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Part 2 has been sitting in my drafts for a while now because I wasn't sure how to finish it. Very low chance of there being a part 3 but I'll think about it. I write when I'm stressed and sad so if it gets a bit too much it's probably because of that.
======
The hand at his throat shifted.
Not much. The robber behind him adjusted his stance, weight moving from one foot to the other, and the pressure at Marcus's windpipe eased by a fraction. Enough that air came suddenly, sharply, flooding his lungs with a sound he couldn't suppress—a wet, desperate gasp.
"Breathe quiet," the man grunted.
Marcus breathed. Quiet. Shallow. His vision cleared from grey to sick yellow, and he was back in the bank again, fluorescent lights buzzing, someone still crying near the counter, his own heartbeat a trapped bird against his ribs.
Still alive, he thought. Still here. Still behaving.
The word sat wrong. Behaving. Like he was a dog. Like good boys got treats instead of gun barrels. His dad said that sometimes—just behave, Marcus, for once—and Marcus always rolled his eyes, always talked back, always took the dare because fuck you, I do what I want.
But here. Now. He'd gone still when told. He'd gone quiet. He'd let a stranger hold him by the throat and call him good boy and he hadn't bitten the hand.
Pathetic.
The thought rose up sharp and sudden, and he couldn't tell if it was his or borrowed, if it was true or just fear wearing a different mask. But it stuck. It stuck because he was thinking about the text on his phone—tell everyone I fought bravely—and he'd written it as a joke but jokes were just truths with training wheels, weren't they?
And now he was standing here, literally standing, held up by another man's hand, and he wasn't fighting at all. He was waiting. For what? For rescue? For courage? For the cinematic moment where the music swelled and he knew exactly what to do?
No one is coming.
Yeah. He knew that. He'd known it since the woman in the grocery uniform looked away, since the stillness stretched too long, since he realised the only hands reaching for him were the ones at his throat.
But knowing and feeling were different things, and suddenly they were the same thing, suddenly they were a door swinging open in his chest, and behind it was just—fuck it.
Fuck it.
If I'm dying anyway.
The hand at his throat shifted again. Looser. The robber was bored. Marcus had been good, had been quiet, had been useful, and useful things got neglected.
The grip was a warning now, not a cage. Marcus could feel his own pulse against the thumb, could feel the space between behave and break, and it was a hair's width, it was nothing, it was everything.
His right hand twitched.
He didn't look at it. Looking was suspicious. But he felt his fingers, blood creeping back, and he felt the counter edge against his hip, and he felt something small and metal where his knuckles brushed—stapler, it's a stapler, Mrs. Patterson has one just like it, she staple-gunned—
Don't.
He saw it without seeing it. The woman on the floor, shaking her head, no no no, eyes wide and pleading. And part of him wanted to listen, part of him was still the kid who took dares but only when people were watching, who talked back to teachers but only when the class laughed, who needed an audience to be brave.
But there was no audience here. Just him. Just the man at his throat. Just the stapler, small and stupid and his.
Tell everyone I fought bravely.
Delete my search history.
He smiled. It wobbled. It hurt. But it was his, and he held it as his fingers closed around cold metal and he swung backward with everything—everything—his terrified, boring, stupid, seventeen-year-old body had.
The blunt edge connected with something soft. A grunt. A stumble. The hand at his throat vanished and Marcus was falling, no, moving, legs unsteady but going, shouting something that wasn't words, that was just noise, just him, because if this was the end he was going to die loud, he was going to die annoying, he was going to die with his middle finger up and his last breath wasted on fuck you—
His knee hit the floor. He barely felt it. He was already pushing up, scrambling, and his hand found the edge of the counter and he hauled himself forward, vision sparking, lungs burning, and there was the emergency exit, the red sign, ALARM WILL SOUND, and he thought good, let it sound, let everyone know, let them come—
Something caught his ankle.
Marcus went down hard. Chin struck tile. Teeth clicked together, biting his tongue, copper flooding his mouth. He kicked backward, wild, connected with something solid, and the grip loosened. He crawled, fingers skidding on polished floor, reaching for the door, for the handle, for out—
A body dropped on top of him.
Weight crushed the air from his lungs. An elbow drove into his spine, and Marcus made a sound he didn't recognise, something between a scream and a retch, his cheek pressed flat against the cold tile. He bucked, thrashed, but the weight shifted, pinned his shoulders, and then hands were yanking his arms behind his back, something plastic biting his wrists, zip tie, that's a zip tie, oh fuck—
"Got him," a voice panted. "Little shit—little—he got Mick in the face—"
"Hold him," another voice said. Scar. Close. Marcus twisted his neck, cheek scraping tile, and saw black boots stopping inches from his nose.
The toe of one boot nudged his chin, forcing his head up. Marcus glared through tears and sweat and snot, his lip split and bleeding, his breathing ragged and wet.
Scar crouched down. The scar splitting his eyebrow seemed to pulse in the fluorescent light.
"You," Scar said, almost thoughtful, "are a fucking problem."
Marcus spat. It was weak, pathetic, mostly blood. It didn't even reach Scar's boot.
Scar laughed. It wasn't a nice sound. He stood, wiped his knee where he'd crouched, and looked toward the front of the bank. "Time?"
"Not ours." Scar reached into his coat and pulled out a phone—new, expensive, the kind with three lenses on the back. He held it up, looked at it, then looked down at Marcus. "Get him up."
Hands grabbed Marcus's arms, hauled him to his knees. The zip tie dug into his wrists, plastic teeth chewing skin. He swayed, dizzy, and someone shoved him from behind, sending him stumbling forward.
"Walk," Scar said.
Marcus walked. Not because he wanted to. Because the gun was back, pressed against his spine, and because his legs were jelly, and because some part of him was already calculating—three minutes, they said three minutes, where are they, why aren't they here yet—
They stopped in the center of the lobby. The light was brightest here, near the shattered front window, where the blue lights flickered and strobed against the tile. Where the cameras—phone cameras, news cameras, the whole fucking world—could see.
"Turn him around," Scar ordered.
Hands spun Marcus. He faced the room, the hostages on the floor, the dead man near the chairs—when did he die, who was he, I didn't see—the little boy sobbing silently into his mother's shoulder. And beyond them, through the broken glass, the street, the police cars, the figures in tactical gear taking cover behind doors.
"Look at me," Scar said.
Marcus looked. He couldn't not. The gun was under his chin again, tilting his head up, and Scar was holding the phone in his other hand, camera facing them, red light blinking.
"Smile," Scar murmured.
"I—"
The backhand came fast. Not hard enough to knock him down. Hard enough to split his lip fresh, to make his ears ring, to send him stumbling into the frame. Marcus tasted blood, thick and copper, and his eyes watered, and he hated that they watered, hated that he couldn't stop them.
"Look at the camera," Scar said. He stepped behind Marcus, pressed the gun to his temple, and spoke loud enough for the phone to catch every word, loud enough for the street outside to hear, loud enough for Marcus's mother to hear if she was watching the news, if she was awake, if she knew—
"You see this?" Scar's voice was calm now. "You see his face? He's seventeen. He's got a mother. He's got a father. He wants to go home." The barrel dug in, and Marcus flinched, a tear spilling hot and humiliating down his cheek. "You want him to see them again? You back off. You give us what we want. You try anything—" A pause. Scar's thumb traced the trigger guard. "—and we keep recording. We send it to her first. Every minute he's not home, another video. You understand?"
Marcus understood.
He understood the red light blinking on the phone. He understood the dead man near the chairs, the blood pooling dark and glossy, the little boy's urine smell mixing with copper and fear. He understood that he'd fought and screamed and made himself known, and now they knew exactly what he was good for.
Not special. Not chosen.
Just useful.
Young enough to look vulnerable. Old enough to walk where they pointed. Sympathetic enough to stall SWAT, to make negotiators hesitate, to buy time while the vault emptied. A face for the camera. A body to hurt if demands weren't met. If staff refused, if cops rushed, if anything went wrong—hurt the boy.
"Please," Marcus heard himself say, and his voice was small, broken, nothing like the boy who'd swung a stapler sixty seconds ago. "Please, I just—I want to go home—"
"Good," Scar murmured against his ear. "Keep that. They love that."
The phone kept recording. The blue lights kept flickering. And Marcus stood very still, very small, tears tracking down his face, and thought: Delete my search history. Tell everyone I fought bravely. Tell them—
But he couldn't remember what else he'd written. He couldn't remember anything except the red light, and the gun, and the dead man on the floor.
"Again," Scar said into the phone, his voice dropping into something almost gentle, almost sympathetic. The voice of a man who'd done this before. "Tell them again. Tell them you want to go home."
Marcus's mouth opened. The words were there, ready, please, I want to go home, please don't let me die—the same words he'd already said, the same words that had made Scar murmur good, they love that—
He thought of the stapler.
Small. Stupid. His hand closing around cold metal, the blunt edge connecting with something soft, the grunt, the stumble, the hand at his throat vanishing—
He'd done that. He'd done that. Not brave, not planned, just desperate and loud and him.
Now he was standing here, crying on camera, saying please like a good boy, and the gun was still at his head, and the only difference was that now they knew him. Now they had his face. Now they had leverage, had use, had a thousand ways to hurt him that didn't even need bullets.
Be brave, he told himself. Like before. Like the stapler. Like—
But his hands were zip-tied behind his back. His lip was split and bleeding. His stomach was a ball of sick, grinding pain, and every time he shifted his weight, his knees threatened to fold, and if he fell, if he tried anything, the dead man by the chairs was right there, right there, proof of what happened when people moved wrong.
Be brave, he thought again, and the words felt hollow, felt stupid, felt like something from a movie where the hero always knew what to do, always had a plan, always—
He didn't have a plan.
He didn't know what to do.
The red light blinked. Scar's breath warmed his ear. The blue lights flickered outside, distant, impossibly far, and Marcus stood very still, very small, tears still tracking down his face, and wanted—more than anything, more than home, more than air—to be the boy who'd swung the stapler.
And obviously Anon who asked for the idea in the first place. (also, I feel quite mean calling you Anon all the time. Is there an emoji or name or something I can call you by?)
will you please write a hostage situation , like a bank robbery , I love the idea of it because of the whole emotional range of it , you're bored and in a bank suddenly you're confused and alert then you're panicking and there's gun shots and screams and then you notice someone noticing you and next minute you're being kidnapped so the whole idea is very appealing , will you write it ? no pressure if you don't want to
YES I WILL!! I've wanted to write a hostage situation like this for a while but I wasn't sure how to start it... But now I'm inspired so YEAHHH
Edit: Nope. Behind schedule. Will be posted soon. How soon? Not sure...
DONE!!! I literally did nothing but write yesterday, so I managed to finish a whole bunch of things that I've been putting off for a while. And yes, like usual, I butchered the idea. You're welcome <3 No but seriously, I did. Hope you like it anyway.
Dedicated to Anonymous (I'm like 60% sure you're the same anon who asked for magic whumper part 2 but idk) and anyone else who was waiting for me to write this. @castell-da-near I hope you enjoy!!
-----
Marcus had been in the bank for nine minutes and twenty-three seconds, which was long enough to decide that life was, in fact, embarrassingly stupid.
Not in a poetic way. Just in a standing-in-line-on-a-Tuesday way.
The air-conditioning was too cold overhead and somehow still left the room stuffy. Somebody behind him kept sighing like the queue had personally insulted him.
A little kid near the chairs was whining about being hungry in the loud, relentless voice only little kids seemed capable of. The fluorescent lights washed everybody the same tired shade of pale.
Marcus shifted his weight and thumbed out another message.
this is actual torture if i die in this line tell everyone i fought bravely
He stared at it for a second, then added:
also delete my search history
He smiled faintly to himself and hit send.
No reply yet.
Of course not. Because apparently everyone else had lives and he was the idiot spending half his afternoon in a bank because his card had decided to stop working and his dad had just said, Go sort it out yourself, you’re nearly an adult.
Nearly.
That was the scam, really. Old enough for boring errands. Too young for anything good.
He glanced up at the clock, then to the side, mostly because he was bored enough to start inventorying strangers for entertainment.
That was when he noticed the man in black.
Everything on him was black. Not in a messy way either. In a deliberate way. Clean lines. Sharp shoulders. Expensive-looking. Like he’d stepped out of some ad for a watch Marcus definitely couldn’t afford.
He looked for maybe a second too long. Not because it seemed threatening. Just—
Stylish.
A bit much for a bank on a weekday, maybe, but stylish.
The man’s face was turned away. Marcus saw only the line of his jaw, the dark collar of the coat, one hand resting loose by his side.
Weirdly pretty, Marcus thought, and then immediately felt stupid for thinking it.
He looked back down at his phone.
Still no reply.
The front doors slammed open. Hard enough that the sound cracked through the room and made several people look up at once.
Marcus did too, frowning automatically, annoyance first, not fear. Somebody barging in. Somebody late. Somebody rude.
Then he saw the masks.
Three men.
Dark clothes. Fast movements. One already lifting a gun.
A gun.
A fucking gun.
For one empty, stretched-out second, his brain simply refused to process it. The image was there, clear as anything, but his mind kept sliding off it, trying to make it into a joke, a mistake, a security drill, literally anything else.
"EVERYBODY ON THE FUCKING GROUND!"
Oh shit.
A woman screamed.
The little kid started crying instantly, sharp and frightened. Somebody dropped their bag. It hit the floor with a flat slap and things spilled everywhere. An older man at the counter froze with both hands half-raised, his face gone blank with shock.
Marcus' heart slammed once, so hard it hurt.
Oh my God.
No.
No no no no—
“Down!” another man shouted, swinging the gun across the lobby. “On the fucking floor, now!”
People dropped.
Not neatly. Not like in films. It was ugly, sudden chaos—knees striking tile, shoes skidding, somebody stumbling into somebody else, a chair scraping sideways. A girl in a red scarf nearly went down face-first and caught herself with both hands at the last second. Somebody started sobbing immediately, breath hitching so hard it sounded painful.
Marcus moved because everyone else was moving and because the gun was real and because every instinct in him had narrowed into one blinding command: get down get down get down.
His phone slipped out of his hand and clattered across the floor.
He barely noticed.
One knee hit first. Then both hands. The tile was cold and polished and filthy up close, dust caught in the corners, a smear of something grey near his palm. His breathing had already gone wrong—too fast, too thin, every inhale snagging halfway down.
Don’t look up.
Don’t move.
Don’t be stupid.
His pulse was everywhere. In his throat. His ears. Behind his eyes.
One of the robbers vaulted over the queue barrier. Another headed for the counters. The third stayed near the entrance, gun raised carelessly, like controlling a room full of terrified people required almost no effort at all.
“Phones!” someone barked. “Throw them away from you! Now!”
Marcus' was already halfway across the floor. Oh my God, he thought wildly. Oh my God. This is real. This is actually happening.
At the front desks, one of the tellers was shaking so hard Marcus could see it even from here. Another robber slammed a hand against the counter and shouted something about the vault.
Then the gunshot went off.
Marcus flinched so violently his shoulder hit the floor.
The sound was monstrous indoors. Not a pop. Not a crack. A detonation. It filled the room, slammed into his ribs, rang through his skull. People screamed all at once. The little kid’s crying turned into shrieking. Plaster dust drifted from the ceiling where the bullet had hit.
Marcus stared.
For a second he couldn’t breathe at all.
Somebody near him was whispering, “Please, please, please, please,” over and over so fast the words blurred together.
I'm too young to die, Marcus thought, and the thought had weight, it had teeth, it was the truest thing he'd ever known. I'm seventeen. I haven't even graduated. I haven't done anything—
I'm sorry, Mum, he thought, tears pricking hot behind his eyes. I'm sorry for every time I rolled my eyes when you asked about homework. I'm sorry for saying I hated your pasta that one time. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean any of it.
Dad, his mind raced, I'm sorry for not hugging you back last week when you tried at the door. I'm sorry for thinking you were lame. I’m sorry for taking money from your wallet that one time when I was fourteen. You never even found out but I’m sorry, okay?
He wasn't religious. He'd never been to church except for his cousin's christening, and he'd spent that service playing Candy Crush in the back pew. But now, Marcus closed his eyes and prayed with the desperation of a drowning man grabbing at driftwood.
God, he thought. Please. Whoever. Whatever. Buddha? Is Buddha a god? I think Buddha is... enlightened? Is that the same thing? No wait, isn't Buddha just a guy who sat under a tree? Okay, not Buddha. Vishnu? That's Hindu, right? Is Vishnu a god? Yes? No? Wait, isn't that the one with all the arms? That's cool. That's a good god. Please, many-armed god—
Wait, his brain interrupted itself, what if I had to sing a prayer? Our Father who art in heaven... No, wait. How did the rest go? Hallowed be thy... name? No, game? Was it game? Oh, great, now he was mixing up the Lord’s Prayer with The Hunger Games.
"May the odds be ever in your favour, Amen," Marcus whispered under his breath, his forehead pressed against the cold linoleum floor.
A heavy boot clicked against the tile just inches from his nose. Marcus squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped pigeon.
Think, Marcus, think! What else did religious people do? Fasting? He could do that. He hadn’t eaten since a sleeve of Thin Mints at 9:00 AM, and honestly, he was already suffering. Surely that counted as a sacrifice.
If you get me out of this, God—or Vishnu, or whoever is managing the shift right now—I'll go vegan, he bargained wildly. I will donate to charity. I’ll donate blood. I’ll donate someone else's blood. Just please don't let me get shot in a suburban branch of HSBC.
"Hey! No talking!" a voice barked from above.
Marcus bolted his mouth shut so fast he bit his tongue. A tear leaked out of his left eye. He wasn't cut out for this.
His mind raced, looking for a loophole. What if this was a test? Like a cosmic pop quiz? He tried to remember the Ten Commandments.
Don't kill people. (Easy, check.)
Don't steal. (He'd downloaded a movie once in 2012, but surely the statute of limitations applied to divine law.)
Don't... covet your neighbour's ox? Who even had an ox?
I don't even want an ox, Lord! Marcus pleaded internally, sweating profusely. I don't even want my neighbour's lawnmower! I am completely ox-compliant!
Okay, final offer, Marcus thought, aiming his brain directly at the ceiling. If I survive this, I will actually read the Terms and Conditions before clicking 'Agree'. Every single time. I swear.
He opened his eyes, gasping, and looked to his right. The man in black was no longer where he’d been. He found him a second later, nearer now, standing off to one side of the room.
Watching.
Not the crowd.
Not the tellers.
Him.
Marcus went completely still.
No.
No, that was bad.
That was very bad.
Marcus took a tiny, shuddering breath. This was it. The climax of the movie. Except he was the extra who dies in the first act to show the villains mean business.
The man’s face was partly shadowed by the angle, but Marcus felt the attention land all the same—direct, steady, unnervingly specific. He had the insane urge to look behind himself, as if maybe there was someone else the man was actually focused on.
There wasn’t.
The man in black tilted his head very slightly. Then he started walking toward him.
Every muscle in Marcus' body locked.
No no no no.
Please don’t come here.
Please keep walking.
Please go literally anywhere else.
A heel clicked softly against the tile. Then another.
Marcus' breath came faster.
What did I do? Did I do something? Did I look at him too long? Did I look suspicious? How do you look suspicious in a bank? I’m seventeen, I look like I still need permission to use scissors. I do need permission to use scissors. Oh my god—
The man kept coming.
Marcus' fingers curled helplessly against the floor.
Please go away.
Please.
Oh fuck he’s still coming.
Oh fuck.
A hand seized the back of his hoodie and yanked him upright so fast his vision flashed white. He made a noise—half shout, half gasp—as he was hauled backward into a hard body he hadn’t even realised was behind him.
Not the man in black.
Someone else.
A second robber.
Marcus twisted instantly, panic firing through him so sharp it felt electrical. “No—get off—”
An arm clamped across his chest.
He lashed out on pure instinct.
His elbow drove back and connected with ribs. The man grunted. Marcus kicked down hard, caught a shin, then stamped on a foot with everything he had. Somebody swore viciously in his ear.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t skilled. It was blind, frantic fighting, all sharp angles and terror.
But it was something.
“Fucking little—”
Marcus tore one arm mostly free and swung wildly. His fist connected with the man's jaw—a glancing blow, badly aimed, but solid enough to snap the guy's head sideways.
Oh, Marcus thought, shocked. I hit him. I actually—
For one insane second hope surged.
Then a fist slammed into his abdomen.
All the air left him.
Every bit of it.
Marcus folded with a strangled sound, body caving inward before he could stop it. Pain burst hot and sick through his stomach, not sharp at first but deep, ugly, instantly weakening. His knees buckled.
No breath.
He couldn’t breathe.
He tried and nothing happened.
A hand shot under his chin and jerked his head back hard.
Marcus choked.
His throat stretched painfully. The position forced him upright even while his body still wanted to curl around the hit to his stomach. Tears sprang to his eyes at once, half from pain, half from sheer lack of oxygen. His mouth opened uselessly, dragging for air that still wouldn’t come properly.
The robber behind him tightened his grip just enough to make the threat clear. “Be a good boy,” the man snarled in his ear, breath hot against Marcus' skin, “and fucking behave.”
Marcus went rigid.
The pressure at his throat was intimate and absolute—a thumb digging into the soft hollow beneath his jaw, fingers splayed across the tendon, the heel of the hand pressing against his windpipe. Not enough to crush. Enough to remind him it could.
Marcus's hands spasmed at his sides. He wanted to claw at the arm, to fight again, but his lungs were already burning, and the man had proven exactly how little his struggling mattered.
The hit to his stomach throbbed in dull, sickening waves, and every instinct screamed at him to curl inward, to protect the vulnerability, but the chokehold kept him stretched tall and exposed.
A hostage three feet away—a woman with greying hair and a grocery store uniform—met his eyes. She looked away immediately, pressing her face to the tile.
No one is coming, Marcus realised, and the thought tasted like copper. No one is going to save me.
"Please," he rasped, the word barely audible, scraped raw. "I don't—"
The hand tightened. Just a fraction. Marcus's next breath died in his throat, and his vision sparked at the edges, black creeping in like ink in water.
"I said," the man murmured, almost conversational now, the snarl smoothed into something worse—patient, amused, bored, "behave."
Marcus went still.
Someone was crying near the teller counter. Soft, hiccuping sobs. Marcus focused on the sound because it was better than focusing on the hand at his throat, the body pressed against his back, the gun he could now see holstered at the man's hip—black matte, deadly casual.
The leader of the operation, the one Marcus had punched, was watching them. He touched his jaw where Marcus's fist had connected, and his mouth twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"Keep him there," the leader said. "He's got spirit. Might be useful."
Useful, Marcus thought, and his stomach rolled with a new, worse fear. What does that mean? Useful for what?
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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The issue of power dynamics and adjustments after Jeff's return opens infinite possibilities (for angst). Jeff's idea of picking up where he left off might be less simple or even feasible. Scott literally spoke in my head through this one and John chimed in. Jeff gets an earful and needs to think.
Many thanks go to @janetm74
IN STRIDE
"May I remind you, Bluejay, I built the whole gig from the bottom up! I know how it operates. There's no need for triple reporting - it's a waste of time!"
"With all due respect, you don't, Dad."
"Excuse me?"
"You don't know how IR operates. Not anymore. You weren't there."
"Through no fault of mine!"
"True. It was MY fault. I take full responsibility. You weren't there when I negotiated new parameters with the GDF and the World Council. I was not the First Man on Mars they could trust implicitly. I was NOTHING to them. I realize I'm nothing beyond your shadow, but that's not the point! You were GONE, Dad. Uncle Lee left. Kyrano resigned. Aunt Val got promoted. There was no active duty GDF officer on the IR roster anymore. There was NO roster till Virgil and John completed training and Gordon graduated high school. I'm still a downed washout for your old buddies in the Airforce. I can live with that. But I will NOT jeopardize what IR is now, the reach and freedom we're given on the off chance the GDF brass will extend you the benefit of the doubt unconditionally again. You were on six IR missions total, Dad. Zero failure rate. The triple reporting is what keeps us in the game when the worst comes to the worst. Without it we wouldn't be allowed to lift off the ground. It keeps the boys and Kayo safe from liability!"
"But not you?"
"That's part of the deal with the GDF. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"Scott!"
"Dad, don't. Let Virgil handle it. Trust me."
"How bad?"
"When?"
"There's a scale?"
"Oh yeah, Dad! You have no idea!"
"I obviously don't. Okay, then. Right after?"
"Right after you were gone? Nosedive."
"Oh..."
"The stocks plummeted, the markets were in shambles, the Board all but rioted. Scott had to hold that up - at a point we didn't have the extra funds to run IR anyway. Then there was the GDF issue. They tried to strongarm Scott into handing the Thunderbirds and the Base over, instead of appointing operatives. Scott refused. We stood down for a couple of years. There were issues with the Tinies' custody anyway. The island was deemed "inaccessible to child services". Scott was needed in NYC and Alan stayed with him through middle school. It was better for Gordie's Olympics training to be Stateside as well. Virgil finished up his degree and I was in England, prepping for the ISA stint."
"And then?"
"Dad, you alright? You seem pale!"
"I'm okay, Johnny. Go on!"
"Well... then the waves settled a bit. The company was not belly up anymore, on the contrary. Scott got a hang of it. We could fully fund IR without the Global Council or GDF input, including launching Five. Virgil and I were fully trained. Once Gordie won the medal we had a specialized Aquanaut too. Kayo finished school and Kyrano sent her over to supervize security. Brains was on board. Scott fought tooth and nail for the Big Wigs to let him helm the op independently. Like he just told you - we still needed to make concessions on reporting. I'm not gonna lie, Dad, they ARE keeping Scott in a chokehold. The hardest part was to convince Scott to pull Allie into homeschooling. He wanted the kid to have a normal life. We tried launching from Gran Roca, but the island is just so much more suitable. So to keep the child services off Scott's back we asked Grandma to move in. You know the rest, more or less. The Hood came back, we found the signal, then we found you."
"I need to talk to Scott!"
"You do. But not right now, Dad. Let Virgil deal with him first."
"That happens a lot?"
"We got our routine."
"So you're wrangling your Old Man?"
"Maybe."
"I left a mess behind, didn't I?"
"You're back now, Dad. Talk to Scott. You both need it!"
my oldest cat is too self conscious to play toys but sometimes he'll post up next to one in a way that's very deliberate and possessive and he'll mournfully contemplate it for a while
he cringes when I blow catnip bubbles for the other cats but one time I caught him batting at the leather fringe on my thrifted motorcycle jacket and I don't think he's ever recovered from the embarrassment
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New Hampshire Audubon is looking for a project coordinator for their next Bird Atlas: a full survey of the state's birds, not done since the state's first atlas in 1981-1986. The NH second atlas will be carried out in tandem with Vermont's third.
Passing along in case any random Tumblr birder happens to have the expertise needed to lead this 5-7 year project. Application deadline July 19, 2026.
Jun 10 - NH Audubon hiring NH Bird Atlas Coordinator in Concord, New Hampshire on Conservation Job Board. Discover the latest conservation j
I don't see anyone talking about it on tumblr yet, but forums.rpgmaker.com is going down on June 18th and being deleted entirely in December.
If YOU use any RPG Maker engines or are considering using one, YOU should let them know that we don't want decades of RPG Maker support and history taken down. Especially when the intention seems to be discouraging people from using older versions. I personally still use RPG Maker MV because privately made MZ plugins are often made with AI, and the more recent RPG Maker versions they've released are Unity plugins and not their own seperate program, and I'm not interested in Unity at all.
Let them know you want an archive here:
Welcome to RPG MAKER GUILD
Today, we're excited to announce the launch of RPG MAKER GUILD, the new official RPG Maker forum operated by Got
And contact the admins on the new forum:
The Official Community for Gotcha Gotcha Games Products
The scammers on AO3 seem to be upping their game - now their comments may actually relate specifically to the story. Otherwise the comment follows the usual formula.
On top of this, this is a registered user, which means I can't simply mark the comment as spam. I'll have to manually file a report.
What really galls me is that they must've fed my story through genAI to get relevant commentary.
OP, I know these are two different realms, but this is exactly like the spam I've been getting to my author email. Just swap out a specific fic for a specific book and the wording and tone is exactly the same. (Only the spammer signs off asking for you to talk to them about marketing, not commissioning art).
I don't even have anything useful or insightful to add, just that its so freaky seeing this pop up on my dash. I hate this kind of bot so much, because its so fucking disheartening and you end up feeling gross that they've fed your work into AI to generate this trash.
My coworker had managed to catch 3 out of 4 kittens that a neighborhood semi-feral popped out 5 weeks ago. So now they are at work to be tamed and found new homes.
tumblr staff will not contact you through anything other than email or their official accounts, which will all have this badge:
DO NOT ENGAGE WITH THIS OR SIMILAR ACCOUNTS AND ABSOLUTELY DO NOT CLICK ANY LINKS FROM IT.
report and block. i'd also appreciate it if you shared this post, bc that blog was JUST created and was already tagging a LOT of people, and i know not everyone has the scam-sensing instinct, even if this might seem obvious to some.
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I find it deeply meaningful that Dick and Jason physically resemble Bruce—that his eldest sons inherited his blue eyes and black hair. That even though Dick and Jason aren't related by blood, they still look alike in subtle ways, sharing mannerisms they’ve picked up from Bruce over the years. Somehow, they resemble their father, even if they often deny it.
They frown just like him. They’ve inherited his taste, his habits, even some of his catchphrases. And I think there’s something equally beautiful in how Tim and Damian take more after their mothers physically. With Tim, it’s canon, as far as I remember, and with Damian it depends on the artist—but I like to believe that, in truth, Tim and Damian are their mothers’ spitting images. When you look at them, you don’t see Jack Drake or Bruce Wayne. You see Janet Drake and Talia al Ghul. There’s something quietly poetic about that.
And then there’s Cassandra. So much of her mirrors Bruce—physically, psychologically. She frowns like him now. She mimics his expressions, unconsciously. Over time, it’s as if all of his children, the ones he adopted and the one who came into his life already a child, began to reflect parts of him. Whether they like it or not.
Maybe that’s what gets to me—the thought that when Bruce looks at his children, he sees pieces of himself. That maybe, at one point, it hurt because of everything they’ve been through. But now... maybe now he just smiles when it happens.
Perhaps that’s why I love writing Jason as physically resembling Dick—because despite everything, they are brothers. In every way that matters.
Just curious, anybody fans of both the pitt and leverage? Cause Eliot and Jack both have military backgrounds. They are both similar ages. I don't usually like to do crossover pics but this one would just make sense
(also wow that Harry Wilson guy really looks familiar....)
