#((this match ended in a no contest which should be a crime))

[kor-combat]

#kyle o'reilly #el generico #sami zayn #mine #don't adjust your screens #((this match ended in a no contest which should be a crime))

[arty-shadow-morningstar]

Graveyard Siblings (4)

I am sorry for not posting in a while. School is a total bitch. Here is part 4 of a fic that is not a fic.

[Masterlist]

(Part 1)(Part 2)(Part 3)

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Tall Marinette.(I admit I might be projecting a little here.)

One day, she took out something from someplace high and the whole family realized that ‘holy shit when did you get so tall?’

Bonus if Jason comes back from a long mission and had a wtf moment because she was wearing 6-inch-heels and met his eyes with them on.

“Pixie?!”

------

You know how Bruce has the identity of Matches Malone to infiltrate the Gotham Underground.

While Jason does the drug deals more street crime stuff, Maria uses an excuse of being the representative for Red Hood excuse to mingle with the rich people who does crime on the side (Penguin), she uses it to go to black market auctions and buy some of the lost miraculouses which got into the hands of black market dealers.

Jason knows about it and acts as her ‘bodyguard’ anytime he can or sends one of his henchmen to be one with a death threat if she gets a single scratch on her.

Bruce is unaware of this. Or is he?

------

Mari helps with running WE since she is a little less busy with the vigilante side of things.

It started with Tim panicking about deadlines and Mari offering to help, to Bruce and Tim bullying the board to have her as co-CEO.

She has to be that and head of Afterlife. So she is very busy. Doesn’t know about what comes next….

------

Somehow the class comes to Gotham for a trip. It has been 3 years since her death.

Mari has changed her appearance since the day she left Paris. She has highlights in her hair after a ‘sibling bonding day’ with Jason. Her hair is kept short for convenience and not in pigtails. Along with her tall height and more confident aura, she is almost unrecognizable.

She rides a motorcycle too.

The class waits in the lobby for the tour and in walks this badass woman with aviator sunglasses, leather jacket and designer clothes which was all MT brand, making a lot of people swoon.

She takes off her glasses and walks past the class. Checking stuff on her phone and sipping coffee in her other hand.

She seems familiar but they couldn’t figure out why. (All except Chloe, Alix and Felix who are snickering in the background.)

Lila sees her and comments on how she must be a criminal with the way she dresses. (Lila internally freaks out because were her eyes messing with her? Because she looked a little like Marinette. Also jealous of the new arrival for stealing all the attention.) Alya takes the bait and calls security to ‘arrest’ her.

They just laugh. The class doesn’t understand, speaking in confused French.

-------------

“I am Maria Todd-Wayne, also known as designer MT. CEO of Afterlife and co-CEO of the very company you are in. I am allowed in here. Don’t judge a book by its cover.” she said in perfect French.

“But Lila told us you can’t speak French.”

“Who?”

“Lila Rossi, your friend. She told us that you and MT were dating.”

“Me dating myself. Okay I love myself because self-love is a thing but that is a whole other level. MT are my initials. Anyone who has a brain could have figured that out or at the very least do a Google search. I am not sure where your friend got that notion.”

“Hey, Bean, come on. We have a long day ahead of us.” Tim reminded her.

“Goodbye but cease the rumours or you would be escorted off the premises.”

As they rode up the elevator, “Tim, why are they here?”

“They are the lucky winners of the Wayne Enterprise Young Prodigies Contest. Why, Maria?”

“Lucky, huh.” She muttered under her breath. She might as well tell him. They are the Bats and they will find out anyway. “They are from my old class, the one you know…”

“Oh. Want me to send them back? I can do that if they are making you uncomfortable.”

“Nah. Too much to deal with. And it is unfair to send them back over a petty grudge. Besides, I could have some fun.”

“Anything that Bruce and I should be worried about?”

“I swear no killing. Just because Jason came back from the dead, hell-bent on killing. Doesn’t mean I am too.”

“Cool, just don’t do any property damage or traumatize our employees.”

“I might need you to erase some footage later and tell Bruce about this.”

“Some brownies, my favourite coffee cake, the ‘special’ brew and you have yourself a deal.”

-----

So basically she just showed up around where the class was ‘by coincidence’.

Talk to a few people and take them out of earshot of the rest of the class.

End the conversation by saying a few things only they and her would know. Insides jokes and secrets. (I pick her old childhood friends like, Nino, Kim and maybe Sabrina)

Uses Trixx to turn into a walking dead version of her 15-year old self and disappears as they freak out about how she knew that secret/story.

Freaks them out further by appearing again in front of the whole class and pretending not to know their previous conversation.

Mari manages to get Lila alone.

I should also say that Lila thought that her curse was making her see MT as Marinette.

It terrifies Lila when she finds out that MT is actually Marinette, not dead but alive after all this time and apparently living the high life she wanted. This fact made the Italian swell up with jealousy.

“I hope you are not lying about me again, Lila Rossi. Like you always do.”

“What do you want with me? I swear I didn’t say anything else about you.”

“Aw, Lila. Don’t recognize me?”

Maria flickers and Ladybug is in her place and later, the Marinette that appeared in her bedroom and back to normal.

“You! How? Why are you here? Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“Why not? I mean you did take away nearly all my friends, my parents and made my life a living hell. If you think about it, I am just repaying you the same favor. How are the others? Treating you well?”

“What did you do to me, you bitch?”

“I just put a curse on you. The ghosts of your past will haunt you until you stop.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop Lying, Liar. They all feed and grow in power from your lies. I wonder what would happen in a few years if you kept this up.”

“You think you can get away with this. This is war and I have already beaten you once.”

“Oh Rossi. This isn’t a war. It’s a death sentence.” With that she disappears.

Lila tries to tell her class that MT is actually Marinette. She is met with crazy looks. Some of them look like they want to believe her but don't because they don’t want to look crazy too.

Oh. Adrien wasn’t on the trip because his mother didn’t want him to go to the crime capital of America although the crime rate has gone down a little due to Hellbat curing some of the city’s bad energy..

Right after Lila told the class about MT, Scarecrow came to steal some Wayne tech and the class got caught in the crossfire. So later, it was brushed off as Lila seeing things due to the fear toxins.

-----

Joker made the mistake of kidnapping her. Once was enough to never try that again.

(It involved the use of nearly all of the Miraculouses, old and new. He was thoroughly humiliated at the end of it and his picture by the time Hellbat was done with him was on the Batfam’s Christmas Card. Like I said she doesn’t kill but making them beg for death was okay.)

It coincided with Jason’s Birthday and the video of the incident was ‘the best birthday present ever.’ The uncensored version was watched at the next undead siblings bonding day. Damian included.

After hearing a few rumours about what happened, most criminals were glad for Hellbat’s rare appearances. (which happens once a month and during really busy time of the year)

There was a time where Penguin was carrying out one of their plans and when Hellbat showed up, all of their thugs surrendered instantly. (No Batman did not pout at the fact that this French girl was more imitating than him.)

Scarecrow used his newest batch of fear toxin on her during the first year after she died.

He was astounded to see her still standing and she later proceeded to beat the crap out of him while being under the toxin’s influences.

He has tried to stay out of her way since then.

She saw Scarecrow as Hawkmoth and said a lot of things in French which scared everyone because she said it with so much hate, anger and in a very menacing tone that everyone is like ‘I am not touching this.’

It took Red Hood and Nightwing to restrain her from further beating Scarecrow up.

He was one of the people who sympathised with the Joker after the Incident.

The next was Riddler being so arrogant in his plans and managed to get Hellbat and Spoiler into a death trap.

“You know I have a few regrets in life. And my final one is that I got captured and am now going to get killed by a walking fashion disaster.”

“Hey! I made this myself. I will have, you know.”

“You have a brilliant mind but no sense of fashion at all. When I get out of here, I am going to burn that thing with you in it, for your crimes against fashion.”

“What is wrong with it?”

Cue a lot of roasting of Riddler’s costume and Spoiler adding more fuel to the fire.

They manage to escape while Riddler is crying on the floor, having an existential crisis.

The thing was no one knows why Riddler was silent the entire week after encountering Hellbat and crying when anyone mentions it.

They now think Hellbat is the scariest one in the Batfamily, second to Batman and tied with Black Bat/Orphan.

The few who find out what really happened in the warehouse that night. Blackmail material on the Riddler.

Three ( four if you count Penguin) of Gotham’s biggest villains of the Rogues Gallery scared of Bats’ newest addition. Hellbat was not someone they wanted to mess with.

---------

Magic crisis stuff. Like a world ending event thing. Dr. Fate says they need the Miraculous jewels but the last mention of them had been in Paris a few years ago and had vanished since then.

Costantine looked at Batman. “You know who you have to call.”

Batman calls Hellbat. Who hasn’t been introduced yet to the JL.

“Ah. Bats. Not that I question your authority or anything but how can your newest ‘ward’ help us?”

She takes off her helmet and reveals her face and more importantly, her earrings.

Tikki comes out of her hiding place.

“I am the current Guardian of the Miracle Box and wielder of the Ladybug miraculous during Hawkmoth’s reign in Paris a few years ago. Any other Questions?”

“Oh great Guardian. Tikki. It is an honour to meet you.”-Wonder Woman, who else.

“You too, Princess Diana. Pass on my regards to your mother.”-Tikki

A huge face-off and the big evil is defeated.

WW asks abt HM and gives a horrified face at the end of her story. Nearly everyone who eavesdropped on the conversation was.

"Forgive me, Guardian for not aiding you in your hour of need.”

“It’s okay. I understand that there are other crises, world-ending ones that JL have to take care of. I am better now. Mostly.”

“I doubt it with those revenge schemes I found lying around. But she is getting there with her therapist.”-Batman

“I hate you, Dad.”

“Did you just call him Dad?”

“No….”

“Do you see me as a father figure?”

“I see you as a nuisance with how nosy you are with my personal business. So you are more of a bother figure.”

“I see you as part of the family too, Daughter.” (Got that reference anyone?)

“Jason was the one who adopted me.”

“Legally you are adopted by me.”

Maria with Pikachu surprised face because nobody told her that. “My life is a lie.”

-------

(Part 5)

#graveyard sibling #platonic jasonette #maribat #mlb x dc #platonic daminette #platonic timinette #some class salt #lila salt #lila bashing #joker doesn't look good here either #platonic! jasonette #siblings jasonette #platonic timminette #marinette and stephanie teaming up to rip into Riddler's costume

[teawaffles]

Albert’s Drinking Contest: Chapter 3 / End

Note: Some language.

“G-Goddammit……”

“No way, how……?”

Roughly twenty minutes had passed.

And with their glasses in hand, Moran and Louis were both gasping in agony.

Once the match had resumed, the three participants had attacked their glasses, consuming drink after drink like a surging tide. Now that Louis had been saved the trouble of approaching the other two time and again to fill their glasses, the rate at which the wine now entered them had seen a remarkable jump.

Although Louis was not a strong drinker to begin with, his sheer determination to prevail had allowed him to keep pace with his veteran opponents: at this point, he’d already downed a comparable portion of wine.

However, even mental willpower had its limits. Back when he’d consumed his twentieth glass, the intoxication had hit Louis like a brick, and a wave of dizziness swamped him. From then on, Louis had placed his spectacles on the table, and repeatedly rubbed the inner corners of his eyes in a bid to chase away that sense of vertigo.

Now, Louis was attempting his thirtieth glass of wine since he’d entered the match. In other words, Moran and Albert had already drunk an astonishing 51 glasses.

Even as they moaned like spirits of the dead, both Louis and Moran tried to fill their glasses for the next round; but the hands that held those glasses kept trembling, and wine spilled onto the table many times over.

“——This is truly an excellent wine. With this flavour, I can enjoy myself twice as much.”

On the other hand, Albert was still in perfect shape.

Having long finished preparing his next glass, Albert looked at his two opponents, barely able to hold their own glasses, as if watching them from on high.

Despite having consumed an extraordinary quantity of alcohol, he was still unperturbed, and enjoying the taste of the wine. With unfocused eyes, Louis turned to look at his oldest brother.

“Ha, haha — as expected of you, nii-sama.”

In the face of this overwhelming presence, his own powerlessness seemed almost hilarious in comparison, and he chuckled as if he’d given up.

“This isn’t, the time to be, laughing, Louis……”

Moran thumped his back, in an effort to coax some life back into him. But that gesture was much too weak, and looked as though he was simply trying to soothe a badly drunk man.

Yet perhaps that move had worked, for then, Louis knocked back his entire glass. Following suit, both Moran and Albert drained their glasses too.

“Well then, we’ve finally reached the thirtieth glass.”

Watching the three of them, William announced the tally with dispassion. But at this point, it wasn’t clear if his voice had even reached Louis and Moran.

Having reached a nice round number, it seemed Louis was starting to loosen up. With the last ounces of his strength, he turned his head, and looked at Moran beside him.

“Mr Moran. My apologies, but it looks like, this is my end……”

“Wha…… Oi, hang in there, Louis!”

But his desperate plea went unanswered. The moment Louis uttered those final words, just like Fred, he slumped onto the table.

“L-Louis……”

Half-dazed, Moran mumbled the name of the fallen — and William swiftly appeared by his brother’s side.

“You’ll catch a cold if you fall asleep here, Louis.”

Gently, he tucked the blanket he’d prepared around Louis’s shoulders.

Albert looked on in concern.

“William, is Louis alright?” he asked.

“Yeah, it seems he’s just asleep for now.”

“…………”

The two brothers looked on at their youngest sibling, now keeled over; but even as Moran too fretted over his condition, a sense of admiration and gratitude towards the man had grown within him. Despite being drawn into the match, Louis had pressed on and fought alongside him to get this far. If Moran himself hadn’t been so sozzled, he would even have wanted to give the man a huge round of applause.

However, even those ardent emotions dwindled with time. For Moran was now back to square one — as the only player standing up to Albert — and that lonesome despair weighed heavily on his shoulders.

Here was an opponent so tough, that even someone who’d joined halfway had been no match for him.

That raw power sent a chill down Moran’s back. Desperately trying to hold his vision steady, he glared at Albert.

“……How the hell are you still alive?”

Through his hazy consciousness, Moran barely managed to utter that one phrase. Although it’d come from his own lips, to him, it sounded as if it’d been said by someone else far away.

Albert shifted his gaze from Louis to Moran.

“It’s not so surprising, is it? I just genuinely enjoy drinking wine, Colonel.”

“This is no longer in the realm of ‘enjoyment’, innit……”

Perhaps his inebriation had finally tipped over into delirium: at that moment, the sight of Albert lounging with a glass in hand looked almost like that of the devil.

And finally, that time had come.

“Oh, shit——”

In his final moments, with every last ounce of strength he had within him, Moran uttered that cheap curse.

And in an instant, as if someone had flipped a switch — he blacked out. Like a marionette whose strings had been cut, he collapsed onto the table in front of Albert, and began to snore loudly.

“Looks like…… it’s settled, then.”

Watching the sleeping figures of Fred, Louis, and now Moran, William announced the end of the match.

And thus, on this memorable night, the drinking contest had ended in complete victory for the preternaturally strong Albert.

“……Mm?”

Around thirty minutes after that, Fred — who’d been the first to drop out — opened his bleary eyes.

Blinking, he slowly sat up, and saw Moran and Louis fast asleep in a row beside him, with blankets wrapped around their shoulders. Why Louis too?, he thought; but seeing that sight before him, at the very least, he somehow understood that the match was over.

Perhaps it was inevitable, but it had ended in a crushing defeat for Moran, Louis and him.

“Good morning, Fred; though the sun hasn’t risen yet.”

Someone called out to him from the side — by reflex, Fred’s gaze snapped toward the voice, and he saw William smiling gently at him, seated in the same spot from earlier. Beside him was Albert.

“……How long has it been?”

Since he already knew how the match had turned out, for now, still a little groggy, Fred enquired as to how long he’d been unconscious.

“It’s been around thirty minutes since the end of the match. So that makes it around two hours since you passed out,” said William. “It’s past midnight now.”

That voice had a somewhat comforting note to it, as if he was worried for Fred, who’d just awakened from the depths of drunkenness.

Then Albert — who was still enjoying his wine — spoke up in concern.

“Still, the colonel has done this time and again without learning his lesson. Even though wine is a luxury to be savoured and enjoyed.”

“Although you’ve beaten him every time, it seems that argument has yet to persuade him otherwise.”

Looking at Albert, who seemed to be functioning perfectly despite everything, William shrugged in amazement.

Fred had no clue as to how exactly how much wine Albert had ended up drinking; but from the wryness of William’s smile, he could at least tell that it was an amount beyond an ordinary person’s imagination.

Once again, Fred reflected on how it’d been a mistake in itself to challenge this monster to a fight.

“Although Moran seems to have given it his all this time around, as I thought: he was no match for you, nii-san.”

As if narrating Fred’s thoughts, William looked back on the outcome of the battle. Then, Albert picked up a bottle that still contained some liquor.

“Won’t you join me for a bit, William? Just to enjoy the wine.”

Despite having consumed a copious amount of alcohol, Albert was still game for more. But William waved a hand in refusal.

“I won’t. Anyway, I already had my fill over dinner.”

“That’s a pity; now that it’s just the two of us, I’d wanted to discuss its flavour at length with you.”

Saying that, Albert tilted his glass, and gently brought it to his lips. That gesture looked almost as if it’d been calculated down to the millimetre — the atmosphere surrounding him truly befitted that of a British aristocrat.

“…………”

William, the pivotal intellect of their organisation, and Albert, who was speaking to him.

Gazing vacantly at the two men, a thought suddenly struck Fred.

——How did this man come to be what he was today?

Albert had been born and raised as a noble — in this stratified society, he was considered part of the upper class.

But despite the position bestowed upon him by his birth, he had not sunk into the degenerate practices of the nobility; instead, his heart ached for the twisted nature of their country, and he wished to overturn it from its very foundations.

And the catalyst for all that, had been the two brothers he’d picked up.

Rather than indulging in their social positions and means, the Moriarty brothers instead refined their intellect and abilities with unyielding force of will, thus turning themselves into the “Lord of Crime” — an existence working in the shadows of Britain’s underworld.

Fred looked at Louis, asleep to his side, and then at William and Albert, who were engaged in conversation.

It was almost as if they’d been destined to meet.

——Could I, too, get closer to them?

Despite not being related by blood, Albert saw William and Louis as his brothers — the bonds between them were strong. In that case, perhaps Fred’s relationship with them could become even closer than what it was now.

Secretly, that thought blossomed in Fred’s heart.

“Well then, it’s getting late, so we should call it a night. Seeing as they’re asleep, what should we do with Louis and the colonel?”

Paying no heed to Fred’s longing gaze, Albert drained the last of his wine, and calmly got to his feet. Remaining seated, William spoke.

“Since they’re so soundly asleep, I’d hate to rouse them; let’s leave them be a while longer.”

“I see. Then I shall remain as well.”

Listening in to their conversation, all of a sudden, Fred remembered the important agreement that’d been made at the start of the match.

Nervously, he asked after Albert.

“Um, since I’ve lost, I suppose the forfeit will fall on me too……?”

Simply owing to the fact that he’d participated in the drinking contest, as one of the defeated parties, Fred had resigned himself to accepting the loser’s penalty.

However, Albert smiled.

“Aah, no need to worry about that. As you know, this match is a personal matter between the colonel and myself; I’m sorry you got caught up in it.”

“N-no, you don’t have to apologise. Even though it was a rather sudden turn of events, it was still my own decision to participate.”

At that unexpected apology, Fred waved both hands weakly. But Albert kept up that elegant smile of his as he continued.

“You don’t have to concern yourself with the forfeit. Well, even if I were fine with him doing it, the colonel would just be a right bother; so I’d be grateful if you could just tidy up the glasses we’ve used tonight.”

“T-Thank you very much.”

Having expected a bigger penalty, Fred was grateful for Albert’s magnanimity. In his heart, he heaved a sigh of relief, and proceeded to clear the glasses.

As he did so, Albert turned to look at Louis, who was still fast asleep.

“And since Louis was also caught up in this, I’ll exempt him as well.”

Then his focus shifted to Moran, who was slumped beside Louis.

“……Instead, I suppose I’ll have to give the colonel a proper punishment.”

“…………”

Although his voice had been calm, a disquieting feeling lingered around those words. Hearing that, even the agile Fred had unwittingly stopped in his tracks.

In place of Fred, whose face had paled, William asked after Albert with a wry smile.

“Nii-san, exactly what kind of punishment will you be giving him?”

Albert’s tone remained calm as always.

“Let’s keep that a secret for now. But no matter what it’ll be, I’m sure all of you can look forward to it.”

Saying that, Albert smiled. It was elegant to a fault.

“…………”

As he took the empty glasses, Fred looked at the sleeping Moran.

He’d set up this contest of his own accord: he had it coming for him. And yet, as Fred thought about what lay in store tomorrow for the man he saw as an older brother, he couldn’t help but feel a little sorry.

Just like this, the night to commemorate the founding of MI6, had drawn to a close.

T/N: …Do I really want to know what Albert’s gonna make him do? (ohoho)

Translator’s notes

Drinking capacities

I thought I’d summarise their relative strengths at drinking :3 From weakest to strongest:

Fred (<20 glasses)

Louis (30)

Moran (52)

Albert (52, and then some)

Though William didn’t participate in the end (aww), I would think he’s on par with Louis, and maybe even a bit stronger too.

The illustration

The illustration shows Moran slumped on a tiny coffee table of sorts; but I’m wondering where Louis and Fred are, since they were described as being asleep on the table beside Moran... Perhaps this is an incongruity between the story and the illustration?

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #a study in scarlet #illustration insert

[harrylee94]

The Tournament - Chapter 6

You can find this on AO3!

Summary: The Prince had been there since the first hints of light had touched the sky, Saruk at his side and a large, two handed axe held in his hand. Cobb had been up on the roof for almost an hour by the time he’d arrived, unable to sleep and a blanket around him. He had wanted to jump down, to run to his side to look him over, to make sure he was unharmed, but he knew it wasn’t his place and had to make do with watching from a distance.

Notes: TW: There is an execution in this chapter. I don't go into any real details, but someone it decapitated, and there is blood.

If you feel uncomfortable with this, please see the end notes for a short summary of the chapter.

Chapter 5

——————————————————————

“I, Din Djarin, Prince of the kingdom of Mandalore, sentence you to die" - Cobb

The morning air was cool from where Cobb sat on the stable roof, Peli and Jo sat on either side of him as the sun began peeking out over the horizon. It would be some time yet before it would breach the castle walls, and the night’s chill would take even longer to dissipate, but no one was going to complain, Cobb least of all.

Someone had tried to kill the Prince. An honoured guest, a high born little lordling, had taken the trust Din had given her and crushed it under her boot. It had taken everything Cobb had not to storm into the castle’s prison to demand her head on the spot. Knowing she’d lose it the coming morning had soothed some of his rage, but he had seethed for the rest of the day, something his friends had noted.

Jo had pushed him to direct his anger into something more productive, like cleaning up the stable and practicing in the armour she’d been fixing up for him -- something he’d bought over the years, a mis-matched, slightly rusting set with broken straps though it was -- which Peli had then walked in on and demanded to know what was going on. The explanation had left her grinning viciously, and Cobb’s team grew from two to three.

His armour was safely hidden away in the back of the stables for now, as fixed up as it could have been in the week Jo had to alter it between her apprenticeship and the Armourer having to use the forge herself, but now it was dawn, and Din was stood in the centre of the ward next to a headsman’s block.

The Prince had been there since the first hints of light had touched the sky, Saruk at his side and a large, two handed axe held in his hand. Cobb had been up on the roof for almost an hour by the time he’d arrived, unable to sleep and a blanket around him. He had wanted to jump down, to run to his side to look him over, to make sure he was unharmed, but he knew it wasn’t his place and had to make do with watching from a distance.

As time had passed Peli and Jo had appeared beside him, and more nobles than Cobb had ever seen awake at this hour began to gather. Some servants who had tasks to get on with in the hours before dawn had to skirt around them and keep their heads down, but the crowd wasn’t big enough to cause any real delay. Din hadn’t moved more than a few inches in all the time he’d spent waiting, but he had looked up at Cobb a few times, and he was determined to be there for him.

He’d wanted to have his sword with him, to show his support in more than just his presence, but he couldn’t, else he give himself away, so he brought his makeshift staff instead -- another broken cleaning implement -- and held it across his lap. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw Din looking at it and giving him a small, almost hidden smile.

But that was probably a trick of the morning light.

When the prisoner was dragged out and held for all to see, Cobb’s grip grew so intense the wood creaked.

“Not so tight,” Jo muttered, giving him a nudge. “You’re already at a disadvantage with your idiot ass not getting any sleep last night, don’t add splinters to the mix.”

Cobb gritted his teeth before releasing a breath, carefully making his fingers relax their grip. She was right; today was the first day of the Tournament, and he couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

“Veryn of no Clan or House,” Din said, bringing the chatter to silence. “You are here to face the judgement for your crime of treason. Do you have any last words?”

The bitch held herself tall and sneered at him. “You are destroying what it is to be Mandalorian. Someone will stop you.”

Cobb had to take another deep breath to stop from gripping the staff too hard again, twisting it in his hands instead.

Din did nothing for a few moments, then nodded. “So be it.” Cobb winced at how sad he sounded, but then he tapped the butt of the axe against the ground and braced himself. “I, Din Djarin, Prince of the kingdom of Mandalore, sentence you to die. Kneel.”

“I will never kneel to you,” she spat. The guards holding the traitor pushed her forwards, moving her to the block and pushing her down to her knees.

Din picked the axe up as she was pushed down, arms and body tied to the block as she struggled. The Prince hefted the axe, and with one swing it was over.

The axe was brought up again, the blade red with blood, and Din sighed down at the now limp body. The tired look in his eyes made something twist in Cobb’s chest, but it’s gone before the head had stopped rolling, and he turned to the guards.

“Give the body to her father,” he ordered. “He deserves the time to grieve.”

They saluted him, fists over their hearts, and removed the remains. All Cobb could hear though was the echo of Din’s words.

Deserves time to grieve. He was giving the traitor’s family time to do what he had not had the chance to experience. This man had so much kindness in him that it dwarfed even his mother’s, and yet the fact that he still managed to sentence and execute a traitor spoke of a great well of inner strength.

“Cobb, you’re doing it again,” Jo said, and he looked over at her quizzically.

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Pining,” Peli said with an unamused look.

Cobb snorted, but didn’t deny it. How could he when Din was so… perfect? “We have to protect him.”

“Ain’t that what we’re doing?” Peli asked.

“Yeah but… Who knows who else is gonna go after him?” Cobb asked. “She was supposed to be competing, could have even won, and then what would have stopped her from-?” He waved his hand towards Din, who was talking quietly with Saruk.

“From what I heard he managed to keep himself pretty well protected without any help,” Peli said with a roll of her eyes. “Stop worrying! He’ll be fine!”

“If you think that then why are you helping us?” Cobb asked, a sharp edge entering his voice that he instantly regrets. “Sorry.”

“You should be,” Peli said, then gave his arm a not-so-soft punch. “Ah, forget it. I get it. That kid’s had nothing but hardship these last few years. What you’re trying to do, whether it works or not, is pretty damn noble. Sure, you’re a bit in love with the guy. So what?” She poked him in the chest. “You’ve got a good heart, Cobb Vanth, and I’m gunna make sure you’re getting the right sort of support too.”

“... Thanks, Peli,” Cobb said as he blinked back tears.

“No, don’t you cry on me,” the shorter woman warned, leaning away from him. “If you cry on me you can forget it. I’m jumping off this roof and you can get your help elsewhere.”

Cobb snorted a laugh and quickly wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. “Aw, I could never turn away your help Peli. I’ll be on my best behaviour, promise.”

She gave him a disbelieving look, but nodded. “Well alright then.”

“Wait, step back a bit,” Jo said from his other side, drawing his attention. “I know you said we had to protect him, but before it was just keeping stuck-up pricks from winning.”

“It’s still that,” Cobb argued, but Jo shook her head.

“No, it’s not,” she said. “You saw how many names on that list were from noble families, and I know that this has damaged your trust -- probably everyone’s trust -- in them. The only name on it that wasn’t from some family that can trace its lineage back at least two hundred years was yours! Even if it isn’t technically your name.”

“Jo, what are you trying to say?”

The smith’s apprentice set her jaw. “You need to win.”

“Win?” He blinked and looked back out at the ward, back at Din who had handed the axe over to Saruk and started to make his way back to the keep. As though he could feel Cobb’s gaze on him, he paused in his stride and looked up at him. The stable hand quickly pressed his lips into a small smile and nodded to the Prince, and his heart swelled when he caught sight of a little smile in return before the Prince disappeared inside.

“Look at you,” Jo said, but Cobb couldn’t bring himself to look away just yet to face her. “The only person competing you’d trust with that man’s life is you, and we sure as shit can’t trust any of the nobles now that someone’s tried to kill him.”

Cobb shook his head. “I can’t win. I’m not a knight. I’m not a lordling. I don’t have any titles. I’m no one!”

“Since when has that stopped you before?” Peli asked, joining Jo in ganging up on him. “If you think it’s gonna be easy then I’m locking you in the stable, but she’s right. I’ve seen you stand up to idiots with wealth and titles a hundred times greater than you. You’ve also been beaten to shit by some folks with wealth and titles too, but you’re still standing, ain’t ya?”

“It’s why you bought the armour, right?” Jo said. “You wanted to show them that you didn’t need titles or money to be able to beat them into the dirt.”

“Well guess what; here’s your chance, tied up with a nice satin bow,” Peli said, patting him on the back.

He shook his head again. “I never signed up to win.”

“But you have to,” Jo said, and Cobb felt her press her hand on his shoulder. “You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t.”

Cobb looked over the ward again, down at the nobles who were either milling around and chatting or heading back to their tents or rooms, avoiding the block with blood pooled around it. He thought of all the names on the list, the almost three dozen contestants, and wondered how many of them had signed up because they believed the Prince deserved to be protected.

All he’d wanted, when he’d put the name he’d be riding under down, was to keep people like Ser Jaonar from winning, but Jo was right; how was he supposed to know which were and which were not?

“I’m still not a knight,” he pointed out. “Or competing under my own name.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Jo said with a grin of victory. “For now, just focus on winning.”

“And when you do win you’ll finally take your lovesick looks with you,” Peli said with almost a cheer.

“Oh, but they’ll only get worse,” Jo said, her grin turning into a smirk, and he groaned.

“Please…”

“Being right by his side, day after day,” Jo teased. “Following him everywhere he goes.”

Peli cackled. “He is pining after him , right?”

“Yep.”

The cackling doubled in volume. “Oh you are so screwed.”

“Stop,” Cobb pleaded, ducking his head into his hands.

“He’s bound to notice the eyes you make at him one day,” Jo said. “You’re not subtle about it, if you know what you’re looking for.”

“Stop, please !” he begged, and got their teasing chuckles or it. “I hate you both.”

“Love you too,” Jo said, bumping her arm against his. “Now come on, let’s get some food in you and run you through some drills to warm you up. Oh! And I added a few embellishments to your armour.”

“When did you have time to do that?”

She snorted. “You weren’t the only one who couldn’t sleep last night. Now help us down and let’s grab some breakfast.”

——————————————————————

Summary: Cobb watches Din execute the traitor, but Din gives her body to her family so they can grieve. Cobb is touched by this and feels the need to protect him grow. Jo and Peli, who are with him, help him realise that if this is the case, then he needs to win the Tournament before ribbing him about his crush.

Chapter 7

#writing #fanfic #mandalorian fanfic #fic #the mandalorian #cobb vanth #din djarin #peli motto #jo (mandalorian) #medieval au #dincobb #pining #tw: execution #tw: blood

[joggerfive]

Fic: Christmas Mischief

This is my Discord Secret Santa gift for @notebooksnshoelaces <3 Hope you like it, my lovely! Happy holidays!!

Simon and Five become christmassy Township Troublemakers™ and bring some festive cheer to Abel with a few pranks and surprises! Set in S1/S2.

(Link to fic on AO3 if that’s where you prefer to do your reading)

---

“Hello there, my dearest Five.”

Runner Five looked up from their notebook towards the doorway of the rec room. Simon swaggered in then slammed himself down on the couch next to Five with a grin.

“Where did you even get a Santa hat?” Five wondered aloud, reaching over to Simon’s head to touch the white pom-pom that was dangling from the top.

Simon playfully swatted their hand away before it could reach the hat. “I shall answer your question with another question. Are you up for some festive mischief?”

With a glint in their eye, Five immediately shut their notebook as their reply.

-----

“Jesus, it’s cold out here,” Simon complained, “even on the move, I’m bloody freezing.”

Five shook their head as they picked up a dirty shirt from the side of the road. It would be good as new after a wash. They shoved it in their bag and quickly caught up with Simon once more.

“You’re just grumpy because Sam made you take off your Santa hat.” Five replied.

At the mention of his name, the radio operator’s voice started coming through the runners’ headsets.

“It made your headset sit all weird! I’m not having you lose vital equipment in the name of Christmas spirit.” Sam rebutted indignantly.

Simon gave a fake cough, then mumbled the word “grinch”. Five smirked.

“Hey! I am not a grinch! I love Christmas!” Sam replied, sounding offended. “In fact, when I was a kid-”

Five startled as Simon gave their arm a couple of taps to grab their attention. Sam continued his story into their ears as Three pointed towards a street. Five nodded silently in response. Time for part one of the plan.

“Sam,” Simon started with a smirk, “What was that about geese? You’re breaking up.”

“What? No, I said trees.” Sam replied, coming through perfectly clearly.

“Bees? What have bees got to do with Christmas?” Three acted as confused as he could, furrowing his eyebrows together even though Sam couldn’t see him.

“Trees! I was saying how my family would choose a Christmas tree together!”

“Choose a what? And it was free?”

“A tree! And I didn’t say it was free!”

Simon tried to keep the grin off his face as he looked over at Five, “Sorry Sammy boy, you’re breaking up. I guess we’ll just have to hear your story about the free geese and bees later on, hey?”

“There are no geese or bees!” Sam exclaimed, before properly taking in what Simon said, “Wait, you can’t hear me? You should be able to, we haven’t had any problems in this area before-”

“-am. I –an’t hea- you.” Simon spoke in fragments, pretending to get cut off. Five gave a quiet scoff at the ridiculous attempt.

“What? Three? Five? Can you still hear me?”

Five looked over at Simon with an incredulous look on their face. They couldn’t believe it was actually working.

“Ca- -ear –ou.” Simon continued.

“Guys? Oh God, why can’t you hear me? Has a wire come loose? I knew I shouldn’t have cleaned in here!” A slight amount of panic started to become present in Sam’s voice, causing a small pang of guilt in Five’s chest.

Runner Three let out a last few incoherent syllables before turning off his headset and motioning for Five to do the same. When he saw Five’s expression, he sighed and turned off theirs for them.

“Oh, stop your worrying, Five. He’ll be fine.” Simon shrugged, “Come on, it’s this way.” He turned down the street on the left, instead of the route straight ahead that Sam had originally planned for them.

“We could’ve told him, you know.” Five mumbled, but followed Simon regardless.

“He would’ve ratted us out and you know it.” He rolled his eyes when Five looked at him with an expression like they’d just hurt a harmless little puppy. Which was kind of how they felt. “Come on, this is for the Christmas spirit! Just a quick stop at this shop and then we can tell Sam we’re okay. Only a few stragglers in our way and we’ve dealt with much worse, right?”

Five gave a reluctant nod, “Fine.”

Simon gave a loud whoop and a fist pump, which put a smile back on Five’s face, as they ran towards their destination.

-----

“Why do these places even exist?” Five asked once they were inside the shop, poking a bobblehead of Santa to make it nod. “Surely they didn’t get any business for ten months out of the year.”

Simon called out his answer from the other side of the store, “Yeah, but I bet the two months they did get business were booming.” On the last word, a couple of bells made a loud noise as a toy fell to the ground, Simon yelling out a quick ‘sorry!’ as he picked the elf back up and put it on its rightful place on the shelf.

The two runners were currently grabbing supplies from a Christmas shop aptly titled ‘Christmas Galore’, which although it appeared to be barren in a few areas (the clothes and candle sections mostly) it still had most of its contents covered in dust. Seemed like kitsch holiday items were not the most necessary thing to scavenge at the end of the world.

“Hey, look!” 

Five whipped their head up from the Nativity display they were looking at just in time to catch the flying scrap of red fabric that was thrown their way. 

“Now we can match!” Simon said happily. Five looked in their hands and saw a Santa hat. Slightly smaller than Simon’s, but it would do. They went to try it on.

“Can’t put it on now, you dolt.” Simon remarked as he shoved something into his bag, “Don’t think we would’ve found festive clothing in the pharmacy Sam thought we were going to.”

Five shrugged, “Maybe someone at the pharmacy was really into Christmas.”

“Alright smartie pants, if you wanna wear it then fine, but you’re doing the explaining.”

They gave Simon a glare before relenting and shoving the hat into their pack instead. The pair continued to grab whatever festive items they could as Simon whistled some Christmas songs to himself.

-----

Runner Five left their bunk on Christmas day with a spring in their step and a poorly concealed smirk on their face. Late last night, the secret santas had been putting festive touches all around Abel whilst trying not to wake anyone up. Five thought back to the moment they’d both tried to sneak into the kitchen through the window and Simon’s foot had gotten caught on the wood, causing him to land on his back with a loud thump, and bit their lip to contain their laughter.

Speak of the devil, as soon as Five entered the kitchen, their companion was already sitting at a table (Santa hat and all) with a mug in his hands.

“Good morning and a very merry Christmas, dear Five!” He greeted with a huge grin.

Five simply nodded as they sat down next to him. They were less of a morning person, but they’d make an exception for one day out of the year.

Simon took this as a reply and continued, “Where’s your hat then? Thought we were gonna be matching.”

Five looked confused for a moment, “My hat?”

“Yeah,” He replied, “I got you a hat. Did you lose it?”

Their face stayed the same for a few seconds, but they cracked when they saw Simon’s crestfallen expression. Reaching into their back pocket, they retrieved their Santa hat and put it on with a cheeky smile.

Simon gave a chuckle, “Had me there for a second. Thought my partner in crime had given up on me.”

They were about to respond when Simon looked over at another table, brimming with excitement. Five followed their gaze, only to be chastised.

“Don’t make it too obvious!” Simon hissed, “Act natural.”

The two mischief makers gave as many casual glances as they could to the other side of the room as Sam walked in, still looking half asleep.

Sam’s eyes widened as he saw the huge box on the table and slowly approached it. Three and Five watched as Sam read the label that was on top, which addressed the present to him. The box was big enough that it covered up Sam’s entire body from view as he sat behind it, making the troublemakers slightly upset that they couldn’t see their victim’s face. However, they knew it wouldn’t be a problem for long.

They watched as Sam (or just Sam’s arms, from their perspective) quickly opened the first box, then halted before pulling out a slightly smaller - but still quite large – box. Next, when that box was opened, another one was inside.

Over the next few minutes, Five had resorted to covering their mouth with their hand to ensure no giggles escaped and Three was pretending to take frequent sips from his now empty mug to hide his grin. There was a small group gathering around Sam as he continued to open the boxes and more boxes would reveal themselves. He was now on his seventh box, and his expression had changed from glee, to confusion, to annoyance.

The final box was about the size of the palm of Sam’s hand and the fervour with which he opened it showed just how done he was with the whole farce. After all the fuss, he held up a tiny SD card between his thumb and forefinger, looking over it with distrust as if he expected it to also have something even smaller inside. There was a note attached, which had been folded as many times as it could to be as compact as possible. The note read:

“Thought this would be a useful gift. Merry Christmas! From, Santa.”

Three and Five watched with delight as Sam read and reread the note multiple times, seemingly only getting more confused. Eventually, the crease between his eyebrows left and he let out a chuckle as he looked to his right and saw the ridiculous amount of empty boxes and wrapping paper on the floor, then pocketed the SD card. He looked around the room with narrowed eyes, seemingly looking for a culprit, making Three and Five tear their gazes away from him.

“How about we go see our next lucky contestant, eh, Five?” Simon said quickly as he saw Sam rise from his seat, probably to go interrogate people about his gift.

With that, the two scurried out of the kitchen, finally letting out all their laughter once they were alone.

-—-

On their way to their next destination, they caught sight of Janine shouting up orders to one of the guards, who was up on a ladder desperately trying to grab something that was seemingly tied above the gates that allowed people in and out of Abel.

Simon instantly changed direction to head towards Janine, his smirk flawlessly changing to a concerned expression as he approached. Five tried their best to copy him.

“Jenny, what’s up?” Three asked as they got close, “Something wrong with the gates?”

Janine turned around, her red cheeks almost rivalling the red plaid shirt she was wearing. She looked aggravated and tired at the same time.

“It seems someone thought it would be funny to tie some… mistletoe above the gates.” She said snippily, staring upwards at the object in question with a grimace.

Simon let out a chuckle, “And that’s why you’re making poor Jacob here stand at the top of a ladder in the freezing cold on Christmas morning? Come on, it’s obviously just a bit of fun.”

Janine folded her arms as she scowled, “‘A bit of fun’, is it? It may be Christmas but we still have runners scheduled to go out today, and this…” she pointed up at the mistletoe, “thing will cause nothing but chaos.”

Five bit their lip to try and hide their smile as Simon replied, “Chaos? It’s just a bit of fake plant that lets people give kisses scot-free. That’s it.”

“When someone comes back through the gates, their first port of call is to go straight to the hospital for bite checks, not to…” Her nose scrunched up, “kiss someone. What if the person coming in is bitten? And the mistletoe malarkey gives them a few extra minutes to hide their bite? What if the person that’s bitten kisses another person?”

Simon hummed in thought, “I don’t think that someone that’s bitten kissing someone else that isn’t bitten would cause the other person to become a zom too. I don’t know though. Haven’t exactly been doing any kissing research.” His eyes lit up as he saw an opportunity, “Maybe we could do some research, ey, Jenny? Strictly for scientific purposes, of course. For the greater good of the township.”

Janine’s eyes widened, her cheeks once pink from the cold and exasperation now blushing for a completely different reason. “Would you like to take over from Mr. Quinn?” She asked Simon, gesturing to the man that was still trying to grab the mistletoe but couldn’t reach due to the fact that the ladder was too small. (Luckily, Five had the forethought to hide the taller ladder that Simon had used to hang the mistletoe up, and it was currently in one of the barns.)

Simon paused for a few seconds as he feigned thinking, “No, I don’t think I’d like that.”

“Then I’d suggest you leave swiftly. Before I make you do so.” Janine concluded.

“Righty-o!” Three replied, giving her a wink before turning away, “Good luck up there, mate!” He shouted up to the guard, who didn’t give a reply. (At least one loud enough that Simon could hear.) Three and Five began to walk away.

“Si?”

They both turned around as they heard Janine speak once more.

“Yeah?” He replied non-chalantly.

“How do you know the plant is fake?” She asked.

Simon paused, “What’s that, Jenny?”

“You said ‘a bit of fake plant’ when referring to the mistletoe.” She said calmly, “How do you know it’s fake? I can’t tell from down here. How can you?”

He quickly scoffed, “Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Where’s someone going to find real mistletoe anywhere these days?”

Janine seemed to ponder his answer for a while, staring him down for multiple moments. Five was glad that steel gaze wasn’t on them, they weren’t sure they could handle the pressure as well as their partner.

“I suppose that’s true.” Janine conceded, though she still seemed suspicious. “Very well.”

Three took the answer happily, grabbing Five’s arm as he began to walk away from the scene of the crime once more. “See ya later, love!” He shouted as him and Five scurried away as quickly as possible.

--—

Throughout the day, people started reporting more instances of Christmas mischief.

In the hospital, there was tinsel of all different colours lining each cot. Maxine removed it from beds that were currently being used, just in case a patient tried to stand up and got their leg caught, but happily left the empty beds decorated, enjoying the little bit of brightness it brought to the room.

Jody had been gifted a single knitting needle, with a vague clue to tell her where the next one was hidden which caused her to go on a wild goose chase around the township.

Multiple people saw animals in the farmyard wearing festive hats and headbands, though most of them had wrestled them off by afternoon.

Sara had been gifted a bottle of whiskey, but a padlock on the top prevented her from opening it. There was a riddle attached saying what the combination was, but instead Simon and Five saw her asking around for a hammer or a crowbar.

All the individual jars and tins in the kitchen cupboards had been wrapped in patterned Christmas paper, forcing all the people working there to unwrap each and every one. (If they were to count the amount of ingredients, they would’ve realised that they were a few more than there were the previous day.)

Then, somehow, a rumour had started that Santa himself was going to be visiting Abel. The children whispered happily about it, the parents all gave each other broad smiles, and everyone was trying to suss out who this Santa could be.

-—-

That afternoon, hidden away in a barn as far away from the other residents of Abel as they could be, Three and Five were getting changed into their costumes.

“I still think I should be Santa.” Simon huffed from behind a stack of hay bales, his voice straining with exertion as he tried to get into his outfit.

Five replied, already dressed as Santa Clause, complete with a bushy white beard and big black boots (Evan wouldn’t miss his boots for one day, surely), “The Santa trousers were so short on you that most of your calves were showing. And the jacket showed your midriff. This is for the best.”

“What’s wrong with people seeing my wonderfully toned calves and midriff?”

Five rolled their eyes while fiddling with the fake beard.

Simon’s head popped out from behind a hay bale to glare at his companion, “You just rolled your eyes, didn’t you.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Five replied coolly, “Now hurry up, the kids will be waiting already!”

“Alright!” Simon huffed, “I’m coming out.” He let out a heaving sigh as he wondered out from behind his hiding spot.

Five let out a full belly laugh that would’ve rivalled Santa’s.

“Oi!” Simon shouted defensively over the sound of laughter.

“Sorry!” Five choked out, “It’s just… Wow. And I thought the Santa outfit was short on you.”

He was wearing a green and red elf dress that cut off at his mid-thigh, accompanied with an elf hat that had a golden bell on the end.

Simon folded his arms, then realised it made the skirt ride up even more, and brought his arms back down to his sides. Even in the low afternoon light, the redness on his cheeks was obvious.

“Oh, come on,” Five said, walking up to their elf, “For someone who’s streaked multiple times-”

“This is going to be in front of children!” Simon said indignantly.

“Yeah you’re right,” Five agreed solemnly, before breaking out into a grin, “They’re going to be scarred by your pasty legs.”

“Pasty?!” Simon cried out, “Hey, I-”

“Speaking of the children, we don’t want to keep them waiting, do we?” Five continued with a smile.

Simon let out a large exhale, “Fine. You’re right. Best get this over with.”

Five chuckled, “Aw, come on little elf. Cheer up. It’s Christmas!”

At that, Simon perked up. “Yeah, I guess it is. Alright. Let’s put on the best show Abel’s ever seen.” He held out his arm for his partner in crime, who happily linked their arm with his.

They walked back towards the centre of Abel together, Simon’s hat jingling the whole way.

#zombies run #zombies run! #simon lauchlan #runner five #sam yao #janine de luca #zr secret santa 2020 #fic #my fic #text

[warsofasoiaf]

The Celtic Tiger - A Kaiserreich Ireland AAR Chapter 4: Soldiers Are We

“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.” -W.B. Yeats

---

4 January 1939 - Economic Session of the Dail, Dublin, Ireland

Michael Collins had been debating initiatives to help smooth things over with the Ulster Unionists in the North. He had already revitalized plenty of the region’s industrial base, Harland and Wolff and the Short Brothers Aerospace PLC were employing plenty of people in Belfast, but the new American refugees had caused a great deal of cultural friction. The Unionist Party was never particularly quiet about their opinions on the state of affairs, but things were actively getting worse in Northern Ireland. 

“We should expand the steel initiative.” Collins had addressed the Dail in the annual IEAA meeting. “Producing steel domestically will allow us to better manage supply shortages in the event that our trade is cut off, and domestic steel production will be invaluable to the factories and shipyards. Belfast has made a compelling point, they have a significant amount of steelworking knowledge and experience that would meet the target goals faster than they would in other regions. Belfast will reclaim her old mantle as our very own Steel City. The Open For Business Initiative has put us significantly in the black this past year, we can afford to invest heavily in steel production in Ulster along with zinc mining in our rural provinces. That should keep us in boom times and diversify our economic base, in case any post-Black Monday bubbles pop.” 

Privately, Collins was more concerned with placating the Unionists. They had been complaining that Dublin was largely favored over Belfast, and that the Open for Business Initiative was an attempt to lure away the young workers of Northern Ireland to Dublin where they would lose their culture, and their voices, largely swallowed up by the Catholic voters. Violent crime was steadily rising in Belfast, the victims being either Catholics or American refugees, or reprisal attacks by Catholics. If there was a war, he could not reliably count on Ulster, even in the face of aggression from the Union. That was a pity. That had been the British strategy against Ireland, divide and conquer. Something would have to give very soon, no amount of economic bandaging was going to resolve the core tension within Ulster - they did not see themselves as part of an Irish Republic.

An aide burst into the meeting hall, causing a minor clamor and it took some time to restore order. The aide burst out breathlessly. “The Union, sir, they’re steaming out of port. The RMS Rebecca is going full-speed at our destroyers in the Irish Sea.” The poor fellow could barely complete a full sentence, his stammering professed an almost lack of belief in what was happening.

“Have they declared war?” Collins asked. The Union and Ireland did not have normalized relations, but that did not mean no information passed between the two countries. G2, the Directorate of Military Intelligence routinely monitored diplomatic intentions within Mosley’s government. Of all the espionage work performed by the Directorate, the Union accounted for almost fifty percent of its foreign operations, perhaps even more. 

“No, sir. No word.”

What was frightening about Mosley’s intentions was how much sense it made to Collins. Mosley and Deat, despite their opposition to each other, had stressed the urgency of the revolution at their electoral campaigns, and had prosecuted an aggressive foreign policy to export syndicalism to the world.  Both had turned inwards, Deat had been particularly violent in his purging of Blum and Gamelin, and they believed now that without dissent, they would not have naysayers and fifth columnists betraying their governments. By all accounts, their countries were ready to stand at the forefront of a global transformation. Yet the results were not successful. France and Britain  had been completely humiliated in the Second American Civil War, with Reed about to face a war crimes tribunal. The Commune of France had threatened to annex Savoy only to have Switzerland seek German support and membership within the Reichspakt, and Deat had backed down. A defeat, militarily, within Europe, would be a disaster, evidence of endemic weakness of the Internationale’s new leadership. 

Ireland would have been Mosley’s choice for a target. The stunning growth of the Irish economy and rise in the Irish standard of living would be an ideological foe, proof perhaps, that another way would be better. It was close to Britain and far from Mosley’s foes in Germany, Canada, and the United States. Its army and navy were tiny, compared to the Union’s. If they hurried, it could be a fait accompli no matter what any of the other great powers would do.

Collins thought for a moment. Ireland had benefited significantly from its neutrality between Entente and Reichspakt, not the least of which because it hadn’t been drawn into Germany’s wars as it had in Ukraine. The Open for Business Initiative never would have succeeded had Ireland been fully within the German sphere, and trade with the Entente had pacified the Anglophiles in the Centre Party. It was a natural pivot point that Ireland, as the middleman, could profit from. But an invasion of Ireland would see Ireland severely outnumbered in manpower and industrial capacity. 

“Get ahold of Admiral O’Muiris, have him mine the Irish Sea. Conduct a full investigation of the radar stations and anti-aircraft batteries, I want them in perfect working condition yesterday. No more drills, our men must go immediately to battle positions. See what we can learn about any invasion plans, put G2 on it; if they’re planning to land, I want to know where so we can put enough guns to turn their landing craft to splinters.” Collins spoke as if it were 20 years ago, as if he was that same man, ready to fight the last time the British refused the demand of Irish independence. “Also, let’s see if there are others as willing to fight for Ireland as we are, start with the Kaiser.”

“And if he isn’t?”

“We look farther then. Look to Canada if you have to.”

“Are you going to invite the Windsors back in?”

“Not for a moment, but sometimes you must deal with devils. ”

---

25 January 1939 -  Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

It was the worst possible news. 

The Kaiser had been unable to provide support for Ireland. The Vozhd was threatening the Baltic Duchy and White Ruthenia with his goal of one land for all the Russian people, and Wilhelm II would not abandon them for a western war, especially not one who was not in the Reichspakt. Canada too, could not commit to protecting Ireland, as they were engaged in a large-scale war in India with the Princely Federation. The United States was still deep into Reconstruction, President Garner would not deploy the badly-battered US Army into a foreign campaign when there were still cholera outbreaks and people dying of exposure. They were all perfectly reasonable excuses, but it led Collins to an inescapable conclusion: Ireland was on its own.

No doubt Mosley was jumping for joy. His ambitions would not be curtailed by the major anti-syndicalist factions. Protests certainly arose, even within the Union itself, but Mosley had been able to quell them with daily speeches against Ireland, lambasting the nation for its capitalist economic policies, its embargo of British goods, and the ethnic tensions between Ulster and the rest of Ireland, which Mosley alleged to be inspired by Stephen X and a precursor to the establishment of a Catholic theocratic state. He had harshly criticized Dan McKenna, accusing him and the Thunderbolts of war crimes, summary executions of British volunteers, and torture of Union prisoners; a pointed criticism given that McKenna was soon to return to the United States to give his testimony on Welfare Island and the atrocities that had taken place in the Mississippi Delta.

Collins had established the Mosley Gan Mosley program on 2RN in response, with Irish comedians regularly mocking Mosley’s wild proclamations and providing evidence against his more spurious claims. Collins ensured that the broadcasts were transmitted on a wide band toward the British Isles, focusing on Scotland and Wales as the Autonomists had chafed under Mosley’s centralization and embrace of British nationalism. Collins directed the program to emphasize Mosley’s speeches as expressions of old British imperialism in the hopes of creating public unrest at home. He wondered if it was working at all, or if he was simply trying to give everyone a laugh before the end.

The days after the German and Canadian refusal had been a tense form of limbo. The An tAerchór only had a few fighter planes with limited training, nothing compared to the British Republican Air Force. Sending up pilots would be risky, and casualties would be high. The An tSeirbhís Chabhlaigh was only slightly better off. The cruisers and destroyers were unlikely to match the British Navy in naval combat, but the submarines could pose a serious threat, and advances in naval mines would help cause further casualties among the landing craft. There was no getting around it, the Irish did not have the ability to contest the seas and so would be forced to repel the invasion with their ground forces. Civilians had been preparing for the coming disaster with air raid drills. Last-minute preparations for war were almost all that Collins could hope for, war would come, and Ireland would be alone.

“To ensure the liberation of the working class from the chains of oppressive and exploitative political and economic systems in the pursuit of global peace has been the compelling and continuing mission of the Socialist Union of Britain. To cultivate friendly relationships with nations likewise dedicated to the emancipation of those enslaved peoples and continue to progress toward the prosperity of mankind has always been the foundation of our foreign policy. 

Wherefore the government of Michael Collins has engaged and continues to engage in an economic and political system within the Republic of Ireland that deprives the Irish Worker of the fruits of his labor and depends upon his continued shackling to the dictates of Capital in violation of the Internationale Declaration of Human Rights. In pursuit of its goals against the working class, the Irish Republican government has illegally prohibited the Irish Worker to establish a political party to advance their interests in violation of the 1925 Irish Constitution’s declaration of freedom of association by banning the Labour Party.

The Socialist Union of Britain, in defense of the Irish Worker, therefore demands the reformation of the Irish government to that of a Regional Provincial Workers Council to be directly administered under the oversight of the Trades Union Congress and in accordance with the laws and principles of the Socialist Union of Britain.”

Yet, instead of an immediate declaration of war, Mosley had elected to send words, much to Collins's surprise. For a moment, the Taioseach wondered why Mosley had even bothered, such was the extent of his demands. Perhaps it was to spare himself a war while the Internationale conserved their fighting strength for other targets, or perhaps it was a compromise asked by France. Maybe Mosley thought that Ireland would surrender and he could one-up Deat who had failed to have his ultimatum obeyed. As he had read the words, Collins had almost torn the paper in anger, and among the ministers he had invited to the closed session, he had seen similar expressions on their faces. They may have disagreed on everything else, but not on this.

“The Republic of Ireland will not submit to the colonial dictates of Oswald Mosley. We consider these demands completely illegitimate and a violation of the sovereignty of the independent Republic of Ireland and the government recognized by the Irish people. The Irish Republic is a free and independent nation, and shall not surrender to the British yoke that has for centuries defined the history of Ireland with cruelty and deprivation. We demand the unequivocal cessation of all hostilities against the Republic of Ireland, the immediate removal of British ships from Irish territorial waters, and the abrogation of all demands and claims against the island of Ireland. We also call on the Third Internationale to condemn such a demand and reconsider their relationship with an aggressive nation dedicated to a mission of subjugation.”

Collins was sure that would get Mosley’s anger up. His support of the Anti-Colonialist movement could not abide a direct challenge by naming him the colonist that his government had spoken so long about overthrowing. The Union fixated upon proving that they were not the old British Empire, that they were a modern, just triumph over backward authoritarianism. Questioning the Union’s place in the Internationale was sure to cause some stir as well. South America had long spoken against European colonialism, and Chile had considered itself a bastion of colonial liberation within the continent. Even though Chile had not joined the Internationale, their success in Latin America and their support of Britain and France’s mission had mattered greatly within left-wing intellectual circles; it was their testament against accusations of colonialism. Robbing Mosley of Chilean support could cause unrest at home and with other syndicalist nations like Burma, and perhaps end his expansionist ambitions on Ireland.

Collins was only half-right. None of the major syndicalist nations saw fit to criticize Mosley, neither Chile, nor Burma, nor France, nor the Socialist Republic of Italy in Torino had seen fit to condemn Mosley’s action, nor was any independent comment from the Third Syndicalist Internationale forthcoming, at least not any that Collins had seen or heard. What was true is that Mosley was furious. He had read the Irish response out loud in the Trade Union Congress, and had immediately moved for a declaration of war. It had not been a request, not that any would oppose him after his centralizing purges in ‘37 and ‘38, but the British people were fired up. The declaration of war had been delivered, and almost immediately, planes began flying overhead, and the air raid sirens gave their low bleak wail. For a moment, Collins was certain that he could hear them as a banshee’s wail, and wondered whose death warrant he had just signed.

---

28 March 1939 - Command Bunker, Dublin, Ireland

It had been months since the declaration of war, and bombing missions had been flown against Ireland daily. The anti-aircraft guns and radar stations did their part, but the Union still commanded the skies. They had prioritized strategic bombing, hitting factories, port facilities, and coastal fortresses, but any target would do in a pinch. Each day, Collins made sure to hear the casualty counts, and each day he would address the nation by radio, encouraging them to continue to fight on. Every man, woman, and child had been doing their part. The Union had done a good job choking the imports of steel in an attempt to starve the Irish industrial machine. Air raid shelters had been a regular part of construction during the massive push for industrialization, and for that Collins had been grateful for what foresight he had. Even one life saved was worth it, but thousands had been spared being killed or maimed in a night raid or building collapse. That was small comfort, because fewer people dying still meant people were dying on his watch, soldiers and civilians alike.

G2 had conducted countless missions against the Union. Infiltrating the Army and Marine Corps were a top priority, any landing or invasion plans were a high priority for their agents. It had been a difficult endeavor, but Nancy Stewart, a Union turncoat who had lost her family members in Mosley’s purges and had been recruited to G2 as a local asset, had outdone herself. She had spoken to an overworked member of base security, stolen his keys and identification card, and had snuck it to her colleagues after drugging the man’s gin and dragging him home posing as his girlfriend. From there, Nancy and Rachael O’Brien, who had been recruited from the Cumann na mBan as part of Collins’s efforts to recruit sabotage experts for the Irish intelligence services, had been able to copy the plans all night before sneaking out the next morning, returning everything that they had left before their victim recovered from his night. The plans had been scheduled for late June, to land in the Clew Bay and Killary Harbor, on the west of Ireland.

Surprise was the Union’s primary goal, the territory in that region was a difficult landing, but if the Union soldiers were able to land and fortify, they could use the terrain to repulse an attack, perhaps even establish a breakout while forces had to cross the River Shannon and potentially seize Irish fortifications. The Republican Army was not concentrated in County Mayo, the likely destination would be on the east coast and it was there that they fortified with machine guns and artillery. The Union elected to launch from Cornwall, with a diversionary operation from Liverpool and the Isle of Man. Admiral O’Muiris elected to keep a defensive posture in a double-bluff; he didn’t want to risk any of his few ships on pursuing the Republican feint but kept his ships close to make it seem that he had not known about the Galway-Mayo landings. He didn’t like it, but if they could push back the attack, it might force Mosley to abort his attempt.

Tom Barry had stationed his men in Sligo and Galway city, waiting for forward observers to spot the landings on the western coast. The 1st Armored Division and the 2nd ‘Spearhead’ infantry would strike from Galway, while a mobilized force of cavalry Gardai would strike from surprise from the northeast. The 1st Thunderbolts were given the most difficult position, to fight a pre-dawn attack against the northern landing. Once they had attacked and cleared the beaches, they would march south and attack the main landing zone where the beaches were longer and flatter, supporting the most landing forces. Collins had hoped that he could bombard the beaches to oblivion, pinning the British invasion force soon after it had landed, and destroying their landing craft so they could not retreat. 

The landings were commanded by Thomas Wintringham, who had decided to primarily use regular army forces. He had petitioned Mosley for more men, but as that would have compromised the Welsh and Cornwall defensive region, so he was forced to call upon the West Lowlands Home Guard to fill out the invasion. In the middle of the night, the British had attempted to make the landings, but the currents had taken several of the landing craft off course to Galway, where a general alarm had been sounded and the landing craft subject to a heavy barrage. The anti-aircraft turrets weren’t able to be redirected toward the sea, but the river defenses on the Claddagh had utilized static artillery and machine gun pillboxes to create killzones, and the ports within Galway city had been blockaded. 

The mobilized Gardai Síochána and the 1st Thunderbolts moved to their northern position, and Barry began to push with a combined infantry and armor push toward the main landing zones. As it was a night landing, the Republican Air Force was unable to provide air support to its invasion zones. The Thunderbolts had marched all night and shot the Mayo landing forces to pieces as they arrived, keeping in contact with radio and light signals, before turning south to attack the main landing point. The 1st Armored advanced rapidly with light tanks before abruptly turning. Ground forces commanders, thinking that the Irish attack had been aborted because the tanks had outpaced their infantry, had attempted a shock charge to attack the Irish armor when they were out of position. Having advanced quickly, Barry closed the net, attacking with the South Mayo Flying Column and the 2nd Spearhead Division as the light tanks returned to repair the damage they had sustained during the light engagement. The ambush had taken the Union forces completely by surprise, and they were scattered, allowing Tom Maguire to push forward with his native Mayo forces and the Dublin Rifles toward the beach landings.

Continuing his hard push, Barry repeatedly probed the Union lines on the beaches, following up weakpoints with infiltration tactics and strongpoints with a withering suppressive barrage of artillery fire. Admiral Richard Boyle, commanding the U-Boats, attacked as the sun began to give visibility, sinking supply ships and troop transports. As the British Republican Air Force began to fly to support their mission, they had found the beaches to be a disaster area, littered with dead Union soldiers and destroyed Union equipment. The Union soldiers had fought tenaciously, but ultimately could not break out of the beachhead. As the hours stretched on, eventually the divisions surrendered. The first invasion of Ireland had been successfully repulsed.

Collins hadn’t been able to sleep, and paced in his command center the night of the march no matter what he tried. Mulcahy had opted to handle the long wait and let Collins try to get a few hours of sleep on a cot, but neither man believed that such a thing could really happen. When the news had come, Collins had listened to Maguire’s report almost dumbfounded, as if he expected to be woken up at any time. A complete success on all fronts, the British invasion had been foiled, and Irish casualties had been exceptionally low. Killed and wounded, Ireland had suffered just short of 3,000 casualties, roughly evenly split among the divisions in theater. The Union had suffered over 111,000 killed or captured in the failed raid, and what few weren’t captured were isolated and fleeing for their lives in the Irish countryside. It had been an overwhelming victory.

“My God, we certainly gave them a bloody nose.” Mulcahy, just as stunned as Collins himself, nodded approvingly.

“Then let us hope all it takes is a bloody nose.” Collins replied glumly.

---

“To conclude, what I witnessed in my almost-two years of volunteer service within the Second American Civil War was commitment in its best and worst forms. The Federal government, armed forces, and civilians of the United States had acted in devotion to their government and their mission, preserving their country and Constitution. Its reverse was true of its foes, a commitment to the annihilation of those who did not fit within their vision.” -Daniel McKenna, closing remarks, Denver Trials

McKenna didn’t belong here. Mosley had tried to invade his homeland. Every man was needed to fight. It was only a direct order from Michael Collins that had sent him to the United States. “We need foreign support more than we need one more general. The Thunderbolts will be well-led, you have my word. If the truth can come out about what had happened in New York, then we can push for further support. Your actions may help the war effort far more than back here in the homeland.”

McKenna thought the idea was sound, but he wasn’t seeing it pan out. Foreign support wouldn’t be pouring in, what had happened in the United States was already known and rationalized away. It was closure for the Americans, perhaps, but abstract notions of justice being punished hardly mattered when real Irish men and women were dying from British bombs. He had gone because he was a soldier and that meant obeying the orders of his commander-in-chief. McKenna had hoped that he could give a quick testimony and return, but he had been approached by the Irish-American Aid Association to give speeches to raise funds to donate supplies for Ireland. The United States was still recovering, but there were plenty of descendants from the Irish diaspora who were willing to donate food, money, and weapons to the Irish cause. That was something at least, some good had to come from this excursion.

McKenna remained in Denver as the tribunal judges deliberated their verdict. Reporters had hounded him the second he stepped out of his hotel until the second he stepped back in, even preventing him from enjoying any meals, calling them a bunch of cicadas in private. However, he was surprised to meet the reporter that he had met in New York covering the Denver Trials. Ruth Sofer had become a minor celebrity for her coverage of Welfare Island, and had resolved to write about the victims and perpetrators of the Second Civil War. “In my view, anything less would be cowardly, and I’ve been told I have an ironclad heart.“ Over dinner, Sofer interviewed McKenna, not only asking him further about Welfare Island, but telling him what she had learned in interviewing members of the Union State and Combined Syndicates who had been guilty of categorical atrocity, and what could have motivated them to do such a thing. It had sickened McKenna to his stomach, but no battle was too difficult for a soldier, and he obeyed his orders.

McKenna had wanted to return to Ireland quickly, but felt compelled to stay to help Sofer until she had finished her manuscript. Her book, Superfluous People, was a chilling examination of the systems of the two rebel movements within the Second American Civil War, their conceptions of a new transformation of reality in a form of secular millenarianism. Most of the second section of the book detailed the rationalizations regarding those to be left out of the new world, and the philosophies of the movements that originated these rationalizations, and the appeals both real and imagined that gave strength to these movements. The third and final section detailed the jump from theory to practice, exhaustively compiled through interviews of ground-level commanders that oversaw these eliminations in action. Notably, Sofer expounded at length on the Federal government in permitting Jim Crow legislation in the South as the foundation for groups like the Silver Legion.

Once the manuscript had been completed, only then did McKenna, hitching a ride on a supply ship from the Irish-American Aid Association, return home, to take up the command of his Thunderbolts once again.

---

12 June 1939 - Forward Command Post, Carrick-On-Shannon

After the failed invasion of Connacht, Mosley had blamed the militia system of the Trade Union Congress, finding the failure of the invasion to principally be the fault of the militia system’s poor organization. To Mosley, the inability of the Union Army to probably organize into a coherent and effective fighting force prevented them from successfully managing the Irish counter-attack until the greater numbers of the British army could land. Mosley dissolved the militias and established a more formalized military with an established central command structure. Officers could no longer be elected by fellow soldiers, Mosley had instead integrated soldier assent via the promotion board and mandated promotion in part on merit and ability to accomplish objectives. 

Mosley also reached out to the Communards across the Channel. Deat had not supported Mosley’s invasion of Ireland initially, but he was eager to demonstrate the prowess of the Communard Army. He had anticipated Mosley seeking help, but had thought it would have been more for occupation duties, and had planned for landing from Brittany to land in County Cork on the southern side of Ireland in the middle of August. The initial attacks were mere probing attempts, to see the Munster defenses and better analyze how best to invade Ireland. The weather conditions were right on the 15th of August. Unlike the earlier British invasion, the Communard elected on a daylight landing so their airpower could support the ground invasion. The increased visibility meant the Fenian Rams were able to find the French landings, sinking several troop transports and escort vessels and sinking before the destroyers and naval bombers could attack. Despite the navy’s efforts, French forces were also able to land at Baltimore and in a pasture in County Wexford after being shelled by Irish Republican forces in Waterford. The Dublin Rifles and 3rd ‘Black Badgers’ Division attacked in the Battle of the Sheepfold, where the lack of cover led to high casualties on both sides. The Baltimore landings fared little better, the rocky and open ground provided little cover, and the Irish forces were hard-pressed until reinforcements were trucked in from Limerick. 

The landings had similarly failed, though Deat had committed few forces and his troops were far more successful than Mosley’s initial foray. Deat had demanded that Wintringham coordinate with the Communard army for a joint invasion of Connacht. Collins had been able to repulse the Communard landings because his forces, not pressured on multiple fronts, had been able to relieve each other. Overwhelming numerical force would be able to do what smaller forces could not. As Ireland was considered Union territory and the Commune required most of its divisions along the border with the Kaiserreich, the Union would supply most of the manpower for the invasion, although the supreme commander would be from the Communard Army. Union and Communard planes and ships would combine for the endeavor, to support landings from County Claire to Sligo. 

The larger invasion force did succeed in its goals. Mosley’s centralization efforts had restructured the militias into an effective and organized fighting force. By standardizing equipment and radio procedures, the Union had been able to break through at Clew Bay, getting off the exposed beach. The Donnelly Division had been scattered, and the French were able to land in County Mayo and attack Sligo after a ferocious onslaught of terror bombing. The initial objectives only sought to reach the River Shannon, as the fortifications made crossing the river a daunting task. The Union took Galway after three days of fighting, Irish Republicans had retreated to the forests and hills outside of the urban centers. After five days, almost the entire province of Connacht was under Communard control. In Sligo and Galway, the Irish tricolor was lowered from the city halls and replaced with the hammer and torch of the Union of Britain, and the Internationale was sung. 

The Internationale also executed Irish Republican prisoners. A captain of the 1st Thunderbolts was singled out as a particularly grave offender, accused of having committed war crimes against Union volunteers in Philadelphia during the Second American Civil War. During his impromptu tribunal hearing, he loudly denied the charges against him, demanded hard evidence be presented instead of “self-serving lies from a nation of cowards,” and accused the Internationale of being mass murderers, imperialists, and “the bootlicking spawn of Oliver Cromwell,” disrupting the impromptu tribunal to the point where it was impossible to convene any proper hearing. During the occupation of Connacht, hundreds of civilians were executed. Some were executed for supporting Irish Republican partisan activity or giving supplies to holdout forces, some were members of the Catholic clergy, some others for not turning over foodstuffs to the Internationale army, and yet others were executed after being identified as business owners or landlords by native Irish socialists. The accused were given drumhead trials, their property seized, and hanged from lamposts.

When the news out of Connacht reached Collins, he ordered an effort to retake the lost province. That night, Richard Mulcahy, Hugo MacNeill, and Tom Barry outlined their combined plan to surround and eliminate the invaders, called Operation Execution Ground. A night march along the Atlantic Way from Derry to Sligo led by Barry and Maguire, a march north along the River Shannon toward Sligo for Dublin forces, and the main force pushing up toward Galway from their previous positions in Munster led by MacNeill. The Thunderbolts and Black Badgers, the elite infantry units of the Irish Republican Army, would bloody the Commune in Sligo, while the 2nd Spearheads would seize and destroy stockpiles and command posts that led from Sligo to the Mayo landing points, preventing resupply. Police volunteers from the Gardai offered to help encircle the Communards while the Union forces faced the main infantry force southeast of Galway. It left Belfast and Dublin critically exposed, only their naval minefields and garrison forces would protect them.

Cathal Brugha, already getting old, volunteered to lead any home guard for Dublin. Unafraid of any invasion, he insisted that regulars and volunteers support the Irish Republican Army. With a pistol in hand, he gave a stirring speech, that he would defend the Four Courts by himself if it meant that the interlopers were driven from Irish soil. Collins and Brugha took a photo of themselves, pistols in hand, standing on the steps of the Dail, saying that all Irish citizens young and old can do their part for the fight. 

Liam Lynch commanded the infantry coming from the south. When he had seen the bodies in Galway, he told the troops under his command that they were not obligated to “be kind to those who have shown us their cruelty.” Both in Sligo and Galway, the Irish Republican Army ordered heavy shellings on enemy positions followed by aggressive charges. The cavalry forces and the Spearheads moved along the shore, attacking supply lines and cutting off avenues of retreat. To complete the encirclement, the Thunderbolts moved to the west, hoping to break the Communard forces first so that they would flee east into hostile territory rather than west toward the Union.

A G2 agent, masquerading as a sympathetic Irish turncoat, made contact with the Communard forces in their forward positions by the River Shannon. Carrying mock orders, G2 successfully tricked the Communard forces into believing that the Irish had seized radio equipment and were attempting to trick them into thinking that they were attacking their landing sites in an attempt to move them out of their defensive positions and ambush them. The Communards didn’t leave for several hours until communications were severed entirely, exposing the ruse. The extra time proved invaluable to the Irish Republican Army, who were able to complete their encirclement before ordering an attack from all sides. Without radio communications, and surrounded on all sides, the Communard forces were shot to pieces. Only the units hunting the partisans to the west were able to successfully rendezvous with Union forces, the rest, after a ferocious battle, surrendered en masse.

The Union forces opted to abandon Galway early, and establish a strong position near their landing zones with Communard forces that had been ambushed in the forests to the west of Sligo. Lynch continued to push aggressively with his infantry, issuing Pervetin rations to the infantry under his command to sustain the attack. As Lynch turned to support the French encirclement, the Union returned to attack the city, revealing their earlier retreat as a ruse to attack while the Irish before their armies could get into position. The Donnelly Division, who had tried to hold Galway, were almost completely destroyed as a fighting unit, losing almost half of their fighting force. A relief effort from the Spearheads was the only thing to save Galway from being overrun. 

Only after the Communard Army was defeated did the army regroup and push toward Clew Bay. In the same position that the previous invasion failed, the Union and Communard forces fought a desperate defense. Eventually, the Internationale’s forces were ground down as they began to run out of ammunition and wounds began to take their toll. The news of the murdered civilians and POW’s had enraged the Irish Republican Army, and the Internationale’s landing zone was subject to intense bombardment that, in the words of one private: “seemed to be the devil’s own hand reaching out with one fell swoop to wreak his evil upon the world.” With little in the way of functional radio equipment, surrender was only possible at night when a desperate signals operator flashed Morse code using a spotlight to communicate surrender. 

The aftermath of the invasion of Connacht was tragic. Prisoners were marched in chains to prisons in the center of the country, and many officers and enlisted both were sent to firing squads if they were found to have had a hand in executing Irish civilians or in stealing food from non-combatants. Confessions were broadcast around the world about what had happened in Connacht, with the Internationale virulently denying the charges, accusing the Irish of fabricating war crimes to inflame public support and justify their unjust executions of prisoners of war. Collins had barely heard the figures - eight thousand Irish soldiers had been killed or wounded, while the enemy had suffered 179,000. Most of them had been Union soldiers, about 115,000, while France had taken around 75,000. The numbers were one thing, but his people were executed by a foreign power on Irish soil. It was the subjugation of Ireland all over again. Even if they had taken back their territory, how much more would it cost? The Internationale had six times the industrial capacity and fielded far more men. Even now, there had been no indication that Deat would abandon the fight or Mosley call for a truce. Perhaps they would drown Ireland in blood, if they couldn’t have it for themselves.

---

30 June 1939 - Special Joint Session of Congress, Washington D.C., United States of America

“If you will not fight for the Irish, help the Irish fight.” -Eamon “Dev” de Valera

If there was one good thing to come out of the failed invasion of Ireland, it’s that the world finally seemed to wake up to Ireland’s plight. Eamon de Valera had gone to the United States to lobby for more support, and he had been received warmly by President Garner. Warm regards, however, hadn’t translated to what Dev had actually sought, a threat from the United States to back down or face war. The Gallup polls had been encouraging: 47 percent of Americans favored unqualified economic and materiel support to include shipments of food and oil to Ireland, which went up to 57 percent when the responses included “provided it does not enter us into the war.” Most opposition had come from the thought that America still required all of its strength to rebuild, but estimates had been heartening, support for Ireland wouldn’t threaten American recovery, or so the economic analysts had said. There had been much pain suffered by the United States, but it was on the road to recovery. Major Longist guerrilla networks that were uncovered in the Lousiana bayous had been broken up, and the last remnants of the socialist resistance had been killed or arrested among the factory wreckage of Chicago’s industrial district. It was heartening to see America recovering so quickly. 

Food and medical supplies, unarmed and flagged as humanitarian aid vessels, had already sailed to Ireland mostly without problems. The Union Navy demanded the right to search the ships, but Collins had threatened that if humanitarian food aid to Ireland was cut, the first people to starve would be the prisoners taken during the failed invasion. Dev had hoped to acquire more significant war support than mere food aid. Even basic equipment was starting to run bare in the depots, and bombing raids had started to take their toll on the factories. America had the industrial capacity needed to supply the Irish war effort, if it could only turn on the taps, an endless river of artillery, planes, and ships could flood the Irish Republican Army with everything it needed to fight the war.

Harry Hopkins had drawn up a bill with considerable bipartisan support, one that he hoped could both provide vital jobs for a recovering America as well as helping Ireland. Ireland could receive oil and war materiel on credit, to be returned when the war was concluded unless “the return of the equipment is made impossible due to use or damage.” Dev had asked Hopkins just how anyone was expected to return spent ammunition or artillery shells after they had been fired, answered with a simple chuckle. 

Dev gave a rousing speech in the halls of the US Congress, and had specifically asked for the German and Canadian ambassadors to be invited to the session as well so that he might be able to address the Entente and the Reichspakt together. The pictures of what had happened in Connacht had risen the ire of many Americans, and shouts of “Remember Welfare Island” had frequently been shouted at pro-Ireland rallies.

“We are a small nation, and in our young history as an independent republic we have never once acted with aggression toward another nation, whether stronger or weaker. In our history we have been the victims of aggression, not its perpetrator. We have now come to yet another chapter in the long history of struggle, a new foe empowered by an industrial war that far surpasses the Weltkrieg. We have stood strong, taken with calm courage and confidence in our people, that our nation will endure. We know full well that we cannot demand any other to stand beside us, or ask that their fathers, husbands, or sons do so in their stead. We ask only that you remember Ireland, a land who with tearful hearts had her sons and daughters leave her fleeing the horrors of famine and destitution, and who welcomed many of America’s sons and daughters fleeing the horrors of war and deprivation. We ask that you remember a land with blue rivers choked with blood and oil and green fields burnt and stained red. We ask you, America, such a vast and mighty nation, to remember a nation that could be swallowed by most of your own constituent states. We ask that you remember the injustice being wrought upon her, and we ask that you remember the words of your Benjamin Franklin, about how a great nation may be reduced to a lesser one. We know firsthand how difficult the path of justice is, but acting justly has its reward.”

Transcripts of the speech, personally written by de Valera, were delivered to the Canadian and German ambassadors, with slight modifications. Instead of referencing Benjamin Franklin, Dev had referenced British and German liberal thinkers. The Canadian speech had omitted about how Ireland had a long history of oppression, instead focusing upon Union aggression wishing to expel people from their homeland. These speeches were eventually collected together, with the German Foreign Minister secretly praising de Valera for the craft of tailoring his message to his audience. The response had been beyond what de Valera had hoped. In Germany, Kaiser Wilhelm had declared the German Empire recognized the plight of Ireland, and had promised shipments of materiel protected by the Kaiserliche Merchant Marine. In Canada, the Tories were emboldened, accusing the sitting Prime Minister MacKenzie King of not doing enough to support the effort to reclaim the Home Isles, and that Ireland was fighting the Union just as the Entente had been fighting against the Totalists in the Bharatiya Commune in India. With overwhelming support, the Canadian Parliament authorized shipments of weapons to Ireland, emboldening the hawks in the Entente to push for Reclamation Day. Argentina, preparing for its own war with Chile, had independently recognized Ireland’s plight, and offered several large field guns every month to help keep the Irish in the war effort. 

The shipments were invaluable, and protected by convoy systems, most of the promised aid had landed in Cork and Galway. A reporter was on hand and took a picture of marching Irish soldiers wearing the German stahlhelm and carrying the Lee-Enfield rifle. The quartermasters had difficulty initially in supplying troops in the field, as German and Canadian rifles used different calibers and parts were often not interchangeable. Eventually, units were marked as “Grey” or “Blue” by the nationality of the loaned equipment. Speaking for the cameras, Collins was in high spirits, stating: “This is the turning point in this war. The Internationale knows that it has not cowed us. While we seek a just peace and an end to hostilities, we are capable of fighting this war forever, and this commitment proves it. Neither the Reichspakt nor the Entente would provide supplies to a nation that was doomed; they would not extend credit to a nation whose defeat was inevitable. We are committed as ever before, because we know that we have already won this war.”

Privately, Collins was less enthusiastic, but he had to keep the faith. Every soldier was doing so, and Collins could do nothing less, because he was still a soldier through and through.

---

17 August 1939 - G2 Headquarters, Dublin, Ireland

The new supplies were put to use almost immediately, as the Union had attempted a quick invasion at Leinster before the Irish Republican Army could field an effective response. Army engineers had not been idle, the An Balla program had established an extensive array of coastal fortresses facing the Irish Sea. Fielding only 10 divisions, the Union attack only achieved anysuccess at the earlier French landing sites in Wexford, but an aggressive counter-attack by Richard Mulcahy had achieved great results. As much as Collins didn’t like it, ceding the landing grounds to the invaders and then attacking them after they had landed was far more productive than attempting to engage them at sea. Poorly supplied and out of place, they could be driven back to the sea, and the landing crafts weren’t able to pick many back up, if at all. The casualty counts had to be discouraging for the Internationale. 2RN had made sure to broadcast the figures of killed and captured every day toward the Union, to help spread fear and discouragement among the Union’s public. They didn’t have the strength to attack the Union directly, if they were going to win they had to make the cost unbearable, and prayed that the enemy called it quits first.

G2 had launched their most audacious campaign yet in an attempt to deter the Internationale’s invasion of Ireland given the new shipments. The new Argentinian cannons had included several decoy pieces meant to be installed on mock forts to draw fire away from real artillery pieces; a technique that was invaluable in their conflict with Chile to cause the enemy to expose their position for no gain. G2 had opted to go further, and opted to make an entire phantom army. The radio office had highlighted that the expanded conscription laws, increased volunteerism in support for the war effort, and new shipments of equipment from the Great Powers had finally allowed Ireland to double the size of their armies. Dan McKenna, freshly returned from the United States, would lead this new army with the 1st Thunderbolts at its head. Taking advantage of young, patriotic artists, G2 designed inflatable tanks and prop equipment to be used for staged photo ops. To properly seed the information, G2 designed the ‘public’ news to be disseminated through the public radio waves in Ireland itself and friendly countries, including a few foreign divisions signing on for adventure and the chance to fight syndicalism. Ireland couldn’t directly claim to receive foreign volunteers, that would undoubtedly run afoul of their foreign partners, but “expatriates” would be invaluable, drawing on the formation of the United States Refugee Brigades during the Second Civil War. G2 had expertly designed one division of British emigres in Ireland electing to “fight the syndicalist menace that the crown itself would not” called the Blue Lions, and a division of German emigres called the Iron Wolves whose goal was to secure “a peaceful future for the Irish Republic and the German Empire both.” McKenna had drawn upon his experience with the Volunteer Brigades to help design the false brigades, combined with the intelligence division’s Army Department to establish a formalized command structure complete with unit patches, fake pay records, and even a speech given to the new army by McKenna himself.

To make sure that the Union got it, Ireland elected to release a few wounded POW’s back to the Union after ensuring that they had overheard the information while they were in convalescence. Not sure of how much each man could remember, G2 had made sure to release multiple POW’s. Collins himself had made the offer, suggesting that as a humanitarian gesture, certain prisoners who were well enough to be moved could be released in order to free up hospital beds for other wounded individuals. Collins had instructed his negotiators to push for a payment in gold, but to back down if pressed. Mosley had thought he had secured a win, but Collins was the man with the last laugh. The news of the new Irish army, primarily stationed in Leinster, gave Mosley reason to pause, and instead he focused his attention upon County Kerry, hoping to secure Munster and establish a secure foundation to offload more Internationale troops with a short naval trip after a successful invasion.

The trap had worked perfectly. Collins had ordered general evacuations to ensure civilians would be able to flee, and had ordered the armies to wait until the enemy had landed in order to attack. On the day of the attack, Collins had ordered the An tAerchór to fly and contest the skies from the Internationale with the new delivery of fighters and close air support aircraft from the United States. The Irish pilots were not well-trained, but had been drilled extensively on formation flying for air superiority missions. The surprising attack blindsided the Republican Air Force, who had grown lax in their patrols due to their dominance over the skies since the beginning of the early war. Now with the aircraft to match the Communard and Republican Air Forces, the Irish were able to wrest control of the airspace over the Irish island and attack enemy bombers. Casualties were highest among the Air Force, many of whom were outmatched by the more experienced enemy pilots, but the surprising victory and establishment of further control had further enraged the Commune of France, who elected not to pursue “any Irish ventures” further. They had returned to focus on their Alpine Warfare program, and reinforce their borders with Germany and Spain, recalling their forces from the British Isles and reminding Mosley of the greater mission against the Reichspakt. Half a million casualties in a short campaign, multiple failed invasions only useful for teaching lessons on how to repulse the Entente when the French had elected to cross the Mediterranean; a true waste in every sense of the word. While the war was not ended, the Internationale had decided on other priorities. With Ireland in control of her skies and her territorial waters, they had held on, and they had won.

---

23 September 1939 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, ireland

According to the poets, autumn was the time of loss, from the possibilities of summer into the chill of winter. The poets had not seen fit to think of Ireland in that summer of 1939, where the possibilities of summer were to be bombed by a Syndie plane or executed for failing to turn over their food and valuables to an invader. Yet Ireland’s salvation was no balm, an end to war. On the 9th of September, Deat’s Communard government demanded the return of Elsaß-Lothringen, calling it Alsace-Lorraine, and flew over German airspace to drop leaflets in both French and German detailing their grievances. The Kaiser had refused the audacious demand, claiming that the territory had been German territory for over fifty years. The next day, the Commune of France had declared war on the Kaiserreich, with the Union of Britain joining. The Socialist Republic of Italy, already in a border war with the Kingdom of Two Sicilies, joined the Internationale, and King Ferdinando II responded by joining the Reichspakt. On the 10th of September, Savinkov, declaring the necessity to liberate the Russian people from German subjugation and second-class citizen status, declared war on White Ruthenia, the Baltic Duchy, the Polish-Lithuianian Commonwealth, and Germany itself. On the 15th of September, the Entente declared war on the Union of Britain, the Commune of France, and the Socialist Republic of Italy, citing the illegitimate nature of the governments there, and prepared their invasions. Finally, on the 20th of September, the Empire of Japan, citing pan-Asian ideals and the need to liberate the Far East from Western Dominance, declared war on German Indochina in addition to their ongoing wars in China.

Ireland was no longer the focal point on the world stage, but the rest of the world would feel the fires of war that the Irish had borne, and the fires would burn hotter and brighter than any the world had ever seen. Collins wondered who had been listening to his wish

---

Diplomatic Moves in Ireland

Show of Force

Ireland Abandoned

Britain Demands Annexation

Mosley Declares War

Infiltrating the Army

Come Weal or Woe!

Ambush in Connacht

Casualties - First Invasion

French Landings in Southern Ireland

Casualties - Second Invasion

French Forces Encircled in Connacht

Casualties - Third Invasion

Irish Soldiers with Canadian Rifles and German Helmets

G2 Invents a Fake Army

Casualties - Final Count of the Irish War

Alsace Ultamatum

Alright then, 1939 is down. It’s the longest chapter so far, with the Second Weltkrieg having begun, all the Great Powers (except the US) at war. It’s a more successful tale of Czechoslovakia in 1938 combined with some Battle of Britain and some Operation Fortitude. Let me know what you think

#kaiserreich #creative #celtic tiger

[tabloidtoc]

National Examiner, April 12

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Mark Harmon quitting NCIS

Page 2: Stars Who Rock Around the Clock -- they believe in the healing power of crystals -- Naomi Campbell, Shirley MacLaine, Adele, Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, Uma Thurman

Page 3: Debra Messing, Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson, Megan Fox, Katy Perry, Gisele Bundchen

Page 4: Eddie Murphy's roles and costumes

Page 6: George Clooney is turning 60 in May, and he says being an older dad to toddlers has its benefits -- his son isn't ever going to feel competitive with him and he'll be gumming his bread by the time he'd feel competitive with him, jokes the Oscar-winning actor, whose twins Ella and Alexander turn 4 in June -- George is well aware that growing up with two highly accomplished parents (his wife Amal Clooney is a successful human rights lawyer) can put a lot of pressure on a kid and that's why the couple is already guiding Ella and Alexander with strong values and kind hearts because George says it's their job to make sure that they care about people and that they challenge people in power and look out for people who don't have power and those are the things he was raised with -- the known prankster is also passing the practical joke tradition down to the next generation and he taught Alexander to take a piece of banana, chew it up and then spit it into a napkin, then stand next to him mom, pretend to blow his nose into it and look down until Mama looks at it, then eat it

Page 7: Partridge Family star Shirley Jones turned 87, and she's brimming over with gratitude for her wonderful life that's been chock-full of extraordinary experiences -- she says you have to have a good time and enjoy life to the fullest and before you know it you'll be 87 -- Shirley has three sons (her stepson David Cassidy died in 2017) and 13 grandchildren

Page 8: Take your etiquette test for tea with Queen Elizabeth

Page 9: Brain foods that may help prevent dementia

* Study says new drug slows Alzheimer's

Page 10: Jennifer Garner recently opened up about her real feelings on her body -- she's 48 and single and has three children with ex-husband Ben Affleck: daughters Violet and Seraphina and son Samuel -- in a recent interview, she admitted that her body has changed a lot since having three kids and she doesn't mind one little bit, even though she was hurt when a friend hinted she may be expecting again, saying there are some women whose bodies just, no matter how many babies they have, they bounce right back to that slim-hipped, no stomach and she has so many girlfriends who have that physique and she's so happy for them, but she's not one of them and she can work really hard and she can be really fit and she will still look like a woman who's had three babies and she always will

Page 11: 6 stomach symptoms you should never ignore -- catch problems before the become deadly

Page 12: After more than two decades, James Brolin says he's discovered the way to keep his marriage to Barbra Streisand going strong: negotiation -- it's taken two marriages and 22 years for him to figure it out and he and his wife have gotten so close being locked down together -- his mother was the sweetest person so he never really learned to negotiate with women but now he knows if you sit down and talk about a situation, you can work it out

Page 14: Dear Tony, America's Top Psychic Healer -- don't make snap judgments; you may lose the perfect mate -- Tony predicts a very hot summer coming and a lot more street crime

Page 15: Folks getting their COVID-19 vaccinations at the Berkshire Community College in Massachusetts got a shocking treat: a mini-concert from world-famous cellist Yo-Yo Ma -- while waiting out his 15-minute observation period, the musician sat down to play a socially distant symphony for his fellow inoculees

Page 16: Duchess Kate is never seen without a purse, but what exactly does she keep inside it? There's quite a history between royal women and their handbags: Princess Diana used her clutch bag to cover her cleavage from prying photographers, Queen Elizabeth moves her handbag from one arm to the other to signal to her staff when she's bored of chatting with someone, and Kate carries her bag in her left hand so she can keep her right hand free to greet and shake hands with guests and she holds her bag in front of her when shaking hands might be awkward -- according to royal protocol pre-pandemic, Kate must extend her hand first for another person to shake hands with her, so if she prefers to just smile instead of touching other folks, she uses her clutch to do that -- author Marcia Moody who wrote Kate: A Biography, says the duchess always carries four must-have items: in her small clutch, she carries a compact mirror, a handkerchief, blotting paper and lip balm and every now and then, if she's going to attend a tennis match, for example, Kate will carry a pair of sunglasses -- unlike Queen Elizabeth, whose purses come from a company called Launer, the duchess favors different brands, but mostly a company called Mulberry -- nowadays with three small children, the mom gravitates toward midsize bags with handles because she's got to take more items with her like a handy bunch of tissues, good for wiping little noses and faces, and also takes her camera along

Page 18: William Shatner confesses that when he starred in Star Trek during the mid-60s, he had no idea it would become a worldwide phenomenon still popular today -- Shatner, who turned 90 in March, says it's unimaginable and it's all beyond anybody's imagination or ability to repeat and the greatest thing about being the captain of the Enterprise for three years was his relationship with the cast and the roles were written so well

Page 19: Brandy is a one-in-a million cat because those are the odds she'd ever be found again after she went missing 15 years ago -- when Charles got the phone call from a California animal shelter that his missing pet has been found, he could scarcely believe his ears and the Los Angeles man was skeptical and thought it must be a mistake but he had made sure the two-month-old kitten had a microchip and sure enough, the malnourished stray they found was his Brandy -- Charles did break down and cry because he thought about all of the years he lost from her and when he picked her up, she started to purr and it was very emotional

Page 20: Mark Harmon finally lured wife Pam Dawber out of retirement to star alongside him on NCIS, but the pairing will be short-lived because he's leaving the show after 18 hit seasons -- the 69-year-old star is finally fed up with the backbreaking hours, endless rehearsals, and feuds with cast and crew, and plans to ride off into the sunset with Pam and retire to the couple's Montana Ranch -- Mark's contract is up after season 18, and he's agonized over whether to sign a new one and he's being offered the moon and the stars to come back for a few more seasons, but he says his heart just isn't in it and Mark has faced problems on the set over the past few years and he feels his age, he just doesn't need the aggravation anymore -- NCIS recently teased a possible departure of his character Leroy Gibbs when the special agent commander was suspended for assaulting and nearly killing a suspect but despite that, Harmon insists Gibbs not be killed off so he can leave the door open for a possible return

Page 22: Legendary actor Michael Caine just turned 88 and he's still going strong, starring in an upcoming comedy Best Sellers and says he knows he's old but he doesn't feel old, not in his head, where it matters

Page 24: They say money doesn't buy happiness, but what do people spend their money on that can buy happiness? You don't need millions of dollars to afford the things that happy people buy to stay that way and studies show that anything over $75,000 a year in income is gravy, which means yachts, jewels, second homes and art collections are not at all required -- the best thing to drop your cash on is experiences and doing is better than having and in other words, an object you own will never give you the consistent pleasure of an experience that creates good memories that live on forever -- also the best experiences are the ones that involve other people like having a picnic with family, going rafting with pals, or even just walking and talking with an exercise buddy

Page 25: Freshen Your Fridge -- make a clean start with this 5-step plan

Page 26: Tony's Mystic World -- may the force be with you -- the life force can be drained out of you by fear or worry

Page 28: Sensational Snaps From Around the World -- photo contest captures amazing sights

Page 31: When to trash it -- the useful lifespan of refrigerated food

Page 32: It's been 40 years since Marilu Henner starred on the hit sitcom Taxi, but the great memories and wonderful co-stars are always on her mind because she's still pals with them -- they always stayed in touch with each other and never lost touch and do a Taxi Zoom every two months and they're all very current with each other and they have a text chain as well and they're in contact every week -- Marilu is close with cast members Tony Danza, Judd Hirsch, Danny DeVito, Christopher Lloyd and Carol Kane

Page 33: Garth Brooks is overjoyed wife Trisha Yearwood has finally bounced back from her bout with COVID-19 -- she seems to be 100 percent, according to Garth, and at the end there during fatigue she got real impatient, really kind of mean and sassy and he thought well, she's back to herself -- after announcing in February that Trisha had the coronavirus and Garth said he had tested negative

Page 40: The grass is always greener when you use these simple gardening tips

* Avoid cat-astrophe -- the right way to add a stray

Page 42: 10 things you never knew about Glenn Close -- the wildly successful actress turned 74 in March

Page 44: Eyes on the Stars -- Sylvester Stallone and wife Jennifer Flavin leave a Florida hotel (picture), Jane Seymour is still looking on the bright side even as the world continues to weather the pandemic, one year after the death of Kenny Rogers his family thanked fans as they honored his life, Sharon Stone is dishing dirt about her Hollywood past in her recently released memoir like one moviemaker who told her to have sex with a male co-star to improve their on-screen chemistry, 28-year-old twins Lady Amelia and Lady Eliza Spencer who are the nieces of Princess Diana recently stepped out in South Africa as bridesmaids for fellow high society girl Leila Osato, director Christopher Columbus pooh-poohed internet rumors about the existence of an NC-17 cut of Mrs. Doubtfire but he did confirm there's an unreleased R-rated version

Page 45: Good Morning America co-host Cecilia Vega mugs it up for the camera on the morning show (picture), Gretta Monahan gets out of a car (picture), longtime GMA veteran Robin Roberts displays her ever-present sunny side on the set (picture), the Hollywood Hills home of Johnny Depp recently had some uninvited guests when a man was spotted loitering by the property's pool but ran off after being confronted by a neighbor and not much later Johnny's security team called police about another unwanted visitor who had taken a shower and helped himself to the actor's booze, Elsa Pataky has been married to Chris Hemsworth for 10 years and says patience and communication and understanding are what help their relationship be successful

Page 46: A Texas man has helped thousands of people by donating his blood platelets a staggering 962 times over the past 37 years

Page 47: Celebrity Weddings Gone Wrong -- Ryan Reynolds and Blake Lively, Cameron Diaz and Benji Madden, Nicky Hilton and James Rothschild, Chrissy Teigen and John Legend, Jessica Simpson and Eric Johnson, Freddie Prinze Jr. and Sarah Michelle Gellar, Katherine Heigl and Josh Kelley

#tabloid #grain of salt #tabloid toc #tabloidtoc #mark harmon #pam dawber #ncis #leroy gibbs #leroy jethro gibbs #kate middleton #duchess kate #princess kate #duchess catherine #catherine duchess of cambridge #james brolin #barbra streisand #crystals #eddie murphy #george clooney #shirley jones #partridge family #the partridge family #queen elizabeth #princess diana #jennifer garner #stomach problems #tony leggett #yo-yo ma #yo yo ma #william shatner

[sciencespies]

The Case of the Autographed Corpse

https://sciencespies.com/history/the-case-of-the-autographed-corpse/

The Case of the Autographed Corpse

On a Saturday afternoon in February 1933, at the Fort Apache Reservation in Arizona, a White Mountain Apache Indian named Silas John Edwards and his wife, Margaret, stopped by a friend’s place to visit and relax. Edwards, a trim middle-aged man with a penetrating gaze, was an influential figure on reservations throughout the Southwest. Hundreds of followers regarded him as a divinely inspired religious leader, a renowned shaman and medicine man.

When he and Margaret arrived at their friend’s dwelling, a tepee, they found people drinking tulapai, a homemade Apache liquor. Three hours later, the Edwardses joined a group heading to another friend’s home. People who were there reported that Margaret confronted him inside a tepee, demanding to know why he’d been spending time with a younger woman, one of Margaret’s relatives. The argument escalated, and Margaret threatened to end their marriage. She left the party. Edwards stayed until about 10:30 p.m. and then spent the night at a friend’s.

Shocking news came the next day: Margaret was dead. Children had discovered her body, along with bloody rocks, at the side of a trail two and a half miles outside of the Fort Apache town of Whiteriver. They alerted adults, who carried her body home. “I went in the tepee and found my wife in my own bed,” Edwards later wrote. “I went to her bedside and before I fully realized what I was doing or that she was really dead, I had picked her up in my arms, her head was very bloody and a part of the blood got on my hands and clothing.”

He was still kneeling there, holding his wife’s body, when a sheriff and an Apache police officer arrived. The reservation was patrolled largely by Indian officers, but ever since the Major Crimes Act of 1885, certain crimes on Indian reservations had fallen under federal jurisdiction. Murder was one of them.

A medical examiner reported that Margaret had been killed by blows to her head and strangulation. Curiously, at least two of the rocks used to crush her skull were inscribed with her husband’s initials: S.J.E.

The rocks were key pieces of evidence when Edwards stood trial in federal court in October of that year. The 12 white men on the jury delivered a guilty verdict and the judge sentenced Edwards to life in prison. He was sent to McNeil Island Federal Penitentiary in Steilacoom, Washington.

White Mountain Apaches gather for storytelling in 1904. The group is one of five related Western Apache bands whose hunter-gatherer ancestors are thought to have migrated to the region that is now Arizona from Yukon or Alaska.

(Alamy)

Seventeen years later, in March 1951, Edwards—now 64 and still imprisoned at McNeil Island—wrote a desperate letter. “Up ’til now you have never heard of me,” he began, and then repeated the protestations of innocence he’d been making ever since his arrest. He had affidavits from witnesses who’d said he could not have committed the murder. The White Mountain Apache Tribal Council had unanimously recommended his release from prison. Another suspect had even been found. Edwards had pleaded with authorities for a pardon or parole, but nothing he did could move them.

This letter was a last-ditch effort to avoid dying of old age behind bars. Edwards thought the man he was writing to could get him out. The man was Erle Stanley Gardner, the author of the Perry Mason mystery books.

At the time, Gardner was America’s best-selling author. He was also a lawyer, and soon after he received Edwards’ letter, he agreed to help. Thus began an unprecedented partnership between an imprisoned Apache holy man and a fiction writer who’d made the dramatization of crime a national obsession.

* * *

Until the day of Margaret’s murder, Edwards had spent his whole life on Indian reservations. His grandparents had been born in the same region when it was still part of Mexico. They’d lived in family groups that grew corn, beans and squash along waterways nearby.

Silas John Edwards, who learned from his father how to treat illnesses by tapping the power of rattlesnakes, in an undated photo.

(Edgar Guenther courtesy William Kessel)

His parents, born after the Mexican-American War in the recently annexed New Mexico Territory, spent their lives worrying about the increasingly hostile U.S. Army, which built a garrison at Fort Apache on the White Mountain tribe’s land. The Indians could no longer travel, trade or even raise crops freely.

Nonetheless, a group of 50 White Mountain Apache men helped the U.S. defeat Geronimo in 1886. As a reward, the U.S. government allowed them to continue living on part of their ancestral territory, establishing the White Mountain Reservation (divided into the Fort Apache and San Carlos reservations). The reservation was a gorgeous expanse of mountains and valleys. Edwards was born there in the 1880s and given the name Pay-yay.

As a child, he was raised with traditional beliefs about male, female and animal deities who had created the world and given power and good fortune to the Apache people. But life on the Apache reservations was hard. Government food rations were insufficient. Starting in the 1890s, Indian children were required to attend schools where they had to shed cultural practices, from hairstyle to language. Edwards and his classmates were given Anglicized names.

Silas John Edwards (left) and his father, photographed by the Rev. E. Edgar Guenther, who submitted this picture to a contest under the title “The Old and the New.” He was awarded a $10 prize for it.

(Edgar Guenther courtesy William Kessel)

But their geographic isolation allowed the White Mountain Apaches to keep some of their traditions. Edwards learned from his father, a medicine man, how to treat illnesses by tapping into the power of rattlesnakes. He also became skilled at tanning rattlesnake skins, and crafting hatbands and other goods from them. Blue dots tattooed along the bridge of his nose and on his chin soon signified his special talents as a practitioner of traditional Apache medicine.

In 1911, a young Lutheran missionary named Edgar Guenther arrived at the reservation. He and his wife, Minnie, would remain in the area for 50 years. Under the pastor’s tutelage, Edwards converted to Christianity and began working as an interpreter for church services. He was especially fascinated by a biblical passage, Numbers 21:4-9, that described God setting venomous snakes on the rebellious Israelites. He and the minister had a falling out after Guenther discovered that Edwards had been using the Guenther home to “entertain women,” says Guenther’s grandson, William Kessel, who was born and raised on the Fort Apache Reservation. “That became a problem for Silas throughout his younger life, entertaining the women.”

At 2,627 square miles, the Fort Apache Reservation is slightly larger than Delaware. Today more than 12,000 Apaches live there in numerous small communities. The tribe runs a ski resort, a casino and a historic attraction that contains the remnants of the U.S. military fort.

(Guilbert Gates)

Around this time, new religious movements were rising among the White Mountain Apaches in response to disease, drought, food shortages, poverty and assaults on traditional life. Edwards began leading one of the most successful. He reported that he’d received a vision “in rays from above”—a set of 62 prayers recorded in graphic symbols. The symbols communicated not only words but also gestures and body movements. In 1916, Edwards proclaimed himself a prophet—more than a medicine man—and launched the Holy Ground religious movement, which stood apart from both Christian and traditional Apache religious practices.

The White Mountain Apaches called the movement sailis jaan bi’at’eehi, meaning “Silas John his sayings,” and Edwards conducted his first Holy Ground snake dance ceremony in 1920. Apaches began joining the movement in sizable numbers. By the early 1920s, Holy Ground had drawn so many followers that it had the potential to upend and revolutionize Apache life. Edwards’ healing ceremonies, often involving rattlesnakes and lasting for days, drew large crowds to consecrated locations at reservations in Arizona and New Mexico. Whites were not allowed to participate or observe.

Apaches and U.S. soldiers in 1893. One proponent of the Arizona Territory, soldier and politician Sylvester Mowry, voiced a malignant opinion then tragically common, saying Apaches should be “surrounded…surprised…and then put to death.”

(National Archives and Records Administration)

Meanwhile, the police saw Edwards as a dangerous figure. He was arrested for assault and for violating Prohibition by selling liquor to fellow Indians, even as he was fined for holding snake dances. Local officials were watching him closely.

By 1933, the popularity of Holy Ground had leveled off, but Edwards continued to preach, which annoyed officials in the region. He’d been married for six years to his third wife, Margaret, an Apache woman who had children from a previous marriage. Meanwhile, as many people close to the couple noted with disapproval, Edwards was carrying on an affair with another woman.

At his trial, which took place at the federal courthouse in Globe, Arizona, Edwards was declared indigent and given a court-appointed lawyer, Daniel E. Rienhardt.

For the prosecution, Assistant U.S. Attorney John Dougherty introduced letters Edwards had written to the other woman and witnesses who described his argument with his wife on the night of her death. Others confirmed there had been blood on Edwards’ clothing, as Rienhardt’s notes from the trial recorded. The cast of a shoe print found near the victim’s body was brought into the courtroom and was said to match Edwards’ shoe. The prosecution even displayed part of Margaret’s skull—an act Rienhardt called prejudicial.

The federal courthouse in Globe, Arizona, where Edwards was tried, is now a post office. Although Arizona has Apache courts that rule on tribal cases, the Major Crimes Act lists 15 crimes that require Indians to be tried in U.S. court. Murder is one of them.

(Ash Ponders)

“I was fully convinced Edwards was not guilty,” Rienhardt later wrote in a letter to Gardner. A biochemist presented support for the defense, testifying that the blood found on Edwards’ clothing was smeared on the fabric, not splattered or dripped, which supported Edwards’ story.

But the strangest evidence was the rocks that bore Edwards’ initials. The prosecution told the jury that the initialed rocks were in keeping with a tribal tradition—that an Apache murderer left initials at the scene of a crime to prevent a victim’s soul from seeking retribution. Rienhardt argued that this was utterly false. Apaches didn’t leave their initials at murder scenes, and anyone familiar with Apache customs would attest to that. (The surviving notes from the trial do not show that any witness testified about the supposed tradition of leaving initials behind.) Besides, Rienhardt argued, why would Edwards be strenuously maintaining his innocence if he’d left his initials at the crime scene? When Edwards took the stand, though, the prosecution subjected him to a sarcastic and ridiculing cross-examination.

The trial and the jury’s deliberation took only a week. “A white man would have been freed in 15 minutes by the same jury that tried him,” Rienhardt wrote in a November 1933 statement, trying to get a new trial for his client. Rienhardt also maintained that the superintendent of the Indian reservation had welcomed the chance to take the influential shaman away from his followers. But there was no new trial, and Edwards would languish in prison for nearly two decades.

* * *

At the time Gardner got the letter from Edwards, he was living on a ranch in Temecula, California, about 60 miles northeast of San Diego and just outside the borders of a Pechanga Reservation. (Today, the ranch is part of the reservation itself.) His office was decorated with American Indian artwork, baskets, masks and moccasins. But Gardner, a Massachusetts native, had little knowledge of the religious life or cultural significance of the man who wrote to him from the McNeil Island Penitentiary.

Gardner dictates a story in 1941.

(Bob Landry / The LIFE Images Collection / Getty Images)

What Gardner did understand were the flaws in the prosecution’s case. A bespectacled man with a commanding gaze, Gardner had spent years practicing law in California. In the early 1920s, he’d started writing mystery stories for pulp magazines. He’d published his first Perry Mason novel one month after the murder of Edwards’ wife. Over the years, Perry Mason—a fictional defense attorney who usually defended innocent clients—became the center of a literary juggernaut, generating sales of more than 300 million books as well as a popular TV show.

Like the hero he’d invented, Gardner felt drawn to cases involving the wrongly accused. He believed America’s criminal justice system was often biased against the vulnerable. In the 1940s, Gardner used his fame and wealth to assemble what he called the Court of Last Resort, a group of forensic specialists and investigators who—like today’s Innocence Project at Cardozo School of Law—applied new thinking to old cases.

A fan’s collection of Gardner memorabilia. In The Case of the Velvet Claws (1933), the first Perry Mason novel, the character describes himself as “a specialist on getting people out of trouble.”

(Bryan Chan / Los Angeles Times / Getty Images)

Gardner’s team rescued dozens of innocent people from executions and long prison terms. Among them were Silas Rogers, a black man sentenced to death for shooting a police officer in Petersburg, Virginia; Clarence Boogie, a victim of false testimony in a murder case in Spokane, Washington; and Louis Gross, who had been framed for murder in Michigan. Gardner persuaded Harry Steeger of Argosy magazine to regularly publish his articles about his organization’s findings. “We are busybodies,” Gardner declared in a letter to FBI director J. Edgar Hoover. “If, on the other hand, citizens don’t take an active interest in law enforcement and the administration of justice, we are going to lose our battle with crime.”

The letter from the Apache shaman made a strong impression on Gardner. “This Silas John Edwards case has been preying on my mind,” he wrote to James Bennett, the director of the Bureau of Prisons at the U.S. Department of Justice, on May 2, 1952. “This man is a full-blooded Apache Indian. There is every possibility that he didn’t get justice at the hands of a jury who may not have understood Indian psychology, temperament and custom. I think we should investigate the case.”

Gardner met Edwards in prison a few months later, shortly after the Apache shaman had been transferred from McNeil Island to a federal prison camp near Wickenburg, Arizona. The prisoner appeared heavily muscled and younger than his years. “Outwardly he is stoic and calm,” Gardner later recalled. “His alert, attentive eyes miss no detail.” Gardner admired the fact that Edwards had a treasury of Apache tradition and medicinal wisdom stored in his mind. He asked Edwards about the most damning evidence in his case: the rock marked with his initials. “That is no custom to appease the spirit of [the] departed,” Edwards said, “but it is a very fine custom by which somebody can frame a killing on somebody else.”

At the end of their meeting, Edwards dipped his forefinger into a buckskin pouch that hung around his neck. It contained sacred pollen, called hadndin, which Edwards dabbed on Gardner’s forehead in the shape of a cross. He made a similar mark on the crown of Gardner’s hat. (The Holy Ground movement incorporated some elements from Christianity, including the iconography of a cross.) Edwards told Gardner that this ritual would keep him physically and spiritually resilient. “Our medicine was strong,” Gardner concluded after the meeting, reflecting on the new details he’d learned about the case. He agreed to investigate it himself.

* * *

In the fall of 1952, Gardner and another Court of Last Resort investigator, Sam Hicks, arrived at the U.S. District Court building in Tucson to exhume the records from Edwards’ trial. Among the files was a cache of letters that Edwards had written to his lover. In one of them, Edwards recalled a time he and the woman met in a canyon and “the tracks of our feet in the sand were covered by our shadows.” Gardner admitted to feeling some sympathy when he read the letters. He later described the affair in Argosy as a “brief emotional flare-up, a physical attraction for the comely young woman who had such a graceful, streamlined figure.” Edwards insisted that he’d never stopped loving Margaret, that his affection for his wife had “burned with a slow, steady flame that represents the mature companionship of adults who have shared many of life’s vicissitudes.”

The prosecution had asserted that Edwards had grown tired of his wife, found a younger woman who interested him more and murdered Margaret to get her out of the way. But even when Gardner considered the case through that lens, he found the evidence flimsy. “How absurd it is to think that a man would scratch his initials on a rock, leave it at the scene of a murder, and then protest his innocence,” Gardner wrote in Argosy. “One can well imagine how Sherlock Holmes would have curled his upper lip in disgust at the police reasoning that would have thought this rock an indication of guilt.”

Gardner and Hicks drove to Globe, where they met Edwards’ defense lawyer, Daniel Rienhardt, now in his mid-60s, and Robert McGhee, another attorney who had assisted Edwards. Both remembered the Edwards case. (Rienhardt admitted he was a Perry Mason fan and had recently bought a copy of The Case of the Moth-Eaten Mink.)

Together, the lawyers and investigators drove into the mountains north of Globe. They passed through groves of junipers and cedars, crested the high peaks, and descended into the Salt River Canyon. Twisting roads and high bridges brought them to a plateau where the pavement stopped and dirt roads led into the Fort Apache Reservation.

A view from the San Carlos Apache Reservation, one of the areas where Edwards’ religious movement took hold. In recent years, the tribe’s sacred lands have been at the center of a land swap controversy between the U.S. government and a copper mine.

(Ash Ponders)

At the reservation’s police station, Rienhardt asked an Apache officer whether he had ever heard of a custom that compelled a murderer to leave initials near a victim’s body. “In only one case,” the officer replied, “and that happened to be the murder of my mother.” The policeman, Robert Colelay, was Margaret Edwards’ son from an earlier marriage. And he told the investigators that he believed Silas John Edwards did not kill her.

Apache officers escorted the group to the key locations in the case, including the murder site at the edge of the trail. This section of the reservation had not changed much in the years since Margaret’s death. The roads were still rough and many White Mountain tribal members still lived in tepees nearby. Gardner interviewed surviving witnesses and others who had knowledge of the murder. He sketched maps to understand the geography. The visit ended with one of the group’s Apache guides producing a pouch like the one Edwards wore around his neck. He painted crosses in yellow powder on Gardner’s shoulder, forehead and hat.

Nobody Gardner met at the reservation had heard of an Apache tradition involving initials left at a murder scene. One person also challenged the shoe print mold, asserting that a police officer had forced Edwards’ shoe into the original track before the cast was made. “The evidence which convicted him was pathetically inadequate as well as absurd,” Gardner concluded. “The facts strongly indicate an innocent man has been imprisoned.”

Gardner contacted each member of the U.S. Board of Parole to argue for the release of the Apache shaman. Without the inflammatory evidence of Edwards’ adultery, he argued to parole commissioner Joseph Dewitt, “no jury would have returned a verdict of guilty.”

Gardner told the superintendent of the Arizona prison that the Apaches seemed to have “a pretty good general idea” who did murder Margaret. Gardner refused to publish the suspect’s name, but here it can be revealed for the first time in print: He was a White Mountain Apache named Foster James.

The evidence supporting James’ guilt is considerable. One member of the Court of Last Resort, Bob Rhay (who went on to become the longest-serving superintendent of Washington State Penitentiary), spent time looking into it more deeply. “Foster James has admitted on several occasions that he is the actual murderer,” Rhay wrote in a report preserved among Gardner’s papers at the Harry Ransom Center of the University of Texas. He referred to “an affidavit from a Mr. and Mrs. Anderson, in which Mrs. Anderson says that Foster James admitted to her, while he was attacking her, that he had killed Mrs. Edwards.” (Efforts to find surviving friends or relatives of Foster James and include their opinions in this account were unsuccessful. He had no children.)

Kessel, an anthropologist and the grandson of the Lutheran minister who converted Edwards to Christianity, says it was conventional wisdom on the reservation that it was James who had killed Margaret. When Kessel interviewed a number of Apache elders for his academic research on the tribe’s religious movements, they said they believed that Edwards was innocent. Just one interviewee departed from that version of events: Foster James himself.

The tribal chairman had asked Kessel never to mention the accusations against James until after James, Edwards and others close to them died—a promise Kessel would keep. James died in 1976.

For Gardner’s part, he’d noticed that tribal members seemed fearful when they discussed James. “None of these Indians dare to raise their voices above a whisper,” he wrote. “None of them will permit their names to be quoted. The murder of Mrs. Edwards was a ruthless, bloody affair and there is still a silent terror which stalks the Indian reservation.” But more than fear kept the Apaches’ lips closed. In the community of the reservation, with its blood kinships and close relationships, the Apaches did not want to out one of their own.

* * *

On August 1, 1955, Silas John Edwards walked out of prison and returned to reservation life. Though Edwards was already eligible for parole, Gardner’s efforts apparently tipped the scale and persuaded the parole board. Edwards shared the news with Gardner in a letter. According to Gardner, the first thing the newly freed man asked him to do was to thank the readers of Argosy. It’s not known how many of the magazine’s devoted readers wrote to federal officials to protest Edwards’ continuing incarceration, but the response may have been considerable.

A prickly pear cactus on the San Carlos Reservation. “The scenery is really beautiful,” Gardner wrote in an article for Argosy describing his travels through Arizona on Edwards’ behalf. “The desert is not, as so many people think, a barren expanse.”

(Ash Ponders)

Edwards’ followers had kept his movement alive the whole time he was incarcerated, and when he returned to the reservation, he resumed his role as a prophet, albeit with a lower profile. During the 1960s, he led his last Holy Ground snake dance. Soon afterward, he fell back into the more modest role of a traditional medicine man.

Gardner visited Fort Apache again, about a decade after Edwards’ parole. At first, he didn’t recognize the septuagenarian, who was chopping wood: “The man looked even younger than when we had seen him years before in prison.”

Kessel remembers visiting Edwards toward the end of his life, when he was living at an American Indian convalescent home in Laveen, Arizona. “There was no grudge against anybody for anything,” Kessel recalls. “He was a gentleman to the end.” Edwards died in 1977.

William Kessel, an anthropologist who was born and raised on Apache reservations in Arizona, holds up a portrait of Edwards with a snake around his neck. The photo was taken by Guenther, Kessel’s grandfather, who spent 50 years ministering to Apaches.

(Ash Ponders)

The religious movement he founded has at least one practitioner, Anthony Belvado, who was born on the San Carlos Reservation and makes traditional musical instruments. He carries the same kind of buckskin pouch that Edwards wore around his neck, filled with hadndin, and practices as a healer in the Holy Ground tradition.

Life on Arizona’s reservations is still hard, decades after Edwards’ time. More than 40 percent of White Mountain Apaches live in poverty. Covid-19 has devastated the community—at one point, White Mountain Apaches were being infected at ten times the rate of other Arizonans.

And wrongful convictions remain a problem in Indian country. In 2015, an Alaska judge ordered the release of the “Fairbanks Four,” Indian men who had spent 18 years in prison for a murder they hadn’t committed. A 2016 report from the University of South Dakota found that Indians were dramatically underrepresented on juries, partly because of a cumbersome process that makes it difficult for reservation Indians to register to vote.

Meanwhile, the legacy of Perry Mason lives on. The Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor has cited the character as an influence, quoting a line spoken by a prosecutor on the show: “Justice is served when a guilty man is convicted and when an innocent man is not.” This past June, 50 years after Gardner’s death, HBO premiered a new Perry Mason television series. For many Americans, the fictional defense lawyer remains a symbol of due process done right.

The Edwards story was “one of the most peculiar murder cases that we have ever investigated,” Gardner said. The invention of a false Indian custom, and the jury’s willingness to believe it, landed an innocent man behind bars for more than 20 years. “If I were writing of this case as a work of fiction,” Gardner told the readers of Argosy, “I would call it The Case of the Autographed Corpse.”

#History

#History

[dearestpartnerofgreatness]

AU where Side and Bu Fan run into a mysterious crime to solve while at the new school and Qiang Da/Qiang Wei get involved despite being explicitly told not to steal Bu Fan's thunder

To encourage the children, build school morale, and earn extra income for new computers, Yan Zhang Tai decides the school should hold a week of events (bake sales, carnivals, spelling bees, sports exhibitions, etc). But two days in, the donation box with all the money they’ve earned is stolen! Bu Fan is resolved to solve the case and impress Si De. For her part, Si De has been flirtatious but has not fully committed to him as his girlfriend, as now that they are coworkers, she is concerned that being in a serious relationship would be inappropriate. 

Of course, Bu Fan’s plans are complicated by the arrival of Qiang Da & Qiang Wei, who have been invited by Si De to help with charity events (Qiang Da with a math contest between the students, Qing Wei with an antique auction). Of course, everyone has another motive as well: Si De wants to pick Qiang Wei’s brain about her relationship with Bu Fan, Qiang Wei wants advice about how to bring up the topic of marriage to Qiang Da, and Qiang Da has heard about the mystery and wants to solve it. Bu Fan is not thrilled (although he did miss Qiang Da more than he will admit). Even better, one more surprise guest arrives after Qiang Da calls in for backup: Ah Fei! 

Solving the mystery includes: Bu Fan repeatedly trying to figure out a clue only for Qiang Da to arrive at the correct conclusion a second before he can, a Scooby Doo-style chase through the hallway, Qiang Wei tackling a presumed perp to the ground like the boss she is, Bu Fan and Qing Da engaging in a wrestling match as one of the charity events (Bu Fan puts up a good fight but obviously loses), Bu Fan & Ah Fei interrogating a series of male students who are all in love with Si De, and a recurring joke where Bu Fan’s fantasies about him & Si De solving the crime are in a 1940′s film noir style. 

Ah Fei has a subplot where he falls head over heels with the pretty, soft-spoken aunt of one of the students, and Bu Fan has to bounce a basketball off of his head to get him to focus. Another subplot is that while Qiang Wei (and Si De by extension) is convinced that Qiang Da will never propose marriage on his own, Qiang Da reveals to Bu Fan that he is ready to do so, and is just waiting for the exact right moment. (Of course, miscommunication where they each believe the other is unwilling ensues.) Qiang Da eventually figures it out and proposes, and Qiang Wei excitedly shares the news with Si De, who begins to realize that she wants that same happiness with Bu Fan. 

The mystery ends with Qiang Wei & Si De being the ones to solve the case because they worked as a team instead of competitors, which only bothers Qiang Da a little bit and bothers Bu Fan a whole lot. (Ah Fei was just along for the ride so he’s unbothered.) The final event of the week is a teacher auction, and Bu Fan is shocked when Si De outbuys everyone to win the date with him. She tells him that she was touched by his intense desire to solve the mystery and help the school, and that she’s finally ready to take the next step and be his girlfriend. They share a romantic kiss, and everything is lovely

BONUS: Yes, the Ah Fei & Bu Fan handshake makes a reappearance

#lion pride #獅子王強大 #shīziwáng qiángdà #Powerful Lion King #bu fan #si de #bu fahn #xiao tie #Tie Bu Fan #qiang da #qiang wei #wang qiang wei #Wang Qiang Da #鐵不凡 #小鐵 #連四德 #lian si de #si de x bu fan #bu fan x si de #tdrama #twdrama #Taiwanese drama #drama #au #headcanons #five headcanons #5 headcanons #ask #5 head canons ask #five head canons ask

[tessatechaitea]

The Extremist #3

I'm disappointed that this half picture doesn't match up exactly with the half picture from Issue #2.

It's probably good I didn't post any of the blurbs that tried to bribe him with a handjob in the backroom of the Portland Comic-con.

Anyway, let's see what happened in "July, Nineteen Ninety-Three"! I'll try to baby it up so Tumblr doesn't shit its diapers.

Peter Milligan begins this issue all Peter Milligany.

Remember that this was written in 1993 when Peter Milligan makes mention of how a person could, at some point, be alone in anything. But also imagine now how the death of an intimate would go in 2019. Back in 1993, Judy is surprised to find that she's whisked away from her grief for long interludes by the bureaucratic machinations of a death in a capitalist democracy. This same kind of thing probably still happens except with more texts and emails and less phone conversations and driving to speak to people in person. But also imagine the non-bureaucratic side of death. We probably have far less close intimate contacts in our physical space now than we had in 1993, at least by percentage when compared with all people we would consider contacts (intimates who now live in another part of the world, people we know only from online, friends of friends we've maybe met once but now sometimes interact with over social media). In 1993. it would be phone calls and personal visits with flowers and cake or cookies. In 2019, you probably receive a deluge of crying emojis and people replying "*hugs*" to your post about your world crumbling beneath you as you try to stagger on with your remaining years bereft of the person you thought you could never live without. I suppose there are plenty of apps where people could send you cakes and cookies so I suppose it wouldn't be too terrible. Should I create an app that sends cakes and cookies to people when they've lost a loved one? It wouldn't cost anything. You'd just have to send me a small cake and some cookies with every use of the app! I can't wait to get extraordinarily fat! The journey is going to be so worth it!

Grief is a savory, selfish feast.

Peter Milligan has a way of expressing potent, terrible truths in such a casual manner that most people probably don't even notice them. There's an almost expressible power in believing you're experiencing something that nobody else has or will ever experience. Or just in knowing that you lived a part of your life unknown to your closest friends and family. I cherish, greedily, the moments of my life spent alone and far from those closest to me and I parcel them out as stories in only the most meager of manners. Hell, I've probably told more about myself and my experiences here on this blog exactly because I know my friends and family don't read it. I might say this every commentary until this series is over but I still don't know if I understand the point of the overall plot. But I do understand that the plot is a way for Peter Milligan to be Peter Milligan. I understand the need for a framework to say things you want to say. Or to just put scenes out there that you don't want to bother encasing in some kind of larger whole that you're less interested in. So here's another scene Peter Milligan had to have thought about and then needed a place to mention it:

Of course people still get horny for their dead partner! But how often does anybody talk about it?! Maybe it's common and I'm just consuming the wrong kinds of media. Alex Trebek never once asked a contestant if they jerk off thinking about their dead spouse!

Netflix's Dead to Me has some pretty frank discussions about the loss of a spouse but while Christina Applegate talks about being horny and wanting to fuck somebody, I don't think she ever says she masturbates thinking about her dead husband. If the point of this story is about dealing with loss, I'm beginning to get it. And that would completely explain why I missed it at twenty-one. I'm only three pages into this issue and it's kicking me in the face with existential issues. Was I too dumb at twenty-one to understand any of this or just too sheltered to really feel it? Maybe I was just too fucking young. Judy finds the key to Jack's Extremist apartment. After looking around the place, she thinks, "It was like having Jack die all over again, but this death seemed more profound. 'I never knew you,' I thought." It's an easy statement to point out that nobody ever really knows anybody. But once, because Jim Starling wrote a terrible run on Stormwatch, I wrote an entire rant about how we all hide our innermost dark secrets from even the greatest loves of our lives. I was essentially asking how can we know anyone if we won't even let those closest to us know our most vulnerable thoughts and terrible crimes (I don't mean crimes in the law and order sense! I just mean like that time you put your finger in your ass and then made sandwiches for your friends and they all got sick and you didn't do it on purpose but you made the connection and nobody must ever fucking know! You know, those kinds of crimes. But not that specific one! I totally just made that one up for effect). So I could repeat myself or just link to the rant or just (and — Spoiler! — this is the choice I'm going with!) move on to page five of this comic book. Judy discovers an old diary written by The Extremist (but not Jack!). Then she finds some of the tapes he burned and salvages a few. She hears Jack speaking about murder and getting pissed on and, most appallingly, calling her "poor dull dead little Judy." She smashes the place up, finds The Extremist's gimp suit, and tries it on thinking, "What the fuck?! Maybe I'll feel sexy and start speaking in sex metaphors!" Then the phone rings. And I suppose the rest is history! And by history, I mean Issue #1! Except I'm only on page seven so maybe I'm jumping the gun. I guess we need to learn how Judy met Patrick and why she decided her life would be better by going out at night murdering people until she comes hard in a leather suit. Oh, I hope that last sentence wasn't too adult for Tumblr! A bunch of pages are taken up by the plot stuff that I apparently paid the most attention to in 1993 and which is the least interesting part of the story (so far!). Patrick "accidentally" runs into Judy and he pretends he doesn't know who killed Jack. He offers to help her find out if she'll pose as The Extremist and do murders and blow jobs for him. Judy is all, "What the hell! Maybe I'll understand Jack a little more! Maybe I'll know why he needed a boring piece of shit like me when he was having such fantastic fuck and murder adventures!" No wait. That's what I would say. Judy just wants to find out who killed Jack and to, maybe, feel a little closer to him. I don't think she's as amped up as I would be about the loads of indiscriminate sex and murdering of the most perverse perverts. The main story ends with Judy making her first kill. She learns that her problem was that she was always living in the past and the future. So even if she had wanted to kill somebody in the moment before, she'd be all tangled up in the past and whether the person deserved it and maybe some of it was her fault and perhaps she's been too hasty with her murder decision. And she'd also be lost in the future like how the person will stop existing and how she might wind up in prison and how the victim's guts are going to be hell to clean up off the floor. But in the moment, she can just satisfy the need without consequence or conscience! She discovers it's a thrill! Well, I could have told her that! I've been playing Dungeons and Dragons since I was ten! Never worry about what the orc did or if it deserved it or if it has family or if you're actually the asshole raiding its lovely home! The actual issue ends with Tony, the black guy on the stoop, sitting in The Extremist's apartment listening to Judy's tapes. He's just finished the last one where she says she's going off to kill Patrick and he's completely caught up in the drama. He wants to know who killed who just as badly as, well, not me but I'm sure some readers were on the edge of their seat at this point. The Extremist #3 Rating: B. I don't find myself caring about the framework. But Peter Milligan has thoughts and those thoughts are well worth the admission price to this story. In a way, this is just an extension of his run on Shade the Changing Man. It's almost the same story if you squint your eyes and unfocus your vision and punch yourself in the genitals. Patrick is the guy on Meta who was pulling the strings to get Shade to go into the Area of Madness and eventually Earth (I forget his name! I bet it was Patrick!) And The Extremist is Shade and Kathy too (they both have similarities to both Judy and Jack, so I don't mean to say either Shade or Kathy is essentially one or the other). The Extremist has crazy missions where they kill and fuck just like Shade and Kathy had! I think. I mean, probably! And Tony is just Lenny in someway that I haven't spent any time thinking about but they were the only characters left!

#The Extremist #Peter Milligan #Ted McKeever #DC Comics #DC #Vertigo

[jamesbvck]

blood in the cut | two

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (Robbery!AU) Summary: One more, that’s what Bucky had promised you. One more job and you’d both be home free and start a life you always wanted. One more crime riddled night with potential life long consequences. Warnings: swearing, violence, guns, implied sex, illegal activities, angst, fluff A/N: welcome to part two. thank you so much for the feedback on part one. this is for @noshitstark writing challenge. thank you, nikki.

MASTERLIST | PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE

3.5 million dollars was pocket change to someone like Tony Stark. Hell, he probably wouldn’t even notice it had gone missing, that is if they were robbing from him personally, and not an entire bank. It was a risk but one that everyone agreed on taking. Natasha’s days had been filled with being a bank advisor for the past month and a half getting to know the bank and the people that worked there. She was essentially scoping out the place so the heist could go off without a hitch.

The main event was going to take place on December 14th during the yearly Christmas staff gala. That gave them just over two months to properly map out and gather all they needed for it. Natasha handed out file folders to each of the boys. Bucky thumbed through the papers.

“Mara Hill: Bank Manager. She’s been with Stark Financial Group for ten years. She keeps the bank in tip-top shape, making sure everything runs smoothly,” Natasha explained the first page. It had a picture of Maria with her brunette hair pulled back into a neat bun. Her birth date and basic information was also provided. “She’s taken a liking to me. I’m in her good graces which means I have the code to the vault.”

The pages that followed had some other important staff members and the final page was Tony Stark, though Natasha wasn’t going to bore everyone which facts they already knew. Bucky scanned through the others since it was key to know who they were going to come in contact with.

“I’m going to get the blueprints of the bank but I want you guys to see what this place looks like. Barnes and Barton was pose are repairmen coming to fix the heating, Steve and Sam will come in as customers. I’ve already fabricated accounts with faux names.” Natasha tossed her folder onto the large table in front of her. “In the meantime we can source cars and ammunition. Clint and Sam are on car duty, Steve and Bucky on ammunition and fake IDs. Any questions?”

Everything seemed straightforward for the time being. No one said much, closing the folders and leaving them on the table for now. Bucky pushed himself up from the couch and hovered nearby as he waited for Steve to finish talking with Natasha. He slipped out his phone from his pocket seeing a missed text from you. He read it over, nothing too important as you were just complaining about work. Apparently it had been a slow evening.

“Let’s go.” Steve palmed his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. He pocketed his phone and headed outside with Steve to the car.

“Where we headed?”

“Hunts Point.”

Bucky breathed out a laugh, shaking his head. “Shit.”

Hunts Point was not a particularly nice area of the Bronx. It was riddled with crime from theft, drug trades and even prostitution. It wasn’t a neighbourhood you wanted to linger in for too long, nor did you want to look anyone in the eye. But like anything else, there was business to be done. Thank God Steve had driven the shitty four door compact car.

They parked along a side street, exiting the car and starting down the road to a worn down red brick building. The building used to shelter the homeless and now it supplied liquor and any drug you could cook up and sell for street value. The key was to keep your head down and your lips zipped. Steve pulled open the door to the liquor store, a bell chiming. The man behind the counter was huge and had a few small face tattoos. He nodded in greeting to Steve and Bucky, them nodding in solidarity. They walked through a beaded veil into a back room and down a set of creaky wooden stairs. At the bottom was a metal door. Steve’s fist pounded the door three times and the small viewing window opened. The man on the other side examined Steve and Bucky for a moment before closing the window and unlocking what sounded like four different kinds of locks.

The large metal door opened revealing an underground bar. It wasn’t anything flashy but it was filled with people at the bar and standing around drinking and smoking, and doing whatever they fancied. Bucky trailed behind Steve as they crossed the room to the other side where there was another door and a burly man in front. There were no words said as he stepped to the side and opened the door. Inside the room was smokey and boozy, much like the bar but far more intense. There were three half naked girls with dollar bills stuffed into their bras sitting on fella’s laps drinking what looked to be dirty Sprite.

“Look who strolled out of Brooklyn: Rogers and Barnes!”

Bucky stood tall beside Steve, arms folded firmly over his chest. “Yeah, we rolled out just to see you, Brockie. Life happens when you don’t listen to your team and get thrown in prison for… what four years?”

“Sounds about right.” Steve confirmed.

“Huh. Damn isn’t that a shame, isn’t it?”

Brock Rumlow was a old partner, per sae, though he never listened to the plan and ended up fucking things up mainly for himself. That’s what happened when you got too cocky, you ended up in RAFT Prison. Bucky had a sly smirk while Rumlow’s eyes bore into Bucky like sharp daggers. He made an advance from the arm of the chair he was sitting on, only to be pushed back down.

“Save your testosterone contest for another time. They’re here for business.” The man with the eyepatch had Rumlow back down from throwing a punch at Bucky. Not that Bucky would have cared, he had flattened Brock before and sure as hell he’d do it again.

“Fury.” Steve greeted.

Nick Fury ruled the underground black market for fake identification and was a regal arms dealer. He had access to military grade weapons. Fury opened a slick wooden cigar box, taking out one and clipping off the end. He struck a match and lit the cigar, inhaling and puffing out a round circle.

“Remove the girls.” He instructed Rumlow. Brock yanked the girls by the arm, escorting them out of the room.

Fury wandered to the back of the room sitting himself at a large desk and putting his feet up. Steve and Bucky sat in the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Seems like you folks caused quite a commotion with the NYPD a few weeks ago with that jewellery store. Did you get them sold?” Nick questioned.

“Buyer in France. We got our money and some more.” Steve told him.

Nick nodded a few times. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?”

Bucky looked over as Steve reached into his back pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Nick who took it and rested his cigar in an ashtray.

“Romanoff and her damn lists.” He muttered, unfolding the paper. The list must’ve been long as there was silence for multiple moments. “It’s doable, going to need a month to source some specifics.”

“That should be fine.” Steve nodded, looking to Bucky who agreed.

Nick swung his feet off the desk and sat properly in the chair. “I’ll set up a drop off location. You’ll get an address when it’s ready to be picked up. This is a hefty manifest.”

It wasn’t some small level security store they were breaking into. It was the biggest bank on the eastern seaboard. It was quite a few steps up from taking candy from a baby. They needed to go in secure, armed, and ready.

Nick folded back up the paper, “Tell Romanoff she’ll hear from me about compensation.”

Steve and Bucky rose and shook Nick’s hand. That was business: cut and dry, no questions.

“Hey Barnes, saw your girl the other night,” Rumlow caught Bucky’s attention before they could leave. He turned back, arching a brow. “Yeah, she’s still hot. Told her if she gets bored of you I wouldn’t mind taking her for a spin.”

Bucky laughed out of spite. He knew Rumlow was trying to get under his skin for the hell of it. Four years ago Bucky would have pummeled him into the floor. Now? Wasn’t worth the trouble.

“Keep talkin’, Brock. No one listens to a goddamn word you say anyway.” Bucky waved him off. “Let’s go, Stevie.”

“All I’m saying is you should watch your back,” Rumlow was smirking. “Can’t keep crawling back to her after leaving her hanging for so long. Makes chicks question what the hell kind of man are ya.”

Steve grabbed Bucky’s sleeve but he was already tearing out of his grasp and marching his way over to Rumlow. “You really questioning what kind of man I am? You had your chance, two of them, and fucked it up because you’re a dog,” Bucky tapped Brock’s chest with the back on his hand. “You might’ve been someone’s bitch in prison but around here you’re still a nobody.”

Before Bucky could blink, the muzzle of a handgun was pressed against his forehead with Brock giving a death glare. Bucky didn’t flinch, his eyes on the other man with his finger hovering over the trigger. They had never truly gotten along ever and Rumlow had always threatened to put a bullet through Bucky’s skull one day. This was the closest they had gotten.

“Time’s ticking. Pull the trigger.” Bucky taunted with a cool exterior. Brock pressed the end of the gun harder against the skin, wavering Bucky backwards.

Another moment passed with the room pindrop silent. Brock dropped handgun from Bucky’s face, shaking his head. A slow smile lined Bucky’s lips as he took the win, shrugging his shoulders. “Nice seeing ya again, Brockie.”

“Jesus Christ, Buck.” Steve muttered as they exited the underground. They came up streetside from the back door and retreated to the car. “He would have pulled it had you said another damn word.”

“He doesn’t have the balls,” Bucky opened the passenger door. “Never have, never will.”

The TV volume was on low, a hum coming from the flatscreen across the living room. Bucky laid on his back on the couch with one arm dangling off the edge and his other hand rested on his chest. He had been fighting the urge to sleep for the past hour to wait for you to come home but he must have dozed off. He didn’t hear the door unlock and you kick off your shoes. He didn’t hear you call out to him twice and toss your keys onto the kitchen table. He did, however, feel your weight against his body as you climbed on top of him to snuggle. Bucky shifted his body to give you more room, his hand slipping under your shirt to rest on your back.

“What are you buying this late on QVC?”

Bucky hummed, opening one eye. “Saved by the Bell was on. Must’ve ended.” The tips of his fingers caressed your cool skin, slowing then picking up over and over as he tried not to fall asleep again. He blinked his eyes open to squint at the clock across the way. You were home later than usual. “Somethin’ happen at work?”

He felt you shake your head, your eyes were closed too. “Stayed for a drink, I texted you but I guess you had already fallen asleep,” Your fingers drummed against his chest before you pulled yourself up to sit. “Let’s go to bed, Buck.”

“I’m pretty comfortable here.” Bucky lazily smiled up at you.

You laughed softly. “This couch has never been big enough for the both of us. Should get a new one.”

“We’ve made it work before,” he countered. “On more than one occasion.”

You patted his stomach, crawling off him to stand. “Suit yourself.”

Bucky watched you saunter away, purposely swinging your hips from side to side. It didn’t take him too long to decide that the couch was not the ideal place to sleep especially if you weren’t there with him. He was up on his feet in seconds, shutting off the TV and turning out the lights. The bottom hemline of his shirt tugged over his head, discarding it to the laundry basket then unbuttoned his black jeans.

“Rumlow’s out of prison.” Bucky spoke. Your back was to him as you were picking through one of the drawers to find pajama shorts. “Said he saw you a few weeks ago. Did he?”

You found what you were looking for and plucked out the teal shorts, stripping out of your jeans and shirt. “He came by the bar maybe three weeks ago. I served him a drink, said he looked better than he used to.”

Bucky noticed your avoidance of eye contact, picking up the scattered clothes on the ground and dumped them into the basket. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” you replied. “He doesn’t matter and you know that.”

Bucky wasn’t going to jump to conclusions, it wasn’t worth it. He still held onto some bitterness of you and Brock hooking up once when Bucky had to figure his shit out and let you go for a while. Your story is that you were drunk and things just happened, that it was a mistake. Nonetheless, it still cut Bucky like a deep knife when he found out about it. Then there was also the fact that Brock always had some lingering gross crush on you.

“Did you go to Nick’s?” You turned to look at him.

“Yeah--”

“Bucky!”

He put his hands up in defense. “Nat sent us there for some shit. I didn’t want to go but Steve and I had too,” Bucky took three long strides to reach you, cupping your shaking head. “I told you one more, and this is one more. It’s more than I bargained for but I promise you, it’s going to be worth it.”

Gently, you pushed Bucky’s hands away from your face. He hadn’t given you too much detail about the job but the both of you knew going to see Nick Fury meant it was dangerous, more dangerous than robbing a damn jewelry store. He knew you worried and you had reason to worry. He could tell when you did by the small creases in between your eyebrows pulling together and how you picked at the corner of your lip just like you were doing right this second.

He sighed. “We’re breaking into the vault at SFG.”

You were thrown for a loop, almost keeling over. “Are you guys fucking insane?” Your voice bounced off the walls of the bedroom. “Stark Financial Group. That’s… that’s impossible.”

“Nat’s been working there for almost two months now. She’s knows the place inside out and thinks we’ve got a good chance.”

You rubbed your forehead, moving around Bucky to grab an old shirt to wear. You sunk into bed, leaning up against the headboard. Bucky let you sit with your thoughts, removing his jeans and closing the bedroom door. He crawled in beside you and adjusted the blanket over his and your legs.

“How much?” You asked. “How much money?”

“Just over three million, if we’re lucky.”

Your hands covered your face, mumbling a soft fuck under your breath. Bucky reached out and tucked you into his side, kissing the top of your head. He murmured promises that this was going to get them onto a road far off from Brooklyn and they could live a life they had talked about when the sun would rise in the early morning.

A dream could be more than just a dream.

Clint was munching on an apple too loud the morning of the first briefing. His bites were too big, and his mouth was like a horse unable to eat with manners. Sam was sending him death stares across the table, arms folded stiffly. Steve was biting back a laugh as Bucky balled up three old pieces of paper and threw at fastball square in Clint’s face. He yelled.

“Coulda fuckin’ taken my eye out!” He grumbled.

Natasha slammed blueprints down on the table garnering the boys attention. Bucky sniggered as Clint rubbed his left eye. Steve assisted with unrolling the prints and smoothing out the large paper.

“Are you two done?” Natasha looked from Clint to Bucky. They both shrugged. “First things first,” a duffle bag was tossed to Bucky who eyed it suspiciously, unzipping the bag to reveal repair men uniforms. “It just so happens that our heating system is on the fritz. Looks like we’re going to need it repaired. The utility room is located across from the vault in the basement.”

Natasha started indicating on the map where everything was. The bank had two levels: main floor and basement. The basement consisted the vault along with a few offices, storage, washrooms and the util room. There was also an emergency exit to a loading dock.

“How many official exits?” Sam asked, examining the plans.

“Including the front doors, four. However,” Natasha pulled back the large paper and revealed another set of prints. “Underneath the bank are abandoned tunnels that were once going to be part of the subway line but didn’t get funded back in the 80s. They go for about four miles and surface near Kips Bay.”

Steve had his analyzing face on, eyes narrowed and thinking cap on. “We’ll come up by the East River. Have the cars hidden ready to go.”

Natasha nodded. “Take the FDR over to the bridge to get back to Brooklyn.” Bucky said.

“What about the 278?” Clint piped up, sans apple.

“Nah, it’ll be slower.” Bucky replied. “What cars did you get?”

“2002 Corolla and a ‘06 Camry. Both ugly ass beige.” Sam absentmindedly rubbed his previously shot shoulder, leaning back in his seat. “Perfect for fitting in though.”

Natasha was still waiting on official numbers of how many people would be in attendance of the party. They weren’t killers, that wasn’t their motive. As long as everyone cooperated then there would be zero problems. Everything was to be finalized within the next few weeks with the planning committee that Natasha nauseatingly volunteered to be part of.

For the time being it was straight forward. Natasha would be a pawn in the room making sure everything was going to plan without interference. Two of the boys would take her and Maria Hill down to the vault so there wasn’t any ounce of suspicion. The other two would stay and monitor the party goers.

“We’ll have to collect cell phones, wallets, and keys.” Steve thought aloud. “Make sure we’re not instantly tipped off.”

“Already taken care of,” Nat replied, taking a glance at the time on her wrist watch. “We’ll have someone else on the inside.”

There was a wave of confusion, puzzled glances and caution being raised. “Don’t say it’s Rumlow.” Sam groaned.

Natasha gave a look. “Please, Sam. Don’t insult me like that.” The back door squeaked opened drawing in the sound of traffic and a brisk autumn breeze. “Right on time.”

Thick heeled boots stamped along the concrete flooring. Heads swiveled with the footsteps becoming louder. “Hope I’m not late. Traffic’s a bitch.”

“Your timing couldn’t be any more perfect.” Natasha settled her hands on her hips, eyes resting on Bucky’s stone cold face.

He watched as you approached the group, sleeves of your leather jacket bunched up around your elbow and a scarf loosely hanging around your neck. You and Bucky held eye contact for a few seconds before sliding your vision over to the three other males, smiling and waving. Under Clint’s breath was a significant oh shit that seemed to semble the shift in mood.

“Absolutely fucking not.” Bucky shot at Nat.

Natasha shrugged a shoulder. “Going to have to take it up with her. She called me.”

You settled in a standing position across the table in between Sam’s chair and Steve. Bucky’s blue eyes were alarmed while you had a cool and unmoving stance. You discarded your scarf and set your eyes back on Natasha to continue her briefing.

“Tony Stark likes to throw over the top parties which also means top of the line vendors and service. Maria had asked if I knew anyone who could bartend without a hassle.” Nat explained.

The night of the party you’d be one of the designated bartenders. Depending on the pairings, one of the boys would grab you as a staged hostage and collect the personal belongings of the attendees. It wasn’t anything too significant but it would help smooth out the heist. Still, Bucky did not like the thought of you being in an activate scene of a crime especially when things could go south at any second. It was too dangerous.

The meeting broke with Natasha saying once she got more information that everyone would gather again especially as the date got closer. Bucky was around the table and tugging you away to the back room. He closed the door, turning to you as you had your arms crossed.

“I’m not letting you be part of this.” Bucky decided.

“Funny. I’m already part of it. My decision, my actions and I’m not going to back down.” You told him. “I’m making sure this is it.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I trust you, but I don’t trust what could happen to you, Bucky.” You told him. He sighed, rubbing the side of his cheek where scruff growing in. His weight shifted from boot to boot. You closed the gap between him and you, resting your hand on his arm. “You said it’s worthwhile so let me do this with you, with them, so we can get out.”

Bucky ran his tongue along his bottom lip pondering on it for a moment. “We’re going to need our own escape plan. You and me.”

You nodded in agreement with a small smile forming on your lips. “Hit the road and not turn back.”

He hummed, and a throaty laugh escaped as he parted his lips. His arm snaked around your hips pressing your body against his. You arms went around his middle section, resting your head on his chest. Along as you got out before the commotion and were safe was all he cared about. He couldn’t bare the thought of something happening to you especially on his watch.

The door opened. Clint appeared with a hand covering his eyes cautiously entering the room.  “You guys ain’t having sex right? Fight sex? I just want my smokes.”

You laughed, parting from Bucky and going over to Clint, uncovering his eyes. “No free show today, Clint.” You said, hugging him.

“Damn.” Clint chuckled, embracing you. His hands lowering on your back purposefully to spite Bucky.

“Keep going Barton and I’ll drop your ass like third period Spanish.” Bucky warned, throwing a pack of cigarettes at his feet. Clint lifted his hands in innocence, bending over and scooping up the little box. You slipped back to the other room, leaving the door swinging.

Clint looked behind them then back to Bucky. “You good?” Bucky shrugged. “She must love you if she wants in. Been a few years.”

“She’s only in temporarily. I’m getting out after this.”

“Yeah I heard we’re disbanding,” Clint nodded along, lazily taking out a cigarette and clamping it between his lips. “Like Nirvana.”

Bucky breathed a swallow laugh. “Sure, like Nirvana.” He replied, pondering on Clint’s logic since that was more of a tragedy. He moved from his spot, going towards the door.

“Hey, uh, Buck,” Clint halted the other man in his tracks.  “Where you gonna go after this once we get the money?”

“Haven’t decided yet. Somewhere far.”

Clint nodded a few times, removing the unlit cigarette from his mouth. “Right, yeah. Yeah. Farther the better. Start a new life. Hell, maybe I’ll meet a girl.”

Bucky snickered. “With a mug like yours? That’d be a miracle.” Clint offered a half hearted chuckle, head dipping downward. “Keep your eyes up, Barton.” Bucky clapped his hand to Clint’s shoulder, squeezing before going back out into the main area.

The pants for the repair uniform were slightly too tight for Bucky’s liking. They clung to his thighs more than he approved of, swearing that it was cutting off blood circulation. How was he supposed to walk without the seams ripping apart? He grumbled to himself, tucking in the hideous matching powder blue collar shirt and buttoned it up. You, on the other hand, had been giggling for the last ten minutes Bucky was getting dressed.

“Is this what you’d look like if you had a real job?” You asked.

Bucky’s face scrunched. “What do you mean if I had a real job?”

“Stealing other people's things isn’t a job, Bucky.”

He finished with the buttons, leaving the top one undone because he didn’t want to suffocate and be choked to death all the in the same day. “Just because the government recognizes it as an illegal action doesn’t mean it isn’t a job.”

He got his boots from the front door and returned, sitting on the edge of the bed to lace them up. You rested your head on his shoulder, humming to yourself. “You know, you look really good in this.”  Your hands glided up his back to his arms and smoothed over his chest.

Bucky chuckled. “Barton’s going to be here with the van in five minutes.”

“When has Clint ever been on time for anything?”

You had a valid point. It was shocking whenever Clint would turn up to anything within a decent time. He called it being fashionably late but was it considered that when he had been over an hour late to Sam’s birthday? Not likely.  

You crawled around and sat yourself in Bucky’s lap, straddling him with arms going around his neck. Yours and his lips crashed together in a heated kiss. “I just put on my boots.” Bucky mumbled against your mouth.

“Gotta do laundry anyway.”

It really didn’t take much persuasion with Bucky. His back was pressed against the bundle of blankets, your fingers easily undoing his buckle and unzipping the tacky pants. Swiftly Bucky rolled your bodies so he was hovering over you and settled in between your legs. His kisses trailed down from your lips, to your neck, chest and down to your belly button. Bucky’s fingertips ghosted over your inner thighs causing your back to arch but he pushed you back down.

Clothes were scattered over the bed and on the floor. Sweat glistened on Bucky’s skin, sticking to yours with your bodies tangled in the bedsheet. He held you close feeling your heart pump against his chest. Of course the day he wanted to spend in bed with you he couldn’t. Your smooth legs stretched under the sheet, rubbing against Bucky’s.

Three loud bangs against the door startled you both. “Barnes! I’ve been calling you for ten minutes!” Clint pounded against the door again. Reluctantly Bucky dragged himself out of bed, collecting his clothes and quickly changing back into them.

“Bucky!” Clint exclaimed, another fist knocking against the door.

Bucky took the few seconds he had to peck your lips. “I love you.” He whispered, parting ways. He scraped his hair up into a bun, swinging open the front door. “Relax, Barton. You’re late anyway.”

Clint took in Bucky’s wrinkled uniform, eying him carefully. They jogged down the stairs to the front lobby, Bucky retucking in his shirt. The repair van looked new, too new but he didn’t question how the hell Clint got it. He got into the passenger’s side, looking around. There were granola bar wrappers and coffee cups scattered on the floor of the van. Clint yanked open the door and climbed inside.

“Nat’s already busting my balls this morning so let’s get this shit over with.” Clint was grumpy and swearing under his breath.

“Someone’s a sour puss today.” Bucky teased, clinking his seatbelt. Clint flipped him off, putting the van into gear and started the trek to Manhattan.

Stark Financial Group was a large building based in Lower Manhattan. The autumn sun glimmered against the windows reflecting so sharply that Bucky had to squint his eyes. He slung a tool bag over his shoulder, adjusting a clipboard in his hand. Clint secured a hat on top of his head, collecting his own tool bag as well. They walked up the deep steps to the glass front doors.

The bank was grand with marble flooring and brass interior with wooden accents. It definitely had a vintage vibe to it resembling the early sixties. Bucky and Clint walked up the small staircase to the open area that had the teller counters and some financial advisor desks. There were two security guards hovering around. Down at the far end of the teller counter was Sam in a dapper get up, sweet talking to the woman helping him. She was blushing hard. Steve was dressed down, Yankees ballcap on shooting the shit with an obvious fellow baseball fan. The advisor was animated with grand hand gestures and Steve seemed genuinely interested in the conversation.

Bucky and Clint approached the receptionist behind a tall desk. She was beaming, friendly eyes and a tight body-hugging pale pink dress. “Hello gentlemen. How can I help you today?”

“Got a call the heater’s acting up.” Clint flipped through some papers, tapping the end of a pen against the clipboard.

“Oh yes!” She nodded. “Thank you for coming in. Follow me this way.”

The boys followed the receptionist through the bank. Bucky nonchalantly counted the cameras he could see and took mental notes of their positions. Steve glanced at them as they strolled on by. There were a set of stairs down to the lower level. Down the hallway and to the right were a row of offices for business advisors and the bank manager, Maria Hill. Then to the left was the grand ol’ vault. Natasha was spot on when she said the utility room was across from it. The receptionist let them in. Clint turned back and grinned at her, reading her name tag. “Ellie. Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

Bucky wanted to snatch Clint by the collar and lug him away. Ellie laughed softly and said thank you leaving the men to go to task. Bucky set his tools down and thumbed through to the back paper, writing down his observations. Clint left the door ajar and moved into the room.

“Can’t say I’m surprised Stark has ample security. We’re going to have to take out those cameras and the guards upstairs. Did you see if they were carrying guns?” Bucky looked to Clint.

“Yeah, can’t imagine they’re fully loaded, though.” He replied, knocking his knuckles against the furnace. “We actually fixin’ this hunk of metal?”

Bucky disregarded his question, moving to peak out the door. “Two cameras facing the vault. And another two in the hallway. And we’re gonna--” Clint was rummaging through the tool bag, pulling out screw drivers until he found a Phillips head. The door to the furnace was open. “Clint!”

“Yeah, yeah Barnes. I’m still listening. You know I just go with the flow anyway. I’mma fix this.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, sliding his phone out of pocket to send a text to Steve. They made a rendevouz spot at the washrooms down the hall. He slipped out of the room, keeping his head down as he pushed opened the swinging down. His scoped out the small bathroom, checking to see if anyone was under the single stall but it was empty. Within a few minutes the door swung open again with Steve appearing.

“Where’s Clint?” He asked. Bucky waved it off. “You see the cameras?”

“Yeah couldn’t miss them. They seem like a bigger problem then the damn vault,” he sighed. “Four down here, maybe ten up there? Guess we’ll see if Nat knows the exact number. Plus the guards.”

Steve started to chuckle. “Wouldn’t worry about them. The one guy’s had three Krispy Kremes since I’ve been here.”

There were footsteps on the other side of the door. Bucky went to the sink as Steve hid himself in the only stall. A man in a flashy suit entered, not even looking twice at Bucky. He grabbed some paper towels and dried his hands, tossing it into the garage can before exiting. He returned back to the utility closet and Clint.

“So, uh, this thing is actually broken. Gonna need new parts and shit.”

“Clint. We’re not fucking here to fix the furnace. Come on, let’s go.” Bucky took the tool bag and back handed Clint’s arms.

Clint shuffled along, closing the metal door and collecting his bag. He followed Bucky back up to the main area of the bank. The receptionist was occupied helping a customer. Sam wandered on by giving Bucky and Clint a head nod just as Steve was coming up from the washroom.

“Bad news, we’re going to have to order some parts and come back in.” Clint informed Ellie. She frowned but understood, nodding along with him. “We’ll give you a call once we receive the part.

“Thank you for coming in!” She chimed, batting her lashes at Clint.

He was smug. “Oh, it was our pleasure, sweetheart.”

Bucky turned and rolled his eyes, deciding on abandoning Clint and go to the van. He could hear Clint’s loud footsteps stomping the ground in a half run to catch up. They got into the van, doors slamming shut.

“What?” Clint looked at Bucky.

“Nothin’.” Bucky shook his head, brushing away loose strands of hair.

Clint muttered something under his breathe, driving around the counter and up a block. He stopped on a slow corner and the side door of the van opened with Steve and Sam climbing inside. There was a mandatory food break before going back to the warehouse. Hoagies were on the menu with Clint not allowed anywhere near the blueprints to get them messy.

Bucky had a blue marker in his hand creating X’s where he had seen cameras. Sam took it over marking two more behind the tellers station. “One of us has to make sure those ones are out.” Sam indicated. “The one on the left definitely can see some of the stairs to the vault.”

“Buck has the sharpest shot,” Steve wiped his hands with a thin paper napkin, leaning over to look at the markings. “So why don’t we do Bucky and Clint upstairs, and Sam and I will go down and take out the four by the vault. We’ll take Natasha downstairs and you guys can handle the people upstairs.”

Bucky knew part of Steve’s suggestion was that so he was by you and could get you out of there as soon as possible. Steve was good like that, he’d never admit that was the reason but it was known. Not to mention Steve’s quick glance over gave it away too.

“I didn’t see the way to the tunnels.” Bucky added.

“Nat said that’s it’s behind a wall, just plaster and some framing. We’ll have to tear it down.” Sam folded his arms. “So we’ll need to bring in some tools to break it down.” Steve sighed, “Hate to admit it, but some things were easier when there were six of us.”

“We’re not bringing in Rumlow.” Bucky quickly snapped. Sam agreed with a grumbled.

“No, we’re not. I was making an observation.” Steve picked up a red marker and circled the vault. “We’re going to score and we’re going to score big. Then we can get out and do what we want. Sam can help his mom with medical bills, Natasha can go explore aboard like she’s always wanted to, Buck you can go start your life with a girl you’ve been in love with since we were nine. And Clint… Well, you can just fuck off with whatever you do.”

That brought some mild laughter from the group, an old joke that never seemed to get old. No one really knew what Clint did when he wasn’t around besides Natasha. Clint was shaking his head but there was a smile on his lips. Heads were lowered, a brief moment of silence.

“What are you gonna do, Steve?” Sam asked.

Steve slid his hands into the front pocket of his jeans. “As long as you guys are happy, I’ll be happy, too.”

Bucky raised his head, looking to his childhood best friend. There was something admirable in this moment, how Steve was fine with others happiness and it wasn’t that he was settle either. He thrived through people's enjoyment, he put other people first. This was it; the last heist. Bucky’s eyes glanced to Sam then to Clint and back to Steve.

Old friends with grand infractions and some blood in the cut.

bucky list: @buckychrist @bvcks @lila-bard @stanclub @stardustparker @buckybarnesppreciationsociety @sweetwaterprincess @demongirl0913 @queenlydias @dontpanc @kingsebstan  @cauraphernelia @yourwonderbelle @beauty-who-doesnt-need-a-beast @bleedlikerubies @fallenaristocat @bubblybuckybarnes @asht0ns-world @mystic-scripture @ragnarokbarnes @kali-rambles @pao-prazz @thorins-queen-of-erebor @eventyyr @abbadontherisingqueen @lovinglokiforever @justasimpleassbitch @red-wallflowers@brooklynightsky @hellaqueerangelofthelord @yknott81 @rvmanova @blame-the-russo-bros @buckybarneshairpullingkink @laurfangirl424 @buckyparkerish @sarcasticallysarah @stanning-seb @crypticavengers

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#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes #nikkiswritingchallenge #marvel fanfic #robbery fic #fic: blood in the cut

[zekethegm]

Campaign Update 2

Update 1

Continuing from where we left off.

The trio head into the hall and Orpheus peers out the window to the front of the building cautiously. “A dozen more in front and the way they have that vehicle backed up I suspect something lies in wait there too.” He says grimly.

Jaylene returns from the other side of the hall. “Can’t get a clear look at the rear alleyway. We would have a nice choke point to mitigate their number back their but it could also be an easy way to get cornered.” She reports.

“Sister Veida, how familiar are you with this Hab pattern?” Orpheus asks.

“The Colossus pattern is quite common, especially in this system.” She responds. “Every ten floors a catwalk should extend to keep stairwells and auto lifts from becoming too congested.”

Orpheus nods. “We could sneak across there and leave completely unnoticed.”

“Or one of us could take position from above and catch the scum in a crossfire.” Jaylene proposes.

“There is also a subterranean parking deck.” Veida adds.

“Yes, but it is protected by electronic locks and we did not register the vehicle to this building to keep evidence of our staying here to a minimum.” Jaylene says.

Veida nods toward Jaylene. “And I’m certain that served well in delaying your discovery. As part of my duties in recording the history and culture of the peoples of this system I have collected and cataloged a number of technomat data scripts. I am confident that this lock will prove little challenge.”

Orpheus gestures to the stairwell. “Lead on then, Sister. We should take the stairs, though. If they begin to sabotage the building a lift could quickly become a coffin.”

The three descend the bleak stairwell of metal and concrete. The buzzing of inferior light fixtures are a constant as the thumping of heavy boots and the clattering sounds of weapons echo endlessly, announcing their descent.

They reach the bottom without interference and come upon a heavy door with a number bad installed into an otherwise featureless surface. “Most locks are not given a custom sequence in fear of the failure of human memory, or being charged with techno heresy. So the vast majority of these locks,” Veida says as she presses a seemingly random number routine, “are still operating under a preset unlocking rite.” The door swings open obediently and the three hurry through the parking deck.

As they come upon the exit ramp to the streets above Orpheus motions for them to slow. “Creep up the ramp just enough that you can see them, let’s not expose ourselves any sooner than we must.” The others nod and Veida takes the lead position.

Veida moves up the ramp until her head just comes up to street level. A purifying stream of burning promethium erupts from the end of her flamer as five gangers meet a painful, screaming end.

The other five man squad have just begun to mount a counteroffensive when Jaylene’s combat shotgun matches Veida’s flamer for kills. The furious burst of shotgun blasts perforated the whole area and Jaylene doesn’t let go until the bolt holds open to an empty chamber. “Last magazine.” She declares as she reloads.

Orpheus strides to street level. “Surrender and throw down your weapons and I will show lenience. This is your only opportunity.” Movement is heard inside the vehicle though no surrender is spoken. “They are unrepentant, Sister.”

Veida storms up the length of the ramp to stand on street level and engulfs the vehicle in flames, the promethium easily pours through holes in the armored windows and flows up through the cracks around doors. The vehicle becomes a howling crematorium as the gangers inside perish.

“Jaylene, ready the car, Veida, give me a hand.” Orpheus orders as he walks to the rear of the vehicle. The rear doors hang open and a heavy stubber, scorched and covered with an ashen corpse, sits at the ready. “It’s still operational, this could come in handy.” Orpheus says as he takes up a grip opposite Veida. The two pull it off its mounting with ease and stow it in the trunk of the undercover Arbites cruiser.

As soon as they get moving Jaylene contacts her precinct. “This is Investigator Jaylene Magall, Safehouse Omnibus has been compromised, over twenty summary judgments performed during the escape. Requesting a secure vehicle bay open at precinct 99.”

“Preparing for your arrival as we speak. We just received a report of two improvised armored vehicles on your vicinity running fast and hot, dispatching backup.”

“Negative.” Jaylene orders into the vox system. “Reinforce the precinct perimeter, they’ll be most desperate when our escape is within reach.”

“Understood. Emperor protects you, Investigator.”

Just as the exchange ends two bulky vehicles with armor sheets bolted and welded on appear from a side street. Dark plumes of exhaust flare up as the oversized engines spur the vehicles on to impressive speeds. The window plating folds down and a crowd of shotgun barrels expose themselves, bristling from every open hatch they unleash relentless fire.

The blasts rip across the cruiser and crack and chip at the armored glass, nearing a complete shatter quickly. “I thought you said this thing was rated against small arms fire!” Orpheus bellows.

“It is! For standard ammunition! They must be loaded with manstoppers!” Jaylene retorts.

Veida leans out and blasts a stream of flame which the vehicle quickly evades by tapping the brakes to stay just out of the burning stream. “Damn them all! Can’t they even die with dignity?”

The other vehicle begins picking up considerable speed and Orpheus activates the vox projection array, broadcasting his voice loudly outside the vehicle. “Good, a little closer and I can slit your throats myself.” He growls. The vehicle backs off with a screech and reveals its own compliment of shotgun wielding criminals, blasting out the rear windshield and putting a handful of holes into the hull.

“I’ve driven worse.” Jaylene reassures them.

One of the vehicles pushes their acceleration and flies past the cruiser, opening its rear doors to reveal a Heavy stubber. “Evasive maneuvers!” Jaylene hollers. “Orpheus, pass me your pistol!” Veida shouts over the chorus of shotgun blasts, engine sounds and screeching tires.

Interrogator Letra holds his bolt pistol out, Veida goes to take it but Orpheus won’t let go. “This weapon was made by some of the most skilled hands in the galaxy. If you drop this weapon, we are stopping to pick it up. Understood?”

Veida nods and takes the weapon, firing a single shot which zips just over the barrel of the heavy stubber causing the gunner to hurriedly duck and lose his aim as the heavy weapon sprays ammunition haphazardly across the street, missing the cruiser entirely.

“Emperor be praised.” Veida says under her breath as Jaylene’s driving is able to soften the impact of the ceaseless barrage of shotgun blasts.

Orpheus activates the vox system once more. “You are firing upon an agent of the Emperor’s Holy Inquisition!”

Immediately the vehicle in the rear breaks off and disappears down a side street. The one in front ceases firing but maintains it’s position, indistinct shouting erupts from within. Orpheus joins the inaudible discussion, “I have seen more than twenty of your comrades slain in the past hour, what makes any of you think you will fare better?”

The vehicle slams it’s rear doors shut and flees expediently.

Veida passes the bolt pistol back to its owner. “You can do quite a lot with a few words, Interrogator.”

“Thank you, Sister. All things being equal I would rather rely on your flames or Jaylene’s shotgun than my words but when only words will do it helps to have the best of them.” He replies.

Jaylene pulls into an awaiting vehicle bay and a pair of servitors begin attending to repairs immediately as the three enter the precinct fortress. Jaylene quickly leads them into a hallway and opens a room where a handful of subordinate officers work at data terminals and sift over pict logs.

“I am commandeering these quarters until further notice, if you wish to contest my actions, my name is Investigator Jaylene Magall, you can take it up with Captain Navick.” Jaylene orders. The working officers gather their supplies, salute and leave without a word.

Once the room is empty Jaylene locks the door and takes a seat. “What’s our next move?” She asks.

“Well,” Orpheus says, taking a deep breath and rubbing his neck. “we know which gang is perpetrating these actions, the Breakwater Bonded, and their territory is known to the local enforcers which you have access to, correct?”

Jaylene nods.

“So we know who is doing it, where they are and who is running this operation.” He says pulling the paper found on one of the gangers earlier. “But, after reading this, it is clear they are just hired muscle. Yes they are guilt of their crimes but they only did it for the payout, even if we were to wipe them all from history their employer would find some other criminal retinue to handle the deed.”

“What about the interrogation? What did you learn?” Veida asks.

“The next target is an Imperial temple in the 8th district, 11th block of this stratum of the Hive. They will suspect their operation was compromised which will mean they will either abandon the target, or if the employer is insistent on this target, they will try to act before we can make use of the information.” Orpheus says, pacing to the wall where a map of the local hive sector is displayed.

“We need to defend the temple.” Veida declares adamantly. “If we attempt to make a move on their territory and neglect one of our flanks for even a moment they could easily sneak a small team by to carry out the bombing and then the interrogation was for nothing anyway.”

Jaylene nods. “Of course if we fail on that we get disintegrated by a small atomic bomb.”

Orpheus notes Vieda’s look and elaborates. “The crime in question is the placing and detonating of small atomic devices. The deepest reaches of Williams Breach are populated by mutant laborers who mine radioactive minerals for the creation of atomic macrocannon shells. Somehow this gang’s employer has gotten a hold on some so these bombs are utilizing military-grade atomic material. Not only have these events eroded the morale and faith of the people, opening the door to heretical practices in their desperation but the sites have been left irradiated resulting in widespread illness and much difficulty in rebuilding and forgetting the attack in the first place.”

“All the more reason to ensure this attack fails.” Veida says with determination.

“We’ll need a safehouse.” Jaylene notes. “I don’t have access to anything in the area, that’s all Ecclesiarchy jurisdiction.”

“Or their chamber militant.” Orpheus adds, looking to Veida. “How close are your ties with the Adeptus Sororitas?”

“The closest I have.” Veida says as she seeks contact through a secure vox communicator in the room.

The vox speaker returns with a very familiar, “This is Sister Elise of the Burning Rose, identify yourself.”

“Sister Veida of the Nomadic Word.”

“Your vox signature is unfamiliar, is everything alright?” Elise asks.

“I am on Confragus, on assignment with a member of the Inquisition. Do you have any authority in the Imperial Temple of Williams Breach, 8th district, 11th block, mining level epsilon.” Veida asks.

The sound of static silence hangs in the air for some time before there is a response. “Yes, we have a Sister-initiate who is on watch there as part of her training.” Elise says.

“Could we receive sleeping accommodations nearby?”

“Nonsense, for you we will have the initiate take up a bed elsewhere, her quarters are yours to use as you see fit.”

“Thank you.” Veida says. “The Emperor provides, and may he reward you for your assistance.”

“To assist in his work is reward enough, Sister.” Elise replies.

Jaylene nods to Veida. “Well, that’s good news.”

“I have more.” Orpheus declares. “I have some contacts in the Astra Militarum and have managed to acquire the advice of a demolitions expert. Jaylene, if you can send a copy of the data script from the temple’s construction to this logis-address.” He scribbles a series of numbers on a nearby piece of paper. “Then we can anticipate where the bomb is most likely to be placed.”

Jaylene takes the paper, looking over it carefully and securing it in a pocket of her armor. “It’s a very good start but how do we actually stop this thing?” She asks.

“I can disguise myself as a member of the Ecclesiarchy. I know all the rites and rituals and bear a degree of authority there anyway.” Veida offers. “It will allow us to get as close as possible to those who enter.

“Your armor is distinct.” Orpheus reminds her.

Veida shrugs. “I will shed it then, my faith will protect me.”

“I don’t like the idea of you going unarmored, looking for someone smuggling in a bomb.” Jaylene says.

Orpheus nods. “Agreed, I will find you some armor that you can wear beneath your robes. I’ll gather some surveillance equipment as well. We can sleep in rotation. Two will stay on watch while one sleeps, working on an 8 hour sleep pattern.”

“Veida walks the crowds in the day with you for the first half and me for the second then when she goes to sleep you wake up and we work the night hours.” Jaylene states.

“I’ll man the surveillance pict-feeds during my shifts, Jaylene, you will monitor the feed for your portion of the day shift and walk the floor at night.” Orpheus says.

A silent agreement passes between the three. “Then it is decided.” Orpheus says.

Tag so you can find this easily @sincerestaffect

#wrath and glory #40K #warhammer 40k #roleplaying games #my campaign

[my-miraculous-headcanons]

Cait Sidhe

Another writing AU of mine that I’ve started: Gabriel Agreste realising he should do better as a father and receiving the Black Cat miraculous, then making the decision to become someone his son can look up to, having already failed to do so as a father. 

AKA the good AU where Gabriel isn’t a total shit and actually makes attempts at being a good dad. 

• He becomes Cait Sidhe. (Pronounced Caught Shē) His transformation is a black suit with a white tie, and a mask. Instead of ears, his hair is separated into two parts, and slicked back, like a constantly on edge cat. He has a waistcoat with a single long coattail. It moves like an actual tail. The staff is strapped to his leg, and he’s constantly using it like it’s a cane when idle, then wielding it like a sword when fighting.

• He figures out Marinette’s identity as his crime-frighting partner (protege? Who knows. She’s a child but she’s not to be underestimated) very early in the game. Adrien comes home and tells him about the gum incident, and he later hears Ladybug telling him the same story. It’s not too hard putting the pieces together.

• Ladybug/Marinette becomes a very good influence on him, and frequently gives him advice on how to be a better father. He told her about his strained relationship with his son and how he wishes to do better, but doesn’t know how. He also mentioned that his wife is no longer in the picture to help him. With Marinette’s help and suggestions, Gabriel slowly rebuilds his relationship with Adrien. They talk and spend time with each other much more often.

• In return, Gabriel offers advice to Marinette, knowing that she’s a designer herself. He doesn’t out his own identity, but he does mention being in the fashion industry, and is constantly giving her pointers. He also teaches her how to deal with media, and how to gain the right connections. Sometimes he has to have long-winded arguments with her just to get her to submit her designs for fashion contests. 

• Adrien, instead of developing a crush on Ladybug, falls head over heels for Marinette. In this universe, Adrien didn’t work up the courage to correct Marinette, so Marinette has no idea that he didn’t put the gum on her chair, and therefor doesn’t have a crush on him. Gabriel knows about all this and finds it both hilarious and devastating at the same time. He doesn’t remember teenagers being so complicated. Communication is key, children.

• I don’t know who will be the threat in this universe yet. I played with the idea of Adrien being Papillon, but c’mon, Adrien would never. He may have the perfect backstory for the typical villain, but what makes him a great character is that despite it all, he has a heart of gold. I can’t for the life of me change that, AU or not.

• Gabriel is constantly trying to make his son look good in front of both Marinette and Ladybug. Adrien is absolutely mortified by it, and is also wondering why the fuck not only his father, but Cait Sidhe himself is trying to make him seem impressive in front of both his crush and the spotted superheroine. Marinette’s just confused, but also a bit amused, especially when it’s coming from Gabriel. She thinks it’s typical fatherly bragging. 

• Marinette gushes about how awesome she thinks Gabriel Agreste’s fashion skills are and he’s greatly amused by it because dear lord wait until she finds out who he is. She’s clearly a driven individual, strong in her decision to make a name for herself on her own terms without riding on the coattails of another. She’s actually the first girl Gabriel full-heartedly supports being Adrien’s love interest. 

• Marinette isn’t aware of the fact that Cait Sidhe knows her identity, so all of her attempts at hiding it around him is highly amusing. He never tells her. 

• Gabriel, having already an extensive amount of knowledge about the miraculous stones from his time in Tibet, educates Marinette on the history of the stones frequently, and answers any questions she has regarding them without hesitation. 

• Gabriel and Plagg surprisingly get along. They’re both grumpy old men and bond over being grumpy old men together, and gossip with each other when Adrien’s not around. Plagg always refers to Marinette as “Adrien’s Girlfriend” or “your kid’s soulmate.” Plagg encourages Gabriel to let loose a bit, which is helpful in his overall relationship with Adrien. 

• Marinette somehow ends up being friends with Adrien in her Ladybug mask, and Adrien spills that he never actually put gum on Marinette chair, and feels really bad that he never corrected that assumption. Marinette is drowning in guilt and does her best to build a friendship with him the next day outside the mask.

• Gabriel starts showing up to Adrien’s recitals, basketball games, fencing matches, and even came for Parents Day. He’s taking Marinette’s advice to heart. It’s worth it to see his son’s face light up.

• Gabriel sees Nino attempting a date with Marinette like in that Animan episode and promptly ruins it as Cait Sidhe. Yeah, that was probably a shitty thing to do, but that’s his SON’S girl right there. Back off.

• Gabriel starts riding in the car with Adrien to and from school, and decides to change the route so that they can stop by the Dupain-Cheng bakery every morning. Adrien immediately figures out what his dad’s trying to do and is dying from embarrassment. Gabriel somehow becomes friends with Mr. and Mrs. Dupain-Cheng. They don’t seem bothered by his personality, and even go out of their way to give him helpful parenting tips. They see that he’s trying.

• Honestly I just like this AU bc I like to imagine a better version of Gabriel that is actually redeemable and can learn to do right by Adrien. Awkward, but trying his best, and growing into a better person.

Y’all can do whatever you wish with all of this. Wanna write something about it, go ahead. Wanna add your own HCs, go ahead. Wanna construct your own villain for the story, go ahead. I just wanted to share an AU that’s a lot less angst driven. 

#Maximilian Speaks #Miraculous Ladybug #Marinette Dupain-Cheng #Ladybug #Gabriel Agreste #Cait Sidhe #Adrinette #Adrienette #Ladrien #ML #Adrien Agreste

[96thdayofrage]

After the towers fell, Americans wanted to feel safe from terror attacks, by any means necessary. The notion that some kind of profiling had to go on in order to tighten up security procedures was fairly uncontroversial eighteen years ago.

As a result, few cared about the long-term implications of giving the state power to informally tab people terrorists, before blasting out to 18,000 different entities, including schools, embassies, and potential employers.

There was no real brake on the listmaking process, which allowed “the watchlist” to balloon. The list expanded from 680,000 people in 2013 to 1.2 million in 2017. Some 4,600 of the people on the list are said to be Americans.

Inclusion on the TSDB happens according to a space-age, Homeland version of the infamous stop-and-frisk policing technique, another program that became an end run around probable cause. In the mid-2000s, hundreds of thousands of people in cities like New York, mostly young black and Hispanic males, were stopped every year based upon the “reasonable” or “articulable” suspicion that a person has committed, is committing, or is about to commit a crime.

Similarly, a person could land on the TSDB based upon the “articulable intelligence” that a person “is engaged, has been engaged, or intends to engage” in terrorist activities.

There was no requirement that a person commit a crime before being placed on the list, and being acquitted of a terrorism-related offense didn’t prevent one from being placed on this informal dishonor roll.

The mere fact of the list gave federal authorities enormous power. One whiff of a person’s name near the “known or suspected” terror roster would be enough to end applications for FAA or transportation licenses, hazmat permits, access to military bases, and a variety of government or private sector jobs or education opportunities.

This is probably a highlight of the program for some – it’s difficult to question the wisdom of keeping a suspected terrorist away from hazardous materials – but the huge problem was that people had no real recourse for contesting their inclusion on the list.

The official complaint method for travelers who experienced difficulties was the Department of Homeland Security’s Travel Redress Inquiry Program (TRIP). However, as Trenga noted:

The submission triggers a review… which, in 98% of cases, results in a determination that the claimed travel difficulties had no connection to an individuals inclusion on the TSDB.

When the complainant is a match to someone on the watchlist, the complaint goes to the “TSC Redress Office,” which would then conduct an internal review and send the complainant a determination letter that, no matter what, would not inform the person if they were or were not on the list.

In a lot of War on Terror programs, the fact that no one can be sure if they’re even on a list becomes a major defense against challenges to the system. As an American Bar Association editorial noted back in 2011,

A second doctrinal problem arises from the deeply problematic intersection between secrecy and the doctrine of standing…

For years, the government has advocated… a restrictive theory of standing… requiring would-be challengers of government surveillance programs to demonstrate that the government has actually intercepted their communications.

It’s a Catch-22. You need standing to challenge an abuse of authority, but that very abuse of authority prevents you from gaining information to secure standing.

Want to claim the government is violating disclosure rules under the FOIA law? You might have a problem if you can’t prove what’s being rebuffed in a FOIA request. Want to contest your inclusion on the No-Fly List, or the TSDB? It’s a problem if you don’t even know for sure you’re on it.

I watched this process play out in court last year. When an American citizen named Bilal Abdul-Kareem, who claimed to have survived multiple drone attacks overseas, sued to get himself removed from the “Distribution Matrix,” he faced a serious hurdle because he could not prove he was on the list.

The government argued the suit should be thrown out because neither Kareem nor his co-plaintiff, a journalist named Ahmad Zaidan, could “plausibly” make a case they were on a list.

“The much more plausible explanation,” the government lawyer argued in a DC court last spring, “is that plaintiff Kareem experienced explosions in Syria because he was covering the Syrian civil war as a journalist.”

The Kill List, the TSDB, and all the secret surveillance programs pose the same problem: they exist more or less completely apart from meaningful public oversight. They’re bureaucratic states within states.

For instance, part of the PATRIOT Act governing the issue of National Security Letters (NSLs) – by which the FBI can demand that private companies turn over subscriber information, billing records, and other private data – allows the government to place gag orders on recipients of such letters.

Because of this, we only have a faint idea of what NSLs look like. In one rare case, a man named Nicholas Merrill balked and sued when his company was issued a National Security Letter. In that case, the government argued that even releasing the existence of the letter would compromise national security.

This is frightening given that a) no courts need to approve the issuance of such letters, and b) the quantity of such demands is massive. Over a ten-year period, the government reportedly issued over 300,000 NSLs, at one point reaching a pace of 60,000 issued per year. The Merrill case in 2015 represented the first time a gag order was lifted on one of these operations.

The recent watchlist lawsuit should remind us we’re assassinating, torturing, snooping on, and blacklisting people all over the world, by means of a continually expanding federal bureaucracy that exists outside of any specific mission, and refuses to recognize the oversight authority of courts or congress.

One of the reasons these secret bureaucracies keep expanding is that there is no powerful lobby, no civil liberties version of PhRMA or the National Rifle Association, to oppose them. The people affected by these programs aren’t drug companies or gun manufacturers, just everyone, and everyone doesn’t have much juice in Washington.

[mst3kproject]

Night of the Bloody Apes

I finally got back to this one after being distracted by Night Fright – and Night of the Bloody Apes is an excellent potential MST3K subject.  It’s got Mexican wrestlers, bloodthirsty ape-men, and Rene Cardona, the director of Santa Claus.  There’s a perfect stinger moment, too, when some old abuela comes across a corpse in the street and runs off screaming, oh!  A dead man! A dead man!  A dead man!

A wrestling match goes wrong and one of the contestants, Elena Gomez, hits her head on the concrete floor, leaving her in a long-term coma.  Her opponent, Lucy Osorio, is distraught, blaming herself, and vows to retire from wrestling as soon as her contract is up.  I bet you think that’s gonna be important, don’t you?

The actual plot involves Dr. Krallman and his assistant Goyo kidnapping a gorilla from a zoo so that he can transplant its heart into his dying son Julio (there is an explanation offered for how this will cure his leukemia, but trust me, it’s not worth repeating).  In real life, if a mad scientist gave you a gorilla’s heart your body would reject the organ and you would die – but this is a stupid Luchador movie, so Julio turns into an ape-man and goes on a murderous rampage instead, all in his pajamas and bare feet!  Even having read what I said above, I’m sure you still think Lucy’s gonna have to wrestle him, because where else could her plot possibly be going?  Joke’s on the audience, it’s going fucking nowhere.

In the opening scene, we meet Lucy and her boyfriend Arturo Martinez, see her put on her devil-themed mask, and watch the match in which her opponent is injured.  This still goes on a little longer than it should, but I cannot even express how much more interesting it is than the opening of Racket Girls.  The simple reason why is that we’ve met Lucy.  We know next to nothing about her, but we’ve at least heard her voice, and so we automatically go into the match rooting for her.  Then there’s the unexpected turn when what we anticipated as a moment of victory becomes a tragedy instead.  The music is absurdly overblown but other than that, this sequence is well-written and well-executed.

The rest of the movie is crap.

I’m sure you’re wondering what the subplot about Lucy and her injured friend has to do with the gorilla-man plot.  There are a couple of very thin threads between them.  Dr. Krallman is also treating Elena and eventually decides that he can declare her brain-dead and use her heart to replace the gorilla’s and cure Julio’s pithecanthropy (all the Greek I took in college was totally worth it to be able to coin that word). Arturo is a detective, investigating the murders the gorilla-man commits.  Lucy, however, is irrelevant – she’s just the place where Arturo’s story and Krallman’s happen to meet.  At the end her only role is to declare how sad the whole thing is.

The sound in this film is bizarre.  The voice acting is bland but not awful – the writing is awkward as hell.  When Arturo suggests that the murders are being committed by a beast-man, one of his colleagues declares (and this is word-for-word), “it’s more probable that of late, more and more you’re watching on your television many of those pictures of terror.”  That’s a line the writers of Gamera vs Guiron would have thrown out!  Meanwhile the music, as I already mentioned, is loud and bombastic, with screeching brass and ominous bassoon that sound like something from a melodramatic silent film.

The visuals are not for the weak of stomach. Julio’s heart transplant is represented by stock footage of actual heart surgery, with plenty of blood and bone and an actual human heart still twitching in the doctor’s fingers.  On the one hand, it probably looks way better than anything the film-makers could have managed on their effects budget and is definitely preferable to the Ed Wood Jail Bait approach.  On the other… I wonder who that patient was, and what he would think if he knew his heart operation ended up in Night of the Bloody Apes.  The murder scenes also tend to be gruesome, with lots of blood and some surprisingly graphic effects moments, like an eyeball popping out.  Despite being filmed in loving close-up, shots like the eyeball and a later scalping are stunningly unconvincing, especially with the actual surgery footage there to compare them to.

I’m not sure what this movie thinks about women. Lucy is a character who has goals and conflicts outside of men – Arturo does want her to retire from wrestling and marry him, but her reasons for actually doing so have more to do with Elena’s accident than with him.  Her trauma, the way the people around her dismiss it, and how she attempts to deal with it could have been the core of the movie if anyone had cared.  We don’t meet any of Elena’s other friends and are told that she has no family, so her death is a tragedy in its own right, rather than because of its effect on anybody else.

At the same time, women are something this film very much exploits.  We get a nice look at Lucy’s ass as she gets out of the shower, and Julio spends his gorilla-man rampages murdering and raping random women in long, leering, extremely distasteful shots.  None of these victims have names or backstories.  If we knew them at all, it might be hard to enjoy watching them killed.  I will say that at least they put up good fights – Victim One smashes a lamp over Julio’s head, and Victim Two kicks and thrashes so hard that the stunt guy in the gorilla-man makeup is having a hard time holding her down.  She also has the presence of mind to go seek help not just for herself but for her boyfriend, who she has no idea is already dead.  The grossest moment is when Krallman and Goyo prepare to remove Elena’s heart to transplant into Julio.  This woman is in a coma, and yet the camera lingers on her bare tits rising and falling as she breathes.

Between this stuff and the surgery footage, MST3K would have had no trouble making room for host sketches.  Hopefully one of them would have featured Crow and Servo in luchador masks.

There are several places where Night of the Bloody Apes comes perilously close to meaning something, but it always manages to swerve back into nonsense at the last minute.  For starters, the gorilla-man is supposed to represent Julio devolving into an animal, but like Bela Lugosi’s character in The Ape-Man, his actions are often all too human.  It is human women he seeks out to rape, after all, and killing them afterwards so they can’t tell who did it is a thing only a human being could do.  Too, with some of his later victims gorilla-Julio begins using tools, like knives, in a very human way, and the coroner states that the damage to the victims’ bodies is more characteristic of a human attack than an animal.  As in The Ape-Man, humans are always the most dangerous beast in the jungle.

There’s actually a fairly strong parallel drawn between Elena and Julio.  For the most part we see both of them lying quietly in hospital beds (at least before Julio’s transformation), helpless to do anything about their own situation. Both have a loved one who doesn’t want to give up on them, and both have suffered an injury that leads others to regard them as less than human.  The people the gorilla-man meets on the street see him as nothing but a monster, and Krallman fears he may be shot and killed before he can be cured.  Elena, meanwhile, is unlikely to come out of her coma, and so Krallman sees her as nothing but a potential source of spare parts. When she vanishes, the hospital staff are more worried about their reputation than they are her welfare.

Night of the Bloody Apes may be thought of as a movie about, of all things, informed consent.  We’re not told whether Elena consented to being an organ donor.  Since Goyo says that using her heart would be a crime, I will assume not, and she doesn’t have any family to consent for her.  Julio has no idea what his father plans to do to him to effect a cure and no idea of the possible consequences.  Is it right to take Elena’s heart without her permission if it’ll save Julio?  Is it right to perform an experimental surgery Julio doesn’t even know he needs if it’ll save his life?

The problem with all three of these themes is that the writers never seem to notice any of them!  They’re not interested in examining the line between human and animal violence, it’s just there to lead the police on the right trail.  They don’t see Elena and Julio as alike, nor do they try to confront the problem of medical ethics.  Or even if they did do these things intentionally, they don’t take them anywhere.

Night of the Bloody Apes is another one that would be fairly easy to re-write into a better movie.  For starters, the thing to do would be to set up Lucy and gorilla-Julio as opponents for each other – maybe she sees him attack somebody and tries to intervene, only to have the victim die in a way too close to what happened to Elena, leading her to decide she’s gonna track him down.  Her wrestling skills allow her to beat him, but Krallman begs her not to kill Julio and explains the situation, leading her to suggest using Elena’s heart.  This would allow her a way to come to terms with her friend’s death by knowing some good came out of it, and could get further into the idea of medical consent.  Julio’s final transformation could have come out of ‘how could you do this to me?’ anger at his father.

I wonder if there weren’t some earlier draft of Night of the Bloody Apes that was more like that, because with the movie as it stands I can’t understand why Lucy is the first character we meet when she ultimately does very little.  If I’m right, I guess they changed it because they thought nobody would watch a movie in which a woman does both physically and emotionally heroic things, but in the process they reduced their movie to scraps of what it could be.  In Lucy’s own closing words, it’s unfortunate.  Really sad.

#mst3k #reviews #episodes that never were #night of the bloody apes #tw: rape #60s

[warsofasoiaf]

Sure, the internal politics was a bit flat, but I thought you punched it up enough to make it work. But realistically, Collins would be much more politically powerful after repelling two invasions? The Protestant Ulsterites are given fair consideration. Just seems like the game mechanics got in the way, but you wove it into the story well. Also, Rose of Sharon Cassidy reminder!

Rose of Sharon Cassidy is a great companion. At first glance, she’s a callback to one of the more popular Fallout companions, John Cassidy. Both have big hearts (neither can be recruited if the player has low Karma) and a heart condition. Both are small business owners. Both have a knack for shotguns (Cass gets the Shotgun Surgeon perk and I usually end up giving her Dinner Bell) and acquit themselves well in firefights. Both are experienced. Both can have quite colorful and inventive pieces of profanity. However, Rose of Sharon Cassidy is a great character in her own right, she is not merely another character’s shadow.

Cassidy is one of two Western-themed companion characters in the game, the other being Raul. While the second act of Fallout: New Vegas is about Vegas and the power struggle within it, the first act of the game borrows a lot of Western themes and motifs, from the little town shootout ala Rio Bravo to finding a sheriff for Primm to the man rising from certain death to pursue their killer like a non-supernatural High Plains Drifter. Cassidy is a caravanner and muleskinner (or brahminskinner because it’s Fallout), a classic Western archetype, and she fits the description: rugged, colorful, and individualistic. She’s tough and violent to contend with a tough, violent Wasteland, with a love of whiskey to match any Clint Eastwood character.

Speaking of Clint Eastwood, Rose of Sharon Cassidy is firmly in the revisionist Western camp of Western characters. Classic Westerns often didn’t have many roles for women outside of love interests to damsel, doting wives, or wicked saloon girls, which in the era of the Hays Code was a codeword for prostitute, but in the 1960′s roles began to expand for women in Westerns as the Western genre itself began to revise itself. Revisionist Westerns, for those not in the know, often took the classic Western genre to task, the depth and scope of which would be too lengthy an aside for this essay. Suffice it to say, when Cassidy joins up, she makes it plain that she isn’t looking to be just a tag-along, she’s being joined because of her skills. Cass is not a worthless hanger-on, a character devoid of depth to simply enrich the Courier’s tale. She’s a Revisionist Western character, and she has her own story.

Rose of Sharon Cassidy is a moral person even though she has Neutral Karma herself. She does not like a Courier that commits hostile acts and will call the Courier out if their Karma begins to drop. You get two strikes with Cass, and dropping to Evil Karma means you’re out, she will up and leave. If you do not start something, she will head back West, giving up on a future for herself in the Mojave. Or contrarily, if the Courier is a shitbox as well as evil, she’ll shoot. There are things that she won’t tolerate and it’s based on Karma, not faction reputation like the other companion characters. Again, Cass has her own story, she will not content herself being a tag-along. This isn’t perfect, of course, open-world games being what they are, you can take your time accomplishing her quest, but mechanics and story are always, in some ways, at odds. A pressing deadline means lost content, which can be perfectly fine for some games, but other times, not so much.

Cassidy, however, is at her lowest point when she meets the Courier, drinking away the days at the Mojave Outpost bar after her caravan company had been roasted to ashes in an apparent raider attack. Unable to leave due to Ranger Jackson forbidding caravan travel due to giant ant attacks, Cassidy is content to spin her wheels and drown her sorrows, and will not move for any reason, not even the most silver-tongued Courier. Instead, she recommends you to one of her competitors, Alice McLafferty of the Crimson Caravan, the largest caravan company in New California, and an ironic recommendation given what will come later in Cass’s own quest.

Continuing with McLafferty’s quest line, however, gives you Cass’s companion quest Heartache By the Number, which is also a song on the New Vegas soundtrack - a mournful Guy Mitchell country song about a man who constantly has his heart broken by a lover who leaves him, comes back, leaves him again, and says that they’re coming back but never do. The song’s protagonist, despite the pain, cannot bear to end it and leave, because even though it hurts, the day he stops counting his heartaches is the day the world ends. Despite the pain, the singer can’t give his lover up, and we see that Cass, despite her caravan having been lost, can’t bear to give it up and sell it to Alice. Anyone who has ever owned a business can tell you, there’s a piece of themselves in their work, and it can be hard to give it up even if the offer is tempting (this isn’t universal sentiment, of course, plenty of business owners do wish to sell at a good price). Cassidy Caravans isn’t just a caravan company, it’s a piece of Cass. She even asks flat-out “if someone asked to give you 1,000 caps for your name, would you?” Even if all she had was nothing, nothing was still worth something because it was still hers. 

The quest to buy the caravan is one of the little things in the game that truly show Obsidian’s love for the craft and their use of dialogue for fun. You can pay extra out of your own pockets to recruit Cass, standard fare for an RPG because you don’t want to miss out on content just because you don’t have the right skill and money is usually an acceptable fix in gaming, but the other options are excellent. The two speech checks, the first to point out that she doesn’t want to be trapped here forever, and the second that points out that if she was responsible for Cassidy Caravans, the destruction of it is on her too. Both get you the same results, but require different speech levels in order to get out. Neither one provides any mechanical difference to Cass, but the accusatory stance naturally would engender hostility, and so it should be a harder speech check. The game uses the mechanics to reinforce the action in a way that the game’s limitation on programming cannot easily match. This isn’t as elegant, perhaps, as the speech check with Ulysses at the end of Lonesome Road litters the conversation tree with false answers that will catch someone who wasn’t paying attention and just clicking through the tree, but it gets the point across with much less conversational depth (and accordingly, less programming and voice acting work). The best option, however, is the drinking contest, where you pay 12 bottles of whiskey to attempt to drink Cass under the table. The actual choices all end in the same successful quest resolutions, but the paths that they take vary considerably and hilariously, from Cass smoking you and you falling off your stool (in dialogue options only, the engine wouldn’t render that), you becoming equally drunk and saying stupid drunk things like “I love you and your little hat,” to you simply obliterating Cass with your gigantic 10 Endurance, asking if you felt *what* exactly as you polish off six bottles of whiskey like they were water. There’s absolutely no point in creating that many dialogue choices other than the pure love of doing it, of putting it in there, of enjoying the craft of the RPG. It’s these little things that make me love Obsidian as a developer, and it’s something more game developers should do, to place more love into their programming and presentation.

After joining up with you, Cass still isn’t ready to simply forget her caravan, and asks if you can stop by site where it was hit. She wonders whether there’s any indication of what hit her caravan, but even if you’ve been there and seen the devastation, she asks to go anyway, to pay her respects if nothing else. Part of this is simple signposting, you need to get to the caravan so you can hit the next checkpoint of the quest to continue, but it still speaks to Cass’s character that she says that she wants to go there and does not simply take the Courier’s word and be done with it. The scene is every bit as bad as she thought, her caravan was hit by someone carrying energy weapons and looking not to rob the caravan but to destroy it completely and utterly, which is baffling. Hitting a caravan is typically supposed to be about stealing the goods and getting rich, not simply bloodsport. It’s confusing, but it’s also Fiend territory, who use energy weapons. A Fiend warband, whacked out of their brains with Psycho might look to satisfy their bloodlust, or Jet might make them so twitchy that they keep shooting until everything is ash. The hit is too professional though, Brotherhood of Steel-level military tactics, which wouldn’t match up with tweaking Fiends, but the Brotherhood doesn’t attack caravans without high-level technology.

Since there are too many inconsistencies, Cass wants to see what happened to Griffin Wares, another caravan company. The wreckage is the same, disintegrated caravan and cargo both, which means it cannot simply be a one-off, at least by video game logic anyway. Conservation of detail means that two times is enough to be strange, and three times is a confirmed pattern via the Rule of Three. Now suspicious instead of curious, Cass and the Courier investigate Durable Dunn’s Caravan. Living up to their name, however, this time there’s evidence that this was not the result of random juiced-up Fiends but a concerted assassination and murder by the Crimson Caravan and the Van Graff crime family, looking to murder their way to maximum profits by eliminating the competition and establishing a monopoly. We have the reveal and now we reach another classic hallmark of the Western genre, what is the hero supposed to choose? Kill them both in revenge for their crimes, or trust in the NCR’s justice system and bring evidence to Ranger Jackson to indict both of them. We also get a good view of a classic Western conflict, the big monied interests versus the little guy. These happened plenty of times in the west, such as in the Johnson County War where the homesteaders fought the wealthy Wyoming cattlemen’s association. 

Cassidy, hot-headed, is looking for a good brawl, and you can have two big fights at the Crimson Caravan HQ and the Silver Rush, the latter of which being a big energy weapon fight where, if successful, you can walk away with enough microfusion cells that you might qualify as a ghoul. That’s the classic Western anti-hero move, where the justice system is a tool of the powerful and both the crime syndicate and the corporation are the powerful. This form of justice is sorted on the frontier, beyond where the corrupt courts can reach. It’s immensely satisfying to Cass, and when she gives into her wrath her character receives a permanent upgrade of 15% gun damage. Combined with her Shotgun Surgeon perk, which ignores DT, Cass can become quite lethal with a 12-gauge. Yet the damage is not limited just to the Van Graff’s and the Crimson Caravan. The NCR is proven to be unable to protect caravans leading out to the Mojave on the Long 15 and so supply shipments drop off, and NCR settlements suffer. The Divide was already destroyed by the Courier before the game even started (and the Long 15 might be nuked depending on your choices in Lonesome Road) so that really stings.

The alternative though, is putting your fate in the hands of the corrupt NCR, ruled by its brahmin barons and other monied interests. Cass trusts Jackson with the evidence, but it would take a long time to prosecute the two conspirators. It means delaying the visceral satisfaction of revenge and the power that such an act can entail, and risking the chance that it fails. But if you show faith in the NCR, then that faith is rewarded. NCR uses the conspiracy to shape up their trade laws, and the Crimson Caravan and Van Graffs hurt in their bottom line. For her own part, Cass calms herself and becomes much tougher as a result, gaining max HP. Of course, this is clumsy though, since the Gun Runners can end up vaporizing both of them with no push back and your get the best of both worlds (and previously, a bug allowed you to peacefully complete the quest then go kill them and get both perks). It’s a bit clumsy perhaps, but life isn’t fair. Personally, I would have designed the quest so you had to collect a certain amount of evidence, not enough and the Van Graffs and Alice McLafferty get off scot-free. Whether that would be in the quest or just an ending slide, I could go either way, but I think that would have been a better way to build that kind of quest.

Of course, you could do nothing with Cass. You can bring her to Jean-Baptiste Cutting and have him gun her down to complete Birds of a Feather, coldly escorting Cass to her own slaughter. Of course, this is an evil act and it makes perfect sense for Cass, the one who would be disgusted by an evil Courier, to be the one eliminated in an Evil Karma path. That’s a credit to Obsidian, few developers are brave enough these days to create mutually exclusive content because of the cost of production, or mutually exclusive content being binary beads on a string where you have to choose between a saving a bus full of nuns or devouring a live kitten with minor callbacks and a morality meter to note your choice. But that’s a function of the increased cost of production these days, gone are the days when a level could be produced with a couple of writers, artists, and scripters (such as it was in Fallout 2). 

You knew it was coming. If this surprised you, you have only yourself to blame.

Cass is a supporter of the NCR, and it’s here that she shines, perhaps even unintentionally, as a revisionist Western character. She likes her country, but she’s aware of its flaws. The NCR lacks direction and cohesion, their compass is “always spinning, all the time.” The NCR is family, and you love family, but you can help but hurt as well that your family is constantly screwing up. The constant need to spread, to acquire more land and resources. It’s great press for the top, like Kimball who can give his pretty speeches at the Hoover Dam, but the common NCR grunt has to fight hostile gangs and wildlife without an established support structure to back them up. And Cass sees that if the NCR wins, it won’t change because it won’t learn. She wants the NCR to fix itself and is completely at a loss for how to do it. She far prefers NCR over the other factions, but she isn’t blind to its flaws. Like Raul she understands why some would join the Legion (provided they weren’t women, of course), because the security of their supply lines means that the threat of random violence is reduced, and that’s important in a post-apocalypse. Why pay these crushing NCR taxes if they won’t protect you? Why is NCR expanding to Hoover Dam when it can’t even stop cazadors from nesting near the power lines? They’re too thinly spread, and they won’t consolidate and reform because that doesn’t win you elections. 

The same is true of the Western genre in the revisionist Westerns. They state that the frontier was a black-and-white affair, where good guys wore the white Stetson and the desperados wore the black one. Cass’s feelings on the NCR are similar to what plenty of Western writers thought about Westerns, and what citizens of their own countries think about the nations they live in. The words that Cass speaks about the NCR could be said by any member of any nation, loving their country but wanting to fix the flaws. 

This isn’t to say that New Vegas is completely morally grey. There’s some clear moral lines that can be drawn, Caesar’s Legion is clearly an evil and cruel nation despite Caesar’s claims of Hegelian dialectical inevitability. But what about the NCR? Do its intentions for good or ill doom it or save it? Do you continue to support that family member that constantly screws up or do you stop giving them the rope to hang themselves. The answers to that question aren’t easy, but the faction system working toward the goal of what the Mojave is one of the biggest draws of the game, and so it’s clearly showing that these are types of questions worth discovering an answer to, whether it’s in the real world or the fantasy world.

Cass, as a character, gets you to start thinking about the flaws of these factions, because the grand climax of Hoover Dam has you picking which factions you want, whether one of the large ones with their own visions, or the ala carte options of the Yes Man playthrough where you pick which ones to embrace or reject. So Cass, in a nutshell, is that way a distillation of the grand Fallout: New Vegas experience; something you’d never expect from a whiskey-soaked nobody drowning her sorrows in a dingy bar in the corner of the map.

Thanks for the question, Anon.

SomethingLikeALawyer, Hand of the King

#fallout: new vegas #character analysis #fallout