#FIREFIGHTER 1 BOOT CAMP

[red-riding-wood]

Heroes - Chapter 8

Chpt. 1 , Masterlist , Chpt. 9

Pairing: Sgt. Elias Grodin x Female OC (Alexis Ryder)

Fandoms: Platoon (1986), Cherry (2021)

WARNINGS: I'm just going to put down a blanket for the entire book/all chapters: graphic depictions of violence and gore, torture, explicit sexual content, attempted sexual assault, language, marijuana use

The adrenaline was still tapering from my bloodstream when the supply chopper landed and I was tasked with handing out empty letters to the soldiers – those who had survived, anyway.

Our platoon had launched our ambush on the Taliban village this morning, seizing it and its hostages. Most were Afghan, though a couple Americans had been flown back on one of the medevac choppers.

We were instructed to stay here for a few days to a week, to maintain our presence and convert the village into a U.S. camp, which meant that we needed more ammunition, medicine, and rations. Someone in authority had provided paper and envelopes for us to write home to our families in case we wouldn’t be able to call back at base anytime soon.

New soldiers would arrive in a couple of days. Slowly, and yet all too quickly, the faces of my platoon were becoming strangers; fresh faces filled the roles of the dead as if replacing the rusted cogs in a machine. It was both a relief and a tragedy when I locked gazes with someone familiar, knowing that they were still here, and knowing that they might not be the next day.

Barnes and O’Neill’s squads had been clearing out the rest of the camp for any Afghans that had hidden; we’d had to pull a few out from under the floorboards of one of the huts, and I’d watched Barnes throw a frag into a hole that still had a screaming child in it. Lerner had tagged along with us, to translate, and I could tell from the grim, about-to-hurl look on his face when he was dismissed that he hadn’t yet witnessed the complete horrors and moral ambiguity of the Two Bravo sergeant’s commands.

When I handed him his letter, I told him that if he wanted to keep his job, that he shouldn’t write about anything he’d witnessed today. 

Though he hadn’t been on clearing-duty, psychologically-speaking, Cherry was probably in the worst shape. The whites of his eyes were glazed red, still watery with tears – they’d been like that since the firefight. Crawford had been one of the unlucky casualties this morning, and the friend he’d made in his squad couldn’t seem to shake his death. Taylor and I had been the ones to drag him off of Crawford’s corpse, his entire body shaking as he tried desperately to resuscitate him.

“I’m supposed to hand out letters,” I told him as I approached. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, staring blankly at the dirt. Dark, glossy eyes that had shone so brightly with mirth in the Underworld were now as hollow as the sky. Gone was the man who’d slung his arm over my shoulder and danced to CCR and laughed at the stories of his fellow soldiers; I almost felt as if I didn’t recognize him, as if he were one of the replacements, or perhaps a ghost of the Cherry who had really died in our last battle and was now haunting the village with his blank stare and the sullen slouch of his shoulders.

Cherry didn’t answer me, his gaze still fixed somewhere on the dirt, but he swallowed, which was enough of a sign that he’d heard me, at least, so I handed him a letter.

“No,” he spoke, swallowing again against the broken fragments of his voice and shoving the envelope away.

“You don’t want to write to Emily?” I asked. She was one of the things that Cherry hadn’t been able to stop talking about during basic, and there had been more than one occasion when I’d given up my phone time so that he could spend more time talking to her, since I didn’t have anyone to call, myself, and since he’d gotten in trouble the first time he hadn’t hung up the phone when he should’ve. He was crazy about this “Emily”, the girl he had waiting for him at home.

Cherry shook his head, gaze flitting down to his boots. “I’ll call her back at base,” he said. But he spoke it as if it were an afterthought, each syllable as hollow as his eyes. I knew that his thoughts were elsewhere.

I knelt down next to him, hugging the stack of envelopes to my lap. “You know, there was nothing you could have done to save him, Cherry,” I spoke hesitantly, but as soothing as I could to my friend.

Finally, his gaze met mine, though it drilled a hole through my heart. He blinked, some of the moisture of his reddened eyes collecting into a tear that suspended itself in limbo beneath an eyelash. For several moments, we sat like this, as he held my gaze, and then he looked back to the earth and said absently, “I know.”

He didn’t believe me, and he was telling me this only because he didn’t want to be convinced he was wrong. He would likely think for the rest of his days if things would have been different if he’d gotten to Crawford a little sooner, if he’d cinched his bandages tighter or if he’d administered more morphine.

I didn’t know what to say – what could I have said? – and carried on to the next soldier with a certain heaviness to each step that I hadn’t possessed before.

Taylor was tying his combat knife to the barrel of his rifle with a piece of twine from one of the huts, wrapping the fabric several times around the now-bayonetted weapon. I wondered if it was because he’d watched Crawford die from a similar invention.

“Mail’s in,” I said, and handed him one of the envelopes. “Do you want extra pages, for your manuscript?”

Taylor’s hands stilled on his rifle, and his eyes darted to the envelope, but he didn’t reach for it. “Nah, it’s okay,” he said, and went back to fastening the bayonet. “I don’t know who would wanna write about this place.”

I frowned, and settled the envelope back on the stack. Ever since he’d arrived at basic, Taylor had been writing letters to his grandmother, with the hopes of someday turning the pages into a novel that documented his experiences in the war. He’d been pretty consistent with it, always writing away in his spare time. For him to pass up the opportunity was unusual. Though I understood not wanting to write any more about Afghanistan, I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to give his grandmother the peace of mind that he’d made it another week.

“You’re not even gonna write to your grandma?” I asked, and took a seat beside him on the log pile underneath one of the poplars that he’d made a small haven.

Taylor shrugged. “Don’t know who would wanna read about this place, either.”

My heart sank a little bit. I was no literary genius, but if I had someone to write to, I’d be writing every day, even if it was just about how much I missed them.

But he seemed disinterested enough that I didn’t argue with him, and I could feel stares on me; I was meant to be carrying out my mail-duty a lot swifter than I was.

“That reminds me,” I said, and dug into the duffel that contained letters and "care packages" for the soldiers. “Something came in for you.”

I handed him the small parcel, and his hands stilled on his rifle again. He took it in his hands and went to set it to the side, but I raised my brows at him, and he gave me a confused look.

“Are you gonna open it?” I urged. I didn’t want him sitting here all day stewing in whatever thoughts were plaguing him, mindlessly wrapping that twine around the barrel of his gun over and over and over. 

He gave me a bit of an uncertain look, and tore at the outer plastic of the package, revealing a vintage copy of The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

“You can read it,” he said, and handed it back to me. “I got in shit for humpin’ too much stuff on my first day. Had to send back a bunch of my grandma’s books.”

I took the book in my hands, which was only maybe a half-inch in width, and said, “Taylor, this barely weighs anything.”

Taylor bit his lip, and fumbled with the knot of the twine, before deciding to loop the ends beneath the material a few more times. “I don’t really feel like reading,” he said, and I nodded, though my actions were separate from my thoughts. It seemed that it wasn’t just Cherry who’d taken a serious hit to his morale today. And now that I looked out over the village, I noticed that many of the soldiers were hanging their heads and busying themselves absently with cleaning their rifles or opening mail.

“You should, though,” he said, still fixated on his little project. “It’s a classic.”

“Alright,” I said, reluctantly. “Tell you what, I’ll read this, if you write something. Doesn’t have to have anything to do with this place. Doesn’t even need to be addressed to anyone. Just… something.”

Taylor finally set his rifle aside and met my gaze for more than a few moments. “I appreciate it, Ryder, but I don’t need the therapy.”

“It’s not therapy. It’s accountability.”

“Yeah, right.”

A light sigh escaped my diaphragm, and I looked across the clearing of the village as King shouted some string of obscenities at me, of which I was only able to decipher half of.

“I think that means I have to go,” I said. “Look… just… think about it, alright?” I set a few of the envelopes down on the log beside me before I took my leave.

King was as chipper as ever, impervious to this morning’s grueling battle. “You fuck the sergeant yet?” he asked me as I handed him his mail – an envelope, which contained a letter and some nude photographs of a lover that he had no issue with ogling in front of me.

I nearly choked on my own spit, and I glanced around, but thankfully, I didn’t think that anyone had heard.

“It’s been a day,” I said to him.

“That don’t sound like a ‘no’.”

“Is fucking all you ever talk about?”

“I’ll have you know I’m a man of variety, little lady. I also don’t mind a lil’ bit o’ rimmin’ action, and I’ll tell ya what, the things a woman can do with her feet – “

“Please stop talking.”

King flashed me a toothy grin, and I felt my mood lighten, if only slightly. “I really do look forward to our talks, King,” I said, as I turned to start towards one of the other men, my steps not feeling quite as heavy as they had a minute prior.

“So that’s a ‘yes’ on you fuckin’ Elias, then?”

I stilled, and turned my head, and though I should have felt more anxious than anything, I was focused more on the blush that rose to my cheeks. I continued on my way, sucking a breath in through my nose and channeling it from my pursed lips. From behind me, the last I heard of King was him shout,

“Hey, Manny! You owe me ten bucks, man!”

After finally making my way through the camp, Wolfe was next to last; he sat on one of the ammo crates near the LZ, working on packing mags. He accepted one of the envelopes with a gentle smile and asked if he could have another.

I took a glance at the stack in my hands, which had seemed to get no smaller, and then another out at the soldiers that I had already delivered to.

“Yeah, there’s plenty to go around,” I said, and sifted off a few from the stack. “Who are you writing to?”

Normally, I wouldn’t have been caught dead talking with the lieutenant of the platoon, but last night had broken a barrier I’d spent so long forging; a piece of my cowardice had chipped away, and a part of my soul felt just a little more free – free, like Elias, who wore his heart on his sleeve; free, like a deer, bounding through a meadow; free like that eagle, soaring over the jagged peaks and the love and the hate. Perhaps the freedom I had found was courage.

Surprise registered on Wolfe’s face, but he replied affably, “My parents, and a girlfriend back home.”

I nodded, the faintest of bittersweet smiles crossing my lips. I thought of him returning to his family when this was all over and hugging and smiling, laughing over a dinner table. And though it tugged cruelly at my heart, I could not help but feel the slightest bit of contentment that at least one soldier would be making use of these letters.

I didn’t get to dwell on this thought for long, however; Elias, who’d been nowhere to be seen during the supply drop, had appeared, having walked from the huts. He was standing with Lerner, who was chatting his ear off about something, but his attention wasn’t on the translator; it was on Wolfe and I.

I noticed the way his eyes seemed to trace over the letters in our hands, the way the mirth disappeared from those pretty blues and his shoulders sunk a bit, like Cherry’s had. He turned to Lerner to utter something briefly, and then he was off, back in the direction of the huts.

“Ryder?” Wolfe’s voice snapped my attention back to the lieutenant, but I was no longer present; I turned back to him with a furrowed brow and a distant stare.

“Here,” I said, sifting one of the letters off and leaving the rest of the stack beside him on the chopper gate, alongside the emptied duffel that had contained the packages from home. “I only have one more delivery to make.”

Wolfe didn’t protest when I left, hurrying through the clearing, past Lerner, through the door of one of the wooden huts, letter in my hand.

The floorboards creaked beneath my boots as I entered the ingress that Elias had disappeared through, and immediately, I recalled the women and children that had been herded out like lame sheep. But I pushed those thoughts to the back of my mind, focusing instead on finding my blue-eyed soldier in the now-barren building.

Subtle, but still audible in the silence of the hut, was the groaning of fabric stretching, and as I rounded the corner, I caught sight of the swinging hammock from the Underworld. Elias’ weight had sunken into it, and he merely flopped his head to the side so blue eyes could witness my approach.

“Got mail for me, sweetheart?” he asked.

“You tell me,” I said, and handed him the envelope. “Are you gonna write?”

Elias’ eyes wandered from me, to the envelope, to the dusty floor, and he said, “Haven’t spoken to my family in over a decade. They’d be gettin’ a letter from a ghost.”

Elias had never spoken of anyone back home – I’d assumed he had no one, but from the pain in his poorly-veiled gaze, I could tell that a part of him, however buried, did want to write to someone.

“Why don’t you come up here and join me, sweetheart?” he said, his eyes now glittering with their usual playfulness. He sat up in his hammock, motioning for me to take a seat on his lap.

I smiled faintly as a heat suffused my cheeks, and I found myself tempted by the way his eyes shamelessly raked over me and a few locks of wild hair flopped over his headband at the motion.

“Fine,” I said around a broadening smile, and I clambered up onto the fabric, the ropes groaning again at the stretch of the added weight. Elias made room for me between his legs, forming a little crook by pulling his left knee up to support my back and letting the other lay flat so that I could swing my calves over it. I settled in, a contented sigh nearly escaping me from the way his body heat percolated through his fatigues. I could’ve been in the desert, and I still would’ve ached to feel it seep through my pores like honey.

My world swayed beneath me, the lines of the wooden planks and the woven straw of the walls undulating like the waves of the sea. So I let my head rest against Elias’ chest, sinking into him, my hand loosely gripping his shirt for stability. He untied my hair, letting it tumble in loose waves over my shoulders, and hot lips brushed my cranium as he blessed me with a soft kiss.

“Tell me about your family,” I said, my other hand fumbling idly with the envelope in my lap.

A sigh escaped from Elias’ lungs, disturbing the strands of hair on my skull, and bringing my torso up and down with his own.

“Is that really what you wanna talk ‘bout right now?” he murmured into my ear, voice husky and sparking something in my gut. His hand slipped from where it had threaded into my hair and down to my spine, fingers tracing it through the fabric of my shirt and travelling lower and lower and lower. His groin, where it cradled the underside of my thigh, rocked slowly upwards, his khakis stiffening beneath me.

I breathed a little moan of yearning as I felt my heartbeat drop to my lower abdomen, and I bit my lip as I pushed back from his chest to stare up into blue-black eyes.

“Yes,” I told him, my voice light and almost scarce. Though I wanted nothing more than to repeat last night, I knew that this letter business would weigh on me until he gave me a better reason for not writing.

The line of his lip twitched, and something shifted in his eyes as he stared down at me – their tragedy pained me, tightened my chest – but I continued to stare up at him expectantly, my thumb running soothingly over the bare flesh between the buttons of his shirt.

“You’re a real piece o’ work, y’know that?” he said to me, and I chuffed out a laugh.

“Yeah, I know,” I said.

Another sigh rolled from his lungs, moving my body with it, and he said, “My old man was always sayin’ I didn’t work hard enough, didn’t dream big enough. Didn’t get the right grades, or the right girls. Nothin’ was ever good enough for him. I think he was bitter, think he was tryna project onto his sons. One of them took it. I didn’t.”

Elias paused his story to root through a small pouch of woven weeds and tossed a wild strawberry onto his tongue. I could smell the sweetness as he popped it in his mouth, and I looked curiously at the pouch. So that must have been what he’d been so busy doing. Picking wild berries.

“Always knew my mom didn’t agree with what he said, but she never stepped in. Just made our dinner every night and tucked us in and wished us good luck in school. She was real sweet, y’know. Can’t say I blame her for not sayin’ nothin’. My dad was a scary guy.

“My older brother, he came home one night, drunk as a skunk. He’d lost his apartment, lost his job. Even lost his girl. My parents were out and he was lookin’ for our dad and I was the only one ‘round, so he started yellin’ at me, blamin’ me for his failed marriage and his student loans and his empty bank account.”

He chewed at another strawberry, as if they were pills to numb the memories, before continuing,

“I don’t like takin’ peoples’ shit. Especially since my dad had been tellin’ me earlier that I should be more like him, just ‘cause he was a good boy and did as he was told. So when my brother started takin’ everythin’ out on me, I told him to go to Hell.”

Elias seemed to still then, his exhale lingering beneath me.

“That was the last thing I said to him before I walked out that door and never came back. Haven’t seen or spoken to him since,” he said, a remorseful waver in his tone.

I looked up at him again, my cheek grazing the rough fabric of his shirt, but his gaze was fixed somewhere past me, blue eyes glittering with sorrow.

“What did you do after that?” I asked.

“Got a job in the oil fields,” he said. “I was young, hadn’t finished school. Just needed somethin’ to keep the rent money comin’ in.”

I nodded in understanding, and asked, “Is that why you got involved with drugs?”

Elias chuckled, and shook his head. “That was my ex-wife. She was all into psychedelics – the hard kind, mainly LSD. Blew all my money on drugs and gurus and all that shit, pinned the evidence on me.”

I’d never thought about Elias having a girl back home, or being married. I supposed it made sense; he was in his early thirties. I admonished myself for the slight twisting of jealousy in my gut, though I was more concerned in this moment how Elias must have felt, betrayed by both his family and his lover.

“So that’s why you’re here,” I breathed against his chest, and he chuckled again, notes a low rumble in his diaphragm.

“Surprised King didn’t tell ya. That’s one of his favourite stories,” he said.

“That’s an awful story,” I whispered. “I didn’t know, I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have – “

“Shhh,” he said, stroking his thumb over my hair. “Not your fault, sweetheart.” A pause, and then the wry quirk of a smile. “I think King tells it better, though.”

A slight smile graced my lips, and I sank back into his chest, running my fingers this time over the chain of his dog tags.

“You got family, sweetheart?” he asked me, and cold seemed to seize my chest.

“I used to,” I murmured, half into the fabric of his shirt, half into the stale, dusty air. “They’re not around anymore.”

“That have anythin’ to do with that Bowie song you listen to so much?”

I’d nearly forgotten how intuitive he was, even without those piercing eyes eviscerating my soul.

“I sang it to my mother…” I began, words so quiet I wondered if he could even hear them, his hand stilling where it stroked my hair. I swallowed, and continued, “…when she was dying in her hospital bed. It was her favourite song.”

“It’s a beautiful song,” he said, hot breath soothing against the top of my head, and slowly, the warmth of his body began to seep past the cold that seized me, and I relaxed.

“Elias,” I said, tilting my head back up at him as his thumb resumed its languid motion over my skull. “Do you still love your brother?”

He looked down at me, sadness darting through those pretty blues once more, and he said, “Yeah, guess I do.”

“Why don’t you write to him? Or call him?”

“Alex, I’ve been through a lot o’ shit. Run headfirst into firefights, gone head to head with Barnes, went through tunnels with IEDs. But whenever I pick up that phone, I just… I can’t do it.”

I settled my head back against his chest. A moment of silence passed between us, and in that moment, I thought of my parents, of my mother’s lips parting gently to form the lyrics to her favourite song as her heart rate slowed, and my father, wrapping an arm around me and grinning at me in my youth.

“I think you should,” I told him. “The things I wouldn’t give to hear my mother’s voice again. See my dad’s smile.” I tipped my head back again, making sure to capture his gaze in mine. “Don’t let those things slip away from you, Elias. ‘Cause when they’re gone, they’re gonna make you ache.”

Maybe I should’ve let it go, let him live his life, but yesterday, he’d taught me something I wouldn’t have been able to realize myself, had released me from a demon I had forged. It was my turn to impart some of my own wisdom, the words I’d wanted to say to Cherry, to Taylor, to every soldier out there who’d turned their noses up at the envelopes I handed out.

I remembered the paper now, and pressed it to his chest where my head had been.

Slowly, a lazy grin spread across his lips, and Elias gently pushed the envelope away. “Don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart,” he said, his eyes glittering again with affection rather than regret. “I got all I need right here.”

My heart swelled with warmth, and my mouth quirked again into a smile. Though part of me thought that he was just saying that to distract me from the unpleasant subject, another part of me – the part of me that ached for family, for a bond – eagerly accepted his words, let them sink in and spread along every nerve of my body, making my skin fuzzy and my gut all giddy with electricity.

And I decided that in that moment, I didn’t need to hear my mother’s voice, or see my father’s smile. All I needed was Elias. Maybe it wouldn’t last – though I wanted it to –, but it would be enough to get me through.

I tucked the envelope away into the hem of my khakis, and smiled back at him as I watched him catch another strawberry between his teeth, tipping his head back to let it land on his tongue.

“Can I have one?” I asked, licking my lips. The MRE I’d had earlier was still settling in my stomach, though I reckoned that the dry bread and cold beef stew wouldn’t even compare to just one of those little red delicacies.

Elias smirked at me, and plopped one of the berries on his tongue, sticking it from between his teeth invitingly.

My gaze darted from his mischievous gaze to the strawberry on his tongue, and my gut stirred with a different sort of hunger. I giggled and leaned in to capture the strawberry in my teeth, the seeds gritting against my molars but the tart yet sweet flavour exploding across my tongue.

I’d barely swallowed the sugary syrup of the berry when Elias pressed his hot lips to mine, and tugged me closer to the warmth of his body, my thighs to the hardness that had redeveloped in his trousers. His tongue still tasted potently of the berries, and his lips were slightly slick from their juices, but every bit as heavenly as they’d been last night.

I swung my right leg around his waist so that I was straddling him, pressing my own pounding arousal against his now, grinding the coiled heat into him eagerly. We went to work swiftly on unbuttoning each other’s shirts; he had less to accomplish, since I’d never replaced the one Bunny had torn from my collar, and soon enough, I was baring my flesh to him.

He sank back into the hammock, our kiss breaking so that I could kick off my trousers and undo his belt. Beginning to tug down his khakis, I positioned myself up on my knees, but they wobbled beneath me from the sway of the hammock, and I caught myself from collapsing by letting a hand fall to his chest and my spine to curl over above him. I laughed against the bare of his chest, and his own grin mirrored mine, mirth in his eyes. His member was pressing against my stomach now, and as the laughter ceased, I caught my lip in my teeth, a devilish idea forming in my mind. 

I watched as his face fell slack from sharp cheekbones and those blue eyes darken with lust as I sidled down, panting my breaths against his navel and inhaling the scent that was of both him and the wilds, my lips brushing the mound of dark hair that crowned his length.

I panted out one last breath against his flesh before letting my tongue run along his length, and he immediately bucked his hips, a moan stirring from him as his hands sought my hair, fingertips just barely managing to hook a few of the strands.

It did cross my mind that Barnes, or Bunny, or anyone could’ve walked through that door in that moment, but I didn’t care anymore. I needed this, in this place that only brought sorrow and guilt, needed to indulge myself in this thing that made me human in this place that made me a monster. And I could tell that Elias needed it, too, from the way that he clawed desperately at my hair and writhed his hips beneath me and bit his tongue to hold back a moan every time I licked or kissed at him.

“Quit bein’ such a goddamn tease, sweetheart,” Elias rasped between heavy breaths. It was oddly reminiscent of when he’d kissed at my thighs last night and I’d told him to fuck me, and I grinned as I felt him twitch beneath my lips, my tongue darting against his sensitive flesh almost wickedly.

His hips bucked again, and I ground the sopping mess that was my panties against the fabric of his leg, seeking my own satisfaction to the burning desire in my groin. A pleasured breath passed from my lips, and I drew my tongue along his length one last time to savour the taste of him before attempting once again to steady myself on my knees.

He nudged my panties aside, a shiver dancing across my flesh as his finger brushed a bundle of nerves, and I lowered myself onto him. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle the gasp that poured fast from my lungs as he filled me, stretching walls that still seemed to ache from last night.

It took me a minute, but eventually I got into a rhythm, and the spring of the hammock helped rock my hips up and down, a strangled moan parting from my lips every time the bare flesh of my thighs met his. I tried to keep as quiet as I could, in case anyone outside heard, but I only devoted a small portion of my efforts towards the discreetness, for I was far too enraptured by the movement of my hips, the pleasure that ran from my core all the way to the top of my head, the man who still moaned and squirmed under me as his hands grasped at my waist and his length shuddered inside of me.

His fingers curled firmly into my hipbones as he kept my thighs pinned to him, his hips bucking madly upwards as he spent himself inside of me, and I shivered around him, my head feeling light and my core flooding with the warmth that I craved.

I stayed like this for several moments, head swung back, hair teasing the line of my nude back, riding out the beginnings of my own high, walls tightening around him and my sweat-slicked thighs still trembling on top of him.

When euphoria finally claimed me, I drew myself from him and collapsed on his chest, honey-blonde hair pooling across his neck and shoulders and my fervent breaths panted across the musky sweat of his collarbone.

Elias’ thumb stroked the back of my head again, sending tingles through my overly-sensitive nerves, and with his other hand, he entwined his fingers through my own. And he murmured against me, “See, told ya I got all I need right here, sweetheart.”

#fanfiction #elias grodin #platoon #platoon 1986 #my writing #heroes #oc: alexis #sgt. elias #mdni #there's smut in this story I'm just not saying where because spoilers but you've been warned #writing

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'To claim privacy and then put all these details in public - it defies logic,' said Mira Hashmall, a lawyer for the county, in her closing statement. In its defense, Los Angeles County said the pictures have never become public and officials have been diligent in efforts to scrub them from devices.

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The civil trial in Los Angeles has heard how some of these first responders showed the photographs to members of the public - including a bartender - while one deputy texted them to a friend as the pair played video games. He was given $1 million for past suffering caused by the fire department, and $5 million for future. The fire department must pay her $1 million for past and $5 million for future suffering.Ĭhester was awarded $1.5 million from the sheriff's office for past suffering and $7.5 million for future. The sheriff's department was ordered to pay Bryant $2.5 million for emotional distress already suffered and $7.5 million for future suffering. Chester's lawyer on Tuesday said the jury should award each of them a million dollars for every year of their remaining expected life.The pair sued for emotional damages over the photos, in suits that have been combined: Chester was awarded $15 million.But Vanessa Bryant and Chris Chester, whose wife and daughter also perished in the crash, live in fear of these photographs surfacing on the internet one day.In its defense, Los Angeles County says the pictures have never become public and officials have been diligent in efforts to scrub them from devices.Some of these first responders showed the photographs to members of the public, while one deputy texted them to a friend as the pair played video games.Sheriff's deputies and firefighters who rushed to the scene of the January 2020 smash took pictures of the carnage and the victims.Bryant sobbed as the decision was announced at the end of a two-week trial, in which the court heard harrowing testimony about the graphic pictures.The jury in Los Angeles began deliberations in the multi-million-dollar civil trail on Wednesday morning, and returned a verdict in less than a day.Vanessa Bryant, 40, has been awarded $16 million in damages for invasion of privacy after photos of her dead husband and daughter's bodies were taken.Vanessa Bryant sobs in court as jury announces she has won $16MILLION from LA County after emergency responders shared photos of late husband Kobe and daughter Gianna's bodies

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[samtheflamingomain]

the best season of survivor

I'm almost a full week late, but when I watch Survivor, I can't have anything else going on and getting in that mood for 3 hours is a struggle.

But lucky for you all, I honestly don't have much to say about the finale. I'm over the moon that Maryanne won. I wouldn't say much else besides "I wouldn't have been unhappy if anybody else had won either".

This is the best season of Survivor and no I will not take notes.

In a season of Survivor, we start with 18, and in the finale, we have 5.

Mike, firefighter. Romeo, pageant director. Maryanne, nun. Jonathon (I forget - he's the one that looks literally like a 7' Goliath) and Lindsay, dietician, remain. Lindsay goes at 5. Everyone who knows Survivor knows for a fact Romeo will be in the final 3, because he's made 0 moves and is what we call a goat - taken to the end for easy beatability.

Romeo aside, all these people have great games. Fantastic resumes. But things... went a little weird. It's not really worth getting into so for a TLDR: Romeo wins F4 immunity after never winning anything ever. This means he is allowed to pick the person who will sit next to him at final tribal - and pick which 2 will compete in a fire challenge to earn that 3rd spot.

Despite all odds, Romeo picks Maryanne, and Jon somehow loses fire (albeit Mike is a firefighter). I think if it'd been Jon at F3, things may've gone differently.

But when I knew it was between Mike and Maryanne, I still wasn't sure. Neither had an edit that pointed directly to one or the other winning.

But with each question, each discussion... MA was talking circles around the boys. And when she pulled out the extra idol she had she'd get to take home as a souvenir, I think that sealed it.

In the reunion, every jury member raised their hand when asked who was undecided walking into the final.

And I can't mention her win without pointing out that, in 38 seasons, she's the first female Black winner. We had one in 4. Then 0 since. Till now.

It sucks, but Vescupia's win wasn't great. That season wasn't great.

Maryanne was a fucking girlboss from day 1 and on one of the best seasons with (I'd argue till the death) the best cast in years, and I don't think anyone can say she didn't earn her title of Sole Survivor.

Previous to this season, if I had to give you 3 seasons to watch I'd say 1, 7 2. Today, it's 1, 43, 7.

I also want to take a second to simp for editing; fuckin fantastic job with every moment of every episode. Always kept me guessing. They gave us enough to know Romeo would be F3, but not enough to ever predict that he'd win F4 immunity.

One more little thing. The reason I loved watching this season is 90% the cast, but also the direction/production.

I have face blindness, so it usually takes me till the merge to know most players' names. I knew by ep2 this time. They really characterized everyone very well very early.

But I think kinda early on they realized that they didn't have a "villain" for the season. People were working together, forming solid, 3-week alliances, not shit-talking others. They tried to shoehorn Hai and Tori and maybe Jon into the role but it just didn't stick.

I'm in the minority on r/Survivor when I say I adored all the exits. Hai, an extremely strategic and intelligent player, was completely, 100% blindsided. And he left laughing after a lot of hugs. A few people begged Jeff to "let them say it" and he allowed it. "The tribe has spoken!" one cried, turning around and wishing her love to them all. This happened for the last 6 boots. Everyone was hugging and saying sorry and saying they understand and even praising good moves.

This is a very unique cast. I've never, ever seen such love between a group of 18 people in my entire life.

Like any game, there are moments where backs are stabbed... but it's never permanent. These people truly loved each other and bonded so tightly. Production even struggled to play up rivalries and camp drama.

Production: tries to frame Jon as lazy. Everyone else: Jon eats 4k calories a day cuz he's 7'. He's in agony.

Maybe that's it. There was so much empathy passed around this season. I truly doubt anyone asked would have any actual beef with another cast member, and I can't remember the last time, if ever, that that was true.

The tribe has spoken.

#survivor #sam #tv

[bikerlovertexas]

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Combat Arms currently supports Windows only. Presently there is no support for Mac or Linux.

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Jan 21, 2021 Official site. Over 6 million players and 350 guns, Combat Arms: Reloaded is the no. 1 free-to-play online FPS in Europe. Apr 20, 2021 I NEED COMBAT ARMS FOR MY MAC!!!!:cry. Google Cider for Mac. Boot Camp is a free utility found in the /applications/utilites/ folder of all intel macs. It helps you dual boot and install. Trusted Windows (PC) download Combat Arms - Extreme Injector 9.1. Virus-free and 100% clean download. Get Combat Arms - Extreme Injector alternative downloads. I NEED COMBAT ARMS FOR MY MAC!!!!:cry. Google Cider for Mac. Boot Camp is a free utility found in the /applications/utilites/ folder of all intel macs. It helps you dual boot and install. Trusted Windows (PC) download Combat Arms - Extreme Injector 9.1. Virus-free and 100% clean download. Get Combat Arms - Extreme Injector alternative downloads. The Contract Wars online action follows the best traditions of Counter-Strike and Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2 - tactical and professional modes, storming firefights and dynamic combat, modification of weapons and rewards for kill series. 3.0, Unified Land Operations, maintains combined arms as the application of arms that multiplies Army forces’ effectiveness in all operations. The decision to convert the brigade special troops battalion (BSTB) to a brigade combat team (BCT), brigade engineer battalion (BEB), enhances engineer.

System Requirement RequirementsMinimumRecommendedOSWINDOWS 10 or laterWINDOWS 10 or laterCPUPentium4 - 2.4GHz+Intel Core i5 2500+MEMORYAt least 1GB RAMAt least 8GB RAMVIDEO CARDGeForce FX 5600 or betterGeForce GTX 970, AMD Radeon RX 480 or betterDIRECT XVersion 9.0c or higherVersion 9.0c or higherHARD DISK SPACEAt least 8GB of free spaceAt least 8GB of free spaceINTERET CONNECTIONCable/DSLCable/DSL or better

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Combat Arms Editor's Review

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Combat Arms is a massively multi-player first person shooting game. Because you get to see the action through the protagonist’s eyes, you really feel like you’re in the room doing the shooting. And because it’s massively multi-player, you won’t be alone. You will be supported by a wide range of allies, which is just as well because you’ll also be challenged by hordes of enemies.

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Pro's: The game itself is pretty fast and Nexon’s Combat Arms is free to play which is a major consideration. There’s an enormous online community of players who are immersed in the game. Or you can choose to play with your friends by setting up password protected areas which include a private chat area. Con's: In a shooting game, you’re really only as good as your gun. There are lots of upgrades available, but you have to earn these by logging in regularly, which is not a great option if you’re an occasional player. Alternatively, you’re going to have to cough up and buy Nexon Cash. Unsurprisingly, because it’s free to play, you may find your game spoiled by hackers, and you may be put off by the volume of spam in the in-game chat. Conclusion: Overall, this is well worth getting, not least because it’s free to play, unlike some other multi-player games. The shooting action is impressive and there’s a good selection of weaponry, provided you’re willing to play regularly or spend some of your hard earned Nexon Cash. You can choose from a selection of uniforms and choose to jazz these up with custom extras if you’re willing to spend money on looking good.

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Arma 2 Campaign Walkthrough

Arma 2 Campaign Walkthrough Ps4

Arma 2 Walkthrough

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ArmA 2 Campaign - Harvest Red

First to Fight

Date: 18th October 2009 Date: 07:05 AM Main tasks: 1# find evidence 2# capture Pogorevka / 2# capture Novy Sobor WARNING: Depending on whether you chose NAPA or CDF, the mission starts on opposite sides of map. You have 4 villages to conquer - Pogorevka, Rogovo, Old Sobor, Novy Sobor. It's also first time when you're using High Command.If you don't feel confident with him - go back to Boot Camp.

The campaign begins with you in the middle of a firefight. After a brief fade to black you are in control of your character, but no matter what you do you are hit, but as it turns out you were daydreaming during the briefing. Shaftoe walks up and you are directed to follow him for a more detailed briefing. You can ask one of three questions, but it's not really necessary. You then can opt for training or crash until morning. I took the training option. The first is a mandatory obstacle course, which is easy if you know the C, X and Z keys for stand, crouch, and go prone. You can also practice skeet and rifle range shooting, these are optional. The rifle range is pretty easy, the skeet harder. You must report in, here you can shoot the breeze or just wait. Shooting the breeze just gives a bit of extra dialog. The mission ends with a cut scene of flying off in a chopper.

ArmA 2 Operation Arrowhead has some of the same cheat codes as OFP and the original ArmA did. Like OFP and ArmA, they are activated by holding down the left Shift key and pressing the - key on the num pad. After executing this key sequence, type in the following. Savegame = Saves the game, even if you have already saved once. In this section all Campaigns for Arma 2 are listed. Additional addons required to be able to play the campaign are displayed in the list below so you don't have to visit the particular page. A link to all of those addons which are required can be found at the end of the page under the 'required' section. Arma 2 is a complex game, and it is not always easy to learn, as the game has a lot of content, and the tutorials might be a bit difficult and or not explain some things you should know. This is not a 100% finnished guide, but it includes the basics that should help you get started, i will edit this with your ideas and suggestions!

Into the Storm

As explained earlier your mission is to find the radio station and direct the air strike against it. You get the task of 'lighting up' the target with the laser designator. Take it when instructed to do so. When the chopper lands get out and proceed to RP Keyhole. Wait for the rest of your squad to show up. You will get a cut scene, then orders to move out. Go towards the waypoint until you get within 100 meters, then go towards the right instead of straight in, this will give you better cover. Enter the building as shown below and SAVE.

Arma 2 Campaign Walkthrough Ps4

You will encounter a hostage situation. You will also discover the radio station. Take out the guard on the other side of the wall at 11 o'clock, he proved to be more dangerous than the guards inside. Take out the other two guards and hit the dirt. When you are asked if you want to help rescue the hostage, answer yes, as you have already done so. Approach the prisoner and you will enter a dialog. Have him wait there while you tell you CO to call off the air strike as there are too many civilians close by, and that you are going to do the job with a Satchel. Go plant your bomb. Take out any soldiers you need to. Plant the bomb between the tower and the radio van and set it on a 600 second timer. This will let you accomplish other goals before you raise a big commotion. You can always touch it off manually once everything else is done. Go back to the doctor, tell him to follow you and escort the doctor to the indicated waypoint. If you don't have the correct waypoint, switch to map view, then set Escort Dr. Sova as current task. Once that is done you can touch off your bomb. Doing it this way you don't have so far to run to get to RP liquid. But first you want to check the town for other evidence of war crimes. Go to this farm shed at 091115. There you will find a female captive. When you talk to her, choose the 2nd option first. She will ask you to take her to Dr. Sova, who you already rescued. If you choose the first option, she will panic and flee, making the rescue a failure. When you get here there, your CO will ask about searching for the mass graves. Take the option. She will mark the mass grave on your map. It will be easy to spot, there are three trucks parked around it. SAVE Head to RP Madison. There you will get a choice to retire for the night or laser mark targets.

Of course I chose to laser mark targets. Go to the next waypoint but watch out for an enemy medic as you approach and there is an enemy machine gunner right at the place you want to be. Once the two tangos are down go to the vantage point and lase the building indicated by the red smoke. The next target is a camouflaged tank It is off to the left, you'll have to climb to a precarious place to mark it. Then there is a T-72 out in the open, mark it to complete the mission.

Amphibious Assault

Follow orders, you will be given a target. Go just enough past the pine trees to shoot the soldier, crouch so you are not as much of a target. When your target is down, hit the dirt, your M4A1 is no longer wearing the silencer so your first shot is going to get noticed. Don't run ahead, keep with your squad and engage targets as called out. Eventually you will meet up with another friendly squad in Chernogorsk ending the mission.

Harvest Red

Razor team is called in to join on the siege of Chernogorsk. You are now in command of a small squad. You start out on the roof of a building, go down the stairs to ground level, your squad is already ahead of you. Once at ground level order your troops to fall in and head for the next waypoint. You will let a call from Reaper that they are being pinned down by a sniper. Continue to the waypoint avoiding contact with enemy armor, you have no AT weapons. As you get close, Reaper will tell you the sniper's position and mark it on the map. Approach from the SE and he won't spot you before you can get him. Can't find him? See the screen shot. Don't take too long in shooting him or else an NPC will claim your prize. After the sniper is dealt with you will get a call to capture Lopotev. Proceed to the indicated waypoint. Once all of your team are in the area, you get a cutscene, what goes on you have no control over. You are riding with the captured Lopotev and your truck gets hit with a bomb. You wake up captured by the enemy. You are eventually rescued, but Lopotev has escaped and Miles (the commander of your squad) is KIA.

Razor Two

Synopsis: You now are tasked with finding Lopotev, again. However it is not possible. During the briefing with Dressler you will be given the name of another person to capture, Bardak. There are four possible places for him to hide out, but if he is not found in an hour or so he will flee to the Russian border and the mission will be a failure. In order to have a Flawless Victory, you must capture him alive. It is possible to do so, if he is in a car run it off the road or shoot out the tires, but make sure you don't kill him. Once the car is disabled he will get out and the game will arrest him. If you find him not in a vehicle it will be easy to walk up and arrest him, he is unarmed.

Details: During the intro, choose option 1. Grab a hummer and head to Elektrozavodsk. Talk to Captain Dressler. He will tell you three good places to search, another contact, and another person, Bardak, to capture. Go to the tent with the green flag. Interview Lt Marney. Go to Vyshnoye via Mogilevka. Don't waste your time with the camp at 111112 or the second camp at 112092, the first one has already been cleared and the second one is deserted. Watch out for enemy just north of Mogilevka. Once you get to Vyshnoye talk to the man by the water pump. He will mention a man named Malek and a farm south of you. Go to the farm, parking your hummer facing due east. and talk to the person inside. Be polite and he will tell you to check out the castle. The reason you should park the hummer facing east is that there is a chance Bardak may show up in this area! Walk to the castle. Next to a pup tent on a bench is a map case. Take it, it's a piece of evidence, also check for Bardak. Now head cross country to the camp at 083078, avoiding contact with the T-72 in Stary Sober and the Shilka in Novy Sobor, you are no match for them. This camp is active, so SAVE when you are about 200 meters away. Put your men in danger mode but watch your fire, there is a chance that Bardak will be here. Once it is clear enter the tent and pick up the photographs, this is a second piece of evidence. Now go southeast to Staroye. When you arrive at the center of town there will be dialog with a farmer in town. Follow him in your hummer to the cow shed and disembark. If you lose him, this is what the cow shed looks like. Have your men engage at will. You may need to call out targets. Once all enemy are gone, find the farmer (you may have to use the map) and follow him. Use the X4 command to speed things up if necessary, one time I played it he crawled. You will then get a suggestion that Bardak may be back in Elektrozavodsk, at the power plant. It so happens that the cow barn is next to a power line right of way. Follow the pole line south to the power plant, there may be enemy along this route but your hummer gunner should be able to take care of any trouble. You can also go back via the road. There is a good chance you will arrive to find the power station deserted except for an ill tempered gate keeper. He will tell you to search Solnichniy, head there via the coast road. Look for Bardak in the quarry just southwest of Solnichniy. In the quarry are dog tags, the third item of evidence. If you can't find the dog tags yourself order one of your squad to take them. If you have not found Bardak by now, head to Gorka via Berezine and wait, Bardak should be coming from the south. If you have not done so earlier this would be a good time to top off your fuel tank as you leave Solnichniy. If the radio call has already come though stating that Lopotev is in route from Shakhova, chances are you are too late, unless you are already in Gorka. If you are in Gorka, head south to Shakhova, you will be able to intercept Bardak on the road south with no trouble.

One Week Later

The mission starts out with riding on an MVTR with bicycles. You are auto ejected and the first task is to ride about 300 meters on bicycles to LZ Oregon. BUG ALERT For some reason, you squad gets off 200 meters away from the chopper and walks the rest of the way. Order your crew into the Ospry then get in yourself. A cutscene in the chopper with some dialog and the mission ends.

Manhattan

Actually you are still in the Ospry. The first task is to report to Cpt. Shaftoe. You are auto ejected near the entrance to the base, but you may have to order your squad out. Go to the main gate for a short cutscene. Then get in the hummer parked near the guard shack and up the hill. Report to the officer with the laptop. There you will get a big list of tasks. There seems to be no particular order in which you need to do these. You have a choice of a hummer, LAV-25 and a AAPV7A1 for transport, as well as the hummer you drove up in. Whatever you drive, take good care of it, there are no repair facilities. The LAV-25 is the best of the lot. It's pretty good up hills and it has more armor than the hummer, you can run into a lot of stuff and not damage it. You can also use the UAV terminal, but you cannot control where the plane goes, just the look angle. You can also call in artillery strikes, however: You are allowed one and only one arty strike so don't use it until you really have to. Keep the hummer since it is faster going up hills. Arrest Kikolayev first, since is location is less than a km away from Star Force Base. Someone does not want Kikolayev taken alive, his house is bombed as you approach. You may see a man, but he usually will be killed in the explosion. You still get credit for this task, so arrest Lagushina next. Go to Krasnostav. On the way you get a radio message about a bombing in Red Square, but it is not germane to the game yet. If you get to Krasnostav between 11:00 and 12:30 you will find her in front of the church. The arrest will go smoothly BUT Pull the hummer up close to her so that she will get in, otherwise you will have to chase her later. You are instructed to take her to LZ Jersey and the game auto saves. If any tangos show up have your troops clear the area before heading out. You will get credit for clearing a sentry camp by doing so. The game will auto save. Get your men in the hummer. The road is safe, but when you get within 300 meters of the LZ, SAVE. Drive to the LZ, once the request is triggered, drive due east towards the woods, just behind the first tree line as shown. From that safe distance your gunner will be able to take out the two enemy UAZ that show up without much trouble. Drive back to the landing zone when your chopper arrives. Don't worry if your prisoner appears to run off, the chopper pilot will still say she is aboard. If it doesn't work out, Revert to your save point and try again.

Once the chopper takes off and the game auto saves go into the woods indicated in red on the map. There is a sentry post at Black Mountain and one at the other focus of the red ellipse. Put your men in danger mode and carefully clear the two camps. Be careful! Even if the system says you have cleared the camp, there may still be enemy about. After these two camps are clear in ver 1.02 you can return to base, even though you have not cleared other camps, you will get credit for this task. For 1.03 you need to find and clear at least 4 camps. Next head to Gorka. You'll find the weapons cache behind the church, and the priest runs out. Say you aren't going to report it and he'll give you a lot of intel. Follow this link to see how the game plays out if you report the cache The game will auto save. Head to Novy Sobor, you can go by road, there is no enemy activity there at present. Go to the large farm building at 069076. There you will get a cutscene in which you are told there are 6 insurgent sentry posts and the approximate location of the main camp. The location will be at either 088048 or 102019. Before leaving, fuel up at the gas station east of Novy Sobor you are probably down to 1/2 a tank by now. If you want a little diversion, check out the church, it is an enterable building and pretty nice inside.

Go to Gvozdno, although if the main camp is on the way there, you might want to clear that objective first, see below. If you are lucky, you will find the Gun runners truck in Gvozdno, finishing that task. Even if you don't find the gun runner here, wander around town eavesdropping on various conversations and listening to the broadcast radio with news about Russia. Someone is trying to blame the Moscow bombing on the NAPA group you have been friendly to, the bombing is probably a false flag attack. When you are close to the area where the main camp is, SAVE. Although the game auto saves after you spot the camp, it is usually too late for you to avoid getting blown away by a T-72. When you sight the main camp, follow orders, do not engage, there is no way you can stand up to the tank and BMP without backup. NOW is the time to call support. The T-72 is your biggest problem, so order a guided armor strike. BUG ALERT Although 'Boomerang' says they are ready to rock on your order, there is no way to do it. The communications menu is blank. However, if you check the map, Boomerang seems to be moving on their own. Just sit tight and let the NPCs do most of the work. Once it looks like progress is no longer being made, move in with your APC. If you have trouble finding the last enemy loon, run over the field hospital, they will be hiding in there. If you haven't found the gun runners yet, the eastern end of their route is 098029, from there, they go west go Gvozdno, 084049, the intersection at 072054, just north of Grishino, just north of the airport, 022044 and their main cache at the western end of the route is at 020037. Now that it's later in the day, return to base and give the UAV another shot. Now the picture is better and you can spot enemy light armor and aircraft at the small airstrip northeast of Krasnostav. The gun on your APC will make fast work of the squad near the choppers. You will also find a lone soldier standing near a repair truck. Oddly enough, your troops won't call him out or fire on him. But if you get out of the APC and try to approach him, he will fire at you. If you wound him he won't fire back and he will confess that he is Nikola Nikitin. The game gives no other option than to kill him. You have to do it yourself, you can't even order your troops to finish him off. Once he is dead it will be confirmed that this was the enemy leader you were looking for and you get orders to return to base. RTB and report to Cpt. Shaftoe to end the mission.

Bitter Chill

The marines have been ordered out of the area. You last task is to go to Spukayevas house secure the 'Operation Cobot' files linking Chedaki involvement in the Moscow bombing and destroy everything else. The only vehicles available are a truck and a hummer that's almost out of fuel. Take the hummer anyway and don't take time to refuel, you need to get to the house before the Chedaki do. When you get here SAVE, then get everyone out weapons hot. However, if you get there fast enough, you will be able to recover the documents, blow up the house with your satchel and be out of there before anyone arrives. It seems like you are home free, but the radio chatter from Manhattan base is cut off. High command orders you to investigate. You will be under fire as you approach, but just keep going, your gunner will be able to keep you alive and down a few hostiles. You get a cutscene that you have no control over. You find out from the survivors that the Chedaki attacked the base, perhaps with Russian SpetNatz help and they are after the Razor squad (you). When you regain control, you might find yourself under fire, be ready. But you will find friendly NAPA forces to the east. They offer to give you a ride. Take it, as the Russians have SAMS that will take out the chopper if you call for extract. Once your conversation with HQ is over, follow the NAPA leader, he knows the only safe way out of there. He will lead you to a red hatchback. Get you and your troops in and enjoy the ride. Unfortunately Russian road blocks are everywhere and you can't make it to the pickup point. There will be a dialog and a choice to find NAPA or CDF, choose to head to NAPA on foot. Follow this link to see how to play it if you decide to choose CDF. Avoid contact if possible. Don't head directly to the waypoint, too much armor that direction. Head due east until you are in the woods, then turn north. When you get to the waypoint you will get a cutscene in which you are declared officially MIA but are instructed to work covert operations with NAPA. The mission ends after the cutscene. I also tried to play this mission by setting the bomb on a 10 minute timer, so that the attack on FOB Manhattan does not get trigged until safely away. This does work up to a point. There is no attack, and you can call the chopper in for extract, but it gets blown out of the air by a SAM and you die, so the only known way to play this mission is as described above

Delaying the Bear

Continuity Alert! You start off at a point southeast of where Bitter Chill ended, and the map shows you going back to the original location. I'm not even sure why this mission is in here, as Badlands also starts near Novy Sobor. Go to the Nearest waypoint. Order your troops in the truck before you get in, else it may drive off without them. The truck drives about 300 meters or so and the lead car is ambushed and you are auto ejected from the truck, changing your plans. Go to the new rally point. Do not head directly there, go east into the woods and use the forest and terrain for concealment and cover. The mission ends when you reach the backup convoy.

Badlands

Your task is to take four villages, starting with Novy Sobor. You now have the option of commanding the NAPA units as well as your own squad. Use control-spacebar to switch command modes. The NAPA squads main skill is getting killed, so leave them behind at first. The game now plays much like 'Warfare' but there are no respawns. Don't go straight in, but go west and approach along the road, taking the first Strongpoint. SAVE. Then take cover with your squad (you'll have to command them to specific locations, otherwise they will stay out in the open) behind the red brick building SAVE then peek out to engage targets as they approach. Your biggest headache will be 3 UAZs. Once you clear Noby Sobor you get several long and somewhat confusing cutscenes. At the end of the cutscenes have your medic heal the civilians, you get an APC that can be deployed as a MHQ to start your base. Move the APC to 062085 before you build the base, that is more centrally located to the objectives, and far enough away not to be attacked. Set up the HQ, build a barracks and with the cash buy an RPG launcher and three rounds for yourself. Now call the other squads in to guard the base. If you have enough money buy an RPG soldier. Next attack Stary Sobor, although it is easy to reach the HQ stronghold and 'take&qout; the objective, be aware that there will still be hostiles that you have to eliminate. You will need all three rounds to dispatch enemy APCs. Watch your fire, there are friendly NPCs that show up as well. When all enemy near Stary Sobor have been eliminated, RTB. You should have enough supplies to build a heavy factory, if not wait a few minutes. Replenish your RPG rockets. Although you have enough money to by a (APC), it will just be rocket fodder for the enemy RPG soldiers. Spend the money instead on 8 infantry. Add a couple of machine gunners another RPG solider and the rest plain infantry. Attack Rogovo by having everyone hold fire, approaching within 300 meters, then go prone and stealth. Crawl in until at least 4 men say that they are ready to fire. Have them open up, taking many by surprise. After Rogovo is cleared you will get a radio message. This is a critical choice in the game!

Arma 2 Walkthrough

Depending on what you do here, the game will branch into two possible paths. However it is possible to win the war either way. Follow this link to see how to play it ignoring the radio message (option 2) thereby not killing Prizrak. If you take option one the game will say the current task is to assassinate Prizrak 'Borrow' the open truck located at 046085, get all your men in and head to the indicated waypoint. There you will get a request to defend the village of Vishanore against an attack. Say that you will help. Head to the next waypoint. You will be reminded of the assassination. It's on the way to Vishanore if you go as the crow flies. You will find that your target is the priest that you met at the weapons cache in Manhattan who is also the evil Prizrak. You can't talk him out of anything. After you kill the priest, postpone the defense of Vishnore unless you want a very frustrating bloodbath. RTB and rearm. Then head for Pogorevka Park the truck in Rogovo and continue on foot to Pogorevka. Once you take Pogorevka, the mission will conclude successfully, with NAPA and CDF now allies.

Dogs Of War

You are tasked with clearing all towns in the northern provinces. You have the choice of being in command or having an AI commander. Let the AI command. Get in a UAZ and take each area in turn as ordered. Don't worry if it says you 'failed' because sometimes friendly AI troops will take the town before you do. It's a cakewalk until ordered to take Nadezhdino, although sometimes you will lose a town, if that happens the AI will instruct when to recapture it. Get yourself some night vision goggles off a dead officer while the going is easy, you will probably need them later and you won't be able to buy any at the base. There will be a grenade launcher at Nadezhdino that will give you trouble as you approach. You can either stop here and go on foot or try to rush past, hide behind the strongpoint then sneak up from behind and kill the operator. Vyshnoye will be next on the list and it is even harder to take. By now you have a good deal of money saved up, so this is a good time to RTB and get some more powerful gear. The easiest way back to base is to go north from Nadezhdino until you find a power line right of way, then follow it west. The power lines end at a receiving station very close to your base. Once there, SAVE. Then buy a MD-24D. Order the pilot out of the Chopper. Board the Chopper as pilot and have the original pilot get in back. Have your squad wait at the base where it is safe. Ignore what the AI commander says what to do next. Instead start looking for the ChDKZ base (Spoiler: one possible locations map grid 115098) You know when you are near, because you will get shot down by AA fire, most other targets do not have very good air defense. After you die, revert to your save point. This time purchase a T-72. Order the crew out, get in and order two of the crew to get in anywhere and have the third crew member wait with your team. Switch to drivers seat and head to where you saw the base. There is no easy way to get there, you have to go somewhere else first. The best way to avoid contact is to follow the power lines south to the power station, the only place that might be a problem is passing Chernogosk. When you are near the power station, head north up the road, then follow the power lines northeast. When you crest this hill SAVE. See the radar antenna on the pole revolving? Switch to gunners seat and order your driver to advance and use a Sabot round to destroy it. When your cannon has reloaded, advance and blow away the first armor you see, then back up while reloading. You'll have a BDRM and a couple of BMP2s to deal with. Make sure that you get the BMP2s before they get you. If you have some damage, you might want to head west and take Strayoe first, then you can heal, repair and rearm before heading back to Msta, the harder target. Head back from the northwest. You will have two T-72 to deal with at some point. Before you attempt to destroy the base you will need to take Msta first. The base structures appear to grow back as fast as you shoot them, so get all the peripherals, such as mg nests, at and aa tripods first, then destroy the base buildings one right after the other, you will then get credit for destroying the base. Unfortunately, unlike the original 'Warfare' destroying the enemy base does not end the mission, you still have to capture all towns. Alternatively, you can simply take objectives as called for, and destroy the base when you get to Msta, but even with night vision, it's much easier to destroy the base during the day. Now that the base is destroyed, work your way back to the next objective called for.

If either you or the AI take Mogilevka, you will get a side task about transporting an important prisoner. Ignore it for now, it is more critical to take as many towns as you can before it gets dark. SAVE as you take each objective. You can also repair-rearm and heal at each town you take. The next place with heavy resistance will be Elektrozavodsk, be ready for at least one T-72 and some BMP-2s. It is best not to take it on until ordered to do so, as you will have AI reinforcements then. Once it is dark, you can go to Mogilevka, at the indicated waypoint to pick up the prisoner. He won't get in your tank, so just park it, tell your crew to wait and take the 5 ton parked behind a wall across the street from the prisoner. He will get in. Once he does, SAVE. You will need to ignore the waypoint, as it will point to the next town to capture, not HQ. Avoid contact, cutting cross country when it will save time. Once your drop off the prisoner, buy a helicopter. While you are waiting for the chopper to be delivered, or soon after, the prisoner will tell of a radio station on an island to the east. Order the pilot out, have him wait for you, get in as pilot and head for the waypoint. When you are within 1000 meters, SAVE. There appears to be nothing dangerous, but the side channel claims the site is heavily guarded and are ordered to take them all out. It turns out that the enemy is hiding in the woods, but your gunner will be able to spot and eliminate many of them at the tower site (map grid 134120). Do Not kill the officers near 132121! Lobotov is among them and it is critical that he be taken alive. Make several passes until all targets at the tower site are eliminated. Land at 136121 and SAVE. Get out of the chopper, leave your gunner behind. Verify that the tower site is clear and head west. Use this building for cover and SAVE. Go to the right, hiding behind the outhouse. Carefully peek around the corner and kill the man lying in the dirt. Do Not kill the one in the dark uniform. Walk up to him and press the return key (or mouse wheel) for 'greeting' This will arrest him, and call in a chopper for extraction. Sit tight, the chopper will land right on your position and take you and Lobotov back to base. Once you get there, you have to transport Lovotov to the Russians. Once at the checkpoint, Spetznats try to kill Lovotov. Bug Alert! Even though you thought you left your squad safe and sound at base, they wind up with you after the cutscene. When you get control, run back over the bridge with your squad and have them hide under the bridge. Then head to the north side of the building on the left, there you may find 3 spetznats with an RPG ready to take out the truck! Kill them all! If you don't find them there, carefully work your way around south, kill all spetnatz, saving after every kill. Once you get 'Shagarov got him away', head back over the bridge, but stay away from the truck. You'll get some side chatter and the 'Dealing With Russians' task is completed. If you are lucky, the north will be announced as clear, and you will get a 'Flawless Victory' briefing screen. This will lead to

War That Never Was

You are successful and have assassinated Prizark; this unites NAPA and CDF: You get a closing cutscene in which officially nothing ever happened, but you get recognition for your accomplishment.

Other Possible endings

There are four other possible outcomes:

New Born Republic

Arma 3 Unlock Campaign

You are successful, but did not assassinate Prizark and were allied with NAPA: The area is freed of communist influence, the mission is considered successful, but Prizark has never been captured.

Setting Sail

You have failed, but are close enough to the coast to attempt to get a boat and leave.

Missing in Action

You have failed, and are so far inland that your only hope is to get to a friendly RV. However, the RV turns out to be a trap and you all die, but not before taking as many enemy as you can with you.

Revelation

You were successful, but did not kill Prizark, were allied with CDF and did not capture Lovotov or successfully transport him to the Russian border: You go to meet the NAPA rep and the Russians decide to use an atomic bomb, killing you all, so I'd really call this a 'fail' However, if you succeed in taking Lovotov to the Russian check point, you'll get a Flawless Victory and the first ending.

[palidinus]

𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄'𝐒 𝐈𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘

INVENTORY: In a roleplaying game, inventory refers to the collection of items your character is currently carrying! In this version, I will be including VOLTRON: LEGENDARY DEFENDER items only.

RULES: List the things your muse carries in their pockets or bags in their every day life. Repost, don’t reblog! 

OPTIONAL: Explain their significance.

yote from chevalear

𝚆𝙴𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙽𝙶 

BLACK PALADIN ARMOR . although no longer the black paladin, team voltron has permanently christened shiro with the black paladin’s garb. it is assumed that princess allura, who originally chose his role for him, was the one to present the idea during a bridge convergence. it consists of 1 helmet, greaves, a black zentai suit, a jetpack, and boots.

LOGOLESS T-SHIRT (BLACK, WHITE, GREY), TANK (BLACK, WHITE, GREY), FIREFIGHTER’S VEST, TACTICAL PANTS, STEEL TOE COMBAT BOOTS, DOG TAGS, UTILITY BELT . shiro prefers his casual wear to mirror his military mindset. it’s his easiest go-to (breaking free from boot camp conditioning is much more difficult than simply going with the flow). 

FINGERLESS GLOVES . they’re practical, prevent calluses, and help with grip.

𝚆𝙰𝙻𝙻𝙴𝚃

UNIFORMED SERVICES ID CARD, DRIVER’S LICENSE (NEVADA, USA), SOCIAL SECURITY CARD, HEALTH INSURANCE CARD, VARIOUS CREDIT AND DEBIT CARDS . all were rendered useless after his (confirmed) disappearance alongside sam and matt from kerberos.

𝙾𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚁

BLACK BAYARD . he never uses it, not even as a last resort, partly due to the convenience of his ion-quintessence powered arm and due to his conflicting feelings about being the black paladin against his will.

MATBOCK MR. DRY 2.0 BACKPACK . given to him at time of enlistment into the galaxy garrison (air force branch). it contains dry clothing + underclothing (folded), 1 towel, 1 hand towel, a first aid kit, 14 MREs (wrapped + boxed), 1 roll of wire, 1 sewing kit, matches, 6 water pouches, 1 bottle of aspirin, 1 PADD, and 1 tablet.

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒

𝚆𝚁𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝙶𝚄𝙰𝚁𝙳𝚂

MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY PREVENTIVE MEASURES . while his (old) wrist guards are obsolete (non-functional), his prosthetic arm can now detect muscular breakdown and weakness and inject quintessence as necessary in order to prevent his (terminal) disease from spreading further.

#→ ooc #→ headcanons #this was fun!

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

The Best Revenge (1/2) (DonnyxFem!Reader)

Requested  by @sodapop182​

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines

Let me know if you wanna be tagged in these! :)

It was early 1944...

The basterds' most recent mission led them to Switzerland, escorting one of the OSS' most important agents, along with top secret documents...

It took about two weeks to get from the middle of nowhere in  Nazi-Occupied France, to the middle of nowhere in neutral Switzerland.

They left the agent in the assigned point, and marched back the way they came immediately.

The sun had just set, the winter air was fierce. The snow was covering the ground. Hirschberg muttered through gritted, chattering teeth, "This fucking blows..."

Hugo grunted in agreement.

That was the most they'd heard from him from the point they stepped foot in Switzerland.

Smitty's teeth were chattering so loudly, Omar joked that they could hear him over the goddamn alps...

Aldo sighed. He knew his soldiers were tired, cold, hungry, and needed a break, and a drink or two.

His eyes fell on a tavern.

Warm, soft, inviting orange light flooded through the windows and slated over the white snow piling over the street. Pots with small flowers were hanging over the window sills, snow flakes still draped over them.

And music.

Swing... Something the boys hadn't heard in so damn long...

Aldo's hands were at his hips, he smirked as he looked at the tavern. "Welll...waddya boys say to a night off?"

Smitty raised an eyebrow, "I thought our night off was when we got back h-"

Donny pushed him, "Shut the fuck up, Smitty!"

Aldo smiled, "Come on, boys. Let's see what em' Swiss  got."

The boys piled into the tavern, immediately greeted by warmth, hearing chattering, and expecting the music to be coming from a record...

They found a live band.

Omar and Smitty, having grown up in New York felt so at home hearing it...

They all looked at each other, smiling as if they'd just gotten away with murder. They ordered their drinks and piled into booths.

It wasn't long before the music started dying down. Hirschberg frowned, cupped his hands over his mouth, and yelled "Boooooo"

Wicki had to pull his hands away and rolled his eyes, "The swiss are neutral, don't start a fucking war in their bar!"

Hugo nodded, "He's right."

Everyone turned to him with wide yes, "What???"

Hugo misunderstood, believing they just hadn't heard him, not that they were shocked to actually hear him say something after almost two weeks. He held up his beer stein and remarked, "It's nice here..."

Before the basterds could express any amusement or shock at Hugo's sociability, the music started to die down, and the band leader took the microphone.

He started speaking in German, which made some of the boys tense up a little. Aldo sighed as he leaned back in the booth, sniffing some of his tobacco, "Relax, boys. This is Switzerland."

They all eased up again, laughed over their drinks, and tried to piece together what the man was saying.

According to the little that Wicki listened to, "He said somethin' about the tavern's jewel?"

Omar narrowed his eyes, "You sure you got that right?"

Donny laughed, "Maybe by jewels he means the tavern's got whores or-"

The rest of the tavern, mostly locals and regulars broke out into applause. The lights dimmed, and the band started back up. People silently teared up over the song...

They heard a soft, silvery voice, almost like the disembodied spirit of a muse, singing just for them...

Her words were in French, but they were understood.

She, like everyone else in the world at war, was living day by day...

One song led to another, and all the time, the boys like everyone else, listened over their glasses and their jokes.

But Aldo kept looking at you...

You looked so damn familiar.

So goddamn familiar, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He was stunned when he figured out where he saw you before... It was too good to be true, he thought.

Donny looked at you, then back at Aldo. "Old man's gonna have to try harder than that..."

Donny chuckled a little to himself, then he made eye contact with you. His heart skipped a beat as you began to sing another song. One he'd heard a few times before he was deployed. "You had plenty money in 1922. You let other women make a fool of you. Why don't you do right, like some other men do..."

He was so drawn to you, your eyes, the way you moved your hair, he forgot all about the other basterds, his drink, and the fact that Aldo was staring at you too...

Hirschberg  was the one that pointed out, "She don't have any accent...Is it weird that she doesn't got a fucken accent?"

Omar rolled his eyes, "Will you shut up and listen?"

Aldo nodded, still looking at  you, but acknowledging Hirschberg...

Something wasn't right...

The next, and final song threw most of the tavern over the moon...

"When the lights go on again all over the world. And the boys are home again, all over the world. And rain or snow is all that may fall from the skies above, a kiss won't mean goodbye, but hello to love..."

That was it.

Aldo knew it had to be you...

At the end of that song, you thanked the crowd, the lights came back on, and you went to the counter for a drink.

Aldo looked back at the basterds, "Stay here."

The basterds started making jokes immediately, and somehow that burned Donny on the inside as he glared through a side eye.

Aldo knew you. He knew exactly who you were. Back in 1943, when he was just getting the team together, he had to look through masses of files to find the right basterds for the job.

Your file had been in one of the stacks.

For lack of better words, it was “fucking impressive.”

That was saying a lot, if it came from Aldo Raine.

He's already set aside a few files that he was sure on: Sergeant Donny Donowitz, Private Smithson Utivich, and Private Gerold Hirschberg.

He had already set your file with theirs. He didn't even finish flipping through it. He'd seen enough. He needed you on his team. At that point in the war, your body count was higher than Donny, Smitty, and Hirschberg's combined. Besides your impressive kill streak, you had stolen enemy tanks and planes. You had an eye for spies. And you yourself were useful for spying, knowing a few extra languages did come in handy.

You were exactly what he needed... Only a basterd would steal a goddamn tank behind enemy lines straight out of boot camp.

Aldo had just set your file on the desk with the other three, when his general happened to walk in. He took the files in his hands, smiling in approval, until he saw yours. "Oh...this...this must have slipped in by mistake, son."

"Sir?"

The general had sighed, "Poor kid's MIA. Has been for a month or two, now. She was last seen running into a firefight. Every one of the boys on our side that was there didn't come back. Every one of them was accounted for and idetntified except for her.  It's most likely that she is a POW... Must've accidentally slippef this file in, sorry son."

Aldo flipped to the last page of your file, and saw a picture of you, and a paper with information about your home, your family, emergency contacts, the works.

It was stamped "MIA."

But there you were... nearly a year later. Not missing, and not in action. In a ruby red dress, fishnet stockings, and black gloves, sitting at a counter, drinking scotch.

He sat by you, ordered a drink, and remarked, "Didn't think Yankee tunes got so popular out here." He took a sip of his drink, and said, "You know, for bein' Swiss, your English is pretty good.... Perfect, I'd say."

You muttered a quick, "Thank you."

Trouble was the last thing you wanted...that's why you were in Switzerland.

Aldo lowered his voice, and leaned onto the counter on his forearm,  "You were a goddamn legend, Y/n. Why'd you desert?"

And apparently, trouble was what you got. You took a sip, and thought, "This might as well happen..."

You stayed stoic. "I didn't desert." The truth was, it grated you to say it. You had been in denial all that time, never wanting to think about the day it would inevitably come back and haunt you.

"Really? Last I heard you were MIA, most likely a goddamn POW....Looks like you went AWOL,  instead kid. What'd you do, take a tank for  a goddamn joy ride for a year? Cause we call that deserting"

You kept a distant demeanor, "You don't know what you're talking about."

He sighed, "I know you're scared, kid. Don't doubt that something happened out there."

You looked up at him for the first time, instantly recognizing him from nothing other than stories: Aldo the Apache.

He knew war as much as you did.

But...that didn't matter much to you. Or at least, you acted like it didn't. "What's it to you?" You looked him square in the eyes."

"I'm a soldier, y/n. I'd say I'm a reasonable man. I know I wanna go home some day, see my old man and my sisters again. I know everyone wants to get home some day. You got a family, don't you, kid? Don'tcha got your ma and pop waiting for you? Brothers and sisters? Or do you want them to keep thinking you're dead?"

You didn't respond.

"You know, if you go back to the ol' U.S of A like this," He gestured to you and  your outfit, "You're still a goddamn deserter. You can get the death penatly."

You nodded and muttered, "So I'm staying here."

Even you resented yourself for that. And you had for quite some time.

"I know there's more to it...there's gotta be." He saw a scar, just between your collar bone and throat. Whether it was from a bullet or a blade, he couldn't tell,  but he knew it was from the war. "I know you don't want this. But I don't wanna be up in the Smoky Mountains five, ten years from now, open up the paper an' see you done got sat in the electric chair. Ya understand, kid?"

You knew this day would come. You couldn't run forever. You weren't exactly a deserter, but you knew he was right. Even if you'd tried to deny it yourself, you really wanted to go home some day. Dishonor and trial by desertion was no way to die.

Not after everything you'd seen and done...

Aldo ordered some Irish whiskey...closest thing he'd had to burning Tennessee bourbon in years.

Aldo looked at you, genuinely taking pity on what a legend had become: a forgotten ruin. He looked back at his basterds. He started out with eight men in his command, ended up with nine...and then lost three. Simon Sakowitz, Michael Zimmerman, and Andy Kagan.

He needed more basterds, and you needed a way out. "So how bout I cut you a deal, kid?"

You didn't look at him, but he noticed you raised your eyebrow.

A tell that maybe you were interested in what he had to say after all. Maybe being a lost cause was a facade, an attempt at salvation from fear.

"You join my team, we don't tell nobody we found you here. We tell the brass we broke you outta POW camp. None of em boys needa know what'chu been doin' since October 1942-"

He noticed you flinch when you even mentioned that time...

He knew for certain then that you hadn't been safe and sound, singing in a Swiss tavern all along. At least not the whole time.  He wanted to know what had really happened back in '42...but that wasn't part of the deal.

"No questions asked, little lady. You help us, we help you."

He could see softening in your eyes. He knew he was getting to you. "You know who we are, dontchu, little lady?"

You nodded slightly.

"Then you know this is your chance to get revenge for whatever happened. Time to get your name back. Get home some day...  And maybe rob 'em nazis blind again..."

He saw a flash of a smile in your eyes, and he smiled himself, "So, whaddya say, kid?"

You gunned your drink, and slammed the glass down, and turned to him. Fire in your eyes like there hadn't been for near two years. A devilish grin as you pulled off your black gloves,  "One hundred scalps, chief?"

Aldo smirked, "That's the deal kid."

You nodded, and shook his hand.

Even though the basterds were all within earshot of the bargain, Donny was the only one who kept his mouth shut long enough to listen. They'd all assumed Aldo had just gone over to be 'friendly.'

Donny was the only one jealous enough to listen.

And he regretted it...

He wanted to know why and how Aldo already knew your name. How he knew you were a deserter...

What's more, it infuriated Donny because deserters were cowards to him.

He glanced up as Aldo brought you over to the table, and for a moment, his fury subsided. He saw something in your eyes. A silent story... A mystery that needed to be pieced together.

"Well, boys, this is y/n. She's a basterd if I ever met one."

Everyone started to laugh.

"How drunk are you?"

"Since when are you a light weight?!"

"All that tobacco finally went to your brain, huh boss?"

Aldo cleared his throat, "Maybe I didn't make myself clear enough. This is Private Y/n L/N. You might know her better as the Harpy."

Dead silence fell on the table before there was clamoring for answers.

You were a late legend. You were known for stealing from the nazis to benefit the allies. Tanks, planes, blue prints.  You also went as far as pickpocketing Nazis, and picking locks to raid their homes for any information that would help.

Smitty gasped and managed to blurt out, "You're supposed to be dead!'

Omar rolled his eyes at him, "Great decorum, kid."

Hirschberg shook his head, narrowing his eyes in susoicion, "No...You're supposed to be a POW, that's what I heard."

Hugo nodded slowly. That was what he heard too.

As they baraged you with rumors and questions, Aldo shook his head, "She'll be joining us, but in exchange, no one asks her fucken questions about where she's been, what she's done, and what's done happened to her since she disappeared. Understood?"

Donny glared right at you, and muttered "She's a fucking deserter," before anyone had a chance to say 'yes sir.'

Before anyone turned against you, Aldo smirked, "Now, Donny, a deserter has no intention of ever coming back. But, you leave 'n come back, even after fifty fucken years, it's considered going AWOL. She ain't no goddamn deserter...at least, not anymore. So, Y/n's a basterd, no one asks any questions, understand?"

The boys muttered a less enthusiastic "Yes sir," than he would've liked but, they still agreed.

And Donny now had another piece of the puzzle.

You were the Harpy. Named after the Greek myths known for stealing and torturing a king. Your stealth and skills as a thief confounded the nazi regime for quite some time, until you disappeared.

One piece of the puzzle. But whatever happened between your disappearance and now was a mystery.

Donny never liked mysteries much, they were too draining.

Puzzles took too much time.

He wasn't going to figure you out. Frankly, he had more important things to do, like...killing nazis. He decided that in his eyes you were still a goddamn deserter. You didn't deserve any redemption or even a place among the basterds.

Especially since they'd recently lost Sakowitz, Zimmerman, and Kagan.

Months passed. The Basterd's were planning a stake out outside of a high ranking nazi's cabin.

A shipment of gold and priceless art stolen from Jewish families all over Europe was coming in.

The Basterd's were sent for retribution.

Most of the basterds had started warming up to you by them. Aldo took you under his wing, and sided with you, especially in the beginning when you faced cut-throat coldness and comments from the boys. After a few months, it was more welcoming... Hugo at least acknowledged your existence....

But Donny refused to speak to you unless it was absolutely necessary. He never trusted you, and it had gotten in the basterds way quite a few times. This time, it was especially annoying. Donny almost let you get your cover and your head blown.

It wasn't until Smitty spoke up.

Aldo sighed, "Hugo, Omar take the northern side. Em nazi fuckers like to go hunting up there... If they do, you go hunting. Smitty and Hirschberg, road up back west is where they come in. Make sure e'ry nazi drives up makes it to the cabin. Wicki, you n me 'll take the eastern post, make sure none of em get away. Donny-"

Donny's eyes shot wide open... there was only one basterd left he could be teamed up with.

He shook his head, "Aldo, no."

Aldo ignored him, "Donny you and Y/N go down south. Look after each other." He turned to the entire team, "That goes for all of you."

Donny started to protest.... frankly you did too. "But-" You stepped forward, "Lieutenant?"

Aldo turned to Donny, "That's an order, boy." He turned to the boys. "Look after each other. All of you. You're a goddamn team. Germans, former deserters, and young 'uns, we're all basterds here. Trust each other, it's how we survive. Understood?" "Yes sir." Aldo nodded, "We meet back here at midnight, take out everyone we didn't get to.  Plan everything else from there. Move out."

Donny trudged through the woods. As everyone split up.  He muttered under his breath about you being a deserter.

You stopped.

"Sir."

"Yeah?" He turned around in a huff.

"South's that way." You pointed opposite of the way Donny was going. He sighed and followed you, muttering atrocities under his breath.

He refused to work with you, or even trust you at all, even after making a name for yourself among the one and only basterds. Still, you couldn't blame him.. But you also knew there was  a limit to these things. Everyone else learned to trust you, but he was a tough one.

The problem with him not trusting you was that the basterds depended on each other to survive.

Aldo knew that. Being a bit older and a tiny bit more mature, he knew something else too. He smirked as he turned around and saw you and Donny disappear beyond the trees together. Aldo was pleased with how he split up the basterds.

Wicki sounded a bit concerned, "They're gonna kill each other, Aldo."

Smitty sighed, just before parting from his corporal and lieutenant,  "If they haven't already..."

Aldo smirked, "Nah... there's more to it than that."

Smitty didn't quite understand, but he didn't take the time to question it. He ran off into the woods to find Hirschberg.

Wicki raised his eyebrow for a moment, then understood with a sly grin, and followed his lieutenant.

Meanwhile, you and Donny were hidden, watching the cabin from the southern post.

"You keep fucking groaning like that and you'll blow our cover."

Donny shook his head, audibly and visibly annoyed, "Fuck off."

Immature as it was, you had no other way to respond, "You fuck off."

"I'm your-"

You rolled your eyes, "Sergeant, I know, I know. But I'm a basterd now. I've been paying off my debt to Aldo. I'm back in the war. I know I fucked up, but gimme a chance sarge. Not for me but for the team's goddamn sake."

Donny put his gun down for a moment and looked at you, and for that moment you had some hope.

Instead he remarked, "I don't know you, I don't like you."

"You don't have to like me.-"

"I know Aldo says to trust you, but I'm not gonna trust a goddamn deserter." He sighed, thinking more about his responsibility to the team. You were right, and he'd never admit it... He sighed. "Alright kid. If I trust you, then you gotta trust me back."

You clenched your jaw. Your heart skipped a beat.

You don't know what possessed  you to set your rifle down, and look your sergeant in the eyes. You rolled up your sleeves, pulled your hair away from your shoulders. "Last time  I trusted someone I got this." You pulled down your collar and he saw a scar from a nazi's machete.

But that wasn't what caught his eye.

It was the numbers etched into your skin with ink.

Donny had long doubted that you had been a POW. He believed you'd just deserted, and used the rumors as a scapegoat for some saving grace...

But you'd unintentionaly confirmed the rumor.

Everything changed in that moment to him.

He was silent, and looked away.

He nodded, picked his gun up,  and looked back at the cabin in the distance.

"Alright... alright kid.  I trust you. All you gotta do is follow orders."

You nodded, "I'm a soldier. It's what I do."

Donny nodded and looked back through the trees.

You sat in silence for what seemed like a thousand nights.

It had only been about twenty minutes.

Donny heard shuffling beside him, and looked at you. You'd picked up a pistol. One not given to you by the basterds...

Or even the military.

Donny knew it wasn't standard issue. He was absolutely shocked as you followed your gaze, back to the cabin where a 1943 bugatti pulled up, and a few nazis walked up to the door.

You shut one eye and cocked your head to the side.

Donny eyes widened and he pushed your gun down, "What're you doing?! You're gonna blow our fucking cover!"

"That's colonel Landa."

Donny narrowed his eyes in confusion... "Ok, and?" To him, a nazi was a nazi. He didn't care about their names or their ranks. They were all inhuman piles of fiflth, spat out by hell.

You sighed, and sat back. Your jaw tense, your heart racing as flashes from the POW camp came back to haunt you, deafening you, taking your eyes two years back.

You wanted it to stop...

You raised your hands up to the back of your head, and squeezed it, trying to ground yourself. You shut your eyes, as the ground beneath your knees seemed to shake, along with your breath.

Donny's eyes fell on the numbers scratched into your skin, and in that moment, he understood exactly who Hans Landa was.

But the basterds were still in danger.

They still had a mission. Aldo's orders were still orders. And you were still a soldier.

It wasn't time...

"Stand down, private."

You looked him in the eyes, "Let me take this shot, sarge. Just this one shot."

"Stand down. That's an order."

You shut your eyes, and let your gun fall to the damp moss beneath you.

Your pistol was yours alone. And the bullet in it belonged to Hans Landa. His name was engraved on it.

Your gaze was steely, cold, and distant  as you watched Landa laughing on the porch, a drink in his hand, surrounded by his friends.

All nazis...

You couldn't stop looking until they went back inside.

Then you heard shuffling...You looked, and  saw that Donny had sat by you. He looked down, but asked, "This is about revenge, isn't it, kid?"

"That's what all this has been about." You eyed the nazi dogtags Donny hung around his neck as trophies.

Donny cleared his throat, "Your gun's not standard issue."

"Neither is your bat."

He smiled a little as he glanced at it, "You're right..."

You were quiet again, and he could see the rage in your eyes.

"Hey..."

"Yeah?" Your eyes never broke away from the cabin.

"If it were up to me, I woulda let you take that asshole down...But we can't blow everyone's cover, right now." He sighed, remembering a similar mistake that cost Simon his life not too long before. "Not now, ok?"

"Got it, chief." You took a steady breath, remembering you were a soldier, nothing more. "Orders are orders..."

Donny looked down, an unexpected wave of sympathy washing over him. "You'll get your revenge some day, kid. I promise."

"Yeah..."

He looked at you, and smiled softly, "You know...the best revenge is when you go home, knowing that you live in a world without them."

You sighed, and nodded, as you sat back and watched the cabin. Noting which nazis arrived.

At midnight, you reconvened with the basterds and made a plan.

Only one nazi made it out that night and it was Hans Landa.

You kept quiet about it, not wanting all the basterds to know why it bothered you specifically.

Donny just leaned in and spoke softly... Something a basterd from Boston didn't do quite often, "I'm sorry, kid. You'll get him some day."

In that moment, all you wanted was revenge. You thought you were sure of that.

A year passed... There was something more that you wanted.

And you realized that during Operation Kino...

To be continued...

#inglourious basterds #inglourious basterds imagine #quentin tarantino #aldo raine #aldo the apache #Donny Donowitz #donny donowitz x reader #the bear jew #hugo stiglitz #Wilhelm Wicki #gerold hirschberg #smithson utivich #Omar Ulmer

[fieldofcain]

OC Companion Meme!

(thanks to  @yesjejunus​ and @socksual-innuendos​ for giving me the template and telling me to do this! :D)

General

Name: Cain Braun

Location: Wandering in and around Freeside during the day, in his room or the lobby of The Caldera Motel at night

How to obtain: The player walks up and interacts with Cain and has an option to help with a quest to regain lost cargo from raiders and ends up uncovering a lot more than he bargained for.

Companion Wheel

I think we should travel together:

“Alright, lead the way.”

“Sure, what’s our destination, Courier?”

Use Melee:

“Rough and tumble, let’s do it.”

“Finishing ‘em off? Sure, let’s go.”

Use Ranged:

“They’ll be ashes.”

“One shot is all I need.”

Open Inventory:

“Take what you like, just don’t get greedy.”

“Okay, life is a give and take, right?”

Stay Close:

“I’ll cover you.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

Keep Distance:

“Sure, I’ll let you breathe.”

“I’ll scope it out.”

Stealth:

“Getting the jump on ‘em, I like it.”

“Right, I’ll be quiet.”

Back Up:

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“I’ll get out of your way, sorry.”

Be Passive:

“Sure, but if they go for their weapon, I’ll toast ‘em.”

“Negotiation was never a strong suit of mine, go get ‘em.”

Be Aggressive:

“Time to burn some cells!”

“Taking the fight to them, let’s go!”

Use Stimpack:

“Ah, much better, thank you.”

“Nice, thanks.”

Wait Here:

“Okay, give me a signal if things go south.”

“Sure, I’ll keep watch here.”

Follow Me:

“Getting back to it? Sounds good.”

“Sure.”

Send to the Lucky 38:

“Okay, you can find me up top.”

“Fun, back to the Strip. See you later.”

Send Home: (can be found where?)

“Sure, I’ll be at the Caldera when you need me again.”

“Okay, just be safe out there.”

Injured:

“Ah, shit. I’m gonna need a stimpak here, quickly!”

“This is getting a little to hot for my tastes, I’m getting fried!”

Death:

“Give…my mother…letter…guhhh.”

“I’m…I’m sorry…”

 Aggression: aggressive/not aggressive/very aggressive/frenzied

Confidence: cowardly/cautious/average/brave/foolhardy

Assistance: helps nobody/helps allies/helps friends and allies

Karma: very evil/evil/neutral/good/very good

Perks

“Care-avan Guard”: Cain and the Courier get a 2% hp/sec passive health regen out of combat

“Practiced Hand”: Energy Weapons and Rifle weapons gain a 50% increase to reload and aim speed for Cain and the Courier

(This perk is achieved by getting the ‘Good’ result from Cain’s personal quest)

“Raising Cain”: Cain gains invulnerability from damage for 2 seconds after killing an enemy

(This perk is achieved by getting the ‘Bad’ result from Cain’s personal quest)

 Drops

“The Caldera”:

Legendary Laser Rifle, 50% faster reload and aim speed with fire damage

(3) Stimpaks

Cain’s Leathers:

AV 14 medium armor, WT 4

 Quests and Recruitment

Recruitment:

The Courier finds Cain in Freeside and simply approaches him at either the Caldera Motel or the street. They must be on good terms with the Gun Runners and not have joined the Legion. Upon talking to him, Cain asks the Courier for some help if they are willing to give it. He has been contracted to retrieve some confiscated caravan goods from raiders for a client. His partner has mysteriously disappeared and asks the Courier to be another gun.

Upon acceptance of the quest, Cain will make his way to his room in The Caldera (or if he’s there already) and start gearing up. All loot in this room is a [Steal] prompt. You can either follow him or meet him outside Freeside. Upon arrival at the start site, Cain makes conversation briefly about who The Courier is and who he is before setting out. The player follows him to a location where raiders have set up camp in a cave. After clearing them out, Cain finds his friend’s body with a scribbled note on top. It reads:

“They found me, the fuckers. They’re leaving me for dead. Gecks will get me, or the nightstalkers…damn. Saw some bandits around here earlier, I’m sure they’ll come for the caravan once they see the smoke. Shit, Cain, I’m sorry, I don’t think I’ll make it to the bar tonight. Tell the Runners that…”

The rest is smudged, as if the man was surprised. Cain is sad and says a few words over his friend’s body before turning to the Courier and heading back to Freeside after a brief conversation. He then offers to tag along since they worked well together, but he asks for five hundred caps. Merc’s fee, you know?

Personal Quest:

         Upon gaining enough positive rep with Cain through various means (Includes positive interactions with NCR, kindness to children, mercenary work, etc.) and rep with the NCR, Cain approaches the Courier and asks for a favor. It deals with the caravan mystery that he had come across in the recruitment quest, and he seems to have a lead. One of the caravan hands that traveled with him on his first journey to the Sierra Nevadas was behind the attack on the caravan. Once accepted, Cain is visibly relieved and tells the Courier that he’s happy he has an ally for this one. The old associate is camped out in a parking garage just south of Primm, and upon reaching the destination, Cain asks the Courier to stay their hand if they find the man, at least for a little bit. They are met with raiders guarding the garage. Upon clearing them out, a small office is left, and the door unlocks. Out walks a man, who proceeds to try to hug Cain, who refuses. If the Courier is aggressive and angry in response, it will get Cain angry as well, and after some dialogue, Cain will shoot the man on the spot. If taking the softer approach, Cain gains through information that the man was forced by his employer to do the act…the very same employer who employed Cain. He explains that he must have wanted to hold the mercs in contempt and collect the fee for failure. Cain can also gain this information by reading the terminal in the office if he kills his friend.

Either way, the next stop is New Vegas, in an old office building outside the city. It seems this is where the businessman is based. You can go in guns blazing or take a stealthy approach. Either way, Cain will confront the man about the death of his friend and the man’s greed. The man is not remorseful in the slightest, and even if you convince Cain not to kill him, he will attack, and Cain will kill him in self-defense.

If you let the old associate live and kill the businessman, you will receive the “Practiced Hands” perk.

If you killed both of the men, you will receive the “Raising Cain” perk.

  Ending Slides

Personal Quest Unfinished: Cain continued working for various employers (regardless of their credibility) until a stray bullet ended up hitting his leg, which he eventually had to have amputated. Unable to work, Cain turned to drinking and became a regular at Freeside’s seedier establishments.

 If the Courier sides with Legion and…

Completion ending 1: Cain never did understand why the Courier showed such kindness then sided with such monsters as the Legion. Overcome with a kind of sad resoluteness, he enlisted in the NCR Military, in the hopes that he would one day meet the Courier on the filed of battle and ask why. And if need be, put them down.

Completion ending 2: Cain was furious that the person that had helped him kill his enemies joined with the Legion to kill his friends. He immediately joined the NCR Military and would distinguish himself as a crack shot and a ruthless soldier. If he met the Courier in a firefight, that bastard would be dead before they could say ‘Traitor’.

 If the Courier sides with NCR and…

Completion ending 1: Cain fully endorsed the Courier’s decision and would council them to keep trading relatively free to operate as usual. He knew all too well the dangers of bureaucracy. Whenever the Courier had a meeting to go to the NCR leadership, Cain was always there, giving helpful advice and keeping his friend safe.

Completion ending 2: Cain was all too happy to smoke some Legionnaires, and happily followed the Courier into every firefight. Every time there was a mission to infiltrate and secure camps or even hunt down patrols, Cain was the first to volunteer. He would eventually be known among the NCR troops as “Hurricane” Braun, laser-merc of the Mojave.

If the Courier sides with House and…

·        Completion ending 1: Cain knew that House was a big player in the Mojave, but when he saw what he was, the greed of House put a sour taste in his mouth. He would visit the Courier every now and then to talk and catch up, but he returned to guard-work and did quite well for himself.

·        Completion ending 2: Cain thought the Courier had been had but being a lackey for a lackey was nothing new to him. He continued his duty of guarding the Courier, and while he planned and plotted to kill the skeletal man in the tower for his greed, he never could.  

If the Courier makes New Vegas independent and…

Completion ending 1: Cain knew that the NCR’s grip on New Vegas was weak, so when the Courier booted up the bots and seized control of New Vegas, he wasn’t all that surprised. Maybe a free New Vegas was good? And good it was. Trade blossomed, and Cain found himself on the elite council of guards and caravan masters who could usher in this new era of prosperity.

Completion ending 2: Cain wasn’t too thrilled about the bots taking over New Vegas, but he trusted the Courier with his life, so he stayed. Turns out a free city makes for crime, and while the bots could get most of it, Cain found himself in a position to be security detail for the Courier’s most personal assignments. It is said that a man in leather stalks the streets at night, looking for trouble…

#fallout #fallout nv #long post #companion meme #oc companion meme #cain

[faveficarchive]

Mayonnaise and Its Discontents

(The tres exciting third part of a "White Trash" trilogy)

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Zina and Gabrielle head out on a road trip, and trip up on Zina’s exes along the way.

1. Precious and Few are the Moments We Two Can Share

The firefighter filled out the broken-down plaid couch with her long body. A walkman lay against her muscular stomach, and a wire traipsed seductively over a swelling breast, galloped down into the valley of muscle, skin, and tendons around the neck and shoulder, blended into dark tresses, and climbed over the crevices of the ears, where it was attached to an earpiece blaring out beautiful musical dissonance: Black hole sun, woncha come, and wash away the raaaaaaaain….

Her eyes were closed tightly against the world. It had been a long, horrible day. Three fires in one day. Flames, dirt, near-death. She came right home after the third one, exhausted, took a bath, and flung herself on the couch. She craved the oblivion of loud music, so she put on her walkman, since she knew Gabrielle was upstairs studying.

And she calls me insensitive, Zina thought grumpily. I can be kinda sorta sensitive when I want to be. She had drifted off into a light sleep when she felt a familiar weight straddle her lap. The weight wriggled around suggestively. She smiled and opened her eyes.

"Hey stud," Gabrielle said. Her beautiful girlfriend wore a t-shirt that said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH RUBBER HOSES (better than the last such shirt she saw, which said FIREFIGHTERS DO IT WITH DALMATIANS) and a pair of Daisy Dukes—the shortest of blue jean shorts. It's like she's takin' fashion tips from Callie or somethin', thought Zina. (Not that she minded that much.) Gabrielle held a dirty slip of paper in one hand. "I found this attached to the bottom of your work boot."

Zina peered at it. "Uh…looks like my pay stub."

"Thought so. You want it?"

Zina gave her a Look. Then she shoved the earphones back in her ears.

Gabrielle wriggled again. Zina opened her eyes again, and plucked the 'phones out of her ears…again. "What?" A thin line of patience was threatening to snap.

"Zina, do you ever look at these things?"

"Why should I? I know how much I get paid. Plus I really don't want to know how much money the goddamn government is stealing from me." Maybe I should join the Militia…her eyes darkened at the thought. Sure, they were all a bunch of fat wads who could barely pull a trigger, but give her two weeks, she'd whip those pussies into shape, and soon, they'd be chanting her name as they took over the county courthouse…

A slap stung her thigh. "Zina! Stop having daydreams about the Militia!" Gabrielle barked.

The firefighter sulked. Of course, I'm kinda whipped myself.

"Now listen to me. There's this column on your pay stub, says 'Vacation'…"

"Uh huh."

"And under it is a number: 1,055."

"Yeah."

Gabrielle blinked in astonishment. "So…you have over a thousand days of vacation coming to you?"

"No."

"Oh." The little poet hid her disappointment.

"It means I have over a thousand hours of vacation." With this, Zina placed the phones back in her ears, and her head started thrashing in a very Beavis-and-Butthead-like fashion to "Spoonman."

"Holy shit! Over a thousand hours of vacation???" shrieked Gabrielle. Alas, her beloved could not hear her joy. She wriggled again, but got no response from Zina. Then she yanked the earphones out of the lovely ears all by her own self.

She was rewarded with a glare worthy of the most disturbed serial killer.

"Sorry, baby, but I'm trying to talk to you. " Gabrielle replied patiently. Love means never having to expect social skills above a third-grade level, the poet realized.

Zina's black bangs flew as she released an air of exasperation. "All right," she growled.

"Since you have so much time coming to you, why don't we have a vacation?"

The blue eyes blinked at her in utter incomprehension.

"Oh, wow," Gabrielle breathed with awe. "You've never had a vacation. Have you?"

"Vacations are for wimps, Gabrielle," muttered Zina.

"Bull. Every summer, my parents took us on a vacation. Sure, it was usually camping, or Graceland, or something like that…but we always went, every year." And every year it was hell. Her parents always argued, they always got lost, and Lila always won every back-seat slugfest they had. But Zina doesn't need to know that.

"I guess that sounds nice. But my mother's idea of a vacation was following around the Grateful Dead." Zina winced, trying to quash the memories that flooded back: greasy smelly hippie guys pawing at her, portable toilets that—mystifyingly enough—smelled better than the guys did, spilled beer going rancid in the harsh sun, pot, acid tabs, and more pot, and those goddamned fifteen-minute drum solos.

Hmmm, Gabrielle thought. It sounds like we've both had sucky vacation experiences. "Hey, I've been thinking. Like, as a vacation, maybe we could go visit Effie and those guys. Whaddya say?"

"I've been to Memphis, though."

"And so has Lyle Lovett, baby doll. Well, they aren't in Memphis right now. They're out in the country, recording their second album, at some studio in Tennessee. It’s real pretty, Effie says."

"That sounds cool."

"Yeah, it would be fun, baby. I'm dying to see Effie. I miss her so much. And you—well, Hank would be there…"

"And we could go fishing!" Zina perked up.

"Yeah!" Gabrielle loved to see her happy.

"And then we could play horseshoes! And golf! And basketball! And football! And I'll beat him every goddamned time!!!!" shouted the firefighter triumphantly.

"Honey, I love you, but you are a fuckin' maniac."

Zina beamed at what she perceived to be a great compliment.

***

"Hey, what the hell you doin' on my Harley?"

—Serge Gainsbourg, "Harley David Son of a Bitch"

They simply could not agree on what vehicle to take. Gabrielle thought it too dangerous to ride a cycle all the way there, and Zina said that it would only be over her dead body that they would take the Escort.

"I can't be seen in an Escort. 'Sides, we'd be lucky to make it to the county line in that thing."

"Well, I'm not riding a Harley all the way there. We won't have room to take anything. And my ass will be numb and fall off by the time we reach the county line." Gabrielle rubbed her perfect posterior for emphasis.

The firefighter scowled, deep in thought. "I have an idea." She stood up. "Come on, we're going to Ed's."

***

Ed stood in his bedroom, thoughtfully examining the two bras that he held, one in each hand. He loved the black one, but the material was so scratchy, on the other hand, the red one was a little too red, but it felt so silky…

A banging on his door caused the entire house to shake. Only two people he knew were capable of that: Hank, who was not in town…and Zina.

A squeak of distress came from his lips. Frantically, he stuffed the bras under his mattress and ran downstairs.

Indeed, the sullen beauty stood at his door, wearing her trademark outfit: black shitkickers, a black t-shirt, and faded Levis. This time the t-shirt showed a mutilated cartoon figure and the caption I KILLED KENNY. Well, I wouldn't put it past her, Ed thought. But he sighed with relief when he saw Gabrielle peeking out mischievously from behind the tall firefighter; the thought of a tete-a-tete with Zina was simply too much.

"Hi Ed!" Gabrielle chirped.

"Hey, Gabrielle…hey, Z."

Zina raised an eyebrow. Her knew her well enough to know that this was her way of requesting entry into his home.

"Sure, come on in, guys." The happy couple sauntered in. Zina flopped down in his recliner. She raised another eyebrow. "Beer?" he stammered. She nodded. "Gabrielle?"

"No thanks," replied the poet. "Got anything to eat?"

He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a can of Bud and a bag of pretzels.

Gabrielle tore open the bag. "Got any mustard?" she asked.

He ran into the kitchen and came back with a jar of French's.

"No Grey Poupon?"

"What the hell's that?" Ed said, face pulled into distaste. Why anyone would want to put something gray on a perfectly innocent pretzel was beyond him.

"Never mind." Gabrielle cast a look at her soulmate, who was chugging Bud. "Shall I?" she asked. Zina nodded. She began. "Okay, Ed, it's like this. Remember when you hit the cow?"

He winced. "Oh…yeah."

"Well, you know, Farmer Draco came by the other day…"

"Shit!" Ed blurted.

"Yeah, and he was asking us if we knew who killed his little Bessie Sue…" Gabrielle shook her head sadly. "It just about broke my heart, to see a big ol' grown man like that cry." And it did, although on Zina’s part, the firefighter had giggled at the way the huge, dramatic feathers in Draco's cowboy hat bobbed up and down as he sobbed. "Right, Zina?" The big firefighter nodded dutifully. "And he cursed, and he cried, and he said, 'If I ever found out who killed Bessie Sue, I'll de-ball the fucker with my own teeth!' "

Ed blanched. His vision dimmed and he felt woozy. I won’t faint! I won’t!

"And do you know what we told him?"

Ed bit his lip in fear and agony.

"We said we didn't know. And you know why we said that, don't you, Ed?"

Ed nodded.

"Because you're our friend, and we don't want to see you de-balled. Right, Zina?"

Zina burped in the affirmative. She did concede to herself, however, that she wouldn't mind seeing Ed de-balled...it might be kinda fun, actually.

"And that's what friends do for each other. They take care of each other. They support each other—"

"They cover each other's stupid hairy asses after drinking half the county," Zina interjected.

"That's right," Gabrielle said soothingly. "So! That brings us to why we're here…"

"Whatever you want, take it!" he cried.

Zina bared her teeth in a feral grin. "We want the Impala."

Agony. He knew, someday, that she would ask. Years ago, he, Hank, and Zina had pooled their paltry financial resources and bought a decrepit 1968 Impala. Together they had rebuilt it into a gleaming icon of big, American simplicity. By the sheer good luck of having a garage, he was Keeper of the Impala. Hank was far too reverent of the vehicle to actually drive it, and would only come over and gaze wistfully at it every once in a while. Zina, however, had been "shut off" from the Impala after a particularly strenuous "test drive" that resulted in the tragic death of several chickens (property of the unlucky Framer Draco). But that was two years ago, and Hank had since declared his best friend fit to drive the beloved vehicle, if she chose to do so. And Ed knew that, one day, she would come around and ask to use the car that both he and Hank were too chickenshit to even drive to the Uni-Mart. She was that kind of woman. Fearless. Confident. Powerful. Perhaps a bit of a sociopath.

He sighed, and headed for the garage. The women followed him silently. When Ed flung up the garage door, he whispered reverently, "There she is."

The 1968 Impala, a dark, royal blue, glinted as afternoon sunlight hit its hood. It sat regally, patiently awaiting their ecstatic worship.

"Isn't she...magnificent?" Ed prompted, using one of the biggest words he knew. His eyes misted over.

"Oh…yes!" Zina gasped, delirious with joy.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's cute," she said flatly, jealous that something other than she could make Zina gasp with delight. It was another annoyance; she already had to battle the Harley for superiority in the firefighter's affections: "Look, missy, what would rather have between your legs—that cycle or me?" she had demanded of her lover one fine afternoon.

The firefighter had frowned and contemplated the question for a long time.

"Let me put it another way," Gabrielle had interrupted the laborious mental process, "can that Harley give you an orgasm?"

Zina nodded vigorously. "It depends on how fast I'm going, and how bumpy the road is."

And now, she frowned at the harmless Impala. This thing probably does her so good she smokes a pack of Lucky Strikes afterwards, Gabrielle thought in a most discouraging way, while two pairs of horrified blue eyes stared at her.

"Cute?" roared the firefighter. "Gabrielle, this is, like, the Super Bowl of cars!"

"Yeah!" Ed cried. "I rebuilt this thing three times—"

Zina turned on him. "My ass! The second time Hank helped you, and the third time I practically did it myself!"

"No, you didn't!"

"Yes, I did!"

The poet rolled her eyes. She leaned against the car.

"Get off the car!" shouted the firefighters in unison.

2. The Ex Files

After procuring the Impala for their impending trip, they went to the grocery store.

It was not Zina's favorite place to be. The fluorescent lights gave her a headache, as did the canned music (currently warbling "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight" by England Dan and John Ford Coley), and Gabrielle wouldn't let her pop wheelies with the cart. So she leaned against the shopping cart while Gabrielle tossed box after box of Pop Tarts into the metal receptacle. "Blueberry, brown sugar, fudge, cherry…" she rattled off each flavor as they landed in the cart.

The firefighter sighed, and looked to the end of the aisle. What she saw there caused her blue eyes to narrow into such hardened blocks of ice that not even Sharon Stone in her Basic Instinct incarnation—armed with her trusty little icepick—could have cracked them.

Gabrielle was not totally oblivious, in her Pop Tart delirium, to notice her girlfriend's change of mood. "Zina…what's wrong?" she asked as Zina stormed past her, toward a display in the frozen food section. Pulling the cart behind her, she followed Zina to the end of the aisle.

Many plastic containers of a strangely colored liquid formed a small pyramid, which paid homage to an arrogant-looking young woman featured in the cardboard poster that loomed over the plastic cups. The poster read thus: "Julie Caesar, Olympus County's very own Martha Stewart and host of WAR-TV's 'Conquering with Cooking,' presents the latest delicacy from her kitchen: Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise!"

"Ya want some, Zina?" the poet asked.

The firefighter regarded her with eyes of rage and incomprehension. "Do I want some?" she hissed violently at her small companion. "Do I want some!!" she repeated incredulously.

"Baby, chill out, okay? If you don't want to try it, don't sweat it."

"Gabrielle, you don't understand," growled Zina, waving at the display, knuckles pounding the cardboard image of the smirking yuppie goddess, "this BITCH stole my recipe!!!"

The little poet blinked in disbelief. The only culinary effort she had witnessed her girlfriend perform had been to mix Rolling Rock, Heineken, and tabasco sauce together and declare it a "cocktail."

"She stole my idea! She betrayed me!" wailed Zina.

"Oh no…" Gabrielle moaned. "Don't tell me…another ex-lover, right?" How many were there? On top of Artie (loser!), Hank (can’t fault Zina here, the man is flawless), Ed (doesn't really count)…there was Callie (bitch!), Midge from the gas station (who kept calling Gabrielle "little lady," whenever she got gas—bitch!), Nancy, who managed the automotive section at the Wal-Mart and still gave Zina "discounts" not to mention lingering, lovestruck glances (bitch!)….

And then there was Lao Ma.

Lao Ma, the beautiful woman who ran the Green Dragon, the Chinese take-out restaurant, whose Hong Kong movie career did not take ("Don't even say the name Michelle Yeoh to me," she once murmured in her calm, menacing way to a customer who dared to ask), who always gave Zina vaguely obscene fortune cookies ("Lick a pearl every night to refine your oral skills") and who offered Gabrielle cryptic commentary whenever she would pick up their order ("Noodles are soft, but who could withstand the raging lo mein?").

Gabrielle sighed and seethed, hands on hips. "Well?"

I'm not talkin' about movin’ in...

Zina rubbed the back of her neck in that way she did when she was uncomfortable.

...and I don't want to change your life...

"Look, Zina, just tell me. Did ya lay her or not?"

...but there's a warm wind blowing and...

"Aw, shit, Gabrielle." Translation: Yes.

...blah blah blah blah...

"Jesus H. CHRIST in a frigging HAYSTACK, ZINA!!! How many are there? Will the REST OF MY LIFE be plagued by the PERIODIC UNCOVERING OF SOME PIECE OF ASS YOU SCREWED WHILE YOU WERE THE BIGGEST HO IN THE COUNTY?"

...and I'd really love to see you tonight...

"Uh, yeah, quite possibly," mumbled Zina.

***

"Oh, man," Cyrene moaned, burying her graying head in her hands. "Zina said I'd tell you everything about her and Julie Caesar?"

"Yeah, Cyrene, she's way too pissed to talk about it. We kinda fought about it." Gabrielle was in the farmhouse kitchen with Cyrene, Zina's mother, who sat at the kitchen table while Gabrielle put away groceries.

"'Kinda?'" Cyrene echoed sarcastically. When she had arrived on the scene Zina was tearing off on the Harley while Gabrielle was screaming after her, "You suck! And I don't mean in a good way either!" from the porch.

"Okay, you saw it. We fought. But just before she left she said you could explain everything." She tried to mask the nervousness in her voice. What would the raging Zina do? Would she get thrown out of "Hooters" again? Would more of Farmer Draco's errant livestock suffer at her murderous wheels? She needed the full story, so that she could help her lover rein in those sociopath tendencies. Not to mention her own jealousy.

"I need my bong," the older woman muttered, digging through her purse. With expert hands, she loaded the bong with pot contained in a little black plastic film canister. She lit up, and offered it to Gabrielle.

"No thanks, I only smoke when I study now." Gabrielle had decided to cut back on the pot-smoking for a while, ever since making the declaration in her Film Aesthetics course that Baseketball was "A Citizen Kane for the 90s."

"Okay," Cyrene sighed, "here we go. It all happened, oh, about 10 years ago. Or maybe it was 8. Or 5…."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes.

"Anyway, it was when Zina was still Bad." The way Cyrene said it, one automatically knew that "bad" began with a capital B.

"Oh…" replied the poet. While her voice retained a forced tone of neutrality, she squirmed in delight. Ooooh…bad = sexy. Sexy sexy sexy. Hello, my name is Gabrielle and I'm addicted to Bad Girls. I realize I am powerless over my addiction to sullen brunettes…

"Yeah, honey, she was Bad. What I'm about to tell you won't be pretty. But we Amphipolittis—like most Italians—have always been a honest, proud family, unashamed of our mistakes."

Gabrielle frowned. "I thought you guys were Greek."

"Whatever." Cyrene waved a bejeweled hand.

3. The Obligatory Flashback

As the Harley tore down the street, Zina was comforted by the cool .45 nestled against her trim waist. Ever since the last time she got out of jail, she had stopped carrying the gun all the time, just in case she got busted again, but whenever she saw her parole officer she brought it along. It was very effective to let the sweaty bastard catch a glimpse of the steel. It kept him off her back.

She pulled into the parking lot of the municipal building, where the his office was. She parked the bike and started to swagger toward the main entrance when an altercation near a white Volvo caught her attention. A grungy young man was trying to divest a yuppie-ish young woman of her ownership of said Scandinavian vehicle of marvel.

"C'mon, lady, hand over the goddamn keys. I got a gun." The dude had his back to Zina, who crept over to them, unnoticed.

The woman had a stylishly messy, Beatlesque haircut, and wore a blue rain slicker, chinos, and those very preppy LL Bean kinda shoes. Hey, is she a dyke or what? Zina thought, as she watched the woman arch an imperious eyebrow at her would-be assailant.

"I'm sorry," she replied in oily, unctuous tones, "but I'm unable to comply with your...rude request. You see, I just had my car cleaned, and I don't allow vermin inside."

"Vermin? What the hell are you talkin' about, lady? I ain't a deer!"

"Let me amend that. Stupid vermin."

The man gave a growl of rage, and as he reared back an arm to hit her, he found his limb ensnared in Zina's powerful grip.

"Hey, ya need this?" growled Zina, squeezing and twisting the arm painfully. With her other hand she pulled out the .45 and grazed it against his sweaty cheek. "I dunno if you have a gun, but I sure do, so I think you should get your sorry ass outta here right now."

Perhaps she only imagined it, perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Zina later thought that, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a rather fascinated—and pleased—look on the woman's face. Almost like she was turned on.

"Okay! Okay! Lemme go!!" he cried.

"No, no, wait a minute. First, you gotta squeal, like a pig."

"What? You outta your damn mind?"

She pressed the barrel into his cheek.

"Weeeee! Weeee! Soooo-EEEEEEE!!!"

Zina unleashed a demonic laugh. She released the sad man, this victim of her recent screening of Deliverance, and gave him a boot in the ass as he stumbled, then ran away. She was still laughing as she turned her attention to the woman who, despite the fact she wasn't blonde, was still kinda cute.

The woman examined her from head to toe, with no discernible emotion on her face except a detached yet intent curiosity. "Hmmm, I suppose I must thank you for your assistance," she murmured regretfully, as if she hated the thought of being indebted to anyone.

Zina transformed her smirk into a dazzling grin, as she decided to do the "aw shucks" routine, which usually charmed the pants off these suburban mom-potential-lesbo types. "Weren't nothin', ma'am. Glad to help."

The woman was not instantly charmed. She continued to look at Zina in that same dour, supercilious manner. "You're...interesting, for someone of your class."

"Class? I'm not in high school anymore, ma'am. But when I was, I would usually cut 'em."

"What's your name?"

"Zina."

"How intriguing. Like that strange alcoholic drink they market nowadays."

"Don't start with that." Zina dropped the cute act. She'd had enough Zima/Zina jokes to last a lifetime.

"I won't," the woman responded coolly.

Zina skulked a little. This wasn't going her way at all. "So, uh, what's your name?" she mumbled, striving for politeness.

The woman looked shocked. She smirked. "You mean you don't know who I am?" she asked, tone dripping with condescension.

Zina frowned. "No. Should I?"

"You should. For someday, the world of TV will be mine."

Zina wanted to roll her eyes. She'd heard this on a regular basis from Artie since his religion kick started.

"Tell me," the woman continued, "do you like steak au poivre?"

"Huh?"

The woman sighed. "Steak. Do you like steak?"

"Shit, lady, who doesn't?"

A business card was pulled from silver holder within the jacket. The card was handed to Zina. "Come to dinner this evening. We'll become aquainted." she nodded. "Until then." Then she was in the Volvo and driving away. Zina looked at the card. JULIE CAESAR. CHEF. CATERING. INTERIOR DECORATING. LIFE CHANGES.

The sexy felon gave a confident roll of her shoulders. "Damn, I still got the touch," she drawled to herself.

***

Usually she was reluctant to drive through the more affluent towns because she got hassled a lot by the local gendarmes. But she felt secure as she drove down a winding road in the scarily perfect village of Port Rome; she had a feeling that the business card nestled in her leather jacket would make any pig back off. This suspicion was confirmed when she pulled into the driveway of Julie Caesar's large, mock-Tudor home. She stopped the bike in front of the garage door, next to the Volvo parked there, and no sooner had she hopped off than she heard the furious barking of dogs.

Two large Dobermans rounded the corner of the house. The dogs paused and regarded her in the same supercilious manner that their owner had earlier in the day. Then, as if a light bulb went off over their collective little canine heads, they charged toward her.

Zina barely had a moment to jump, with unerring grace, on top of the Volvo. The dogs were deterred by this; they seemed reluctant to jump on the car, probably because she trained them not to, guessed the worried con. But they jumped and bounced around the vehicle unceasingly, barking, their jaws snapping. A vicious line of dog drool splattered angrily against one of her boots. Shit, I wish I brought my gun!

"Pompey! Crassus!" A woman's voice boomed from the walkway along the side of the house. Julie appeared, wearing a denim apron, frowning with disapproval at the beasts. "Heel!" she commanded.

Immediately the dogs were transformed into meek, whining creatures. They both sat down obediently, awaiting their mistress's next order.

Julie pointed toward the backyard. "Go!"

Tails between legs, the dogs galloped away.

Zina took a deep breath to calm her pounding heart. "Jesus, that's a real suburban kinda greeting."

"I'm sorry about that. They're angry that the steak I'm making is for you, not them." Julie smiled. Zina blinked. No, wait, she really smiled.

"Yeah, I guess they were just doing their job."

"They were. They don't get much excitement out here. They haven't attacked anyone in long time, poor dears." Julie sighed, and stroked her chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I should go back to catching live rabbits for them...."

Zina's baby blues went wide with horror. "Rabbits?" Bunnies? Little fluffy bunnies? And people think I'm some bad-ass psycho?

"Yes," drawled Julie. "And once they kill them, I can make a lovely rabbit stew. Now do come inside."

"Okay." The con did not budge.

"Zina."

"Huh?"

"That means you have to get off my car. Please."

Once inside, Zina was sitting on the immaculate counter in the well-equipped kitchen, the kind she had only seen in magazines, where copper pots and pans hung from ceilings, where little chopping machines were neatly lined up like sentries, where there was a dishwasher...where everything gleamed. She fully expected her new friend to yell at her to get off the counter, but Julie merely smiled indulgently and handed her a cold bottle of beer. "Want a glass?" the hostess asked.

Zina's eyebrows furrowed. "For what?"

"Never mind."

Shrugging, Zina tried to read the label of the bottle she'd been handed. Except it was in French or something. "What the hell's this?"

"It's a pilsner."

"A what?" I thought she said it was beer.

"It's a kind of beer, my dear Zina. Try some. It's actually quite good."

"I will." She looked at Julie. "So, uh, you cook for a living?"

"Not exactly. I do many things. I cook. I entertain. I show people how to make their miserable lives worth living. I think it's useful."

Zina snorted. "Sounds like you got all the bases covered."

Julie raised a triumphant eyebrow. "I do. It's all one big marketplace when you look at it, but if you break it down, it's quite easy to conquer. Just remember, Zina: divide and conquer."

"Whatever." Zina sniffed the bottle suspiciously, and took a tiny sip. "Mmmm...not bad," she said with grudging surprise.

"I'm glad you like it. Now come into the living room."

Does she talk to everybody the way she talks to her dogs? wondered Zina as she followed Julie into the huge, rustic-looking living room. A fire blazed. The con stood and surveyed the living room with the same awe she did the kitchen. "Wow. Nice."

Julie indicated the couch next to the fireplace with a wave of her arm. "Sit."

"Uh, I'm okay standing."

"Really?" Another arching of the eyebrow.

I gotta learn to start doing that, it's kinda cool. "Yeah."

She wasn't prepared for the playful shove from the domestic dominatrix. "I said...sit." Zina landed on the couch with an oomph. Through much skill and experience, she managed not to spill the beer.

But Julie had a skill all her own. Before Zina knew it, her belt was unbuckled, then her jeans were unbuttoned, unzipped, and flying at half mast, around her knees.

Her body contracted in delight at her hostess's firm ministrations. I'm drinking beer and getting head all at once. I think I'm in heaven. If only the TV were on....Her eyes flickered to the remote sitting on the coffee table, just out of reach. She stretched out an arm in vain.

***

Gabrielle nearly choked on her fourth Pop Tart. "Ugh, Cyrene, she really told you...about the sex stuff?"

Cyrene had propped her weary head in one hand. "Yeah, honey, she did. Like, during that whole time period we both gave dysfunctional a bad name, you know? And she was so taken with Julie, so...she just couldn't help herself. I think she really dug the power trip Julie was on. She always liked chicks—and guys—like that: Powerful. So it's kinda surprising she fell for you."

Gabrielle scowled.

"No offense, honey. You know I think you're the best thing that's ever happened to her."

The poet was assuaged for the time being. "Thanks, Cyrene. But, uh, I was wondering—"

"What, Gabrielle?"

"Um. Well, Zina doesn't, you know, still tell you, uh, intimate details, does she? You know, like about her and me?"

Cyrene laughed and waved a hand. "Oh, no way, honey. We don't do that anymore."

"Heh." Gabrielle chuckled with relief. "That's good."

"I mean, she doesn't have to."

"What?" Gabrielle asked uneasily.

The older woman snorted. "Hell, honey, the fact that you have her limping and bowlegged about every week speaks volumes, doesn't it?"

Gabrielle buried her face in hands. Shit, I bet no one buys that "I hit a really bad pothole on my cycle" story....

There was a knock at the kitchen door. From the window both women could see red flashing lights. "Uh-oh," Cyrene mumbled, shoving her marijuana and all its accouterments in her purse, and making a mad dash for the upstairs. Gabrielle waited patiently for the older woman to make her getaway, then answered the door.

Zina stood scowling, arms folded, with a tall female police officer behind her, who was grinning under the penumbra of her big state trooper hat.

Gabrielle sighed. "Hi, Officer Minya."

"Hi, Gabby!" responded the cop enthusiastically. "I believe this big bundle of joy is yours." She tapped Zina’s arm with a nightstick. The firefighter snarled at her.

"Yeah," Gabrielle groaned, "it sure is. What was it this time?"

"Not drunk. Just disorderly conduct. Punched out some dude at the Saddle who said Sammy Sosa sucked."

"I’m tellin’ ya, McGwire is nothing but steroids!" roared Zina.

"Yeah, yeah, put a lid on it, smart ass. So whaddya wanna exchange for her this time, Gabby?" Two months ago, after a similar incident when Zina was accompanied home by Officer Minya, the policewoman delicately suggested that she would be willing not to let Zina sit in jail for a night if she could have something in exchange. Gabrielle had given her a chicken salad sandwich. Then another time it was left-over pizza. The poet frowned. This could not go on, she decided. Zina needed to be taught a lesson. "Okay, Minya. How about a whip?"

The cop’s eyes lit up. "Awesome!" she gurgled.

"No!" Zina wailed. "Not my whip!"

"Yes, missy, your whip!" Gabrielle cried triumphantly. "And if that don’t teach you to behave yourself and stop getting into fights, I’ll give Officer Minya your Harley next goddamned time!" With that, the poet stomped up to the bedroom, got the whip, and delivered it to Minya, who thanked her profusely and left.

Zina sulked at the kitchen table. "You just gave away my, my…pride and joy. My womanhood. My, uh…"

It always amused Gabrielle when her companion tried to get deep. "Lay off it, baby. You can always get another whip. Look, I know you’re pissed about this Julie chick, but let’s just try to think about this thing. Maybe we can get her to come around to our way of thinking." She grinned.

4. The Bimbo Bard

"I decided to be what crime made of me."—Jean Genet

"Consequences, schmonsequences. As long as I’m rich."—Daffy Duck

The usual suspects swarmed outside the studio where "Conquering with Cooking" was filmed every week. Julie eyed them with disdain: women, housewives old and young, mindlessly following her every dictate. She sighed with the burden of it all. When, she thought, will I see a fresh face, someone interesting, someone...

Her eyes fixed on someone near the end of the line. Like that. A young beauty. Strawberry blonde. Sucking a bottle of Nestle Quik through a straw. Young. Coquettish. Ah, my Lolita! thought Julie, as she surveyed the young woman, who was dressed like white trash, no doubt about it: green halter top, scandalously short shorts, little hiking boots from which gray and red tube socks peeked out mischievously. But her beauty easily defeated all those shortcomings. As her crimson lips wrapped around the straw yet again, her lovely gray-green eyes met Julie's.

With studied nonchalance Julie sauntered past the crowd, past the calls for her attention and the hands that tried to grab at her, to this nubile little goddess. "Hello," she greeted smoothly. "thank you for coming to the taping."

The girl nodded. "You're welcome."

"I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"No, this is my first time," she replied with a charming giggle.

"Really?" Julie grew inquisitive. "Tell me why." Gently, she linked arms with the young woman and guided her away from the crowd. They turned the corner of the studio hallway, headed toward Julie's dressing room.

As soon as they cleared the crowd the woman had extracted her arm from Julie's. "I've become interested in you," she said to Julie, eyelashes fluttering like shadows of leaves against a sun-dappled window. Then she slowed to a halt and leaned against the wall, and resumed sipping her chocolate milk.

"I'm glad you've become interested in me, whatever the reason." Julie leaned with predatory possessiveness over the girl. She dragged a finger over the girl's taut abdomen, which rippled like a pond.

"You don't want to know why?" the girl asked, pouting slightly.

This should be interesting. She probably did my horoscope, and determined we were fated to meet. "Tell me."

"We have a mutual friend."

Julie raised her eyebrows: one in amusement, one in disbelief. Who could this waif possibly know among her acquaintances?

"You remember Zina, don't you?" The girl slurped at the drink again.

Julie's eyes narrowed and her spleen made a grinding noise, as if her intestines were mashing coffee beans. "Yes, I remember her very well. An exquisite lay, as I recall."

Gabrielle smirked. "Yes she is, isn't she?"

Julie sighed and straightened. "Now it all makes sense. All right, o concubine of Zina, what do you want?"

"I have a message from Zina: she wants half the profits from the mayonnaise deal, or she reveals your real name to the press."

Julie's nostrils flared. "She wouldn't dare," she rumbled.

Gabrielle smiled the smile of the triumphant. "Oh, wouldn't she, Hermoine Kaputnik?"

***

Zina's efforts at napping were futile. She lay stretched out in bed, staring at the ceiling, possessed by worrying. I never shoulda let Gabrielle go to Julie by herself. That crazy bitch probably cut her up and served her to those damn dogs…complete with a sprig of mint. Or would Gabrielle taste better with parsley? What the hell am I thinking?

She sat up expectantly when she heard the familiar death rattle of the Escort. A car door slammed. Silence. Then the front door opened, and Gabrielle's beloved bellow: "ZINA!"

"Up here," she called down to the poet. Then she heard Gabrielle galloping up the steps. And then she was there, in the doorway, grinning at her.

She melted. She always did, at that smile. Always would. Ever since I saw her across a crowded, smelly bar…and she smiled at me, without even knowing me. How the hell could I not love…that?

"I got good news and bad news," Gabrielle was saying.

"Bad first," the firefighter quickly replied.

"Okay. The bad news is that Barbecue-Salsa Mayonnaise is going under. They're discontinuing it 'cause of poor sales."

"Well, I ain't surprised," Zina snorted. "She probably didn't make it right!" Damn Julie. She musta put in too much salsa….

Gabrielle decided it was best not to go there. She continued: "But the good news is this."

She pulled a wad of cash out of the pocket of her Levi’s jacket. "Payoff. Your half of what she already made."

"How much?"

"Nine hundred." She walked over to the bed, and tossed the money, all 10s and 20s (Julie had gotten the cash from an ATM), into the air. As the bills fell and scattered like leaves, Gabrielle jumped onto her lover. They fell back on the bed in an embrace.

"Blackmailing is fun, baby. No wonder you love being bad," Gabrielle said, after a long and breathless kiss.

"Don't enjoy it too much, Gabrielle. I don't want you ending up in jail."

"I won't. I'm just kidding." The poet indulged in nibbling the firefighter's firm neck. "So can we go on vacation now?"

"Sure…with money like this, hell, we could afford a Holiday Inn."

"Hey, " she said, surveying the money-covered bed, "this is just like that movie…Indecent Proposal." She regarded Zina with lust-glazed eyes. "Which is pretty cool, stud…'cause I got a very indecent proposal for you…."

"Gabrielle, the way you walk down the street is an indecent proposal all by itself…."

"You always say the sweetest things to me!"

***

"Mom, get the fuck off the car." Zina tossed a duffelbag into the open trunk of the Impala. Cyrene was lying on the hood of the car, taking in the early morning sun and meditating…or falling asleep, depending on one's religious beliefs or lack thereof.

"Oh come on, man," the older woman grumbled, not moving.

"Let her go, Zina. She's not doing anything." Gabrielle said from the car’s interior, where she had been sitting for an hour: She was that excited. The passenger door was opened and her legs were stretched out. A curled, worn paperback copy of On the Roadlay in her lap. "Are we ready yet?" she asked her beloved for the millionth time.

Zina slammed shut the trunk. "Yeah, I think so." She walked over to the hood, where Cyrene, sun warming her face, had drifted off into half-sleep, half-sixties flashback: heeeeere comes…the Suuuuun Kiiiiiiing….But her daughter's gruff voice cut into her paisley and psychedelic subconscious: "Okay you, listen up," grunted Zina. She dropped a set of house keys on Cyrene's stomach. "Water Gabrielle's plants everyday."

"And don't forget the plant food," added the poet.

Incense and peppermint…da da da da…

"Right," continued Zina. "And make sure there's food on the back porch for the cats. And give them fresh water every day. Oh, and call the gas company about checking the meter. Cancel my fly-fishing trip with Ed. And cancel my dentist appointment too. Call Tommy Ray at the fire department and tell him that if anyone uses my ax while I'm gone, they're dead. And make sure you call Lila and tell her that Gabrielle can't babysit for her on Thursday."

Cyrene smiled beatifically.

"You got all that, Mom?"

Cyrene opened her eyes, blinking. Whether blinded by the sun or a hashish brownie, she realized that she was talking to Grace Slick, and it was 1967. But why was Grace calling her "Mom"? Oh, it was all so confusing sometimes…poor Grace, fucked up again. Just humor her, Cyrene. So she crossed her fingers for good luck. "Consider it done."

Zina stared at her dazed and confused mother. "Gabrielle, your plants are gonna die."

Cyrene sat up, and slid off the Impala. "Okay, time to get ready for the Filmore."

"Oh boy," Zina sighed, and quickly hugged her mother. "See you in a week, Mom."

Gabrielle stood up and did likewise, in addition planting a kiss on Cyrene's cheek. "Yeah, Cyrene, see ya."

Cyrene stared at Gabrielle. "And Julie Christie too?" she muttered, wandering back to the farmhouse.

"You think she'll be okay?" wondered the poet.

"Yeah, she'll sleep it off." Zina slid an arm around her lover's shoulders. "Ready?"

Gabrielle turned to face her. "Yeah. This is so awesome, baby. A road trip. Just like Kerouac and those guys." She looked at her book. "A trip into the heart of darkness. The heart of America. A voyage into self-discovery." She stuffed the book down her jeans, then took Zina's face in her hands. "I am Kerouac, and you are my Neal Cassady," she intoned solemnly. "Dig?"

The beautiful blue eyes were a tabula rasa. "Yeah."

"You don't know what the hell I'm talking about, do you?"

"No."

Gabrielle kissed her. "I love you anyway." Reluctantly she let her hands slide from Zina's face, and the firefighter walked over to the driver's side of the car.

"But you know," Gabrielle continued, "Kerouac, writing in his diary, called himself 'the buckeye bard.' I'd like to have a title like that, someday."

Zina eyed Gabrielle's tight halter top and skimpy shorts. "How about 'the bimbo bard'?"

As she sprinted away from the car, with Gabrielle close at her heels and threatening serious tickling, she thought, once again, damn, I am so whipped.

5. The Heart of Darkness

"American black hole…

Life’s too sweet to eat like candy"

—Girls Against Boys, "Black Hole"

It was like being in the Twilight Zone: Every rest stop was the same, except perhaps that this one had a Burger King, and that one had a Hardee's, and yet another one had a Sbarro's…Gabrielle fought her disgusted way out of the all-too-moist bathroom (everything seemed wet: floors, counters, toilet seats…) and into the parking lot.

Zina was leaning against the Impala, mirrored sunglasses firmly in place, growling at anyone who got too close to the car.

"Okay, let's go." Gabrielle tossed her purse in through the open window.

They both climbed into the car. The firefighter sat in front of the wheel, unmoving.

"Baby, you okay?" Gabrielle asked, touching her beloved's leg.

"Gabrielle, I want you to know…we're entering dangerous territory here."

The poet frowned. "Dangerous how?"

Zina took a deep breath. "We're in Tennessee now."

"Well, yeah, so what?"

Zina turned in her seat, and took Gabrielle's hand. "You've noticed the radio signals are getting weaker."

"Yeah…so?"

"Gabrielle, very soon…" The taciturn firefighter simply didn't know how else to put it. "Very soon we may be stuck with nothing but country music stations."

Her fair-haired companion, however, set her jaw in determination. "I thought so, Zina. I know it'll be tough, but…I think we can handle it."

6. Postcards from America: An Excerpt from Gabrielle's On-the-Road Journal

At first it was even kinda fun. We just kept making fun of the songs they played. Like on two-shot Tuesday they were playing Bonnie Tyler, and I made up lyrics to her songs: "I Need a Hero" became "I Need a Homo" and "Total Eclipse of the Heart" became "Total Eclipse of the Brain." Zina laughed and that was good. But as the day dragged on it got harder and harder.

And today was the second day without real music. If I hear another Clint Black song I'll kill someone. I hate country music for making me want to listen to Hanson again.

I'm writing this at a diner. Zina and I aren't really speaking right now, 'cause she did something really horrible. Earlier she had to make an "emergency stop" so she pulled over along some road and ran into the woods like a jackrabbit. While I sat there I decided to read a little of On the Road again and started looking for it. but I couldn't find it. It wasn't on the floor, wasn't in the back, or in the glove compartment. I was totally confused until Zina came back. By this time I was standing outside the car. As she walked toward me I noticed something sticking out of her back pocket: It was my book!

I'm not so naive as to think she really wanted something to read while doing number 2. So I said, "Why do you have my book?"

She looked nervous and just shrugged. "I dunno," she said. She is the worse liar ever.

I snatched it out of her pocket, and immediately noticed that a big chunk of the book was gone...then it dawned on me.

She didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed.

7. If You're Feeling Sinister

"So if you're feeling sinister

Go off and see a minister

He'll try in vain to take away the pain of being a hopeless unbeliever..."

—Belle and Sebastian, "If You're Feeling Sinister"

Zina parked in the furthest recesses of the lot. "I don't wanna risk the car getting scratched," she said to her sulky companion.

They were at a mall. A mall that had a Barnes & Noble. Zina knew that this was the only way she could get her girlfriend to start talking to her again: If she took Gabrielle to a bookstore and bought her a brand-spanking-new copy of On the Road.

But Gabrielle sat, arms crossed, unmoving.

"Come on, baby," Zina cajoled gently. "It'll be a nice new copy...I know the old one had your notes in it..."

Gabrielle glared at her.

"...And a love sonnet addressed to me..." the firefighter admitted guiltily.

The poet sighed melodramatically.

"Yeah, I know, I'm totally unworthy of you, but I am sorry, and I'll buy you whatever you want."

Gabrielle was out of the car and jogging toward the bookstore.

Feeling relieved, Zina locked up the Impala and sauntered toward the entrance. However, her satisfaction did not last long. A Barnes & Noble minion handed her a flyer as she entered the superstore, and normally she would not have even read it except for the photo of a certain grinning blonde psychopath: "Reverend Callie de Ash reads from her first book, I Didn't Find God But He Sure Did Find Me, today, at 3 pm."

A clock on the wall indicated that it was twenty till 3.

Zina cursed softly. Although not so softly that the underpaid lackey did not hear her say, "Son of a goddamn fucking bitch."

Quickly she paced through the maze of the monolithic store, looking for Gabrielle. She had wandered in the huge but desolate Art section when she felt a hand snag her arm and, with surprising force, pull her down. She flopped into an overstuffed chair. Why is this whole place like someone's goddamn living room, she thought irritably, as she looked up...into Callie's face. The blonde, wearing a dark brown skirt and matching suit jacket, grinned down at her. "Will wonders ever cease," she sighed. "Thank you, Lord!" she cried with a heavenward glance.

"Callie."

"Hello, precious!" Callie crooned, once again settling her eyes on her prey. The mad minister straddled Zina's lap. "It's so nice to see you again...even though the last time we met you tried to crush my foot." She caressed Zina's chiseled cheek with a finger.

"Stop it, Callie. It was an accident," replied the firefighter through gritted teeth.

"Yeah, yeah, just like burning down my house was an accident. But my time with the Lord has shown me forgiveness, and I do forgive you, Zina. Verrry much," she purred, grinding against a taut thigh.

"That's great...Callie," Zina whispered. Oh boy, if Gabrielle sees this I am in big trouble...not even all the books in the world would get me out of this jam. "Please...let me go."

"What? You're not gonna stay for my reading?"

"I, uh, Gabrielle and I are on vacation..."

Callie stopped lap dancing for a moment. "You mean...oh, of course the little tart would be along. Honestly, Zina, I don't know what you see in her. But I bet I could show you something much better..."

Even through her industrial strength Levi's, Zina could feel the heat of her desire, so much so that..."Callie?"

"Yes, my raven-haired wonder?"

"Are…you…wearing underwear?"

Callie giggled. "Panties are the devil's diapers, my pretty."

I just had to ask.

Suddenly, from the next aisle, they heard a man's voice: "Callie?"

"Oh great, it's my agent," Callie whispered. "He's coming this way." She looked at Zina. "Don't say anything, just play along." She clamped her hands to Zina's face much like one of those little monster spawn from the Alien movies. The firefighter’s head was immobile, thus, she could not turn to see his approach. "The power of Christ compels you!" Callie shouted as he rounded the corner.

"Callie, what are you doing?" demanded a male voice.

"Sweet baby Jesus, Bob, can't you see I'm in the middle of a healing?" she snapped, glaring at him. Then she turned her eyes to Zina once again. "Sister, let the Lord take away your torment and pain—I cast thee out, demons! Beelzebub! Mephistopheles! You are no match for me!"

"So, like, what's wrong with her?" Bob interrupted again.

"Brain tumor."

"Oh." Bob sounded disappointed, perhaps expecting something more exciting, like paralysis or leprosy.

Zina grew desperate. Callie's sweaty palms were suctioned to her head, and she had to find Gabrielle and get the hell out of this crazy place. "I feel it, I feel it!" she shouted.

"You do?" cried Callie, wrapped up in make-believe.

"Yes, I do, Callie! Praise God! I AM HEALED!" By sheer force of will, she catapulted herself out of the chair and Callie tumbled to the floor, legs up in the air, skirt revealing her valley of heaven.

"Oh wow..." Bob murmured appreciatively, as Zina galloped away.

She sprinted down to the first floor of the store, and spotted Gabrielle sitting, with a bag of books, slurping some fine overpriced coffee drink from the espresso bar. She smiled at Zina's rapid approach. "Hi, I just got done, and you know, these flappacinos aren't half bad..."

Zina snatched the large bag of books, grabbed Gabrielle's hand, and pulled her toward the door.

"Baby, I know you hate shopping, but don't you think this is kinda extreme?"

"Not now, Gabrielle, I tell you once we get to the car."

"Zina, what's that wet stain on your leg?"

8. Chuck Connors, Here We Come

The highway was endless. The driver was edgy.

"Zina, relax. We only got two more exits to go."

The firefighter sighed heavily. They were already doing 70, but it felt like 40. With the tiniest contraction of her foot, the speedometer approached 75. It made her feel better. Until she looked in the rear-view mirror, and saw the flashing red lights. "Shit!" she yelled.

Gabrielle looked up from her copy of The Dharma Bums. "Huh?" She turned around. "Uh-oh. Well what do you expect, Zina? You're speeding."

"Goddamnit, if they find out I have a record, I'll get hassled to no end..."

"Don't worry, honey, they won't," Gabrielle assured her as they pulled over.

Zina pounded her head against the steering wheel. "How do you know?" she wailed uncharacteristically, as the large patrolman lumbered toward the Impala. I swore I would never go back to jail….This would be just like one of those old Chuck Connors movies, Escape from Macon County or whatever. They'll lock her up on trumped-up charges, she'll get raped by the inbred deputy, Gabrielle will get sent to the mental institution and they’ll give her a lobotomy and/or electro-shock therapy, and…and…they’ll trash the Impala!

The state trooper's pink face was framed in the driver's side window. "Y'all speeding," he mumbled, eyes unseen behind the mirrored sunglasses.

Zina's own sunglasses mirrored his own mirrored visage. Her jaw clenched.

"Can ah see your license?"

She dug through her Levi's and produced her license.

"Huh," he snorted softly.

Gabrielle scooted closer to her lover. A little too close, Zina thought. Oh shit...what is she up to?

"Where you going in such a hurry, ma'am?" the officer asked.

"Just visiting friends," muttered Zina.

"And whut friends would those be, ma'am?"

"Is there a problem, officer?" Gabrielle drawled. She leaned forward a little, so that he could hear her clearly and see her cleavage. She wiggled provocatively.

"Not yet, miss." Hey, how come I get called ma'am and she gets called miss? wondered the perpetually pissed-off firefighter. "I'm just tryin’ to ascertain here, what the situation is," he said in ominous doublespeak.

"Aw, officer, we ain't doing nothing wrong, we didn't mean to speed," Gabrielle pouted. Oh, I get it. She’s just flirting with him, so he’ll go easy on us. Lessen the fine. "We can't help it. We're just excited."

"Excited by what, may I ask?"

Suddenly Gabrielle flung her arms around Zina's neck, and pressed her curvaceous form close to her beloved. "Why officer, me and sweet pea are gettin' married in Memphis!"

The closeness of her sunglasses prevented Zina's eyes from totally bugging out of her head. Okay, now I have no idea what she’s doing. Chuck Connors, here we come.

The patrolman sputtered. "Whut in Sam Hill you talkin' about? You're both girls! You—you—can’t get married!"

Gabrielle gave her best wide-eyed innocent look. "But officer, didn't you know? Tennessee now allows same-sex marriages!" she nuzzled Zina's hair. "Isn't that right, sugar booger?"

"Uh...huh," Zina mumbled the reply, wondering if there was some quick way she could simply kill the patrolman and be done with it.

"Aw, come on now, lady!"

"No, it’s true! Don’t you read your newspaper?" Gabrielle chastised.

He frowned. No, just the sports page, he admitted.

"See?"

"I'll be damned! This whole country's goin' to hell in a handbasket, I swear!" the trooper spat.

I know...whip off his glasses and stab him in the neck, just like the one guy did to the other in the Godfather Part III. Zina allowed her hand to stray out the window…

"Now, sir, that's no way to speak to a lady on her weddin' day!" Gabrielle pouted anew.

The power of the pout was one of the poet's greatest weapons. Duly chastised, the trooper apologized. "Look miss, no offense, but...I just don't get it."

"Don't get what?" Gabrielle asked.

He threw his arms up in frustration. "Y'all are both girls!"

Finally, Zina spoke. "Look, buddy," she said to him, arms around the flawless midriff of Gabrielle, "let me put it this way. If you were me, wouldn't you want to marry her too?"

"I...I..." he stammered, hypnotized by the green eyes of the beautiful poet. "Never mind. Just fergit it. Just fergit the whole damn thing. Have a nice honeymoon."

"Thanks, officer!" Gabrielle chirped happily. She lurched into the back seat, and brought forth a bag of Krispy Kremes. "Wanna doughnut?"

Well, he thought, warily accepting a powdered jelly doughnut, maybe homos aren’t so bad after all.

9. The Twinkie Defense

Several hours later, the Impala was creeping along a dirt road in scenic, rural Tennessee, in search of the elusive recording studio where Effie and the Amazons were holed up, recording their second CD.

The radio had been abandoned. Zina was so desperate for half-decent music that she permitted Gabrielle to sing every song she knew from Meatloaf’s "Bat Out of Hell" album. The musically challenged poet was currently winding her way through "Paradise By the Dashboard Light": "I gotta know right now, do you love me, will you love me forever—hey, Zina, doesn’t that guy up there look like Elvis?" Off in the distance was a figure standing on the left side of the road.

"Told you not to eat all those doughnuts, Gabrielle."

"No, look!"

Sure enough, standing innocently at the side of the isolated, back-country road, as if he were nothing more exotic than a sparrow, was an Elvis. He resembled 1970s Elvis: chubby, with the spingle-spangle-shiny white suit, lots of jewelry, an unnaturally jet-black pompadour, and big fat shades.

The Impala rolled to a halt beside him.

"Howyoudoin’, ladies," he murmured, index finger and thumb cocked, like a gun.

"Fine, Elvis, how are you?" Gabrielle responded politely.

Zina gave her a Look. Then she addressed Elvis. "Hey, uh, you wouldn’t happen to know where Jimmy Joe Bob Hightower’s studio is?" Jimmy Joe Bob was the Amazons’ producer.

"Youbetcha, ladies. Down this here road just another mile. First turn on the right. Can’t miss it."

"Thanks," Zina said with a nod.

"No, thankyou. Thankyouverymuch." With one fluid motion he flung the white scarf around his neck through the car window, where it landed on Zina’s lap. The firefighter bit the inside of her cheek in an effort not to scream in pure disgust. She let it slide off her legs, onto the floor.

"Bye, Elvis!" Gabrielle waved.

Zina put the car back into drive and they continued down the road. They were quiet for at least a minute.

"Maybe we’ve both had too much sugar," Zina conceded.

"Yeah. Maybe we should lay off the sweet stuff for awhile and just eat potato chips."

***

The sight of Effie waving frantically from the balcony of the large wood house almost sent both women into tears of relief. Zina allowed herself to collapse over the wheel—after the car was stopped and parked, of course.

Then the squealing began. Effie had sprinted down the stairs and ran outside to greet Gabrielle, who jumped out of the passenger side. Soon they were jumping up and down like rabbits on crack, shrieking with joy at the sight of one another. Pony and Sally had wandered outside as well, and contributed to the cacophony of camaraderie.

Zina, eyes closed, head pressed against the steering wheel, weary from driving 8 hours straight, moaned. And this is a goddamn vacation? She tried to block out the jabber of voices and relax for a moment.

She had almost succeeded, when a voice a scant three inches from her eardrum shouted: "HEY YOU DAMN OLD GOOFY-ASSED MOTHER!"

Her head snapped back and her eyes popped open.

Hank was leaning in the window, grinning at her. "Heh, got ya," he chuckled. He pulled away just in time to avoid the furious swipe of her hand. "Hey now, Z, take it easy." She was out of the Impala in a nanosecond. "Car looks great. How’d it drive?" he asked, trying to change the subject. But he knew, seeing the wicked grin on her face, that it was too late.

"Start running, you sonofabitch," she growled pleasantly.

And, with a whoop of joy, he did.

10. The Best Freaky Trip Ever

Sally placed a hamburger in front of Zina, who sat at the picnic table in the backyard. The friends were having a barbecue. Pony and Hank were at the grill, and Sally was serving while Effie made potato salad in the kitchen. "So, did ya see my uncle Pete out there?"

"Huh?" Zina was sufficiently distracted by the question that it afforded Gabrielle the opportunity to swipe the burger from under her lover’s nose. "Hey, you pig!"

"Is that any way to talk to the love of your life?" Gabrielle sniffled with mock tears.

"Yeah, when she eats all my food."

Gabrielle grinned. "So what’s this about Uncle Pete?"

"Did you happen to see Elvis on your way here?"

"Holy shit! Yes!" cried Gabrielle.

Sally smiled proudly. "Well, that was my Uncle Pete. Best Elvis impersonator this side a’ this Mississippi. I sent him out earlier to look for you guys, in case you got lost."

"Wow, it’s nice to know I wasn’t hallucinating," Zina said, who had earlier wondered if, due to her mother’s drug proclivities, she was genetically predisposed to spontaneous freaky trips.

"No, you weren’t," Sally laughed. "I just had to keep him occupied. He’s been driving us crazy, keeps doing his lounge act for us every night, wants to marry us all—"

"Marry?" blurted Gabrielle.

"Yeah, he’s a minister too. He wanted to get Hank and Effie hitched, then he even said he marry me and Pony." Sally rolled her eyes.

"Crazy dude," affirmed Zina, with a swig of beer; bored, she wandered over to the grill to hassle Hank and Pony. It was then that Sally noticed that Gabrielle looked as if she had been hit by a lightning bolt.

***

Zina was firmly pinned to the bed by Gabrielle’s weight. Her wrists were ensnared by the poet’s hands and pressed into the mattress. Gold hair tumbled in her face, and Gabrielle’s scent was sweet, intoxicating…

"Come on, Zina," purred the poet.

"Hmmm?"

"Make an honest woman out of me."

"You’re already an honest woman, Gabrielle."

"Don’t avoid the question."

"Who’s avoiding?"

"You are, bitch."

"It don’t prove anything. It’s not legal."

"I know, I know. But it’s symbolic, ya know? Like showing your love…"

"I love you."

"Prove it."

"Why do I have to?" A challenging arch of a black eyebrow. "Don’t ya believe me?"

Gabrielle paused. Well, that’s a good point. She touched her lover’s face. Oh, I do believe you. And I don’t need to hear a Celine Dion song to know it either. She smiled. Then she nodded slowly. She relaxed her predatory crouch and stretched along the length of Zina’s body, resting her head against a strong shoulder. So, it doesn’t really matter. But…what the hell? It might be fun.

***

Hank wrapped an empty can of Bud in one of Elvis’s disposable white scarves, placed it on the ground, and jumped on it. Up and down. Several times. "Mazeltov!" he roared.

Effie laughed. "You’re not Jewish, you!"

Hank smiled. "Come on, honey, you gotta get in the spirit of the thing."

She grabbed his arm and squeezed it. "I think…there’s been way too much spirit—or spirits—already, Hank," she commented wryly, surveying the twilight backyard.

The tape deck blared as Sally and Pony danced around, and Elvis—a.k.a. Uncle Pete—approached the newlyweds: Gabrielle sat in Zina’s lap, while the firefighter’s head lolled back on the lounge chair, as the two six-packs she drank before the ceremony were really kicking in and seriously impairing her ability to move.

"Congratulations," said Uncle Pete. "I’m sure y’all will be very happy."

"Thank you, Elvis," replied Gabrielle solemnly. "It was a beautiful ceremony."

"Yes ma’am, it was. The weather was perfect, and, you know, I don’t perform that special love medley for just any couple."

"Oh, I know, I know. It was just…great. I’m sorry Zina fell down during it."

"That’s all right, little lady. Y’all take care, now." And he went back into the house.

A pithy one-liner fought its way through twelve Rolling Rocks to Zina’s conscious mind. "Ladies and gentleman, Elvis has left the backyard!" she slurred. She peered at Gabrielle. Who had flowers in her hair. "Did I tell you how pretty you are?"

"About a million times. But keep telling me."

"And I said ‘I love you’ and ‘I do’ and all that stuff?"

"Yeah, Zina."

"So I got it all right?"

"You sure did, baby. Now I’d like you to sober up a bit so our wedding night is not a total bust."

"So we’re…married?" Zina gazed at Gabrielle in pure wonder.

"Yeah. Kinda."

"But not…really." Trying to wrap her drunken mind along the elusive concept was too much.

"Right."

"So we’re both married and not married."

"Gotta love this country, huh?"

"Yeah, but…Gabrielle?"

"Huh?"

"It’s not so bad, is it?"

Gabrielle looked around her. Her friends were happy, and their laughter rang out through the yard. The setting sun slanted and tinged the fading blue sky with gold.

Blue skies, blue eyes. "No," she replied softly. "It’s not bad at all."

In fact, it was pretty damn good.

THE END

#xena #xena warrior princess #xena/gabrielle #xena/gabrielle fanfiction #author: vivian darkbloom #mature #femslash #fanfiction

[brothermouzongaming]

Divisiveness in Rage 2

What little promotional material there was for Rage 2 interested me. The idea of a nitro-fueled FPS surrounding an open world and a heavy power fantasy. I wasn’t expecting an enthralling story with deep and rich characters that would stitch me into the fabric of the world created. I was expecting a rip-roaring hail of bullets in the shape of a gun the likes of which I would ride across the map destroying everything that did so much as exhale in my presence. In short, that is what I got but it’s quite mixed. The “boots on the ground” combat, and I use that term lightly, is smooth as hell and lets you the player take on the various mobs and gangs of the wasteland in the way you want. The vehicular combat is more sparse and anecdotal in the sense that they are typically randomly occurring events as opposed to the convoy routes. The world itself is big but not Horizon Zero Dawn or Assassin’s Creed Odyssey “oh my god how did they even fit all this on one disc” big, it’s more than manageable. The biomes are varied and impressive in detail despite some being more vacant than I’d like.  All in all, it’s at the very least better than the bland world of Rage 1, and at best it’s a gorgeous backdrop for the best FPS action since Doom 2016.

Anger Surrounds

There isn’t a lot in the way of introduction and it’s cause the game and it’s creators understand what you’re here for: shooty bang. You literally pick a gender and are handed a gun. After the first big firefight, the world is literally open to you. This exploration is encouraged because you don’t gain abilities or weapons unless you find Arks which are silos scattered around the map. Normally I’d be mad about another icon cluttering the map but it’s at least a way of getting stronger while discovering the hovels and holes your enemies hide in, grabbing some cash and feltrite (upgrade currency) along the way. It’s essentially the best version of the Far Cry towers ever.

The world is very pretty both graphically and from an art direction aspect. Boggy swamps, desert, rocky canyons, and even suburbia is sprinkled into the colorful and sometimes striking scenery of the world around you. Some structures are established like roadblocks, resource stations, or mutant nests, some are just dressing to fill out the world, but the best is the elaborate gang camps that go from close quarters combat to open courtyards that have you working with cover and elevation. Most main and side mission areas appear to be carefully designed to be engaging set pieces that vary from open lots littered with obstacles to break up the battlefield and enhance the functionality of some abilities. If the map itself doesn’t grab you, the way the world is designed to make combat as fun as possible definitely will. 

Walker Wasteland Ranger tonight at 9 

Rage 1 very much gave you the feeling of having your back against the wall. In Rage 2 if you ever find yourself in that situation you push off that wall and crush whatever is in your way into misy and gristle. You are the baddest thing breathing and everything in this game is about making you feel that. I can’t tell if the progression is deep or cleverly padded and that might be fine by me, I haven’t decided yet. When you first see how many currencies there are in the game it makes anyone that knows what AAA games have been doing lately sweat profusely. Fortunately, Rage 2 gives you plenty of opportunities to load up on the kind of cash you spend in stores, the kind on upgrades, weapon skins and mods, it's all here for you to take when you want it you just have to kill a bunch of baddies to get it. Thankfully there isn’t a single gun that doesn’t feel incredible and unique. From the way the rifle spits a volley or the kick from the shotgun; all of them are a dream and when used in tandem with the abilities it makes for very enticing gameplay. The abilities span all aspects of combat and their refresh time doesn’t allow them to be spammed but lets a player that bounces from skill to skill always have one refresh by the time the effect of the current one wears off. They really found a way for the guns to play into abilities and vice-versa which only makes spicing up combat easier. In Destiny when you throw a grenade, that’s it. Did you use your melee? Oh that’s cool but, that’s also it. In Rage 2 I can mix up abilities to create different means of destruction and death in a much more satisfying way. Even the more nuanced abilities like the Rush and Focus are used to bolster the minimal downtime firefights give you. 

From McQueen to Mater

The sixteen vehicles are divisive stars of Rage 2 and it really shows, alongside the facelifted combat, that Id and Avalanche tried to not lose sight of what the original game was focussed around. This rendition’s vehicular combat is much better with weighty pit maneuvers and pretty smart auto tracking from turrets. Alongside this, the vehicles simply must be redone Mad Max vehicles Avalanche never got to use or something cause they just work in a way Bethesda hasn’t been able to claim in a long time. The Phoenix, your signature ride, is the best of both worlds with it being quick and tanky with a litany of additions you can make to it. You’ll see vehicles that have no weapons (why would you even), some speedsters that drop nuke mines behind them, a tank that is slower than frozen shit but also practically indestructible and armed to the teeth. There is fast travel but there is also the Icarus which is a hoverbike and though it can handle like a shopping cart with one wing (more on that later). When it does work its nice to get to where you’re going quicker meanwhile not missing out on any points of interest along the way to where you’re going. Vehicular combat is serviceable and engaging once you get the controls under your fingers.

rAGED

I don’t have too many issues with this game, some are typical nitpicks but others are definitely more egregious. The world though colorful and varied is very “basic open world game” format, I was kind of hoping for some kind of expansion on a version of game we are wildly overly saturated with. The mini games like MobTV and races (which make a comeback from the original) are great but the typical icon littered map is a little draining at times. Which brings me to the endgame because with consideration of just how last gen this game seems to be design wise, I fear they didn’t think about something as “modern” as having an endgame model outside of the season pass and totally unnecessary “live service” content drops. I feel like they missed their own mark and could’ve really populated the world with quite a few more enemies but instead, there are a lot of times where it’s actually quite isolated even in some intriguing areas.

Oh, and every situation that yields dialogue in the open world is wildly repetitive like the writers could not be fucked to give the character anything more than the one decent line you get to hear when approaching a mutant nest, gas station, or bandit hideout or the mobile trader oh my god it’s absolutely torturous especially when you don’t feel like returning to a town and they typically come around fairly consistently.  

Back to the Icarus flying bike thing. Mother Fuck that thing can be absolutely unbearable. You see the right trigger merely starts the engines with minor altitude control, the left trigger lowers yourself. The vehicle is supposed to identify altitude and the height of oncoming structures and mountain faces on its own and adjust automatically. But it doesn’t and you’re often sitting there like a fucking idiot ramming into every mountain and building you come across. Why didn’t they map an ascend and descend control to the face buttons? How did no one catch how lopsided that thing controls?

Let’s continue to discuss vehicles, shall we? I talked about the good of the actual combat and the weapons it comes with. What I didn’t talk about was how the controls for said vehicles go from tight and responsive to sludgey and “too fast for the game”. It’s like the vehicle is going too fast for your controller. So many times I’ve gone sailing over the cliffside curve or undercutting and completely killing my momentum. The margin for error is really thin. 

The progression system for weapons is...suspect. On the surface, it’s deep, you unlock tiers of upgrades with feltrite and then use upgrade/mod tokens to select the actual mod itself. It seems really unnecessary to have to purchase the ability to spend your tokens to upgrade your weapon. Just typing that made my brain fuzzy, it’s too many steps. At least with the skills each tier in itself comes with a boost to that specific skill but with weapons, you’re literally just adding steps for now real reason. Thankfully there’s no connection to monetization or anything like that. What it does have though is a premium currency for weapon skins which....whoopie...but thankfully that really is the extent of it. Not that it’s okay at all. 

Conclusion

People are gonna compare this game to Far Cry New Dawn and I don’t believe many should give too much thought to that comparison. Outside of the bright post-apocalyptic setting (an aesthetic Rage 2 established first for the record), I feel like Rage 2 is more consistent in what it sets out to deliver. Not to mention the combat is just head and shoulders better in Rage 2 and if you go in knowing you won’t leave with a story that changed your life or even really impact you at all but instead expect a white knuckle shooter designed to keep you on your toes and keep the kill count increasing. This game is fun and once this goes on sale there will literally be no excuse. 

tl;dr I give Rage 2 an 7 but I can’t stress this enough this is one of the best First Person Shooters I’ve ever played from a mechanics standpoint. The game appears to be this good despite the rest of the game design and execution. 

#Rage 2 #bethesda game studios #id software #avalanche studios #video games #gaming

[sistercelluloid]

This his has nothing to do with classic film, but I feel like you’re family, so I hope you’ll bear with me in remembering my sweet, beloved Linus, who we lost last week. He lived to be sixteen years and eight months old, but his life seemed to go by in the blink of an eye.

We adopted him when he was just shy of three; he had been so horribly abused that a neighbor called the woman who ran the local no-kill shelter and begged her to somehow get the people who had him—I refuse to call them his family—to surrender him. In his early days with us, his trauma surfaced in heartbreaking ways, as when my husband Tim pulled on a pair of heavy boots to go out and shovel snow—and Linus wailed and shook violently, ran to a corner, and tried to dig his way into the wall.

When we first met him at the shelter, he was clearly anxious to be let out of the kennels. Far and away the smallest dog there, he broke free of his handler, snuggled into a spot on the sofa between us, sighed, and settled in. He was home already. While we waited to sign the final adoption papers—we’d already been through an application process the FBI would gaze upon in awe—I ran through a bunch of names in my mind. “What about Linus?” I asked Tim, thinking of the Peanuts character. “He’s looks so sweet and thoughtful, like he’s got a lot on his mind.” And when we got him home, the first thing he did was burrow deep into his carrier and pull out something that had been scrunched up in the back: his blanket.

He sniffed his way around his new home, and just to make sure we knew it was his, he peed on every rug. Then he curled up on the sofa with his brand-new stuffed bear, chewed the nose off and gleefully pulled out the stuffing.

The bear would be first of a long string of victims which ran the gamut from stuffed toys to silk eye masks.

Linus 1, Mister Fluffy Bunny 0.

And oh, yes, that poor Santa hat—his revenge for the 15 seconds he had to wear this silly outfit for a Christmas card photo.

He literally loved his soccer ball to bits, and no shiny new replacement—even if it was exactly the same thing—ever made him as happy. So I’d just grab his old one, gather up the trail of stuffing strewn across the living room floor, and sew it all back together again.

Only the Grinch was spared from being torn apart, and they became such fast friends that I took to leaving him out all year.

When we first brought Linus home, we weren’t sure how long his walks should be. No one had ever bothered to take him for a real walk before—at the shelter they’d heard he’d been let out in the yard maybe once or twice a day. And being a dachshund, he took a whole bunch of steps for every one of ours. So we decided to just walk him until he got tired.

He never got tired.

After three or four miles, I’d be splayed face-down on the sofa, and he’d be like, “So, where are we goin’ now, Ma?”

Sometimes before we even got to the street, he’d meet Patty or Helen or Michelle from our apartment building, who all adored him. And oh was it mutual. He’d squeal and yip, waggle his butt, and run up and smoosh against them, just unable to contain himself. And he’d bark at their husbands.

Down the street we sometimes ran into Jeff and John, who’d swoop off their stoop the minute they saw Linus. They even bought dog biscuits to keep on hand for him. One night when we passed Jeff, we didn’t stop because he was on the phone. But he let out a whoop and waved us over. He proceeded to tell the guy on the other end Linus’s entire life story—and then ignored him completely talk to Linus, asking over and over, “Who’s a good boy?”

We’d often stop at the coffee shop on our walks, where he’d make new friends. In the summer, I’d often hear a sudden “Ooh!” only to turn and discover Linus had rubbed his cold nose against someone’s bare calf.  And then there was the firefighter with arms roughly the size of Bluto’s, who cooed baby-talk to him and treated me to a cappucino because he loved him so madly.

It took my breath away how open-hearted Linus was, after all the horrors he’d been through. People hold grudges for years, sometimes forever, over the tiniest slight. But once Linus was safe and happy and loved, he was willing—happy, even—to give the whole human race a second chance. He was such an old soul, such a sweet spirit.

For all his years in our family, Linus went with us just about everywhere. He especially loved the “come-withs” at our upstate house on weekends. And because he was crazy-smart, he picked up on clues instantly. When he saw Tim make any move toward the Linus bag—the little canvas pouch with his portable water dish and snacks—he’d go crazy. He also went nuts when I took my bra out of the drawer, because it meant I was going somewhere so probably he was too. It got to the point where if we were heading out without him on the weekend, I had to sneak my bra out when he wasn’t looking.

We took him on our vacations…

…on camping trips…

…on family visits to the lake…

…on day hikes (where once he was super-excited to meet a countryman)…

…to every park we could find (whether he was allowed there or not)…

…to street fairs and festivals…

…to drive-ins…

…and to restaurants, where, on the rare occasion we dined outside without him, we’d get grilled about it by the waiters. (“We were just out shopping and we didn’t know we’d be stopping to eat!” we’d plead, heads down, like guilty criminals.) At one place where we dined often, the manager would greet him with a full plate of bacon. One day, a woman at a nearby table complained, “You served that dog before you waited on me!” and he replied dryly, “He’s a regular.” To know Linus was to love him to the point of obliviousness to all else.

And, um, yes, he had a little portable bed, to protect him from the hard ground. (Though sometimes after we finished our meals, he’d venture off just far enough to sneak a peek at what the people at the next table were having.)

He also had a bed to cushion his naps in the backyard. Okay fine, two beds.

Mostly, though, he roughed it.

Oh and he had a bed in the car, though sometimes it was more of a pillow.

Though having fluffy beds pretty much everywhere, including three in the house, didn’t stop him from checking out other options.

Linus was so sweet and supremely silly…

Once, in a rare attempt at hunting, he somehow wound up in a stack of planters, while the chipmunk had long since scampered down the driveway.

When it was too chilly for the yard but just warm enough to get near it, he loved to watch the world from the screenporch.

Being so close to the ground, Linus was not a huge fan of the cold and wet. (When we got a couple of inches of snow, I’d croon, “It’s up to your knees out there…”) He’d take a few steps and then lift a chilly front paw as if to say, “Taxi!” And I’d pick him up and carry him out to the plowed road for a quick walk. Then he’d come in for a vigorous pat-down with his super-absorbent doggie towel, play-fight with it after he was dry and happy, and burrow under his blankets again.

Always a sun puppy, in bleakest February he’d follow the scant rays around the house. (I call this The Linus in Winter.)

On sleepy weekend mornings, Linus had a little ritual he loved. I’d give him breakfast and take him out for a walk—and then he’d all but march me back to bed. (Tim was usually still there.) He’d head toward the bedroom, stop and turn around to make sure I was following him, and harrumph at me if I wasn’t moving fast enough. Then he’d stand by the bed and wait to be lifted up, barking at me to follow him under the covers so the three of us could snuggle.

He also made a huge fuss whenever Tim came home. You’ve seen the heartwarming videos of dogs whooping and jumping and hurling themselves wildly at returning soldiers, who’ve been away for years? That was Linus when Tim came back from the deli.

He loved belly rubs…

…and deep, long snoozes, and honest to God you’d sell your soul to sleep like that for five minutes.

And if he snoozed on something I needed, I’d just wait until he woke up.

He was also great at self-snuggling, where one minute he was lying flat on his blanket and the next he was a dachshund burrito.

Linus never met a snack he didn’t like (that’s a telltale yogurt ring on his face)…

…and his devotion to whatever you had on your plate bordered on the monastic.

A couple of weeks after we brought him home, we went out to a family dinner and brought home a big, fat, juicy steak bone. When we gave it to Linus, he didn’t seem to know what to do with it at first—because apparently in his almost three years of doggie life, no one had ever given him a bone. But he quickly caught on, and wouldn’t let go. We somehow managed to pry it away from him for his nightly walk, but upon returning, he raced down the hall, frantic to reclaim his prize. After that, he got lots of bones.

When my Mom visited, she actually teased us about spoiling him. Imagine. And then there was this.

But how else would I treat my best editor? When I was stuck for a word, I could always turn to him for support. Or, more often, just chuck what I was working on and curl up with him.

He’d also sense our miseries and truly sympathize. Whenever I cried, whether from something real or even an old movie, I’d soon find him clinging close to me.

Every autumn, on the Feast of St. Francis, we took Linus to be blessed, which I think may have helped him through the health crises in his life.

In the summer of 2007, a few weeks after my company closed its doors, I was spending some time with Linus upstate. One day, rather than racing around the yard, he seemed sluggish, mostly sitting in one spot under a tree. I chalked it up to the weather, which had grown more sultry as the afternoon wore on, and thought it best to bring him inside. But when I picked him up, he howled in pain. Trying (and failing) not to panic, I softly cradled him into his bed and called the vet, but they’d already closed. So I called a cab to get to the emergency vet in the next town.

An hour passed. No cab. By now the sky was black, and it was pouring. I called again (I vaguely remember screaming). A half-hour later, the cabbie drove right past me as I stood on the screenporch frantically waving my arms. I ran outside, caught up with him and jumped right in front of the car.

By the time Linus made it to the vet, his back legs were paralyzed. He had ruptured a disc and needed emergency surgery, but whether he’d ever walk again was highly uncertain. They brought him into the back, gave him steroids, pain medication and sedatives to stabilize him overnight, and told me to get him to Cornell veterinary hospital first thing in the morning. I called Tim from the front desk, sobbing so hard he could barely understand what I was saying.

As I waited for him to drive up from the city, I sat outside crying on a bench under an awning, as the rain pounded against it. A woman who’d seen me inside came out, sat beside me, and pulled my head onto her shoulder. “He’ll be alright,” she said over and over, like a lullaby, or maybe a prayer. I’ll never forget her. (And she was right.)

During the drive up to Cornell, I sat in back with Linus. Bundled in blankets, he clung to my lap, drifting in and out of a fearful, fitful sleep, trembling the whole time. When we arrived, they whisked him into surgery within an hour, removed the ruptured disc and fused the ones on either side. They were going to keep him for another three days, but he was so scared and miserable in his cage—he hadn’t spent a night without us since we first brought him home—that they let him leave a day early, giving us strict instructions on how to get him back on his feet.

Naturally, at first, he was wobbly as a newborn foal. I’d hold him as he took a few halting steps and then lose his footing and stumble to the ground. I started to look into scooters, in case he needed one. But then suddenly, less than a week after surgery, he went from staggering to running, in a single motion. So there we were in the yard, him scampering around like he’d never left, like it was just another Tuesday, and me crying my head off. I started to call Tim, but then I put the phone down. I wanted Linus to surprise him when he came home.

The only lingering result of his trauma was that occasionally when he sat down, he would swing one leg out to the side, like Rita Hayworth in her pinup shots.

I told Tim if anything ever happened to me, he should take me to Cornell and tell them I’m a German Shepherd.

A few years later, a routine vet visit turned up some disturbing lab results. So we went back to Cornell, where a battery of tests revealed a dangerous tumor. He needed surgery right away, and the only available slot was the day before Thanksgiving. For the second time, everything went perfectly, and in their post-op report, the clearly perceptive vets actually wrote, “Linus is a very good dog.” Tim and I had our holiday dinner at the only place we could find open, a bar in downtown Ithaca. I ordered a cocktail, only to have the waiter snap, “Today we have beer and wine and that’s it.” Yipes. But since he was stuck working, I could hardly blame him for sounding like Sheldon Leonard in It’s a Wonderful Life. (“We serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast, and we don’t need any characters around to give the joint atmosphere!”)

And once again Linus, desperate to go home, was released early, enjoying some post-holiday deli turkey on the trip back.

But the following year, Linus was diagnosed with Cushing’s disease, which is something of a plague for dachshunds. Every story I dug up was more horrible than the one before, and the typical prognosis was two years. Linus was blessed with another four, and until he was near the end, fate was somewhat benevolent to him. But in the last few months, one by one, a series of cruel symptoms came crashing down on him. Cushing’s attacked his retinas, dementia darkened his wonderful mind, and sometimes he struggled to stand. Before, the vets always had an answer. Now they had none.

Often I’d pick him up, wrap my arms close around him, and try to will time and trauma away. Do your worst to me, I’d plead, but leave his little fourteen-pound body alone.

It’s one of the cruelest twists of nature that they get so much less time on this earth than we do. I would have happily shared my years with him if I could have.

The night before Linus died, Tim and I slept on either side of him, guardians at the gate with nothing left in our desperately depleted arsenal but how much we loved him. At first, he shared my pillow, his nose pressed against my neck. But then he shifted, resting his head on my hand and curling his body into the crook of my arm. Then he sighed and settled down, just as he did those first few moments we welcomed him into our family.

Despite his age and his illness, losing Linus was an awful, sudden shock. Losing someone you love so much always is; there’s no “preparing” for it. It’s not just a turn of phrase to say I don’t know what to do without him. I really don’t. I can’t put his beds and blankets and bowls away, but I can’t bear to look at them either. I can barely breathe.

I know he lived a long, happy life, and he was loved like crazy, and we’ll always have our memories of him. But none of that helps right now. I’ve collapsed in tears in the diner, in the supermarket, on the street, everywhere. And it’s worse at home. I wake up crying and go to sleep the same way. I miss everything about him, even the smallest things, like the sound of him lapping at his water bowl and his paws click-clacking on the floor. As little as he was, he filled the house. And he filled my heart. Losing him has thrown open the gates to a very dark place I can’t find my way out of without him.

Goodnight and sleep safe, my sweet, silly, beautiful, beloved pup. You were such an indescribable blessing, beyond any words I can find. I have no idea if there’s a God, but there better be a Heaven for you. May the angels hold you as close as we did for all those wonderful years.

Remembering Linus, Our Sweet, Beloved Pup This his has nothing to do with classic film, but I feel like you're family, so I hope you’ll bear with me in remembering my sweet, beloved Linus, who we lost last week.

#Cornell University Hospital for Animals #dachshunds #grief #linus #pets

[bikerlovertexas]

#ERIE COUNTY EMERGENCY SERVICES #ERIE COUNTY FIRE SAFETY #ERIE COUNTY EMERGENCY SERVICES TRAINING AND OPERATIONS CENTER #FIREFIGHTER #FIRE ACADEMY #FIREFIGHTER 1 #FIREFIGHTER 1 BOOT CAMP #TRAINING #TRAINING ACADEMY #TRAINING TOWER

[blk-chauvinist]

The Feminist lie of “Patriarchal Oppression..”

1. Men have and will continue to have to die for their country. For women, this is optional; the same with work. 2. Women can berate men while at the same time be protected by male policemen, firefighters, friends and co-workers who will walk them to their car at night or respond when they feel endangered. 3. Although women are college-educated, and often have professional backgrounds regarding the workplace, they can fall back on sex-appeal, tears, accusations of some kind of manufactured “gender-based ‘bias’” to get what they want in the workplace. 4. Women can marry and rely on a man to sustain her without any social stigma. 5. Women can sell sex, or exploit their sexuality for financial gain. 6. Women live 10-15% longer than men 7. Women can commit crimes, receive lighter sentences, and rely on defenses such as Battered-Wife Syndrome. 8. Women benefit more from Affirmative-Action programs, and can get accepted into college, graduate school, medical school and law school with lower grades and test scores. 9.Women can join the military and enroll at military academies, and be held to lower physical standards/requirements for their boot camp 10. Women not only have the power of life and death over the unborn, but are generally-awarded primary custodial rights in cases of marital/relationship disputes. 

#The Patriarchy Lie #Anti-Feminism #Feminine Narcissism #Men Deserve To Be Happy Too