Hate to be that person, but WW3 trend on TikTok is not funny at all, especially your stupid POVs. Because no, Jessica from Chicago, you won’t have to hide in the basement to avoid being nuked and no, Kyle from LA, you won’t get drafted to the front lines.
You again missed the whole point and managed to make this situation all about yourself, so I’m going to assure your stupid ass - this war is not going to affect you in any way, but you know who it’s going to affect? Actual people from Ukraine, who are going to lose their lives and be displaced from their homes, just like for the past 8 years.
So congratulations on your stupidity, because it’s not about “I need a way to cope ”, it’s about you celebrating and making fun of other people’s death.
A quick message for all my ex-cult peeps and PIMOs :
This is not the end of the world, I know the media is acting like it and I know how whatever cult / religion you’ve come from or are currently in will be influencing this shocking event for their own gain, but its not the end.
This is not some precursor to a deity committing mass genocide, this is not a divine judgement, this is not a sign from above telling you to come back to the cult.
These are the actions of a mortal human, this is an attack by someone of our own species, this is not the first time it has happened and I doubt it will be the last.
So take 5 minutes to breathe and calm yourself, if you need to, stay off social media or avoid posts concerning the Ukraine + russian conflict, put yourself first and look after your mental health.
If you are in Ukraine, I know words are meaningless especially online but I hope you see this from a safe place, I hope you have enough to get by and I hope you aren’t in any physical pain. If you’re grieving or are scared out of your mind, I’m sorry for your loss and for what you’re going through, I wish I could hug you and support you as much as possible in person.
If you are looking for an emergency exit from Ukraine, Poland will open EIGHT safety points on the border with Ukraine (you will get warm food, medical help and from there you will be guided to safety) in two of our voivodeships: lubuskie and podkarpackie. It is confirmed by the Polish Secretary of State in the Chancellery of the Prime Minister, Paweł Szefernaker.
EDIT: THERE WILL BE NINE SAFETY POINTS IN THE FOLLOWING PLACES: Dorohusk, Dołhobyczów, Zosin, Hrebenne, Korczowa, Medyka, Budomierz, Krościenko and in Przemyśl organized on the train station.
EDIT2: ADDITIONAL HELP FROM MY UNIVERSITY LOCATED IN THE SOUTH OF POLAND (more precisely in Katowice or Sosnowiec):
“Dear!
Members of the community of the University of Silesia!
Today we are all Ukrainians.
Twice in our history we have been deprived of our own state by the aggression of empires, and thus cut off from the sovereign exercise of the rights and values of a free, democratic world. Without this foundation, the real university cannot exist as well.
Our Ukrainian friends, we understand your suffering, we join in indignation and protest against the aggression of the Russian regime, we declare all possible help.
Our community consists of students, PhD students and employees from many former Soviet republics. We assure you that everyone who respects the rights of our community will find peaceful shelter, and good conditions for studying, research and work here. Please, be attentive to anyone who needs help in this difficult time.
For specific activities, Plenipotentiary of the Rector for Aid for Ukraine was appointed (Sylwia Ledwoch, phone number: 573 490 580), to whom you can report both the need for aid, and support initiatives, including the willingness to individually get involved in helping (food collection, support in finding a job or a flat, medical assistance, etc.). Additionally, we are preparing system support for studying and working people from Ukraine regarding education, legal advice, health and psychological advice, as well as support in finding a job or a place to live. You might also be interested in help from our translators and interpreters.
The Student Government of the University of Silesia, the Doctoral Student Government, and the Student Legal Clinic at the Faculty of Law and Administration is at your disposal and declares any help in matters related to studying and residing in Poland.
The letter written by the university authorities was posted in four languages!
SMALL ADJUSTMENT: AUTOCORRECT ON MY PHONE MISSPELLED THE NAME OF ONE VOIVODESHIP: IT SHOULD BE LUBELSKIE INSTEAD OF LUBUSKIE.
EDIT 3:
ALL CONDITIONS ON THE BASIS WHICH YOU CAN ENTER POLAND AND WHAT TO DO BEFORE LEAVING THE COUNTRY ON THE OFFICIAL WEBSITE OF THE POLISH GOVERNMENT IN THREE LANGUAGES:
Reblogging in case someone who needs it, sees it. Please read comments for more information about other neighboring countries’ borders and where and how to enter them.
And now for something a little different. This is a small bit of what I’ve written in this vein, but I’m not sure if I’ll post any more here. Who knows what’s going to come of that declaration, but I thought this little bit could be classed enough as whump that someone would be interested. This is an absolute experiment, a complete rough draft, so know that. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
themes | historic setting, desert setting; descriptions of injuries, descriptions of starvation and dehydration,
~*~*~
Dawn rose with the scent of hot dust. The air still and shimmering, the heat turning up its nose at the early hour. The sun had obliterated the long blue shadows of the mountains before kettles were placed on stoves for morning tea. It was customary in that part of the world, even at such a lonely outpost. A reliable thing, bolstered by spices, overwhelming to the tastebuds of the newly initiated, the unprepared.
Much of Seh Sharwala was overwhelming to the uninitiated. In fact, it was damned unfriendly, especially so to outsiders. It was as if the roads, the mountains, the Throne of Solomon itself conspired to throw anyone and everything back to where they’d come.
Snow-capped mountains thrust skyward, sharp and grey. At their bases, desert bloomed and sprawled out to the horizon in all directions. Winds whipped. Snow piled up on the passes. Sun beat down. Casual viewers and would-be conquerers need not apply.
And yet, the village remained. In much the same fashion as it had for millenia. It had not yet capitulated to the earth around it; had not desiccated, crumbled, and vanished into the perpetual swath of burnt amber. Their predecessors had, it seemed, struck a deal of mutual respect with the landscape around them. A kind of surrender, an understanding to leave one another be, that had lasted from before Alexander and would outlive the foreigners creeping north, their armies, whatever and whoever came after them.
it would certainly outlive the shade stumbling in the distance.
Removing the remains of a Russian tank turret on Tuesday, May 10, 2022 along a roadside near the town of Dmytrivka, where Ukrainian and Russian troops fought in March on the doorstep of the capital city. (David Guttenfelder/The New York Times)
A girl sits inside a subway car, parked in a metro station being used as a bomb shelter in Kharkiv, Ukraine, Thursday, May 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Mstyslav Chernov)
People gather to fill cans with water from a firefighters truck in Lysychansk, Luhansk region, Ukraine, Friday, May 13, 2022. (AP Photo/Leo Correa)
A girl with her grandparents from Lyman ride in the bus during evacuation near Lyman, Ukraine, Wednesday, May 11, 2022. (AP Photo/Evgeniy Maloletka)
Associate professor of Ukrainian literature Mykhailo Spodarets gives an online lesson from the basement of his house, used as a temporary shelter, in Kharkiv, Ukraine, Thursday, May 12, 2022. (AP Photo/Mstyslav Chernov)
Orthodox Sister Evdokia, right, helps Maxim to come up from the crater of an explosion, after Russian shelling next to the Orthodox Skete in honor of St. John of Shanghai in Adamivka, near Slovyansk, Donetsk region, Ukraine, Tuesday, May 10, 2022. (AP Photo/Andriy Andriyenko)
Soldiers with the Carpathian Sich Battalion reviewing drone footage of an attack against Russian forces near the front in the Kharkiv region on Wednesday, May 11, 2022. (Lynsey Addario/The New York Times)
An Ukrainian firefighter works near a destroyed building on the outskirts of Odesa, Ukraine, Tuesday, May 10, 2022. The Ukrainian military said Russian forces fired seven missiles a day earlier from the air at the crucial Black Sea port of Odesa, hitting a shopping center and a warehouse. (AP Photo/Max Pshybyshevsky)
Debris and barricades littering a road on the northern outskirts of the eastern Ukrainian city of Kharkiv on Thursday, May 12, 2022. (Finbarr O'Reilly/The New York Times)
Ukrainian children holding toy guns made from sticks and pretending to operate a checkpoint in a village in the Donetsk region on Thursday, May 12, 2022. (Lynsey Addario/The New York Times)
Universities have closed due to the war. May didin’t want to go home, her desire was to become a doctor, unfortunately this would be impossible for her. However she could work as a nurse instead. Helga was just as sad to return home.
-Come with me, we can do something to help,- May said to her.
The two girls rented a room in a very old and run-down pension, and easily found a job. May became a nurse, as she hoped for. Helga’s got a job in a military equipment factory.
Part II under the cut
At first it was not easy for May. At the big hospital she saw the first wounded soldiers returning from war. Many of them did not survive their injuries. Form time to time she asked news about Terrence, or her brother. Nobody seemed to know them.
-Don’t lose hope,- told one of the soldier to her.
Lately however, May was feeling sick and nauseated. She thought it was because of all that work, and because she was worrying about her loved ones. She often found herself throwing up in the toilet. She tried to be strong. Many young boys were fighting and suffering at the front, she had to to her part.
I told Antonia the news— I have been drafted and am to report for duty soon. “Don’t cry, my love,” I told her. “It is what I must do and as soon as I get back we can continue our lives together. I promise.” There I saw my life laid out before me— serving in the army, coming back home, and proposing to Antonia, then starting a family with lots of children..
“If you must go, Victor,” she said, “I will go, too. I’ll become a volunteer nurse so that I can serve as well and help the soldiers. God willing our paths will cross.”
What a brave and kind girl I was dating! “You’d make a fine nurse, Antonia, and an even better wife someday,” I assured her. Though in my heart I knew I still harbored affection for Lorenzo, looking at Antonia, I saw a future of which I was certain.
This letter is to inform you that your son, Victor Jose Marquez, age eighteen, has been called for mandatory service into the United States Army Corps. Victor is to report to camp for basic training.
Life at the training camp is about what I had expected. There are plenty of men here, including some of my friends and relatives, both younger than me and about my age. Our camp leader is Sergeant Sebastian Garcon, a strict Frenchman newly arrived in the States. (The French have been fighting this war longer than we have.) Adjusting to military life is different, but I cannot help feeling that my father would be proud of me if he knew that I was training to be a soldier now. When I am not socializing with my brothers in arms, I spend the days writing in my journal or working out to build strength. I hope that you and Victor are well, along with his sweetheart Antonia.
“where the hell do you keep on going?” sirius said, glaring at remus from under their long eyelashes. “‘cause i am one hundred percent sure you’re not going only where dumbledore sends you.”
“i’ve told you! i’m not allowed to tell you!” remus’ words were almost a growl. “i’m not in the mood for fucking talking.” remus said coldly and went to their room, slamming the door behind him. sirius flinched.
you always had the upper hand
“why do i only go with the werewolves?” a nineteen-year-old remus asked, trailing off after dumbledore. “why can’t i go with my friends?”
“because that,” the older man looked at remus categorically, leaving no place for discussion, “is where you’re useful.”
“but it’s not fair! i-” remus started.
“no buts. do you remember how much i’ve done for you?” dumbledore cocked one single eyebrow. “it’s the time you pay me back.”
got caught in love and stepped in sinking sand
“maybe falling in love with you wasn’t the brightest idea i’ve ever had.”
remus wondered when did they fall out of love. was it with little steps, something that could have been avoidable, that they noticed just a little bit too late? or did they just wake up one day and decide that they didn’t love each other anymore?
nonetheless, the flame of their love had consumed them entirely. lit up by it, like a match, like a cigarette, and burned until nothing but their ashes were left.
you had to go and ruin all our plans
“i’ll be back soon, sirius. i promise”
“you never keep your promise though, remus, do you?” sirius looked up to their lover tiredly. “it’s all just unkept promises”
packed your bags and you’re leaving home
remus always came back late. and sirius would wait, until they got tired of waiting.
got a one-way ticket and you’re all sent to go
and with every single mission, they started to not be sure if they’d want remus to come back or not.
but we have one more day together
and everything would once come to an end. their love, the war; soon enough, even if they were going to be the ones who lost.
so, love me like there’s no tomorrow
they had very few nights of love left. with the uncertainty of war, never knowing the day you would stop waking up next to the one you loved, and everything going around, they’d have to live life to the fullest. even the little they had left.
hold me in your arms, tell me you mean it
so they’d just love each other.
this is our last goodbye, and very soon it will be over
they never knew how to quite make out the difference between sinners and saints. but when their last goodbye would come, they’d know that neither them, nor their lover, had been either.
I rewatched part of the dream sequence from “Jungle Moon”, and it really paints Pink in a worse light now that everything else has been revealed.
In the dream, Dr. Maheswaran/Yellow Diamond explicitly states, “Yes, I know there’s organic life on the surface [of the Jungle Moon]. It’s an invasion. … You will stick to my orders, and you will destroy them!”
Fast-forward to “Now We’re Only Falling Apart”. Rose says, “All this life that’s been growing wild here on Earth… none of it will survive my invasion. We’re not creating life from nothing; we’re taking life and leaving nothing behind.”
Pink heard Yellow say that invasions inherently bring about destruction. Pink should have known colonizing Earth would entail the destruction of life.
Even if you want to argue that Pink didn’t know about Earth’s organic life (which she should have), she should have known it was a potential hazard. In fact, she did know this, and she went ahead with Earth colonization anyway.
Pink’s realization isn’t treated like a moment of “only now do I see that it’s bad to commit genocide”; it’s treated as a moment of “this is brand-new information, and I wouldn’t have undertaken colonization had I known”.
Now, it’s possible Pearl was an unreliable narrator in “Now We’re Only Falling Apart”. The notion that she was is substantiated by “Can’t Go Back”.
However, I don’t think that’s what the narrative is going for. I think they’re really going for this idea that Pink was just naïve and didn’t mean any harm.
In essence, Pink Diamond went to Earth knowing she might have to commit genocide. She went anyway.
A/N: So about a week ago, i got inspired by thisawesome prompt about pirates by @whump-maniaand@deluxewhump and wrote this little piece! I’d hoped i’d get the inspiration to write a bit more because i do like, but I don’t know if I will, so here it is anyways.
CW: body horror, past abuse, past torture, near-death, drowning, dismemberment (not to the MC), guns, murder
~
Cannon balls exploded through The Galway’s thick belly, flinging lethal shards of wood in every direction. Huddled down with his shaved head clamped between his knees, Indy gritted his teeth and tried not to piss himself.
At first, the noise had been unbearable; the shattered wood of the ship’s leaking sides flying apart, the chest-vibrating explosions of their and the pirates’ cannons, the men’s violent and terror-filled screams, the crack of rifles up on deck and clashing of metal as the rifles ran short of shot and the Navy resorted to steel blades and galley knives. Now, Indy’s ears were thick with ringing and he couldn’t have said what was happening more than two feet away from him, let alone who was winning the battle above deck.
Filmy, debris-filled water sloshed across the filthy boards of the brig’s deck and Indy’s hyperventilating breaths hitched on a hysterical sob. Maybe the Navy and the pirates attacking them would kill each other and both their sorry ships would sink with steady inevitability into the uncaring, thrashing sea.
God wouldn’t be so kind, Indy thought. The sea didn’t care whether it swallowed up a good man or an evil one, a whole man or a broken one, but Indy didn’t dare wish that his sins would be washed away with any such quiet dignity. It would be too much to hope for that the whole ship and its crew would be lost to the sea beds, no-one alive left to tell of what hell he’d been through, or how his will had been so easily broken.
A cannonball ripped a ragged, gaping hole through the ship’s wall at the far end of the brig and Indy screamed into his arm, clamped over his face. The ship shuddered, a giant beast in the throes of death, and Indy wrapped his other arm even tighter around the brig’s thick bars as the deck tilted alarmingly. The sea frothed and churned, soaking him up the waist in icy water, black in the dim light. Indy sobbed, shaking violently as the sea dug its salty fingers into his numerous cuts and set them throbbing like a fresh jellyfish sting.
If the ocean had cared for the morals of the men it took, it would spare Vince, Indy decided as he screwed his eyes shut, his heart thunderous in his ringing ears. And, hell, maybe Rudy would make it too. The cat hadn’t done anything wrong either, Indy thought with panicked humour. Knowing the scraggly, sly beast, she’d managed to find somewhere dry and safe to wait out the battle. Indy only wished that he could slip through these bars and do the same. He’d lost half his bodyweight or more, but the bars were still too closely packed together to let him escape between them. If the water rose further, or a cannonball erupted through the ship’s side too close by, or any one of the innumerable wooden splinters flying around hit him; he was dead and there was shit all he could do about it.
It took a long time before Indy’s hearing returned enough for him to realise that the battle that had been warring up above had fallen quiet. The water was still rising, lapping at his chest and leaving him numb with the chill. It was hard to hear anything from above deck with the slap and shclish of it butting up against the ship’s walls but Indy caught snatches of shouting. His heart drummed against his ribs, as trapped as he was within these bars.
A gunshot ricocheted through the air, cutting through the lingering ringing in his ears, and Indy flinched like a kicked horse. His bruised ribs ached as he jerked backwards, as if he could possibly push himself any further into the brig’s corner.
The sea continued, indomitably, to rise. When it began to slosh against his neck, Indy forced himself up to standing, clinging to the brig’s bars as he sagged against them, giving the keen of an injured animal at the pain. He struggled to balance once he was up, the sway of the ship so much harder to ride out when he was upright and his slick, frozen hands barely able to hold onto the bars. The sea was up to his hips, frigid and angry at being caught inside the ship’s walls, and it roiled with repressed power, growing stronger with every inch it rose. Indy’s face was so cold he didn’t know if he was still crying or if it was just the salty ocean spray, not that it mattered. He didn’t know if he wanted the sea to keep climbing till it closed over his head, or if he still held out on the hope of someone rescuing him.
How stupid was that? All this time and he still had half an eye on the wooden staircase, watching for a saviour that didn’t exist. Regardless, it didn’t matter what he wanted. He couldn’t change anything. If the captain had taught him anything, it was his own utter uselessness.
The sea continued to climb and Indy clung to the bars as he was lifted off his feet by the force of the waves. The ship was groaning under the strain and Indy didn’t know how much longer she would be able to stay afloat with all the holes punched into her sides.
Indy was gasping at the last half a foot of air space between the sea and the ceiling, fully afloat in the churning water, when the sharp clatter of boot heels came from the stair way. Indy whipped his head around, continuing to cling to the brig bars but unable to make himself call out. A wave of water sloshed over his head and, numb limbs flailing, it took him too long to get back to the surface.
Choking and coughing, eyes streaming, Indy yelped when a rough hand grabbed his arm. Instinctively jerking away, Indy swallowed another mouthful of foul water as the waves tugged him back under. He’d lost his grip on the brig’s bars in his shock and, disorientated in the black water, Indy’s lungs burned as he lost track of which way was up.
Strong hands yanked at his arm and this time, Indy grabbed onto them. The terror of drowning was too strong and he found, as he was dragged forcefully back into the gunpowder-filled air, that he still wanted to live after all.
The brig door was somehow, miraculously open, and Indy was towed out of his loathed cage with barely a moment to catch his breath. The sea was almost at the ceiling and Indy didn’t have any chance to see who was dragging him determinedly forwards before the air ran out and it was a dizzying, lung-burning scramble the last few feet through the water to the stairs.
Knocking his knees hard against the wood, Indy retched up salt water and acid as he pulled himself out of the water on hands and knees.
“Move, fucking move,” a gravelly voice barked at him. The hand on his arm roughly tugged him up the stairs and, uncoordinated with cold and breathlessly disorientated, Indy could only try to keep up.
Water seeped through the floorboards of the middle deck and the Navy soldiers’ belongings washed back and forth in the shallow water. There were bodies up here, sprawled prone and leaking blood into the sea like scarlet paint.
“Move!”
Indy dragged his gaze away from the splatter of brain matter across the wall. As they climbed up the stairs to the main deck, he caught a glimpse of the unfamiliar blond hair and broad shoulders of the man in front of him, his scarily large hand gripping Indy’s matchstick arm with enough force to leave a black and blue bruise. Then the incongruously bright sunlight blinded Indy’s eyes, so used to the squalid darkness, and he staggered up into the chaos on the main deck.
Men were screaming, giving furious orders or yelling in desperate pain, and The Galway was beginning to tilt at an alarming angle. Through his blurred eyes, Indy barely recognised her. Her mast was barely there, cannonballs had wrought unfixable damage all across the shot-pocked deck, and the sailors that had previously manned and mopped and run errands and slept and pissed within her walls were now lying in haphazard, bloody piles.
The ship groaned and creaked as she leant alarmingly to port. A severed arm rolled across the deck towards Indy and he retched violently, his ears ringing deafeningly. The wind was cutting up here and it swept right through his sodden, thin clothes, chilling him utterly and leaving him numb and disconnected.
The one spot of warmth – the harsh grip on his upper arm – dragged him along without relenting and Indy staggered after them without conscious thought. When he fell over a body, hitting his knees on the slick with a bone-juddering impact, he was lifted bodily up and thrown over someone’s shoulder with enough force to knock the air from him. As the blood rushed to his head, he let himself hang limp. He couldn’t hear a thing and his vision was swimming with black dots, but he was somehow acutely aware of the drops of water leaking out of his wet hair and falling to the swaying deck below.
~
so there you are *shrug* <3
@whumpthisway I’ve been on a sea-themed whump kick for reasons I think we can all discern and this was delightful
I love the way you used environment to build intrigue!!! and all of the sensory details felt so visceral, so urgent. I really felt the sympathetic claustrophobia of Indy and you really captured the chaos of the scene interspersed with the introspective moments that didn’t feel forced or abrupt at all!!
you have a great gift for writing action - which is so hard! - and it was so realistic how little details jumped out vividly at Indy (like the arm rolling across the deck, oof) highlighting the panicked state of his brain rather than merely showing his thoughts racing. it was so cool that as the action built and built, more details get revealed!!
am very intrigued about poor Indy his seeming sense of self-hatred…his jaded view of things…how did he end up in this brig? I wanna know more…
Author’s Note: hoooooohohoho lads, this is going to be a fun one. It was the most research-intensive out of all of these one shots and I’m pretty proud of it. Please enjoy, and have a wonderful end to your whumptober! (This fic is based on that one part in MoS where Lois arrives on Ellesmere and meets Jed Eubanks, who mentions that he’s read some of her articles from when she was embedded in the 1stD. Lois replies with a light joke about getting writer’s block if she’s not wearing a flak jacket)
Lois didn’t hesitate.
Chief often quoted it as one of her strong points - Lois was always ready to jump the moment she smelled a story in the making, and that lack of hesitation had earned her more than a few recognizable awards in her field of journalism. Then again, Chief often quoted it as one of her weaknesses - Lois had a tendency to throw herself head-first into the insanity without actually thinking about the consequences, and while that usually won her the first page, it also won her front-row tickets to more than a few dangerous situations. Lois was starting to think that this was one of them.
The Planet had wanted a war correspondent in Afghanistan to cover the rising tensions and military progress over there - and Lois Lane, being the stubborn eldest daughter of the illustrious General Lane and a damn good journalist to boot, was the perfect candidate. Not being one for hesitation, Lois agreed immediately.
Within a month, her papers were in order, her kit and camera packed, the oath sworn, and tickets purchased. Things picked up pretty quickly from there, and two weeks later she was in the thick of it - embedded with a company of US First Division troops in a classified location somewhere south of Kabul, Afghanistan with the mission of ensuring village stability in the region. Lois fell into the routine like she’d been doing it her entire life, probably because she had.
Having grown up an army brat, she was plenty familiar with the inner workings of military life. Most of her childhood homes (and there were quite a few of those) had been very close and sometimes even on various US Army bases where her dad was stationed. Following training units around had been a favorite pastime and combat kit was weekend attire - of course Lois would take to wearing a flak jacket like it was a second skin.
Every morning embedded in a military unit was pretty much the same: get up before the sun had even considered it, put your kit on (not forgetting the bulletproof vest, helmet, backpack, water-carrier, camera case, and extra notebook and pens, of course), get some breakfast into you, locate the liaison to find out where Lois was and wasn’t allowed that day, then climb into one of the trucks for a bumpy, three-hour drive out to the nearest Afghan village.
Most, if not all, of the roads in that area were nearly unusable - asphalt would be riddled with potholes, and dirt tracks littered with craters from previously-detonated IEDs (that’s where the usefulness of military all-terrain vehicles came in). The entire region seemed to be made up of nothing but mountains, dirt, dust, and shrubs - somehow it seemed to Lois to be simultaneously both the coldest and hottest place on Earth, not to mention the dustiest and hardest to drive on. Still, the company typically made good time and arrived at whatever small town they were assigned to before noon to spend the rest of the day ‘ensuring village stability’ as the company’s captain aptly put it - it would become a phrase that Lois heard quite a lot during her embedding.
Such ‘stability’ could be ‘ensured’ in a lot of ways. The primary one was communicating with village leaders about the whereabouts of possible insurgents and finding out where outside assistance may be needed in day-to-day operations of the small town. This typically involved transporting water, screening the residents for diseases that the medic could treat, helping repair buildings or transportation, and generally providing the people with medicines and learning material. Whatever it was, Lois was sure to not be far behind, pen and notebook at the ready to take notes and often help where she could - there was, of course, a major language barrier to be overcome, but Lois had a knack for making herself understood wherever she went.
The primary subject of her articles submitted back to the Planet every Thursday was not the usual progression of US Forces advancements as nearly every other news provider was covering, but focused more on the background, unseen attempts to gain ground. The First Division that Lois was with didn’t see much action during her time with them, focusing instead on securing the alliance of the local Afghani people against the insurgents. This was done under the guise of what most outsiders saw as a humanitarian effort: what else would one call efforts to stabilize a village and protect the future of its people - except, Lois noted, an attempt to gain their support. It was, admittedly, more than a little underhanded… but at least it was working. None of what the Division was doing could be considered dangerous either to themselves or the people they were helping, and they weren’t (purposefully) drawing attention to themselves, so what could possibly be wrong with it?
There was nothing legally wrong with it - but then again, nothing in a warzone tended to be legal. Nothing in a warzone tended to be predictable either. They should have known that there would be some sort of retaliation against the Division’s efforts. In fact, they had known - they had just expected it to come in a form a bit more blatant than a covert ambush.
The company was about an hour into the three-hour drive back to base camp after a long day of digging irrigation wells for a nearby village whose usual source of water had dried up with the summer heat. Lois was thoroughly hot, tired, and covered in dust but she still took advantage of the precious free time to dutifully jot down her notes and observations into the notebook she kept on her person wherever she went. The rough jostling of the military transport made her handwriting even more illegible than usual, though Lois quickly realized that that might be the least of her worries when she heard a gunshot ring out farther down the caravan of army trucks.
Gunshots weren’t all that unusual in the presence of a military company - it was a normal, everyday sound to the point where Lois hardly looked up at the noise anymore. Sometimes she could even recognize what sort of armament had made the shot based on the sound, and right now she could definitely tell that whatever gun had just gone off in no way belonged to any soldier in her company - US servicemen typically didn’t carry high-caliber heavy machine guns in non-combat zones.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She shoved her notebook and pen into the satchel at her side and tightened her helmet beneath her chin in the same moment that the soldiers in her truck reacted to the ambush. While Lois prepared to escape (being a non-combatant war correspondent and all), the servicemen prepared to counteract the threat, most of them re-checking their weapons and gear while another shouted into a radio communicator, requesting a visual on the perpetrator. They didn’t need one - a moment later the air was full of bullets as Afghani insurgents appeared on either side of the narrow dirt road, firing at the military caravan.
The small team of soldiers who had been riding with her were on guard in an instant, jumping out of the truck with their weapons raised to defend the company. More servicemen from other vehicles joined them, immediately moving towards the closest group of insurgents with the intention of disarming them, though oddly enough the revolutionaries seemed to ignore the very clear threat the US soldiers presented. That was the moment when Lois realized something terrible: the ambushers weren’t targeting the soldiers - they were targeting the trucks. Half-a-dozen well-aimed bullets could take out the lead vehicles’ tires and drivers, effectively trapping the rest of the company on the narrow dirt road, and killing the rest of the servicemen would be like shooting fish in a barrel.
Her driver must have come to the same conclusion, and the truck lurched forward as he put the vehicle into high gear in an attempt to get away from the scene. Lois thought for the briefest moment that he was making a cowardly escape and leaving his fellow soldiers behind before she realized that staying put was the worst possible idea. If her driver could get the truck to a wider part of the road, it would (a) give the friendly forces somewhere to retreat and regroup away from the insurgents, and (b) if the truck did get hit, the rest of the caravan would easily be able to pass it by without getting blocked by the large vehicle.
Against her better instinct but too hyped on adrenaline to think clearly, Lois stuck her head out of the back of the truck, gripping one of the roll bars as she leaned out just far enough to see the road ahead of them. Damnit, even as late in the evening as it was, it was effing bright out without her sunglasses on and the dust in the air obscured her vision, but Lois was pretty sure she could see a spot maybe a klick farther down the road which would work for her driver’s purposes. The one problem was that Lois was pretty sure she could also see a man who was definitely not a ‘friendly’ tossing something that looked suspiciously like an IED onto the dirt ahead of her vehicle.
Her suspicions were confirmed half-a-second later as the driver slammed on the brakes the same moment that the device exploded less than a meter away from the front of the truck. Lois would later swear that the detonation sent both her and the vehicle flying at least a few feet into the air, though she only remembered gripping the damn roll bar like her life depended on it (it probably did) only to have it ripped out of her grasp when the military truck rolled onto its side and she was thrown from the crash.
The ounce of self-preservation instinct that her father, General Lane, had somehow managed to drill into her head over the years, suddenly kicked in when Lois was very violently reminded that even if she had survived the bombing of her transport (‘survived’ was stretching it a little bit - she was ninety-percent sure she’d cracked a few ribs and had at least a mild concussion), there was still the issue of being smack in the middle of a violent firefight without so much as a Sig Sauer in her fist.
Huddled behind a rock not far from her wrecked vehicle (now conveniently on fire) with her go-bag clutched firmly against her aching chest, Lois could only watch in horror as insurgents appeared on the hills around the road and fired repeatedly on the US soldiers. The thought that this could not be happening hammered repeatedly through her head, drowning out any other coherent ideas she might have had as Lois searched for her liaison, the captain, somebody, anybody who could tell her what the hell she was supposed to be doing when half of the company was getting shot down before her very eyes.
Her silent plea was answered a minute later when one of the other US military transports pulled up a few meters away from her makeshift hiding place and someone shouted over the constant pock-pock-pock of bullets being fired for the lady-reporter to get her ass in the truck.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She did her best to make herself as inconspicuous and small a target as possible as she sprinted towards the vehicle, trying ignore the hail of gunfire surrounding her (Lois swore to never again complain about having to wear the heavy flak jacket) as she scrambled into the back when her escape from the danger zone was suddenly halted by the extreme pain of a bullet tearing through her left calf at a speed of around one-thousand-seven-hundred miles-per-hour.
A scream left her throat before she had the chance to bite it back, but Lois refused to let the debilitating agony get the better of her, and with the last of her energy managed to all but throw herself into the vehicle. Panting hard, she rolled onto her back in the empty truck bed (both relief and horror sweeping through her when she realized that the only other occupant of the transport was the driver - all of the soldiers, and their medic, would be out attempting to quell the attack), another groan leaving her as Lois tried not to get too bruised by the bouncing of the truck on the dirt road as she tore her headscarf off from beneath her helmet and bound it tightly around the wound on her leg, which was seeping blood at an alarming rate.
Lois was one-hundred-percent aware that she was in some pretty deep shit as it was, but her day got even worse when she was suddenly confronted with one of the Afghani insurgents hanging off the back of her truck. The man must have managed to jump onto the vehicle when it slowed down to pick her up and hopped in the back while Lois was tying up her leg, though instead of targeting the driver, he made his intentions very clear by pointing his rifle at her.
Besides the very obvious threat of a gun in her face, it was at that exact moment that Lois realized something terrible. With her strawberry-blonde hair mostly hidden beneath her helmet and dressed in what consisted of about two-thirds of the typical US servicemen’s kit (minus the weapons, comms, and survival tools), she probably looked almost identical to the soldiers fighting outside. Conclusion: Lois looked nothing like a noncombatant and definitely something like an enemy, which was the reason for the bad end of a M16 assault rifle pointed directly at her head.
A moment later, as the man shouted something that was definitely threatening at her in Dari, Lois realized something else slightly less terrible - there was a pair of survival packs tucked underneath the benches lining the truck bed, and the one nearest to her had a holster attached to the side. A holster, which conveniently enough, contained what looked an awful lot like a goddamn Sig Sauer P320.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
She gritted her teeth as she kicked out with her good leg, getting lucky enough to nail the insurgent right in the balls without his gun going off at her head. While he was busy screeching in pain, Lois took advantage of the distraction to roll onto her side (ignoring her protesting broken ribs as she did) and yank the pistol out of its hiding place just in time to point it at the man in the same moment that he pointed his rifle back at her. Fear flickered in his eyes at the sight of a weapon in her hand, but Lois did not doubt that something as simple as another gun in the game would stop him from taking her life - and damnit, she still had some stories to write.
The pistol was cool against her palm, the safety was off, and her finger was on the trigger.
Lois didn’t hesitate.
V*V*V*V*V*V*V
She woke up in what she almost immediately recognized as a military triage ward thanks to the distinct scent of antiseptic and the clean, white bandage on her calf. Any normal person’s first thought would have been something along the lines of I should find a medic to ask for stronger pain meds, but Lois was anything but normal and the first thought that entered her head upon regaining consciousness was Oh, shit, I killed someone - will I be charged with murder under self-defense or will I be tried as a soldier in combat?
Lois contemplated her situation. She was more familiar than most with the process of military and wartime law, and considering that she was there as a war correspondent (so a non-combatant) she couldn’t exactly claim innocence as a soldier doing their duty. But then again, even if her assailant had been an enemy she hadn’t wanted to kill him, just get him off the truck and leave her be. That surely had to count as self-defense.
Before she could worry about the matter any further, a voice off to her right broke through her thoughts, “Miss Lane?”
Her head shot up (spinning slightly at the sudden movement - a sure sign of a concussion), and Lois turned on her cot to face the man, who appeared to be sergeant-ranked medic, if the insignias on his shoulder were anything to go by.
“Sergeant Hunsicker,” he introduced himself, stepping closer, “I came by to see how you were holding up and ask if you needed anything. And to check the wound, of course.”
“How bad is it?” Lois asked, nodding to her injured calf as the medic examined the bandage for any signs of bleeding or infection. He shrugged.
“You’re not as bad off as some of the boys I’ve had in here today, but you’re decently high on the list. Luckily, the slug missed the tibial vein and only the muscle was torn - you’ll have a bit of a limp, though you should consider yourself lucky just to be alive, Miss Lane.”
Lois couldn’t help but smile at his last comment - he had no idea how many times she had heard that before.
“You have a mild concussion and a few bruised and broken ribs on your left side, though none of that can’t be cured with a few weeks of rest,” the sergeant medic continued, “I expect you’ll be back in fighting shape within the month. In the meantime, is there anything you’d need? Supper’s about to start, if you want some of that.”
“I’d like a crutch,” Lois answered immediately - she wasn’t about to be bedridden just because of a damn gunshot wound. Unfortunately, the medic must have picked up on that and shook his head in response.
“Sorry, Miss Lane, but you’ve lost too much blood to be moving around so soon. Maybe if you’re feeling better tomorrow. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Get Lieutenant Doherty in here - I want to talk with him,” Lois demanded after a moment’s contemplation. The sergeant paused, confused, then nodded in acknowledgement of the order, temporarily forgetting that it was given by an injured war correspondent and not his superior, and jogged off to find the press liaison.
Lois allowed herself to relax slightly into the uncomfortable cot, grateful that the ambush had been quelled and most of the company survived - though this was by no means a time to relax and recover. A hundred questions were still racing through her head from the experience: how had the insurgents known to attack there? How had the US military not spotted them beforehand? Was there a mole in the operation? Wasn’t this supposed to be a no-combat zone? What had the insurgents been after? What was either side’s goal in this war?
Bruised and banged up as she was, Lois smelled a story, and there was no way in hell she was about to let a little hesitation get in her way.
