#leadaspirin

Sleep Headcanon: Kestrel irons his bed as if it were being inspected every morning, despite the fact he doesn't have to.

Cooking Headcanon: Kestrel is an extremely bad cook. The most advanced meal he has cooked was beans on toast - the bread was black, and the beans were lukewarm.

"Two thousand feet!""Fuck! I'm trying to..." the engine whirred harder and louder, making it more difficult to pull up "...pull...up!". Dust gritted her teeth as her stomach rose into her chest, a taste of bile rising in her throat. Kestrel, who hated air travel of any kind, had already emptied his stomach contents into a little bag at his side, and was cursing colourfully in his native tongue as the ground rose to meet the plane.

Both pilots were pulling hard on the controls to try and level the plane, which had hit an air current which had disturbed the air flow around the wings, sending the aircraft haywire - and in a hellish descent to the ground."Five hundred feet!"Both pilots were almost standing as they wrenched the controls back as far as they could go, and the nose of the aircraft was beginning to rise. An alarm rang out, followed by an ear-piercing klaxon noise"Terrain. Terrain. Pull up! Pull up!".

"One hundred feet!"The pilots were beginning to win cotrol over the aircraft, and the small propeller plane was finally on an appropriate trajectory to land. The plane's wheels came into contact with the earth, and skidded down the runway. The co-pilot switched the engine off, and the propellers began slowing down. The pilot carried out the appropriate checks to stop the aircraft. The plane stopped, leaving behind it a long set of skid marks and odd pieces of fuselage from the bouncy landing.

Dust,

It is with great sorrow that I must announce my departure from the Task Force. This is for reasons that I cannot disclose.

I always considered you a capable sharpshooter, and was glad you spent most of your free time learning what you could from me at firing range. I enjoyed our times together.

Please do not search for me. It will not end well.

Dust hurried; it was fast approaching midnight and the spell would wear off, reducing her to the lowly chambermaid that she was so used to being. In tow, Kestrel was almost running after her, his heart racing and his mind doing flips - he wanted to tell Dust he loved her, as he forgot to do so when the two were dancing only minutes ago.

She hurried down the large stone staircase to her awaiting carriage, Kestrel just caught a glimpse of her getting into the horse-drawn machine. He ran down the stairs when an object caught his eye; it was one of her shoes! It must have fallen off when she was fleeing!

He picked the shoe up, and studied it for a second. He looked up at the carriage that was hastily departing.

Acting on sheer impulse, he launched the shoe at the carriage, and watched it as it arced through the air. With a smash, it blasted through the carriage window and struck Dust in the side of the head. A pained shout and curse came Kestrel's effort, and the carriage door swung open with an extremely pissed-off looking Dust clutching the side of her head, blood seeping from between her fingers.

Like all 141 operatives, Kestrel thinks/knows they're all show-offs who were deemed 'too useful' to end up in the 247. However, Kestrel sees Dust in a different light, and he's not sure what it is.

Kestrel stood under his shade, taking a short sip from the almost-empty water canteen that sat next to him. As Range Master, he had to oversee the firing range every time it was being used - even if one person were to use it, Kestrel had to sit in the RM's stand and observe. It irked him at the best of times, but it was a decent excuse to sit around and do nothing.

A few operatives were on the range that afternoon, and most of them were 247. Jackal was doing...something...to his C8, or X5; Kestrel couldn't remember what it was called. All he knew about the gun was that it was an AR-15 built by the Canadians, and used by the SAS. He remembered the days when Jackal would lecture him on why the C8 was better than an M4 for bout ten minutes solid before Kestrel seized one (Not Jackals, not even the Russian would do such a thing), and smashed it into pieces against a concrete block with one swing. He did the same thing to the AK and scratched the solid wood stock. That was more than enough proof to prove his point.

He looked further down the line, and caught sight of a 141 operative taking a shotgun to a stall. He chuckled to himself as he heard the weapon fire, and the inevitable "Ow, fuck!" of the firer. He jumped to his feet and walked down to the stall, another shot firing off, followed by the same reaction. He arrived at the stall, and noticed the operative instantly"What is it you are having problem with?" he asked, folding his arms as the Australian turned, pointing the shotgun downrange"Nothing." she snapped back, trying to play off her shoulder, rolling it casually."You have hurt your shoulder." he commented, motioning to the aforementioned limb.