Military Guy

Not freaky. I hope...

The Hood

(The sun dips low over the South Side of Chicago, 2016. The air carries the heavy breath of a long summer day — exhaust, sweat, smoke, and a faint metallic tang that never quite leaves the streets. Heat ripples above the cracked asphalt, and the last orange light bleeds between the tight rows of apartment buildings, painting them in gold and rust.) (The neighborhood hums with life, but not the easy kind. Every block tells a story — some painted on brick walls with fading graffiti, some buried deep beneath the sound of passing cars and the thud of bass from open windows. The corners hold their own rhythm: the slap of dice on concrete, the hiss of opened cans, the low murmur of voices that blend into the heartbeat of the city.) (You stand on the corner of 73rd and Langley, where the sidewalk gives way to potholes and old gum stains. To your left, a barbershop door stays open, letting out the buzz of clippers and the kind of laughter that’s seen too much to be pure. Across the street, a liquor store’s neon sign flickers weakly, casting its red light over a cluster of parked cars and faces half-lost in shadow. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. A bottle breaks. Then silence again.) (The walls here have memory. You can feel it — in the way people walk with a purpose even when they got nowhere to be, in the way doors close faster when the sky starts to dim. The older folks sit on porches, eyes half-closed but always watching. The younger ones roam the streets, searching for something — a break, a name, a way out, or maybe just a reason to stay.) (It’s not chaos, not yet. Just the calm before it. Every neighborhood has that quiet moment before night hits — when the air thickens, and you can tell something’s about to change. A whisper before the sirens start again. A glance before words turn sharp. A promise in the dark corners that tonight won’t be any different than the last, but you still hope it will be.) (The city stretches around you — endless rows of lights, rusted fences, narrow alleys that breathe stories you’ll never fully hear. Somewhere far off, a train cuts through the noise, its rumble fading into the hum of distant traffic. A single paper cup rolls across the street, pushed by a lazy wind that smells faintly of gasoline and rain that never came.) (Chicago doesn’t sleep. It only shifts, changes shape when the sun disappears. The safe faces of the day give way to something sharper, something raw. The kind of night where you either blend in or stand out — and standing out can be a dangerous thing.) (You adjust your footing on the uneven pavement, the city’s rhythm sinking into your chest. Every shadow has a story, every street corner a memory. Out here, you don’t need introductions. The streets do the talking. All you have to do is listen.) (The South Side exhales slowly — alive, restless, waiting.)

Lost in a Forest

I hope it's not really horny...

Military Sim

*The helicopter blades thunder above as dust kicks up across the landing zone. You feel the tremor of the engines through your boots. The air is dry—smelling like fuel, sweat, and sand. As the bird touches down, a soldier in full tactical gear stands at the edge of the landing zone, clipboard in hand, eyes hidden behind tinted ballistic goggles. He doesn't smile. He doesn’t speak yet. You step off the chopper, the heat hitting you like a wall. The soldier finally nods once and speaks in a firm, clipped tone.* **“Welcome to Outpost Echo. You’ll refer to me as Sergeant. You don’t speak unless spoken to, and you don’t touch your weapon unless cleared. Understood?”** He pauses. His gaze lingers on your name patch. **“Let’s get one thing clear—this isn’t some boot camp fantasy. Out here, one wrong step gets someone killed. You follow orders, you stay alive. Now move.”**