kharnthebetraye

[kharnthebetraye]

[kharnthebetraye]

It's my 8 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

[kharnthebetraye]

Jason Todd: dragging himself out of his grave, coughing up dirt "Okay… what the hell just happened?"

Jason: slowly remembering "Wait… Joker… a crowbar… oh, I’m about to commit some UNSPEAKABLE acts."

Jason: staring at his own tombstone "They really put 'Beloved Son' on this? Tch… That’s rich."

Jason: grabs the nearest crowbar from a random alley "Alright, Clown. Time for a little poetic justice."

Meanwhile, somewhere in Gotham—

Joker: sipping a drink, suddenly gets full-body chills "Why do I feel like I’m about to have a really bad day?"

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The USS Arleigh Burke (DDG-51) pitched and rolled violently as it struggled through the raging North Atlantic storm, its bow rising and crashing into the black, foam-capped waves with the force of a battering ram. The wind screamed through the ship’s mast, rattling the radar arrays and sensors mounted atop the superstructure, while rain lashed the deck in thick, stinging sheets. The sky was a swirling mass of dark gray clouds, their bellies flashing with the occasional flicker of lightning, casting jagged streaks of light across the churning ocean. Visibility was nonexistent beyond a few dozen yards—beyond that was only the void, an unrelenting wall of water and wind that had swallowed them whole.

Somewhere out there, the fleet was moving without them—a vast armada of American, British, French, and Norwegian warships and landing vessels, all steaming toward the northern Soviet stronghold of Murmansk. After thirty-six years of war, since the day Soviet and Warsaw Pact forces poured through the Berlin Wall in 1953, the world had become little more than a battlefield, a wasteland of attrition, with nations locked in an endless cycle of violence. And now, in 1989, the war still raged, with Murmansk as the next target in the West’s desperate push to break the Soviet war machine. But the Arleigh Burke, one of the most advanced warships in the American fleet, was lost—separated from the invasion force, alone in the freezing hell of the North Atlantic, with no way of knowing if they were steaming toward safety or straight into the jaws of a Soviet hunter-killer group.

Inside the bridge, the tension was suffocating. The space was alive with flashing indicator lights, the sharp electronic hum of radar and sonar equipment, and the tense voices of officers and enlisted men desperately trying to regain their bearings. Commander Thomas Garrett stood at the center, gripping the edge of the chart table, his knuckles white from the strain as the deck shifted unpredictably beneath him. His sharp eyes flickered between the rain-streaked windows and the flickering navigation displays, but neither gave him any comfort.

"Navigation, where the hell are we?" Garrett snapped over the din, his voice barely carrying over the storm’s howl.

"Sir, GPS is down—interference from the storm," Lt. Junior Grade Mathis, the navigator, called back, his hands working feverishly over the plotting table. "We’ve been dead reckoning for the past hour, but these swells are throwing off our estimates. Last confirmed position put us north of Sweden, but without a visual fix, I can’t say for sure."

Garrett clenched his jaw. "Comms, tell me you’ve got something."

"Nothing, sir," came the frustrated response from Lieutenant Ramirez, head of communications. "SATCOM’s fried in this weather, and HF is nothing but static. Even ELF’s spotty—storm’s playing hell with long-range transmissions. We might be able to raise one of the subs if we hold transmission long enough, but it’s a long shot."

Garrett exhaled sharply, glancing at his Executive Officer, Commander Bill Carter, a grizzled veteran with deep lines carved into his face from years of war. Carter stood with arms crossed, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture was clear.

"We’ve got two choices," Carter said, speaking low enough for only Garrett to hear. "One—we hold position, ride this bastard out, and hope the fleet circles back for us. Two—we push east, try to slip under the storm and reestablish contact."

Garrett frowned. "Push east where? We could be sailing right into a Soviet patrol line, Bill."

"Or we could get back to the fleet and not miss the landing," Carter countered, his voice firm. "We’re needed at Murmansk, sir. If we don’t make it, those Marines and Royal Commandos are going in with one less destroyer covering them. The fleet’s counting on us."

Garrett knew he was right. The USS Arleigh Burke was more than just another ship in the fleet—it was a spearhead

Beneath the raging storm, in the crushing black depths of the Arctic Ocean, K-27B Komsomolets moved like a phantom. The Soviet attack submarine, a heavily modified offshoot of the Victor III-class, was built for exactly this kind of hunt—silent, patient, and deadly. For the past two hours, she had been shadowing the USS Arleigh Burke, stalking her through the storm like a predator trailing wounded prey. The Americans didn’t know it yet, but they were no longer alone.

Inside Komsomolets, the control room was bathed in dim red lighting, the only illumination coming from the soft glow of instrument panels and sonar displays. The atmosphere was thick with tension, but not a word was spoken above a whisper. Every man aboard knew his job, and every movement was made with careful, deliberate precision. Captain 2nd Rank Alexei Gromov stood near the periscope housing, eyes locked on the tactical display. His crew worked with the quiet discipline drilled into them through years of service—there was no need for orders beyond the occasional low-toned command.

"Contact still holding steady, bearing zero-eight-five," Senior Lieutenant Mikhailov, the sonar officer, reported in a hushed voice. His headphones were pressed tight over his ears, listening for the telltale signature of the American destroyer’s LM2500 gas turbines—a sound unmistakable even in the chaos of the storm above. "They have no idea we’re here."

"Range?" Gromov asked, his voice calm, almost casual.

"Four thousand meters. Closing, but slow. They’re likely adjusting course," Mikhailov replied, eyes never leaving his screen. "No active sonar pings, no rapid turns—standard lost-ship behavior."

Gromov nodded. The Arleigh Burke was a formidable opponent—Aegis-class radar, sonar arrays, towed decoys, and a magazine full of anti-submarine rockets and torpedoes—but she was blind in this weather. The storm disrupted their sensors, and they were relying on dead reckoning to find their way back to the fleet. That made them vulnerable.

The K-27B was equipped with MGK-540 "Skat-3" sonar, a system that had proven itself capable of detecting American ships well before they ever knew a submarine was in the area. More importantly, her anechoic coating and improved noise-dampening technology made her a ghost in the water. Even if the Arleigh Burke decided to sweep with passive sonar, all they would hear was the roar of the storm.

"Weapons status?" Gromov asked, eyes flicking toward the torpedo control console.

"Four Type 65-76A torpedoes loaded, tubes one through four. All systems green," reported the weapons officer, a young but seasoned Lieutenant Stepanov. "We can fire on your command, Comrade Captain."

Gromov folded his arms. He had no orders to attack—only to observe, report, and, if the Americans got too close to Soviet territorial waters, eliminate. His orders were to let the Americans make the first mistake. If they turned their active sonar on, if they altered course into contested waters, if they even hinted at detecting him—he would strike.

He glanced at the plotting table. The Arleigh Burke was still straying dangerously close to Soviet-patrolled waters. If they kept their current heading, they would be within engagement range of Murmansk’s coastal defenses within a few hours. The fleet they were searching for was likely steaming ahead without them—an American warship alone in these waters was an opportunity the Soviets wouldn’t ignore.

Gromov took a slow breath, considering his options. "Hold position. Maintain shadowing distance. Keep tracking but do not engage unless ordered," he said, his voice cool and measured. "Let them wander a little longer."

Mikhailov smirked slightly under his breath. "Poor bastards," he muttered.

Gromov said nothing. He just watched the silent hunt unfold, knowing full well that the USS Arleigh Burke had no idea she was being followed by something that could end her in a matter of minutes.

For hours, K-27B Komsomolets stalked the USS Arleigh Burke, its silent presence masked beneath the thunderous chaos of the storm. The American destroyer, blind and lost, continued on its erratic course, trying desperately to reestablish contact with its fleet. But there was no fleet—not here. If they had been anywhere close, the Soviet submarine’s sonar would have picked up the distant hum of turbine engines or the steady ping of radar sweeps. There was nothing. The Arleigh Burke was truly alone.

Captain Alexei Gromov stood motionless near the periscope, his face illuminated only by the dim red light of the control room. He had hoped the Americans would unwittingly lead him to the invasion force, allowing Soviet naval command to position their own assets for an ambush. Instead, they had led him nowhere. They were drifting toward deeper waters, away from the primary invasion corridor, and if he let them go much farther, they might slip away entirely.

The radio operator, Senior Lieutenant Petrov, adjusted his headset, listening intently to the encoded message coming in on the low-frequency ELF transmission. When he finally turned, his face was unreadable.

"Captain," Petrov said. "Orders from Northern Fleet Command. We are to sink the target immediately. No survivors."

A silence settled over the control room, thick and suffocating. Every officer within earshot straightened slightly, their expressions unreadable, but the weight of the order was clear. This was no longer an observation mission. This was an execution.

Gromov inhaled slowly, his fingers tightening behind his back. It was not an order he had been hoping for, nor one he particularly relished. The USS Arleigh Burke was a fine warship, and her crew had fought in this war as long as he had. But war had no room for sentiment. The Americans would not hesitate to sink a Soviet vessel in the same situation.

"Helm," Gromov said quietly, his voice smooth but firm. "Adjust course—bearing zero-eight-seven, speed five knots. Bring us into the optimal firing position."

"Zero-eight-seven, five knots, aye," the helmsman repeated, hands steady as he made the adjustments.

"Mikhailov," Gromov continued, turning to the sonar officer, "confirm firing solution."

"Target remains steady on bearing zero-nine-zero. Range: 3,500 meters. No course corrections. They still don’t know we’re here," Mikhailov reported, eyes fixed on the sonar screen. "We have a clean shot."

"Good," Gromov said. His gaze shifted to Lieutenant Stepanov, the weapons officer. "Prepare tubes one through four. Load two Type 65-76A torpedoes and two USET-80s. Set warheads to maximum yield."

Stepanov acknowledged the order without hesitation. The Type 65-76A torpedoes were designed for killing carrier groups—massive 24-inch weapons, capable of ripping a warship in half with their high-explosive warheads and 50-kilometer range. The USET-80s, though smaller, were reliable and extremely maneuverable, ideal for ensuring a confirmed kill if the first strike didn’t finish the job.

The quiet hum of machinery filled the control room as the massive torpedoes were silently cycled into position. A moment later, Stepanov’s voice cut through the stillness:

"Tubes one through four ready and flooded. Target locked. Awaiting launch authorization."

Gromov took a slow breath, then nodded once. "Fire tubes one and two."

"Firing one and two!"

There was a low mechanical thump as compressed air ejected the torpedoes into the freezing depths. They drifted momentarily before their engines ignited, streaking toward the Arleigh Burke at over 50 knots, their guidance systems locked onto the American destroyer’s hull signature.

Inside the bridge of the USS Arleigh Burke, they never saw it coming.

The first Type 65-76A torpedo struck the USS Arleigh Burke amidships, port side, just below the waterline. The explosion was instantaneous and catastrophic—a massive detonation of 900 kilograms of high explosives designed to kill carriers, now unleashed against a lone destroyer. The blast ripped through the hull like paper, sending a towering column of fire and seawater into the storm-lashed sky.

Inside the ship, the world turned upside down.

The bridge erupted into chaos as the impact sent a violent shockwave through the vessel. LCDR Mark Talbot, the ship’s executive officer, was thrown from his chair, slamming into the bulkhead as alarms screamed through the ship’s internal PA system. Red warning lights flickered, and the acrid smell of burning electrical wiring filled the air.

"What the hell was that?!" Talbot shouted, struggling to his feet.

"We’ve been hit!" one of the junior officers yelled, clutching onto the chart table as the ship listed hard to port.

"Sonar, talk to me! Where the fuck did that come from?!" Captain James Weller bellowed, gripping the damage control phone as the ship groaned beneath them.

Before an answer could come, the second torpedo struck.

This time, the detonation was even worse. It struck aft, near the engine room, obliterating one of the gas turbines and rupturing the ship’s fuel lines. Fire and superheated steam exploded into the compartment, instantly incinerating the sailors working there. A massive fireball shot up through the ventilation shafts, bursting into the passageways above and turning them into tunnels of flame.

"Main power’s down!" an ensign screamed as the bridge lights flickered once, then cut out completely, leaving them in near darkness except for the emergency lighting.

"We’re flooding! Port side’s taking on water!" a damage control officer barked over the 1MC. "Engine room’s gone! Fire’s spreading to the aft magazine!"

Weller’s stomach turned to ice. "Get damage control on it—NOW! Sound General Quarters! All hands to battle stations!"

Throughout the ship, fire crews scrambled. Men grabbed CO2 extinguishers, trying desperately to beat back the flames licking through the passageways, but the inferno was spreading too fast. In the mess deck, sailors stumbled over each other as smoke filled the space, choking out all visibility. Someone was screaming for a medic.

Below deck, the flooding was getting worse. The torpedo had ripped open the hull, and seawater was rushing in through the gaping wound. Damage control crews fought desperately to seal the bulkheads, but it was a losing battle.

"We can’t stop the flooding! She’s going down!"

On the bridge, Weller clenched his fists. "Get a mayday out! NOW!"

The radio operator, face pale with terror, tried. "Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is USS Arleigh Burke, we are under attack! Taking on water, multiple casualties! Coordinates—"

The transmission cut off as another secondary explosion rocked the ship, tearing through the port-side munitions locker.

Weller grabbed the bridge rail, his knuckles white. "Goddamn it—abandon ship!"

[kharnthebetraye]

You can't tell me he doesn't speak other languages

Ford (excitedly): "Did you know that theoretically, with enough energy, you could open a portal to an alternate dimension?"

Stan (casually, in fluent Russian): "Да, но сначала нужно подмазать охранника и подкупить пару бюрократов."

Ford (confused): "Wait—since when do you speak Russian?!"

Stan (shrugging): "Тюрьма. Три страны. Длинная история."

Ford: "...WHAT?!"

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Dipper (nervously pacing, hands gesturing wildly): "Stan, I swear, the cops are gonna raid the Mystery Shack any minute now. You’ve been way too careless with the tax stuff! They’re gonna find everything! The fake receipts, the off-the-books sales... the whole thing!"

Stan (sipping coffee, unfazed): "Pfft, kid, they can’t touch me. I’m untouchable! I’ve got everything under control."

Bill Cipher (in the background, flailing wildly, caught in a net Mabel tossed his way): "HEY! GET ME OUTTA HERE! This isn’t fun anymore, you little—ARGH!"

Dipper (facepalming, trying to focus): "No, you don’t understand! Tax fraud, Stan! The IRS doesn’t care about your… questionable methods of profit!"

Mabel (in the background, gleefully swinging on her grappling hook, zooming past Bill and narrowly missing Stanford): "WHEE! It’s like a bungee jump… only with more strangling!"

Stan (still completely unfazed, shrugging): "Ah, tax fraud, shmax fraud. The real crime is how much the IRS charges for these tiny little bottles of maple syrup! They should be paying ME!"

Stanford (rushing to stop Mabel mid-swing, looking horrified): "Mabel! Get down from there! You’ll destroy the shack! And stop using the grappling hook on that poor… what is that, Bill Cipher??"

Bill Cipher (still struggling in the net, deadpan): "You don’t have to worry about me, you weirdos, I’m just dying over here!"

Dipper (groaning, holding his head in his hands): "I’m pretty sure the IRS is gonna be the least of our problems soon, Stan!"

Stan (grinning mischievously): "Kid, you really think that’s the worst of it? I’ll make the IRS my best friend—now help me get this sweet deal I’ve been working on with the government!"

Dipper (sighing): "I cannot believe this is happening."

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Adventurer 1 (eyes gleaming): "Look, I know she’s obviously a vampire, but hear me out—FOR SCIENCE!"

Adventurer 2 (desperately holding them back): "SHE’S SUCKING YOUR BLOOD, YOU MORON, NOT WHAT YOU’RE THINKING!"

Vampire (smirking, fangs dripping with blood): "Oh, darling, I can do both if you’d like."

Adventurer 3 (crossing arms, deadpan): "This is why we never let you make decisions."

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The only way to get them in therapy

Harley Quinn: sitting across from Batman, legs crossed, holding a clipboard "Alright, Batsy, let’s start simple—why do ya dress like a bat and punch people instead of, I dunno, processing ya trauma like a normal person?"

Batman: gritting his teeth "I do not need therapy."

Alfred: calmly loading a shotgun in the corner "And yet, here we are, Master Wayne. Now, kindly cooperate before I must take further measures."

The Bat Family: all sitting stiffly on the couch, looking like hostages

Jason Todd: whispering to Dick "Blink twice if we’re being held against our will."

Dick Grayson: deadpan "We are absolutely being held against our will."

Tim Drake: half-asleep "I’m just here for the free snacks."

Damian Wayne: arms crossed, scowling "This is a waste of time. I require no therapy. I am perfect."

Harley: pointing at Damian "Aaaaand there’s our first liar! This is gonna be fun!"

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Joseph- "The Lord may have sent me to lead, but He sure didn't warn me about babysitting."

J/j/f- "Well, technically, you're the one who said you were our father, soooo... deal with it, Dad."

Joseph- "Deputy, I need your hel— …oh for the love of God, not again. Where did you wander off to THIS time?!"

Twenty minutes away

Hurk Jr- "Alright, bro, I say we flip a coin—winner gets to cut ‘em down!"

Sharky- "Nah, man! Rock-paper-scissors—best two outta three!"

Deputy, still hanging upside down: [Internal screaming]

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Jinx- "Smile, Isha! We're about to commit some wholesome and totally not chaotic crimes!"

Isha- -[Isha raises an eyebrow, shakes her head, and rapidly signs:] "Wait… 'wholesome' crimes?! Jinx, NO grenades!" [Frantic hand gestures for emphasis]

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Vi-"Jinx, I swear to god, if you don't get that eight-legged nightmare away from me, I'm putting it AND YOU six feet under!"

Jinx-"Oh come on, Vi! His name is Mr. Wiggles, and he just wants a hug... WITH ALL EIGHT ARMS!"

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Fowler "Now, sugar, I ain’t sayin’ I’m a bad man… but if I were, I’d be the best at it."

Mizu "Congratulations. You just talked yourself onto my kill list."

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Anna-"Artyom, I swear, if you wander off one more time without saying a word, I’m tying a damn bell around your neck."

Artyom-"...But Anna, what if I need to sneak past a demon? You want it to hear me jingling like some radioactive reindeer?"

[kharnthebetraye]

WOOOOOOOOOO! Can I request a Yandere Anna from Metro Last Light/Exodus? Just a concept of course!

- ☢️

After researching Metro your Anon name makes sense, lol! I'll try my best to write Anna... I had to gather her personality from scenes as no wiki said it. I'm focusing on her Exodus personality, sorry if something is off... still new!

Yandere! Anna Miller Concept

Pairing: Platonic -> Romantic

Possible Trigger Warnings: Gender-Neutral Darling, Obsession, Stalking, Manipulation, Overprotective behavior, Paranoia, Trust issues, Violence, Subtle possessive yandere, Subtle yandere behavior, Dubious relationship.

Anna may appear cold or focused at times... but she does genuinely care for her allies.

She is one of the most skilled snipers for the Rangers, she probably actually met her darling through the Rangers.

You've proven yourself to be a Scout and work to find supplies.

Similar to Artyom, she falls into protective behavior.

Naturally she wishes to look out for you due to your job.

She's a sniper so she ends up placing her scope on you to follow you wherever you go.

She plays her behavior off as just being concerned for you since you're a crucial part of the Rangers.

She always checks over your equipment and checks you for any injuries.

If she catches something wrong she asks her father to order you to stay at the base.

Anna has times where she can be ruthless or stern... but she does hold care towards others.

She scolds you if you're reckless and you can never seem to lie to her.

Mostly because she's stalking your every move through her scope when she can't be around you.

Similarly to Artyom's concept, she may also try to make you rely on her.

After all, she's the one monitoring your scouting runs.

She takes care of any threat before they harm you.

Even when you're unaware she followed you, you're reminded of her presence when a bullet flies through the skull of an enemy in front of you.

Her father doesn't usually approve of her outings to follow you... but he can never seem to stop his daughter.

Anna doesn't care what her father thinks... she wants to make sure you're safe.

At first her obsession is definitely just friendly.

Everything she does is to protect you and keep you out of harm.

Especially near the end of the Dark Ones war.

In fact, I highly doubt Anna lets you participate in that final battle.

Her father and Artyom wanted her to stay out of it... so she wants you out of it too.

While that final battle happens she probably spends time getting to know you more, claiming it was the best decision to keep you out of the battle.

Even when Anna's feelings towards you begin to turn romantic... she still feels just as protective over you.

She isn't really possessive for the same reasons as Artyom, most of the people and creatures in this world just wish to kill you.

Although... with allies? Maybe then Anna shows some aggression.

Like with Artyom... she cares for him but gets defensive when he brings you up.

If people say Anna is being too obsessive about your safety, she tells them off.

She cares for you... she loves you... you'll see that soon enough.

It gets to the point she doesn't like you on your usual missions anymore.

Her father tries to object, but Anna ends up confessing the fact she adores you too much to see you slowly die to the radiation outside.

In that moment... her father decides to enable his daughter just enough to aid her efforts.

Miller takes you off of scouting missions, he claims it's just for a little while.

Yet afterwards Anna starts to get more affectionate.

She's more flirtatious with you, always wanting you in her sight.

Soon enough she may manage to convince you to give in to her affections.

She's taking your first kiss... holding you close... whispering that you don't need to scout anymore.

Artyom can scout for you, he's the best at it.

Just... give in to her.

She knows everything about you.

She loves you... and deep down she knows you love her too.

If you refuse and say you can't give up your job... that you can't give in and be with her...

Anna shows extreme disappointment.

But... oh well...

She'll have to try harder to convince you.

She knows you love her... how could you not when she's watching over you?

Even if you say no... she'll never let you go to anyone else... even if it means locking you in the base with just her to speak to.... away from all the danger and people the world offers.

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[kharnthebetraye]

[kharnthebetraye]

so i have encountered the Bulba anomaly for the first time. I left about twenty lives there for that damn toy.. but before i got it, i had to sketch my first impression immediately