hollow point bullets

German WW1 propaganda accusing the french army to use hollow-point munitions, c.1916.
Let’s give props to the people responsible for the forgery as they only gave the Lebel groove for use of spitzer bullets in tubular magazine to the one that needed it. Germany went to great length to make it seems as if they were being unjustly attacked, all the while fighting outside of their lands and being responsible for the first casualties of the war, a day before it started, after illegally invading France.

  • what she says: I'm fine

anonymous asked:

You asked for prompts, if you're still interested - BAMF!Stiles that shows everyone that he doesn't need saving, especially from Peter (who's simply smitten). Have a great day!

The best helping hand is at the end of your own arm.

Stiles can say without a doubt that he has never been the strongest or the fastest or the smartest, but he can also say that he has never needed to be saved either. He does that by himself just fine, thank you very much, because he may not be the est anything, but he’s strong enough, fast enough, smart enough and, essentially, everything enough to take care of himself and the people he cares about.

And if he isn’t, well, he finds a way, he learns, he gets better.

Okay, okay, he has to admit it takes him embarrassingly long to kick his ass into gear, but excuse him if the sudden knowledge of the existence of a whole new world has left him floundering for a bit… especially with attacks raining left and right on him apart from his usual school drama.

But enough is enough and it’s time to get his ass into gear already. He draws the line at being kidnapped and tortured by a geriatric fascist and having to sacrifice his poor Roscoe to save people that didn’t appreciate it afterwards, fuck you very much. Because Stiles is not like this, he doesn’t let things catch him off guard. Where he’s concerned, pre-emptive strike may as well be his middle name. Or if he does get caught off guard (because he may not be the smartest but he knows it), he always has backup plan after backup plan lined up to execute. In short, pre-emptive strike may be his middle name, but forearmed is his third.

With that in mind, when he can finally move without having his whole body protest loudly in pain, he orders three different rare species of aconite (ones that he knows will survive in California’s weather) and he goes in search of his mum’s gun. His dad gave it to her when Stiles was about five years old because a twerp that was angry at his dad tried to take it on his family. Needless to say his dad took steps to have them as safe as possible when he wasn’t there to protect them and, despite her vehement protests, took his mom to the shooting range after making her get a license until she could hit on the target every time. Then he got her a Glock 19 (smaller and lighter than the 22 that his dad has in his safe) and a full case of 9mm hollow-point bullets. His mom wasn’t happy at all, because she was against guns, so without telling him, she hid it where she was sure Stiles wouldn’t accidentally find it, bought an almost identical BB handgun and went on with her life as normal. His dad never found out and since he never had the heart to go through her things after she died (Stiles was the one that painstakingly slowly moved everything to the attic), he never took the gun.

In fact, Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t even remember it, which works just fine for him, because he would have had to steal the one in his safe or find a way to acquire one illegally otherwise.

It’s painful, both physically and mentally, and he ends up filthy in the process because neither Stilinski has set a foot up there since Stiles brought the last of his mom’s belongings up while his dad was passed out in front of a bottle of whisky. It takes him veritable hours to find both guns and the extra bullets and pellets hidden in a box full of knitting patterns and needles and he flees the moment he has it in his hands.

He takes a shower and then filches his dad’s cleaning supplies to take care of the gun. He hides it and takes her mom’s BB handgun to practice in the backyard, because he can get access to more than enough pellets but can’t afford to waste actual bullets. He has good enough aim but he has to be better for what he has in mind.

When the wolfsbane arrives he sets out to work with it. Because he’s a vengeful bastard, he fills the empty space in the bullets with four different mixes of the three aconite he has and then seals the opening, careful to not mess up with its balance. He puts a tiny mark on each bullet’s case to know which is which just in case an accident happens and then fills the two empty magazines he has alternating the kind. This way, even if someone manages to take the gun from him, they have a quarter of probability of actually getting the cure and three-quarters of poisoning themselves even more.

He tries to work out the be a spark thing but it’s an utter failure other than for his ability to make the mountain ash function enough to make a barrier. The Internet doesn’t help, no matter how much he tries, so he reluctantly goes to Deaton. The cryptic man talks in circles for fifteen minutes, gives him another pouch of mountain ash and then shows him where the door is. Stiles mentally gives the man a big fuck you very much and moves on to greener pastures.

He trains. Trying to get stronger is an exercise in futility when one’s average opponents can lift a car one-handed without even breaking into a sweat, so he has to get smarter. Getting faster seems like a moot point too, but again, if he’s smarter about it, it will help. And so, he concentrates on agility, on falling without hurting himself, on jumping without fear out of harm’s way. Self-defense seems like a good idea, but without anyone to actually practice on (because Scott is in despair land being consoled by his new best friend Isaac and he hasn’t called since summer vacation started… and Stiles is salty enough about it to not call himself) he’s had to be content with just memorizing the moves.

A month into summer vacation, he learns from his dad that Erica and Boyd are still missing and he frowns.

It’s not like he cares about them -Erica gave him a concussion with a part of his own car, Boyd treated him like an irritating pest and, more importantly, they both left him behind after he helped them out of the Argent’s basement- but he heard them talking about going back to Derek last time he saw them and he doubts they’re willingly putting their parents through a calvary while hiding cozily with their alpha after a whole month. Which can only mean one thing: there’s more supernatural shit about to go down.

He decides to go to talk to Derek anyways. He doesn’t fancy being pushed against walls just because the werewolf can’t control his temper enough but at this point it’s not like he has any other options and he needs to know if he’s being paranoid or if his hunch is right to decide how to proceed.

As luck would have it, Derek is not the one at the loft.

“Are you stealing those?” he asks with one cocked eyebrow.

“Why, Stiles, hello to you too,” Peter drawls. “FYI you can’t steal what’s already yours.”

“Since you’re officially dead, you don’t actually own anything, though.”


Stiles bends into an exaggeratedly pompous half-bow before turning serious and asking without preamble. “So, Erica and Boyd?”

Peter cocks his head as if he’s found a particularly interesting puzzle and then smirks. Stiles braces himself.

“What do I get out of this?”

“Your continued survival?”

Peter laughs heartily and then smirks again. “Ah, I knew I liked you for a reason. What do you know about the alpha pack?”

Oh, boy.

“Say, Peter,” he muses after the man brings him up to speed, “how much better is a werewolf’s sense of smell and hearing compared to the ones of a normal wolf?”

Peter pauses and looks at him carefully, with an unholy gleam on his eyes. “Practically the same.”

“Huh. Interesting. See you, creeperwolf.”

And Stiles unceremoniously leaves.

So, according to Peter, they have combed the preserve and found nothing, which means that they must be hiding in one of the abandoned buildings around Beacon Hills or they would be drawing too much attention (if what Peter says of some of the members’ appearance is true) to themselves. There can’t be many of those around Beacon Hills, right? It’s a small town after all.

Peter is at the loft too when Erica and Boyd crawl their way back with a surprising addition in tow. Derek and Isaac gape for a moment before hugging them tightly. Peter hovers at the fringes because the first thing that comes out of his nephew’s mouth when Cora looks at him is he killed Laura.

(It shouldn’t smart this much that Cora, whom was left behind just like Peter, stays put.)

They explain what happened… or what they know anyways. Cora was already captured by the time Erica and Boyd were imprisoned in the bank’s vault. They were kept in a mountain ash circle and no moonlight would reach them, so they were slowly losing their minds. The alphas would rough them up every day and barely feed them. Then, today, just after they had been paid a quite painful visit, shots (the muffled kind that suggested a silencer) and screams started and continued until just one heartbeat remained. Whoever it was, they moved around a lot for a while and then they stood still. Then, several hours later, more shots and screams erupted before silence reigned. Once again, the person moved around for a bit before coming to the vault’s door. They opened it but the werewolves didn’t dare come out for fear of being shot too. However, just after leaving the door unlocked, the person left. After a while, Cora dared to peer outside and found the mountain ash line disrupted. Outside their former prison, there was a lot of blood painting the tiles and some walls, but no bodies at all. They hightailed out of there.

Five alphas that have annihilated pack after pack all around the country, taken down in a matter of hours by one single person. One person with enough steel in his core to not panic about having to dispose of five bodies when it’s not even fully dark out now. Peter feels giddy with want.

(Unfortunately, nothing ever falls on Peter’s lap, so if he wants, he’s going to have to make sure he gets it himself.)

He slips out stealthily and wonders where his dear boy is thinking to hide the bodies. The answer is the Preserve, of course, so he makes a guess of where exactly that might be in there and then he takes off running. Then he thinks about it, stops to grab some curly fries (he sneers in disgust at the grease that seeps through the paper bag) and then he heads out again.

He finds Stiles grunting as he drags one body to a very deep pit that has been obviously prepared beforehand. Peter can’t help the broad grin that splits his face. He grabs one leg and hauls it up one-handed and Stiles starts a little, letting go of the body to put him at gun point. Peter just tosses Kali carelessly to the pit and hands him the curly fries. Stiles blinks surprised for a moment and then rolls his eyes, holstering the gun. Peter leaves him there munching happily at the greasy monstrosities and goes to grab the last two former alphas to toss them to the pit. Then he helps the teen dose them with a concoction that has him sneezing the whole time before filling the hole with the soil that was separated to the side. Very cleverly, the topmost part of it has been carefully taken so as to not disrupt the grass on it, so when they put it back in its place, it looks as any other patch of forest floor.

Peter wants, he wants so bad.

He wants this ruthless yet caring boy. He wants his resourcefulness, his cleverness, his loyalty. Hell, he wants his cheekiness, his rough edges, his always running mouth and his stupidly spastic ways.

“Congratulations,” he says instead. “But what about the darach?”

“The whassit?”

“The dark druid that has been preparing for a ritual on the Nemeton,” Peter states simply.

Stiles stops where he was folding the newly clean tarp he used so that no evidence was left on his jeep. He looks at Peter, gaze penetrating and unwavering.

(He wonders if he’s given himself out, if it’s too clear that he makes people want to keep him around by making himself useful and indispensable, and he fidgets inwardly.)

“Isn’t this something Deaton should notice right away?” Stiles asks suddenly and Peter blinks surprised.


“Huh,” he muses. “Maybe we should pay him a visit.”

Peter grins.

anonymous asked:

Prompt 88, Ryan/anyone -- insert-blank-wood

“Stop interrupting me!”

“That’s not going to work,” Ryan interjects while Gavin’s mid-plan.

Gavin waves him off. “Of course it will. So we’ll take the fire extinguishers and shoot them, and they’ll go flying into the air—”

“No, they won’t,” Ryan says patiently. “They’re not pressurized the way you think they are. They don’t work like that.”

Michael coughs out, “Nerd.” Ryan ignores him.

Gavin is valiantly pressing on. “And with that diversion we can move in—”

“You’d need to fire directly into the encased gas canister in the extinguisher—”

“—and take the police cars—”

“—and even then you’d need a hollow-point bullet and extreme precision, neither of which you have, let’s be honest—”

Stop interrupting me!” Gavin bursts out, looking petulant. He tips his head back and shouts. “Geoff, Ryan’s not letting me talk!”

“Did you just tattle on me?”

There’s a line between innovation and gimmick in the world. Some things are improvements that solve a problem while others just look flashy. For example you have bullets. Hollow point ammunition is the commonly accepted bullet style for self defense. On impact they expand making a bigger hole and slowing the bullet down. It makes them deadlier to the target while making it safer to bystanders by reducing over penetration.

One problem with hollow points is that they can get clogged when hitting thick clothing or a hard barrier preventing them from expanding so it acts like an FMJ. Hornady’s critical defense/duty line came up with an innovative solution. They pre plug the cavity with a rubbery polymer. On impact it expands and forces the cavity open. This actually works and is helpful.

On the other hand we have the gimmick. G2s infamous RIP round is known because it sends spikes flying through the body. Extensive testing has shown that the spikes are too light and retain too little energy to do anything. Meanwhile the base loses so much energy from the spikes breaking off that it is less effective. The majority of the gun community knows it’s trash but once in a while you’ll see a newbie praise it. Really the most I see of it anymore is when an anti gun media outlet discovers it and buys into the hype. Their fear mongering reports actually make the rip look cooler than it is.

Well G2 is back at it again. They’ve made a RIP 12 gauge slug. At a suggested price of $10 a shell they’ve only got an effective range of about 10 yards before becoming unstable and inaccurate. 10 yards is really all you need for home defense but it doesn’t necessarily lose it’s energy beyond that so have fun with the same over penetration issues a normal deer slug brings you. At least a deer slug can intentionally penetrate hard cover and be accurate to 100 yards or further if you are a good shot all for $1 a shell.

REQUEST: Home [Nyx/Reader]

Originally posted by nctis

Okay, so there’s very little chance that I’ll be able to post tomorrow, so that’s why I’ve been posting quite a bit the last day or so…

I honestly tried to do a story about this. Really, I did. But there’s a holy unfair lack of information on and about Galahd (not a whole lot of info about a lot of Eos in general. So… yeah… headcanon it is? Long headcanon…

Keep reading

Gonna spend the next week or two only working on my book. I have written ahead on fics, but I’m not going to be able to work on them while im getting through this part of my book. Its really depressing and I need to finish it. Thank you for your patience. I have one more chapter of Misery done, 1 of Hollow-Point Bullets, and 2 of In Love With A Murder. Posting on time. Hopefully I’ll get through this and won’t be all broken. If you want to help, tag me in shit. Cute, weird, silly… I don’t care. I’ll see yall on the other side. Woo.. writing is fun.