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niqhtlord01 · 9 months ago

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Humans are weird: The one who returns

(A continuation of: Humans are weird: They sing going to war)

Though my comrades laughed I continued the human tradition, and to my relief I was rewarded by what gods of theirs were listening.

On my first drop after I started to sing an anti-air shell punctured straight through my dropship. It tore a hole the size of my torso through the hull, reducing the squad mate who had been sitting their laughing at me into a red mist, and then out through the other side before detonating. The craft rocked and lurched but it held together long enough for us to reach the surface.

In my first battle I was pinned down in the ruins of a structure trading fire with a squad of enemy soldiers on the opposite street. We’d been stuck in that firefight for almost an hour trading fire; neither side daring to race across the dead land between us. I had just ducked back to slap in a fresh clip when a shredder grenade was flung through the window and landed at my feet. I had seen what they could due and knew my time had come as there was no chance for me to escape the room before it detonated. Yet as I kept my voice strong in song a stray blaster bolt struck the ceiling above me loosening a chunk of masonry. The piece came loose and fell directly on to the grenade causing the ground beneath it to crumble and continue falling into the floor below before it detonated leaving me unharmed.

What truly astounded me though is when my squad was assigned to capture a metal recycling facility on the outskirts of the city. Reports had identified the complex as a rallying point for scattered enemy squads looking to regroup so we were sent in to neutralize the threat. We arrived in good order and began investigating the factory when the machinery suddenly came to life. A metallic sheering blade the size of my body swung at me from the gloom and would have nearly chopped my head off had I not noticed the red glow it began to emit as it powered up. My comrades were not as lucky and three of them were cleaved like bloody paper. From above I saw the operator of the machinery at what had once been a foreman control post and let loose a barrage of blaster fire. He fell quickly enough and in the confusion of battle between the enemy forces now flooding onto the facility floor I made my way up to the control post. It took a minute to unravel the nature of the controls but in short order I had redirected our would-be machine adversaries to turn on their former compatriots. The facility was ours within the hour with myself once more remaining the only one untouched from harm.

As my squad began shuffling off to wait for a medvac I found myself drawn to the machinery. The giant blades now stood silent and powered down and I ran a hand against them. Even powered off they were sharper than anything I had ever come across and when on had so easily cut through armor meant to deflect raw energy discharges. I’m not sure if it was from the shellshock of battle or from my recent time spent with the human warriors, but I felt something calling to me from the blade. It took some time to dismantle but by the time the medvac transport arrived I had freed it from its housing and dragged in onboard. If my squad had anything to say about it those that could still speak kept their own council.

Back in orbit I dragged the metallic blade to the human’s section of the ship. I had found myself in their company more and more when time permitted between deployments. Their talk of ancient gods and wards of protection were what interested me at first, but they were but the first steps into the depth of my fascination of their culture. I showed them the giant blade and told them of how it had slain my comrades. Some of them spoke how it reminded them of the blade of Surtr which heralded Ragnarök, while others insisted that it was more akin Skofnung, a king’s blade imbued with the spirts of his most loyal warriors.

The debate went on from friendly disagreements into an open brawl between the opposing factions, but their engineers remained focused on the material itself and asked what I wished to do with it. I had heard many of the legends of the humans by now and knew many of them carried great weapons, so I wished them to fashion me one from this blade as well. They were hesitant at first as the work alone would be immense and they had other duties to attend to, so I offered them whatever material of the giant blade would be theirs to do with as they pleased. With such an offer made their eyes went wide and they barely had time to agree to the terms as they snatched the giant factory tool and carried it off between the still brawling throngs.

Three days passed and I heard nothing from them. My next deployment was on the fourth and just before I was to embark on the transport the engineers came before me. With great glee they presented me with my new weapon.

Now a fraction of its former size, the blade could easily be wielded with one of my hands. I took several swings of it and I could feel the very air itself around it buzzing as it sliced through it. To add to the moment the human engineers directed my attention to a bright red button on the hilt of the weapon. No sooner had I pressed it did the blade coursing with power. A soft orange glow began to emit from the blade as it once more became as powerful as the first time I saw it in the facility. As if to emphasize its keenness they had me hold the blade up then swung one of their own rifles at it like a club. The blade sliced through the body of the rifle and it fell to the floor with a loud clutter.

Impressed by their work I nodded my thanks and joined my comrades on the dropship. It would be the last time anyone on the ship would call me by my name. When I returned I would be known by other names but the one that most stuck was Ne’ya Ruel, which in my people’s tongue translated to “The one who Returns”

#humans are weird #humans are insane #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #space vikings

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theficdealer · 9 months ago

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“How do I—! How do I know!” Bilbo echoed, bristling with exasperation. “I journeyed all the way across Middle Earth, through forests and over the hills, crossed the Misty Mountains and the Great Greenwood through to the ruins of the great City of Dale and further still to Erebor, fighting goblins and orcs and giant spiders and a whole blasted war, then did the whole thing again in reverse, and you have the gall to ask me how I know!”

There was a beat of total silence. “Well, it was a reasonable question,” said Fortinbras, stung.

Bilbo drew in a long breath through his nose and gave an almighty huff. “Mark my words. All of you,” he said, pointing a finger at all the gathered faces, his voice tight with the desperation to be taken seriously. The dwarves would have listened. They would’ve had his back. “You must evacuate Hobbiton. Take only what you need to survive, and run. Go east. Forget your handkerchiefs and hang the silver spoons. Anyone who stays here, will die.”

“Now, Bilbo…”

He held up a hand to his cousin’s face. “No. No, don’t. You’ll see. Take my advice or don’t, you’ll see,” he said, casting a fearful glance at the smoke billowing from the ruins of the first raid. It was the pebble before the avalanche, and there were already more, thinner trails of smoke joining the larger one. A lump formed in his throat. They were already coming. He gave one last, loud proclamation to the crowd. “Flee on the east road. Tell anyone, everyone — we have no choice.”

—Excerpt from There Is One They Could Follow (One They Could Call Thain) by Oakensting (WorseOmens) on ao3

Basically, Bilbo pulls a Thorin Oakenshield and leads his people from the orc-ravaged Shire to safety. Meanwhile in Erebor, Thorin refuses to believe Bilbo is dead.

Sadly, i think this fic was deleted. I mourned it more than some family members.

Wayback machine link in comments, thank you @st4rp1x3l and on a rb from @valewright67 !!

*staggers into the room Kramer-style covered in water, soot, glitter, and slivers of paper from the waste bin of a paper shredder like confetti* So, guess who just watched the lotr trilogy for the first time despite being a fan of the Hobbit for a literal decade! Also the last two (three?) months have sucked ass and I’m exhausted, so buckle up.

Anyway, this is one of my comfort fics, I love it so much. Everything from the Pining(TM) to the blatant parallels between the dwarves and hobbits.

Things I loved in particular:

Gandalf the White Ox

Kíli taking one look at Thorin and being like “oh I know exactly what’s going on here”

Hamfast and Drogo

Petty Thorin

Seriously, he’s so petty I love it

Bard just being like “yeah, that’s pretty much how I was when I lost my wife”

The r e u n i o n

“you’re like a hobbit king!” “my title is thain, actually” *incredulous staring*

splash fight<3

The acorn speech<3<3<3

The “New Polite”

Dwobbit debate

read it or the ulnas are mine <3

#the hobbit #hobbit fanfic #bagginshield #fic rec #ao3 fanfic #ive read it several times #bamf bilbo baggins #imitation is the sincerest form of flattery #thorin x bilbo #gamgees deserve good things

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altocat · 4 months ago

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Genesis decides to prank Sephiroth by sending something to his office fax machine.

What comes out?

With the text "Y Dis Not U :("

Sephiroth personally storms over there and threatens to put Loveless in the paper shredder.

#asks #ff7 #ffvii #final fantasy 7 #crisis core #sephcanons #sephiroth #genesis rhapsodos #final fantasy vii

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avanti4027 · 7 months ago

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#buy paper shredder machine

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mementos-of-me · 7 months ago

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Evermore

Chapter 37. It's time to go

Previous chapter

Masterlist

I can't tell you how much Nadia means to me <3 I'm so excited to share what's to come with you!

pairing: Pietro Maximoff x OFC

warnings: a whole lotta angst, hurt no comfort, Nadia & Pietro,

By the time I’d returned home, New York had begun following in Vienna’s footsteps, the warmth of spring rearing its head as the last of the snow melted away.

In the light of day everything looked different.

The compound was eerily silent, my swift footsteps seeming raucous against the immense quiet. Beneath my bed, within an unassuming cardboard box that lay behind other various bits and pieces was a black duffle bag. Inside was a selection of passports, fake documentation, cash, a burner phone and a few items for disguise. Perhaps there was one positive to my tumultuous childhood, I was always prepared. This go-bag was my perfected kit, containing everything I needed to disappear. I quickly shed my outfit, changing into jeans, a plain white top and my brown leather jacket, unassuming and easy to ditch later. I grabbed the gun I had hidden beneath my pillow and one of the ones held in the back of my closet, sliding one into the back of my jeans and jamming the other into my bag along with some ammo. When I had what I needed I slung the bag across my body and began toward the door, though I paused beside my nightstand, glancing down at the frame sitting there. A picture of Natasha and I that she’d framed for me.

What’s more you than your own face?

I smiled at the recollection, pulling the photo out and stowing it away along with one other picture that had been in the drawer. When I was done, I forced myself to keep going. I only had one last order of business at the compound, and I needed to get moving because it wouldn’t be long before Ross and co. arrived. My stomach turned as I stepped into Pietro’s room, chest tightening as I glanced over his haphazardly made bed; his worn-out sneakers, I walked passed all of it, ignoring the familiar smell of his cologne and the memories that hit me from being in here. Shoving aside the clothes in his closet I quickly found the files I was looking for, all of the notes and communications, everything linking him to Hydra and slid them under my arm. I made quick work of moving to the office and putting every page contained in the folders through the paper shredder. Again and again, I watched the paper turn into ribbons of white, the letters muddled and cut and unintelligible. When it was all shredded, I opened the lid of the machine and shred it even further by hand, making sure there was no way to read what had been there. I tore the bits of paper until there was nothing left of Pietro’s agreement with Hydra.

Pietro and Wanda were pardoned by the government for their part in Ultron’s crimes because they switched sides and helped save a lot of lives. If the United States government found out that he’d been colluding with what was considered a terrorist organization, they would not be so quick to forgive. I wasn’t sure that being Avengers would protect them from the consequences of that.

My phone had not stopped buzzing since I arrived, I pulled it from my pocket quickly seeing dozens of messages and calls from Anna and a bunch of unfamiliar numbers. At the very top sat a missed call from Nick Fury as well as a voicemail notification. I pressed play as I finished destroying the documents.

“Nadia, I know that you’re all a little busy down there at the moment, so I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important. You’ve told me many times to leave the past where it belongs, but basically, I didn’t listen. People tell me I have trouble letting things go, anyway, I kept digging into your past and… just call me back as soon as possible.”

Nick had a flare for the dramatic, though, I’d never heard him sound like this before. He spoke quickly, disbelief intertwined within each word. My finger hovered over his contact but then I glanced at the clock and hesitated, I’d been here too long already and no doubt my phone would be under surveillance, the second I made a call Ross would know my location. Whatever Fury wanted to tell me would have to wait.

I finally left the compound then. Destroying the evidence was the last order of business I had there, the last thing I needed to do. My last endeavor to protect Pietro Maximoff. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

From there I headed straight to the location I’d arranged with my contact; before I arrived at the private airstrip I ditched my phone on a bus heading into the city. In an hour when the vehicle reached the outskirts of New York City a scheduled text message would be sent from my phone pinging its location.

The message was to Anna, and it contained only one word:

Red.

It was a codeword we’d decided on years ago, simply put, it meant that there was trouble and whatever device that had sent the message was compromised. I trusted that this message along with what she’d inevitably find out had happened at the airport would be enough context for her.

I’d thought about escape just about every day for the last 20 years. In every room I entered I mapped out every possible exit and had a plan for how I would get to it. My mind was always calculating, formulating a plan. Call is self-preservation or a survival instinct, whatever it was it had ingrained itself into the very fabric of my being. The problem was that I’d gotten too comfortable, not just at the compound but in my relationships, my friendships, my daily routines. I’d begun to let my guard dwindle. I’d allowed myself to trust and be trusted and most importantly I stopped scoping out every possible escape route. So, now, this is what I’m left with. This contact of Natasha’s that had me meet him in an old private airfield just outside the city.

“Nadia, I’m guessing?” The man offered me a brief wave as he stepped in front of me. “I’m Rick, we spoke earlier.”

I glanced down at his outstretched hand, a moment of silence passing between us before I slowly accepted it, shaking once before letting go. Thankful for the motorcycle gloves he wore, unsure I could bear any further human contact right now.

“Thank you for meeting me, did you get what I asked for?”

He tilted his head side to side, gesturing for me to follow him as he began an old rusty hangar. “So, given the time constraints I was a little strapped for resources, but I got you a short-term solution while we work on the long term one.” He pushed the large metal doors open to reveal a tiny little plane.

“Cute.”

He nodded. “Very cute, it’s a Cirrus SR22, it’ll get you to The Bahamas but no further so no dawdling. I’ve got you’re landing coordinates all mapped out, you’ll land in another private airstrip that’s expecting you. The guy you’re meeting there is a friend of mine, he won’t give you any trouble. You already know the rest and I’ll be in touch when I’ve got another next safe house for you.”

I caught the keys he threw to me, stowing them in my pocket as I threw my duffle into the back of the plane. “Thank you, really.”

He just nodded again. “It’s all good, I owe Natasha, any friend of hers is good people in my book.” I smiled at that, though hearing her name worsened the ache in my chest. “Hey, you know it’s pretty hot on you right now in the city, you must’ve really pissed some important people off.”

I swallowed heavily, pulling the door to the plane open before turning back to face him. “Pretty much, but it’s not the first time and it probably won’t be the last.”

He laughed at that. “Fly safe, seriously though, head straight to those coordinates or that thing will burn out.” Was the last thing he said to me. I raised an eyebrow at him, glancing back at the plane over my shoulder.

“Good to know.” I mumbled, climbing aboard.

For the next 4 hours I replayed all of the events from the last few days. What Barnes had said about the lab in Serbia where I’d been kept and the one in Siberia where those other super soldiers remained on ice, waiting to be activated. I thought of the hurt on Pietro’s face as I stepped over that line and the feeling of that Beam from Tony’s suit hitting me right in the chest; the searing agony that had nothing to do with the burst of light and everything to do with the look in his eyes.

…

It was night when I landed in the private airstrip in Nassau. A man with long dark hair pulled back into a loose ponytail was there to greet me as I stepped out of the plane.

“I’m Alby, you must be Rick’s friend?”

“Yes.” I nodded, slinging the duffle bag over my shoulder. He tossed me a set of two keys, one for a house and the other I assumed was for a car but then Alby gestured behind me to a light blue moped.

I sighed heavily, too exhausted to argue. With a thank you to the man before me, I tightened the strap of my duffle bag and climbed onto the bike, sliding the helmet on. Rick had already told me the address of the safehouse and there was a map in my bag. Before driving to the place, I’d be staying I stopped at a local pharmacy and grocery store to grab a few things I’d need.

The little cottage Rick had given me the address for was lemon yellow, but I paid no mind to its exterior as I slipped inside, immediately shutting all of the curtains and securing all the windows and doors. When I was satisfied that the house was secure, I laid my supplies out.

I took a bite of an apple that I bought, holding it between my teeth as I mixed the hair dye in a small plastic bowl. As I ran the brush over each strand of my hair Pietro’s voice was in my head. I thought of that night in New York all those months ago when he’d told me he wanted to be my boyfriend. I thought of lying in the grass with him in Central Park, the sun pressing into our flesh. He had tried so hard for so long to get my attention, to get me to admit that I felt something for him, no matter how hard I’d pushed him away, how mean I was to him. He’d been infuriatingly resolute in his efforts. I wondered if he regretted it all now; I wouldn’t blame him. My stomach sunk at the thought. I had tried… hadn’t I. Tried to keep this all together, I wasn’t lying when I said I didn’t want it to end this way. Even when I knew what he’d done, what he’d told Hydra, I’d still held onto him, when I felt him slipping after Lagos I held on tighter. I thought of what he’d said to me at the airstrip.

This is bad, Nadia, even for you.

Because I am bad, that is what he’d meant.

I wondered if he’d thought that all along or if it had merely grown. I supposed it didn’t really matter.

I wasn’t trying to be bad. I didn’t want to be bad. I had tried not to be.

Wasn’t this the right choice? I couldn’t have lived with the other choice, that was what Steve had said and he was right. I couldn’t have lived with it if the accords stopped us from helping people who needed it.

I thought of Rhoadey plummeting down toward the ground. Was he even, okay? I hadn’t had the chance to find out. The burning sensation in the center of my chest had not ceased for even a moment, I swore I could still feel the beam of energy hitting me, over and over again.

I wiped the tears from my face, and only then did I realize how shaky my hands were. When my hair was covered in the dark liquid I dabbed it onto my eyebrows as well. I couldn’t escape the thoughts darting around in my mind, not just of Pietro but Barnes as well. The things he’d told me clung to my skin. There were pieces of me that I remember, many little pieces that had come back to me and yet the time spent in Serbia was practically non-existent in my mind. I supposed it should not be so shocking to me, to not remember a chunk of my life. Then I thought of the white room where I was strapped down to a chair while the ballet played, I wondered if that all happened at the Hydra base where Barnes and I first met. It was incredibly frustrating to feel so disconnected from the memory, to have such an unyielding blind spot in my mind.

Dark water pooled around the drain as I rinsed my hair absentmindedly watching the spirals of diluted color.

It was warm here, humidity pressing into my flesh the moment I’d stepped off of the plane. I had barely even noticed. In New York the air was still a little chilly even as winter gave into spring. I wondered if the warmth of Nassau could thaw the icy cold that was pressing into my chest, but I decided it was unlikely.

I looked into my own eyes in the mirror as I towel dried my hair, now at least my appearance matched how I felt; nothing like me. When I was done, I dressed in the pajamas that I’d found folded neatly in a set of drawers then I slid beneath the covers and pulled the duvet up to my chin, ignoring the discomfort of laying on my back. There was a prevailing silence in the room that unsettled me as I stared up at the ceiling that was only just visible thanks to the slither of moonlight that crept in through the window. After a long while of suffocating silence I turned onto my side and pulled the duvet over my head.

For a week I remained within the lemon-yellow walls, never drawing the curtains open to let the sun touch my skin, never breathing the fresh sea breeze, only drifting aimlessly around the bedroom like a ghost or laying, shrouded in the darkness of the duvet, replaying the day in at the airport, again and again. Rhoadey falling hitting the ground, Tony aiming his glove at me, the look on his face, Pietro’s voice.

“Go on then, hurt me.”

The cupboards were stocked with non-perishables that I occasionally ventured into the kitchen for, though hunger wasn’t much of an issue when I’d become so sluggish.

On my 8th day in Nassau, I ventured into the sitting room. I ran the tip of my finger over the spines of the few books haphazardly strewn across the small side table, blowing the dust from my finger when I pulled it back. I opened and closed my burner phone a few times, checking for any new messages from Rick. There was nothing, every single time. I paced the floor in front of the couch and when that didn’t quiet my mind, I turned on the television, sitting down when I saw a picture of my face pop up. Natasha’s picture came after causing me to still, she’d switched sides too. I wondered where she was now, she must have evaded Ross if they’d listed her as a fugitive. Sam, Wanda, Clint and Scott hadn’t been so lucky I guess since they weren’t mentioned. I stared at my picture in the corner of the screen for a long moment before promptly switching the TV off and standing up and making my way to the kitchen and yanking various drawers open to rifle around until I found what I was searching for. When my fingertips dragged over the cold metal I pulled the scissors from the drawer, making my way to the bathroom. For the first time in days my head was clear, the sound of snipping the only one filling the room. Dark brown locks fell to the floor around my feet.

When the ends of my hair barely brushed my shoulders, I dropped the scissors into the sink and then I left the house for the first time in over a week. The sun nearly blinded me as I stepped out, immediately putting my hand up to shield my eyes. The sound of the ocean filled my ears, salty air filled my lungs as I took a deep breath. I lingered on the front step for a while, eyes closed, head tilted back as the warmth bathed over me. It was like the sway of the waves called to me, lured me closer, down the steps, through the gate and toward the shoreline

The feeling of the sand between my toes, the waves crashing against one another, it all melded together in my mind. Soft fingertips tapped my cheeks, my nose, dusted curls from my eyes. The sun was setting, casting a perfect reddish pink light over everything. My back was propped against a pair of legs that rocked me back and forth, my hands held by someone else’s. Humming filled my ears followed by the smooth melody of a familiar voice.

“The monsters gone, he’s on the run and your mommy’s here.” She sang to me, tugging my hands along to sway. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl.” She pressed a feather light kiss to my nose causing me to giggle. The reaction caused her to press a flurry of kisses all over my face. I managed to wriggle out of her grip, running along the sand as she called after me between her own laughs. A glance over my shoulder revealed her to me, or at least a glimpse of her, a phantom of blonde hair and warm smiles. She made grabby hands at me as she reached out, calling out again and again but I couldn’t quite make out what she was saying. It took me a moment to realize she was addressing me by a name that was inaudible to my ears; it came out jumbles and incoherent.

I tried to hold onto the memory, to stop and listen a little closer, to really hear what she was saying but the harder I tried the more distant it became.

“No, no, no.” I murmured as the moment dissipated into nothingness.

I fell backward into the sand, gripping it in my fist and then releasing it as I laid back on the warm sediment. Staring up at the endless blue above, an abyss of sunny days that seemed to taunt me, laugh at my solitude.

“Close your eyes; have no fear, the monsters gone, he’s on the run and your mommy’s here…” I swallowed the lump in my throat, closing my eyes tightly. “Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful girl.” All I could picture was the same memory, the blonde woman, the sunset, nothing else came. I decided to try something else. “Stars shining bright above me, night breezes seem to whisper…” I felt my eyes begin to sting. My throat was dry as I sang to myself. “I love you.” When nothing new made itself known to me I began to feel frustrated and honestly a little stupid.

It had worked before, listening to the songs had prompted my memories before why not now?

For the remainder of the day, I laid there in the sand, staring up at the blue sky above, the splotches of clouds.

Serbia. That is where I was kept, for months I’d been there. Time that was practically lost to me now. I thought of the ballerina’s twirling across the stage, the sweat beading on my forehead as I laid on that bed in Brazil, paralyzed by the flurry of memories. It was supposed to be easier now, Norris said the mental block in my wind was cracked, I should be able to remember, so why could I still feel the barrier, I knew I had more access now because where there had been nothing but a cold blank spot in my mind where nothing lived now things dwindled in the shadows, just out of reach. I wasn’t sure what was worse.

When I sat up the sun was nothing, but a mere suggestion hinted at along the horizon. I rested my chin atop my knee, watching the waves crest and break.

I opened the burner phone that Rick had given me, pressing the only number on speed dial. The phone rang 3 times before the line connected, there was silence at first, I knew he was just being caution, in case I’d been made, and the phone was stolen.

“I need a favor.”

He hummed. “Another favor?”

“I want you to ask your contacts if they heard about any hydra operations based in Serbia over the last 20 years, if they don’t know anything call the number, I send you and tell the woman who answers that you have a friend in common that wants to know if she’s heard about it. If she asks questions just tell her ‘Red’. I can pay for any information you find.”

After another moment of silence, he agreed, and I hung up before texting him Anna’s number.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready for this, or just how painful it would be to uncover the past that had evaded me for all these years. But at some point, while I was laying there in the sand, that same woman’s voice that had stuck with me all those years humming in my mind, I realized just how badly I needed to know. No matter what it was, or the toll it took on my mind. I had to know what was taken from me.

And I wouldn’t stop until I did.

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fluorescentbalaclava · 1 year ago

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training season's over

Chapter 5: R&R

Summary:

R&R, military slang for rest and recuperation (also rest and relaxation, rest and recreation, or rest and rehabilitation)

TF141/female reader

spy reader, forced bonding, slow burn, slow build, militar inaccuracies, sugestive language, language, canon typical violence, second chance, domestic fluff, enemies to friends, becoming buddies, they can't help but check you out

previous: chapter four "C.R.O.W."

▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀▄▀

"Shouldn't you get a secretary for this?" You asked as you put her another paper through the shredder, watching the thin lines of paper fall into a bin underneath.

"I have four secretaries, and two of them happen to be busy yelling at rookies while other is away," Price said, as he passed you yet another block of paper to be destroyed. "I talked to your parents this morning."

"Fair enough," you said as you divided the big block into smaller groups of paper, not wanting to get the paper shredder stuck...again. You lifted your gaze to watch Price, curiosity spiked. He had his back turned at you, going through archives searching for old files to destroy and fill its drawers with updated and more useful intel. "Did you?"

" They're moving back to their house today, we concluded that they're not in immediate danger, but we'll keep them on watch, just in case. Sent help, so don't worry." He said as he looked through a folder to see if the papers were worth keeping.

"Yeah, they texted me this morning, thanks for that...who did you send, though?"

"Ghost." He said as he threw the files to the floor, amongst other useless paper.

"Why?" You couldn't help the sceptical tone slip from your mouth.

"Believe it or not, he is very good with families,” he said picking up the files he threw on the floor, putting it next to you on the very large piles of archives for you to run through the machine.

"Your mom renewed her invitation for us, you know?" Price said with a hint of tease, making you smile softly in amusement.

"We will see about that" You answered, running more paper through the machine, getting it stuck.

Despite your avoidant tendencies, it would be nice to be back home, at least for one night. A voice in the back of your brain made you think you didn’t deserve to go back there, your tainted hands would just ruin everything they touch. “Sei nicht albern, maus.” König said once to you, just before giving you the number of his therapist, “The things we’ve seen, sooner or later get to your head. You should talk to someone about it.”

You’ve learned to push the thoughts away, most of the time at least. But frequently talking to your family was something you still couldn’t get around. Baby steps.

Another reason to keep pushing that invitation was that your relationship with your colleagues was still a work in progress.

At first it was trying to get the trust of a stray cat, they could come closer, observing you, trying to figure you out, but one sudden movement to reach out and it would flee and disappear. You were sitting on the couch of the common room. It was cozy enough, a big couch where you were curled up with a cup of tea, and two one-seater sofas in each end, a coffee table in front of you, and behind it the television where you were currently watching the Great British Bake Off, as you did every Tuesday. Behind you, a small kitchenette with a metal dining table and five chairs. As if we ever sat all together there.

The first time Gaz approached you he stood behind you, looking at the TV in silence.

"What are they baking?" He asked after a few minutes of silently watching how the contestants ran through the kitchen.

"Devil's food cake" You answered before taking another sip.

"Oh, nice." He said, before becoming silent again. A few more minutes passed, as he remained stood behind you, watching someone struggle with their ganache.

"Uh...do you want to join?" You said quietly, looking up at him from over your shoulder, moving your legs off the sofa to give him space. When he heard your voice, he seemed to snap out of the trance caused by the amateur bakers.

"Oh, no, no. Don't worry, I have things to do. Thanks anyway." He said taking a last look at the TV before leaving the room. Damn it.

However, over the following days bumping into him became a common occurrence. He would hold the punching bag for you, and vice versa, while making small talk.

"Do you want tea?" You heard behind you, your attention switched from the explanation of the new recipe to the man behind you, you were in the same position as last week.

"Yes, sure. Chamomile, please," you answered, before turning back at the TV, slightly taken aback by the sudden offering. But then you reminded yourself: They're your team, you have to get comfortable with each other, otherwise the next few years will be hell and you'll have to move into the infirmary to hear someone talk to you more than two sentences. Then you went back to the cat logic. You had to wait for them to approach, not the other way around, or they will pull away as they don't fully trust you yet.

Back in KorTac, you would have considered König somehow close to you, or so you thought, as you seemed to be his main target for long excited speeches about bombs, and you also opened about your feelings, when they became too overwhelming, and he was surprisingly understanding, sharing a bit of his experience on the matter. Calisto was nice too, a bit posh sure, but she had great and expensive taste for both military equipment and clothes and---

"Here's your cuppa" You were snapped of your thoughts as Gaz passed you a warm mug. You moved your legs off the couch, just to test the waters, and to your surprise he did sit on the other edge of the couch this time. "What are they baking today?"

"Thanks, Gaz" You said before eyeing the mug that said ‘DEATH BEFORE DECAF’ with a very silly drawing of a grim reaper, making you smirk slightly before looking up at him and then the TV again. "They're doing pavlova.”

"Pavlova was always a bit too sweet for me" Gaz replied, taking a sip of his own tea, his mug had a yellow sign that had ‘I cause safety briefs’ written on it. Making small talk? Nice.

"Yeah, well, they're making a lemon one, so I think the sourness balances the sweetness a bit." Am I really at a military base talking about pavlova?

"Do you bake?" He looked at you for a brief moment before looking back at the TV.

"Oh, fuck no" You answered chuckling, taking a small sip of the hot brew. You let the flowery scented vapour fill your nostrils, feeling the warm liquid going down your throat, before adding. "I always end up messing the measurements and it comes out edible but a bit off. Do you?"

"Not at all. It's precise work, like disarming a bomb. I would rather disarm the bomb, though." He said, in a slightly playful tone, amused at your reply. "Why do you always watch this then?"

“It's fun, and besides it's an easy watch to distract yourself a bit," you said shrugging, still watching the TV. Helps me not to think.

“Good point," he said before going back to a slightly more comfortable silence than the usual one. And you had to admit, it was nice to have company next to you.

"Are ye fuckin' her?" Soap suddenly said, loudly enough to make other tables turn around, making Gaz choke on a piece of broccoli.

"What?! No!" Gaz answered, sounding like the thought didn't even cross his mind.

It did actually, once, when you were leaving the gym and you took off your oversized shirt throwing it over your shoulder, standing only in a sports bra and drying the sweat from your neck with a small towel. But this wasn’t the time or place to admit that.

Ghost and Price were sitting next to them, eating silently, looking at the exchange. A glimpse of amusement in Price's eyes.

"Then why are ye with her all the time now?" Soap said in the same accusatory, pointing at him with his fork.

"I'm not! We just train sometimes and watch TV on Tuesdays, that's hardly all the time" He answered with a shrug before taking another bite from his lunch. After some more contemplation, and still under the judgemental gaze of Soap, he added. "Besides she's nice. A bit brutal, though. Should see how she punches the bag sometimes, sounds like a gunshot.”

"Kid's fine, just need a bit of guidance" Price quipped in, still looked amused at the exchange. “And you can’t do that if you don’t talk to her.”

It was cold around you, the frozen breeze seemed to go straight through the heavy layers of clothes and gear, your throat getting dry and sore. You looked around only to see a dark and humid cell, you tried to move your arms, but the coldness was so intense they were numb. Suddenly the heavy metal door opened, and a figure walked in. You tried to talk but no words came out, your mouth so dry it felt incapable of muttering anything. He's saying something, you can't figure out what. The figure towers over you, the light coming from behind him covering his face with shadows. When he lifts a hand, you notice he's holding a gun, with a quick movement he lowers it harshly against your forehead.

You wake up with a gasp, your hand moving quickly to your head to cover the place where he hit you, only to find an old scar on your scalp, covered by your hair. Your movements are a bit clumsy and erratic as you look around. Dark and cold, but not a cell...close enough.

You're agitated as you look around, recognizing the place as your room in the barracks, you see the couple of decorations you pulled out, closed boxes pilling on a corner, the dim light of your lava lamp. As you sit up in your bed, you notice that at some point of the night your weighted blanket fell from your bed, as you got too warm, and your unconscious brain decided to kick it off. Your heart rate went down slightly, but the feeling of alertness wasn't wearing off. You lazily stood up, still feeling slightly on edge, put on your slippers, and walked to the common room.

Soap on the other hand, had to double check if he wasn’t hallucinating when he saw a girl, with her hair down and messy as if she just woke up, fleece and fluffy pyjama pants with a heart pattern and a matching top walking to the kettle turning it in on. He even stopped chewing on his biscuits to focus on her, as you were taking deep breaths with your hands on the counter. The lights were off except for a lamp next to the TV that was always on.

"Lass?" He said confused, sitting on the dining table on the other side of the room, making you jump at the sound.

"Bloody hell!" You said letting out a shaky breath, hands gripping the kitchen counter as you turned to him.

"Jesus Christ, calm down, it’s just me,” he said furrowing his brows, raising both of his hands in surrender.

"I just woke up and you scared the shit out of me." You huffed a deep breath, massaging your neck in an attempt to sooth your nerves. Soap could tell from the moment you walked in how tense you were, and he tried to approach it as casually as he could.

"Midnight snack or nightmares?" He asked with a mouthful as he stared back at you.

"The latter" You answered in a mix of resignation and tiredness, as your hand went up and started tracing the scar on your scalp. The kettle stopped. "Tea?",

"Well, welcome to the club. I think no one here slept eight hours straight in ages" he said putting another biscuit in his mouth. "Coffee."

"No, it's late. I will make you a chamomile" you said in a groggy tone, not leaving room to discuss.

"Whatever you say, ma'am" he said with a chuckle in return, but didn't complain.

He tried, he swore he did…but as you stretched to grab the mugs from the cabinet, he couldn’t help his eyes from trailing down to your body. Not that he hasn’t looked before, he wasn’t blind after all, and you usually walked to you room in a white undershirt and your tactic pants, fresh off the shower after training. But the loose uniform didn’t do you justice. His glance trailed down from the way your top stuck to your waist, and how your fluffy pants hugged your hips…and when he caught a glimpse of a tattoo on your lower back, made his jaw drop lightly, his eyes were glued on it. But he quickly snapped out of his daze when you turned around, making him quickly look away.

You walked back to the table with the two hot brews, sitting across Soap on the table and passing one mug to him. He looked at the cup, lifted it up and sniffed the vapour coming out of it.

"Smells nice. What is this for?"

"It helps you sleep and calm down" you said before taking a sip, looking up at him.

"Sounds useful" he said taking a sip first, visibly processing if he liked the taste, before taking another more generous one. He put the mug down, handling you the package of biscuits, Rich Tea. "Want one?"

"Aren't those Ghost's?" You asked hesitantly grabbing the package, looking at him narrowing your eyes.

"Nah, bought them myself" He said shrugging, and that was enough for you to grab one, the idea of a sweet treat too tempting to pass. "Ah! You ate one. Now you are an accomplice to theft, and you can't tell Ghost."

"Should have known, you never buy anything" You answered playfully rolling your eyes but grabbing another one anyway. Damage is already done. "Gaz always says you steal his coffee."

"Well, yeah, but Gaz just scolds me and never does anything. If LT knows I found his stash he'll use me as a target practice" he said taking another sip, to swallow the biscuit he had in his mouth. Once his mouth was empty again, he added in a soft tone. "So…"

"So?" You replied in a confused tone.

"Warming up to us, bonnie?" He leaned back on his chair, with a grin. Something in his attitude made you both roll your eyes but smile.

"Guess you could say that.”

"So, this is what you watch all the time?" Soap said in a confused, sitting next to Gaz on the other end of the couch. "Why is that bloke crying?"

"He did the macaronage wrong, so his macarons came out hollow, crumbly and have no feet" Gaz answered focused on the show rather than in Johnny.

"The fuck are you talking about?" Gaz groaned at Soap still-going questions, making you chuckle.

"He didn't mix the batter enough, so they came out wrong." He replied in a frustrated tone.

"You bake?" Soap asked him again.

"No, but if you shut up and pay attention you would know they literally explain it at the beginning of the show."

"Oh no, don't start over" You mumbled in a concerned tone, seeing the contestant leave the failed batch aside and grabbing the remaining ingredients and starting to mix them again.

"Well, he has to at least try, the others will look terrible when he serves them" Gaz answered, now in a softer tone, leaning back on the couch.

"Yeah, but there's no way he's going to get them in time, he has to do the batter all over, let them sit, put them in the oven..."

"You bake, bonnie?" Soap piped in again, looking at you over Gaz.

"Uh, no."

"Why are we watching this then?" Soap said again, sinking again on the couch, returning his attention to the TV, where some were already finishing the macarons for their presentations. "Those look good though, wonder what they taste like."

"Never had them?" Gaz answered to him, furrowing his brows, to which Soap shook his head. You kept quiet, never really tried them either. "We should go to the town and get some."

You just kept watching the show, assuming they were just speaking between themselves. This situation happened before, people would make plans next to you, you would just play dumb.

"Aye, we should, I have to get more deodorant too" Soap said, and he looked over Gaz at you again, and you were surprised when you heard him add, "You can go out of the base if you're with us, right?"

"Technically yes, you just have to tell the Captain first," You tried your best to contain your excitement at the possibility of being out again, to walk around other people that weren't soldiers, to visit shops, to breathe another kind of air.

"Don't worry about that, will promise him to get you home at nine" he said in a playful tone, with a grin.

"We'll show you around" Gaz said with a smile, and a probably harder than intended pat on your back. "We will get you your own mug too."

"Can I pick it?" You said making obvious you're glancing judgementally at Gaz ‘I cause safety briefs’ mug and at Soap ‘MAD SCOTTISH BASTARD’ mug.

“It's tradition that your superior officers pick it for you, in this case, us” Kyle replied with a grin, matching Soap. You smiled but looked at them suspiciously.

“You’re making that up.” You said narrowing your eyes while looking between them.

“Dead serious” Soap said, lifting his mug. “Ye think I would have picked this?”

“Yes” You answered without thinking.

“Wrong. I wanted the highland cow one.” He then added, in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Shh! They’re judging now.” Kyle said, leaning in, his body like a wall between Soap and you, as your attention quickly returned to the TV.

As you heard them both loudly arguing with the decision of the judges, you thought to yourself that being in jail wouldn’t be this entertaining.

next chapter: chapter six "Contact"

taglist: @no-lessthan3

if you like it leave me some kudos or suggestions on ao3! <3

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #kyle gaz x reader #kyle gaz garrick #gaz cod #soap x reader #soap cod #john soap mactavish #soap mw2 #john price x reader #john price #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley

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anonymousangstmonster · 1 year ago

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Prompt #78 “Ghost Shredder”

The Fentons have invented another machine. This one works similarly to a paper shredder, except it’s about the size of a car.

It’s built to shed ghosts to bits and then turn the liquid ectoplasm into ectoplasmic energy.

When the Fentons caught Phantom, they decided to test their brand new invention. They captured him in a ghost-proof net, and fed him into the Ghost Shredder feet first.

He screamed as ectoplasm with streaks of red blood splattered all over the lab and his parents.

The machine had already started to eat through his spine before he transformed back to human and the two parents rushed to turn off the device.

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morgan-va · 7 months ago

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Chapter 1: Another Day, Another Drone (Serial Designation N x Reader)

Story Masterlist

You’ve often wondered how you ended up here.

Your desk, a grayed-out island surrounded by a sea of other identical workstations, has seen better days. The once-shiny JCJenson logo etched into the corner is now dulled, just like your enthusiasm for the corporate grind. The monitor flickers faintly as you scroll through endless spreadsheets, each cell populated with strings of numbers that meant nothing to you beyond "quarterly projections" and "acceptable casualty margins."

You sigh, leaning back in your chair. A branded pen rolls off the edge of your desk, landing with a dull clatter on the tile floor. You don’t bother picking it up; there’s a whole box of them in the supply closet.

Today’s tasks are, as always, a parade of monotony. Data entry, damage reports, and the ever-fun task of shredding documents that were marked CONFIDENTIAL in red ink. As you feed another stack of papers into the industrial shredder, you catch snippets of text:

"Serial Designation X-0T1010110 failed containment—Incident resulted in 14 human casualties...""Cost analysis of drone-related repairs versus human replacements..."

You shove the papers in faster, unwilling to linger on the details. It’s easier not to think about what these reports mean.

The office air is stale, recycled a thousand times over by a ventilation system older than most of the drones JCJenson manufactures. The faint hum of machines, the clicking of keyboards, and the distant buzz of the breakroom microwave form a symphony of corporate drudgery.

“Hey, you coming to the quarterly review meeting?” asks a coworker as they pass by, holding a coffee cup with JCJenson’s slogan: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result."

You force a polite smile. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

They nod and shuffle off, leaving you alone with your spreadsheets and the nagging feeling that, for all the talk of liability and safety, the only thing JCJenson seems passionate about is grinding the life out of its employees.

The meeting is exactly as insufferable as you expected.

You sit near the back of the room, a strategic choice to avoid being called on for any questions or insights. A projection screen at the front displays an overly cheerful PowerPoint deck. Each slide is crammed with pie charts, bar graphs, and buzzwords like "synergy," "stakeholder alignment," and "Q4 optimization goals."

A senior manager drones (ha) on in a monotone voice, flipping through slides as though he’s on autopilot. You catch snippets of phrases:

"Revenue up by 0.3%...""Minimizing liability in high-risk sectors...""Drone maintenance backlog—actionable in Q1..."

Your mind drifts. You find yourself staring at the JCJenson motto printed at the top of every slide: "Liability is our passion. Safety is the result." It’s hard not to read it sarcastically.

Occasionally, someone in the audience offers a nod or a murmured "good point," though it’s doubtful they’re any more engaged than you are. At one point, the manager makes a joke about "cutting-edge safety measures" that earns a smattering of polite chuckles. You don’t even bother to fake it.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the meeting adjourns. You’re free—at least for the next five minutes.

You join the shuffle of employees heading to the breakroom, each of you moving with the enthusiasm of a dead lemur. It’s time for the corporate-mandated 5-minute donut break, a peculiar ritual meant to boost morale.

The breakroom smells faintly of coffee and powdered sugar. A box of donuts sits on the counter, already half-empty. You grab one without looking and take a bite, barely tasting it as you lean against the wall. Conversations buzz around you, but none of it registers.

For five blissful minutes, you don’t think about spreadsheets, shredders, or casualty reports. Just you, your donut, and the fleeting illusion of freedom.

The break ends far too soon, as it always does, and you find yourself back at your desk. The donut was mediocre, and the coffee left a bitter aftertaste that matches your mood.

Your next task: complaint emails. A never-ending stream of them floods your inbox, each one angrier than the last. You open the first message, its subject line screaming at you in all caps:

"RE: MY DRONE ATE MY DOG AND BURNED DOWN MY HOUSE."

You sigh, already bracing yourself. Without even reading the body of the email, your fingers move to type the same canned response you’ve sent a hundred times before:

"Dear Valued Customer,We are very sorry to hear you are dissatisfied with the quality of your JCJenson Drone. Please note that our products undergo rigorous testing to meet our industry-leading standards. Your feedback is important to us and has been forwarded to the appropriate department. We appreciate your patience and understanding during this time.Kind regards,JCJenson Customer Care Team."

Click. Send.

The next email isn’t much better:

"RE: WHY DID MY DRONE DROP MY GROCERIES AND ATTACK MY MAILMAN?"

You adjust the response slightly to fit, but the template remains the same. Apologies, assurances, and a whole lot of nothing.

It’s easier not to think about the implications of the complaints—the lives disrupted or ruined by faulty drones. You wonder if the people writing these emails ever get a real response. Probably not.

Your inbox refreshes, and another batch of complaints pours in. You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning quietly to yourself. It’s just another day at JCJenson, where liability is our passion —and, apparently, yours to deal with.

The clock finally ticks over to quitting time, and you hit send on your last email with the same mechanical motion as every other. The subject line, "RE: MY DRONE LEVELED MY GARDEN SHED AND STOMPED ON MY CAT," disappears into the void of customer complaints, and you let out a long, cathartic sigh.

The weekend. Two days of freedom stretch before you like a mirage, promising peace, quiet, and absolutely no mention of drones, casualties, or pie charts. You’re already halfway to the coat rack, hand reaching for the worn overcoat you’ve had for years—it’s practically a relic of a simpler time.

But just as your fingers brush the fabric, a manila folder slams into your hand.

“Hold it right there, kid!”

You flinch at the unmistakable bark of your boss. He looms over you like a storm cloud, his perpetual scowl deepening as he gestures to the folder. He looks as though he’s about to chew you out but instead slaps you on the back, nearly knocking you off balance.

“Big job, huge job,” he says, his voice booming enough to turn a few heads nearby. “And you’re just the person for it!”

You open your mouth to object, but he barrels on, not giving you a chance to get a word in. “I handpicked you for this assignment because you’re the best we’ve got!” he declares, eyes darting suspiciously over his shoulder.

It’s then that you notice the unmistakable gleam of a golf club sticking out from behind his back. The clinking of clubs gives him away, but he quickly shifts his stance to obscure them further.

“Yeah, yeah,” he continues, waving vaguely at the folder in your hand, “confidential, high-priority, yada yada. Needs to be handled ASAP! ”

“Wait, what is—”

“No time for questions!” he interrupts, already backing toward the elevator. “You’re a pro! I know you’ll knock it outta the park! Or, uh—whatever it is you do!”

The elevator dings, and he practically leaps inside, his golf caddy rattling behind him. He stabs the “close doors” button repeatedly, giving you a quick salute as the doors slide shut.

“Good luck! Don’t mess it up!” he shouts just before disappearing entirely.

You’re left standing there, the manila folder in your hand, the weekend slipping away before your very eyes.

You stand there for a moment, folder in hand, watching the elevator doors close. Then, with a long, resigned sigh, you rub the bridge of your nose and trudge back to your desk. The coat you were so close to grabbing sways mockingly on the rack as you pass it by.

Your chair creaks as you sink back into it, tossing the folder onto the desk in front of you. You take a moment to glare at it, as if sheer willpower might make it vanish. It doesn’t.

With a heavy sense of inevitability, you flip the folder open. The first page stares back at you, black text on crisp paper, but you barely register what it says at first. You’re too busy mourning the weekend plans that had been so rudely snatched away from you.

Plans. Ha. Like you had anything ambitious in mind.

You were going to swing by the pizza place on the way home, pick up a large with extra cheese, and spend the evening on the couch watching the same YouTube documentary about dog breeds you’d already seen five times. The narrator’s voice was comforting, and you always liked the section on Golden Retrievers.

Instead, here you are. Another late night, courtesy of JCJenson. But hey, at least you have all the branded pens you could hope for.

You shake your head and focus on the contents of the folder. It’s filled with the usual corporate nonsense: incident reports, legal disclaimers, and technical diagrams of drones. But halfway through, something unusual catches your eye—a requisition form stamped with bright red ink:

"URGENT: TRANSFER PROTOCOLS FOR TEST UNIT N-0X0010010.”

The rest of the document is dense with jargon, but one thing is clear: you’re being tasked with supervising the “home protocols” of one of the company’s experimental drones. Whatever this is, it’s definitely not a task you’re qualified—or paid enough—for.

You lean back in your chair, staring at the requisition form. “Perfect,” you mutter to yourself, your voice dripping with sarcasm. “There goes my pizza night.”

With a groan, you shove the folder under your arm and head toward the elevators. The requisition form gives you just enough information to know where you’re supposed to go—down to the warehouse. You’d never been there before, but you’ve heard the stories: endless rows of drone parts, the hum of assembly lines, and an atmosphere so heavy with tension it feels like the walls themselves are judging you.

The elevator ride is mercifully short. The doors open to reveal a dimly lit corridor that smells faintly of grease and scorched metal. You follow the signs toward the warehouse, boots clacking on the scuffed floor as the sound of distant machinery grows louder.

Finally, you reach a massive set of double doors, with a glowing neon sign above them that reads:

“AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. HARD HATS REQUIRED.We have lawyers. You don’t. Wear a hard hat!”

You stop in your tracks, staring at the sign. A sigh escapes your lips, louder than you intended. Of course. Of course they’d make you turn back after getting all the way down here.

Muttering under your breath about liability paranoia, you retrace your steps to the maintenance closet you’d passed earlier. Sure enough, there’s a stack of faded yellow hard hats sitting on the shelf, each one more battered than the last. You grab the least crusty-looking one, dust it off, and jam it onto your head.

“Safety first,” you grumble, rolling your eyes as you head back toward the warehouse. The hard hat sits awkwardly on your head, just a little too small, the strap digging into your chin. You resist the urge to rip it off as you push open the double doors and step inside.

You push the warehouse doors open, greeted by the echoing hum of machinery and the acrid scent of oil and melted plastic. The place is cavernous, rows of shelves stretching up toward the high ceiling, filled with spare parts, crates, and what looks like a disassembled drone that probably belongs in a museum.

As you step into the loading bay, a familiar voice calls out: “Yo, dude! Wassup?”

Oh no. Not him.

Brad, the shipping manager, waves lazily from behind a forklift. His perpetual slouch and that ridiculous mop of sun-bleached hair make him look like he got lost on his way to a surf competition.

“Boss said you’d be droppin’ by,” he drawls, sauntering toward you like he has all the time in the world. He’s wearing a JCJenson polo shirt that looks one size too big, untucked and wrinkled, like he grabbed it off the floor this morning.

You’ve met Brad a handful of times—mostly at company retreats and awkward holiday parties. He’s the guy who raids the snack table and disappears halfway through the event, leaving you to wonder how anyone can eat an entire bowl of chips by themselves.

“Uh, yeah,” you reply, already exhausted by his energy. “Boss said there was something for me?”

“Totally, totally,” Brad says, gesturing vaguely toward a massive shipping crate sitting on a pallet. The thing is huge, easily taller than you and sealed with bright red warning labels.

“All yours, bro,” Brad says with a lazy grin. “I’ll load it into a truck for ya. Y’know, company wheels. Real sweet ride.”

You glance at the crate, then back at him. “And what am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”

Brad shrugs, leaning against the forklift like he’s in a photoshoot. “No idea, dude. I just move the boxes.”

You resist the urge to rub your temples.

“Oh, heads up, though,” he adds, as if remembering something important. “Truck’s got GPS, so, like, don’t even think about takin’ a joyride. You go anywhere but where the bigwigs said? Boom. Pay docked. Or whatever. Not my problem.”

He says it all with such a lack of enthusiasm that you’re not entirely sure he’s serious.

“Great,” you mutter, staring at the crate as Brad ambles toward the forklift. This was shaping up to be such a fun weekend.

You lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching Brad maneuver the forklift with surprising precision. For someone with the demeanor of a guy who says “radical” unironically, he handles the equipment like he’s been doing it for years.

The massive crate is lifted and gently deposited into the bed of a JCJenson-branded pickup truck—a surprisingly seamless process. You raise an eyebrow, almost impressed, but quickly squash the feeling.

“Boom. Done,” Brad says, hopping down from the forklift and tossing you the keys. You barely catch them, fumbling for a second before they settle in your palm.

“Thanks,” you mutter, making your way toward the driver’s side.

“Enjoy the ride, dude!” Brad calls after you, already heading back to whatever it is he does when no one’s watching. “And don’t forget the GPS thing! Seriously!”

You don’t bother replying, sliding into the truck’s seat and slamming the door shut behind you. The truck smells like stale coffee and something faintly metallic, and the dashboard is cluttered with enough buttons and dials to make you feel like you’re piloting a spaceship.

The keys turn in the ignition, and the engine roars to life. You grip the wheel tightly, eager to get this over with. The sooner you’re home, the sooner you can—well, not relax exactly, but at least pretend to.

As you pull out of the warehouse and onto the road, your mind starts to wander.

This whole thing is ridiculous. Not just the last-minute assignment, but the fact that they’ve shoved you into a task so far outside your job description it’s laughable. You’re customer support. Your life is answering emails about worker drone-related catastrophes and shredding documents that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Testing experimental drones? Ha. Not even close.

You’ve never owned a drone. Not that you’d want to. The thought of one of those unpredictable, clunky metal bipeds stomping around your apartment is enough to make your skin crawl. You’ve read way too many emails about battery failures that turned into small fires or drones deciding to interpret their owner’s sarcastic remarks a little too literally.

“RE: WORKER DRONE SHATTERED MY KITCHEN WINDOW WITH A FLYING PLATE”—that one stuck with you.

And then there were the personality glitches. Oh, the personality glitches. Reading through frantic emails about drones throwing tantrums, refusing to perform tasks, or just standing in the corner staring at the wall for hours… yeah, you didn’t need that kind of energy in your life.

Besides, it’s not like you get paid enough to afford one anyway. Ha.

You glance at the GPS display, following the glowing line that marks your route home. The crate rattles slightly in the back with every bump in the road, a constant reminder of the weekend you didn’t sign up for.

The truck hums along, the city lights blurring past as you make your way toward home.

#murder drones #murder drones x reader #murder drones headcanon #murder drones fanfic #murder drones n #murder drones n x reader #serial designation n

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