leaning together, headpiece filled with straw.

[fattiest fat cat]

writing samples. ♥

[fattiest fat cat]

DATED: Nov 15th, 17.

The devastation of the battlefield is absolute. It’s not hard to see why it is that Reinhardt was able to clear the way for them. The carnage is everywhere in heaps of metal, pieces scattered around the cold ground. Gabriel’s arm, which is around Jack’s waist, squeezes tighter. The pain, apparently, is making him dizzy. Gabriel can’t remember the last time he felt that way.

“Quickly,” Gabriel says, voice dropping low. “And quietly.”

The others nod, and then they begin to move. It’s not until they’re about halfway there that a couple of omnics come into sight. Gabriel takes a breath, prepared to have to let go of Jack to fight, but then, all at once, the omnics, half a dozen or so, fall.

“We’ve got them, Commander,” says King, voice soft in Gabriel’s voice. “We’ve got them, just keep walking.”

It’s not comfortable for Gabriel, not what he wants to be doing, but he glances around at them. He knows if he shoots, the others will, too, so instead he wraps his arm tight around Jack.

“You better,” is what he says, but what he’s thinking is I’m trusting you.

The advance is painfully slow, 20 minutes compared the the snipers’ 10, and the entire time, they have to stop several times when omnics spot them, huddling behind Reinhardt’s shield as they watch bullets fly at it without hitting them. There is no adrenaline rush, nothing to shoot, only the injured and their own weariness.

It’s horrible, and Gabriel is only too comfortable when the 20 minutes is up.
When they finally reach the delta squad, Gabriel breathes out a sigh of relief, and several of the others do the same.

A tall man with tanned skin and neck-length dark brown hair walks over, holding out a hand. He has stubble and dark eyes, a strong nose and a somber expression.

“Sebastien King, sir. An honour.”

Gabriel reaches out and shakes the man’s hand, eyes flickering over him briefly. He’s… attractive.

“Appreciate the number of good shots you’ve got on your squad, King.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Delta squad isn’t huge, but they’re unloading their equipment. They’re intending to stay, push back and regain lost ground.

“How long until reinforcement arrive, soldier?”

King glances at the time.

“An hour, sir.”

Gabriel offloads Jack onto one of the medics.

“Need backup?”

King looks surprised for a moment.

“I… I think we’ll be all right.”

“Want it, then?”

Another pause.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Gabriel draws his guns, reloads. He’s ready to blow some more metal heads off. Looking over his shoulder, he eyes Reinhardt.

“Care to join me, crusader?”

[fattiest fat cat]

DATED: Jan 1st, 18.

Bruce Wayne is a generous man. He empties out his pockets at charity galas, and by handing out an impeccable medical insurance policy to all of his employees which covers any number of acts of supervillainy. There’s also the Grayson Scholarship of Excellence, and the random acts of kindness that his overly-friendly and somewhat careless persona allows him. He’s out of touch with reality, careless, and just a little bit slutty.

So a couple dozen gourmet donuts and a bunch of coffee for his new employees is nothing out of the ordinary, nor is not recognizing the man in the elevator with him. He does, of course. Clark Kent. He knows the names of almost all of his employees by now, and Clark Kent had come to one of his charity galas 6 months ago on behalf of the Planet.

It had been an overly exorbitant affair with fancy food and fancier music, and he had spent the vast majority of the night charming money out of people’s pockets by any means necessary, which had meant ignoring poor Kent except for one particularly lengthy conversation in the company of some haggard old woman about the way all of these ‘costumed yahoos’ were affecting the economy.

“Thank you,” Bruce says, handing over several of the donut boxes. “I may have underestimated just how much 10 dozen donuts would weigh.”

[fattiest fat cat]

DATED: February 16th, 17.

He hears it before he sees it: too many engines, too much speed, the whine in the air grows more and more familiar as the Terran units get closer. His skin crawls. He’s been at the side of a unit like that too many times to not know what’s coming for them. He doesn’t need the warning, he doesn’t need the name. He knows. Oh, gods, he knows.

The desi man climbs into his suit, even knowing that it will do nothing. If they stay up in the air there’s nothing he can do. If they make the mistake of coming down onto the ground… He can take out one, maybe two. This is not one, not two. The Dominion knows who it’s coming for, and it doesn’t want them to live.

He can remember being in training, seeing these units back then, men just as green as him climbing into those hulking monsters. He’d never learned any of their names. Most of them died in training, and if they didn’t die in training, then they died in battle.

They never let slumlords like him climb into those things. The ones who survived made a name for themselves, and the last thing the Dominion needed was to give a platform to someone like that. They’d all been good men, good soldiers, properly Dominion-raised, all pearly whites and that look in their eye like they don’t know what life is, or what they’re going to lose.

”I’m going to die today,” one of them had told him one day, calmly suiting up as if he were talking about the weather.

Devak, in the midst of going through power cycling and cleaning out his systems had stopped dead. There had been no fear in the man’s voice, and no doubt. Conviction, ready to become another number in a Dominion report.

”What?”

”I’m going to die today,” the man said again, looking up.

It was the first and the last time a Viking had ever looked him in the eye.

He had always been afraid of these ******** things. Any man who climbs into one of those in the first place has nothing to lose, and any man who survives may as well be Thor himself.

“Weiss, I can’t-” he says at last. Familiar terror crawls through his still blood. “I’m not made to fight that.”

[fattiest fat cat]

DATED: Feb 10th, 16.

As a college professor, there are some things which Arthur must do that he would rather not. For example, he'd rather not teach basic math, something which is required by the college for graduation, but the math department is small, and the other professors insist that he is the most personable, which is of course absurd, because he hates people, and he especially hates unruly people, which makes basic math his ultimate nightmare, but somehow he ends up teaching basic math every two or three semesters.

Blessedly, the class is at 10. Not too early for the late sleepers and not so late that they're all thinking about lunch, although he's guessing he'll start losing some of them by the end of it, anyway. The class is three times a week and an hour long, the last class most of them probably have before lunch.

Walking into the small lecture hall—despite the requirement, math has a low prescription, low attendance, and small class sizes. There also tends to be a lot of upper level students who've waited until their last year or so to fill the requirements—Arthur sets his briefcase down on the desk and pulls out his things, straightening his tie before finally giving the class of 50 students a slow look.

"I'm Arthur Bishop. Call me Mr. Bishop, Dr. Bishop, Professor Bishop or sir. It doesn't really matter to me, but don't call me Arthur. Welcome to Math 110. Food and water are allowed as long as I can't hear it, and if you're going to skip class, please come up with a better excuse than 'my goldfish got sick'. If you'd like to fail, that's none of my business, but if you're clearly skipping, then unfortunately I'm obligated to do something about it, and I'd rather not waste my time. So, if you can't factor polynomials, at least be clever enough to get out of it like the intelligent students you're supposed to be. Any questions?"

[fattiest fat cat]

DATED: November 19th, 17.

Now, not to be overdramatic, but Genji would rather die than move. He’s out on parole, and thanks to his s**t stain brother, he is now the proud owner of an apartment in a pretty half-swanky, modernist apartment building. Half of his walls are brick, and the other half are painted in bold, solid colours. The wall behind his headboard is bright green.

Stretching his arms up above his head, Genji looks out the ceiling to floor window in his living room. He’s standing shirtless in the living room, covered in scars and tats, and all he can think about is the fact he’d rather be literally anywhere but this apartment right now. There’s still a stack of boxes in every room, but he’s been unpacking all day. You know, for a guy who just spent the last 5 years in prison, he sure has a lot of crap. Hanzo kept in storage for him, something about how he should surround himself with home, but half of it’s clothing that doesn’t even fit anymore, and there’s at least one box of stuff from his childhood he’s accepted he’s probably going to stuff in a corner somewhere and never look at.

With a groan, he takes a quick shower, then pulls on a snapback, a grey v-neck and loose jean jacket, and a pair of black pants. Even dressed like this, the tats on his neck and the back of his hands are perfectly visible, the tail of a green dragon curling around his wrist. He shoves his smokes, keys, and wallet into the pockets of his jacket, and then steps out just in time to see the elevator doors starting to close.

“Hey! Hold the doors!”