#gunfire

[incognitopolls]

We ask your questions so you don’t have to! Submit your questions to have them posted anonymously as polls.

[reegis]

Have you considered volunteering for Acheron Pre-Selection lately?

[whydidisavethistomyphone]

[animeglitch]

[coolburgerphone]

Wild.

[painful-pooch]

Captain Down

The time for waiting is over! Here is the debut to the Hostage Arc! I hope this is a fun little chapter to start things off with. Please enjoy!

Bru Bru tag list: @cpt-winters, @redd956, @straight-to-the-pain, @technom0ose, @actress4him, @whumperofworlds, @i-eat-worlds, @inscrutable-shadow, @gala1981, @thethistlegirl, @ocean-blue-whump, @noirineverysense, @steelandblood, @crash-bump-bring-the-whump

CWs: military whump, war, gunshot wounds, blood, injury, bombing and explosions, gunfire, death of random soldiers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Do you have your eyes on the target, Kieran?” Bruno asks, leaning against the wall, huffing from the quarter mile sprint he just had to do after he was spotted. He tilts his head back, groaning while the heavy gear he has on makes him sweat unbelievable amounts. He doesn’t have time to wipe the sweat dripping from his brow or nose, his fingerless gloves gripping his weapon tightly. It wasn’t even a terrible run, but with the sun burning them from above, it makes it more unbearable to even be out. A mission is still a mission, however, and it makes the man even more committed to getting the job done. “Kieran, you better not be napping on me. Respond.”

He hears the crackling of a mic coming to life, followed by a sarcastic, “You know, Bruno, it’s kind of hard to find a target when a bunch of Tangos (targets) are all after your ass. Give me a minute.” Kieran has a smart mouth on him, but that’s what you get when the Navy has to give away one of their best SEAL operators, especially one so skilled with a sniper.  

“A minute? Wow… seems like you are losing your edge, Navy boy,” Valdemar’s voice comes in, gravely like an Army Sergeant’s voice would be after screaming nonstop. A chuckle or two later, he continues, “I am surprised Bruno over there can even run as fast as he did. Fuck, he left a cute little plume of dust in his way. How are the joints doing, old man? I think I could hear them creaking all the way over here. No wonder everyone was on you.”

Bruno can’t help but growl back playfully into the mic, “Valdemar, you damn asshole. Shut your mouth unless you have something important to say. What have I said about keeping the channel clear of any unnecessary bullshit? Keep your vest on, your ears clear, your eyes open, your head on a swivel, and your mouth shut.” 

Kieran’s humming is all Valdemar gets in response from the prideful Naval operator, instead Miranda’s voice coming in. “Leave Kieran alone, Val. The man has better eyesight than your Army ass. Shit, give me a second-“ the sounds of gunfire and a thud on the ground made Bruno’s heart pound loudly in his ears. 

“Miranda,” he breathes out, taking a moment to check his surroundings. She was always so ballsy and trying to prove her worth on the team. It doesn’t matter how many times they all told her, she just has to work unbelievably hard while putting her own life at risk. It came with the territory and the occupation. They are the ones making the real changes in the world, and yet their names will never be entered into the pantheon of the greats. 

They are destined to remain in the shadows and only be seen by the select few that were granted the right and clearance to even know who they were. Out of the entire military, they are the small crew that felt like a real family. They ate out together, lived together, laughed together, cried together, and so many other things. They have his back and he will make sure they are safe in return while offering them the best leadership he can impose.

He can’t deny that Miranda is good at her job, but his worry keeps rising until she laughs, “Damn, the bastard almost had me. Kieran, what’s the sitrep (situation report)?”  

Bruno sighs to himself, his helmet digging into the bricks of the building he is using as cover. He takes a chance to peek around the corner, but the whizzing of bullets launched his way forces him to take cover once again, the next volley of them chipping away at the corner of the building. “Fuck! Okay… just breathe. You have been in these predicaments before. Come on Kieran…” He doesn’t bother saying anything into the comms, waiting for his sniper expert to handle the mess.  

“Sitrep isn’t too great, guys. They are holed up real good at their vantage point. I know where they are at, but I can’t take the shot without giving away my position. I can move and get a better angle at them. Guidance, Bruno?”

Shit. That’s not the answer Bruno needed, but it is what it is. He clears his mind of all the noise around him, trying to get to the part of his head where he can think out of a problem. He’s a sitting duck where he is at, but maybe he can get lucky. “From where you saw them firing, do you think I could mask my location with smoke?”

“What the hell are you thinking of, Bruno?”

He can’t help but smirk in response, a small weight off his chest when he laughs, “You heard me, Kieran. Can I use smoke or do you think a flash bang can do the trick? I am trying to get to the next few buildings but I need your help.” While he is waiting, he takes his canteen of water, taking a swig to then spit out the dirt and dust coating his mouth before finally drinking a few gulps. He needs to be hydrated if he’s going to really be doing something half crazy.

“Bruno,” Miranda calls out from the comms, “I really hope you aren’t about to pull your usual stunt of risking your life. Maybe just sit tight and call Lukas in for an airstrike, yeah?”

“That’s a lot of gall coming from the girl that plays with explosives and death on a daily basis. Also, I am not wasting a good airstrike on just me. Kieran, you better give me an answer or I am going to get fucked real good by the tangos,” Bruno huffs back, reaching into his pouch to grab a smoke grenade just in case. 

“Alright. I got it. Bruno, I need you to throw the smoke as close to them as you can. Then use the thermal scope and pick out a few. I can handle some of them too to take the heat off. Other than that, I don’t see another way out. What’s the verdict, Sir?” Kieran sounds like he played out a few scenarios and picked the one with the best outcome. That’s what he needed from the man.

Bruno flips the switch on his assault rifle’s scope, seeing the blue haze on it to show it’s on. “Perfect. On my mark, Kieran.” He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and getting his body ready to react fast. He takes off the pin from the ‘nade, counting off, “One. Two. Mark.” He rolls around the corner, throwing the smoke grenade as it sends out a smoke screen to obscure everyone’s vision. There’s a gunfight going crazy now, Bruno on the ground firing away at all the blips coming into view on thermal, the blasting sounds from the mountain near them giving away Kieran’s position, whether he liked it or not. 

He can hear shuffling over the comms, Kieran’s voice quick and short. “Position compromised. Running two klicks eastbound. Approximate time to wait ten mikes. Copy?”

Valdemar grunts back, “Copy, Kieran. I’ll be the closest to you once you’re there. We have a few more people here than we thought. Possible intel miscount, Bruno. What now?”

He just finally got to cover, the barrel of his rifle turning to a reddish hue from the heat building up. Bruno barely has a chance to breathe when the news comes in and his eyebrows furrow. “Wait… The count shouldn’t be off. This was validated plenty of times via the NSA, STRATCOM, and the folks over in DC. Oscar, what the fuck is going on?” He busts his way into the building, aiming around and clearing the vicinity prior to making his run up the steps in the stairwell, getting to the fifth floor and getting into a rundown office. He better make his nest now, flipping a desk on its back to press up against a window, using it as both cover and a thing to lean back on, his eyes on the door to the stairwell in case anyone followed him. “Oscar, I need something, now.”

There is frantic typing he can hear, and that is never a good sign. He sets up his gear where he needs to, taking the chance to wipe the sweat and dirt off his face, his eyes on the tablet he has set out. There’s a grid map showing his position in relation to the others and where the main target, who is the main reason why they are there, is. He keeps his composure though, waiting for Oscar to explain himself and the faulty data compiled from multiple three letter agencies. 

“Sir… something isn't right. There's more movement from the enemy. ISR (intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance) operations are alluding to a possible betrayal," Oscar breathes out, the clicking and typing starting up again. It's so quiet now, almost as though a pin could drop.

The waves are crashing in Bruno's head now, the man needing to come up with a solution. His options are either to continue pursuing the main target or fall back and go back to the drawing board. He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes tracing the fallen wires while he attempts to strategize. With that, he glances back down at the tablet and with a gruff mutter, he announces, "We aren't letting these people get away with what they've done. They've killed too many innocent people. If I let them slip through my fingers again, I'm going to lose my shit."

"Alright, Captain America, so what's your plan?" Miranda shoots at him, and he can feel as though she's staring right at him, even if she's so far away.

Bruno snaps his fingers and goes to type in the tablet, each tap another step closer to the end goal. "The plan is to aim a barrage right down the middle of their forces. Force them to split up and we rip through them like nothing. Lukas, can you handle helping us out from up there?"

The voice of the young and cookies pilot Bruno's ever heard of comes through the earpiece, "Oh I can handle just about anything, Bru Bru. General Kane got me a nice Reaper MQ-9 drone for Christmas. Have you seen what that baby can do? I'm talking about Hellfire missiles and whatever other toys I requested. What are the coordinates?"

Bruno manages a small grin and laugh, the corner of his lip rising. He remembers what it was like to be a real fighter pilot, and he knows how long Lukas has been working towards becoming a drone pilot as well. "Good. I'm sending them over now. Fire when ready. Those in quadrants three and four need to take cover."

He puts the tablet away the second he's done sending the location, taking a few more to drink away some of his water and prepare for the long haul as they won't be making it back for dinner. Things seem to be going his way and then his earpiece screeches in his ear. He jumps in surprise and rips it out, grumbling about stupid technology before placing it in his pocket, replacing it with the backup headset. It takes about another minute or so, but yet he hasn't heard the sound of explosions or missiles. "Did I miss anything?"

What Oscar comes through with doesn't sit well with him: "Sir? Nothing happened, but Lukas is having some trouble from his end getting the coordinates, but he just got them. Thank you for revising them for him."

There are alarm bells ringing, and his heart starts to pound to the drums of War. He scrambles to his feet and starts running towards the stairwell, his voice rushed and full of worry. "I didn't revise a damn thing. I sent him the right thing already. Oscar? Lukas? What the fuck is goi-" 

The blast cuts him off as he holds onto the railing, barely keeping himself from tumbling down them. His eyes widen when looking back at the office, now engulfed in flames. That missile was aimed right on him, and he can hear the whirring of the drone closing in again and he returns to his attempt to make it out of the building, concrete pieces and debris falling on him. "Stop the airstrike!" He roars in retaliation, reaching the ground floor of the building.

The door is blocked from the other side and he's attempting to bash through it, but it refuses to budge no matter how hard he tries. No one is on the comms anymore, and he feels as though everything is falling apart around him. His eyes are now darting around the building, seeing the stress of the bombardments cracking the walls, the lines zigzagging to the ceiling.

"Of fuck," he huffs, realizing that if he doesn’t get out soon enough, the building is going to collapse right on top of him. To hell with the mission and to hell with the comms being down; this is survival. He turns away from the door and runs down the hall, coming to a halt when he sees a window inside a room flooded with fire. “You gotta be kidding me.” The building shakes again from the next blast, and it forces Bruno to grit his teeth, his own fire burning inside of him. He’s not ready to die yet; not to a building. It’s not a fitting end for a man like him. “Here goes nothing.” He locks the rifle to the chest plate’s hooks, ripping his pistol from the side holster. He aims it straight and true and pulls the trigger, launching the bullet right through the window, shattering it upon impact.

He jumps over the flaming debris of the desks and fallen file cabinets, thankful that he has enough gear on to keep him from getting too burned, the sweat now freely flowing down his face. Still rushing to the window, the final blast hits the floor above him, parts of the ceiling crumbling down just as he vaults through the broken mirror, not bothered by the glass cutting away at his uniform and face. The stinging from the sweat, fire, and glass just pushes him over the edge, and he catches himself on the dirt floor, coughing. Just in time to see the drone pass by him one more time, but nothing comes from it thank the heavens. 

He stands up and moves away from the building, his heart still pounding away in his chest. Hiding away in one of the alleys, he groans and wipes away at the slick red coming from his face. “Someone. Better. Have. An. Explanation.”

His comms are only returning static until finally there is a voice beside his own: “Sir, I think there's enemy interference. Someone is trying to get in and find our locations. I am trying to scramble the signal, but they got a hold of you. I don’t know about the others.”

Bruno tenses up at that and it hits him that someone ratted on them. No one should have known they were there. No one should have prepared reinforcements so quickly. No one should have tried to murder him with his own drone. It was a trap, and he had to get everyone out before things could get any worse. “Everyone, head to the second emergency rendezvous point. We have been compromised. If there are signs of adversaries there, make it to the third point. Move it!” He reholsters his pistol and rearms himself with his trusted rifle, treading along.

When he makes it to a major street, something doesn’t feel right to Bruno. It’s this weird feeling someone gets when they are in a room, but they can sense another person in there. It only gets worse the closer he is to the edge of the alley. He has to sprint across as fast as he can, and so that’s what he does. He dashes as fast as his legs can carry him and the extra hundred or so pounds of gear… and that’s the second an immense searing pain hits him right in the calf, making the man fall to the ground. Only then does he hear the crack and boom from the sniper rifle. He just got hit, and he’s still in the open. He forces his body to act fast, pushing himself to get to cover, his back leaning against the wall. They know where he is. It’s only a matter of time. He rips off his helmet and looks down to see the damage. His right leg is the one that feels as though there’s a small fire inside of the gunshot wound, blood already seeping through his fatigues. 

“Hit. I’ve been hit,” he groans, but there’s nothing on his comms again. He reaches into his shoulder pocket, pulling out a small pouch. Using his teeth, he tears open the sterile tourniquet, reminding himself of the steps Khrystyna taught him. He gets the belt strapped and then using the stick on the tourniquet, he begins to twist it, cutting off his blood flow. The pain is getting worse, the man clenching his jaw so hard when he cuts away at his pants to find the wound. 

To his dismay, he sees both an open and exit wound, and he takes a deep breath. “Okay… there’s a big ass hole in your leg. Time to pack it. Dammit, why me? Move faster…” He rolls up the cut fabric, rolling it up and proceeding to bite down on it before he takes the gauze from the first aid kit he had, shoving it into his wound without waiting. He screams into the fabric, the back of his head digging into the wall to distract himself. He wants to cry, but he instead just pounds at the ground with his free hand. Just as he’s done, he can hear the sound of someone rustling near him. He takes his pistol with one hand, his body trembling from the shock and anger ripping through him. Waiting for the person to come around the corner from his left, he doesn’t catch the person to his right rounding the corner and firing into his side. Bruno gasps and turns quick enough to fire a few rounds into that soldier, returning his attention to the one he had initially heard, taking them down as well when the opening presents itself. 

His breathing is ragged, his hand reaching to where he felt the slap of a bullet. Wincing, he pulls his hand back to see that there’s now a bullet lodged in him, finding the one part of his torso that wasn’t shielded by the vest, plates, and gear. It’s getting hard to breathe, and he stares up at the sky in search of an answer to his problem. It takes him a few minutes to patch up, getting up while using the wall to lean against, limping his way towards his team. The corners of his view are blurring and turning to black, almost like the beginning of tunnel vision. He trips over some broken stone and slabs of brick, screaming silently when one of the pieces digs right into his side. Struggling to his hands and knees, his head snaps up when the one person he couldn’t have near him speaks. 

“Bruno?!” 

Khrystyna runs up to him and helps him sit against the wall, her eyes so calm and yet her voice is full of worry. “Hey, you are going to be okay. We are really close to where we need to be. I need you to tell me what’s wrong and what you need me to do, Sir?”

Bruno isn’t fully there. His mind is on the fact that this entire time, he was leaving specks of blood and a trail for his enemies to follow. If he dies, and they find him, they are going to take Khrystyna and do the most awful things to her. If he doesn’t die and they both get caught, they will use her against him, and he would be responsible for her dying due to his loyalty to secrecy.  Even though she is one of the strongest women he knows, she won’t be able to carry him the entire way, and he’s only getting weaker by the minute. The answer was there the whole time.

He knows what he has to do, and so when he coughs up a bit of blood, he reaches over to take Khrystyna’s pistol, aiming it at her with tears in his eyes. “You need to get away from me right now if you know what’s good for you.”

[poryphoria]

what fine work you do

[gunpowderdtim]

Thinking about running a tim/ashes event week! It'd most likely be more towards summer as school is killing me lately, but just throwing this poll out there

Ideally, I would have a prompt for each day. I would make an ao3 collection and a tumblr blog to reblog relevant posts to. I think it'd be fun!

[painsandconfusion]

Famous Last Words

Whumptober 21st

[coughing up blood | "You're safe now." | "Take Me Instead."] (tw: character death, murder, gun, kidnapping, torture, creepy/intimate whumper)

“Really? You’re going to trade yourself for this-“ Whumper paused to boot Whumpee in the side “-pathetic little thing?”

Caretaker’s jaw set. Fingers flexed and re-curled at their sides. “..Yes.”

Whumper scoffed half an amused laugh, eyes raking slowly down Caretaker’s body. “…I suppose that would be a good deal.” They took a step to the side, prowling in a slow circle around Caretaker. Drinking them in. Scrutinizing. Pondering. “You’re much less…well...….broken.”

Caretaker almost twitched, but managed to stay still. Their eyes stayed glued on Whumpee, ignoring the circling threat. Trying to relay to Whumpee that it will be okay.

But Whumpee wasn’t even looking at them - they were just curled in a ball on the ground, trembling. Silent but for the hiccuping sobs or the sputters of coughing that left their hand flecked with red.

“Do we have a deal or not?” The words were spat. Half forced.

Caretaker tried not to about how long it would take before they were the ones mindlessly sobbing on the ground.

That was a question for another time.

So long as Whumpee was safe, it would be okay.

Whumper hummed, considering as they stepped behind Caretaker.

Arms slipped around Caretaker’s waist, tucking their chin onto Caretaker’s shoulder. “..well it is an intriguing offer…..”

Caretaker’s skin crawled under the touch, muscles squirming in a desperate attempt to wriggle away.

Caretaker didn’t let them.

They forced themself still, tight breaths straining against their ribs. Desperately trying not to let their their breath betray their fear.

They did anyway, breath hitching as Whumper’s fingers bit into their ribs.

Evidently they were supposed to respond.

Twitching, Caretaker hissed, “Is that a yes?”

Whumper chuckled softly, turning to nuzzle softly behind Caretaker’s ear, pulling a shiver from them.

“You really wanna be mine?”

Their hands balled to fists, itching and begging Caretaker to shove this creature off of them.

Their eyes screwed shut in the focus it took to not do that. “I just want Whu-“

Pain flared up their side as Whumper’s nails bit in, brushing hard between their ribs and pulling a hiss from their throat. “I didn’t ask about them. I asked what you want.” Their lips pressed to Caretaker’s ear, warm breath ticking across it. “Do you want to be mine?”

Caretaker took a few shaky breaths despite how they ground Whumpers grip deeper. They couldn’t say no. Frustration and shame and rage built up inside them, burning through their lungs and up their neck.

But they couldn’t say no.

“..y-es.”

They felt Whumper’s lips spread into a smile against them.

“Good.”

Whumper shifted, grip relenting. Caretaker accepted the reward, taking a deep, though admittedly shuddering, breath. They grit out a simple “..what now?”

Whumper shrugged against them, one arm retreating completely. “Just what you wanted. Letting poor, sweet, Whumpee go.”

Caretaker twitched as a pistol entered their field of vision, gesturing lazily toward Whumpee. “Come on, Whumpee,” Whumper cooed, “You’re being let go.”

Caretaker…almost relaxed.

Almost.

Hard to relax when there’s a gun pointed at your friend, even if it’s just insurance they find their way to the door without issue.

Whumpee lifted their head, arms unwrapping enough that they could peek up at the pair. Tears were dripping down their face, smeared fully so all of them shining and shimmering with each hicupling breath. “R-rrr-really-?”

Caretaker gave them a small, encouraging nod. You can get up - you're safe now.

“Mhm,” Whumper hummed, gripping the handle a little firmer as Whumpee started move.

Whumpee's head lifted further. They stared up at Whumper - eyes incredulous and wary, but sparked with a tiny flare of hope.

The gunshot rang against Caretaker’s ears, screaming even as the echo in the room faded to Whumpee’s writhing chokes of air.

Only for a moment.

Then the breaths stopped.

Just the occasional twitch of muscle in the carnage.

Caretaker was frozen in Whumper’s grip. Staring.

Unable to move.

Breath stopped.

Slowly, their mind caught up, beginning to comprehend what they’d just seen. Red splattered the ground behind Whumpee - all the way to the wall. Bits of pink and grey were..-

“..no-“

They twitched forward, trying to help, to-

“Ah ah- You made your choice.” The barrel of the gun pressed hard up under their jaw, locking their muscles into place again.

“You’re mine, now.”

[Masterpost]

Shoutout to @whumptober for putting on this event! (don't mind me being LATE AS HECK)

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @wormwriting @happy-little-sadist @villainsvictim @thecitythatdoesntsleep @heathenwhump @michaeltalks @rainbows-and-whumperflies @cursedscribbles @whumpy-catfish @whumpworld @bandages-andobsessions @deltaxxk @whumpasaurus101 @whumpsday @wingedwhump @ha-ha-one @morning-star-whump @pickywhumpreader @shywhumpauthor @pinkieglitterheart @wild-selenite-caffine @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpberry-cookie @astralrunic @heavenly-whumper)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[tuttle-did-it]

I HATE fireworks. I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. They're horrible for the environment. They can start fires. A&Es are flooded with people who get hurt trying to set them off. It traumatises people like me who have C-PTSD that is set off by gunfire (thanks to living abroad in America for a few years, thanks America). Babies and the Elderly who struggle with noise are also affected, as are people who have disabilities set off by sound. It traumatises wildlife who cannot understand why there are explosions. It traumatises pets who cannot understand why their person is letting there be any explosions at all.

I HATE FIREWORKS. They absolutely ruin the autumn and Halloween for me, because every year, the stupid arseholes start setting them off every night a week before Halloween, and it continues until at least a week after Guy Fawkes. And then again the week of Christmas/New years.

I HATE FIREWORKS. Light shows are environmentally friendly, cause no disruption to wildlife or pets, are re-usable every year, and don't fucking explode for no reason.

DID I MENTION I HATE FIREWORKS

[apas-95]

Wealthy Dutch farmowners have been blocking food distribution centers and highways (in a similar situation to the trucker convoys in the US) due to a downsizing of the livestock industry, despite generous compensation. The wealthiest farmowners, being millionaires and receiving hundreds of thousands of euro in subsidy, have attempted to sabotage food supply in supermarkets not only by blockade, but also by buying out key goods.

Escalating violence over the last two years, including attacks on government buildings and the young children of government officials, have demonstrated that these 'petty tyrants' do form one of the most organised of the reactionary blocs in Dutch society. That they also form one of the most reactionary blocs is also demonstrated by their employment of Eastern European labourers in near-slavelike conditions. These farmhands are paid below minimum wage, live in what amount to company towns, and are commonly sexually abused by farmowners. Notably, these poor farmhands are not the ones participating in these protests.

Previously, the farmowners have made little actual impact, despite their willingness to use violence. This is due to their small number, and low total production, which made their protests both largely irrelevant to food security and unable to form a significant force - in short, the opposite conditions to an actual workers' strike. However, their blocking of food distribution infrastructure has gained them attention, which escalated into Dutch police opening fire on a farmowner's vehicle on the 5th of July, firing both 'warning shots' and 'targeted shots'.

In the inevitable context of further economic hardship in Europe, we can expect flashpoints like these to continue appearing, and potentially ignite.

[newyorkthegoldenage]

Detective James Fleming carries 2-year old Antonia Archeval, whom he rescued from August Robles's gunfire, up the fire escape to the roof of 67 East 112th Street, February 20, 1955. Fleming also guided the child's parents to safety.

Photo: Charles Payne for the NY Daily News

[outofccontext]

source: Regular Show. S1E2: "Just Set Up the Chairs"

[sjru]

It’s Nona from Gunfire Reborn!!

Art by me

[poryphoria]

post about these idiots when they least expect it

THESE ONES TOO.

(the context 4 this one is sheriff getting sick & auditor, a wholeass employer who does not Get Sick, immediately overreacting)