#Hassan Valley

[mysterioushimachal]

Explore Hassan Valley (Green Valley) Shimla: Nature, Adventure, and Relaxation

[star-reyes]

Action and Movement in Sword of Azrael #1-4

Writing: Dan Watters

Art: Nikola Čižmešija

Colors: Marissa Louise

Letters: Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou

[pulseofthestars]

Sees people getting ready to throw hands with Shinji, “...”

“Gramps? Penth?”

“Hearken. The evening bell tolls thy name. Wings of death will thou sever their head?”

“Aaaahhhh... kill, killkill...! Outrage... Amazon!”

@pseudomonarkaerenea​

[komsomolka]

Nasrallah was killed because he was unrelenting in his support for Palestine. Unlike every other Arab leader, Nasrallah had led the fight against Israel twice, which led to its defeat: first, when Israel was forced to withdraw from Lebanon in 2000 and second when Israel could not vanquish Hezbollah in 2006. The man who defeated Israel was finally killed on September 27, 2024, along with thousands of his fellow Lebanese. [...]

In the Lebanese coastal city of Sur (Tyre), unknown people bombed a number of restaurants that serve alcohol in late 2012. I went down to talk to some of the owners of these restaurants and of a brewery, all of whom told me that they had been visited by people from Hezbollah who offered to pay for the damages even though the attacks were not by their members. Nasrallah had said that though he opposed the consumption of alcohol, he did not believe that Lebanese society must conform to the social views of any group but should learn to tolerate the mores of each other.

For all the talk of Nasrallah and antisemitism, it would be worth considering that it was Hezbollah under Nasrallah that helped the reconstruction of Beirut’s Maghen Abraham Synagogue. “[It] is a religious place of worship,” Nasrallah said, “and its restoration is welcome,” stated Arab News. It is this attitude that partly led to Nasrallah telling Julian Assange during a discussion about Palestine in 2012 that “the only solution is the establishment of one state—one state on the land on Palestine in which the Muslims and the Jews and the Christians live in peace in a democratic state. Any other solution will simply not be viable, and it won’t be sustained.”

When Israel, with US support, began its bombardment of Lebanon in 2006, it appeared certain that Hezbollah would be demolished. But it withstood the attack and counterattacked Israel. Years earlier, friends in the Arab states would ask me, “Why can’t we produce a Hugo Chávez?” meaning why could they not have a leader who would stand up against the interference of the West and the occupation of the Palestinians by Israel. During the 2006 war, these same people began to say that Nasrallah was their Chávez, that he was the incarnation of Gamal Abdel Nasser. The fact that Hezbollah was not destroyed and was able to stand up for itself proved to large sections of the Arab world that Israel lost that war.

The victory is partly attributed to Nasrallah’s ability to convert Hezbollah from a military force into an integral part of the “resistance society” (mujtama’ al-muqawama) in large parts of Lebanon; this resistance society shaped the worldview of the villages of southern Lebanon and the Bekaa Valley, where they committed themselves to the long-term struggle to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine and the Israeli interventions in southern Lebanon. It is this resistance community that defines Hezbollah’s endurance rather than the thousands of missiles it has hidden away in tunnels across Lebanon’s southern region. The Israelis tried to kill Nasrallah many times during and after 2006 but did not succeed. He would often talk about how one of his speeches was his last since it was unclear when the Israelis might succeed.

The assassination of Nasrallah produced a sense of shock across Lebanon because a view had been growing that he could not be killed. But Nasrallah was a man, and human beings die one way or the other. Robert Fisk asked him to explain what it meant to prepare for martyrdom, according to a 2001 article by him. “Imagine you are in a sauna,” Nasrallah said. “It is very hot but you know that in the next room there is air conditioning, an armchair, classical music, and a cocktail.” That would have been his attitude when the Israeli bombs landed.

[girlactionfigure]

⚠️ HEZBOLLAH MISSILE ATTACK ON HAIFA PROMPTS; ISRAEL DECLARES STATE OF EMERGENCY ⚠️

⚠️ For the first time since the 2006 Lebanon War, Hezbollah launched missiles directly at Haifa, forcing 300,000 Israelis to seek shelter. Rockets hit the area near Haifa University, marking a significant escalation in hostilities.

⚠️ Lieutenant General Herzi Halevi, Chief of the General Staff of the IDF, provided an update from the IDF’s Underground Operations Center. He stated that the IDF has initiated a proactive offensive operation targeting Hezbollah’s combat infrastructure, which has been developed over the past two decades. Halevi emphasized that the objective is to create conditions for the safe return of northern Israel's residents.

⚠️ Defense Minister Yoav Gallant supported this statement, saying the IDF is systematically dismantling Hezbollah's military capabilities, built over 20 years. Gallant highlighted that Hezbollah's leader, Hassan Nasrallah, now stands isolated as entire units of Hezbollah’s Radwan Force have been neutralized and tens of thousands of rockets destroyed. His comments came during a visit to the IDF Operations Directorate’s command room.

⚠️ In light of the growing conflict, a state of emergency has been declared throughout Israel, according to Israel Hayom. 

◾ Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu addressed the Lebanese people directly, clarifying that Israel’s conflict is with Hezbollah, not the Lebanese population.

◾ Finance Minister Bezalel Smotrich declared that Israel will now "change the rules of the game," signaling a shift in military strategy moving forward.

◾ Meanwhile, the Pentagon remains uncertain whether Israel is preparing for a ground incursion into Lebanon, but it acknowledges that Hezbollah's actions have escalated the situation.

⚠️ The IDF has begun dropping leaflets in southern Lebanon and the Beqaa Valley, urging Lebanese civilians to evacuate the areas. Additionally, Reuters reported that Jordan has suspended all flights to Beirut until further notice.

[zvaigzdelasas]

[NYT is Private US Media]

The Israeli military said that its fighter jets had struck Hezbollah air defenses in the Bekaa Valley, about 60 miles from the Israeli border. It said that the strikes were in response to a surface-to-air missile attack that downed an Israeli drone over southern Lebanon. Hezbollah claimed responsibility for that attack.[...]

In a statement, Hezbollah said that it had retaliated by firing a rocket barrage toward the Golan Heights[...]

During a meeting with military officials on Sunday, the Israeli defense minister, Yoav Gallant, said that his country was “planning to increase the firepower against Hezbollah,” adding that it would not pause operations along the border with Lebanon even if there were a temporary halt to the fighting in Gaza.[...]

Hassan Fadlallah, a Hezbollah lawmaker in the Lebanese Parliament, said on Monday that the latest round of Israeli strikes would “not go without a response.”

26 Feb 24

[houseofpurplestars]

Meanwhile in the west bank:

🚨 The IOF has invaded #Tulkarem, opening fire and targeting residents with gas bombs.

In #Nablus, the IOF is sending reinforcements in preparation for the demolition of the home of martyr Muath Al-Masri, who was assassinated in May in an operation that included over 200 IOF soldiers, following his operation with martyr Hassan Qatnani that killed three settlers in the Jordan Valley.

🚨 Documentation of the IOF bulldozer that caught fire after it was targeted with an explosive device in Nour Shams camp, #Tulkarem (Video 1).

Fierce armed clashes are continuing in the camp, as well as in #Nablus (Video 2), where the IOF has invaded to demolish the home of martyr Muath Al-Masri.

🚨 Local sources report that Star of David ambulances are present in Nour Shams camp in #Tulkarem as the IOF attempts to withdraw it's damaged bulldozer, amid fierce and ongoing armed clashes with the resistance.

🚨 The IOF abducted liberated prisoner Hisham Abu Hawwash from his home in Dura, #AlKhalil.

Hisham Abu Hawwash, 42 years old, was liberated from zionist prisoners after his victorious 141-day-long hunger strike in January 2022 following his abduction without charge or trial in October 2020.

t.me/PalestineResist

[dutifullynuttywitch]

Starlit night

Wake the Dead 

Art by the wonderful @lilyoffandoms

Pairing: Troy Hassan x Eva Archer (f!mc)  

Rating: Teen (fluff) 

@choicesjanuary2024 prompt: Aurora (day 8)

Word count: 1,187 

Summary:  Several years before the events in Wake the Dead, Troy surprises Eva with a late-night outing within the confines of the Tower. 

A/N: In this story Eva is 17, in her last year at school. Troy is about 2 years older and just recently started working at the supply depot. 

Eva tosses and turns around on her lumpy mattress, sleep elusive. She had gotten expelled. Again. Gotten into a fight with her sister over it. Again.  

“Eva, for crying out loud, it’s the second time this month! You have got to be more careful. You know how things are here.” 

“But Brynn, I don’t get why we can’t even talk about how things were, before. Maybe if we knew more, we could make this place a bit better for everyone.” 

Brynn sighs “I know you mean well, lil sis, but the leaders of the Tower are clear about the rules, whether we agree with them or not. And trust me, we don’t want to get kicked out into the wilderness.” 

She sighs, trying to will herself to sleep. Maybe she should hold her tongue more, but it infuriates her that the Tower leaders only care about teaching them the basics for survival – any form of critical thinking frowned upon, worse, punished. 

Toc. Toc.  

A knock on the door shakes her from her reverie. She opens a crack to find a grinning Troy. 

“What the hell, Troy? It’s the middle of the night!” She whispers, glancing back to make sure Brynn hasn’t stirred. 

“You don’t say! Come on, I have something to show you. You’re gonna like it.” He winks. 

“I’m in enough trouble as it is. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” 

“Afraid not, it’s kind of a middle of the night thing.” He grins wider. “And, we’ve gotta go now if we don’t want to get caught. So, what’dya say, Archer, up for a little adventure?” 

She frowns at him, but her curiosity is piqued.  

“Wait a sec.” 

She shuts the door on his pleased face and quickly pulls on a sweater, sweatpants and boots. She grabs a flashlight and sneaks out into the dark hallway, glancing one last time at Brynn’s sleeping form.  

She’s so gonna kill me. 

As soon as she shuts the door, Troy takes her hand, leading them down several service hallways then up a series of rickety fire exit stairs. They duck into the shadows a few times to avoid patrolling guards. 

“So where exactly are you taking me?” She whispers as they continue to climb ever higher. 

“It’s a surprise.” 

“Troy.”  

“We’re almost there!” He winks. 

Sure enough, a few minutes later he stops them in front of a steel door high up one of the Tower’s outer walls. He pulls out a key from his pocket and unlocks, pushing it open with a flourish. 

They enter a small room stacked with dusty cases filled with weapons, munitions and other military equipment. At the far end, a small balcony overlooks the forest surrounding the Tower.

“Troy, what is this place?” 

“An ammunitions depot. They have a bunch of these scattered around the tower to defend against drones. And in case of security breaches from inside the tower, I wager… Only Blackstock’s most loyal have access keys.” 

“Look at you, the ultimate insider!” Eva smirks at her friend, punching him lightly on the shoulder. 

“Nah, I just know people who know people. The surprise is over here. Come, take a look.” Troy leads her towards the exposed balcony. 

She gasps as she takes in the scene.  

The balcony is perched high above the ground, providing a bird’s eye view of the hills and valleys surrounding the Tower.  

She looks out at the snow-covered mountains and valleys. Millions of twinkling stars lighting the night.  

Her breath catches as she notices bright shimmering lights in hues of green, blue and purple, dancing across the sky. 

“It’s beautiful.” She whispers, stunned. 

“Yeah. They call them northern lights. I read about them in some magazine. I was telling Sam and the guys about them, and she told me she’d seen these strange lights while out patrolling the past few nights. Convinced her to lend me the key to this place. It’s pretty amazing, I never thought we’d see them so far south.” 

“Isn’t Sam that brunette guard you’ve been flirting with?” Eva smirks, teasing. “You charmed her into lending you the keys?” 

“What can I say, I’m irresistible.” Troy grins, puffing out his chest.  

“If you say so, Hassan.” She smirks.

Eva looks out at the magical scenery, captivated. The aurora dance in the skies in an ethereal, pulsating rhythm, reflected on the white blanket of snow covering the fields and mountains.  

She shivers a little as a cold gust buffets their small balcony. Troy pulls out a blanket from his bag. He sits down on the ledge and beckons her over, wrapping them both snuggly.  

“You came prepared.” 

He shrugs “Figured it’d get cold out here.” 

They sit in companionable silence for a while, in awe at the delicate dancing ribbons of light. Relishing in the peace and quiet of the outside world. 

“One day, Troy, I’m going to see all this from outside the Tower. There’s got to be something better out there for us...” 

“I’m quite alright right here, thank you very much.” 

“For someone who spends an inordinate amount of time reading up on old world curio, you’re not even a little interested in seeing and experiencing it for yourself?” 

“Oh, believe me, I am. If it weren’t for the flesh eating freaks I’d be long gone… but let’s face it, I’m too good looking to die.” He flashes her one of his trademark grins. 

She chuckles, a twinkle in her eyes. 

“So, speaking of good looks, why d’ya invite little old me when you could be making out with the lovely Sam?” Eva asks him teasingly. 

“First of all, I don’t need any magical dancing lights to up my game with the ladies.”  

She scoffs.  

“Second, I heard you got expelled. I swear Blackstock’s goons are becoming unbearable. And it’s not just the school. It's harder and harder to get my hands on contraband, they’re really cracking down on everyone.” He sighs. “Anyway, I just figured you could use a friend and some cheering up.” 

“Thanks Troy, this is just about the nicest thing someone’s done for me.”  

She kisses him on the cheek before laying her head on his shoulder, gazing out to the skies once more. 

Troy hopes the darkness hides his blush.  

He wraps an arm around Eva, pulling her closer as they both take in the mesmerizing display. 

Maybe one day he’ll be brave enough to tell her how he feels. 

But tonight, he’s content he was able to brighten her night a little. 

[eretzyisrael]

by Seth Mandel

As we consider the nature of the astonishing events both in Gaza and in Lebanon over the past month, we should recognize this one clear fact: Israel spent the last year not only fighting a two-front war in real time but learning from its every step and every move how to win the war that had been thrust upon it. And now it is.

I don’t need to rehearse it all for you, but I will, because it’s just so…exhilarating. The elimination of Hassan Nasrallah, leader of Hezbollah since 1992, brought to a climax a period of daring Israeli actions that included, but are not limited to:

—the assassination in the spring of leaders of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard Corps, Tehran’s most elite military unit, in a building in Syria.

—Israel’s use of some kind of science-fictional weapon we normies still don’t have a bead on against an Iranian site after the ineffectual missile attack Iran launched in response to the Syria killing—a clear message to the mullahs that Israel possesses terrifying capabilities Tehran cannot predict and that therefore Iran would be wise not to try and find out. And it hasn’t.

—the assassination inside Tehran in an apartment complex owned and run by the mullahs of Hamas’s leader, Ismail Haniyeh—a plan so daring and melodramatically implausible it seemed to have been lifted from the pages of one of Daniel Silva’s glorious Gabriel Allon novels.

—the trapping of senior Hamas leadership in a corner of the city of Rafah following a months-long halt outside this southernmost point in Gaza—a pause largely due to the historically embarrassing pressure exerted by an increasingly pusillanimous and morally impotent Biden administration and its fear of an electoral blowback in one state out of 50 in a country generally extremely supportive of Israel’s efforts.

—the relentless grinding down of Hamas to the point that in the past week Israel is now openly declaring that Hamas no longer functions as a military but has been downgraded into some kind of counterinsurgency at best.

—Operation Grim Beeper, in which Israel wounded or took off the fighting map literally thousands of Hezbollah operatives in a single second, followed a day later by the same attack on the secondary communications devices Hezbollah resorted to with their pagers blown up.

—Operation Northern Arrows, a series of Israeli strikes that did more damage to Hezbollah’s colossal missile stash in six hours than it had done in the 34 days Israel had fought Hezbollah in a conventional war in 2006. In a day’s time, the Israeli airforce hit 1,600 sites in Southern Lebanon and the Bekaa valley.

—The picking-off of Hezbollah leaders systematically wherever and whenever they have been accessible for such elimination, beginning with military commander Fuad Shukr and reaching its apex on Friday with 83 tons dropped directly on the head of Hamas’s command-and-control superbunker—killing Hassan Nasrallah, the world’s most destructive terrorist over the past 32 years, thus decapitating Hezbollah, an enemy of Israel, the United States, and the Jewish people worldwide for four decades.

—the continuing elimination of Hezbollah leaders following Nasrallah’s death, three so far, demonstrating that the decapitation of Hezbollah is not going to be followed any time soon with any kind of regeneration.

And after I finish writing this and before you begin reading it, more will have happened to boost Israel’s side of the war-fighting ledger. And if you had told me just a month ago at the end of August that I would be writing these words at the end of September, I would have thought you mad.

Just one month ago, Israel had plunged into a despair deeper than it had experienced at any time after October 7 when the nation learned that six hostages, including the Israeli-American Hersh Goldberg-Polin, had been murdered just minutes before they might have been rescued. Throughout Israel and the Jewish world, even some hawks found themselves all but ready to give up the fight because the continued plight of the hostages had just become too great to bear. A ceasefire was needed. Bring them home now.

The problem wasn’t an Israeli unwillingness to achieve a ceasefire. The Netanyahu government and its negotiators  accepted general ceasefire terms at multiple moments over the summer. Rather it was Hamas that would not proffer any kind of hostage return that even the United States, which wanted the ceasefire desperately, could view as minimally acceptable. But Israelis and Jews around the world had, without even knowing it really, been surviving on a kind of desperate optimism that things were really going to work out in a movie-ending sort of way. The loss of that optimism was soul-crushing and once again threatened to turn Israel inside out against itself even as the war was not won.

Meanwhile, Hezbollah was firing rockets, killing Druze children, and keeping the North depopulated. Israeli military leaders and Israelis have long known they would not be spared from directly engaging in this war on the northern border. But a country in mourning and a Jewish people worldwide overwhelmed by a degree of open hostility toward us most of us had never known could hardly bear the thought of that second front. Not to mention Yemen. Not to mention Iran.

Which is why September 2024 may go down in the annals of Jewish history as the time our people looked despair in the face and refused to submit to it. Israel said, through the proper democratic vehicle of the Jewish state’s duly elected government, that it would no longer hold itself back in hopes of a deal that would not emerge or tie an arm behind its back to manage a relationship with the United States when the U.S.’s position in all these matters had become all but inexplicable in its inconstancy.

The Netanyahu government acted, and with a kind of determination and confidence that has breathed new strength and a new sense of resolve into the Jewish people. Whatever the divisions and concerns and cautions inside the corridors of power about the astonishing onslaught of Israel against the Iran Axis of Evil, the fact is Israel stared into the abyss and said, “Not today. Not this week. Not this month. Not ever.”

[thetravelingtyper]

Spitfire: GN! Tall Reader x Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

You always thought Graves had a punchable face...

Roughly inspired by the song Galway Girl for some reason.

Warnings: General violence, mention of blood, Graves being a slightly misogynistic dick, possible OOC of characters, first short fic so please bare with me.

Part 2, Masterlist

The sun beat down harshly on the base, and even in the mid-morning in Mexico, heat radiated off the concrete. Across the base, soldiers moved around quickly, mechanics tucked under trucks and jeeps, both at work and seemingly vying for shade. Amongst them, the black gear of the Shadows darkened the day.

Sargent John ‘Soap’ MacTavish wandered in his free time. The tropical sun glinted off his sweat and he fussed with the buds of his radio tucked in his ears. He had already checked weapons, his rifle was cleaned thoroughly three times from lack of tasks. Members of the Vaqueros sent him nods as he passed. Soap had proved himself as a good drinking buddy the past nights and many of the soldiers would pause what they were doing to throw some Spanish to grow his expanding vocabulary.

However, it was curiosity that sent him out this time. As he had been finishing up in the barracks a woman had appeared at the doorway. She called something in Spanish then dropped it quickly in English seeing Shadows and the Sargent.

“Come quickly the Americans are going to be fighting!”

This sent Soap up quickly, he had reassembled his gun and stashed it. Considering the same expressions of confusion, then recognition on the faces of those around him, this could mean one thing. You.

-

Fellow sergeant and a damn good friend, you made a good fit in the 141. With six feet of sarcasm and attitude, you took no shit and had a visible dislike for a certain Commander. It started when you met the man face to face. His skill had impressed you, the clear respect for him held by his men ascertained that. His composer while dealing with Hassan kept that appearance. As an American yourself Soap and your Lieutenant had been concerned, but you had stayed in the shadows, watching. 

“Let me finish this.” Your fingers twitched at the trigger but you held steady. Eventually, you had let the man go, relying on a lead, which he delivered with Sin Nombre. You stood over the valley, Soap passing you the sights. The men debated about a way in, Graves offering force.

“Then we take it.”

“I got enough Shadows here to take over the whole damn country.” 

Your head shot up from the sights. You scoffed and Graves shot you a smirk.

“Are you crazy?”

Alejandro follows up:

“I’d prefer if you didn’t.

Graves rounds back with a satisfied smile,

“I’m just sayin’...one house shouldn’t be a problem.”

You tick

“Hell of a party to crash with an army soldier boy.”

Graves head turns towards you with a simmer in his eyes that makes you hackle.

-

After the encounter with Hassan, you all returned to base to let him lead you further. You all were scattered around control, recon shots, and notes scattered on the metal tables. Ghost and Alejandro stood evaluating and Soap relayed information to Laswell.

You took a cloth to sturdy red. Despite an extensive collection of combat knives, many being gifts from your ‘mates’ you still enjoyed a Victorinox. You tinkered a lot, the nickname Gear fitting well among Spitfire. Ruby red sides gleamed with wear and silver steel shined as you cleaned. The knife caught another eye.

“Nice toy Spitfire.”

A smug voice settled in front of you and you looked up, well down. Despite the power he ‘carried,’ Phil Graves was shorter than the other men in the room. While you were shorter amongst your team, you still towered over him. Graves had seemingly appreciated this and upon seeing you (outside of the interrogation) he had whistled.

“Do you have relevant information Graves?” 

Your voice came out quiet, anger masked with boredom. Yet your hand clenched the knife tighter. 

“Not at the moment Sweetheart. What is beauty like you doing with the Brits? If you want better company, you could fit in nicely with the Shadows.”

He raises a hand to your arm, you freeze, he pats your arm, and moves into your ear. The stench of cologne is too much and you want to gag. 

“You’d look better in black anyway.”

You clench your knife tighter.

At the table, dark eyes turn up. Ghost tunes into you in the corner of the room. Your shoulders are tense, and he recognizes the building anxiety in your eyes. But there is also anger, burning and protective of yourself, which he respects. Knowing your history, you became fiercely protective of yourself and your friends, wrath becoming your wall to the world and advances from disgusting men. 

Soap’s eyes catch Ghost’s as he excuses himself. Like a shadow, the massive wall of a man materializes behind Graves. A boney-gloved hand reached around Graves and grabs the hand clutching your knife.

“I need you to take a look at something, Spitfire.” His accent is stronger and his voice rumbles into the back of Graves's head. The shorter man jolts away from you, shoulder knocking into the wall of English muscle. He spins around and takes in the man looking down at him. 

However, a sense of survival was not strong with this one.

Graves made a step forward that had Ghost raising his head, eyebrow quirking. But before he could speak Soap pushed his way between them with an image.

“Commander, we got something…” And with that the American bravado and charm fell back into place as Graves turned back to work, sparing you a wink.

“Until later Sweetheart.” The syrupy drawl made you gag and you raised a hand to shoot him a middle finger. A tug at your wrist stopped you and you released a tense breath before leaning into your Lieutenant. He turned to look down at you and you offered him a smile, his hand released and he nodded. You closed and pocketed the knife, an old gift from Simon after he found you always losing basic tools while visiting on leave.

“It’s not stupid.” You grumble, collecting yourself while watching Soap making a show in the far corner of the room. Alejandro turns to the two of you, head tilted at your proximity. The man had easily fallen into the position of a brother for you, and much like Soap held a bit of a white knight role. You smile at him and he squints.

Soap’s laptop rings with a call from Laswell. They had found the next target and Soap mentioned everyone back to the center table. Alejandro watched for a moment longer as Ghost released your wrist. You pushed forward, but not without bumping a hip into the quiet man and murmuring “thank you Love.”

-

This attitude of Graves had carried into one of his suggestions on how to get into the villa. 

“Give them what they want,”

Graves's eyes flicker to you,

“Intel. They want to know who’s here. Let’s tell’em.”

He carries a smirk, Alejandro intrigued, questions him,

“In-person?”

Graves's eyes shift to him.

“Correcto. Get one of us inside, find the boss…” he brings his hands together, “roll him up.”

There is a silent moment as you all consider the plan. It made sense, with all of the action and infiltration, you had riled up the mysterious head of the cartel. And if Hassan's actions weren't clear enough there was an obvious connection.

You break the silence. 

“It's a good idea, information at a time like this is as valuable as gold.” The men’s eyes turn to you. Graves smiles, stepping forward like a presenter on a stage.

“Glad you understand sweetheart.”

Soap frowns, “who goes in? Alejandro is too obvious…”

He is cut off by a smooth voice. Graves gestures to you, 

“Gentleman, I present to you our lovely option. Dressed to the nines they would be sure to dazzle their way past the guards.”

Your brow shoots up, first thinking the man was joking, before hot anger simmers.

“Are you fucking with me Graves?”

Your voice is firm as you raise from a nonexistent slouch, looming over the man. Graves steps up to the challenge.

“Darling, if you went in there with this attitude you'd have that man on his knees” he reaches a hand towards your face. Alejandro stands frozen at the gall but steps forward muttering in Spanish. But Soap beats him to it.

“I’ll go, They will expect a Scot less than an American…” With that, the tension cracks, and Graves turns back into the American Commander again, offering his patch as proof. 

You stand a little shaken but more irritated, you feel eyes, then turn to the back of the platform, still cast in shadow. 

The white skull haunts the shadow but it is the glint in Ghost’s eyes that catches your heart. He seemed perfectly composed but the glint of an unsheathed knife told you otherwise.

-

After that show, other moments had passed on and off base, but much less direct. Gentle brushes, winks, and comments on your form and ‘beautiful, hot complexion’ in the Mexican sun. Most of the time you brushed it off, throwing back your normal sarcasm. Vaqueros around you heard these comments with remarkably even tempers. Murmurs quickly had spread through the base of words spoken about you behind the backs of the 141, but if any passed a Shadow they only got straight faces in return. Your attitude had easily won Alejandro over and even the more timid Rudy began to follow after duty for friendly banter and drinks. 

The American jokes first baffled Soap when he heard them, but those spoken about you were all in good humor. Debates about Tex-Mex and beer along with your frankly terrible Spanish pronunciation were hilarious to the men and women on base. But at the end of the warm days, reclining on battered wooden stools and tossing back Tequila shots like water, you found good friends in the Cowboys. 

This is why Soap and the other Vaqueros in the room rushed out. Stories of your temper had escaped Soap’s drunk lips a few days ago. After that Spitfire became a friendly moniker you groaned at more and more. They even kept presenting a bottle of Fireball Whisky upon any request for a drink.

The sight for an outsider might have been funny. As word spread through the base, MSF soldiers in normal clothes, fully kitted Shadows, and a single Scot speed walking together in a growing crowd. The group weaved their way through fortifications, past the training field, and into a large warehouse. 

The air was slightly cooler but windows streamed in hot sunlight. This warehouse had been converted into part obstacle course and part outdoor gym. Due to Alejandro and Rudy's childhoods roaming amongst the cliffs they had wanted that connection to the outdoors.

Usually, at a time like this, the room was literally crawling with soldiers, some training along the ground with others scaling the attached rock wall with climbing features set up along the ceiling. A sturdy safety net hung overhead to catch anyone who took a trip over an edge or off a hanging bar. Now there was not a climber nor crawler insight as Soap and the following soldiers found. He pushed through a door and found the room surprisingly empty, except for a large congregation in the corner. Soap groaned. 

Set up next to a makeshift refresh area (basically a bar) was an equally makeshift boxing ring. Thick mats padded the entire floor area and even traced the walls. Stretchy bands squared in a 15 ft by 15ft space. It was smaller than standard but Alejandro had explained it easily:

“In the field, we don’t get that much space, also the contractor said it wouldn’t all fit with the counter.”

You had lost it at the consideration and spent the rest of that day calling him a decorator. Rudy had joined in with a high-voiced Spanish evaluation of the print of the uniforms and needing fresh flowers for the bar.

Soap and the following crowd gathered into the present crowd of Shadows and Vaqueros. These were still in partial gear from training, which presented the thought to Soap that whatever was going on was on an impulse.

His realization was confirmed when he saw Graves in the ring. Tank top fit flush against his muscled form, but the cocky nature of his victory diminished any physical appreciation. 

“Come on L.T. your up next.”

His cocky grin did not hush the murmurs in the crowd, even from his men. All eyes turned within the crowd, searching until they found Ghost. Soap saw his commanding officer in less gear, but he look no less dangerous.

Six feet and four inches of defined muscle stood in a long sleeve black shirt and thin grey joggers. He still had a pistol holster strapped to his side, but it was empty. What was not though was a few of his many combat-worthy throwing knives. Settled in a leather holder was a triple set of killers, his favorite of which, an iridescent midnight blue, was spinning in his deft fingers. Soap was surprised to see pale, scarred skin. Flashes of it at Ghost’s hands then up at his collarbone where the chain of his dog tags disappeared under his shift. The usual hard skull mask was exchanged for a lighter black balaclava painted with a half skull. One side was white and the other melted into faded painted metal, hammered plates painted in a dusty, dirty red. 

Soap’s lips quirked, even without you present he could tell your mark on the English lieutenant. The mask had been a joke gift, painted by you for a White Elephant you had insisted on hosting. 

-

You had gotten soap a luxury set of Scotch-based soap, Gaz a black tie stationary and lapel set (“for those fine suits you always go undercover in”), and Price a new fishing hat. It was reversible, with an all-black side for business, and a camo with the Union Jack, “it's the party side.” 

Price’s lips had quirked up and he tossed you his second favorite hat and dropped yours (in party mode) on his head. Finally, you quietly pulled Simon’s gift from your bag while the others were comparing gifts and joking. The warmth of conversation filled your apartment as you moved softly over to Simon. 

“Here Lieutenant, I hope you get some use from this.” You gently hand him the mask before turning to refill the drinks of the other men.

Simon turned the mask over in his hands. He immediately recognized it as handmade, the fabric reinforced for winter wear in high winds. He flipped it to the face and marveled a little at your art design, half Ghost and half of yourself. His eyes drifted up to your form passing through the room. Soap calls you over and then makes you laugh with a joke while Gaz and Price bicker back and forth about if the hat would match a suit.

For the moment there was peace here in your sanctuary and Simon let himself relax further into the familiar couch. His eyes closed for a few minutes then opened at your presence over him.

“Are you ok?” You set a glass of good ole’ Kentucky bourbon at the table next to him. He watches you for a moment under his solid black balaclava, eyes simmering with emotion that creeps around and through his walls. A few years of comradery had you leaning down and sinking into the seat next to him. He hums, body and head turned towards you.

“Was it too much? I saw it when we passed through that small village, you know I could barely understand that lady's accent…” You mumble off a little, your personality like a ping pong ball in your mind. 

Simon watches as a weight melts and slips off his heart. Under his mask, he smiles and his eyes gain a twinkle. Your hand moves in wide gestures in front of you as you impersonate a bad Liverpool accent, pulling from your limited British knowledge (the Beatles and 70s-80s rock). A warm hand grabs yours out of the air and pulls it to your now-touching legs, fingers entwining. You pause turning to Simon concerned, then eyes widen finding his sole focus on you and him being much, much closer than you expected.

“She had a Northern accent. She was from Manchester, Love” his accent thickened as a sort of demonstration and you nodded dumbly, a little baffled by this new position. 

“Right…”

Three sets of knowing eyes watched very, very intently at this new information.

-

Soap tensed as Ghost looked up, not even pausing in his spinning. There was a gleam in his eye but his lieutenant did not move. 

What followed were some childish plays at insults.

“Where did you leave your tea?”

“Come on Halloween!” Were finest among them.

Soap and some of the members of the Mexican force watched with tired sighs, as Ghost just stared. He didn't even bother with a reply as Graves got to his peacocking.

Even a few of the Shadows shifted uncomfortably away from Ghost’s form, and soon a circle opened between the edge of the ring where Graves leaned and where Ghost stood.

“What’s going on?” Your voice broke the not-standoff. Heads turned and Soap noticed Graves straighten.

“Oh boy.” The Scot pushed through towards Ghost, sensing trouble brewing. Men and women let you through and you entered the cleared circle, a smug Graves standing above watching. 

You wore gym shorts with a pair of worn sneakers. Your dog tags hung under your shirt and you had brushed your hair back behind an American flag bandana (a gag gift from Soap on your birthday). 

You stood next to Ghost, who upon your approach had finally paused in his knife twirling and stood more attentive. Graves noticed this with interest.

“So that works then.” 

You bite back instantly.

“What do you mean Jackass. He’s my commanding officer, he’s not here for you to get off on.”

There are a few ‘oofs’ heard throughout the crowd as some MSF soldiers hide snickers behind their hands. Ghost’s head tilts to the side, watching.

Graves takes it and runs, perhaps a bit too far.

“Alright long legs, perhaps you could bend down and give me a better view.”

The room goes silent. Soap pauses in his approach and his head shoots towards you, what had been amusement quickly turned sour at the continuous comments and the Scot felt ready to smash Graves's stupid face in. Graves’s men balked, and some of the MSF soldiers watched with wide eyes at such a direct comment. Eyes flew to Ghost.

Simon stood straight, knife held in his hand as he considered it. Yet, he rose a brow, shockingly calm. Then those in the room realized the true danger of the two.

You saw red, loose water bottle now clenched in your fist. Graves took a step back for a moment mouth open, as if surprised at the extent of the comment. He opened it then you shut it for him.

“That's it you fly boy fucker. I am sick and fucking tired of your comments. It is about time for you to put that pretty mouth where your dick clearly isn’t. We are settling this now.”

You reached to the side, snatching hand tape from the awaiting Ghost, and quickly wrapped your hands. Without another word, you leaped up into the ring and approached Graves. Alejandro and Rudy rushed in as you did so, a bit late from a meeting.

You squared up to a shocked Graves as Soap, Alejandro and Rudy made it to Ghost. As for your calm lieutenant, he only spun his knife, lowered it, and crossed his arms to watch what he knew would be a quick show.

As Graves snapped out of it you both began to circle one another, all while he offered stupid remarks.

“I can’t punch a pretty thing like you.”

And your favorite, “I’ll patch you up real good after this Honeybun.”

He then fainted forward and you twirled out of his reach. This dance happened a few times, with Graves's temper building up and his charges missing. You laugh under your breath and mutter something.

“Say that louder!” He huffs out, worked up after previous fights, his composure finally slipping with frustration. He turns to face you, guard up. You stare him down and he lunges.

“I said…” A swift duck right, your leg catches him and he tumbles. He rights himself and spins with a mean hook.

“I always thought you had a punchable face.” You duck under his hook and with a satisfied grin, throw all of your weight up with powerfully long legs into a padded uppercut. The punch cracks in contact with his jaw and sends the short man back, to which your fast-following shoulder bucks him further and sends him crashing into the padding of the ring.

The thud echoed in the quiet room. It dragged on as everyone turned to watch each other. Then loud laughter broke out from Soap. He started wheezing and then doubled over leaning on Ghost for support. Alejandro looked around and started laughing as well and it spread through the crowd. A few Shadows gave a light chuckle before stopping when they realized that, one, they were watched by their comrades, and two when they realized Graves wasn’t getting up.

The room waited then a Shadow popped his head up at the ring. You cracked your knuckles, hissing in pain as you walked to Graves’s down form. He was breathing and you voiced this. The peeking Shadow pulled his way up to the stage.

“He is good, just out cold.” Grave's head lolled to the side as the big Shadow threw him up in a slightly undignified fireman carry. People cleared a path and a few Shadows followed the carrier to the med bay. After they left the room erupted into laughter. It was boisterous and fun but the soldiers, satisfied at your victory returned to general training leaving you in the ring alone while Soap, Alejandro, Rudy, and Ghost watched.

You gently ran a finger over your right knuckles, hissing when you felt them. There will be a gnarly bruise, Graves had a hard head and this might be hard to explain to Shepard. But, you look to Alejandro and Rudy, their grins told you that you would be fine. Strong arms wrapped themselves around your waist and hoisted you up.

“Alright, Spitfire! Ye’ showed him what for!” Soap twirled you around and your arms went to his shoulders for balance. 

“Oi Soap watch it!” Your defiance dissolved into laughter as Alejandro pulled himself up and whistled. Specks of blood sprinkle a little section of the mat. 

“Rudy, get cleaning in here we have a fluid spill.” He grinned as Soap set you down.

“Good work.” He ruffled your hair in passing, then turned to the rest of the room.

“Drinks tonight!” His voice boomed out in English, then in Spanish which got a lot of excited cheers. You pressed a kiss to Soap’s cheek and then turned to Ghost, but the Brit had vanished.

-

Graves was sitting alone hours later, chin bruised and ego drenched but overall ok. He rolled his shoulder with a groan and muttered.

“They can throw a punch, what a catch…” He turned to look up, running a hand through sweaty hair. His neck hair then rose on edge in the dim room, then a glint of silver. He jumped back as a silver knife sliced where his head had just been. It thunked into the wall with a thud. Panicked eyes flew to the door, and Simon stood leaning leisurely against the frame.

“Christ Almighty…” His voice was breathy and Graves threw up his Commander façade but something deep in him quaked at the sight of the reaper. Brown eyes lit up in the dark, light from the hall casting a looming shadow over Graves as he sat. The beast entered and Simon pushed forward. He paused a breath away from graves who while sitting had to look up at him. A gloved hand tore the knife from the wall and the rusty geared skull stared down. 

He watched for a moment as the color drained from Graves's face.

Then, in his other hand, your Swiss Army knife. Blade cherished and sharp and eager. He tilted the blade in the backlight then in a simple motion pressed it to Graves's neck in a mock motion. The edge was a hair breath away when Simon leaned in.

“You touch them, you look at them, or you even think of making another fucking comment about them, I will track you down and spread your remains all over your beloved men. Understand?” 

His accent bled heavy, venom from Ghost and anger from Simon blending into one wrathful and venomous being. Graves did not shake, but a single almost imperceivable flinch tumbled into a nod.

Ghost watched closer, the man below him so still he could almost make out his fluttering heartbeat in the dark. There was a maniacal-toothed grin under the mask as the beast paced, testing the confines of his tempered mind. But at a shaky, thickly breathed “understood” from Graves the reaper pulled back. He deftly pocketed your beloved knife and with one last spin of the throwing knife, Simon turned and swept out of the room.

-

Many drunk Vaqueros and even some of the more light-hearted Shadows had wandered into the bar after hearing Graves was awake. The room had gone quiet when Graves entered, shirtless and wrapped up. He seemed slightly shaken but he offered you a rigorous handshake, an apology, and a toast.

“Too strong hits and new friends.” 

The Shadows joined in more heartily then and you took the peace offering with a grin. The night then passed into a party. Simon lingered in later sticking to the edges of the room. He had watched and heard the calm words of the others spread and settle the room. You sat at the bar, a lightly inebriated Soap at your left and Rudy at your right. Something you were saying had the more timid man leaning in with a soft look. Simon paused in his approach. Alejandro joined him from behind.

“Don’t worry, he’s married hermano. Alejandro sets a brotherly hand on Simon’s shoulder, but the Englishman shakes his head, offering a surprising reply:

“I'm not.” 

Alejandro is surprised at such a revelation, but the grasp of Simon’s hand at his dog tags is all he needs to know.

“I understand.”

Simon turns at this and offers his hand, the two shake hands and with a pat on the back Alejandro sends Simon on his way. Simon cuts through the crowd, watching with interest as whatever you say sends Rudy into a bright red blush, barely hidden by his darker complexion. Soap, having heard, was sent into heavy laughter as he leaned back into the bar. Well, attempted to, as he slumped he miscalculated the distance and fell back. You lunged forward to grab him while laughing yourself and you fell as well. The floor approached quickly but a swift hand grabbed you by your arm and another grabbed Soap by the collar of his shirt. The arm holding Soap flexed forward and pulled the bewildered man back onto his stool. The free hand then joined the other stabilizing you. 

“Thanks, L.T.” Soap waved.

You were then engulfed by Simon, his arms coming to rest on the bar with your form in between. The position was questioning but with the festivities, no one other than Soap and Rudy was paying attention. Your surprise melted into pleasure.

“Hey L.T.,” his arms close in around you and he steps between your knees, your words fizzle out at the look in his eyes. There was a shimmer of pride mixed with deep affection. In the time you knew him you had learned to tell Simon from Ghost, besides the removal of his mask of course. The being before you carried the pride of Ghost, seeing your clean KO did things to him. But it was Simon who pressed his hand against your thigh. The touch was subtle compared to his massive form but he pressed his hand over them, fingers taping absentmindedly. It was a possessive action that sent your heart soaring.

He leaned in to talk to you, free hand coming to trace the American bandana, 

“good job my Love” he dips his hand, tugging at the chain around your neck, and fingers brushing softly over your bruised knuckles.

Your dog tags escaped but something much more precious hung there. And as the party continued, most none the wiser to the deep connection between the American and the Brit, two matching silver rings glinted in the light. 

[mariacallous]

In less than a week, Israel has managed to significantly degrade Hezbollah’s military capabilities, communications systems, and chain of command. First, exploding pagers and walkie-talkies undermined the group’s ability to communicate. Then came the assassination of operations commander Ibrahim Aqil on Friday—along with 14 top Radwan Force commanders—which was a major setback for the Lebanese militant group’s top leadership and command unit, the Jihad Council. From the founding members of Hezbollah’s military structure, only Ali Karaki survives today.

This escalation comes after Israeli leaders decided to confront the continuous threat to the country’s north posed by Hezbollah. Last Monday, Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s security cabinet decided to set a new war goal: the safe return of Israeli residents to the country’s north.

Hezbollah leader Hassan Nasrallah is not conceding, however. In a speech given on Sept. 19, Nasrallah doubled down on attacking Israel’s north. Despite his acknowledgement of Israel’s technological advances, the leader of Hezbollah refused to back down and threated that “no military escalation, no killings, no assassinations, and no all-out war can return residents to the border.”

Immediately after his speech, Israel struck approximately 30 Hezbollah rocket launchers and infrastructure sites, which contained approximately 150 launcher barrels, according to a spokesperson from the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). The IDF also hit Hezbollah’s weapons storage facilities in multiple areas in southern Lebanon, followed by more intense strikes over the weekend, with Israel claiming on Saturday that it had eliminated 400 rocket launchers across southern Lebanon and the Beqaa Valley. The scale of these strikes indicates Israel’s appetite for escalation and willingness to widen the circle of targets.

Despite the calls to go all in, an Israeli decision to launch a full-scale war or land incursion has not been made yet. Such a decision would bring the country and its civilian infrastructure much damage, especially if Hezbollah unleashes its most advanced missiles. It seems that Israel is determined to push Hezbollah to change its strategy and revisit its involvement in the conflict, which the group initiated on Oct. 8, 2023, a day after the Hamas attacks on Israel.

Hezbollah now faces a choice: to preserve what is left of its military assets and leadership, or to maintain its threat over the north of Israel.

The losses that Hezbollah suffered last week were immense, but the group lost the deterrence battle months ago. Since last October—when Hezbollah decided to attack Israel in support of Hamas—Israel has been successful at degrading the group’s military capabilities with precise targeted attacks, and it has done so largely without causing many civilian casualties. In the past year, Israel has killed more than 500 people—most of them Hezbollah militants— including top and elite commanders, such as Wissam al-Tawil, Taleb Abdullah, Fuad Shukr, and others.

In addition, Hezbollah’s military infrastructure south of the Litani River has been demolished, along with a large number of its weapons depots and military infrastructure across Lebanon. The group’s responses focused mostly on the north of Israel, targeting military bases and infrastructure while mostly avoiding civilian casualties, major cities, and civilian infrastructure.

At the beginning of the war, the goal of Hezbollah and Iran—the group’s main backer—was to reap the benefits from any political or diplomatic solution that would end the Israel-Hamas war in Gaza. But along the way, they managed to achieve an unprecedented feat—to move the buffer zone from the south of Lebanon to the north of Israel. Around 60,000 Israelis remain internally displaced, and Hezbollah has communicated this to its constituency as the biggest ever achievement against Israel. It will be very difficult to walk back from this.

If Israel widens the circle of targets to hit advanced military assets, such as the facilities that store and produce precision-guided missiles, Hezbollah might revisit its threat to the north. Today, the group is walking a very thin line between its assets and its threats, and the question is how many more losses it can endure.

Israel sees this as an opportunity to push further—and raise the price for Hezbollah until it becomes unbearable. Although a full-scale war between Israel and Hezbollah is a real possibility, both parties still prefer a diplomatic solution. Israel is trying to keep its attacks targeted, and Hezbollah is trying hard not to provoke Israel or be forced to use and waste its most valuable military assets—namely, precision missiles—which Iran regards as an insurance policy.

Indeed, Israel could be escalating today to avoid war; that is, to push Hezbollah to accept the only diplomatic solution on the table—the one presented by Amos Hochstein (the U.S. envoy for international energy affairs) to delink Lebanon from Gaza and implement U.N. Security Council Resolution 1701, which ended the 2006 war between Israel and Hezbollah. This means that Hezbollah will have to accept a separate cease-fire agreement, withdraw its military presence to north of the Litani River, roughly 18 miles away from the border, and allow displaced Israelis to return safely to the north.

Until last week, Israel and Hezbollah had been walking a very thin line between a full-scale war and a calculated pattern of attacks and responses.

Hezbollah lost military infrastructure, commanders, and weapons, but most importantly, it lost security and trust among its ranks. After every assassination or strike, and specifically with the mass explosions of pagers and radios, Hezbollah now fears more in-depth infiltration in its ranks by the Israeli intelligence agencies. And its militants lost trust in their own, fearing that anyone could be an Israeli spy.

The group also lost trust in technology and has no reliable communications system that it could rely on for any military response or war. The only way left is verbal communications, which its leaders resorted to when the in-person meeting between Akil and the Radwan Forces was scheduled—and then hit by an Israeli strike. The level of infiltration is deeper than they know.

Additionally, Hezbollah has lost the trust of its own community. If it cannot protect itself, many are asking, then how can it protect its constituency and supporters? It will be very difficult to assure its community of safety and security while walking—and exploding—among them. Worse still, the group is no longer Iran’s success story in the region.

The fact that Israel could kill Shukr and Akil in the middle of their stronghold in the southern Beirut suburb of Dahiyeh is a big breach. However, what is a lot more troubling for Hezbollah’s leadership is its loss of the element of surprise, which has always been part of its military strategy. Israel knew exactly when and how Hezbollah was planning to retaliate for Shukr in August, as the IDF launched a preemptive strike against the group’s infrastructure, including the launchers it had prepared for the operation.

All these losses, in addition to the group’s incapacity thus far to conduct an effective military response against Israel, is both humiliating and embarrassing for Hezbollah. But on the military level, it is worse: Hezbollah is more deterred than ever.

The group could eventually recover from these losses, rebuild its communication network, counter Israeli intelligence, and regain trust among its community. But this is all going to take a long time, a luxury that Hezbollah might not be able to afford.

Today, any response to Israel’s escalation requires the militant group to resolve the following concerns:

First, without a proper communications system, Hezbollah cannot coordinate on targeting, responses, or logistics. It also cannot easily use verbal or written communications—similar to the system that Hamas is currently using inside Gaza’s tunnels. Lebanon is much bigger, and without an efficient and fast communication system, Hezbollah’s military capability to conduct war is largely diminished.

Second, many top Hezbollah officials have been killed or injured. The pagers that exploded hit many of the group’s senior and mid-level operatives. The shipment contained 5,000 pagers, and Hezbollah’s fighting force alone has been independently estimated to comprise at least 20,000 militants. Pagers were provided to officials and fighters with special skills and missions; that is, those who need to be protected. Families of Hezbollah members of Lebanon’s parliament and high-ranking commanders, in addition to high-level security personnel, were among the casualties—not to mention Iran’s ambassador to Lebanon, who was reportedly in close proximity to an exploding device.

Finally, Hezbollah still hasn’t figured out how deeply infiltrated by Israeli intelligence it is. Sources close to its inner circle have told Foreign Policy that the group’s leaders are looking into every single piece of electronic gear they own, and that they are worried that their cars, motorcycles, and even their advanced missile factories are booby-trapped and could go off any minute.

The group will have to conduct an in-depth investigation to make sure that other items have not been infiltrated or compromised by the Israelis, which will take weeks. And if Hezbollah fears that its missiles facilities are booby-trapped or monitored, it will be logistically very difficult to safely move these weapons in order to launch them.

The Israeli government seems to think that Hezbollah’s setbacks are a good opportunity for the IDF to launch a war to further erode the group’s capabilities. But a war similar to that of 2006 might cause Israel real damage without leading to the elimination of the Hezbollah threat. Moreover, it could lead to more international isolation and more civilian casualties on both sides, as well as risk a regional war from multiple fronts.

What the IDF and its external intelligence agency, Mossad, have achieved in the past week has been very effective. There is no need for a full-scale war that would cause civilian losses, bring back “axis of resistance” rhetoric, and unite regional and international public opinion against Israel.

Until a long-term solution is reached, the best-case scenario is for Hezbollah to accept a separate cease-fire, disconnected from the war in Gaza. Diplomatic messaging from the United States and its allies needs to focus on this objective and pressure Hezbollah to delink the two fronts. For Iran and Hezbollah, nothing is more important than their military assets—especially precision missiles.

U.S. diplomatic efforts need to take advantage of Hezbollah’s vulnerability. In addition to forcing the group to accept a separate cease-fire, negotiations should be focused on preventing a full-scale war, allowing residents from both sides to return home, and undermining Hezbollah’s and Iran’s narratives of victory and resistance.

U.N. Resolution 1701 is not sustainable because it does not include punitive measures, and Hezbollah will eventually violate it. Therefore, a long-term policy will have to be designed after a cease-fire is achieved in order to contain Hezbollah in Lebanon—a policy that will address interrupting its weapons supply routes from Tehran via Iraq and Syria as well as help the Lebanese state regain its sovereignty when it comes to decisions of war and peace.

[star-reyes]

Sword of Azrael #2

Writing: Dan Watters

Art: Nikola Čižmešija

Colors: Marissa Louise

Letters: Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou

[dertaglichedan]

Thousands of people are wounded when Hezbollah's new PAGERS simultaneously explode across Lebanon, killing eight and sparking mass panic, with sources blaming Israel

Thousands of people have been wounded in Lebanon this afternoon after pagers used by Hezbollah fighters to communicate exploded, so far killing eight, including an eight-year-old girl. 

The wave of sudden and unexpected detonations, which began around 3:45pm local time (1345 GMT) and lasted roughly an hour, has so far maimed over 2,750 Hezbollah members and civilians, giving way to widespread panic and chaotic scenes across Beirut’s southern suburbs, the Bekaa Valley and southern Lebanon. 

Victims were seen sporting significant wounds as they lay on the ground surrounded by terrified bystanders in images shared to social media and broadcast by Lebanese and Israeli networks. 

Yet more harrowing clips taken inside Lebanese hospitals showed how some unfortunate victims sustained massive head injuries, gaping wounds in their legs and abdomen, or had their hands blown off by the powerful explosions. 

At least two Hezbollah fighters - one of whom is the son of Lebanese parliament member Ali Ammar - and a 10-year-old girl were confirmed dead by multiple security sources and a family member, according to AFP. A spokesperson for the proscribed terror group has since said that Hassan Nasrallah, the group's chief, was not harmed in the blasts. 

Hezbollah says that Israel is 'fully responsible' for the simultaneous explosion, warning that the nation would be punished. 

[vermillionwinter]

Fever Dream

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian f!reader

Summary: How many chance encounters can you have before you decide fate has intertwined your threads? With the 141 on leave pending an investigation, you appear to Simon, a lighthouse in the distance calling him to safety.

Warnings: Mutual attraction, slow-burn series (our boy's got a lot of work to do), Spicy thoughts-not explicit.

Note: I haven't had the will to write like this in years, but Simon Riley has reawakened a beast, and I need to get all the words out. So, this is a very rusty piece of work, but hope y'all find some enjoyment! Tattoos are the only physical descriptions I believe. the 2nd POV's are bringing me back to middle school Quizilla days.

Quiet. Everything in Simon’s Manchester flat was too fucking quiet, and the air stagnant when he was home. And that silence gave his thoughts the freedom to creep and dance to the murkiest valleys of his subconscious. Wrapping its tarry tendrils around the very memories Simon wanted to keep locked behind the chained door, dragging them out of him to relive every excruciating moment the darkness saw fit to unleash. 

Sitting in the single chair of his small, round table, Simon could catch wafts of soil and decay wrapping him in the tight confines of the damp wooden coffin. His lungs tightened, constricting the oxygen he needed. The fear of no escape webbed its way through the calm fog the prior glass of bourbon provided. It was as if the darkness narrowed in on him, boxing him into the point of full paralysis. The arms of his chairs he gripped tightly in his fists began to transform into the feel of the corpse that once was buried with him. 

HONK!

Simon’s eyes shot open, and he took the deepest breath he could muster as his lungs got used to the feeling of a full inhale and exhale. His eyes darted around in panic taking in every detail of his barren flat. It was sparsely furnished with essentials, one of them being a bed large enough the behemoth of a man could stretch upon comfortably. As comfortable as one could get when they're accustomed to the hard ground or the scantily padded cots.  

Simon shot back the bourbon he originally poured to savor and appreciate relishing in the slow burn it made down his esophagus. What he wouldn’t fucking do to get back out on the field. 

“As soon as we're back, gents, we are boots on the ground finding these bastards. We’ll find Shepherd and every lost Shadow.”

Ghost hadn’t been deployed since he took the last shot at Hassan in Chicago- weeks have passed. Bloody fucking investigation into Shepherd’s and Shadow Company’s off book deals called that all operators on the ops related to Graves’ and Shephard’s stolen missiles had to take mandatory leave pending investigation. Shadows were still getting wrapped up for questioning. There were few still on the run. But they’d find them. They didn’t deserve the courtesy of living their lives in fear. The face of death is all they were due. 

Betrayal. Betrayal got his family killed. Got Simon Riley killed. And now good soldiers lie dead in fields, their graves forever empty; and families lie dead in the streets of Las Almas. Innocent lives taken by those he once defended, defended the 141. 

Glass shattered against the opposite wall before Simon realized he threw the blown sand from his hand. Shoulders sagged, defeated, depleted, ready to give into the quiet of his home. The benched operator stood from his chair and made his way to the shower. He’d clean the mess later. He was alone after all. Always alone. 

Simon walked through the small crowds, prolonging the journey to his destination to walk to a path he didn’t have to squeeze through a throng of people. Wisps of the fresh air sauntered over him, releasing threads of tension into the open. Easing him from looking over his shoulder and checking his surroundings more often than they stayed in front of him. To his relief, no one was following him. Venturing out into society felt like an op in its own way. Having to blend in when you lived your life in anonymity. He wore a different mask in the calm of the world. One fewer people were familiar with than the ominous mask he donned on the field.  

And Las Almas was proof of why. Shephard was a loose-end that needed to be handled yesterday, and Simon couldn’t shake off the constant feeling he would be found. Just as Roba had found him. He couldn’t very well walk around with his most distinguishing feature on full display, a beacon where to strike next. Simon had to stay vigilant. For himself, but most importantly for them. Nothing could get to them. 

Sleep was an elusive luxury Simon would not allow himself since he was dismissed on leave, not that he had the best slumber before then. Running on cat naps, caffeine and spite. The blame and guilt eating away at him, letting those bastards go unseen. And all he wanted was five minutes alone with Shepherd. Ghost wanted the ex-general begging for his life as it left his very body. 

To…

All of Simon's plans of vengeance were halted when you stepped out onto the patio of the bakery he found a form of solace in on leave- emerald lace dress billowing around your body, combat boots peaked through with each step you took. Ethereal. A goddess among man. You were divine and entrancing as you stepped lightly, despite the clunky footwear you chose. He was in the door before he could notice where you sat, but hell he found himself praying at your altar you would be in perfect view. 

La Gouter was one of the few havens Simon had found in the area. The crowd was moderate, but constant. Tea was always fresh, and the man could not resist the warm, buttery treats. Today he sat with a chocolate croissant with his black tea- two sugars, no cream. Balance. 

A book tucked under his arm, he leaned against the mural of Paris- where he had a clear view to the left, right, patio door adjacent to his table, and the entry of the cafe itself. Which also gave him the view of his tea shop muse, and a sudden warmth rushed over him when you looked towards him, eyes honing in on his eyes. Target locked. 

Looking down quickly, he cracked open the book that accompanied him. Laying there waiting to be read, to transport the reader to another realm. A world where he didn’t have to be Simon Riley. Now he could get lost in the spice filled sands of Arrakis. Simon let his eyes settle on the pages behind the orange cover. 

Twenty pages in, half the tea gone, he felt his eyes drifting again. Black nails adorned your lithe fingers-wrapped around a pen you used to write in the notebook splayed on the table. Legs shifting, the slit of your dress exposed more tattoos scattered on your smooth leg. Wouldn't it be nice to run his fingers over the lines of each piece of art that was displayed there? To feel those hands wrapped around him instead? To lay you out in front of him the way your notebook was exposed to you. Lines of intrigue covering both flesh and paper. He wanted to know the webs of thought spinning from your head to paper. The sounds your lips would release at his touches. Were they soft and airy? Low and rough?

Fuck, he shook himself from the lasvicious thoughts (swirling in his head) throwing back the rest of his tea that he dearly wished was bourbon, and left for the gate. But as he threw his trash into the bin, he had that feeling. There was an energy when eyes bore into you. Watched your every move, like you were prey. Their target . Taking in even the smallest of twitches.

Chalked it up to being on edge after Las Almas, but fuck he needed to get back to his flat now. What if Shephard had found him? Ghost had no shortage of enemies that would crave nothing more than to spill his blood. Were the others still alive? Gaz. Price. Soap. But Simon wasn't met with a bullet when he turned around to face whoever was trailing him. No. Simon found curious eyes glistening in the sun- following his every move. Down to the smallest twitch.

Simon felt his heart stutter, a catch in his throat when you flashed a disarming smile, painted in dark red. Stomach in unfamiliar knots, he froze for a moment soaking in your warmth in the moment of vulnerability. He wanted that warmth to blanket him in its softest rays. It was terribly disarming. Blinking out of his stupor, he found tantalizing eyes paired with a shy smile greeting him. But, the brute didn’t know how to respond; his mind was still in conflict. And he left without another glance in your direction, all the while wondering how someone could glow in the dull skies of London. There was enough sunlight to bathe you in its golden rays. The shimmer upon your skin was like nothing Simon had ever seen, your beauty enraptured him. 

You watched the giant of a man turn-hands shoved in his pockets-and leave the cafe, and you couldn’t help the appreciative gaze as your eyes roamed the backside of the man who stopped dead in his tracks and stared at you for an agonizingly small amount of time. Whom you had caught staring at you minutes ago. His gaze, through red lenses, overwhelmed you, a vehement aura exuding and reaching.

He was statuesque, a gargoyle in the flesh wrapped in the darkness of his fabrics, sitting at the small metal table against the bright paints of the Paris mural. You certainly appreciated the contrast. Auburn beard covered a strong jaw, but his face was mostly obscured by the black Everton cap and red lensed shades. The hoodie did little to conceal the firm bulk of his arms, broad shoulders. When he broke eye contact to read his book, shades went to his hat, but angled his face to further obscure your view. A shiver chilled you. Why was he hiding? But you didn’t let your attention linger, though you did want to. You wanted to watch him read, and immerse himself in whatever tale he was venturing through.  

In. Out. In. Out.

The mantra on loop to keep his thoughts focused. Singular. Not focused on red lips pressed against his neck. Teeth grazing a path over a protruding vein. So he ran faster. Faster. Faster, until all he could think about was how to get enough oxygen to his lungs, Lamb of God blasting through his headphones. The opening notes of Walk with Me In Hell leading him through the end of his run. Spent. Overexerted. Exactly what he needed. He’d finally sleep, and just not fucking care what happened next.

Simon released a breath he had not realized he was holding until it left him. Disappointed relief. The tea shop siren was absent from his visit. It was strange. The wanton desire to be in the presence of another being. He was used to alone. It was easier to work when you didn’t have the reminder of how many lives were in your hands. It was effective, and he was damn good at it. You had his mind in a whirlwind of confusion. Not even the women he's fucked stayed with him the way you have. You've never even said a damn word to him, and he was crumbling. Under a spell you were unaware you cast. Synthesizing his dreams to your every whim.

“Fucking Christ.” A soft growl met his ears, eyes slid toward the culprit. And there you were, just as gorgeous and warm without the infrared glow of the burning star above. Even with the snarl across your painted lips, coffee spilled in front of you as you picked up the few items you dropped. The espresso color accentuated the shape of your plush lips, and he wanted to know what the supple flesh felt like between his teeth, tongue sliding in sync with yours. And fucking hell he’s heard your voice, further fueling his mind. Simon’s base instincts were bleeding through more than he would care to admit. Like some horny school boy seeing tits for the first time. He didn’t care for it, wanted it gone. Made him feel compromised. It was consuming him in a time he couldn’t afford distractions. When could he ever?

Your morning started out shit, and seemed to become progressively shittier. You had an assignment due by midnight. The internet at your place was out, and the company had been very little help with an ETA. It had been your day off, but Deana was out with some virus her kid picked up from school and you were the lucky winner to be on rotation that week for the store. All you wanted was the comfort and warmth of a white chocolate mocha, and now that was also ruined as the caffeinated beverage seeped into the porous concrete of the patio. 

You had been set and determined to complete your assignment covering the impact commercial farming has had on the environment and global economics. Then, you saw him. Shades sat atop his same hat, the once full beard had been trimmed, hugging the shapely jaw. You liked it, so much so that you stumbled on a table, coffee slipping from your hands.

You wanted to scream, cry, kick the chair, but instead you blinked back the tears and picked the empty cup from the puddle of cream, sugar and caffeine. Feeling like a bloody idiot for being that damn distracted by a bloke you’ve not actually seen yet. If he walked around without the hate and sunnies, you’d most likely not realize it was him. But hell if the mystery wasn’t all the more enticing.

 You sighed, paying no more mind to the gargantuan on your left-dizzy from the distractions- and set your workstation. Three hours. That’s all you had before your shift at the shop.

You sat with one earbud playing music as you began cycling through your notes finding topic points and sub plots for your outline. The angelic voice of Florence Welsh guiding you through the motions of the ebb and flow of your homework routine. And deep in your concentration and will to see this task complete, you did not notice a dark figure leaving its perch. 

“Excuse me?” you looked to see one of the younger baristas standing with a coffee. “Uh…some dude ordered this for you, and wanted me to bring it out to you?” 

You quirked a brow taking the drink from the nervous kid and thanked them. When they skittered back into the building you took a look around seeing Paris missing one of its Gargoyles of Notre Dame.  A jolt of excitement warmed you when the sweet velvet flow of the caffeine hit your tongue. A perfect coffee to lift your spirits from a perfect stranger.

[odinsblog]

Mohammad Hassan, a 27-year-old father of three, died on K2 after falling off a sheer edge at the top of the area known as the 'bottleneck', which is around 8200 metres high. Photo / Adventure Alpine Guides

“If he had been a Westerner, he would have been rescued immediately. There is a double standard here. If I or any other Westerner had been lying there, everything would have been done to save them. Everyone would have had to turn back to bring the injured person back down to the valley … I’m just saying there was no rescue operation initiated, and that’s really very, very tragic, because that’s actually the most normal thing one would do in a situation like that.” —Wilhelm Steindl