not an answer. Men are going to wind up in pieces in every dumpster across the tristate area for this, and I’m not keen on being one of ‘em!” He slapped the hood of the car, and you winced at the noise.

“You’re free to go home any time, Brock.” Fury and he gestured at the road. “Not leaving?” When Rumlow didn’t answer, Fury continued. “Get her to Albany, they won’t touch her there. Too close to Laufey’s territory for them to make a big deal of it—”

The sound of the gunshot made you scream, and bright blood painted the car window. You kept screaming as the detective went down onto one knee, and then laid face down in the dirt, completely still. When Brock went for the car door handle, you whimpered, pushing yourself as far away from him as you could get.

He glared at you with dark eyes before reaching for you. You screamed again, kicking at him as your gaze grew wide with terror. You landed a solid kick on his shoulder, and he grunted with pain before wrapping his large hand around the chain linking your cuffs together. Your wrists burned as he dragged you out.

Brock threw you unceremoniously into the dirt, which you could see was stained and wet in the slowly diminishing sunlight. A scant few feet was all that lay between you and the unmoving body of the detective. The click of his pistol sent cold lead to your belly, and your jaw was tight as you stared up the barrel.

“God I was getting tired of listening to that shit,” Rumlow drawled, squatting down in front of you. “You too?” He nudged Fury’s arm with the muzzle of the gun, chuckling. You hadn’t, at least, not firsthand. Shaky, panicked were all you could manage to keep the hysteria at bay. He ran a hand through his hair before emitting a long sigh. “Fuck.”

You couldn’t stop shaking, your mind replaying the splash of crimson against the glass over and over, the gunshot still ringing in your ears—

“Hey, hey.” Brock snapped his fingers in front of your face a couple of times, before giving your cheek a sharp tap. “I need you to pay attention sweetheart, because I’m not keen on repeating myself.” You dragged your unwilling eyes from the still warm corpse up to his.

“We’re not going anywhere. You’re going to get that tight little ass up, and walk back inside to wait for those two fuckin’ faggots to get here, and then after they’ve paid me, if I’m feeling generous, I’ll actually give you back.”

“W-what—?” Your breath started coming in quick pants. This wasn’t real, wasn’t happening—

But it was.

“I want to see how much those two cocksuckers are willing to pay to get back some used pussy.” He sneered, gripping your chin between his forefinger and thumb. With the other hand, he holds the muzzle of the gun to your temple.

“And I got a couple of tricks of my own up my sleeve to make sure I get what I want.”

——

“Fifteen minutes to your destination.”

The mechanically British voice coming from the GPS didn’t fill Bucky with relief—only dread. He’d been in this game long enough to know that there weren’t often second chances.

Steve’s lead foot on the gas had made a long trip only minutely shorter, which had left them plenty of time to plan—though there was no accounting for what they would find when they got there. Levi’s garbled directions were still so fresh in his mind that the dead officer might as well have just told him.

Rochester. Ababdoned station off 63.

What would they find when they got there? Neither of them were sure. Fury gone off-script with this one, and as a result, they were flying blind. He wanted to collar them—badly. Badly enough to take you, at least. Steve’s hands tightened on the steering wheel.

“Pull off here.” Bucky instructed, pointing. “It’s down here.” His hand was already on his gun, the safety off and ready. They’d already prepared for the worst, the jet prepped and ready to go, their assets squared safely away in overseas banks and trusts—just in case everything went sour.

After all—five dead cops was certainly going to be eye opening news material.

The sky was darkening rapidly above them, and as the car sped down the long stretch of road, the anticipation of its inhabitants reached a fever pitch. The station loomed ahead, the lot empty but for one car. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as Steve pulled up.

“Is that…?” He killed the engine before opening the door and slowly stepping out.

A body lay in the gravel lot in front of the station, dark blood splashed over the ground, and against the car window nearby. Steve shut the door behind him, and took a step closer, dry earth crunching under his feet. Bucky was close behind, squatting down by the body. He grabbed its chin, turning the head sideways.

“Shit. It’s Fury.” To Bucky’s hand, the body is still warm, albeit only barely. He waited, his fingers pressed into the other man’s throat. There was no pulse, his good eye open and staring at nothing. He closed it with a swipe of his fingers. Bucky held a sort of… grudging respect for his doggedness, and he was almost sorry to see Fury go like this. “Looks like someone got here before we did.”

Steve tilted his head. “Scott, who else was on the team? Levi—who else?”

“Levi, Castleman, Rumlow, Hagar, Warrensworth.”

“Well Levi’s dead. Castleman too. Hagar’s skipped town, and we’re still looking for Warrensworth. So that leaves Rumlow.” Bucky spat the name out with disgust.

Of course it was fucking Rumlow.

“You got history with this guy?” Scott asked, and Steve fixed him with a sharp glare that had him mumbling an apology. If there was anything Fury and Rumlow had in common, it was how much they hated the two of them—as evidenced by their common goal.

“Enough to know he shot his boss.” He sniffed. “Probably didn’t like his end of the bargain.” Steve rolled up his sleeves before turning back to Bucky. “He’s going to want money.” It didn’t help that Brock was bound to hold a grudge after their last run in.

“Best I can do’s a bullet.” Bucky racked the gun just to be sure it was ready. “Think he remembers us?”

“Every time he looks in the mirror,” Steve replied darkly, chuckling. “Scott. You go around back, see if there’s any way to get in.”

Scott took a step before turning back to them with a frown. “What about you? You can’t seriously be going in the front.”

They were. After all, it was what Rumlow was expecting—them to burst in, guns blazing. Once Scott was out of sight, they crept lowly along the outer wall, with Bucky taking point. It had been a long time since they’d been out like this—in the field. But there was no one they trusted with your safety more than themselves.

The door was unlocked, and swung open silently. The air inside tasted of dust. With the sun almost down, there was little light to be had, and they squinted in the dark, eyes roving sharply over every part of the dusty receiving room.

“I’ll check the lockup.”

Bucky nodded, not wasting the breath of a response. He headed in the opposite direction, back towards the desks. There were shafts of pale pink-orange light coming through the wide windows, washing the room with the last vestiges of sunlight.

He crept carefully along the wall towards the back offices with slow, measured steps, but the sound of a throat clearing made him stop, aiming the gun immediately towards the sound. His finger squeezed down on the trigger just hard enough for it to click softly as he stared into the darkness, willing his eyes to adjust. And when they did—

It was your terrified face staring back at him.

“Doll—”

There’s a hand across your mouth, and it’s grip tightened as a whimper escaped your mouth.

“Put the gun down, Barnes.” Rumlow leaned forward, his face melting out of the shadows above your shoulder. Bucky hated the way he held you, his other hand resting the gun on your hip. You were stationed protectively in front of him, of course, to discourage Bucky from firing. “I mean, if you want to give these walls a fresh coat of paint, I guess that’s up to you.” He tapped the gun against your hip, and you flinched. “What do you think, sweetheart? I think it could use some sprucing up—”

“How’s your face?” Bucky snarled, cutting him off. “No surgery for that, huh?” The cruelty in his voice tasted good on his tongue, but his heart leapt into his throat when Rumlow growled, tucking the muzzle of the gun against your side.

“Where’s your boyfriend? Did he not make it to the party?” He asked tauntingly, and Bucky ignored the insult. “No, no, you two wouldn’t split up. He’s here, isn’t he?” He pushed the gun harder into you and you squeaked.

With any luck, Steve had heard the commotion, but station walls were thick, and he might not have. Bucky bit back an angry growl at the way Rumlow’s hand cupped your chin, his fingers tickling underneath it.

“Way I see it, I did you both a favor. More than either of you ever did for me.” He sneered, squeezing your cheeks with rough fingers. “Least you could do is pay me for it.” He licked his lips.

Your gaze was desperate as you met his eye, and—

Gunfire rang out, the sound piercing the terse silence between the three of you. A slow smirk spread over Brock’s face.

“I’ll bet that’s your buddy meeting one of mine.” Another round of shots, and then nothing. Brock’s smirk grew wider. Bucky swallowed the concern he felt welling up in his chest. It’s fine. Steve can handle himself. He didn’t let his gaze wander from Rumlow, his hand steady on the gun.

“How much do you want?” He gritted through his teeth, hating the ugly look of triumph that crossed his features.

“I dunno.” He tapped you with the gun. “How much d’you figure you’re worth, princess?”

Your throat moved with the nervous swallow you took. “B-Bucky—”

“That’s not a t answer.” His hand slid into your hair, pulling your head back. “I’m not a charity man, Barnes,” more gunfire sounded, closer this time, and Brock’s shit eating grin soured. “and the more I think about it, the more I wonder if Stane’s people might pay more just to kill her.”

Brock pushed away from the wall, keeping your body between him and Bucky as he maneuvered towards the back doorway. Bucky kept his gun aimed at the other man, following him steadily with the sight.

“I want fifty mil, minimum,” he growled over your shoulder. “I’ll give you some time to talk it over.” Bucky cursed as Rumlow ducked through the doorway. He couldn’t shoot, not without risking hitting you—and certainly not before Brock unloaded into you in retaliation. He could only watch helplessly as your scared face disappeared from view.

He heard the rustle of footsteps behind him and ducked just as a bullet whizzed by his head. The shot rang loudly in the enclosed space, and Bucky’s brain felt like it was rattling in his skull as he pressed himself to the ground behind one of the dusty desks. A muffled curse followed, and Bucky quickly scrambled to his knees, preparing to fire.

Steeling himself, he gripped the gun and sat straight up, aiming towards the door. Just there was a masked man in tac gear, his head snapping around wildly. Bucky squeezed the trigger, holding his arm still despite the kick as he fired. A second shot rang out just after, and the man staggered, before falling. Bucky held his position, waiting as the sound of quick foosteps drew nearer.

Steve appeared in the doorway, the arm of his white shirt stained with blood, his shoulder bleeding sluggishly. It was spattered across his face too, his eyes dark and intent.

“Did you find her?” There was no room for relief, not when you were still not safe, not with them.

“Brock has her, he’s using her like a sheild—”

An angry roar of pain split the air.

The two of them moved in tandem, Steve taking point while Bucky followed with quick, practiced steps. A gunshot, the sound of shattering glass—

“YOU LITTLE FUCKING CUNT!”

Disregarding the noise of their own foosteps, Steve and Bucky raced down the corridor toward the sound, stopping at what would have been the captain’s office if there were still one. The door was open and ajar, and when Steve shouldered in, it was empty.

The large window behind the desk was shattered, a smear of blood against the jagged glass. They could see Rumlow charging toward the treeline, and in front of him—

You.

Racing alone into the coming night.

To be continued….

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