goat shooting

Someone asked me yesterday: “Why can Kumu fly? it doesn’t make sense”

And I answered: “This is a world where a very young kid defeated a 6-eyed mechanical goat plant that shoots lasers and throws nukes that are created from thin air, why is Kumu’s ability to fly where you draw the line my dude?”

Zootopia Take a Stand: Star of Ceartais Ch.9- The Star Rises

(AN/ Hey folks it’s Garouge/Crewefox here with another chapter of Star of Ceartais. As always thank you to everyone who liked, followed, faved, reblogged and reviewed the last update. Thank you to the awesome SOC development team for their story ideas, beta reading and art that they develop for this tale. So without further ado let’s get cracking with this chapter…)

Here’s the fanfiction.net link… https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12439999/10/Take-A-Stand-Star-Of-Ceartais

Chapter 9 – The Star Rises

Robyn looked outside to see a dozen members of the Razors approaching them, armed to the teeth and had murder in mind “Oh this is just great.” Robyn moaned, desperately trying to figure out a way to get her, Hannah and Kodi out of this alive.

“We need to get out here!” Hannah stated with force, detecting the shapes of the dozen or so enemies and the smell of the oil coming from their guns.

Kodi looked at the metallic door and a strategy quickly materialised in his brain “Robyn can you tear this door of it’s hinges?”

“Yeah, but what’s the play?” Robyn asked, all the while yanking the steel door from it’s frame.

“We’re going to use it to shield us from gunfire then slowly back out towards the hole in the fence.” Kodi laid out “if they get too close Hannah can shoot them, got it?”

Hannah cocked her shotgun and breathed “Got it.”

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I had the stupidest thought that my mc, Jessie, would shoot everything that popped out of nowhere.

Julian in the first chapter? Shoot him in the leggy.

The goat demon? Shoot him in the heart

Lucio’s ghost? Shoot him who knows where

The guards in their shit animal costumes? They dead friends

Portia when she bumps into her on the street? No. Hell no. Never.

Portia is bullet proof.

vine

OMG BABY GOAT on the shoot today. I’m in love! 💛🙆🏼

Made with Vine

foxfireflamequeen  asked:

I'm just gonna send you a lot of prompts and you write whatever strikes your fancy. Sorry they're all Bucky-centric. Something with Bucky and animals?

*coughs* Er, warning - all animals in this story tend to wind up as dinner.  Or breakfast.  Because I apparently have to subvert prompts and canon at all cost.

* * *
The first time it happened, Barnes shrieked and fell out of a tree.  Morita, who had been spotting for their sniper, quickly swung down after him, landing in a crouch beside Cap, who was snorting with laughter and clutching his ribs.

“Damnit, Steve,” Sarge grumbled, kicking Cap gently in the leg.  “I’m telling you, it was huge!  And staring right at me, like some kind of squirrel Nazi spy!  What if they’re experimenting on animals?”

Tears started leaking from Captain America’s eyes, and Jones had bitten down hard on his bottom lip to hide his smile as he checked Sarge for injuries.  

“Right,” Rogers gasped out, wiping at his face and avoiding his best friend’s glare.  He glanced up at Jim.  “Fresno, you should take Dum Dum and make sure that tree is –” Cap lost the battle with his laughter, and paused to start chuckling again.  “Erm, clear of enemy squirrels.”

“Steve, you ass!” Barnes shouted, launching himself at the world’s ideal soldier and putting him in a headlock.  Jim raised his eyebrows, and Dugan followed him back up into the tree, where they could howl with laughter out of their sergeant’s reach.  “See if I shoot you anything for dinner!” Barnes hollered up after them, and even Gabe couldn’t help but snort.

“I don’t know about dinner, Sarge,” Jones said quietly, sounding solemn.  “I mean, what if you hit Bambi?”

This time Dum Dum fell out of the tree, still chortling, and Jim looked down to see Barnes sitting on Rogers’s chest—proof that the ideal soldier didn’t stand a chance against someone who’d been tickling him for years.

* * *

They were too deep in Nazi territory for Stark to come get them, headed over the Rhine and into the Black Forest and another well-hidden Hydra plant.  By the second week the ace of clubs had been shot through, the three of diamonds had gone to splint Monty’s broken finger, and the rest of the cards were so worn that they could only play poker if everyone hid their clearly marked cards.  Monty had tried to pass the time by singing, but then they’d all nearly died in an ambush because Monty sang loudly enough to cover the sounds of crouching Nazi troops, and Cap banned singing.  Dum Dum tried entertaining them with circus tricks, but after a few days of pulling flowers from his hat even Dugan admitted the endless marching was deadly dull.

Then they went through the abandoned farmhouse, and Jones found The Story of Dr. Doolittle, only it was in French.  So Jackie read it aloud—quieter than Monty sang, and mostly in the evenings before dark fell and Sarge worried any light would give their position away—while Gabe translated for Dugan and Morita, and Monty occasionally decided to act out a scene.

He and Sarge had a long argument over which of them should be Chee-Chee, le singe.  Barnes lost, mostly because he woke everyone up before dawn one morning with a gunshot ringing in their ears.

“What?  What?” Cap shouted, half-deaf and half-asleep to boot, shield up and fumbling his gun into his right hand.  “Where are they?”

“Come out, you lily-livered Krauts!” Dugan taunted, fishing a grenade out of his bowler and tossing the hat onto his head.  “You yellow bastards!”

Stop, Barnes signed, then waited for them to signal that they could hear.  “I killed it,” he muttered, staring at the ground, the pink on his face a mirror to the clouds in the lightening east.

“Killed who?” Jim yawned, scrubbing at his face with both hands.  “A scout?”

“No,” Cap disagreed, toeing at something on the ground a few yards away.  “Thumper.  Sgt. Barnes saved us from a rabbit.”

“It was staring at me!” Sarge replied hotly, scowling at Rogers and pretending Jim’s yawn hadn’t turned into a hoarse laugh.  “All I could see were its eyes!”

Jackie joined Cap by the dead rabbit, shrugging one thin shoulder and glancing up at their squad leader.  “Petit déjeuner?” he wondered, and the others were hungry enough to assume that he was asking about food.

Steve shrugged, dragging his sergeant toward him with an arm around the neck, ignoring the elbow that dug into his waist.  “Why not?” he acquiesced.  “Might as well cook the Nazi rabbit, before his regiment wonders where he is.”

Shut up,” Barnes growled into Cap’s shoulder, and Cap laughed.

* * *

By the time they made it into the Swiss Alps, they had read L’histoire de Doctor Doolittle at least three times, and Barnes had threatened to clock the next Commando who called him ‘Chee-Chee’.

It was Sarge, of course, who got charged by the ibex.

“What the hell is that?” Morita wondered, watching the animal’s ridged horns as it bowled James right over into the snow and knocked the rifle out of his hand.

“Billy goat gruff?” Monty guessed, aiming his sidearm at the goat.  He didn’t shoot, though, because Sarge had decided to charge the billy goat, putting his head down and tackling the horned animal like he tackled Cap to the mats.

“Did zey teach you that, in your American army?” Jackie asked, standing next to Cap’s gun hand, the shield cocked on his other arm and ready to throw.

“No,” Rogers said, sounding proud and irritated all at once.  “They taught us that in Brooklyn.”  Then he leaned back, snapped “Bucky, get clear!” and tossed the shield in one smooth motion, trusting that his sergeant would follow orders better than the Commandos ever did.

“I told you, Stevie,” Barnes groaned from under several hundred pounds of mountain goat, “they’re creating a woodland Nazi army.”

They traded the ibex with a farmer for a quicker meal, but they kept the horns.  One for Cap, who’d killed the Nazi goat, and one for Barnes, who Cap said was almost as hardheaded as a mountain goat.

Jim had held onto both horns, because he wasn’t doing an end run on Zola’s train.  Hadn’t tried to return them to Steve, after, because even saying James’ name would set Cap’s face in stone and tighten everyone’s throats.  He put them on the mantel, once he got home to Fresno and Amy and the life Jim Morita had wanted before the war.

“What are those, daddy?” his daughter Jacqueline asked, thumb in her mouth and other chubby hand pointing at the ibex horns.

He scooped her up onto his hip, reaching out for the worn book propped up behind the horns.  “Let me tell you a story,” he said softly, kissing her temple and smiling when Amy peered out at them from the kitchen, her hand resting on the swell of her belly.  “About Doctor Doolittle, and Chee-Chee, the bravest of the monkeys.”

He put Jackie to bed before he came back to the mantel, tapping his glass gently against each horn in a silent toast, because Jim didn’t know any words big enough to thank them for his life.  To thank them for the humanity—James’ shriek at a squirrel and Steve’s laughter with his sergeant’s fingers digging into his ribs—that they’d sacrificed to save Jim from war.