#fuselage styling

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Chrysler by Chrysler, 1971. Fuselage styling arrived in Australia with the CH Chrysler sedan, so good they named it twice. This was the first locally built Chrysler that was unique to Australia and the brand's flagship model. It used the long (115inch) wheelbase from the VH hardtop and was packed with 70's luxury features including brocade upholstery and a carpeted trunk. It came with the locally made 4.3 litre (265ci) Hemi straight 6 that was also unique to Australia, or a 5.9 litre (360ci) V8. It was sold in South Africa as the Dodge SE. The Chrysler by Chrysler survived largely unchanged until 1976 when it was replaced by a shorter wheelbase CL series Chrysler Regal SE.

[gentlemensarts]

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1971 Plymouth GTX

The 1971 Plymouth GTX marked the final year as a standalone model and showcased bold styling with its new “fuselage” body design. Built for performance, it came standard with a 440 Super Commando V8 producing 370 horsepower, with optional Six Barrel and 426 HEMI engines for even more power. Aggressive looks, hood scoops, and Rallye wheels defined its muscle car presence. Inside, it offered luxury touches like high-back bucket seats and a performance-focused dash. Though overshadowed by rising insurance and emissions standards, the ’71 GTX remains a rare, powerful symbol of peak Mopar muscle.

[xoxorealitygalore]

Hopelessly Devoted VI

Roman Reigns x Multiracial OC

Part six: Above the Clouds

Summary: A year ago, Joe met Princess Pensri on Fook Island, and they quickly fell in love. Unbeknownst to her, Joe paid her bride price, planning to marry her. Now, he returns with his family to fulfill his promise, ready to begin their life together.

Part five: Balancing Hearts & Duty

Pensri and Joe, along with his family made their way toward the private jet that belonged to Pensri’s family. The gleaming surface of the Boeing 767-200ER, which stood in stark contrast to the smaller aircraft Joe had grown accustomed to, was a marvel of engineering. The royal family’s private jet was nothing short of spectacular.

As they approached, Joe couldn’t help but notice how different this plane was from the ones he had flown on during his previous travels. This one had a certain air of grandeur, like something that could only belong to royalty. The jet's exterior, with its polished fuselage and sleek lines, hinted at the luxury that lay within.

Named Air Fook, it was almost 28 years old, yet it looked as though it had just come off the assembly line, having been meticulously maintained and customized to fit the royal family's needs.

“Now this is something else,” Lisa, Joe’s mother, remarked, gazing up at the massive plane with awe. Joe’s gaze followed her, and he couldn’t help but agree. This jet was in a league of its own. It wasn’t merely a mode of transportation; it was a flying palace.

Joe had seen opulence before, but Air Fook was something that blended comfort and luxury with practical purpose. He couldn’t help but marvel at the thought that this was the jet he would soon call his new home for the next leg of their journey. Pensri had always told him he was joining a family that knew how to live in style, but this was next level.

She watched as Joe, the devoted father, ensured that his five children were settled comfortably in their seats. His two sets of twin boys, their faces filled with excitement at the prospect of flying, were easy to manage in the luxurious interior. JoJo, his daughter, was already asking his sisters to take selfies, her voice filled with the unmistakable energy of a teenager. The bustling activity of Joe’s large family was always something Pensri had admired how close-knit they were, how they took care of each other, how they laughed and teased in a way that made her feel like an outsider, but not in a bad way. It was a comfort.

Pensri, though, had her mind elsewhere. This flight wasn’t just another travel moment for her; it was a new chapter in her life. She had spent so many years living under the strict confines of royal duty, secluded from the chaos of a large, boisterous family like Joe’s. Now, as she moved through the plane’s plush corridors, a part of her was still adjusting to the reality that her life was no longer solely defined by her position as Princess of Fook Island. She was someone’s wife now. A stepmother. And though she had embraced these roles with open arms, they came with a weight that she hadn’t quite learned to carry yet.

Pensri walked over to the cockpit, where Captain Guy, a seasoned professional who had been with her family for twelve years, greeted her with a warm smile. His father had retired, leaving Guy to take over the reins, and now he was a trusted part of the family’s travel routine.

“We’re heading to Illinois,” Pensri told him as she glanced out the window, watching the crew prepare for takeoff.

“Of course, ma’am,” Captain Guy replied. “We’re making a few stops, though, to drop off some of your relatives.”

Pensri nodded, grateful for the calm professionalism he exuded. Joe’s family was largely based in Pensacola, and she understood that they were dropping off relatives on their way to Illinois, where Joe had an appearance for SmackDown on Friday. The pace of their travels would keep them moving, but she wasn’t in a rush. She had time to adjust. Time to breathe.

“Good, I just want a smooth flight,” she said.

“Of course,” Captain Guy affirmed with a reassuring smile.

Pensri turned back to Joe, who was making sure all of his children were seated and comfortable. His presence, always steady, gave her a sense of calm. He was the rock in their family, the one who kept everything grounded while the world around them seemed to spin with endless motion. It was no surprise that Joe’s siblings, who were seated around the plane, were a lively and expressive bunch. His sisters were already snapping pictures, documenting every moment of the journey with enthusiasm, while Joe’s older brother Matt, who had tragically passed away from a heart attack in 2017 was a presence felt more in spirit than in flesh.

Pensri couldn’t help but reflect on Joe’s deep connection to his family. They weren’t just relatives; they were his foundation. Joe had always been close with his siblings and though Matt was no longer physically with them, his legacy remained deeply woven into the fabric of their lives.

“Hey, everything’s set, and the jet is ready to take off,” Pensri asked, approaching Joe. “Is everyone on board? Or do they need anything before we go?”

Joe looked up from his children, giving her a reassuring nod. “No, everything’s fine. We’re good to go. Now sit down, let the crew do their job.”

Pensri nodded in understanding and slid into the seat beside Joe. As the plane prepared for takeoff, a quiet realization settled within her. She wasn’t just a princess anymore. She wasn’t just a woman who was constantly on the move for royal duties or vacation. Now, as the plane began its ascent, Pensri felt the weight of her new identity: a wife, a stepmother, a woman trying to find balance in her new life. The thoughts that had occupied her mind in the days leading up to this flight seemed to flood her all at once.

Joe sensed the shift in her mood, and without needing her to say a word, he gently squeezed her thigh. “Stop worrying,” he whispered. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Pensri managed a small smile, grateful for his words, even if they didn’t completely alleviate the storm of thoughts swirling in her head. He was right, she did have this. She could do this. But it didn’t stop the uncertainty that accompanied such a drastic change. She wasn’t sure if she would ever fully get used to the pressure of her new roles, but at least she wouldn’t have to navigate it alone.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Joe leaned in, kissing her temple. “One day at a time, Pen. You don’t have to be perfect.”

Pensri closed her eyes, letting his words wash over her like a calming wave. He had a way of making her feel like she didn’t need to speak for him to understand what was going on in her heart. It was almost as though he could read her thoughts like they were written on a page only he could see.

As the flight continued, Joe stayed by her side, checking in on her every so often. He had a way of making her feel like the only person in the room, even with his large and lively family surrounding them. It was in the little things like how he adjusted the armrest for her, how he kept her favorite drink nearby, how he would lean in and whisper words of reassurance when he could tell she was lost in her thoughts. It was as if he had a sixth sense about her needs.

“Stop panicking,” he whispered, leaning closer. “Everything’s fine. Just one step at a time.”

Pensri blinked, startled. How did he always know exactly what she was feeling? “I wasn’t panicking,” she said softly, though she knew it was a lie.

“You don’t have to be good at everything overnight,” he continued. “You’ll get there. And I’m right here with you.”

His words made her heart ache with affection. Joe’s support was like a safety net beneath her, she felt like she could take risks, and step outside her comfort zone because he was there to catch her if she fell.

“Go to sleep,” he added, his voice gentle.

Pensri allowed her eyes to flutter closed, grateful for the peaceful moment. As the plane soared through the skies, Pensri found herself drifting off into a deep, restful sleep.

Eighteen hours and fifty-seven minutes later, the jet touched down in Pensacola. The journey had been smooth, and Pensri felt a mixture of relief and anticipation as the wheels kissed the runway. She was one step closer to starting her new life in Florida with Joe and his family.

As they exited the plane, the family exchanged hugs, and Pensri felt the warm embrace of Joe’s relatives, welcoming her into their fold. It wasn’t just a greeting; it was an acceptance, a reminder that despite the royal airs she carried, she was now part of something much larger than herself. She was part of a family that wasn’t concerned with titles or status but with love and loyalty.

Pensri thanked Captain Guy and the crew as they disembarked, her heart a little lighter. The transition to Florida had begun, and although she was still uncertain about all the changes, she knew one thing for sure: she wasn’t alone in this new chapter of her life. She had Joe. She had his children. And together, they would navigate this world, one step at a time.

The hustle and bustle of the Pensacola airport surrounded them as they made their way to the exit. The warm Florida air greeted Pensri as she stepped outside, but it wasn’t just the weather that felt new. It was the reality of the life she was beginning to build here, in this far-flung corner of the world that she had come to call home. She had spent her years in the structured, orderly confines of royal life on Fook Island, but now, it seemed she was on the brink of a fresh start. A new chapter that wasn’t just about duty, but about family, love, and finding her place.

Joe led her through the airport with his easy confidence. His children followed, chattering excitedly, already accustomed to the rhythm of travel. Pensri’s protection officers, a group of vigilant, silent figures, kept a watchful eye on everything, making sure nothing was out of place. They moved like shadows, ensuring her safety in ways she had never before experienced. For Pensri, their constant presence was still something to get used to. It wasn’t just their proximity, but the constant awareness of her elevated status.

As they reached the parking lot, Pensri noticed her security team wasn’t the only one with eyes on them. Airport security was ever-present. There was something both comforting and unnerving about knowing that, wherever they went, they were protected.

Joe’s car, a sleek, black Cadillac Escalade stood parked at the curb, its polished surface gleaming under the bright sun. The airport staff were already loading their luggage into the back of the vehicle, while Pensri’s protection officers prepared to follow in their vehicle, a massive Land Rover Range Rover Autobiography, ready to tail them as they drove to their new home.

As they drove through the streets of Pensacola, the scenery was a blur of suburban neighborhoods, palm trees, and open skies. Pensri gazed out the window, her mind still racing as she tried to make sense of it all. The transition had been swift, from the grand ceremonies and formalities of royal life to an American home, a new family dynamic, and a completely different culture to navigate.

Joe turned to her as they drove, his hand resting on her knee. She glanced at him, her heart swelling with affection. His calm demeanor, and his unshakable confidence, helped ground her when the world around her seemed to spin too quickly.

“You doing okay?” he asked softly, his eyes scanning her face for any signs of distress.

Pensri nodded. “It’s just... a lot to take in,” she said, her voice laced with uncertainty. “But I’m okay. Really.”

Joe squeezed her leg reassuringly. “You don’t have to have it all figured out right now, Pen. We’ve got time. I’ve got you.”

Her lips curled into a small smile at the reassurance in his voice. It was one of the things she loved most about Joe, he never expected perfection and never put pressure on her to be someone she wasn’t. He was always patient, always steady, and always ready to be her rock when the world felt overwhelming.

The drive took them through winding streets, and soon enough, the landscape began to change. They left behind the busy city center and entered a more peaceful, residential area. Tall trees lined the roads, and grand, Mediterranean-style homes began to appear on either side. Pensri’s eyes widened as they approached a massive, newly renovated mansion. It was exactly what she had hoped for. It was elegant, luxurious, and spacious enough to accommodate their new blended family.

As the car pulled up the long, circular driveway, Pensri couldn’t help but gasp. The home was a stunning architectural masterpiece, with a grand staircase leading up to the front door, and a beautiful fountain sitting at the entrance. The house, though newly renovated, carried an air of timelessness. The sprawling grounds stretched out before them, park-like in their appearance, with lush landscaping that seemed to blend seamlessly with the surrounding landscape.

“This is our home?” Pensri asked disbelief still in her voice. She had seen photos of the house, but seeing it in person, standing before it, made it feel all the more real.

Joe chuckled softly. “Yeah, it’s a bit of a change from Fook Island, huh?”

Pensri couldn’t help but smile, though there was a nervous flutter in her chest. “A bit,” she said, still taking in the sprawling view.

As they stepped out of the car, the sound of birds chirping and the rustle of leaves in the breeze filled the air. The protection officers got out of their vehicle, flanking them as they made their way up the driveway. The transition had begun, but there was no turning back.

Joe smiled as he watched her taking in the grandeur of the house. He had given her free rein to design and renovate it, knowing how much her touch would mean to her. Pensri had poured her heart into making this house a home. Now, it was time to live in it.

As they reached the door, Joe surprised her by picking her up in his arms. Pensri laughed softly as he carried her over the threshold, the gesture filled with warmth and tenderness. It was a moment that made her feel both loved and cherished, despite the overwhelming changes swirling around her.

Once inside, Pensri marveled at the expansive space. The house was even more stunning on the inside, with a grand staircase leading to a second floor, the marble floors polished to perfection. The large living spaces opened up to each other, and every room was filled with soft, inviting light. The furnishings were luxurious, with plush velvet couches, high-end wood finishes, and large, flat-screen TVs, everything was meticulously chosen. The design was elegant but warm, cozy enough to feel like a family home, but grand enough to echo the life she had left behind.

Joe set her down gently and looked at her with a grin. “Well, what do you think?”

Pensri took a deep breath, her heart still racing from the whirlwind of emotions. “It’s... beautiful. It’s more than I could have imagined.”

Joe nodded, his arm slipping around her waist. “This is our new life, Pen. Together.”

As they settled into the house, Pensri found herself beginning to relax. The security, the uncertainty, the overwhelming nature of it all slowly began to fade as she let herself be present in the moment. This wasn’t just a new house; this was a new life. A life with Joe and his children. A life that, while still unfamiliar, promised moments of happiness, laughter, and love.

The next morning, as the sunlight filtered in through the grand windows of their master suite, Pensri walked in with a plate in her hand. Joe sat up, stretching. Joe looked at her with a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Anoa’i,” he teased.

Pensri smiled, shaking her head. “Good morning,” she replied softly, handing him a plate of eggs and toast.

Joe took the food, grinning. “You’re spoiling me already,” he said, leaning in for a kiss.

Pensri laughed, feeling a sense of warmth in her chest. “I just wanted to try it. I’ve always seen it in movies, and honestly, I kind of like it.”

Joe chuckled, taking a bite. “Well, you’re a natural,” he said, then leaned back, watching her with affectionate eyes.

Pensri took a seat beside him, leaning into the comfort of the moment. “This is good,” Joe told her. She smiled.

“I’m happy you think so because this is my first time cooking an American breakfast,” Pensri said.

Joe laughed and took another bite. “What have you been up to this morning?” he asked between mouthfuls.

“Besides making breakfast, Jojo has me watching Total Divas and WAGs to mentally prepare me to be around your coworkers,” Pensri replied.

Joe raised an eyebrow, a little confused. “What? Why would she make you watch those shows?”

Pensri shrugged, smiling playfully. “She said the women in your company are catty.”

Joe groaned, rolling his eyes. “I hope you know that reality TV isn’t one hundred percent real. They make up drama for views.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of funny,” Pensri said, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

Joe shook his head, his lips curling into a smile. “I can’t believe my daughter is preparing you to be on guard.”

Pensri chuckled. “She said, and I quote, ‘No one will be bullying you just because you're married to my dad.’ I nodded and watched the shows, taking notes on what she was saying.”

Joe couldn’t help but laugh. “I can’t even be mad at that.”

Pensri grinned. “You can’t. Now hurry up and eat because you’ve got to drop the kids off at school.”

Joe glanced at the time. “Did Jojo leave already?”

Pensri nodded. “Yeah, I let her take my car to school.”

Joe’s eyes widened in shock. “You let her take that car to school!”

Pensri’s grin widened. “Yeah, she was so excited to drive it.”

Joe’s concern grew. “That’s too much of a car for a seventeen-year-old to drive,” he said, shaking his head. The bright blue Lamborghini Urus had been a wedding gift to Pensri from Joe, a car that was as fast as it was luxurious.

Pensri shrugged, unbothered. “She’s a good driver, Joe. And I’m not letting her drive it all the time. Just today.”

Joe let out a frustrated sigh. “That thing is meant for someone with more experience. It’s not just about being a good driver, it’s the kind of car that can get you into trouble if you’re not careful.”

Pensri gave him a playful look. “She’s responsible. You know she’s probably not going to do anything reckless.”

Joe didn’t seem convinced. “I don’t know, Pensri. That car’s got speed that is way too much of it for a teenager.”

Pensri reached out and gave his hand a light squeeze. “She’s fine, Joe, you’ve got to let her have some independence.”

Joe looked at her for a moment, still unsure. “I get that, but I just can’t shake the feeling. You know how tempting that car is.”

“Yeah, I know,” Pensri said, laughing softly. “But I trust her. Besides, she’s not driving it every day.”

Joe shook his head, half-smiling despite himself. “You’re going to let her drive it today?”

“Just today,” Pensri assured him. “But let’s be honest, she’ll probably try to sneak it out more than we’d like.”

Joe’s lips curled into a grin. “I don’t doubt that.”

Pensri laughed, then glanced at the clock. “Alright, enough talking. You need to get going. Drop the kids off, then get to your morning workout.”

Joe stood up, grabbing his keys. “I guess I should. But you, you’re tempting fate with that car, you know?”

Pensri smiled up at him. “You love it, though.”

Joe rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m in trouble, huh?”

“Just a little bit,” Pensri teased.

Masterlist | Part seven: From Fook Island to SmackDown

[a-wonderful-danganronpa]

✈️ DESIGN: Fubu Fuselage, outfit concept 1

[NO SPOILERS]

next up for Nonstop Outfit Draft week is our Pilot Wonder, Fubu Fuselage!

he's an example of a "sandalpunk" or ancient Greco-Roman style outfit, which you'll also see upcoming in Yuwa and Melville. they're not really authentically Greco-Roman, since it's more of an inspiration thing, but i don't think anyone's complaining. ha!

his outfit, by the way, has a touch of the Little Prince in it.

let's talk:

tunic: in a lot of small rural communities around the world of AWD, a single cloth made into a tunic is common wear for any and all genders. length and cut can vary, but for many, it's the simplest way to get around.

spats: very much not something the ancient Greeks and Romans wore, but something that AWD folks tend to don if they prefer shorter tunics and don't want their various family jewels coming loose.

buttons on the front: it may not seem like much, but for a poor farm boy like Fubu to have nice buttons on his tunic? a very big deal. shows he's somebody important in the local villages.

goggles: from his days in Her Eternal and Imperial Winged Force as a counter-terrorist pilot and gunner, worn around his neck. the embroidery was done by his grandmother back on the farm.

scarf: with the emblem of his squadron. on a meta level, out-of-universe, his squadron's logo comes from the astronomical symbol of 7 Iris, an asteroid named for the Grecian messenger goddess of rainbows.

medals: just two of his many, many, many, many military awards. he does not quite wear these two (his highest) in accordance with proper dress, but they're on the right side, at least.

✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️✈️

[planecrazyreenactor1812]

I'm in the home stretch.

With the 2 girl dogs currently coexisting peacefully without any prey drive-style wrestling/attacking, I was able to spend a lot more time in my workshop this weekend working on the Black Widow. All of the decals are on the plane...despite the fact that the company that made this kit did NOT provide locations for all of the decals on the sheet. I'm hard pressed to find any other photos that show where these mystery decals go, but I'm going to leave the rest of them off, except for 2 really cool "ammunition access" ones I stuck on the bottom of the fuselage near where the 20mm cannons are. After the decals set and dry, I'll be clear coating this baby and moving onto the weathering portion of the build. I've also begun a diorama for this bird.

[bekolxeram]

S8 opening disaster predictions

I was patiently waiting for more bts material before making my predictions, but due to recent events, it seems like we're not going to get much more before the premiere, so here goes nothing, I'm making wild guesses out of what we've got so far. (No, we're not going to Oz.)

Bees

We've all seen the constant reference to bees in promos, the latest official teaser seems to indicate a bee-nado as well. I don't think it's an actual tornado with bees in it, or even a The Swarm style large scale bee disaster. In that film the bees crash 2 military helicopters, derail a train and contribute to a nuclear meltdown. I don't think ABC would greenlight The Swarm parody or an actual bee-tornado, especially after how widely mocked Lone Star was for that frozen man CPR scene.

I can see it being a severe bee infestation with multiple bee sting emergencies. Whenever a swamp of bees is reported by media, it's often described as... you've guessed it, a bee tornado. I can totally see the 118 dealing with bee attacks in 8x01.

I can't think of how the bees alone would be a major disaster though. A couple unfortunate people might get stung by a swamp, some more unlucky firefighters might have to fight through the bees to get to the patient, but it's hardly a city-wide catastrophe. I highly doubt the opening disaster is just about the bees.

Plane

I've already written why I think S8's big disaster would be aviation related, judging by the few photos and clips uploaded by the crew.

Every international airport in the US is required to have enough resources to deal with regular aviation incidents like bird strikes, hot brakes, engine failures, minor runway excursions, etc. There must be a very real possibility of a catastrophic mass casualty event for the fire department to send in engines from outside the airport for support.

The emergency vehicles we see in the hangar seem to be parked neatly in rows, so I don't think it's the case of a plane rapidly dropping out of the sky, looking for a place to land as soon as possible, or a sudden accident happening within the vicinity of the airfield. Emergency services have already been notified before the aircraft's arrival, so the trucks are just waiting on the side.

One real life example I can think of that matches these 2 conditions would be JetBlue Flight 292 in 2005. The A320 was flying from Burbank to New York when the pilots realized they couldn't retract the landing gear after takeoff. The crew tried troubleshooting while hand-flying the plane in a holding pattern (the stuck gear prevented the autopilot and the auto-throttle from engaging) to no avail, so they decided to divert to Long Beach and suggested doing a low fly-by for airport officials to assess the damage to the landing gear before attempting to land. It was reported back that the nose gear of the A320 was rotated 90° to the left, meaning it was completely perpendicular to the direction of the fuselage.

In the case of unsafe landing gear, pilots would usually attempt a gear up belly landing instead, as most modern airliners are designed to handle that. Since the nose gear was sideways in this case, retracting it was not possible, so the pilots decided to hold over the city for more than 2 hours in order to burn fuel (A320s can't dump fuel), then attempt to land at LAX, since its runways are longer and wider.

The LAFD mobilized over 100 firefighters all across the city to the airport and positioned them at different locations along the runway on standby. On the other hand, news stations sent out flocks of helicopters to broadcast the whole incident live on TV. Not only their loved ones at home, but the passengers themselves could utilize the in-flight entertainment system to tune in and witness the very plane they were on circling over LA, with aviation experts on air discussing the potential disastrous scenarios they might encounter.

At around 18:00, the flight crew turned off the in-flight entertainment system and gave the passengers a few minutes to call their loved ones. After that, the plane successfully landed at LAX with 1000 feet of runway to spare. No one was injured.

This is what's left of the nose gear wheels.

I'm not saying it will be exactly like this incident, but a major mechanical failure that hinders an aircraft's ability to land safely would fit the most.

Prisoner

Apparently Athena will be on a flight escorting a prisoner in 8x02, at least according to that person working at ONT who posted the photo with Angela on reddit. Naturally, some theorized that the prison would have something to do with the plane going down. I've seen nothing to disprove this theory so far, so it's absolutely a possibility. Although, that would make it the second time in a row a sort of transport vessel with Athena in it runs into a disaster caused by criminal sabotage. It's predictable and repetitive. I also haven't seen in bts stuff the amount of cops required for a hijacking scenario.

What I've noticed from crew photos is that the plane outside of the hangar during filming is a Boeing aircraft, while the cockpit we see earlier at the studio is an Airbus. If there are indeed two different airplanes involved in 8x02, then I can see maybe an impending emergency landing shutting down the airport, the prisoner being stuck inside of a plane on the ground decides to open an emergency exit and makes a run for it. Athena tracking down the prisoner would be the B-plot or something I don't know. I have 0 evidence to back it up, it's just a wild guess.

Sankes Bees on a plane?

Bees swarm airplanes all the time, but getting inside is a different story.

It's kind of hard to miss a swarm of buzzing bees inside an airplane. After pre-flight inspections by technicians and the flight crew, security checks by the cabin crew, the time it takes for the passengers to embark and the baggage to be loaded. then pushing back and taxiing, if a swarm of bees somehow still goes unnoticed, I guess everyone has to be blind and deaf.

Also, if the nature of the disaster is merely a bunch of angry bees attacking people on a plane, it would be quite boring? It would just be a lot of first responders triaging people and applying first aid.

What if the the bees are in the cockpit and the pilots are stung? Well, do both of them just happen to be allergic to bees at the same time? If so, I can maybe see a passenger onboard having to land the plane listening to instructions from the ground. I say 80% chance it'll end badly, thus needing fire rescue. But still, it's a very improbable scenario that requires way to many coincidences.

Bee strike

Airplanes accidentally hit wildlife in the air all the time, the most common one is bird strike, but there have also been locust strike, bat strike, even fish strike.

A swarm of bees is not like a flock of geese, bees don't have bones and are much lighter in mass, so while they can still cause some minor damages to the engine(s), it's usually not a big deal. The leftover bee goo on the windshield might affect visibility, but modern airliners have so many automated systems and navigational aid in place that they can pretty much land in 0 visibility.

So the bees have nothing to do with the plane?

Not exactly, bees and wasps are actually a serious hazard to aviation safety, but not in the way you would think.

Some species of bees and wasps like to build their nests in small, exposed cavities belonging to an aircraft, especially the pitot tubes.

A pitot tube is a crucial instrument on the fuselage of an aircraft that measures its airspeed. If it becomes clogged by foreign objects, in this bees, wasps and/or their nest, the pilots would be left with unreliable airspeed indications. If they unknowingly fly too slow, the plane risks stalling and crashing, like Birgenair Flight 301 in 1996. Air France Flight 447 also stalled and crashed into the Atlantic Ocean due to blocked pitot tubes, but this time not caused by insects, they were blocked by icing.

Brisbane Airport in Australia struggles with wasps infestation particularly badly. In 2013, some mud daubers managed to clog the pitot tubes on an Etihad A330 in under 2 hours, resulting in an overweight emergency landing. For that, airport authority recommended the use of pitot tube covers for aircrafts on the ground, but that causes a whole new problem.

Although the pitot tube covers are big red things with "REMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT" written on them, ground crews forgot to remove them before pushing back... twice! The 2022 incident was luckily caught just in time by a refueller nearby, but in 2018, the Malaysian Airlines A330 actually took off with all 3 pitot tube covers still on and the flight crew had to circle back to the airport with no airspeed indications.

While pitot tubes seem to be the most popular among bees and wasps, there have been cases of other openings on an aircraft being blocked by wasps. This Gulfstream business jet had its cabin pressurization relief valve clogged by dried dirt from a mud dauber, leading to a cabin over-pressurization event.

There shouldn't be a catastrophic crash because of unreliable airspeed if the pilots are well trained, but I can imagine a TV show finding some even more crucial flight instruments to be clogged by bees.

Bees as indirect contributors

Of course it can also be the case of bees just happen to sting the one person keeping the aircraft safe. Maybe bees distracted a small aircraft or drone pilot, causing a midair collision.

Or it could be an important airplane mechanic missing work to recover from bee stings. Just last week, an article was published on the Seattle Times detailing the timeline leading up to the Alaska Airlines 737 Max 9 door plug blowout incident. It was revealed that there was basically only one single mechanic who would work on door plugs. On the 2 days when the door plug in question had to be opened and closed back up to replace damaged rivets, the mechanic happened to be on vacation. His replacement, a young trainee, had no idea what they were doing, and the 737 with a ticking time bomb of a door plug rolled straight out of the shop.

Aviation experts have commented that if the door plug exited the aircraft at a higher altitude, the result would be much more catastrophic: some parts in the cabin could be ripped off, objects would fly out of the plane and possibly ingested into the engine, and if the plane hit cruising altitude, unbuckled passengers and flight attendants up and walking around the cabin would be sucked right out.

Tommy's role in this disaster

The 217 truck is right there next to the 118 one, so Tommy's house is definitely involved. It probably happens at the airport where the 217 is located as well. We've already seen Tommy working on the ground in 7x06, he'll be needed in this kind of all hands on deck situation at his station's airport too.

He could also be airlifting seriously injured patients to the hospital. One service Air Ops provide that is often overlooked, is VIP transport. Tommy may be asked to fly higher ups of the fire department around the airport to assess the situation. LAFD helicopters were deployed for the JetBlue 292 incident in fact.

*Whisper*

There’s also a chance that Tommy’s helicopter will crash. One crashed in New York back in July because its fuel vent was clogged by a wasp nest.🫣

But I hope not, not so soon. Let me see them be cute and sweet for a while first, that’ll make the angst more delicious.

Conclusion

My predictions are probably super wrong, I don't have a lot to work with, so take them with a grain of salt, maybe think of this as simply a fun read about planes. These all are about as accurate as the Wizard of Oz theory, only I didn't grow up watching classic fantasy musical like a normal person, I watched all 24 seasons of Mayday.

I guess we'll find out in a month.

[transport-methodology-101]

The 1956 Inter 175A Berline, a microcar designed by the French aircraft company SNCAN, is known for its unique aviation-inspired features. It was created to compete with the Messerschmitt KR-175 and shares similar styling, including a tilting canopy for entry and a tandem seating arrangement. The car's design resembles an aircraft fuselage, with a pronounced central headlight and aviation-type starter system.

[usafphantom2]

The prototype B-52s scrapped after First Lady Lady Bird Johnson’s ‘beautification’ of the US Air Force Museum

The B-52 Stratofortress

For more than 60 years, B-52 Stratofortress bombers have been the backbone of the strategic bomber force for the United States. The B-52 is capable of dropping or launching the widest array of weapons in the US inventory. This includes gravity bombs, cluster bombs, precision guided missiles and joint direct attack munitions. Updated with modern technology, the B-52 is capable of delivering the full complement of joint developed weapons and will continue into the 21st century as an important element of our nation’s defenses. The Air Force currently expects to operate B-52s through 2050.

The B-52A first flew in 1954, and the B model entered service in 1955. A total of 744 B-52s were built, with the last, a B-52H, delivered in October 1962. The first of 102 B-52H’s was delivered to Strategic Air Command in May 1961.

The prototype B-52s scrapped after First Lady Lady Bird Johnson’s ‘beautification’ of the US Air Force Museum: The story of the XB-52 and YB-52

The winning design

As explained by Scott Lowther in his book Boeing B-47 Stratojet & B-52 Stratofortress Origins and Evolution, the winning design for the XB-52, Model 464-49, transitioned to Model 464-67. While largely the same, there were some notable differences, most obviously the extension of the forward fuselage. Where 464-49 had the rear of the cockpit canopy behind the leading edge of the wing roots, 464-67 put the cockpit well ahead of the wing. The relatively vast expanse of spoilers on the wings were scaled down and the engine nacelles were reshaped. With those changes and an Air Force ‘letter of intent’ for B-52 tooling in March 1951, Boeing was ready to begin constructing two Model 464-67s.

The prototype B-52s

These prototype B-52s were given the designations XB-52 and YB-52… X for ‘experimental’ and Y being the designation for ‘prototype.’ Typically an `experimental’ aircraft is built before a ‘prototype’, but in this case while the XB-52 (serial number 49- 230) rolled out on Nov. 29, 1951, and the YB-52 (serial number 49-231) followed on Mar. 15, 1952, the YB-52 flew first on Apr. 15, 1952. This was due to the XB-52 suffering damage during pneumatic system pressurization testing which required extensive repairs.

The prototype B-52s scrapped after First Lady Lady Bird Johnson’s ‘beautification’ of the US Air Force Museum: The story of the XB-52 and YB-52

The XB-52 followed the prototype into the air on Oct. 2, 1952. The first flight of the YB-52 lasted two hours and was powered by prototype YJ57-P-3 engines. Despite the difference in designations, the XB-52 and the YB-52 were essentially identical.

The prototype B-52s were largely similar to the production aircraft in appearance. An immediately distinguishing feature of both aircraft, though, was the cockpit. A tandem fighter-style canopy somewhat similar to that used on the B-47 was employed; it was low-drag and gave the pilot excellent visibility.

Pioneering the landing gear layout

The prototypes pioneered the landing gear layout that the rest of the B-52 fleet would employ. Somewhat similar at first glance to the bicycle arrangement used by the B-47, the gear used by the B-52 was quite different. Four separate dual-wheel bogies were stored within the B-52 fuselage, but instead of deploying straight down they deployed out to the sides, twisting around so that the bogies stored fore-and-aft ended up side-by-side. This gave the B-52 not a bicycle arrangement, but a quadricycle. The B-52 would comfortably sit level on its main landing gear and not tip to one side or the other. It still employed smaller outrigger gear near the wingtips, but this was to keep the wingtips from striking the ground during heavily laden takeoffs or bumpy landings.

‘Crabbing’ into the wind

Additionally, the forward bogies could rotate up to 20° side to side, allowing the B-52 to do something unique: land while ‘crabbing’ into the wind, the fuselage of the aircraft pointed well off the axis of the groundpath of the flight. This would permit safe landings in high winds.

The prototype B-52s scrapped after First Lady Lady Bird Johnson’s ‘beautification’ of the US Air Force Museum: The story of the XB-52 and YB-52

The prototypes had flapperons, ailerons and spoilers on the main wings. The ailerons were relatively small and located far from the wingtip; in fact, just outboard of the inboard engine pylon. A wingtip location for the ailerons would have given them more authority, but that would have put them in a much thinner section of the wing, a section much given to flexing. The inboard location was sufficient for the manoeuvring that the bomber was expected to perform.

Folding vertical fin

In any event, the spoilers were to take care of the bulk of the control needs of the aircraft, and the ailerons would eventually find themselves redundant. Unlike the production aircraft that followed, the prototypes did not have the capability for inflight refuelling. Neither did they, initially, have the external fuel tanks that generally graced the outer wings of production model B-52s, but such tanks were eventually added later in the testing phase.

B-52H print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. B-52H Stratofortress 2nd BW, 20th BS, LA/60-0008 “Lucky Lady IV”.

The horizontal stabilizers were all-moving, but this was meant for trim stabilization. Actual control was via slim elevators along the trailing edge. The elevators had, through the B-52F, trim tabs. An important but rarely noted feature not only of the prototype B-52s but of all B-52s that followed was the folding vertical fin. The fin was, at least until the G-model, a vast structure; too tall by far to allow the B-52 to fit within standard hangars. So it could fold over 90-degrees, greatly reducing the effective height of the aircraft. Unlike naval aircraft with wings that fold to fit in the limited space on board aircraft carriers, the fielding fin is not a self-contained system — an external crane is needed to lay it over and raise it back up again.

Prototype B-52s were hand-made

The prototypes were essentially hand-made at the Boeing Seattle factory. Production methods were not used as the jigs were not finalized; the equipment and instruments employed were also often not what would become standard. Neither prototype was fitted with defensive weapons; the tail turrets were represented by static fairings, with the painted-on lines.

The YB-52 was donated to the US Air Force Museum on Jan. 27, 1958, having flown for 783 hours. It was on display for a time but due to a ‘beautification’ scheme orchestrated by First Lady Lady Bird Johnson, both the XB-52 and YB-52 were scrapped sometime in the 1960s. Exactly how the official museum of the United States Air Force was ‘beautified’ by converting one of the most beautiful aircraft ever built into razor blades and soda cans is not adequately explained in the available literature.

Boeing B-47 Stratojet & B-52 Stratofortress Origins and Evolution is published by Mortons Books and is available to order here.

Photo credit: U.S. Air Force

B-52 Model

This model is available from AirModels – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS.

Dario Leone

Dario Leone is an aviation, defense and military writer. He is the Founder and Editor of “The Aviation Geek Club” one of the world’s most read military aviation blogs. His writing has appeared in The National Interest and other news media. He has reported from Europe and flown Super Puma and Cougar helicopters with the Swiss Air Force.

@kadonkey via X

[kirikorik]

Adam’s Death

Bucky Barnes/femOC! (Aveline). 18+

Part 1! Part 2! Part 3! Part 4! Part 5! Part6! Part7! Part8! Part9...

Summary: Maybe if he had turned away, pretended not to recognize her, everything would have been different. Maybe then she would have lived a long life — not with him, but at least a living one. But Bucky doesn’t know how to turn away. Doesn’t know how not to search for her in the crowd, not to grab her hand trying to remember everything… Maybe he could have saved her. Maybe next time he’ll make it in time and she’ll survive. Maybe next time… Aveline was destined to live three lives:as the sister of America’s hero, as the daughter of a great engineer, and as Hydra’s legacy.

Warnings: Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Love, Age Difference, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, 1930s, 1940s, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Sexism, Child Soldiers, Love/Hate, Blood, Trauma, Psychological Torture, Grief/Mourning, First Time, Developing Relationship, Cruelty, Sexual Inexperience, Masturbation, Character Death, Feelings.

"Authenticity"

"We love the people who cause us pain, and that's okay. The worst thing is not to love at all."

Date: 2006

Military airfield. A sunny day. But the light here seems harsh, almost merciless. The air is dense, heavy, filled with tension and expectation. The hot wind carries the smell of fuel, metal, and distant thunderstorms, raising dust and sand from the concrete runway. The heat presses down, enveloping, making even light clothing cling to the skin.

At the edge of the runway—two people.

A tall woman with perfectly styled blonde hair. She wears a strict business suit, but her fingers, tightly gripping a small child’s hand, betray her tension. Next to her, almost hidden behind her leg, stands a little girl—a slender figure in simple shorts and a T-shirt with a print.

Six-year-old Avelina Stark—the heir to an arms empire, daughter of a billionaire, and a little person carrying too heavy a burden. Sometimes she calls Pepper "mom"—softly, uncertainly, as if testing the word, not quite knowing how to use it. And each time, Pepper catches her breath.

Three months.

Three months in excruciating uncertainty. Is he alive? Will he return? Or will one day she have to tell this little girl that her father will never come home?

But now Avelina looks at the sky cautiously, eagerly catching every movement. Her small fingers grip Pepper’s hand tighter. And finally, he appears—a military plane, heavily descending from the skies. Its massive body casts a long shadow. A gust of wind blows dust through the air. Avelina catches her breath, something tightens in her chest.

The landing gear touches the ground. The sharp metallic sound echoes over the airfield. The plane slows down and finally comes to a stop. Silence before the storm. The rear of the fuselage slowly begins to open, letting warm light spill into the hatch.

Inside, everything is boiling—joy, excitement, fear.

Her dad is back. And here he is.

Tony Stark stands frozen in the doorway, limping. His right arm is bandaged, his face is gaunt, but still bears that trademark smirk. His clothes—wrinkled, dirty, too loose—rub uncomfortably against his skin, causing irritation. But he doesn’t care. Of course—he’s free. He’s breathing air again, no gun to his head, no sense of imminent death. Every movement is painful, but he barely notices.

Tony lifts his gaze. His eyes are tired, darkened, but life sparks in them when he sees his daughter.

“Avelina,” he exhales. The smile trembles.

Little Stark no longer waits. Letting go of Pepper’s hand, the girl bursts forward, her light steps turning into a mad sprint. The wind messes with her blonde curls, her heart pounds in her chest.

The stairs. Her father. Home.

“Dad!” Her voice is sharp, piercing, almost breaking into sobs.

She crashes into him with such force that Tony gasps, swaying slightly from the impact, but immediately pulls his daughter closer. His eyes are tightly shut, his shoulders tremble slightly, and his fingers grip her clothes so tightly that his knuckles turn white.

How long had he dreamed of coming home? How long had he hoped to see his little girl at least one more time? How long had he waited for this…

“Baby,” his voice cracks slightly, but he quickly pulls himself together, grinning hoarsely, muttering, “I’m so happy to see you. Really. But you might’ve just broken a couple more ribs.”

Avelina sniffs and buries her face in his shoulder, hiding her wet face. Her curls tickle his sweaty neck, and her small palms cling to the fabric of his back so tightly, as if he might slip away again if she loosens her grip just a little. But fortunately, just a moment later, the girl suddenly quiets, tilts her head to the side, and scrunches her face.

“Dad, you smell… like something…”

Tony snorts. And despite the dull pain in his broken ribs, his healthy hand affectionately tousles her hair.

“It’s the scent of a true hero, sweetheart.”

Pepper is already hurrying toward them. There’s a gleam in her eyes, her lips tremble, but she tries to hold it together. Tony notices and, with a mischievous smirk, raises an eyebrow:

“Well, darling, were you really that lonely? Your eyes are red… mourning the dead boss?” Tony squints and asks sternly, adjusting Avelina more comfortably in his arms.

“These are tears of joy, Tony,” she smirks, unable to hold back. “No need to look for a new job,” she adds, biting her lip and staggering slightly to hide a smile.

“Vacation’s over,” Tony grins, kissing his daughter on the forehead as she laughs and presses her cheek against his, accidentally jabbing his neck with her shoulder.

Pepper just nods and, biting her lips, turns on her heels to go to the car. But Tony, quickly feigning exaggerated surprise, exclaims:

“Wait, that’s it? I’ve made a triumphant return, and you won’t even throw yourself on my neck like this little girl?”

Avelina giggles. The tears on her lashes sparkle in the sunlight. And she still clings to her father as if trying to make up for the three months of separation all at once. He owes her thirty-six evening movie sessions. And Pepper hesitates for just a moment. Then, sighing, she steps forward, clicks her heels, and mutters:

“Alright, alright…”

She hugs them tightly, with her whole body, and the tension that has been holding her shoulders tight for weeks finally melts away.

Pepper no longer holds back. Her lips release a hoarse breath, and the tears that had burned her eyes for so long finally find their way out. She hugs Tony and Avelina even tighter, pressing them to her as if she wants to etch this moment into her skin.

“Darling, are you crying? Oh no, what’s wrong…” Tony chuckles, hoping there won’t be the sound of more bones breaking in his battered body. But he’s happy. Even joyful.

He didn’t even know he could—miss them like this…

How many times in these three months had he imagined this moment? How many times had he dreamed of hugging them like this and never letting go? He thought about them—every damn second of that hell. Tony chuckles, but this time, there’s no irony.

It’s all good. He’s home. He’s home with his family again.

And Avelina, happily nestled against her parents, thinks that now, with mom and dad here, everything will finally be perfectly alright…***

Date: 1939. Winter, December.

The snow outside the window slowly swirls in the light of the streetlamp, settling on the windowsill in a light, fluffy veil. December squeezes Brooklyn in icy embraces. Frost paints intricate patterns on the glass, and in the distance, the occasional sound of a train whistle howls. Somewhere outside, muffled children's laughter can be heard, someone slams a door...

And the Rogers’ kitchen lives its own special life — warm, chaotic, filled with long-awaited... tranquility.

The air is thick with the scent of cinnamon, melted butter, and slightly burnt sugar. The coals in the stove crackle, casting soft orange reflections on the walls. The floor is covered in flour traces, like the first snowflakes, and the table is in disarray: white dust coats the dark wood, apple cores are scattered around the bowl, and the forgotten rolling pin threatens to slip off the table and hit the cat’s tail.

It smells like something familiar — cozy childhood, home.

The lamp on the ceiling swings gently, filling the space with a honeyed light. It falls on Mrs. Rogers’ well-worn recipe book, where in bold ink is written: “The Best Apple Pie!”

Avelina stands at the table, rolling up the sleeves of her thin sweater almost to her elbows. The apron, tied carelessly, constantly slips, and the strands of hair falling out of the loose knot stick to her temples. She focuses on kneading the dough, but her bitten lip betrays her frustration — the sticky dough stubbornly clings to her fingers as though it doesn't want to yield. Disappointment slowly rises in her chest, and her heart beats a little faster than it should.

A sense of anticipation stirs up unease... She sighs, tiredly rubs her forehead with her wrist, leaving a white mark from the flour. Nothing is going according to plan.

"Damn," she mutters, trying to gather the dough into a ball. But it sticks to the table once again.

"Damn?" repeats a familiar voice in a teasing tone.

Avelina flinches and quickly turns around. Her chest tightens — not from fear, no. From something else. From the warmth breaking through the icy December air, gripping her ribs. She knows this voice — too well. Too attached to it.

Bucky.

He stands in the doorway, leaning his shoulder against the frame, wearing that crooked grin Avelina loves. A drop of melted snow clings to his temple, his hair tousled by the wind. His soaked jacket has yet to slide off his shoulders completely, and the collar of his shirt is unbuttoned. The front door slams shut behind him, letting in a sharp gust of winter wind.

"Is that a new secret ingredient?" Bucky lazily pulls off his damp jacket, throws it over a rickety chair that’s propping up the door, and raises an eyebrow as he looks at the flour scattered everywhere — from the table to the chin of the younger Rogers.

Avelina doesn't even have time to answer. She makes a sudden motion, her hand knocks the bowl, and a cloud of white powder fills the air. Everything is covered with a fine, weightless veil, even Bucky. He blinks, squinting as if trying to see something through the snowstorm, and slowly leans forward, narrowing his eyes, preparing to say something especially sarcastic:

"I see. You decided to strike first," he exhales, inspecting his now completely white sleeves. "Little genius." That's what he started calling her after straight A’s in every subject this semester.

Avelina bites her lip to suppress a chuckle but then sneezes loudly. The rest of the flour flies up again, and Bucky finally bursts out laughing — deep, warm, genuine. He steps a little closer. Just a little, but it’s enough for the warmth of his body to envelop Avelina — unbearably close. Almost on the edge of what’s permissible.

“Oh my God, Rogers, are you sure you understood the recipe correctly? I’m guessing it meant putting flour in the bowl, not all over the kitchen,” he whistles, surveying the chaos, then turns his gaze back to her.

"Stupid joke," Avelina mutters grumpily in response.

A sly smile appears at the corner of Bucky's lips, and Avelina's heart skips a beat. The warmth of his hands burns her cheeks. He touches her lightly, almost gently — the way he shouldn’t. His fingers linger a little longer than they should on her jaw. With his thumb, Bucky traces under her blue eyes.

Her heart skips a beat.

It seems like she should pull away. She should say something. But Avelina can’t and doesn’t want to. Too close. Too important. Inside, everything tightens even more. A knot forms in her stomach, and butterflies flutter, catching her breath.

And yet Avelina doesn’t pull away. Her flour-covered hands hang at her sides, but her fingers tremble slightly. Her heart is pounding so loudly that Bucky must surely hear it.

But it’s just Bucky, she tells herself, but her heart doesn’t believe it. It’s just Bucky with his eternal smile, with that mocking glint in his eyes. It’s just Bucky, whose scent — musk and light citrus notes — is so scorchingly close that she can hear her breath catch in her throat.

He always behaves like this.

This is nothing special.

This is not for you.

But why then do her hands keep shaking?

And Barnes, as if to mock her, takes his time. His fingertips glide over her skin, lingering at the edge of her cheekbones, and then his gaze meets hers. And it seems — that should be enough. But his touch, after what seems like a long pause, though only a pause for Rogers, slips down to her lips, carefully, without any apparent intention, and yet... Bucky’s eyes are dark, deep, and in them is something inexplicable, pulling, like a quiet storm.

"Or was that your ridiculous attempt to get rid of me?" His voice is low, velvet, with a hint of teasing. "I’m flattered. But have I really become that unbearable to you?"

Avelina swallows, feeling heat flood her cheeks. The world narrows down to the tips of Bucky's fingers, to the dim light of the lamp, to the barely perceptible smell of his cologne. Avelina could melt into this moment, drown in it, but instead, Rogers closes her eyes and steps back.

"Very funny, Bucky. Just tear-jerking," she scoffs, swatting him away, brushing the flour off her apron. A smile is already hiding at the corner of her lips, but she narrows her eyes, looking at Barnes as if she could prick him with a glance. "If Mom saw this, she’d kill me on the spot..."

Bucky laughs.

"You’re not the best baker." He smiles with that playful smirk of his, lazily grabbing an apple from the bowl and twirling it in his fingers. He watches Rogers, who is concentrating, trying with some charming awkwardness to peel the dough off the rolling pin.

"Judging by this mess..." He points to the sticky patches of dough scattered across the table and takes a juicy bite of the apple. "You’re trying to poison us with this, huh? Will it even be edible in the end?"

Avelina sighs, watching as the muscles in Barnes' forearms tense, as his chest rises and falls with each movement. He’s grown taller, stronger, bigger, bulkier. A strange, silly thought flashes: she shouldn’t be looking at him like this. This is Bucky. Her Bucky. But these thoughts disappear when he grins at her again, lazily and confidently.

Has he figured it all out?

"I’m not making this for you, Bucky," she rolls her eyes, but her lips give way to barely contained laughter, which becomes evident on her face.

"Do you even know dough isn’t supposed to look like wallpaper paste?" He winks, enjoying her confusion and consideration.

"Oh, really?" Avelina wipes the sweat from her forehead with her wrist, exhales nervously, turning a little red, and irritably tosses the rolling pin onto the table. "Maybe you should just bake this damn pie yourself?"

"Maybe I will," Bucky rolls up his sleeves and, without waiting for her approval, confidently grabs the rolling pin. Muscles bulge beneath his thin shirt on his forearms, and his muscles roll under his skin as he guides his fingers — with their eternally broken knuckles — into the dough. "Watch and learn, future science professor, or you’ll starve at university."

He pours half a glass of flour and leans forward, pressing down on the sticky mass with his entire palm, moving as confidently as if he knows exactly what he’s doing. Who would have thought that Bucky Barnes enjoys cooking?

"This is my pie," Avelina mutters indignantly, narrowing her eyes in irritation, but Bucky is so absorbed in what he’s doing that he doesn’t pay any attention to her. He deftly kneads the dough, adding a bit more flour and restoring its proper shape.

"Yours? Now it’s ours," Bucky says with a satisfied expression on his face. His eyes squint in a smile…

And Avelina snorts, folding her arms over her chest, but still watches his movements closely, trying to remember everything carefully.

"My mom always said: The main thing is not to be afraid of the dough." — Bucky glances at her seriously, but Rogers, instead of listening, unintentionally lingers on his lips. "It can sense that."

"Is this the great philosophy of Mrs. Barnes?" Avelina scoffs, biting her lip and leaning against the table with her hip.

"Exactly, kid. She knew what she was talking about," Bucky replies with a barely noticeable smile. "When I was little, I often helped her cook. Until I got too old for that. My sister liked to help her too. I gave way," his voice drops a little quieter, and for a moment, his gaze becomes thoughtful. Barnes relaxes his fingers and then, tightening them, flips the dough again.

"Do you miss it?" — the voice almost fades, as if Avelina herself can't believe she asked this question.

Her chest tightens with a sharp, stabbing pain. She wants to step forward — closer to him, to that place where everything is simple and nothing needs to be explained. But she has no right. Not to this. Not to him. Bucky looks into the distance, and in his eyes, there is an emptiness that she cannot fight. Not her battle. Not her right to be close. All Avelina can do is remain silent and hope that he won’t hear the tremor in her voice.

And Bucky presses his lips into a line, as though thinking over his answer, then replies with only a slight sadness:

"Probably. Sometimes. You know, there are those moments… when you just want to go back." — He pauses and tilts his head toward her, catching her gaze with a spark. "Back then, everything was simpler."

Rogers exhales half a breath, pressing her lips tightly, and without holding back, nods, turning away. Something flickers in her eyes that she can’t quite understand — it’s as though there’s always an invisible thread in their conversations, a silent vow, words not spoken aloud, but lingering between them. The problem is, this code, it seems, neither of them can crack...

"Come on, little one, give it a try." — Bucky steps back a step, but immediately closes the distance again. His fingers touch her waist. A shiver runs down her skin. It’s just a touch — light, almost weightless, but it burns hotter than a burn from the flames in the oven. And it will hurt later. Avelina tries not to pay attention, focusing on the dough in front of her, but her heart pounds in her chest so fiercely that she feels like he must surely hear it.

Bucky stands too close — it’s wrong. But she doesn’t push him away, and he doesn’t back off.

At this moment, time seems to slow down, and everything around them disappears, leaving only the quiet kitchen and the two of them, absorbed by the crackling of the embers, the warm glow of the lamp, and the fierce winter storm lashing at the shutters.

Avelina hesitates as she picks up the rolling pin, and at that moment, Bucky’s warm, confident fingers cover her hands. His palms are hot, slightly rough from the cold, and they firmly grip her wrists on top, making her flinch. Not because it’s cold — on the contrary. Bucky’s warmth burns through her skin, through the thin fabric, and this closeness becomes unbearable.

He stands behind her — too close. So much so that his breath breaks from his lips and brushes against her neck, sending shivers down her spine. His chest barely grazes her back, and with every passing second, the space between them seems more and more fleeting.

It’s just Bucky, — she whispers almost soundlessly to herself. But even that whisper in her mind sounds false.

His breath, warm and persistent, as Bucky moves even closer behind her. Instinctively, Rogers leans forward, her hips hitting the edge of the table, pressing into its corner. She stifles a nervous sigh, presses her lips together, but her face flushes with a deep shade of embarrassment, shame, and nervousness.

What if things were different?

Avelina unwittingly catches herself on a thought that burns her consciousness hotter and more painfully than Bucky’s fingers on her skin. What if years had passed, and he were not just Bucky Barnes, her close friend, but… someone more? For example... her husband? It’s silly, but still. What if this kitchen were theirs to share, not just a temporary refuge?

Avelina involuntarily imagines how often he might hug her from behind, how he would joke by constantly touching her waist, how carefully he would tuck stray strands of hair, smiling not just because, but because she was his — this thought ignites and terrifies. She can’t hold onto it or control it, like fire in her hands. Because that won’t happen. It can’t be.

And neither she nor he needs it.

Avelina blinks sharply, shaking off the spell. It’s impossible. It’s not what should have come to her mind. She takes a deep breath, pushing away the treacherous images, but her heart still trembles. He doesn’t need it, and neither does she.

Her fingers, nervously tightening, feel the warm, slightly rough contact with his hands. Bucky’s movements guide her, applying a light but undeniable pressure. Barnes accidentally presses closer to her, and she feels his torso pressing against her. She feels his shoulders tense and hears the thudding of his heart...

Bucky’s breath is warm and quiet. He says something, and his lips nearly touch her ear. In that moment, Avelina can’t hold back a sharp breath. The knot in her stomach tightens, sinking down, and it seems like even her knees momentarily give way, bending.

Her heart pounds loudly in her throat.

The scent of his shaving lotion — warm cedar and fresh bergamot with a hint of sandalwood — fills the air. Everything she feels at this moment is his warmth, his presence. How it fills her to the brim, spilling over, drowning her. Light begins to flicker in her vision.

Her gaze, almost mesmerized, slides over his arms, fixing on his hands, tense and strong, gripping her wrists. Bucky grips her hands a little more firmly, and for a moment, it seems that this isn’t a damn cooking lesson at all.

Her breath halts, Rogers' shoulders jerk, and when Bucky’s thumb lightly caresses the inner side of her wrist, Avelina feels something snap — a taut string or a fragile glass wall.

Bucky takes a deep breath of the thick air. His breath slightly trembles when he whispers something unintelligible to Avelina at her temple. Inside, something deepens, unsettling, uneasy. Avelina can’t make out the words.

Her pulse rings so loudly in her ears that it feels like this sound will consume her world. A sharp movement, an attempt to break free from his gaze, causes Avelina to jerk her hands away. She instinctively grabs the hem of her apron, desperately trying to hide the growing embarrassment. An awkward laugh escapes her.

Bucky immediately steps back, giving her space, but his gaze still pulls after her. In this pause, when silence wraps around them again, Avelina feels her cheeks burning with embarrassment, but she tries to hide it. Her voice betrays her, trembling. She barely whispers as she justifies herself:

"I’m not doing well, I think you can handle it from here, Bucky."

This is for the best.

This will be better.

Avelina takes a step back, as if there is an invisible line between them that cannot be crossed. Her hands still remember his touch — his warmth, his care — but she clenches her fists in horror, as if trying to erase the mark.

It’s just Bucky, — she repeats, and the thought echoes painfully within her. Someday, he will have someone else. Someone he will kiss, not afraid to break something less important. And it won’t be her. Not Avelina.

Her eyes don’t rise, hidden in the soft shadows of the floor, and her breath still falters on every word. But thankfully, silence doesn’t press her; it wraps her. The sounds in the room seem to quiet, except for the crackling of the fire in the stove, where the coal softly smolders, filling the air with warmth.

"Okay," Bucky agrees shortly, then returns to the dough. And maybe that’s for the best, but Avelina can’t read his emotions.

They sink back into silence. But thankfully, silence isn’t foreign; it’s familiar. And it’s become something comfortable, like the breath of someone nearby. There are only glances and movements, but at a distance. Not near and not close.

This will be better.

This is safer.

When the pie finally makes its way into the oven, they both tiredly settle at the table, watching as the dough slowly rises, turning golden in the oven. The thick scent of cinnamon and apples slowly fills the space, making their stomachs twist from hunger.

"It’s not so bad, kid," Bucky nods, breaking off a crispy piece of the pie. "Maybe you’re not so hopeless after all."

Her lips curl slightly in a responding smile. Avelina brings a mug of hot chamomile tea to her lips, enjoying the warmth filling her body. In the room, where comfort reigns, there’s no heaviness in her soul.

"Considering that you did all the work," — she chews a piece, looking at Bucky from under her lashes. "You really did a great job," she grins slyly, dodging a pinch from Bucky on the other side of the table.

Laughter and light playfulness in her voice hide her nervousness. She skillfully taps him on the knee under the table. But just then, Bucky grabs her ankle and yanks it toward him. Avelina squeals, barely holding herself on the chair. Her chest tightens with that bitter feeling... of infatuation.

"Stop it," she mumbles, sitting back down. Bucky just shakes his head with satisfaction, twisting the fork between his fingers and chewing another piece of pie.

"Don’t be such a spoil-sport," — swallowing quickly, Bucky theatrically waves his hands. "Cooking should bring joy and pleasure."

Everything feels so simple, so real and warm that Avelina, to her regret and horror, can’t suppress the suffocating thought that it won’t always be like this.

Stevie and Bucky — they are her family. But while her brother may be able to stay with her at least partially forever, Bucky... someday he will have his own family. A wife, kids, maybe a cat or a dog playfully running underfoot. For now, in the kitchen, he will cook for his beloved…

"Of course, if you don’t count the fact that you managed to burn the first pie," — Avelina says this quietly, with a different tone, but thankfully, Bucky doesn’t notice.

"Details," he exclaims with a slight smile, leaning his elbow on the edge of the table and looking Avelina in the eye in such a strange and provocatively aching way. Right now, he’s looking at her with warmth. Right now, he’s giving her all his attention. Right now, he’s here...

For a moment, it feels like in this room, they both forget everything except this quiet world. Their world, which is collapsing... But was it ever whole? It was.

"You know that now you’ll have to wash all this mountain of dishes, right?" — Avelina raises an eyebrow while Bucky reaches for another piece, snorting loudly.

"Hey, I was just helping. You’re the main one in the kitchen, so this is your job," — he smirks, licking the fork.

"Bucky, you’re the slyest lazybones I know," — Avelina rolls her eyes, hiding her smile behind the cup of tea.

But she can’t stop thinking that this moment — is stolen. Temporary. It doesn’t belong in her reality. She doesn’t belong next to him. Not like this, with this growing heat in her chest and that lingering wound that won’t heal. It’s already festering...

Bucky will find someone, someone with whom it will be easier. Lighter. Calmer. Without this tension, without her gaze, which says too much. With someone who suits him. But for now — for now, he’s here. For now, he’s near. And she will allow herself this moment...

And Bucky laughs. And this evening, amidst the sweet scent and the warm glow of the flames, it seems like everything will be okay. Even if only for a moment, it’s okay. Because Avelina needs even a moment...

Date: 1991. Alaska.

The rusty vessel, like a relic from another time, slowly makes its way through the icy waters, cutting through them like a scalpel slicing through frozen flesh. Its hull, corroded by time and the harsh northern conditions, creaks under the force of the wind, which relentlessly strikes the metal structures. Darkness engulfs the deck, leaving only faint islands of dim light cast by the old spotlights.

The hum of the machines is viscous, oppressive, like an invisible pulsing mass that penetrates the space and settles in the lungs with a suffocating vibration. The scent of saltwater mixes with the sharp stench of burnt oil, rust, and decay, enveloping everything around in a thick, sticky haze.

The air is heavy, stagnant. No one speaks here. Not because there are no words, but because any sound could be the harbinger of something irreversible, shattering the grim silence.

The wind tears droplets of rain, turning them into sharp needles that strike the bare skin. The sea rages. Waves slam against the hull with muffled thuds, causing the vessel to sway. Flashes of lightning tear through the darkness, revealing the silhouettes of soldiers positioned along the deck.

In their hands, weapons. They wait.

In the center of the cargo hold stands a livestock container, covered in frost. Its walls, like armor, restrain the contents, while the frost continues its unseen work, creeping through the metal, leaving thin cracks behind. Inside, there is absolute darkness.

The lock clanks, releasing the silent prisoner. The container creaks, resists, like a coffin unwilling to let go of the corpse. Air escapes first — foul, stagnant, icy, heavy, as if from death’s own lungs. Steam, like a confessional shadow, spreads across the flooring, crawls, searching for someone to touch first. From within — darkness, saturated with silence. The kind of silence that doesn’t let you breathe, but hangs like a knife at your throat, ready to fall.

And then — a rustle. Barely perceptible. As if someone inside remembered how to breathe.

The head rises slowly, painfully, as if existence itself resists. Vertebrae pull tendons with a crunch, like taut ropes ready to snap. Smoothly, in the vile viscosity of frozen time in this layer of distorted reality, someone steps out of the shadows. And the darkness retreats reluctantly, like cornered beasts. The face shows first. The skin is pale, thin, stretched over bone. Cloudy eyes open. Without shine. Without hope. Like two glass windows in a house long abandoned, where only the wind howls through the cracks.

He doesn’t move his head — no need. His eyes move. Slowly. With predatory, disgusting focus. They slice through space like blades, measuring everything around with that dreadful attention only those who expect to be attacked possess. There is no anger in them. No fear. But there is hatred. Only purpose. Only the darkness trained to kill.

The Asset drags himself across the narrow flooring. He still can. But each step stabs his legs with blunt pain. The deck opens before him — large, empty, glossed with water and oil. It seems endless. Puddles tremble, reflecting flashes. Wind lifts his soaked hair, lashes his face. Cold drops mix with sweat, flowing down sunken cheeks…

The Hydra soldiers around tense up first. Weapons rise with desperate movements. Safeties click, barrels gleam, strained fingers press against metal. But the Asset doesn’t react. Doesn’t even blink. The air freezes. Each breath stretches like a noose, tightening fear around the neck.

Time inside the container had warped, merged into a viscous endless void. The Asset can’t say exactly how many hours passed, but by how exhausted and hungry his body feels, he estimates the number — about two days.

Two days of torture, where his body betrayed him again and again, where his mind obsessed over the tiniest sounds, the drops crawling down the walls, the cold clenching his joints in icy vices. The stench that cut into his throat.

His body remembers the pain better than his mind. It stores every flash of agony, every clench of fingers around his throat, every blow that knocked the air out. The mind tries to forget, to erase, to dismiss — but the muscles remember. Joints ache, anticipating pain before it happens. Skin flinches from phantom touches. He doesn’t remember faces, doesn’t remember voices — but the pain? It’s carved into his flesh, a reflex.

Voices murmur. Scientists, officers, commanders. They don’t acknowledge him, discussing something in cold, even tones:

— …experimental phase… — …held out longer than expected… — …dosage can be increased…

Crackling in his ears, a pop. Clicking.

— Physiological adaptation is progressing faster than expected. — Pulse is stable, despite prolonged exposure. — Full neurobehavioral testing required upon arrival.

Voices slick, cloying, devoid of empathy. One of them belongs to someone important. Head of the operation? Alexander Pierce? A handler? No? Karpov? He doesn’t know, can’t remember. But their words leave a foul aftertaste. They speak of him as an object, a machine to be recalibrated. Which is exactly what he is.

For every resistance, every question, every repression — the brain, maimed by electricity, orders him to shut up.

His internal organs protest: spasms twist his stomach into a knot of throbbing pain. The Asset doesn’t remember the taste of food. Doesn’t remember when he last drank. Does it matter? No. The body functions on inertia, as required. The mind registers the sensations passively, without importance.

Fresh air hits him like a freezing blow. He doesn’t rejoice, but his lungs fill with moisture, washing away the sticky stench of sweat, vomit, and blood. Rain streams over his filthy skin, hair clinging to his face, tangling in his eyelashes, and salty water rolls over his lips. The trembling ship makes his steps sway, but he no longer remembers how to walk straight.

The soldiers lead him to the ramp. A cargo lift descends with a dull screech. They lower him down, move him, push him. The ground is unstable, everything around — unreal.

Soldiers line up before him. They keep him in their sights. Their fingers clench tightly on triggers. Their gazes — a mix of disgust and wariness. One of them, stepping sharply forward, grabs his shoulder and forcefully turns him:

— Move.

They fear him — so they act cruel. They mock him — so they hit harder. They prepare for his breakdown — and then bury him deeper in the dirt. So he chokes, so his lungs fill with filth, and the one who used to live in his head finally dies. Disappears. Gone forever.

He takes a step.

The legs move with effort, as if relearning movement, as if walking itself is a mockery the body is forced to accept. But each step — precise. Heavy. Weighty. As if he presses the deck down with his feet. Wet hair — dirty, matted, dark — hangs to his chin, sticks to his cheeks, as if trying to hide him from the world, to conceal the destructive essence sitting inside. But it’s too late. He’s out. They freed him. They released the Beast.

The night wind hits him with fury, but he remains motionless. Only his hair trembles, flutters in the rhythm of the storm. The soldier does not feel the rain, doesn’t notice the wetness. Only the traces remain. Only the scars. He can no longer be broken by external factors — only internal ones.

And the torment is always with him.

A shiver runs again across his skin. His fingers instinctively check the weapon — it’s still with him, hanging as a cold weight on his strap. Why? He doesn’t know. Maybe it's a new game. Maybe just an illusion of choice. They always leave a chance to think he has control. But he no longer thinks. They test him. And then hit harder, regardless of the result.

The soldiers are silent, but among them is one. Younger. His eyes are light — like those who still believe they can come out of this world clean. He holds the weapon tightly, as if that can save him. In any case, it doesn’t matter. He looks forward — by the book. But when the Winter Soldier passes, his massive shoulders shifting, the young man involuntarily flinches. And the Asset’s head turns a couple of degrees in his direction. Barely. Almost imperceptibly. Not demonstratively. Not threateningly. Just — the predator’s attention has shifted. To him.

The sound of waves stills. The world exhales. The nameless soldier feels the air thicken around him, as if he’s not breathing, but drowning in it. That gaze. The Asset isn’t just frowning. He’s calibrated. Observing. Not human. His eyes narrow slightly, watching as he walks away.

And the soldier swallows. His throat dry as dust. His hands begin to tremble, like in fever. His fingers tighten — but disobey. He tries to steady the barrel, suppress the tremor, but it only grows. Because this isn’t fear — it’s survival instinct screaming: run. Run before it’s too late. But he can’t.

And the other one has already passed. Gone further, without looking back. Because he knew. Knew that the look was enough. That the fear was already planted. That death — is not in the act, but in the awareness of its inevitability.

And his steps fade away. Dull. Rhythmic. Like the drumbeat of the condemned.

Before him stands a transport plane — American, massive, like a predator, its mouth wide open, ready to swallow its prey. Its quarry. Him.

The mass of metal looms over the Asset. The hull shines in the spotlight. The wind blows snow dust across the ground, but it immediately settles on the smooth belly of the plane, helplessly merging with its geometry. Inside, beyond the open gangway, dark sterile depths are visible, promising nothing but another cycle of soulless existence.

The sound of the turbines working vibrates dully in the air, like an omen. Inside the plane — straps, metal seats, gray panels, grotesquely lit by harsh flashes of emergency light.

The floor beneath his feet is slippery from frost, he walks without lifting his head. Only a brief reflection on the polished surface flashes before his eyes. Not his face — a shadow. An empty shell. He checks his holster. His fingers grip the handle. But it doesn't bring comfort. Is he weak enough to trust in this illusory freedom? They allow him to keep it until they decide he's not broken enough...

Date: 1940. Summer.

A summer evening in Brooklyn is heavy with heat and the smells of celebration. The air is thick and heavy, saturated with caramel sweetness, popcorn, and the smoke of roasted chestnuts, along with the spicy aroma of apples coated in sugar glaze. Through the noise of the crowd, a sharp laugh rings out. Music from phonographs on the edge of the square mixes with the hum of voices, creating a cozy atmosphere.

The crowd moves: boys in suspenders juggle apples, girls in colorful dresses chase each other, waving ribbons. The asphalt is hot and pulls at the soles of shoes, making people seek shade. Someone sprays water from a fountain. Laughter rises above their heads, dissolving into the hot air. Stalls with cold drinks are crowded: bottles of soda gleam with amber flashes in the sunlight, the ice clinks against the glass, giving the lucky ones in line the long-awaited coolness.

The city festival is in full swing: garlands shimmer with multicolored lights between colored flags, reflecting off the polished shoes of men and the light dresses of women. Children run between the stalls, begging for sweets and laughing as they play.

The atmosphere is carefree, like in old advertising postcards. People exchange remarks, share news and plans, forgetting that war could break out at any moment. For now, time stands still. But in the distance, on a street corner, men discuss the latest reports from Europe. Someone talks about Germany's attack on France, criticizes the president's words, but as soon as the wind brings the smell of beer, the conversation shifts to light smiles—today is not the time to think about war.

Avelina walks a little behind. She’s wearing a lemon-colored dress that tickles her knees and white shoes that squeak. The air is stifling. It clings to her skin, but thankfully, the sun has almost set. A strand of hair escapes from her carefully arranged locks, but her hands don’t rise to fix it. She’s too tired.

The heat presses down, enveloping everything in a sticky veil, making people move slower, waving the air with newspapers. From the hot dog stand, the heat and the smell of toasted buns mix with mustard and fried onions. Somewhere nearby, someone spills lemonade. The sweet citrus scent mixes with the sugary powder of cotton candy. Avelina runs her palm over her neck, wiping away a thin drop of sweat, but immediately catches herself looking at Bucky again.

He’s walking ahead, shoulders slightly turned, telling a story—one of many. Barnes gestures widely and carelessly, laughs so that even passersby smile secretly. He radiates liveliness. As always.

And next to him is Dolores—a tall, graceful girl with thick red hair. Light plays in her curls, making them look almost honey-colored. Dolores laughs brightly, tilting her head back, and occasionally touches Bucky’s forearm. These touches are light, almost accidental, but too frequent to be truly inconspicuous. Watching this, Avelina feels a strange quiet tingling in her chest.

“…and then that poor guy tried to flirt with the administrator, but she gave him such a look that he probably still has trembling knees!” Bucky exclaims, laughing and clapping Steve on the shoulder.

Dolores laughs brightly. Her curls tremble from the motion of her head, and she leans into Barnes. And Avelina feels a painful twist inside. A dull, prickly jealousy flares up, but she swallows it immediately. After all, Dolores is a good girl.

Avelina has no right to be jealous. It’s ridiculous. Pointless. Dolores is a good girl. Truly good. Beautiful, kind, caring. And she knows how to listen. She suits Bucky. Even if they’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. There’s no point in Avelina being angry. But she still wants to turn away. It’s silly. Dolores is wonderful, and Avelina only wants the best for Bucky. There’s no reason to feel how cold fingers of envy tighten around her throat…

The group approaches the shooting range. The booth is chipped but painted colorfully. Rows of cans shaped like rabbits and ducks are set up on the counter as targets to shoot. The man behind the counter is sturdy, with thick mustaches, squinting as he lazily spins a rifle in his hands.

“Well, who’s the marksman here?” He eyes the group, and Bucky grins broadly and steps forward. He shoves his hand in his pocket and pulls out a couple of pennies. “Well, buddy, are you accurate? Ever fired a gun?”

“I think I’ll manage.” Barnes smirks, shaking his head.

“If you hit them all, the prize is for your friend,” the owner adds slyly, nodding toward Dolores. And immediately, something tightens in Avelina’s chest so much that it feels like her heart, full of blood, might burst.

“Put up the targets, old man,” James snorts, pressing the rifle to his shoulder and deliberately aiming. “If I hit them all, the best prize is mine.”

Avelina looks away. A sharp jab under her ribs. Bucky seems to freeze for a split second before raising the rifle again. The first shot—metal rings. The second. The third. The friends and the crowd nearby erupt in approving cheers.

“Bucky, you’re great!” Dolores claps enthusiastically. She bites her lip, looking for the remaining targets behind his broad shoulder. And Steve trails behind, nervously shifting from foot to foot. He’s not even going to try, listening to the store owner's laughter about how he probably won’t even hold the gun right.

Avelina squints, watching as Bucky, once again skillfully aiming, knocks down the last target. When he was younger, playing with stones instead of bullets, he always won against everyone in the yard. No one could match his accuracy, and it seems that with real weapons, it’s the same. But pride or joy doesn’t come from this.

“Impressive! Well done, boy, hit all the targets,” the mustachioed owner whistles, pulling a big teddy bear off the counter. Barnes grins, lowering the rifle.

“Bucky, you’re like a real soldier!” Dolores exclaims thoughtlessly.

Her words seem to hang in the air for a moment, settling on the skin with something sticky. Bucky momentarily clenches his jaw, but then pretends not to have noticed.

“You’ll go to war, and then we’ll see who the best marksman is,” the booth owner grumbles with a smirk. And Bucky, nodding slightly, takes the teddy bear and hands it to Dolores. She smiles gratefully, leans down, and kisses him on the cheek, pressing the toy to her chest.

And inside Avelina, her stomach knots, the air is sucked from her lungs, and it feels like her ribcage is about to crack. Rogers is silent, but Bucky suddenly turns. His gaze easily catches hers from the crowd, almost as if on purpose. There’s something strange in his eyes, barely noticeable. It’s like he’s waiting. Waiting for her to say something, to make a gesture. But she remains silent, looking through him.

And he needs to hear something, needs to understand...

“Want me to knock down a toy for you too?” Barnes asks curtly.

Avelina forces a smile. It doesn’t work well. Bucky seems to have no idea how much pain he’s causing her. So she plays along. Better this way. Better like this. She doesn’t want to complicate things.

The fabric of her dress creaks under her fingers. The crowd around her laughs. Somewhere nearby, a boy’s voice rings out, having won a prize at another booth. But all of that fades from her consciousness. There’s only her, Bucky, and Dolores, who does everything Avelina will never allow herself.

She has no right to be jealous. It’s funny. Pathetic. Sad.

The sound of a bell from some child irritates her more than usual. Each new ringing sound strikes at her nerves. Something twists inside, knotting into a tight coil, like a snake settling under her ribs, hissing: “He looks at her the way you wish he would look at you. She can become the one for him that you will never be.”

Accept it.

Avelina’s gaze finally focuses. Bucky is still standing next to Dolores but looking at her. There’s something elusive in his face—expectation? Anger? It’s as if he’s waiting for her to do something, to say something, to finally break. But Avelina can’t allow herself that. She just pulls on a smile, one of those that means nothing, and shrugs, moving closer to her thoughtful brother.

"If you want," she answers indifferently. And at that moment, she hates herself more than anything in the world.

And Bucky looks a little longer than necessary. As if waiting for her to get angry, shout, or at least frown. But Avelina gives him no reaction. She can’t. And he doesn’t know why he expects such a thing from her...

Bucky exhales. He squints slightly, the corners of his lips twitch for a moment, and it seems like, just a little more, and he’ll say the thing that will make everything fall into the abyss. But no. He just shakes his head, smirks, and pretends nothing happened.

Avelina feels another crack inside her.

"Oh, stop it!" Bucky, leaning against the counter of the shooting booth, pours some coins out again and skillfully picks up the rounds that were brought to him. "Admit it, you still love stuffed animals," he chuckles. "You’re still the same little girl as you were when you were a kid. You haven’t changed at all."

Haven’t changed? At all?

Avelina blinks, looking at him, feeling something hot crawling down her spine. He said it carelessly, like always, but for some reason, right now, it didn’t sound quite right. As though it wasn’t just teasing, but mockery.

Avelina just shrugs.

She snorts in response, the corners of her lips trembling, but not from a smile. Bucky raises the rifle, and in a moment, the teddy bear is in her hands. She grips it with her fingers, squeezing as if the pain might bring relief... And again, that barely noticeable change. Bucky freezes, waiting. But Avelina gives him no reaction.

She shouldn’t love Bucky.

She shouldn’t feel anything for him.

It’s better this way.

And if not for her, then at least for him.

Avelina squeezes the bear tighter in her hands, feeling the plush warm under her palms. Somewhere to the right, the girls laugh loudly. The dusty festival paths are littered with confetti, and lost tickets from the carousels lie scattered here and there... And Bucky is still standing across from her, leaning against the counter, looking at her as though she’s supposed to say something sharp, to... what? To apologize again?

But Avelina remains silent. What’s worse—she smiles.

And something in Bucky’s face changes—barely noticeable, but Rogers sees it. A thin crease between his brows, slightly pursed lips. He immediately pushes it away, becoming his usual, easy-going, cheerful self again. Then he turns to Dolores, makes some joke to her, and glances back at Avelina. But she stretches her smile wider, and it looks so sincere that Bucky’s smirk twists. Does she really not want to say anything to him? Does she feel nothing at all?

With a hiss, Bucky turns away, and, bending down, whispers to Dolores, “Let’s go.” He takes her by the elbow and leads her toward the dance floor, where couples are already spinning under garlands. The light from the lanterns casts soft shadows. The music spreads around them, carrying away the noise of the city. The loudspeakers croak the melody—a light jazz.

And Avelina follows them.

Gravel crunches underfoot. The wind carries the cool evening air, but even it can’t save from the heat. People’s voices are heard all around. Someone throws a coin in the air, deciding what to do with the remaining cents. Children with striped lollipops hurry to the carousels, leaving sticky traces on their fingers.

Avelina stops next to Bucky and Dolores, places the teddy bear on a bench, and Steve walks off to the restroom. Her gaze involuntarily catches on the couples dancing: how the hands slide easily across waists, how lips touch cheeks, how the light falls on faces, making them soft, almost weightless.

And then Rogers feels Bucky’s gaze. He’s close. Very close. And for a moment—a short, almost imperceptible moment—it feels as though he’s reaching for her. Her heart beats heavily, painfully. Enough. And Bucky himself doesn’t know why he’s doing it.

Why? Dolores called. After all, the three of them—he and the Rogers—had gone to the summer festival together every year, just the three of them. It was their place, their holiday. He never brought along brothers or sisters, never blurred that thin but strong boundary that separated the three of them from the rest of Brooklyn. Not even his own family.

But this time, he just said to Dolores: “Come.” So casually, so thoughtlessly. Why? What for? For what reason? But there’s no answer. He keeps doing things, regretting them, then blaming himself.

Bucky sighs and gives Avelina a dark look. He feels her tense. And Rogers doesn’t look at him in return. Not at all. But she’s angry. Or is it not anger? Maybe he just wants it to be anger at him? The problem is, he doesn’t understand—why?

Bucky wants Avelina to say something. But he doesn’t know what. He wants her voice to finally break through that calm, emotionless silence...

"Little one, you..." Bucky starts. And Avelina turns, looking at him, a little confused, from below. His eyes focus on one spot, and his fingers move slightly as though he’s about to touch her wrist. He wants to make a choice. It’s clear. His fingers tremble. He could touch her fingers, her palms, hold her hand—tightly, tightly—but he doesn’t do it.

The hesitation costs its price.

Dolores interrupts at that moment, like a sparrow crashing into a window:

"Bucky, let’s go!"

And Bucky, blinking, turns to her.

Is the choice made?

Avelina feels her heart tighten. It’s not jealousy—jealousy is too loud, too prickly, too burning. This is something worse. A muffled, all-encompassing scream that clings to her ribs and suffocates, slowly but surely.

Bucky doesn’t even get to finish.

Avelina freezes. Just for a moment. Then slowly exhales, trying to push away the bitter wave of disappointment. She watches as Bucky nods at her—apologizing—and pulls Dolores onto the dance floor under the bunting. His hands easily settle on her waist, and hers clasp on his shoulders...

"Are you okay?" Steve’s voice. He’s just returned and now stands next to her, watching her with a concerned smile.

And Bucky spins Dolores in a dance. Their silhouettes blend with the crowd, dissolving in the golden light of the lanterns. Avelina clenches her fists, tears freeze in her throat, but she, as always, swallows them.

"Of course, I’m fine," she says, forcing herself to smile. "You know, I think I’ll go home. I’m tired. I have work early tomorrow, and Mr. Wilson will be angry again that I’m sleepy..."

Steve nods. He knows his sister too well not to notice what she’s not saying aloud.

"Okay," he agrees, offering his elbow for her to take his hand. "Let’s go together."

And while somewhere behind them, Avelina’s love spins joyfully in a dance with another, laughing loudly, while the evening continues, while the music pours out in warm waves, she walks away, carrying with her the bitterness of unsaid words that are unlikely to ever be spoken aloud again.

Steve is beside her—doesn’t let her fall apart. At least she still has him. The festival continues—and surely the garlands cast soft light on Bucky’s face as he smiles at Dolores, maybe... maybe even leaning toward her—kissing...

And Avelina walks away.

She hears Steve beside her, but doesn’t understand what he’s saying. The world feels blurry, distant. Only bitterness—dry, nasty, dirty—sticks to the roof of her mouth. She forbids herself to look back. Forbids herself to feel.

All she can do is leave. She’s out of place here.

But Bucky feels her absence.

He smiles at Dolores and leads her in the dance, but all he sees, nervously shaking his head, is the fragile silhouette of younger Rogers, disappearing into the crowd.

Why this unpleasant pressure in his chest?

He leans over, glances over his shoulder, hoping she’ll look back, that she’ll do something. That there will be some kind of recognition in her gaze, some kind of weakness that will say to him: “I don’t want you with Dolores. Choose me.”

Her?

If she just looks, just turns around—he’ll drop everything and follow her, wherever she leads. But Avelina doesn’t look back...***

Date: 1991.

The plane shakes in the oncoming wind. The cabin is filled with a low hum of engines, which coldly carry it to the next point on the route.

The Asset sits in the dim light, feeling the cold of the steel fuselage through the dense fabric of his soaked uniform. The metal chills his skin, but he does not react. Too familiar. Outside the porthole—snow, endless grey fields of ice sparkling in the moonlight. Endless white wastelands. But Alaska remains behind, dissolving into the darkness of the night. Everything inside feels as empty as this frozen landscape.

His pulse is dull, steady, as if it has been drilled into his subconscious.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Nothing more.

Something inside his skull throbs with a dull, monotonous pain. Like an old mechanism, long forgotten but still functioning, grinding inside, reminding him of its presence. He does not try to silence the pain—there’s no point. It has become part of his being, a companion, a shadow that never leaves him.

The Asset sits motionless, does not move. Does not look out the window. Does not look at the companion next to him. Only at the emptiness, and it looks back at him.

Once, he searched for even a glimpse of the familiar in faces—desperately, impulsively, with hope, like a dog that has lost its owner, with the empty faith of a hunted animal. He would peer into each one, like a hungry beggar waiting for a handout from the past. This was before the past disappeared under the icy water of the hole, where they drowned him over and over—until his lungs filled with agony, and his heart stopped in panic. When he no longer twitched, they would pull him out, throw him onto the snow-covered ice, and then...

The dogs would tear his flesh to shreds, sinking their teeth into his muscles, ripping to the bone. He would scream, but not from the pain—from despair. The pain was an empty sound, meaningless. It became part of him, like tearing skin, like broken fingers, like needles digging into the body.

This was just one of the kinds of torture they subjected him to. Not the worst… Definitely not… But because of it, his body became numb to cold and pain. His limbs were frozen over time, and the damn super-soldier serum saved him from death time and time again.

They didn’t break his body. They tore pieces of his mind away. For weeks, leaving him in complete darkness, without food, without water... If he had died the first time, when he begged them to give him something to eat after three weeks of hunger—maybe it would have been easier. If he had died back then, hanging upside down, while they broke joint after joint—it would have been easier. If they hadn’t erased his brain again and again, leaving only pain, rage, and blind submission—it would have been easier.

But he didn’t die. And so, every time he opens his eyes, he isn’t sure: is he alive? Or is he still there, in that endless hell, where life is just another form of torture, where pain is the air he breathes?

No matter how many times they erased his memory, all the tortures he experienced would never be forgotten. They burrowed into his brain, becoming a grotesque brand on his skull.

The plane begins its descent. It tilts sharply, and he starts hoping that there will be an explosion, and the plane will crash—break apart. But the landing gear hits the runway with a dull thud. There’s a sharp metallic clang in the cabin. The wind lashes against the fuselage, filling the air with the smell of fuel. Inside, the tension grows, muscles turning to stone, but he does not show it. The straps are undone. The companion nods.

The Asset stands up. They’ve landed.

He’s taken out into the night, and the black van is already waiting for him. The doors are wide open, and he knows there’s no choice. More hands grab his shoulders, direct him, push him inside. The Asset sits down, feeling the cold steel of the floor through the thick soles of his boots. The hum of the engine is replaced by the rustling of the wheels.

New York.

He recognizes the smell. Dirty, heavy, with a hint of old iron, gasoline, dust, and something sour, almost decaying. The city lives, breathes, moves. Through the window, he sees lights passing in a blurred sequence of silhouettes. But it doesn’t matter to him.

His final destination is the Base.

It’s not like the one in Siberia. There are no huge empty hangars covered in frost, no frozen metal walls, no hollow echoes of footsteps lost in the lifeless space. No dark cell where they locked him up, occasionally letting in hungry beasts. In complete darkness, he could only hear their growls, how hunger dripped from their jaws. He was hungry too.

Back then, they made him break their necks with his bare hands.

The problem is, he doesn’t remember who he killed first—the animal or the human…

Here it’s cramped. Narrow corridors, low ceilings, muted light, trapped in metal mesh lamps. The smell of disinfectants, formaldehyde, iron, and sterility clings to the skin. There’s no cold of the Siberian winter here. But somehow, he feels cold.

The deeper he goes, the worse it gets. The Asset feels the air becoming denser, palpable at the nerve endings. The doors open. He doesn’t step forward—he’s pushed. And the Asset sees her.

The machine, the device, the same as...

Everything tightens inside. His eyelids twitch, his chest feels like it’s in a vice. The room is warm, but he’s freezing. The cold cuts through his flesh, gnaws at his muscles, reaches his bones.

This is impossible. It can’t be. But she’s here. A perfect copy of the Memory Suppression Machine, the same one from Siberia. Steel clamps, a screen with pulsating data, rough leather straps...

His skull feels like it’s pierced by electricity, even though there are no wires yet. His fingers twitch involuntarily, nails digging into his palm, but the Asset doesn’t even notice. The mechanical arm screeches. The air in his lungs becomes thick. It’s heavy, sticky, like tar. His gaze flits around, but there’s no escape. The walls seem to close in.

“Sit,” the doctor’s voice is dry, colorless. The Asset does not move.

What is the reason for your disobedience, Soldier?

“Sit,” they repeat, this time more forcefully.

He’s shoved. His knees buckle. He sinks into the chair, and the straps immediately tighten around his wrists, thighs, chest. The clicks of the restraints—dry, predatory.

He forgets how to breathe.

His chest rises and falls too quickly. The air tears out of him, but it feels like he’s drowning. A sensation of sticky terror, paralyzing, constricting his muscles, turning every vein inside out. His ears ring. His head hums.

The Asset doesn’t notice the moment the doctor approaches. His mind is clouded by white noise. Fear drowns reality, reducing it to vague shadows and indistinct shapes. He doesn’t notice how the doctor leans over him, doesn’t see the thin gleam of the metal needle. At this moment, his mind is focused on survival. He calculates options, looks for a way out, though he knows there’s none.

When the needle sinks into his vein, his body jolts. Not from pain. From cold.

Ice spreads through his veins, fills every cell. His muscles clench in the agony of the last surge of tension, but then it all fades away. His fists unclench, his fingers dangle helplessly, as though his will is melting with the heat of the pain. His chest rises in one last convulsive breath before the rhythm of his breathing slows. He no longer feels the straps. They’re still embedded in his skin, leaving scars, but he no longer feels them. Though the scars are always with him.

The Asset is still under guard. Two soldiers. He sees them in the blurry reflection on the metal panel. Their fingers on the triggers. Then his vision blurs.

And he sees himself.

A hunted animal. His eyes wide. A mad, broken look. Hair falling over his face, matted with sweat. Fear. Something primal, wild, reflected in this blurred image. Alien. Terrifying. Monstrous. But it’s him.

Who is he?

His breath falters. He lifts his head, gasping. One breath. Another. Everything returns to normal. The Asset is stable. His body feels heavy. His shoulders sag. His vision blurs again, turning the room into a smudged mass. He hears only one thing: his own breathing. Dull, stretching in the emptiness.

The Asset closes his eyes, and the first jolt of electricity strikes.

English is not my native language! Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok My Wattpad

[carsthatnevermadeitetc]

Plymouth Satellite Sebring Plus, 1972. The third generation Satellite adopted Chrysler's new "fuselage" styling with the 2 door hardtops featuring a loop-type front bumper. The standard engine was Chryslers 318ci V8

[airsllides]

airsLLide No. 5377: TC-JCA, Boeing 727-2F2 Adv., THY Turkish Airlines, Zürich, October 20, 1985

TC-JCA was the first of 15 Boeing 727-200 Adv. delivered to the Turkish flag-carrier THY in 1982. With their improved performance over the classic DC-9-32 the carrier already used on regional flights to European destinations, the Boeing 727s both allowed growth in existing markets and reaching destinations further away.

Upon delivery, they still received the classic «needle stripes» livery of THY, but in the 1990s they all got repainted into the eurowhite fuselage with red tail design that THY uses ever since with several modifications. The above scheme is however still found on one of its aircraft, an Airbus A330-200 painted as retro-style heritage aircraft.

airsLLide No. 39639: TC-JNC, Airbus A330-203, THY Turkish Airlines, Zürich, March 13, 2020

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1971 Plymouth Road Runner

1971 Plymouth Road Runner

The 1971 Plymouth Road Runner is a classic American muscle car, known for its powerful performance and bold styling. Featuring a range of V8 engine options, including the 383 and the mighty 440 Six-Pack, the Road Runner offered impressive speed and acceleration. The 1971 model introduced a more rounded body design, with a distinctive "fuselage" look, giving it a sleeker appearance compared to earlier models. Equipped with the iconic "beep beep" horn and aggressive hood scoops, the Road Runner embodied the raw power and playful spirit of the muscle car era. It remains a favorite among collectors and enthusiasts today.

[pinturas-gran-guerra-aire]

1918 05 Return from the Hunt - Russell Smith

Return From the Hunt features the Ostdeutsche Albatros Werke (O.A.W.) built Fokker DVII’s of Jasta 50. Jasta 50 was one of the first units to receive the O.A.W.-built D VIIs, with the planes arriving in mid-May of 1918. The fuselages of these particular DVII’s were covered with 4 color printed lozenge fabric. The wing rib tapes of these aircraft appear very light in photos, and often are referred to as light blue. However, it is far more likely that existing stocks of plain, unprinted fabric were used up at the factory for this purpose. The noses of O.A.W.-built D VIIs were painted dark green with mauve patches. On later machines, these patches were applied in a giraffe-style pattern. However on early examples, like this one, the mauve patches were applied in a cloud-like pattern. The unit and personal markings were applied with white and black paint of very good quality. The white used by Jasta 50 was so opaque that the printed camouflage pattern did not show through, and both colors were likely of factory quality. The lead aircraft is piloted by Lt. Karl Schädel. Schädel, whose name translated into English means “skull”, marked his DVII with a black skull smoking a pipe.

[a-wonderful-danganronpa]

playing the rain code introductions rn. did you by any chance get inspiration for the character's names in this fangan from that game. just asking/lh

[NO SPOILERS]

ha! absolutely. Kodaka picked out a few of the Rain Code names for a "stateless" feel, i.e. the vibe that these characters could be from anywhere, or nowhere. and indeed, he's said in Bsky Q&As that characters like, for example, Fubuki or Aphex come from far-away mystery cultures. i've always liked Fubuki's name in particular: Japanese + fantasy English. Fubuki Clockford. absolutely stellar.

similarly, in the world of AWD, a lot of state lines don't matter anymore, and cultures have mixed and merged and changed. other characters were born so poor they never had real last names at all. while many of the names i've chosen may change, they still reflect that idea.

for example:

as mentioned, Six's first name is literally the English word "six." in-universe, it's just spelled out in katakana: シックス Shikkusu. her name in-universe is not 六 Roku or anything similar. her siblings all have names like Four, Five, etc too. but her last name is in fact 篠田, Shinoda.

similarly, Wisteria Ito is literally the English word wisteria (don't ask me for katakana on that, i need to sit with an expert on that one if i keep it. obnoxious) + the Japanese family name 居藤. fun fact, though: 藤 here actually means "wisteria" so her name is basically something like Wisteria Wisteria. this is intentional because i think it's funny. in-universe, i do believe Wisteria is not her real name and she came up for it herself based on her...escapades. but any future fanfic can do what it wants

Latin names are popular in AWD's time, so you end up with something like Veritas Yobiyama. again, his name is actually Veritas (something like ブリタス Buritasu but don't quote me on that, i have to tweak it with my manager's help if i end up keeping that name) and not a Japanese name with a similar meaning.

Yuwa has the opposite kind of name as Veritas: Yuwa Gladia. 癒和 (Yuwa) + gladia, from gladius, a type of Roman sword

Melville comes from someplace that is not Japanese-based at all, so his name is Melville Poine.

of course, you still have full-on Japanese names like Kaname Yoshida (由多 奏雨), Hikari Seki (関 七色), or Yaeko Togami (十神 矢枝子).

many characters come from poorer backgrounds, and so decided on their own surnames when they came to the Monastery, like Fubu Fuselage or Reika Boulevard (she took one look at her street of birth and was like yeah sure)

Senju is special in that she always called herself Senju the Excellent, and when it came time to fill out paperwork as a little kid, Suzuran just wrote down Senju Excellence for her before Senju could read or write. she would answer to both

and of course, there's Suzuran. her birth name was not Suzuran Dustcrawl. Usami (probably) gave her Suzuran (涼蘭) when she came to live at the Monastery as an infant. Dustcrawl is a half-insult referring to her status as Monastery librarian, but she's so used to people calling her that, she's just accepted it as a "family" name.

bonus: all names can be read in a Western (first + surname) or Japanese (surname + first) style. both would be considered normal in the Empress's country

i'm actually glad you noticed! i've wanted to do a Name Talk for a while. thanks for the ask! (though you probably didn't mean to extract an infodump from me, ha)

[blindloveforever]

📸 Front Section of the Singapore Airlines Airbus A350. this photo beautifully captures the forward cargo door of the Airbus A350, wide open for loading operations, right under the iconic Singapore Airlines livery. Let's break it down. 👀 Signature Curved Cockpit Windows: A350’s iconic “sunglass”-style windows for sun protection and sleekness 😎. Efficient Ground Handling: Ground crew, fueling trucks, and handling equipment are in action—this is the hidden engine room of commercial aviation 💼

🏁 Carbon-Fiber Build: The A350's fuselage and wings are primarily made from carbon-fiber-reinforced polymer—lightweight but ultra-strong. The cargo doors on the A350 are electrically operated and latched, not hydraulic, allowing for quicker, safer ground ops with fewer moving parts. Sleek, smart, and service-ready—this is how the A350 handles business on the ground before soaring the skies! 🛩️📦✨