Thanks for the reminder on plagiarism. I usually reblog your photos directly, so the credit shows, but I went back & tagged the few posts where I hadn't. (My own blog is fiction, so it's a quite different kettle of fish.) Thanks for your work archiving and disseminating these photos and accounts.
Definitely. I’m glad you appreciate the blog. It means a lot.
There’s plenty of photos I’ve found that I would love to post but I can only find them on some forum and therefore cannot be sure of the source, or the information along with them. In those settings, most are not sourced or credited at all.
[ Before we start –– you might be wondering why this is so late. Well:Partly because I forgot about it for a bit, but mostly because every time I remembered it I couldn’t write anything –– I just thought ‘I need to think about this some more’. The worst thing is I feel like I have something established on this topic, I just don’t remember.
TLDR: This is a really hard question. But I cannot let it rot in my drafts forever. ]
Laughing isn’t easy for Raphael. Of course, it depends greatly on what stage of his life is concerned; but I’ll go for the one we RP, during his prime in the military. There are few things he finds genuinely amusing or funny in the first place (some would say he’s got no sense of humour at all), and even then it would not show on the outside. Nothing really shows on the outside with him.Of course, this sort of personality is uncanny, and naturally he is, despite what many believe, very much capable of faking all sorts of smiles, smirks, grins, even chuckles; but not laughter.
It’s a sound that he just can’t rip from his throat, even if he tries; it doesn’t come to him naturally and he doesn’t have any memory of it clear enough to replicate. It’s probably better that way, considering the mental image of him laughing is not pleasant at all –– the same way any comrade’s request of ‘come on, smile for once!’ is immediately followed up by ‘man, never do that again.’
Maybe it used to be easier for him when he was younger, he doesn’t know. Even under the influence of drugs (alcohol or harder), with the tight grip of his self control blown away, hearing him laugh out loud would be a rarity.One could say that by Raphael’s standards, chuckling equals laughing, as it is likely the most one can get.
“(‘▿’ʃʃ” + a test-taking dream, but not in school, not in a classroom. A dream he's back in training, not necessarily basic training but some kinda military training, something he's long since passed in his real life.)
Send me “(‘▿’ʃʃ” + a dream for my muse to have it!
“Look, Will –– what about something like this?”
Raphael turned from where he was inspecting some holes in a wall, casting a glance at the back of his comrade’s head. It seemed like every time they were inside this room, Mickey would take it as a personal mission to try and convince him to buy a car –– surely motivated by the car magazine someone placed on the table months ago.
“No.” he replied before he even knew what ‘this’ was, nevertheless walking past the amused men spread around the place, leaning over the back of the couch the blonde was seated on to take a look at what he had picked this time.“I thought Saab built planes?”
“They do both. So, wh––”
The sentence was never finished, as the door blew open and the room erupted into chaos; lights and and gunfire for mere seconds, followed by complete silence.Raphael was still leaning over the back of the couch, looking over his shoulder to find two new holes in the head of the silhouette target behind him. The bullets no doubt passed a mere inch from his own face, but there was no reason for concern. Everyone in this room, not just the four men with guns now spread out across the room and confirming the ‘kills’, had complete confidence in his own skills as well as those of his comrades.
Mickey closed the magazine and threw it back onto the table.“Well, maybe next time you’ll find one you like.”
He was number three in the four man team, queued up in front of the door, his eyes set on the first in line.I have control. Stand by.A countdown of five seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.Execute.
The door opened, the first man burst through at a full run, threw a flash-bang, turned right. The second man followed immediately on top if him, turned left. Raphael moved up to the door, with a split second of hesitation before entering, moving to the right of the door, immediately engaging the targets in the middle of the room, then worked towards the right. Number four stood to the left of the door, mirroring his actions.It was over in less than three seconds.First number one, then two, positioned diagonally in corners of the room, checked the ‘bodies’ in their areas. Once they were sure it was all clear, they led the ‘hostages’ out of the room and went over everything one more time.
“What about Japanese cars? They’re pretty cheap.”They had no magazine this time, instead there were fake computers, run-down desks, and old office chairs that were a bigger risk to one’s life than the hail of bullets that would descend over them every moment now.
“I wouldn’t even fit inside it.”
“True.”Mickey sighed and leant back into his chair, receiving a dangerous creak in return.“Hey, but what about a motorcycle?”
The door opened, so he didn’t need to respond.
He was number-one man his time, right in front of the door, waiting for the signal.Five. Four. Three. Two. One.Execute.On that word, the door opened, a dimly lit garage waiting behind it. The moment he ran in he threw the flash-bang, recognised the left side as the heavy one, and turned that way. He moved along the wall at full speed, with the corner as he reached it; two bullets into the head, throat or chest of every hostile he encountered on his way. There was no time to double-check whether or not the shots had hit –– he knew they had been spot on, knew exactly where they went before they were fired. The bullet went were one looked. Always.Two dug into the wall just centimetres from his arm. He did not pay them any mind.As he’d reached his position in the far left corner silence had fallen again, Likan was standing in the corner across from him, Yan and Otto by the door.
Otto looked at him and said, “Search.”With his weapon at the ready, he moved through his sector, checking every hostile for ‘signs of life’, always making sure to keep the line of fire clear for the others. After returning to his corner he gave Otto a nod and got back into position, covering for Likan as he repeated the procedure in his half of the room.
He was number two as they crept up over the wing of the plane and bust in through the emergency exit. In front of him Ale turned to move up forward, staying low with Raphael right over his shoulder. One cleared left, one cleared right, like a two-headed, four-legged creature running down the aircraft at full speed; every shot just barely missing the hostages as they found their way into the heads of the targets.One could not aim for any other spot here, heads were all they saw over the seats.
The second two-man team had moved towards the back of the plane.When they were done, none of the 'friendlies’ had as much as a graze on them. There would be no excuse for such a mistake.
“You’ve got a motorcycle license, right?”
Mickey was next to him on the couch, but they car magazine laid on the table, untouched.Apparently the man had lost interest, inevitably, now that everyone knew every car in the damn thing by heart. Still, nobody had bothered to provide something new yet.
“I also have the licence that lets me drive a truck, that doesn’t mean I have to own a truck.”
“Then why do you have it?”
The door opened and something caused him to turn and look, the eyes that had previously graced Mickey with a blank stare shifting to find the gaze of number-three man taking position by the door.It was a face Raphael didn’t recognise. It could be anyone. Their eyes met for the fracture of a second.
weaponiized-humanist liked your post “starter call”
Seldom is he one to ask for help, more inclined to donating any number of his still functional and somewhat healthy organs than degrade himself by having to lower the bar so far. Still, feet draw together before the stranger, some random fellow he had observed passing through from his seat at the diner, exit rushed and waitress left with a suggestion that he’d ‘be back to pay later’ when the blond had no intentions of returning.
A wave of hand is extended before he attempts to approach, though John, in his acute desperation is already setting after the man whether he draws to a halt or not. This is the only soul he’d seen walking around in this backwater town tonight who struck him as the type who might have a fair idea, might be opinionated enough to entertain lines of conversation considered quite blasphemous in the deep south.
And punishable by death in certain reaches of the inferno down below.
“Oi! You there! Got a moment to spare, by any chance?”
It's a pity you weren't here when they finally cashiered Nately. He said he was leaving for R&R but everybody knew. I mean we all expected him to be kicked upstairs but I guess the military did something right for once. He was walking to the jeep, affecting a stroll like all this was nothing. We weren't jeering or mooning him but I guess a certain silence had fallen. He couldn't take it, the silence and the looks. He cogitated a moment and burst out with "Goodbye!" Then he added, "Fuckheads!"
"Doesn't sound like I missed anything."
It likely wasn't worth it to remind the other that –– despite the newly arisen vacancy –– he wasn't going to become a permanent part in their little community, only there to finish someone else's business with no glimpse of the bigger picture. But that was nothing new, he might as well mingle with the men here while he could, even if he might never see them again. Raphael's eyes shifted from the other's face to the bottle in his hands, unscrewing it with a light shrug before lifting it to his lips."There's worse ways of getting the boot." he spoke before taking a sip, 'like catching a bullet' being the part left unspoken. It was nothing Milo would have to concern himself with, anyway. Unless, of course, he ended up sticking his nose down the wrong business –– but he didn't look like the type to try and learn more than he should, did he?
On second glance, it was actually hard to judge."It’s common occurrence, old man.” he finally says, giving Milo a pat on the shoulder before walking past, to see if he could find himself some food to go with that water.“Views change out here. There’s plenty of temptation to go around, too. Don’t follow their example.”
Wed Me. (I don't see our OCs marrying each other, but maybe they could stumble on a wedding in their travels, or yours could tell mine a story about a wedding, his own, or being in a wedding party, or something.)
Leave a “Wed Me” in my ask, and I’ll write a drabble about our character under the subject of wedlock.
Raphael was, and it’s not like he was unaware or denying of that instance, a man of many gifts and talents. But he was also –– and he was not unaware or denying of that, either –– neither talented, nor remotely gifted in the art of communication.
Which, if one knew about that, explained how they’d been sitting next to each other for such a long time without him ever addressing as much as a single word towards the other. If one didn’t know about that, one might assume the soldier simply didn’t want to bother with the old man next to him. One wouldn’t be entirely wrong in thinking that, either.
But mostly this was just who he was, he didn’t mind sitting in silence for what seemed like eternities on end, he didn’t think it uncomfortable. Or at least he thought it less uncomfortable than–––
But then again, he didn’t have this man with him for entertainment. No, this man was here –– probably without being actively aware of it –– because he added to the image. The image he, they, were trying to sell. The image that would certainly benefit from him looking a bit more comfortable, from them looking a bit more familiar.
But if he were to talk, he’d first have to find something to talk about. Something more inspiring than ‘oh, look, it’s a kestrel’ –– if at all possible. And it was a good thing Raphael usually thought at least twice before actually using his mouth –– because else he probably would have opened and closed it at least four times now, without ever actually making a sound.
No, the silence was by far more comfortable than–– –
“So, how long have you been holed up there, anyway?”
– ––Small talk. Ah, yes. By many considered to be one of his greatest weaknesses, outdone only by his inability to read people’s moods, understand their feelings, and deal with children.
“Not that it’s all that bad, but one would think you’d have somewhere better to be.”
It wasn’t really as judging as it could made to be, because in the end it was only, yes, small talk, and Raphael had no actual interest in getting involved in other people’s life choices. Yet it was he only thing he could find reason to talk about, the anthropologist himself, Milo Keyes; for it was the only thing he could manage to muster some curiosity for, the only conversation he could make to sound halfway genuine.
“No family? Wife? Nobody to come after my ass if I ended up letting you die out here?”
He was indeed quite far away from being a smooth and charming partner in conversations, but at the same time he hardly ever actually intended for anything he said to be too straight forward, too personal, or even insulting. Maybe he tended to forget to mention, though, that answers were not obligatory. It went without saying, for him.Maybe he also tended to forget that not everyone was him.
“Married to the job, maybe. Came here to learn a new side to an old relationship?”
The whole time his expression hadn’t changed, he hadn’t even cracked a grin, let alone take his eyes off the road to look the other man in the face while talking to him.But then, finally, one glance.”Well, you’re still alive.. so you must be doing something right, at least.”That’s what mattered, in the end, and that’s what he judged by.
Even though he still had no clear idea about what the man’s job actually was.
🔪+ 10. (If you can stand it; I already owe you a reply though.)
send in “🔪+ a number” for your muse to impale mine with their weapon of choice.
10. ( writer’s choice. )
He wasn’t surprised when the tip of the blade sliced its way through his arm like his flesh was butter, after all he himself had given this knife to Milo for his self-dense –– and there wasn’t a single knife in his possession that hadn’t been sharpened to perfection.
While he was quite aware the man was no trained fighter, and had considered the possibility that giving the man a weapon might backfire, he had thought it unlikely enough to do it anyway. He only reaped what he had sowed.Well, it was only his arm. If anything, he was wondering how someone this old could turn this quickly when startled, paying little mind to the other’s reaction as he merely pulled the knife from his arm without much of a comment.It was his own fault, anyway.
The sharp heat the metal had sliced into his arm dulled quickly, pain never had been an issue to him after all, and he was content enough with finding that he could still move his hand that he’d immediately move on from this incident if it wasn’t for Milo looking at him as if he should say something.
He absolutely had no idea what, thought. Maybe anything would do.
If there was one more meeting of a civilian and their translator says something about them being ‘thankful to be liberated’, Tim thinks he may just blow his or the man’s brains out. By the looks of things, he may be able to convince one of the men to put him out of his misery. Maybe if he sweet talked him. Stalking away is almost second nature by this point, the sand giving way under his feet no longer a hindrance after his multiple deployments. All he wanted was word on where the elders were, who they were to talk to out here. Any information that could be helpful. Instead he got another crock of shit.
“Head inwards, keep your eyes peeled. That’s the best I have to offer.” Tim doesn’t stop for the man helping them. He never really caught what it was for, something about money if the whispers among the lower ranks were to believed. He wasn’t a reporter and seemed to know his way around the men better than one so Tim never actually felt the need to ask. But he still stuck close, knew better than to let civilians of any type out of his sight. Not after the mess that Meesh made. “You know what you’re looking for, right?”
