#mad maxian

[fireinmadness]

I'm considering taking Vanessa off my muse list. No one is biting and I honestly don't know how to fuel what's in my head into role-playing, I think it's best saved for a different character perhaps.

I want to be a grownup writer. She can be a grownup character. A grownup character who would key her ex boyfriend's car in a heartbeat and has spent years struggling with her mental health like Jessica Jones only there's guns and sex work and more big guns and and and yeah. A borderline babe just trying her best in a mad maxian world.

Anyone with any inkling in the direction of keen to write with her, let thouself known

[codenamehazard]

.:In The Dark of the Night:.

[TRIGGER WARNING FOR ARACHNOPHOBIA AND OTHER CREEPY CRAWLIES!!! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!!]

Chapter 24: In The Dark of the Night

Hey guys!

Holy Moly, I can't believe it has been almost an entire year since I started this journey with what was supposed to only be a simple one-shot of Cole saying "Fuck you" to the destiny thrusted upon him and running off into a Conduit Mad-Maxian playgound to have some fun. I even checked back on the creation date of "Breaking the Shackles" and it was back on the last day of March. March! That's insane!

And I have you all to thank for giving me the push to keep going on this story. So, thank you all from the bottom of my heart, I'm sending you all digital hugs.

The year is coming to a close and this will be my last chapter of the year. So with that, I wish you all a very Happy Holidays, whatever it is you celebrate, and here's to a safe and Happy New Year!

I've rambled on long enough, time to jump in! I hope it's a worthy chapter to close the year on!

--------

Everything hurts, everything. My muscles ache, my nerves burn, my brain reels and my heart constricts in fear. My entire world is nothing but fear, panic and pain, but I know I can’t stop, I won’t stop.

Not until Trish is safe in my arms.

My body begs for rest as I had been doing nothing but running, climbing and fighting non-stop for the better part of an hour. Even with the boost of being a Conduit, my body still produces lactic acid and it burns my muscles all the same. Yet I still climb, running on nothing but pure adrenaline and will-power. Pushing through the pain.

Every pull of my arms, every push of my legs brings me closer to her. The love of my life, the woman I would move mountains for, who I would scorch heaven, hell and Earth for.

I can hear his damned voice chastising me. Telling me how disappointed he is, how he expected more from me. How my selfishness is blinding me from whatever “big picture” he was rambling on about, but I don’t give a damn. As long as I have Trish, the whole world could go to hell and I wouldn’t care.

She’s the only light in this god-forsaken city I have left, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone snuff it out.

My heart soars when I crest the ledge and pull myself up with a flourishing flip, rushing over to the bomb and defusing it.

“Trish!” I call out, panic and relief mixing in my voice.

“Who the hell is Trish?!” The color drains my face and my blood runs cold as a stranger’s voice is what I hear. Who the hell is this bitch?! “Get me out of this!!”

“Looks like I was wrong.” That damn voice taunts over the radio as my blood freezes in my veins with the realization that I’ve been played for a fool. It was a trick, Trish is with the six and now I can’t get to her in time.

“COLE!!!” I can barely hear her voice over the sound of the bombs going off and the mounting static in my ears as I watch the six bodies fall.

“TRIIIIIIIIISH!!!!!!!”

—-----

The same word bellows out of my mouth as I scream myself awake. Black and red sparks arcing off of my body as I sit up with the start, objects fly off of me from my sudden movement. A woman’s scream only adds to the panic in my blood as Kestrel is startled awake and sent tumbling out of her hammock and onto the floor with a squishy crunch. 

I hyperventilate as my eyes dart wildly, trying to remember where I am and what’s going on, it’s only then I get a good look at what was flinged off of my body.

Scorpions… Giant, gnarled scorpions, the size of my head! Seeming to be blinking in and out of existence… They were everywhere.

A panicked squawk comes out of the bird’s mouth as she scrambles onto her feet and heats up her arms, I just let out a disgusted yell before turning these things into target practice. Though with their ability to just disappear into thin air, it’s easier said than done.

“Kestrel, what the hell are these things?!” I bellow out as I stomp my feet around like the most fucked up game of Dance Dance known to man. “Blink Scorpions!” Kestrel shouts back at me as she uses her slug bursts as opposed to her typical shots.

“Blink Scorpions?!” I repeat. What the fuck does that even mean?! I get the name, but it doesn’t mean anything. “A little more detail would be nice, Kestrel.” I snarl in irritation as I narrowly avoid getting tagged in the ankle.

“Big, nasty, carnivorous arachnids with a taste for Conduit flesh, a sting that can completely incapacitate one. They can turn invisible and can only be revealed by UV light.” I stare dumbfoundedly at the girl, and they never told me about these things until now?! I’ll grill her on that question later, right now I have a bigger question on my mind.

“Did whatever the hell made the Warped make this fuckers too?!” I roar in anger as I turn another bug into a purple splat on the floor.

“Yeah!” Kes confirms. Great, so it’s not just zombies and living tumors I have to worry about.

Memories flicker in my mind, back to Empire City. The absolute nightmares that were the damn Cloaking Conduits of the First Sons. These overgrown cockroaches reminded me of them, made my blood boil with white hot rage as I fry them when they show their ugly mugs. As I kill, I think to myself; I struggled with the Cloakers because of their tech, but these things don’t have any.

Could the Radar Pulse find these bastards? Only one way to find out.

A simple pulse and holy shit, they lit up like Christmas lights. Well, that makes my job and Kes’ jobs easier.

“Hey little birdie!” I call out to Kes, she turns her head towards me. “Creepy crawly at your six!” She turns around and blasts it, splatting glowing purple gore on the floor.

“Thanks Cole!” She calls back as she continues to blast at the bugs flickering in and out. “How did you-” “Less talking, more blasting!” I interrupt. “I’ll explain later, just keep blasting where I call!” She gives me an annoyed look, but nods before we get back to playing exterminator with Kestrel painting the air blue with cussing and bitching.

“What in God’s name are these things doing here anyways?!” I hear Kestrel shout out as she dodges a sting. “Blink Scorpions aren’t even supposed to be here!” I blink and stare before punting the bug against the wall.

“What do you mean they’re “not supposed to be here?!”” I balk as I zap another blinker. 

“I mean they’re not supposed to be here.” Kestrel snips back, firing off some slag shards to pin a bug that’s too close to my head. “These bastards are normally found near Arkansas, not here!” Arkansas?! That’s miles away!!

“Maybe they’re crawling south for the winter.” I snark a little and that nearly got me a slag-shot to the head.

“Very funny, MacGrath.” Kes shoots back as we finally clear enough room to get to the door of the trailer. We both grab the doors and swing them open, but before we could get outside, something sounding like a mix of nails on a chalk-board, a broken tornado siren and a human scream rings out. Kestrel and I cover our ears in pain.

The trailer jostles as whatever it is rams into it, making the two of us tumble out like the rug was pulled out from under us.

The freezing cold rain makes black and red spark jump and arc off of my body as I get back up on my feet, god-damn it, of all the times for a swarm of things to attack. I glare as I turn my head back to the trailer and…

Jesus fucking Christ…

What is crawling and attempting to flip the trailer over is… God, I thought the Summoner was bad… 8 creaking legs tipped with large claws, four giant eyes on its head with four smaller ones under the two on the front, fangs so big it could split a man in half and it’s body covered in stoney armor, so much so that if it stood still, you might mistake it for some random boulders in the middle of nowhere!

And the thing that makes this creepy crawly monstrosity all the more horrifying? Out of the nooks and crannies of that rocky armor crawl those blinking bastard scorpions that gave everyone the rude awakening.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together, those things were that giant boulder-spider’s babies and we just pissed off the momma.

It’s only when the cacophony of shouting and screaming starts that I notice the rest of the Misfits, rushing around and panicking. Mako and Pangolin trying to set up spots to take cover under and Kestrel rushing towards the armory to get weapons. I’d facepalm if I weren’t busy trying to keep from getting stung as in her fear, Kestrel forgot Big Momma is on top of the trailer that houses the armory.

A loud metallic THUNK rings out when Big Momma swipes her leg at the dumbass bird and sends her flying.

The panic in the air thickens as we all come to realize that we were going to have to fight with our powers, if Warped Spikes are anything like using powers in the mines, then we were going to ring the dinner-bell while trying to stay alive.

I fire off a Hellfire Rocket at Big Momma, but to my horror the electric missiles bounce off the stone armor. Memories of the Devourer flash in my mind when I see that, but this time there is no bigass mouth to chuck grenades into. I curse loudly as I feel a pit of helplessness sink inside my stomach and by the fearful look of everyone else’s faces, they’re just as scared as me.

The heavy hitters get to work on the stone-spider-nightmare, trying to crack the shell, Mako blasting sharpened shards of bone,  Pangolins firing off shotgun like blasts of brick into the armor while trying to tank hits from the legs and Kestrel firing spears of Slag into areas that looked the thinnest, but the monster didn’t even seem bothered as she charges and swipes at the scrambling Misfits.

Dove and I are trying to do our part by keeping the tiny scorpions at bay so that the three wouldn’t need to worry about them. The little bugs were easy enough to kill, but there’s just so damn many of them and they seemed to be everywhere.

The pit in my stomach gnaws and scratches at me. I try to focus on my task at hand, but the feeling of helplessness and utter uselessness is suffocating and infuriating. I wanted to help take the big bitch down but knowing that my powers, all of them, are useless against her, causes the sparks on my arms to hiss and spit as I do the only thing I can do to help and take my emotions out on these tiny bastards.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see one of the scittering bugs slip by. I try to zap it, but it is a jittery thing, making it hard to track. It’s making a bee-line to Kestrel. I’m about to call out to the Gunsmith, but Pangolin beats me to it.

I watch as the Brick Spartan spots the creature charging at Kes, tail raised and ready to sting, before he barrels into the girl. Knocking the bird out of the way, Pangolin takes the hit, right in the leg. Purple liquid oozes from the injury as the man screams out in utter agony. The same purple glow starts to crawl through his veins slowly as he collapses to the ground, his pinecone armor crumbling to dust as he writhes, powerless.

The sounds of the world become static and wailing as I watch Kestrel and Dove scream out in terror as the swarm rushes towards their victim.

“THOMAS!!!!”

[To Be Continued]

[grimmmviewing]

S1E14: “Plumed Serpent”—C/C+ (Watched 3/30/24)

“Til then, you might as well go home and get a little… rest.”

Now here is the (sort of) continuation of the Nick and Juliette conflict from “Last Grimm Standing,” in the sense that a certain rockiness in their relationship is the focus. It needs to be said, though, that doing this sort of episode with a temptress/stalker character endangering their relationship was a pretty obvious avenue to take. I more or less guessed that was the angle from the description alone (“Nick’s latest case threatens his relationship with Juliette”). It would have been more surprising to not do a story like this at some point!

Ariel is clearly written to fulfill this role from her very first verbal interaction with Nick as well, which makes the obvious trope-y-ness even more annoying. The fact that the parallels between Juliette’s eventual abduction by the draconic villains of the week and the classic damsel abducted by a dragon scenario are explicitly acknowledged by Monroe in terms of archetypes further undermines some of the cleverness of the situation. It’s not exactly deeply-hidden to begin with.

It’s not that the episode is without fun or deft touches: The concept of a dragon expelling a biological accelerant created from its own fat before breathing fire grounds the fantastical just enough in the plausible to make it cool/satisfying. I was not expecting the link to ketosis and the keto diet reference in Monroe’s explanation of the process, though. In a similar way, the real-world issue of people stealing copper for profit gets twisted to tie in with the draconic treasure obsession, and it results in some fun designs for the father’s and daughter’s respective living spaces—his junk-strewn cave with its ominous entrance, and her house with the many roof rods and an interior that’s eventually revealed to be positively wrapped in strands that curl across the ceiling. Replacing a pile of gold with something more modern and accessible while still being valuable was a solidly subversive idea.

These are fun visuals that resonate with the creatures’ fantastical nature and that also represent a certain continued care and attention to detail in the series overall. They could have just had a traditional house or cave with maybe a bunch of jewelry or bits and pieces of copper, but both are instead dressed with some intricate-feeling care that no doubt made the filming process some degree more complicated. The visual of the father’s little junk-accentuated, downright Mad Maxian, cart that he drives along the train tracks was also cool and fun in this same vein. And ditto a certain prominent warm/orange slant to the lighting (reminiscent of fire) in this episode as well.

When I break “Plumed Serpent” down into the little details or moments, that’s when I start to feel much more positively about it. There’s that sense of something like care, again, where the creators clearly know how to make fun or cute moments happen. Take Nick initially finding Monroe at the club watching Ariel perform her sexy fire dance show—It’s a subversion of the standard arrangement where he’s just at home, essentially waiting to dispense information, and it also results in him being embarrassed about having been caught patronizing such an establishment. It speeds the episode along thanks to the convenience but also creates something warm and entertaining as well with the two characters.

Monroe finally getting to meet Juliette is also well-handled, despite the brevity of their interactions, and the relationship drama’s climactic conversation in the car, post-rescue, also feels quite thoughtful and relatively grounded given the events that led to it. Although the writing can be heavily expositional or “fast” out of the necessity of fitting everything into 40 minutes, I’d go so far as to say the characterization is probably consistently the best part of the show and that it’s a shame it ends up subservient to a monster-of-the-week plot here that just feels kind of meh to me.

I really loved how Nick immediately calls Juliette to tell her when he has to go back to Ariel’s again to get out in front of any further misunderstandings. He assures her that Hank is coming too and has Hank speak into the phone himself to confirm it. I’d say that this earnestness is both a lot of fun but also maybe a weakness—that the writers do (at least for the time being) treat the Nick-Juliette relationship as sacrosanct rather than, say, making Ariel less of a Crazy Stalker and over-the-top sexpot and instead pitching her as an actual, serious option, even if only in passing, in ways that could have enhanced the conflict. After all, she doesn’t have Juliette’s ignorance of Nick’s true nature or her human frailty and, unlike other Wesen, she doesn’t see him as a threat. Maybe it’s actually a shame that fascination is so obviously leading somewhere negative from the jump…

(Also, I don’t feel like you should be allowed to use a Baldwin (Daniel, here) in an inconsequential part like they do in this episode. The face and voice are just too distinctive to blend seamlessly into the passing impressions these types of characters need to leave. Or maybe he was supposed to be a red herring, as I thought there was no way he didn’t have some further relevance to the plot, only to be completely wrong about that.)

[graphicpolicy]

Meet Your New Favorite Sports Underdogs in I Heart Skull-Crusher

Meet Your New Favorite Sports Underdogs in I Heart Skull-Crusher #comics #comicbooks

Josie Campbell, the breakout, hit writer of DC’s Amazons Attack event and screenwriter/producer on My Adventures With Superman, along with artist Alessio Zonno bring sports action to post-apocalyptic America in the new, YA Mad Maxian series I Heart Skull-Crusher! 18-year-old Trini will do anything to compete in her favorite sport, Screaming Pain Ball, aspiring to the heights of her longtime hero…

[akillerconundrum]

Starter Call

So Season 4 is finally up on Netflix here and I’m all hocked up on The Narrows and Wasteland Weekend so please like this post for a starter from the Dream Team.

[with-the-same-tattoos]

Found these boots for 2,5€ at a thrift shop :'0 theyr quite cheap in build which is why I think i might diy them to be a lil more mad maxian.

[highglossfinish]

Can scanning multiple vehicles at once give you cool Mad Maxian altmodes? Follow up question, do you think the caretakers allowing the newsparks to watch earth movies was a bad move?

Oh, the caretakers allowing the newsparks to watch Earth movies has doomed our race to something, and I don't know what, but something I desperately want to live long enough to see.

[wristic]

Silent Under the Stars

Pairing: platonic Max X Reader

Word Count: 1200

Warnings: Just good wholesome mental anguish sandwiching happiness

After traveling with Max for a few months, you find a trinket you’ve long missed and are beyond elated to have in your hands again. However pulling something from Max you didn’t expect.

Max was a bit distant, to say the least. A savage sort, one of the lone wolves who'd been alone just a touch too long. You’d seen it many times before, the Great Sand Sea had a way of ripping apart a mind till only instinct remained, and your instinct would normally set you away from those types. You didn’t know what set Max apart from the rest, why you weren't afraid of him when he was being his brutal and heartless self, and why he never got annoyed with you hanging around like you did. Especially with the way you nagged and maintenance him when he failed to take care of himself, skipping steps to bandage a wound or not caring for his clothes falling into tatters. You supposed, because while he could be as ruthless as the next man in this world, there was a diamond of a heart buried in his barrel chest.

You grew up in The City of Revelation, the council wanting its residence pristine to match its rigorous acceptance policy for new comers. Sometimes you wondered the person you would be had you not left, and usually by the end of that thought you were haunted by people begging not to be kicked out, how they’d starve and die, mercy, just a little mercy, and the bones that littered outside the walls for miles.

Ungrateful, stupidly rebellious, bleeding heart who couldn’t do what was necessary, Max never called you any of those things after baring it all one drunken night under the stars. Only grunted and said, “Gotta, do right by you. Would’a been lost, any other way.” So simple and yet when he fell asleep, you cried.

It was often left up to you to fill up the air with endless chatter, answering your own questions as you and Max raided some abandoned car or long long forgotten building from the world before. You were cutting away in the trunk's interior when his fingers fell on your lips, telling you in a nice way to shut the hell up.

Lifting and following his hawk like gaze, a small caravan was mirraging over the hill, far from the road like you and this unfortunate soul whose blood was splattered and dried brown on the driver's seat.  

Putting away the knife you tapped on his gun, “Last town was talking about some group called Guts terrorizing the roads. Caravan that fat, he’s playing it smart going the long way.”

Max didn’t release his tension, but the reasoning was sound enough he put the gun over his shoulder.

You both waited the long trudge for the armored caravan to pull up, its edges spilling with trinkets and junk useful only in the right situation. You walked up with a bright smile as a pruny and sun-cured man relaxed in front of his barred window. Looking around with an innocent and excited air you asked, “So what do ya got to sell in the tanker?”

“Not in the trade for water or gas right now, anything else, say the word and we might be able to work something out.”

You turned back at Max, sitting himself against the old car, nodding for you to start business. At the moment you couldn’t think of anything off the top of your head that you needed. Food and gas was always at the top of the list, the car was still purring for the moment, and seeing as you and the salesman were on the same path, swindling anything to bargain in the next town over probably wasn’t going to happen. Looking up at the things strewn about in nets, you couldn’t help but ask. “You got a guitar? Or a fiddle or a bango? Something along those lines?”

Scratching his scraggly peppered beard, the man disappeared for a long moment, things being tossed around as he searched. He passed by the window holding an actual guitar, showing it and gesturing for you to come around to check it out. You practically sprinted to reach the door, aghast to see a worn out grey guitar, having been black once, some rust and dirt still clinging to it.

“It’s missing a string, don’t know anything about any of the other parts but if-”

“Oh man!” You jumped it out of his hands and nestled it in your arms, fingers flicking to hear the out of tune notes. “I was forced to sell mine last year to get out of The Prairie Hole!”

“Prairie Hole,” The man grumbled as he relaxed on his door sill, “more like Hell Hole.”

You chuckled, streaming out a steady tune your fingers rejoiced to feel again. “Right? Such a cute name for a brawler bar the size of a colony!”

As you kept playing effortlessly, tuning here and there, the old man started smiling, an old woman his age and a boy far too young to be theirs peeked from inside, you nodding a smile to them which they sheepishly returned. Not stopping, you asked, “We don’t actually have much but maybe you’d like some protection for the rest of the way? We are fairly stocked up on bullets right now.”

He glanced to his makeshift family, turning back to you with an eased smile. “Don’t need no protection. Sunset’ll be on the horizon soon enough, why don’t you play for the night and you can keep it. Sounds like it was meant to be in your hands anyway.”

Biting your lip you stepped around and looked to Max waiting for his say-so. There was an odd look in his eye, this tense worry so different from the random atrocities that plagued the land. Setting his jaw straight, Max nodded his okay.

You played for the caravan into the night, played and sang until it hurt, played till your fingers were rubbed raw and each string stung, everyone long since passed out save for you and Max, you comfortably resting against his back as you sang and played a slow song. One of distance and heartbreak, wishing to be safe in a love’s arms and destroying the world around to do so.

A shudder went through Max, a sharp intake of breath that took you a moment to realize what it was, something you never expected to feel from him. Out of pure shock your voice and your music drifted, lifting and turning to see what you already knew, Max was crying.

He was quiet about it, sniffling and his chest heaving to keep back the sobs, the tears falling of their own accord. Very quietly you asked, “Should I keep playing or stop?”

After a stuttering breath his broken and graveling voice shook through you, stapling deep in your memory till your dying day. “Keep playing.”

You got comfortable against his back again, starting over with the same song that seemed to pull something out of him. In your experience, sometimes it was a memory, sometimes just something in the soul broke to a certain tune. You wouldn’t ask him, if he wanted to elaborate what caused the dam to break he would have been rambling by now. But Max was Max, he never said anything.

[mr-system-of-a-downer]

idk if this fits the bill but the Traitor Guard share that mad maxian look the genestealer cultists got

traitor guard is cool but at the end of the day they’re still guard and not like cultists. it would be interesting to have mechanics based on sacrifice and what not too, among other things also beastmen troops

[codyvrosh]

Teeth Tuesday! Lucky enough that I haven't had to go out for groceries in a couple weeks. I can only assume the outside world is now a Mad Maxian dystopia where we trade bones for cous cous, right? Mostly normal, just empty, and the weather's nice, you say? Hmmm.

[cowboyjimkirk]

hellooooo how are u!! I have one flat viewing on monday and another on tuesday n im excited!! my parents keep saying guilt tripp-y shit that they always start w "pls dont take this as me not wanting u to move out BUT (proceeds 2 say things that makes it clear they dont want me to move out)" LOWKEY A MESS LMAO but I'm ignoring them n just vibing n doing my own thing yeehaw. also I have work today but tmrw + monday off, then just 3 days and then a whole fucking week off thank Fuck - trans anon

i know this is four days late, but i’m good!!! been spending a lot of my free time baking and reading, which i guess is part of why i haven’t been on here as much!

i’m glad you’re vibing! literally who has time for passive-aggressive games, especially when you have better people to spend your time with? i hope you find an apartment soon and can keep vibing, you funky little Mad Maxian

[sholiofic]

Day 27: Ransom

I got a request for this prompt with Frank and Leo. This is in the same post-apocalyptic universe as Math and Poetry and Gunmanship. All you really need to know for this fic is that Frank is a wilderness scout that Leo hired to help her find her parents in a Mad Maxian post-apocalypse world.

---

"Huh," the bandit leader murmured, climbing down off his bike. "Looks like he came."

Leo squinted against the dust and the glare of the setting sun. She didn't have a good view; she was gagged, hands tied, and the only thing keeping her from falling off the back of the bike they'd set her on was the fact that she was tied to it. She couldn't even wipe the dust out of her eyes; all she could do was blink, and by now it must look like she'd been crying.

She wasn't. She hadn't cried at all. Frank needed to know that.

"Get her down," the leader snapped, and the bandit sitting in front of Leo swung his leg off the bike with a creak of leather and a stink of unwashed flesh, and untied the rope that was bound to the bar behind the seat, holding her on through the unpleasant, bone-shaking ride.

At any other time she would have wanted to take a closer look at the gang's machines. They were pre-Collapse tech, and still in good shape, tricked out in various ways by their owners -- some had spikes protruding from the wheels, some had weapons mounted on, and the bandit leader had a string of skulls rattling from the handlebars. Leo wasn't sure about their power source. They didn't seem to be solar, like most of the remaining agricultural machinery. Did people have fusion reactors small enough to put in a vehicle, back in those days? She wished she'd paid more attention in class, back in the dome.

Wondering about it gave her something to dwell on other than what was happening to her as she was pulled, stumbling, with the oily taste of the gag in her mouth and her nose half clogged with dust and tears, all the way to the base of the crumbling bridge across a long-dry riverbed.

That was Frank on the other side, she was pretty sure. The sun was in her eyes. It wasn't supposed to go like this, she thought, blinking fiercely to keep the dust-tears from being joined by real tears. She was supposed to come out here and learn to be like Frank, learn to survive in the wilderness and help find her parents, not get swept up by a bandit gang after she had (it was still so humiliating she hated to think of it) gone behind some boulders to relieve herself.

She'd spent the last few hours tied up on a filthy mattress in a tumble-down cabin, so she didn't know what they'd asked Frank for in exchange for her, or for that matter, how they'd managed get close enough to negotiate without Frank shooting all of them. She tried not to think of it, but she could all too easily see him riding onward, no longer burdened by a city girl who he'd had to teach every wilderness skill from riding to shooting.

So far, they hadn't hurt her, not to speak of. Roughed her around a little, but she'd had worse falling off the not-horses when Frank was teaching her to ride, and by now she'd learned not to snivel at that kind of thing. Even though by now she'd heard plenty of crude jokes about how much of a price they thought she'd fetch in the settlements down along the Salt Lakes, wherever those were.

Managing not to break down sobbing was really the only thing she had to be proud of right now. Frank wouldn't have spent the afternoon wrestling with the ropes tying him up, facedown on a dirty, threadbare mattress while a bunch of no-good bandits using him as the butt of their dirty jokes. He would've been out of those ropes in half an hour tops; he would've killed half the bandits and forced the other half to give up whatever secret loot they had stashed around. He would've set that cabin on fire and ridden triumphantly away with a brand-new arsenal slung over his shoulder.

Even if she hadn't managed to do that, at the very least she should've been able to get out of her bonds and slip off into the desert. It was the very bare minimum, after all the training Frank had wasted on her! And she'd tried, but they had tied her so tightly that all she had was rope burn to show for it, and some bruises from when they'd put her back, not gently, after she had tried to saw through her ropes on the jagged edge of a broken board.

Frank was going to be so angry at her, and rightfully so. She'd earned a good chewing out over this, between getting herself caught and then not getting herself out of it. Everything she'd done in this situation was the exact opposite of what he'd taught her to do.

But she didn't even mind being yelled at, if he was there to yell at her. She squinted into the blinding sun as the bandit leader took hold her of her by the ropes around her sore wrists and gave her a shake. "Hey!" he shouted. "We got her right here! You bring the stuff?"

Leo closed her eyes until all she could see through the dancing tears on her lashes was a splintered kaleidoscope of sunset colors. She could just make out Frank on the far side of the bridge, with the sun behind him on the edge of the desert.

Among all the lessons Frank had drilled into her, there had been several that had to do with gaining and keeping the advantage in a fight. And one of them was about light. Sun's an asset, he'd said, after putting her flat on her back in another hand-to-hand training session. She hadn't even seen him coming, could still barely see him as she squinted up at him with the afternoon sun glaring past his head. Get it behind you, then you can see, your enemy can't.

Oh, she thought, just as Frank -- the real Frank, not whatever scarecrow he'd built over there -- came up over the edge of the bridge and shot two of the bandits before they had a chance to move.

Leo lashed out and got a foot right between the bandit leader's legs. He stumbled back with a startled curse and then Frank was there, snatching her away and flinging her to the ground -- she went down hard on her chin, with no ability to catch herself -- and then he shot the bandit leader twice in the head and whirled to face the others.

Leo lay on the ground and watched dazedly as he took on the other two, grabbing one and spinning him around and using him for a shield to shoot his buddy. She missed a little of the action as she struggled painfully to her feet, but by the time she got up, it was all over. They were dead, she thought dizzily, every last one of them. That was what she could have done, if she was Frank.

But she wasn't, and if all of this had proven nothing, it was the absolute truth of that. She didn't belong out here.

"Kid," Frank said. She must've zoned out, hadn't even seen him approach, but now he was taking off the gag, pulling it out from between her teeth and making her cough. "Kid," he said again, turning her around and finding the bonds around her wrists. He cut her hands free while she flexed her sore jaw and even sorer tongue, finding her mouth drier than she could ever remember it being in her life. Frank was patting her down, rough and a little bit frantic, and she just stood there, not sure what she could say to make it right. If anything could.

"Hey. Kid. Leo," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "C'mon, say something, dammit. I know they had you for hours, know you're probably pissed at me, but hell, just give me a sign here, say something, let me know you're okay --"

Her startled, disbelieving laugh came out on a choking cough. "Frank," she began, a question mixed with an apology, but then she got the shock of her life when he pulled her against his shoulder and just held her there.

She took a few deep, hitching breaths, just breathing in the smell of leather and gun oil with her face pressed into his coat. "I'm sorry," she gasped out, finally. Her voice sounded like she'd been gargling with rocks.

Frank made a choked, disbelieving sound. "What the hell're you sorry for?"

"I got caught. I couldn't get away. I made you have to come get me. I did everything wrong and I forgot most of what you taught me and did the opposite of the rest of it, and I tried to get away but I wasn't any good at it, I didn't do any of what I was supposed to --"

"Leo." Frank huffed it out in a sort of half-believing laugh. He started to say something, huffed another sort-of laugh, and led her away from the dead bandits, pushed her onto a sun-warmed boulder. "Sit here. They give you anything to drink? No, of course they didn't. Drink this."

She took the canteen he gave her and gulped it down eagerly. Amazing how stale, warm water could taste so good after an entire day without it.

Frank took one of her hands in his big ones, turned it over, and carefully, very carefully, brushed a fingertip over the raw, bleeding abrasions where she'd fought the ropes. He laid her hand down on her knee, reached into a pocket of his duster, and took out a jar of the salve he kept around to use on the not-horses' saddle sores and other injuries. Leo knew how much it stung (she'd had it applied to her scratches and sunburn a few times by now) so she braced herself as Frank began gently applying it to her wrists.

"Kid," he said, looking down at what he was doing, not at her. "The only person around here not doing his job is me. Keeping you safe is what you hired me to do, remember?"

All she could think to say was, "Well, I haven't paid you in ages, though, have I?"

He laughed again, another of those hoarse laughs like he hardly remembered what laughing sounded like, and he went ahead and cleaned up her wrists and then dampened a rag from his canteen and cleaned up her face. Leo sat there and let him, while the world darkened around them. She had almost forgotten what it was like to go pliant under another person's care, letting their hands soothe away your hurts and aches. It took her back to childhood, back to having both her parents at home, with a warm hug and gentle ministrations from either parent whenever she tripped carrying firewood, or scrapped with other kids in the neighborhood. All those little hurts that she thought were big hurts then.

She didn't want him to stop and she didn't know how to deal with it either, and the combination of those two feelings carried her through Frank cleaning her up, until he helped her to her feet. She limped across the bridge with his arm around her, past the stack of rocks with a hat on top (Frank snatched it off as they went by) and down into a little valley where there was a banked campfire and the browsing not-horses and her blankets already laid out for her.

"Eat or sleep?" Frank asked her, and she was too tired to answer, so he laid her down on her blankets and pulled the top one over her. She curled on her side and lay there dazedly. Frank settled within arm's reach of her -- she didn't really feel like she needed to reach out and touch him, but she could have, and that was comforting, somehow.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Frank brushed a hand across her forehead. "Nothing to be sorry for. Go to sleep."

[theentiregdtime]

mac buys a motorcycle.

PHILADELPHIA, PA 11:15 ON A MONDAY

"Come on, it's badass, dude! I thought you'd be excited! It's like I'm Ghost Rider and you're- Wait, no, it's like I'm Michael Carrington and you're Stephanie Zinoni!"

"... I'm Stephanie Zinoni."

"Yeah, man, but not like, because of the romance and stuff, because of the motorcycle!"

"That's not even the original, Mac, why is that your first thought-"

"Because I am no ordinary boy, Dennis. I am now a rider... that's cool."

Dennis pinches the bridge of his nose.

Mac assumes it must be because of the mid-morning sun or a hangover or a migraine, not that he's annoyed- because there's no way he could possibly be annoyed with this. It's basically the best thing that's ever happened to them.

One Mac Mcdonald is now the proud owner of an actual, working, not-stolen, bought-with-real-life-money motorcycle. Sure, it's a little... antique and... rustic... and some of those other words people on fixer-upper shows use to describe garbage. But it was cheap and it runs and Mac kinda sorta mostly knows how to ride it- and that's enough for him.

"This is why we never have money for the goddamn groceries, Mac-"

"Dennis, Dennis..." Mac holds out his palms like he's trying to steady a spooked horse, "I didn't take it out of our account."

"Then how- You know what?" Dennis flits a dismissive hand through the air. "I don't care, I don't want to know."

This isn't exactly playing out how Mac had pictured it in his head. He'd tossed in bed for hours last night fantasizing about rolling up on his bike, leaving a trail of gravel and skid marks in his dust. Then Dennis sees him and his jaw drops just before his mouth curves into that big, disbelieving smile, and he thinks Mac's just as cool as Country Mac was (God rest his soul) and he hops on and they speed off and Dee and Frank and Charlie are so jealous and-

It's not going like that at all.

But he could fix this!

Mac curves his eyebrows up into a knot and pouts his lips, staring Dennis down without so much as blinking. Dude could act frustrated all he wanted, but he never said no the puppy dog eyes.

Dennis folds his arms across his chest, lowers his shoulders, and visibly softens. This is working...

"So you want me to ride it with you?" he asks quietly and matter-of-factly, all of the sting gone from his voice.

"Uh-huh."

"And you expect me to sit on the... the bitch seat of this Mad-Maxian death trap?"

"Oh," Mac chirps. "Well, if you're scared, then you don't have to-"

"I am not-!" Dennis steels himself, glaring at the triumphant grin on Mac's lips. His tone is calm when he speaks again. "I am not scared. That's absurd. I am a very impetuous man when I want to be."

Mac simply shrugs. He has no idea what that means, but it sounds like a yes, so he'll take it.

"Then prove it," he teases, turning back to the motorcycle.

Mac knocks the kickstand off the ground with his boot and throws his leg over the seat. He grips the handlebars, just clenching them in his hands, squeezing until his knuckles turn white. Taking a deep, full breath, he revels in this moment. Sure, he was already badass before, but on this thing, he's like fucking Maverick in Top Gun. It's an incredible feeling-

Until Dennis' damn reptilian monster claws dig into his shoulder blades.

"You're supposed to put your arms around me, dude," -Mac clicks his tongue in chastising disapproval- "so you don't fall off and get, like, shredded."

"I am not a goddamn wedge of parmesan cheese, Mac, I will not be shredded by anything," -he slackens his already loose grip- "and it's humiliating enough I have to sit behind you like I'm an aging Harrison Ford, I'm not going to wrap my arms around you."

Mac sighs through his nose in quiet annoyance, like he's dealing with a bratty child (because he essentially is), and revs the engine just once. "Fine, but I'm not paying your hospital bills when you get, and I repeat, shredded."

"I'm skeptical that you could."

Eh, that's fair. He'll let him have that one.

"And aren't you going to put on a helmet?" Dennis keeps rambling. "You do remember how this ended for your cousin, right? And he was certainly better at this than you."

Mac suppresses a grumble in his throat.

"Oh, sure, Dennis," he scoffs, "and while I'm at it, why don't I just slap a sticker on my head that says pussy?"

There are- finally- no more protests after that.

Good.

The motorcycle gets going with a bit of a struggle, sputtering like a kinked hose, but once it's off, it's off. The streets are uncharacteristically empty, giving the bike a lot of room to swerve and move around- not that Mac needs to, he knows how to work it! After a couple of twists and turns through Philly, once he really gets a feel for the thing, Mac starts gunning it and blatantly disobeying all posted road signs. He's not sure how far over the limit he's going, but it's hard not to speed when there's no one on the road. The few cars he does pass, he weaves in and out of and drifts around, earning himself a few frustrated honks in the process. They're just jealous of how cool he looks with his boy-

His boy. His guy. His dude. Bro. Buddy. Den. Dennis. Dennis Reynolds. His friend.

"You're going to get me killed, you know!" Dennis, think of the devil, shouts over the sickly cough of the struggling engine.

Mac can't figure out why the hell Dennis is so stressed out. It's not as if they're going to take a wrong turn and careen off the edge of the Grand Canyon, they're in fucking Philadelphia. Worst case scenario, they'll ram into some bozo's car, tip over, and walk away with a couple of scrapes and road rashes.

Not that that's going to happen.

He's definitely holding on now, though. Each time they pick up a little speed or take a sudden corner, Dennis curls against his back like an agitated cat, hands clutching fistfuls of Mac's tee shirt and grinding into his sides. Den is all knobby bones and sharp knees and jagged edges, but Mac doesn't mind- he's gotten used to it over the course of... basically their entire lives. He's never minded. Not in high school when they crashed together under the bleachers, not during movie nights at their apartment, not getting brownout drunk in the same side of a booth at the bar, and definitely not now. He figures some people would probably find being prodded in the backside like this unpleasant, but it's just... just Dennis. It's familiar.

"It's not- not that I'm scared or anything! I just think everyone would be a lot happier if you slowed down a little!"

"I don't know, that sounds pretty scared to me, man!" Mac yells back as sharp fingernails burrow into his ribcage. He likes the way it feels, like God himself cracking the rib of Adam in his hands to set the world in motion.

"It's not about that, it's about obeying the goddamn traffic laws so you don't end up with a ticket that I have to pay out of our- my bank account!"

Mac pretends not to hear him. Maybe if Dennis would just shut up and enjoy the wind in his hair, he wouldn't be so testy. He can't figure out what the big deal is. Dennis hadn't been upset last night. He was sober (not totally sober, that would be dangerous, but mostly), took a long shower before bed, did his nightly skincare routine, sat across the sofa from Mac while they watched Food Network, complained about every single dish even though he himself almost never cooked or ate, fell asleep with his head flush against a throw pillow and his balmed lips slightly parted as he breathed softly-

Stoplight! They're at a stoplight!

Mac hits the brake hard to avoid rear-ending the car in front of him, which sends him lurching forward. As he sways, two ridgid hands clamp onto either side of his head and a sharp, anxious breath is drawn behind him.

What...?

He glances back at Dennis over his shoulder, brow tense with confusion. Before he can ask him what's up, he's struck by the gentle look of concern on his face, by the teeth rolling over his lip as he tentatively lowers his hands back down, by the way all of his edges go soft...

Oh.

Oh.

Oh!

"Oh my God, Den, are you worried about me?" Mac slaps a hand on the bike in surprise. "Dennis, that is so sweet, dude!"

"Well..." Dennis swallows a lump, avoiding direct eye contact. His hands are pulled back now, resting on his own thighs instead of around Mac. "If you die, we both die, so... I simply have my best interest in mind."

A long moment passes between them, neither moving back into position or saying anything more. Mac watches a bead of sweat roll down Dennis' forehead, watches him lick his chapped lips, watches him like he's the only fucking person in the whole entire world because, to Mac, he-

Some dick is honking at him. Asshole. He could just go around or whatever!

"You want to head back to the bar, man?" Mac asks sympathetically, like he's asking him if he needs medicine for a headache or a warm blanket.

Dennis doesn't answer immediately.

Then the jerk behind them honks again.

"Would you-" Dennis does a one-eighty, then whirls back to Mac. "Yes, I would like to go home and get away from," -he waves a hand in the car's direction- "this rude man who honks!"

And just like that they're back to normal... which is kind of a relief. Totally normal. Just hanging out. That's a good thing.

Mac repositions himself and starts back towards the bar, slower this time, at what he guesses is a reasonable speed. He has no idea, honestly, but he's pretty sure he's supposed to go faster than the cars because the bike is smaller. That makes sense to him.

Dennis' hands are no longer jabbing into him like a couple of Swiss army knives with all of the tools loose. They aren't exactly around him, either, but they're definitely on him. They're trained at either side of his torso, not hesitant in any way, just there. One of Dennis' fingers is drumming against his rib, presumably to some song he's got stuck in his head. His breath is steady on the back of Mac's tousled hair and, every once in a while, at a stop, he adjusts and Dennis' chest and thighs brush up against his back- just for a second.

Mac will never admit that he takes the long way back to the bar.

By the time they return, he figures it must be about half past noon. The middle of the day on a Monday isn't exactly a busy time for them. No one is really drinking (themselves excluded, of course), so hopefully Dee and Charlie won't nag about where they've been and how they haven't worked all morning. Then Dennis would get annoyed and probably never do this again.

They'll probably never do it again, anyways. He is not Michael Carrington and Dennis is not Stephanie Zinoni.

Mac hangs back for a minute after Dennis hops off and heads into the bar, muttering something about how he has to go fix his hair and reminding Mac to pick the bugs out of his teeth- the ones that weren't already there before.

They're back to normal. That's a good thing. It's definitely a good thing.

He drifts off thinking about that scene where Michelle Pfeiffer somehow climbs around onto the front of the motorcycle and flips her hair and blocks the view, but it doesn't matter because the road is empty and they're together and they're in love, and Dennis is kissing him and he doesn't even complain about the metal prodding into his back and bruising his pale skin because he just wants to kiss Mac that badly and-

He's going to have to say some Hail Marys later for that one.

Mac isn't sure how many he has to say to repent for how badly he wants Dennis' hands in his hair again. If he asks a priest, he'll have to confess to it out loud, so he'll just guess. Maybe there aren't enough breaths in him to make up for the things that he feels. Maybe he'll have to pay in the afterlife instead.

The bike is still worth every Hail Mary, and every penny.

[charismastaticarchive]

starter call!

this starter call is SPECIFICALLY for aus! if u like this, i will make up an au for us to rp in and u JUST HAVE TO DEAL WITH IT unless u comment specifically in the ims/the replies what kind of au u want!

aus will range from the domestic to the mad maxian from high romance to high horror and fantasy. it all depends on how i’m feeling and if u HIT THAT REPLY BUTTON and tell me what ur feeling.

YES. this is my way to get people to plot with me more lmfao. thru FORCE!

[burn-your-face-upon-the-chrome]

Very mad-maxian dystopia realization...

To preface this, the hotel across the intersection used to be converted into apartments and hosted the low-income elderly. The owner of the building kicked everybody out and is now having it renovated and either converted back into hotel rooms or turning it into high-end apartments. I don't care or remember which, they threw out a bunch of elders and I'm mad about that first off.

Now TODAY, I've been hearing nothing but a jackhammer on the decorative concrete molding all around the top of this building and chunks falling into giant rubber tubs on the scaffolding. Nevermind the clear safety hazards, apparently it's been decided it's cheaper to just remove all of the fetching historic beauty on the building rather than have it fixed. The jack hammering has been going on since fucking 7AM. There's a neighborhood dog who barked normally this morning but now every time he goes out to wee he sounds like air being forced through a wet balloon because he's been screaming at the jackhammering all day.

Here's the realization: If I were a wasteland degenerate in an age of lawlessness, I'm pretty sure by this time in the day I'd have forcibly taken the jackhammer out of the worker's grasp, welded it to the hood of a truck, and driven the truck through the hotel owner's living room. And the neighbor dog would've had my back on this.

[esser-z]

Transformers Personal Universe Basic Backstory

For a Long Time, Cybetron was the capital of the ruthlessly expansionist Decepticon Empire. Rulers typically took a *tron name, Megatron being very common. While TFs in this setting pretty much don't die of age unless they lack maintenance and are VERY hard to kill, imperial cybertron did replace emperors via mishap, military casualty, or (most often) treachery.

Side note: new sparks are born either in hotspots/allspark nodes, the latter of which are created with a Matrix, or via a process basing them on an existing spark a la constructed cold.

Prior to the current setting date, a revolution against the Decepticon Empire gained mass support, with the charismatic hero Optimus Prime as its face. The ensuing Great War led to the fall of the Empire, aided by factors like imperial minister Starscream betraying the current emperor Megatron, and establishment of the United Cybertron Alliance, ruled by an elected Senate.

But the old order dies hard. A signficant number of the leadership escaped, including the infamous war criminal mad scientist Immorticon (ST RotF Megatron), who lives up to his name with Wolverine-level regeneration. Furthermore, many sector and planetary governors declared themselves rulers, creating many competing warlords. Immorticon and an incredibly power warlord calling himself Galvatron (TLK Leader Megatron) form the Decepticon Ascendancy, working to reclaim the empire.

The Ascendancy spends much time operating in the shadows, using false fronts like the Black Star Khanate nomad gang run by the brutal Motorhead (Rodimus Unicronus) and Grindcore (ST DotM megatron)'s cannibalistic Mad Maxian Scravagers to disguise their true size and plans. Weary of war, the UCA Senate has in great part fallen for this charade; it's easier and more comfortable to see fractured warlords than a serious conspiracy and threat.

Not everyone agrees. Optimus Prime (ST Prime, combining version) has resigned his Senate seat to lead many of his closest old friends and allies as the Autobot Resistance, battling Ascendancy plots without UCA sanction. Many consider him a dangerous extremist, a relic of the war, though the ever canny Senator Starscream (PotP Starscream) has been covertly supporting the Resistance.

In the current plot, Starscream, UCA officers Laser Prime (OC; girl; TR Laser Prime from the set with Nautica) and Optimus Primal (potp Primal), and military strategist Ironfire (OC; girl; green Overload redeco of CybDefense Scattorshot) are leading a UCA expedition with the official dual mission of engaging a Black Star raiding group and

investigating mysterious weird science stuff, and the unofficial task (known only to the leadership) to rendezvous with Optimus Prime, who had indicated he has conclusive proof of the Ascendancy's existence-- and an imminent threat to the UCA as a whole.

Ascendancy forces are pursuing Optimus Prime, lead by the vicious general Megatron (Siege voyager) and his lieutenant Starscream, a dark clone of the original. Meanwhile, a second Megatron, who controls multiple simultaneous bodies (all my BW/BM Megatrons) has been running mysterious plans with his Predacons-- named after the legendary dragons, who rejoined society to help overthrow the Empire; his goals are shrouded in mystery.

Optimus Prime has also recently located and secured the alliance of the ancient Dinobots (movie dinobot figures), an ancient and thought mythical order of female knights lead by Queen Grimlock; the modern Dinobot commando unit (PotP dinobots) lead by another Grimlock is named in their honor.