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need-a-fugue · 3 years

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Trustworthy (Chapter 4)

Summary: You’ve spent the last three years teaming up with Santiago Garcia on every mission you had a hand in coordinating… and the past several months plotting with him to take down the biggest bad to hit your radar. But even all your time at the DEA and all your experience in the field couldn’t have prepared you for this.

Pairing: Frankie “Catfish” Morales x Fem!Reader (slow burn)

Warnings: Violence, language

Okay, yeah, sure, fine, you and Santi might not have been 100% honest about what you were planning in the jungle.

In fairness, neither of you ever actually said that this recon mission was at the behest of the CNP or Colombian military or any other government entity. You may have hinted at it. You may have neglected to correct the guys when they assumed. But you never actually told them that anyone had requested the raid on Lorea’s house.

What you had said was that there was a good chance this could turn into… something more. Something that might end up in a hefty pay day for all of you. You just never told the group of men that you and Garcia were actually banking on it.

You didn’t love the idea of lying to a bunch of strangers whom – if they agreed to everything – would end up holding your very life in their hands. Frankly, just the thought of doing so felt… sleezy. Especially considering that these men were Santi’s trusted friends. His brothers. But Santiago insisted that it needed to be played this way – They’ll never go for it if we tell them what we’re really up to. But I promise you, bonita, once they’re here, once they see… they’ll be all in.

He clearly knew his team because after just that single two-hour recce, a couple rounds of beers at a local bar, and a rather stirring, pointed speech, they were, in fact, all in.

And why not, really? The only one of them who had anything to lose – a family beyond those seen at the occasional holiday, wedding, or funeral – was Tom. And he’d been struggling so badly lately with impending alimony and child support and two kids’ worth of college tuitions – eight years minimum – that the money alone did all of their convincing for them.

It was illegal, yes. It was, as the captain said, “downright criminal.” But it wasn’t wrong. And as long as everything went according to plan, no one would know anything about any of it.

In the end, the world would be down at least one piece-of-shit, megalomaniacal drug lord murderer.

Some of the struggling people of Leticia – because you and Santi had promised each other and Yovanna that you’d drop a good chunk of the money into the hands of local charities – would have better lives.

Tom’s girls could go to college without having to worry about paying off student loans until they die.

Will could finally get rid of his old junker and buy a nice car – maybe not the Ferrari Ben was angling for, but a nice car all the same – to get him back and forth across the country for all those rousing speeches he insisted he would not stop giving.

Benny could invest in better training, at better gyms with better equipment… and real trainers. Or, hell, he could give all that shit up and quit getting his ass handed to him by kids ten years his junior, all in the hopes of capturing what was almost always one hell of a disappointing purse.

And Frankie? Well, Frankie wasn’t sure what he’d do with his share. But it sure would be nice to not have to worry so damn much. To not have to scramble to make the house payment every month. To not have to beg that dick who owns the local airfield to let him take on a few jobs just so he could settle into a cockpit for a bit. To maybe have the time – and funds – to take a woman on a date every now and then… not that he had a clue who that woman might be.

And you and Santi? Well, after years of accomplishing nothingin the fight against Lorea – the fight against the drug trade that had ruined and taken so many lives around the world – you two could finally say that you’d actually made a difference. Even if you couldn’t quite say it aloud for everyone to hear.

000

By the time you get to the compound early Sunday morning, rain’s already been falling for hours. The area’s nearly flooded, so your off-road path is basically a sprawling swampland. You barely slept, your hip is aching like crazy from an old injury, and the minute you step out of the SUV you damn near squeal like a stuck pig as you suddenly sink up to your calf in thick, sucking mud.

“Shit,” Frankie mutters under his breath – under a breathless laugh, you’re pretty sure – as he hops out and wraps a steadying arm around your waist. “Let me help,” he says, the words so soft, you can barely hear them over the unyielding pounding of the rain.

You try to balance, holding onto the door, one foot just barely sinking into the soft earth as Frankie leans down to pry the other from what feels like an utterly engulfing quicksand. He struggles, still holding you around the waist while his left hand works to grip your leg, your boot, your ankle… whatever he can wrap his fingers around. But it’s no use. The op has yet to even begin and already you’re stuck. In the disgusting mud. Deep in the endless jungle. With no hope of ever getting out.

You let out a painfully dramatic, completely despairing sigh and glance up only to see Benny laughing. Really laughing… not even trying to hide his utter, unabashed amusement at your awful predicament. You shoot him as threatening a glare as you can muster. But it only makes him laugh harder.

“Go get into position,” Tom orders, slapping him on the shoulder and shaking his head – once again in a seemingly all-too-practiced dadway – before he bends down to help Frankie out.

Finally, finally, the two men manage to free you. Shockingly, your boot leaves the earth as well, though you can feel the muck inside squelching beneath your instep and in between your toes. Your lip curls in disgust as you haphazardly wipe the boot – bottom, sides, and top – on the wheel well, a bit of mud getting squeezed out near your ankle as you do so. “I’m gonna get jungle rot,” you mutter bitterly as you continue to smear grime along the body of the SUV.

Tom swats your leg away. “Just be sure you don’t give away your location with all the squishing,” he says with a hint of a smile. Then, patting Frankie on the back, he finishes with a much more stern, “Let’s do this,” and takes off to find his position, face and shoulders both set as he easily drops into soldier mode.

“I’m still not sure if I like that guy,” you begin as you and Frankie head for the high ground, “or really freaking hate him.”

He bites out a quick laugh, turns to show off that too-damn-perfect smile, and replies with an easygoing, “Yup.”

Once you make it out of your drop-in point, everything else seems to be smooth sailing. The worst part is just waiting, especially with the rain. Waiting for Garcia’s informant to drop off the van. Waiting for the guards to leave for church, the family not so quickly following suit. Waiting for the guys to move in – Frankie shooting a quick wink alongside, “Watch my six,” as he heads out to join them. Waiting for the all-clear from Benny before you can finally enter the house yourself.

The house. Lorea’s house.

You’d been waiting for this for too damn long. Years of hunting the man had led to these last few months of building out this very plan with Santiago… and then to the last week of recon and final plans with these soldiers whom you barely even know. For all of the initial mistrust heaped upon you by them – and you honestly don’t blame them for any of it – the truth is, they know they have each other to depend on. You’re the odd man out here. You’re the one who should be questioning them… their dedication to this mission. Their loyalty to Santi, and by extension, to you. Their desire to end Lorea’s reign of terror.

You’re in this to take that man out. And if just one of these guys decides that’s not going to happen – for whatever reason – you’re shit out of luck. You should trust them only as far as you can throw them, which would be… not very far. But as you catch sight of Ben standing inside the front door, eagerly waving you in, and as you see the trail of blood leading into the kitchen, a voice over the coms calmly declaring, we had to shoot one of the guards in the leg, something inside of you shifts and settles and all of the worries about who may or may not be trustworthy simply flit away to nothing.

But other concerns quickly rise to take their place.

Watching the highly trained special ops team move about you – each man light-footed and fluid, so quiet that their breathing is nearly inaudible, even as one of them leans over your shoulder from his position behind – is nerve wracking enough to make your legs begin to tremble. You knew what you were getting into here. You knew that this would be dangerous, that it would require a certain level of skill and technique and training. But it isn’t until you actually see these men – these elite soldiers – in action that you realize how woefully inept and unprepared you are in comparison.

Self-doubt begins to seep from the cracks now forming in your carefully crafted façade. Uncertainty, insecurity, fear starts to build up and rise within you, burning like bile creeping up the back of your throat. By the time you and Santiago finish the second sweep of the downstairs and begin climbing the steps to the second-story landing, your entire body is vibrating with regretful apprehension.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” you hear as you approach the study upstairs. It’s the room where your informant took the picture of the stacks of cash after her delivery, the holding area where all of Lorea’s blood money sat, just waiting to be counted. But when you enter, there’s no money to be found, just pissed-off-looking soldiers surrounded by the empty bags they had planned to fill with cash.

“Your girl burned us,” Frankie mutters blankly, eyes full of regret and annoyance as he leans heavily against one wall. His dark gaze collides with yours for just a fraction of a moment before he shakes his head and breathes out, “We gotta get outta here.”

Your brow crinkles in confusion, all of the insecurity bubbling through your body suddenly settling and getting replaced by a sort of righteous indignation. “Whoa, wait,” you spit out, sidestepping Santi and rushing to the center of the room. “We’re not leaving. We’re not done here.”

Will gives you an almost disappointed look and blankly mutters, “Nothing here, sweetheart,” before dropping heavily into a chair in the corner.

You shake your head, a pointed certainty to your words as you level him with a heated stare and say, “Lorea’s here. He’s always here. He does not leave.”

Tom scoffs. “Yeah, well, he left today,” he says, tone full of spite. “And he took the money with him.”

You spin to face him, “No,” pouring from your lips in a firm and unyielding tenor. “He’s here. And so is the money.”

“We did a full sweep,” Will breathes out.

“So we’ll do another,” Santiago chimes in, suddenly at your back.

You look around at all the forlorn faces and roll your eyes, realizing all at once that, for all their training in war, these men don’t have a freaking clue about the kinds of things you deal with in your job. They’re used to encountering soldiers – enemy combatants, trained mercenaries, militias… people who’s purpose is to fight. That’s not what Lorea is. That’s not what he does. He didn’t move deep into the jungle to fight, to wage war, to build an army. He came here to hide.

“You guys are fucking idiots,” you declare with a huff. “I once spent two hours tearing apart a houseboat before finding the guy we were after squatting in a hidden cutout near the bilge. A few years ago, we found fifty thousand dollars under a false bottom in a hot tub while serving a search warrant. Another raid ended with us tearing apart a kid’s tree house that had cash hidden under the floorboards. You think because Lorea isn’t sitting here behind his desk, counting his millions like fucking Scrooge McDuck that they’re not here? That he’s not here?”

“Didn’t McDuck swim in his money?” Benny inquires from behind, the question earning quick huff of a laugh from his brother.

You feel Santi step away from your side. “She’s right,” he says, his eyes dancing around the room, looking for… something. They land on a mostly empty can of paint, and he smiles, sniffing quickly at the air. “Fresh paint.”

Tom’s eyes widen and tick towards the wall to his left as his lips split and out pours what you had all along seen as being an obvious truth. “The house is the safe.”

000

When it rains, it pours. You’d been the one to say that, to inanely mutter the adage through the coms with a huff as Benny took off back inside the house – the safe – while you sat in the now heavily weighted van, so full of money that the suspension sags to the point of extremeconcern.

The guards are coming back, the sound of their SUV’s engine just barely chugging atop the steady beating of the downpour that had engulfed you all for the past few hours. They’re coming back, and everyone but you is still inside.

Call it greed. Call it vindictiveness. Call it whatever the fuck you want. But you all had agreed to get as much plata out of that house as possible, to fill the cars to the freaking brim with as much of that motherfucker’s money – his lifeblood, his love, his everything – before setting fire to the whole damn thing. You’d been in this business long enough to know that bringing down one cartel merely opens up a door for others to grow. But still, the idea of watching Lorea’s empire burn makes you wet in a way the torrential rain beating on the roof on the van never could.

You toss a glance back, over you shoulder at the mound of duffel bags, a child’s suitcase thrown into the pile as well, all filled to bursting with cash. It’s pretty unbelievable. Incredible. You’d never been the type to really worry about money, no more so than the average guy. But damn if being surrounded by millions of dollars doesn’t make you a little lightheaded. And the fact that it’s Lorea’s money?

Despite Santi’s little bullshit pep talk the other night about how all of you deserve this – for serving your country and fighting for what’s right… blah, blah, blah – you honestly don’t feel like you deserve this money any more than anyone else. But Lorea sure as shit doesn’t deserve it. And you trust yourself – and each of these men by your side – to put it to far better use than he ever would.

You can’t see the guards, can’t see the SUV carrying them from your vantage point in the van. But Benny had told you to stay put, he’d get the others and he wanted you ready to drive as soon as they came out. Still, you know now that the first car must’ve arrived at the compound because – aside from the steady pounding of the rain and the wild pulse of your heartbeat echoing in your ears – everything is suddenly silent. No more hum of an engine. No choppy callouts over the radio as Ben seeks out the guys. Everything is silent and still. Until… pop-pop, short and sudden, muffled by the thick walls of the house.

Over the coms you hear – in a calm, controlled tone – Two down in the entryway. Another sharp pop, followed by a voice you’ve come to easily recognize. That’s three.

There’s something in the way their words are uttered, something in the utterly placid tenor of each of their voices. Something also to the sparse shots – so unlike the rapid, automatic gunfire you’re used to being thrown into amid scared and untrained local police and inexperienced, foolhardy kids hired as cheap labor by the cartels. There’s something about the way they all rush suddenly into your line of sight – fast but calm, controlled – as they pour out of the house, a few racing past to find the guards’ SUV, the sounds of their footfalls and quick breaths nearly drowning out the whir of the engine as you turn the ignition. There’s something about it all that leaves you feeling – despite the fact that things did not go as planned and you can see that all-too-recognizable, pissed-off scowl tugging at Santiago’s features as he flies past your window – calm as well. Safe, even.

Frankie climbs quickly into the passenger side of the van just as you fire up the engine, Will slowly pulling himself into the seat behind him. “Shit,” you mutter, eyes widening as you take in the grimace on the man’s face, the blood on his hands and shirt. “What the hell happened?”

“S’fine,” he tells you, punctuating the statement with a nod, a directive to look forward. “Let’s move.”

You put the van in gear and hit the gas, maneuvering steadily through the compound and towards the front entrance. “Did you get shot?” you inquire again, your voice showing less concern and more simple curiosity.

“Yeah,” he groans, a thick breath hitching as you hit a particularly big bump in the road. “Your friend Lorea popped out of his little hidey hole and got me. Guess you called that.”

You whip around to face him, eyes now like damn saucers. “You got him?”

Frankie grabs your arm and gives a little tug to get you turn back towards the front, only speaking, answering for Will, once you do so, once you settle a still-wild stare on the path ahead, “Yeah. Pope took him out. He’s dead.”

You say nothing for a long moment, letting those words seat inside of you. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. How long have you wanted to hear those words? How long have you been gunning for that son of a bitch, waiting for someone to take him out… hoping that someone might be you? Santi doing it is the next best thing, you figure.

A sudden explosion lights up in front of you as you approach the gate and Benny blows past it, and past the van, angrily muttering to himself all the while. “He looks pissed,” you comment blithely, looking to Frankie for something akin to permission before flooring it and ramming through the gate like you’re just itching to do.

He gives a staunch nod forward. “Can’t blame him,” he says, capping it off with a softer, rather encouraging, “Go for it.”

You hit the gas, glancing in the rearview mirror and asking, “The others are in the SUV?” as the guards’ car pulls up behind you and waits for Ben to jump in.

Frankie nods – “Yeah.” – and his eyes suddenly tick your way, narrowing a bit as they rove your body before coming to rest on your hands as they tightly grip the wheel.

“What?” you ask, feeling his stare burn into you.

Will laughs from behind – a swift, stilted thing that tells you just how much pain he’s actually in – and lets out an amused, “Fish always drives.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice dripping with put-on sincerity as you continue down the unpaved road. “Do you want me to pull over?”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no hiding the plainly obvious pout tugging at his lips when he looks over at you and mutters, “Just watch where you’re going.”

The first half or so of the long drive up to the airfield is spent in tense silence. You don’t fight it, don’t force any sort of conversation, don’t inquire about what exactly happened in that house. You can tell that these men need a long-ass moment to come down from everything. Hell, your own adrenaline still has your pulse thrumming endlessly through your ears. And you’d been safely ensconced inside this van for most of the action. It’s not like you had to fight your way out of there. It’s not like you got shot.

Your eyes bounce up to the rearview mirror, finding Will curled into himself in the backseat. “How you doing, Ironhead?” you ask, purposefully infusing the ridiculous name with a mocking intonation.

He looks up and catches your gleaming eyes in the mirror, notes your slight smirk, and gruffly replies, “Well, I’m not dead yet.”

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Frankie supplies from your right. He spins around to give his friend a quick once over. “He’s fine.”

“That’s awfully presumptuous,” you challenge, raising a brow. “Didn’t see you coming out of there with a new hole in your body.”

“Didn’t realize you were so focused on my body,” he returns with a bit of a lilt.

Will groans loudly from the back. “Don’t start flirting up there,” he practically orders before the no-argument tone slips into something softer, almost jovial. “I’m suffering enough back here as is.”

“You’re fine,” Frankie shoots back, turning bodily in his seat and craning his head towards his friend. “You act like you’ve never been shot before.”

“I’m retired,” he replies. “Think I forgot how much this sucks.”

You nod, almost to yourself, emitting a simple, assenting, “Yeah.”

Frankie leans back, still remaining sideways in the seat, his stare now wholly on you. You glance over and see his brow scrunch in… is it concern? Or merely curiosity? “You’ve been shot?” he asks, an odd edge to his voice.

Again, you nod. “I have. Didn’t care for it.”

“See, Fish,” Will mumbles from the back as he slips further down the seat in an effort to find some semblance of comfort. “Maybe you’ve been so busy flying around rich businessmen in the private sector that you’ve also forgotten how shitty this is.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he mutters with a frown.

Will cocks his head at you – not that you can see it, eyes remaining trained on the road lest you get another watch where you’re goingevil stare from the man by your side. “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

You snort out a short laugh, glancing quickly at Frankie and saying softly – and more than a little bit condescendingly – “He likes to call me sweetheart.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the man in the back sighs out, waving a dismissive hand through the air. “Guess I’m just a run-of-the-mill chauvinist.”

You shrug. “I never said anything about you being run-of-the-mill.” And from your right, you hear a soft snicker. A gentle smile spreads across your face and your hands loosen their death grip on the steering wheel just a bit as you feel the air filling the van begin to lighten, tension seeming to slowly spill away. After a lingering – but not at all wrought – moment, you shift a bit in your seat and say, “Went on a raid just outside of Tijuana. My first down in Mexico. And I took a bullet in the hip.”

“Shit,” Will intones. “Hell of a bienvenido.”

“Yeah,” you breathe out, suddenly all-too conscious of the old ache in your joint that’s been plaguing you all day. “But on the plus side, I’m now always the first to know when it’s about to rain.”

Both men laugh. You laugh – despite the pain in your hip and the worry about the guy in back… and your terribly distracting infatuation with the wide smile now painted on Frankie’s face. You all sit in the van – on your way to flee the country after committing a terrible crime – and laugh about the fact that, despite each of you being a little bit broken, none of you are dead yet.

Taglist:

@tweedlydumbtweedlydoo @icanbeyourjedi @greeneyedblondie44 @mrscrain-x7 @kyjoraven@elephants-are-a-thing @nakhudanyx

#frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #triple frontier #frankie morales x reader #francisco catfish morales #pope garcia #santiago pope garcia #frankie morales x you #will ironhead miller #benny miller #triple frontier fic

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hedgiwithapen · 3 years

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could I ask for more metakitties in Young Justice? Please and thanks!

It had originally been, like most strange ideas that somehow worked out, Gar’s suggestion to bring animals to the Taos Metahuman Youth Center. Gar had spent a tense afternoon calming a scared boy down in the form of a Forest-green Retriever and a handful of support animals had swiftly followed. Dogs trained to do different support or calming tasks, a chinchilla for those with allergies who still needed something soft and warm to cuddle, an enormous tank of brightly colored fish to watch… and of course, the cats. Ed had been glad for them all. His job was certainly easier, if not easy, with the extra help, and the response from the other staff and the teenagers had been very positive. The Flash--who was a scientist, apparently-- was even talking about working on better allergy meds that wouldn’t interfere with the metagene, and there was talk of Bruce Wayne funding a new outbuilding for a stable. Of all the critters that roamed the halls, though, Ed’s favorite was a kitten Virgil had dropped off personally. One of several cats that had popped out of a Zeta Tube with no record or indication of how or why, the gray tabby had become a fixture at the center as easily as her littermates had latched on to the team or the justice league itself. He’d named her Shark for her sleek fur, the way her triangular tail was nearly always raised, and her habit of gnawing on everything she could get her little mouth on. She was speckled and soft and loved to lurk in the halls, following the unsuspecting to ambush them and demand pets, snuggles, or shoes to chew on. While most of the animals stayed in the wing of the center they were supposed too, the cats wandered as freely as the Metahumans, and Shark most of all.

Ed enjoyed the days when his friends stopped by. It wasn’t often. Asami and Tye managed it a bit more often than Virgil or Jaime, who had a lot going on with the whole side-gig-as-superheroes thing. They still tried; the zeta tubes made it easier to stay connected than Ed had thought, when they’d first all gone separate ways. It was nice to share company and stories, and sometimes a few of the recovering teens joined them. At first, they’d mostly stared, a little in awe, but over time, things had become more comfortable. Ed liked watching his charges realize that this could be their future-- healing, peace, friendship. The temperature dipped at night, though not much. Ed couldn’t sleep, as he often couldn’t. So he stretched and went to walk the halls. He didn’t have to walk anywhere, but he liked it. It was nice to see everything familiar. Turning the corner into the hall near the media room, Ed heard the explosion and kicked into emergency mode. He couldn’t see any sign of major fire, which should have been a good thing, except that it meant that whatever had happened had not just been another incident in the kitchens with an aerosol can of butterspray and the new pyrokinetic. One of the therapy dogs barked, urgent. The “clients”--the children and teenagers living in the dorms at the center-- ran, in pairs and small groups, to designated safe areas. One of the first things Ed’s dad had insisted on were protocols like that, and Ed had needed no convincing. He teleported through the rooms, clearing more frightened teenagers out. Satisfied that his friends and the other staff were on high alert, he headed for the panic room that was his responsibility to check. Every hall in the center had one, and everyone was well aware of them. His was the furthest from the zeta. His heart dropped as he popped in, and saw the door blown off the hinges. Half a dozen of his charges had made it here, some with power suppressing bracelets, some without. But all of them were up against the back wall, either unconscious or collared. Ed tensed and ducked the second he realized, avoiding the blow an attacker aimed at his head. He teleported again to put himself beside the cornered teens. Getting them out of danger, and fast, was top priority. The moment he materialized he had to call the golden glow up again, dodging left. This time when his feet met the floor, he was no sooner solidly there than something cold and heavy pressed against his neck. He called himself ten kinds of stupid, teleporting right into a planned ambush, right into the inhibitor collar. Ed scrambled backwards, eyes wide as he recognized the lone figure. Only one man might have been easy enough to fight, powers or no, but this was… not great. He wore a split color helmet, matte black and copper-orange, and held a sword in one hand that shone in the dim emergency lighting. Deathstroke. Slade. Ed wasn’t a member of the team, but he didn’t have his head in the sand, either. “You can’t have them,” he said, anger turning bravery bolder. He wasn’t about to let anyone cage those kids again--cage him again. “I’m not interested in you,” Slade said. “Move.” That made grim sense, because what meta trafficker wants to try figuring out how to hold on to a teleporter? Ed set his stance, gritting his teeth. He couldn’t win a fight like this, not without his powers, but stalling? He could stall, and buy his friends a few minutes to figure it all out. Jaime would be scanning everything, Tye could tear the place apart if he needed to, and Asami… Asami was scary-good at getting wherever it was she needed to be, no matter the obstacles. Slade moved forwards, raising the sword, and was met by a hiss. Shark’s grey mackerel markings had helped her blend in with the weak shadows. All her fur stood out on end, her ears pinned back, and she hissed again. Slade glanced down and sent her flying with a kick. One of the younger metahumans behind him whimpered. Ed’s gaze went harder than granite. “You’re going to regret that,” he said, his voice low. “I am not a man who

regrets my actions. Now move, or I’ll make you.” “You’ll regret that,” Ed repeated. “Why? Because I kicked a kitten?” Slade mocked. “I’m going to gut you and finish what was started with them weeks ago. You think I care about the morality of--oh holy shit, what the fuck--!” Shark had latched on just above his knee, her small teeth puncturing the material of his suit. She vibrated with something half growl, half purr, and all too large for her body. Blood dripped off the ends of her whiskers, and she let go only to bite again. And again. Slade, overcome by pain, bloodloss, and the shock of having suddenly less leg than he was accustomed to, hit the ground. Shark’s eyes glowed in the low light, and with her fluffy tail held high, she beelined for Ed, twining around his ankles and flopping over to request a belly scritch. He complied with shaking fingers.

#dammit hedgi day 2021 #young justice

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 4 years

Text

Sleep Deprivation

Chris Elkins had sung in choirs before, so he was told that joining the New Hope Singers was something he might like to do. Rehearsals were held at the Belvedere training center in Tarrytown, New York, purchased after a nationwide candle-selling blitz had yielded about $800,000.

The schedule at Belvedere was rigorous: get up out of the bunkbed at 6:00; exercise at 6:05; clean up and get dressed at 6:15; pray at 6:35; eat oatmeal and water at 7:00; do chores at 8:00; attend training sessions at 8:45; eat bread, butter, and jelly sandwiches at 1:00; tend the grounds at 1:45; shower at 3:30; attend training sessions at 4:00; eat casserole with flecks of meat at 7:00; attend training sessions at 8:00; go to team meetings at 11:00; do individual study at midnight; go to bed at 1:30. There was no free time, and everything was done in groups supervised by a leader.

The three functions in the life of a Moonie—to be indoctrinated, to fund-raise, to recruit new members—required so much time that only a few hours were left for sleep. Working with limited rest was a purifying act of self-sacrifice that proved one’s allegiance to Moon. The timetable for achieving his goals was short. In three years’ time he had to have thousands of servants “marching the main streets of the capital of each nation.” And by 1981, Communism was to be defeated. To keep down individual dissatisfaction about sleep, he whipped up group thinking in his training speeches:

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep seven hours instead of six hours?

MEMBERS: NO!

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep for seven hours or five hours?

MEMBERS: FIVE!

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep five hours or four hours?

MEMBERS: FOUR!

MOON: Would you prefer to go to work without sleeping or sleeping?

MEMBERS: WITHOUT SLEEPING!

MOON: I don’t want you to die, so I will let you sleep barely enough to sustain your life. What I’m thinking is that although you get thin like ghosts, with big eyeballs, skinny all over and stooped down like this in walking, stuttering—but if by your doing that, by your being like that, we are successful in God’s providence, I would prefer to have you do that.

from Robert Boettcher, Gifts of Deceit (1980)

_________________________________________

Barbara and Betty Underwood: In Canada, she got an importer’s license, opened a bank account and rented vehicles using a phony address and pretending to be a Canadian citizen, in apparent violation of Canadian immigration laws.

“We were going by divine law,” she explained. “We weren’t going by secular law, democratic law.”

Barbara’s journal includes her own list of 18 ways the Moonies routinely broke the law, including soliciting without permits and in forbidden areas, driving uninsured vans, giving false information on welfare and medical aid applications, ignoring traffic tickets and failing to file traffic accident reports.

“We were in a lot of car accidents because people were so tired driving,” she said. “One car was totaled. It was always because somebody fell asleep.”

Stories from the Bay Area Unification Church – Barbara Underwood

_________________________________________

Members died in traffic accidents on Mobile Fundraising Teams (MFT) – more were injured, some permanently. But the financial goals set by the “church” had to be met. When the Japanese began to take over MFT leadership in America, the pressure for results increased, the hours worked increased, and the number of accidents increased. Many members were only getting a few hours sleep.

Sun Myung Moon said: “A while back there were 82 traffic accidents reported in one month in our movement.” (October 3, 1976) So Moon knew the situation but seems to have done nothing. Moon’s “heavenly soldiers” were expendable.

_________________________________________

Sleep Hygiene: Train your Brain to Fall Asleep and Sleep Better

By Emma McAdam

Sleep Hygiene is an essential mental health skill.

When my clients come in for treatment for some of their challenges like depression, anxiety or relational problems, one of the most common associated problems that they have is difficulty sleeping. This shows up as either having a hard time falling asleep, staying asleep or just feeling tired all the time. Getting enough quality sleep can make your brain function much better, you’ll be better at solving problems and feel more self-control. In this video we’re going to talk about how to train your brain to sleep well, it’s called sleep hygiene

Sleep is essential for good mental health. Lack of sleep can actually cause mental illness. Research is showing that one of the most effective ways to treat depression is by helping people improve the quality and quantity of their sleep. One study of people with depression found that after resolving their insomnia, 87 percent of them experienced major improvements in their depression, their depression symptoms disappeared after eight weeks of good sleep.

Sleep Therapy Seen as an Aid for Depression – New York Times

So how do we improve our ability to get sleep? We can train our brains to sleep better. Sleep Hygiene means going through a routine that trains your body to know when to sleep. Like a muscle that strengthens with practice, sleeping well is a skill we can develop. Here are some essential skills to develop better sleep.

VIDEO: Sleep Hygiene: Train your Brain to Fall Asleep and Sleep Better

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LACK OF SLEEP – Huffington Post

Let’s recap the research that shows functioning consistently on just three or four hours of sleep can seriously mess with your health — and even more concerning, with your mind and your temper. If you don’t get enough sleep:

1. You’re more likely to be emotional A 2007 study from researchers at the University of California, Berkeley and Harvard Medical School used brain scans to show that emotional centers of the brain were 60 percent more reactive in individuals who were sleep-deprived compared with individuals who had a normal night of sleep.

2. You have trouble focusing Several studies have shown that lack of sleep affects our ability to focus. And in a study published last year, researchers found that animals with complex nervous systems (humans included) need sleep to support cognitive functions — and tasks that require more attention also increased the need for sleep and intensity of sleep.

3. You’re more likely to make bad decisions According a 2015 study, sleep loss affects critical aspects of decision-making in high-stakes situations. The study simulated a situation where participants had to complete a task to test their decision-making while adapting to changing circumstances — and participants who were sleep-deprived were more likely to make the wrong decisions than participants who had slept.

4. You have trouble with learning and memory When you haven’t slept, your ability to learn new information could drop by up to 40 percent, Matthew Walker, a Berkeley sleep researcher, told the National Institutes of Health. Experts say sleep plays an important role in how we learn new things, according to the Division of Sleep Medicine at Harvard Medical School.

5. You might make less appropriate moral decisions Another study found that individuals took longer to decide how to respond to a personal moral dilemma when they were sleep-deprived compared to when they were well-rested. And when sleep-deprived, people may be prone to making different decisions than they would have in a fully rested state, one of the study’s authors, William D.S. Killgore, now associate professor of psychology at Harvard Medical School, said in a statement.

6. You feel stressed, angry, sad and mentally exhausted A study of healthy adults found that getting less than five hours of sleep a night for seven nights in a row led the individuals to report feeling more stressed, angry, sad and mentally exhausted.

____________________

9 Science-Backed Steps to Have the Best Sleep of Your Life — Tonight

__________________________________________

Sun Myung Moon said the mind and body are in conflict. Not so.

#sleep deprivation #moonies

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mischiefmoonaged · 5 years

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Unpopular Opinion Time

This is for me to just get this out of my head it’s not to invite arguments? Idk I’m not here to fight. Nothing is terribly fight worthy anyways.

I can’t stand the fandom’s obsession with Andrew G.arfield as a fancast for R.emus. It’s overused and I don’t like it???? SO OVERUSED. HAVE AN ORIGINAL THOUGHT FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE. Being a werewolf doesn’t keep someone looking boyishly young and R.emus obviously looks his age if not older because he was so adamant that he was too old for T.onks. He wouldn’t have to bring that up if he still looked like a college twink. And as for using him for younger R.emus??? HE’S WAS TOO OLD TO PLAY ETER P.ARKER WHY WOULD HE WORK FOR SCHOOL AGED R.EMUS? This is more of just a personal opinion but just --- why is everyone so into this fancast ???

I can’t stand the fandom’s decision that R.emus is obsessed with chocolate instead of the OBVIOUS reasoning that he had chocolate in the book/movie was because he is a super prepared teacher who knew there would be dementors searching the trains and that’s why he travelled that way to get to Hogwarts (which is highly unusual for teachers). And he knew they’d be at the school. Dumbledore sought him out and hired him for a reason. HE’S SMART AND KNOWS HIS REMEDIES. But no the fandom makes it this annoying fancanon that Remus would fight you if you stole his chocolate and that he always has it on him etc. Guys. Remus is poor. He was living in a crumbling cottage when Dumbledore came to him. I can promise you he wasn’t funding some chocolate obsession for years.

R.emus is Welsh and people need to remember that. Just because JKR never actually did anything with that for him doesn’t mean we can’t. The Welsh are super proud of their Welshness. They’re so damn proud to be Welsh and not be English. JKR kinda sucks for not showing this at all. It’s BS but nothing new so whatever. This isn’t really an unpopular opinion but it just ---- UGH NOT EVERYONE IS ENGLISH AND LETS CELEBRATE EVERYONE WHO IS DIFFERENT.

James and S.irius were not --- great friends for R.emus in school. They were good friends, giving him acceptance and loving him for who he was but they weren’t great. But read all the way through because it does end on a positive note. S.irius: S.irius’ prank was not alright in any shape or form. He could have gotten S.nape killed or bitten and that is one of R.emus’ BIGGEST fears. He’d have been devastated. Not to mention it wasn’t S.irius’ right to give up R.emus’ biggest secret like that and outing him even if Snape was already suspicious that something was up. So, R.emus certainly had a hard time trusting him the same after that and he is completely valid in feeling like that. James/S.irius together (and this isn’t necessarily their fault or in their control but it’s an observation I need to make): Peter was not the only one who basically worshipped the ground James and S.irius walked on. R.emus didn’t feel quite the same sense of extremeness but he certainly was pretty dependent on them. Might I remind you that R.emus was kept away from other children once he was bitten. That’s age 4/nearly 5 till the day he got on the train when he was 11. Not to say he wasn’t ever around them occasionally but he didn’t have friends until H.ogwarts. James and S.irius (and peter but this isn’t about him) were the first people to befriend him and not only that they found out his secret and didn’t shun him for it. R.emus became super dependent on those friendships after that which isn’t a bad thing in itself but it would have been healthier had JKR wrote him actually making other close friends because he was reliant on his small group of friends to ever be himself around them. The reason this grew unhealthy was with the bullying. R.emus helped with the harmless pranks that got on teachers nerves but he was never cruel. He sat out. Tried to ignore that it was happening because he was terrified of losing the first people his age to accept him for what he was if he spoke out against them too much. That’s not healthy. Friendships shouldn’t make you go against your moral code like this and you can’t tell me that R.emus didn’t take being a prefect serious. He would do just about anything for D.umbledore and didn’t want to let him down after he helped him get into H.ogwarts. He was more terrified of losing friendships than he was proving D.umbledore right for supporting him.

This being said. I do think the maturity that would have come with them all aging would have made things a hell of a lot better. Getting out of the highschool clique mentality and all that. James and S.irius are not bad people they were stupid kids and as adults I like them a lot more. I just really don’t support bullying and therefore can’t stand M.arauders Stans because wow most of them act like James and S.irius never did anything wrong. I do wish we could see more of the M.arauder’s times because we really don’t see anything but a few tense and awful things when I know they had to have had a lot happier and uhhhh less shitty things they did. I do think they were good friends and I love them but I also just don’t like cliques.

Also Stans and Antis of both the M.arauders and S.nape tire me out so much. I am comfortably in the middle acknowledging that every single member of both sides did shitty things. I do hold Remus accountable for not doing his prefect duties better even if I understand why he was hesitant to. But Anti’s need to still remember that all these boys were --- boys. It’s not a ‘Boys will be boys’ thing its a people grow up and change and none of us are the same as we were when we were kids so stop acting like these acts define these people??? To the Stans I say this: get over yourself. Stop acting like your fav is perfect. They’re not. Accept their flaws and show how they’ve grown from them or developed as a character instead of pretending they’re not that much of a flaw. FLAWS ARE GOOD. FLAWS MAKE US HUMAN. Don’t ignore shitty actions. Look back on them and look on your fav as they are now or would have been in the case of James.

#this got long whoops #idek if anyone will even read this XD #iM WORDY SORRY

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sapphireswimming · 6 years

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Aces: Chapter 1 (a Gundam 00 fic)

For this Gundam 00 week, I’m hoping to post several oneshots set in the same, still-unnamed, slightly-AU universe. Since they need to come at least roughly chronologically to make sense, but are getting written all out of order, I’ll do my best to post some stuff here this week and then put everything up properly on ffn once it’s done

But here is set-up chapter for Day 1 of @g00week since the AEU council felt Trap(ped) after the debacle that was episode 1

2k of political posturing, no warnings, no spoilers

The meeting room’s harsh artificial lighting bloomed against the marble walls, added to as the looping footage of the white Gundam flickered brightly across the faces of the board members who couldn’t seem to look away from the central screen.

“It was our latest model,” the man in the subdued green suit said again, still hardly able to believe over it seven hours later, “and it was defeated so easily.”

The mustached man beside him crossed his arms. “We’ll just have to halt developments of the Enact…” he offered defeatedly. “Go back to the drawing board and see if we can come up with something better. The technology obviously exists,” he said, tilting his head toward the screen as the recording showed the Gundam hacking apart the suit they had been so proud of that morning before taking off of the ground and flying away, backed by a science that had only been theorized about in their developer’s wildest dreams.

“It’s going to be as simple as that,” the woman with harshly cropped blonde hair sighed. “This has gone public. It was broadcast live across the world,” she said, gesturing to the screen. “Now, everyone knows that we had more military forces stationed in the elevator than the treaty allows. They all want to know why and to what extent. They’re asking us to disclose everything,” she stressed and the other board members fell silent.

“If we do, they’ll demand that we cease and desist, and put constraints on us to ensure that we do. If we don’t… well… there’s a chance they’ll put a stop to everything pending a full scale inquiry.”

“They wouldn’t be able to halt everything, though, surely?” the green suited man said. “I mean, not at a Bloc-wide level…” he said, looking around the room for reassurance and finding none on the hard faces surrounding him.

“Don’t be so sure,” the mustached man said. “The elevators are barely ten years old. The Solar Energy Wars haven’t faded out of the public consciousness yet. This is the first treaty made under the reorganization and I can guarantee you that the other Blocs won’t take this sitting down. And with our own people against us?” he shook his head. “Don’t underestimate the power of a world united against us. Not with so much on the line.”

The tanned man with normally perfectly manicured hair put a hand to his temples as he studied the fine wood grain of the table. “We have reports that this may have been a plot by the HRL or the Union to intentionally reveal that we were breaking the treaty. I mean, to have developed such an advanced mobile suit in secret would require the scientific knowledge of a highly developed nation, not to mention the funds of someone like…”

“…the Union?” the mustached man ventured. “Their Ace did barge into the unveiling ceremony without a ticket.”

“Yes, but the Flag is still a new model itself,” the woman replied, shaking her head. “And can you imagine the Union developing something like this and not showing it off right away?”

“The HRL, then? The Tierens are ten years overdue for an upgrade. Maybe this was it.”

“Yes, but still. You’d think if they had the technology to take off again from the ground, they’d have stopped using their mobile suits like paratrooper units,” the tanned man said, expressively gesturing across the table with both hands so that the buttons on the sleeves of his white suit clinked against the surface.

The hawk-nosed British Prime Minister interrupted their postulating. “The only thing we know for sure is that this… Celestial Being, whoever they may be, has a very capable mobile suit that is more powerful than the Enact.”

“And if that’s the case,” the green-suited man followed, “we can’t afford to halt developments. In fact, we should be doubling our efforts at making new suits.”

“New or better?” the woman muttered out of the side of her mouth.

“Both,” he said, glancing to her for a moment. “Did you see how easily that thing took out our forces?”

The tanned man ran a hand through his now disheveled hair and pointed it toward the screen between them without a word. Their Ace pilot was unearthing himself from a smoldering pile of warped, twisted metal, a fortune nearly half a decade in the making.

“And that was only with two of them,” he continued as if he hadn’t seen the obvious but silent gesture. “But there are four, at least, that we know of already.”

“We have no idea how many there are. There could be dozens. Hundreds, even,” the green suited man despaired.

“I doubt it’s that many,” the woman said, turning toward him coldly. “Or they would have come out with a larger show of force.”

“They wouldn’t need to, with such advanced weaponry as that. They had two suits and it was already a show of force,” he said, pointing up toward the screen. None of them needed to look up to see the now well-familiar scene of destruction playing out above their heads. “But that’s what I’m saying. If just two of these new suits can take out all of ours, then we need more to try to counter them. More suits… and better suits.”

“Public opinion is already against us, though,” the mustached man shook his head, finally uncrossing his arms. “The other Blocs might even have been lenient now that they’ve seen the Gundams as well, but with public opinion against us like this…” he waved his upturned hands in an arc in front of him.

“If any of the member nations start withdrawing support,” the tanned man warned, sitting up and staring pointedly at each of the board members seated around the glorified conference table, “Or worse, passing legislation to prevent our military from developing further weaponry…”

“Then we’ll fall behind,” the woman said bluntly. “We’ll be overrun. By the Gundams. And the Union and the HRL.”

“I can guarantee you that they aren’t sitting back on this,” he said, reaching up a hand to loosen the red tie cinched tight around his neck. “By now, they’ve already ramped up their production teams. If this suit doesn’t belong to them, they want to get their hands on that technology just as much as we do,” he said, tapping on the table. “And they don’t have their hands tied behind their backs by this thing with the treaty.”

“So we can’t afford to stop. And we also can’t afford to be stopped. So,” the green suited man asked, steepling his hands in front of his face, “What do we do?”

“If we could drum up enough morale… enough public support, then it wouldn’t matter if we keep going ahead anyway. By the time anyone found out about it, they would also see how necessary they were,” the tanned man pointed out, unbuttoning the top button of his maroon shirt and opening it wide enough that he didn’t feel suffocated by his own clothing.

“So… we only have to find a way to keep them from shutting down production,” the green suited man said, voice lilting at the prospect of an abbreviated task.

From beside him, the mustached man sighed heavily, his voice laden with doubt. “And just how do you propose to singlehandedly turn around the public’s opinion quickly enough to salvage this?”

The green suited man did not have an answer for him.

Neither did anyone else. The board members of the AEU sat in silence as they pondered the fate of their Bloc’s military might and the footage on the screen in front of them rolled from the top once again, trailing the far-off figure of the Gundam during its initial light-filled descent until it touched down into the training ground arena.

“The Gundams,” the Prime Minister said.

“What?” the green suited man turned toward him with drawn brows.

“Capitalize on the Gundams,” he said again.

“The Gundams are new,” the woman said, slowly realizing what he was driving at. “They’re unknowns. Everyone around the world is clamoring to know more. Where did they come from, who is Celestial Being, and what are they planning to do next?”

“And?” the tanned man asked, propping one arm on the table and resting his head in his hand.

“And… we saw them first. They touched down at the AEU unveiling ceremony. We had a pilot fight one of those things. We had multiple pilots fight those things.”

“And lose. Terribly,” the mustached man pointed out.

The tanned man had sat up again and waved his comment away as he stared at the woman. “We are the only Bloc that has fought them,” he said, looking to her for confirmation that they understood the issue in the same way.

She nodded. We have footage. We have data. We don’t know what it means yet, of course, but still. We have it.” She stared around the table. “We have something that no one else does. That’s something we can make use of.”

“Sure, but make use of how? What do you propose to do?”

“Broadcast it. Televise it.”

At their unconvinced stares, the tanned man continued, picking up her thread. “If we were to have a television spot, for example,” he said, “interviewing our brave pilots, shot down on a day of celebration, when they were trying to defend the orbital elevator from an unknown mobile suit that commenced hostilities and engaged us unprovoked during an official, peaceful unveiling ceremony…” he drifted off, letting them picture all of the possibilities.

“We can frame the narrative however we want,” the woman said, corner of her mouth twitching up.

He nodded. “Sure,” he agreed easily. “Play up the human interest angle, show how brave our pilots are. How they’ll protect the member nations from this new unknown threat. Get footage from the ceremony – something that never aired on the regular news stations. Its first descent and a close up from when it touched down…”

“People will eat it up,” the mustached man breathed. “Even if they don’t consider it a threat, the fact that we can offer them new glimpses into the Gundams before either of the other Blocs will count for something.”

“The public are fickle,” the tanned man nodded, “But if you know how to cater to them…” he said, spreading out his arms before folding them neatly in front of him.

“I had forgotten you used to be on the other side of the microphone.”

He tilted his head, modestly.

“That might work,” the mustached man said.

“It’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

“Who was the pilot at the ceremony?”

“Colasaur, wasn’t it?” the green suited man asked, turning to the woman for confirmation.

“Yes.”

“I’m sure he’d love to supply footage for a television special.”

The mustached man blinked. “Wasn’t he hospitalized?”

“Even better,” the tanned man said. “Get footage of him immediately, before he’s released. Really hit up that angle. The brave young man attacked out of the blue and unawares by these Gundams. I’m sure our people will be able to do something with it.”

“So that’s what we’re doing, then?” the green suited man asked. “Salvaging our reputation with a little television special?”

The woman shrugged. “If you know of a faster way to turn around public opinion in time, I’d be glad to consider it. But I had been under the impression that we were in a hurry to make the tide turn in our favor.” She said, pointedly.

“For now, I believe it may be the best thing we can do,” the Prime Minister said, effectively ending the debate. “We’ll have a better grasp of the situation soon enough.”

The green suited man threw out his hands as he ceded his reservations and bobbed his head in acceptance their marching orders. “Alright, can we contact the same crew we used for the AEU special—”

“Already on it,” the tanned man said, digging into the pocket of his blazer for his terminal and hot pressing a number from memory before switching it to voice only mode and pushing out of his seat.

#gundam 00 #g00week #durinswizardwheezes #this is going to be so fun you guys #basically the ace pilots are going to become super famous #and the world is going to have to deal with the consequences of patrick colasaur graham aker and soma pieres being celebrities #mine #ss #fanfiction #(also sorry the aeu people don't have names. if it reads super weird i can change it before it gets to ffn. but it is late and i want this u #p)

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tsaritsa · 6 years

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against the run of play

hi @yanumii i was ur secret santa this year!!!! u asked for fic, a modern au, and royai: so i went a bit crazy and wrote a 7k multimedia fic extravaganza. i hope u enjoy it, and that u have a safe holiday period into 2k18!!!

you can also read on ao3

“Riza Hawkeye,” she lifted her glass in greeting.

He inclined his head in return and took the chair next to her. “Roy Mustang. What brings you to a charity gig this evening?”

(In which Roy Mustang is a national rugby hero and falls in love with neurotrauma specialist Riza Hawkeye as soon as he lays eyes on her).

He’s been seen out and about in Briggs with internationally-ranked ice-skater Olivier Armstrong, 36.

But rugby royalty Roy Mustang, 28, stepped out solo for his trip to East City last week, and tried to go incognito as he arrived at Bardowick-Lyles station late Thursday afternoon.

The captain of the Drakes cut a casual look with oversized black shades as he tried to dodge the prying eyes of the afternoon commuters.

Braving the cold in a black winter coat with pearl buttons, Mustang kept it cosy in a light blue jumper and worn black jeans.

He matched his elegant coat with midnight Tom Ford boots, emblazoned with a bold red strap over the foot.

He stylishly pulled the look together with a tan messenger bag with statement buckle to give off a touch of glamour.

The sighting comes after a report from the Central Star that the rugby superstar is getting serious with ice-skater Olivier Armstrong, who has just come back from the competition circuit in Drachma. Though there have been no photos of the two together, several sources have reported on their dates.

Olivier attended his last home game in East City last November. And Mustang headed to Briggs with her where they were both spotted enjoying the sights at Lake Yastreb, well-known in the region for its picturesque views and opportunities to skate on the lake itself.

'Roy and Olivier are definitely dating,' a source tells Central Star. 'They’ve gotten to know each other really well and are very comfortable from one another.

'Olivier sends Roy music to get his opinion on what she should choreograph her pieces to. It’s more than just a fling.' 'They’ve been dating since early autumn and spend most nights hanging out at his holiday home in northern Central and laying low,' another source told the Central Star.

'His friends already love her and see how happy she makes him,' it was claimed.

The Drakes face off against Creta this Saturday at the Eastern ‘Cake Tin’ Stadium, in which punters are expecting the professional debut of newly-signed scrum-half, Edward Elric.

Roy Mustang is supposedly single!

While it was previously reported the Rugby Union star was ‘casually dating’ the pretty figure skater Olivier Armstrong, he says he's not worrying about his love life for now (though he did not outright deny that he and Olivier have been seeing!)

He told The Bell:

"It's not that I'm not pursuing love in some sense, but I'm just focusing on the team right now. We have some really exciting games coming up against the new Creta lineup and training has been non-stop. The spare time that I do have, I want it to be fun and casual and light and easy-going."

Well, there's nothing wrong with fun and casual!

Anyway, Roy isn't worrying about being in a serious relationship at the moment, but maybe some time in the future:

"I'm sure there will come a time when I'm ready to make a more serious commitment and be in a relationship like that – one where I can really focus my time on someone else – but I'm thrilled to be able to keep things simple at the moment."

And for now he's focusing on his fellow teammate (and self-proclaimed best friend) Maes Hughes' happiness in his engagement to Gracia Barker:

"I was really excited and anxious to hear from Maes on the day that I knew he was going to pop the question. When I finally did, it was just the best. I think they’ve found their other half in each other and it's wonderful to see them so happy. It's rare in a lot of cases and when you see it happen it brings you an overwhelming sense of joy."

Aww!

Roy can live vicariously through them AND still enjoy the single life!

Riza huffed as she adjusted the dress she wore, cursing under her breath as she shot a pained smile towards her grandfather across the dance floor. She understood that the job her grandfather had – as the leader of their country – was important, but he made it very hard for her to appreciate his role when he forced her to attend these soirées as his informal date. You’ll meet plenty of men this way, he had cajoled her, eyes twinkling.

Of course, it didn’t matter to Führer George Grumman the III that his only grandchild had no current plans to meet a man and settle down – she was having plenty of fun focusing on her job as a doctor in a small borough just an hour out of Central City. It was challenging work, as well as rewarding, and it frustrated Riza to no end that her grandfather refused to see her as she was, rather than as someone she could potentially become.

She would, however, give him credit for the dress she was trying to wrestle with discreetly as she could manage. Despite the awkward way she felt it sat on her body, she would admit that she looked damn good in it. It was one of the more scandalous-worthy dresses on show tonight – she had been approached by an up-and-coming designer who knew her through a co-worker that worked on the surgery side of head trauma (she thought it was funny how small the world could be at times) – and the designer had arrived last week with this hip-hugging, gossamer affair. Truthfully, the dress actually stopped at the top of her thighs: the rest was a delicate gauze embellished with floral appliqués that accented the long length of her thighs and calves. It was a bold choice that Riza knew had some of the high society girls fuming – technically she hadn’t broken the dress code, but she knew she was walking on a very thin line between looking chic and modern and looking downright scandalous.

Whatever. If she had to be dragged to be paraded around on her grandfather’s arm, at least she could look stunning while doing it.

Tonight was a charity event – these were par for the course for her. The causes were almost always something she could easily support, and the press tended to be minimal (and generally only the legitimate forms of press would even turn up to these sorts of events).

Unfortunately for Riza, this particular charity event was something she was struggling to find an ounce of support for. It didn’t help that their supporters and partners had hadn’t really given much thought to the security of the whole event. Gate crashers kept seeming to wriggle their way in, and the few men on duty had their hands full trying to ensure than nobody was unduly accosted.

It was just her luck that the entire Drakes team had been invited to attend, and with them, every person with a smartphone and a nametag saying, ‘Hello I’m an invasive journalist’ had turned up to report (intrusively investigate, a little voice in the back of her head whispered).

The main speeches that had practically bordered on self-congratulation had already been done (thank god), and the dinner had been alright (the only saving grace). The mingling afterwards was what she didn’t enjoy, but it was barely ten o’clock yet and she had promised her grandfather that she would stay until at least half past. This event had been sponsored by the national rugby board, celebrating the commencement of a new initiative that would see coaches and equipment being deployed to the poorer regions of the country. If her grandfather was considered the head of this nation, rugby was undoubtedly the heart. And the lungs. And the kidneys. And any other vital organ in the body. Amestris without rugby was…well, a country of little international standing and an awful lot of sheep per capita.

It was in their blood, or so the saying went. Everyone either played or watched the national sport. There was never any discussion about disliking rugby: naturally, that never factored into the equation at all. Riza could remember playing it as a young child – even the other sports made available at her school all paled in comparison to the funding and exposure that rugby got.

Her grandfather knew she wasn’t the biggest fan of rugby – being a neurotrauma specialist meant she often dealt with people suffering from concussions and other injuries that were common in the sport: so spending an evening with the people who actively ignored any warnings she and her colleagues put out about the inherent dangers of such an oft-contact sport was just peachy.

Also, Roy Mustang was here. Riza didn’t have anything against the man personally; she was just sick of seeing his name and face plastered across her newspapers, social media feed, christ – even her bread wasn’t safe from his smarmy expression, endorsing her use of wholegrains and encouraging her to learn more at playrugby.co.am

The overexposure of such a man was to be expected, she supposed. He was the captain of the Drakes – the national rugby team, and played in the local league for the East Eagles. Alongside Hughes, Armstrong (the male one, his older sister did figure-skating and was reputed to be as cold as the ice she worked on) and the up-and-coming Elric Brothers, the national team was formidable, to say the least – and that was only the names that she could remember off the top of her head. The Drakes were currently ranked number one in the world, and for good reason. She’d give him this, Mustang was talented – after years of embarrassing defeats and almost-wins against Creta (their arch rivals), Mustang had swanned onto the scene and essentially rebuilt the team from the ground up. The drinking and bashing tabloids went away, the team practically became good at rugby overnight, and the country’s morale was at an all-time high.

Mustang had given the country something to be proud of, and that in turn made the country better for it.

She spied him across the room, talking with her grandfather and other men in suits. George was a big fan of the rugby, and Riza knew her grandfather would certainly be enjoying himself tonight, surrounded by plenty of players to natter off to. She remembered that he used to play when he was haler and heartier: tonight would probably be the highlight of his social engagement calendar for this season.

It was rather funny to watch the man try to extract himself from what looked to be a very one-sided conversation with her grandfather – Riza was well-versed in various modes of escape from him once he got into an animated discussion, but in this case Mustang seemed to be at her grandfather’s mercy. Eventually another team member had wandered over and she saw him quickly duck his way out, skirting the edges of the ballroom.

“I see you’ve met the ‘real’ Führer,” she called out to him as he passed her table. He turned back to look at her, confused.

She smiled kindly at him and his face lit up in understanding. “You saw that, then?”

“It’s been fun watching everyone realise what they’ve gotten themselves into. You did remarkably well.”

She poured herself another flute of sparkling wine and raised her eyebrows at her companion.

“Riza Hawkeye,” she lifted her glass in greeting.

He inclined his head in return and took the chair next to her. “Roy Mustang. What brings you to a charity gig this evening?”

“I’m here as my grandfather’s date,” she replied. It was the truth, after all. But with men like Mustang, she relied on their own fame and notoriety to eclipse hers. There had been no spark of recognition at her first name (which usually gave it away). It was refreshing to be a simple civilian, talking to another, slightly more (okay, extremely well-known) civilian. Besides, she was interested in seeing how he was off the field, and out of the press scrum after every game. He had always presented himself as polite and engaged – but here, amongst his peers, Riza would have an opportunity to see the real man.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said politely, fiddling with the stem of his glass. “Is he involved with the board?”

“Not quite,” she hedged, ducking her head. “To be honest he’s not a very important person in the scheme of it all, not here certainly. Not like you, however.” A teasing smile pulled at her lips. “You’re the man of the hour.”

Roy sighed, shifting in his chair to see her properly. “It’s a good venture.”

“I never said it wasn’t,” Riza said coolly. “But you don’t look like you’re having fun, despite all the attention.”

Roy folded his arms over his chest and Riza tried to ignore how his dress shirt pulled in all the right places. “You don’t sound like you’re having much fun either.”

“Why would I? Your board never listens to me: being stuck in a room with them is not my idea of a good Thursday night.”

He paused, frowning. “What do you mean about the board?”

Perhaps it was the all the wine she had drunk throughout the night (well, something needed to get her through their inane speeches); perhaps it was the fact that she would be able to give Mustang the slip in just under ten minutes; perhaps Riza had the slim hope that maybe he would listen to her, even if nobody else would.

The words spilled out of her before she could think to what impact they might have. “I’m a neurotrauma specialist. I’ve written entire books on how a blow to the head affects your cognitive function later on in life. Your board seems to think their players are immune to those effects.”

His eyes bugged a little out of his head and Riza allowed herself a small smirk. It wasn’t an attack on him directly – hell, he would probably be one of the worst-off players considering how long he’d been playing for the Drakes now – but there was something perversely fun about educating the star of rugby about its inherent failings and dangers.

“I mean-” he was struggling for words here, moving forward in his seat. “I’d heard the rumours but – surely they would listen, at the very least?”

Riza shrugged, finishing off her glass. “You tell me. Every paper I send them – internationally peer-reviewed, mind you – is quickly ignored. They don’t want the proof that the current form of the game is slowly killing their star players.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe you’ll have more luck with them than I do. I mean the game no disrespect, but with how it’s embedded into our day-today-lives-” she waved an arm around for emphasis. “It’s not just retired players and people with over twenty concussions. I’m getting children in now because they’ve have a hard knock and it’s screwed them up. There’s absolutely no focus on safety, just on how manly it is. And a gala like this? It’s only going to exacerbate the problem.”

He had grown quiet, looking at something over her shoulder with apprehension.

“I heard from your grandfather that you had come along with him tonight, but I never imagined you would be so rude as to spread lies when you’re here as our guest,” an oily voice said from behind her.

“Chairman Raven,” Roy said carefully, moving out of his chair and shaking the older man’s hand.

Riza stood up to, and made a point of extending her hand towards the man as well. His cologne was overpowering as he gripped her hand with more force than necessary, she could feel it settling onto her skin like the sardines her grandfather liked to eat for lunch. Everything about him screamed money and power.

“It’s hardly a lie, I’m afraid,” she replied coolly, enjoying how his gaze hardened. “I have nearly eight years’ worth of data now. Every year you ignore me I just add to my statistics some more.”

“Chairman, I think it might be worth looking into this,” Roy said earnestly, and Riza felt a rush of affection for him as he stood next to her, their shoulders barely brushing. “I saw Basque only just last week and he had been telling me-”

“A conversation for another time, I think,” Raven said pointedly, still looking at Riza with barely contained distaste. “You’ll have to forgive Mr. Mustang: he sees a pretty face and simply loses all common sense.”

Riza felt the smile freeze on her face. Roy had grown very still next to her, and she willed for him to say something – anything. The silence stretched on, and Raven’s lewd smile grew.

“I think we should give Mr. Mustang more credit than that,” she said eventually, tasting bile on her tongue. “At least he doesn’t judge at first glance.”

“Because there’s so much to judge the granddaughter of the Führer on, isn’t there?” Raven inclined his head at the two of them. “It was nice talking to you again, Miss Hawkeye.”

“Doctor Hawkeye,” she ground out.

Raven laughed loudly. “Of course, silly me. Doctor Hawkeye.”

Roy turned on her as soon as the older man was out of earshot; Riza let go of a breath she didn’t realise she was still holding onto.

“You’re George’s granddaughter?”

“Yes,” she said distractedly, checking her watch for the time. “My grandmother doesn’t have the patience for these sorts of things, so I come along instead.”

“His granddaughter-”

“I need a drink,” she said tiredly, finally looking up at him. His mouth was gaping open inelegantly and she smiled softly, placing her fingers on his underside of his chin to close his mouth gently. “Would you care to join me? I find Chairman Raven robs me of all energy.” Her fingers lingered on his jaw for a moment, savouring the heat of his skin against her own.

He stared at her, confused, before nodding and offering her his arm. “I know a good bar a few blocks from here,” he said lightly.

“You read my mind, Mr Mustang. Lead the way.”

She woke with a start, and immediately wished she hadn’t moved so quickly. The room swam; her vision swam; her head swam.

Riza had the worst hangover in living memory. Her legs were wrapped awkwardly around a sheet and she struggled for a few moments before flopping back onto the bed, breathing deeply and trying her best not to hurl onto the ground.

How much did I drink last night? Her head was throbbing painfully now, and she realised with growing dread that she didn’t recognise where she was.

She also wasn’t wearing anything.

FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckityfuckfuckFUCK.

Another wave of nausea passed over her and she rolled onto her side, blearily opening her eyes to figure out exactly where she had ended up. The room was familiar – maybe one of the hotels in the CBD? The room was pretty basic in its setup, but the furniture spoke of moderate wealth. Riza sat up slowly, not caring how the bedsheet fell and pooled around her hips. She could spy her dress crumpled up on the floor, and her shoes kicked off on the sofa.

How in the fuck am I going to get out of this?

She heard movements to her left, and watched with horror as Roy Mustang’s head emerged from beneath the other half of the bedsheet, like the birth of the world’s most hungover butterfly. He blinked slowly up at her, his mouth opening and shutting.

“Where did your dress go?” he asked, puzzled. Riza shrieked, quickly grabbing the sheet back up.

“God, not so loud I beg you-”

“What the fuck happened last night-”

“Did we-?”

“I think we-”

“Christ, I would never mean to take advantage of you like that, I’m so sorry-”

She held up a hand and took a deep breath. “We were both obviously drunk – it’s – it’s not ideal. But it’s alright, it – this shit happens.” She gripped the bedsheet tightly against her chest.

He curled around a pillow and looked at her with an expression she couldn’t be bothered to figure out. “I’m glad it was you,” he said honestly, wincing at how tactless he sounded. “I mean – you know, people throwing themselves at you for your fame?”

“Yeah…” she nodded her head uncertainly. “I-”

“ROY!” A voice boomed from outside, the two of them tensed, and looked at each other warily.

“Fuck, it’s Maes,” he whispered harshly, running a hand through his hair – if it was his bedhead before, Riza didn’t know what to call whatever the mess was now on top of his head. He pushed himself off the bed and puttered around the bed; Riza found it hard to tear her eyes away from his body. Yes, she knew he was fit but – it was different seeing it in the flesh.

“You won’t want to wear that out,” he said, gesturing to her dress on the floor while shimmying on his boxer shorts. “I think I have some spare clothes you can borrow.”

“It’ll be fine-”

“Dressed to the nines?” He laughed and shook his head. “We’ve got press with us at the moment – they might be sport-focused, but I’ll wager they’ll be quicker to pick up on who you are than I was.”

She bit her lip: he had a point, despite her apprehension. Of course the media would be here – it was a bloody miracle that Roy had taken them to a little bar off a side street where nobody seemed to care who they were.

The knocking on the door was becoming more insistent. “ROY WAKE THE FUCK UP YOU LAZY SON OF A-”

“I’M COMING, MAES!” He yelled back, throwing her a wrinkled t-shirt and shorts; she quickly put them on. They were a loose fit, but it would have to do, at least until she could hail an uber to take her home. He ducked into the bathroom, she could hear the taps running at full tilt.

She was just bending down to pick up her wallet when the door suddenly flew open and Maes walked in, looking harried and ready to draw blood.

“Roy, I swear on my grave you are gonna get it-”

He stopped as he saw Riza crouching by the side of the bed.

“Oh shit, Roy. What have you done?”

Roy walked out the bathroom, scrubbing at his face with a washcloth. His shoulders slumped as he saw his best friend, and he walked over to where Riza was standing, frozen like a deer in the headlights. “Look, I’ll-”

“It’s fine,” she whispered lowly, very aware of how this must look to the deputy captain: here was the Führer’s granddaughter dressed in his best friend’s clothing and looking thoroughly shagged. “I’ll go, and you can – can deal with whatever is going on-”

“Riza-”

She placed her free palm against his chest and breathed in deeply. “It’s fine-”

He dipped his head and kissed her chastely on the mouth, a little part of her melted at the fact that despite his being needed elsewhere, he was still here, with her. His fingers curled against the side of her face and she tried her best not to see too much into this: he was just being a gentleman and –

“Roy this can’t wait-”

He ripped his lips from hers and breathed deeply, resting his forehead against her own.

“I swear-”

She nodded, trying her best not to let her emotions get the better of her. “Maybe we’ll – later.”

“Later,” he breathed, kissing her forehead lightly before picking up her shoes and handing them to her. “Take the stairwell, it’ll lead you to the back entrance and away from the main road.”

Maes was quiet as he watched her gather her purse and slip out of the room. “You didn’t answer your phone,” he explained, handing his own over. The local news site was loaded, and Roy sucked in a breath as he read the headline.

BREAKING: ZOLF J. KIMBLEE FOUND GUILTY OF DOPING DRAKES ON BEHALF OF DRACHMAN BEARS. MORE TO FOLLOW.

“Christ,” Roy muttered, skimming the article before handing the phone back to Maes, quickly putting on his team jacket. “Of course it was Kimblee.”

Maes shrugged. “We all knew something was coming. What I’m more interested in is-”

“Absolutely not.” His voice brokered no argument and Maes deflated a little. “It’s not – we’ve got more important things to worry about right now.”

“Is she just a one-off or-?”

Roy rubbed his eyes roughly, sighing. “For fucks sake, you know me better than that. Later mate, when I’m not hungover.”

Maes slung his arm around Roy’s shoulders, and coaxed him down the hall towards the elevator. “I’ll hold you to that. Anyway, Kimblee was found with the drugs in his room, and his phone’s been confiscated by the police. All you need to do is look solemn and refuse to answer any questions.”

“That should be easy.”

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:28pm when did u manage to put ur number into my phone

elizabeth, 5:31pm Sorry, who is this?

UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:32pm man this is embarrassing UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:32pm it’s roy UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:32pm y’know UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:33pm the dude u marked to hell and back UNKNOWN NUMBER, 5:33pm i had to fend off so many questions from maes about u

elizabeth, 5:34pm Oh shit elizabeth, 5:36pm Thank you for sending back my dress. I owe you

concussion boy, 5:37pm go out to lunch with me tomorrow and i’ll call it even

elizabeth, 5:39pm They said you were slick on the field

concussion boy, 5:40pm meet u at the café on the corner of elm and lyles? 12ish?

elizabeth, 5:44pm I’ve got a meeting at 1pm back at the hospital so it’ll have to be a short lunch

Looks like Roy Mustang scores on AND off the field!

On Saturday, the Drakes star was snapped out and about with the gorgeous First Granddaughter Riza Hawkeye, and it seems like these two had quite a ball on their lunch date!

The precious pair hit up Il Pomadoro in the Carlston borough of Western Central, and they were totally getting their flirt on after the meal!

The accomplished neurosurgeon and the captain of the Drakes were caught on camera smiling and laughing, and Riza even tried to grab for something in the athlete's hands!

And close sources say this isn't just a hit-it-and-quit-it date! Insiders say that these two are, in fact, dating, but it's still very new, which is why they're trying to keep it on the down-low.

For example, when the sports star was asked about being spotted on the outing later that week, he responded by saying:

"I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about."

Playing coy, Mr. Mustang?!

We appreciate the effort, but those snaps are pretty telling!

[Images courtesy of Lily Marrell.]

Things are heating up between Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye in the cold winter weather… literally!

On Tuesday night, the blonde beauty and the charismatic captain were spotted hanging out together once again! The stars were caught on camera at a Starbucks near Mount Kahma, about five hours north of New Optain.

Since the cosy ski resort is probably one of the few places in the Eastern District that actually gets cold, the precious pair was most likely trying to get their body heat rising… with some coffee! LOL get your mind out of the gutter!

The romance rumours surrounding these two have been in a flurry ever since the pair were spotted talking at a charity ball sponsored by the National Rugby Union. Miss Hawkeye, a talented neurotrauma specialist at Central General had apparently charmed the Drakes Captain with not just her enviable fashion sense, but her brain as well. Sources say that Roy was smitten with her from the very beginning, while Riza took a little time to warm up to the fly-half.

Do you think the relationship between this dynamic duo is more than platonic? Or are Roy and Riza just friends? This girl hopes that Roy Mustang isn’t off the bachelor market just yet!

[Image courtesy of Lorne Yoki.]

It’s heartbreak on top of heartbreak for Olivier Armstrong, 36, and Roy Mustang, 28, and sources claim to The Daily Star that Roy has betrayed Olivier by seeing another woman for the past five months. ‘Roy finally admitted to Olivier that he had fallen in love with another woman! They had to hide their feelings, but they’ve been seeing each other on the sly whenever they could over the last five months,’ an insider reveals. ‘Their friendship turned into something more as time went on.’ OMG!

So who is this alleged mystery woman? None other than the granddaughter of the Führer, Riza Hawkeye. ‘She’s a neurotrauma specialist, and often attends charity events as a date to her grandfather,’ the source adds. Sounds like they run in the same circles. ‘As such, they had crossed paths at numerous events, both in Amestris and abroad, for some time,’ the insider reveals. ‘She’s classically beautiful and was educated in Creta, as well as here at Central U — and the attraction between her and Roy was immediate!’ Whoa, sounds pretty serious.

Miss Hawkeye has been described as somewhat of a gold-digger in certain circles – she was largely left out of the public eye as George Grumman soared to power in the election of ’19, and the insider reveals that there’s talk amongst those closest to the rugby star that she’s after a ring to solidify her social standing amongst the WAG’s of the Drakes. ‘She grew up in a very poor household until her grandfather took her under his wing, so she’s very hungry for any kind of power. We honestly can’t see what he sees in her.’

Of course, Roy had to eventually tell Olivier about his secret love. ‘Roy finally came clean to Olivier about his new woman just a few days before her Grand Prix competition at North City,’ the insider says, referring to that dramatic and shocking exit by Olivier in the semi-finals. ‘At first Olivier was stunned — and certainly blindsided — by Roy’s confession. But then she got furious. It wasn’t pretty,’ the source shares. We can only imagine. Olivier is considered one of the strongest skaters in the world – she must have truly been heartbroken to be affected like this.

Perhaps Riza will see her true influence now – not as a doctor saving lives, but as one ruining them too.

concussion boy, 2:31pm i know u saw the daily star article. rebecca dm’ed me. concussion boy, 2:31pm u can’t just keep ignoring me concussion boy, 2:32pm we need to talk about this

elizabeth, 2:26pm there’s nothing to talk about

concussion boy, 2:27pm i’ll make sure i get a concussion next match unless we talk concussion boy, 2:27pm u know i will concussion boy, 2:28pm and then u will have to treat me and be a professional while i ogle u concussion boy, 2:29pm har har

“You never thought to tell me it was a PR relationship?”

“It didn’t seem – I mean, if you had met Olivier-”

Riza let out a shriek of frustration. “But I haven’t, Roy. I don’t move in the same circles as you! Was it her? Did she tell them to write this?”

Roy held up his hands in defeat. “No, she wouldn’t. She doesn’t get revenge that way. I just – I know our lives have been busy! Between you, and getting the team through this fucking doping scandal-”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Because I’m such a hassle, aren’t I? You know that’s not what I meant. It’s not like I’m deciding to date the next guy I meet in the bakery – you’re Roy Mustang! Every man, woman and unborn child knows who you are. It was foolish to think that we’d be able to keep it quiet for any length of time, you’ve always got media after you-”

Roy snorted, shaking his head. “And you’re the Führer’s granddaughter, who is known in the public eye-”

“Because he asks me!” She wrung her hands, trying her best not to get upset. “He always gives me the option to say no! You never asked me if this is what I wanted, you just took me out on a date and hoped like mad the press wouldn’t catch wind-”

“Didn’t stop you from fucking me in the hotel.”

She stood there, mouth open and gaping like a fish. “That’s not – you can’t just – we-”

He laughed humourlessly, a pale imitation of a smile on his face. “Right. I see how it is. You’re allowed to hang that over my head for as much as you care to do, but as soon as I try to make a point you won’t even fucking listen. Are you sure that it’s me who’s has the multiple head injuries?” It was an a needlessly cruel jab and part of Roy regretted it the moment it left his mouth. His idea of a ‘mild press day’ was probably far beyond whatever she had experienced – but still –

She sat down on the sofa, her head in her hands. Her shoulders were trembling. “Don’t,” she said forcefully when he went to sit next to her, her arm flung out in a final stand.

There was an ugly silence as Roy stood there, hand hovering in the space where her own was being held. She swallowed what sounded like a sob before she raised her head and tucked her arms against her body, blinking her watery eyes.

“Never use my job against me again,” she said coldly, before shifting on the sofa, inclining her head slightly. He sat down, and she sighed, resting her head against his shoulder.

“You’re used to the press,” her hand found his and she laced her fingers with his tightly. “You’re used to how they write about you, how they-”

“But-”

“Please let me finish, Roy.” Her voice was firm, but tired. “You have an entire team of people who coach you in how to deal with the media; that same team protects you from the worst of it. I don’t have that luxury. Being the granddaughter of the Führer means that people are aware of me, yes – but I’m no more than a line in an article; perhaps included in a single society photo with my grandfather because he wants one of the two of us. No more than that.” She paused, and shifted against him.

“I have complete strangers approaching me at my work. Making up fake head injuries so I’ll see them – taking up a spot that could be used by somebody who actually needs the medical attention. The girlfriend of Roy Mustang.” Riza laughed bitterly. “It’s like I’m in zoo or something. Back when people saw me for who my grandfather was, not for my own achievements. I worked hard to get to where I am today – to be reduced in such a way, it’s–”

She sighed heavily. “This is the reality I’m living with. Please understand that.”

Roy nodded slowly, squeezing her hand lightly. “I didn’t consider,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry I put you in that position.”

She lifted their joined hands and kissed his knuckles delicately. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you when it happened. I just…I thought I could deal with it. They’re only articles.”

“And you’re just a person,” Roy soothed. “A brilliant, smart, and kind person-” she laughed shakily, “-but a person nonetheless. I’ll see what I can do about the tabloids. They weren’t this harsh on Gracia.”

dickhead bf, 09:28am sorry to inform u but i’m breaking up with u dickhead bf, 09:29am i know this will be hard for u dickhead bf, 09:29am i'll send some flowers so the world knows i’m a gentleman

ice monster, 09:40am fuck off ice monster, 09:40am i’ve seen the articles. is she staying for longer than 2 months?

dickhead bf, 09:48am har bloody har. she just doesn’t want any press cooking up a story we all know to be fake dickhead bf, 09:50am they haven’t been kind to her

ice monster, 09:52am cry me a river mustang. she knows what’s she’s getting into right? fuhrer’s grandkid and all that ice monster, 09:54am seriously tho, congrats. didn't think there was anybody who could deal with ur arse 24/7. wish her luck from me

dickhead bf, 09:55am you’d probably like her. doesn't put up with any of my shit and makes me ring my mum once a week

ice monster, 09:56am real wife material there ice monster, 10:11am oh ffs DO NOT propose to her yet otherwise i’ll get stuck with ur press cycle again. ur meant to make me look GOOD

dickhead bf, 10:28am i know. say hi to jon for me

Olivier Armstrong may have a new man her life!

On Monday, it was reported by The Standard that the renowned figure skater has been spending time with Jonathon Buccaneer for the last few weeks. AH-Mazing!

However, the 32-year-old's family have declined to comment on her possibly changed #RelationshipStatus. Well, that's not a no!

According to the paper, the twosome went on a romantic getaway together to Beaumont, Western District where they supposedly went on scenic hikes into the mountains and basked in the sunshine. Too cute!

Still, we have to wonder, who exactly is this mystery beau?? Ch-ch-check out these five fast facts on Olivier’s (possible) new squeeze!

Mr. Buccaneer has an automail arm: Apparently, he has a variety of different get-ups for different jobs. It��s unknown how he lost it, and no sources close to the man have offered up any hints. We can’t imagine how he lost it, what with working in the military and all…

He has NOTHING to do with professional sports: Surprisingly, Olivier is dating a normal guy who works at as a military analyst for the Briggs outpost for the military. Mind blown!

Olivier’s rumoured BF is SUPER smart: The 35-year-old is said to have gone to not one, but TWO ranked universities. Yep, Jon went to the University of Amestris for his undergraduate education and also attended Briggs Military Academy. Remember, the blonde beauty graduated from Central U herself!

This possible boyfriend is ALSO a fan of nature: Reportedly, his now private Instagram account showed a series of pics of Jon being in the great outdoors, hiking, and camping in the Northern Ranges. Colour us impressed!

Jon may be exactly what Olivier needs to finally move on from her supposed ex: the athlete was said to be heartbroken following the news that rugby player Roy Mustang had given her the slip and moved onto the granddaughter of the Führer, Riza Hawkeye.

Maybe now Olivier feels ready to be happy with someone new. Is that someone Jon?

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Rebecca asked worriedly, glancing around the now deserted gangway of the stadium: the cheers were muffled, but still echoed hollowly against the cool concrete. “Like follow your heart and all that shit but it’s not gonna be a decision you can just turn your back on-”

“I know ‘Becca,” Riza replied quietly, toying with the shirt in her hands: the deep blue fabric slid easily over her fingers, the flecks of silver embroidery glinted back at her merrily. “But…I’ve got to meet him halfway, don’t I?”

Rebecca snorted. “This is more than halfway. Halfway is following his actual twitter handle instead of the spoof one – you do know it’s a spoof right? It’s important to me that you know it’s a spoof account-” Riza didn’t respond, watching one of the nearby television screens with interest as the Drakes began to run out onto the field.

Rebecca’s cheeks puffed out as she waved a hand in front of her friend’s dazed face. “This is like…eighty-five percent from you and only fifteen from him. He’s playing a game anyway – he’s not gonna see you until the second half at least with where we’re sitting!”

“That’s the point, ‘Becca. I do not want to be blamed for his fucking up of a conversion.”

Rebecca sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes. “It’s Drachma, Riza. They’re not gonna lose.”

“And I am not going to take any chances,” Riza replied primly, quickly putting on the shirt over the top of her singlet. It was a little baggy, but the fact that she was even able to have one – she’d have to think of something to give to Hughes to say thank you; the man was surprisingly cunning and determined. She never stood a chance of getting out of this anyway. She smoothed down the fabric and spun on her foot. “How does it look?”

“Like the cheesiest gesture since that nineteen-page spread of Hughes’ kid.” She fixed her friend with a hard stare. “You have thought about this? Like I’m not trying to jump the gun or anything here but if you guys get married or have a kid-”

“Yes, I have,” she answered irritably. “We’ve talked about how we move forward. I know the press is never going to go away but…it would be nice to give them something positive to spin. This entire week has just been about how I broke Olivier’s heart by stealing Roy away and-” she bit her lip and smiled weakly at her friend. “I need to show that I’m serious about this too.”

“This is the best way?”

“Hughes reckons it is. The press seems to like him, I’ve got no reason to suspect he’d prank his best friend quite so publicly.”

“Alrighty,” Rebecca said with an air of finality, gesturing to gate 28. “Are you ready to face the music?”

Riza nodded. “Let’s go.”

It’s official! And in the sweetest way imaginable.

The Drakes may have had their best win against the Drachman Bears yet (74-6), but nobody is going to be talking about that (not even about the Drachman doping scandal), not after Roy Mustang’s reaction to seeing his now-confirmed girlfriend Riza Hawkeye wearing his rugby number to the game last night.

It wasn’t until after the final whistle had blown that Roy had noticed her, sitting in the front row alongside friends, insiders say. As they were congratulating their opponents, running back Maes Hughes had quickly caught up to his friend on the field, motioning to where the Führer’s granddaughter was watching. Obviously someone had been paying attention to more than just the game!

Roy was meant to be making his way over to be interviewed post-game – as Captain, it’s his job to represent the team immediately in the aftermath. Not last night though!

Instead, he made his way over to where Riza was sitting and jumped the billboard boundaries with ease, motioning at the nearest security guard to open the gate to where the seating was. Riza was quickly pushed out of her seat by an alleged friend and all but fell into her beau’s arms onto the pitch proper, smiling widely from ear to ear before Roy kissed her soundly on the mouth.

If the cheers from the stadium crowd were anything to go by, Central City appears to back this couple too!

A love story like this comes once in a lifetime – let’s hope it goes the distance!

[Watch the video 1:32m]

fin

the spoof account is a reference to holy musical b@man – “someone already took the twitter name ‘roymustang’ and all they do is tweet about how dumb i am.”

three guesses to who owns that account (and no, it’s not hughes)

#royai #roy mustang #riza hawkeye #fullmetal alchemist #fmasecretsanta2017 #fma fanfiction #my fanfic #this fic got wildly out of control but i do hope u enjoy it!!!!

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warsofasoiaf · 6 years

Text

Medium Cavalry Continued

Continued from here

Thanks for letting me post my little essay and for your reply. This has helped me get put a few half-baked thoughts into words and look at them.

I’d agree with you that a lot of our disagreement is over terminology rather than actual history, with only some minor disagreements about interpretations of history, which I’ll get to a little later.

Regarding terminology, what do you consider the “battlefield”? If most actions are small scale raids, where one side has stopped to put on mail before ambushing or surprising another side who are riding without armour, does that conflict take place on a battlefield? Are the skirmishes between scouts taking place on a battlefield? These scenarios constitute the largest part of medieval cavalry warfare in the period under discussion, with full scale battles being relatively rare. Even then, in the lead up to them the scouting continues, and the rearguard or a flying vanguard might be unarmoured. In these scenarios the knights are acting as light cavalry, and yet they are capable of donning armour, getting into formation and making a disciplined charge on the enemy.

I think this is our key element of disagreement. You see the knight’s primary purpose as acting as heavy cavalry, while I think that the primary purpose of a knight was to do whatever was required of him, which included acting as light cavalry almost as often as acting like heavy cavalry.

Regarding infantry, I definitely agree that large elements of it were frequently of poor quality, especially if there weren’t any dismounted knights there to stiffen them. Mostly these were town militias or peasants raised in defence of their county, but the experienced mercenary infantry and the knights themselves in some cases (especially in early Anglo-Norman warfare) could also form large parts of an infantry force and stand ready. That they might only need to stand two deep in order to stop a head on cavalry charge speaks volumes for the inability of the period’s cavalry to break through in a direct attack, unlike other contemporary heavy cavalry or much later heavy cavalry.

In some rare cases the infantry could even attack with some effect - at Hastings, for example, the Anglo-Saxon infantry (I generally disagree with the use of the term huscarl to describe them, but that’s a topic for another discussion) very nearly defeated the Norman cavalry after their feigned flight. Bishop Guy of Amiens' Carmen de Hastingae Proelio, the source written soonest after the battle, mentions that the Anglo-Saxons advanced mostly in good order and that William’s cavalry were only able to pick off those who had broken away from the formation. The cavalry was unable to sustain them and were in danger of fleeing once the rumour of William’s death went around. Only the renewed attacks following William rallying his men again managed to turn things around again and destroy the infantry which had come forward. This record has led to some speculation that the Anglo-Saxon advance might have been less of a headlong rush than a planned maneuver that was either executed too soon or which wasn’t fully supported by the center.

Of course, Hastings is something of an exceptional example. Almost all infantry of the period was defensive in nature, using natural barriers (or “crown” formations) where possible to offset their obvious weaknesses.

As to training, there’s recently been some dispute over that. Aldo A. Settia has recently shown evidence of the Italian militias training, and casts doubt on whether the militias north of the Alps were any different (JMMH vol. 11). Infantry were also a big part of tournaments, and while we don’t have much information on how often they actually fought in them and whether they were used against cavalry or infantry most often, I don’t see why they can’t have trained through these less lethal battles as knights were*. The battlefield is a third, harsher method of training and, quite apart from mercenaries who went from war to war, we see those towns more involved in warfare develop quite a bit of skill in war craft.

*I only just now realised the potential implications of this. I’m so glad we had this conversation!

Regarding how knights attacked, while I agree with the idea that, when they could they looked for weak points or attacked on the flank, but disagree in that I think this was not universal. At Bourgtheroulde, for example, the rebels charged straight on against what was a force of mostly dismounted knights with a forward line of archers. Other battles have conflicting or unclear descriptions. The Battle of the Standard might have seen a successful flank attack that failed by be followed through, or it might have seen an unsuccessful charge against one wing. It all depends on which author you read.

I’m looking forward to your further thoughts!

I’m actually going to tag this “hergrim” along with the other aspects of this discussion. It’s a fine one and I want people to be able to find it quickly and have it all on one page for easier consumption.

I actually don’t see our disagreement as a major thing. You are saying that a knight was capable and often did perform a light infantry role when the objectives demanded as such, and I don’t deny that. All units are meant to fulfill the strategic and tactical objectives set out at the initial level. Knights were often exceptional horsemen, and they might need to perform scouting in an era where riders were the primary method of reconnaissance. Just like any other unit, all were subject to the whims and needs of the mission. Knights often charged in gaps or on flanks, and I agree this wasn’t universal, simply a common technique and a good best practice. Even Alexander’s Companions looked to charge and exploit gaps. At least from what I understand which may be wrong or right, your designation of medium cavalry is to denote that they were often called upon to perform light cavalry, and that their armor and barding wasn’t heavy enough with the later-era plate or the Byzantine cataphractoi so as to warrant a new term, to help draw a distinction. I certainly can appreciate the idea and effort, anything that makes the study more precise is welcome. I consider though, the knightly role in European combat, this heavy cavalry role, to be so critical to the function of the knight that the term is sufficient, and that the light cavalry functions that the knight could carry out were simply part of the nature of war; all things must bow before the need to accomplish the objective.

The issue of “what is the battlefield” is a question that frustrates much, and the answers have a lot of implications for modern warfare from a tactical and moral standpoint. It almost feels like the Potter Stewart standard at times, it’s clear what a battle is when we see one, with lines being drawn up and armies moving into position. Ambushes are battles, merely not setpiece ones.

While I agree that a good infantry formation can avoid a head-on charge with discipline, training, and equipment, there was also flanking, gaps to be exploited, sudden movements or collapses, that did make even experienced infantry lines vulnerable to exploitation by cavalry, and we do see plenty of examples in history of a successful, well-positioned knightly charge causing enough disruption to force a rout. Depending on the specific type of battle, the proportion of levy troops versus professional, semi-professional, and quasi-professional troops in the composition of infantry would have vastly differing levels of drill, control, and morale.

I’m not sure about the objection of huscarl, I’ve always heard the term used as a personal infantry retainer of a landed noble, which was what the Anglo-Saxons used as their experienced infantry core along with their thegns. supplemented by the less-experienced fyrdsmen. As always with everything, reality is far more complex, but that can be handled at another time.

As for the infantry and training, it primarily comes down to the economics and structure of the medieval government. The knight’s fees to support the knight and the personal retinues could get full training, and then depending on the strength of the government, there were efforts to fund training and equipment with varying degrees of success. The Asize of Arms, for example, was a great idea though the training component was not very well-enforced, simply because the royal government lacked the ability to inspect the use of the practice ranges. Medieval governments were much better at ad hoc initiatives, securing goose feathers from the people to make arrows for a war effort and the like. So we see, as far as infantry is concerned, a sliding scale of readiness and equipment based on holdings and wealth, with again, the Asize being a wonderful tool to help break it up for the time period. My own personal scale, professional, semi-professional, and quasi-professional, I’ve discussed shortly here. Not an official designation that I’ve made into categories, that would be a hefty project requiring so much investigation into kingdoms and eras, but a nifty short-hand I use on this blog to help explain that any random dude pulled off the medieval battlefield and examined could be quite different than the next random dude.

At Hastings, I’ve heard that theory that the good order suggests that it was an advance that was either prompted too early, or a signal was misinterpreted somewhere. I’ve also heard that it was an early move that later turned into a too-far advance, Godwinson wanted them back on the good ground and took the bait. Sadly, I’ve not seen enough compelling evidence for any theory to be more true than another.

-SLAL

#medium cavalry #hergrim #tactics #strategy #cavalry #submission

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miatalovingpos · 7 years

Photo

“Why won’t you evacuate?” “Why can’t you come to work?” “You don’t have it that bad!” “You still have power and wifi! You’re not in Houston! Stop lying and taking advantage of the situation!” “You should die for posting on social media and not doing something about the flood.”

People, it’s bad. I’m tired of self-centered, cozy, and currently safe people telling me it’s not. I’m trapped on high ground while everything else around me is still flooded anytime it rains. Yes, I still have power. That doesn’t mean we’re not struggling too. We have no access to food unless we go several miles down a spotty road to a store that runs out of everything before 2pm every day. It’s the only grocery store open in the area. There are looters not too far from here and if they decide to come here, there’s no way for us to get help if they become aggressive and dangerous. Police are busy saving people in the flooded neighboring areas and we’ve been left on our own. We keep a baseball bat by the door and a gun in the bedroom ‘just in case’ like typical Texans. That doesn’t guarantee our safety though.

We share our water since we still have access to our well, our neighbors check in on us when it rains for a while just to make sure we’re okay since the back yard floods so easily, family and friends are being rescued in boats and helicopters that we can hear not too far away from the house, and we have to stay up at night if it starts raining just to make sure it doesn’t get close to the door the way it did Saturday night. We help in the small way that we can but there’s nothing we can really do. We don’t have any money to donate that we don’t need for ourselves while we can’t work without being in a dangerous situation on the road, we don’t have a boat to take out to help people, neither my boyfriend or myself are currently trained to be useful for any sort of medical help (and they can’t train us on the spot in this emergency since we’d be a liability), and our vehicles are mid-sized sedans, not the jacked up trucks that you need to get through the flood waters. So we can’t help. We can only donate water when people drop by with their own jugs to fill. My manager is crazy to ask me to go to work tomorrow when it’s possible it’ll start raining again. I work for a restaurant about 20 miles North of here and there is no way I can make it there in my car when I don’t have money for gas or a gas station open to stop at. Not to mention the map above shows how many closed roads there are between here and there. I might lose my job. So don’t blame me for not helping.

We were not told to evacuate because evacuating this many people out of the Houston area would have been impossible and people would have died when the storm hit because of all the traffic since the roads would’ve been the first to flood. We WERE warned ahead of time that Harvey would be near us, yes. However, we WEREN’T told that it would dump this much rain on us, that the majority of Houston would be overflowing with water within 48 hours, that rivers and bayous would back up so badly that it would flood all of the houses near them, and that the storm would just hang over us, not allowing us to get out. We were told NONE of this beforehand while we had time to leave. My boyfriend’s mom and dad only left because his mother is paranoid and leaves to her second home anytime there is a storm headed this way. Not everyone is like that. There were pets to watch, a job to continue going to, and a life to continue living. This storm was downplayed in our area and we believed it would just soak the yard and be gone to the North where it would dissipate. Obviously that was not the case.

DO NOT TELL ME IT WAS MY CHOICE TO STAY THAT PUT ME IN THIS MESS! DO NOT TELL ANYONE FROM HOUSTON THAT IT’S THEIR FAULT THIS IS HAPPENING TO THEM! 9 bodies have been found in the floods. People. Have. Died. and several more people are missing. I didn’t even vote this year and people are still telling Texans that we deserve to die because we were a Republican state. I’m sorry but what the ever loving HELL does that have anything to do with the children and minorities down here that are suffering along WITH the white redneck republicans in the same damn boats? There are a lot of liberals down here as well and you’re wishing death on the whole state because you can’t get your head out of your ass. Some of you still need to think about the fact that there are over 7 million people down here and you think that every last one of them is a conservative asshole.

Texas has been hit with tropical storms before and they weren’t this bad. Harvey wasn’t supposed to hit us with more than tropical storm strength so we figured we’d be fine. The same way you think you’ll be just fine before you get into a car accident on a normal day. You can’t predict that you’ll get into that accident. You know there’s a chance but you can’t prepare for it every single day. You know that it’ll rain so you drive a little more carefully but you don’t expect the ‘other guy’ to turn right into your lane and hit you so hard that someone dies, you flip, the whole car is destroyed, and you have to wait for help from anyone willing to get you out of there.

I have posted to both Whisper and iFunny out of boredom of being stuck in the house for several days straight and iFunny was surprisingly supportive and open to my explanation as to why I didn’t evacuate. Whisper, however, is a horrible app with horrible people that think they have a license to be an asshole. Unless you legit receive help on that app, I highly suggest you delete it. It breeds nothing but miscommunication through limited characters in a post and everyone thinks they’re invincible. I NEVER post to Tumblr unless it’s a repost of something I wanted to repost. But lately I’ve been wanting to find a good online community that won’t tear me apart for being privileged in this shitty situation while also providing some sort of moral support while my friends without power save their phone batteries for emergencies. So, Tumblr, I’d like to hear from you if you have any input on the situation.

Donations are a great help. Donate to any charity of your choice that’s specifying disaster relief funds and they’ll do the rest. Ex: Red Cross, LGBTQ, etc. Animals have also been affected so donating to local shelters helps them support more stranded pets and helps operations to save abandoned pets. We haven’t taken in any personally but I do know some people that have been picking up stranded pets off of flooded roads and keeping them in their homes until everything is good and well. (Of course, they post to Facebook asking for the owners to claim them so they can get them home.)

I know people have posted about this already but I feel that it’s important to get as many people’s experiences and thoughts out there. The more people who are aware of what’s going on, the less ignorance and hurtful comments are said. The last thing anyone wants is for someone who’s lost everything to be told that they’re not struggling because they aren’t from Florida that gets rain up their asshole 24/7 like I’ve been told by more than 3 people or from a different part of the world that gets typhoons every month. That person’s life is still destroyed and they may not have anywhere to go or any way to get their life back. If they have the privilege of seeing your hurtful words when they’re seeking emotional help, you had better expect them to wish some pretty hurtful things on you in their time of emotional turmoil. You had better prepare for the special kind of hell you’ll be going through later in life (or after life if you believe in that kind of thing.) Your opinion is not grounds to bully someone when they’re suffering. Karma will be a bitch.

If you’re not from here, you probably haven’t thought about the fact that a lot of these people that have lost their homes were refugees from New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina. They are living this hell AGAIN. I didn’t even think about it until I saw a comment on a Facebook post about it. I didn’t even remember Katrina since I was too young at the time. These people are mentally beaten down and if you’re telling them their suffering isn’t true suffering, that they’re still privileged for the things they HAD, you need to take a reality check and think about how you’d feel if you’d lost your home TWICE via hurricane. If they’re posting about it, they’re really upset and they want some sort of confirmation that what they’re dealing with is bad, some sort of encouragement that they can stay strong in this situation. Because in their minds, they just want help. They want someone to have their back and them they can do it. That they can get back up and start all over again. Maybe it is a cry for some attention. Because at least that attention means that they’re not alone.

Say it with me: Hurricane Harvey is not a pity party or competition! Suffering is suffering, no matter who you are or where you are! If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!

I’m not personally in that extreme of a situation. I’m just bored waiting for the roads to open up so we can go get more food since we’re running low and so I can visit my family. But consider this a PSA for those of you that have shot people down that are going through this because they were posting about it or asking for some sort of acknowledgement. I’ve personally gotten threats and comments that have made me feel like more should’ve happened to me for anything I say to be taken seriously. I was SO lucky to have not been flooded. The only thing we got was a puddle under the door and some knocked down tree limbs and small trees. In one of my pics, you can see that the flooding down the street covered the road even AFTER it had time to drain. That water had covered the road in front of our house at the time of the storm and had been creeping up to the front door when we went to sleep for a couple of hours Saturday night. When we woke up, it had receded back to the ditch.

This is what the rest of the area looked like when they woke up: https://www.buzzfeed.com/katebubacz/17-photos-show-just-how-bad-the-flooding-in-houston-really?bffbmain&ref=bffbmain&utm_term=.liAkn03Zl#.leyX3k50B

This post is for those that have shut up about it because of the demented and horrible things that have been said to them. The ones who silently suffer. This post is to tell every person that has told a Texan “you don’t have it that bad” or “you have no right to bitch since you didn’t evacuate” or “you and every other Texan liberal needs to die” among other things that you don’t know what we’re going through right now. You don’t get to speak. You might have experience in something similar, but you don’t know this exact situation and YOU are the one that has no right to speak horribly to us for the majority of the state’s voting preferences. If you have words of encouragement and a way to support the people down here, it’s greatly appreciated. If you have nothing but hate to spread and horrible things to say, keep it to yourself.

If you’re a fellow Houstonian in the area, keep your chin up. Everyone is struggling. Help where you can and take care of yourself. We’re entering the recovery period of this disaster and it’s a long road ahead of us. If you’re lucky enough to have internet or access to this post, please spread the word that we’re here for everyone. We’re proud Texans and we are banding together to help each other. Even just allowing people to fill jugs of water from your sink is enough to help a family. If you can’t help, just take care of yourself. That’s just as important as helping others.

We love you. We hope you’re safe. If you need emotional support in this, go ahead and directly message me. If you’re a bystander, just support people down here in whatever way you can. You don’t need to feed into an attention seeker if they’re being strongly opinionated about it. But understand that it’s their way of communicating and coping. Please, only provide support or ignore someone if you don’t have anything nice to say.

Hope everyone is having a good day. This has been a long, emotional, rant-filled post. If you made it to the end, thank you.

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make-the-choice-be-the-voic-blog · 5 years

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Florida's human trafficking bills stir hope and fear.

...

Fitzenhagen bill originally funded a support organization for trafficking victims and mandated training for workers in law enforcement, health care, and massage parlors and hotels.

But the Florida Restaurant and Lodging Association has made immunity from prosecution a bargaining chip for its participation.

“They want something in the bill saying as long as their staff is trained, even if the staff knew or assisted in trafficking, they would be immune,” Parvu (victim of human trafficking) said.

...

Conservatively, hotels are the venue for 20 percent of sex trafficking cases in Southwest Florida, according to the Human Trafficking Data Project.

But anecdotally, “Motels are huge," said Ramona Miller, an outreach worker on the streets of Lee County. “If human trafficking was to discontinue, in the area where I work, those people (motel owners) would be out of business.”

That’s because Miller sees trafficking not only in organized rings but also in a pimp’s use of drugs or emotional manipulation to exploit a few sex workers.

“I believe human trafficking is still undefined in so many ways,” Miller said. “Because it is so broad and so hidden, you have two kinds of data: from those hitting the ground, and from hearsay, after the fact.”

While resisting legislation, the industry is taking voluntary steps to combat trafficking:

"We have a moral obligation to do all we can to prevent this atrocious crime," the Florida association wrote as a preface to its new, free online awareness course.

Marriott International recently announced 500,000 of its staff have taken human trafficking awareness training.

...

“If people are just talking about sex trafficking, that is not the entire conversation," Murphy said. "No one grows up healthy and says, 'I'm going to sell my body.' The problem is rampant sexual abuse.”

...

That’s why (Christy Ivie, a victim of sexual abuse) supports a bill that would teach trafficking awareness in public schools. Although she was never trafficked, Ivie sees abuse and trafficking as cousins.

...

The bill would help Florida students avoid dating violence and abuse and understand what makes a healthy relationship, as well as recognize signs of human trafficking.

A minimum penalty bill for sex traffickers raised concern by Brent Woody, the lead attorney for the Justice Restoration Center, that victims could be traumatized in the sentencing process, which relies on proving they weren’t acting voluntarily.

"I have sat through numerous human trafficking cases where a trafficker's defense attorney dragged a survivor through the dirt, called her a ‘whore," Woody wrote in an email. “It’s an awful and traumatizing experience that the State could, as far as we know, compel a victim to go through.

Ultimately, the questions of who is a victim and who a criminal will have to be defined in order to be legislated and funded.

...

Speaking of the Fitzenhagen bill, which dropped the training requirement for hotels, "It's not what I want," Parvu said, "but it's better than losing the whole bill."

See the full news article at : https://www.news-press.com/story/news/2019/04/26/floridas-human-trafficking-bills-stir-hope-and-fear/3560101002/

“Child slavery is a crime against humanity. Humanity itself is at stake here.”

~ Kailash Satyarthi, children's rights activist, Nobel Peace Prize recipient and founder of Bachpan Bachao Andolan, Global March Against Child Labour, Global Campaign for Education, Kailash Satyarthi Children's Foundation, and GoodWeave International

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transcriptroopers · 7 years

Note

Mechask p1: Hey, sorry if too weird. Context: Future galaxy-wide civilization; mecha as a powerful necessity but who gets to pilot limited by xenobiology and the production/fielding limited by TITANIC costs, meaning nations had to accept megacorps controlling them and going form over function semi-regularly. And the obscenely rich being able to get one. Questions: How would soldiers react to having to work with people in and out of combat who are basically marketing mercs in overpowered tech?

Mechask p2: I was thinking of some officers having to act as liaisons to keep the mechpilots’ actions in check but also so they could yield some authority by acting through the officer’s rank, would that aggravate things further and does it sound plausible in a situation where private businesses can stick their nose in some things? Also heard vaguely about available space and weight being important in ships, so how would sailors deal with having these people and equipment aboard a carrier?

Ooh-boy. I have never before encountered an ask so befitting of the ScriptX rule of reality: you break it, you bought it. A lot of the questions you’ve fielded to me here will ultimately have to be answered by you. That’s not to say I don’t appreciate the ask; I just hope you keep in mind that my ability to assist is pretty limited!

I seriously, seriously doubt that the army, as it stands, would allow a completely untrained businessman into combat. Even if he buys his way into piloting the suit or is sponsored by some megacorp, he’s got to go through SOME kind of military training, at the very least basic training. Maybe they’d go through basic training and then specialized corporate funded AIT to learn to pilot the mech. But if your situation is that there’s basically just a marketer in a suit with no formal training, zero soldiers going to want to work with that guy, zero soldiers are going to trust that guy, and zero soldiers are going to care if he gets through combat alive. We don’t fucking trust civilians in war. We barely trust troops fresh from basic; fuck someone who’s never even BEEN to basic.

Something to be considered that I never see touched on in mech stuff is that ground troops are probably going to feel a tad more useless. If a war machine could achieve in ten minutes with no casualties what would ordinarily take two squads, three hours, and four casualties, then obviously there’s going to be a sort of bitterness there. Consider the first men at a factory replaced by a machine; even if someone is operating the machine, there’s still an outstanding bitterness for having lost your job (which you were perfectly good at, by the way!) to a machine. Even if the machine is more efficient.

To cover the costs I imagine we’d significantly reduce our current population, or else start cutting off certain MOSs and start recruiting more mech mechanics and so on. There’s going to be about a thirty year gap (depending on how rapidly the mech is implemented) until all of the old soldiers are phased out and all of the new soldiers are just used to the mech being there. If the military begins to rely more on tech, then there’s less need for bodies. Possibly, if the mechs are depended on to do most of the fighting, troops would be less capable of combat in the future. We might even relax our P.T. requirements and weight requirements if tech becomes more important than physical presence.

A thought I had: some poor officer trying to command the mech pilots but being ineffective due to the sheer power of money the megacorps have to wield: what an accurate and intriguing premise. If all anyone has to do is say to an officer is: “Hey assface: if you gathered up all your troops and each one gave a million dollars, you’d be at about 1% of paying off this suit. So how about you shut the fuck up?” then what would war even BE like? I’m not in a position to answer that. It’d be awful, for one. Probably just about everything we know would break down and tbh troop morale would probably be pretty damn low until we got to the point where it was normal and no one thought anything of it, and wouldn’t that really just be more depressing than the first option?

A WORSE thought: only officers get to pilot the mechs and suddenly officers have a hundred times more authority over everyone else. Alternatively, these businessmen change how the chain of command works and they announce that mech pilots are a special rank superior to all others. Very believable scenario.

Weight is a big issue. Overloaded vehicles, ships, and planes can cause irreparable damages and innumerable costs if they break down. You’d probably need to build specially created vessels for moving the suits to reduce the odds of some catastrophic failure. Probably need specially trained contractors just to ensure the proper transport of these things.

There’s really too much potential here for me to even start. You might ask @scriptsailor how the navy would react to something like this.

-Spc. Kingsley

Was this post informative? Entertaining? Eye-opening? Then consider supporting SPC Kingsley on Patreon!

#writing advice #military advice #mechs #Anonymous

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libertariantaoist · 7 years

Link

The ridiculous truth is that the imposition of a travel ban on Yemen – in addition to six other countries – has evoked more anguish than America’s major role in making that country unlivable. Here’s a very sad story about the plight of a young Yemeni girl who is being blocked from entering the US – but where is the outrage about what’s being done to her homeland with our tax dollars and in our name?

And make no mistake: the Saudi invasion of Yemen on behalf of a “government” that has no popular support and was kicked out of office by its disgusted citizens is one of the worst atrocities in recent history. More than 25,000 have died, many more have been grievously wounded, and the country is being swept by famine. The result has been the empowerment of America’s worst enemies – and by that I mean not just al-Qaeda.

Yemen has been in turmoil since the end of the cold war, with a many-sided civil war making normal life nearly impossible. Yet things have gotten much worse since the 2015 Saudi invasion, which aims at installing a puppet government and crushing the Houthi insurgency in the north. The Saudis and Yemeni government troops have generally ignored al-Qaeda, which controls a swathe of territory in the southeast, instead concentrating their efforts on bombing civilians in Houthi areas.

The Houthis are adherents of the Zaydi faith, a dissident sect of Islam, often likened to the Shi’ites – a facile comparison, since there are significant theological differences. They have long maintained their autonomy in the face of successive (and notoriously unstable) central governments, but were pushed to the brink when the Saudis sent in Sunni fundamentalist preachers who challenged the authority of local religious and tribal authorities. This led to the rise of the “Believing Youth,” a Zaydi revivalist group that eventually coalesced into a military force.

As the so-called Arab Awakening swept through the Middle East, destabilizing longstanding governments, Yemen was no exception: massive demonstrations eventually forced President Ali Abdullah Saleh, who had reigned as undisputed despot for thirty years, to resign in favor of his Vice President, Abdrabbuh Mansur Hadi – whose “election” in 2012 was made possible by the fact that he was the only candidate.

Yet this did not appease the various tribal and factional groups that had been unleashed by the end of Saleh’s rule: it only emboldened them. It wasn’t long before Hadi, too, was driven out of office, and forced to flee: the Houthis took over the capital, Sana’a, and declared the establishment of a “Revolutionary Committee.” Hadi fled to Aden, while the former President Saleh denounced him and demanded that he go into exile: troops still loyal to Saleh allied with the Houthis.

In 2015, the Saudis invaded, declaring their support for Hadi and bombing Sana’a and the Houthi strongholds in the north. Hadi and his Saudi masters say that the Houthis are being funded and trained by Iran and Hezbollah, but in the past US government officials have been dubious about this claim.

Hadi has received unconditional support from Washington in spite of his inability to either control the country or confront the growing influence of al-Qaeda. Last week, the US launched an attack on an al-Qaeda redoubt, killing a number of civilians – including the young daughter of US citizen Anwar al-Awlaki, who was himself killed by the US along with his teenage son in 2011. One US soldier was killed, and three were injured.

The irony here is that the Houthis are militant opponents of the Sunni supremacist al-Qaeda, and are the only military formation indigenous to the country capable of confronting and defeating them. Yet the US is aiding the Saudis and the Hadi regime in their merciless war against the Houthis and allied tribes, while al-Qaeda continues to make gains.

All of which raises a larger issue: the US-Saudi relationship under President Donald Trump. Despite a recent conversation between the Saudi king and the President, Trump has never said a good word about the Kingdom or its rulers. He vocally supported the campaign to release the famous “28 pages” of a joint congressional report on the role of foreign governments in aiding the 9/11 hijackers, which exposed the part played by Saudi officials in facilitating the attack. Indeed, fifteen of the nineteen 9/11 hijackers were Saudi citizens. Highlighting the danger posed by “radical Islamic terrorism” was a major theme of Trump’s presidential campaign, and it continues to be the overarching theme of his administration. The Saudis have long been the main perpetrators of this ideology, funding radical mosques and their demagogic imams, and setting up madrassas that spread the doctrines that energize al-Qaeda and other terrorist organizations.

In trying to imagine what Trump’s policy toward the Saudis will be, I’m reminded of a passage from a recent essay by Branko Milanovic, a visiting professor at City University of New York’s Graduate Center, in which he wrote:

“The Western elites treat Trump as they would treat a tiger with whom they are unwillingly locked in a cage: they try to be friendly to the tiger hoping to avoid being eaten, but they hope that the tiger would soon be taken out of the cage.”

This applies to the Middle Eastern elites as well. The Saudis hope to deploy Trump as a battering ram against their Iranian archrivals, but the fear is that they will also be battered in the process. Riyadh is quite justified in this fear. The Saudi foreign minister has decried the seven-nation travel ban as “very very dangerous,” in part because it applies to Sudan, one of their allies in the Yemen war, and in part because, if applied across the board, it could very well wind up being applied to them.

Trump’s foreign policy predilections are fraught with contradictions: on the one hand, he’s a critic of the decision by the Bush administration to invade and occupy Iraq, but on the other hand he claims we left “too soon.” He inveighs against the Obama administration’s efforts to overthrow Syrian strongman Bashar al-Assad, and his National Security advisor, Mike Flynn, was fired from his post as head of Obama’s Defense Intelligence Agency for his criticism of our Syrian policy. And yet Flynn – and Trump – are also hot under the collar about the alleged growth of Iranian influence in the region, denouncing the Iran deal to limit their nuclear program as a “bad deal”(while saying they wouldn’t ditch it). Yet the Iranians have been fighting ISIS alongside the Iraqis, who are, in turn, our allies – at least they were our allies, until the Trump administration barred Iraqi nationals from the US for three months.

Another contradiction is Trump’s often-stated desire to repair relations with Russia, and even to enlist their help in eradicating ISIS. Yet the Russians are in cahoots with the Iranians in Syria, and have defended Tehran against American attempts to strong-arm them. The present balance of forces in the Middle East pits the Saudis and their Sunni allies against Iran, Syria, and, standing behind them, Russia, with Turkey (moving away from Washington) and Egypt standing on the sidelines.

A Trumpian rapprochement with Moscow would mean a seismic shift in the delicate balance of Middle Eastern forces – away from the Sunni-centric policy that motivated our support for Syria’s Islamist “rebels” and our appeasement of Riyadh.

As this shift takes place, a reconsideration of our policy in Yemen is an absolute necessity – on strategic and moral grounds. Washington’s support for the Saudi Kingdom’s vicious war in Yemen is unconscionable. The Saudis have been committing war crimes with impunity – and with our help. How is it in America’s interests to reduce Yemen, one of the poorest nations on earth, to a pile of rubble? How does it serve us to give unconditional support to Saudi Arabia, a country that has birthed more terrorists than any other in the Muslim world?

Is that putting “America first,” or is it putting the Saudis first?

#justin raimondo #anti-war #yemen #saudi arabia #donald trump

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howwelldoyouknowyourmoon · 5 years

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Sleep Deprivation under Moon

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep seven hours instead of six hours?

MEMBERS: NO!

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep for seven hours or five hours?

MEMBERS: FIVE!

MOON: Would you prefer to sleep five hours or four hours?

MEMBERS: FOUR!

MOON: Would you prefer to go to work without sleeping or sleeping?

MEMBERS: WITHOUT SLEEPING!

from Robert Boettcher, Gifts of Deceit (1980)

_______________________________________________

Barbara Underwood: In Canada, she got an importer’s license, opened a bank account and rented vehicles using a phony address and pretending to be a Canadian citizen, in apparent violation of Canadian immigration laws.

“We were going by divine law,” she explained. “We weren’t going by secular law, democratic law.”

“We were in a lot of car accidents because people were so tired driving,” she said. “One car was totaled. It was always because somebody fell asleep.”

Stories from the Bay Area Unification Church – Barbara Underwood

_______________________________________________

Sleep Hygiene: Train your Brain to Fall Asleep and Sleep Better

By Emma McAdam

Sleep Hygiene is an essential mental health skill.

Sleep Therapy Seen as an Aid for Depression – New York Times

VIDEO: Sleep Hygiene: Train your Brain to Fall Asleep and Sleep Better

_______________________________________________

LACK OF SLEEP – Huffington Post

3. You’re more likely to make bad decisions According a 2015 study, sleep loss affects critical aspects of decision-makingin high-stakes situations. The study simulated a situation where participants had to complete a task to test their decision-making while adapting to changing circumstances — and participants who were sleep-deprived were more likely to make the wrong decisions than participants who had slept.

_______________________________________________

9 Science-Backed Steps to Have the Best Sleep of Your Life — Tonight

_______________________________________________

Sun Myung Moon said the mind and body are in conflict. Not so.

Crazy for God: The nightmare of cult life by Christopher Edwards

Moonwebs by Josh Freed

Life Among the Moonies by Deanna Durham

#sleep deprivation #Chris Elkins #Barbara Underwood

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careergrowthblog · 6 years

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Solutions and reality checks in the exclusion/inclusion debate. #pinballkids

The RSA Pinball Kids Initiative.

There has been a lot of discussion in recent weeks about exclusions from schools with a string of newspaper articles exploring the theme:

The news of rising fixed-term and permanent exclusions is covered by The Guardian here. https://www.theguardian.com/education/2018/jul/19/sharp-rise-in-pupil-exclusions-from-english-state-schools

This report describes some responses – the ‘Wild West system of exclusion is failing pupils’, say MPs. https://www.theguardian.com/education/2018/jul/25/children-abandoned-after-school-exclusions-say-mps

Tom Bennett comments here about the rise, suggesting zero-tolerance policies are not to blame: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2018/jul/26/school-exclusions-zero-tolerance-policies-disruptive-pupils.

The Guardian made a story from some high rates of exclusion from specific schools: https://www.theguardian.com/education/2018/aug/31/dozens-of-secondary-schools-exclude-at-least-20-of-pupils

This week the organisation PTE published an open letter supported by a range of school leaders, teachers and commentators defending the exclusion process (if I was still a Head I’d have added my name). https://www.tes.com/news/curriculum-campaigners-defend-exclusions

As ever, there’s a sense of polarised camps forming on twitter, either pro-exclusion or anti-exclusion, each exasperated by the other; each claiming the moral high ground. I’ve expressed some clear views myself – it can be an emotive issue and I don’t take too well to being preached to on inclusion by people who haven’t had to manage super complex institutions serving areas with massive social care needs and chronic deprivation and where the safety of children, teachers and the wider community is at stake every day, let alone the learning in classrooms.

However, I do also recognise that, as ever, the reality is complex, context dependent and deserves to be discussed without polemics. I’ve been involved in two events in the last week that have modelled this approach. The first was the launch of an excellent initiative by the RSA- a research programme looking at exclusions and provision for students at risk: The Pinball Kids. This follows from the superb publication of RSA’s The Ideal School Exhibition written by Director Julian Astle.

I was invited to participate in the roundtable event at RSA’s HQ with 20 or so others, largely because the initiative takes its name from a blog I wrote introducing the idea of Pinball Kids: No Excuses and the Pinball Kids. It’s about students from whom sanctions-driven ‘no excuses’ approaches don’t work; students who hit the boundaries all week long despite the consequences. I was invited to set the scene by sharing my experience as a Headteacher struggling (and not succeeding) to balance intense competing pressures: the need for schools to be safe, for teachers to feel safe and supported, for parents to have confidence that bullying is tackled – and for each individual child’s needs to be met within the limits of the resources available both in the school and in the local community.

The second event was a day of training with Tom Bennett, supporting him in delivering a follow-up ‘booster day’ for school leaders enrolled on the Tom Bennett Training programme based on ‘Creating a Culture‘, the report Tom’s independent review body produced in March 2017. The whole day was focused on creating and maintaining a positive behaviour culture: nobody mentioned exclusions at any point in the day; it was all about what you do before you reach that point. Most of the challenge is to give a consistent message; to create a coherent ethos that all teachers support in their actions as well as their words. Sanctions are the backstop but the message of love, ambition and mutual respect has to be at the forefront. Culture + System. Inseparable. (See also this post about The Hive Switch at Turton High School. Principles over patch-ups)

Between these two events there’s a model for finding the answers: superb training and excellent dialogue between professionals at the sharp end.

Context and Reality Checks.

One of the issues I find is that people approach the discussion from very different perspectives and I’m certain that lots of commentators don’t really understand just how challenging behaviour management can be or just how limited the options are in a given context. Very often people confused fixed term and permanent exclusion in the discourse and, of course, there is a wide gulf between exclusions for ‘wrong colour piping on the blazer’, ‘persistent disruption to learning’ and ‘violent and intimidating behaviour’.

I have a mental model that puts students into four groups:

Student response types.

The numbers of students in these groups varies massively from school to school – often a function of social care issues rather than the crude deprivation indicator of Free School Meals or Pupil Premium -ie similar PP levels don’t equate to similar contexts; not even close.

Schools can be massively different in how students respond to systems.

In some (Easy) schools, simple rules with light tough enforcement are totally sufficient. You hardly need detentions, never mind exclusions.

In a more typical school the majority of students need and respond well to a clearly communicated and well-enforced behaviour system. Usually, in order to succeed, it’s important for everyone to know that there is a bottom line. The Group 3 students may receive occasional fixed term exclusions – either as a straight consequence for a specific action or a last resort after an accumulation – but this has a big impact on the all the other students too: they know that the boundaries are real and they modify their behaviour. Schools need to attend to the needs of the majority whilst always having concern for those at the fringe. Behaviourist approaches are highly successful for most children in the context of schools with a warm, friendly and supportive culture and clear boundaries where habits for happy coexistence and effective learning develop and are maintained.

In a tough school, the Group 3 cohort is much bigger. Here, you might have students who not only find it a challenge to sustain the behaviours required for learning in a shared space but also sometimes present a threat to others: staff, students and themselves. The scale of numbers means you might not have resources in school to provide secure internal provision that allows all at-risk students to be taught alongside others in appropriate groupings with the right level of safety. If a student assaults another pupil or intimidates a teacher, or brings a knife or sell drugs, as well as giving a message about how unacceptable that is, on a purely practical level you need somewhere for them to go to create space between people prior to a repair process or a disciplinary process. That’s not always easy if you’re dealing with several students in crisis on one day and it can massively backfire if the message given is too weak – that certain behaviours are tolerated way past the point of safety.

Mixed into this already complex situation are the 4th group, the Pinball Kids. These children have chronic issues with self-esteem, self-regulation, dealing with authority, resolving conflict….. the list goes on. Here, sanctions being given or not has little impact on their behaviour: they’re too emotional; too hardened or lack the capacity to conform to the social norms required for collective activity unless all their needs and concerns are met immediately. Exclusions are like water off a duck’s back – they have no impact on behaviour. Even a very tough school might only have 20 students like this – a handful in each year group – but that is enough to drain resources to zero on a daily basis. The challenge of keeping these children in mainstream education without causing unacceptable damage to the learning or well-being of others is massive.

The Pinball Kids conversation covers what schools can do alongside what else needs to be available in a community in order for schools to succeed in their complex task. Alternative Provision is sorely under-funded and in some areas is dire or absent. In other areas the PRUs that exist are excellent; they are the places where the specialists needed can be found. Permanent Exclusion leading to a PRU place does not have to be viewed as a disaster. At KS3, that’s much harder to argue – because it’s rare for children to come back. The RSA research will explore this issue.

There are obviously other mechanisms like managed moves between schools: some schools have good networks and can move students around instead of excluding them permanently. (Personally I think moralising about exclusions whilst doing managed moves is rather thin ice – they’re different but not that different). However, there are contexts where the scope for adopting this approach has major limitations – either due to geography, housing, MAT/LA structures, capacity in schools in general. I’ve dealt with several managed moves but it’s always a case of give and take. Sadly, there are too many takers and not enough givers in this situation. I hope this will also be something the RSA looks at. It should be universally true that schools play a role in the safety net of provision. I can’t bear the ‘take it or leave it’ approach that some schools project – the idea that, if you don’t like it here, you can go to the softer school down the road. This serial kicking the can down the road is unacceptable. All schools serve communities or at least they should and that should entail shouldering some collective responsibilities. Shouldn’t it?

Finally, there is the problem of conflating the complex issue of school exclusions with off-rolling. I know of a newly (forcefully) converted academy that has apparently lost over 70 students from KS4 in a year through off-rolling. Presumably other schools in the area have had to absorb them. It could be that this wave of hard-line enforcement will pay off – transform the school. It could also be that other approaches would have worked or that some of those 70 students are victims of gross injustice, covertly expelled without due process. We don’t know. My view is that it would be wrong to judge unless you knew precise circumstances case by case. A high number could indicate the extreme scale of the challenge a school faces; it could be that, in the big schemes of things, an early wave of hard-line action is absolutely what is needed to engineer radical change so that, long-term, more children receive a better education: they feel safe, their teachers stick around, disruption and bullying no longer happen.

I’d suggest it’s wise to listen to people on the frontline rather than assuming they’re doing it wrong for their precise context – especially if they succeed in creating a great school. That said, it might be interesting to see if school’s behaved differently if you had to provide tracked evidence of destinations for all students that leave school after Year 9 and even take responsibility for their outcomes .

So my main message is: don’t judge; talk. Don’t project from one context to another because they’re all different. Ask yourself – how do I know for sure that I’d manage that differently? Share ideas and do your bit in the system. If you want to help I strongly recommend getting in touch with Laura Partridge at the RSA to share your thoughts. ([email protected] ). They are looking for good policy recommendations informed from views across the sector.

Solutions and reality checks in the exclusion/inclusion debate. #pinballkids published first on https://medium.com/@KDUUniversityCollege

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aicarzu · 6 years

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‘You really have to take things one at a time’

Santa Fe mayoral candidate Joseph Maestas, a city councilor and former mayor of Española, talks to people at one of his campaign events at Java Joe’s coffee shop. (Eddie Moore/Albuquerque Journal)

SANTA FE, N.M. — “I’ve always gravitated to public service,” said Joseph Maestas, who has spent more than 30 years working for the government and has served nearly 14 years in elected positions.

He’d like to extend that streak as the next mayor of Santa Fe.

“Now that we’ve gone from a stronger mayor form of government, I think it’s critical that someone gets the keys to City Hall and hits the ground running – someone with proven leadership,” said the former city councilor and mayor of Española, who was elected to the Santa Fe City Council in 2014.

When it comes to public service, he says he feels like he’s standing on the shoulders of his ancestors. His maternal great-grandfather, Jose Amado Lucero, was one of the signers of the state constitution when New Mexico joined the union in 1912 and one of the founders of Española.

A brief biographical sketch of Lucero in the archives of the Office of the State Historian indicates that he was a businessman in Mora County, Santa Fe, Santa Cruz and Española. He served as schools superintendent in Rio Arriba County and as a Santa Fe County commissioner and probate judge prior to becoming a member of the state House of Representatives.

“And his son, Alfredo Lucero, was a Santa Fe County commissioner and clerk,” he added. “I came from a family with deep roots in the area.”

Maestas’ father was a standout athlete and his mom a cheerleader at Santa Cruz High, where his dad later worked as a science teacher. The family also operated a liquor store and had a 2½-acre farm where they raised animals for slaughter.

“So I was exposed to a business environment, even though it was family owned, since a young age,” he said.

Santa Cruz High closed after Maestas’ freshman year, so he finished up at what became Española Valley High School in 1978, playing football, and running cross-country and track.

City Councilor Joseph Maestas, who’s running for mayor in the March 6 municipal election, speaks to supporters of ranked-choice voting before a council meeting in December. Maestas was among the councilors who were against appealing a judge’s order mandating RCV to the state Supreme Court, a move approved by a slim council majority. (Eddie Moore/Albuquerque Journal)

Maestas said he “had” to leave the state after he graduated the University of New Mexico with an engineering degree. The country was in recession, the private sector wasn’t hiring and the better jobs were with the government, he said. A 27-month internship with the U.S. Department of Transportation’s Federal Highway Administration got his foot in the door. He earned a master’s degree in civil engineering from Arizona State University while still working his day job. He worked in five states and Washington, D.C., before a Highway Administration job opened up in Santa Fe in 1996.

It was a difficult time in his life. He and his then-wife, who was originally from El Paso, had just lost a child during childbirth.

“We were devastated. We wanted to go back home,” he said.

The couple had a second child, Joey, who is now a senior at Texas State University majoring in communications.

Maestas has lived through tragedy. Years later, his father died during his campaign for mayor of Española.

“That was hard. He never did get to see me sworn in as mayor,” he said.

Maestas is going through another tough time. Last month, he took a break from his campaign to visit his sister, currently a cancer patient in Austin.

“Right now, her prognosis is not good. She has probably a matter of weeks, if not a few months,” said Maestas, who made the trip with one of this three other sisters. “We drove over because we felt the window was closing in terms of saying our goodbyes.”

Maestas has talked about his sister, Carla, at some of the mayoral forums, usually when the topic turns to opioids and drug addiction.

“Carla had a history of drug abuse,” said Maestas, the lead sponsor of a resolution to pursue legal claims against opioid manufacturers and distributors that was passed by the council in December. “It takes a heavy toll on the family, and we went through all phases of dealing with a family member that’s addicted to drugs – the detox, family counseling, out-patient care. It’s not easy.”

His sister’s cancer was discovered during a physical exam she was required to take before entering a drug rehabilitation facility.

“My heart breaks for my mother because you’re not supposed to bury your children and she potentially could lose two children within a year’s time,” he said.

That’s because his brother Ben died last summer. Like their father, Ben had issues with alcoholism and he may have dabbled with drugs.

Ben died weeks after Maestas’ divorce from his second wife, U.S. District Judge Martha Vázquez, became final.

“I’ve learned that you really have to take things one at a time. When you lump it all together, the burden is much too heavy,” he said.

Maestas took a hiatus from government work during part of his term as mayor of Española from 2006 to 2010, where he was elected as a reformer. And in 2008, he ran for a Public Regulation Commission seat. But Jerome Block Jr. – whose PRC term was cut short by a scandal that included drug use and criminal charges for misuse of a state credit card and public campaign financing – won the seat.

Maestas took a job with the U.S. Census Bureau, then one as a division manager with the Bureau of Reclamation in Albuquerque. The commute from Española to the Duke City was too much, he said, so he didn’t run for re-election as mayor and moved to Santa Fe.

Maestas is building a home here that’s designed to accommodate his 88-year-old mother.

“She’s my best friend,” he said. “My goal is get my mom to live here. All her medical providers are here.”

Exercise has helped him cope with what life has thrown at him, too. The 57-year-old Maestas is a triathlete who usually makes the podium in his age group. Campaigning has cut into his training time. But he still manages to get in a workout nearly every day, be it a three-mile run, a 1,000-meter swim or a 30-mile bike ride.

The routine doesn’t just help him physically, it helps his him mentally. “When I exercise, I’m able to really think through things,” he said. “I can not only sort through whatever I’m dealing with, but I have better clarity navigating through it.”

Now he’s hoping his training, and experience as a public servant, will help him win the five-way race for mayor.

AGE: 57

EDUCATION: Bachelor of Science Degree in Civil Engineering, University of New Mexico; Master of Science Degree in Civil Engineering, Arizona State University.

OCCUPATION: Business Development Manager, Souder, Miller & Associates; and Santa Fe City Councilor for District 2.

1. Why are you running for mayor? What distinguishes you from your opponents?

As mayor, I want to help businesses and families thrive with a shared vision of a united Santa Fe and city government that facilitates the creation of jobs and affordable housing. A lifelong public servant with 33 years of federal civil service and 14 years as a municipal elected official; my engineering skills; and proven leadership distinguish me from my opponents.

2. What is the biggest issue facing city government and how would you address it?

The biggest issue is changing the culture at city hall to one of a 21st-century government and reforming its financial management. I would address it by:

A. Conducting a forensic financial audit;

B. Modernizing processes and policies;

C. Implementing an employee performance management system;

D. Developing a balanced 2019 budget; and

E. Updating economic development and land use plans.

3. How would you encourage more affordable housing in Santa Fe? Do you support development of more rental apartments in town?

I would encourage more affordable housing by issuing bonds as a permanent funding source; developing a sustainable city support (land donations, etc.) plan for tax credits; incentivizing higher density developments; funding programs in the capital improvement plan; and addressing Tierra Contenta’s infrastructure needs. With almost 100% apartment occupancy and approximately 2,000-4,000 additional units needed, I support more context-sensitive apartment developments. 4. What uses would you support for the city-owned campus of the Santa Fe University of Art and Design, which the school is vacating?

I support building on existing assets (e.g., Fogelson Library, Garson Theater, The Screen, etc.) and creating a model for sustainability in affordable housing, green building design, renewable energy, research and development, and higher education. I also support its use as a post-production facility and film school to support an expanding film and digital media industry while leveraging its broadband system.

5. Do you support the city’s living wage ordinance – which currently sets the minimum wage at $11.09 per hour – and its mandatory annual cost of living increases?

Yes. As Santa Fe city councilor, I sponsored Resolution 2014-103 to strengthen the enforcement of the Living Wage Ordinance. This led to the enactment of Ordinance 2014-38 that requires businesses to self-certify their compliance prior to receiving a business license, and improves notification when the consumer price index is released and determines changes to the living wage.

6. Did you vote in the May “soda tax” election? If so, did you vote for or against it? Please explain your vote or your opinion of the failed tax proposal.

I voted against the soda tax in the May election. I support more pre-K funding, but did not support a wasteful, $80,000 special election. The unwillingness of soda tax advocates to work with the beverage industry and their efforts to make it a moral imperative doomed the effort. It was government over-reach in the absence of public trust.

7. Should the city continue to grant a permit and provide police support for the annual Entrada event held on the Plaza that is opposed by Native Americans and others?

The city should no longer grant a permit for the Entrada event. It’s naïve to re-enact a peaceful, historical event that was preceded and succeeded by violence and oppression. All parties must agree, in advance, on appropriate, historical activities respectful of all perspectives to ensure we continue the longest-running community celebration in America without civil unrest and “free speech” zones.

1. Have you or your business – if you are a business owner – ever been the subject of any state or federal tax liens? No. 2. Have you ever been involved in a personal or business bankruptcy proceeding? No.

3. Have you ever been arrested for, charged with or convicted of drunken driving, any misdemeanor or any felony? No.

SANTA FE MUNICIPAL ELECTIONS

NOW: Absentee voting is already underway.

Request an absentee ballot by stopping by the City Clerk’s Office, 200 Lincoln Ave., or by calling 955-6521, 955-6519 or 955-6326.

FEB.14: Early voting begins

Vote early at City Clerk’s Office, Room 215, 200 Lincoln Ave., Santa Fe, from 8 a.m. to 5 p.m. Monday through Friday, or at Genoveva Chavez Community Center, 3221 Rodeo Road, Santa Fe, from 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., Tuesday through Saturday, except March 2, when polls close at 5 p.m.

MARCH 2: Early and absentee voting ends at 5 p.m.

MARCH 6: Election Day

Polls open at 7 a.m. and close at 7 p.m. See the city’s website, www.santafenm.gov, for polling locations and addresses for voter convenience centers around town.

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