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loyalist-14th-legion · 3 years

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Let's go over lists!

To start, here's the list for the army.

++ Battalion Detachment 0CP (Imperium - Adeptus Astartes - Imperial Fists) [101 PL, 12CP, 1,990pts] ++

+ Configuration +

**Chapter Selection**: Imperial Fists Successor, Indomitable, Warded

Battle Size [12CP]: 3. Strike Force (101-200 Total PL / 1001-2000 Points)

Detachment Command Cost

+ HQ +

Captain in Gravis Armour [8 PL, 155pts]: Chapter Command: Chapter Master, Stubborn Heroism, The Armour Indomitus, Warlord

Primaris Chaplain [5 PL, 85pts]: 3. Exhortation of Rage, Litany of Hate

Primaris Librarian [5 PL, 95pts]: 4) Fortify, 5) Aspect of Stone

+ Troops +

Heavy Intercessor Squad [7 PL, 140pts]: Heavy bolt rifle

. 4x Heavy Intercessor: 4x Bolt pistol, 4x Frag & Krak grenades

. Heavy Intercessor Sergeant

Heavy Intercessor Squad [7 PL, 140pts]: Heavy bolt rifle

. 4x Heavy Intercessor: 4x Bolt pistol, 4x Frag & Krak grenades

. Heavy Intercessor Sergeant

Heavy Intercessor Squad [7 PL, 140pts]: Heavy bolt rifle

. 4x Heavy Intercessor: 4x Bolt pistol, 4x Frag & Krak grenades

. Heavy Intercessor Sergeant

Intercessor Squad [5 PL, 110pts]: Astartes Grenade Launcher, Bolt rifle

. 4x Intercessor: 4x Bolt pistol, 4x Frag & Krak grenades

. Intercessor Sergeant: Power sword

+ Elites +

Bladeguard Veteran Squad [5 PL, 105pts]

. 2x Bladeguard Veteran: 2x Frag & Krak grenades, 2x Heavy Bolt Pistol, 2x Master-crafted power sword, 2x Storm Shield

. Bladeguard Veteran Sergeant: Heavy Bolt Pistol

Bladeguard Veteran Squad [5 PL, 105pts]

. 2x Bladeguard Veteran: 2x Frag & Krak grenades, 2x Heavy Bolt Pistol, 2x Master-crafted power sword, 2x Storm Shield

. Bladeguard Veteran Sergeant: Heavy Bolt Pistol

Invictor Tactical Warsuit [8 PL, 160pts]: Incendium cannon

Primaris Apothecary [5 PL, 95pts]: Chapter Command: Chief Apothecary

Redemptor Dreadnought [9 PL, 185pts]: 2x Fragstorm Grenade Launchers, Heavy Onslaught Gatling Cannon, Icarus Rocket Pod, Onslaught Gatling Cannon

+ Heavy Support +

Eradicator Squad [7 PL, 135pts]: Melta rifle

. 2x Eradicator: 2x Bolt pistol

. Eradicator Sgt

Eradicator Squad [7 PL, 135pts]: Melta rifle

. 2x Eradicator: 2x Bolt pistol

. Eradicator Sgt

Gladiator Lancer [11 PL, 205pts]: 2x Storm Bolters, Icarus Rocket Pod

++ Total: [101 PL, 12CP, 1,990pts] ++

Created with BattleScribe (https://battlescribe.net)

So there’s a lot going on, I get that, let’s go over it (quickly) line by line. Starting with the chapter tactics and parent chapter.

I didn’t pick Imperial Fists for any particular reason I just like a few of their warlord traits and relics that I ultimately didn’t end up using much of anyway. The major attribute we wanted was the chapter trait “Warded”. It gives our whole army 5+++ (Whenever a model would lose a wound roll a d6 and on a 5+ that would is instead not lost)! It’s the Death Guard they have to have their feel no pains. Indomitable is just because I’m lazy and don’t want to take morale tests.

The captain was definitely the most difficult to build considering I want him to be the legendary Nathaniel Garro. I went with a Gravis Captain to parallel a lot of Death Guard HQs being Cataphractii armor. Otherwise I just made him as impossibly difficult to kill as I could. 2+/4++/5+++ makes for a nightmare of a Chapter Master. On top of his Warlord trait that halves all damage rounded up, his relic letting him have a 3++, toughness 5 and 8 wounds means he should be sticking around for ever. Not super flavor filled with some of Garro’s actual feeds but I wanted to stay within the rules.

Side note: I really love the implementation of the custom chapter master rules and implementations in 9th edition.

The chaplain is kind of whatever. They’re not bad, I have one from the Indomitus box set, and it was the perfect amount of points. The librarian however was to be the parallel for the all too infamous Malignant Plaguecaster in Death Guard proper. I read at some point that Imperial Fists had a psychic ability that gives a minus one to hit on a unit but when looking back over it I can’t seem to find it. That being said being able to heal a unit from 12” away is still really good and keeps the theme of staying power.

The troops were at first a little difficult but with the introduction of Heavy Intercessors, we have the perfect candidate. Toughness 5, 5” movement and a 5+++ sound familiar to anyone? I grabbed the Killteam box set that had a squad of these guys just to get my hands on them. The squad of standard intercessors is more for points than theme or utility but the sergent has a power sword which I thought was good flavor seeing as its Garro’s Death Guard.

The elites were another cramped and difficult section to go through. Two squads of Bladeguards shores up any glaring weakness I would have in melee and a perfect representation of loyalist Deathshrouds. The Warsuit was another one of those models that I picked because I had one lying around and was super excited to paint it. The Apothecary was a no brainer in so many ways. Being the parallel to the Plague Surgeon and just one of the best models in Space Marines right now made it the fastest inclusion of the whole list. Finally the dreadnought, it was included sort of as an homage to the fact that Death Guard proper can’t take any kind of dreadnoughts aside from the Contemptor variety otherwise just another model I thought would be fun to paint.

Eradicators are an auto include. If I had to give them a parallel maybe Myphitic Blighthaulers but in reality, I had one squad from Indomitus and they’re just too good not to use. Last but not least is the Gladiator Lancer, a model I’m still not wildly sold on. I scoured the entire Space Marine line up for a Plagueburst Crawer type tank and the model that works the most similar, the Whirlwind, looks nothing like the Crawlers and I wanted a more aesthetic comparison that a mechanical one thus leading me to the tank with the biggest barrel. At a whopping 200 points base for a smaller cannon than a Repulsor Executioner its a tough sell when compared to other Gladiator variants. Still though, a tank with a big barrel is the look we’re going for.

Noticeably absent from this list are any form of fast attack or flyers. Death Guard proper lack those things (barring the Foetid Bloat Drones) and I thought it flavorful to keep the army slow and grounded. I doubt I’ll ever add any kind of model that is fast and/or flys but if something comes out that is just a one to one of the Bloat Drones I could be convinced.

I recognize that lists are not as flashy or fun to look at when compared to kitbashing or painting but having direction is important for my completion and ultimately I want to chronicle the whole process.

If you have any ideas, input or feedback on my list please feel free to say something! Otherwise I’ll talk to you next time.

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ravenclawandorder · 5 years

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Get to Know Me

I was tagged by @cotedesw for this get to know the blogger thingy! Thanks xx

What fandom did you originally start your blog for? I think it was Supernatural (RIP) or maybe Harry Potter?

When/why did you join tumblr? I’m pretty sure I joined back in 2008/2009? I distinctly remember being in 9th grade and talking with @mugglebornandraised about stealing the president’s shoelaces (god) and know I was on it before then. I liked the idea of talking with other people all over the world about things I liked because the people in my hometown (with a few exceptions) didn’t really obsess over the things I did.

Have you made any close friends on tumblr? Oh yes!! I legit text @mistress-of-icarus and @soberstark like everyday lmao plus there are a few others that I chat with on here a lot!

What characters do you most identify with? I feel like I’m a mixture of Luna Lovegood, Katara, Leslie Knope, and Elizabeth Swann.

What are your favorite kind of AUs? I’m a sucker for bakery/coffee shop, bookstore, and florist/tattoo artist AUs. Also Hogwarts AUs.

Describe your ideal weather. When it’s autumn and chilly, there are lots of clouds and it almost rains, but not quite.

What's your college major/what do you want to major in? I majored in International Affairs/Political Science with a minor in Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages. I’ve been considering going back to grad school for a MA in Historical Preservation or Library Science but I wanna work for a while to save up.

Do you have a job? Kinda? I work for this editing company out of India, but they only allow me to work on one project at a time so it doesn’t give me a large enough salary to move out, but I’m working on finding a full-time job.

Do you have pets? If not, what pet do you want? I don’t, but I want a corgi named BB-8

What’s your favorite mineral or crystal? Labradorite

What’s your favorite outfit? Black AE stretch high waisted jeans, black/white striped tunic, camel colored cashmere duster, black suede ankle boots with a 2.5″ block heel. Usually with my silver origami fox earrings and wave ring. Black beanie if it’s cold enough.

How tall are you? 5′9″

Make a moodboard that you think describes you.

What’s your favorite drink (alcoholic and not)? Raspberry hot chocolate and an old fashioned

How many countries have you been to? What’s your favorite? I’ve been to 30 countries. My favorite is either France or Romania.

Do you speak any other languages? I speak almost fluent Italian and some Spanish/Polish/German/French/Croatian. Also I can read Latin okay-ish.

What’s your favorite social media platform? Twitter and Snapchat (mutuals message me if you wanna add me!)

What are your Enneagram/MBTI types? I’m a type 7 with 5/9 wings. I’m also an ENFP.

What does your ideal weekend look like? I’m in Paris and get to spend all morning at the Louvre, pick up some books at Shakespeare and Co then eat jamon buerre in Tuileries Garden. Do some people watching on Champs-Élysées. Paint by the Seine. I’d take an overnight train out to Plougrescant (where my mom’s side of the family is from) to do some etchings of my ancestor’s graves.

Post a selfie! Not a selfie (whoops) but here’s my face from two weeks ago

I’m tagging: @usethehorseluke @emmo394 @lorrnadane @thatbitchfromasgard @strangerinaholyplace @bisexualmarvel @hope-lives-in-the-galaxy @gamoramantis @benperorsolo @sularae @kylorensx @findingmyclaireity @mistress-of-icarus and @kingmieczyslaw

#don't feel obligated but I really liked these questions #about me #meet the blogger #personal #tagged

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jk-snoddy · 7 years

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“DAMN IT, ICARUS!” Stories of Flying Too Close to the Sun.

Theme: RISK (...but mostly failure)

When I think about the creative risks I’ve taken in the past few years the first thing that comes to mind are the failures. In my eyes, the word “RISK” paints pictures of potential danger, humiliation, and disappointment. It’s like streaking naked across a college campus, in the day, at lunchtime. But it also paints the slim opportunity of being an outlier in that wide margin of likely failure. I faced this predicament when I decided to make my first narrative film in college. It was garbage, it pissed me off every step of the way.

Me and my friends, Denny and Joe, had banded together in the spring of 2012 and decided to start a film production team at our college. We made two mediocre music videos, did video documentation for hire, and thanks to Denny's big mouth telling any and every one that "WE HAVE A COMPANY!" we became known as "those video guys". I don't know where we got the gall to think that we were official in any way, but for some reason, we had our heads puffed up by our third gig. We felt like hot shit.

Fast forward to December 2012, it was near the end of the semester and Denny just kept talking about how he wanted to make this movie he’s had in mind for the past seven months. The idea had to do with a young male coming out of the closet to his father. He was super gung-ho about shooting it and creating a story about LBGTQ characters. Although I didn’t connect with the story, the last time I made a narrative film was in high school. I felt this urgency to get behind the camera again and direct something that wasn’t a music video or someone's band in a basement. So I figured with a little common writing sense and empathy I could tell this story. So I told him “Fuck it, I’d be down. Let’s make a movie.” On the last day before Christmas break, I was called in for a production meeting in the school atrium. Before I could even blink, Denny had arranged a small quasi-core production team consisting of a screenwriter, David (who eventually became one of our main actors), our sound guy, Mitchell, and Georgina, our production assistant, Denny who acted as producer, and me as the director. Joe went MIA before the production began. Before the end of that day, I was sent a potential draft of the “screenplay” David had written. The ball was starting to roll a little bit faster than I was used to; this wasn’t all talk anymore. But I had to keep up. Don’t even get me started on the title the producer had in mind.

January was dedicated to editing the script that was written in less than a week. For some stupid reason, I decided to take part in some of the writing duties. For the entire month, I had my stale revisions shat upon by the team who would constantly go back and forth on what it should be and what it shouldn’t. February came and we were casting for each role, finding a cinematographer, setting up our Kickstarter page (we didn’t reach our goal), and trying to deal with our own classes/lives which were crumbling right at our feet due to mounting stress. March arrived. The semester was halfway done; my personal work and my grades were suffering. The cast was finalized, and we were set to shoot during the week of spring break. I felt nothing but tension as the first shooting day drew closer. I didn’t have a decent night’s sleep since January. We reserved every Canon MK II and light kit that the film/animation department had to offer, along with sound equipment, batteries, and CF and SD cards. We had to keep track of all of this stuff. Every employee at my school’s equipment stockroom loathed us.

The first day of spring break arrived, principal photography was a complete nightmare. We had the police called on us for shooting near a restaurant, that wasn’t even on screen. It turns out that you can’t trust a fine art photographer to do the job of an actual cinematographer just because the camera has a video button. It was the first time I ever had to fire someone. The first week passed and we were missing so many scenes, the production dragged on for the remainder of March into April. After the first week, we lost our half of our core team. Our sound guy, Mitchell, was a Berklee student at the time and had to focus on finals (along with arranging our score and doing ADR). Our PA had to continue her own classes and studio work. We were down to a skeleton crew and we had to recruit our other friends who were willing to help out. Because we were using school equipment at the time, we had to keep checking out (and extending, and returning) cameras, lighting, and sound gear constantly. Everyone at the stockroom wanted to kill me.

Because we didn’t have a budget, we poured our non-existent cash into coffee and donuts for every set. Turns out you can’t expect an entire cast and crew to run off of Boston cremes. Nor can a 20-year-old subsist on junk food for a month straight and be a good communicator and college student. My diet for the majority of the semester consisted of Dunkin Donuts, black coffee, vending machine pastries, and Adderall.

(There are only plain donuts left.)

This film was no longer a labor of love and enthusiasm, but a chore. We started off cock-sure of our abilities to make this movie, but the moment we got started we were hit with reality. Each day brought a new plateau of pressure and it was far too late to back out.

Being on set wasn’t an exclusively negative experience. Each day of shooting was a healthy learning experience that helped us understand what it takes to be a make a film. I was learning how to effectively express my needs to the performers and how to really direct a story through enforcing subtle undertones to their roles. Directing for me was becoming an intuitive process that became easier to tap into. Because we let our cinematographer go I took on the role of DP myself. It was rewarding because I was able to achieve the shots I was trying to capture in terms of the look and feel. It was hard, but it felt better shooting it than trying to relay shot ideas to someone who was always in their own head. But figuring out how to properly light a scene was more experimental, which meant using more time on set figuring out the composition. We powered through the month of April to get the final pick up shots that we needed and we completely wrapped by the end of the month.

As soon as the school year ended we were trying to set a hard deadline for the final cut before the screening date. FUN FACT: just because your producer is enthusiastic about being an editor, doesn’t give them the chops to actually cut together a movie. We screened the “final” cut to all of our friends, classmates, crew members, actors, and co-workers at the Fenway Health Clinic screening room. It was the biggest disappointment I ever had to sit and watch. There was audio out of sync, a lot of areas where my experimental cinematography style justed looked tacky and wrong, the stale writing was really prominent. It was a shit-show. Most of my classmates, friends, and other creative contemporaries had to sit through that film and I knew that they felt embarrassed for me. From the time that I saw the first rough cut, I knew that it wasn’t going to be the best thing ever. I was honestly hoping Denny could’ve made my stale shooting into something palatable, I was wrong.

The director is supposed to be the calm face of the production. Every day I brought my anxieties, neuroses, and vulnerabilities with me on set. My fragile ego at the time couldn’t handle outside ideas and criticisms from my producer (or anyone on set) because I felt I was CONSTANTLY RIGHT. The fear of not knowing what I was doing balanced the sting of being told I was wrong. I was like an open nerve of my own exposing. To this day I still think about this project and how I handled myself with the crew and actors. I was struggling to manage as a leader alongside everyone else’s opinion and hurrying the fuck up. A bad day on set is pretty discouraging. But three bad days in a row, including class the very next day, then more filming immediately after, was like shooting my motivation in the face in broad daylight.

It’s been a while since I made something of that scope. Mostly fearing to make the same mistakes I made the last time. But the fear of failure will never justify your losses when you never continued moving onward. That’s a big failing on my part as an artist and storyteller. Virgil Abloh (Founder of Off-White, Creative Director at DONDA, friends with Kanye West) said “Find the domino effect. Create the project that’s latent with intention and see what comes after it”. This slightly justifies the artistic risk in making bad work, learning from it, and continuing forward. Looking back, all I did was think about this project and see it as a critical failure on my end as a storyteller. When what I really should've done is embraced it as a part of the process. All this time I hated myself for how it came out, that I forgot that we, a group of early 20 something's, actually had the audacity to finish an entire movie.

I could go on and on about how the resources were bogus, or the lack of money and manpower held us down. But it’s inaccurate. There was no amount of cash or gear that could’ve saved us from ourselves. We took on way more than we should’ve, didn’t plan each step well, and we failed as a result. I think about the unnecessary urgency we had put on ourselves to get this film made instead of slowing down and using the standard process. The heartbreaking part was the toll it took on my personal relationships with everyone in the project. I wouldn’t have guessed how much the tension would fracture my friendships. If I ever get the chance to make a movie soon (god willing) I’ll walk onto the project with my battle scars from the last time. I’ll use paranoid due diligence to make sure I'm not creating a product that I'll look back onto 8 years and cringe about its inception.

#AINAP #film production #risk #icarus #filmmaker #filmmaking #screenwriting #when it all goes wrong

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littlefreya · 4 years

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The Way to Hell - Part 6

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Summary: Post Mi6 - August manages to escape with his face intact and just won himself the title of being the most dangerous man on earth. With every agent in the world on the hunt for him, life became a living hell, but that’s okay because hell is where he reigns.

Too bad for the woman who’ll stand in his way.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Ingvild) | August Walker x ofc Suzy

Word count: 5K

Warnings: Dark themes, rough oral sex, gagging, hinted anal, mentions of rough sex, and August twisted thoughts.

A/N: The adventures of August and Ingvild continue 💖 thanks again for reading and giving me your feedback, it keeps me fueled so keep it up :D! Of course thanks @agniavateira for editing my work and being my muse.

Title: Stargazer

The love boat sets sail through the icy water of the North Sea. The apostle, Knight_of_Cockn3ss, or whatever that kid’s name is, wasn’t joking when he mentioned a romantic cruise.

The traitorous sun hangs mid-sky as August trails across the deck. A beige fedora covers his dark curls and a matching cream-coloured suit over his sturdy body. In his right hand rests his laptop, he is not daring to leave it out of sight even for a minute. His eyes observe the surroundings; he must be the only single person on this trip, surrounded by timid couples on the verge of divorce and sugar daddies with their sugar babies.

‘At least the young girls are pretty.’ August greets a tall blonde, holding one hand behind his back and giving her a small bow before continuing on his way.

He’ll have to endure this trip for a couple more days, which isn’t ideal by any means, but he can’t risk getting caught or killed. Airports all over the world are swarming with security guards, agents, and assassins on really fucking high alert by now, all of them waiting for him.

The irony of the situation is that a long time ago used to be one of them. A wanted target on a scale of world catastrophe would spin a web of agents worldwide and Agent Walker would always get there first. That’s why they called him “The Hammer” - he nailed each target on the head, among other things.

No one cared about torture and extreme violence. He once brought back a target in such a dire condition that Erica was forced to send him to psych evaluation. He bluntly told the psychiatrist he enjoys the violence for no particular reason why, and then fucked her over the desk.

He scoffs at the memory, breaking into a wolfish grin.

Standing on the rail, his gaze is glued to the blue horizon, following the trail of sea-foam left by the boat as it slices through the water, disturbing the peaceful life beneath the sea. Slowly, his chaotic mind begins to drift, reveries of the CIA reminding him of her.

Golden locks of hair glow like hot sand on a summer day. Sweetly, she jokes about buying a yacht, telling Erica to fuck off so they can leave everything behind, and sail into freedom.

Memories are perfidious. Why has she been on his mind so much as of late? She’s been dead for years, flesh eaten by worms and the insects.

She is no more but a sack of rotting bones.

To condemn her memory is more than she deserves.

August’s nostrils flare. For whatever reason, his mind wanders to the girl who lived. Gently snorting, he shakes his head, remembering the condition of how he left ‘poor little’ Ingvild; half-naked, wrists tied up to the bed, probably crying to whatever father figure she has.

After what he did to her, she’ll probably retire from Icarus.

“I’m coming after you,” he mimics her voice in his head, and laughs while making his way toward the stack of beach lounge chairs. The section is nearly empty as most of the lovebirds are dinning in the main hall and unlike the degenerated visitors of this cruise, he is here solely on business.

Much work is left to be done. “Knight” has promised to meet him in London’s sky tower, suggesting he may or may not have a source of plutonium. Whether he’s a broker, a source, or a possible troll matters very little to a man on the run. Desperate times are ahead; he may be sticking his neck out, might be stepping into an obvious trap, but choice is scarce at the moment.

‘This is not the type of anarchy I dreamed of.’

That little girl, Ingvild, was the first to come. There will be others, endless more until the world will fall apart.

“I’ll keep coming after you.” Her voice hinges on his troubled mind.

He opens his laptop with a groan, trying to ignore the truth that lies on his mind like a pile of heavy brick.

‘You should have left her pretty face to die in the bottom of the lake.’

“Oh, but to miss out on all the fun that followed in that bedroom?” he speaks to himself quietly, unlocking his laptop with a retinal scan.

Luckily, his old drive is still accessible on the cloud he encrypted. Years of work and dirt collected on the CIA and the government nestles on a single server. The ugly truth, the lies, the corruptness. Thick and black like a pit filled of tar.

Erica Sloane has her own dedicated special folder. Personal vendetta was never on his agenda, it was never about revenge, it was about a cause but sweet Erica deserves whatever damnation he could think of. He hopes that when he detonates his nuclear bombs, that once this world falls apart, she’ll sit on a front-row seat to see her failures raining down like fire from the sky.

A vicious smirk paints his face as his fingertips slide onto the touchpad. August scans through his many folders, seeking a specific one regarding illegal weapon deals. It would be a lovely afternoon at the CIA had one of these recordings or documents would find their way to the public eye.

August slides the cursor around, entering one of the CIA’s subfolders when his smile fades away.

He thought he deleted her folder a long time ago, but it seems like mistakenly, he placed it in another section instead.

And now here it is. A name he thought he’d never see again: Lacey.

Strange, he hardly remembers what she looked like. How long has it been? Six? Seven years ago? In his dreams, she’s nothing but a rotting corpse, but the mind has a tendency to alter one’s memory, doesn’t it?

Was she even sweet at all?

‘Manipulation was her strongest trait anyway.’

Without mustering a mother breath, he deletes the folder, and proceeds to search for the files he means to leak. He muses if they caught up with the notion that it was him who poisoned the well this entire time. Years of stirring chaos while sitting with his laptop of his bed while Sloane and her high-ranking management freaked out and did all that’s in their power to cover shit up.

It was so hard to keep a poker face and pretend he is trying to help. One particular time, he got so ecstatic he had to go and jack off in the men’s room.

‘That was a good one.’

Something abruptly disturbs his attention, making his heart nearly drop.

‘It can’t be, is that...?’

A petite brunette passes through the lounge, joyfully trodding along the deck. Her hair is tucked back into a ponytail. No, it can’t be her, not in the situation he left her at. By what sort of dark magic would she exactly appear here out of nowhere?

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the little Valkyrie turns out to be some sort of a witch.’

The brunette feels his gaze upon her figure and turns. He is met with a brown, warm gaze, rather than the sharp icy lustre that is Ingvild’s trademark. Less pretty as well, but looks about the same age, perhaps a year or two younger.

Another sugar baby, weary and discontent.

August realises he must have been staring with a dumbfounded look as she decides to smile back and make her way to him.

“Good afternoon,” she greets in a Midwestern accent. August’s eyes focus on her painted lips and in his mind, he imagines wiping that cotton candy pink lipstick by his thumb.

“Afternoon,” he smiles kindly, tipping his fedora with a welcoming bow.

Always the gentleman.

The young woman moves to sit on the seat in front of him, crossing her legs together as she takes in his sight. She observes and assesses how old he is and how much money he must own.

Probably looking for a new target.

‘Not old enough to be your daddy, but you can still call me that if it floats your boat.’

“Are you a secret agent?” She jokes, peering at his laptop before he smooths his hand on the lid to shuts it. He pretends to be intrigued by her senseless, obvious seduction when his mind once again forced him to go back and compare her to living-dead girl.

It seems like he can’t get away from her. Perhaps her threats were a curse? Even halfway across the sea, this total stranger reignites his curiosity.

‘Does Ingvild has any values? Any empathy toward others?’

She did experience fear in those little moments when his knife penetrated her soft little gut - that look in her eyes; like a virgin, fucked extremely rough for the very first time.

Thinking of those big, terrified eyes light up a snarl on his bewhiskered lip.

There was an inch of vulnerability in that sweet farewell kiss, a sense lost look on her face as if she couldn’t fit that emotion into any drawer inside her brain. It made her look so much more beautiful.

He wonders what she would have looked like if he went ahead with his besser urges and fucked her.

‘Maybe she’d finally break into tears. Fuck, I’d love to see her cry.’

“Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?” He interrupts the sassy brunette as she speaks of Lord-knows-what. It seems that she doesn’t even realise he wasn't listening to her for the last 5 minutes she been babbling . The girl smiles sweetly, tucking a brown lock of hair behind her ear. The diamond bracelet that decorated her wrist dangles as she does.

“Suzy.”

“Suzy,” August repeats and smiles charmingly before giving his lips a quick flick of a tongue. “Would you like to join me in my room?”

The brunette pretends to blush beneath the layers of foundation on her face and fakes an argument inside her mind as if she actually considers refusing his bold suggestion.

~*~

Back in his room, he pushes the petite brunette to her knees. He wipes away her makeup, smearing the pink paint with the crudeness of thumb. Suzy giggles, thinking she probably had men do worse than that by now.

‘Oh, darling, we haven’t even started yet.’

August’s large hand traces her rounded face, knuckles brushing against her cheek tenderly while running down to meet her lips again.

“Open up sweetheart,” he commands in a relaxed voice, his index finger demanding entrance to her velvety mouth. She spreads her lips open slowly, allowing him to slip in his long digit to explore the wet cavern while his thumb caresses her chin. Much to his delight, she sucks on his finger obediently, moaning as he slowly pumps in and out of her hot mouth.

“Good girl,” he praises, his free hand reaching to unbuckle his belt urgently and free his aching cock from his trousers. He tugs at himself for a second, staring how she suckles on his finger with fake devotion. She probably do want his cock, but it’s his money that she’d care for more later.

‘Oh, how disappointed you are going to be once I’m off this boat, baby.’

“How about I’ll fuck that pretty little throat, hmm?” August asks and without waiting for an answer, pulls his soaked finger away and clasps his hand around the hollows of her cheeks instead, forcing her to keep her mouth open.

She voices no protest, only her eyes staring at him wide and helpless. He pays no attention, preferring the sight of his cock sliding in between those puffy lips and pushing into the warm depths instead. A prolong groan slips out of his mouth, emphasising the relief of finally getting his dick wet.

Usually, he loves to watch, yet he lets his eyes roll back and shuts them tightly this time while she in the background. It only makes him fuck her throat more vigorously, his hands cradling and saddling her head, forcing her to meet the violent thrust of his hips.

“Don’t touch me,” he rasps breathlessly, as her her dirty paws snake for his waist. Terrified, she pulls away, intimidated by his voice. August’s eyes remain shut yet he can feel the wetness on her cheeks as his thumbs dig into them. Those tears are enough to send him over the edge, and he comes into her throat without any warning, grunting a couple of times and lingering inside her mouth to make sure she’ll swallow him clean.

‘That’s right little Valkyrie angel, you’ll take what I’ll give you.’

The mists of fantasy fade as August blinks his eyes open. Debunked by the plastic-type of woman. Slowly, he pulls his cock out, impressed by the mascara that’s smeared beneath Suzy’s now glassy red eyes. He wipes her lower lip clean and then gives her chin a gentle pinch with a soft grin.

Suzy gives out a weak smile in return, trying to look satisfied while remaining on her knees. He can tell that her little brain is pretty much half-through into realising she made a mistake by following the devil into his room.

Tall and menacing, he looks at her drenched by vile mischief. August moves to sit on the queen sized bed, petting the empty spot next to him. She follows, fighting her instinct to put a hand on his knee as she is used to, afraid that he will bark at her again.

“Tell me, Suzy,” he coaxes, reaching for the wallet in his pocket and drawing out a Trojan condom.

“Have you ever tried anal sex?”

****

“Ingvild,” the old man calls her name once he brings her to her new home. It’s a simple, minimalist apartment with naked walls and generic black IKEA furniture.

Silent, she peers at him, holding her small luggage between sinewy fingers. Everything that she possesses in the world is in that suitcase; a bunch of plaid skirts, white buttoned shirts, and a few books about fairies and monsters.

This man called Liam, is he to be her new father? He never even offered her a smile and hardly bothers looking into her eyes. Instead he grunts and sighs while making his way around the house and gesturing for her to follow.

At least he is kinder than Mother Superior. At least in here, no girl is going to pick any fights with her and get her into trouble.

“This is your room,” Liam gestures. The pubescent girl sneaks closer, peeking inside with curiosity. It’s not what someone would call a girl’s room by any means, very much like the rooms they had at the orphanage. It contains a single bed with a thin mattress and white metal bars and on the bed rest some casual clothes for her to wear.

At least she won’t have to wear skirts anymore.

As little Ingvild continues to scan the room, she picks on a small library housing some books and a learning desk with a computer. Probably for her to gain some knowledge of the world. She never had any of that at the orphanage, just the bible and the “forbidden” books of fairytales she stole from one of the nuns.

“Today you can rest,” Liam speaks, watching the little girl as she moves to place her luggage inside and sits on the bed.

“Tomorrow, you will start your first day of training.”

‘Training?’

Ingvild says nothing, only glares at him back quietly. It’s quite clear no woman is present in the house which makes her wonder; the orphanage doesn’t allow single parents to adopt, especially not men. Was Mother Superior this desperate to get rid of her that she decided to throw her at the first person who asked?

“Just so we’re clear, girl,” Liam grumbles, “I am not your father. You call me Liam and that’s that.”

She nods silently and watches him leave the room, shutting the door behind. Sighing, she falls back to the mattress, her silver eyes fixing at the ceiling in wonders of what sort of new life has she been sold ito.

“Ingvild...”

A low, velvety voice calls for her again, the mattress dipping, shifting with the weight of the one who joins her. As she turns her face aside, she is met with hungry eyes and a smile so cold it makes her heart shrivel.

August.

*~*

A loud thud wakes her with a sharp inhale. Though her face remain stoic, quickly readjusting to the sight of moving ground as the plane’s wheels make their landing. ‘Arrogant August Walker, invading my dreams’, she curses but pays no more thought to why he was there. Analysing dreams was never her thing. They were just memories of random things that happened to her in her childhood and August is no different as he had been on her mind for the last 72 hours.

He was a job.

One that she needed to get over with.

Liam was at her throat with this one specifically, nagging her like an old shrew. He wasn’t used for her taking her time with it, not his special girl.

Massaging her strained neck, she waits for the last person to leave the plane, observing the empty cabin and noticing how used it appears with all the crumpled, empty snack bags lying on the floor.

‘Ungrateful’, she thinks before exiting her seat and tip-toeing to get her luggage.

The arrivals terminal is infested with agents. Having been trained for years, she sees right through their casual attire, so fake they almost look like B-movie actors. It’s those badly selected outfits and their observant gazes - eyes obsessively fixed on every gate. Every airport in the world must be the same right now, desperate to catch this nightmare of a terrorist.

‘As if he would be stupid enough to travel by plane.’

With a high profile target like August on the loose, it almost feels like the world is on the brink of war.

‘Is that what he wants? To be an anarchistic god that plows chaos everywhere?’

Maybe that’s why he gave her back her life, to humiliate her, to show her how easily he can twist everyone’s life and disrupt the world people know.

‘Mephisto, Lucifer, Hades, Hel.’

“Remember that you’re only alive because I have allowed it.”

A sudden shard of pain sears through her torso, the wound reacting to the phantasm of his low timbre which plays in her mind. It makes her slow on her steps and chews on her inner cheek to suppress a moan that has been begging to escape her lips since yesterday afternoon.

“August Walker”, the name rolls on the tip of her tongue.

Her very first failure, the very first man who killed her.

It almost feels like a bond now, intimate and twisted. August went deeper than any other man ever did - he fucked her internal organs.

‘Is that is why you “performed” for him in the shower? Why you thought about him, slipping inside you with his cock rather than his knife?’

Ingvild huffs tenderly and passes in-between a couple reuniting with passion, her shoulder sharply bumping against the woman, who yells at her while she remains indifferent, never bothering to look back.

Putting on her shades, she continues to head for the exit. The wound in her gut throbs even further, all of a sudden and just when she is tempted to give into the pain and acknowledge it, the new mobile device in her jacket’s pocket begins to vibrate.

Liam, who else?

“Papa?” She answers, the big exit sign finally flickering in front of her eyes.

She can see Liam rolling his eyes without having to see his grumpy old face.

“What progress do you hope to make with this lead? Someone says they saw him in Singapore yesterday, you should be following these threads instead.”

Ingvild holds her breath, knowing very well the lead is false. August was with her a night ago, so close she tasted him, so near his fingers dug deep into her flesh, leaving an imprint on her bones and even though there is something quite demonic about him, she doubts he can be at two different places at once.

“I need access to his world, I need to pick up the clues,” she explains, yet the sad truth is that she has no idea what to look for. August is not a rookie idiot, he did a fine job leaving zero clues back at the bed&breakfast room they “shared”. Not even the receptionist who ogled her oddly when she left could tell her where he was heading.

“Just get it done, Ingvild. You’re acting like a child, this isn’t like you,” Liam mutters before hanging up.

‘He is right, this isn’t like you.’

Ingvild feels hooks clutching her guts, not just the pain August inflicted upon her, but something deeper, something desperate, leaving a void in that same spot. The fact that he slipped between her fingers seems to torments, just as much as the fact that she lied to Liam for the first time. It makes her feel like a rebellious teenager. She never keeps secrets from him and there she is, lying through every word.

Absentmindedly, her fingers press against her lips as she exits the airport.

~*~

The address led her to a small suburban house in southern London. It’s the type of house that has large glass windows where anyone standing outside can ogle freely. Rich people houses, as she likes to call it. She had a few missions in the past with people living in homes like this one - always an easy kill.

A blond woman meanders about inside the house, wearing a grey silk nightgown, preparing for bedtime probably. According to Walker’s file, she’s the most recent ex - Sydney. They broke up a couple of months before he decided to go on what he thought would be his final mission, his deathstrike.

‘If only.’

Glancing from the gravel path that leads to large metal doors, she learns the woman’s delicate manoeuvres, her mind reciting every graceful gestures as she crouches down to place food for a large Maine coon cat.

‘Is that the type of woman he likes?’

August would strikes her as a man who would fuck anything with a heartbeat but he did have more than a few relationships. She can’t help but wonder if he has a type, noticing how Sydney is more of a woman than a girl; solid income, big name lawyer, a woman who can take care of herself, a woman to start a family with.

Not that she imagines Walker starting a family anytime soon.

She is pretty too, with her mid-length straight golden hair, bright eyes and a shapely body. Ingvild looks at her own outfit: jeans, sneakers and a black sleeved shirt, nowhere as classy as beautiful Sydney.

The hour is late, still she walks toward the door and rings the bell.

“Can I help you?”

Ingvild is greeted by green eyes and a subtle Welsh accent. She gives her one of her fake smiles, trying to look as charming and pleasant as a sweet doll.

“Sydney Bedford?” She asks, while briefly scanning her body. She tries to imagine what August liked about her the most; her figure? Her angelic face? Her emerald stare?

“I have some questions about August Walker, he used to…”

Sydney shakes her head vehemently, waving her hands in the air. Something in her eyes drastically changes the moment the name “August” slaps her across the face.

“Are you MI6!? Please, I don’t want to speak about that psychotic loser anymore.”

Ingvild smiles calmly, a soft chuckle leaving her throat.

“Oh you see, he disappeared…”

“Good riddance!” Sydney replies, her eyes filling with anger, her face turning red within seconds. “Listen. I already told them everything I know.”

“Please,” Ingvild begs, batting her long lashes and tilting her head like a cute little kitten. “I’m new in this and my superior will be mad if I don’t at least speak to you. May I please come in? It’s important for my investigation.”

The same childlike charm that works on men might as well work on women, for different reasons in this occasion. Sydney is a single 36-38-year old woman who lives alone with her cat.

She must have wanted a family, perhaps with Walker, no wonder she’s furious.

Leaning against the door frame, Sydney scrutinises the young girl, believing she is younger than she really is with that pale smooth face and big innocent greyish eyes.

“Come on in, dear.” She opens the door wide, letting Ingvild step inside before closing it behind her.

The main entrance leads into a large living room, furnished with a black leather sofas and a glass coffee table. She owns a TV that is larger than Ingvild's entire living room and the walls are moulded with grey bricks, shiny from some cut stone.

Ingvild imagines how lovely it would feel to crack the shimmering stone with August’s skull.

“Would you like some tea?” Sydney offers while heading toward her luxurious kitchen.

“Please,” Ingvild answers, walking around the house and examining every corner to learn of the woman who invited her in. She nearly stumbles as the large cat rubs against her foot. “Oh,” she exclaims, lowering herself to pick the chubby feline to her arms.

She never owned a pet. Liam said it’s unnecessary.

“So like I said,” Sydney calls from the kitchen, putting the kettle on the stove. “I don’t know anything about August and where he is. All I can tell you is that he was weird.”

“Weird? How?” Ingvild asks, stroking the cat behind his ears and while it purr against her chest.

Sydney places two mugs on the black marble counter in the kitchen and opens a cabinet, looking for some tea bags. “He would disappear and then return after weeks, telling me not to ask any questions. Then, he would go away and come back in crazy hours. He was a gentleman of course but arrogant and demanding, never taking no for an answer.”

Ingvild turns to look at Sydney, arching her eyebrow as if she is surprised to learn this about the man who stabbed and drowned her in an icy lake. “Is that so?”

“Yes!” Sydney shouts back, her chest heaving as she throws the bags into the mugs and turns toward Ingvild.

“Everything had to go his way, and I won’t be surprised if he had a mistress or another family, or god! Maybe an illegal drug practice.”

The cat jumps down from Ingvild’s embrace, and she brushes the grey hairs off her black shirt. “What makes you think this way?”

“Like I said; disappearing in the middle of the night, coming back... I knew something was off so I went and... wait I… I shouldn’t tell you this, you’re an agent!” Sydney looks around her, as if she’s afraid someone might be listening to their conversation.

Ingvild takes a step forward into the kitchen, her grey eyes seeking Sydney’s, giving her a warm, kind smile. “You can tell me anything Sydney, you are not in danger, I promise. We just want to locate Walker, he hasn't reported to HQ in a while.”

Sydney observes her gaze, trying to determine her personality. She thinks the young woman seem gentle with those unique eyes and the hair that’s tucked back to a strict ponytail.

“I had him traced,” she whispers. “I know I wasn’t supposed to because he is CIA, and trust me I was scared but I had to know.”

“How did you do that?” Ingvild asks, tilting her head with curiosity and slight disbelief. It seems odd that a man like Walker was bugged by some dumb lawyer woman.

“I did his laundry, it wasn’t hard to hide something inside the pocket of his jacket. I mean, inside the fabric, where he can’t find it.”

Ingvild can’t help but let out a small snort, amused by the fact that the infamous CIA agent got made so easily. She covers her mouth with her fist, shyly smiling into it, but it’s noticed by Sydney who stands in front of her, staring oddly.

“Where would he go?”

“Some place in South Kensington, almost every day for the last month of our relationship. He would vanish there for hours and then come back. I have the address, hold on.” Sydney leaves the kitchen and walks through a long corridor.

Not bothering with politeness, Ingvild follows her, easy off her feet like the big grey cat, carefully exploring this new territory. She imagines the fights August would have with this woman and then the passionate sex afterwards while her hand runs against the texture of the garnet.

“Oh!” Sydney exclaims, confused to see Ingvild in the doorway of her bedroom. The young woman looks around curiously, trying to find any memorabilia from August; a photo, a clothing article, man cologne. It seems like he was never even been here, though there is a certain coldness in this room that feels strangely familiar.

‘No, not August, his touch is warm.’

“He did trading or something,” Sydney says as she hands her over a small yellow note that was hidden in her purse. It has the address to August’s “secret lover”.

Ingvild takes the notes, memorizing the address before placing it in her jeans pocket. “Trading? Can you elaborate?”

She shrugs. “He asked me to not disturb him while he was doing some dealing, I don’t know what it was… it looked fishy but it might just be CIA stuff.”

Ingvild nods silently, scanning the room again and again and eventually taking in the sight of the empty bed. Her mind fills in the gaps, painting an image of August fucking Sydney into oblivion, his muscular body ramming into hers, one leg held over his shoulder while the blond little bitch screams in ecstasy.

“How was he in bed? Would you say he performed well?” Ingvild asks, her eyes gesturing toward the mattress.

Sydney frowns, giving her a slight repulsed face as she finds her question remarkably rude.

“How is this relevant to the investigation?”

She means to berate her when she witnesses Ingvild’s kind smile growing remarkably cold.

The young woman remains silent, taking a step closer and making Sydney almost stumble back as sudden fear creeps in. Grey frigid eyes, like icy shards, her nostrils slightly flares as she catches up the scent of her expensive perfume.

“How is this relevant to the MI6?!” Sydney asks again, trying to dismiss the tension yet continues to draw distance from the young agent.

“I never said I am MI6.”

Sydney’s back hits the wall with a soft thud, she attempts to flee but Ingvild’s hands lock around her shoulders, forcing her against the wall with a thud. As small as this woman is, she is way stronger than she appears.

“How was he in bed?” she repeats, her voice becoming more demanding while her glare threatening to spear into Sydney’s skull. “Would you say he satisfies you?”

Puny gasps peal from Sydney’s mouth, her green eyes becoming moist with pure fear.

“Please, don’t... He was... Rough.”

“Bondage?”

“He... he..he choked me,” she answers in a trembling voice, her lower lip quivering, much to Ingvild’s delight.

“He was too rough, he was big and he didn’t care, it was as if he enjoyed my pain...”

Ingvild licks her bottom lip, imagining Sydney thrown on the bed with August treating her like a rag doll, wrecking her completely. Bruises left everywhere, tattoos on her skin for the world to see this fine artist’s work. A cold flame licks at her spine, crawling down to the small of her back.

She’s uncertain why.

“Would you say he loved you?”

Sydney’s peers at her quietly, thinking of her answer for a few seconds while Ingvild’s fingers bury into her collarbone, voicelessly demanding a response.

“August Walker is incapable of love. He is dead inside.”

________________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own August Walker or the Mission Impossible Frenchise

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