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bryhoney · 1 month

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Recognisance pt.2

TW: Torture, Kidnapping, Drugging

This is shaping up to be looonggg.

Also on AO3

The control room is a hive of activity; Men and women speaking frantically to one another as they crowd around screens. There are people running messages back and forth across the base, each one seemingly vital for the Federation's continued success.

You find yourself standing alone, staring up at one of the boards in the command centre that is regularly updated with anything even remotely related to the Ghosts. It's dedicated to the most recent images and reports of the task force, some of the notes tacked onto the wall are just simple descriptors.

It always takes you a second to muster up the courage to look at the board. It's Gabriel's shrine to them, and recently you'd adopted his mission; To understand these men to the best of your ability and hunt them down. You know you should hate them, fear them after what they did to you. But the memories of your time with them were mostly in the dark, their faces were blurry and secondary to the pain they inflicted.

You'd read every file that Gabriel gave you regarding the ghosts. Most of them were heavily redacted or had large portions missing, individual pages torn away from the document. You had thought that going over these files would jog something in your memory, but as of yet, nothing. As such, you must have read every piece of information on the board in front of you several times over, you've made it a ritual since being allowed back to work.

You recite the information silently.

Two of the Ghosts are brothers, the Walkers. There was a third Walker amongst the Ghosts, Elias Walker, but Gabriel had killed him over two years ago. They -

They're ------.

"----! You're school re----, your brot--- --- -----! -----! Leave h-- -l---" It's a voice you recognise, but from where? An older voice-

You turn to the other images, Merrick and Keegan.

"Look at ---"

You're kissing someone, holding their head against the crook of your neck. You hear them whisper "mine," before you feel his teeth move against- it's that deep gravelly voice, it's-?

You audibly gasp at the memory and quickly cover your mouth, shaking the thought away. Inappropriate, incomplete. Shut up.

Looking back towards the board, you take a shaky breath. These men hurt you and took everything from you and yet you hardly even remember them. A part of you worries about what damage it'll do to remember everything they inflicted upon you.

"Oh ---" is it your name? A callsign? It's fuzzy and sounds-?

Your head is pounding.

"NO! -----! I'll kill you! LOGAN! LO-" It's another male voice, do you know who it is? It sounds so far away and yet...

Your feet are bleeding but you stalk forwards anyway.

Your feet are bleeding.

You know that name, you know that voice.

"Logan!" you're screaming, you can hear the panic in your voice.

Your eyes flit upwards, towards the pictures of the Ghosts.

LOGAN WALKER - M - 2001

Oh God.

Your heart sinks and suddenly you dread the idea of remembering. You hate that one of the Ghosts is now more than a name on the wall. You suppress a sob, steeling yourself momentarily before moving towards Gabriel and the commanding officer. Despite being engrossed in their conversation, Gabriel must sense your discomfort as his hand moves to hover over the small of your back. His eyes never leave the man in front of him.

Had you hurt Logan Walker? Is that why the Ghosts wanted you? The man's voice was furious, sincere, and threatening.

"Did you get that?" Gabriel asks, disturbing your train of thought.

You shake your head, "I-"

"There's been a sighting of them, New Mexico, we'll be flying out towards the border in three days, you're with me," he repeats. His tone is hard and unwavering, you know better than to argue but you can hardly help yourself.

"With-? I don't have any field training, Sir," you stutter, taken aback at his proposition. Rorke was a man who almost exclusively lured his prey on foot, out in the open. He had told you that you were involved in the intelligence-based side of operations once upon a time.

Rage. Blinding rage. You had shrugged your water-logged shoes off, stalking quickly towards the broad back in front of you. You held your knife tightly in your hand. You had the singular goal of eviscerating and killing -----. In the last few feet you launched -- ----- and -- -o---- --"

The memory is interrupted as Gabriel laughs, "Oh, don't you worry, we just want 'em to see you".

It's dark. It's always dark.

Someone had drugged you, you kept repeating this under your breath, trying to remind yourself that the shadows and noises you can hear moving around in the room aren't real. They're just hallucinations.

Not real. Don't look at them.

It becomes harder to ignore the bright eyes that blink at you from across the room sporadically. Figures would move in front of you, at inhuman speed. They weren't real. They weren't real.

You yell into the abyss, "Hey! I can see you! You're not real! You. Are. Not. REAL!" your voice is hoarse. It hurts to scream but you do so anyway.

Your chair spins and suddenly you're face-to-face with a skull.

No. A man wearing one of the Ghost masks. You couldn't make out which one they were. The stains on the mask were moving and shifting.

He grips your face hard between his gloved fingers, his voice sounds warbled and is almost static-y in quality. Colours shift around him as he moves, creeping into the holes of his mask. It's beautiful and terrifying all at once.

Which one was he?

His voice is cruel, "I'm real though, ain't I?" A hand creeps over your shoulder, digging into your skin before vanishing in the next second. You flinch at the sensation and the hand holding your jaw tightens.

"AIN'T I?" He yells against the shell of your ear, a scream erupts from your chest. Your bones are shattering and knitting themselves together all at once. His voice is underwater and it's drowning you.

The air around you splinters into blinding flashes. You're blinking rapidly, trying to adjust to the onslaught of light.

"Yes. You're real, you're real," you whisper, trying to draw all the air you can into your lungs. Your broken ribs prevent a full inhale.

He's behind you, you hadn't seen him move. His mouth pressed against the shell of your ear and you sob at the sensation.

"Oh, sweetheart," he whispers, the vibrations are needles of sound that pierce you, "are you afraid of the Ghosts now?"

You hear his laugh echo around the room, as a knife carves its way through the flesh of your sternum.

You hear someone screaming, it sounds like you.

You wake up screaming, drenched in sweat. You launch yourself across the room and hit the wall hard, scrambling for purchase. You crumple to the floor, sobbing into the darkness as you rapidly assess the room around you. You're not in the hole. You're not back with the Ghosts.

You're safe. You are safe. Safe.

Your hands come up to your chest, checking for open wounds but all that remains are the silvery, raised scars. It's the middle of the night, you've likely woken someone up.

Your door crashes open and you throw yourself backwards once again, sliding across the wall. A cry leaves you and you hate how pathetic you sound.

"It's okay, I've got you, baby. Daddy's always got you," your heart ached, your dad loved you.

You wanted your Dad. You wanted to go home. You wanted to remember.

Gabriel stands in front of you for a moment before rushing to your side, assessing you.

"Ssh. Ssh, I've got you" he whispers, pulling you towards him and you finally break, crying into his arms. Your hands rush to cover your face, legs tucking themselves closer to your body.

"What did you see?" His voice is soothing, he runs a hand over your head, holding you close to him.

"It was them - I was back in the room with-" You're sobbing freely, grateful he's here.

"I know, I know. You're safe now. You're with me" He easily lifts you and places you gently on the bed, tucking you under the covers as he continues to hold you.

You're uncomfortably warm in his embrace but for once, you're being held tenderly. Whilst your time in the hole isn't always clear, you can always remember the pain.

That's how you fell asleep that night, in Gabriel's arms.

You don't dream again for the rest of the evening.

—

You’re terrified to be in the air, to be flying towards the conflict. Towards the ghosts.

You’re doing all you can to not physically shake at the thought. You want to lash out and scream at Gabriel and yet you're relying on him to get you through this. How could he do this to you? He knew what this must be costing you, but he trusted you and saw your value.

Fuck.

“Sir, 10 minutes out” the pilot states across the comms.

You might see them in just ten minutes and you hate how vulnerable you feel. You're absently thumbing at the sleeves of your dress, some thin grey thing that went passed your ankles. The rest of the team were in their uniforms, armed to the teeth whilst you sat there idly, entirely dependent upon them to protect you. Gabriel had disarmed you, made you weak.

He argued that you were there for intel and behind-the-scenes work, so civilian clothes were appropriate. You wished that this was the only reason he'd given you, he'd gone on to explain that you were going to be used to draw them out. Gabriel wanted to entice them to act irrationally, apparently, they were furious you had gotten away from them. He was going to lure them out, and you didn't need weapons for that.

You weren’t sure why he thought you’d be that important to them, or why they’d go against all their training to take you and Gabe down. But you trusted him, he was the Ghost Hunter, the best of the best.

He was also your commanding officer. So, what he said was law.

—

The landing pad was out in the open, in front of the base that overlooked the dry mountainous region it was nestled within. Gabriel wouldn’t tell you anything, not why he thought they might be overlooking the base at that time, why he didn’t want to engage with them face to face. How was he so sure they'd see you as you alighted the helicopter? How could he be so blase about the situation? They might just decide to fire some RPG as soon as you ste-

Shut up.

You suppress a yelp as the helo touches down, taking Gabriel's hand as you move to step off the aircraft. Your stomach turns as his hands move to your waist to help you down.

Your dress whips around your ankles as the helo thrums back to full power, taking off almost immediately after the last soldier's boot touches down.

“Dad’ll kill you – he catches you —eaking out – meet some b—-. Let al—- if Hes- ca—-- you —. You’re still the ba—-. Quick! Go– I’ll co—-” A kind voice, muffled still but there was laughing, smiles, comradery. Your teenage years? Your brother? Your father?

You had a brother?

A family? Why couldn't-

You didn’t like how frequently these memories were coming back, how they were less fragmented and easier to understand. What else would come back-?

Before you could properly dissect the new memory, Gabriel had a hand on your shoulder, urging you to duck slightly as the helo took off. He began leading you to some of the men who’d been waiting for your arrival. They were smartly dressed and flanked by men on both sides.

“Higher!” It was your voice, happy, laughing, young.

“You’ll fall!” A boy laughed at you, his voice deeper, older.

“I’ll catch you!” another boy, younger, arms raised.

The sun is in your eyes.

You shook your head, dispelling the tears that rose to your eyes and you greeted the men alongside Gabriel. His hand had slid from your shoulder to your lower back.

You smiled and nodded politely, thoughts torn between piecing together the revelation that you had a brother, someone else who called the same man, “Dad” and the uncomfortable feeling of Gabriel's hand on you, as though he was all that anchored you to Earth.

After what felt like a lifetime, you felt yourself being manoeuvred across the landing pad, towards the very edge of the rooftop. It was a sheer drop, this base carved into the side of a mountain. He pushed you until your toes were over the edge, hovering over nothing. Your arms moved to grip him, "Gabriel?" You didn't plead with him to stop, you trusted him. His hands tighten their hold on you.

You trusted him. You trusted him?

“One of us”

His voice was low as he whispered, “Can you feel them?”

“What?” you whispered, unable to understand his meaning. You felt completely out of your depth and terrified of the drop in front of you.

“They’re out there, can’t you feel their eyes on you?” His hold tightens even further before he leans forward, over the edge. Your heart plummets and you gasp at the sight, whipping your head skywards, as though you could counterbalance him. You were leaning over a drop of at least 10 floors. It wasn’t his actions that terrified you though.

He’s talking about the Ghosts. He was saying they were right there, watching you.

“Sir, please - what if-” your heart rate is frantic. You were out in the open. They were out there. Watching you.

“You’re good, they ain’t gonna shoot us out here, they’ll want to get closer for that”. His voice reverberating from your collarbone where his chin was resting. It was inappropriate, wrong.

“Only I get to —-” a hand was around your throat, his mouth was-

He laughs at your breathy inhale, slapping his arm onto your shoulder and roughly turning you back to the compound. His change in demeanour was startling, but you realise that the Gabriel you know at the base and the Gabriel who thrived during the hunt were two very different people.

He was right though, you could feel their eyes on you.

#keegan p russ #keegan russ x reader #call of duty ghosts #cod keegan #adopted walker!reader #logan walker #hesh walker #Rorke is not a good guyyyy #Elias Walker being a good dad

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allthecanadianpolitics · 1 year

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An Edmonton MP tabled a bill in the House of Commons aimed at helping Canadians living with attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD) and increasing its early detection in children.

Introduced Thursday, New Democrat Heather McPherson's private member's bill seeks to set a national standard for supporting people with ADHD. Approximately 1.8 million Canadians have been diagnosed with the disorder, and it is estimated to impact between five to nine per cent of children, the Centre for ADHD Awareness Canada (CADDAC) says.

If passed, the federal framework would be prepared within two years in consultation with provinces and territories and set out measures including:

- awareness training for medical staff and educators on ADHD and how to screen for it; - equitable access for individuals with ADHD and their families to medical and mental health professionals; and - support resource creation for ways to manage, recognize and understand the disorder. [...]

Tagging: @politicsofcanada, @abpoli

#cdnpoli #Edmonton #Alberta #ADHD #mental healthcare #mental health #NDP

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novankenn · 1 year

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"Jaune Gets a Gun AU" Day One Recap.

Inspired by @howlingday

Ruby was not looking forward to seeing her teammates and friends again. Not after what happened with and to Jaune during their friendly outing to the Gun Show. She was especially not looking forward to facing Pyrrha. Glancing over, she noticed Jaune wearing his customary goofy grin.

Ruby: So, have fun?

Jaune: Of course! Any day is fun when I'm with you, Ruby!

Ruby: (Blushing) Sorry we didn't find you a ranged option today.

Jaune: It's okay. That convention centre is huge. We'll go again tomorrow, and maybe we'll have better luck.

Ruby: So you want to go again tomorrow? Really?

Jaune: Why wouldn't I?

Ruby: because of all the stuff that happened?

Jaune: No biggie. Water under the bridge, besides, how are we going to get me a ranged weapon if we don't try again tomorrow.

Ruby: True.

The rest of the bullhead trip was completed in silence, with Ruby partially dreading what was in store for her when they landed, and amazed that Jaune's motion sickness wasn't acting up. At the landing pads, Ruby and Jaune found Only Pyrrha waiting for them.

Pyrrha: (Gritting her teeth) So did you two have... a nice time?

Ruby: Of course. Nothing unusual happened. Everything was perfectly...

Jaune: It was fun, Pyr. You should come with us tomorrow. Can't believe all that happened today. It was a rush.

Pyrrha: Really? What happened today... Jaune?

Jaune: Well, I recovered a family heirloom from this Weasel after I kicked him in the crotch and sent him through the roof.

Nora: (From out of nowhere could be heard) YOU GO FEARLESS LEADER!!!

Pyrrha: Jaune! You shouldn't be kicking people! You're a huntsman-in-training, civilians can be easily hurt...

Jaune: It's fine, Pyr. He was a cartoon weasel. He'll survive.

Pyrrha: Wait? What?

Jaune: Anyway, after I shipped my Grandfathers gun back to Grandma, I saw these Gun heels...

Pyrrha: Gun... heels? How? What? I'm so confused.

Ruby could already tell she was going to get it once Jaune got further into the retelling, so slowly she started to inch away in preparation to use her semblance to escape.

Jaune: Yeah, they were cute, but Ruby wouldn't let me try them on... then there was this Adorable Rocket Launcher with little Rabbit icons on it...

Pyrrha gave Jaune a dead pan look, and slowly let her emerald green eyes move to focus on Ruby. She was about to say something when Jaune just continued on.

Jaune: Pyr do you think you can get me a bulk discount on Pumpkin Pete's Frosted Flakes?

Pyrrha: I could ask, but why, though? That cereal is terrible for you.

Jaune: I need thirty thousand box tops to get the rocket launcher.

Pyrrha just blinked and stared at Jaune, unable to process that statement.

Ruby: Well, it was a pretty full day. So I'm just going to...

Pyrrha: Ruby... please... stay.

Jaune: It's okay, Pyr. Ruby is probably tired. It was an exciting day after all.

Pyrrha: You don't say.

Ruby: Yep, full exciting day. I should go take a nap...

Jaune: Talk to you later, Ruby. Anyway, oh yeah. I apparently enlisted with the United Federation's Mobile Infantry

Pyrrha: WHAT!

Jaune: So after graduation, I guess I'm going to boot camp? I'll have to ask Headmaster Ozpin how it all works, before then.

Pyrrha: (Growling) Ruby Rose... you were supposed to keep him safe!

Ruby: I'm sorry?

Jaune: Oh, and I have this new ability! Not that I'm going to use it much. Kind of makes me overpowered.

Pyrrha: New ability? What new ability?

Jaune gives his trademark warm and goofy smile before tapping the yellow bracelet on his right wrist.

Jaune: Neat, huh?

Emerald Sustrai was just coming out to the Bullhead pads just as Jaune finished changing form...

Pyrrha: (Screeching) RUBY ROSE!!!

Emerald: SHE'S MINE!!!

Emerald charges forward and scoops Jaune up in a princess carry, pulls an impressive U-turn and continues to hot foot it back into the school. Leaving Pyrrha and Ruby utterly flatfooted.

Jaune: Hey wait! I want to change back!

Emerald: Not happening, Sweet-cheeks! I'm finding out if the carpet matches the drapes!

Pyrrha/Ruby : Get back here with MY JAUNE!

Jaune: Help! I NEED an ADULT!

Emerald: Don't worry, I'll make a woman out of you tonight, honey-buns!

Glynda Goodwitch steps off a freshly landed bullhead, sees the chaos erupting, and just shakes her head. Picks up her shopping bags and heads off to her private apartment.

(So, having some more fun... thanks for all the re-blogs and likes. Special thank you to everyone who has added to these scenes, and a BIG thank you to @howlingday for being a good sport and joining in on the fun. Thanks all of you. Stay tuned for Day Two)

#jaune arc #ruby rose #pyrrha nikos #emerald sustrai #rwby #jaune gets a gun au

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bullet-prooflove · 8 months

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Stars Align - Jubal Valentine x Reader

Tagging: @crazy4chickennuggets @kmc1989 @oureternalbond @trublu2u @greenies-green @darqchilddaydreamz @proceduralpassion @burningpeachpuppy @evee87 @delightfulheroshoeflap @iworldlywriter @helsinkibaby

How they met...

Jubal knows you’re the devil as soon as he meets you.

Nikki Delphino, an arms dealer with ties to Daniel Moreno, the man he’s hunting. The one who murdered two federal agents during the hijacking of the guns you’re currently trying to sell.

You have a body made for sin, eyes that promise a good time and lips so fucking kissable Jubal knows he’s going to spend the whole night fantasising about them. The red lipstick doesn’t help, it’s bright and glossy, something from the Dior collection. He knows because he watched you reapply it in the car before you gave him directions to the makeshift gun range where you bring your clients. He wants to run his thumb over your lower lip, smear it across your mouth.

He shouldn’t be attracted to you. You’re an arms dealer, you peddle weapons of mass destruction, the kind of shit that results in kids laying shot up on the street but there’s just something about you, he can’t quite out his finger on.

He’s always had an interest in the darker, more dangerous side of things. There’s never been the opportunity to explore it, he’s kept it locked away in a little box somewhere deep inside of him. However, when he looks at you, that part of him wants to come out and play.

You’re dressed in a black, sequined mini dress with a hem that teases along the tops of your thighs, black tights and ankle boots. There’s a leather jacket slung over the top, giving you a more dangerous edge. He thinks he catches a glimpse of lace as the dress rides up just a little and it sends a thrill of excitement rushing through his veins because he realises, they aren’t tights, their stockings. He wonders if there’s a garter belt attached.

You stand in front of the wooden crates; one is already open. He can see the brand-new assault rifles stacked on top of one another like toys. Your fingertips trail across the barrel of the first gun, there’s a sensuality to your motions, one that he greatly appreciates. You pick up the rifle, checking it over before selecting one of the magazines and loading it with a sharp snap.

Dangerous and beautiful, it’s a deadly combination.

You take aim at the mannequin in the opposite end of the range. It’s clad in a weathered ‘Frankie Says Relax’ t-shirt. He reviews your stance as you take up position, smooth movements, almost tactical. You’ve been trained he thinks, by who he has no clue. He makes a note to look into it.

When you fire it’s in a neat, tight cluster, centre mass.

“You hate Frankie Goes to Hollywood?” He asks you, the left side of his mouth pulling up into an amused smile.

“It belonged to an ex-boyfriend.” You tell him, setting down the rifle.

“I guess he’s lucky you didn’t put a couple of bullets in him.” He states watching as you remove the magazine and set it alongside the gun.

“Who says I didn’t?” You ask, your eyes flickering up to meet his under those long pretty lashes.

Something else to look into, he thinks, something to leverage during your interrogation.

“So.” You say, your palms coming to rest upon the table. The action pushes your breasts together, his gaze slips just for a second before you tip your head and meet his eyes. “See something you like?”

His cheeks colour before he lets out laugh.

“Yea.” He smiles. “I do.”

You both know he’s not just talking about the guns. That smile you give him; he thinks that you must feel it too. There’s been a chemistry between the two of you since he made contact in the club. In another world, maybe it would have worked.

One night with you, it would have been chaos. Dark, erotic and deeply satisfying. He knows you would have ruined him. He allows himself a second to fantasise, he imagines stripping off that dress in a hotel room somewhere, those bright red lips of yours leaving a pathway of marks down his body until you’re kneeling before him.

It can never happen, he knows that. He’s a federal agent after all and you’re an arms dealer but a man can dream.

“I’ll take the entire shipment.” He tells you crouching down to pick up the black holdall by his feet. He lifts it onto the table, placing it alongside the assault rifle. He unzips the bag, and you reach inside sifting through the cash, surveying the amount.

“Alright. We have a deal.” You say, your dexterous fingers zipping up the bag. “Where do you want them dropped off?”

It’s at that moment that all hell breaks loose. His team erupts through the doors, the chorus of FBI erupting through the room. To your credit you barely flinch, you simply incline your head towards him as you raise your hands.

“Such a pity.” You tut. “We could have had something.”

“I guess it wasn’t in the stars.” He tells you as Scola snaps the handcuff onto your wrist, guiding your hands behind your back.

“We’ll see.” You say with that knowing smile of yours. “I have a feeling they’ll align again.”

Love Jubal? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#jubal valentine #jubal valentine x you #jubal valentine x reader #jeremy sisto #fbi

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katelynnwrites · 7 days

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Hopefully BNG bid for the next WWC it’s way more reasonable than USA and Mexico or USA Mexico and Canada. I’m American and living on the east coast most of the games they would host would be on the west coast and in areas where everything is far too expensive. We also don’t have the transportation really to go from country to country or even state to state in a reasonable time. But then again it’s FIFA anything that is logical and would bring more money and eyes to the sport is always overlooked simply because of the bids made one countries federation. It’s truly dumb especially when looking at the bigger picture and how much he likes to tell the women to prove themselves. Like dude host it in places and countries where transportation won’t be the biggest issue or where Idk human rights are being violated and taken away left and right. This is why I don’t understand men they think small and don’t look at the big overall picture. While I’m happy it’s in Brazil (Brazil needs the boost) I just think it would have been bigger and better in BNG and would have brought more attention and a different atmosphere to the games. I bet the one after will be hosted by the US and Mexico (unfortunately because again FIFA will look at the bid but not the logical money maker)

i agree with you, safe, reliable and affordable transportation definitely plays a big part. not only for the players and staff but for the travelling fans as well. the public transport available definitely needs to be efficient because it contributes significantly to the overall experience the fans get.

take this most recent wwc for example. idk about the rest of the hosting cities but when i was in melbourne, it took only 20 minutes to get from the city centre to the stadium via public transport. it was the same for the reverse trip and that definitely made it a good experience for me because i didn't have to worry unnecessarily about the travelling logistics. there were also plenty of staff who did the directing so that the whole process went smoothly for everyone.

now i come from singapore which has extensive public transportations. you can literally get to anywhere within the country in under an hour, an hour and a half at a stretch, via the public transport. the government prides itself on it and has invested millions if not billions over the years. my point is that i'm not easy to impress and i was impressed with how melbourne worked the transportation out.

now that they're confirmed as the host, hopefully brazil are prepared to work their transportation out too and develop it sufficiently if necessary. the rest of the infrastructure, eg. stadiums and training facilities for the players as well. given how much the women's game is growing, it's only right that they do so.

i'm really glad that south america finally gets a chance to host a wwc because they completely deserve to. it will be great for their tourism and will definitely help showcase their players on a whole, not just legends like marta.

but as you said, fifa definitely ignores important issues like human rights and lgbtq+ rights in favour of money. the 2022 men's world cup in qatar clearly showed that.

however, unfortunately or fortunately, at the end of the day, fifa's decision has already been made and all we can do as fans now is simply hope that brazil and fifa invests properly in the 2027 wwc to make it a brilliant experience for all. it's what the players and fans deserve.

#and i seriously hope that you're right and BNG wins the next bid because i would never travel to a wwc in usa/mexico #not if they're still in the state they are now #as a female #lesbian and person of colour #i simply wouldn't feel safe enough #asks #and answered

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factorialsotherfandoms · 4 months

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Questions!! Anything for Philza's thing with the Ender King in the xcom au? Really liked what I spotted in the big lore summary and it only made me more curious, especially this one bit; [Others on the mission noticed the shockwave. Philza also heard the screaming, and was the one to connect the figure Cellbit saw to the Elders, as one of the very few people with personal experience with them.] 1. Personal experience?? 2. He specifically could *hear* the screaming? :o

Hello! And thank you! It's fun!!! Kinda. I mean horrifying, but fun. I'm still working on how it fits into the rest of his backstory, and also still working out the details, but here's the little summary...

2) this is easier to answer. Philza is... significantly more psionically sensitive than he realises. Other people can sort of tell it, but he just. Thinks it's all normal. He can't /use/ it, but has somewhat of an awareness of psionic (aka setting magic) going on around him. Kinda like a sixth sense? He's aware of the magic around him, but can't access it himself. But he still can't fully perceive it like, say, Cellbit can. Who is actually trained in this shit. Rumours would suggest that Philza probably has some demonic blood somewhere in his ancestry, but too far back to trace it easily

Personal experience! Philza has /history/ with the Elders, and with the Elder known as the Ender King specifically. During the initial invasion and the first few years after, Philza was extremely active in terms of fighting the aliens - and the Federation (ie the government the aliens installed of their own people and biological experiments and stuff). The Elders were also, in the early war, much more active. Their disease had not progressed so far, and so would occasionally be seen.

Very, very occasionally. By maybe one in a thousand people.

But they have been seen.

(And this is long so your answer is under the cut)

So we have the Angel of Death and the Blood God, a pair of resistance fighters of terrifying fame and all that. Usually together, sometimes alone, occasionally with allies. Mostly Fit - no cool nickname - but other allies too. And one time, they break into this really, really high security facility. Because, you know, blowing shit up.

They split to explore, Philza finds the centre, and in it is an Elder - one we know is the Ender King, named such after he was awarded one of the other conquered planets to rule. They fought. Philza did not win but he did escape, destroyed all his shit on the way out setting back research so far the Ender King was removed from the project for his failures, and the Ender King was /furious/. He became obsessed with Philza, to an extent, and has decreed he wants that /specific/ human melted down and turned into DNA goop and a new body made for him from it. Clearly someone who could escape him alive and ruin all his shit and his job and have him become a laughing stock amongst his peers has some innate quality that makes him better than other humans - and the Ender King wants it for himself.

And thus began a period where Philza was hunted.

And, eventually, caught. Cornered and with nowhere to run or fly to this time - as he had escaped in previous interactions - Philza fought back. He did decent damage, and well, but he was effectively fighting a god, alone and without half of his kit, and with no space to take off and fly.

He was cut down, but not immediately taken for processing. The Ender King had been physically punished for Philza's destruction of the labs, and so Philza was going to suffer before he died.

And the most annoying thing? Philza's big, beautiful wings.

They were not taken, but they were destroyed. Philza's back was flayed open, the bones of his wings shattered and the flesh of them ripped into. The Elders are weak, but Philza was already injured and at his mercy. He cuts chunks of the wings away - samples which would eventually be used to make his egg/Avatar, though other human DNA as well as alien would be added in - letting them heal only to cut more.

The torture lasts days, maybe longer, before the Ender King... Disappears. (Philza does not know why, but I the writer am aware that his illness had progressed far enough that he had to go into stasis to await a body - however because he pushed it while his chosen samples were retrieved, he was unconscious when he went into stasis and so unable to communicate where he left the rest of the person to be melted down)

And then Philza is left in a cell. He, too, is furious, but injured and exhausted and it is everything he has not to die. Techno and Fit rescue him, get him home, but the bones and his wings have already started healing wrong, and Philza is far too weak for someone to break them again. And so, while he does heal, he's left unable to even slightly fly. (post-canon they'll find an actual wing specialist and do the breaking and resetting and Philza will never be able to fly very far, but will be able to do little bits again with a lot of surgery and physio he just doesn't have time for during the story).

It's a long recovery. Once he has recovered he returns to the fight for another year or so - why he vanishes into legend is not about his wings or the Ender King, but something else.

And, well, he hasn't seen another Elder - or any sort of Ethereal - since then. It's been years, but he still has the scars all over his body. Other things have become his more common nightmares, but the Ender King still haunts his dreams.

And then he hears one scream when they kill that thing. And he knows why it's familiar - except pain not rage - but refuses to accept it until Cellbit mentions. It's not the Ender King, but it's obviously something like him.

(If you've read the notes, there's mention of an Avatar - AKA a former egg which has grown, killed, and then body possessed by an Elder - which singles Philza out and keeps trying to mind control him. That they eventually do perma-kill. This is the Ender King, possessing a body he made partially from chunks of Philza's flesh that he carved out of his back and wings while torturing him. And sure there's horror and panic attacks and focusing that target lets the others prepare, but Philza finally kills the thing which took him, tortured him, and stole the skies from him.)

(It doesn't give him the skies back - as I said that's surgery and physio and he'll never truly be as free to fly as he once was, but he'll get little hops at least - and he's in pain from the injuries for the rest of his life, and the nightmares will never leave. But the thing obsessed with him and hunting him is no more, and he is safe from it, and it dies by his hand.)

#qsmp x xcom #ask and answer #thank you so much for the question it made me very happy #the egg made from philza is long dead i am afraid #not sure what this means for the other hardcore gods but eh

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cerys-capricorn · 1 year

Text

The country I live in is on fire with millions of acres destroyed and thousands of people evacuated. This is potentially the 2nd time in 4 years that people will loose everything they have (as the 2019 Canadian wildfires were also horrendous). Millions are suffering displacement, homelessness, and health risks due to the wildfires across the country. I live in British Columbia and I remember 2019. This is so much worse. The ENTIRE country is pretty much on fire.

And what do the people of the U.S.A immediately say? “Blame Canada!” “We need to invade them bc clearly something is wrong up there” “Canada fucking sucks!” “Ugh, here is my Timelapse of how smokey the sky is, but apparently it will be gone in 2 days.”

Well Americans aren’t the ones who have to deal with the LITERAL GIANT FIRES SCORCHING THEIR NEIGHBOURHOODS AND FORESTS! They don’t have to pack up everything they own and hope, JUST HOPE, they come back and their homes aren’t burnt to the ground. They don’t have to hope their communities aren’t entirely destroyed. They don’t have to worry if their friends, families, and animals are okay. They are not the ones trapped due to roads being closed and heavy debris falling as the fires become uncontrollable. And they only seem to care when it is them on fire. But if another country is? They don’t fucking bat an eye, and yet the rest of the world helps them when they are in need.

So instead of complaining Americans, how about you fucking help for once? We are thankful you sent some of your firefighters to help us, but in the grand scheme of things, this isn’t enough. The U.S.A as a country is the 2nd biggest C02 producer in the world, which heavily contributes to the worsening of climate change, hence the wildfires. But Americans seem to forget this little fact. They forget that their politics and their environmental policies have literally fucked the rest of the world. So stop being so fucking selfish and actually help for once by contacting your local, state, and federal government(s). Stop voting for absolute idiots that want climate change to worsen so their pockets can be filled. Help by spreading information that will help those impacted, volunteer if you can, and maybe consider donating if you have the means. Or at least have some goddamn compassion and sympathy.

Here are some ways you can help:

• United Way for the Northwest Territories

All money donated goes to those affected by the wildfires in the NWT. Every donation is matched by the Federal Canadian and NWT governments.

• The Canadian Red Cross

All donations go towards those most impacted by wildfires across the Canadian Maritimes "with immediate and ongoing relief, recovery and resilience efforts in response to the wildfires, as well as supporting community preparedness and risk reduction for future all-hazard disaster events within Atlantic Canada”. The Federal Canadian and Nova Scotia provincial government have committed to matching each $1 donation to become $3.

• Donate A Mask

This organization ships free N95 respirator equivalent masks across Canada to those affected by the wildfires and for those who cannot afford high-quality and high-grade medical masks.

• Firefighters Without Borders

Firefighters Without Borders is a organization based in Ontario that provides equipment and training to local firefighters and communities across Canada. This helps in fighting current and future wildfires and promotes prevention. It also supports local firefighters to host and provide equipment to international firefighters when Canada needs assistance.

• Odawa Native Friendship Centre

The Odawa Native Friendship Centre is an organization serving the Ottawa-Carleton region in Ontario by helping Indigenous peoples that have had to evacuate their homes due to the wildfires. They accept money donations and usually accept clothing donations as well, but they are not taking clothing items at this time.

• The Central Okanagan Food Bank BC Wildfires Emergency Food Relief Fund

This organization donates much needed food to those impacted by the wildfires who are currently facing food insecurity. They have expanded to helping the entire province as the wildfires have spread.

For more information and to stay up to date:

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if-you-fan-a-fire · 4 years

Photo

“GIVE THEM THEIR CHANCE.” Montreal Star. March 4, 1930. Page 10. ---- AT LONG LAST Canada is to make an attempt to follow modern practice in the treatment of first offenders in at least two of her penitentiaries. In yesterday's Star it was announced that the big prison at St. Vincent de Paul will have a separate department constructed, constituting an independent organization which will be kept for the imprisonment only of first offenders.

It is a thing that should have been done years ago, not only at St. Vincent de Paul, but throughout all the penitentiaries of the country. The indiscriminate mixing up of young men, often little more than boys, who have committed a crime serious enough to justify a penitentiary rather than a jail sentence, but have so offended for the first time, with men who have apparently made crime a life profession is a scandal which has survived from the "good old days". What we been doing from time immemorial has been to subject the young criminal to influences against which, ninety-nine times out of one hundred, he has had no chance in the world. It is a question whether any offence which the young criminal can commit against society can be any more serious (if as serious) than the crime which society commits against him when it condemns him to years of association in circumstances which virtually make of him a criminal for life.

The work which has been commenced at St. Vincent de Paul is, according to report, to be undertaken also at Kingston. That is excellent, so far as it goes; but it does not go far enough. Canadian penitentiaries are under federal control. It is therefore only a matter of money - and not a great deal of money at that - which stands between the many young offenders at present behind their bars and at least an even chance for that reformation for which we all profess such fervent hopes and have so far done so little.

#editorial #penal reform #prison construction #st vincent de paul penitentiary #collins bay penitentary #federal training centre #kingston penitentiary #classification and segregation #utopia of classification #youth detention #young convicts #first time offenders #great depression in canada #dominion penitentiaries

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fizzycherrycola · 2 years

Text

America & Canada, 1910s

Brotherly bonding, airplanes, and a future full of possibilities. Originally this fanfic was intended for a fanzine, however, I changed my mind at the last minute. Please enjoy!

Wingman

Ohio, USA; 26 July 1911

It’s warm, but not too much so. A wind glides over the Ohio farmland, caressing wheatfields, picking up bits of grass and straw, slipping between a wide crack in the barn doors and rustling Canada’s hair. He tucks a stray curl behind his ear, reminding himself for the third time this month that he should see a barber, or at least give it a quick trim himself.

That can wait, though. For now, he flips open the folded newspaper and spreads it over his lap.

‘Laurier Stumbles as Federal Election Looms Ahead’

The headline dominates the front page of the Toronto Star, bold letters weighing heavy with stamped ink across the flimsy newsprint. Canada sighs, thumbing the page corners of the three-day-old paper that he still hasn’t finished reading because his last attempt on yesterday’s train left him with a bout of motion sickness. He flips past the editorial fistfights over Reciprocity and glances briefly at America, who is too focused on tweaking his latest flying machine, bolts squeaking with every turn and tools clanking as they hit the floor, to notice his brother’s staring. And then he catches his fingers on what resembles a bicycle chain.

“Ow, fucking thing,” America hisses, shoving the injured digits in his mouth

“Are you okay?” Canada asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” America grumbles, dismissively waving his greasy hand. “The chain drive can be a real pain sometimes. That’s not the first time it’s nicked me.”

“Need any help?”

“Nah, I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?”

Without answering, America wipes his fingers on his oil-smudged overalls and dives back in, climbing between the massive canvas wings to reach an exposed motor near the centre of the craft.

Canada crosses his legs, leaning back in America’s creaky chair, the only one in this rickety barn-turned-workshop. A few years before, when news broke of the Wright Flyer’s success, America dropped all other hobbies to pursue machine-powered flight. And since then, he regularly insists that Canada should come witness his newest attempts at conquering the skies.

Currently, his feet are dangling over the edge of a wing. He’s likely going to be distracted for a while longer. Opening the newspaper to the international section, Canada resumes his reading.

‘Crisis in Agadir Intensifies; British PM Threatens Military Action’

Heart sinking, he groans. “Ah, geez....” Reluctantly, Canada scans the news story, each sentence laying a brick on his shoulders.

With fiery commentary, the article recants the crisis across the Atlantic, the most recent in a string of disputes between France and Germany. And Canada finds himself wondering, not for the first time, why England chose now to forge an alliance with his self-described ‘bitter rival’. Not that it’s Canada’s business, or that he’s unhappy about whatever accord they’ve reached. On the contrary, it’s quite nice to visit his guardian in London, find France there, and not have the scene devolve into a screeching maelstrom, but did it have to be now? With everything happening in the world, it feels almost like exchanging one type of chaos for another. Then again, as Scotland once mentioned, that’s par for geopolitics.

Eyes dragging down the grey column of text, Canada gnaws his lip, and there it is. ‘Britian to likely double demands for shipbuilding materials from across the empire as super-dreadnought class warships continue to dominate the naval arms-race.’ Groaning, Canada allows his face to fall into the paper, scratchy pulp crinkling against his glasses. “I don’t want to build any more boats,” he whines. “Can’t I just worry about an election instead of... twelve other things?”

Anxiety isn’t good for his health, but it’s difficult to relax when one’s days are spent making warships for a war that hasn’t come. There won’t be a war, though, will there? No, of course not. This is just how things are in Europe at the moment. Tense. Very much so. But, then again.... What if--

“Boo!”

Canada jumps. “Shit!” Legs shooting out, he topples over. Cobblestone meets his hip and elbow. The flimsy chair clatters in his wake.

“Woah!” America peers down at him, a goofy smirk stretching his features.

“What-- Why did you...?”

“Hah! Sorry. You okay there? It’s not often that I hear you curse.”

“Well, you startled me, assho--…. Jerk.” Righting himself, Canada brushes the sawdust off his left side, giving one stubborn smudge a good smack.

“You looked so tense; I couldn’t help it! You were hunched over like a stone gargoyle.” America imitates the said statues by curving his back and making little claws with his fingers. “What’re you reading, anyway?”

“Oh,” Canada says as he gathers the scattered newspaper sheets. “Well, it’s... You see, it’s about the crisis in Agadir and I’m worried that-”

“The what in where?”

Canada blinks. “In Agadir. Haven’t you heard of it?”

“...Is Agadir one of Monaco’s cities?”

“What? No! It’s one of Morocco's.”

“Oh, okay” America chuckles. “Guess I got them mixed up.”

“And Monaco is a city-state, she doesn’t have any other cities.”

“Huh.” America glances up at the rafters, bottom lip firmly under his teeth. “That makes sense.”

Canada sighs, a long-suffering sound. “You should really pay more attention to what’s going on in Europe....”

“I do! Sort of. If it’s important.” Canada doesn’t glare, but he does wait patiently while staring pointedly at his brother. America shrugs. “All right, maybe I do get distracted sometimes, but can you blame me? Business is booming. I’ve got an economy to run and the inventions people are coming up with this century are way more fascinating than whatever’s happening in... where was it?”

“Agadir.”

“Right! You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“I do, but... Things aren’t exactly peaceful these days. I’m not sure that’s the right sort of attitude we should have, at the moment.”

‘We’, as in nations, of course. However, also as in brothers. As in two with everlasting ties across the Atlantic. But that part, Canada doesn’t say.

Wiping his messy hands with a towel, America turns away. “Listen... We’re flanked by oceans on both our east and west coasts. To your north, you have solid ice and to my south I’ve got Mexico, the entire Caribbean, and just... Europe is a world away.” Before Canada can internalise his sentiment, America changes tune. “Anyway, that’s not why we’re here in the first place. We’re here for flying machines and a good time, remember? Not politics.”

Fidgeting, a familiar tension in his shoulders, Canada nods. “I guess so. Yeah... Yeah, you’re right.”

His acceptance must have sounded more believable than it felt, because Alfred shoots him a smile. “Great. If you want, we can talk seriously later, but for now, the fixes are all done. Can you help me get this machine outside?” He jogs to the barn doors and drags their handles.

Pushing aside disappointment and adjusting expectations with a practised ease, Canada watches the doors open with a yawning creak.

Sunlight streams through the doors and loft windows, turning wooden walls to mustard, highlighting raw patches of damage caused by their owner’s contraptions. A scrape from a propeller blade, a dark stain from a splatter of engine grease; and against them are piled a plethora of building materials. Aluminium sheets, timber, and spools of cord replacing the livestock that once slept there.

Weaving between the mess of scraps, Canada reaches the left wing, grabs its canvas surface and when America arrives on the right side of the machine, they start pushing. It’s shockingly light, for being so large. A double-winged craft with two propellers, some type of tail, and a set of smaller wings on the front that stick out.

“Do you think this one will work?” Canada asks, partially to distract his anxieties, but also genuinely curious; wholly lost as to how this machine is meant to work.

“Definitely,” America responds. “It’s based on everything I’ve read about the Wright brothers’ flyer. Those two really know what they’re doing.”

“You copied them?”

“Of course not! I just took a bit of inspiration from their design. There wasn’t much to copy, anyway. They’ve been very secretive about their new machine. It’s a little annoying.”

The corners of Canada’s lips tug upwards. “So, you tried to copy them, but couldn’t find enough information to do it.”

“Shh!”

America previously attempted flight with a few of his own unique contraptions. Most ended without major consequence, dying in the early testing stages when the odd machines simply broke apart when travelling faster than a brisk walk. Others, however, were disastrous, like when he tried launching his small glider off the top of a moving automobile and spent a week in hospital with a shattered spine.

“I liked the one you built that had propellers stacked on top of each other, and instead of flying, it just bounced around the field.”

America pouts. “Hey! That one was based on a design by Da Vinci, so it’s his fault that it didn’t work, not mine.”

“It was the funniest one you made.”

“Buddy, I am working on scientific miracles out here. They aren't always going to be graceful works of art.” America catches his gaze between the wire bracing. “And by the way, if you keep pulling my leg, I’m gonna launch you instead of this flyer.”

Canada’s smile broadens. He shoves the machine and relishes the dust its wheels kick up – glad that he left his good clothes at home, the fancy suits and shoes that come courtesy of England’s pocketbook. Throwing his back into it as the sharp aroma of fertile farmland slams his nostrils on a long, sun-swept day; there are few things as satisfying as this.

The flyer exits the barn, barely. Its wide wings graze the doorframe, but when it’s out, it greets an open field. Wind glides in from the West, swinging the weathervane atop America’s farmhouse and tugging insistently on the canvas wings. The two brothers take it a bit further, several metres before a gentle dip in the terrain.

“Okay, stand back!” America calls.

Canada does and his brother hops into the hip cradle, lying flat. In short seconds, he has the propellers spinning, the engine sputtering. Sluggish at first, then faster. And faster. Canada squints against the machine’s gust and watches it roll forward, accelerating towards the hill, a big craft carrying bigger dreams. Could this be the one that finally flies? Maybe... maybe?

He holds his breath, eyes wide. Great, white wings reach the edge of the slope, tilt up. So slightly, and then. It sinks, disappearing behind the hill. Canada’s heart drops.

He swears and dashes after his brother. God forbid he has to drag America to the hospital a second time. The machine swerves, skidding down the incline, but to its credit, doesn’t tip over or combust. Instead, it settles to a jerky stop in a patch of tall grass.

Canada jogs over, making it in time to see the propellers slow, engine going quiet.

“Fuck,” America bursts as he stumbles out of the cradle.

“What happened?” Canada asks, noting that America is uninjured.

“It’s the damn wind,” America gripes. “That ridge is North facing, but the wind is pushing West, so I had to fight it with the controls, and I couldn’t generate enough lift.”

“At least, you can be glad you didn’t crash.”

“Yeah, that’s great,” America sighs, sarcastically. “At least it wasn’t a total catastrophe, right?”

Canada frowns. “America.”

“Sorry. I just... it’s frustrating. That’s all.”

Pausing, Canada studies his brother, how America’s shoulders droop and his sky-blue eyes fixate on the ground. “You care about this a lot, don’t you?”

Rather than answer, America shoves his hands in his pockets and kicks a stone, looking 200 years younger. An expressive boy, always running faster than England could catch him, faster than Canada could challenge him, and faster than his own legs could carry him. Canada chews his lip. “If you had a North wind, would that be better?”

“That would be fantastic. It’d help me speed up, but I can’t control the weather.”

“Well, if you just need to go faster before um....”

“...Before lifting off the ground?”

“Yeah.” Canada points at the flying machine. “If it’s just that, then maybe I could push this tail part here-”

“The rudder.”

“-while you’re working the controls, and then, maybe you’d have enough speed?”

America hesitates, scratching the back of his neck. “I appreciate the offer, but... I kind of want to do this myself.” Canada’s frown deepens. “Dragging it out of the barn,” America continues, “is one thing. The flight test though, that’s, y’know... that’s the real deal! If I can’t do it myself, then....”

The tension in Canada’s shoulders returns. “I may not know much about flying machines, but I do know that there are two Wright brothers. They didn’t work alone.”

“But I’ve been trying to get these machines working for years, this is like a milestone for me! It’s important.”

“I know it’s important to you! That’s why I want to help!”

America blinks. His mouth hangs open, trying to form words, but failing, whereas Canada’s jaw snaps shut. Impatience fizzling to shame, because shouting is awful and he’s never liked doing it, never liked hearing it from others, but sometimes with America, it’s the only way to get him to listen.

Sighing, America glances away, looking everywhere except at his brother. His gaze lands on the flying machine, sitting silent in the grass.

“...All right, let’s do it.”

“Really?”

“Yup!” America shrugs, already marching toward the machine. “We’ll give it a try.”

They manoeuvre the craft out of the thicket and cart it up the slope in uneasy silence. Once back to its starting position, America begrudgingly points to where Canada can grab and push, an area of the rig that won’t interfere with the complex turning system. Then, he hops in the hip cradle and again brings the motor to life.

This close to the propellers, they feel like storm winds, whirring with energy.

Canada’s eyes water, dust hitting his glasses and spraying his front. He braces and thrusts, fingers wrapped tight around the wooden poles, putting one foot in front of the other, striving for momentum. He’s jogging, then he’s sprinting. Shoes slamming the earth, the tail starts to drift away from him, faster than he can run. With a grunt, he gives one final push from his core, throwing his strength through his shoulders and into his hands.

The weight of the machine vanishes. He trips, fists and elbows hitting dry soil. Head snapping up to watch America go, but there’s only a blur of ivory against the cerulean sky, and Canada furiously wipes his dusty glasses. Then, he sees it.

America’s machine is soaring. It drifts through the air, straight and true, hovering about three metres off of the ground. Canada watches, stunned silent, as it glides into the distance, its little motor humming, stalwart and solid, without faltering and without breaking. The craft banks gently, turning with the smooth grace of an eagle, floating above shrubs and fencing, circling the field to pass over a dirt trail to the main roadway. And it's shocking, how easily it seems to fly, when so many inventors and visionaries could only do so in their dreams.

Eventually, the white canvas wings land a good distance away, in the centre of the pasture.

Canada scrambles to his feet, barely registering that his limbs are shaking. Heart as light as a feather, bursting with all the energy in the world, he runs to meet his brother.

America tumbles out of the plane, jumps up, and booms with a voice loud enough to cross the Atlantic. “Did you see that?!”

“You did it!” Canada cheers, barrelling towards him.

A few more steps and America sweeps Canada into a big, bone-crushing hug. “Thank you so much, buddy!” He’s bouncing and spinning around like a carnival carousel, making Canada’s head swim. “I’m sorry I made a fuss. You were right, I just needed an extra push! That’s all it was, and I was flying!”

In a minute, Canada may be sick from the spinning, but for now, his smile is hurting his cheeks. The robust pressure from America’s arms and the sunshine warmth of his giddy laughter takes him back, centuries ago, when they were children playing in the wilderness. Sneaking out without their guardians’ permission to sing and laugh with a kindred spirit. A brother. A twin.

When America finally puts him down, Canada stumbles. “Hang on, I’m dizzy,” he murmurs, spreading his arms to regain balance.

“Are you all right, there?” America chuckles.

“Yeah, just give me a second.”

“Wow, you’ve got, uh....”

“Huh?”

Reaching out, America wipes Canada’s forehead. A cloud of dust falls into Canada’s face and he squints, almost sneezing. Then, America presents his palm and fingers, coated with rusty soil.

“You’re covered in dirt!” he howls. Canada looks himself over, seeing that his soft-collar shirt and cottonade pants are hidden beneath a layer of Ohio dust. “England didn’t buy you these clothes, did he?”

“Nah, not these.”

“Okay, because I was gonna say, he’d be fuming if you did this to something he bought you.”

Canada grins. “I’d just say it was your fault.”

Snickering, America helps him dust off, patting his back and shaking most of the dirt off his clothing. When Canada is moderately clean, he suggests they get food; it’s past lunchtime. Never one to turn down a meal, America pats his stomach and heartily agrees. They store the precious, genius, and fantastic machine in the barn for safekeeping. All the while, America sings its praises, going on and on about how wonderful it felt to pilot, how he’s never felt freer in his whole life. He also brags a little, mentioning his desires to show it off to everyone they know, including ‘those geezers’ in Europe.

On their way to the farmhouse, Canada remembers the headlines he read in his newspaper, probably because America mentioned Europe, but also, because his concerns rarely leave him for long. Worriment needles at his happy thoughts like a splinter under his skin and a question builds in his lungs.

“Hey, America?” Canada asks.

“Yeah?”

“If I was in trouble, would you come to help?”

America stumbles, before balking. “What? What kind of trouble?”

Thinking carefully, Canada knits his brows. There may be a war, but also, there may not. All of Europe’s intricate alliances could end in a trade dispute, a blockade, or an embargo. The future is nigh impossible to predict, and sadly, no breed of immortality comes packaged with the gift of prophecy.

“Just... any kind of trouble.”

America studies Canada, eyes flicking over his face, searching. “Are you okay? Is there something bad happening right now?”

“Not right now, but in the future, maybe.” Canada shies away, feeling silly under the scrutiny. “I don’t know.”

“What are you worried about?”

Canada shrugs.

Quiet settles in, snatching America’s boisterous laughter and Canada’s happy mood, and in the contrast, Canada suddenly realises how amicable they’ve been today. Things haven’t been this nice between them in a long while, not since America left during his Revolution.

“I would,” America murmurs. Then, louder, a declaration. “Of course, I would!”

Canada jumps. His brother’s gaze is firm, his lips, curved with worry. America steps closer and surges on. “Why do you even need to ask? We share the longest border in the whole world and you’re the only person I call my brother; there’s no one else, just you. And I feel comfortable doing that because we grew up together and because I like you. I like wasting time with you. I like showing you my inventions because you’ll listen to me ramble and then you’ll take me to the hospital when I crash. You joke around with me, you make me feel relaxed, and I can open up with you, in a way that I never can when I’m with someone else. Canada, you’re my best friend! So, whenever you’re in trouble, no matter what it is, you can tell me! Tell me and I’ll help however I can.”

America rests a hand on Canada’s shoulder, squeezing it gently, and the determination, the dedication in his voice makes Canada’s chest hurt. “Okay?”

Eyes stinging, Canada swallows around the knot in his throat. “Okay.”

America beams, banishing the gloom and darkness with effortless ease.

They amble their way to the idyllic farmhouse and Canada allows his heart to rest. It's amazing how far they’ve come from where and who they were a hundred years ago. Somehow, from opposing sides in a war, they drifted closer. In a slow pattern of chance encounters that turned to visits, to friendly invitations, to weeks spent munching on apple pies, to early morning pancakes, and to daydreaming of flying machines.

Canada watches his brother’s broad frame leap up the porch steps two at a time, wind tousling his hair, and hopes that this harmony may endure for centuries to come.

End / Fin

~~~

Author’s Notes

Laurier, as in Wilfred Laurier, was Canada’s Prime Minister from 1896 – 1911. He lost his re-election a couple months after our story takes place.

The Agadir Crisis was one of several events that occurred in the lead up to WW1. It resulted in stronger ties between France and the UK, and further damaged the already strained relationship between the UK and Germany.

The naval arms race was between Germany and the UK. Each side tried to build bigger and better warships at a faster rate than the other. The super-dreadnought class of ships were some of the most advanced navy vessels at the time.

Early flying machines were wild, dangerous, and unregulated. Many inventors lost their lives during flight tests. It was sort of the “wild west” of engineering.

Leonardo Da Vinci designed his own flying machines way back in the 15th and 16th centuries. He designed ornithopters, gliders, and parachutes, but the one our characters talk about is the Aerial Screw, which, along with the Chinese bamboo-copter toy, acted as a precursor to modern helicopters.

#aph america #aph canada #hws america #hws canada #alfred f jones #matthew williams #hetalia fanfiction #historical hetalia #hetalia #hws na bros #my writing

169 notes · View notes

soratsuart · 1 year

Text

Well, you know what time it is, guys

QSMP Day 40 Lore Summary

Today it will be a long one since so many things have happened, including the mysterious kidnapping of the eggs and, more importantly, the addition of Brazilian streamers to the server. WELCOME WORLD TO QSMP!!!!

We start the day around half an hour before the actual event started, with everyone logging in expecting to spend some more time with their eggs before fighting whatever was coming for them, only to find them and their beds were already gone. This, of course, prompted them to panic and they all reunited to discuss what had happened, somehow ending up with the whole group at Philza's house.

After a while, they get interrupted by a cargo ship crashing into the train station due to a storm. Everyone goes to investigate and they have to make their way through a bunch of monsters until they arrive in a cabin with new Brazilian members trapped. According to them, they crashed the ship because Felps tried to drive without having a licence. The group has to introduce a code in order to let them out and they the Brazilian members introduce themselves to everyone else.

With their new addition in the island, all members go to the adoption centre were English and Spanish members introduce themselves to the new members and afterwards they go Bad's Pizzeria to party and interact with one another. During this time Philza somehow managed to become Forever's sugar daddy by accident (I swear that's what happened, they used the words "sugar daddy").

After a while, Quackity took the Brazilian to have a tour around the island and explain them the history of everything that has happened as well as show them all the buildings, though Forever left after a while to go with Philza. And while all that was happening, Slime transformed into Gegg and finally met Mariana and got him to adopt him. This family dynamic lasted for about five minutes before Vegetta killed Gegg for hitting Foolish and his body revealed him to be Slime, so now everyone knows his true identity.

After some more time, Maxo opened Las Casualonas and everyone reunited there to party (it went exactly as you could expect). However, they were soon interrupted by the QSMP Federation announcing their eggs had been returned in the adoption centre. Everyone immediately goes there to check for them, but they can't find them until Philza discovers them all in the attic. They find all the eggs alive, but they all have cracks. Soon everyone would find out they feel weak and scared, being unable to wear an armour until after a long while, and none of them remember what happened to them.

On the bright side, though, a new egg has appeared, wearing a yellow and green T-Shirt like what Brazil's football team's uniform looks like. All five Brazilian members decided to adopt this new egg and called them Richarlyson. Slime and Mariana low-key have a fight with them to try and kill Richarlyson but they failed so afterwards they tried to fight for their custody. Bobby also started fighting Richarlyson.

Meanwhile, Quackity went to Philza's place to try and get Tallulah to (forcefully) take care of her. However, Bad had already warned Philza since he heard Quackity when he was searching for Tallulah, so he was already prepared and kept shutting him down while adjudging his basement to be Tallulah's room with the help of Bad, Fit and the eggs. Quackity's plan then changed to build a prison with Forever and they want to jail Philza for "rejecting Forever's love and kidnapping Quackity's daughter". They also got Cellbit to join them, but he didn't really believe Quackity, so he went to question Bad about the matter while secretly warning him Quackity was listening.

Cellbit and Quackity have an argument about the eggs and after Quackity jumps from the wall Cellbit allows him to have 1% of Richarlyson's custody. Richarlyson holds now the record of having the most parents of the whole server with 6 parents. Quackity was then adopted as a Brazilian too. They also surprised Cucurucho spying on them.

Also, as last relevant thing, Richarlyson died (yes, already) and Cellbit asked Bad for help to cover it up and blame the Census Bureau for killing them. Luckily, though, their life was forgiven due to this being their first day so they still have two lives.

#qsmp #qsmp lore summary #it's not very detailed but please understand me #there were so MANY povs #i think this is the most relevant stuff #also sorry for taking so long #I've been busy today #but yeah that's it #hope this helped!#soratsu speaks

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