#People chased the truck and it stopped at the area that close to army base. (So the army got involved at the end)

[aaslwooo]

"I don't believe in luck" from movies was such a cool line I thought. But things are different when you witness it.

[the-beskar-alchemist]

Alright....*cracks knuckles*.....I have things to SAY 

- Okay Din having the baby help him fix a part of the ship he can't reach? That's fitting honestly. He's tiny, he can crawl into the area Din needs to reach, but can't because they're still in space and he can't very well access the particular spot from outside (I'm assuming it's one of those areas only accessible via a hatch from the roof or something). - Also......OMG THE BABY HELPING DIN AND DIN BEING SO PATIENT HE'S SUCH A DAD - I have to wonder about the baby's pain threshold, he seemed only mildly inconvenienced from getting electrocuted (and for some reason I kept thinking about Tito from Oliver and Company fucking around with the wiring in the limo and getting shocked) - CHIN ACTION CHIN ACTION CHIN ACTION......(I truly do NOT understand the fuss over it being Pedro VS Brenden Wayne in the suit, does it really matter???? You're only seeing his chin, not his whole face, calm down) - Din honey broth/soup can only take you so far, TRUST ME, you can't make meals off of flavored liquid, you'll just be hungry again an hour later. It's NO WONDER that kid kept inhaling the eggs lol......BUT....at the same time it's only logical that Din's resources are stuff that's easily frozen/stored and can just be heated without any prep work.  The stuff the baby seems to crave tends to be things that would require a way to preserve/store large amounts of food and the Crest isn't built for that sort of thing (I'm thinking about making a slight analysis post about the ship at some point) - The fact that the old covert hideout is empty (save for black-market dealers) tells me that the Armorer is long gone and it's unlikely that anyone would know where she went (I noticed people bringing this up, that neither Cara/Greef checked on her), let's be real: They probably thought it wasn't their place to go poking around a Mandalorian covert just because they're friends with one of them, ESPECIALLY if the mutual friend isn't even around to vouch for their presence - Even though G*na has ruined any chance of me enjoying her as a person, I still appreciate her character as a separate thing. She continues to be badass, and I loved the fighting techniques she implemented in the sewers. - Yeah that crest is sputtering like an old beat-up pickup truck, just barely running - I really love that Karga spoke in such an affectionate manner to the baby. I know that Din tries to talk to him, but the way he does it is reminiscent of two adults talking. Karga actually talks to the baby like he's a child, no baby-talk but definitely with a higher pitch in his voice (the equivalent of the customer-service voice when you think about it) - SOMETHING FISHY ABOUT BEADY-EYED ALIEN DUDE. NO ME GUSTA - ONE OF THE SCHOOL CHILDREN REALLY DOES LOOK LIKE LITTLE REY - I felt like Din was experiencing separation-anxiety about leaving the baby, but I also feel like part of his hesitancy was an immediate reaction to the children whispering and laughing at the baby. I'm sure they weren't trying to appear cruel or anything, but it makes me wonder if he was having a minor flashback of having an experience like that and how it affected him - YODITO YOU PRECIOUS LITTLE SHIT YOU CAN'T JUST TAKE SOMEONE ELSES FOOD - I truly don't think that Karga/Cara see Din as anything less than a good friend, but I really wish they wouldn't treat him like his presence is only valid so long as he's helpful (LET THE MAN TAKE A BREAK) - WHY DOES THE IMPERIAL BASE LOOK LIKE THE PORT FOR A CABLE ON A CPU?? - I really don't like G*na's approach to acting where she thinks she has to sound as tough as possible in order to make her character more appealing/stronger - There are two separate comparison discussions you can take from the infiltration scenes: 1) It's a contrast to S1E6 where Din infiltrates a prison ship with the mercenaries and he's forced to follow their lead, OR 2) Din was awkwardly following the other Mandalorian's in the last episode, but with Karga/Cara he's confidant and even takes the lead - Imperial architecture be like: OSHA???? NEVER HEARD OF HER - I think it's important to note that, while Din is ready and willing to hunt down the Mythrol again if necessary without remorse, he still thought of him enough to keep him from falling down the lava shaft - Din's "I don't like this" had me in my feels a bit, usually he's so nonchalant in trying to act like nothing bothers him but he felt comfortable enough to express his unease in front of his friends - Okay the fact that they're vaguely referencing midi-chlorians, and it looks like this lab is a branch in Palpatine's cloning scheme, makes it seem like they're starting to tie into the movie franchise, but not outright.....it's a "just the tip" situation it seems. I'd honestly prefer they didn't delve to far into the movie canon, I feel the show will lose it's heart if they do. - Pershing mentioned "the volunteer", which has me curious about the kind of person that would allow themselves to be tested for what Gideon has planned. It's possible we're getting another major/unique character in the works.  Pershing could've just referenced test subjects in general, but he mentioned a specific one, so that has me wondering what other players are on the board. - That whole chase scene was nerve-wracking - DIN TO THE RESCUE DIN TO THE RESCUE - OMG THE BABY WAVING HIS ARMS LIKE HE'S ON A ROLLERCOASTER - DIN BABY YOU MAKE FLYING THE CREST LOOK SO SEXY - Din was all "Look what I did! Did you see that???" wanting to show off to the baby.....and then baby went BLEEEEEEGH.......AND THEN DIN WIPED IT WITH HIS CAPE???? He's such a DAD - The scene with Cara and officer talking about her losses was kind of emotional. G*na's acting is so wooden, it was honestly a combination of the music and the other actor's performance that seemed to get me, but more importantly its the fact that Cara is such a 3-dimensional character, that has so much potential, but she's being made superficial because of the portrayal - Also......she says she's not a "joiner", but she's eyeing that badge very closely, like she's contemplating a career switch. Perhaps there's a chance we may get revenge-driven Cara joining the New Republic in the future? - I'm glad they didn't actually show where the device is planted, it really adds to the suspense, I prefer a little mystery over having too much explained - Moff Gideon standing amongst the dark troopers like Saruman in the basement of Isengard where they bred the Uruk-hai army in LotR, this guy is pulling out all the stops to be ready to take on a singular Mandalorian and his friends. Does he think that Din will get Mandalorian reinforcements and therefore he needs the numbers? Are they stormtroopers or some form of droids, like the battle droids in S1? They're build kind of "human", and the attendees were using blasts of cold air like what would be used in a cryo-chamber, but what if they're not human? What if they are humanoids? Cyborgs? - It's interesting to think about what types of vessels/hosts Gideon would rely on for midi-chlorian testing. Obviously not just anyone can handle the transfusion, so would he require modifications to some extent to make the host more susceptible? Until next time!!!

[solivar]

The Left Hand Path: Three Years Ago

aka the One In Which Genji and Zenyatta meet.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo

Location: Just above the Red Line off I-25 N/Old New Mexico Route 68 N, Sandoval County north of the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area.

Before the Crisis, Santa Ana Pueblo was a thriving Tamayame reservation, part of the Greater Albuquerque Metropolitan area, and a major tourist draw in the region owing to its world-class golf courses and club, a well-regarded spa resort, a casino and Michelin-starred restaurant, and a multitude of easily accessible cultural sites and events spread throughout the year. All of that changed on the afternoon of August 13, 2046 when Omnic forces advancing on Albuquerque breached the containment cordon along Route 40 and the US military, massed there to stop them, unleashed experimental high energy weaponry designed for that task.

Once the dust settled, the city of Albuquerque and much of the surrounding area, including the Sandia and Santa Ana Pueblos, was almost completely leveled. In the aftermath, the military cordoned off the ruins of the city inside the Albuquerque Military Exclusion Area, which remains under heavily patrolled Federal military control to this day. Evacuees from the surrounding area were strongly encouraged not to return, with offers to purchase their land at pre-Crisis market value to sweeten the deal. Many accepted, a handful did not, and those that chose to do so returned to a pueblo whose buildings were reduced to rubble and scattered with wreckage -- and something weird that was neither.

The Standing Stones of Santa Ana Pueblo occupy a relatively compact chunk of land on the grounds of what was once Santa Ana Golf Club, shielded from casual view by a stand of cottonwood trees that somehow survived the explosions that leveled the clubhouse and most of the other course structures and did significant damage to the surrounding area. There are nine of them, standing in a geometrically perfect circle, varying in size from from well over six feet to a little over five, perfectly hexagonal in shape, crafted of a dark stone that at least superficially resembles basalt. The inner surface of each stone is densely carved with petroglyphs incised deeply into the rock. The outer surface of each stone is carved with one petroglyph unique to that stone and which cannot be found on any of the others, inside or out. Local experts on Native American petroglyphs continue to research this topic but, as of this writing, none of the petroglyphs that appear on the Standing Stones resemble any glyphs that appear on historical sites in the region.

Nor were the Standing Stones a feature of the area before the Omnic Crisis, as confirmed by surviving photos and video of the course and local residents of the area, including the former owners of the golf club. At some point after the evacuation of Santa Ana Pueblo, the Standing Stones appeared in their current location, unnoticed by anyone despite the heavy military presence and regular patrols of the area, and despite the amount of effort such a project would entail. The stones, though tall and relatively slender, are still estimated to weigh several hundred pounds each -- not something that could be loaded, unloaded, and placed by a single person working by hand alone.

The hundred or so families who make Santa Ana Pueblo their home give the Standing Stones a wide berth, citing weirdly colored lights that appear close to the ground around them and occasionally in the sky above, strange disembodied sounds, and a deep thrumming hum that periodically rises from the area. These phenomena have appeared on official reports from area law enforcement and also on official notices issued from the Albuquerque Exclusion Area’s patrol base. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, most of these phenomena have been observed around the anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque on August 13th.

If you want to try to catch the weirdness in action, make certain you’re prepared to handle high desert summer weather and get your permissions in order accordingly. The former grounds of Santa Ana Golf Course are private property posted against trespass and the area is periodically patrolled by both the US military and tribal coalition police.

“Tonight’s the night, everybody. August the thirteenth. The anniversary of the Battle of Albuquerque. It’s taken months to get my uncle to trust me enough to go out on perimeter patrol but this is our pay off.” Cody Peshlakai lowered his voice, dramatically, because there was no real danger of being heard, to hype up the audience watching his live HollaGram stream. “Tonight I will investigate the Standing Stones and tonight you will be with me.”

He flashed a grin and a V-for-victory sign into his camera then clipped it to the stabilizer harness strapped around his shoulders and across his chest, one more piece of survival equipment among the molle pouches carrying the rest of his gear, no different from anyone else’s. It sat there, neatly hidden next to his cellphone and the primitive walkie talkie his uncle insisted the security crews carry, through the team muster and meeting at the pueblo ranger station, broadcasting all the while. Nobody objected when he called dibs on one of the spiffy little hybrid hover/wheels ATVs, a good chunk of the all-volunteer patrol crew being old enough to value the superior shock absorption of the service’s Jeeps and trucks. The ATV yielded a much better POV for the viewers as he jetted out across the scrubby desert hardpack on the eastern bank of the Rio Grande toward his goal: the grounds of the former Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club.

Which was, unfortunately, on the western side of the Rio Grande.

On the way, he passed clusters of habitation: the small, self-contained farmsteads of single families, an artist’s commune, the little solar farm that served the area and its caretaker’s hacienda. He paused at each and exchanged a few words with the residents, radioed a handful of coyote sightings back to base, and continued on, the excitement churning higher and higher in his gut the closer he came to his goal, as his numbers climbed on his viewership monitor.

“So, yeah, that’s my job, stream -- I help keep my community, my friends and neighbors, safe. Sometimes that’s chasing off coyotes that are getting a little too comfortable raiding the compost bins but sometimes...sometimes it’s a lot weirder.” The remains of the old Highway 550 bridge loomed out of the twilight, crumbling concrete pilings jutting out of the shallowest, siltiest part of the river and he pulled to a halt, executing a slow pan to give the stream the best view possible. “On the other side of the river and a few miles west is what’s left of the Santa Ana Pueblo Golf Club. It used to be a world-class course, fancy-ass hotel and casino inclusive, made a lot of jobs and money for the community. All that, of course, came to an end during the Omnic Crisis.”

He revved the motivator, fired up the hoverpods to their highest yield, and skimmed across the surface of the river and up the opposite bank. A vista of devastation, stained in shades of sunset and shadow, spread out before them and the stream chat went absolutely wild. The residential neighborhoods south of 550 had been utterly flattened during the Battle of Albuquerque, hardly a brick left stacked or a wall left standing, blown all-but-flat by some incomprehensibly massive force. That, combined with the occasional blast crater and random scattering of unexploded ordnance, had discouraged resettlement so thoroughly nobody even wanted to risk putting up a solar farm. Wreckage still lay scattered as far as the eye could see and the eye could see quite a distance, even with twenty-plus years of desert scrub overgrowth blurring the harshest edges.

“Nobody really knows what happened here that day -- August thirteenth, the Battle of Albuquerque,” Cody narrated as he kicked the ATV back into motion, navigating carefully down the cracked and pitted remnants of 550 toward his goal. “Just about everybody was evacuated and the ones that stayed behind...well. Let’s just say that, when all was said and done, there wasn’t anyone left to tell the tale.”

The bombed-out, burned-out remnants of the old hotel-casino came into view, its parking lot still filled with the rusting hulks of abandoned vehicles. “The casino and golf course were used as a rallying and evacuation point for the nearby communities on the west bank of the Rio Grande in the days leading up to the battle. The US Army and local militia forces were massing along I-40 -- the Red Line -- and the Air Force and Air National Guard were flying refugees out by helo, the National Guard had commandeered every bus, van, and free personnel carrier they could get their hands on to get people out of harm’s way. This entire area was an absolute hive of activity, you can find video of it all over the internet.”

He paused long enough to link some of his favorites in the chat as he turned off the main road, easing the ATV along something that was once a paved maintenance access point, running roughly parallel with the river. He hit the first scraggly bits of “green,” grass genetically engineered to survive the heat and dry of a high desert summer, a few minutes later and he pulled up onto the flat, opened up his holomap, and pinged his location for the audience. “I’m here -- just south of the lower water trap which is, at this point, completely dry. Our objective is...here.” He touched the copse of cottonwood trees a mile and a half to the north. “The Standing Stones. No one knows how they got here -- they weren’t here before the battle and they weren’t here during the evacuation. But when the recovery teams swept through to see what, if anything, had survived...there they were.”

He gunned the motivator, turned the headlights up to maximum, and muted the call trying to come in from his uncle, likely demanding where the Hell he was. Oh, he was getting fired for this. So very, very fired. But very soon that wouldn’t matter, because after tonight his career was going elsewhere.

The stream picked up every jounce and bounce as he skimmed over ruts and bits of wreckage flung miles from their origins, swerved around scrub becoming less and less scrubby as he went and the wild descendants of decorative plants that had somehow survived despite it all. The cottonwood stand was still the tallest thing around and he slowed as it came into view. “My plan is to set up motion-activated cameras in a perimeter around the Standing Stones and several inside the circle of the Stones, as well, along with a super-sensitive microphone pickup and electromagnetic monitoring equipment. If something happens tonight, we’ll see and hear it.”

He stopped as the ATV’s headlights washed over the trees and struck glints from the Standing Stones themselves, dark stone reflecting darkly -- and more. Cody froze, still straddling his seat. “Oh, fuck -- there’s someone else in there --”

Cody killed the headlights and the motivator and rolled off the ATV into the relative cover of the underbrush in one smoothish and only mildly panicked motion. He even managed to avoid squeaking too much as he whispered, “Chat, did you see that? Did anyone else see that?!”

Yes!

Me, too!

I saw it -- it was TALL

Dozens of messages bubbled up in the chat as his audience scrolled back and scrutinized every frame for him. For his part, he dug his brand new Panopticon binoculars out of gear bag, clipped them into place on his tactical visor, and tried to get a better look of his own, zooming in on the Standing Stones so closely he could clearly see the petroglyphs incised into their surfaces, even with the last of the light bleeding out of the sky behind them. None of the grainy-green of old school low light optics with these babies, and he scanned the area and slow and careful, looking for some hint of what he saw, something, anything --

A flicker of motion caught his eye, something moving among the Stones, mostly obscured by their mass.

“Fuck.” This...was not a complication he had considered, much less prepared for. This whole area in general and the Standing Stones very much in specific were so far out of bounds that he never imagined encountering another person out here at all much less…

On the night of the anniversary of the battle of Albuquerque.

He had to physically resist the urge to facepalm. “Chat, I...think I know what this is.” He crawled back out of the brush and hunkered down next to the ATV, tried to get a better angle on the inside of the circle. “You know how every year there’s a remembrance ceremony at the big Crisis Memorial up in Santa Fe? Well...what if I told you that some people come down to the pueblo for their own private remembrances, too? It’s the anniversary, after all. Let me see if --”

A shriek of audio distortion drilled his ear with the enthusiasm of an icepick straight to the brain and it was all he could do not to howl as he clawed his audio pickup out. “Holy fuck, what was that?”

The chat, in the corner of the heads-up display on his visor, was losing its entire fucking mind -- whatever it was, they had heard it, too, and --

A second pulse of sound, deep and resonant, punched him in the chest hard enough to make both his heart and breathing stutter, and the chat went absolutely apeshit again as it fed through to them, as well.

“You know what, Chat,” Cody said, as soon as he got enough breath back to speak, “I think I’m going to take your advice and get the Hell --”

Golden light blossomed inside the circle of the Standing Stones -- for an instant, to his eyes, it looked as though the petroglyphs themselves were lighting up, searing their patterns into his retinas with a single unwary glance. He reeled back and looked away as he clawed both the tac visor and the binoculars off his face, blinking afterimages out of his vision, the light washing out of the stone circle, over him, over everything, and --

Calm flowed over him, over him and through him, a wave of perfect serenity that stole away all his fear between one breath and the next, left him wobbling on legs made of rubber, legs that folded up underneath him and left him sprawled on his back, eyes and camera both pointed at the swiftly darkening sky, hazed in golden light. He could hear the pinging of his stream’s chat freaking out a few physical inches and a couple thousand conceptual realities away, but couldn’t bring himself to care. That sweet golden light was all he knew and that majestic bone-deep music, and he allowed himself to drift away on it, blinking away like a pinched-out candle between one breath and the next.

It was some time later that the rescue team found him, sprawled out next to the ATV, boneless, blissed out and drooling. But not, as they feared, dead.

“I told you this little moron was up to something,” Julia Tso nudged him in the ribs with the tip of one hiking boot. “He’s been streaming crap on HollaGram for months, Joseph.”

“Yeah, I know.” Joseph Peshlakai sighed and signaled the medical evac team to come in from the road. “Keep an eye on him until they get here, yeah?”

Julia rolled her eyes but nodded and Joseph crossed the remaining distance to the Standing Stones, where a golden light still pulsed among them, within them, the petroglyphs alight. He stopped outside, cleared his throat, and said, “Thank you for not killing him, Wanderer. He’s an idiot but he’s my kid brother’s favorite child.”

Youth and folly are not offenses punishable by death, my old friend. The voice echoed in his mind, warm and amused, but not less awesome because of it. Thank you, as always, for watching over them in my absence.

“My honor, Wanderer. I’m honestly a little surprised to see you this soon. It’s only been, what, five years?” Five years to the day, Joseph thought but did not say.

Yes. I...think I will be staying for a time. Not here. But close. I feel...A frisson of unease passed between them, mind to mind, a chill crawling down his spine. I feel that I will be needed, sooner rather than later.

Joseph took a deep, steadying breath and nodded. “Things have been...a little stranger than usual, I will admit. It will be good to have you back, even if only for a time.”

It will be good to be home. Farewell for now, old friend.

The golden light blinked out, and Joseph knew he was alone. The Stones faded more slowly at his back, as he walked back down the shallow rise to his lieutenant and his idiot nephew and the knowledge growing in his mind that things were going to get worse before they got better.

[i-llbedammned]

Cool Heroes Don’t Look At Explosions

This is for the BuckyNat Secret Santa 2019!  This is for @nocek  !  I used the prompts “Shenanigans with Alpine and Liho.”  and “Cool heros don't look back at explosions.”  I hope you enjoy it! Title: Cool Heroes Don’t Look at Explosions Word Count: 2694 Summary:

Fic: “Come back here!” came a loud noise as with a crash a white cat ran straight through the screen door. Fast behind them came a man who would strike terror into most people- The Winter Soldier himself, albeit if he was intending to be on a mission he likely would have went with something a little bit more combat oriented than a black and red flannel and jeans. As it was he was having a time pulling on his boots while trying to catch a very determined white cat who took it upon themselves to begin their ascent up a telephone pole.

Curses mumbled in Russian emerged from Bucky’s mouth as he stared up at his companion before he switched gears, clicking and hissing gently to try and coax the animal down.“Come on Alpine, Come back down.” He crooned, only to be met with a rough “Mow” as Alpine briefly turned around to look at him before continuing on his way.

With a dexterity that is usually reserved for super spies the cat wound his way through trees, always one step ahead of Bucky Barnes. It wasn’t his fault but the cat chose to go through the most narrow passages that were covered with thorns. Every. Time. At least no one was around to see him chasing helplessly after a cat.A rustle in the bushes and he tensed up. This mountain was pretty abandoned, at least in the area he chose to live in. 

He reached for the gun at his hip, keeping his eyes on the cat and following. Assassins didn’t care if you just wanted to catch your pet.

Much to his surprise he heard a very familiar voice crooning, “Come on, Liho. You don’t even like the snow.” 

A moment later a black cat came dashing through the bushes to collide with Alpine. Fast behind followed Natasha Romanov, the Black Widow dressed in a white sweater and black leather leggings, looking just about as pleased as Bucky was to be out in the snow at the moment. His muscles relaxed and he took his hand off his weapon. If she wanted to kill him, he wouldn’t have seen her so blatantly.Rather than exchanging pleasantries, Bucky instead took the opportunity to lunge for Alpine while he was knocked down. Alas, the cat was a little too quick and instead he nose-dived into the snow.

“That kind of day for you too?” Natasha laughed, extending a hand to him to help him up. Up the sleeves of her fluffy sweater he noticed that there were still lock picks and stun darts and he grinned. 

Even a pet emergency could leave you vulnerable and there were few people who could understand that.“The damn cat won’t stop moving.” He replied lightly as they both stalked their respective pets.

Natasha nodded, her red hair failing down past her shoulders as she did so, “Much the same with Liho. She woke up this morning and decided to explore.”

As if signaled by their talks, both cats raced each other to the edge of a hill.

“Great,” grumbled Bucky, “They’re teaming up against us.”

“The monsters. How could they?” dryly replied the Black Widow, watching with bemused eyes as the cats slid gracelessly down a hill in a fur-based snowball.

The sound of metal grinding against metal made them both freeze, smiles stuck halfway on their faces. No one should be out here, even the loggers had shut down for the season. Natasha threw herself to the ground as Bucky hid behind a tree. 

With a well-practiced grace she made her way wordlessly forward.The Winter Soldier quirked an eyebrow to ask if it was okay to move forward and she gave him the most subtle of nods before turning her attention back to the situation over the hill. Taking a similar position on the ground, he lay next to her among the snow and brush. 

Down the hill, there was a factory of some sort. They scanned around. Soldiers, army transport trucks, chainlink fence topped with barbed wire- all things they were intimately familiar with yet were not fully prepared to see out here. 

“Red Skull,” Natasha muttered, pointing her chin towards a sign written in German on the side of the building, “Not sure what it’s for, but that’s his signature.”

“Have I mentioned how much I really hate Nazis?” Bucky replied, feeling a pre-emptive headache begin to form at the thought of how much work this was going to be.

That is if their cats didn’t blow their cover. 

Heedless of their deadly predicament, the two animals had recovered from their tumble and were now dashing towards the fence.

“Gotta stop them. If they are spotted, people will know someone is nearby,” Natasha got to a crouch and began her descent down the hill without another word, dashing like a shadow after the cats.

“I would prefer not shoot my way out of my problems today. That’ll be a lot of wetwork,” Bucky sighed, following suit. Not that he couldn’t, but he was honestly having a relaxing vacation other than this incident. It definitely was not because he didn’t want Natasha or the cats to get hurt because soldiers didn’t care about things like that.

There was a hissed curse in Russian as he reached the bottom of hill and the sound of metal being clipped. “What now?” he asked, knowing the answer even before he said it.

“The cats found the one gap in the fence.” She responded, her metal snips working away quickly to widen the hole big enough for her to fit through

.“Gotta stop teaching them the tools of the trade,” He responded, glad that the fence was not electrified.

“Now you tell me,” she jibed, as she slid her way in. Lacking her grace, Bucky instead used his metal arm to tear the hole a bit wider. He didn’t have any intention of leaving this base untouched so the need for stealth was pretty much moot in his eyes.

Luck, for the first time of the day, was on their side. The cats did not run across any soldiers and no one noticed the gap in the fence, at least for now.

 However the chances of being unnoticed were less and less as the felines padded their way towards the side of the building. Before they could get caught by the cameras, Bucky flung a knife at them, crushing the electronics.

Liho batted at a vent as the animals reached the bricks. Good, at least now they were stopped.“Got you now.” Natasha grinned, only to be further disappointed as the vent opened just enough for both cats to slide into.

“I can’t go in there,” The Winter Soldier gestured to his arm and broad shoulders.

Natasha looked around, craning her head upwards, “Think you can reach up there?”

Following her gaze he saw there was a high window without bars on it, “Yeah, no problem there.”

“I’ll follow the cats. You catch up with us inside.” Shedding her sweater to reveal a black tank top, the Russian assassin-turned-hero shoved herself into the ventilation system. 

He swore she had to have one of those collapsible skeletons like rat from how easy she made it look.Now to deal with his situation. Getting to the window wasn’t a problem, but getting in without shattering the glass might be. Turning his head to either side, he checked for guards but a commotion out front with one of the trucks had them otherwise occupied. With barely an effort, he jumped upwards, digging his metal hand into the stone and using that to fling himself upwards. 

For a moment he froze, listening to see if the sound of crunching stone would alert anyone to his presence, but no one immediately cried out. He dug his boots into the hole made by the metal hand before checking the window. 

Locked, but that was nothing new. Hitting a button on his arm, a small drill came out of one of his fingers –one of Tony’s improvements to the system made during his brief time with the Avengers.The drill made short work of the lock, allowing the glass panel to pop out of the frame and the Winter Solider to make his way into the factory. For a moment he paused, standing in the white light cast by the snow outside amongst all the blackness around him as his eyes adjusted. Dust motes whirled in the air, pushed by the new wind he had brought in. Slowly the room took shape. Walls of computers took form. Large tanks of something that smelled volatile and acrid. Cameras glowing everywhere.With bold steps he walked forward. 

There was no way they didn’t see him on the cameras by now, so he might was well actually learn what Red Skull was doing out in the middle of nowhere. He was sure that any headache that would be caused by his actions would be forgiven if he brought something valuable to S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Bucky, there’s-“ Natasha began, stepping behind him with two cats looking quite sour in her arms. Her tone was all business, but the concern was there.

“Bombs,” he finished as the final piece of data went through, “A lot of bombs.”

“They plan on trying to blow up the UN summit. I was able to grab some documents from their files before they got too close for comfort.”

Despite the circumstances he cast a sideways glance at her, admiration gracing his eyes, “All while making sure the cats stayed safe, I see.”

“I came in here with a mission to get the cats. I wasn’t about to lose sight of the primary objective even with the new threat.” She said, a small grin on her face before it melted away, “We can’t let this stand. Millions will die if we do.”

Bucky nodded. He knew what needed to be done, “Start running, Nat.”

“What are you-“ she began, trying to look over his shoulder at the program he was putting into the system.

“Just run. I’ll catch up.” His hands never stopped working, nor did his gaze look at her but his voice sounded concerned. It wasn’t something everyone would notice, but she had worked with him long enough to hear the subtle way that his voice tensed up when he was actually worried about the person.

She looked like she wanted to argue, but broke off with a sigh, “Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll meet you up the hill at the cabin we liked to visit last time we were in town.”He nodded. She paused, placing a hand on his arm that gently conveyed her worry before she was off, like a shadow racing the sun and time with two cats in her arms. 

The cabin was little more than a one room stopover that Nat used when running from people, but during the two months they had spent there a few years back they had made it feel more like home. It had been years since he had thought about it, but he knew where he would find it once he got his bearings.

She had barely been gone a few seconds when the loud sound of footsteps sounded in the halls. Shit, no time. A loud explosion from the direction Natasha had come from and the sound of angry shouts. Bless that woman, setting a bomb that bought him enough time to finish. He pressed the execution button and began to run as the door was opened and shots began to fire around him.

All of his stamina was spent pushing power to his legs.

 He had no clue what the blast radius for a bomb factory would be realistically, but he sure didn’t want to find out. Loud sirens went off behind him with the harsh crack of guns. Then there was a loud boom and a good deal of heat that he couldn’t look back to see. The force of the blast sent him sprawling, landing on his back in the snow.

Was he dead? He quiet asked himself. No, not yet at least. There was a loud ringing in his ear.Natasha was standing over him, with two cats wrapped in her white sweater. A red halo of slightly singed hair surrounded her head as she looked down at his prone form.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he mumbled, his eyes staring unfocusedly at her face against the white sky. He knew he should move, but everything felt dizzy and heavy now.

“Figured you couldn’t find the cabin without my help,” She said, bending down and picking him up with a strength that would be unexpected by fools. His feet stumble walked alongside of her, not enough wits about him to come up with a witty comeback or struggle against her help. All he could do was take solace in her strength.

The cabin had changed a bit since he had last been there. There were paintings and a few more blankets along with a bookshelf that was halfway filled and even a small bathroom. They were small details, but they made the place feel less like a halfway house and more like a home. 

After they had gotten back, Nat had started a fire in the woodburning stove and slowly the shock had worn off as he sat there.

“Here, take this.” Natasha said, handing him a warm mug that was decorated with cartoon snowmen now wearing her sweater sans cats. 

The two aforementioned mischief makers seemed to be tuckered out by their adventures and had curled up together on the opposite end of the couch.

“Coffee,” he said appreciatively, taking a sip and closing his eyes to appreciate it. His eyes slid open, “Has anyone told you that you are utterly beautiful?”

“All the time, but I never get tired of hearing you say it, James,” She said, sliding next to him close enough to where he could feel her warmth. It was nice, a comforting closeness that neither of them regularly allowed other people to take in.

“You’d think they were the spies with how they found the bomb.” He nodded, taking another sip of coffee and slinging his arm across the back of the couch.

“If they are they’re rookies, got scared the first time that they ran across combat.” Nat said, leaning against him, looking at the two cats, ”Good instincts though.” Scrapes that would heal in an hour stood out on her hands. Cool heroes didn’t look at explosions, but that didn’t mean that explosions didn’t hit them the same way. Blessedly, the technology that had birthed them had gifted them with extraordinary healing. It was one of the few severance packages they had taken away from the experiments.

James Barnes laughed, an unfamiliar gesture to him in recent years but with her it came easily enough when they were in private, “Guess we’ll have to train them more then. Gonna teach Alpine how to fire a rifle next.

”Natasha laughed, a warm rich sound, “I’m sure Fury will love that.” She paused, both of them realizing that they would need to deal with S.H.I.E.L.D. sooner rather than later.

“We gotta tell them, but let’s make sure that we leave the part out about the cats.” Bucky grimaced, “I do not want to deal with Steve telling me cat stories for the next few years til we get another mission.”

“A reasonable secret.” She conceded, “But we won’t get a chance to tell him for a few days. Can’t have us escape that factory only to get shot by Red Skull as they comb the area. Best bet is to hide here and wait for everything to pass.”

“Guess we’ll have to make the most of the time that we are forced to spend together then,” He responded, a glint in his eye that made Natasha excited for the idea that was behind it.

That night, the cabin felt a lot warmer and this time it was most assuredly not a place Bucky Barnes or Natasha Romanov would ever forget about.

[cchellacat]

I’m Speechless

Wintershock: Bucky/Darcy

Fluff for  @cametobuyplums 2000 Plums Writing Challenge.

Prompt: Je suis sans voix : I’m speechless

Nearly everyone had them, words scrawled somewhere on their bodies, the first words your soulmate would say to you. Bucky had spent his first life unmarked, something most people considered unlucky, he’d known when he left for war he probably wouldn’t come back, after all, there was no one waiting to hear his words and no one for him to say any to.

Those first weeks free of hydra had bee a blur, but one moment stood out, stepping out a of hot shower and clearing the steam from the mirror he’d seen them, the edges of words curling around his shoulder.  Angling in the reflection, he’d felt confused at first, not understanding where they came from, what they were, but then the knowledge rushed back in.  Soul-words. Words that meant somewhere out in the world there was a girl waiting for him.  It’s why he decided to head to Europe, that and the chance to chase down leads on Hydra, try to understand better what they’d done to him.  He’d found the record buried in a bunker in Germany. August 15th 1989, they’d discovered the words when they took him out of cryo.  After that they’d moved him to an American base.  

By the time he’d ended up in Wakanda, his mind restored, he’d felt a little more hopeful about the words, the tantalising promise of a future seemingly in his grasp.  He’d never even had the chance to tell Steve about them, to share what they were, he knew he’d have got a kick outta the suggestive invitation tattooed on his skin in French.

Then Thanos came and war. The aftermath of the destruction the Titan wrought across the world was massive, but the survivors, victorious.  Peter Quill had luckily been close enough to Stark to grab the man’s hand as the power of the stones flowed through him, shouting for others to do the same.  A line of the world’s heroes holding each other, linked in an unbreakable chain before Thanos, channeling all that power as Stark wielded the glove and defeated him, turning him and his armies to dust.  

When Steve had come to him, told him what he’d planned to do, he knew that if he told him then, his friend would have stayed, wanting to make sure he met his soulmate, wasted time he should be spending with Peggy.  So, he’d done the right thing, told Steve it was time for him to go back to his girl, live the life he’d been meant to have.  

Steve was staying with Stark now, life at the cabin was good for him, a good retirement and friends to visit and catch up with.  The place is peaceful, tranquil.  It’s why Bucky’s frowning so hard when he gets out of the truck.  The sound of dance music is blaring loudly from the cabin. It’s meant to be a nice relaxing quiet Fourth of July, instead the area by the water is bustling with people, setting up tables between shouting and laughing.  He can see the kid, Parker, chasing after a girl with curly hair. Morgan and Nathaniel, Cooper and Lila ducking about between the adults, playing some sorta game with water pistols and no one seeming at all concerned with the rising noise.  He spots Steve, dozing on the porch, and takes determined steps inside the house to find the source of the music.  He’s working himself up, ready to face Stark whom he’s certain must be behind it, but stops short when he reaches the kitchen.  There’s a girl there, wearing shorts he’s sure should be illegal, hair swept up on her head and bandana tied around it. She’s singing at the top of her lungs, a mixing bowl in one arm and conducting some invisible orchestra with a spatula in her right hand.  She’s gorgeous, looks like a pin up girl with her shirt tied under her curvaceous bust, her lips full and red, bright blue eyes flashing with merriment.  When she spots him, she flashes a sunny smile before dancing over, looking him straight in the eye and singing the words he’s branded with, to him.

“Voulez vous coucher avec moi, ce soir?”

He stands frozen in shock, not at the question, but at the reality.  He gapes like an idiot, mouth opening and closing in shock.  

“Hi!  I’m Darcy.”  She waves at him with the spatula, beginning to look concerned.  “Hey, old timer, it’s just a song, what’s got your panties in a bunch?”  He’s still unable to answer and she tells Friday to turn off the music, muttering that she’s gonna get Steve and he panics, reaching for her arm and finally croaks out a response.

“Je suis sans voix!”   it takes him a moment to realise he’s replied in French, but it seems he doesn’t need to translate, she looks as shocked as he felt.  Her mouth making a pretty oh of surprise and the bowl in her arm drops to the tile with a clatter.  For a blissful second there’s silence before she gets her voice working and starts chattering nineteen to the dozen.  

“You’re speechless? Fuck me my dude, how the hell do you think I feel?  Oh my god, Janie is not going to believe this!  And Steve!  Oh he is going to love this, do you know he talks about you all the time?  Like, the guy never shuts up about you, I feel like I know you with all the stories he’s told me and he kept insisting I’d like you no matter how any times I told him I still had a mark and….  Hey, hey, earth to Barnes!  Keep up soldier, we gotta go tell everyone!”

“Jesus Christ Doll, you got a mouth on you!”

“Ha!  Took you long enough. I thought I’d scared you permanently mute.”

“Something tells me that wouldn’t have been a problem the way you can talk for two.”  He tells her with a cheeky smile.

“I thought you were meant to be the smooth one Barnes.”    She parries back sharply, eyes twinkling.

“S’not like I have to be anymore though, is it?”

“Oh!  Implying you won’t need it with me?”  she arches a brow, placing one had on her hip and he’s brought up short again as he notices how long her legs look in the tiny shorts.

“Now, Doll, I didn’t mean it like that…  Just meant the days of me trying to charm a pretty dame are over.  Why would I need to, when the prettiest gal I ever met is my soulmate?”

“Aha, now that was smooth. A + right there.”

He steps closer and finds that, although she’s larger in life in personality, she’s a tiny little thing physically.  She barely comes up to his shoulder in her bare feet.  Even with the height difference, she manages to look down her nose a little at him before stepping into his space and tugging down her top so he can see the words he’d said to her in neat copperplate, scrawled over her collar bone.  It’s unmistakably his own hand.  When he reaches out to touch it, she allows it with a small smile.  Her skin is silky sooth under his touch, and she shivers as he traces the words, finally a little speechless herself.

“I don’t think we were properly introduced earlier,” he states, pulling her top back into place. “I’m James Barnes, but my friends call me Bucky.”

“Darcy Lewis, no fancy nickname”

“I really glad to finally meet you Darcy.”

He takes her hand in his, squeezing it gently, when she mirrors the gesture, it’s like something clicking into place.

“So, “  she asks after a moment, “who do you want to tell first. You’re best friend, or my Father?”

“You’re dad’s here?”

“Sure he is, Friday, where’s dad?”

“Boss is currently in the workshop Miss Lewis, would you like me to ask him to come up?”

Darcy almost agrees but then notices her shiny new soulmate is doing his best impression of a goldfish again.

“Speechless, huh?  I think I could get used to this…”  Darcy quips.  

Bucky’ d froze again and wonders if everything she says to him from now on will end in his stunned silence, but he clears the thought from his mind and shakes his head.  

“Any chance we could skip both and go straight to your first suggestion doll?”

The loud whoop of laughter that echoes through the cabin startles Steve awake on the porch.

Looking through the window he sees his best friend smiling, really smiling, the way he had before the war and Steve knows from the way he holds Darcy’s hand, his great granddaughter’s hand, that everything had worked out just fine. 

[stone-man-warrior]

You're gonna die if you don't go to the hospital. Your leg's still festering and will go into sepsis. You need to get medical attention. Refuse medical attention, and you die.

=============================================

April 22, 2021: 6:59 pm:

Hater’s gonna hate.

Can‘t stop the haters from hatin’.

=========================

There are no doctors.

One more time...

There are no doctors.

I can get a tow truck to come if my car breaks down, but the tow truck has a driver that you can see, and an assassin that you do not see, those two have communications with all of the passing motorists on the freeway where my car may break down, so, all of the motorists all become assistants, they are all part of the Canadian terror army, they help the assassin do the kill of the motorists who’s car broke down and called for a tow-truck.

I can get a tow truck to come get my car, and there will be an attempt to kill me on the roadside, as loud vehicles go buy making noise cover and other drivers come close to the soft shoulder, to make sure the victim stays out of view as much as possible.

I cannot see a doctor without experiencing similar condition as if I called a tow truck. There are no doctors at the hospitals, there are no doctors at the clinics or Urgent Care, there are only terror soldiers who specialize in the kind of murder that can happen at a medical facility,

no one will send help, and the haters, keep on hatin’,

Please send help to Josephine county Oregon.

=================================

8:19 pm:

I took a walk to the mailbox.

The terror audible signaling was in the form of the Sunflower terror cell peacock bird calls. The audible signaling is done to alert the other terror cell member assassins that I have gone outside, and I will be in range momentarily for an attempt to kill me.

The audible signaling occurred late in the walk, there were no sounds until I was passed my driveway gate, I suspect the signal was activated by a motion sensor or camera/motion sensor combination that is located near the pond at Monroe terror cell, as there is electricity available there and many places to conceal a camera or sensor. The actual bird call was a recorded sound played through a very powerful amplifier at Chartrand's terror cell.

As I reached the mailboxes, and having used my Bic Lighter as I was walking, approximately every ten seconds or so, there was a shout from the Monroe yard ... "C'est Chaud! Tank lit!".

A moment later, someone driving a small black car that meets the description of one of the cars at Bad Guy Automotive terror cell at the corner of Russell Road & Three Pines Road left the Monroe terror cell towards Russell Road, the car I am thinking of is a Honda Accord, about 1989 model, black.

So, all signs point to a terror soldier that launched towards Russell Road, and then someone left Monroe's to do the evac of the launched terror soldier ("evac" is the term used by the terror army), however, I did not see the launch this time, only heard the tell tale "C'est Chaud! Tank lit!". Once the nitrous tank is ignited, there is very little time before the terror soldiers either "burst" when the tank ruptures, or, they "launch" like a rocket. nitrous oxide is rocket fuel, look it up, it's used as a propellant in areas where oxygen is scarce or thin, and works even better when oxygen is plentiful, as is the case in the front yard at Monroe's, and all over the low earth atmosphere.

There is voter ballot in the mail. I think it's to vote if we want to have a municipal fire department in Josephine county, as it stands now, there are two private fire service companies and one of them only uses the trucks for parades, never for a response to a fire, they are movie prop fire trucks, are for show, not fire service.

The vote is fake, the outcome is already known, has been known since before the ballot book was printed, and I suspect that it will pass, and the cost will be enormous increase in my property tax.

Since I am the only US Citizen left alive, and not held as a slave in captivity, I still pay for my own mortgage and all of the bills I get, I pay myself, while the terror army has all of their needs provided for them for free, Screen Actor Guild leadership arranges all of the housing, transportation, food, clothing, everything the terror family cells need, is all paid for by others, with digital money magic done through JP Morgan Chase Bank, and with falsified inventory, and falsified digital money transactions at the checkout registers, debit machines, at the retail stores. They pretend to make purchases, but it's all an act, the activity of standing in line at the checkout at a store to make a purchase is all for show, it's done as part of the attack plans, so everything looks normal if investigative persons were to be watching, there is not much to see, and the terror army is able to fool the investigative persons right there, while the investigation is taking place.

So, that means that I am the only person who is affected by increase in prices, increase in taxes, and affected due to COVID Corona Hardship situations, the terror army is not affected financially in any way, shape, or form by any kind of hardship caused by the COVID, or any other reason where it costs more to live than the income can cover. They have everything paid for.

So, that municipal fire station measure is there only to hurt me, the last remaining US Citizen, and the only person who still has to pay for what I consume.

I think someone launched at Monroe's terror cell when I went to check the mail.

I have massive leg cramp, leg swelling, pain, foot swelling, more pain, after the 1600 foot round trip walk to check my mail.

The walking produces leg swelling, that in turn is increased blood pressure, that pressure drives the poisons out of the open wounds, and also, the increase in pressure causes the poisons to come out of my eyes like tears, it happens with increase in activity when I move around a lot, or walk, that is when ice cold tears begin to drip from my eyes. After taking a walk is a good time to rinse with peroxide as that is a time when there is abundance of poisons near the surface of the open wounds, rinsing at those times results in the material that comes out is very frothy like foam, more than if I rinse without a walk. So, even the swelling can be useful, if you think about how to use it.

no help has come.

There are no signs of helpful people anywhere.

Please send help.

============

9:44 pm:

Reminder:

Here in Oregon, all of the people were killed and replaced with terror army soldiers.

The way it used to be, we had citizens, there was some law enforcement and some public safety persons, there was fire stations and ambulance services, to name a few things that many US citizens take for granted, don't really think about very much.

now, the citizens are all Rank & File terror soldiers.

With the terror army in charge of the state, the needs for municipal services are no longer present. The reason is that the inhabitants of the municipality, as a Rank & File army, indeed compose their own law enforcement, public safety, ambulance service, and fire service.

In that way, every citizen, is effectively a police officer, a fire prevention specialist, an ambulance driver, and with all of them connected to one another with individual blue-tooth communications, each inhabitant is a public safety officer.

Unfortunately, it's a backwards system, one that protects the terror army.

Each terror soldier has responsibilities the same as US Military service persons do when on a base. Each one is there to protect the base, and each other. So, we have in Josephine county, essentially a terror military base. In the neighboring counties, those are other terror army bases, also, each inhabitant is a municipal public servant who duties are equivalent to police officers and firemen, they do those duties in parallel to their other duties of capturing and killing all of the US Citizens for USA takeover, and ultimately global domination.

Those conditions may be helpful to know about, in order to understand how the police and sheriff are all just for show, and also serve as roving death squads, because they really are an elite terror cell with very special privileged, equipment, situational conditions, and duties.

=======

11:21 pm:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slush_fund

That nbc tweet is not about climate change.

===============================

(tumblr text boxes come in two different styles, these ones with the colorful icon control buttons that happen when I respond to someone sending a note, like this entry is, (I don't often see these colorful icons, they are usually grey) and there is the text boxes that happen when I simply start a entry without answering a question, as I almost always have done. The two kinds of text boxes behave much differently. These text boxes with colorful icons allow that the URL's actually post as a link that shows up, while the usual text box with grey icons has very little functionality, and the links do not show up as a web page like that one above, with exception of YouTube links, they seem to post while others do not, if I take extra steps to make them post.)

[thespearnews-blog]

The cost of fake democracy

New Post has been published on http://thespearnews.com/2017/08/05/the-cost-of-fake-democracy/

The cost of fake democracy

Today we congratulate Paul Kagame upon winning Kagame Paul in Rwanda Elections with a Goran Tomasevi article published 2016 after Museveni’s ‘victory’ in Uganda

The cost of face democracy/elections

It’s become fashionable lately to disparage democracy. From the failure of “nation building” attempts in Iraq and Afghanistan to Islamist violence in Egypt, Libya, and other Arab Spring countries, to the rise of Donald Trump, some now see government of the people as a liability in a violent and polarized world. In a recent New York magazine essay on the subject, Andrew Sullivan endorses Plato’s claim that tyranny all too often results from the anarchic nature of democracy itself, rather than from its perversion by anti-democratic forces.

Readers who find such arguments appealing might want to consider moving to impoverished, corruption-ridden Uganda, ruled by President Yoweri Museveni for thirty years through a combination of bribery, blackmail, and brute force. Last week, Museveni was sworn in for yet another five-year term, having supposedly won a national election on February 18. But even Museveni’s closest Western allies acknowledge the vote was neither free nor fair. His main challenger, Kizza Besigye, is now in prison, charged with treason, which is punishable by death in Uganda.

Museveni’s swearing-in ceremony was attended by a rogue’s gallery of fellow dictators, including Omar al-Bashir of Sudan, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea, and Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. In his speech, Museveni ridiculed his critics as “those stupid ones,” and called the International Criminal Court, which has charged some of his guests with crimes against humanity, “a bunch of useless people.” The American ambassador, who attended the ceremony in the capital Kampala, walked out when she heard these words, as did diplomats from other Western countries that together pour about $1 billion in foreign aid into Uganda each year.

In the past Western governments have rubber-stamped Museveni’s dubious election victories, in part because he’s a crucial military ally, with troops in Somalia and other theaters of the “war on terror.” Earlier this month, Museveni suggested he might pull his troops out of Somalia, putting the Western-backed but very weak government there in a tight spot in its battle with al-Shabaab militants. But even with this implied threat, the diplomats couldn’t stomach the insult to the ICC, especially with Sudan’s Bashir, indicted for crimes in Darfur, in the audience. It’s unclear, though, whether Western donors will follow this symbolic protest with aid cuts and other sanctions.

I was in Uganda on February 20, when the country’s Electoral Commission announced Museveni’s victory. A few journalists with cameras turned up to record the proceedings, but otherwise the venue, festooned with bunting and the red, yellow, and black of the national flag had a somber atmosphere. Wearing a black academic-style gown, the seventy-one-year-old chairman of the commission, Badru Kiggundu, slowly read out a section of Uganda’s Electoral law and then, in alphabetical order, mumbled the names of the candidates and their respective share of the vote. President Museveni had won with roughly 60 percent, he said. His main challenger, Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye, leader of the main opposition FDC party, received 35 percent, and six other candidates received much smaller fractions. A few people clapped, and then the only sound on the broadcast, which I watched on Ugandan television in my hotel, was the awkward rustling of Eng. Kiggundu’s papers as he shuffled them into a neat pile.

Just hours before Kiggundu’s announcement, Eduard Kukan, the head of the EU’s Election Observation Mission to Uganda, held a press conference in which he criticized the government for the repeated arrest of Besigye and jailing and teargassing of his supporters, the long delayed arrival of ballot papers in opposition areas on election day, the open endorsement of Museveni by the Electoral Commission chairman, and the planting of tanks and armed soldiers all around the country to intimidate potential demonstrators. (Kukan did not mention that the chairwoman of the ruling party, Justine Lumumba, publicly warned Ugandan parents a month before the election that “the state will kill your children” should they come out onto the streets to protest the results—and that, according to the opposition, dozens of its supporters were in fact killed by police.

Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni at his swearing-in ceremony, Kampala, May 12, 2016 Kukan further noted that numerous boxes of ballot papers pre-ticked for Museveni had been reported around the country. On election day, an independent election-monitoring NGO set up a call center at a Kampala hotel where reports of election malpractices could be phoned in. In just one of many egregious examples, a worker there showed me a report from the polling station in the president’s home area in which numerous voters claimed they were given ballot papers pre-ticked for him and ordered to put them in the box. Those who refused were told, “We know your family.” At that polling station, the president received 760 votes and Besigye received 2, according to Kiggundu’s Electoral Commission, even though only 437 voters were registered there.

Shortly after the polls closed on February 18, Besigye led a group of reporters to a large house in an upscale Kampala neighborhood near the national police headquarters. Informants had been observing the house for weeks and had seen boxes of ballots and computer equipment as well as large amounts of food being delivered there. Suspecting it was a base for a government-run vote-rigging operation, Besigye banged his fists on the gate and demanded to be admitted. A young man who was about to enter the building panicked and ran. Besigye’s supporters chased him down. In the scuffle, a pistol and handcuffs fell out of the young man’s pocket. Three pickup trucks with police bearing machine guns arrived minutes later, sprayed the rapidly gathering crowd with tear gas, arrested several Besigye supporters, and escorted the candidate home.

Besigye claims that government agents inside the “rigging house” were transmitting doctored election results to the main Electoral Commission tally center a couple of miles away. Uganda’s police spokesman Fred Enanga dismissed Besigye’s claims. The building in question housed one of numerous command centers, Enanga said, and was off-limits to the public. He did not explain why the police did not prove this by allowing Besigye and the reporters with him to tour the facility.

By law, opposition groups are allowed to post observers at all 30,000 or so polling stations around the country to witness the voting and counting and sign final tally records known as Declaration of Results forms. The FDC party, which draws support from many parts of the country, was able to post such witnesses at most polling stations—and in contrast to the results announced by the Electoral Commission, it claims Besigye won with 52 percent of the vote, despite delays, intimidation, ballot stuffing, and other obstructions. The FDC’s tally could not be independently verified, however, because when Besigye called a press conference the day after the election to present its findings, his office was stormed by police who confiscated papers and computers and jailed numerous staff members, including data entry clerks and Besigye himself.

The evening after the raid of the FDC office, George Kanyeihamba, a retired Uganda Supreme Court judge, was watching the early election returns on TV when he noticed something odd. “The record will show,” he wrote in Uganda’s Observer newspaper, “that initially, presidential candidate Yoweri Museveni was leading with some 56 percent of provisional results so far declared,” but as more results came in, “Museveni was going down to 50 percent and Besigye was climbing up to the same number. Suddenly, an invisible hand stopped the process and blackened the TV screen. Within a minute or two, the screen brightened up and showed Museveni with over 60 percent and Kizza Besigye with 32 percent.”

Besigye claims the FDC is still in possession of 70 percent of the Declaration of Results forms but because so many of its officers were in detention, the party was unable to prepare a petition to challenge the results before the Uganda Supreme Court within ten days of the election, as required by law. Because opposition groups had alleged rigging in previous elections, a Western donor-funded NGO offered to co-finance a tallying system that would allow independent verification of results. It pulled out of the deal in December when the regime hastily procured a system that did not allow such verification. Besigye’s party is now calling for an internationally supervised audit of the election. There may be no other way to resolve the crisis.

On May 11, the eve of Museveni’s swearing-in, Besigye managed to escape from house arrest and appeared on the streets of downtown Kampala, just as a video of himself being “sworn in” as president in a mock ceremony was released on the Internet. People gathered around his vehicle to greet and cheer for him, but the police chased them away with bullets, batons, and tear gas. The government shut down Facebook and other social media immediately and the police whisked Besigye away to Jinja, a nearby town.

He was then taken by helicopter to a police station in the remote Karamoja region, where he was charged with treason and transferred to a prison. Karamoja was once considered a Museveni stronghold, but on Friday, local people poured out onto the streets singing FDC songs and bearing gifts of tomatoes, chicken, turkeys, and money for the opposition leader. The army was called in to control the crowds and counter-terrorism police threatened to shoot any journalist who tried to photograph the politician. A fight then broke out inside the prison between supporters of Besigye and those of the president, in which one of the latter’s supporters was killed. On Monday, Besigye was flown back to Kampala in handcuffs, where he is now being held in custody until his next court appearance later this month.

It’s not clear what will happen next. The Ugandan press is heavily monitored by the government, and numerous journalists have received threats of arrest, and scores have been detained, pulled off the air, or even arrested and beaten in mid-broadcast—though information about the crackdown is still getting out. Many Ugandans are angry about the election, but also terrified of the tanks and machine-gun-toting soldiers and police, who are still deployed on hills and school playing fields throughout the country. Even members of the police and army themselves are reportedly furious.

According to Besigye’s election tally, he led by wide margins in polling stations near barracks where soldiers and police typically vote, which could be why the government abruptly evicted thousands of officers and their families from their barracks two weeks after the election. There are rumors that other armed groups are mobilizing. If violence does break out, it will demonstrate the failure not of democracy, but of the sham version of it under which Ugandans—and so many others in the world—are forced to live.

Research for this article was supported by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.

The article was first published on May 16, 2016 by Reuters

  Featured

[thespearnews-blog]

The cost of fake democracy

New Post has been published on https://thespearnews.com/2017/08/05/cost-fake-democracy/

The cost of fake democracy

Today we congratulate Paul Kagame upon winning Kagame Paul in Rwanda Elections with a Goran Tomasevi article published 2016 after Museveni’s ‘victory’ in Uganda

The cost of face democracy/elections

It’s become fashionable lately to disparage democracy. From the failure of “nation building” attempts in Iraq and Afghanistan to Islamist violence in Egypt, Libya, and other Arab Spring countries, to the rise of Donald Trump, some now see government of the people as a liability in a violent and polarized world. In a recent New York magazine essay on the subject, Andrew Sullivan endorses Plato’s claim that tyranny all too often results from the anarchic nature of democracy itself, rather than from its perversion by anti-democratic forces.

Readers who find such arguments appealing might want to consider moving to impoverished, corruption-ridden Uganda, ruled by President Yoweri Museveni for thirty years through a combination of bribery, blackmail, and brute force. Last week, Museveni was sworn in for yet another five-year term, having supposedly won a national election on February 18. But even Museveni’s closest Western allies acknowledge the vote was neither free nor fair. His main challenger, Kizza Besigye, is now in prison, charged with treason, which is punishable by death in Uganda.

Museveni’s swearing-in ceremony was attended by a rogue’s gallery of fellow dictators, including Omar al-Bashir of Sudan, Teodoro Obiang Nguema Mbasogo of Equatorial Guinea, and Robert Mugabe of Zimbabwe. In his speech, Museveni ridiculed his critics as “those stupid ones,” and called the International Criminal Court, which has charged some of his guests with crimes against humanity, “a bunch of useless people.” The American ambassador, who attended the ceremony in the capital Kampala, walked out when she heard these words, as did diplomats from other Western countries that together pour about $1 billion in foreign aid into Uganda each year.

In the past Western governments have rubber-stamped Museveni’s dubious election victories, in part because he’s a crucial military ally, with troops in Somalia and other theaters of the “war on terror.” Earlier this month, Museveni suggested he might pull his troops out of Somalia, putting the Western-backed but very weak government there in a tight spot in its battle with al-Shabaab militants. But even with this implied threat, the diplomats couldn’t stomach the insult to the ICC, especially with Sudan’s Bashir, indicted for crimes in Darfur, in the audience. It’s unclear, though, whether Western donors will follow this symbolic protest with aid cuts and other sanctions.

I was in Uganda on February 20, when the country’s Electoral Commission announced Museveni’s victory. A few journalists with cameras turned up to record the proceedings, but otherwise the venue, festooned with bunting and the red, yellow, and black of the national flag had a somber atmosphere. Wearing a black academic-style gown, the seventy-one-year-old chairman of the commission, Badru Kiggundu, slowly read out a section of Uganda’s Electoral law and then, in alphabetical order, mumbled the names of the candidates and their respective share of the vote. President Museveni had won with roughly 60 percent, he said. His main challenger, Col. Dr. Kizza Besigye, leader of the main opposition FDC party, received 35 percent, and six other candidates received much smaller fractions. A few people clapped, and then the only sound on the broadcast, which I watched on Ugandan television in my hotel, was the awkward rustling of Eng. Kiggundu’s papers as he shuffled them into a neat pile.

Just hours before Kiggundu’s announcement, Eduard Kukan, the head of the EU’s Election Observation Mission to Uganda, held a press conference in which he criticized the government for the repeated arrest of Besigye and jailing and teargassing of his supporters, the long delayed arrival of ballot papers in opposition areas on election day, the open endorsement of Museveni by the Electoral Commission chairman, and the planting of tanks and armed soldiers all around the country to intimidate potential demonstrators. (Kukan did not mention that the chairwoman of the ruling party, Justine Lumumba, publicly warned Ugandan parents a month before the election that “the state will kill your children” should they come out onto the streets to protest the results—and that, according to the opposition, dozens of its supporters were in fact killed by police.

Ugandan President Yoweri Museveni at his swearing-in ceremony, Kampala, May 12, 2016 Kukan further noted that numerous boxes of ballot papers pre-ticked for Museveni had been reported around the country. On election day, an independent election-monitoring NGO set up a call center at a Kampala hotel where reports of election malpractices could be phoned in. In just one of many egregious examples, a worker there showed me a report from the polling station in the president’s home area in which numerous voters claimed they were given ballot papers pre-ticked for him and ordered to put them in the box. Those who refused were told, “We know your family.” At that polling station, the president received 760 votes and Besigye received 2, according to Kiggundu’s Electoral Commission, even though only 437 voters were registered there.

Shortly after the polls closed on February 18, Besigye led a group of reporters to a large house in an upscale Kampala neighborhood near the national police headquarters. Informants had been observing the house for weeks and had seen boxes of ballots and computer equipment as well as large amounts of food being delivered there. Suspecting it was a base for a government-run vote-rigging operation, Besigye banged his fists on the gate and demanded to be admitted. A young man who was about to enter the building panicked and ran. Besigye’s supporters chased him down. In the scuffle, a pistol and handcuffs fell out of the young man’s pocket. Three pickup trucks with police bearing machine guns arrived minutes later, sprayed the rapidly gathering crowd with tear gas, arrested several Besigye supporters, and escorted the candidate home.

Besigye claims that government agents inside the “rigging house” were transmitting doctored election results to the main Electoral Commission tally center a couple of miles away. Uganda’s police spokesman Fred Enanga dismissed Besigye’s claims. The building in question housed one of numerous command centers, Enanga said, and was off-limits to the public. He did not explain why the police did not prove this by allowing Besigye and the reporters with him to tour the facility.

By law, opposition groups are allowed to post observers at all 30,000 or so polling stations around the country to witness the voting and counting and sign final tally records known as Declaration of Results forms. The FDC party, which draws support from many parts of the country, was able to post such witnesses at most polling stations—and in contrast to the results announced by the Electoral Commission, it claims Besigye won with 52 percent of the vote, despite delays, intimidation, ballot stuffing, and other obstructions. The FDC’s tally could not be independently verified, however, because when Besigye called a press conference the day after the election to present its findings, his office was stormed by police who confiscated papers and computers and jailed numerous staff members, including data entry clerks and Besigye himself.

The evening after the raid of the FDC office, George Kanyeihamba, a retired Uganda Supreme Court judge, was watching the early election returns on TV when he noticed something odd. “The record will show,” he wrote in Uganda’s Observer newspaper, “that initially, presidential candidate Yoweri Museveni was leading with some 56 percent of provisional results so far declared,” but as more results came in, “Museveni was going down to 50 percent and Besigye was climbing up to the same number. Suddenly, an invisible hand stopped the process and blackened the TV screen. Within a minute or two, the screen brightened up and showed Museveni with over 60 percent and Kizza Besigye with 32 percent.”

Besigye claims the FDC is still in possession of 70 percent of the Declaration of Results forms but because so many of its officers were in detention, the party was unable to prepare a petition to challenge the results before the Uganda Supreme Court within ten days of the election, as required by law. Because opposition groups had alleged rigging in previous elections, a Western donor-funded NGO offered to co-finance a tallying system that would allow independent verification of results. It pulled out of the deal in December when the regime hastily procured a system that did not allow such verification. Besigye’s party is now calling for an internationally supervised audit of the election. There may be no other way to resolve the crisis.

On May 11, the eve of Museveni’s swearing-in, Besigye managed to escape from house arrest and appeared on the streets of downtown Kampala, just as a video of himself being “sworn in” as president in a mock ceremony was released on the Internet. People gathered around his vehicle to greet and cheer for him, but the police chased them away with bullets, batons, and tear gas. The government shut down Facebook and other social media immediately and the police whisked Besigye away to Jinja, a nearby town.

He was then taken by helicopter to a police station in the remote Karamoja region, where he was charged with treason and transferred to a prison. Karamoja was once considered a Museveni stronghold, but on Friday, local people poured out onto the streets singing FDC songs and bearing gifts of tomatoes, chicken, turkeys, and money for the opposition leader. The army was called in to control the crowds and counter-terrorism police threatened to shoot any journalist who tried to photograph the politician. A fight then broke out inside the prison between supporters of Besigye and those of the president, in which one of the latter’s supporters was killed. On Monday, Besigye was flown back to Kampala in handcuffs, where he is now being held in custody until his next court appearance later this month.

It’s not clear what will happen next. The Ugandan press is heavily monitored by the government, and numerous journalists have received threats of arrest, and scores have been detained, pulled off the air, or even arrested and beaten in mid-broadcast—though information about the crackdown is still getting out. Many Ugandans are angry about the election, but also terrified of the tanks and machine-gun-toting soldiers and police, who are still deployed on hills and school playing fields throughout the country. Even members of the police and army themselves are reportedly furious.

According to Besigye’s election tally, he led by wide margins in polling stations near barracks where soldiers and police typically vote, which could be why the government abruptly evicted thousands of officers and their families from their barracks two weeks after the election. There are rumors that other armed groups are mobilizing. If violence does break out, it will demonstrate the failure not of democracy, but of the sham version of it under which Ugandans—and so many others in the world—are forced to live.

Research for this article was supported by the Pulitzer Center on Crisis Reporting.

The article was first published on May 16, 2016 by Reuters