the evil syndicate

Girls vs Guys playing Video Games.

Guys; Oh, alright. So we gotta enter from here, then reach there.. okay, I see. I’m almost out of ammo though so I should check around really quick.. okay. So, we go there..

Girls; YOU TINY LITTLE PIECE OF SHITTING SHIT I’M GONNA GUT YOU ALL DUMP FUCKERS wait where’s my shotgun WHERE’S MY SHOTGUN okay, there we go BANG GOTTA BANG GOTTA BANG GO DOWN YOU MOTHERFUCKING FUCKING LITTLE TWISTED FUCKS wait, I’m stuck I GOT STUCK I’m out of bullets WHY AM I OUT OF BULLETS -slams the joystick- -slams the joystick again- RUN. FASTER. WILL. YOU. FUCKERS. EASTER RABBIT FUCKING WORMS you MORTAL MONKEY SWINES.

Headcanon: In another universe, Overwatch didn’t just come back to help the world. They overthrew every government on the planet and now rule the earth with an iron fist. Gabriel Reyes broke away from them and leads a resistance movement against their regime, called Talon. Amelie Lacroix joined Talon when her husband, Gerard, was murdered by Jack Morrison for daring to speak out of turn. Sombra also works for Talon after Overwatch killed her parents in a peaceful protest turned bloody.

- Submitted by anonymous.

psychic: *reads my mind*

my mind: Okay, asking somebody how long they believed in Santa Claus is so stupid, you can’t even consider the topic suitable for idle conversation. But if you still wanna know how long I believed in some old fat guy who wears a funky red suit, I can tell you this: I’ve never believed in him, ever. The Santa that showed up at my kindergarten Christmas festival, I knew he was fake. And I never saw mommy kissing Santa or anything. But I have to say, that even as a little kid, I knew better than to believe in some old man that only worked one day a year. Now, having said that, it wasn’t until I got older that I realized that aliens, time travelers, ghosts, monsters, espers, the evil syndicates and the anime/manga/fantasy flick heroes that fight said evil syndicates, were also fake. Okay, I guess I always knew those things were bogus, I just didn’t wanna admit it. All I ever wanted was for an alien, time traveler, ghost, monster, esper, evil syndicate, or the hero that fought them to just appear and say “Hey”. Unfortunately, reality is a hard road indeed. Yep, you gotta admit, the laws of physics definitely puts a damper on things. I even stopped watching those TV shows about aliens and ghosts and stuff. Aliens, time travelers, espers; of course they don’t exist, but a little part of me wishes that they did. I guess I’ve grown up and realized I can think about those things and still accept reality. But by the time I got out of junior high, I pretty much outgrew that kind of stuff and I guess I got used to the idea of living in an ordinary world. Just like that, I was in high school…that’s when I met her.

psychic: what the fuck

kairi-ou replied to your photo: This is exactly what I live for ok. Like they have…

I am laughing so hard at how considerate you’re making the evil syndicate LMAO, don’t start liking them now, that’s a road you don’t wanna go down….

Oh don’t worry, there is no chance that I will accidentally grow fond of them. My love for evil syndicate fashion organisation is completely independent from my personal feelings towards them. 

TEAM SKULL, ON THE OTHER HAND…

  • tbh if I spend as much time on homework and studies as I do on video games, I'd honestly put Einstein to shame
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Hey guys, I’m out to see more content on my dash, so if you post any
- Anarchism (no anarcho-capitalism :p )
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- Resident Evil
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Daily Phlint

Blood seeped between his fingers, fat red drops that ran over his knuckles and soaked into the cotton of his pants. He squeezed harder, trying to staunch the flow, dragging his all but useless leg as he searched for an open door, a loose grate, a window left ajar. But there was nothing but dirty brick and grey concrete blocks, soaked in the steady rain, buildings locked up tight.  Even the battered green dumpster was empty, turned over on its side, missing its black covers. 

He knew this day would come. No one operated on their own in the city, not for long. If H.Y.D.R.A didn’t drop you in the river, A.I.M. wiped you from every database, leaving you without a name or resource to turn to. Even the smaller consortiums – Sinister Syndicates, the Mauraders, the Brotherhood of Mutants – demanded payment and pure obedience to their commands. If you wanted to make their own choices, not kowtow to a leader with delusions of grandeur, well, you ended up here, in a dirty alleyway, running as your life’s blood drained away, every possibility closed to you. 

The least Clint could do was go out with a bang. Damned if he was going to kiss some jacked up thugs boots just because he refused to play ball with Victor Von Doom and his ilk. No, Clint made the decision when to pull the trigger – not that he hesitated to take the killing shot but because he was tired of being a pawn in other people’s wars. He’d die on his own terms, a bullet to the brain or heart, not fodder for some newbie’s torture practice. 

He heard the scuff of a shoe behind him, whirled in one last burst of energy, gun coming up, finger tightening. The H.Y.D.R.A. operative was prepared to retaliate, shoot first and ask questions later, but then a shot rang out and the woman stopped, eyes widening as a red hole appeared in her forehead. A cold gun barrel pressed against Clint’s neck, just at the top of his spine. 

“Mr. Barton. I think it’s time we had a chat, don’t you?” 

Stepping into the alleyway, the man walked forward, his perfectly tailored suit out of place in this part of town, the wink of diamond on his tie clasp just asking for trouble. Polished shoes without a scratch, black framed glasses magnifying blue eyes … only someone powerful and in the upper echelon of one of the syndicates could get away with such a display of wealth. 

“Sorry, I’ve got nothing to say,” Clint mumbled with only a hint of pain in his voice. “Just shoot me now and get it over with.” 

“Ah, I see the problem. You’re under the impression we want you dead.” He paused just in front of Clint, close enough for Clint to see the small sapphire in his left ear. “No, Clint … may I call you Clint?” 

“Why the hell not?” Clint felt a bubble of hysteria in his throat. Not kill him? Oh, God, this was worse than he imagined. “And you are …” 

“Coulson. Phil Coulson.” The tiniest hint of a smile curled up at the corner of his lips. “You can call me Coulson.”

S.H.I.E.L.D. Fuck Karma and Luck and Fortune or whatever fickle deity landed him in the path of the worst of the worst.  Everyone knew that name; Madame Hydra trembled at the thought of meeting Coulson in a dark alley, and here Clint was, bleeding out, staring into the eyes of a man who could kill him with a paper clip. And probably would, if he wanted to. 

Of course, nobody had ever told him that Coulson had eyes the color of a summer sky.

“Okay, Coulson. What experimental treatment to turn me into a super soldier in your army do you have up your sleeve?” Smartass to the end, that was Clint’s goal in life. 

“Clinton Francis Barton, AKA the Amazing Hawkeye, the man who never misses.” The Phil Coulson, the scariest man in the whole city, raised an eyebrow and surveyed Clint from the toes of his boots to the tip of his head. “I’m here to offer you a job.”