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[slocumjoe]

I'm talking with some friends about this quirked up white boy and apparently his design isnt giving? I made him with the idea of "Prince Charming got fucked up", so he's supposed to be very Disney-esque handsome but somewhat weird. Not creepy, just "hmm you've got some issues". In terms of attractiveness, he's too cookie cutter for my personal tastes. Group A thinks he looks way too creepy to reach the Disney vibe and looks like a serial killer. Groul B thinks he looks good and doesn't think he gives off the "weird dude who's done weird shit" vibes. Both agree his later appearance is similar to a sopping wet puppy found in a dumpster.

Again, intended vibe was that he's conventionally handsome, but all of his bad choices have, like, stuck to his face. Could be a model, if only he had gone down any other paths. So,

[kaijuno]

The SS Warrimoo, a passenger steamship traveling from Vancouver to Australia, was silently knifing its way across the mid-Pacific waters. The navigator had just finished calculating a star fix and handed the results to Captain John DS. Phillips.

The Warrimoo's coordinates were LAT 0º 31' N, LONG 179 30' W. The date was December 31, 1899. "Know what this means?" First Mate Payton announced, "We're only a few miles from the intersection of the Equator and the International Date Line."

Captain Phillips was prankish enough to seize the opportunity to do the nautical feat of a lifetime. He summoned his navigators to the bridge to double-check the ship's position. He altered his course slightly to focus directly on his target. He then altered the engine's speed.

The calm weather and clear night worked to his advantage. At midnight, the SS Warrimoo rested on the Equator, exactly where it had crossed the International Date Line. The ramifications of this odd arrangement were numerous.

The ship's bow was in the Southern Hemisphere, in the middle of summer. The stern was in the Northern Hemisphere, in the midst of winter. The date on the aft portion of the ship was December 31, 1899. The date on the forward half of the ship was January 1, 1900. The ship experienced multiple days, months, years, seasons, and centuries simultaneously.

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[blurredcolour]

The Only Truth... | Part Four

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

John "Bucky" Egan x POW Flight Nurse!Female Reader

The day Stalag VIIA is liberated ought to be one of pure celebration. Unfortunately, fate has other plans in store.

Warnings: Language, Angst, Death, Blood, Brief Battle, Serious Reader Injury [gunshot wound], POW Camp Setting, SS Officers, Mental Health Struggles, References to Christianity, Reader Scars, Hospital Setting, Kissing, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Rating - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: Thank you all ever so much for your patience! At last we come to the end of our tale. This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6267

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

The morning of Sunday, April 29, 1945, dawned cloudy but bright. The chill of early spring still hung in the air, your breath hanging from your lips as you ducked out into the tent to collect the clean yet still-unfolded laundry that had been awaiting your attention throughout the drama of the rainstorm. You had just managed to tuck it away into your room when Fitzgibbons arrived with a new book for you to read, a more recently published fantasy novel called The Hobbit, though you had other priorities before diving into it.

You had almost gotten away with your clandestine chores, rags folded, and three-quarters of the bandages rolled, when your former surgical technician appeared at your door, knocking on the frame with an admonishing look on his face.

“I see you’re taking it easy on your day off, Ma’am.”

Huffing in irritation at being caught, you shook your head. “I’m off my feet, Fitz, can’t we just call a truce?”

He made a non-committal noise before cracking a grin. “Actually came to ask a favor, so I’m thinking we can come to an agreement. Menzies,” his deliberate mispronunciation of the British Captain’s name made you roll your eyes affectionately, “ordered me to flush a wound using your make-shift tools and honestly, I cannot make heads or tails of what you’ve jerry-rigged.”

Biting back a laugh, you nodded quickly, well aware that your cobbled-together system was more than a little unorthodox and not at all surprised Menzies had not taken the time to ensure Fitzgibbons knew how it worked. “Certainly, let me walk you through it.”

Grabbing the laundry you had thus far folded, you made your way down the hall to collect the items from the supply desk and followed him to the bedside of a new patient. Introducing yourself warmly, you learned the man’s name was Michaels and he hailed from the frigid wilds of Canada.

“Fitz and I are going to use this here to flush that wound, alright?” You nodded to the nasty laceration on his calf, your makeshift instruments cradled in your arms.

“Sounds fine, Ma’am.” He nodded patiently, vowels clipped remarkably short in that efficient Canuck way of speaking.

“Alright so if you take this, Fitz.” You held out a funnel with a piece of tubing secured to it, watching the tech take it carefully.

The mundane calm of the morning was shattered by the sudden hum of an airplane engine, your eyes shooting to meet Fitzgibbons’ sharply moments before the eruption of gunfire.

“Everyone get down!” He shouted and you both lurched into motion to begin helping your patients from their cots onto the wooden planks of the tent platform, abandoning your instruments on Michaels’ cot.

Panic rising as you once again found yourself in a wildly unsafe place while under fire, you urged the men from their beds to get low, presenting smaller targets for the errant bullets that were punching holes through the canvas of the tent every so often. The cacophony outside only increased with the rumble of approaching vehicles – tanks quite possible given the depth of sound that carried across the camp – and you nearly tripped over your own feet in an effort to reach the last two patients who simply could not move on their own.

Heaving one, Sidhu from India, out of his cot and depositing him onto the floor, you were just sliding your arms beneath the shoulders of the last, Hernandez from Texas, when searing heat and pain punched into your side. Your arms and legs gave out beneath you instantly, your body collapsing atop the poor boy still on his cot, both of you gasping for breath. With a grunt of annoyance, you flung a hand back to your hip, eyes widening as your fingertips were quickly covered in a warm, slick fluid.

“M…Ma’am?!” Hernandez warbled from beneath you, watching as you lifted your fingers to inspect just what was going on, his face blanching at the unmistakable scarlet of blood. “Doc?! Medic!! Help!!!” He began to shriek all the words he knew to summon assistance, making you wince at the racket as you forced yourself to roll off him, crashing to the floor in a pile of uncooperative limbs.

Taking a moment to try and catch your breath, pulse rocketing at an alarming rate, you began to realize that no matter how long you lay there, things were not improving. In fact the situation was growing a lot more serious as a deep ache was settling into your right side and you could feel your clothes growing damper with blood by the second. Rolling onto your stomach, you had just begun to feebly pull yourself across the floor of the tent when the racket outside subsided momentarily, Hernandez’s cries summoning several sets of boots to run in your direction.

A great, external cheer erupted in the same moment you were lifted by many hands onto one of the recently vacated cots, Chalmers, Menzies and Fitzgibbons all hovering above you as they yanked at your shirt and pants to get at your wound. The striking similarity between your plight and that of Simms set your teeth on edge, tears brimming in your eyes at the sudden thought that this could really be it. You might very well die here in these filthy, mud-covered clothes while the rest of the camp cheered on outside.

“Keep breathing for me, Nurse. You’ve got an entry and an exit wound, you just stay with us now.” Chalmers barked firmly and you managed a brief nod despite the shakes that seemed to want to rattle your bones. “Fitz go find out if they’ve got a Medic with them – we need sulfa and plasma, and she needs an aid station and surgery.”

“Sir!” He replied before you heard his frantic footfalls leave the tent.

Menzies applied a ruthless amount of pressure to the front and back of your hip and it was all you could do not to wail pathetically at the lances of pain that shot through you. “I know, Nurse, I know. For your own good, now. Why’d you have to go and get yourself shot in the middle of our liberation, hm?”

“Libe.r.ation?” It was difficult to form the word, your mouth clumsy and filled with cotton, head buzzing with adrenaline and pain.

Your heart was beginning to lose its rhythm, stuttering and skipping beats every so often. Your medical training offered a whispered explanation of ‘blood loss’ which did nothing for the suffocating feeling of panic in your chest.

“Looks like your American Army showed up to bring you home, so let’s make sure you can get there alright?” Chalmers added firmly and you nodded again, trying to take deep breaths.

You were so close. They were right there.

What had started as a frigid day seemed to be growing colder, your fingers tips positively icy by the time you heard Fitzgibbons return, giving someone a rundown. The familiarity of it made your heart ache for a simpler time when the two of you were the ones saving people, taking them from danger to safety. Now you were the one in peril, finding it remarkably difficult to keep your eyes open. The unfamiliar face of a young man in an Army helmet came into view before you felt the sting of sulfa on your wounds.

Your left sleeve was rolled up, your nonsensical protests going unheeded as the man began to search for a vein, inserting an IV for the bottle of cheery yellow plasma – the bright color anachronistic to the monochromatic color palette that pervaded the Stalag. Bandages were wrapped tightly around your middle once more and they were just about to lift you, cot and all, when another set of heavy footfalls sounded on the floorboards.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” Bucky’s voice was unmistakable, though anguished, and you rolled your head to the side to look at him with a weak smile.

“Bucky.” You managed to form his nickname at a volume no more than a whisper, vision narrowing in on his pinched, tight features, the normally rosy hue completely drained from his cheeks.

Suddenly everything tilted and whirled as your cot was hoisted onto the shoulders of Chalmers, Menzies, Fitzgibbons, and the Medic.

“Take the plasma, Egan. Hold it up, keep pace.” Chalmers ordered sharply and the ceiling of the tent began to blur as they rushed out into the daylight, your vision going completely white before all was darkness.

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

The morning had seemed like any other, crowded around a small campfire trying to keep warm, trading suppositions about the end of the war with Jefferson, when the unmistakable sound of an aircraft engine had broken through the din of the camp.

“Hey Macon, that’s a P-51!” Jefferson had shouted and instantly the entire population was on their feet, cheering on the pilot as he took out on of the guard towers.

Their elation was short lived, the abrupt sound of incoming artillery sending all the prisoners into the dirt as every single German soldier seemed to open fire as one, the camp instantly an active battlefield. Bucky’s eyes strayed to the hospital tent, its canvas walls helplessly pinned between the encroaching American tanks and the defending German guards. They needed to put a stop to this from the inside before any more lives were needlessly lost. Even as this thought crossed his mind, men were falling all around him.

“Fellas! Take out the tower!” Bucky shouted as he ran for the tent where the majority of the Americans were sheltering, seeking out the homemade stars and stripes they had carefully crafted and transported from camp to camp, kept hidden from goons, just for such an occasion.

It took a few tries before Jefferson successfully came up with the flag, passing it to him quickly. Dashing through the chaos of prisoners running hither and thither through the camp, some fleeing, some fighting guards, Bucky was boosted onto the roof of the administration building. The flagpole was less than sturdy as he climbed it but as he removed the Nazi war flag and tossed it to the cheering crowd below, the guns fell quiet. Securing the ragtag American flag, watching the breeze immediately catch and fly it high, an immense feeling of relief wash through him and after taking a moment to celebrate, he pressed his forehead to the hand-hewn timber of the pole to soak in his gratitude for making it this far. Though the ragged appearance of his country’s flag undoubtedly mirrored his own.

As he carefully climbed down the rickety pole, his eyes caught on a somewhat familiar figure running frantically through the crowd toward the gate, moving against the flow of those milling around the yard, celebrating. The man’s shouts carried intermittently on the wind across the crowd and Bucky managed to pick out “Medic,” his heartrate picking up at the word “Nurse.” His stomach dropped when the word “shot” reached his ears.

“Angelfish.” He whispered and quickly scrambled his way off the roof, wincing a little at his rough landing, before he began to shove his own way through the oblivious celebrants towards the hospital.

Skidding to a stop on the threshold of the tent, he was startled to find all the patients cowering beneath their cots while you lay on one of their abandoned beds, a bloody mess surrounded by men frantically trying to save you.

“Jesus christ…angelfish…” He choked out, throat clenching painfully as your head lolled to the side, slightly unfocused eyes meeting his.

“Bucky.” Your faint whisper of his name propelled him forward, a frown settling over his features at the state of your clothes, wanting nothing more than to cover up the expanse of your abdomen and the scar on your arm – you surely hated to have that so prominently on display.

Chalmers’ sudden directive for him to manage the plasma grabbed his attention and he quickly grasped the glass bottle, holding it high as they lifted the entire bed to begin carrying you out of there.

“Just hold on, angelfish.” He rasped, heart lurching painfully as your eyes rolled back in your head, your body going slack.

Running alongside you to the gate despite the way his lungs ached, the crowd mercifully parted before their odd little group. A jeep was waiting with a stretcher strapped to the back, and Bucky watched helplessly as your unsettlingly limp form was transferred from the cot, the bottle of plasma wrenched from his fingers by the Medic before he perched atop your legs. As the vehicle took off, the Lieutenant Colonel of the armored division strode over sternly.

“How the devil did a nurse end up as a POW?” He demanded as Lieutenant Colonel Clark came to stand on Bucky’s right.

Chalmer’s sighed deeply before sharing what he knew of your story, of your arrival back in January including the fact that the Red Cross was informed through the usual process, and how you were housed separately in the hospital. As Fitzgibbons, the very same surgical technician you had earned your burns pulling out of your plane, filled in the rest of your service history, Bucky could only reflect on how little he really knew you. How short his time with you had actually amounted to be. Hell, he would not have even known your squadron number if it was not for that conversation right then.

“What a SNAFU.” The man muttered and Bucky could certainly see the resemblance of the man’s commanding officer, Patton, in him. “Well, let’s get this formal surrender over with so we can get these boys home.”

Clark nodded in return and Bucky shuffled back to sit heavily amongst the men of the 100th, waving off Brady’s look of concern. Watching the salutes and handshakes, he was completely numb, his thoughts miles away with wherever they had taken you, only able to hope against hope that their aid station was of the highest calibre.

Bucky had not resorted to prayer often throughout the war. Sure he had worn a crucifix and crossed himself reflexively when flying into a hail of flak, but conversations with higher beings had never been something he had put much stock in. Faced, now, with this gnawing feeling of helplessness, your very survival in the balance, it seemed like the only tool left at his disposal.

Crammed into the tent that night, shoulder-to-shoulder with his neighbors, he felt rusty and self-conscious as he addressed the god of his childhood Sunday school and fairly begged for you to make it. He stopped short of bargaining his own life away, but barely, before sleep overtook his aching body, the exertions of the day overtaking him.

As he found himself jostling in the back of a transport truck on his way to Paris the next day, handpicked by Lieutenant Colonel Clark to be among the first sent back to England, he could not help but feel as though he was being driven further and further away from you. It was near night by the time they pulled into the base and Bucky took his first warm shower in over a year, changing into a fresh uniform and feeling almost human. They were served white bread that might as well have been cake, with steak and eggs that were too rich for him to endure more than a few bites before he crawled into a remarkably clean bed and slept deeply, exhaustion winning out over his continuous concern for your well being.

Climbing into the belly of a B-17 for the first time in over eighteen months felt awkward and painful, the crew from the 100th consisting of unfamiliar replacements, the space feeling more cramped than it ever had as he wedged himself into the cockpit behind the pilot. The deep-seated terror he had desperately been trying to supress, his fear that Buck had not made it to safety despite their planning and the beating he had taken to distract the guards, surged to the fore of his mind. It competed ruthlessly with his anxiety over whether you were still drawing breath, the fact that he may have to face the truth of losing both of you leaving him silent and withdrawn as the plane took flight.

There was no immediate answer awaiting him at Thorpe Abbotts either, no familiar faces lining the tarmac – not even Lemmons was around, which struck him as unsettlingly odd. Making his way to the CO’s hut, his eyes at last landed on a familiar face as Herrmann emerged from one the equipment sheds.

“Hey Winks! Where is everybody? Guy comes back after a year-and-a-half and no one’s around?” He plastered on a playful smirk as the boy’s face broke out into a grin of astonishment, shaking his hand vigorously as he rushed over.

“Buck took Rosie, Douglass, Croz, and Kenny up on one of those mercy missions they’ve been practicing for, they should be back any time now, sir. Gosh it’s great to see you back here.”

Bucky’s attention immediately snagged on the first name Herrmann mentioned, finding it immensely difficult to continue listening as he exhaled half of the tension that had strangled him all the way across the English Chanel. “Good to be back, Winks. Think you can give me a lift?” He raised an eyebrow, desperate for a moment of levity.

With a quick nod, Herrmann was promptly driving him towards the control tower. The most difficult part of getting up there was making it past all the congratulatory pats and handshakes, but Bucky was able to pull off his surprise, the sound of Cleven’s voice over the radio going a long way to mending some of the deep wounds he was still sporting.

More handshakes and pats-on-the-back awaited him at the hardstand and it finally felt like he was back amongst the familiar faces of these men. He did not miss the way Cleven’s eyes were quietly scrutinizing him, however. The gratingly familiar feeling that his friend was looking right through him was undeniable as he joked and smiled with the boys who had never been imprisoned. Who had not endured the things they had. As the crowd around them thinned out, Bucky turned to watch Cleven pull out one of his toothpicks, sliding it between his molars in a familiar yet long-lost motion.

“So what you been up to since I left?” His friend asked.

Bucky swallowed and shrugged a little walking over to the jeep, Cleven immediately sliding into the passenger’s seat out of habit.

“That terrible, huh?” Cleven muttered and Bucky sighed as the vehicle roared to life.

“Ended up in Moosburg.” He started out slow, with simple facts. “Got a little hurt on the way, so Brady and Hambone took me to the hospital. Turns out there was a Nurse there, POW since January.”

The look of shock on his friend’s face registered in the corner of his eye and Bucky did not have the heart to fully face him.

“The German’s held a woman prisoner?” Cleven shook his head with a sigh of dismay.

“She got shot during the liberation, stray bullet. Medics from the armored division took her and I have no idea if she made it.” Now that he had started telling the story it all just came pouring out of him.

“You care about her more than just on moral grounds.” Cleven stated matter-of-factly and Bucky sighed as he pulled up in front of what used to be their hut.

Who knew if it still was.

“Yes.” He begrudgingly admitted, though his admission was addressed to the steering wheel.

There was a long, drawn-out silence, the incessant chirping of sparrows filling in the gap in conversation and Bucky realized he had not really heard a bird his entire time in captivity. His head snapped sharply to look at Cleven as he suddenly spoke again.

“If anyone can find someone in the chain of evacuation it’ll be Smokey.”

Bucky furrowed his brows a moment before it clicked. “Doc Stover? You think?”

Cleven shrugged. “He’s our best shot I guess.”

“Our…”

“Are you going to drive us to the hospital, or should I?”

A grin pulled at Bucky’s lips as he started the jeep back up and took a sharp U-turn, heading for the base hospital. He pretended not to notice the way his friend’s eyes lingered on the stiff movement of his body as he climbed out of the jeep – he was definitely sore but was most certainly not going to admit to it. The wards were just as populated as they had been in 1943, something he found rather infuriating. It was another feeling he tucked into a neat little package and shoved down to be ignored until a more convenient time. Or perhaps never to be acknowledged again.

Stover was easy to find, dressed in his white coat, just finishing his rounds.

“Majors, what can I do for you?” He gestured for them to follow him into his office and Bucky sank down into a chair heavily, once again ignoring another man’s assessing gaze on him.

“Well it’s an odd request really but…” He trailed off, hesitating as he smoothed his too-long hair, reflecting once again that he needed a proper haircut.

“We’re wondering if you might be able to track someone down for us. Someone who was injured at a camp in Moosburg and evacuated to an aid station.

Stover raised an eyebrow curiously. “One of your fellow POWs?”

“Something like…. well yeah, she is.” Bucky corrected himself midway through, watching the doctor’s eyebrows shoot up dramatically. “Flight Nurse from the 802nd MAES, POW at Moosburg since January of ’45, shot during liberation and taken to the aid station of Patton’s 3rd Army – armored division. Which division I don’t know.”

They watched as Stover quickly grabbed a pen and started jotting down the important details, including your name.

“How bad was she hurt?” Stover asked and Bucky swallowed tightly.

“I didn’t see it happen but there was a gunshot to her stomach somewhere. They got her on plasma quickly.” He added hopefully but Stover’s face remained grim.

“I can’t promise you anything Major Egan, it doesn’t sound particularly hopeful either, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Doc.” He nodded, leveraging himself out of the chair with a barely concealed wince.

“And what do you have going on?” Stover stayed seated, eyeing him expectantly.

Bucky noticed Cleven had not budged either, the bastard. Emptying his lungs with a heavy exhale, Bucky put his hands on his hips and shrugged.

“Couple of broken ribs, I’ll be alright.” He replied nonchalantly.

“And how old are these broken ribs?” Stover prodded and Bucky ignored Cleven’s pointed look up at him.

“Couple weeks, I’m halfway mended, just overdid it getting in the fort to come back.”

Stover rose from behind his desk and opened a cabinet, fetching a bottle and holding it out to him. “Aspirin, to keep you comfortable. Take two every four hours as long as you need. Come back if you run out.”

Bucky accepted the bottle with a nod of thanks, the memory of you scrounging up two rare pills for him in the Stalag flooding back, furrowing his brows. The things you could have done in a place like this with limitless supply.

“Thanks again, Doc.” Cleven’s expression of gratitude pierced through his reminiscing and Bucky nodded quickly, tucking the pills into his pocket before heading out quietly.

Accommodations were procured and there was not much for him to do around base aside from rest and learn how to eat properly once more. It took several days for any news of your condition to reach him, via Stover’s connections, but when the man pulled him into his office on the morning of the May 5, he was stunned to learn that not only were you alive, but that you had been air evacuated to Redgrave Hospital just thirty minutes away from Thorpe Abbotts.

You were safe. You were close.

“Seems they weren’t quite certain what to do with her, but as she serves under the Army Air Force, they sent her to our main hospital.” Bucky realized Stover was still talking and he shot him a warm grin before grasping his hand to shake firmly.

“Well I really appreciate your help, Doc. I’ve gotta…” Bucky glanced over his shoulder at the door, desperate to make his way to you.

“Yeah, go…” He chuckled and shooed him out of his office.

No longer a squadron commander, Bucky technically did not have a jeep of his own to disappear with off base and so he was in the process of grabbing one of the stray bikes outside the control tower when Crosby emerged into the daylight, eyes squinting in fatigue at the brightness.

“Where are you off to Major?”

“Redgrave Hospital!” He replied brightly, watching the younger man blink.

“Sir that’s a good eleven miles, that’s a terrible idea with your ribs.”

Word seemed to have spread fast…

“Take my jeep, I’m not gonna need it today.”

“Croz, you are a lifesaver.” Bucky dropped the bike he had been wrangling to slap him on the back before diving into the jeep allotted for use by the Group Navigator. “I’ll be back!” He shouted, taking off in a spray of dust and gravel.

Turning onto the two-hundred-acre country estate, Redgrave Hospital, consisting of nearly forty Nissen huts, stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the trees and landscaped green. As he pulled up to the headquarters of the hospital, Bucky quickly realized that the staff there were not nearly as excited to see him. In fact, they were downright reluctant to allow him in to visit you, but assured him that while you were ‘heavily medicated and resting’ you were still ‘on the mend.’

While relief still permeated his system, it was a new agony to have you so very close and yet still out of his reach. If they were not going to permit him as a regular visitor, Bucky realized he was going to have to get a lot more creative in order to lay his eyes on you, and until he did, there would be not real peace.

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

Moments of clarity punctured through the blackness – a blur of trees, the flurry of activity of an aid station, the masked face of a surgeon speaking to you reassuringly, the heartbreakingly familiar interior of a C-47 – but it was not until you were settled in a bed inside a hospital with four walls, windows, and nurses that true cognizance really returned to you. Casting your eyes around the sterile, white space, you noted you were situated at the end of a row and walled off from other patients with a set of privacy screens. The most striking feature of this hospital was the very stern-faced Bucky parked in a chair to the left of your bed.

As you began to stir, his eyes lifted quickly to meet yours, some of the tension easing from his frame. “Have a good rest, angelfish?” he whispered, and you furrowed your brows up at him, so full of questions. “They got you on the good stuff don’t they.” He chuckled fondly, reaching out to brush his fingertips across your cheek tenderly.

“Kick a girl when she’s down, why don’t you.” You sighed, speech slightly slurred from pain medication and the dryness in your mouth, but still capable of using his own lines against him.

His resulting grin contained all the brilliance of the sun and made you look down with a self-satisfied smirk. Your eyes immediately fell on your exposed arms laying atop the blanket, the scarring along your left forearm lain bare for all to see. Jerking your hands back roughly, you clumsily tried to shove them beneath the covers despite the warmth on the ward. Bucky’s gentle tut before his hand came to rest atop yours halted your attempt.

“Shhh, you’re just fine you brave, beautiful woman. Stay right there.” He murmured as he laced his fingers with yours, pinning your arm to rest above the blanket. “You have nothing to hide or be ashamed of.”

Swallowing thickly, you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. “I think I’ve acquired a few more…” You sighed, the feeling of thick bandages padding your hip acutely registering as you spoke.

“Probably.” He nodded softly. “You also probably saved that boy Hernandez by taking the bullet, so I’d say they were well earned. Besides, they’ll make an excellent target for my mouth one day.”

Your soft smile transformed into a look of disbelief, your free hand rising to whack his shoulder gently. “John Clarence Egan.” You chided half-heartedly and he pressed his face to the side of your head where it lay propped up against several pillows, his heavy exhale ruffling through your hair. “We are in a hospital, and you are making inappropriate jokes.”

“Mmmm.” He hummed in agreement, stroking his thumb against yours affectionately.

“Which hospital is this, anyway?” You asked curiously, finding its curved roof and white walls lacked distinguishing features.

“Redgrave Hospital, you serve in the Army Air Force after all.” He pulled back slightly to answer.

“Redgrave…” you repeated thoughtfully. “Sounds awfully English.”

“Hit the nail on the head, angelfish. We made it.” Bucky’s lips brushed against your temple, and you smiled softly. “Despite our best efforts.” His teasing made you laugh softly, and you shook your head.

“If we’re in England, where’s the King?” You raised an eyebrow expectantly and he smirked, shaking his head.

“No King, unfortunately, but I did bring you this?” He reached behind him, pulling out a newspaper to lay across your lap.

“Victory in Europe.” You read the headline aloud, pausing a moment as the words sunk in before gasping and looking to him wide-eyed. “Truly?”

A look of solemn earnestness overtook his features and he nodded softly. “Truly. German army surrendered yesterday.”

You gulped roughly and looked back to ready to date of May 8, 1945, on the top of the paper – you had lost nearly nine days. You really had been so close, everyone had. And the fact that you were here, and others were not seemed so very arbitrary. Sighing heavily, you squeezed his hand gently.

“By the skin of our teeth.” You murmured thickly, looking up as a nurse shuffled past with a faint nod of acknowledgement before making a sharp about-face to come and check your vitals.

“How’re you feeling?” She asked you and you nodded slowly.

“I’m alright, thank you. Bit foggy but things are the clearest they’ve been in days.”

“I’m going to fetch the Doctor.” The nurse turned to eye Bucky sharply. “You’d best make yourself scarce.” She commented before continuing on her way.

“How on earth did you get in here?” You raised an eyebrow as you came to realize how unusual his presence was.

“Bought my way in with a few bottles of champagne – your flightless comrades are quite friendly if one knows the price.”

You coughed out a laugh as the comment made Nurses sound like some species of bird and his lips twitched into a smile, your eyes unable to look away from the soft, rosy skin of his mouth.

“Hey before you go…”

“Hmmm?” He turned to you, half risen from his chair.

“I don’t have the mental capacity to think of something self-deprecating right now, so can I just get a kiss?” You murmured before pursing your lips shyly.

His face transformed into a warm smile, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners as the tips of his ears flushed pink. “I always said you just had to ask, angelfish.”

Echoing his smile, you turned your lips up expectantly as he braced his hand on the pillow beside your head, leaning in to gently brush his lips against yours, drawing a contented sigh from deep beneath your breastbone. Bucky’s lips pressed closer, a tender hum rumbling from his throat just as a sharp cough sounded from the end of the bed and he slowly pulled back with a rueful huff.

“Just checking her breathing, Doc.” Bucky grinned wolfishly as the man raised an eyebrow sharply. “She’s doing great.”

“Hn.” The doctor intoned, clearly unimpressed. “And how are your ribs doing, Major Egan?”

Inhaling sharply, you looked him over quickly, the litany of his injuries flooding back to you from your sub-conscious.

“Much better, thank you Doc. Who knew Smokey was such a gossip. Well, angelfish,” he brushed his knuckles down your cheek, “guess that’s my cue.”

Nodding slowly, wondering who on earth Smokey might be, you watched him leave before your Doctor took over, running through numerous checks with you before discussing the extent of your injury and the surgeries that had been performed to save your life. It was nothing short of remarkable, what they had thrown at you to prevent your death, the conversation a very sobering one. It would be a long road to recovery, and one, it turned out, you would mostly be taking back home in the United States.

After a week or so in Redgrave Hospital, you were deemed fit enough for transport back to the Zone of Interior for convalescence and recovery in a domestic hospital. Though the sympathetic nurses had not seen fit to permit Bucky onto the ward again, they had taken a shakily written note, the loss of strength you had suffered in just over a week was startling, and promised to deliver it to him. The trip via Prestwick to Greenland, then Newfoundland, and ultimately Grenier Field in New Hampshire felt luxurious on the much more spacious C-54. You were admitted to the Station Hospital there to continue your recovery and rehabilitation, enjoying phone calls with your family instead of delayed correspondence for a change.

It took two months for you to be fully back on your feet, back to yourself. The same amount of time, it seemed, for the 100th bomb group to be repatriated stateside. Freshly discharged and clad in a brand-new olive drab dress uniform, proudly bearing your silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia following your promotion and the ribbons from your two purple hearts, you had sweet-talked your way back onto the base. One of the more sympathetic MPs who had heard your story – admittedly there were few in New Hampshire who had not heard your story at this point – had not even protested your request. It seemed that fate saw fit to land Major John Egan in your life a second time, with Grenier Field the destination for his bomb group on their return flight.

Standing in the warm summer breeze, watching the sky for the silhouettes of their planes, it honestly felt odd to be wearing a skirt. The complexity of affixing your stockings to the straps of your garter belt had briefly made you long for the convenience of slacks, but with your properly cut and styled hair and feminine clothing you felt like an entirely new woman as you stood outside on the grass with the ground crew. Would Bucky even recognize you?

At last the distant droning of aircraft engines reached your, and everyone around you’s, ears, the shapes of B-17s multiplying on the horizon before they began to circle in for a landing. Honestly, there were so many of them you briefly doubted you would be able to find him with any manner of efficiency. Clamping a hand over your officer’s cap to hold it in place as a plane taxied onto a nearby hardstand, your eyes began to scan the crowd of men as they filtered past, surely headed for the mess hall or officer’s club. Catch a glimpse of those unmistakable ears, you stepped forward and called out to him.

“John Clarence Egan!”

His head whipped around so fast he nearly took out the man walking beside him.

“Do I really look so different in a skirt that you would walk right by me?” You teased fondly.

“Angelfish!”

His flight bag hit the asphalt with a sickening ‘crunch’ that had you worried for its contents, but the impact of his body against yours drove that thought quickly from your mind. Wrenching his cap from his head he tilted his face to nestle beneath the brim of yours and kiss you soundly. Distantly, you were aware of all manner of cheers and wolf-whistles from his comrades, but you were too busy clutching at his shoulders to truly mind.

“How did you-? What are you-? God, it’s good to see you.” He rambled before pressing his mouth against yours firmly, not even giving you the opportunity to reply.

Laughing brightly into the kiss, you became vaguely aware of the sound of footsteps approaching much nearer and pulled back slowly, smiling fondly as Bucky’s lips made as if to chase yours, but his friend’s question interrupted him.

“You gonna introduce us, John?” A tall blond man with striking blue eyes and a pair of unsettlingly symmetrical facial scars asked sardonically.

Bucky cleared his throat and stepped back, though you noted his arm slid around your waist in a rather proprietary move. You found you did not mind in the least, particularly as your fully healed wound gave no protest of pain whatsoever.

“Angelfish, this Gale Cleven – call him Buck, Robert Rosenthal – Rosie, and Harry Crosby – Croz.” He followed up by introducing you by your full name.

“He give you that nickname, too?” The one he told you to call ‘Buck’ raised an eyebrow and you laughed.

“It’s a long story….”

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

The Only Truth I Know Is You Masterlist

Tag list: @gretagerwigsmuse, @luminouslywriting, @softspeirs, @sunny747, @storysimp, @slowsweetlove, @httpsmoon, @buckysegan, @justheretoreadthxxs, @precious-little-scoundrel, @jointherebellion215, @timetowastetime8, @mads-weasley

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Helmut Kleinicke

Helmut Kleinicke was a German engineer who supervised construction projects at Auschwitz while saving Jews from the gas chambers.

Born in 1907, Helmut grew up in the forest of Lower Saxony – literally. His parents were forest rangers. Helmut studied civil engineering and joined the Nazi party in 1933. In 1941, right after getting married, Helmut was hired to join the team planning the construction of Auschwitz concentration camp. He moved to Chrzanow, Poland to work on the project.

In Chrzanow, Helmut was ordered to select local Jews who were young and healthy to work on the construction site. He treated them well and didn’t allow the SS to harass them. One survivor remembered, “Those of us who worked for Kleinicke were like VIPs. We had a certificate that we worked for him, and that was our insurance policy.”

When he heard about plans to round up local Jews, Helmut located every person on the list and warned them they were about to be arrested. Then he transported many of them to the border and helped them escape. Others he hid in his attic and basement. Helmut didn’t keep track of the Jews he saved, but it’s estimated there were hundreds.

By late 1943, the higher-ups at Auschwitz noticed that Jews who interacted with Helmut kept disappearing. He was removed from his job and drafted to an artillery unit, then sent to the front lines. When Germany surrendered in 1945, Helmut was arrested by the British because of his membership in the Nazi party. While he was in prison, Jews he had saved submitted affidavits testifying that he had rescued them “without regard to his person” and that many Jews owed their lives to Helmut Kleinicke. He was exonerated in 1949. For the rest of his life, he did not talk about his wartime activities. He told his daughter only that he’d saved some Jews, but wished he’d saved more. He never considered himself a hero. In 1979, the American miniseries “Holocaust” aired on German TV. Helmut watched it and was deeply shaken. Three days after that he had a stroke from which he never recovered. He died a few months later.

Helmut’s heroism was unknown until recently. In a 2015 documentary, Josef Konigsberg, an Auschwitz survivor, testified that Helmut Kleinicke saved his life by pulling him out of a line of people being deported. This interview, and corroborating evidence that Helmut had saved many Jewish lives, led to Helmut Kleinicke being honored posthumously as Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem. The ceremony was held at the Israeli Embassy in Berlin, and was attended by Helmut’s daughter Juta Scheffzek. Also in attendance was Josef Konigsberg, who told his story of being rescued by Helmut. “I owe him my life,” said Josef, describing how Helmut rescued him from a transport line to Auschwitz: “My mother came and begged him to rescue me. Kleinicke grabbed me and said that I was his best worker.” Josef’s mother and sister were not so lucky and both died in the gas chamber. Crying as he addressed Juta, Josef said, “This is one of the most beautiful days of my life. Thank you, thank you.”

Juta was deeply touched. “It verified what my father said to me in very few words – and I never knew if he had been telling the truth.” She told the Times of Israel after the ceremony, “It was a very long and emotional search to discover the truth about my father, and I hope that people in America, the UK and Israel will hear about it.”

Israeli Ambassador to Germany Jeremy Issacharoff, who hosted the event honoring Helmut, commented, “When you’re in the context of Germany, you’re never free of the historical dimension of the Holocaust, and it’s a very heavy burden to bear for the Germans, and also obviously for the Jewish people, and it’s always there. And I think it’s really important that this type of ceremony also recognizes that there were a few really important people who did the right thing. And that, to me, is the main message that should come out of this.”

For saving Jews while his peers were killing them, we honor Helmut Kleinicke as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[the-handsome-stranger]

THE GREAT SEA STORY

The passenger steamer SS Warrimoo was quietly knifing its way through the waters of the mid-Pacific on its way from Vancouver to Australia. The navigator had just finished working out a star fix and brought Captain John DS. Phillips, the result. The Warrimoo's position was LAT 0º 31' N and LONG 179 30' W. The date was 31 December 1899.

"Know what this means?"

First Mate Payton broke in, "We're only a few miles from the intersection of the Equator and the International Date Line". Captain Phillips was prankish enough to take full advantage of the opportunity for achieving the navigational freak of a lifetime.

He called his navigators to the bridge to check & double check the ship's position. He changed course slightly so as to bear directly on his mark. Then he adjusted the engine speed. The calm weather & clear night worked in his favor. At mid-night the SS Warrimoo lay on the Equator at exactly the point where it crossed the International Date Line!

The consequences of this bizarre position were many:

The forward part (bow) of the ship was in the Southern Hemisphere & in the middle of summer.

The rear (stern) was in the Northern Hemisphere & in the middle of winter.

The date in the aft part of the ship was 31 December 1899.

In the bow (forward) part it was 1 January 1900.

This ship was therefore not only in:

Two different days,

Two different months,

Two different years,

Two different seasons

But in two different centuries - all at the same time!

[thunderfrommyheart]

breaking down the misinformation in @afronerdism post about me.

Debunked by Stuart Semple himself. 

I’ve taken the time to do this because nobody wants mis-information bouncing around the internet. 

The key thing to know - in the artworld rich people have access to processes and companies that most artists don’t. That’s how they get to create giant beans which cost $20million. At the top the rich get richer, and at the bottom artists struggle to make their mark with what they’ve got. 

Vantablack is an example of a group of rich, entitled people getting together to pat themselves on the back, whilst the rest of the world watched horrified at the tone-deafness of the whole thing.

it's also worth noting whilst OP is clearly educated and understands politics they are not in any way an expert in the artworld, art discourse. I however have been in the artworld for 25 years, have written for the guardian, art of england and vogue. I have presented art programs for the BBC and have a properly published book on art history - it's out in June called 'Make Art or Die Trying'. I have studied art and art history and spoken at Oxford University, The ICA, Denver Art Msueum, Dublin Art Museum and at Frieze. I have lectured at the Royal College of Art in London. I have curated over 20 contemporary art exhibitions internationally, I have directed two galleries. I am by definition an expert.

MY BREAKDOWN: OP is @afronerdism - I've gone below them point by point

A: What Vantablack is not: a pigment. A paint. Vantablack is not something that you were supposed to use to paint with. 

SS: CORRECT - However nor is glass, chrome, powder coating, sandblasting, booze casting, tar, concrete or steel yet they are used by artists everyday. 

Whether the material/process is a paint or pigment or not doesn’t matter. 

A: Who creates and distributes Vantablack: an engineering company named Surrey NanoSystems.

SS: True. And many artists work with engineering companies every day, notable examples are Jeff Koons and Damien Hirst. Lots of artists collaborate with industry to get their work made, that is what fabrication is.  You go to Surrey NanoSystems - not to buy paint but for them to coat your work in Vantablack. 

A: Who does not do those things: an art house. A distribution company. Any kind of company that creates and distributes pigments on a massive, artistic scale. 

SS: Which is totally true and fine. However they do coat things in Vantablack for a series of clients in many different industries including fashion designers, jewelers, brands, car companies, and watch companies. They will coat anything for anyone who has the money unless they are an artist. They only accept work from Anish Kapoor as he has an exclusive license with them for art. 

A: Who was Vantablack made for: Vanta Black was made by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, looking for something to coat the insides of massive NASA telescopes. 

SS: Initially, but quickly was used by a lot of other industries including architects, fashion designers, bands, brands, car companies and even a deodorant. 

They are able to make it in quantities large enough to coat whole buildings as we saw when architect Asif Khan used it to coat a whole pavilion during the Pyeongchang Winter Olympic Games. 

(If had told Surrey nanoSytems he was an artist - not an architect, this would never have happened)

A: Who it was not made for: artists.

SS: Except the one with the license. (Anish Kapoor)

———————————-——————————————

A: Hopefully already just by understanding what Vantablack is, what it was made for, and who it’s made by you and other people are beginning to see what the problem is with Stuart simples narrative around Vanta black. 

SS: It’s Semple not simple. 

SS: The narrative was not created by Semple as for a few months before he shared his pink the world media was criticizing Kapoor for his Monopoly with major articles in the Guardian, Daily Mail, and BBC news. Each featured reactions from a broad spectrum of artists who spoke about the unnecessary license and the elitism in the artworld. 

A:  But you may be wondering if Vanta black is a highly toxic unstable substance made out of carbon nano tubes by aerospace engineers for aerospace engineers, working in space, then how did we get here? well, Vanta, black 2.0, if you will was created in such a way that it could be sprayed onto substances in a certain way meaning that theoretically it could be used artistically.

SS: Yes VBX2 can be sprayed, and Surrey Nanosystems have training days where they teach in-house teams how to do that. The VBX2, however, arrived quite late in the story and Kapoor’s rights started with the first version. 

A: Surround nanosystems held an exhibition where they displayed Vanta black and when artist saw this, they were inundated with calls from artist, wanting to use it in their work. 

SS:

Surrey nano systems (not surround)

They actually debut it at an airshow in England, it was all over the world media, many artists saw it. They then went on a massive PR mission and the material was seen on CNN etc. 

Kapoor became aware of it and approached them to see if he could use it in his work. 

Together they struck up an exclusive deal which would mean if any artist asked them to coat a piece of work with the stuff they would be turned away. 

That deal was something Surrey and Kapoor were initially proud of. They couldn’t see the inherent elitism in the exclusivity so they went on another PR pr to tell he world Kapoor was signed up to use it. 

It was then the artists of the world really became aware of it, and sure enough, when any of them wrote to Surrey - even really huge ones with plenty of money, they were turned away. These artists including Christian Furr and Ron Arad, amongst others were all featured across the media. =

A: But as we’ve already established surrey nanosystems is not a distribution company. They’re an engineering company. And they made the decision that they could only work with one artist, because they simply did not have the physical ability to produce Vantablack at a scale that allowed them to work with more than one person. 

SS: They did say that, but a lot later. They were always a fabrication / engineering place and there was never an idea that they would distribute the material. That’s not the problem any artists ever had with it, they all fully understood what the material was. The issue was that even if the artist had the money and could ship their work to Surrey, they would not coat the object with it, but they would serve other industries. This is seen as deeply prejudicial towards artists. 

A: (To this day, vanta Black has to be distributed by a specialized robotic arm that creates it in painfully small amounts in an enclosed box that can then be given to someone in a lab. ) 

SS: This is untrue - the arm is used to spray the objects that Surrey have agreed to coat. 

It does not make the material. The material is made by growing carbon nano tubes on a surface. 

And the spray version contains nano particles. The robot arm is used for precision when coating. 

You often see a robot arm spray cars for example. The arm is used like this. 

A: Enter Anish Kapoor: Anish Kapoor, at this time was already a world, renowned artist, and the creator of many public facing pieces, such as cloud gate, a.k.a. the Chicago Bean. His entire life‘s work was dedicated to how light is refracted and interplays with the void, making him not only the perfect person to be chosen because of prestige but also because his life‘s work spoke to the engineers who created Vanta black.

SS: Whist as an artist he has dealt with reflection and the void at length, it’s a stretch to claim his entire life’s work is dedicated to it. 

SS: It is true that as a figurehead for Vantablack he is a good choice, he’s very rich, extremely famous, he’s a Sir (i.e knighted by the queen and a turner prize winner). Plus he makes work that would look good in Vantablack. 

SS: None of this means that he needed exclusivity to do it, the company could simply have collaborated with him and if any other artist asked to have something coated, they could have easily said they were too busy or didn’t have enough of the material. 

SS: The issue is the way they couldn’t see the prejudice, elitism and lack of access in the exclusivity. 

A: Now this should’ve been seen as an incredible accomplishment and honor for this Indian artist to be chosen as the soul licensor of Vantablack as this company was only able to choose one person and people were really excited about this for him and that’s where the story ends, right? Right? Right? 

SS: It’s unclear why his race matters. He is one of the richest, most well known, most famous artists in the world. The fact he has exclusive access to a material/process like this is not a reason for people to be excited for him, people are free to be excited or not. This is purely your opinion not a fact. 

A: Enter Stuart Semple: Stuart simple was a 25-year-old man in the UK living with his mother when she came into his room and told him about Vantablack. 

SS: Stuart was born in 1980, which would make him 36 at the time. 

SS: He was not living with his mother, in fact he was living in London with his own family. 

SS: His mother did not come into his room however on a phone call she spoke to him about an article she had read in the guardian about how artists were upset by Kapoor having Vantablack. 

SS: Stuart was (and is) a well-known contemporary artist, very embedded int hat world. He has had over 20 solo exhibitions dedicated to his work all over the world and his pieces are in major collections and museums. He’s not in the league of Kapoor but in the artworld is well known as an artist. 

A: As an artist himself, Stewart simple wanted to try Vanta Black, and was told by the company that he could not.

SS: This is untrue - Stuart did not want to use the colour, nor did he approach the company. 

A:  It was then that he discovered the only person on earth licensed to use Vantablack was Anish Kapoor. 

SS: This is untrue, he was aware of this when his mother told him what she had read in the newspaper. 

A: Please keep in mind that Vantablack is not a paint, and it is so difficult to work with that Anish Kapoor has only ever produced one singular piece of art with Vantablack. 

SS: This is untrue. Tens of thousands of items have now been coated in VantaBlack, from soda cans to watches. Initially, Kapoor used his rights to create a series of limited edition wrist watches that sold for $100,000 each, and then went on to create a whole series of large sculptures that were initially shown at a huge palazzo in Venice that Kapoor bought, during the Venice Biennale, and then at an exhibition at the Lisson in NYC where there works were for sale with an average price of $500,000USD.

A: So like a child who has just been told by their mom that they can’t use something, Stewart simple decided to throw a hissy fit. 

SS: It’s Stuart Semple (not stewart simple) - and there is no evidence of any kind of Hissy Fit. However he did create a piece of internet performance art, where he put a jar of pinkest pink paint on the internet, humorously, and asked anyone who bought the paint to sign an agreement that they ‘weren’t Anish Kapoor and Associate of Kapoor and that to the best of their knowledge information and belief, the material would not make its way into the hands of Anish Kapoor’. Semple has always explained it was a tongue-in-cheek piece of performance art, and that he was never expecting anyone would actually buy any pink. The best source for this is an article in Wired in which the journalist concludes with the piece being a powerful piece of online performance art. Bearing in mind Semple is an artist who works with performance, that is extremely likely. 

A: He created a pink pigment that he conditionally said everyone could use except Anish Kapoor and then launch this pigment with the hashtag #ShareTheBlack. 

SS: He created the pink pigment in 2010 - and has made his own paints to use in his own work since he was a child. It was not made in response to Kapoor. However he did not make them public they were for his own use, and the Kapoor situation made him question his own exclusivity in keeping the materials he was making for himself. He decided to share his pink as a gesture and a piece of art in it's own right.

A: This caught the attention of the news media, and when asked about this situation, that was previously relatively unheard of, Stuart simple,

SS: Neither Stuart nor the Vantablack situation were unheard of. The media was already reporting on the controversy around vantablack long before Stuart put the pink up. Stuart was also well known which is why the media wanted to talk to him about it. 

When GQ came to do a 5 page feature on him they were clear it was because he was an established and well-known artist in his own right. 

He had already been hosting art shows for the BBC, had written for the guardian and Huffington post and had collaborated with major musicians. 

A: went onto describe Anish Kapoor as this tyrannical elitist who “banned“ the use of Vantablack to keep other artists from using it. 

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple said that, however, he was critical of the exclusive license and did feel the story opened up a well-needed discussion about access to art and the trend in which those with the money could afford to have works fabricated when others couldn’t. He is at heart an egalitarian and has made free art studios, his Designs for humanity charity, his creative therapies fund at Mind (a mental health charity) etc.. and a major free art gallery in his hometown that shows some of the biggest living artists. So Semple’s opinion is allowed, to him Kapoor epitomizes an elitism that is dominated by the super-rich, after all, Kapoor is getting close to being a billionaire. 

A: But hopefully you can already see how that is Literally not true. Anish Kapoor does not make Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot sell Vanta black. Anish Kapoor cannot give you permission to use Vanta black. And Vanta black is not even a paint. 

SS: He does not make it, but he does hold the exclusive right to use it in art. 

SS: No other material or process has been exclusively licensed by one artist in the history of the world. 

SS: Jeff Koons does not make his own giant steel sculptures, a factory does. Jeff can’t book your work into the factory, and steel is not a paint either. He doesn't have an exclusive agreement with the steel fabricators. If they aren't too busy with Jeff, and you've got the cash, they'll make something for you too. This is standard with art fabrication.

SS: I didn't physically make the giant steel and foam smiley sculpture of mine for the city of Denver, fabricators helped with that, and engineers. They work with several artists.

SS: This makes no sense given it is understood vantablack is a material and a process of application. 

SS: However Kapoor could surrender his exclusive right and Surrey would then be able to take bookings from artists. 

A: meanwhile Stuart has launched an entire very lucrative career around slandering and smearing Anish Kapoor 

SS: Untrue, Semple had a very successful career and his day job is as a contemporary artist. Actually speaking up about elitism in the artworld is a risky move for someone who relies on that artworld to pay his bills. 

A: when Anish Kapoor literally never did anything but be qualified enough to be the one person chosen by a company that is literally only able to work with one person at a time. 

SS: He did do something, he signed an exclusive agreement and he felt he was entirely justified in doing so. He also went out in the media and with surrey nono systems and gloated about it.

SS: They can’t only work with one person at a time, we have seen whole buildings covered in vantback, jewellery, cars and soda cans and many sculptures by Kapoor. Surrey have collaborated with thousands of brands, designers, architects and companies. 

A: The fact remains Stewart simple, very intentionally allows this narrative to continue because it makes him money. 

SS: It is unclear how it makes him money as the pink was sold for $3 which was what it cost to make, and his website which researches and distributes cutting edge materials is a non profit that collaborates with artists. They even did a crowd funder to make Black 3.0 - a super black acrylic that any artist can use. It's also unclear how he is perpetuating this narrative, when he's clearly moved on to other projects many years ago and rarely mentions it. In Semple's world it's a very small thing.

A: He has made a ton of money off of slandering Anish Kapoor as if Anish Kapoor is the reason he can’t use Vanta black when the reason he can’t use Vanta black is because no one can use Vanta black, and the only person who might be able to use it is Anish Kapoor and that is not Anish Kapoor‘s fault. 

SS: There’s no evidence at all that he’s slandered Kapoor. Kapoor being extremely wealthy, and the level of media that covered the story back in 2016 would never have allowed it. It would have been a legal nightmare. All the publications who write about the story GQ, BBC, The Guardian, Wired, have journalistic laws and it would not have happened. 

SS: There’s no evidence that Semple has made a ton of money. 

A: It is not lost on me that there are racial connotations to the story as well. There are actual companies and artists in the world who have trademarks around certain colors that they do not allow other people to use in public showcases. 

SS: There are colour marks or if you like 'trademarked colours'. The public showcases point doesn't make sense in this context - colours are protected in classes i.e certain uses on Serbian products are prohibited. EG - Tiffany blue cannot be used on jewellery boxes. 

A: But we really as a community allowed this white man to smear and slander an Indian artist,

SS: Again it’s unclear what the ethnicity of the artists has to do with the core issue. 

SS: It’s a little bit of a leap given Semple has also liberated Klein Blue (made by a white French man), Barbie Pink (owned by Mattel a corporation), and created the Brightest White. 

 A: based entirely off of misinformation, and to this day people jump on the Internet, saying fuck Anish Kapoor because of it. 

SS: Kapoor secured the rights to the blackest material ever made. Everyone else who can afford to, can use it, unless they identify as an artist. 

SS: Many people feel like that is wrong. 

A: Now, Anish Kapoor is not some struggling person. He is probably a multibajillionaire 

SS: He’s worth about 800 million according to Forbes, he’s within the top 5 most wealthy living artists.

A: And doesn’t necessarily need our sympathy. But I think the story of Vantablack is a really good case study of how misinformation spreads, and how people never bother to question the framework of a story. 

SS: In my opinion, your post is misinformation, that has been spread unquestioningly. 

[floridaboiler]

he SS Edmund Fitzgerald was a Great Lakes freighter built by Great Lakes Engineering Works of Ecorse, Michigan, and launched on June 7, 1958. Here are the detailed specifications and description of the ship: length overall: 729 feet length between perpendiculars: 711 feet breadth molded: 75 feet depth molded to spar deck amidship: 39 feet draft (designed summer draft): 26 feet, 6.5 inches gross tonnage: 13,632 tons deadweight capacity: 25,891 gross tons service speed: 16 mph power: 7,500 shaft horsepower engine manufacturer: Westinghouse Electric Corporation registry number: US 277437 hull number: 301 The Edmund Fitzgerald was designed to carry taconite iron ore pellets from mines near Duluth, Minnesota, to steel mills in the Great Lakes region. The ship was noted for its luxurious interior, including deep pile carpeting, tiled bathrooms, leather swivel chairs in the guest lounge, and two guest staterooms for passengers. It featured advanced nautical equipment for its time, including a large galley and a fully stocked pantry. On November 10, 1975, the ship sank in a severe storm on Lake Superior, approximately 17 miles north-northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan. All 29 crew members perished, and the exact cause of the sinking remains unknown, though it is speculated that the ship may have suffered from structural failure, topside damage, or grounding on a shoal. The wreck was located in deep water, split into two large pieces. The sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald led to changes in Great Lakes shipping regulations, including mandatory survival suits, depth finders, positioning systems, increased freeboard, and more frequent inspections of vessels.

[ssengineeringwork]

What Make Stainless Steel Bright Bars Beneficial?

If you want your manufacturing or fabrication project to turn out well, your materials must be high quality. The same principle applies when selecting the most appropriate bright bars from ssengineeringworks in Delhi. The aerospace, automotive, and construction industries are among the most prominent stainless steel bright bars users. Stainless steel bright bars have many uses; this article will discuss some.

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Durable and Long-Lasting

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Stainless steel bright bars from ss engineering works in Delhi are ideal for commercial and industrial use due to their strength, corrosion resistance, and durability. These materials are popular because they resist temperature, humidity, and certain chemicals. Stainless steel Bright Bars do not conduct magnetic fields, making them ideal for food service equipment, where tools and machinery can disrupt operations. They have higher elongation, yield, and tensile strength than conventional bars, making them more versatile.

Enhanced Visual Appeal

Stainless steel bright bars are durable. Their durability, attractiveness, and corrosion resistance make them ideal for any environment. Because of their ease of machining and welding, stainless steel bright bars from SS Engineering Work are strong and flexible. They can withstand extreme temperatures and repeated blows from stones or hammers without permanent damage. Stainless steel bright bars are wear-resistant and have higher tensile strength than many engineering metals. This metal is ideal for those who want a durable, attractive solution that can withstand almost anything!

Friendly to the Environment

For sustainable building projects, stainless steel bright bars are a great option due to their many benefits. They're durable and low-maintenance because they resist mould, corrosion, and wear. After recycling, stainless steel is strong and 100% recyclable. Green building projects benefit from stainless steel's lack of coatings and protection. Finally, most stainless bars have a bright finish that adds shine and helps reduce energy consumption for outdoor lighting.

Conclusion

Any company or manufacturer like s.s. engineering works in Delhi should invest in stainless steel bright bars. Their eco-friendliness, resilience to corrosion, adaptability, versatility, and improved aesthetics makes them great options for a wide range of uses. Stainless steel bright bars from SS Engineering Work are a wise investment for any industry, including construction, aerospace, and automobile.

[kcg69]

The SS Edmund Fitzgerald was a Great Lakes freighter built by Great Lakes Engineering Works of Ecorse, Michigan, and launched on June 7, 1958. Here are the detailed specifications and description of the ship:

length overall: 729 feet

length between perpendiculars: 711 feet

breadth molded: 75 feet

depth molded to spar deck amidship: 39 feet

draft (designed summer draft): 26 feet, 6.5 inches

gross tonnage: 13,632 tons

deadweight capacity: 25,891 gross tons

service speed: 16 mph

power: 7,500 shaft horsepower

engine manufacturer: Westinghouse Electric Corporation

registry number: US 277437

hull number: 301

The Edmund Fitzgerald was designed to carry taconite iron ore pellets from mines near Duluth, Minnesota, to steel mills in the Great Lakes region. The ship was noted for its luxurious interior, including deep pile carpeting, tiled bathrooms, leather swivel chairs in the guest lounge, and two guest staterooms for passengers. It featured advanced nautical equipment for its time, including a large galley and a fully stocked pantry.

On November 10, 1975, the ship sank in a severe storm on Lake Superior, approximately 17 miles north-northwest of Whitefish Point, Michigan. All 29 crew members perished, and the exact cause of the sinking remains unknown, though it is speculated that the ship may have suffered from structural failure, topside damage, or grounding on a shoal.

The wreck was located in deep water, split into two large pieces. The sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald led to changes in Great Lakes shipping regulations, including mandatory survival suits, depth finders, positioning systems, increased freeboard, and more frequent inspections of vessels.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

NASCAR Pantera ‐ First To 300

A reporter sat in a late-night cafe, sipping coffee and attempting to calm his nerves after a high-speed ride with Gary and his Pantera. The deafening roar of the V-8 engine still echoed in his mind, and his hands shook as he held his cup. It was as if he had just escaped from the clutches of the devil himself. Tragically, a few minutes later the devil caught up with Garry Mitsunaga and his red Pantera!

For students of Japanese car culture, the Mitsunaga Pantera that graced the cover of Option Magazine is a significant page of Asian tuning lore, as it was the first street-legal vehicle to achieve a recorded speed of 300 km/h in Japan.

Actual speed was 307.69 km/h on the infamous Yatabe Test Circuit in November 1981, making it the most legendary Pantera in all of Japan. Figuring Yatabe was too dangerous for civilian drivers, and wanting to take the human element of unpredictability out of things, driving duties at this event were performed by professional racer Kunimitsu Takahashi, who is considered the father of drifting.

Yatabe was the preeminent destination for high-speed testing in Japan from the 1960s to the 1990s. However, it was closed two decades ago due to a tragic accident involving Masa Saito, the editor of the tuning magazine Option. After the accident manufacturers started shifting towards more contemporary testing facilities.

Prior to the Porsche-vs-Skyline dreams of the 1990s, the streets of Japan were ruled by the infamous Midnight Club running Pantera's, Firebirds and American V-8s. For those unaware of the Pantera, it is an Italian-American sportscar with a Ford 351 Cleveland engine and were sold in the early 70's through Lincoln Mercury dealerships.

Leading up to November 1981, top speeds were achieved by vehicles such as the S30 Fairlady, tuned by SS Kubo, which reached a maximum speed of 257.60km/h. The fastest imported car, surprisingly, was the Trust Firebird Trans-Am, which recorded a top speed of 264.71km/h. So when the Pantera eclipsing the 300km/h mark it was a huge leap forward and a landmark achievement, becoming the benchmark for all the street racers and tuners to beat.

Mitsunaga was not entirely content. Only a speed above 320 km/h (200 mph) would suffice. It is said that Takahashi advised him against driving the Pantera outside of a racetrack. Mitsunaga disregarded the warning.

Just before the accident, he was transporting a journalist down a 38 kilometer (24 mile) stretch of the Tomei Expressway. With a recorded time of 6 minutes and 20 seconds he averaged 250 KM/H ( ~160 MPH).

Not long after dropping off that rattled journalist, he supposedly totaled his Pantera while avoiding a taxi. They meet their end at approximately 1:40 a.m. on November 28, 1981. Tragically, Mitsunaga died in the accident, instantly.

At the moment of his death, Garry Allan Mitsunaga was already a legend in the Japanese dragstrip and top-speed racing scene. He was an American, born in Hawaii and employed by the Harman Kardon audio group. The company sent him to Tokyo in 1975 to work for one of its Japanese divisions, in sales.

Upon his passing, he was revered as a patron saint of street racing, inspiring countless individuals to pursue ever-greater velocities. Despite his non-Japanese origin, he was a hero to the local community, and his legacy lived on through the Mitsunaga Pantera, a symbol of both the thrill and the peril of this high-octane pursuit. Although the whereabouts of the Pantera are unknown, its engine showed up for sale in 1995.

NASCAR

Mitsunaga's Pantera, was tuned by Masaru Hosoki from ABR, one of Japans most famous tuners. It also featuring a 600hp engine built by Mario Rossi, an American NASCAR mechanic and crew chief for the likes of Bobby Allison and Glenn “Fireball” Roberts. Rossi was also the guy that built the only Dodge Daytona to compete during the 1971 season. It's only race was finishing 7th at the Daytona 500 with a de-stroked Plymouth 340 TA engine to meet the new 305ci engine displacement mandate for the five Ford & Chrysler aero cars during the 1971 NASCAR season.

Rossi has been embroiled in controversy since his involvement in the $300 million drug smuggling scandal that shook NASCAR in 1982. Four days after the 1982 Daytona 500 in Florida, authorities arrested 66 people, including several associated with NASCAR teams, on what has been labeled “Black Thursday.” Among those implicated in the scheme that authorities believe grossed $300 million were owner Billie Harvey and driver Gary Balough from the team on which Rossi was working as a mechanic. Rossi’s role (if any) in the drug operation is unclear – though his own daughter implicates him.

Rossi's whereabouts have been a mystery since his disappearance, with some believing him to be in the witness protection program in the United States. Despite claims of his death in a plane crash off the Bahamas in 1983, the insurance company asserts that the plane in question has been sold multiple times without any recorded accidents.

What’s legend and what’s fact we are unlikely to ever know for certain. What we do know, however, is that Garry Mitsunaga and his Pantera dared to dance with the devil in the witching hour.

[useless-englandfacts]

We have had an influx of messages from people in Gaza, and so I'm putting them all in one post.

Please have a read of all of them - I've only included a summary of their stories here (you can read their full stories on their respective blogs and gofund.me pages), and the amount raised is at the time of posting.

If you can't afford to give, then at the very least reblog and share this post.

@eyadeyadsblog: CHF10,758 raised of 20,000 goal

My name is Iyad Sami, and I am 36 years old. I have been married to Amal Mahmoud for thirteen years, and we have four children: Sami (11 years), Mohammad (9 years), Sarah (7 years), and Saad (5 years ). We are from Palestine, specifically the Gaza Strip, which has been under siege for more than eighteen years.

gofundme here

@safaabed8: €34,450 raised of €90,000 goal

I'm Safaa, 25 years old, the wife of the best man in the world and the mother of the two most beautiful children, but the war deprived them of their childhood and its beauty. Please read and imagine that you live in my place, what would you do?! If only your family lived with this death and torment at every moment! Can you imagine?

gofundme here

@ahedalshaer: €6,566 raised of €80,000 goal 

Please read this as if I'm a member of your family . maybe your sister, daughter or a friend and as if my family who's under death now is yours. We are Ahed and Samah from Gaza, specifically the city of Rafah. I am Ahed, 22 years old, I study dentistry at Al-Azhar University in Gaza in the fourth year. Samah is 18 years old. She is supposed to be in high school this year. Her family consists of a father, a mother, 3 brothers, and one sister, the father. His name is Naji, the mother’s name is Kawthar, and the brothers are Jamal, Hamdan, and Hamada.

gofundme here

@samhderar: €827 raised of €50,000 goal 

I am Sameh Darar, 25 years old, living in Gaza. I ask you to help me, my friends, we are living a fierce war of extermination and we do not have any means of life, we are a family of 20 people, my father, my mother, my brothers, their wives and 8 young children, we had our own business before the war but the war destroyed everything we lost our work and our big house and now we live in tents after being displaced dozens of times from one place to another to escape the bombing and death.

gofundme here

@asmaamajed2: $9,524 raised of $50,000 goal

Hello, everyone. I am Asmaa, a student of Computer Engineering, 19 years old, and a dreamer. Before the war descended upon Gaza, my life was a canvas painted with hopes and ambitions. I was diligently working towards my goal of becoming a proficient computer engineer, driven by a passion to make a difference through technology.

gofundme here

@heba-baker: €4,448 raised of €60,000 goal 

Hello, I am Heba Al-Anqar, 21 years old, a university student. My university was suspended due to the war. I am writing about my family: my father Bakr (54 years old), my mother Alaa (46 years old), and my sisters Aya (18 years old), Amal (15 years old), Muhammad (13 years old), and Maryam (8 years old). We have faced many challenges in this war, from the destruction of our home to the famine we continue to suffer in northern Gaza.

gofundme here

@majedgaza1: $4,740 USD raised of $70,000 goal 

Hello, my name is Majed, and I am from Gaza. After enduring the horrors of war, my family of five and I fled to Egypt in search of safety. We left everything we owned behind to escape the brutal conflict, and we came out of it with physical and emotional scars that we are now trying to heal. We are desperately trying to build a new life, but we need your help to do so.

gofundme here

@a-ss-123: £1,068 raised of £55,000 goal

I come to you today with a heavy heart, seeking your urgent help and support. for my relatives and their families and I have been through unimaginable hardships due to the ongoing conflict. The occupation has destroyed our home, leaving us without shelter, and our workplace has been reduced to rubble. Even her car, our only means of transportation, has been lost in the devastation.

gofundme here

@yasermohammad: €21,701 raised of €35,000 goal

I am writing to you in a time of dire need, seeking your compassionate assistance for my uncle Mohammed and his five children, who are enduring the severe hardships of the conflict in Gaza. For over 200 days, they have faced unimaginable fear and suffering.

gofundme here

@abdullahgaza: €83,187 raised of €120,000 goal

‏my name is Abedalrahman Salem Alhabil, 21 years. I live in Gaza. I have5 siblings with my parents. I survived from 6 wars in Gaza. And now, I don’t know that will survive from this genocide war. The Israeli aircraft destroyed my house which we lose every thing in our home such as my laptop ( I am a graphic designer ), This means I can’t work again.

gofundme here

@mohammed-665: €3,288 raised of €45,000 goal 

At the mercy of humanity, I requested urgent assistance. My name is Mohammed Helles, and I write to highlight the tragic situation faced by countless others in Gaza. As the world watches, Gaza is drawn into a horrific conflict, with innocent people being lost every day. Unimaginable atrocities were committed, tearing apart and shattering our future.

gofundme here

@hayanahed: €86,591 raised of €100,000 goal 

I'm Haya from Gaza , from a family of 8 people: my parents, two sons, and four daughters (two of them suffer from allergies).

I've witnessed the evidence of the tragedy that has struck our lives in Gaza, where my family and I have survived amidst numerous previous wars. But today, we face the most dangerous and fierce battle in the current war. The urgent need intensifies for us, as we have nothing left and are unable to secure our basic needs such as food, water, and safe shelter.

gofundme here

do note that we are unable to verify the fundraisers sent to us