#armored-sedan
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ever since getting that S-rank on Sea Spider with the Pile Bunker I’ve been bringing it into every mission just in case. Seeing it just chunking a boss that’s been giving me the business for over 20 attempts was like falling in love.
And honestly it usually doesn’t work out because the pile bunker is a very specific weapon for very specific situations where it shines (enemies that get close and are easily staggered or are so huge getting close and blowing a hole in them is easy) and if i want to bring a melee weapon in my build the starting energy sword is good enough but if I did that I wouldn’t have the option of Pile Bunkering people!
Ayre: “Raven, this mission involves a very fast opponent that very quickly recovers their posture whenever they get staggered, chances are the Pile Bunker won’t be of much use for you here.”
Hound 621, hugging the pile bunker: “but i like the pile bunker....”
#armored core#armored core 6#screw the meta i wanna stab people with an explosive metal stake the size of a family sedan
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1312 ACAB - [1/4] Hobie Brown x Punk!Reader
(genre : angst/hurt, comfort)
scenario: when you're cornered by cops after a protest, you find a familiar face in an unlikely place - in the form of one Hobie Brown.
tw: descriptions of police brutality, violence, and facism,
The full series will contain descriptions of facism, as well as depictions of police brutality, violence, and a healthy amount of cop-bashing.
a.n: this fic is out for all the poc and minorities rn, of all types :) proceed with caution, because I did not want to take this lightly, thxs
[chap-2]
_______________________________________________
You could still feel the sting.
The burn of tear gas wasn't really something you could blink away. It wasn't something you got use to. It hurt everytime.
And that's why they kept using it. But the protests wouldn't stop.
Eventually, you all were going to win. Eventually. But for now, London seemed unrecognizable. A miserable hell-hole and a shell of it's older self.
Two years ago, Parliament had been dissolved overnight. Not long after, the Prime Minister took to TVs to declare himself 'President-for-life' - the making of a dictator.
Before that, politics had been at a stand-still, a stalemate for months. After it, everything changed.
First, it was the curfews. Then the censorship. Soon the courts were handing out prison sentences by the dozen. And after a while, people just started to disappear, no trial at all.
The surveillance got tighter. The police got more armored. And the curfews got earlier. But the protests didn't stop.
You all didn't believe in giving up.
Your feet ached from the marching and your throat felt raw from the chanting.
You could still feel the sting in your eyes. The protest had gone on at Piccadilly Circus, a thousand people protesting for the end of state surveillance and the right to vote - a privilege that had fallen with Parliament.
Anyone there knew that it would end in violence, because it always did. But you still turned up, even if it meant you'd have to take the worst of it, or even if it meant you'd walk home alone.
After curfew.
When the curfew had hit at 11, the police had started to clear the square the way they always did. The way they liked to most - fear and violence. First with tear gas, then when that didn't clear you all, rubber bullets. And if they were really enjoying themselves, they'd bring their buffed up mutts.
Tonight had been a frenzy, nearly a protest turned riot. The only one who had stopped it was Spider-man. And because of him, you'd been lucky enough to leave with your life and only the sting to remind you. But luck wasn't something you could run on in London these days.
The streets were deserted, every one locked inside their homes until sunrise, and this late after curfew, the walk home seemed excruciating. Walking down the curving streets of London's East End, you couldn't tell what's louder - your footsteps in the silence, or your heartbeat in your ears.
You know the precautions. You always walk with your hood up, and you never take the same way home - and even now you can tell you're close, if only a km away.
You wonder if it'd be worth it to run the rest.
You hit the intersection and took the last turn towards home, turning down one of East Ends' rougher streets.
Though as soon as you do, you stopped, your shoes planted to the concrete. It's as if your body could tell something was wrong.
And there was.
The street isn't empty, and you aren't alone.
At the end of the street, you could make out the shape of a car. Parked, headlights off.
It's a basic make. An average black sedan no more than ten years old. It's not new, but it looks untouched - out 4 hours past curfew. And it's parked at the end of the street, turned towards you. Headlights off, but idling.
When you look down, you see no license plate. It could only be the cops.
'Fuck.' An undercover patrol.
You immediately about-face and walk the other way, away from your flat. You walk back the way you came, out of their line of sight, but it's too late. You know it is, you know they'd seen you before you'd even seen them. You knew this for sure.
You didn't need to look back to check. Behind you, the headlights came on, and you could already hear the tires on the asphalt.
You speed up. Your heartbeat sounded louder than your footsteps.
The sirens kick on. The sound is piercing in the silence, the red and blue lights illuminating the dark street as the cruiser pulled around the corner.
Finally, you break out into a run. You could still feel the sting in your eyes and the pain in your muscles, but you booked it as fast as you could, as the engine of the cruiser revved.
You worked your legs as hard as they could go, the sirens getting louder and louder behind you as your lungs struggled for air. You were terrified to look back at the cruiser, at tripping up even a little, so you didn't try at all. The cops were shouting out the window. You just keep going.
Until, someone grabs you, and pulls you right off your feet.
Two hands reached out to grab you, one on your arm and the other on your bag, and they yanked you to the side, into the darkness and safety of an alleyway.
The cruiser went flying by. Soon, the sirens began to fade in the distance.
You let out the breath you didn't know you were holding. Your knees buckled from exhaustion and adrenaline as the alley faded back into darkness, the only sound being your heavy breathing.
Without thinking, you pressed your back to the brick wall, sliding down to sit on the ground, as your breath finally evened out. For a second, you almost forgot you weren't alone.
"Oi. Fights not over, love. Can't stay here."
The voice across from yours is calm and deep - and cockney, surprisingly.
"Fight's never over, is it?" You asked, sighing in both relief and frustration as you rested your head against the wall, eyes closing as you fought off the threat of a migraine.
And when you open your eyes, their laces are blue. The sight brings a smile to your lips. You kicked their boot with the toe of your own spiked boots, taking the hand that'd been extended towards you.
Combat boots and blue laces, a heavy accent and out past curfew. Whoever it was, they had saved your ass. So you figured they were an ally, a comrade even.
But when you looked up at them, you realized they were a lot more than that.
They were handsome - and they were someone you knew.
"Hobie?" you asked, eyes squinted in skepticism. The guess was a shot in the dark, but something about the name felt right, even in the haze of your drunken memories.
"You say that like it's a question." He asked, pocketing his hands. And he made sure he kept his voice low in the narrow alleyway, words barely above a whisper. "You asking me or telling me?" he said, and when he grinned, you were sure it was him. It had to be.
"Hobie - Is that your name?" you asked, head tilted as if you were suspicious. In the small gap of the alleyway, he was practically leaning over you, even without meaning to. And the boots didn't help.
He snickered.
Hobie turned away, heading deeper into the darkness of the alley, away from the main road. And you watched him, before giving in and following. He seemed to know where he was going.
"Depends on who's asking." he said, clearly amused. Hobie about-faced to turn towards you, walking backwards as a grin grew on his face.
"I know you? 'We've shagged before?"
You scoffed. "Well, no." You said, fighting urge to roll your eyes. "'Hobie' was just the name the bouncer was yelling at you when your arse got thrown out of the pub last weekend. Not that I expect you to remember that." You said. "You were plastered."
Hobie stopped, and so did you, and he rested his long arm on the brick wall, blocking your way. Up close, you could see the tiny '1312' pin on the lapel of his vest.
"Must've been some other Hobie." he said with a shrug, and within seconds of knowing him, you could tell when he was taking the piss.
"No. I don't think so." you assured him, and his grin grew, as if he were happy to be challenged. The expression only makes you more convinced.
"Why?"
"I don't know. You just look like the type to beat a skin-head's arse." You said, crossing your arms in front of him. "Am I right, Hobie?"
For a second, he didn't say anything, neither of you did. And then he chuckled, biting his lip at the edge of his lip ring.
You were right.
"Alright then." he said. "Maybe I am that Hobie."
Hobie hadn't gone out Saturday with the intention of bashing in facist skulls, but somehow, it always came to that. That seemed to happen when you were black, queer, and punk.
That had been your first impression of him. A couple nights ago at the pub, Hobie punching the shit out of a guy who had dared to turn up with a pair of SS lighting bolts on his jacket. Hardly a fight, it had mostly been an ass-kicking. A well-deserved one at that. All your friend had told you was that his name was Hobie, and he was the lead guitarist. Guitarists were always trouble.
"Glad I made an impression." Hobie said, happy with himself, before turning the topic from him to you. "You shouldn't be out here."
"Says the bloke who punched a nazi. Since when do you care about the law?" you asked, ducking under Hobie's arm as you continued down the alleyway. And now it was Hobie's turn to follow you.
"I don't." he said. "Also as far as I'm concerned punching the d*ck head was a civil service. And so was saving your arse. Which, you're welcome by the way. You looking to make it home?" he asked. "You're not gonna make it on the main roads."
"Figured that." you sighed." Then exactly how are you planning to get home?" You asked him as behind you, you heard Hobie stop again.
"I'm not." he said. "I'm heading somewhere better."
You scoffed again, turning around to face him. "Question: You get off on being painstakingly cryptic all the time, or is that just with me?" you asked.
The two of you were standing under a light in the alleyway, aged and yellowing, a loose bulb dangling weakly above a stained green door in the brick wall.
And as he leaned against the wall, as if he had no place to be, you could see Hobie wink at you.
"If I answered that I wouldn't be so crytic now would I?" he said, lips tugged into a smirk. "You coming?"
You're standing in an alley, 4 - maybe 5 hours after curfew. And you can't imagine what he means. "Coming where?" you ask, finally.
Hobie stood up straight, and he grabbed the handle of the door, giving the knob a yank. And with ease, the heavy metal door popped open with a clang.
"Like I said. Somewhere better."
You watched him as he sung the door open, heading inside the building and leaving you there in the alleyway. Through the doorway, the place is dark, Hobie's heavy boots echoing on the floor.
You hesitate, and his footsteps stopped. He's waiting for you. "Promise there's something in it for you." he chuckled.
Maybe there was. So you headed inside.
_______________________________________________
Hey hey pls tell me what you think ok bye bless up
im really curious on if i got hobie right so plllss tell me what u think of his characterization, also I’m not bri’ish so pls say how you liked the slang thankksss
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[chap 2]
#spider punk#hobie brown#spiderman#hobie brown x reader#hobie brown x y/n#hobie brown x you#hobie brown headcanons#atsv hobie#across the spiderverse#marvel#spider man: across the spider verse#marvel comics
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On 28 February, 1997, Larry Phillip Jr. and Emil Mătăsăreanu entered the North Hollywood Bank of America, Los Angeles, California. They were armed with two Norinco Type 56 S rifles that they had converted into fully automatic, a fully automatic Norinco Type 56 S-1, a semi automatic HK-91, a fully automatic Bushmaster (M16) XM15 Dissipator and approximately 3,300 rounds of ammunition.
The two men were also somewhat prepared for the aftermath as they were wearing bulletproof vests and homemade body armor. They also manufactured a bomb and placed it in their car to destroy any evidence. The two men had prepared for this moment, even monitoring police transmission to estimate how long it would take them to arrive to the bank once called.
However, they hadn't prepared for the scenario which unfolded. As they were entering the bank, two LAPD officers spotted them and called for backup. Phillips and Mătăsăreanu forced the patrons and staff to the ground as they ordered the manager to open the safe; they left with $303,305.
Outside, a number of officers had positioned themselves behind their cars with their weapons drawn and facing toward the bank doors. When Phillips and Mătăsăreanu exited with their loot, they engaged in gunfire with the officers, whose arsenal and armor could not compare to that of the bank robbers.
A number of officers and civilians were harmed in the gunfire which lasted approximately eight minutes before Mătăsăreanu jumped into their white sedan in an attempt to make a getaway, urging Phillips to do the same. Instead, Phillips retrieved a HK-91 from the trunk of the car and continued to fire at the surrounding officers.
After suppressing the officers, Phillips made his way to the passenger side of the car but was stopped when a shotgun blast penetrated his wrist. He responded by backing away from the car and ensuing in more gunfire. The SWAT team, who were more prepared, arrived 18 minutes after the initial gunshots.
By now, the tyres of the sedan had been shot out and Mătăsăreanu and Phillips were separated. Phillips continued to fire at authorities and was shot in the hand, causing him to drop the gun. He picked the pistol up and shot himself under the chin; as his body slumped down, he was shot in the back of the neck.
Mătăsăreanu on the other hand, attempted to carjack a car just a few blocks from where Phillips had died. Unable to start the car, Mătăsăreanu took cover and shot at authorities. Noticing his legs were unprotected by armor, authorities shot at him from underneath the car, shooting him over 20 times. Mătăsăreanu died on the ground due to the trauma.
Mătăsăreanu and Phillips had fired approximately 1,100 rounds in what became infamously known as the North Hollywood Shootout. The shootout was aired live on television.
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1930 Cadillac V16 Armored Imperial Sedan.
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1937 Cord 812 Armored Beverly Sedan, the only armored Cord ever produced.
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If this Hakuchou could tell stories, they would fill a library. This motorcycle was my flesh and blood for years. I had other bikes for stunting, yes, but this one was my daily driver as nothing could match its speed. My friends even raced me with helicopters, following the same courses Forza Horizon style, and it was neck-and-neck every time. What really made the Hakuchou so engaging was that it lived and died by its wheelie. Unlike a car that merely had a gas pedal, the Hakuchou made use of an intricacy of the game engine to go much faster by popping a wheelie, making it almost like a turbo boost. Learning how to read traffic and keep that boost active as much as possible was a game unto itself, which made seeing those 170+ MPH numbers on the speed challenge leaderboards all the more satisfying.
The armless era was a formulative time in my GTA character's career, and I earned a bit of infamy among our crew for rocking the gimmick so hard. It was only proper that I had a car to represent it. This Coquette Classic used a glitch that made the entire rear half of the car completely invisible, aside from the exhaust pipes and taillights, making it the perfect candidate to match the invisible arms meme. it always got smiles, chuckles, and headscratches whenever it showed up at the downtown car meets.
This Fugitive here was my very first car when I began playing GTA on the PC. I still love it to this day. It may not be flashy or conventionally appealing, but loud and gruff V8 sedans are my weakness. Eight years later, she's still shining and purring just like she did when I picked her up off the streets.
The first car I ever bought in GTA, all the way back on Xbox 360 in October of 2013, was a Voltic. The car itself was lost to bugs in the transfer process, but its spirit lives on through this second model. I didn't drive it often after migrating to PC, but the hours upon hours spent racing to earn the money to buy the original will always stick with me.
In a similar vein, this Ruiner symbolizes the first car I ever owned in GTA. The Ruiner was my main car in GTA IV, so when I saw it in GTA V and Online, I flew right back to my old baby. This one was added to the collection shortly after I started playing on PC and it has all the mods I missed out on on 360, like the crazy Shakotan exhausts and exposed intercooler. It's fun for me to compare it to the other Ruiners in my collection and see how much my tastes have changed.
Poetically, my GTA career was bookended by Ruiners. One of the vehicles that released as things were winding down was the Ruiner ZZ-8, and I was delighted to see it because I've got an equally soft spot for fourth-gen F-bodies. The ZZ-8 leaned a little closer to the Firebird with its snout and beehive taillights, but it wasn't too hard to doll it up to resemble a Camaro with the '97-'98 factory Bright Purple Metallic paint. As long as I don't have to change the spark plugs myself, I'm happy.
Normally I don't really dig the small and cute cars, but the modern Fiat 500s are charming to me, especially with their take on dog dish wheels. I tried to customize this Brioso R/A to look like one, but those unremovable carbon skirts put the kibosh on that idea. You win some, you lose some.
The Schafter V12 was already an amazing car, but they released an armored version at the same time with almost identical performance. I couldn't help buying both and giving the armored one a more subdued look to contrast the regular version's bold white. It wasn't quite as stable as the Baller, but the extra protection nonetheless came in handy more than once.
Since the game never had a '72 Riviera, I had to cope with a '65 in the form of the Buccaneer. This one has an unpurchaseable worn paint finish with a crew color glitched into one of the fields in order to keep the classic look while resembling some Rivieras I've seen photos of.
The Rocoto is one of those unassuming street cars I had to pounce on once I knew what it was based on. Volkswagens are mostly alien to me, but their cars from the 2000s with luxuriously oversized engines like the Phaeton W12 and the Passat W8 make me absolutely giddy, and the Rocoto is related to the first-gen Touareg which had the option for a V10 turbodiesel. It wasn't quite as fast or as torque-loaded as its VW analog, but it was close enough to tick the boxes for my obsession.
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RANGER, Chapter 9
Beginning | Previous | Next
He called himself Aphid. At this point, it was the only name and identity that mattered to him. In another life - but the same body, there had been another name. Something comically royal.
I could tell you all about his tragic backstory, but Aphid wouldn’t like that. You see, Aphid is special. Having spent far too long within the park, he is starting to piece together the narrative of this whole adventure - but only as long as he doesn’t look too hard. To him, this grand story is visible only out of the corner of his eye. It’s best we don’t push him by pulling painful memories out of his mind. Not yet.
The insect-named man had been in the park for nearly 10 years. He had been part of an illegal infiltration of the park by the Algerian military, and his force had been reckless and doomed from the beginning. All of them were now either dead or scattered - with no desire to reconnect via seance or visitation.
From his original infiltration in New Orleans, Louisiana, he had drifted gradually and unintentionally westward. In his wake he left his broken equipment and apparel, and with it, the memories of his old life.
His plate carrier had been shredded by what could only be described as a mutant beaver. He left it on the hood of a dilapidated sedan alongside what he recalled to be the face of his first love. It was replaced by a strangely immaculate police armor vest, and the taste of bile-like blood.
His AKM-47 assault rifle had been worn down by a combination of the entropic field of the park, and the poor quality ammunition he had been issued. Eventually, it would barely fire two cartridges before the feeding mechanism would get stuck, and no amount of cleaning or maintenance seemed to resolve the problem.
He left the formerly trusty rifle on a shelf in a completely empty grocery store, alongside the day (but not year) of his birth. It was replaced by a bolt action hunting rifle he looted from a dead survivalist, and the pleading whines of a guilty man.
His boots had stayed with him the longest, though he couldn’t tell you how long. They had, for one reason or another, never changed after entering the park. Even after hundreds of miles of marching, their tread was as deep as ever. They had simply vanished one night, in his sleep. Nothing else had been taken, and no sign of an intruder was left behind. With those trusty boots gone, he left his name - written in the desert sands of Arizona. His boots were replaced by a pair from a shopping mall warehouse, and his name from then on had been Aphid.
He was no longer a soldier, but a Ranger - the widely accepted name for anyone who roams the park for profit or meaning.
Eventually, he reached the Pacific Ocean off of the coast of Southern California. The entire odyssey had taken a little over 6 years (inside). He had taken his time getting here, having picked up many odd jobs and met a wide variety of people both good and bad. He had spent almost 6 months in San Antonio - working protection for a group of scientists studying some sort of “energy spaghetti” on top of a dangerously deteriorated office building.
They were good, smart folk. Aphid had liked them, and they had liked him. He cried when they weren’t around anymore - but he moved on.
He spent four years on the coast of California - living a migratory lifestyle - going wherever the fog wasn’t. Today, the fog was heavy, and he knew he had to get moving soon.
But first, he had to find some material to patch his travel tent, and needed to locate an offering of some sort so the fog would let him leave. So, with his objectives in mind he headed eastwards towards the Point Doom Commerce Plaza.
#in this one we actually get to me actually defining what a ranger is#comedy#RANGER#worldbuilding#novel#original novel#original character#creative writing#writing#world building#alternate history#narration#science fiction#horror#post apocalypse#body horror#stalker#death
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(825) digitime
sitting at a bar
next to the digitime jazz,
my friend from another life
dives into the snack container.
i’ve told him it was $2 for the container
and i get it, that he dives in;
he’s a courier for the government (gangs)
we’re both saving money for rainy days:
back at home i’ll have to tell the girls
to give him a warm welcome:
we were the same once, identical. it’s strange
to see how we diverged.
outside i’ve my mini-sedan, inconspicuous,
while he’s got an armored, but streamlined motorcycle.
of course when we stand he’s got the sequin pants
and me my sparkly shirt (i can’t resist, it’s too beautiful)
#spilled ink#poetry#staygolden#writerscreed#digitime#my dreams continue to be as narrative and logical as ever
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Car Care Equipment Market to Eyewitness Unbelievable Growth (2024-2030)
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"The Dead Don't Wear Pants"
Written by: V Harpoon
Chapter 9:
On the stranger side of the world, Brad W. leans on the edge of the long pier. His coat brushes aside the splinters as he gazes at the moon's reflection. Dayna crawls in his thoughts. Nothing jealous in nature, just the mission. Val is a good agent, his plot armor seems to hold him together. Dayna even more so, yet this sharp something won't leave his guts. In the corner of his right eye, the one imbued with Astral Sight, a faint blue shimmer joins Brad on the floating wood.
Brad glances down at the ghost's nudity. Why don't clothes appear in the afterlife? Most of them are made of things that once were alive, so why not? Because, as Brad thought, God loves a good dick joke. The one beside Brad has a huge hog. It even sways in the breeze. Why? The same reason Brad thought about Dayna. Irony.
Brad: "Phil. How's things?"
Phil moans incoherently.
Brad: "Carol, how's she?"
Phil grunts and drools.
Brad: "You're a chatterbox, Phil."
Phil is missing the upper half of his head.
Brad: "Lucky."
Brad thought of Dayna's soft lips as he huddles in the cold subtle wind and Phil wanders away onto the water. Brad watches the moon ripple around him. One of Brad's eyes can see the magic of reality, while also illuminating everything else unseen. The moon isn't just a pale sliver but a pulsing orb around which a rainbow of aether swirls. The delicate mist that coats the world of death. A mist that the dead cannot see, because of... more irony. Brad tries to shake their last conversation away, but his phone beeps a text and then rings. It's her... of course.
Dayna: "Brad, things are getting stronger. We need you to here quickly. We need an anchor. Something ancient is awake."
Brad: "Hi."
Dayna, sighs: "Sorry. I'm being intense."
Brad: "No worries. It's that serious?"
Dayna: "Worse than Calhoun."
Brad sighs: "Fun. Ok, I'll be there."
Dayna: "I sent you the address."
Brad: "Brass involved yet?"
Dayna: "Soon. I trust you more."
Brad: "Thanks."
Dayna: "Val says to bring the Amulet."
Brad: "I'll make a pitstop."
Dayna: "Thanks, Brad."
Brad: "Anytime."
Brad's flights are expedited, the Amulet of Astro acquired from a corporate base, and he lands at the small airport next to Stonehawk Lake. Val's uncanny ability to heal the story clicks into action. Still, no one is there to pick up Brad at the small airport and Dayna isn't answering. Brad asked about a rental car, got a red sedan, and soon pulled into the parking lot of Hard Egg Diner.
That's when the sky coats black. The wind accelerates and a strange whistling pierces the mix. The air above the diner swirls in a storm of ghosts. A rainbow of colors muted by an evil sludgy mist that whirlpools over the entire lake and mountain. Spirits and ghasts blur as they screech and haunt. A fierce glow of white light bursts in the middle of the diner as Brad reaches the clean glass entrance. His hand still on the handle and holds him.
The strange whistling pierces from the white orb. Brad sees both realities at the same time, but moments pass as he collects himself. In that time he sees his own face in the mirror ahead and the intense gaze in his friends eyes. They were watching a scene that shouldn't be, but is happening. Somewhere in the nexus.
A bronzed, muscular man is bent over and is being penetrated by a human sized monochrome mouse. They both moan, grunt, and whistle with ecstasy. The mouse's cartoon cock slides as the man oozes clear onto the blue runner rug. A whistle and a grunt exchange. Tarzan backs up as Steamboat Willie grips those glutes of tanned steel.
Brad can see that these characters are still in their own dimension, but are on display here. He can even smell the lust, sweat, and even the sweet sting of anal love. Willie pulls out and thrusts balls deep, making a sloppy popping sound. Tarzan moans and strokes himself. They seem to be close to eruption.
Brad closes his eyes and focuses, drawing power from Dayna's Astral Battery ability across the room. She is consumed by the horny actions of unreality. Brad glances at the bright orb and chants words too confidential to write down. Brad closes his right eye and the orb flattens into nothing, like an old TV turning off. The entire diner shakes their heads as they awaken. Val notices Brad first.
Val: "Glad we called backup."
Brad shrugs: "Was lurking around anyway. You should've..."
Dayna: "Things are getting weirder."
Brad: "Weird how?"
Val: "Like the author of this mystery is changing things as they go, not realizing that they're putting us through it."
Brad: "This is one of those cases that we won't remember later, reference, or get a sequel to, because of... reasons, isn't it?"
Dayna, hits the vape: "Beyond these words we don't exist."
Val: "The company motto."
Sheriff M: "Still, people are dying..."
Brad: "Maybe, we can fix that too. How gullible is this mysterious writer?"
Val: "Depends on how you spell it."
Tony: "Are you sure there's a writer?"
Bailey: "Are you sure there's a story?"
Dayna: "Nope. Just a feeling."
Barb stands: "Coffee, dear?"
Brad nods: "Yes, ma'am. Thanks."
Dayna sips hers: "Guess we should start with some introductions..."
Brad W lays down on the hard hotel bed, wearing only his soft black briefs. He thinks about the cartoon skin and that somewhere deep in the jungle. He thinks about his job, his parents, his name, his history, and finally about Jessica B. His lower memory bounces quickly. Brad gropes mindlessly at the hard lump pulsing below the soft black cotton.
The hotel room is warm in temperature and color tones. He's turned the TV on low volume. Lights dance on the ceiling as the audience laughs. The covers Brad lies on are red flannel and comfortable. His thoughts return to Jessica. Her mouth and its lingering flavor. Her eyes watching his satisfaction. Her sounds confiding in him a sense of passion.
Brad wriggles up against the headboard, his thickness rubbing and poking upright. The cotton holds his erection poorly now, but he doesn't mind. He thinks of Jessica and her pert breasts pressed against him. The motion of her anatomy and her short bob hair she ended up hating. He grips his cock and watches a pearl glisten at its tip in the lamplight.
He spits in his left hand, licks the first three fingers, and wraps his warm digits around his hot bulb and tree-trunk hard shaft. The saliva is viscous and just enough. He smooths over his seam just underneath. His shaft pushes back against his grip. The moan of ultimate ecstasy arrives sooner and unintentionally. The want of keeping a sensation cresting, but as Brad strokes himself, his mind is flooded with Dayna, Val, and a stranger they've always known. All the background noise and stories are burning into his mind. He feels like he's always been a part of this. He's the catalyst.
Brad ejaculates like a geyser. He twists and his hand feels along his stomach. A grin of incomprehensible joy from a memory he shouldn't have. The splooge cascades along Brad's body, briefs at his knees, eyes rolled up into a trance, body twitching, mouth foaming, now floating above the bed, strings of semen stretching, now lowering back to the bed, and finally a knocking at the hardwood door. Brad blinks aggressively, trying to return to normal.
He sees the state of himself, hears the knocking, pulls up his briefs, swallows what organic globs he can see, tasting his tangy sweet residue, and then drapes a flannel bathrobe over himself. Brad answers the door, but the biggest question on his lips is "Who the hell is Jessica?" He knows he may never get that answer, but there it sits. Maybe I can ask this stuff to the author, he ponders. Maybe...
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Guard Your Ride: Benefits of PPF for Cars in Noida Sector 11
Are you tired of seeing scratches and swirl marks on your car's vibrant surface? Living in Noida Sector 11, wherein dirt and particles are inevitable companions to your vehicle, it's time to discover the superhero to your ride – Paint Protection Film (PPF). In this text, we're going to delve into the notable blessings of PPF, ensuring your automobile remains a head-turner on the streets of Noida Sector 11.
Unveiling the Shield: What is PPF?
Protective Layer Like Never Before
Imagine your vehicle carrying an invisible armor that shields it from the onslaught of road debris, chicken droppings, and harsh weather conditions. That's precisely what PPF does – it is like a superhero cape for your automobile's outside.
The Visual Elegance: Maintaining Aesthetics with PPF
Preserving the Pristine Beauty
One of the noteworthy perks of car ppf in Noida sector 11 is its capability to keep your car's aesthetic attraction. It acts as an invisible protection in opposition to scratches, ensuring your automobile appears as properly as new for a more extended length.
The Invisible Guardian: Transparency of PPF
See the Protection, Not the Film
Worried about your car searching like it is wrapped in plastic? Fret no longer! PPF is designed to be truly invisible, allowing your vehicle's authentic color and shine to radiate through while nevertheless enjoying the protective blessings.
Battle Against Blemishes: Resisting Stains and Contaminants
No More Stains, No More Worries
Spilled coffee, fowl droppings, or tree sap – common nuisances that could tarnish your car's end. PPF repels these contaminants, making it less difficult to smooth your automobile and maintain its ideal end.
Flexible Armor: PPF's Adaptability to Curves and Edges
Contours Covered, Protection Preserved
Cars are available in diverse sizes and styles, and car ppf in Noida Sector 11 is designed to evolve seamlessly to each curve and contour. Whether you force a sleek sedan or a rugged SUV, PPF ensures every inch is guarded.
Noida Sector 11 Saviors: PPF and Harsh Weather
Monsoons, Summers, Winters – PPF Endures All
Noida Sector 11 stories diverse weather conditions during the 12 months. PPF stands sturdy despite UV rays, heavy rain, and extreme temperatures, offering year-round safety in your treasured experience.
Prolonging Paint Life: PPF's Impact on Resale Value
Invest Today, Reap Tomorrow
Considering selling your car inside the Destiny? car ppf in Noida sector 11 is not pretty much the here and now; it is an investment in your automobile's destiny. The protection it offers translates to a higher resale fee, making it a smart choice for the long run.
Installation Wisdom: PPF Application Process Demystified
From Application to Admiration
Curious about how PPF is carried out? It's a meticulous manner involving cleansing, precision slicing, and careful setup. Professional technicians make sure it a seamless in shape, leaving your automobile included without any bubbles or imperfections.
Cost-Effective Safeguard: Weighing the Investment
Guarding Without Breaking the Bank
Concerned about the fee? PPF is a price-powerful answer in comparison to the ability to paint repairs. Think of it as a coverage policy for your car's outdoors – a small investment now can save you from substantial charges later.
Maintenance Matters: Caring for Your PPF-Protected Car
Simple Steps for Longevity
Owning a PPF-covered automobile does not require unique care. Regular washing and waxing are enough to keep your vehicle looking pleasant. PPF ensures that upkeep is simple, so you can attention to taking part in your rides through Noida Sector 11.
Conclusion
Drive Confidently, Drive Beautifully
In the bustling streets of Noida Sector 11, in which your vehicle faces a myriad of demanding situations, PPF emerges as the unsung hero, retaining its splendor and integrity. Embrace this defensive layer, and permit your vehicle to turn out to be the envy of the neighborhood.
Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)
Is PPF visible on my car?
Yes, PPF is simply invisible, permitting your car's authentic color and shine to show via.
How long is the PPF final?
When professionally hooked up, PPF can close for numerous years, relying on elements like usage and environmental situations.
Can I deploy PPF by myself?
While DIY kits are available, a professional setup is usually recommended for the most desirable consequences and sturdiness.
Does PPF protect rock chips?
Absolutely! PPF acts as a barrier in opposition to road particles, preventing rock chips and scratches.
Is PPF removal a complex method?
Professional technicians can thoroughly dispose of PPF without unfavorable your car's paint, making the procedure honest.
Guard your trip in Noida Sector 11 – invest in PPF and experience an automobile that no longer looks stunning but also stands resilient towards the factors.
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Fuck you I got bored of waiting ima start writing and you can't stop me
Good soldiers follow orders and you, well your job was to lead a group consisting of yourself and six of the meanest fucker uppers in your company on a black op with almost no odds that any of you would make it back out alive.
The mission? Oh that was simple, infiltrate an enemy compound rescue [REDACTED] and their kid and bring them to [REDACTED] the hard part was that once the alarm was raised the compound has so many gaurds that the only safe extraction method was the same way you got there, an underground tube system that used to be used for sending important packages between installations that hadn't been used in more than two decades. With any luck it'd still work.
You asked why not a helicopter for exfil, that one was shot down pretty fast because the insurgents managed to "tactically aquire" anti air missles
Your commander told you that each pod could carry a lot of weight, his assistant, an analyst who's job it is to know this stuff corrected that each pod can hold up to 1500 pounds bit only in theory due to them only having as much internal space as the trunk of a mid size sedan meaning that exhilarating the vip and their offspring would take the first pod by themselves. The worse news was that there was only one line left running because the return line had been damaged from an earthquake years back so you and your squad would have to wait almost ten minutes for the pod to come back.
The even worse news was that only one of you could fit each trip because during a firefight you wouldn't have time to drop your gear and even if you did you'd need to break someone's leg to be able to get two people in because your squad of genetically modified soldiers are all six feet or taller.
Knowing that the odds of you all making it out was almost zero you said you'd only lead the mission if you'd be the last to leave... nobody objected.
You suited up and the mission was going well, minus the few gaurds with some extra ventilation in their armor. You and your squad managed to get the vips to the exfil point, loaded them in and sent them off.
At this exact moment, during the longest ten minute wait of your life a hostile came around the corner, one of your squadmates ended their subscription to living but... the alarm went off
During the inseuing firefight you fought bravely
Even when your shields started failing you still drew fire from your squad
Unfortunately during your efforts to make sure that everyone you were leading would see their families agian you took a kinetic lancer round when your shields were down
The impact hit you like a truck
That was the last thing you remember
Right now you seem distinctly... not dead in fact you feel weightless
Wait... no you're just in a healing pod
You try to signal to the medic that you're awake but when you try to move you arms they don't respond
They're still there and you can feel them but they feel... odd
It must be some new medi gel formula... what else could make your whole body feel this different yet familiar.
The medic notices that you're awake... wait isn't this place a little barren and has too many mechanical parts for being a normal medbay? Do you need a new arm? The medic grabs a whiteboard and writes something on it, flipping it around it says two words
"I'm sorry"
What? Why would they say that og ll things? Why wouldn't they just say it instead of writing it? What are they sorry for?
While you were busy overthinking the apologies of a medical professional they wheeled a large mirror in front of you, in which you see your reflection
But it's not you... well it is you because it moves its head when you do but that's
That's
Ight breaking the fourth wall here
It's 3:10 am
I'm going to sleep
Remind me to finish this tomorrow
Good-night loves
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Exploring Specialized Armored Vehicles: Beyond Military Applications
In the realm of security and protection, the evolution of armored vehicles has transcended their conventional military role. These formidable machines, initially designed for warfare, have diversified into a spectrum of specialized applications, catering to diverse sectors beyond the battlefield. From law enforcement to high-profile individuals seeking personal security, the utilization of armored vehicles has extended into unexpected domains, reshaping industries and perceptions alike.
Redefining Security Standards
Traditionally associated with military use, armored vehicles have adapted to meet the needs of various civilian entities. Law enforcement agencies worldwide have integrated armored trucks and SUVs into their fleets to handle high-risk situations such as hostage rescues or transporting valuable assets. The robustness of these vehicles not only protects personnel but also ensures the secure transit of critical materials.
Personal Security in the Modern Age
The rise in security concerns among high-profile individuals, diplomats, and corporate executives has led to a burgeoning market for luxury armored vehicles. These bespoke machines blend opulence with cutting-edge protective technologies, offering a discreet layer of security in the form of armored sedans and SUVs. Beyond their reinforced exteriors, these vehicles often feature advanced communication systems and secure compartments, elevating the concept of personal security.
Humanitarian Aid and Conflict Zones
Armored vehicles play a crucial role in delivering humanitarian aid to conflict zones and areas facing high security risks. Organizations engaged in humanitarian efforts utilize armored trucks and transport vehicles to ensure the safe passage of aid workers and supplies through perilous terrains. These specialized vehicles become lifelines, enabling crucial aid delivery in otherwise inaccessible regions, mitigating risks for humanitarian missions.
Technological Advancements and Innovation
The evolution of technology has revolutionized the design and capabilities of armored vehicles. Innovations such as reactive armor, ballistic glass, and advanced navigation systems have augmented the safety and functionality of these vehicles. Moreover, the integration of autonomous capabilities and electrification is reshaping the future landscape, promising enhanced efficiency and reduced environmental impact.
Challenges and Ethical Considerations
While the proliferation of specialized armored vehicles has diversified their applications, it has also raised ethical questions. Concerns about the militarization of civilian spaces, potential misuse of armored technology, and the widening gap between security needs and societal implications necessitate careful consideration and regulation.
Conclusion
The metamorphosis of armored vehicles from military assets to versatile tools across diverse sectors illustrates their adaptability and significance in contemporary society. Whether safeguarding dignitaries, aiding humanitarian missions, or fortifying law enforcement efforts, specialized armored vehicles stand as a testament to human innovation and the perpetual quest for security in an uncertain world. As technology continues to evolve, the boundaries of their applications are bound to expand, reshaping the very fabric of security and protection.
Specialized armored vehicles not only offer protection but also symbolize the fusion of innovation, necessity, and adaptability, making them an integral part of various industries striving for safety and security in an ever-changing global landscape.
https://inkasarmored.com/vehicules-blindes/
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Hes never going out during winter storms on Earth. He's hold his arm his armor dented pretty good..
He got hit head on by a sedan—
#ic post#kinda ooc too#muns plow truck got hit today by an idiot#i am fine#other then i used every swear in the book because of all the paperwork i had to fill out
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hc + 🗡 for a weapon-themed headcanon
Thematic Headcanons.
Coyote's got a bit of an arsenal going for them. I'm even thinking about throwing a pocket pistol to keep in their boot along with the other stuff they've got.
Gun talk below the cut!
Old Timer - An M16A1 which was a very sketchy souvenir their uncle brought home from the Vietnam War. It's even got his initials roughly carved into the stock. It's still got the original sling which Coyote's thought of replacing because it's so old and worn down. This is a gun they can't exactly just bring anywhere since it's a whole assault rifle. This is what they take with them if they're fully anticipating a hostile crowd.
Super Vixen - .500 Magnum Revolver a gun they purchased themselves, totally for bear hunting (they promise). This one's a little harder to hide as well but they have a holster that goes under their boxier jackets so it's under their right arm most of the time. It's entirely stock but they usually load it with hollow points. Getting shot by one of these things isn't pleasant on its own but it's worse when you're getting shot with an expanding round.
Little Man - Glock 19 Gen5 which was gifted to them. They don't consider it to be as impressive as the rest of their guns but it's reliable. The midsize sedan of guns is what they'd call it. This is something that's a lot easier for them to carry around and usually goes in their hip hugger holster. It's not particularly effective against most vampires, this is more of what they'd use against unarmored human targets.
Tusk - A 4 bore big game hunting rifle. Which doesn't belong to them. It's a communal gun hidden in the armory of Tooth & Knave. The barrel on this thing is thicker than their wrist, the round is one inch in diameter, and it's got 200lbs of recoil that kicks them right in the shoulder. Firing this is one will leave them feeling sore for the rest of the night. This is for heavily armored vampire hunters and potentially werewolves, though I think that'd only slow them down for a minute depending how how well they hit them.
"Softballs" - Your average modern hand grenade obtained through sketchy means. Used sparingly since they only seem to hold onto three at a time since they're a pain in the ass to obtain.
"Milkshakes" - Molotov cocktails made in-house with gasoline and packing peanuts. Sticky fire is very useful against a variety of opponents.
#guns tw#playedbetter#//Thank you again!//#⮚ Ring Ring. You've Reached The Stinky Maniac Hotline. (Asks)#⮚ WTF Is A Canon??? I'll Fucking Get You.
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