#rip in parachutes if its not

[thatferrybroad]

You know what entitled greedy fucks hate and fear most? Being laughed at. Their egos can't take it.

How many pissbaby tantrums do you think he's had?

[osakanone]

Crew attire cosplay?

Lately I've been thinking a lot about "what would separate mecha crew equipment from that of a tank crew, or a fighter crew": A lot of military surplus stuff is already really close to what we're going for, and I realized "Motorcycle boots look a lot more like mech pilot stuff than military boots do", which got me thinking what other odd equivalences exist.

The one which really surprised me was how famous mecha live action SF Gunhed used a wetsuit as a stand-in for "generic scifi bodysuit", and that it worked weirdly well, actually?

"Why not latex?"

Latex rips too easily in contact with straps and hard elements, overheats far, far too easily despite having the looks. Thin neoprene works. really well.

So I kept exploring.

One thing I did seriously debate is other than rappelling equipment, would a pilot need something like a rigid knee-brace for hard landings to protect the ACL when they disembark from the robot which is common with high impact parachute equipment.

Some varieties also include counter-weighted springs which make it harder for you to close your knee, but make lifting heavy things on your back and climb much much easier during the ascent phase.

That led me towards Deck Crew helmets, which meet the hood requirement, and of all things, chin wraps which are really unobstructive and you can eat and drink while wearing one pretty comfortably (I say this as someone currently stuck wearing one)

So what we're looking at here is the HGU-24 and HGU-25, often worn by deck crews because it gets along just fine with the famous MCU-2/P AKA "Millenium" mask famous with drone communities as they're designed to be worn together.

Its literally the exact same mask with a minor paint adjustment.

"What's the difference between a drone and a pilot?" "One wears AXENT and latex, the other wears HGU-25 and neoprene." "Anything else?" "Drones have less sex and do as they're told"

Its got the bash-plates you want for an ejector-seat, but it also has the padded foam you want for an impact element, and if it latches properly and the jaw mechanism is well made enough, you could probably include a hans mechanism attached to the jacket which locks into a socket in the pilot's seat to stop a pilot from breaking their neck in a collision.

What do you guys think?

Any suggestions? What I'm really curious about is what you think pilots would remove, customize or alter for practical or decorative purposes.

This is basically the result of roughly a year of casual research into pilot attire, outfits and looks.

The helm and the hood seem to be where the most manual cosplay stitching and 3D printing work is likely going to be required, with the wrap and helmhood.

Addendum:

I've not gone into waste management systems (UCL/FCL human-factors engineering stuff with internal and external recovery systems), since I'm looking at this mainly as an attainable costume or ensemble.

Edit:

I am learning some of you use aquatic mecha and find this unsatisfactory.

And you won't shut up about how the coolant mass flow rate lets you do really wild shit with your weapons my "land-loving" platform even can't dream of

While I am jealous by your sheer tonnage and the output of your reactors, I've got you covered.

Behold: Immersion suits.

They also make surprisingly good sleeping bags, even if you're on water.

They're literally designed to keep you alive if you're forced to abandon an oil platform, and are known to include a radio and even rations and a water filter.

[bornofsteelblood]

Revelation: König/Kidnapped!reader

“We didn’t know she was yours!” your abductor wailed, belly writhing on the ground. König's eyes flashed with a sickening delight upon hearing those words. Yes, you were his and he was going to end this nightmare for the both of you.

Warnings: Heavy mentions of blood and gore, mentions of gunfire/weapons, mentions of knives, hostage situations, violence, angst, grief, descriptions of death, Reader insert, Protective!Konig. Big man is going through it.

Four months. You had been taken from him four months ago. Your current coordinates unknown to König. Endless nights of turmoil and guilt kept him up. He should have protected you better. He should have known this was a possibility. This was entirely his fault.   

Three weeks. A video of you trembling, beaten and bloodied, had been anonymously sent to König three weeks ago. The Kortac base comm center was decommissioned for over a month due to the havoc wreaked upon it by his blinding rage. Computer screens were smashed into an unrecognizable heap of wires. Chairs and tables were ripped apart as if made of paper. A Glock knife had been stabbed repeatedly through the large monitor that hung on the wall; the same monitor that had showcased your distress.   

Two days. The Colonel only needed two days to devise a plan to rescue you. While König was an expert at hostage negotiation, he had no intention to negotiate your release. For the first time since your disappearance, clarity had washed over him in a cold sweep as he recounted his strategy. The answer was simple and barbaric. He’d enter as the hooded executioner. Death and destruction brought upon your captors to splatter blood through their encampment. He’d hang them by their lower intestines from the rafters to admonish an event like this from happening again.       

One hour. The helicopter was going to touch down in one hour. One hour until you were safe in his embrace. The few operators König had allowed to accompany him shuffled past to stock themselves with as much ammo as possible. He had taken down entire teams of terrorist on his own, he didn't need their help. They weren’t his comrades anymore; they were witnesses. Spectators to a situation that felt like a never-ending nightmare that involved putting you in harm's way. A harrowing fact that depleted his sanity the longer you were gone.    

The parachute deployed swiftly to carry him down to where he believed you were being kept, like a large omen of death sweeping down from the sky. König landed with a heavy thud as he barked orders to the others. “No one leaves alive until I find her.” Nodding their compliance, the operators began a cacophony of gunfire that engulfed the small encampment. König drew his rifle from its holster on his back, his finger itching to pull the trigger. He wanted to be in the middle of the action instead of sniping from hundreds of meters away. Bearing witness to the carnage he was going to inflict on the men who had stolen you.    

Rounding an abandoned truck, König crouched to assess the situation. His eyes flicked between his men and the target; a small hideaway that would go unnoticed by most. Bounding up to the door, König had no trouble forcing his way inside. Blinded by rage and vindication, he mowed down anyone who stood in his way of securing your freedom. High from the violence he could effortlessly commit, his malicious laughter rang out triumphantly as the butt of his gun shattered an unknown masked man's nose. He was hoping that you would recognize it and know that he was here to save you.      

A single figure stood out amongst the sea of corpses, a familiar face. König recognized him to be the man who had dug the sharp blade of his knife across your cheek and forehead from your hostage video. “Wait..p-please! I’ll show you where she’s-” The camo-clad, smaller man begged for his life but was cut off by a vice grip on his throat. A single hand raised his feet from the floor to be at eye level with the terrifying masked man. The Colonel couldn’t help but enjoy the sight of this lesser being struggling for his life, feet kicking frantically against shin guards. His voice dropped to a dangerous growl “Beg for your life like you made her.”      

Loosening his grip, your captor fell to the ground with a sickening snap of bone. “We didn’t know she was yours!” he wailed, belly writhing on the ground. König's eyes flashed with a sickening delight upon hearing those words. Yes, you were his and he was going to end this nightmare for the both of you. Raising the rifle, he fired two rounds into the man's left thigh to prevent him from getting up. “Stell dich deinem Tod, Abschaum.” 

With a heavy kick to the shoulder, König planted his entire weight on the front of his clavicle to pin him to the ground. Your captor howled like a rabid dog and König was going to put him down like one. He aimed between the eyes and fired, a spray of blood showered against his mask. 

Profuse apologies and reassurances loudly tumbled from the Colonels’ lips, hoping you could hear him and would answer back. His shoulder battered against the door that divided the two of you. It was too silent on your end. König swallowed his panic down and swung his leg back to kick squarely above the doorknob. The wood splintered and burst open under the force. “Stay with me, ja? You’ll be alright!” His blood ran cold as he kneeled over you, realizing you weren’t moving.  

Your neck was twisted at a horrid angle and blood that had flowed from your mouth lay dry. Death had found you first. They mutilated your beauty into something unrecognizable. He couldn’t bring you out looking like that, it wasn’t right. It would draw sympathy that König couldn’t handle; their looks of empathy would break him. It would confirm that his worst fear, his endless nightmare, was now a bleak reality.       

Had you spent your last moments in agony at the thought of your lover never rescuing you? König couldn’t breathe. His throat constricted so tightly he hoped the revelation of your death would stop his heart. Did you believe that he wasn’t coming to rescue you? You died thinking you weren’t loved.

König draped his mask softly over your face, a death shroud of his own making. He couldn’t bear to look at the destruction inflicted upon you. You’re body lay limp and cold in his arms while his boots trudged through the crimson-stained dirt. The other operators quickly shifted their eyes downward. It felt intrusive to gaze upon the sulking, lumbering god as he marched past. His eyes were distant and glazed over to match his expressionless face. Your body cradled against his chest. The helicopter ride back home was silent and bleak as König refused to put you down. 

It became a whispered myth among privates, what the face of the dreadful Austrian resembled. No one from that day dared to recall what he looked like and he had outgrown any ridicule he felt towards his body. He could take the shame of a failed mission but not the emptiness it had brought with it.     

After you were laid to rest, König decommissioned his infamous t-shirt mask. He now brought far superior helmets and masks into the field. That particular mask was a relic and the final object that you two had shared. It meant everything to him. He would hold it between his hands and rest his cheek against it to seek comfort during those guilt-ridden nights. Those nights when he swore his ribs were being crushed from the ache in his chest. Those nights filled with guttural sobs that hadn’t wracked his body since he was ostracized in grade school. While the mask was no longer implemented, he used it to gently wipe the sorrow off of his life.

 

Translation: Face your death, scum. - > Stell dich deinem Tod, Abschaum.

[im-totally-not-an-alien-2]

Halloween prompts year 2 day 21

He made this trip every month. More now that his parents portal had been activated. It made travel between dimensions much easier and more discreet.

It was easy to soar above gothams city skyline in one of his adoptive parents jets. They were silent and had cloaking technology that made them invisible to the naked eye and prevents it from showing up on radars and the like.

Unfortunately his biological father had just diverted a rocket launcher that had been aimed at the local library by the newest rogue in the making by diverting it skyward...right where Danny was flying.

The resulting explosion ripped away the jets cloaking abilities, leaving Danny straining the steering stick uselessly as the jet fell towards the Gotham Bay. He reached for the portal gun he kept in the ship for emergencies, intending to abandon ship before it could hit the waters but unbeknownst to him, his mom had installed a new safety protocol and he was ejected from the jet.

In a panic, he covered his face with the domino mask he had accidently stolen on a previous trip. He was a clone of one of the bats! They couldn't see his face! He has personally witnessed what they did to thier clones and he wasn't going to wind up like them!

So as he steers his parachute to a safer location hes forced to make a plan.

He later returns to the wreckage to look for the portal gun only to find it and the entire ship are gone.

----

Tim fiddled with the control panel of the ship, trying to figure it out.

"Anything?" Nightwing asked from elsewhere in the cave

Tim shook his head, baffled, "Nothing. I've never seen anything like this before."

Nightwing landed just outside the ships entrance before waltzing in, "Do you think its alien?"

"Possibly. Whoever made this used a fuel source completely unknown to us. Whatever it was it was likely either destroyed in the explosion of dissipated in the bay."

[bloodstainedsaint]

Hey, I'm not sure if you take requests, but if you do, I have an idea:) Could you write something about a young woman who was in the Air Force disguised as a man and her plane was hit by the Germans while under attack, forcing her to jump out, leaving her stranded with her plane down and easy company witnessed the whole thing and tries to look for the pilot?

maybe with some romance or whatever with my mans lieb or doc roe if that’s possible hihi

when worlds collide (joseph liebgott x air force! reader)

word count: 1000+

warnings: blood & injury, but nothing really graphic

notes: sorry for the wait on this one 😭 i've been busy BUT i promise to be posting more during my break

You didn't remember much after your plane was hit by German flak while passing over some Dutch forest you couldn't recall the name of. What you could remember was everything rapidly blinking and on fire around you, dials going this way and that, your hands flying around the control board and trying desperately to pull up with the yoke as you cursed violently beneath your breath.

Following your fruitless struggle against gravity, you remembered preparing to parachute out of your plane and into the woods beneath you.

You were pretty sure you blacked out for a while after that.

-

The sight of a fighter plane nosediving into the ground and its booming resulting crash interrupted an otherwise uneventful five-man patrol through the woods.

“Jesus Christ! Did you see that?” Babe exclaimed, gawking up at where the plane had been in the sky mere seconds ago.

“Looks like it landed near us,” Pat observed.

Don looked wide-eyed. “It was one of ours. The pilot might need our help if he ejected in time!”

Lip shushed them. “There's AA guns nearby. Someone ought to go back and tell Battalion they’re positioned somewhere to our left near that dike we passed. Christenson, you go.”

As Pat nodded and left the way they came, Lip said, “We can't take too long looking for a pilot we don't know is alive or not." He checked his watch and sighed. "Alright, meet back here at 1700. Stay alert. Don't go too far on your own.”

The squad spread out in search of the hopefully-alive pilot. Joe walked with his rifle at the ready for about 20 minutes before stumbling upon large chunks of debris from the plane. Not far from that was a severed parachute, and then a blood trail.

He followed it until he noticed a pilot sitting on the ground next to some brush with his back turned to him, his clothes torn up enough to where large parts of skin littered with cuts were visible. Joe slowly approached, mindful not to scare him and wind up with a bullet in his head.

“Hey,” he called out. “Hey, buddy.”

The pilot turned around, and Joe noticed that “he” was not a he at all.

Your hand shot to the pistol on your belt, leveling it at him while vainly covering up your top half. You’d been trying to treat your wounds with the first-aid kit strapped to your waist; you'd gotten several steadily bleeding scratches from falling through trees and one or two broken ribs from your hasty landing. You ended up taking off your corset to relieve pressure on your ribcage, leaving you with your ripped up uniform and coveralls.

Regardless of your relief that an American soldier had found you rather than a German one, you kept your hand fixed on your sidearm.

“Woah, lady, put down the gun. I'm not a Kraut.” Lowering his own gun, his narrowed eyes flashed to your chest and widened at the sight of the reddish purple bruises that blemished it. "Goddamn..."

“It’s not what it looks like,” you managed out, though talking (or breathing, for that matter) was difficult.

“I don’t care what it looks like,” he said, the edge to his tone softening as he carefully walked toward you. “You need help.”

You painfully exhaled and set the gun down next to you. You turned around again to focus on treating your injuries, wincing with the movement. “I'm fine.”

“You don't look it.” He crouched down next to you. You flinched away slightly — you'd been disguised as a man for a while now, and this was the first time anyone was seeing you so vulnerable since your enlistment — before letting him inspect your wounds, albeit with you concealing your chest with your arms and what remained of your jacket.

“What’s your name?” he asked, gingerly applying sulfa powder to the gashes on your body.

You slightly hissed at the stinging sensation. “(Y/N), Senior Airman, 4th Fighter Group.”

“Joseph D. Liebgott, Technician 5th Grade, 101st Airborne.”

There was a temporary silence, punctuated only by you sucking in air through your teeth. As he bandaged one of the cuts, he said, “We need to get you some help. I was out here on patrol with my squad; we have a medic back at—”

“What?” You looked at him with a bewildered expression. “No, I don't need any medic. I just need help informing my superiors I got lost going through dense fog and got shot down here.”

“Why not? ‘Cause he'll see you're a girl?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Why else? If you haven't noticed, there aren't very many women serving on the front lines.” You paused and took a deep breath in through your nose. “If you bring your squad over here, someone's gonna report me and get me kicked out of the Air Force…Hell, I don't even know if I trust you to not report me. I just met you, for Chrissakes.”

In truth, you didn’t even know why you were letting him tend to you anyways — you were capable of doing it yourself, your biggest secret was currently exposed, and he was a stranger. But there was something about his change in demeanor and a sudden tenderness in his voice once he saw your injuries that made you want to trust him.

“Your secret’s safe, (Y/N),” he said firmly, a set expression on his face. “I got no reason to rat you out; I just met you too.”

You scanned his face for any signs of deceit, sighed when you found none, and nodded. “I’m still not letting your medic take a look at me.”

“Fine, but that’s not gonna stop me from helping you. I’ll be quick; the guys are gonna be expecting me back soon. We’ll go talk to them together.”

He resumed his aid, and after a few minutes, you could tell that he had started getting curious; he didn't seem like a man who knew how to shut up.

“How’d you disguise yourself as a man this long?”

With a shaky inhale, you closed your eyes as his hands brushed over your rib cage. Involuntarily, a small smile made its way onto your face as the countless predicaments you’d found yourself in flooded your memory. “It’s a long story.”

Liebgott cracked a crooked smile. “I can make some time.”

Laughing despite the pain that flared in your rib cage from the action, you couldn't help but feel that this chanced occasion wouldn't be the last time you would speak to Liebgott. And for some reason foreign to you at that moment, you hoped that your intuition was correct.

-

taglist: @mads-weasley, @ronsparky, @dcyllom, @malarkgirlypop, @joetoyesbrassknuckles101

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac #9 : Befriending the feral lil guy

Macaque finally recognized that Wukong is kinda his friend! Wukong's efforts paid off, 😌

The flowers were beginning to bloom through the frost of winter and the first hint of warmth crawled beneath the thick grayish sky of the cold season. Spring was on its way, and thus Macaque's hibernation (if you could call it like that) was coming to an end. The black-furred monkey fastened the bags around his body and stepped outside of the stone mansion, he breathed in the soft sweet-scented air of the water-curtain cave and began to wander. First, he climbed the nearby peach-tree growing beside the mansion and perched himself in the highest branch. He liked to see the cave from one of the highest points; it enabled him to see which trees were bearing fruits and where the flowers were blooming. Macaque didn't need much fruit, contrary to many other seasons spent on his own, now the black-furred monkey had a friend (of some sorts) bringing him food on a daily basis. Even if some parts of him were still suspicious of the golden monkey intentions, he had to admit that the sage had paved a way inside of his heart as a friend. Macaque never had friends before, he didn't know how to act around one. He indulged the King at times, conversing with him, but he still felt awkward most of the time. 

The black-furred monkey ripped one of the nearby leaves and jumped out of his branch, he used the leaf as his personal parachute and, quite elegantly, landed in the corner he was eyeing seconds ago. He took some flower petals, specifically the one he used to create his sleeping powder and stored them in his bag. He was so focused on his endeavor he failed to notice the fuzzy fur-ball watching him, hidden in the high grass. 

“Ghost!” Macaque flinched and turned around, he crossed eyes with a familiar cub, Yue if he recalled correctly. She was looking at him with stars in her eyes, her tail wagging uncontrollably. 

“How did you…” Macaque was surprised, he didn't see anyone in this corner. Yue chirped, the kind that didn't truly mean anything but held a strong sense of happiness and excitement. Surprisingly enough, she didn't touch him, perhaps Sun Wukong told her not to. If there was one person those troublesome fur-balls listened to it was their King. “Calm down, calm down.” Panicked the macaque. Yue stopped chirping and looked at him intently. “Alright, what do you want?” 

“She wants to play.” Macaque startled and looked up. Sun Wukong was leaning over them with a smirk on the edge of his smile. “I came over when I heard lil Yue's chirps.” Explained the sage when he caught sight of Macaque's confused face. “So, do you wanna play with her?” Carefully asked the sage, he crouched down before them and scratched lil Yue's chin, the cub leaned in his touch eagerly. Macaque opened his mouth, ready to refuse, he didn't like cubs, they were loud. But he finds himself unable to once he saw Wukong's hopeful face and lil Yue's puppy dog eyes. 

“Maybe a little, but not for long, I have other things to do.” Sun Wukong brightened considerably, he translated Macaque's words to lil Yue and she exploded in joyful chirps. “So… what should I do?” Macaque has never been around other monkeys much, at least not in an intimate way. He knew their tongues, there were few languages he hadn't heard of, but he wasn't familiar with their customs and their behaviors. Sun Wukong kindly took lil Yue on his lap and calmed her with a few scratches. 

“Hm, I think she just wants to touch you for a bit, if that's alright. Also, something about shadows?” Macaque was impressed by Sun Wukong's ability to understand lil Yue's chewed chirps, the only one he recognized was “Ghost”. Sun Wukong took lil Yue's paws and tried to entice the black-furred monkey with little waves. Macaque rolled his eyes but he approached cautiously. He sat before the cub and put one of his hands in her chubby paws, she squealed in joy and kindly squeezed it. He let her mess with his hands a bit before retrieving them and manipulating the nearby shadows. He created little animals made of darkness and made them play with each other. When he looked up both lil Yue and Sun Wukong were intently watching, pupils dilated and tails wagging. 

“Why are you both looking like that?” Asked Macaque with a raised eyebrow. 

“Nothing, just… I didn't know you could do that. It's amazing!” Cheered the King as lil Yue clapped with stars filled eyes. 

“It's nothing.” Mumbled the black-furred monkey with flushed cheeks. 

“What, no ! It's so cool, I have never seen this before.” Argued the sage. “Lil Yue agrees with me.” Added Sun Wukong as he petted the excited cub. Macaque looked away, ears flickering in joy. He didn't showed this type of shadow magic often. When he tried to showed it, at the time he lived outside of Flower Fruit Mountain, people cowered. After all, shadow magic was often feared for its mysterious nature. So it was odd to be praised, to see his art (if he could call it like that) being liked.

“W-well, I could show you more… I have a few other tricks…” Shyly proposed the black-furred monkey. 

“Really!? Please do!” Cheered the King, he settled the cub more comfortably in his lap and eagerly leaned over the macaque. 

Macaque took a deep breath and gathered the nearby shadows. When he looked up and found both monkeys watching with smiles on their lips, he felt happy. 

+cut scenes 

Yue *chirps excitedly about Macaque* : 😆

SWK : I know you wanna see him again but Macaque is a cautious one. 😔

Yue *chirps sadly* : 🥺

SWK *Who cannot handle sad baby faces* : Okay, okay, try to not startle if you see him. Don't touch him. Maybe then he'll be…more inclined to be friends. 

Yue : 😊

Yue *bragging about being able to see Macaque's magic* : 😆

Others cubs : 😯

Macaque : why do I feel like I'm being watched? 🤔

Others cubs *hiding and following him around*: 🫣

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 21, MAG 21 Freefall

Tom Petty plays in the background as a man falls to his death

Is this too niche a joke? Not possible. MAG 21 analysis, spoilers ahead!

Facts: Statement of Moira Kelley, regarding the disappearance of her son Robert. Statement given October 20th, 2002.

Statement Notes: I have some friends with thrill seeking hobbies and I've really just been waiting for this to happen to one of them. RIP Robert Kelley but my bros are NOT built different and the sky will eat them.

The intensity of Robert's fear in this episode was so deep and profound. The way that he fell for so long that he actually wanted to hit the ground. The fact that he didn't open his parachute on time because he was so desperate to reach the ground faster. You were really able to experience and understand his emotions.

"The sky ate him" is usually the line that gets a lot of press in this episode, and for good reason. But the line that's always stuck with me is "Enjoy sky blue." It's only three words, but it says so much. The word "Enjoy" highlights the normalcy of life in the Magnus Archives universe. Rober is doing what he loves, he should be happy, he should enjoy the jump. But he won't. Fairchild won't let him. The horrors won't let him. The narrative won't let him.

But the second half of that sentence--"sky blue"--adds a whole other element. Syntactically speaking, Simon Fairchild presents it as a noun. It could be an activity or experience to Fairchild, like skydiving. It's something he does often, experiencing the thrill and horror of the fall by "sky bluing." It could be fun for him. Maybe if Robert had enjoyed the fall, Fairchild would have recruited him as an entity. It's not capitalized in the transcript, but because it is being spoken by Moira Kelley who lacks context, it's possible it is a proper noun. Could it be a place? An area the Fairchilds blip in out of and send hapless victims to, the same way the Lukases send people to the Lonely? Or is it a name? A living entity that got a taste of Robert on his first dive and decided to finish its meal on the hill?

The wind sfx in this episode is so great. I've been suspending my disbelief with the sound effects in the early episodes because I assumed they were mainly just to build ambiance for the listener, but they do have interesting implications for future episodes. If, in recording early statements, Jon begins experiencing/developing his Eye powers, then these effects (the wind in this ep, the heart beating with Julia Montauk, etc.) could be him "hearing" what the victims felt and experienced. He is looking through their eyes as he reads the statement.

Entity Alignment: Tom Petty continues playing quietly in the background

Really great Vast episode. I've never been particularly scared of heights, so I don't often find the vast episodes "scary," but I do find this one to be particularly unsettling and thrilling. The sky being presented as semi-sentient, with the ability to not only steal but eat a man makes the idea of falling through all the more terrifying.

When Moira Kelley began the statement, she explains that she "doesn't have the words" and doesn't know what to write. But of course, she explains everything in perfect detail anyway. By virtue of being in the Institute, she is compelled to tell her story. The Eye is urging her to relive the horror that she sold her home to escape. She says that "knowing won't bring him back," but the Institute doesn't care. It just wants more knowledge and fear to consume.

Character Notes: In MAG 111, Gerry explains that families are often just tools for avatars to ensure transfers of power and increase their own power. This vaguely seems to be what Fairchild is doing with Harriet, although less so. But I also wonder if the same can be said of the businesses that avatars and entities involve themselves in. According to Jon, Open Skydiving isn't a "real" company with any records, but it clearly has been operating for many years and people utilize its services. Similar circumstances seem to be true for the Magnus Institute, as well as Peter Lukas' real estate and shipping companies. They provide moderate services merely to provide funds and resources to avatars, while also functioning as mediums through which they can create more fear.

(Something something a company treating you like family means they want to use your success to increase their own status something something)

Slightly less relevant, but Robert says the jump was a charity event for Simon's deceased wife. I would love not only to know more about who Fairchild's wife was and how she died, but also what charity he could possibly be leaving any money to. "Defective parachutes for youth" "Old men against OSHA" "Wheelchair kitesurfing fund."

Slightly more relevant, but Martin!! He's back! Oh no!

The most important thing about Jon's reaction to Martin bursting in is when he shouts "What are these things?" Not only has he never seen the worms before, but he has no idea what they are. Even after reading Timothy Hodge's statement, he can't connect the worms he sees to Jane Prentiss. This is totally reasonable for any regular person, as he likely never expected to see the worms in person nor would expect Martin to burst in covered in them, but Jon isn't a regular person. At times, Elias has allowed Jon to make leaps in logic that lead him to the actual truth as a means of hiding his Eye powers. Elias wants Jon to know things he shouldn't, but only on his schedule. Jon needs to explore Prentiss more deeply so he will be marked for the ritual, so he's rationing information.

[toasterdrake]

aaaaa ok i really hope im not bothering you bc i'm requesting two times in a row, but can i have another yelena oneshot with some hurt/comfort? maybe r gets a life-threatening injury and yel mother-hens r back to health? if that's too specific you can do whatever you want for the 'hurt' part of hurt/comfort

my friend, the day has finally arrived. this beast has sat in my drafts for many many months -- years, even, i think? -- and i have finally accepted i'm never going to finish it. i went suuuper off-script so i've condensed it into just this block before things go haywire. other than that, this is entirely unedited as i last left it, notes and gaps and all. i hope the rest of it (of which there is too much) never again sees the light of day.

if i can even say this any more, enjoy. with this, my time in the mcu fandom truly comes to an end.

Angel

Yelena Belova x Avenger!reader

word count: 4K

Engine malfunction, systems failure, hull compromised, oxygen leakage, proximity alert, eject failure -- every alarm blared impossibly loud in the tiny cockpit, barely audible over the rushing vacuum of wind. 

A stream of creative curses spilled from your mouth as your fingers flew across the sparking dashboard, trying desperately to make something, anything work as your jet's descent steepened, plummeting through low-lying clouds.

Coming up with no other option than to try to limp to a nearby island, you yanked the control stick as hard as you could, bracing your legs as you strained with all your might to pull the plane out of its nosedive. 

You fought gravity itself: your arms feeling as if they were about to be ripped from their sockets. You were trying to lift tonnes of metal with one human's strength alone.

You let out a patriotic scream, blood pumping gloriously. Your cry to the heavens was drowned in the violent wind, the strain of the wings in the wrenching of your shoulders.

Alas, the jet wobbled and shook, breathing black smoke.

The cockpit was beginning to feel like a furnace due to the engine fire below. You were burning up in your heavy aviator's gear despite the cracked canopy's icy flood of air. Your breath came in short pants, crackling in your mask, and the broken radio screamed in your ears.

Land -- no, you'd failed, water -- rushed up to meet you. From the cockpit's window, the lake was a giant gaping blue maw opening wider to swallow you whole. And it would; given the chance, the slightest wavering of will.

Not one to simply accept fate, you struggled out of your buckles and into an emergency parachute, fingers shaking as they worked frantically in your small window of time.

The parachute cord caught on a displaced hunk of metal just as you ripped off your helmet. Masses of white fabric filled your vision. 

Senses clouded, the great boom of impact told you you'd hit water. It rebounded like astral ascension through your bones.

With the whiplash, you jerked forward, slamming into the centre console hard enough to elicit an intense ache in your chest. Your head connected with the dashboard. 

You pulled yourself upright, star-crossed for a moment, darkness clawing at the edges of your vision.

A sharp pain blossomed at your hairline; a thousand needles drove into your skull and twisted. You groaned as the dizziness sent you reeling a second later.

Something hot and wet and dark dripped down your forehead. You wiped it from your stinging eyes. You didn't have time for this. Through dancing stars, the jet was sinking rapidly into unfathomable depths; dragging you down with it never to be seen again.

Shaking off the disorientation, you scooped up your helmet from the floor and began attacking the glass canopy. Your movements were hindered by the limp parachute crowding what little space you had, but still the crack grew. 

Water spilled in faster, faster, sloshing around your shoulders. Finally, the entire pane collapsed into shards. You inhaled the deepest breath of air you could muster milliseconds before--

A great puff of depressurising air thrust you bodily out of the cockpit, as water flooded the jet entirely, wholly conjoining it to the lake. 

You tried to yank your rucksack free of where it was wedged, but it was stubborn and you didn't have seconds to spare. You abandoned it in favour of surging upwards.

You kicked your legs wildly, reaching above your head for filtered sunlight in a desperate bid for fresh air. The pressure in your lungs mounted and mounted.

Your heavy clothes and tired limbs weighed you down. You couldn't struggle out of the woolen aviator jacket; couldn't spare the few moments to let it drag you deeper in freefall.

Still, it was as if you had never left the jet. 

The light above didn't seem to be any closer, your progress like revving with the handbrake on. Your desperate kicks and thrusts weakened, bubbles streaming from your nose, dancing to the sky like ash as time trickled out.

It was dark. So dark. Cold. Lonely. You were thrashing. Water was filling your lungs. You were drowning. You were about to be lost to nature's most powerful force, and no one would know.

A muffled splash above echoed through the dark expanse of water. 

An angel from the surface had come to save you. 

Her form was silhouetted by dancing sunlight wings. Golden ringlets of hair splayed around her head in a halo. She swam down to you, powerful limbs propelling her down in an illusion of ease; a true display of power. 

The strength of her arms was reassuring.



Coughing and spluttering, you jolted upright. Water gushed from your mouth, spilling down your already soaked chest as you sat up. You found curious chartreuse eyes. Somehow, instinctively, you knew they belonged to the angel who saved you.

"Where are your wings?"

"What?" Her accent was dark velvet: authentic slavic, you recognised vaguely. It sent shivers down your spine as much as the chill of the water.

"Cause," A wet cough, "Cause you're an angel -- oh shit that's blood." 

"You have internal bleeding, probably," She said, smoothing back darkened blonde hair, peeling it from her shirt by the disturbance. She was just as soaked as you, as was the patch of grass you occupied.

Frothy, bright red spots of blood littered your hand. A sharp pain in your abdomen made itself present. Dizziness washed over you, but you pushed through to pull up your slick shirt and reveal a deep red discolouration on your chest. 

For some inexplicable reason, you poked it, and winced when a wave of pain crashed through the area. You blushed upon noticing her scrutinising gaze, clearing your throat. Your ribs ached in complaint.

You gratefully took the hand she offered, letting her display that strength again as she hauled you from the ground. She led you from the shore up to a cabin, which dominated what appeared to be an island.

"What's your name?" You asked.

A quiet moment of debate. "Yelena. You?"

You owed each other that much. "[Y/N]."

She hummed in recognition.

"Lie down. It'll help your blood flow more naturally," She said, tone not unkind.

You obeyed, then swallowed awkwardly around the dryness in your throat, piping up, "Could I have a drink of water?"

"Not until you've been treated," Yelena said, words accompanied by a privately playful smirk, to which you pouted. 

You drummed your fingers against your leg, looking around at what of the room you could see, as Yelena became otherwise occupied attending to her dog.

A goatskin rug had been draped over the back of a rocking chair in the corner, almost like hotel decoration. A blazer hung from a peg next to the door. A perfectly pruned arrangement of flowers sprouted from a ceramic vase shaped like a stylised duck, something that looked glittery lacing shards together. A misshapen candle's flame flickered cheerily on the windowsill.

Contrast of lived in and new. Yelena trying to make a home and not knowing how.

Yelena reentered, throwing a set of fresh, baggy clothes at you.

"So, you live here?" You said conversationally, looking out a window at the pine forest outside as you changed painstakingly slowly around his injury.

You could just make out a distant shore beyond the mist-obscured treeline, the grey lake lapping at a dark gravel beach.

Yelena stiffened. You watched out of the corner of your eye as she chewed her lip, face turned away from you. "No," She said, wary. "I'm only here to look after the island for my parents."

You nodded, even though she couldn't see you, and returned to gazing outside. Maybe her parents are in hospital or something? Whatever the depth of her reason, it sounded personal. And complex. You shouldn't pry.

And you shouldn't take advantage of an innocent woman's hospitality, your conscience scolded. No choice, you rebutted.

Just then, someone knocked at the front door. Yelena shot you a look that carried a strange cocktail of warning, concern, and apprehension, before disappearing to attend to the visitor.

You weren't left alone for long. Yelena re-entered the room, biting her lip before glancing away and standing awkwardly in a corner. She was followed by a man slightly taller than her, whom you assumed was the doctor by his discoloured beige clinical coat and briefcase.

The doctor himself could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty. He introduced himself as Dr. Graham in his warbly, squeaky voice. His face was mottled by acne scars, his chin weak and bare as if it had never borne a single hair. His babyish eyes popped out of their sockets, making him look like an eternally frightened rabbit. His hairline had already climbed up his forehead, leaving only wispy fawn tuft behind his ears.

Puberty must've hit him like a plastic toy car, you mused.

Dr. Graham did his necessary medical things quickly enough, diagnosing you miraculously concussion-free. You provided an easy lie about falling down the stairs when moving boxes, which the doctor accepted with a degree of coldness and Yelena listened to with something like caution in her eyes.

"You need four weeks of bedrest," Dr. Graham sternly gave his departing orders, crossing his arms over his chest in tepid persistence.

"But--"

"No buts."

"But--" Yelena tried.

"No. Buts. Good day to you." He stressed, glaring at each of you -- the effect somewhat disheartened by his buggish eyes -- before striding out the door.

"We'll see if your hairline lasts four weeks," You grumbled darkly. Yelena snickered at that, which drew your attention to her. 

"So."

"So," Yelena prompted when you trailed off, looking at you quizzically.

"So, is it okay for me to stay with you that long? I can't exactly go anywhere else; the jet had all my money and cards in it." The bandages wrapped around your chest flexed uncomfortably with stretching muscle.

Well, Tony's cards.

"Sure, why not. I don't plan on going anywhere for a while," There it was again; that cautious reservedness showing itself to maintain the simmering distance between you. "I will need to pick up some groceries from town though. Will you be alright here with Fanny?" Yelena said, moving to the doorway again.

"We're on one of the Thousand Islands, right? How does an entire town fit? I mean I can understand a doctor, but--"

Yelena rolled her eyes. "The town is on the mainland. I'll be taking my boat, Paučók." She said, a hint of motherly pride slipping through at that. "Also, the doctor used his own boat. We're alone on this island."

"Oh," Heat rose to your cheeks.

She rolled her eyes again and strode away. An unmistakable bulge in her pocket caught your eye. Your mood darkened. Maybe her parents aren't in hospital after all.

With that fun revelation, you decided to do some harmless snooping once Yelena was out of sight. The front door clicked shut, the lock twisting with anxious finality.

Pulling yourself off the chair, you leaned against the wall, riding out an immobilising wave of pain for a few long moments, your eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted. A little internal bleeding wouldn't stop you!

Fanny fretted at your heels, seemingly unperturbed by your being a stranger. You petted her reassuringly, and she scampered off down the hallway, leaving you to trail behind her at a snail's pace.

Y comes back, confesses past nervously, R guilty, reveals snooping, Y angry, trust lost, R works to apologise and reopens wound



A week later, Dr. Graham called requesting you go to the clinic for a check-up. You took the call since Yelena was in the boat shelter doing maintenance on Paučók. Because you had started a streak of regaining trust, you decided you would obey the doctor. Just this once. 

You didn't like pissing people off, contrary to popular belief -- it was messy to fix and sent you completely out of your depth -- even if it was endlessly amusing to annoy the doctor. Besides, Yelena would give you an earful if you hurt yourself again.

Heading out to find the aforementioned Russian and inform her, you took a plated stack of the pancakes you'd made, just in case she hadn't eaten yet. She'd been up and gone by the time you got moving, just dumping a used coffee cup in the sink as you appeared in the kitchen.

Walking through the bracing early morning mist, you got the sensation it wasn't going to shift for the rest of the day. The icy vapour stung your cheeks and whipped you into full vigilance: a hard slap from Mother Nature. You pulled your aviator's jacket tighter over your shoulders.

Stepping into the boat shelter, you went unnoticed by Yelena. This was strange, considering that in the time you'd known each other she'd always seemed to have a sixth sense for detecting your presence before you'd even walked through the door.

The cause of her distraction was soon revealed, as the whirring of machinery permeated the workshop.

Oh shit. Okay. She's ripped. Damn. Okay. Cool. Okay. Okay. Take a deep breath. One, two, three, release. Okay. Now use your words.

"I-I brought you, um, cakespan -- no, uhm -- pancakes!"

...What?!

You cringed.

(Gae muscle panic)

The doctor's clinic was, for whatever reason, not located on the mainland. Instead, it inhabited one of the larger islands alongside a few other residences -- enough to form a hamlet -- that sat just a few hundred metres into the lake, near the main feeding river's mouth. The clinic itself was a converted gothic mansion, all arching stone masonry and high, gilded ceilings that made rooms echo eerily.

The place wasn't busy; you were seen after just a few minutes, the only other patient being a pregnant woman accompanied by her wife. Yelena trailed after you into the examination room, stuck on the boundary of limiting your association and keeping you in her sights at all times.

You exchanged an apprehensive look upon noticing an unfamiliar boat moored to the island's jetty.

Yelena pulled in quietly, killing the engine and letting Paučók drift into place on the current. You both stepped out onto the platform, gaze locked on the stagnant house through sentinel trees. Its dark windows gazed back steadily with quiet amusement. 

Yelena bent to secure Paučók's ropes. She reached into her pocket and handed you a loaded semi-automatic handgun, as well as drawing a revolver for herself.

You handled the handgun with familiarity. "God, how many guns do you have on you?"

"Enough to be prepared."

Together, you crept up the beaten dirt track to the house, guns poised to react. The building waited for you patiently.

A bird swooped low over your heads, flapping hurriedly to ascend. You and Yelena startled at the abrupt action. The desperation in its wake left a strange, almost oppressive tension heavy in the crowding mist. 

In the next moment, it was dispelled like a river bursting as Fanny came sprinting after the bird through the trees, barking freely. She skidded to a halt at Yelena's feet, who quickly bent to attend to her dog. She slipped Fanny a treat and ruffled her thick coat, speaking to her as if she could answer.

"What happened, Fan? What are you doing out of the house, huh?" Yelena cooed. Fanny panted happily in response.

"Fanny!" A new voice called jovially through the opaque mist. 

A second later, a hazy humanoid solidified into an approaching silhouette striding toward them. With every muted step, their features sharpened to reveal fiery red hair draped over slim shoulders, a vest secure over a dark bodysuit, green eyes eclipsed by the dreary surroundings.

"Fanny," Natasha said again, scolding this time with a playful lilt, coming to a stop in front of the three.

"Natasha," Yelena answered, wide-eyed. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Yeah, Nat," You piped up. "What are you doing here?"

Natasha looked at him, surprise evident in her expression. "[Y/N]? What are you doing here?"

"Okay, we're getting nowhere with this. Let's go inside." Yelena said, leading the way up to the house. Fanny ran ahead eagerly, twirling in impatient circles as everyone traipsed behind her.

Once inside, the frigid mist shut out behind a heavy wooden door, you immediately moved to the fire. You rolled up the sleeves of his jacket to expose your forearms, but didn't shrug it off, still feeling the chill in your bones. You stirred up the glowing embers; feeding them another log and coaxing a true, strong flame out of it.

Meanwhile, Yelena hung up her overshirt on a peg and stepped into the adjoining kitchen, shuffling through cupboards. The kettle's whistle crescendoed cheerily a few moments later. 

Natasha kicked off her boots at the door, falling into an armchair with a grateful sigh. She produced a dog toy from a pocket when Fanny jumped onto her lap, teasing the Shepherd with it but neither wanting to move too far.

Accepting the mug of coffee from Yelena when she padded back into the living room, you took the other armchair, leaving her to claim the plush loveseat. Fanny jumped off Natasha's lap as she received her beverage, instead lying down on a rug in front of the resplendently roaring fire.

You inhaled the steam, the soft fragrance providing gentle caresses of nostalgia. You blew on the hot liquid until it was cool enough to sip safely, smiling at the taste. 

Yelena and Natasha sipped quietly from their own mugs -- labelled 'blood of my enemies' and 'keep it up and you will be a strange smell in the attic' respectively -- while staring introspectively into the fire. Well, Natasha was. Yelena was admiring Fanny. As she rightfully should.

"So, Natasha," The blonde finally said, facing the other woman with a somewhat annoyed expression, "What has brought you here?" 

Drizzling rain began to fall outside. Fresh symphonies of pine wafted in through a cracked open window, condensation forming in the corners of its rustic frame.

Natasha tore her gaze from the fire to meet her sister's over the rim of her mug. "Mason called me to say you'd requested extra time. He wanted me to make sure you hadn't gotten yourself into trouble."

Yelena nodded absently. Her hazel eyes were glazed over; distant in thought. You looked between the sisters, utterly lost. 

"Mason? Is he your landlord? Are you leaving soon?"

The log crackled and popped, jolting hard enough to cause everyone in the room to startle. Yelena stared into her mug guiltily.

"No. He's… this a safehouse. I'm waiting for some media controversy to blow over." She confessed to the hot chocolate.

"Controversy surrounding the death of an important army benefactor?" You asked.

She looked up at you, clearly surprised and a little wary, but nodded. You sank a little deeper into the armchair, trying to make yourself smaller. Yelena looked to Natasha for an explanation. The avenger smirked.

"[Y/N] here had to leave the states pretty urgently after being framed for that benefactor's murder," She supplied, clearly enjoying every moment of what was to come.

Yelena gaped for a few moments, mouth opening and closing soundlessly, before she finally managed coherency. "Shit, I'm so sorry! I promise I wasn't the one to point any blame at you."

You waved her off, red-faced. "It's fine. We know who it was. Unfortunately, no official will even consider it, and demand I be put behind bars."

"Tony's working on the legal stuff," Natasha reassured you, before returning her attention to her drink. 

"Tony? As in Tony Stark of Stark Industries? Iron Man? You know him?" Yelena gushed, eyes shining.

"WellI'mkindofanavenger," You mumbled sheepishly. Natasha snorted in amusement.

"[Y/N] is one of the cool kids I run around with," She said in answer to Yelena's confused frown.

The Russian was struck speechless. Fanny sighed and shifted, briefly drawing her attention from blank staring, which gave you a breather to compose yourself.

"Yes. I'm an Avenger," you said; steady and strong. You were proud of your occupation. You'd saved lives -- the entire planet! -- countless times, and you'd do it again in a heartbeat. Yelena had every right to understand that.

"So," Natasha said, finishing her drink in one gulp and standing, "I'll be calling Mason to tell him everything's fine, and the other safehouse in Yukon is free since you're both staying here. That right?"



Natasha ended up staying with you. 

In a quiet conversation by the patio firepit after Nat had gone to bed, you and Yelena both agreed that the avenger needed this more than she cared to admit. 

The next morning, Yelena invited her sister to stay with you for the whole run of your supposed bedrest, to which she reluctantly agreed. 

(Honestly, your insistence swayed her more than her own volition. She couldn't resist three sets of puppy eyes.)

It was hard for Natasha to let go of work.

The boys and Wanda were a mess without her, and she received numerous disgruntled or chaotic calls throughout the day. She talked herself into flying back to the states multiple times, but you wouldn't let her. 

Yelena tried telling the team to back off -- to just let her relax -- but they failed to learn how to function without Natasha. 

Eventually, Pepper intervened and the calls stopped. 

Before this, you had put Nat's phone on silent and hidden it while she was showering. Yelena returned with clothing flown over from the compound (she'd been lending hers to her sister until now since Nat didn't bring any) to find you taped to a wall and Natasha in a frenzy.

That day, her paranoia swiftly devolved into a panic attack, which turned into a full breakdown. 

It was heartbreaking to watch your friend fall apart. Yelena helped her through it, and after a therapeutic cry Nat was more willing to ignore the others. The team knew the emergency code. She was finally ready to accept a break.

Released from the tape by a sheepish Natasha, you gave her a loving hug to melt into, then texted Pepper.

Nat was much happier after that. Her soul sang free like the spring songbirds for the first time. Even during the three years in Ohio, the shadow of the Red Room had bound her wings, and the recent ordeal of taking down Dreykov, of Antonia -- coming face-to-face with her greatest nightmare -- had been emotionally intense. To say the least.

Finally getting a true break allowed the reality of those horrors to be released. A huge weight took flight from her shoulders. 

Of course, healing takes time, and is not a linear journey. You and Yelena were there for Natasha every day.

Yelena's mood improved with her sister's, and soon the two were acting as if they'd never been trained assassins separated for twenty years. They were just a normal family. Happy, content.

Mealtimes were filled with cheerful banter and laughter, the result of weaving around bodies crammed into the kitchen and steam clouding cracked open windows.

Mornings were spent lazing in bed, followed by sunbathing on the porch with a coffee. Nights were either filled with alcohol and stumbling to bed; or books, cozy blankets and a roaring fireplace. The rest of their day was occupied with chores, exploring the island, and swimming in the lake. Natasha mostly played with Fanny around the island. She was almost more infatuated with the dog than Yelena, if that was even possible.

At some point, you ended up gravitating into Yelena's bed.

[justforbooks]

This is a book for readers of second world war history who like the Boy’s Own version of the conflict. The cast of characters could have stepped straight from a comic strip story. Yet the men of the SAS were real flesh and blood, “rogue heroes” as the title suggests. The organisation now famous for its derring-do, and as famously secretive, has opened its archive to the historian and journalist Ben Macintyre, so that he can produce the first authorised history of what the SAS did in the war.

Macintyre has made the most of the opportunity. The history needs scarcely any embellishment, though he tells it with flair: the simple facts of SAS activity make the “ripping yarns” of comic book heroes pale by comparison. The organisation was the brainchild of two officers posted to the war in Egypt, David Stirling and John “Jock” Lewes. Stirling was an awkward soldier, hostile to spit-and-polish and authority, charming, fun-loving and irreverent (“layer upon layer of fossilised shit” was how he described military bureaucracy). Bored by life in Cairo, he discussed with the ascetic, hard-working, serious-minded Lewes, his complete opposite in personality, the possibility of creating a unit of awkward men like himself, who wanted action, few rules and adventure in small hit-and-run assaults behind enemy lines. Astonishingly, Stirling persuaded the high command in Cairo that he could achieve something significant at low cost in men and materials. The chief of British deception in the desert war, Dudley Clarke, gave the unit its name. Already fooling the Italians with a bogus parachute unit, the First Special Air Service Brigade, he lent the name to Stirling, and the organisation has borne it ever since.

Macintyre uses the SAS war diary as the backbone of his narrative, and is candid about failure as well as the hard-earned successes. The SAS was an irregular unit, its members drawn from an extraordinary range of backgrounds – a spectacles salesman, a textile merchant, a tomato farmer, amateur boxer, and so on – with a range of motives to match. Some wanted excitement, some liked killing and made no pretence about it, some were escaping from their past, some were too eccentric for the ranks; all had to be fit, alert, crafty, ruthless if required and dedicated to the mission. Stirling was also aware that his outfit did not meet with approval in conventional military circles, which saw war as face-to-face, not behind the back. Churchill liked the force, and would no doubt have joined it had it existed in his youth. But through the campaign in North Africa, then Italy and Germany, the SAS had always to prove itself, in order to stave off disbandment.

The new unit nevertheless made a disastrous start and indeed had mixed fortunes throughout the war. The first operation, code-named “Squatter”, carried out while the handful of volunteers were still feeling their way, could not have gone more wrong. Poorly trained as paratroopers, the group nevertheless flew off into a desert storm trying to land at pre-planned dropping zones well to the rear of the enemy. They landed in the worst places, faced a Saharan downpour of biblical proportions, lost some of the troop to injury as they hit the ground, and were then unable to retrieve the parachuted supplies. With explosives so soaked they were worthless, uncertain about their whereabouts, short of food and water, the remnants of the original units made their way back to Egypt. Out of 55 men, 34 were killed, injured, captured or missing without a single achievement.

Macintyre makes the point that this was by no means the end of a madcap idea. Stirling recruited the Long Range Desert Group to take the SAS teams by Jeep or truck rather than risk any further parachute drops, and the second set of raids in December 1941 resulted in the destruction or disabling of 60 enemy aircraft. But Operation Bigamy, a series of raids against Benghazi shortly before the battle of El Alamein, was another disaster. It featured one of the most bizarre figures to emerge from the story: a Belgian textile merchant, Robert Melot. Fluent in Arabic, keen to get at the Germans, he volunteered for the SAS aged 47 as an intelligence officer. He used his range of Libyan contacts to glean information needed for the raids, but in this case Melot miscalculated. An Arab double agent alerted the Germans and Italians and the raids were a disaster. Once again a forlorn, bearded, hungry and damaged band straggled back to Cairo. Melot carried on his SAS career regardless, and died not from his many scrapes in battle, but from a Jeep accident on his way to a party in Brussels late in 1944.

The SAS came of age in the campaign in Italy, where it was used as a more conventional raiding party, the Special Raiding Service, under the command of Paddy Mayne following Stirling’s capture in Tunisia in late 1942. The Italian campaign was a particularly grisly one, and the SRS (with its core of SAS men) found collaboration with the partisans and rivalry with the Special Operations Executive (SOE) a challenge (unlike the SAS, the SOE always linked up with local resistance). Macintyre spares none of the details; the SAS fought a dirty war against an enemy they regarded as every bit as dirty. Prisoners were rare, but in return Hitler condemned irregular commando units to death if they were caught. Not all were killed by any means, but many were, just as the Germans killed all the other irregular, partisan forces ranged against them.

In October 1945 the army wound up the SAS and it continued to exist by subterfuge, a unit of war crimes investigators searching for evidence across Europe that SAS members had been murdered. In 1947, to meet the many crises of empire, the SAS was revived. What it did then and since can be guessed at, but until the postwar unit diaries are revealed, like the wartime diary used by Macintyre, the exact details will not be known.

What in the end did the SAS achieve in the war? Macintyre does not really say, leaving the narrative to speak for itself. It did not, as some of the book’s publicity has suggested, turn the tide of war. Its overall accomplishment, set beside those of the Commandos, or the SOE, the Chindits or other partisan groups, was strategically modest, whatever its tactical successes. But the SAS did bring to life the plucky, maverick, individualist hero of the comic strip, a very British way of making war. SAS: Rogue Heroes is a great read of wartime adventuring, in a long, grim war of attrition where adventure was hard to find.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[denimbex1986]

"It feels different this time," said David Tennant's Fourteenth Doctor as his skin turned regeneration luminescent in 'The Giggle'. Asking his two former companions to pull at his arms like he had been hoisted up onto a makeshift rack, out popped Ncuti Gatwa's head like a handsome Hydra.

So goes the first ever bi-generation, a duplicating version of the well-worn regeneration, which we were told has always been something of Time Lord myth. Maybe the chief reason the Whoniverse only just introduced the concept of bi-generation is that trying to render it on the pre-Disney budget would have been a tougher feat.

Yet what it inadvertently does is leave open the door to David Tennant coming back for a third helping as the Doctor, thus putting Gatwa in the curious and unique position of being the first ever 'pretty much but not exclusively The Doctor' Doctor.

While fans could now be left clamouring for Tennant to come back, after the rip-roaring ride of these three 60th anniversary specials, we've not had any indication he's lacing up his Converses for good.

Yet the possibility that he one day could rev up his duplicate TARDIS and whizz back onto our screens leaves Tennant slightly hovering over the Fifteenth Doctor's shoulder.

It poses the question of whether Gatwa, who is the first Black and openly queer man to play the Time Lord, should have been left to go forth as the one and only Doctor in his own right.

While it's a legitimate issue to raise, the scenes afforded by the bi-generation between Gatwa and Tennant are ingenious because they build a deliberate bridge between this new era and one of the most successful periods of the show's modern incarnation.

Giving Gatwa such a solid jumping-off point with, arguably, the most popular modern Doctor of the lot feels even more significant given that he's coming into proceedings in the wake of a rather fallow period.

After the TARDIS skirted off into the ether in 'Wild Blue Yonder', the Doctor delivered a monologue on the majesty of his blue box. He painted a picture for imposter Donna of a civilisation's ebb and flow around the TARDIS and how it could live on through it all.

The moment appeared to be a metaphor for Doctor Who as a whole and the similar wax and wane of reverence for the show. Russell T Davies has said how unpopular a move it was to reboot the sci-fi classic in 2005 and he's now been parachuted back in to juice up the BBC staple.

Seeing Gatwa and Tennant interact together in the final act of 'The Giggle' allowed for a more concrete passing of the baton, which the instant body-swap of classic regenerations never really have.

It was also then we learned another nugget of lore to give Ncuti's Fifteenth Doctor some primacy over Tennant's Fourteenth, as Donna tells him he's the "older", and implicitly wiser, Time Lord of the two. Even in their brief scenes together, the Fifteenth Doctor has a calm assurance in the face of the Fourteenth's wobbles.

While the bi-generation might seem like a diminishing of Gatwa's role as the Doctor when viewed in its simplest terms, now that we've finally seen him in the role, it's impossible to think of him as anything less than the Doctor. He's so cooly comfortable – even on a helipad in his underpants – that it doesn't seem his star can be dimmed by the existence of other Doctors out there somewhere.

Ultimately, this major change of the bi-generation is why there is a 60th anniversary to be had in the first place – because Doctor Who is not a show that's against reinventing itself and changing the rules to keep us guessing.'

[spearxwind]

Ouhhh I got tagged in a Put My "On Repeat" Playlist On Shuffle & Post 10 Songs That Come Up tag game by my pal @excaive time for tunes and putting my ass on blast

I've linked yt videos for every song, but some of the vids have flashing so I have also included warnings where necessary!

Onto the list let's goooo:

1.La partida - LUNA KI // wow.... starting off real strong 😭 lunka ki's music is a guilty pleasure of mine, i love dancing to it when im alone in the house. It's rly fun

2. Made to be broken - H.E.R.O ⚠ HUGE FLASHING TW FOR THE VIDEO!!! there are no yt alternates for this T^T here is the spotify link for this song if you are photosensitive ⚠ // It slaps <3 I have three songs from this album in my repeat playlist and theyve been there. Since january.

3. Voices - ALESTI, Loveless ⚠ Mild flashing for this one ⚠ // TALAS SONG TALAS SONG!!!! This tune rips hard and im obsessed and also the album cover is pink and blue god bless

4. Cynical - H.E.R.O // ANOTHER song from these guys. This one slaps hard too. "Show me my heartbreaks, run, repeat my mistakes"

5. Emotion Sickness - said the sky, will anderson, parachute // I love this tune sm and also its a CF song. I'm normal <3

6. Love me like my demons do - FALSET // Swag tune, I love the high pitch lyrics a lot

7. Without me - Dayseeker // Ough Dayseeker my beloved... they are one of my fave bands. Rory is my fave singer I think. All their songs are certified Coping songs but they also slap hard, without me is in my griefcore playlists. This one also starts soft and then kicks in HARD

8. Nigredo - The Sidh // It's techno and bagpipes, what's not to love. Also the title means alchemical decay which I think is dope as fuck. This whole album rules too I recommend it.

9. By the sound - Caskets // Some of the lyrics for this one literally make zero sense but also some other lyrics hit like a fucking truck there's no in between. "When you wake up, don't waste your heart in mourning me" kills me

10. Dreamstate - Dayseeker // Another dayseeker song that destroys me <3 "And maybe when the night comes I'll find you in another world" also kills me

Bonus song!! my current most looped song:

Back to you - ILLENIUM, All time Low // I literally keep listening to this song so much. Like I cant stop listening to it. I would like to make an art... comic thing for it eventually because it has a lot of personal meaning to me but I'm not sure when I will be able to do it. But man its good!! It's good!! All of the lyrics got me fucked up man

Andn tagging uhhh whoever wants to do it honestly. You specifically reading this. Give me your swag tunes 👆🎼NOW! (if you'd like to)

[topgunruinedme]

Less Than Achievable - Part Three [edited]

Master list

Next Chapter - Part 4.

Previous Chapter - Part 1, Part 2.

Synopsis: The time Jake was finally shown he meant something to someone.

Hangman whump

Jake coughed and spluttered as he emerged from his parachute, his body ached and his chest spasmed as he attempted to breath in.

He laid still as he conducted his ejection checklist. Fingers, he wiggled them gently each finger brushing his palm, check. Toes, they moved, and his ankles rotated, check. Confident his arms were fine he lifted them, attempted to. As soon as he moved his right arm pain shot through his arm up to his neck, he used his pain free left harm to gently feel the shifted bone he could feel though his suit. He shifted his neck and when no pain came, he sat up.

No neck or spinal injury. His chest ached, and his side felt uncomfortable – most likely bruised from the ejection. He slowly got to his feet, careful not to trip over the fabric wrapped around him.

He leaned heavily on his left leg, he grimaced in pain as he looked at the blood weeping from the laceration on his leg, he must have caught it on something on the way down.

The wound left a trail of blood, it soaked through his suit and dripped into the snow tainting the pure snow into a red tainted murder scene. Dam it, he would be leaving a clear trail for anyone who came after him. He turned to look at his surroundings besides the trees and snow surrounding him there was nothing, he could faintly see the smoke of his downed jet in the distance.

He had to stop the bleeding, the trail at the very least. Jake yanked of his parachute hissing in pain as it jostled him shoulder. The fabric was filled with rips, no doubt from his encounter with the trees on the way down; there was no saving it. He ripped it up into pieces, creating strips. He wrapped one tightly around his leg, biting his cheek as he held in the pained groan as he attempted to stop the blood from dripping. He had to stop it, or else he was as good as dead.

Jake grabbed the bag he had shrugged to the side and his heart skipped a beat at the weight of it. It was too light, it was far too light. He opened it was a moments hesitance only to find the bag almost empty compared to its normal back crushing weight.

A sob was ripped from his lips as he let his shoulder curve protectively around himself and the bag he bend over it. It was all gone. Missing.

Jake pulled his compass from the bottom of the bag, along with it was a small bandage, Panadol, compass, water canteen and a protein bar.

That’s what he gets for not checking he had restocked after chucking out the out-of-date items.

He squinted at the compass as he turned with it, North. Wasn’t the runway they bombed north? He could hear the faint noise of a chopper, no doubt checking out his crash site. He needed to leave and fast. He only knew on place around here; it looked like he was hijacking a foreign jet from a bombed airfield.

Not the dumbest thing he’s done, walking straight into enemy ground.

The base would be a few hours walk, estimated from where he assumed he was. He could already feel like leg protested as he limped his way through the snow into the cover of the trees.

Was it worth going back? After all who would miss him. They clearly hadn’t wanted to fly with him, the others weren’t fond of him, Rooster hated his guts. He hadn’t let Maverick down yet, Rooster lives, he would ensure it.

His chest protested when he breathed in, it felt like his lungs were being stabbed with a bunch of miniature swords. He had broken his collarbone; he could feel the muscle strain in his shoulder and the pain in his collarbone when he shifted. He must have broken it when his parasite deployed.

He bit his lip and forced himself to keep walking, he let out a shuttered breath. He was the mission leader. The mission wasn’t over yet.

The sun was setting, Jake was leaning slumped over in the snow his back against a tree. He drank greedily from his canteen and took a large bite of his protein bar. It had been the first time he had stopped since he had crashed a few hours ago, he had wanted to keep going until he hit the airfield. However, one can only push pain back for so long, especially when your leg has a mind of its own and collapses out from under you.

He grabbed two tablets of pain mediation from his kit and swallowed them with a generous gulp of water. It tasted like copper, but he wasn’t sure if that was the canteen or just him.

His body was weighed down from dehydration and the lack of food. A protein bar and canteen were great except for the fact that a protein bar wasn’t food and he only had so much water to last him for however long he was stuck out here.

His flight suit was drenched in water from the snow as it melted against his diminishing body heat. He shivered but he wouldn’t risk building a fire.

It wouldn't have been so bad if only he had restocked his shock blanket or taken back his emergency blanket back from Javy who had borrowed it.

There wasn’t any shelter nearby, he was a sitting duck. His hands trembled in the cold; his teeth chattered. The cold was making his joins stiff, and he moved awkwardly due to it. It was getting harder to move.

The cold had made his leg go numb, he wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not. He couldn’t tell if it was bleeding anymore, he wasn’t sure if it was because of hyperthermia or if he wasn’t getting blood to his leg due to his tourniquet. The pain was muted, and it was odd that it still hurt but he couldn’t feel his leg, it was almost as if it wasn’t there.

It might have been a curse, but he would take whatever he could.

Jake leant his head back against the tree letting himself rest for a few moments, although his ribs had turned to a dull ache due to the pain medication the cold air hurt, and he breathed in. Each inhale was agonising.

He let his eyes flutter shut, allowing a moment where the terror of his situation draped over him like a comforting blanket. It smothered him. He had given himself up for them, he hadn’t been selfish. He went against everything he had ever been taught in that moment. What had he been thinking?

Had he been thinking?

No, he couldn’t have been.

He knew they would be safe. Phoenix would have taken the lead after him; she would have taken them back to the carrier ensuing their safety. They would have returned safely by now if they hadn’t run into any more issues on the way back.

They were safe, they had to be.

[delulu-with-wandanat]

I am sad and disheartened even though it's about a fictional character, I needed someone to share it with who can understand, I was roaming around the internet, reading stuff about Natasha. I have seen a lot of stuff mocking nat, her abilities, her usability, tweets joking about her guns against aliens ( how wrong), her running around whilst the other avengers are "flying",... Not to forget, the ones resuming her only by her titties and ass, then there was a tweet by a WANDA( WOMAN)Stan saying she would have been a run through, cum dumpster if the MCU was ok with sex scenes & the truly sad part is how everyone was laughing at that. It's sad to see that Natasha not only had been done dirty by marvel but also the audience.

The funny part is a lot of people believe that yelena is a better character than nat, of course she would be, no one let nat to be more than an ass and titties as if though the whole screentime she got in the MCU was just a steamy photo session. I got a lot to say about the sexualization part I don't know how to put it in words, it's a lot

OMG- please you can rant to be abt it all the time please. I’ve been ranting about this for DAYSSSS IM SO GLAD SOMEONE ELSE FELT THE SAME.

First of its sad (yet not surprising) that a Wanda stan said that. They always let down other women in order to bring her up. That’s why there was a phase where i hated Wanda because of her fans (dont come at me ok seriously on tiktok they wont stfu).

Literally the coolest thing about Nat is the fact that she has no powers but get shit done, A LOT. Everyone has their preferences, but literally how can you not see how cool she is?!!

Natasha Romanoff, no powers but will not hesitate to charge into battles with other superheroes. Homegirl only had one, let me emphasize this ONE parachute yet mf just jumped from THOUSANDS of feet in the air. Knowing she could’ve died but she’s such a pure soul so she did so without any second thought. HOW ARE U NOT IN LOVE WITH HER ALREADY?!!

I truly trullyyy do love Natasha, she’s a fictional character, but omg she’s like so cool and everything. But like u said she was done so dirty by Marvel and the audience. (which is why i like to say, ppl who love Natasha is literally the coolest ppl ever. I aint joking, other superheroes are easy to like, but natasha is for legends only)

Im very sad for Scarlett too, the way she got overly sexualized especially in the early days of the MCU. Then when she finally got her solo movie, her character got thrown off a cliff BEFORE HER SOLO MOVIE CAME OUT and ppl constantly said Yelena stole the movie. Look i love Yelena, but this aint about her. Please, let Nat have one thing, but she really can’t can’t she?? Literally have some more respect for Scarlett.

And another cool thing about Nat is the fact that she kept her heart even after all the traumatic childhood she went through as a child. People love to say Wanda had the saddest life, but so did Nat. We all know what the red room is basically mirroring in real life, marvel won’t say it but we know what it is. They both have sad traumatic past, but Natasha kept her heart. And after going through all of that?!!! I dont know how one could but here she is!!!

She was taken as a child, put in a mission where she had a taste of what a normal life would be, ripped away from her and had to be put in the red room again. Found a family with the avengers yet they never seemed to care much abt her don’t they? Found her sister but then her sister was snapped, and then had to lead the Avengers for 5 years because idk wtf the others were doing. AND THEN SHE DIED WTF MARVEL WTFFF?!

Anyway im so sorry, i could rant about this all day. God i love her sm you don’t understand 🥲🥲

[star-going-supernova]

Prompt: mvp Vanessa verse

Ness is in the Plex with Gregory (brithday party or some such for one of his classmate's) and the virus takes over.

Figured I may as well kill two birds with one stone by filling this prompt for the first place prize of the poll’s civil war! No birthday party, but Gregory’s here! And it’s a real treat for y’all, being about 1,500 words. Congrats to the MVP!Vanessa voters, and I hope you all enjoy!

Prey

Quite frankly, Vanessa couldn’t believe her bad luck. Ordinarily, it was convenient to be in the pizzaplex when the virus was triggered in someone—saved her the commute. But not today, not when she had Gregory with her, and not when somehow, against all odds, two animatronics had bugged out. 

Worst of all, she hadn’t actually been with Gregory. She didn’t know where he was, if he was in or near the lockdown zones, or if he was safe on the other side of the building. This was the last time she let him go on ahead while she used the bathroom. 

Vanessa slammed through the locker room door and nearly ripped her locker open. She kept a spare crowbar here for just such occasions as this, though of course she hadn’t replaced her backup FazerBlaster yet after it fizzled to its death a few days ago. She just hadn’t had time to make the modifications on a new one. 

Cursing herself for not making the time, Vanessa charged back into the employee hallways, bee-lining to the nearest lockdown zone she’d been alerted to. Please, please don’t let Gregory be caught in it.

It was the indoor play area, which meant it was any kid’s heaven of foam pits, trampolines, slides, and all manner of climbable structures. Even Vanessa had fun in there. 

But there was no animatronic permanently assigned to that area. For this exact reason. It would trap countless kids with a murder robot. She tried to remember who the most common guests were—Moondrop, Chica, and Monty, she was pretty sure.

Had Gregory said he was going to the arcade or the play area? She couldn’t remember, not for the life of her. 

Frantically pressing her keycard to the blinking-red reader, she growled as she shoved into the room, fully prepared to be faced with screaming and crying kids. And blood. Potentially a lot of it. 

Instead, it seemed like business as usual. Laughter and chatter and children bodily flinging themselves into the foam pits. Breathing heavily, adrenaline primed for a fight, Vanessa scrabbled for her phone to double-check the location. If this was a glitch itself…

She didn’t have time to even pull it out of her pocket. Her Older Sibling Sixth Sense pinged, and her head shot up. Across the room, bouncing between trampolines with an urgency that most might read as an excess of energy, Gregory was leading Moondrop on a twisted chase. 

Oh, hell. Her brother was playing bait. 

Not just that, she considered as she took off at a speedy but not too conspicuous pace around the edge of the massive room. By putting up a front of tag, he was singlehandedly keeping the rest of the room’s occupants—easily over a hundred between the kids and their scattered parents—from even realizing anything was wrong. 

Vanessa caught his eye as she neared her destination: a door that lead into a large empty room where games with large groups were often played. Freeze tag, red light green light, they even had an enormous gym parachute. Today, she’d be playing piñata, featuring Moondrop. 

Gregory caught on without missing a beat and changed his zigzagging course to approach. Vanessa swiped her keycard and slipped inside without anyone noticing to ask if the room was open for use. 

It was beautifully seamless. Gregory hit the last trampoline just right and sailed onto the wide padded walkway that surrounded the trampoline area. It was a straight shot through the door, and Vanessa swung it open wide just as he reached it, yanking him behind it with her a moment before a gaining Moondrop could snatch him up. She slammed it—no matter how much she wanted Gregory on the other side, leaving it open any longer was asking for disaster to strike—and whirled with her crowbar raised. 

Moondrop skidded to a halt and spun to backtrack, and he got a face full of crowbar for his efforts. 

He went down hard, but he wasn’t out for the count yet. Following after him, Vanessa wound up again and sent the hooked end through the seam of his faceplate—this was why the crowbar worked so well. Bad enough bodily damage sent the animatronics into automatic shutdowns. 

Now was no exception. Her crowbar wedged in deep, and he went limp before he could even finish standing. She stepped back, breathing heavily. His eyes were dark; he didn’t move. 

Turning around, she said, “You good?” 

Wide-eyed and shaking a little, Gregory nodded. He inched closer, watching Moondrop intently. “He didn’t even touch me,” he whispered. 

Vanessa held out her arm, and he immediately crashed into her. “He’s out until they fix his face. We’re safe, okay?” 

He nodded against her. She squeezed him closer. 

“That was incredibly brave of you,” she said. “I wish it hadn’t come to that, but you… you did real good, kiddo.” 

“It was weird,” he said. “He spazzed out and then it was like his eyes were just empty.” 

“They go a little zombie-like, don’t they?” 

“Mhm. Slower, too. I know he’s fast enough to catch me when he’s really trying.” 

It was a silver lining, that they were just slightly less under the effects of the virus. 

“Let’s never do that again,” Vanessa decided. 

Backing up, Gregory didn’t even argue for the sake of it. “Yeah. Once is more than enough.” 

Vanessa tried to retrieve her crowbar, but it was thoroughly jammed. The repair guys always found that funny; they kept a tally of how many times they had to pry her crowbar loose with their own.

She gestured tiredly at one of the room’s side entrances. Adrenaline crashes sucked. “Let’s beat it, shrimp.” 

He led the way as she fished out her phone to log Moondrop’s defeat. The lockdown would lift in a minute, and a crew would hustle over to retrieve his body. Gregory pushed through the door as she tagged their location. 

“Roxy?” she heard Gregory ask. “What are you doing here?” 

Vanessa’s blood froze in her veins. She looked up with agonizing slowness, already throwing herself forward. Her phone fell to the floor with a clatter. 

She’d forgotten there were two glitched-out animatronics today. And of course Gregory hadn’t known. It had never happened before; he had no reason to be wary straight off.

Gregory gasped and stumbled back as Roxy lunged for him with her mouth wide open, teeth so, so sharp. 

Vanessa’s fingers snagged his shirt. She yanked him away from Roxy, eyes blazing with righteous, protective fury. It still wouldn’t be enough. 

She shoved her arm out sideways, in a defensive block pose—it was the only thing between Roxy’s fangs and her brother’s head. 

And Roxy’s jaw clamped down over Vanessa’s forearm, blood immediately spurting out from between her teeth. 

The slow motion feeling shattered with the sudden agony of her arm being shredded. Shrieking from part fury, part pain, Vanessa went down with a brain-rattling crash, Roxy’s momentum knocking both of them over. The weight of Roxy’s body slamming down on top of her punched all the air from her lungs. 

Roxy thrashed her head side to side without letting go, reminiscent of the wolves she was modeled after when they were trying to tear a chunk of meat off their defeated prey. Vanessa’s vision whited out. Her mouth hinged open on a silent scream. 

There was so much blood. She couldn’t feel her fingers. 

She’d been clawed before, she’d caught a stray tooth before, she’d been smacked around before. Nothing else had been as bad as this. This was the first time she thought she would finally die doing her job. 

She hoped Gregory was running. That he was anywhere but here. 

Vanessa should have known better. 

Roxy reared back, releasing Vanessa’s arm, presumably preparing to rip out her throat. But in that one moment when her bloody mouth was snapping shut between bites, Vanessa’s stupid little brother bodily threw himself at Roxy’s face. The animatronics got kinda tunnel-visioned with the virus—hence Moondrop ignoring all the easier prey after Gregory got his attention—so he truly took Roxy by surprise. She rocked backward from the force, and if Vanessa hadn’t been dry heaving from the pain, she’d have yelled at him for thinking that would help. 

But Gregory wasn’t done yet. Vanessa’s vision was too blurry for her to really understand how he did it, but Gregory somehow ended up clinging to the back of Roxy’s head like a monkey. Numb shock spread through her, both at the sight and as the trauma of her injury caught up to her brain.

Roxy flailed, her dumbed-down thoughts struggling to process the sudden child literally wrapped around her head. And the second he had a secure hold with his legs, Gregory was reaching into her eye sockets and yanking with a war cry. 

Both Roxy’s eyes popped out with the snapping of plastic and wires. Sparks jumped into the air. Her entire body seized and locked up, and with a great rattling crash, Roxy collapsed, automatically powering down from the damage. 

Vanessa’s body felt heavy, her thoughts slowing. It was so hard to keep her eyes open.

Gregory rolled free of Roxy’s still twitching limbs, dropping both eyes to the floor. “Vanessa!” 

That—that was her name. Gregory was saying her name. 

“Vanessa!” 

She… she should respond. 

“Vanessa!” 

Darkness rose up to greet her, and she lost consciousness before she could find the strength to.

[usafphantom2]

The story of the SR-71 Blackbird Spy Plane that lost the drag chute in-flight at Mach 1.5

By Linda Sheffield Miller

Apr 3 2022

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The SR-71 Blackbird is the fastest manned jet in history. It had no flaps, slats, spoilers or speed brakes. The problem was getting this fast, clean airplane to slow down.

The SR-71 Blackbird is the fastest manned jet in history. It had no flaps, slats, spoilers or speed brakes. The problem was getting this fast, clean airplane to slow down. To help reduce wear and tear on the tires and wheel brakes, the aircraft was fitted with a drag chute to shorten its landing roll. This consisted of a three-stage chute system. When the pilot would pull the drag chute handle, a 42″ diameter Pilot Chute would be jettisoned from the top of the aft fuselage, deploying a larger 10′ diameter Extraction Chute. That would pull a safety pin, allowing the 40′ diameter Main Chute to blossom.

The drag chute is a beautiful shade of orange. The same color as the parachute that was used for ejection. I know this because my father Butch Sheffield ejected on Apr. 13, 1967. The parachute is still at my mother’s house.

SR-71 print

This print is available in multiple sizes from AircraftProfilePrints.com – CLICK HERE TO GET YOURS. SR-71A Blackbird 61-7972 “Skunkworks”

On rare occasions, the drag chute doors opened inadvertently at high Mach, creating problem.

In the book SR-71 Revealed The Inside Story by Col. Richard Graham, a harrowing story is told in which the drag chute compartment door opened during an acceleration through Mach 1.5. After flying out of Kadena Air Base, Pilot Lt. Col. Joe Matthews and RSO Lt. Col. Curt Osterheld felt a firm jolt on their airplane and found themselves short on fuel with a center of gravity that was creeping further and further forward.

The crew aborted the mission and diverted back to Kadena. After a nasty descent with many unstarts, they landed, pulled the drag chute handle and nothing happened. The crew was forced to use nothing but the wheel brakes to come to a stop. When they exited the aircraft, they found that the right-hand drag chute door had opened, ripped off and put a 10″ incision in their aft-most fuel tank.

The story of the SR-71 Blackbird Spy Plane that lost the drag chute in-flight at Mach 1.5

SR-71 drag chute at Pima Air Museum in Tucson, Arizona

The drag chute had been pulled from the airplane, but thanks to some clever engineering, the chute did not blossom and stay attached. Osterheld mentions in the book that, “We were grateful to the Lockheed engineers for designing the drag chute to lock to the aircraft only when the drag chute handle was pulled. One can imagine the effect of the chute deploying in flight at Mach 1.5!”

Pima Air Museum in Tucson, Arizona, preserves an SR-71 drag chute underneath the aircraft that it once flew with.

Be sure to check out Linda Sheffield Miller (Col Richard (Butch) Sheffield’s daughter, Col. Sheffield was an SR-71 Reconnaissance Systems Officer) Facebook Page Habubrats for awesome Blackbird’s photos and stories.

Photo credit: Curt Mason and U.S. Air Force

[mehoymalloy]

GHOST FLIGHT; The Memorial Grove

I’ve been thinking about my Horizon Big Bang 2022 piece a lot lately, especially the soldiers of Operation Enduring Victory. Since the larger fic they belong to is a bit of a beast, I thought I’d share the shorts I wrote for each black box in Horizon Forbidden West here on Tumblr.

After all, their stories deserve to be heard (even if I made them up).

The Memorial Grove Black Box Transcript:

AIR CONTROL ROMEO: This is Romeo requesting status update.

Flight 41, you need to adjust your course to avoid the Swarm. Can you respond, over?

Flight 41 - please acknowledge.

AIR CONTROL ROMEO: My sensors are showing their cabin's depressurized, I think the crew's gone and they're on auto-pilot. Flight 41's a ghost flight.

Listen to the audio log on my photomode Twitter account here.

Ashly Wilson's eyes flicked over her display, catching the steady blip of a plane veering off course. Frowning, she watched it for a few seconds, assuming—hoping—that the pilot was merely taking an extra moment to adjust. But no, the craft kept along its wayward path.

Flipping a switch on her comms headset—courtesy of her director, who was paranoid that the Swarm might start hacking their tech at air control—Wilson spoke up. "This is Romeo requesting status update."

Five seconds. Static.

"Flight 41, you need to adjust your course to avoid the Swarm. Can you respond, over?"

Seven seconds. Static.

"Flight 41," Wilson's voice was tight, strained. "Please acknowledge."

She was long past feeling anxious. But despite how numb this past year had left her, the disappointment always stayed. The weight of lives she had to report dead or missing in action at the end of the day would always leave her with a shard of ice slowly melting in her hollowed-out chest.

Three seconds. She had already made up her mind after the second unanswered comms request.

Wilson sighed, bitter edge softening to deadened resignation, far too familiar.

She flicked a switch to report directly to her supervisor. "My sensors are showing their cabin's depressurized, I think the crew's gone and they're on autopilot. Flight 41's a ghost flight."

-

Only a few minutes prior, far away from air control, an aircraft was making a steady descent, preparing to drop its load of soldiers directly into combat.

A FAS-ACA3 Scarab overtook and manually opened Flight 41's rear door, simultaneously disengaging all safety belts and harnesses for the craft's two pilots and twelve passengers. The scene, as viewed from the cockpit, was neat. At first glance, no one would guess that fourteen soldiers had occupied the space only moments ago.

Below, the scene was not neat. With such an abrupt ejection, most soldiers did not have time to even attempt to deploy their parachutes, and so their bodies littered the ground—bones crushed, insides spilled, blood soaking into barren soil. Almost all were killed on impact. But one soldier did manage to deploy his parachute, though far too late. His body barreled through the canopy, steadily slowing as he hit desiccated tree limbs one after another. His descent was further slowed as the parachute, hardly even unfurled, caught on several branches, snapping the withered wood and bringing them along for the ride.

His arm was only the first piece of him to break; it immediately snapped, nearly ripped from its socket. Ribs were shattered, organs bruised, gashes rent deep into skin and muscle. He was not granted the luxury of dying on impact when he met the ground.

In fact, he did not meet the ground at all. The lines of his parachute got caught in a handful of stubbornly-sturdy branches, and he hung thirty feet up, tangled in the cords like a fly trapped in a web. He swayed gently, blood streaming down his mangled limbs and dripping to the ground far below. He could not pinpoint precisely what hurt. Everything hurt. He stared blankly at the ash-swept sky, wet gasps for air soft amid the distant roar of war, as blood pooled into his punctured lungs. He suffered for exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds before his shuddering gasps finally, blessedly, faded away entirely.

Black Box 1/12