#and threatening to end his entire life if he even stepped foot into hunter's field of view ever again

[saxxxology]

THE CURSED - Ch.1

Being an English Princess in 1739 is everything for Y/N, a Princess from a prosperous, powerful kingdom, to be happy about… until her parents arrange for her to marry a Prince from a nearby kingdom against her wishes. Unable to join her on her journey, the Royal family hires the Winchesters, two experienced Rangers, to guide her. However, the Princess and the younger brother begin to display affection for each other, and when her heat threatens her life, Sam makes a possibly deadly decision to save it.

PAIRING: Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

WORD COUNT: ~2000

OVERALL WARNINGS: a/b/o dynamics (heat/rut, claiming, knotting), age gap, smut of varying levels, descriptions of injury and gore, a tad of dub-con and 18th-century sexism from time to time, occasional bits of angst, fighting, and violence, eventual minor character death

NOTE: Edited by @crispychrissy and @quiddy-writes - please heed all warnings! Please keep in mind that this series is set in the 18th century - society is not what it is today. I do not control where your eyes go; if you feel disturbed or think something may trigger you, it is your responsibility to either stop reading or scroll past.

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The Winchesters were known for their knowledge of the land. Expert trackers and hunters both, they could tell at a single glance which plants grew where and which ones could be eaten and whether it would rain, snow, or shine.

They were also known for their size: the older brother, Dean, stood just over six feet tall. Around his neck, he carried a portrait of his Omega, Joanna Beth, in a locket around his neck, and he dressed in the linen garments of a traveler, with a heavy leather jacket to keep out the cold, and a long, silver sword with a pearly white handle.

The younger of the two, Samuel, stood well over his elder brother, six-foot-five at least. He wore a long, heavy fur coat in the fall, winter, and spring that only added to his size, and as to the source of the garment, he was highly secretive. Nobody knew if he’d ever had an Omega, but nearing twenty-eight, he should have taken one years earlier.

Their horses were equal to their masters: Dean kept a tall, powerful black mare named Pala. She had a fire in her dark eyes and was often rambunctious and eager to move as fast as her long legs could carry her. Sam’s own horse, Shadow, was a large gray Clydesdale that could make the ground quake under her hooves at a full gallop.

Either way, next to the average person, both of them were giants and that rendered them intimidating even to the most well-trained soldier. Their sheer size combined with Alpha genetics made them a formidable duo that no roadside bandit would dare to attack or steal from—those who had tried had ended up dead.

A Lord and Lady from a kingdom in Western England had enlisted their aid to help their young daughter travel to the kingdom where she was to be married. They were warned, however, that the girl in question was an Omega, and that as Alphas, their charge was to get safely from the castle she’d lived in since birth to the place she would wed a Beta husband. They were offered generous compensation for their efforts, and with both of them sharing limited compensation for other, much smaller tasks, they couldn’t refuse.

The young Omega, Y/N, would be traveling disguised as a young chambermaid, and that is how Sam first saw her; in the white, linen shirt, dark blue skirt, and brown bodice instead of the royal dress they were both sure she would be wearing otherwise.

“Well, she’s much smaller than most,” Dean commented, taking a swig from his silver hip flask. “Your bow is taller than she is, Sam.”

Sam watched as the royals suspiciously eyed the weapon in his hands and slung it over the saddle of his mare. “Indeed. But be polite with them, brother. They’re paying us well.”

Upon meeting Y/N, they both kissed her hand and escorted her away from her tearful family towards the horses and slung her pack over Shadow’s saddle. Sam couldn’t help but notice that being separated from her family seemed to make her happy.

A few minutes later, they set off down the road and headed onto the main path out of town, Y/N perched on the Clydesdale at the insistence of the younger Ranger. They waited until they were safely alone on the forest trail before Sam began conversation.

“Are you prepared?” He asked. “It’ll be at least a week and a half, maybe two until we reach the other castle.”

Y/N grimaced. “The longer the journey, the better.”

Sam glanced up at her. “You don’t want to marry?”

“Not in the slightest,” she replied. “They’re only marrying me off to stop a feud that’s been an occurrence since I was a child. I’ve never even met him.”

“Have you seen a portrait?” Dean inquired.

Y/N shook her head. “Never, but from what I hear, he indulges in wine, toasted bread with cheese, and attends feasts and parties as frequently as he can…”

Sam made a sound of disgust. “Why are you betrothed to him, then? Why not someone better?”

“Because,” Y/N grimaced again, “he’s what they call a prince.”

“And what do you call him?”

She smiled. “I call him a hedonist.”

***

That night, they camped in a deserted cabin well away from the road. Once the horses were tied outside, they broke out rations (bread with dried deer meat and flasks of wine) and set up a fire in the hearth. The heat of the blaze filled the room, and they quickly laid out their bedrolls in front of the fire as it died down to embers.

“Tell me, Princess,” Dean commented, “have you ever slept out of a feather bed?”

Y/N soon grasped that he was mocking her royal upbringing and frowned. “I have not, but I am capable of learning to.”

Sam chuckled at her formal response—anybody else might have given Dean a smack on the cheek. “And of walking so far? What do you think of that?”

She looked at him, and he met her gaze for a split second. There was something in her eyes, a light he hadn’t seen since…

No, he told himself, don’t think about her, for God’s sake.

“It’s only walking,” she said, staring intently into his eyes, “putting one foot in front of the other until you’re too tired to go further. My feet might be sore tonight, but tomorrow they’ll feel better, and we will continue.”

Sam tore his gaze away and stared into the orange embers as they flickered and popped sparks onto the stone floor. He felt Y/N’s eyes on him and debated scolding her about staring, but he couldn’t anger her. He must have had several years on her in age, but she was still rather young, barely past adulthood. And she was nobility, whereas he and his brother were just roaming travelers with histories they would rather not share.

***

Two days later, they were all on very good terms, talking, joking, and laughing. Around midday, they passed a grove of cherry trees and spent a good hour harvesting the sweet fruit. A while later, they were able to sneak into a field of cows and fill their glass bottles with thick, rich milk. The sun beat down overhead, so they set up their camp early in a secluded area next to a creek and allowed Pala to wander in the shallow water. Dean set the bottles of milk in a circle of rocks and allowed the chilly water to wash over them.

That night, they enjoyed a bigger meal; two slabs of cured pork they’d purchased from a small market early that morning, fresh bread, cherries, and cool, sweet milk. Dean spewed even more bawdy jokes, and Sam spread his fur cape over the ground, allowing him and Y/N to sit comfortably on the cold forest floor. Somehow, she ended up leaning against him, laughing as Dean told her the answer to a joke that might have gotten him hung if he’d been in a royal court.

Her hand brushed against Sam’s, and he felt a jolt run through him, something he’d only felt once before.

No, not a chance in Hell. She couldn’t be…

“Sam,” Dean had seen him flinch and looked over to see if an ember had jumped from the fire and landed on him, “everything all right?”

Sam nodded and rolled his shoulders. “Everything’s fine.”

Y/N had jumped at the sensation as well, and she was now clutching at the hem of her skirt, eyes squeezed shut. Out of pure instinct, Sam went to touch her again, but withdrew his hand when she opened her eyes and took a deep breath.

He smelled it on the next breeze that filtered through the trees. The sweet, apple-blossom scent of her. Dean obviously smelled it too, but it didn’t affect him as it affected his younger brother.

“If I may,” Sam cleared his throat. “Y/N—Princess… When are you due for your next…”

She swallowed and blushed furiously in the firelight. “I… I’m not entirely sure, I only just presented last year and they’re not completely regular yet, but I’d say any day? I’m taking herbs to suppress it, but I’ve never been allowed around Alphas…”

Sam grunted quietly and looked at the flickering flames. “You’ll be safe. We just need to be careful.”

“Careful?” Y/N looked between them.

“Alphas,” Dean supplied. “If they smell you, they’ll want to claim you. And they won’t listen to morals, if they have any.”

Y/N shivered with fear and looked at Sam. “But I’ll be safe, right?”

“Yes,” Sam glanced back at her. “I’ll keep you safe. That’s my job.”

“Our job,” Dean corrected him. “It’s our job to keep you safe.”

Sam nodded at the correction and stood. “I’m going to sleep. You should both do the same.”

Dean poured water on the flames, allowing only embers to light their campsite. They washed their faces, hands, and slid under their blankets, heads on their traveling packs.

Sam waited patiently until Y/N and his brother were fast asleep and then stepped away through the trees, making sure he was hidden by one of the taller pines before he rubbed his hand over the bulge in his trousers. He was hard as he’d ever been and hadn’t pleasured himself since the night before they’d reached her castle. The feeling and scent of Y/N had completely aroused him, and he licked his lips, imagining that she was lying in his bed, naked, legs parted to expose her wet, warm sex. If she was a pure Omega, she’d be bare, and he’d sink into her with nothing but her soft cunt lips caressing the hardened flesh of his manhood.

Tugging himself from his trousers, he began stroking his hand slowly back and forth, bracing himself against the tree as he closed his eyes. In his mind, Y/N was under him, hips arched up to meet his, legs spread wide for him as he entered her, the feeling of her around him warm and smooth and wet. She was small enough to be perfectly tight, he knew it, and he held back a needy groan as he felt drops of his own arousal slick his fingers.

“Y/N,” he allowed himself to mutter her name, quietly. He could almost feel her around him, hear her whimpers of pleasure and pain. To him, the sound of their sex was loud and brutal, almost borderline torture, but their bond prevented it from being anywhere close to that.

He let out a breathy swear as he felt himself begin to peak. Growling with pleasure, he dug his fingers against the rough bark of the tree as, in his mind, he pounded her into oblivion, pressing into her wet heat and spilling himself deep inside.

With a low growl, he gave himself two more long, desperate strokes and came hard. He was so receptive to her presence that his knot swelled in his hand, and hot, thick ropes of his seed landed on the dirt at his feet. He gave a shuddering breath and tipped his head back as his climax washed over him, legs trembling with the force of it.

Finally, when he was able to think clearly, he waited for his knot to recede and quickly tucked himself back in his pants. Retracing his steps to the campsite, he cleaned his hands using a cup of water from their washing bucket and slipped back into his makeshift bed.

Y/N was fast asleep, her blankets tucked down around her waist as the warm summer breeze washed over them. He watched the way her eyelids twitched in her sleep and the rise and fall of her chest under her dress, and he smiled to himself as her scent wafted towards him.

“Sleep tight, Princess,” he murmured, before sinking into sleep himself.

If you want to see chapter 2, reblog and leave a comment! Feedback is my fuel!

TAGS FOR THIS SERIES ARE CLOSED

Forever tags: @atc74 @artisticlunarmakeup @becaamm @bamby0304 @crispychrissy @crashdevlin @curly-haired-disaster @cameronbraswell @emoryhemsworth @ellen-reincarnated1967 @kittenofdoomage @kayteonline @kdfrqqg @littlegreenplasticsoldier @leatherwhiskeycoffeeplaid @manawhaat @mereka18 @mrswhozeewhatsis @meganwinchester1999 @oneshoeshort @percussiongirl2017 @serpentbaby @smallgirlbigpersonality @thelittleredwhocould @winchesterprincessbride @winecatsandpizza @85natalie @81mysteriouslyme

#alpha!sam x omega!reader #the cursed series

[dark0angel13]

The Ties That Bind

This is a story I’ve been working on for the better part of four years. I have it posted to my FFN account, but the beginning chapters are trash so I’m rewriting it and posting it to my AO3 account. You can find the original 33 chapters here, but if youd rather wait until I get around to posting updated chapters, you can read the first chapter now here,

Without further adieu...here goes.

I forgot how cruel the world could be. For a split second, the thought of a person taking another life, was foreign to me. What happened to make humanity lose its grip on compassion? What was the trigger for this complete switch to one’s personality? The questions flash through my mind almost too quickly as hot tears stream down my face. My eyes seem glued to my sister as she's carted off to God knows where, and just like that, my heart shatters into pieces.  

A scream rips its way up my throat, and I’m clawing at the arm around my neck, nails digging into flesh in an attempt to free myself. The grip is strong, but no matter how hard I struggle, twist, and fight, escape seems impossible. All I can do is watch in horror as her form grows smaller; the carriage she’s locked in gets further from my reach. Their cries echo around me and my jaw tightens.  

“Struggle all you want little girl, you won’t save them.” The owner of the voice flexes his arm and breathing becomes difficult. “You would be going too, but a child who fights tooth and nail against everyone, will serve no purpose in the Tower of Heaven. You will die here, and while you bleed out you can regret not cooperating when you had the chance. You will never see your sister again.” A gasp escapes me when he relaxes and I’m doing my best to suck air into my lungs. Every nerve ending is alight with white hot pain, and I can feel my head pounding in time with my pulse, but giving up is not an option right now. Not when she needed me.  

“I’ll…kill…all of…y-you…” The threat comes out as a hiss and blackness encroaches on the edges of my vision; my arms feel like lead.  

“Little bitch!” His anger is almost palpable, and seconds later my hearing fails. The world seems to stop, time itself standing still and I feel something hit me, followed by a tugging sensation.  My eyes widen and my body jerks, but there’s no pain. My struggling stops; my arms refuse to work anymore, falling limp at my sides, and I can feel a rush of liquid invade my mouth. My sense of taste is next to fail me, and even though I know blood dribbles from the corner of my lips, I can’t taste it. Nor can my nose pick up on any smell at all, as that sense quickly follows suit. Every sense I have, refuses to work. I can’t help a glance down; knowing full well what I’ll see, but still needing the clarification, and sure enough, the blade is there—protruding just to the right of my belly button—glistening in the moonlight, and tinged crimson.  

Words fail me then, and I can barely manage a gasp of air because each shallow breath I make, seemed an impossible feat. Even the slightest shift in my body is enough to move the blade and though it didn’t hurt, the damage would only increase. Is this it? Am I going to die here? The questions come, but not the answers and when I look up, I meet her beautiful amber eyes now wide with terror. Her face is contorted in shock and I can see her hands trembling around the bars, her knuckles white from tension.  

Sound comes rushing back to me then, filling my ears with a myriad of acoustics that I can only barely comprehend. The iron grip around my neck is suddenly gone and it’s in that moment, when my legs refuse to hold me up anymore and my face is rushing to meet the ground at an alarming speed. My entire balance shifts on its axis and I hit the ground with enough force to bring a scream from my lips, pain exploding in my left temple. But it’s not me I was worried about. I couldn’t care less about what happens to me. All I cared about was her. Her image leaves my field of vision but I hear my name die on her lips before a bone crunching thud echos and her grunt of pain follows.  

All around me houses burned, livestock lay slaughtered, and people lay lifeless as the monsters who stormed into our small village, now vacate just as swiftly as they’d come. What did we do to deserve this? The question repeats over and over in my head. The sound of the carriage is gone, leaving me to bask in the symphony that is raging fire and haughty laughter, and I hate it. They were just going to vanish now, literally getting away with not only murder, but child abduction as well. That simply could not happen.  

“Leave the girl to bleed to death. She can’t do anything anyway, and it would be a waste of time to finish her off. Let’s go boys.” That same gruff voice speaks, and I can hear the amusement.  So, they were leaving me for dead? I didn’t warrant even a finishing blow? How insulting. My pulse races faster now; my blood boils so hot I can see steam emanating from my skin. The numbness in my limbs abates, replaced by seething hatred faster than I can comprehend, and something inside me seems to explode outward, ripping up the ground around me even as the pain fades from my consciousness.  

I know instantly what the feeling is. The magic lying dormant within me finally activating, and I feel the raw power of it running through me light a current. My strength swells, letting me know I still have the opportunity of ridding the world of the scum that remained in my village. I was given a second chance I sure wasn’t going to let it slip through my hands. The air grows silent around me as the magic rages like a torrent, swirling in a typhoon of brilliant indigo that rockets skyward. The blade comes free with a sickening squelch and a pained hiss escapes me. It was a beautiful dark steel, running the entire length of my body, the hilt decorated with woven red and blue patterns.  

I struggle to stand, my legs threatening to collapse under me, as the world spins. The sword is heavy, but at the same time, the weight of it has a calm washing over me. I can do this. The thought flutters through my mind as my right hand applies pressure to the wound in my stomach, the sword held in a death grip by my dominant one with every ounce of strength my body would allow. My magic chooses that moment to calm down, and it dissipates on the wind like smoke.  

“Hey!” The anger in my voice surprises me, the steadiness of it even more so, and the threat laced within the simple word sends a shiver racing down my spine. I watch as their forms freeze, and I swear not a single one even risks a breath in. I take a step forward, making sure my stance allows me to either attack or defend should the need arise. Two of the five remaining jumped slightly, stepping back on instinct if I had to muster a guess, and even from here I could smell their fear; see the beads of sweat glistening on their trembling forms, and a primal part of me loved that feeling. The hunters were now the hunted and I wasn’t going to let them get away.  

“Easy now…I know you’re upset…but killing us isn’t going to bring anyone back. It’s not going to make you feel better!” The man in front says shakily, his once arrogant chuckle, replaced with terror.  

“No,” I crouch and reel my arm back, ready to put everything I had into this, to ensure they never bothered anyone again. To make sure they never ripped apart another village; another family again. “but it’s a start!”  

I move then, my body blurring as I release all of my magic power at once, and the force of it obliterates everything in its path. The fires that run rampant through my village are snuffed out in an instant, their memory floating through the night in the form of ash, and the shock wave rockets the remains of the houses off into the distance, the screaming of the wind overpowering every other sound. They didn’t stand a chance really, and it’s over before I even straighten.  

In the wake of my sword, is a trench forming outward into a massive ‘V’ shape, originating at my feet and easily reaching what looked to be as wide as five houses. The effect has my entire body shaking and I can feel the magic fading. A sigh escapes me, and I turn on my heel to sprint off into the direction I last saw the carriage heading.  

 will find you… My foot catches on a root and I hit the ground with a grunt, and stars dance in my vision. Air is suddenly difficult to acquire and the pain is slowly, agonizingly, beginning to return as the high of adrenaline fades into nonexistence. I try to stand, to move any limb at all, but my body refuses to obey me anymore; seems to be fine with succumbing to numbness as all sensation fades in my hands and feet.  

This is it. This is where I die. Alone, weak, and wondering if my younger sister would even live to see her fifth birthday. My jaw clenches as a fresh wave of tears fall and soak into the dirt.  

“At…least I c-can die…knowing I avenged…our p-parents…stay alive….”  The last vestiges of strength leave me in a rush of breath from my already burning lungs, and blackness encroaches on my vision. The last thing I remember is her face flashing through my mind, and her name fading from my lips.  

“Erza.”

END

In my opinion, this is still trash, but I won’t get better unless people rip my stuff apart and tell me what they want. So...have at it. Tell me if you love it, hate it, want me to keep going, or if I should give up writing all together. 

#fanfiction #fic writing #OC #Fairy Tail #rewrite #The Ties That Bind

[firestorm717]

An Introduction to Callan

Allow me to introduce you to a new fandom of mine - Callan, a British TV series from 1967-72 starring Edward Woodward (The Equalizer, The Wicker Man) in the title role. Callan is a Cold War spy drama in the tradition of Len Deighton's The Ipcress File and John le Carré's The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. Its world is dark and bleak, its characters morally ambiguous, and its stories often end on a downbeat turn. (The first episode of the series is called "The Good Ones Are All Dead"). James Bond this is not; in fact, Callan was conceived as the antithesis to Bond-style escapism. It depicts the seedy side of espionage with its criminal associates and cynical bureaucracy, beneath which agents toil like pawns on a chessboard, as likely to be killed by friend as foe.

So why do I recommend this series? Well, if you're like me, you're partial to darkness and angst ;) But even if that's not your usual cup of tea, I suggest you check out Callan on the strength of its acting alone. Woodward does a masterful job of portraying the morally conflicted assassin, David Callan, both frightening in his anger and heartbreakingly vulnerable in his grief. He is joined by Anthony Valentine (Colditz, Raffles) with whom he shares crackling on-screen chemistry, and Russell Hunter (The Gaffer), a skilled character actor who practically inhabits his role. This top-notch talent is supported by a top-notch script. The plots are complex and clever, featuring lies, subterfuge, and misdirection - all the classic spy storylines - that demand close attention from the audience. Sharp dialogue takes the place of action in most parts, shining the spotlight on character interaction. Many scenes read as if they'd come from a superb stage play.

Finally, for the slash fans, there's a ton of wonderful subtext surrounding the two handsome leads, Callan and Meres, as well as several canonically gay/bisexual side characters.

In conclusion, you'll enjoy Callan if

You relish historically-based spy dramas with complex plots.

You like morally ambiguous and conflicted main characters.

You are a sucker for tragedy, angst, and every deathfic trope.

You appreciate good-looking men in three-piece suits.

On the other hand, this series may not be for you if

You prefer slick "James Bond" action, adventure, and romance.

You need a protagonist that you can always root for.

You want modern cinematography and video quality.

You are bothered by some degree of sexism and wish to see a diverse cast.

In the following sections, I provide a detailed description of the setting and characters. Interested readers may watch the entire show on my Youtube playlist, or just check out the recommended episodes below. (Due to the age of the series, some episodes from seasons 1-2 are missing from the BBC archives. I have posted all that are commercially available).

The Section

Eliminating people. Framing. Extortion. Death. All the jobs that are too dirty for Her Majesty's security forces to touch. The Section is a top secret branch of British intelligence that specializes in dirty jobs no other branch will touch - kidnapping, extortion, blackmail, and quite often execution of persons deemed a threat to the government. Its targets are usually spies or assets belonging to the Eastern bloc, although it is not above eliminating innocent citizens should they threaten its goals as well. Its secrecy is paramount. All agents, including the Section head, are known only by code name, and the department itself is housed in a drab building under cover of a scrap metal business owned by "Charlie Hunter". The offices are cramped, the furniture spartan; except for a shooting range in the basement, there is no hint as to its true purpose... which is just as well, for any unauthorized person who learns of its purpose is likely to wind up in a red file - most urgently marked for death by the Section's assassins.

Hunter

You're always asking for reasons. That's what makes you weak. Schneider's in a red file, that's reason enough. The code name for the current head of Section is Hunter. Hunter delegates the missions and directs the movements of agents in the field. He himself rarely steps foot outside the office, instead delivering orders from behind his imposing oak desk - orders which he expects to be obeyed unquestioned. His main method of communication (aside from in-person meetings) is the red telephone on his desk. Typically, an agent phones in with a report to "Charlie", and Hunter answers with an assessment of the situation followed by a new order. He is ultimately responsible for the success or failure of a mission. As Section head, Hunter also has political obligations. He must meet with senior government officials such as the Foreign Secretary, navigate diplomatic waters for defectors and allies, and forestall interdepartmental rivalry with agencies like Special Branch. Thus, the qualifications for Hunter are far more administrative than they are physical, which is reflected by the aging staff officers who typically fill the role. The first Hunter we meet is Colonel Leslie, known colloquially as the Colonel among his agents. (In keeping with military protocol, subordinates are expected to address the Section head to his face as "Hunter" or "sir"). It is the Colonel who introduces a color-coded filing system for the Section's extensive list of targets. David Callan, a top field operative, describes the system thusly in the pilot - "If a bloke joined the wrong party, he got a blue file. If he was under surveillance, he got a yellow one. And if he was dangerous, I mean really dangerous, he got a red one. He usually got killed as well." Later, a white file is added for individuals whom the Section wants to put in prison, divorce courts, bankruptcy, or mental homes, a slightly less permanent destination than death. As the series progresses, various men don the mantle of Hunter, some more rigid, others marginally more forgiving. But that filing system always remains the same.

David Callan

You sacked me, remember? You said I was too soft. Well, I'm still soft, Hunter. I still worry about the people I've killed. David Callan is only good at two things - killing people and collecting model soldiers. The son of a working-class family, his parents were killed by a V2 rocket when he was only 13, and he left school shortly thereafter to apprentice at a locksmiths firm. Eventually, he found his way into the army and impressed his superiors with his shooting, unarmed combat, and survival skills, earning him a promotion to corporal. That promotion was short-lived, however, as his insolence toward an officer saw him reduced back to private. This would be a recurring theme in Callan's career. After serving as a commando in Malaya, he returned to work at the locksmiths firm. He soon became involved in the attempted theft of a jeweler's safe, but was caught and sentenced to 2 years in Wormwood Scrubs. It was upon Callan's early release that the Section recruited him. He trained under Colonel Leslie and carried out numerous missions, including assassinations, with great success. The Colonel rated him very highly, and he in turn held the Colonel in considerable regard. By the age of 29, Callan had risen to second-in-command and was on the shortlist of candidates for next head of Section. Then, everything changed. In the spring of 1965, the Colonel ordered Callan to kill a KGB agent named Zhverkov, whom Callan knew and liked very much. After immense pressure, he finally carried out the killing, but from then on became overly involved with his targets, insisting on making his own value judgments rather than following orders blindly. His relationship with the Colonel deteriorated until the Section deactivated him a year later. At the start of the series, Callan is a 36-year-old bookkeeper working a dead-end job, his suit shabby and wrinkled, his flat spartan and cheap, the only joy in his life his collection of model soldiers. No one would guess that he was once the Section's most prolific assassin. Callan's defining characteristic is his conscience - he needs to know why a job must be done before he will do it. Even then, he is liable to disobey orders he feels are unjust or endanger innocent people. His tendency to sympathize with his targets brings him in direct conflict with Hunter, as well as his fellow agents, who have no qualms about killing. This conflict is exacerbated by Callan's class consciousness; he carries a chip on his shoulder regarding authority, especially wielded by officers and the social elite... two circles that comprise most of his superiors. Indeed, season 1 sees Callan at odds with his allies more often than his enemies, saved from placement in a red file only by his usefulness to the Section. The thought that his usefulness may one day run out forms the underlying tension in the series. In the end, Callan is a man trapped by his own success - an assassin who kills because he is good at nothing else.

Lonely

I do have baths, Mr. Callan. The way I smell is psychosomatic. Lonely lives up to his name. A small-time burglar with terrible body odor, he first met Callan during the latter's stint in Wormwood Scrubs. His criminal skills proved useful, and Callan began to employ him on a case-by-case basis as a lookout, tail, thief/safecracker, driver, and weapons supplier for Section work, although Lonely himself knows nothing about the Section. In fact, Lonely has never pulled a trigger in his life. He frequently must be bullied or bribed into helping Callan on a job, and then only reluctantly for fear of being caught in the violence. Their relationship can most succinctly be described as codependent. Lonely needs Callan's cash and protection (though that protection is often from Callan's own colleagues), and Callan needs Lonely's eyes and ears, for the petty crook's very insignificance makes him an excellent spy. They are the closest each has to a friend. That friendship is tested again and again by Hunter. Since Lonely is not part of the Section, he represents a security risk to its operations, and more than one Hunter has threatened to eliminate Lonely for good. They usually back down, however, after seeing Callan's reaction. Because as much as Callan exploits and abuses Lonely, he is also fiercely protective of the little man, exacting vicious revenge on anyone (including fellow agents) who dare lay hands on the burglar. This is because Lonely is the only person Callan can trust - an outsider to the spy game, not bright enough or important enough to warrant attention, and very much dependent on him. His smell is the smell of Callan's own id, a dank pit of criminality driven more by fear than loyalty to any particular cause.

Toby Meres

It's frightfully bad taste to welcome you like this, I agree, but we do need a spot of information from you rather urgently - just filling in, you know, code names and so on. If Lonely is the id, then Meres is Callan's foil. Born the son of a Lord, Meres was educated at the prestigious Eton College before receiving a commission as an officer in the Coldstream Guards. His career ended abruptly when a private guardsman died in an "accident" that he arranged. Although the case never made it to court martial, Meres was forced to resign and eventually found employment as an agent in the Section. The work suited his real talents. At the beginning of the series, he is a youthful 27 and already Hunter's right-hand man. Only Callan stands between him and the top. On the surface, Meres is droll and charming, the portrait of a public schoolboy from the upper classes. But that is only a mask for his sadistic streak. He has none of Callan's reservations about killing and will carry out orders ruthlessly and efficiently, even delighting in the opportunity to interrogate prisoners. His attitude toward colleagues is typified by emotional indifference with a touch of condescension. At the death of one, Meres simply observes that it's "par for the course" in their line of work. He largely leaves trainees to sink or swim and is not especially bothered when they sink. The only person who stirs some feeling in him is Callan. From the beginning, Meres recognizes Callan's talent and extols it to allies and superiors. He claims to detest Callan - indeed, the two start off as antagonists - yet lobbies for the latter to rejoin the Section in "Red Knight, White Knight". After that point, their relationship slowly develops from a rivalry to a partnership based on mutual respect for each other's skills. Meres enjoys teasing Callan (sometimes to a dangerous degree, as he is prone to breaking into Callan's flat unannounced), and Callan grows to trust Meres despite their very different moral systems. It is telling that the most distraught Meres ever gets is during a scene with Callan in "Death of a Hunter". Perhaps this is because Meres, at heart, does have some semblance of a conscience. He subtly protests orders from Hunter that he deems ill-advised or unnecessarily harsh. It's simply that his bar for harshness sits a lot higher than Callan's, and when push comes to shove, Meres will usually cave to authority because authority is what he learned to obey in the Guard.

James Cross

You ever played Russian roulette? It's better than horses. You play for your life. Cross is a newcomer to the Section, promoted during a period when both Callan and Meres were unavailable. A young man in his 20's with flip hair and a taste for stylish clothes, he has the swagger of an agent with twice the experience, despite logging a mediocre record in the field. He fancies himself Callan's successor and is none too pleased when the latter returns to the Section. Brash and callous, Cross has little regard for the collateral damage from his actions, putting him at immediate odds with Callan. His recalcitrance leads to at least one disaster, which Callan is forced to clean up. As a result, the two share a mutual dislike for each other - Cross believes Callan is over the hill, Callan perceives Cross as an arrogant upstart - and initially only work together on Hunter's orders. In many ways, Cross resembles a young Meres. They both exude smug confidence, harbor a sadistic streak, and have their eye on Callan's position as top agent. However, while Meres's ambition is tempered by genuine respect, Cross bestows that respect grudgingly. He and Callan never develop the sort of camaraderie that Callan has with Meres.

Elizabeth (Liz) March

That girl's a walking memory bank. She's been in a red file since the day she took the job. Liz is Hunter's secretary and handles all the communications, transportation, and files on allies and enemies. She fulfills this duty from the first episode to the last, making her one of the most knowledgeable people in the Section, moreso than many agents like Cross. It's thus a pity that her role in the series is largely limited to answering phones. (I couldn't even find a decent quote by her). However, she does get an opportunity to shine in "A Village Called 'G'", which provides a glimpse into her backstory and motivations.

Dr. Snell

I put him on tranquilizers for a bit, and he quite liked that. And then some of the hallucinogens... Oh, and I managed to make him lose track of time too. Then, I put him on pentothal. He prattles like a child. At first glance, Snell doesn't seem to belong in the Section. He's a soft-spoken, bespectacled man of about 50 with silver hair and the dispassionate air of an Ivory Tower academic. We first meet him at his office on Harley Street, where he runs a private medical practice. Hunter asks him to conduct a benign memory test on a biologist suspected of East German sympathies. However, it soon becomes clear that Snell's role extends far beyond that of a simple outside adviser. He is arguably one of the most important people involved in the Section and, in effect, outranks the field agents themselves. For Snell is a psychiatrist, who employs his skills in two ways - interrogating enemy operatives and evaluating the medical fitness of the Section's own employees. In the first task, he is uniquely brutal because his instruments of torture are drugs (pentothal, LSD, and other psychotropics) that wreak havoc on his victim's mind. And Snell goes about this work with scientific indifference, only betraying a hint of pleasure when his injections give rise to an interesting effect. What's more, his victims usually don't remember what they've said to him... if they retain their sanity at all. Snell's interrogation techniques already cast him as a sinister figure, but what makes him disliked even among his allies is his second task - psychologically profiling the Section's own agents. You see, espionage is a highly stressful job. If an agent snaps, the consequences for national security could be dire. Thus, it is Snell's job to determine whether an agent is about to snap before he snaps and report it to higher authority. At best, a bad report from Snell means getting pulled from the field. At worst, it gets one's name placed in a red file. Either way, his word is usually final.

Mr. Bishop

All you need to know is that in the pecking order of the security game, we get first peck. "Big men have to snivel sometimes, Hunter," Snell says, and the man Hunter snivels to is Bishop. A senior official in the SIS, Bishop is Hunter's superior and oversees a wide variety of foreign intelligence operations. He has the authority to assign new missions, disburse funds for equipment, order prisoner exchanges, and hire and fire Section heads. However, while his powers are broad, Bishop never steps foot in the field - his role is purely strategic, and his concern lies with the sociopolitical impact of a job rather than the individuals involved. He is the picture of the calculating, condescending bureaucrat, giving orders from his cushy seat in the rear while his subordinates risk their lives. It thus comes as a surprise that Bishop acts as Callan's ally in the beginning. He sees potential in Callan beyond that of a mere trigger-puller and bolsters the latter's career within the Section. Naturally, Bishop's reasons are self-serving - Callan is just a particularly useful cog in the espionage machine, after all - but they manage to forge a fragile working relationship... until circumstances intervene.

Richmond

For people like you and me, safety can only be found among our enemies. It's our friends who will kill us. While Richmond appears in only a few episodes, his impact on Callan is profound enough to warrant a spot on this list. Richmond is a colonel in the KGB and one of their best, most experienced agents. Intelligent and erudite, he uses his substantial knowledge about Callan's background to try and manipulate the latter into betraying the Section, launching a dangerous cat-and-mouse game in the "The Richmond File" series finale.

Recommended Episodes

The Good Ones Are All Dead (S01E01) - Under threat of being placed in a red file, Callan is coerced into helping the Section hand over an ex-SS officer, Strauss, to the Israelis. Introduces the main cast and sets up the hostile dynamic between Callan and Colonel Leslie. An emotional performance by Edward Woodward at the end.

The Most Promising Girl of Her Year (S02E02) - Callan must prove that a young biochemist is not giving information to the East. Introduces Snell and his interrogation methods. Also features an intelligent and sympathetic female character, whose ethical principles make her the true heroine of the story.

Let's Kill Everybody (S02E05) - A freelance German mercenary organisation that specialises in eliminating foreign security agencies has its sights set on the Section. An aptly named episode, so I won't spoil anything except to say that no one is who they seem...

Heir Apparent (S02E06) - Callan and Meres must fetch the new Hunter from East Germany. This might as well be a Callan/Meres fanfic with the amount of slash in it. Our two agents "go on a hols" together, sharing a sleeping car, drinking on the town, and navigating a minefield right on the edge of the Iron Curtain.

Death of a Hunter (S02E15) - A hunter dies, but which one? Is it the hard-bitten Callan, the laconic Meres, the enigmatic Hunter or someone else? I debated including a synopsis because the title already gives too much away. One of Edward Woodward's finest performances, loaded with pain and anguish, and a definitive Callan/Meres story.

Where Else Could I Go? (S03E01) - After five months in the hospital recuperating from near-fatal gunshot wounds, Callan returns to the Section to find the upstart Cross after his position. Under the doubting eye of his superior, the agent must prove that he still has the will to kill. Introduces Cross and William Squire's Hunter, probably the most iconic Hunter of the series. Also contains fodder for Callan/Lonely in the way of a very protective Callan.

A Village Called 'G' (S03E04) - The entire Section goes on red alert when Liz, Hunter's ever-punctual secretary, fails to show up for work. Trying to trace her, Callan begins to suspect that Liz's disappearance involves not an enemy from the present, but a ghost from her past. Liz finally gets a turn in the limelight, and we're treated to some background on her childhood.

Breakout (S03E08) - By surrendering to the police, wily KGB operative Nikolai Lubin seeks safety in a British prison, out of reach of Hunter and the Section's interrogators. Hunter, however, has other plans - engineering Lubin's "escape" under the guise of a KGB operation. A rare episode in which Callan and Cross display some teamwork.

Call Me Sir! (S04E02) - Upon Callan's return, dire circumstances force him to accept a new position within the Section - one that affords an entirely different perspective on his work, particularly regarding his relationship with Lonely. Callan receives a promotion he never asked for. More I cannot say without spoiling the plot.

If He Can, So Could I (S04E05) - Cross's behavior on his previous assignment calls into question his fitness for service. Nevertheless, Callan assigns his former rival the perilous task of protecting a dissident Russian poet. Snell puts Cross through the wringer in this one, and the way Cross cracks reflects Callan's own insecurities. The ending scene between Callan/Lonely is absolutely phenomenal - one of the few times Callan goes to pieces emotionally, revealing the enormous strain he and his fellow agents are under. Edward Woodward won a BAFTA for this performance.

I Never Wanted the Job (S04E08) - After witnessing a gangster's execution, Lonely runs afoul of the killers and the police, jeopardizing both his cover and Callan's life. The closest this series gets to fluff. Some cute Callan/Meres/Hunter interaction plus an offhand comment by a character about how Callan must be "queer" for Lonely make this a very shippy episode.

The Richmond File: Call Me Enemy (S04E11) - Alone at a remote safe house, Callan debriefs a high-ranking prospective defector - a man known as Richmond, who promises to reveal a traitor within the Section. This is it. This is what spy dramas are about. Not fast car chases or gunfights, but two people on opposite sides trying to manipulate each other with deception and lies. Edward Woodward and T.P. McKenna give career-defining performances in this battle of wits between veteran agents who have more in common with each other than their respective employers... or do they? The episode is like a stage play and provides a rare bit of history on Callan and Meres.

External Links

YouTube Playlist - The entire series ripped and uploaded by yours truly.

Video Downloads - High quality video encodes of the entire series, again done by yours truly, as well as scripts for all episodes (including the missing ones) and other goodies.

Big Finish - New audio adaptations of the Callan short stories.

Digital Tapestries Fan Site - An old fan site with creator interviews, character profiles, and synopses of all the episodes in seasons 1-2.

Michael J. Bird's Fan Site - Another fan site that includes scans of the Callan short stories and links to a few missing episode scripts.

It's So Last Century - Reviews of most commercial Callan releases along with some newspaper article scans.

#callan #tv shows #edward woodward #anthony valentine #russell hunter #patrick mower #david callan #toby meres #hunter

[bangkokjacknews]

Sunday Mysteries: The hunt is still on for BIGFOOT

Is Bigfoot Real? What made the oversized tracks found in Bluff Creek, California, and other parts of America? A giant ape or just a big jape? In 1924, a group of miners working in the Cascade Mountain Range in the state of Washington were startled to see a huge simian creature staring at them from behind a tree. Panic-stricken, one of the men fired at it and although the bullet appeared to hit the giant ape in the head, the beast ran off, apparently unharmed. Soon afterwards another of the miners, Fred Beck, spotted it again on the edge of a canyon and again fired, this time hitting the creature in the back. The group watched as it fell over the ridge. They scrambled at once down into the canyon below, but could find no trace of the creature’s body. However, that evening as it grew dark, the men heard strange scratching noises outside their log cabin and saw shadowy gorilla-like faces at the window. The terrified miners barricaded the door but soon the creatures were hammering at the roof and walls. Heavy rocks were thrown and the cabin rocked from side to side. The men began shooting through the walls in all directions but still the hammering continued, only ending as the sun rose the next morning. The miners packed up at once and left the cabin, vowing never to return. It was only after Eric Shipton famously photographed a giant footprint on the Menlung Glacier of Mount Everest in 1951, putting his pickaxe alongside to show its size, that interest in giant apes began to gather pace. During the 1953 expedition to Everest, when Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing were the first to successfully climb the mountain, both men reported seeing oversized footprints. Although Hillary later disputed that these were yeti tracks, there was so much interest in finding out more that the Daily Mail sponsored a ‘Snowman’ expedition in the Himalayas the following year. Keen to discover more about America’s very own yeti-style legend, John Green tracked down Fred Beck in the late 1960s and interviewed him for his book On the Track of the Sasquatch, and the Bigfoot mystery took even firmer root in America. The word ‘Sasquatch’, applied to the large, hairy hominid in its North American manifestation, was first coined much earlier – in the 1920s – by J. W. Burns. While working as a schoolteacher at the Chehalis Indian Reserve on the Harrison River, he had learned that Native American Indians used the words soos-q’tal and sokqueatl to describe the various ‘giant men’ of their legends. To simplify matters, Burns decided to invent one name to cover all such creatures, and through one of his articles – ‘Introducing British Columbia’s Hairy Giants’, published in MacLean’s Magazine in 1929 – ‘Sasquatch’ passed into wider use. As the public fascination for the giant apeman grew, the media began to report sightings on a regular basis. In 1958 road construction worker Ray Wallace was amazed when his colleague reported finding huge footprints in the dirt at Bluff Creak in northern California, the area they were working in. The local press descended and soon the story was front-page news all over America. Casts were made of the prints, which experts declared genuine. The first newspaper to carry the story, the Humboldt Times of Eureka in California, used the name ‘Bigfoot’ in their headline, and the word has since become synonymous with America’s favourite mystery creature. When more tracks were found, Sasquatch hunters flocked into the now famous Bluff Creek area to see what else they could discover. It wasn’t until Ray Wallace’s death, in December 2002, that the mystery was revealed. Members of Ray’s family requested that his obituary should announce that, with his passing, Bigfoot had also died. Ray Wallace immediately became one of the most controversial characters in Bigfoot history when it was revealed that he (along with a handful of his close friends and co-workers) had made the tracks. Investigators soon found out that all of the tracks appeared in areas Ray had worked in. In the early days that had been in Washington State, where the first footprints had been found, while over twenty years later discoveries were being made further south, in California. Bigfoot had not been on the move, Ray Wallace had. Family members produced dozens of different oversized foot moulds made out of wood or clay that Ray would have spent weeks crafting and honing. His buddies, by then rather elderly pranksters, showed in television documentaries how they had created the vast footsteps: holding on to a rope tied to the back of a logger’s truck being driven very slowly had enabled them to take the giant steps that had so fooled expert analysis. In much the same way as crop-circle makers simply enjoy confounding the experts, so did Ray and his pals. However, despite The New York Times running the news as a headline story, many Bigfoot researchers have discounted the revelation (not altogether surprising – cynics might say – when their credibility was on the line) and even tried to discredit the Wallace family, threatening them with legal action. One poor haunted soul who spent his adult life in search of Bigfoot evidence wondered why anybody would put so much time into ‘messing with people’s heads’. The answer, of course, is because it is fun. Fun, and surprisingly easy. Nonetheless, a number of scientists and leading members of the Bigfoot Field Research Centre (BFRC) are, instead, stating that the footprint moulds produced by the pranksters are themselves the fake, not the tracks. In a bizarre piece of reverse logic, some are insisting the Wallace family must prove their claims. John Green, described as one of America’s foremost Bigfoot researchers, loftily remarked of Wallace that if he had revealed the footprint mould during his lifetime he ‘would, of course, called upon to prove himself’. I am unable to see how anybody can become a ‘foremost researcher’ when they have discovered exactly the same amount of genuine evidence of Bigfoot as I have – that is, absolutely nothing. It was, after all, John Green who interviewed Albert Ostman in 1957 and fell for his tall (in more senses than one) story. Ostman said he had been looking for gold in British Columbia during the gold rush of 1927, when he had been kidnapped by an adult male Sasquatch. The beast gathered up the man in his sleeping bag and carried him several miles. He was then dumped on the ground and realized, shortly afterwards, that he was being held by a family of four who would not let him leave their camp. After six days of captivity, he concluded he was being considered as future husband material for the young female, so he fired his rifle into the air, distracting the family for long enough to make his escape. When Green asked why Albert had not told his story before, the ageing gold prospector replied that he thought nobody would have believed him. And few did, except John Green and his vast fan base of Bigfoot believers ready to leap to his defence on every issue. But Green did finally concede, in 2007, that he ‘would not believe the story if he were told it today’. Take another established piece of ‘proof’ – the footage of a female Sasquatch filmed by Roger Patterson in Bluff Creek. The story goes that in October 1967 Patterson and his friend Bob Gimlin were riding through the creek when their horses reared up and they were both thrown to the ground. Extract from Mysterious World As they picked themselves up, they noticed a ‘huge, hairy creature walking like a man’ about thirty yards ahead of them. Patterson grabbed his cine-camera and began filming the beast as she loped away, pausing only once – and looking directly into the camera lens as she did so – before disappearing from view. The film has become world famous and has been studied by zoologists, crypto-zoologists, palaeontologists, biologists, anthropologists, archaeologists, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. And you will be unsurprised to hear that opinion is divided about whether it is genuine footage (Bigfootage?) or not. Leading scientists did, however, conclude at the time that there was ‘nothing in the film that leads them, on scientific grounds, to suspect a hoax’. Having now made my own detailed study of the film, using ultra-slow, frame-by-frame-pausing technology obligingly provided by Sony (namely, the DVD player in my front room), I can now add to the debate. To my albeit untrained eye, the creature looks suspiciously like a man in a monkey suit on his way to a fancy-dress party.

Seasoned Bigfoot researchers nevertheless regard the film as a significant piece of evidence, saying that to suggest that it was a hoax would be ‘demonstrably false’ – that old double-negative rhetoric again. But even non-researchers, including the physical anthropologist Grover Kranz, confirm the film does depict a ‘genuine unknown creature’. Another prominent primate expert, John Napier, is still not entirely convinced but once revealed: ‘I could not see the zipper then and I still can’t. Perhaps it was a man dressed up in a monkey costume; if so it was a brilliantly executed hoax and the unknown perpetrator will take his place with the great hoaxers of the world.’ So does this mean if he can’t see the zip, it can’t be a monkey suit? Or had the hoaxer compounded his/her cleverness by inventing an early form of Velcro? In 2004, Greg Long revealed in his book The Making of Bigfoot that the grainy clip was in fact an elaborate hoax. Long claims he had managed to trace the monkey suit to costume maker Philip Morris, a gorilla suit specialist from North Carolina. In the book, Morris states he sold the suit to Roger Patterson for $435, and when he saw the Bigfoot photos on the television and in the newspapers a few weeks later, he recognized the suit as the one he had made. Morris claims never to have revealed this information before because to break ‘client confidentiality’ in such a public manner would have lost him customers. It might have saved millions of research dollars, though. Greg Long revealed the man in the suit as Bob Heironimus – a friend of Patterson’s – who subsequently told the Washington Post: ‘It’s time people knew it was a hoax. It is time to let this thing go … I have been burdened with this for thirty-six years, seeing the film-clip on television numerous times. Somebody’s making lots of money out of this, except for me. But that is not the issue, the issue is that it is finally time to let people know the truth.’ John Green, of course, immediately went on the offensive, calling him a liar and declaring Greg Long had made ‘a fool of himself’. And while Heironimus was a known associate of Patterson and has passed two lie detector tests and Greg Long has found several independent, but supporting, witnesses, John Green still has yet to provide a single piece of evidence for his case that the film is of a genuine, if as yet unidentified, hairy giant. Step forward, then, Roger Patterson himself. Unfortunately, he can no longer be called upon as he died in 1972. However, the other witness to the Bigfoot sighting, Bob Gimlin, is still alive. Bob no longer speaks personally about the film as he is ‘fed up with the whole Bigfoot thing’, but his solicitor, Tom Malone, issued a statement to the Washington Post in response to their story about Heironimus’s revelation: ‘I am authorized to tell you that nobody wore a gorilla suit or monkey suit and that Mr Gimlin’s position is that it’s absolutely false and untrue.’ Which seems clear enough, but it is quite possible Gimlin didn’t know about Patterson’s hoax and was simply used to increase its credibility. Even if he was in on the act, Gimlin has always maintained the film to be genuine and so any revelation now, forty years after the event, would be somewhat embarrassing for him. In 1969, another set of tracks was reported – in Bossburg, Washington – that, on closer inspection, revealed the giant beast’s right paw was in fact club-footed. Experts argued that this indicated that the tracks were very likely to be the first genuine piece of evidence to support the existence of the Sasquatch. Professor John Napier, whose book Bigfoot was published in 1973, wrote: ‘It is difficult to conceive of a hoaxer so subtle, so knowledgeable – and so sick – who would deliberately fake a footprint of this nature. I suppose it is possible but so unlikely I am prepared to discount the idea it is a hoax.’ Straight from the school of ‘If I couldn’t think of it then nor could anybody else’, and with such imaginative minds on the trail of Bigfoot, it is hardly surprising he has managed to elude us for so long. Despite sightings of Bigfoot reported in every American state except Hawaii and Rhode Island, the creature’s natural habitat is said to be the remote woodlands and forests in the Pacific Northwest of America and Canada. The Rocky Mountains have provided many sightings, as have the Great Lakes. But if this is the case, how could he have got to Florida, California and other southern states? The Sasquatch would have had to leave the cover of his remote woodland hideaway, and it is difficult to imagine how such a creature could travel so far without leaving behind at least some credible evidence. You would certainly spot him in the Greyhound bus queue. But, unfortunately for the wonderfully named Texas Bigfoot Research Center (TBRC), it turns out that most of the evidence found, such as blood or hair samples, footprint casts or photographs, usually turn out to be fake and never, as yet, from an unknown creature. Investigators at TBRC say they receive reports of over one hundred sightings each year in Texas alone, while on the homepage of their website Janet Bord states: ‘If the skeptics are right and there is no such creature as Bigfoot, then it is a fact that thousands of Americans and Canadians are either prone to hallucinations, or are compulsive liars or unable to recognize bears, deer and vagrants.’ Quite how tramps became involved is anybody’s guess. Also on the homepage of the TBRC website is something that bears further examination. One Rick Noll is quoted, stating his reasons why no firm evidence for the existence of a big, hairy, part-man, part-simian-type monster has been found: - No one is spending enough time in the woods, - Not many people know what to do in searching, overlooking things, or vice-versa, seeing things that aren’t significant to the task, - There are not many of these animals around, - They, like most animals in the forest, know how to camouflage themselves quickly and easily, - Most encounters with humans are probably mistakes on the part of the Bigfoot, yet researchers are trying to fill in the picture with them as to being something significant. So there you have it. Those are the reasons the TBRC claim there is, to date, still no credible evidence of the existence of Bigfoot. So how is it then that, despite the use of the whole spectrum of technology – from heat-seeking cameras with night vision to thermal imaging – nobody has confirmed the existence of Bigfoot? Bigfoot enthusiasts apart, the group of people keenest to obtain as much information as possible of the apeman’s existence would be the US government. And as they have surveillance equipment that can detect a small nuclear warhead buried in the desert somewhere near Baghdad, it is fair to assume they would have picked up one of the thousands of Sasquatch that have to exist if all the Americans and Canadians who claim sightings are not lying. Such a large number of sightings does suggest that Bigfoot, or a relative of his, could well be out there; indeed I, like Janet Bord, refuse to believe that so many people can be lying. But hundreds of small, circumstantial and improvable reports do not add up to a single, solid fact. It is like pouring thirty separate measures of Jack Daniels into a large glass. Added together they do not make the drink any stronger in flavour; it still tastes exactly the same. But if you drink it all – as I have discovered through experimentation for this very investigation on your behalf – you will fall over. Scientifically speaking, weak evidence should not become any stronger just because there is lots of it, although it can affect your judgement in the end. But the Texas Bigfoot Research Center is not the only organization dedicated to finding firm evidence: there are many others throughout America. On 27 December 2003, for example, the Pennsylvania Bigfoot Society (PBS) hosted their fifth annual East Coast Bigfoot Conference (ECBC), and the keynote speaker, Stan Gordon, veteran researcher and the founder/director of the Pennsylvania Association for the Study of the Unexplained (PASU), concluded his opening speech linking Bigfoot sightings with known UFO activity in the same areas – although he stopped short of announcing: ‘Bigfoot is a spaceman.’ Which I would have done, just for the headline.  leave in ‘There is no doubt the evidence suggests there is something out there,’ he assured the audience, as they sat there hanging on his every word, then continued: ‘We just don’t know what it is.’

Another speaker at the conference, Paul Johnson, a chemistry professor at Duquense University in Pittsburgh, thought he knew: ‘Bigfoot is a quantum animal that moves freely between the real world as we know it and a quantum world outside the reach of conventional laws.’ He went on to explain how that, in quantum physics, electrons do not follow the normal rules of physics. Although he admitted his ideas were unconventional, he also noted (contradicting himself in the process) that nothing as large as Bigfoot could behave like an electron in reality, which was a relief because everybody knows that a living being is unable to dematerialize and then reappear in perfect working order in another place. Unless, of course, you are travelling on the starship Enterprise,and then you can. Another speaker at the ECBC, Janice Coy from Monroe County, Tennessee, claimed her family had developed a relationship with a family of Bigfoot (or should that be ‘Bigfeet’?) since 1947. Her grandfather, having stumbled across an injured Bigfoot, had bandaged its broken leg and allowed it to recover in a barn at the family farm. She claims to have even held a baby Bigfoot in her arms and explained that for years she had tried to obtain photographic evidence, without success. She picked up on Paul Johnson’s quantum theory and suggested that was the reason none of her photographs ever returned to her with images any clearer than a ‘shapeless fuzz’. And no one likes to see a shapeless fuzz now, do they. On one occasion the Sasquatch family, realizing the camera was present on a nearby tripod, used long sticks to retrieve food from a place out of range of the lens. On another occasion, the roll of film Janice submitted to a commercial processing lab returned to her after the film had been mysteriously overexposed, and every image lost for ever. Read the full article

[dyde21]

Mechanic 10: The invasion

Pyrrha was up bright and early, as always. However, for once she wasn't thrilled to be going on a mission. Normally Pyrrha would be glad to have the chance to help others, especially since they were going to be shadowing a professional hunter. Still, she really wished she would have been able to train with Jaune over the weekend. They hadn't messaged each other other than to offer thanks for dance, and Pyrrha hoped there wouldn't be a weird atmosphere hanging around when they finally had the chance to meet up again. After all, she had sort of... kissed him. Her face flushed red at the mere thought of it.

It was the first time she had taken any steps like that with someone, even if it was just a kiss on the cheek. The thought of it made her giddy, a fact which didn't escape Nora or Jane when they saw her start smiling randomly. Still, she knew she had to get her head in the game.

They were going to be going on a dangerous mission, out in the field for real. She couldn't let her school girl crush distract her, or someone could end up like Jaune did. Besides, physical exercise might be just the thing she needs to get her head on straight again.

Pyrrha began to gather the last bits of her stuff to finish packing for the mission. They had to travel light, but she wanted to make sure she wasn't missing anything they would need. After all, proper preparation is important. That's why she checked her scroll often of course, to make sure she didn't miss any important messages. Not that she had been expecting one. Of course she wasn't.

Before long, the rest of her team was up and getting psyched for the mission, which helped serve to get Pyrrha focused again. Jane was once again fretting over the prospect of the mission, though Pyrrha noticed she seemed more prepared to go on a life threatening adventure, than she was to attend a simple dance. Ren and Nora seemed particularly interested about heading out to the village, so Pyrrha was glad their team was able to do something so important for the pair of childhood friends.

Once they were all packed and ready, they headed off to their airship. Team RWBY had left before hand, and they had already said their goodbyes so it was a quiet send off. As they were loading in the ship though, Pyrrha's stomach dropped.

Sirens.

There were warning sirens coming from Vale. Her mind instantly went to Jaune, and the little shop she had grown very fond of. She turned to Jane, but Jane was already apologizing to Ren. Promising to visit the village later, while she stepped up to take charge, and ordered the pilot of the airship to take them to Vale.

Pyrrha beamed at her partner before she loaded in the airship. As they raced through the air, Pyrrha's leg bounced up and down nervously. Surely Jaune would be okay right? After all, his family was with him now. Plus, even if only a little, they had trained a few times by this point. She figured assuming he didn't go looking for trouble that he could hold off whatever threat could find him. After all a siren meant the entire city would be in danger, which meant that there would be an appropriate response. He wasn't on his own this time. Pyrrha tried to call him on her scroll, but there was no answer. She wasn't surprised, if the siren was going off even if Jaune was fine, there certainly was enough going on to distract him from answering his scroll.

Her thoughts started to spiral downwards into worry until Jane placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Relax. We'll be there soon. There are plenty of hunters that live in Vale, and Beacon is nearby. Whatever threat there is will be dealt with swiftly.” She said with a knowing smile.

Pyrrha nodded thankfully as she drew her weapons, watching the airship land.

Team JNPR hopped out of the ship, already sprinting towards the center of town. They figured that'd be the best place to start searching.

“Grimm?” Ren said in surprise as they saw huntsmen battling with Grimm.

“How did they get so far into the city?” Nora followed up.

“I'm not sure. But we need to protect the civilians. Follow me!” Jane ordered as she ran forward, leaping before she brought down her greatsword, bisecting a Beowulf in half.

Pyrrha followed after her, swiftly cutting through grimm.

Nora paused for a moment. “The sirens seem to be coming from the town square.”

Jane nodded. “I agree. Pyrrha, give Nora a boost. We'll follow after her. Let them know we're on our way Nora.” She commanded.

Pyrrha nodded and knelt down, as Nora jumped, and launched herself off Pyrrha's shield. A few more shots in mid air and Nora was flying through the air as the rest of her team ran after her. Pyrrha felt her nerves starting to go into overdrive at seeing all the grimm around them as they fought their way to the square. “I'm taking a shortcut, I'll meet you there.” Pyrrha said as she jumped up, kicking off her shield mid air with her semblance as she landed on a low rooftop, pulling her shield back towards her as she took off in a sprint towards the town square. She fired a few shots off at Grimm, seeing that they were surrounding team RWBY. Just how did team RWBY always find themselves in the middle of all this trouble?

Jumping off the building, she landed next to Nora as Jane and Ren finally caught up. Soon they were all fighting in the center, against the hordes of grimm. They seemed to be centered around this area. Noticing the giant hole in the ground, Pyrrha realized this wasn't a natural accident. Someone must have set this up. She didn't have time to dwell on those thoughts though as the grimm pressed their attack.

Before long though, reinforcements had arrived. Team CFVY showed up, as well as Atlas's militia. Pyrrha let out a sigh of relief. They were only able to help so many people themselves.

Still, she knew she wouldn't be able to relax until she saw him for herself.

Glancing over at Jane, she was surprised to see Jane already nodding.

“Ren, Nora. Pyrrha and I are going to check on Jaune since this area is under control. You two go east, look for stragglers. Stay together, and stay in touch. We'll meet up after we make sure that area is safe.” Jane said as everyone nodded, and took off sprinting.

Pyrrha pushed herself as she ran, knowing Jaune's luck. Still, he had his family right? He couldn't be hurt. Not with how strong Alice is.

Pyrrha had made short work of a spare grimm or two on the way, but the are seemed to be safe for the most part.

Turning the corner, Pyrrha felt her stomach drop again.

There were two Boarbatusks approaching the alleyway that Jaune's shop was in, and there was the growling of an Ursa coming from down there. Pyrrha launched her spear, impaling a borbatusk through the weak spot in the armor on it's back, as Jane landed from above, stabbing straight through the other one.

As Pyrrha ran to retrieve her weapon, she saw Jaune in the corner, facing off against a massive Ursa with his sword and shield. Huddled behind him were two small children. Judging by the sets of dog ears, they were fannus children.

“Huagghhh!” Jaune roared out as he stepped forward, swinging his sword. His slashes were still a little chaotic, but Pyrrha recognized the pattern. It was one they had been drilling very hard. Simple, but strong. Most of them seemed to get through, but the Ursa's massive paw slammed into Jaune's side, bringing him down to a knee.

Pyrrha ripped her spear free of  the Boarbatusk as she ran to the corner. Jane joined her, but before Jane could dash down the alley, Pyrrha stopped her. “Wait.”

Jaune just let out another scream of defiance as he forced himself to his feet, swinging again as he chipped away at the Ursa.

The Ursa let out a roar went leaned back for a wide swing as Jaune stepped forward with a determined look.

The scene seemed to play out in front of Pyrrha before it happened. Jaune's swing would be too slow, the Ursa would hit first.

Pyrrha's hand raised as it glowed black. Focusing, she raised Jaune's shield. He had dropped his guard a little too much when he went for the big swing, but as his shield glowed black, it raised up.

The Ursa's paw struck the shield, sliding off it as it lurched forward, trapped by it's own momentum.

Jaune planted his foot, bracing himself from the sheer weight of the Ursa. Recognizing a chance when one was presented, summoning every bit of strength he had, he swung upwards.

His blade sliced clean through the weakened Ursa's head as it fell off to the side, beginning to disintegrate.

Jaune stumbled backwards, breathing heavily as the Ursa fell backwards. Suddenly the two Fannus children threw themselves at Jaune, wrapping their arms around his waist as they cried into his sweatshirt.

Jane let out a sigh of relief. “He seems to be unhurt. Though it's a good thing you helped him. We should let him know what happened.”

Pyrrha glanced over at Jaune, seeing him grinning triumphantly as he gently patted the kid's on the head as he reassured them.

“We could... Or perhaps we could keep it our little secret?” She said with a smile, as she stepped back, before taking a few steps and running around the corner, running up to Jaune.

“Jaune! Are you okay?” She asked, her still very real concern dripping through her voice. She wasn't sure how long he had been fighting before she arrived.

Jaune looked up. “Pyrrha! You're okay! Yeah, I'm fine.”

Pyrrha just let out a sigh of relief. “I'm so glad. I saw you fight that Ursa, it seems your lessons are paying off.”

Jaune nodded. “I can't thank you enough. It's because of your teaching that I was able to save these two.” He said, gesturing to the two kids still clutching onto him tightly.

Pyrrha just smiled and walked over, gently patting he head on the little boy. “That's why we are huntsmen after all.”

There was another roar as a massive snake head turned the corner.

“King Taijitu.” Pyrrha said, eyes widened as she drew her weapons again, taking a defensive stance next to Jane in front of Jaune as the second head appeared. Fighting that in such a small alley was going to be impossible. Especially while protecting Jaune and the kids. Sure Jaune had managed to beat the Ursa, but it only took a glance to see how tired he was, and Pyrrha doubted his Aura would be able to last for another hit.

Feeling determination well up in her, she was about to reach for her scroll when she heard it. A loud piercing sharp whistle from right behind her. The volume of it made her wince slightly, Jaune really could whistle loud. A second later, a similar whistle echoed from somewhere nearby.

Jane glanced over her shoulder, trying to figure out what his deal was when Jaune stared at her, already dropping to a knee as he covered both of the kids with his body. “GET DOWN!” He ordered suddenly.

Both Pyrrha and Jane trusted Jaune, so in a second they dropped to the ground.

The king Taijitu roared, but before either head could move, the white one shot to the ground with such blinding speed that the ground shook from the impact. Pyrrha's eyes widened as the smell of Ozone reached her nose. Barely a moment later the King Taijitu erupted into electricity as it let out a roar of pain.

Alice landed a moment later as she pulled her spear from the head of the snake, her piercing gaze staring at Jaune, as if she was taking notice of every scratch on him. She did not look happy. She hopped off the snake as she began to walk towards Jaune, until the other head of the snake roared up. It was still alive.

“Look out!” Pyrrha called out, getting ready to run forward, until Jaune reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Wait.”

Alice just casually walked towards Jaune, her gaze slowly going from angry to concerned.

The snake lurched forward, before it's head suddenly exploded, a quarter of the body missing.

Pyrrha's jaw dropped at the sight. Alice hadn't done anything, none of them had moved. What could have...

Pyrrha felt a chill rack down her spine as she stared at the figure standing next to where the snake's head had previously been. An overwhelming power stood there, the murderous intent dwarfing Alice's making hers look like a temper tantrum. The figure was oozing with power. The gaze focus on Pyrrha and Pyrrha's guard snapped to attention, feeling a brief pang of fear for her life.

Then, it was gone. All signs of danger was gone as the woman ran towards them.

Pyrrha's eyes widened in shock as she ran towards them. In a moment both Jane and Pyrrha had been pulled into a tight hug by Jaune's mom.

“Oh thank the heavens for you two! Did you help out Jaune just now? I see he has Crocea Mors. We must have missed one or two. I'm so glad you are here. Are you girls unharmed?” She asked, her voice dripping with sweetness and warmth.

Jane was still too terrified to speak as Pyrrha nodded a bit meekly. “We uh came to check on him. There had been some Grimm on the way but Jaune held his own against an Ursa when we got here.” Pyrrha explained. She glanced back at Jaune, her eyes flicking to his mom as if to say 'Really?'.

Jaune just offered a sheepish smile, raising his hands as he shrugged. Alice had to learn it from somewhere after all.

Pyrrha just let out a deep breath, finally able to get air in her lungs once she was finally released from the bear hug Jaune's mother hand pulled her into.

Alice through her arm around Jaune as she pulled him close, letting out a sigh of relief. “At least you're fine this time. It seems Pyrrha's lessons are paying off, eh? Good thing you remembered the signal though. That coulda been bad.” She offered, looking at the corpse of the snake that was slowly dissolving.

The massive snake corpse was suddenly lifted as it was thrown farther down the street as Jaune's dad walked down the alley, brushing dirt off his hands. “Seems I wasn't needed here.” He said with a hearty laugh as he pulled his wife in, kissing her on the cheek.

Jaune's mother moved over and knelt in front of the two fannus children. “There there. Were you scared? Thank you for being so brave.” She said with a warm smile.

The two children nodded, before clinging onto her in a tight hug.

Pyrrha just smiled at seeing the mother act so warm. It was a stark contrast to the persona she had when she arrived on the scene. Pyrrha realized, she really had to make sure she didn't do anything to turn Jaune's family against her.

“Good kids. Now, why don't you go with Jaune? He will take you to find your parents.” She said, shooting Jaune a glance.

A few minutes later and Jaune was walking down the street, each of the kids holding onto one of his hands. They each were sucking on a lollipop Jaune's mother had given them. Pyrrha just smiled, looking at Jane and snickering at seeing Jaune with the kids. He seemed like a natural with them, and Pyrrha had to admit that was an attractive trait. Then again, since he grew up with younger siblings, she guessed he had some practice with kids.

As they rounded the corner back to the main square, they saw it was mostly cleaned up. Glynda had been fixing all the broken bits rather efficiently.

The rest of team RWBY and team JNPR saw Pyrrha and her group arrive, and ran over. Nora and Yang rushed over and were kneeling in front of the kids, both rather fond of kids. Soon they were laughing at playing with them while Weiss and Ren went to go talk to the officers, hoping to find the parents of the kids.

Blake stood by, looking curiously. “Where did you find these kids?” She asked, smiling at seeing her partner and Nora playing with the fannus children, seemingly not even caring about their differences.

“Jaune saved them. When I found him he was fighting off an Ursa to protect them.” Pyrrha bragged a bit, incredibly proud of her friend.

Blake looked at Jaune with a new sense of approval. She had always seen Jaune as nice, but for him to risk his life for Fannus children really showed him in a new light to her. She placed a hand on his shoulder, smiling. “That was very brave of you. I'm sure they appreciate it.” She said.

Jaune just blushed. “Oh stop. It wasn't much.” He said, getting all bashful at the praise.

Blake and Pyrrha just looked at each other, laughing slightly.

Pyrrha was aware that Blake was a fannus, and could guess how much the act had meant to Blake. Jaune wasn't aware of it, but Blake figured she might let him know soon enough, she realized she could trust him.

Before long Weiss and Ren returned, with two concerned looking parents in tow. They ran up, until they saw the kids getting piggy back rides from Yang and Nora. They just let out a sigh of relief. They quickly made their way to Jaune, showering him in thanks.

When the attack happened, they had been separated and they had told the kids to run and hide to stay safe since they couldn't get around the Grimm. They had been looking for them since the attack ended, but didn't have any luck in the large city.

Pyrrha smiled softly as she watched Jaune's face as he rejected their offers of compensation. She knew the battle he had fought had been small, but it was an important one. More importantly, she could see the man she knew he could grow into.

Soon the parents were walking away with the kids, waving goodbye and promising the kids that they could stop by the shop again.

Before long everyone was returning to beacon. Pyrrha offered to walk Jaune back to the shop, so she told her team she'd meet up with him later. Ignoring the glances and Yang's joke, she just blushed and walked away with Jaune.

“So, now that that is all over. Are you sure you're okay? That was a large Ursa.” Pyrrha asked a bit nervously.

Jaune just brushed her off. “Don't worry, I'm fine! I still had my Aura, a good nights rest and I'll be back to normal!” He said, pumping a fist as he tried to reassure her.

Pyrrha just laughed, lacing her hands behind her back. “Glad to hear it. So how did you end up there anyway? Why would your parents and sister leave you alone?” She asked a bit hesitantly, wondering how a family so protective of their son and brother would leave him alone during an attack.

Jaune just sighed. “It wasn't easy as you said.” He stopped walking for a moment, causing Pyrrha to stop and turn to look at him curiously.

“It's just... they're huntsmen you know? Even if my mom and dad are retired, they're huntsmen. People were being attacked out there. I don't know what happened, but a city full of Grimm is a danger. I couldn't let them just babysit me when people could be dying. I convinced them to leave and help the city while I stayed in the shop. It was the only way to ease their worries.” He said, obviously looking a little glum about feeling like a burden to them.

Pyrrha nodded her head. “I can imagine that could be difficult to accept. Staying still when there is danger out there, but rushing out could cause more trouble.” She realized what her words sounded like. “But you really were a hero. You saved those kids.”

Smiling softly, Jaune shook his head. “I understand. I was staying put in the shop, I wasn't going to look for trouble. But I saw the kids running down the alley and I couldn't sit still. I only saw the Ursa with them so I figured I could take care of it.” He started to explain.

“I would have just brought them into the shop to hide, but I don't think a wooden door would be enough to stop an Ursa. I needed to fight.” He defended himself.

Pyrrha thought for a moment before putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I understand. I think you made the right choice in that situation, Jaune. There are times when we all need to fight, regardless of the challenge in front of us. We can't afford to let it pass us by.”

Jaune smiled, obviously relieved that Pyrrha wasn't mad at him. “The whistle is the emergency signal my family has. If someone makes it, the rest of the family runs no questions asked. I didn't want to worry them if it was just the Ursa so I tried to beat him myself. I would have called to save the kids if I thought I couldn't do it though. I was even about to. I guess I got lucky.” He said, looking away.

Pyrrha felt a fist clench around her heart. “It wasn't just luck Jaune. You've worked so hard recently. Every step of progress you've made is from your hard work.” She paused, looking into his eyes for a moment. “That's what I admire about you Jaune. You work so hard, even when you have so little help. You're not afraid of taking on challenges that scare you. That's why you are a hero to those kids. That's why I am so blessed to be able to call you my friend.” She admitted, ignoring the blush that crept on her cheeks.

Jaune just stared at her, the words she just said soaking in. Pyrrha just looked away, and started to walk back towards the shop. She nearly stopped when she felt Jaune's hand grab hers as he walked next to her.

She glanced over, but Jaune was just looking ahead, wearing a matching blush to herself.

They approached the alleyway in silence, though neither was particularly willing to break it.

Soon they were standing outside the shop door, still holding hands. Pyrrha was about to let go whens he felt Jaune squeeze her hand gently.

“Thank you Pyrrha.” He said softly. “Thank you for coming to check on me. Thank you for training me. Thank you for being my friend.” He said, looking at her earnestly. “You're the reason I've started to change, and you're the reason I will continue to fight. Next time, I don't want you to have to worry about me. I want to have your back.” He said with a warm smile.

Pyrrha felt a fire in her chest as she stared at the boy in front of her. Ever so slowly she started to move forward, her face inches from his, until she jumped as she heard the door slam open.

“Jaune? You back yet? Mom wants to know exactly what happened and I-” Alice said, peaking out.

She saw Jaune and Pyrrha standing hand in hand, their faces inches from each other. Her eyes widened. “Oh my god. I'm so sorry.” She said, remorse dripping from her voice. “Pretend I never came out.” She started to close the door when Pyrrha jumped back.

“No, no. It's okay! I should be getting back to Beacon soon anyway. I just wanted to see Jaune home.”

She said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Jaune blushed as he looked away, giving Alice a helpless look.

Dropping to her knees, Alice just slammed her fist on the ground. “I am so sorry. I ruined it. Ugh. Bia is going to kill me.” She said desperately. She looked at Pyrrha, begging for forgiveness. “I'm so sorry. I should have checked.”

Pyrrha just blushed red, playing with her hair. “I have no idea what you mean! We were just... saying goodbye.”

“Yeah!” Jaune added, unconvincingly.

A minute later Jaune's mom reemerged, carrying two boxes. “Who are you talking to? Is Jaune home yet?” Her mom looked at the scene, noticing the blush on her son and Pyrrha. She glanced at Alice. “Is she?” Alice just nodded.  “And you just... when they were?” She asked again. Alice nodded her head again, mortified.

“Alice Ramona Arc. How could you be so careless?” She started to scold her, Alice looking down in shame.

Pyrrha was as red as her hair. She really had no idea how to deal with Jaune's family, and from the look of it, Jaune didn't either.

Alice's mother walked over, handing Pyrrha the two boxes. She rested a hand on her shoulder comfortingly. “I'm so sorry for my daughter. I thought we taught her better manners. Maybe next time.”

Pyrrha just stammered, and blushed harder. “I have no idea what you mean ma'am.”

Jaune's mother just waved her hand dismissively. “Sure sure. Inside those boxes are some pies. It was all I was able to whip up in the short time you were gone, but I figure your team and that team RWBY deserve a snack after how hard you all worked today.” She said with a smile.

Pyrrha smiled. “Thank you Ma'am.”

She just shook her head. “It was Jaune's idea. He said you students have grown quite fond of them. I see Jaune has enthralled more people with his cooking.” She said with a proud laugh.

Smiling Pyrrha nodded. “He does seem to know his way around the kitchen.”

“Mother! Pyrrha has to get back before it's too late.” Jaune said, trying to recover any dignity in this situation. He began to try and push her back towards the shop.

Pyrrha just laughed. “I should be going now. Thank you very much for the pies. I'll let you know when I can come over next for training.” She said to Jaune with a smirk.

Finally having ushered his mother and sister inside, he turned to her smiling. “I look forward to it. Thank you again for earlier. Also, be safe getting back!” He said, waving goodbye to her one last time.

Pyrrha nodded, before stumbling a bit as she tried to adjust her grip on the boxes.

Jaune moved closer, ready to catch them when he was surprised as Pyrrha leaned in.

It was over in a moment, but another kiss to his cheek left his face flushing red. “P-Pyrrha!”

“Goodbye Jaune!” She called out as she turned and quickly made her way from the shop, hiding her blushing face as she laughed to herself.

“G-Goodbye Pyrrha!” She heard him call after a moment, before hearing him already scolding his mother and sister by the time the door to the shop closed and muffled his voice.

As Pyrrha walked back, she knew she had to lose the blush before she could face her team or team RWBY. She really only had known Jaune for a rather short time since coming to Beacon, but she could already begin to see the fruit of his training. She could see him growing, but she could also feel something in herself growing as well. She knew, with every meeting she had with Jaune, she realized just how much he belonged in her life. She just hoped, she just prayed, that he felt the same way about her.

Pyrrha hugged the boxes closer as she smiled. She was excited for her next adventure with Jaune, and excited to see where they they would end up going together in this life.

XxXxXxXxX

I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Took me a while to figure out how exactly I wanted this one to play out, but I’m pretty happy with how it turned out! Thank you all for reading this. I love every note I get here and on my FF.net account where it’s cross posted. I hope this story is continuing to find you well, and I hope you’re all having a wonderful new year! If you have any prompts for short one shots, or just suggestions or comments feel free to shoot me an ask! I even did one of those “Send me an ask with a name to answer that question” thingy.  I posted some RWBY art I did a while ago recently, and I’m working on a piece of art to accompany this story at the moment so I hope I can post it by the next chapter or two. You’re all awesome and I hope you have a wonderful day!

#rwby #MechanicAU #arkos #Jaune Arc #pyrrha nikos #team jnpr #Team RWBY #I hope you enjoyed it! #Still working on the piece of art to accompany this.

[junker-town]

5 things we liked, 2 we didn’t, and 1 that made no sense in the Steelers’ win over Texans

The Steelers won, but the Texans got the much bigger moral victory.

The Steelers kept their homefield advantage hopes alive on Christmas, easily dispatching an overmatched Texans team to improve to 12-3 on the season. Houston rolled through a pair of underwhelming quarterbacks on their way to a high 2018 draft pick (which will wind up conveyed to another AFC North team, the Cleveland Browns).

The good news for Texans fans is most of them got to spend the holiday with their families. NRG Stadium provided little home field advantage as a crowd dotted with black and yellow favored the visitors Monday. Those who stayed home made the right choice — Houston offered little resistance against a Pittsburgh team with Super Bowl aspirations this winter.

Here are the positives, negatives, and unexplainables from a boring NFL offering on Christmas day. Let’s start with the good stuff:

David Quessenberry’s NFL debut was a Texans victory, even in a loss

Quessenberry didn’t start, but he made his NFL debut nearly five years after being drafted by the Texans in the sixth round. What took him so long? He was busy beating cancer.

The left tackle’s first regular season game came after a long battle with Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, which stole his last three seasons. He was declared cancer-free last May before going back to work with Houston during the offseason. While he didn’t make the team’s final roster, he landed on the Texan practice squad and waited for his opportunity to contribute.

That opportunity came in the team’s second drive of the afternoon Monday. Quessenberry battled his way from a life-threatening illness to chase his dream. On Christmas Day, he achieved it. No matter the final score, that’s a win.

The Steelers’ deep wideout corps made Antonio Brown’s absence a footnote

Despite a lacking record, Houston boasts a strong secondary bolstered by above-average players like Johnathan Joseph and Andre Hal. That threatened to derail a Pittsburgh passing offense that was playing its first game of 2017 without All-Pro wideout Antonio Brown, but the Steelers are well prepared for his absence.

Martavis Bryant proved he’s worth the headache, using his combination of size and speed to roast the Texans downfield, like he did with this 35-yard first quarter gain.

Justin Hunter, playing in only his sixth game of the season, was the target for Roethlisberger’s first touchdown pass of the day.

Vance McDonald, the team’s No. 2 tight end, carved up the Texans with four catches for 52 yards in the first half. Le’Veon Bell added five receptions. JuJu Smith-Schuster finished his day with 74 yards and a touchdown.

Ben Roethlisberger threw for 225 yards and a pair of touchdowns before ceding snaps to Landry Jones midway through the fourth quarter. Pittsburgh’s going to be just fine, even without its all-world WR1.

DeAndre Hopkins is great no matter who is throwing to him

Hopkins had a relatively quiet afternoon thanks to a combination of Pittsburgh’s defensive focus and an underwhelming rotation of passers. But when he had even the smallest opportunity to rise up, he took it. Behold, a new contender for 2017’s catch of the year:

Hopkins tips the ball with one hand, grabs it with the other, and STILL manages to get two feet down to give the Texans their only points of the evening. That’s other-worldly coordination -- and it has to make Houston fans excited at the possibility of a full season with a healthy Deshaun Watson and Watkins.

FULLBACK TOUCHDOWNS

Roosevelt Nix had never had a carry in his three-year pro career. On Christmas, the Steelers gave him the gift of a 100% touchdown rate.

That’s 260 pounds of rushing power right there. With one carry for one yard and one touchdown, Nix unintentionally paid homage to Jerome Bettis’s later years.

Celebrating with a (fake) snowball massacre

It wasn’t entirely clear what the Steelers were doing when they celebrated Le’Veon Bell’s third quarter touchdown by dropping to the turf like they’d just been hit by a tidal wave.

A second angle showed the full scene; JuJu Smith-Schuster was hiding behind the goal post, brutally mowing down his teammates with pretend snowballs.

Here’s the bad from Christmas’s early game:

T.J. Yates, NFL starter

Yates’ offensive impact in the first half: two completions, two turnovers. Counting sacks, he was responsible for -7 yards over the first two quarters. Add in an interception in the end zone, and he was good for at least -3 points in 30 minutes.

He finished the game with seven completions (on 16 attempts), 83 passing yards, one touchdown and one interception. He only found the end zone thanks to Hopkins’ insane catch.

The good news for Houston is this is a temporary problem. The bad news is they’ve still got one more game with Yates behind center before 2017 comes to a merciful end. And the worse news is they’re only one bad sack away from being back in this situation due to ...

Houston’s deficient pass blocking

The Texans gave up seven sacks Monday, keeping Yates and Heinicke from establishing any kind of presence in the pocket. That’s a major concern for 2018, where Deshaun Watson will return to the lineup on a surgically-repaired knee. Houston clearly can’t afford to lose him again, but this Christmas performance casts doubt on the team’s ability to protect him.

And here’s what made no sense whatsoever:

Throwing the ball on 3rd-and-goal, and then fourth-and-goal with T.J. Yates as your quarterback

The Texans were about a foot and a half from the Pittsburgh end zone when head coach Bill O’Brien dialed up a pair of passes and took the ball from a running game that had averaged more than 10 yards per carry at that point. Unsurprisingly, the third-string quarterback who spent his October unsigned was unable to step up to the challenge.

His first pass, a fade route to DeAndre Hopkins, was uncatchable. His second was intercepted by Artie Burns in the back of the end zone, not only wasting a scoring opportunity but also peeling back the dire field position the Steelers with which would have been stuck. Instead of taking over in the shadow of their end zone, Pittsburgh got the ball at its own 20 — setting the stage for a touchdown drive that made it 17-0 late in the second quarter.

[ariel-herman]

Prayerful exodus from former Oceti Sakowin. Standing Rock, North Dakota.

A group of BIA cops surrounded three men who’d been caught smoking weed on camera. I took a seat in one of the leather chairs of the lobby and watched to police detain the three men to look for priors. The youngest of the three was physically nervous, the second seemed like he just wanted to get out of the situation. The third and largest man was a firekeeper from camp. He refused to step to one side while they detained them to look for warrants. An officer pulled his taser and threatened him.

With his arms up, he refused to leave his friend’s side. A captain came over and pulled his arm behind his back. He resisted the captain. Once he pushed his arm back up, he was potentially guilty of resisting arrest for disorderly. It was amazing how well they’d set up the precedent to make a non-violent man appear unreasonable. With a snap, the taser prongs landed in his chest. His ribs were broken there from a fall in camp. He screamed and fell over a chair, then onto the colorful carpet.

Structure fire, Oceti Sakowin.

I woke up on February 22nd and headed to camp. Camp leadership and media waiting on 1806 in a light sleet for the general from the Army Corps of Engineers and his entourage. They approached followed by an excavator. The players negotiated how those in the camp in passive resistance would be treated. It was agreed there would be people in prayer. The general listened, nodding with acknowledgement. The governor’s spokesman asked if heavy equipment could come in today during the day with police escorts to begin cleanup. Leadership declined, asking for our camp to be given time for closure. Media would be provided with a designated media zone up on 1806, but would have to leave after 2pm to make room for the army to move in.

After 2pm, anyone left in camp would be guilty (minimally) of federal trespassing charges. One legal source posited that this was good – federal court would have less intrinsic bias than North Dakota.

That night I’d stayed up worrying. A rumor had circulated that there was a weapons cache in camp. According to a former military specialist in camp, this was a classic FBI/AFT move – to plant weapons by way of an infiltrator, thereby demonstrating that the true nature of non-violent movements is in fact militancy. It might sound like a cooked up conspiracy theory, but there is a strong precedent already in existence. We had no way of knowing if the rumor was true per se.

Rumors and wishful thinking are the two most abundant resources. As an idea, it was deadly. The entire movement could have been dragged to its knees with the loss of any life, especially if our side appeared to fire first.

The team deployed to Standing Rock. Our media group searched for salient optics in camp. I slogged across the muddy fields of former Oceti Sakowin. The thaw had softened the ground and bled the snow into a thick, tire-torn sludge. Chunky snowflakes were falling. I remember when this land was prairie grasses padded down from the heavy foot traffic of protectors in service to the Sioux and water. Those hard grounds were as to this mud as the cold nights of November cold were to the deathly cold sunny days of January. I walked out to see the Hogan burning in a soft circle of orange flames. I didn’t talk to anyone there. Time was slowly ending in camp. Structures were lit up by folks of spiritual inclinations and rascal convictions; the wood burned just the same. Ash and snow became indistinguishable as they fell from the sky.

  Ritual burning of shelters in Oceti Sakowin.

By noon I began to grow tense. We had a significant resource atop media hill – a large school bus – and I wanted to save it. Part of us felt a strong ‘fuck it’ attitude. Let’s ride this out and let the bus sail into history with Oceti Sakowin. It was up to everyone to decide what their part needed to be. As the hours passed, no one had a clear answer if they wished to stay and face arrest or leave.

People congregated in the 7th Generation kitchen for coffee, snacks, and to thaw out by the barrel stove. Veterans, water protectors, renegades, rascals, rapscallions, patriots and political prisoners; all hung onto the last few hours in a place that had cultivated us with truth and beauty for many months. The prior day, a great thundercloud came out of the west drawing flashes and purpled fingers and roaring over the camp and police reminiscent of tephra.

At 1pm, a call was put out around camp for a ceremony. A sacred fire was burning by old flag road. Water protectors gathered around the speaker. A man spoke… We will not give them the satisfaction of taking us by force. We will, instead, offer a prayer and a round dance before walking to the evacuation busses by Echo 2 (the southern gate of Oceti Sakowin). Anyone who wished could, of course, stay and make a stand for treaty rights. An elder spoke, thanking us all for having come in service in fighting the black snake (DAPL). I stood with a boot in both worlds then, one as a white journalist, the other as someone whose heart had fallen for the movement. Men and women cried around the fire in a collective release.

The protectors marched up flag road to Echo 1 (north gate). I rushed alongside in the mud and snow, trying to take a photo that wasn’t filled with journalists trying to take the same shot. Behind them, a structure was going up in an immolate blaze casting a stream of black smoke to the sky. They marched through the gates and onto 1806. A Gadsden flag hung on the gate, harkening to the American Revolution with the classic defensive rattlesnake and the motto “Don’t Tread On Me” whipping on a northern wind. A makeshift spike strip (2×4 and nails) was laid out after them, razor wire drawn across the entrance, and the main gate into former Oceti Sakowin.

A friend found me at Echo 1. He’d been at court that morning for his arrest on Last Child Hill.

You made it back!

Yeah, I made it. I had to help out. There’s too many people here I need to help – to keep safe.

His eyes were moist and his voice waivered slightly. He was the kind of man who wants to keep everyone safe while at the same time abandoning their own well-being. His demeanor was like that of many die-hard water protectors.

I embraced him and pleaded, don’t forget to include yourself in the list of people that need saving. This place is a runaway train. Please, take care of yourself, too. These people have made their choice – that doesn’t make it your responsibility.

Yeah, but I do feel that way… I can’t not be here.

We parted ways. The security volunteers by Echo 1 prepared the checkpoint for ritual annihilation by filling it with hay bales and timber before generously dousing it with gasoline. Behind the building was 1806 covered with media and cops. Those on the ground took a few steps back as the security volunteer struggled to light the torch. With a soft underarm, the torch went through the door. FOOM! The instant force of the explosion ripping the walls from the 4x4s at each corner.

  Debris in Oceti Sakowin.

Black smoke rose toward the reservation in the south. We could see a Toyota pickup burning from atop media hill. Random booms came from a nearby structure fire as compressed gas bottles (LP or propellant canisters) ruptured deep in the flames. My friend Erick stationed himself with a few friends in a yurt next to the medical tent on the hill. He’d stay and attend the sacred fire. I did not have the same resolve to stay in my heart, or if I did, I was too scared to embrace it. To the south, people marched across the frozen Cannonball River dragging their possessions in sleds like refugees escaping a war zone.

At 2pm, media members scrambled to get one of our vehicles off the hill. The white van was sliding down the slick eastern face of the hill. We threw straw and cedar compost shavings behind the tires and tried to pull backwards. The van peeled out from its slick position, rolled back up the knoll and turned around down the northern slope toward Echo 1. I’d forgotten to tell him it was shut. A minute later the van blasted across the mudded fields like a great white torpedo and made exodus through Echo 2.

We stayed until 3pm. The risk of arrest increased each hour. Without confidence in this showdown being 100% peaceful, I left. It took us until 4pm to jump the bus. In the last hour, I pinched out a palm full of tobacco and prayed and said goodbye. As the bus warmed up we angled our descent from the hill.

The bus had no breaks whatsoever. Once we began, it would have to be perfect or the top heavy 19,000lb bus would slide down into camp like a sinister, albeit hilarious, textbook demonstration in friction coefficients, mass and gravity. Two other protectors keen on escape joined us, and we began the descent. As we began the police lined up outside Echo 1.

The bus pulled to the right and rolled into the first depression, then up another slight hill before dropping down the snowy southern slope. The bus rocked side to side as we slid down ice and mud toward piles of logs and random debris at the bottom. With no shortage of relief we arrived at a rare grassy patch in the south of camp completely surrounded by mud of unknown depth. After was Echo 2 cleared of traffic, the bus pulled forward like a great steel mud puppy. A lamp hanging on a hook swung around and smacked into the driver side bulkhead knocking the D-batters down into the stairwell. The driver cranked the wheel to the right then accelerated up the graveled exit toward 1806 with a guttural roar.

  Water protectors writing the legal support number on their arm, Oceti Sakowin.

After several BIA checkpoints we made it to the casino. The high emotions and levity faded throughout the evening. We waited around for the team to come back. By time dinner time, I hadn’t eaten a meal in 12 hours.

Our chief of media, John Bigalow, took the team out to the haute Hunters Club at the casino. It was a kind gesture, meant with a spirit of gratitude and celebration, but it felt wrong somehow. I’d gone from slogging across camp in sleet ash to sipping California Syrah and listening to oldies music beneath turtle shell glass chandeliers. Our friends were still down there. The police hadn’t moved on them yet. Camp was still standing, and here we were with two sizes of forks and waiters who attentively refilled my water glass every five minutes. I couldn’t handle it.

Two members hadn’t made it back, so two of our team left the dinner table before the food arrived to go find them. I tried to comment on the confusion of contrast between muddy camp and posh dining, but it wasn’t a happy table topic. I felt grief and shame welling up in me. My colleagues tried to gently coax me back to appreciating the moment. They didn’t understand. I excused myself from the table and went to the gaming floor.

I smoked a cigarette by a slot machine that paid out at exactly 96.40% and smoked a cigarette that was 100% killing me. My friend from camp walked by. He read me quick and sat down. I started to sob as quietly as I could and told him I regretted leaving camp and being here. Camp was like a mother to us. I’d prayed with comrades and dropped my tobacco in ceremony. I was heartbroken for a place which I had never wanted to lose, and yet had allowed myself to leave. At the time, it felt pragmatic. I was happy it had ended – I had wanted it to end – I did not know it how much it would hurt to let her go.

Now that I was in this casino, I couldn’t use my journalism to protect people there or inform the general public. I’d let myself down, and them – and we were of the Oceti Sakowin. Fillet minion tastes like shit when you’ve lost the battle.

He listened quietly. After I’d shaken some of it out, he made me eat my own words…

What’d that you said back in camp? Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too? I’m here right now because of what you said to me, and because other folk also told me the same exact thing…

Erick praying at gunpoint. Photo credit: Christopher Francisco, Oceti Sakowin Camp Media.

Oceti Sakowin was raided the next day by heavily armed law enforcement officers. They radiated south from Echo 1, systematically sweeping structures and arresting everyone. Erick sat with eyes closed by the sacred fire waiving turkey feathers over a bundle of sage and cedar. His prayers were not intended as a political statement, but they made an impact online when photographer Christopher Francisco videoed him being confronted by police brandishing M4 assault rifles. His image went viral. What had been a deeply personal act for Erick had become the epitome of Standing Rock down to her last protector. He reminded me why I had come to Standing Rock, how beautiful life can be when we shamelessly pursue what matters most, and to tend our fires ceaselessly.

After Francisco was arrested and his camera feed cut, the sacred items were ripped from Erick’s hands and his face was pushed into the mud. A knee was put to the back of his neck, and after 5 hours wearing zip-tie cuffs, he permanently lost sensation on the top of his thumb.

The line of armored police pushed across camp up to the northern banks of the Cannonball River. A Customs and Border Patrol helicopter low-buzzed the riverbanks sweeping wide around camp. On the frozen river were a hundred or so water protectors.

Everyone needs to affirm their sovereignty. Part of the problem, to me, was how many seemed to base that affirmation on the presence of a dominator rather than an abundance of intrinsic conviction. That aspect doesn’t account for the numerous reasons for people being on the river that day, brandishing medicine wheels and political banners. Yet I wondered if it were true in a collective sense. If so, it is a huge distraction to getting a significant dialogue going between all sides regarding the collective existential threat of ecological ruin awaiting future generations.

I walked along the southern shore from Sacred Stone to Rosebud by 1806. Abandoned camping supplies littered the upper banks. There were shelves with stacks of food and between unoccupied army tents and tipis. A campfire of large rounds steadily burned in the middle of an empty camp. To the north, an excavator was destroying buildings from what had become a runaway construction effort. Atop a single building, a water protector wove a flag at police. It was quiet. Oceti Sakowin had been like our mother. We were exiled in dreams of the afterbirth, imagining where the next frontline would be. Could we afford not to oppose the Trump Administration’s insulting disregard of the Constitution and the earth? No, this was too soon, we still needed to grieve over a warm corpse.

Fifteen BIA officers entered at 1806 and began to march toward me. It was time to go.

Customs and Border Patrol helicopter over the Cannonball River. To the left is Rosebud, to the right is former Oceti Sakowin.

Cables make getting across thinning ice less precarious. Above, law enforcement officers take the upper bank and last section of Oceti Sakwoin Camp.

We’ve all had to say goodbye to someone we loved. There is a kind of goodbye that hurts more than any other. It comes when we let go of someone who, upon later reflection, we wish we’d fought harder to keep. From my hotel suite down the road from Standing Rock, it’s hard to arrest my speculation – did I do everything in my power to save her? Was it ever possible to keep a place like that?

The answer to both is no. For many reasons, it is good that it ended.

From death to deadlines, the rules of heaven are, according to Aristotle, unchanging and unwritten. He also reminds us that, an education of the mind without an education of the heart is no education at all. In this respect, it has been an immense education.

How We Say Goodbye to Oceti Sakowin A group of BIA cops surrounded three men who’d been caught smoking weed on camera. I took a seat in one of the leather chairs of the lobby and watched to police detain the three men to look for priors.

#domestic politics #fighting #heartbreak #love #meditation #native american #oceti oyate #oceti sakowin #politics #Standing Rock #us politics