#and they were raised in the soviet union and we had a bit of a talk about how art was better because it wasn't for profit.

[sciderman]

How do you feel about the increase in really weird NSFW ads on here (advertising panels that look like sexual encounters, and AI art apps that pride themselves on porn) but will take down NSFW posts from their users, even if it isn't technically sexual.

i hate all social media and it's consistent prioritising the advertisers over the users and the internet simply was a better place before capitalism sunk its hooks into it

[houseofbrat]

Bernie Would Have Won

By Krystal Ball

There are a million surface-level reasons for Kamala Harris’s loss and systematic underperformance in pretty much every county and among nearly every demographic group. She is part of a deeply unpopular administration. Voters believe the economy is bad and that the country is on the wrong track. She is a woman and we still have some work to do as a nation to overcome long-held biases. 

But the real problems for the Democrats go much deeper and require a dramatic course correction of a sort that, I suspect, Democrats are unlikely to embark upon. The bottom line is this: Democrats are still trying to run a neoliberal campaign in a post-neoliberal era. In other words, 2016 Bernie was right.

Let’s think a little bit about how we got here. The combination of the Iraq War and the housing collapse exposed the failures and rot that were the inevitable result of letting the needs of capital predominate over the needs of human beings. The neoliberal ideology which was haltingly introduced by Jimmy Carter, embraced fully by Ronald Reagan, and solidified across both parties with Bill Clinton embraced a laissez-faire market logic that would supplant market will for national will or human rights, but also raise incomes enough overall and create enough dynamism that the other problems were in theory, worth the trade off. Clinton after all ran with Reagan era tax cutting, social safety net slashing and free trade radicalism with NAFTA being the most prominent example. 

Ultimately, of course, this strategy fueled extreme wealth inequality. But for a while this logic seemed to be working out. The Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War ended. Incomes did indeed rise and the internet fueled tech advances contributing to a sense of cosmopolitan dynamism. America had a swaggering confidence that these events really did represent a sort of end of history. We believed that our brand of privatization, capitalism, and liberal democracy would take over the world. We confidently wielded institutions like the World Bank, IMF, and WTO to realize this global vision. We gave China most-favored nation trade status.

Underneath the surface, the unchecked market forces we had unleashed were devastating communities in the industrial Midwest and across the country. By the neoliberal definition NAFTA was a roaring success contributing to GDP growth. But if your job was shipped overseas and your town was shoved into economic oblivion, the tradeoff didn’t seem like such a great deal.

The underlying forces of destruction came to a head with two major catastrophes, the Iraq War and the housing collapse/Great Recession. The lie that fueled the Iraq war destroyed confidence in the institutions that were the bedrock of this neoliberal order and in the idea that the U.S. could or should remake the world in our image. Even more devastating, the financial crisis left home owners destitute while banks were bailed out, revealing that there was something deeply unjust in a system that placed capital over people. How could it be that the greedy villains who triggered a global economic calamity were made whole while regular people were left to wither on the vine?

These events sparked social movements on both the right and the left. The Tea Party churned out populist-sounding politicians like Sarah Palin and birtherist conspiracies about Barack Obama, paving the way for the rise of Donald Trump. The Tea Party and Trumpism are not identical, of course, but they share a cast of villains: The corrupt bureaucrats or deep state. The immigrants supposedly changing your community. The cultural elites telling you your beliefs are toxic. Trump’s version of this program is also explicitly authoritarian. This authoritarianism is a feature not a bug for some portion of the Trump coalition which has been persuaded that democracy left to its own devices could pose an existential threat to their way of life. 

On the left, the organic response to the financial crisis was Occupy Wall Street, which directly fueled the Bernie Sanders movement. Here, too, the villains were clear. In the language of Occupy it was the 1% or as Bernie put it the millionaires and billionaires. It was the economic elite and unfettered capitalism that had made it so hard to get by. Turning homes into assets of financial speculation. Wildly profiteering off of every element of our healthcare system. Busting unions so that working people had no collective power. This movement was, in contrast to the right, was explicitly pro-democracy, with a foundational view that in a contest between the 99% and the 1%, the 99% would prevail. And that a win would lead to universal programs like Medicare for All, free college, workplace democracy, and a significant hike in the minimum wage.  

These two movements traveled on separate tracks within their respective party alliances and met wildly different fates. On the Republican side, Donald Trump emerged as a political juggernaut at a time when the party was devastated and rudderless, having lost to Obama twice in a row. This weakened state—and the fact that the Trump alternatives were uncharismatic drips like Jeb Bush—created a path for Trump to successfully execute a hostile takeover of the party.

Plus, right-wing populism embraces capital, and so it posed no real threat to the monied interests that are so influential within the party structures. The uber-rich are not among the villains of the populist right (see: Elon Musk, Bill Ackman, and so on), except in so much as they overlap with cultural leftism. The Republican donor class was not thrilled with Trump’s chaos and lack of decorum but they did not view him as an existential threat to their class interests. This comfort with him was affirmed after he cut their taxes and prioritized union busting and deregulation in his first term in office.

Meanwhile, the Democratic Party put its thumb on the scales and marshaled every bit of power they could, legitimate and illegitimate, to block Bernie Sanders from a similar party takeover. The difference was that Bernie’s party takeover did pose an existential threat—both to party elites who he openly antagonized and to the party’s big money backers. The bottom line of the Wall Street financiers and corporate titans was explicitly threatened. His rise would simply not be allowed. Not in 2016 and not in 2020.

What’s more, Hillary Clinton and her allies launched a propaganda campaign to posture as if they were actually to the left of Bernie by labeling him and his supporters sexist and racist for centering class politics over identity politics. This in turn spawned a hell cycle of woke word-policing and demographic slicing and dicing and antagonism towards working class whites that only made the Democratic party more repugnant to basically everyone.

This identity politics sword has also been wielded within the Democratic Party to crush any possibility of a Bernie-inspired class focused movement in Congress attempted by the Justice Democrats and the Squad in 2018. My colleague Ryan Grim has written an entire book on this subject so I won’t belabor the point here. But suffice it to say, the threat of the Squad to the Democratic Party’s ideology and order has been thoroughly neutralized. The Squad members themselves, perhaps out of ideology and perhaps out of fear of being smeared as racist, leaned into identitarian politics which rendered them non-threatening in terms of national popular appeal. They were also relentlessly attacked from within the party, predominately by pro-Israel groups that an unprecedented tens of millions of dollars in House primaries, which has led to the defeat of several members and has served as a warning and threat to the rest.

That brings us to today where the Democratic Party stands in the ashes of a Republican landslide which will sweep Donald Trumpback into the White House. The path not taken in 2016 looms larger than ever. Bernie’s coalition was filled with the exact type of voters who are now flocking to Donald Trump: Working class voters of all races, young people, and, critically, the much-derided bros. The top contributors to Bernie’s campaign often held jobs at places like Amazon and Walmart. The unions loved him. And—never forget—he earned the coveted Joe Rogan endorsement that Trump also received the day before the election this year. It turns out, the Bernie-to-Trump pipeline is real! While that has always been used as an epithet to smear Bernie and his movement, with the implication that social democracy is just a cover for or gateway drug to right wing authoritarianism, the truth is that this pipeline speaks to the power and appeal of Bernie’s vision as an effective antidote to Trumpism. When these voters had a choice between Trump and Bernie, they chose Bernie. For many of them now that the choice is between Trump and the dried out husk of neoliberalism, they’re going Trump.

I have always believed that Bernie would have defeated Trump in 2016, though of course there is no way to know for sure. What we can say for sure is that the brand of class-first social democracy Bernie ran on in 2016 has proven successful in other countries because of course the crisis of neoliberalism is a global phenomenon. Most notably, Bernie’s basic political ideology was wildly successful electorally with Andrés Manuel López Obrador and now his successor Claudia Sheinbaum in Mexico, Lula Da Silva in Brazil, and Evo Morales in Bolivia. AMLO, in fact, was one of the most popular leaders in the entire world and dramatically improved the livelihoods of a majority of his countrymen. Bernie’s basic ideology was also successful in our own history.

In the end, I got this election dead wrong. I thought between January 6th and the roll back of human rights for women, it would be enough. I thought that the overtly fascist tendencies of Donald Trump and the spectacle of the world’s richest man bankrolling him would be enough strikes against him to overcome the problems of the Democratic Party which I have spoken out about for years now–problems Kamala Harris decided to lean into rather than confront. Elevating Liz Cheney as a top surrogate was not just a slap in the face to all the victims of American imperialism—past and ongoing; it was a broad signal to voters that Democrats were the party of elites, playing directly into right-wing populist tropes. While the media talked about it as a “tack to the center,” author and organizer Jonathan Smucker more aptly described it as “a tack to the top.” And as I write this now, I have zero hope or expectation that Democrats will look at the Bernie bro coalition and realize why they screwed up. Cable news pundits are already blaming the left once again for the failures of a party that has little to do with the actual left and certainly not the populist left. 

Instead, Trump’s victory represents a defeat of social democratic class-first politics in America—not quite final, but not temporary either. The Democrats have successfully smothered the movement, blocked the entranceways, salted the earth. Instead they will, as Bill Clinton did in the ‘90s, embrace the fundamental tenets of the Trumpist worldview. 

They already are, in fact. Democrats have dropped their resistance to Trump’s mass deportation policies and immigrant scapegoating. The most ambitious politician in the Democratic coalition, Gavin Newsom, is making a big show of being tough-on-crime and dehumanizing the homeless. Democrat-leaning billionaires like Jeff Bezos who not only owns Amazon but the Washington Post have already abandoned their resistance.

Maybe I will be just as wrong as I was about the election but it is my sense that with this Trump victory, authoritarian right politics have won the ideological battle for what will replace the neoliberal order in America. And yes, I think it will be ugly, mean, and harmful—because it already is.

[keepsmagnetoaway]

X-Men Origins: Colossus (May 2008)

Chris Yost/Trevor Hairsine

X-Men Origins was a loose series of a dozen one-shots published by Marvel from 2008 to 2010, each exploring the early days of an X-Man in a single issue (Marvel evidently having concluded that unless you were a really big deal, like Storm or Wolverine or Wolverine or Wolverine or Wolverine, you couldn't support a full prequel miniseries). Generally these picked up on existing but not fully explored canon, going back and depicting incidents that had been referred to but not shown, expanding on brief flashbacks, stuff like that. These are, so to speak, the last bits of X-Men pre-history, each of them leading right up to the first appearance of the characters, and they're the last things we're going to read in our Era 0 ... era (with the exceptions of the issues for Deadpool and Gambit, which I'm not reading yet because we haven't got to those guys in the main read yet). Got all that?

For whatever reason, the series started with Colossus, in an issue that both establishes the overall tone and quality of these (which is, basically, "meh") and has a really deeply weird vacuum at its heart - a vacuum which is present in the rest of the series but is a particular problem here.

There is, of course, no need to really rehearse the details of Colossus' past: it's simple and pure, just like Colossus himself. Farmboy turns to steel, saves his sister, goes off to save the world. It's all very Superman. You know, this Superman.

Ah, right, yes. Here's the thing about X-Men Origins: Colossus: it isn't set in the fucking Soviet Union.

Oh! The Federal Security Service! Of what country, pray tell? Never mind. (The closest we ever get is "Russia".) And what kind of farm does Piotr Rasputin grow up on? Just...a farm. Just a regular farm.

This sucks, man. It's right there in the first sentence of his appearance, what kind of farm it is!

This Origins update is, of course, an emanation of the so-called "sliding timescale" of the Marvel universe, the principle where by the past moves along behind the present to ensure that all these characters who debuted in the 1960s aren't now 70 years old. But more than most of these characters - more than almost all of them, I would argue - Colossus' origin in the Soviet Union meant something, and had been explored on that basis before. Piotr believes in certain "Soviet" values - the common good, the collective before the individual - and he exists in a world different from the one in which he was raised. These things cause him considerable angst, and this is essential to his character. You could even have written a story about him growing up during the fall of the USSR, which could have updated the timeline but still would have used and further explored these themes! Instead we get this...nothingness, with nothingy designs and nothingy characters.

This issue gets Colossus to where he needs to be by the end of it, but reading it is an utterly bizarre experience of watching a character's story get hollowed out. Claremont wasn't doing anything especially radical by featuring a Soviet character to emphasise the internationalism of his team - it was a trick that dated back to, at very least, Chekov on Star Trek (another member, along with Piotr Rasputin, of the "uhhhh, quick, think of a Russian surname" club) but to strip even that radicalism out thirty-whatever years later really is depressing.

Also, WTF is happening with Storm's face. Anyway, Jean is next.

[ms-spkhd]

thinking about a Blast From the Past steddie au tonight. like, think about it for a second--steve as the sweet, well-meaning himbo raised in a fallout shelter and eddie as the cynic who shows him the world as it is:

The year was 1962, and an atomic bomb had just dropped on top of the Harrington household.

Okay, not really. It was actually a fighter jet that suffered a mechanical failure just above the little plot of land the Harringtons called their home, but Walter Harrington took it differently. Far differently.

See, the thing was that the man was living in a state of paranoid delusion over the Cold War--terrified of the possibility of an outright nuclear holocaust over the Cuban Missile Crisis and the Soviet Union. He had been carefully building a fallout shelter under his home for his wife and possible children to live in with the works--canned food, running water, and even a working television.

And one day they went in and simply never left. The explosion right when they closed the door was tangible proof that the nuclear war was happening right above them.

A few years later, around 1968, a baby boy was born in a fallout shelter with no one but his mom and dad to keep him company.

They raised Steve the best they could, even if Walter Harrington was a mad genius and Madeline Harrington was a borderline alcoholic. Even if the boy was living in a perfect little time capsule of the fifties and early sixties. Walter made sure to educate him right and teach him how to be a sociable gentleman--even if he had no idea what swear words or the concept of sex were. That was for another time. Although, twenty-four years came and went for Steve Harrington, his father still owes him 'another time'.

Steve Harrington grows twenty-four years in perfect seclusion, but that changes at the flick of a switch.

The year is 1992: supplies are dwindling Walter is growing sick, and Steve is tasked to bravely set foot in the nuclear fallout to retrieve more material. (The only reason why Walter assumes they can even get more stuff is because he observed the outside world when the shelter unlocked and mistook it as a post-apocalyptic mutant society.)

The moment Steve made it outside his little bubble, he was utterly fascinated by the world--how different the people were outside of his television and his little books, how bright the sky was outside, how the irritable man on the bus wouldn't accept the money he tried to give him, how the bus moved and didn't fling him right off his seat.

(He even saw an adult bookstore. Dad told him that those things were filled with poisonous gas. How were they even to operate if they were filled with poisonous gas? That's dangerous and totally inconsiderate of the general public's safety.)

Anyway, he tries to follow the grocery list that Mom and Dad gave him the best he can, stocking up on poultry and tissue paper and the works. But by the end of the day, he doesn't know where he came from. Not a single sign or building or person can give him a single clue where to go.

After a few hours of wandering, suitcase in hand, he comes across a store with WE BUY BASEBALL CARDS written on the window.

Golly, Steve loves baseball cards--could look at Dad's collection for hours, and with the collection he has, he could make a pretty penny selling them for supplies. Despite the little hobby store being beside an adult bookstore with poisonous gas, he scampers right in.

"I see you're looking to buy baseball cards," he says breezily to the gruff, scary-looking man behind the counter.

"That I am," he replies.

Steve pulls a few from his jacket's inner pocket. "Well, these are a bit old, you see, but I was hoping you still might be interested."

The gruff man yanks them from his hands, a spark in his eye. He looks delighted to see them, and it fills Steve with an excitement he hadn't felt at all today. Nobody has been this happy over something he's done today. "Woah," he gasps, then covers it with a cough. "Mickey Mantle rookie season...how much do you want?"

"I was hoping to sell all of my cards, actually!"

The man sputters incredulously. "All of 'em? Are you fucking with me?"

"I'm not sure what that means, but all I have are hundred-dollar bills and I need something smaller. Like, uh...ones, tens, fives..."

"Tell you what, I'll give you five hundred in small bills for all you got."

Steve smiles brightly. "Oh, that would be wonderful, sir--"

"Five hundred for a case-full of rookie season Mickey Mantles, Rick, are you fucking joking?" A deep voice cuts through Steve's thanks from the other side of the small store. He turns around to find a man leaning against a magazine rack, arms folded sternly.

The man is unlike Steve's ever seen before. Long, long limbs and big brown eyes that look traced with black and smudged around the edges. Pretty lips, too almost girl-ish, in the way they were big and plush like the women he'd see on the television. The strangest thing about him, though, was the curly hair that tumbled past his shoulders.

He looked mad, though. Madder than mad.

"Tell the poor guy you're fucking with him," long-hair-pretty-lips says to the man behind the counter, who bristles.

"Were you raised in a fucking barn, Munson? Who told you to interrupt on business?" Rick counters. Steve was really not appreciating the amount of f-words dropped in the conversation, it was uncouth.

"Sure I was!" Munson saunters towards the counter and Steve's eyes follow him like a moth to a light. "But my morals go past your business practices at this point. You remember the ninth commandment, yeah?"

"You shut your Goddamn mouth--"

"Excuse me sir, but I really don't appreciate how you're using the Lord's name in vain like that," Steve says firmly.

"See?" Munson smiles. It's like sunlight. "He gets it."

He plucks the baseball card from Rick's hand and holds it over his head when he tries to reach for it again. "See this little thing?" He says to Steve sweetly. "This guy costs six grand alone."

"Get out of town! Really?"

"Oh yeah, big guy. Selling the thing would give you a small fortune, and Rick over here is trying to con you out of it."

Steve frowns. "Is that true?" He asks Rick.

"Nothing but," Munson says in place of him. He slips the card back into Steve's hands and gives them a pat.

"The Hell is even keeping you here, Munson?" Rick sneers. "Did the gig you won't shut up about fall through like they usually do? Better to bum it out here than in your shithole apartment? Stop loitering in my damn store and make like a fucking tree. You're banned."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night," Munson says rolling his eyes. He looks at Steve, then the door, gesturing at it with a flick of his head. "I'll see you out, Beaver."

He walks them both out the door, stopping to gesture at Rick strangely--hands balled into fists with only his middle fingers up--before stepping outside onto the sidewalk.

"Well merci, Monsieur," Steve says appreciatively, because Dad taught him French was always to be used on such occasions.

"What, you're French?"

"Oh no, I'm"--he thinks back to what Dad told him if a mutant asks where he's from. Gosh, he thinks he's supposed to be--"out on business."

"And you don't even have a clue about the little business trick that Rick tried to pull?"

"No...no, I--"

"Yeah, doesn't matter." Munson shrugs. He smiles sympathetically at Steve before turning on his heel and walking off. Oh boy, what would he do without him?

He follows him like a lost puppy, that's what.

"...You going the same way?" Munson asks incredulously. Steve shakes his head.

"Well, I'm following you."

Munson stops in his tracks, blinking, and Steve almost runs into him in his state. "Me?"

"Well yes! Where are we going?"

"We?" Munson asserts. "I'm going back to my shithole apartment, and judging by that jacket you're wearing, you should be taking the next left and hop-skipping straight to the barber college."

"Oh, I'm lost, though."

"Aren't we all?"

"Say, did you just get banned from that hobby store because of me?" Steve says to change the subject.

Munson sighs. "Seems like I did, sailor. The place was shitty anyways, with that dickhead running the operation. Wayne could get better cards from a different joint."

...dickhead? Steve's never heard that leave the seams of anyone's lips before. "Dickhead?"

"Yeah, he's a real fucking loser. A walking talking penis capable of human speech."

Steve gets queasy at the image he's concocted in his head. He leans against the nearest brick wall, his suitcase tumbling to the ground as he drops into a contemplative squat.

"Dude, what is wrong with you?"

"Well, the mental image that I..."

Munson's eyebrows scrunch before he reaches out a hand to Steve. He takes it, letting the man haul him upward. "Look, man, where'd you park your car?"

"I came by bus."

"Aren't you full of surprises."

"I am?"

"Okay look." Eddie raises his hands, palms splayed in the air. "It's your first time in Los Angeles, right? Everyone wants a taste of it, I know, and you're out for business and fucking famished. You got the opportunity to see the great big world outside of your little bubble and you got excited--but you took a bus and got mixed up in the middle of San Fernando Valley without a clue in the world. Am I correct?"

Steve listens in wonderment. So far, Munson's been correct in a way. He's convinced he might be psychic. He nods slowly and seriously just to see Munson flash that lighting-strike smile.

"Great, great. Which brings us to here. Correct again?"

"Oh yeah."

"Where are you staying?"

Nowhere, at the moment. Steve opens his mouth to say so, but Munson interrupts quickly. "Holiday Inn?"

"Yes, the Holiday Inn!" Steve says totally truthfully.

"Okay, cool. Cool." Munson claps his hands together with finality and starts walking. "The nearest bus station is a couple of blocks away if you take a right--"

"Don't you have a car?"

Munson stops in his tracks again. He turns to face Steve once again. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

Something warm pools in Steve's gut at the pet name. Something about the way those pretty lips form that word sends blood rushing to his cheeks. "Steve," he says.

"Alright, Steve." Oh boy, his name sounds even better when Munson says it. "Rule number one in Los Angeles? Never let a stranger drive you anywhere."

"If it makes you feel any better," Steve says sweetly, "I don't have a gun."

Munson pales, then starts running.

"Hey!" Steve cries and makes haste to follow him. "I must've said something wrong, please forgive me!"

"Nope, nope--get the fuck away from me, man!"

He grabs Munson's wrist to pull him back, which is a bad move since the man starts writhing around in his grip. "I'm not going to hurt you, sir!"

Steve drops Munson's hand and raises his in surrender. "See?"

"...Just let me get to my car."

"I'll give you a Rogers Hornsby if you take me to my hotel," Steve reasons.

Munson stills. "...That's like four grand, don't bullshit me."

He pulls the card from his jacket and presents it as evidence. "See? I was holding it back." He wants Munson to feel safe. "I got two." He reaches for the other cards in his pockets and pulls them out. "And-and all these other ones, too!"

"Okay, okay. You'll give me four thousand dollars if I drive you to your place?"

"Uh-uh!"

"That's it?"

"Yep."

"And I don't have to give you a quickie in the backseat or anything?"

"Yes sir--wait, what?"

Munson blows past his question like it didn't even leave Steve's mouth. "Can you stop with the sir crap?"

"Well, I'm sorry, sir--"

"My name is Eddie."

Eddie...Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. Wow, what a name. It's almost like something he's heard on the television.

"Why, it's nice to meet you, Eddie."

"Tolerable to meet you too, Steve."

Steve smiles shyly, then asks, "So are you a girl?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well it's just your hair...it's so long." Steve points at his as an example. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Dude, it's 1992, every other guy looks like this--have you been living under a rock or something?"

Something like that. Steve shrugs.

"Well guys having long hair doesn't mean that they're girls, Steve, that's a given. It's not 1962 anymore." Eddie backtracks. "Well, I mean, dudes can have long hair and be chicks and chicks can be dudes too but that's not--"

"Oh, wow, my dad told me about one of those the last time he went here!"

"Oh that's fantastic, sweetheart," Eddie says, sugary-sweet. "But how about I drive you home?"

"That'd be a pleasure, Eddie."

[libertineangel]

A history & overview of communist groups in Britain

I've done so much reading into all the different splinter groups here, trying and failing to find one worth joining, that I might as well make all this accrued knowledge useful in case anyone wants to know what the situation is like (spoiler alert, it's a shitshow). I'll put it under a cut 'cause it'll probably get fairly long, and I'll tackle the Marxist-Leninist and Trotskyist sides separately 'cause they split in about 1932 and have barely had any crossover since.

I will not be unduly neutral or polite in my assessments, because Mao would call that liberalism and also it's no fun, so get ready to roll your eyes a lot and understand exactly what made Monty Python do the People's Front of Judea bit.

The (ostensibly) Marxist-Leninist side

In 1920, several smaller Marxist groups merged to form the Communist Party of Great Britain, the official British section of the Third International, and immediately set to work arguing with itself about the viability of parliamentarism, eventually adopting Lenin's position on the temporary utility of reformist unions & parties, which led them to spend several years trying - and even succeeding in a couple of seats - a strategy of entryism into the Labour Party, which is a phrase we will all get tired of by the end of this post; when Labour then lost the general election in 1924 it blamed the Communists and banned all their members, which sounds awfully familiar.

The CPGB did gain a fair bit of support & swelled its membership during the general strike of 1926 though, albeit in a handful of specific areas and industries, and then lost most of them again during the Comintern's Third Period because the workers didn't want to abandon their existing trade unions in favour of revolutionary ones. Did a couple of decent things in the 30s, fought at Cable Street and raised a small battalion for the International Brigades; they went back & forth on their stance on WW2 in line with the Comintern, supported strikes, actually reached their peak membership (~60,000, still tiny compared to their European comrades) during the war because they were the loudest anti-racist, anti-colonial voice around who did do a fair bit to raise public awareness of Britain's horrific treatment of India.

In 1951 they issued a new programme, The British Road to Socialism, which is pathetic reformist bollocks that insists peaceful transition to socialism is possible and sensible, and five years later the Soviet suppression of the '56 uprisings caused a massive split that saw a good 30% or so leave the party, causing them to return to the good old tactic of trying to push Labour and the unions leftward.

Nothing material really came of that and the Party declined further with the Sino-Soviet split, after which a minority of pro-China members left to form the Communist Party of Britain (Marxist-Leninist), which has since turned Hoxhaist (also surprisingly anti-immigration, and I'm fairly sure they're transphobic). Throughout the 70s they got increasingly Eurocommunist until even more revolutionaries got sick of them, and in 1977 another split saw the formation of the New Communist Party of Britain, which claims to still be anti-revisionist while also having spent the last 24 years insisting everyone vote for Labour (also from what I've heard they don't even email potential recruits back, so I doubt they'll survive beyond their current old membership, not that they'll be much loss because I don't believe they've ever actually done anything). Tensions between the Eurocommunist leadership and the Party membership continued to rise through the 80s until a final split in '88 produced the Communist Party of Britain, which is still extant today and still uses that silly electoral reformist programme from the 50s, and as an indicator of how that's going they earned 10,915 votes in the London Assembly elections this year, the third fewest of any candidate, less than half even of the fucking Christian People's Alliance (also their youth wing the YCL has marched alongside TERFs up in Scotland, they're the party that one author endorsed over Labour).

The CPGB finally folded in '91 and its leaders founded a series of steadily softer left think tanks, while other self-declared Leninists went on to form the Communist Party of Britain (Provisional Central Committee), which is so small and insignificant I can't even figure out when they actually started; nowadays they are, to quote someone off Reddit, "a small and almost entirely male group of Kautsky enthusiasts and leftist trainspotters with a knack for the fine art of unintentional self-parody, who regularly publish articles defending Marxism against the feminist menace."

Entirely separate from all that shit, in 1972 a group of students inspired by Hardial Baines formed the Hoxhaist Revolutionary Communist Party of Britain (Marxist-Leninist), and honestly I don't really know much about them because nobody online seems to have any idea if they do anything and looking at their website burned my fucking eyes. There's also the Communist Party of Great Britain (Marxist-Leninist) (yeah a different one), formed in 2004 when a bunch of people got expelled from infamous union leader Arthur Scargill's party; they are so rabidly transphobic it makes the CPB look welcoming.

Finally, there's the Revolutionary Communist Group, which surprisingly formed out of the Trotskyist International Socialists (which became the SWP, we'll get to that soon); they're not a formal Party because they don't think the revolutionary situation here is developed enough for one, but they are fairly active in protests and pickets. Unfortunately, back in 2017 they dragged their heels investigating a member's sexual assault and then let the perpetrator back in after a two-month suspension and apology letter.

The Trotskyist side, if you can stomach it after all that bollocks

Modern British Trotskyism descends entirely from the Revolutionary Communist Party of 1944, formed by the merger of two smaller groups at the request of the Fourth International. They split after three years over the viability of entryism into the Labour Party, with the majority correctly seeing it as bollocks. Unfortunately, the majority RCP did fuck all afterward and grew disillusioned enough with the leadership to throw their lot in with the minority breakaway known as The Club, who kicked them all out again and proceeded to never do anything of note whatsoever (they eventually changed their name to the Workers' Revolutionary Party and imploded in about nine different - equally irrelevant - directions in the 80s when founder Gerry Healy was expelled for having serially abused women in the party for decades).

Followers of notable RCP member Tony Cliff (formerly the 4I's leader in Palestine) joined him in his new Socialist Review Group, devoted to Trotskyism but breaking from orthodoxy in favour of Cliff's theory of state capitalism that's silly even by Trotskyist standards that I don't think even the party itself really adheres to anymore. They changed their name to International Socialists in 1962, tried to appeal for left unity and got roundly ignored by everyone except a small Trotskyist group called Workers' Fight, which joined the IS, swelled their own ranks, tried to challenge the leadership and got thrown out again; they still cling onto existence as the Alliance for Workers' Liberty, whose existence I had completely forgotten until I saw a poster of theirs down my road and remembered I was in fact at the London Young Labour conference which banned them for refusing to properly investigate the repeated abuse of a teenage boy in their youth faction. The IS still tried to grow, but expelled what would become the aforementioned RCG in '72, expelled the faction that's now Workers Power in '74 (whom I have never heard of, which at least means I don't know of any awful shit they've done), tore themselves in half in '75 when Tony Cliff decided older workers were reformist and recruitment should focus on the youth, and in 1977 they renamed themselves the Socialist Workers Party. The SWP did do a few decent things, like form the Anti-Nazi League and organise Rock Against Racism, but to be honest those had a much bigger impact on the British punk scene than actual politics. Using charities and campaign groups to jump on bandwagons for shameless self-promotion is mostly what they're known for these days, along with making placards for any protest anywhere no matter how irrelevant they are to the party's platform; their membership and image among the left took a tremendous blow in 2014 after the Comrade Delta scandal, in which they were found to have covered up the National Secretary's repeated sexual abuse for years.

Followers of other notable RCP member Ted Grant joined him (after their expulsion from The Club) in his Revolutionary Socialist League, which believed in entryism into the Labour Party, and in 1965 it split with the 4I (because the 4I thought they were shit) to become Militant. They actually managed to take control of Labour's youth wing and successfully pushed the Party to commit to nationalising the country's major monopolies, but when Labour - on a platform of spending cuts and reformist liberal appeasement - lost the election to Thatcher in '79 they blamed it on the Communists and in December '82 they got blacklisted (which sounds awfully familiar). Took a while for that to sink in though, and Militant-affiliated members actually managed to take over Liverpool City Council through the mid-80s - they planned a massive amount of public works building, cancelling redundancies and other such things that sounded good but they really couldn't pay for, and tried to play bankruptcy chicken against Margaret Thatcher, which went as badly as you'd imagine and embarrassed them on the national stage (even if the people of Liverpool still supported them). Their last act was to help instigate the Poll Tax Riots in 1990, but that was one good deed to many for a Trotskyist group and they finally split in '91 - a majority decided they should finally sever ties with Labour and strike out on their own, while the minority insisted that entryism into the Labour Party really could net real national success if we just keep trying come on guys let's stay on the sinking ship history has taught us nothing!!!

The majority formed the Socialist Party, who have done nothing of note ever, and in 2013 they failed to adequately respond to sexual harassment within their ranks. In 2018 their international, the Committee for a Workers' International, experienced a split which it looks to me was over the old established leadership not getting with the times when it comes to women and LGBT+ people, and the majority went off to form the International Socialist Alternative, with the Socialist Alternative being its British branch; just last April the Irish section disaffiliated with the ISA because of its poor handling of abuse allegations against a leading member.

The minority stayed in Labour under the name Socialist Appeal, under the leadership of Ted Grant & Alan Woods, never really doing anything, and in 2021 Keir Starmer's left purge finally banned them, which was totally unrelated to their decision to finally strike out on their own this year as the Revolutionary Communist Party (yeah a different one). They're a money-grabbing newspaper-obsessed cult who've harboured abusers in five different countries, and to be honest I don't even see why they still exist now that they're no longer devoted to entryism considering that was the entire reason they split from the rest of Militant in the first place, they might as well reunify with the CWI or the ISA but far be it from me to expect insular Trotskyist control freaks to make sensible, practical political moves or to ever get the fuck over a split.

[xxruinaxxmcu]

Jack Thompson x Reader

Previous Chapters 

What Lies Before US

Chapter 19

A/N: once again thank you @clinicallydepressedreader for the lovely reblog of the last chapter! I do appreciate every like/feedback a great deal. 

The next morning, before the sun had made its way above the horizon, the two of them packed up their things in the office before making their way back to the bunker. It was still locked, so Jack entered the code to gain access.

“Seems like no one broke out”, he commented sarcastically.

They were greeted by silence as they made their way back towards the interrogation chamber. The first person they came across was Sousa, who looked like he hadn’t slept much.

“You look a bit under the weather”, Y/N said with a small smile, “Everything alright?”

The brunet nodded. “Yeah. Peggy’s asleep. So is her brother.”

“Did you get anything?”, Jack asked, pointing towards the interrogation room with his chin.

“Yeah”, he huffed, “seems like you really are our best interrogator, Jack. What a pity you’ll switch agencies.” He paused: “Apparently, he was captured in 1940 and brought to a facility in East Prussia, where he underwent torture for several years. After the war, HYDRA found new allies in the Soviet Union interested in their research, so the base continued in Kaliningrad.”

“So the Soviets know about that entire mind control stuff?”, Thompson asked, crossing his arms with a scowl. This was bad. HYDRA was a rogue organisation without a state to back it, but the Soviet Union had an entire apparatus behind it.

“Yeah”, Daniel confirmed, “he mentioned that they continued to work on their technique, improve the compliance of their subjects.”

“That’s why he’s only the BETA candidate”, Y/N threw in, “There must be an ALPHA, too. Someone who’s been trained better. That’s what they outlined in that booklet, too. Does he have details on that person?”

Daniel shook his head: “They made sure for candidates not to meet.”

“And do we know if he’s stable without a handler? Or is he just going to revert back into mad-mode?”, Jack questioned.

“I give no guarantees”, Daniel scoffed, “but I think without Keller’s orders, it should be fine. We’ll still send him to see a psychiatrist to look into possible de-programming, in case we were to ever run into another HYDRA scientist again.” His head turned to Y/N. “Thank you, Y/N. I know you could’ve shot him to get our mission done with less personal risk.”

She waved her hand: “Daniel. I’ve pulled the trigger too quick too often. I suppose I can try the other way once in a while.” Feeling Jack’s gaze upon her, she knew that he knew what she felt, even if he disagreed with her feeling that sense of guilt.

“We’ll take him back to L.A. with us”, Daniel said, nudging his head in the direction of where Michael was still locked up, “probably we’ll leave in about ten hours. Peggy organised private means of transportation.”

“You mean she called Stark.”

“I mean she called Stark”, Sousa confirmed Jack’s guess. “Are you coming with us?”

The two exchanged a quick glance.

“I think we have to get our affairs sorted in New York. I have to talk to McKinley to make him interim Chief”, Jack pulled a face, “and yes, I vetted him as thoroughly as I could, and though he doesn’t have my charm, he’s sure as hell not gonna turn out a Communist or HYDRA agent.”

Daniel and Y/N scoffed simultaneously.

“I described you in a great many ways, Thompson, but charming?”, Daniel grinned.

“If you need backup”, Y/N said, not having to say more than that to clarify her offer. Sousa nodded.

“We will.”

“I’ll organise our fights back to New York”, Y/N said to Jack before marching off to one of the offices to call the airline.

When she had left, Jack turned to Sousa.

“I need Carter to spend a weekend with Y/N, get her out of New York.”

“What?”, Sousa raised an eyebrow, “Are you double-crossing someone again?” It was a clearly a joke, but Jack still rolled his eyes.

“No, you jackass”, he huffed, “but there’s something I need to do, and I can’t have her knowing just yet. Come on, it’s awful keeping a secret from a spy, so I need a spy to help me!”

Daniel had his suspicions where this was headed, so he nodded without further question.

A few hours later, Y/N and Jack got ready to leave Miami behind.

“Tell Peggy I wish her all the best”, Y/N said to Sousa when they got ready to enter the taxi, “I think she’s quite busy with everything that’s happened.”

“I will”, Sousa said with a smile, “Thank you for the help.”

“Don’t mention it”, she said, “You two have saved our asses more than enough, too.”

Just when they were about to climb into the cab, the door flew open again and Peggy stormed out to hug Y/N. “You didn’t think I would not say goodbye to you, did you?”

“I’m sure you’ve got bigger things on your mind then waving at me”, Y/N laughed, “especially since I’m sure we’ll speak on the phone before you know it.”

“You can count on it!”, Peggy looked over to Jack, nodding at him. “Thank you, Jack. I even relinquish the desire to shoot you.”

Jack snorted. “Yeah? Thanks, Marge.”

“See you around, you two”, Peggy said with a smile as they departed. For once, despite the entire Michael-situation wasn’t yet resolved completely, their case was closed. Keller was dead. The Arena Club dismantled.

Jack Thompson’s and Y/N L/N’s tenue at the SSR was coming to a close.

……………

They decided to remain at the SSR for four more weeks to wrap things up, then take a few days off with the vacation days that they had, in theory, accumulated but had been unable to ever use because the world wouldn’t stop ending before starting at the CIA in March of 1948. That meant that they had a few weeks of mostly filing and other desk duties, which came to Y/N’s advantage as it gave her wound time to heal without feeling like she was missing out on anything that would’ve needed her skillset. A definite downside to that was, however, that it provided time to think. And as good as they were when dealing with criminals, from mobster to mad scientist, they were equally terrible at handling domestic issues.

And there was a rather big one that they had to take care of one way or another. Their own wedding.

‘Why the hell are you worrying about this, Thompson? You’ve seen how it goes at Carter and Sousa’s. Just don’t fall flat on your face and you’ll be fine’, Jack thought to himself, though he knew he was only kidding himself. There were a million things that could go wrong. Family was a blessing, but it was also a can of worms. And his friends from university and from his time in the Marine Corps didn’t know each other, so they might hate each other. And there was the miniscule thing around Y/N’s family. Or, more precisely, her father.

Their wedding would take place in February, which meant that it would most likely be cold as hell, but there wasn’t much they could do about it, it was one of the only moments – perhaps of their entire lives – where they could be fairly sure that they had time for such an event.

Y/N was a bit confused by the no-discussion-allowed tone Peggy had when she called her one day to inform her that they’d spend a weekend together back in Boston where Peggy knew a childhood friend who was selling wedding dresses. Y/N wasn’t that thrilled to return to that city again so soon – but after being threatened to have to fly to L.A. to meet with her instead, she agreed.

“You sure you don’t want to come?”, Y/N asked when packing her suitcase, looking over to her fiancé. “We don’t really do things traditionally, so I don’t mind if you see the dress before day X.”

“You’re right”, he pushed himself off the wall with a grin, “we did everything up until this moment in an unorthodox manner. Let’s do this one thing the old-fashion way. I’m sure my ma would be livid if we didn’t.” He gave her a quick kiss, causing Y/N to laugh.

“Your ma would be livid if she knew half the crap we’ve done together”, Y/N informed him, “And I don’t even mean just our work now, I doubt she’d be happy with all the stuff that happened before the war, either.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, we were practically saints at university”, he said with a wink, making her scoff.

“Yeah. I hope Nick bites his tongue if he’s around on our wedding day. Don’t want your parents’ image of their saintly son to be destroyed.”

………

Y/N was greeted by her friend at the airport. “You really didn’t have to fly all across the country just for this silly thing”, Y/N said after giving her a hug, “I’m sure Jack wouldn’t have walked off the altar just because I was wearing a normal dress. With that temper of his, he can’t afford to be picky.”

Peggy laughed at her jab at her fiancé. “You know, Y/N, I have to agree with you on this one! Doesn’t mean you should not do it, still. Maybe I just want to see that airhead speechless once.”

Y/N grinned. “He does have a tendency to want the last word. That, and he doesn’t have the best of filters. Should’ve seen him when we met again after the war. I wasn’t sure if he was about to jump at me to hug me, or slap me, and he just ended up accidentally insulting me.”

“What?”, Peggy looked offended on Y/N’s behalf when she heard that, and Y/N only waved.

“I’m pretty sure he had a rough night before”, she said with a lopsided smile, “and he’s never been good at personal diplomacy. Trust me, you eventually learn to handle and to interpret his insults. Most of them aren’t meant to be taken literally, or even figuratively, they’re just an expression of Thompson-doesn’t-know-what-to-say.”

As they made their way through the city, Y/N sighed. “Didn’t expect to be back here so soon, I have to say. But I guess I can’t hate every city for what happened in it, otherwise, sooner or later, I won’t be able to live in the US entirely.”

“So you’ve gotten over your hatred for L.A.?”, Peggy asked with raised eyebrows.

“No.”

“No?” The brunette laughed.

“No, but for a whole host of reasons. First”, Y/N raised a finger, “I don’t like the climate. Way to hot. I prefer more moderate weather, and New York’s summers are hot enough. Second, I am deeply weirded out by Hollywood. Feels like throwing a glittering blanket over a pile of dirty laundry.” Peggy laughed at her description of most people’s idolised part of America, but Y/N continued. “Third, I have to be a bit considerate towards Jack. And I doubt he can live in the same city as Howard Stark without accidentally murdering him.”

“Yes, some days, I share that sentiment”, Peggy agreed, “By all his brilliance, he is a nuisance, too.”

Y/N pressed her lips together, wondering if asking about Michael was appropriate. She decided, after having taken a bullet in order to save the man, she had the right to inquire. “How is your brother?”

“I think he is getting better. It is really hard, though, for him to – you know – figure out who he is, again. Who he really is, without mind control, without the programme that they had drilled into him”, Peggy replied, her tone calm and relatively collected. “But I know he’ll get through this. Michael taught me what it means to fight to get what no one thought possible. He survived all they’ve done to him – he’ll get back.”

“We’ll have to look into that programming, though”, Y/N muttered, clenching her jaw, “it doesn’t sound from the notebook that they’re thinking about scaling back their experiments. Chances are, we’ve got several other American or British POWs that underwent similar procedures and are being reintroduced into the country to do their bidding.”

“Yes”, Peggy agreed, frowning at the thought. Then, she shook her head. “But not today. Today, you’re going to find the perfect dress!”

…………

The quaint house stood in the middle of a large plot of land, and if Jack had to ever point to the definition of a house with a white picket fence, it would have been this house. It had everything one would draw on such a picture – trees in the garden, well-maintained flowers. A swing.

A swing? He looked at the wooden contraption. Yes, a swing. But Y/N was an only child – at least, she had been when she left for Europe. Oh well. ‘Here goes nothing’. He fought the urge to abort the mission, to just go home and get married to the girl he wanted to marry without pulling this stunt – he knew she wouldn’t have been mad at him for not doing it. But, once again, his stubborn self could not accept that her father was mad at her decision to leave for Europe. Even if it had taken Jack himself a minute to get around on that decision.

He sighed, and went to ring the doorbell.

First, no one answered the door. Looking through the window next to it, he saw that there was light burning in one of the rooms, so he assumed someone was in there. Then, through the window, he saw a kid walking towards him – maybe fifteen. Dark hair and dark eyes, he looked confused when he opened the door.

“Yes? Can I help you?”, the boy asked.

“I’m looking for Mr. L/N”, Jack replied, “is he here?”

“He’s upstairs”, the boy replied, “who’s asking? I can get him.”

“Jack Thompson”, Jack pulled out his SSR ID, “He might remember me from when he lived in New York. I went to school with his daughter.”

“Dad?”, the boy turned around and yelled upstairs, “someone here to see you! A federal agent!”

Jack heard the footsteps of Y/N’s father descending the stairs. When he saw Jack in the doorframe, his face froze.

“You’re the boy Y/N went to school and university with”, he stated.

“Yes”, Jack nodded, shaking the man’s hand, “Jack Thompson. I’ve worked with your daughter at the SSR after the war, too.”

An aura of darkness, perhaps of sorrow or nostalgia coated the man’s face. “Seems like she couldn’t let it go.”

Jack’s eyebrows twitched upwards. “Sir, her work saved countless lives. During her time in Germany, as well as during her time at the SSR. Most men would be happy settling for half of her record.”

Mr. L/N pressed his lips together. “And you came here to bring me the notice of her passing? Is that it? Your sworn duty as her commanding officer?”

“What?”, Jack frowned, “No. Y/N’s alive and well, sir. I came here to ask you to give your daughter the right to choose. She didn’t have to serve. And yet, she did. And when she came back, she didn’t have to work for an intelligence agency. And yet, she did. Hell, I didn’t task her with half the crap she ended up pursuing at the SSR, and in hindsight, I should thank the Lord that she did. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d be dead.”

Mr. L/N looked over his shoulder, at the boy still standing there. “Give us a moment, Rich.” Then, he stepped outside, alone, to face Jack.

“Mr. Thompson, when Y/N decided to head to England, her mother already knew that she was sick. She just didn’t tell Y/N right away. We didn’t want her to go, because we already knew we’d lose someone within the next years. Before she could tell Y/N, she was on her way to England.” He sounded bitter, angry, because that meant that his only child had left him alone.

“Sir, I get that this must’ve hurt, I do”, Jack clenched his jaw, “but we were all asked to make a sacrifice. We were asked to take up arms and run head first into enemy lines if need be. So yes, your family was ruined by war, even though Y/N came back, and for that, I am sorry. But how many families lost multiple children to the war, how many families were torn apart? She tried to do what was right, and she did a fine job.” He paused. “So I ask, is that resentment really worth ruining the chance of salvaging the relationship you could still have to your daughter? Because she left you in order to serve her country?” For once, he managed not to raise his voice to a hostile level, but he nonetheless stared down Mr. L/N.

“Mr. Thompson”, he said slowly, carefully, “Why did you come here?”

Jack huffed. “I came here to tell you that on February 19th, Y/N L/N will become Misses Y/N Thompson. She was convinced that you would not want to be at her wedding. I came here to ask you myself. And you can say no, but I wanted to give you the chance to not lose your daughter. Yes, she went to war, and yes, she came back different. But she came back. And if you let her, you can have her back, too.”

……………

February 19th was the date Jack had suggested. Y/N knew why that date meant something to him. It was the day he went to hell – February 19th, 1945, had been the day he landed on Iwo Jima. That day would always remain a black mark in his calendar, but this way, he took it back. It would no longer be the worst day of his life, it would be the best day of his life, too. Simply put, it would become the most meaningful day, good and bad, in his life.

Y/N had eventually found a dress – its long sleeves made up by a delicate lace, a deep v-neckline that, nonetheless, was modest, albeit a bit a different cut from the standard dresses. The A-line skirt allowed for easy movement, but did not consist of so much fabric that it would turn into a tripping hazard. Looking in the mirror, she saw Peggy smile at her from behind. Y/N herself didn’t manage to smile. She felt like she was staring at someone else entirely.

“You look stunning, Y/N. Absolutely gorgeous!”, Peggy stated and added with a smile, “What exactly Jack Thompson did to deserve you, I shall never know.”

Y/N couldn’t help but to grin at that remark. She knew that Peggy and Jack had started off – and continued for a long while – on the wrong foot.

“He really was a prick after the war, huh”, Y/N huffed, pulling the fabric around her neckline into place.

“The worst part is – at least he had somewhat of an explanation for it”, Peggy lamented, “But how many others are just as bad as he was and aren’t as marked by the years we spent abroad?”

“Peg, I am sorry to inform you, but if you want to live in a world without being degraded by our wonderful male co-workers”, Y/N said, turning to face the brunette with a cynical smile, “Then you were born at least two hundred years too early.”

“Well, someone has to pave the way, and I suppose, for the time being, that’ll have to be the two of us – and in all fairness, we have come a long way within the SSR”, Peggy replied, and Y/N nodded with one eyebrow raised.

“I suppose we have. Though you’ve had it significantly worse than I did. I was never accused of treason, or kicked out, or blackmailed with another person’s file”, Y/N said dryly.

“Indeed, the accusation of treason mostly came from my now-husband, I was kicked out by Chief Dooley, and blackmailed by Chief Thompson”, she recounted, laughing, “I suppose now I’ve gotten a beating from all the Chiefs, so maybe I am good now.”

“You better be, considering you’ll be heading a new organisation soon”, Y/N winked, “unless you go against yourself – you’ve got only Howard Stark to fear, and I think he has better things to do than to go after you. A suggestion from me – he should invest in a better vault. And security system.”

……………

“Mr. Thompson!”, Jack looked over his shoulder as he was walking back to his car when he saw the kid from before running towards him.

“Can I help you, kid?”, he asked, turning around with an eyebrow raised.

“Dad never mentioned that Y/N was still alive”, the boy said, “He also never said that she was dead, now that I think about it. I guess, I just explained it away, given that she was never here.” He held out his hand: “I’m Rich. I’m Y/N’s stepbrother.”

Stepbrother. That made sense. A son from a previous marriage, whose father either had died, or was so absent that he had started to call Mr. L/N dad.

“Pleasure to meet you, Rich.”

“What is she like?”

Jack knew that he meant it as a completely innocent question, but to him, it was loaded with the memories of about fifteen years that he had, in one way or another, spent with Y/N. He didn’t even know where to begin with. How should he explain to this kid what a person Y/N was?

“Y/N”, he eventually said, elongating her name in the search for words, “She’s, uhm, probably the bravest, kindest, and strongest person I’ve ever met. Words don’t do her justice.”

“Dad hardly ever mentioned her – you said that she served… where did she serve? Dad didn’t seem thrilled about it.”

Jack knew that it wasn’t his story to tell – the spying, the entire tale of Y/N’s time in Germany, but he also wanted to convey to this boy that his ‘dad’ was dead-wrong for having been upset at his daughter, so he decided to rub it right in his face. “She fought against the Nazis. She spent the war in Europe. That’s why she left.”

It had the effect he had wanted – Rich’s mouth fell open as he stared at Jack in disbelief. “What? That’s awesome!”

“Yeah, well”, Jack gave him a lopsided grin and nodded towards the house behind them, “tell that to your dad, will ya, kid?”

“I will, sir!” Jack almost pulled a face at the kid calling him ‘sir’. Only the pencil pushers in the SSR called him that, and even they only rarely did. Most of them just called him ‘Chief’. The last time he was called ‘sir’ right, left and centre was back in the military.

“See you around, Rich.”

…………

When Y/N returned, she wasn’t surprised when Jack was not at either her or his place – though their time at the SSR was coming to an end, he still didn’t like to let go off the wheel entirely just yet. So she headed to the office, where her search was indeed successful.

Entering the office, she felt the eyes of the men inside it on her.

Raising an eyebrow and putting her hands on her hips, she paused. “Is something the matter, gentlemen?”

“We knew about you leaving the SSR together with the Chief, but he only now mentioned that you’ll soon be married”, Goldberg eventually said, causing Y/N to raise her other eyebrow as she laughed.

“Yes, I’m sorry for myself, too.”

“Hey!” She grinned at Jack whose head popped out of the bullpen as he shook his head: “Unbelievable.”

“Congratulations, Y/N. Can’t say I saw that coming when you had your first day here, I thought you’d be more likely his murderer than his wife, but I stand corrected.”

Y/N laughed at Goldberg’s not entirely wrong analysis of hers and Jack’s first meeting post-war.

“What can I say”, she said, “we’ve never done things traditionally. That applies professionally as well as privately, it would seem.”

“I swear, if you now start telling them about our yesteryears, I’ll fire you on the spot”, Jack warned jokingly, “I want to upkeep my reputation for my next job.”

Y/N huffed: “I have no idea what you’re getting at, Jack. Your drinking escapades aside, and your unbelievable ability to make enemies, you were a straight-A student all your life.” And both of these aspects of his personality weren’t all that well-hidden, though, perhaps, his subordinates merely got to see the surface of both.

In fact, that was perhaps one of Jack Thompson’s most proficient traits. He had the capability to adapt to his environment, mould himself into whatever people expected from a person in his situation, put his own personality on the backburner in order to climb the ladder. He had always wanted to be the best – the best at maths, the best at sports, the best at anything he ever did, and he’d do anything to succeed. That didn’t necessarily mean to push others out the way, it certainly meant he fought hard to be better than the next guy, but as harsh as he was to others, he was at least ten times harsher with himself. He was able to build up a wall to reinforce himself to be ready to take on a world that had been incredibly hostile in their lifetime. They had experienced an economic crash and an economic recovery, they had experienced the worst war the world had ever seen. Not only that, but they had fought in it. And then they had come back to a country where they felt like strangers, only to realise that they had to second-guess every person around them. His wall of anger and of sarcasm and rudeness, it was also a wall of hard work, of doubt and of a deep conviction to want to serve this country. It was the wall that only very few got to ever climb, and Y/N was perhaps the one person who knew every brick in the wall.

To understand Jack Thompson was to understand the environment he operated in. That’s how it’s always been – he had been a different person when they were surrounded by other students as he was when he was with his family. He was different when being the SSR Chief, or her fiancé. Essentially, he grew up in a society that valued first and foremost the outcome, rather than the means. And the outcome society valued most was success. That might come across as greedy or selfish, but Y/N knew – at heart, he still did it all with good intentions. He wouldn’t ever back out of a fight in fear over his own life. He was willing to die for his job. And he didn’t trust many others to do a better job than he did himself. Again, this might sound selfish and arrogant to many, but Y/N had seen ‘the others’. Men like Vernon Masters, Calvin Chadwick and so on. They were just as ambitious, but they were cowards. They were willing to sacrifice others for their own success. He was willing to sacrifice himself.

And that, Y/N thought to herself, is why I’m going to marry him – to keep that part of him controlled. Because as much as she admired him for his willingness to give his all for cause and country – she really didn’t want him to become a martyr. She didn’t need for him to become the next Captain America. She was fine with him just being a good man, a man with a long list of flaws and a record of mistakes.

She could not ever imagine being with someone as literally flawless as Steve Rogers – then, she would feel like an absolute imposter. She had just as long a list of flaws and mistakes.

That’s why it worked. They needed each other – and in a sense, they always had.

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[mariacallous]

In 1959, the United States began construction of a real-life version of the frozen Echo Base from The Empire Strikes Back. The plan for Camp Century was to test snow tunneling technologies in northwest Greenland, not far from the north pole, ostensibly for scientific research. Really, the US was flexing its military muscle, and may have been considering Project Iceworm, a way to hide 600 nuclear missiles in thousands of miles of snow tunnels across northern Greenland, close to the former Soviet Union. The island’s massive ice sheet had other ideas for Camp Century, though—ice shifts and flows, making this not a particularly ideal place to stash nukes or run the nuclear reactor that powered the base.

Iceworm never went anywhere, and the US closed Camp Century in 1966, leaving the tunnels to collapse. But before everyone fled, researchers did manage to dig up some actual scientific dirt, drilling a 4,550-foot-deep core into the ice sheet. When they hit earth, they drilled a further 12 feet, bringing up a plug of frozen sand, dirty ice, cobbles, and mud. The military moved that ice core from its own freezers to the University at Buffalo in the 1970s. The core ended up in Denmark in the '90s, where it was kept frozen, so that now it provides scientists with invaluable insight into ice ages past.

Nobody cared much about the sediment, though, until 2018, when it was rediscovered in cookie jars in a University of Copenhagen freezer. Now, an international team of researchers has analyzed that sediment, and made a major scientific discovery.

“In that frozen sediment are leaf fossils and little bits of bugs and twigs and mosses that tell us in the past there was a tundra ecosystem living where today there's almost a mile of ice,” says University of Vermont geoscientist Paul Bierman, coauthor of a new paper describing the finding in the journal Science. “The ice sheet is fragile. It can disappear, and it has disappeared. Now we have a date for that.”

Previously, scientists reckoned that Greenland iced over some 2.5 million years ago, and has been that way since. In 2021, Bierman and his colleagues determined that it was actually ice-free sometime in the past million years. Now, they’ve dated the tundra ecosystem captured in the Camp Century core to a mere 416,000 years ago—so northwestern Greenland couldn’t have been locked in ice then.

Scientists also know that at that time, global temperatures were similar or slightly warmer than what they are today. However, back then, atmospheric concentrations of planet-warming carbon dioxide were about 280 parts per million, compared to today’s 422 parts per million—a number that continues to skyrocket. Because humans have so dramatically and rapidly warmed the climate, we’re exceeding the conditions that had previously led to the wide-scale melting of Greenland’s ice sheet and gave rise to the tundra ecosystem. “It's a forewarning,” says Utah State University geoscientist Tammy Rittenour, a coauthor of the new paper. “This can happen under much lower CO2 conditions than our current state.” 

That melting could be incredibly perilous. The new study finds that the Greenland ice melt 400,000 years ago caused at least 5 feet of sea level rise, but perhaps as much as 20 feet. “These findings raise additional concern that we could be coming perilously close to the threshold for collapse of the Greenland ice sheet and massive additional sea level rise of a meter or more,” says University of Pennsylvania climate scientist Michael Mann, who wasn’t involved in the research. Today, less than a foot of global sea level rise is already causing serious flooding and storm surge problems for coastal cities—and that’s without the potential for an additional 20 feet. 

If Greenland melts again, it could reach a point of no return, relentlessly driving up sea levels as it does so. When an ice sheet melts, it exposes darker dirt beneath it, which absorbs more of the sun’s energy, raising local temperatures and driving more melting.

“If too much mass is lost and the elevation of the surface drops significantly, the resulting warming of the surface makes regrowth of the ice sheet more difficult,” says Pennsylvania State University geoscientist Richard B. Alley, who wasn’t involved in the research. “The new paper provides further evidence that even moderate sustained warmth will drive major melting in Greenland, forcing sea-level rise.”

Exactly how the Greenland ice sheet might degrade in the future is still unclear, and requires more research. Temperatures 400,000 years ago were similar to what they are today, but the natural warming that drove Greenland's melting back then happened gradually. Humans have quickly and dramatically warmed the planet since preindustrial times, and anthropogenic CO2 will stay in the atmosphere for thousands of years, unless people invent a way to remove it at large scale. We can also reduce temperatures. If we slash emissions, Mann says, Greenland’s ice sheet might remain stable.

So, how did this research team figure out that northwest Greenland was an ice-sheet-free tundra 400,000 years ago? The sediment from the Camp Century core was loaded with organic material, but it was way too old to examine by using carbon dating, which is only effective for periods up to 50,000 years back. “We pulled out little twigs and leaves, and we immediately sent them off radiocarbon dating, and they came back what we call ‘radiocarbon dead,’” says Rittenour. “There were no traces of radioactive carbon left in the sample.”

So instead, Rittenour used light—specifically the luminescence of bits of feldspar buried in the sediment. Free electrons build up in the minerals over time, producing a "luminescence signal." Exposure to sunlight essentially neutralizes this signal, but once these minerals became buried under thousands of feet of ice, the sun’s rays could no longer reach them, and the electron buildup recommenced. In a darkroom in the lab, Rittenour could peer into the Camp Century samples using infrared light. “We can use light of one wavelength, and we measure the luminescence coming off at a different wavelength,” says Rittenour. “The older the sample, the more luminescence it produces.” That allowed them to determine how long it had been since the feldspar in the sediment last saw sunlight.

To complement this, at the University of Vermont, Bierman looked at the mineral quartz in the samples for rare isotopes of beryllium and aluminum. “They're formed when cosmic rays, these really high energy particles, come zipping into Earth from beyond the solar system. And occasionally, they'll smack an element in the quartz grain,” says Bierman. “By looking at the ratio of those two isotopes, we can tell how long something's been buried away from those cosmic rays.” The result told them that this material had sat out on the landscape for less than 16,000 years.

Scientists are now racing to drill more ice cores in Greenland to gather more soil. Although the Camp Century core gives them the basis for modeling that they can use for estimations, with more cores, they can better work out how much of the island’s ice had disappeared and how quickly—and what that might presage about the ice sheet’s modern decline. “We now have definitive evidence that when the climate gets warm, the Greenland ice sheet disappears,” says Bierman. “And we've just started warming the climate.”

“We use the past to try to understand the future and understand the present,” Bierman continues. “And that makes the future a little frightening. Not that we should run from it—but to me, it's a call for action.”

[interactivefmpyear1oliverwood]

They Live analysis

They Live reminds me a little bit of the Combine from Half-Life 2, not only because of aliens integrating themselves into Earth's population and controlling it's inhabitants through the manipulation of social and political order, by methods far flung from morality, but also the fact that the aliens uses propaganda disguised as guidance to trick the humans into their social systems.

I have a massive fascination with the macabre in terms of what an alien species would do to us without outright eliminating us that makes such a thing more morally righteous than whatever else they are planning to do with us.

Many Americans around the 20th century would go by the slogan "better dead than red", due to the natural fear of the socialist authoritarianism that would've been installed on them if they were to be captured by the Soviet Union. They believed that being dead was better than being under Soviet rule, and history makes it clear to us that Communism is a flawed political system due to our greed and selfishness, it'd be too easy for a representative to reorganise a civilisation under strict rules that break the Disney Fairy Tale beauty of a system into another off-shoot of one of the west's greatest enemies(AKA Unfiltered Fairy Tales).

Soviet Russia and Nazi Germany are common antagonists of western literature, and a lot of influence is taken from them when it comes to our fictional evils. They also relate to the common themes of the time period, like environmentalism, consumerism, futurism, religion, etc.

Such an enemy with a galaxy-wide budget and technology to alter our entire planet without us being able to bat an eye is what makes them such a intriguing and terrifying foe to be up against, and the battle's matter of information by select individuals raises the stake to highs unimaginable by our modern lens, you against the whole world. We often like to imagine ourselves being the hero, even if all the odds are against them, because we want to feel that adrenaline rush throughout the journey, which is why it's pared with our time period trends, so it makes the whole thing feel personal to the generation.

What does this have to do with planets...IDK, I was told that the planets looked like a planet had landing pads, but I can't seem to find any pictures of it, but I can envision what that may be like, and my reasoning behind it is that those are important bases of operation for the aliens, since they don't want to expose themselves and their plans to the human populous. Maybe those landing docks are able to reflect light from above it and create a lightshow of sorts that recreates that scene as if it wasn't even there, if it's on planet earth, but I haven't seen the movie so I'm quite confused.

[beardedmrbean]

If you want to cry about Laika forever, look up the song "Soace Doggity" by Johnathan Coulton. It's genuinely heartbreaking.

Johnathan Coulton did a serious song?

He really had to go in and let everyone know what actually happened there didn't he.

For all the shit we give ourselves as Americans we never sent anything living up into space without a plan to bring it home safe.

Even if we were going to dissect it when it got home, Soviets on the other hand.

Vladimir Komarov

Would you go to your death willingly in order to save a friend.

Comrade Komarov, you sir are a true friend and hero I raise my glass in your honour.

I'll likely say it again, but I get kind of absorbed in this stuff, been a learning passion since January 28, 1986.

it's a bit icky under the cut,

Sorry, soviet union space bullshit enrages me. You're not expanding the knowledge of the species by sending men on suicide missions.

They got more secretive about launch dates for missions that may not end well after this.

[hazzoranstories]

Niklaus Mikaelson x Reader One-Shot | It Was Always Me

Includes: Mild harsh language

________________________________________________________________________________

*Chicago, Illinois; 1922*

After three drinks, one late-night snack, and much singing from Gloria echoing through the bar in Chicago, I was officially high off the pleasantness of the 1920s. It was so carefree compared to other decades before it. Too carefree. If it weren't for my restless boyfriend, then I would be running this crazy city.

"Hello, gorgeous. May I buy you a drink?" The voice of a gentle and unrecognizable voice said beside me. I looked to the right and scoffed, seeing the presence of another Vampire. I was rather gifted at seeking out which was a human and which was my own species. Something that impressed Klaus, which is rather hard to accomplish.

"No, thank you. I have a boyfriend, and I don't accept drinks from Salvatores. Let alone, Stefan Salvatore. Now, Damon Salvatore is a hesitant deny. But not Giuseppe's favorite," I barked back with a smirk tugging at my lips.

"You know who I am?" Stefan muttered and sat down at the barstool next to me.

"Of course I do. After about 700 years, you pick up on stuff pretty quickly. And how could I forget Katerina's boy toy," I said and took a sip of my martini.

"You knew Katherine?" Stefan questioned with an intense, emotionless stare. I could tell his switch was off, and by the looks of it, it had been for a while.

"I know everyone. I am dating an original after all," I traced the outline of my martini glass before popping the olive at the bottom into my mouth.

"That makes two of us," Stefan replied with a certain seductive edge.

"I know you're dating Bekah. Klaus hates you, and by the way, I do too. So scurry along before he catches you flirting with me, will you?" I snapped aggressively and downed the rest of my martini, seeing Klaus and Rebekah enter the bar.

"Well, I'm not scared of some British son of a bitch," Stefan declared.

"What'd you call me, mate?" Niklaus said from behind the Salvatore brother. Stefan tensed up just a bit to signal the feeling of being caught. The brunette turned around slowly to face my impulsive boyfriend, where Rebekah stood beside him with a hurt expression spread across her face. That's what she gets for dating a player, let alone a ripper as well.

"Stefan, what are you doing?" Bekah asked, trying to sound hopeful that her boyfriend wasn't trying to cheat.

"Oh, don't be thick, Rebekah. He was obviously trying to get my girlfriend into bed. Isn't that right, Stefan?" Klaus's thick British accent hissed at the young vampire. Stefan stayed silent. Klaus grabbed Stefan by his throat and held him up in the air, so his feet left the ground. The bar went silent, and everyone looked our way.

"Come, Niklaus. We don't want to cause a scene," I whispered in my own soft Russian tone I was slowly growing out of in exchange for an English one. Klaus looked at me through a harsh glare, but I only perked up my eyebrows and straightened my back to tell him to knock it off.

He dropped Stefan and didn't spare him another glance before grabbing my arm and dragging me out of the bar, leaving Rebekah to fend for herself. My boyfriend tugged me out into the street and let go of me abruptly, making me stumble under my heels. I turned around with a scowl on my face. "Niklaus," I scolded him.

"Why didn't you let me rip his throat out like I wanted to?! He was cheating on Rebekah and flirting with you!" He yelled in disgust, making me purse my lips together.

"Calm down, Niklaus. I put that boy in his place," I snarled with irritation.

"Did you? From as far as I could see, you just stood there and stated facts that women don't even need to know," he shouted, getting in my face.

"Are you saying only men can be smart while women shouldn't bother?" I inquired furiously. He knew how I stood on justices like this, and yet he still showed no reason to change the opinion his father ingrained in him since he was a boy.

"Yes!" He snapped, and I glared at him. "I mean -- uh -- n-no," he added quickly, and I bit on my tongue so I wouldn't snap his neck right outside the bar. But my immense anger got the best of me, and I slapped him across the face with my gloved hand.

His jaw dropped, and his eyes widened in fury. I hadn't hit him since 1237 when we first met in Kievan Rus' (otherwise known today as the Soviet Union), and he was insanely rude to my mother. He shot his head to look at me, and with no hesitation, he hit me back. It was almost like we were replaying the event in 1237.

"You don't get to hit me, love," he hummed. I knew what was about to happen. He was about to break and start lecturing me like he does when we fight. "Don't you get it? I created you! I turned you! Don't you see! I gave you this amazing life, and if it wasn't for me, you would be dead! You would have died with your disgrace of a family during the Mongolian invasion! You are here right now because of me! No one else! It was all me! Me! Not Rebekah! Not Finn! Not Kol! Not even my traitor of a brother Elijah! Me! I saved you! Not them! I loved you enough to protect you! Not them! It was always me!" he ranted with tears rimming his eyes. Over the years of vampirism, you learn how certain people will react and why they're reacting that way, and that's what I've done with Klaus. He wasn't yelling at me even if he was raising his voice. He just wanted to be loved unconditionally, something he had never gotten from his family once he killed Esther. Unless you count Rebekah, but she was craving affection just as much as Klaus was.

My boyfriend started shaking lightly. His lip trembled. After a minute of silence, I brought him into my arms. The second his head hit my shoulder, I felt tears trickle down his face and onto my dress. "I just --" he began again just I shushed him softly, running my hand through his curly brown hair. He hugged my waist tightly and let out a sob.

"I know, my love. And I'm grateful to have someone like you by my side for the past 700 years. I love you, Niklaus. And I always will, okay?" I mumbled into his ear, and he nodded.

"I love you too, Y/N."

[guigz1-coldwar]

"Overlord: Cold War" : a new dark COD fic is out!

A fic inspired by the 2018 movie 'Overlord' with a part of the COD characters along with some OCs from the COD fandom.

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

1984, in an alternate universe where Adler's kidnapping never occurred.

In the middle of the war against Perseus, the West secret services discover a strategic position used by Perseus in a village near the capital of Verdansk, Kastovia that needs to be destroyed to gain a big advantage against Perseus. Russell Adler, the man tasked to bring that objective is asking to Zasha Smirnov, once known as 'Bell' to come with him on the mission despite the differences and things that happened between them.

But no one knows is that everything could be a lie and what they could see in Verdansk...could change a lot of things...

To read it on AO3, click here!

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

3rd June 1984

Zasha Smirnov once know as 'Bell', MI6

Century House, London, United Kingdom

Looking through the windows of my office and the weather was basically resuming my mood today: heavy rain and even thunder on the horizon. It was something that has been happening for days and to say, almost weeks but this weather was not only reflecting about how I was now but how I was for years. Staying up to look outside wasn't going to help me so I decided to get myself back on my chair to work but...that mood was staying inside of me.

The first thing I saw when I sat up was the wide opened file about Yiri, the accident that we had together two years ago, and...the investigations from the MI6 about its circumstances. It was officially closed a few days after that incident because of a lack of evidence but me, I kept it opened, impossible for me to get over it what happened that day, it went fast, still feeling to this day the pain inside my chest when the doctor told me, her words still echoing inside my head.

My eyes were looking across the file until they went on her picture, the only picture that the MI6 was having of her: dressed in a KGB uniform in the first years she entered it with behind a dark grey wall, keeping a normal face for the photo and next to the picture, there was something I never wanted to hear and see before but now, it was the main thing that I was seeing when that file was opened: [Status: Deceased] in red.

It was at this moment that I put my hands to cover my ears as her voice was coming to echoes inside my head, that voice that I have been hearing each week since she wasn't here with me anymore. A knot in my chest was forming each time and it was torture to me, more than the CIA did to me.

"Zasha, save me," The voice said to me, sounding sad and pleading as my hands were trying to cover my ears, my fingers roaming on the sides of my head. "Zasha, don't let me down," The voice asked for me, making me close my eyes, perceiving a little scene, seeing myself in front of the car she was in when the accident, and running to save her.

"Yiri, please stop," I pleaded to the voice to stop it, my voice breaking down, and my hands starting to move away from my ears to join them on my face. "Just stop it!" I ordered to her but she was insisting, keeping to say the same things over & over again.

"Zasha," It continued to despite my pleas, hearing it louder than the others demands she was saying as I was slowly starting to break down in tears, my tears going to assemble inside my eyes before crying down but then...

"Zasha!" I almost jump scared from my chair when I heard in front of me, someone slamming their hands on my desk to get my attention, making my hands go away from my eyes to see who was the one who did this, "Zasha, are you here?" This was Grigoriev herself, sounding worried at me and feeling sorry to have to do this to get me back like that on her face.

"Yeah, I'm here, I think," I replied to her in a low voice, closing Yirina's file on my desk and pulling it aside but Grigoriev's eyes were on it.

"Seeing that file again & again isn't going to help you, you know that?" She told me in a clear voice, removing her hands from my desk as I was trying to lean comfy in my chair. "You need to stop torturing yourself with it," She advised me but no, I couldn't follow it.

"I can't forget her, it's impossible," I explained, both hands passing on my face, wanting to clean up any tears that came out in the case of it.

"It's been 2 years now, just stop doing this, people are worried," She reminded me of it but it was like almost every week of my life that she tried to tell me that, and I, unable to actually comply with her demand. "I know that's hard but please, stop," She demanded.

"I'll try," I muttered, biting a part of my lips by looking at her who rolled her eyes around.

"You said that last week," She mumbled before crossing her arms to walk away from the desk in the direction of the door. "Zasha, I did also had things I needed to get over and it was hard, I know that you will move over but I don't know that it will really happen," She commented, having her hands posed on the door handle.

"I don't know, I'll try my best," I exclaimed to her before putting my arms on the chair armrests. "Were you coming in to make me stop think about it or something else?" I asked her curiously, thinking that the first option was the obvious one.

"There's someone who wants to talk with you," She responded, turning her head around to look at me. "Goes by Adler, a guy wearing sunglasses and an orange leather jacket said that he was from the CIA," She revealed to me as my eyes went wide at this.

She was basically telling me that Russell Adler himself was maybe behind that door, wanting to talk to me. It was for 3 years that I didn't talk with him, not long after I killed Perseus himself when the CIA pulled out to let the MI6 deal alone with the Nova-6 threat in London, and now, he was here. I thought that I forgot him and him too after what he did to me but no if it wasn't enough for him to give me a bad day.

"Do I let him in?" Grigoriev asked me, her hands on the handle and waiting for my answer.

"Yes," I simply answered like that, not even taking a second to think about if I really wanted to talk to him and she nodded at me, a small grin on her face before she opened the door of my office, leaving it.

"You can come in," I heard her voice through the door, talking to him and after a few seconds of waiting, he appeared at my sight, slightly opening the door, dressed up in the same clothes he wore when he was welcoming me in West-Berlin.

"Wow, didn't know that you got your own office," This...this was the first thing he said to me when he was inside the room after checking it up with his eyes behind his sunglasses.

"Seriously?" I mumbled at him, looking at him with a deadly glare. "It's been 3 years and the first thing you said is talking about my office?" I demanded at him, sounding very serious in my voice, my left hand clenching on the rest. "If it's only for that, you can get the fuck off my office," I told him, pointing at the door.

"Kid, I ain't here for that," He gestured to me that he didn't mean it with his hands. "I came here to talk about things," He explained, his right hand pointing at one of the chairs in front of my desk and I nodded, letting him sit on it.

"What sort of things?" I asked him, not really sure that it was a good idea to have him here in front of me.

"How've you been since the last time we talked?" He demanded at me, getting his hands on his lap.

"You're not aware? Not so fucking great!" I responded to him, mixed between getting myself angry, my brain wanted me to jump over that desk and punch his teeth at everything he has done to me in the past. "I'm even worse than when you put your hands on me," I stated.

"That bad?" He raised an eyebrow, looking confused.

"Oh yeah, that's right that you completely forget things that happened," I said, wanting to make him remember one of the big things that occurred. "When Lazar got killed in Westminster to stop my own brother to unleash Nova-6, you didn't come at all at his funeral!" I reminded of that, tapping my fingers on the desk, that thing having been marked by a lot of people. "Mason, Woods, Sims & even Hudson attend his funeral with Park, me & Portnova, and you, you didn't come," I added

"I'm sorry, Zasha," He sniffed, looking away from me, trying to figure out if it was about shame or denial. "I couldn't attend it, okay?" He defended himself.

"Sure you do, sure you do," I stuttered, putting the palms of my hands against the desk.

"And what about your wife, Portnova?" He questioned me about it as he saw a framed picture of me and her on my desk, one of the few remaining that I've got from her that was taken a few days before the accident.

"She's dead," I snorted, passing my right hand below my nose. "A drunk driver ran into the car she was in, I saved her and rushed her to the nearest hospital but it was too late," I continued as he was looking a bit disturbed and sad to learn about it, the first time that I saw him like that, to be honest.

"Shit...I...I'm sorry, kid," He apologized again to me, scratching the back of his head as for a few seconds, the only sound inside the office was the rain tapping against the windows. "Uhm...how's Park, by the way?"

"I don't know, it's been almost 2 months that she disappeared, no one having found her," I replied to him. Park was asked for a mission by the MI6 but she didn't come back from it and now, half of the MI6 was looking for her in the Soviet Union. "It said that she was tasked to establish contacts with the resistance in Kastovia," I added as the former Soviet republic was now in a civil war with the Perseus forces who took control of its capital.

"What I thought," He whispered to himself, making me look at him.

"What YOU thought?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Listen, I didn't come for only talking about things but also because I need your help for a mission," He revealed to me, moving his hand inside his jacket to take out something of it, discovering a little file with a name on it. "I know that things happened between us but I need you," He insisted, putting the file on my desk to look at it.

"Overlord?" I saw the name of the file, seemingly the name of something that the CIA was going to do.

"We managed to find the main communications center that Perseus is using in Verdansk to help its forces to talk between each other, it's hidden in a church of a village around Verdansk," Adler explained to me as I was checking the file closely. "If we destroy it, we can deal a big blow to Perseus," He added.

"And why do you need me?" I demanded.

"Look at the last page," He ordered, causing me to go at the last page of the file...to discover a picture of Park herself...wearing a Perseus uniform and talking to another Perseus member as she was looking followed by the CIA. "We might believe that Park has changed sides and is helping Perseus," He told me, knowing well that my eyes were on that disturbing picture.

"That's...that's impossible, it can't be true," I protested to him, putting the file back on the desk. "She hates Perseus, she can't be with them," I added.

"I know but it's been 2 months that no one saw her and seeing her in that uniform is making us fear the worst," He claimed, putting his right hand on his forehead. "That's why I need you in that mission: we either had to capture Park...or to terminate her along with the communications center," He continued before he got up from his seat. "I'm asking you to come with me despite the things that happened between us, you're the only person in the MI6 that can manage to save her,"

"I'm not the only one that can save her but...." I stopped myself, my hands crossing on top of the file of 'Operation Overlord', impossible to think that Park could have switched sides like that and that I wasn't the only one in here to save her. "Okay, I'm in,"

"I forgot to say that the detail about Park's can't be revealed to anyone, it's staying between you & me, strict orders from Hudson," He instructed, taking out of his jacket a little pack of cigarettes and taking one from it and putting it between his lips. "No one needs to learn about Park," He lighted up his cigarette as I got up from my seat to get in front of my desk.

"And why that? I know that it's strict orders but why?" I asked him, moving to lean against my desk

"Are you sure that you want to have everyone knows that one of the best MI6 agents is working with Perseus?" He asked me back, turning his head around to look at me as he put his lighter back in his pocket. "I know that Park isn't liking me but her reputation cannot be damaged, that's why that objective of finding her is only between you & me," He affirmed that to me, and for a first, he was like sounding right in his words, not lying as Park got a good reputation in here, telling it could harm her.

"Fine, I'll keep my mouth shut," I complied with him on it.

"Good, I'm asking you to take with you someone that you can trust in the MI6," He ordered to me as he starts to walk at the door of my office to leave it. "I'm waiting for you at the airport in one hour, we need to leave London to get to Turkey the next morning," He said to me before he put his hands on the door handle, me staying on my desk as my eyes were on the file he gave me, seeing that name...Overlord...

"I'll make sure that we're going to do it,"

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

Yirina Grigoriev

I was silently crossing through some of my files on my desk, mostly talking about some MI6 operations against the Perseus Collective and enjoying a small cup of coffee in my hands when I heard the door of Zasha's office getting opened, seeing this Russell Adler coming out of their office, opening the door by himself as he was looking inside of it.

"I'll make sure that we're going to do it," The man said inside the office before he let his hands off the door handle, a cigarette between his lips, and then, starting to walk away from the room, not before actually exchanging a glare with me, looking rather suspicious and not the very nice guy type.

That man was very curious and strange as I remember how he presented himself to me and what he wanted to do and I was still having this impression when he turned his head around to look away back in front of him to leave the room as I moved my head to see Zasha coming out of the room and leaning against the door frame of his office, looking rather normal and trying to stay normal.

"Is...everything alright?" I asked them, putting my cup on the desk.

"Nope, not at all," They replied to me, showing to me in their hands, a file they were holding. "He wants me to come in Turkey to put myself back to the field," They revealed, moving away from the door to get next to my office, keeping the file in their hands. "The CIA is planning to destroy a Perseus communications center in Verdansk,"

"Right in the Kastovian Civil War? That's looking interesting," I proclaimed to that, my face looking now curious to know more.

"That's what I want to thought, he demanded that I bring someone with me," They said before they got their eyes on me. "Do you want to come with me?" They questioned me in a clear voice, and like that, I thought that it's been a long time that the MI6 didn't bring me to the field and that I was alone for weeks at my place.

"Yes, I...it's been some times that I'm alone, thinking that she will come back," I pointed out at one of the framed pictures on my desk, seeing her...Park. "Been 2 months that she disappeared like that as we got together like few weeks before she left," I added as she left me alone only after 2 months together.

"Maybe that you can try to get your thoughts away for the time been?" Zasha suggested to me, the first time that our roles were swapped, they as trying to make me change my mind. "As you said, people need to move on," They said, crossing their arms before looking away at the door that the man didn't close to leave the place. "I know that you got some run-ups with Perseus but are you willing to come with me to Verdansk?" They repeated to me, wanting to make sure that I was okay with actually joining them. "I'll tell you the main part of that if you come," They continued, now waiting for a response, and then, I got up from my seat, taking the jacket on my chair and offering my hand for a shaking...

"Count me in, Zasha!"

[sailorgreywolf-legacy]

"Come closer" with USMex please?

America was looking in the mirror carefully combing his hair. He knew that coming face to face with the Soviet Union meant that he needed to be impressive in comparison. It meant that he had to be careful with his appearance in a way that he usually was not. 

As France was fond of telling him, the way he looked reflected on the West because he was the face of the free world. He gave up on trying to get his cowlick to lay flat, since it was a battle that he had fought many times and failed. For all of his effort, his hair clearly had a mind of its own and it was folly to try to tame it. 

He glanced at his tie, and his jacket. Both tastefully black, though he would have much preferred some color. It was supposed to make him look serious and imposing. Appearing to be a child next to Russia would have been a death sentence for his cause. So, for the moment he put aside his personal taste for the sake of being taken seriously. Europe was much older than him, and he was painfully aware of how many of them still saw him as a child if he did not make an effort not to look like one.

He gave his reflection one more long glance and sighed. He looked like a very serious gentleman, and it felt slightly wrong. He wanted to have some piece of himself to avoid the feeling that he was dressed up in someone else’s clothing. Mexico spoke behind him, “Looking for these?” 

America turned to see him holding out a pair of cufflinks. The sapphire stars that he saved for special occasions. He replied, “You don’t think it is too much?” 

He would very much like to have the bit of color, but he knew he was no judge of appropriateness. Mexico, on the other hand, had exceptional taste and a trained eye for these things. It was second only to France. Whatever his tendencies towards exhibitionism, he did know more about fashion than America had ever had the patience to learn. 

Mexico chuckled and said, “You’re allowed to be a little bit eccentric.” He touched America’s cheek gently and added, “It’s part of your charm.” 

America felt a warm glow in his chest at the compliment. He did love reminders that Mexico loved him and found him charming. Sometimes he doubted it, especially when they fought and he became painfully aware that Mexico had other suitors. 

He took the cufflinks with a warm smile, and said, “I’m glad you think so.” He slipped them into the buttonholes of his cuffs. He was glad for the permission; they felt like a bit of comfort. 

As he did so, Mexico changed the subject, “Have you practiced your speech?” His raised eyebrow hinted that he suspected the answer before he even asked.  America felt the slightest hint of shame as he said, “That isn’t really my style. I speak from the heart.” 

He had thought about a few of the points that Russia may raise, but he knew that his moments of brilliance were never prepared beforehand. Mexico shook his head slightly and said, “That is what Ivan will be expecting. He will try to goad you into anger to make you look bad.”

America was slightly skeptical, because it sounded like he had come to that answer too quickly. It seemed that Mexico had given the subject some thought. He said, “How do you know that he’ll do that?” 

Mexico smirked in a way that was irresistibly charming and said, “It’s what I’d do if I really wanted to make you look bad. You’re passionate, but it can get the better of you.” 

America would usually feel a twinge of mistrust, but he felt like Mexico was not being disloyal by warning him. He said, trying to be playful, “I’m not sure I like how much you’ve thought about that.” Mexico chuckled and said, “Are you really that surprised? I know you better than anyone.” 

America shook his head. In truth, he was sure that their breakups had produced some bitterness. It would not surprise him that Mexico had come up with some ideas for revenge. What mattered was not that he had thought about the ways that he could hurt him. It mattered that he had never actually done it, which did suggest that he was loyal. 

America took a deep breath and tried to get his mind back on the meeting rather than questions of his relationship. He would certainly be in trouble if he was busy focusing on Mexico instead of the Soviet Union. 

He turned the conversation back to the matter at hand, “Well, I have not practiced. So it doesn’t matter.” 

Privately, he doubted that Russia would have any idea how to rile him enough to make him lose his focus. Mexico had insight into him that someone he had never romantically been involved with never could have. 

Mexico said, “I guessed that you wouldn’t.” He put his hand into his suit pocket. As he withdrew something compact and white, Mexico continued, “So I went to the liberty of making you note cards.” 

He pressed a stack of cards into America’s hands. The thought of rejecting the help crossed America’s mind only briefly, but he dismissed it. Mexico certainly had a way of charming people and making himself heard, so perhaps it was not a bad idea to take some advice. 

He took the notecards and flipped through them quickly. They seemed quite detailed, and he could admit that it would be helpful to have the cards on hand. Then he said, “You know me so well. But I’m not going to read a speech.”

 Mexico’s little smile was very cute. Sometimes America let himself forget how sweet his partner was capable of being. Mexico said, looking almost smug, “I know. That’s why they’re just notes in case you get flustered.” 

America felt himself smile. He could tell that Mexico had really thought through the plan, and it was touching. Mexico added, “Just remember to check your notes. And make sure to smile. You’re so handsome when you smile; it’ll win over everyone.” 

America would very much like to smile for his partner.  He found it incredibly endearing that his partner was trying to help. He felt himself bite his lip as he thought about something that had been bothering him for a few days. 

He put his hand on Mexico’s shoulder and said, “Come closer.” 

Mexico obliged him with a bemused smile. America thought carefully about what he wanted to say, because he wanted to be sincere. He put his hand on Mexico’s face. He drew in a deep breath before saying, “I want to talk about Cuba.” 

He could see the way that Mexico’s face fell at the words. It was clear that he had been expecting something sweeter, and not the cause of their most recent fight. Mexico said, in a voice that sounded like he was trying to avoid conflict, “Alfred, do we have to do this now? You need to focus.” 

America had expected as much, but he was not about to start a fight. He took another deep breath to make sure that what he said was calm, and then said, “I want you to know that I am not mad at you. I know I reacted poorly.” 

He knew that his shock and frustration at Mexico’s decision not to isolate Cuba had come across as anger, and he did not want the cloud of mistrust to hang over their relationship. As much as he tried, he could not quite bring the word sorry to his lips. It would have to be enough to say that he knew his reaction had been unwarranted. He continued, “I do understand that he is your friend, and you want to stand by him. You do not have to do all of this work to show me that you’re loyal.” 

He was trying to be sincere, so he was surprised when Mexico let out a sigh. It sounded like he was frustrated, but America could not imagine why. Mexico shook his head and said, “I’m not doing this to show you loyalty. I’m doing it because I love you.” 

To make the point he kissed America softly on the cheek. America instinctively wrapped his arms around Mexico’s waist and pulled him even closer. He said, “I love you too. Don’t ever doubt that.” 

Then he kissed him firmly on the lips. The way that Mexico melted against him assured him that his words had hit the right mark. 

[yunatheintrovert]

take me out to the ball game | Belikov & Fem!Bell Platonic Soulmate AU

You weren’t quite sure what to expect when you saw the tunnel door open with the bright light of the flashlight streaming through. 

You’ve heard about the KGB insider, Dimitri Belikov, from the briefing and files on the evidence board. But you didn’t quite know what to expect.

As you shielded your eyes from the flashlight with your raised hand, you soon lowered it and looked at the man at the entrance of the tunnel. 

And what struck you wasn’t anything unexpected about his appearance. No, you had already seen his picture in the files. 

...It was the sudden nostalgia... familiarity that struck you when you gazed at him. 

He was...familiar, similar to Park but not quite-

“You’re late.” Adler said with an air of impatience.

“Adler, my friend-” Belikov abruptly stopped, instead looking at... you ?

“где вы были? Почему ты не сказал мне, что уже ходил к ним?” you heard rapid-fire Russian from him as he looked straight at you. It made your head spin as it again felt familiar but not at the same time. 

You knew Russian but there was something overlapping with his words.

Like static....

“...Do I know you?” you asked confusedly. You couldn’t quite make out his expression with the light of the flashlight still set on you and the darkness of the tunnel corridor around you. 

All you could hear was an aggravated sigh and a curse before he turned to address Adler, “You brought her here?” 

....Did you do something to piss him off? You had only met him literally five seconds ago. Then again, maybe he wanted a different operative like Mason, Woods, or Park to be on the mission instead of a more junior operative like yourself...

“Bell has a background in cryptography. The job suits her skill set, Belikov.” 

“ Bell ?” Belikov asked. There was something off in his voice. 

“Yes, that’s her codename. Now, are we done with 21 questions? Where the hell are our uniforms?” 

“They’ve just arrived.” Belikov gestured to the hallway down the corridor where you could hear footsteps coming from, “...Wait here. There has been an issue with the bunker key. Give me five minutes and I’ll get it.” 

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Adler cursed before turning to look at you, “Hide. We still need those uniforms.” 

Your thoughts of what the hell happened back there were swept away by the sound of approaching footsteps down the corridor. 

It really had been only five minutes before Belikov returned. Although, you couldn’t help but notice a metallic smell around him that was rather familiar. 

“I’m sorry for the wait, Adler.” the KGB major said in his accented voice as he handed the bunker key to Adler, “I have to leave. But you should have everything you need. If stopped, remember you’re reporting to Commander Sobol.” 

You only had time to nod before Belikov was walking back through the corridor with Adler following.

There was a narrow window of time for the operation especially due to the heightened security reported with the existence of the CIA’s mole in the KGB. 

However, it was only when you approached the entrance to the building that you realized the sheer extent that was the case. 

“What do you think you’re doing? Everyone must go through the checkpoint.” A Soviet guard interjected as he approached.

And it was just as you were about to open the door. 

Damn it . 

“Comrade Belikov already cleared us,” you said, hopefully smoothly in Russian. You were...fuzzy about how exactly you learned the language. Perhaps, it was in training prior to Vietnam. But it seemed to work well enough as the Soviet guard didn’t seem to pick up on any foreign accent in your words. 

“Go through the checkpoint,” was all he said. 

Shit. 

You nodded slightly at Adler as he looked back at you before going forward to the checkpoint. 

This wasn’t...ideal. 

After you walked through the checkpoint, you already knew what the guard to your left was going to say. 

“Comrade, place your bag on the counter for inspection.”

“There’s no need for that. Let us pass.” you heard Adler speak fluently to your right only for the guard at the counter to of course insist on the inspection. 

Trying to hide the fact that you felt like you were walking to your own funeral, you placed the bag on the counter. 

As you watched in mute horror as the Soviet guard unzipped the bag, you heard a familiar voice speak. 

“Comrade, you are needed by Zakhaev. I will handle this.”

Belikov . 

You watched with muted relief as the KGB major walk up to the bag and casually “inspect” it. 

It was only when Belikov handed the bag back to you that you noticed it . 

The brief sepia explosion that hit your vision. Like a sepia filter suddenly being applied to a camera....

You felt your throat tighten. You had to say something but not now. 

You knew the rules regarding “vision meetings” 

Sepia for platonic soulmates.

Black and white for romantic soulmates. 

You had already met your “romantic soulmate”. Although, it was clear that bond was one-sided on your end…

But your thoughts about that were cleared away by the slight nod Belikov gave you.

He would talk about this later with you...if you survived that is. 

________________________________________________________________

There were a lot of expectations and assumptions you had walking into the KGB headquarters. 

Ironically, seeing body bags all around the floor-in the hallways, general area, and more- was unexpected. 

“Who could have done all of this, Sokolov? We’re still finding bodies in the closets and bathrooms.” you heard a Soviet soldier sigh as he kneeled down next to one of the numerous body bags in the halls. 

“It must be the mole. The same one who killed General Charkov.” The other soldier said. 

Belikov... Belikov did all of this?

And he assassinated a Soviet General. 

Holy shit, was your only thought. 

________________________________________________________________

You could feel the rapid thumping of your heart as you rode the high of adrenaline. 

And then as you heard the following words, your heart just stopped . 

“We have your friend. Surrender or he dies.” 

Shit. 

You were already getting out the detonator as Adler ordered Plan B to be put into action. 

Cover. Gas Mask. Belikov. 

It was all you could process in your current state of mind as you fired your XM4 at the soldiers. 

“Умница.” Belikov said after he secured the gask mask to his head. You once again heard static over Belikov’s voice. That word...it sounded so familiar-

But that didn’t matter. After all, you couldn’t help but let out a sigh of relief into your gas mask. 

He was okay. 

You didn’t know why but you just felt like you had to protect him. Not as an order no no-but as something natural.

Maybe, it was a soulmate thing, you thought. After all, you felt the same way with Adler....although he was confusing. It was a mix of a nagging insistent feeling at the back of your skull and something natural at the same time.

Regardless of what it was, you simply resigned yourself to following it. 

And so you charged ahead.

________________________________________________________________

“Elevator conversations are always awkward.”

That line stuck with you as you found yourself in the elevator with only Belikov, going up to the next floor of the safehouse. The team had to lie low for a day in the outskirts of Moscow before getting out of the Soviet Union. 

“I uh heard you took care of the informant,” you said awkwardly, glancing over at the taller man next to you, “Thanks for that. I let him go in Berlin. Stupid mistake. He was there when I got captured-” you rambled a bit nervously. 

“Я должен был убить его медленно.” you heard Belikov say. There was something different about his voice…

And it didn’t sound exactly like anything friendly to say the least...

“Ah, yeah,” you just continued on, “So I heard you like Baseball and the Chicago Cubs from Woods and Mason. I’d like to buy you tickets to the World Series or some other game if we survive this. I-if you want that is-” you rambled before cutting yourself off.

You resisted the urge to kick yourself. Why were you messing up this badly?

You had literally broken out of the KGB headquarters in Moscow and made it out alive. 

And you were freaking out over this?

“Ты помнишь меня?” You winced at what you could describe as static clouding his words. It was almost like an encryption over a frequency, as you knew from your experience with cryptography.

But this was...different.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” you murmured, shaking your head. Why couldn’t you just understand it?

You felt a warm, comforting pressure on your shoulder. Looking up, you saw Belikov smiling down at you.

“Da, I’d like to go to a game with you.” 

And even though you didn’t know a single thing about baseball, you never looked forward to something more than that. 

(Not from what you could remember anyways.) 

________________________________________________________________

….Then Cuba happened.

And what it released might as well have been Pandora’s Box. 

You remembered. 

Not everything , no, but little bits and pieces. 

Enough for dose after dose to be injected until you felt your world speed and slow down to the beating of your heart. 

And when you finally awoke, you knew everything was a lie. 

And you knew the truth. 

You had no one.

Nothing.

No matter what you did, you would be a traitor to both sides. 

But, as you numbly heard Adler’s speech about “reinventing” yourself and having a “new life”, you wanted to believe in what he said.

You wanted to believe in a tomorrow where you could still go to that baseball game with Belikov and try out crackerjacks, cotton candy, and all those things you can’t recall ever having.

And so you told them the truth.

Solovetsky. 

________________________________________________________________

“-you’re a goddamned hero, you know that, kid?” Adler said casually as he looked out over the cliff-side. There was something about the praise that just felt good even as you felt your chest tighten with your every breath and ribs ache. 

Because maybe what you did was good enough-

(Or was that just the pathetic hope you always carried around with you?)

“Heroes have to make sacrifices. That’s why when I ask you for one more-”

As Adler said that, you just knew .

( You guessed that you wouldn’t be seeing that baseball game with Belikov. And damn wasn’t that a shame. )

You already have your hand grasp the handle of one of your guns at your waist. You knew it was empty. 

You chose it for that reason. Because maybe, just maybe you could deter him from doing this.

And if not well...well you couldn’t bring yourself to kill him. 

One-sided soulmates or not, you just couldn’t-

“Ahhh I knew you were here, my friend!” 

Belikov. 

You released your grasp on the gun. If Belikov was in on this as well...then really you couldn’t bother to even pick up a gun. 

It’d just be...pointless.

“Belikov,” Adler said irritably, clearly not impressed by the Russian’s ill-timed arrival. 

“Adler,” Belikov said, much less cheery this time. You glanced back and forth between the two of them. 

Where exactly did Belikov line up in this....?

“I have a contact within the VVS. If I do not report in ten minutes, they will report the coordinates of our exfil to their superiors.” 

VVS...wait the Soviet Air Force-

“What the fuck, Belikov?”

“I made a deal with Hudson,” Belikov casually explained before gesturing to you, “Her safety and our asylum in America in exchange for intel. The former is non-negotiable, my friend.” 

“Why the hell are you doing this? You’re one of Hudson’s-”

" Bell and I are платонические родственные души. I was her handler when she infiltrated Perseus.” 

Wait, you had been a sleeper agent…?

You looked at Belikov. 

All those words and the sheer familiarity.... you knew him. 

It’d make sense if he was your handler as a sleeper agent in Perseus. 

“Bell,” you heard Belikov say, “We have a baseball game to catch, da?” 

You distantly nodded. 

You didn’t remember everything. But with everything that’s happened, you just knew that you could trust him. 

“Bell-” you could distantly hear Adler call after you. But you turned away, trying to ignore him. 

“I am surprised you tried what you did, Adler….ah nyet . I’ll let you find that out yourself.” you heard Belikov say a little too cheerily. 

But all you could think of was how you were really just looking forward to that baseball game.

________________________________________________________________

Author’s Note: So....I ended up writing a 2K one-shot of Belikov & Bell being platonic soulmates...

Well, I hope the writing wasn't too terrible and that Belikov wasn't too OOC. The implied background between Belikov and Bell is that Bell, who was roped into Perseus's lower ranks, met Belikov in the KGB and they soon had a friendship. And since Belikov would have met Hudson at this point, he would be thinking about a way to get Bell guaranteed safety and to do that meant getting enough intel for the CIA to consider them worth that much effort. Hence, Belikov working as a mole for the CIA and Bell working as an anonymous insider in Perseus. 

Anyways, if anyone read through this, I hope you guys enjoyed this. It was a lot of fun to write. Here's to the first main Belikov & Bell fic in the fandom!

Thanks for reading!!

[sergeant-donny-donowitz]

Remembering You (Hugo Stiglitz x Reader)

Requested by @mbluxaeterna

@owba-chan @war-obsessed @inglourious-imagines @tealaquinn @struggling-bee @frozenhuntress67 @kwyloz @sodapop182 @marlenemarauders @what-the--curtains @taikawho

Let me know if you wanna be added to the IB or OUATIH taglists! :) _______________________

Normally....you would have been thrilled to meet the basterds. Hell, you could have made an unstoppable team, had they encountered you at any other possible moment in time. But of course, it's now. Now, when you are a lone, rogue soldier. Now, after you've lost your team. Now, when everything around you is oh-so-incriminating.

Naturally, they took you in for interrogating, and cuffed you. "You gon' tell us who you are, or you gon' keep on lying?" You rolled your eyes, "I've told you a million times. I am not a nazi." The fact that you'd been accused of it was enough to make your skin crawl. "Then what are you doing out here, alone?" Donny prodded at you with his bat, which was meant to be threatening given its fame...but it really just annoyed you. "Same as you. Killing nazis." "Got a pretty lil German accent there," Aldo snorted some tobacco, and went on matter of factly, "So-" You rolled your eyes, "I'm sorry, really. But you have a German right there, and an Austrian. How is an accent indicative of anything?  Especially now?" You looked around. Surely, they knew all about double agents, especially those like you. "So you're trying to say you're just some kid wandering around with all these guns and knives," Omar held up your pack with all the evidence, "And you expect us to believe you?" "Pretty much." You shifted a little to sit with your legs crossed beneath you, though your hands were still cuffed. You understood their lack of trust...but also...you were a bit more than annoyed now. "I wasn't alone the whole time." You relented. They were with the OSS, and definitely not traitors. What harm would it do to tell them? It may just save your life, after all. "I was part of a team. We were called the Double Eight." Aldo didn't hesitate, "Never heard of it." He turned, almost smirking, "You boys heard of it?" A chorus of 'no sirs' and laughs rang out, and you rolled your eyes, "Of course not. Some of us are better at being undercover than others." An uncomfortable silence blanketed them, and you sighed and went on, "There were eight of us. All of us double agents, double crossers," you smiled fondly remembering your teammates, "Double trouble... Best of the best in what we did, worst of the worst to the nazis, recruited by an American officer working for the OSS." Aldo narrowed his eyes. "Oh really?" "Really." You held your ground, and held your head up high. You heard one of the boys, Smitty, ask Donny, "You think it's true?" Donny then turned to you, "Who was in your team?" He often prided himself for knowing things about agents stationed around Europe, people in resistances, and allies. He was a bit of a networking king...so if any of the basterds could tell, it was him. "A Jewish girl from Poland. Halina..." You smiled softly, though your heart broke for her. You were the one who helped her family escape...but you couldn't help her in your last mission. "She could make and break any code." "And there was Andrej. Big, tough Andrej," You shook your head remembering his loud, bellowing laugh, "Jewish kid, no older than you." You gestured to Hirschberg, "He was Serbian. He was a good strategist." The mission to recruit him was one of the earliest, (and toughest) because he was so damn stubborn. "Ruslo..." You sighed a little, remembering his kind eyes, "Romani guy. Recruited when we passed through Croatia. Didn't need a map when that boy was around." You shook your head with a gentle smile, "Then there was Konstantin. Writer and intellectual, defected from the Soviet Union. Good spy." You glanced up at, and almost imperceptibly whispered, "Good man." Omar looked around, "Kid's gotta be telling the truth." WIcki frowned a little, "How do you know?" Omar shrugged, "Konstantin is the most soviet-spy sounding name I've ever heard." Donny narrowed his eyes and nodded, "Right. Almost too perfect." Aldo rolled his eyes, "Go on." You smiled a little, remembering the unbreakable bond your team had. One even stronger within it, "We had an Italian rebel, he was an escaped political prisoner. His wife was a Spanish anti-fascist rebel. Marzio and Carmina..." Names that axis troops in the mediterranean were terrified off. You took a breath, "Our leader was an American...if you would believe that." You smirked a little, "Shelby Hellberg. Shell-Hell, we called him." You glanced off into the distance. Toward the east, where your last mission together had been. You sighed, knowing you'd never see them again, no matter how many times you passed through there. "And you." Aldo remarked, hardly believing a word you'd said. "And me." You nodded with a smile. What more could you do? Hirschberg shifted a little, rifle still in hand, "And who's you?" "Y/n L/n." You spoke with a sly shadow of pride in your lips, "After all, every team needs some muscle." Donny looked you over incredulously, "You were the muscle?" You challenged him with a simple smirk, "Why? You wanna test that theory, big guy?" You meant it,  Donny was quite a bit taller than you, but you could definitely take him down. You'd taken people bigger than him down before, after all. The basterds didn't realize that just yet. But, Hugo kept his eye on you the entire time, thinking about every word you'd said, and the way you'd said them. He'd run with spies before, he knew their ways and webs. You were unlike any of the agents he'd known before. And still, he thought he'd seen your face somewhere before. And he said so, abruptly, without any explanation. "You look familiar." The way he said it...the way he looked at you was not in an accusing manner. He meant it. You went with your default response. You smiled suavely, thumb and finger sitting square beneath your chin as you remarked, "I just have that kind of face." Hugo nodded, and looked away, though he still kept trying to remember. "So, will you let me go? I do have a mission, you know. I'll be terribly late. Madrid is a long way from here, after all." Donny spoofed, "Nice try, a real agent wouldn't have told us all that." "You asked." You reminded Donny with an eye roll. Donny retorted, "So if a nazi asked, you'd tell 'em too." "No, because THEN IT'S A NAZI." Hirschberg piped up then, "How do you know we're not nazis," as if he really got you. Even Hugo and Wicki rolled their eyes. You rolled your eyes, "Because you're basterds." Aldo seemed amused, and humored the boys, "Says who?" "Says that accent. Sorry, but it's not one many people would strive to imitate." The basterds laughed. It had been so long since someone had gotten away with making fun of his accent. "Besides, everyone knows the Bear Jew. And, everyone knows about Hugo Stiglitz...And the Little Man." Donny chuckled, "Wait, who's the Little Man." "Oh, it's-" Before you answered, Utivich stepped closer to you, "Is that...blood?" "...Oh right..." You glanced at your side, with a slowly growing red stain. "When did that happen!?" "Just before you happened." you shrugged. Hugo crouched by you, "Were you stabbed?" "Oh... most definitely." You were somehow so blunt, and so stoic. Shock is one hell of a drug. Donny, who was slowly being convinced that you were telling the truth, quickly looked around for a cue, "Why DIDN'T YOU SAY SO?!" Before you could answer, Hugo practically flung toward you with a medic kit in his hands. He didn't say a word, but he kept looking up at you. He looked you in the eyes, and it wasn't something he normally did with anyone. You couldn't shake the feeling that he was trying to see into your eyes...almost as though he was trying to dig up a memory that was not his own. The basterds went about with their day. Aldo sent a few of the boys along with a message asking the general if the OSS could confirm or deny your claims. In the meantime, the rest of the basterds scattered around. A few went to get supplies and food, some of the others went out to gather a few scalps here and there to pay off their debt to Aldo. Only Hugo remained, of course 'to keep watch.' But he was busy disinfecting and stitching your wound. "Wer hat dir das angetan?" 'Who did this to you?' "Würden Sie mir glauben, wenn ich es Ihnen sagen würde?" 'Would you believe me if I told you?' He smiled a little, which you heard never happened. You raised your eyebrow, 'Why are you helping me, Hugo?' 'If you're not who you say you are, then we need answers. But if you are you, then...' He trailed off into what was barely a whisper, and glanced up at you. By now, he hardly thought you were a nazi... But that still left him with a thousand questions. Number one being...Who were you, really? The basterds came back, slept in their tents. You were still handcuffed, left outside. In the middle of the night, Hugo's eyes shot wide. He had been dreaming, which was relatively rare for him, even before the war. But this dream was much more of a memory. He'd never been much of a sports fan, but there was one night, just before the start of the war his friend Klaus had recently become a manager and promoter in boxing, and invited Hugo to a match. Your match. He made his way outside, and found you, with your cuffed hands behind your head as you laid on your back, and looked up to the sky. You glanced over at the approaching figure, then back at the sky. He stopped a few feet away from you, "Du warst ein Boxer." 'You were a boxer.' You dismisively hummed. He was silent for a moment, then stepped a little closer, tilting his head, 'I remember you. You used to-' You shook your head.

He crouched by you, and took your hands abruptly. You looked at him, confused though....you certainly didn't mind.  Still, he wasn't holding your hands for the hell of it. He was studying the discolored memories of a glorious past in every scar from every victory, loss, and draw. 'It was you.' 'Was.' You conceded with a sigh, 'A long time ago.' 'Do you remember a promoter named Klaus?' He sat down, and wondered aloud, 'I wonder where he is these days...' You cleared your throat, ' Oh...you know....we...um...' 'Had a falling out?' He raised his eyebrow and chuckled a little. It was his way of asking if you'd had a falling in. You blushed a little with a smile, 'Well, yes...but it was so long ago.' Hugo was silent for a while, then asked, 'Is he...' 'Dead, deadweight, or a nazi?' He nodded once, again raising his eyebrow. He wanted the answer to all three. 'No, no, and definitely not. He's a spy for the OSS, too.' You smiled at Hugo, who seemed relieved. He didn't have many friends to begin with before the war. He always wondered what he'd do if he made it to the end. 'I'd like to see him again. I owe him something.' Hugo said with a chuckle. He'd bet Klaus that you'd lose your match...and you didn't. 'After the war, perhaps.' You chuckled and Hugo nodded, 'Perhaps...' You were quiet again, then he commented, 'I saw you sparring, once.' 'Congratulations,' you stopped smiling suddenly, and turned away from him as much as you could, 'good night.'

'Wait.' He shifted to sit directly in front of you. 'What?' 'You...disappeated.' 'They used footage from my matches as propaganda against my will. I left the ring, I left my family, I left Klaus, I ditched my contract, and I lost everything.' 'Where did you go?' 'Doesn't matter.' 'What did you do?' 'What are you, the gestapo?' You rolled your eyes at his sudden interrogation, and he grunted at himself and mumbled, 'Sorry..' He started getting up, thinking perhaps he had crossed a line. You sighed, cursed at yourself wordlessly, and then called out 'I worked as a bouncer in a club in Munich. Nice place. Nicer when we started hiding people where no one would think to look. I got rid of nazis that were too close.' 'Not bad,' He smirked a little. You didn't. 'It wasn't enough.' 'So what did you do? You were recruited, weren't you?' 'Same as you.' You smiled a little then, and he did too. For once in his life, Hugo's hands felt warm... He looked down, and saw he was still holding your hands. You didn't seem to mind. He let go suddenly, and uncuffed you. 'You're not a nazi.' 'Oh gee thanks,' You chuckled a little as you crossed your legs beneath you. He mumbled again, 'Sorry...' You smiled and shook your head, reaching for his hand, 'We can never be too careful, I suppose.' 'I suppose not,' He sighed, and his eyes wandered as he sat back against a tree. 'You're not going to sleep?' You smirked, and again said, 'We can never be too careful...' Of course, you meant you didn't want the other basterds to catch you without your handcuffs, and for Hugo to be in some trouble, Hugo thought you meant the fact that you were deep in enemy territory that was the trouble, 'It's safe here,' He promised you with his eyes, a slight nod, and a squeeze of his hand. 'We thought that not too many years ago, Hugo...' You sighed, remembering the day before the world turned upside down in 1933...you were just a kid then. Hugo turned to you, 'You're hurt.' 'You knew that already.' 'But you're hurting...' 'Who isn't, these days?' You laughed a little,  but he didn't. 'Let me see.' 'Fine.' He shook his head as he let go of your hand, and went for the medic kit again. As he took care of you and your wound again, he asked 'What happened to your team?' The sky was a cool dark blue, with a tinge of orange in the horizon. It would be sunrise soon... 'It was just before dawn, about a year ago. We were ambushed. From then on, I've been on my own.' 'I'm sorry.'

You didn't tell Hugo that the nazis weren't looking for your team. They were looking for the Basterds, who had just broken Hugo out of prison. 'Don't be...' You looked up at him, and for a moment, you realized you'd had enough talk of the past. 'Where will you go?' 'What do you mean?' 'After this. After the war.' He smiled, 'I don't know...The world is a big place.' He smiled and looked at you, and you understood he didn't want to go back to Germany either. 'Where will you go?' You shrugged, 'Wherever I'm needed, as always.' For reasons neither you or HUgo could comprehend, he murmured, 'What if I needed you?' You kissed him softly, 'Then I'll be there.' **** "Well....that checks out." Aldo held up a letter from the general, demanding they let you go immediately, while also chewing Aldo out. Donny shrugged, "Well, we're sorry kid..."

You laughed, "I know, I know." You glanced over at Hugo, "Can't be too careful these days." Hugo smiled, though the basterds didn't see. You turned, and started walking west, deeper into the forest. "You're leaving? Just like that?" Omar was asking what half the basterds were wondering. "I told you, I have a mission in Madrid...and I've been set back a few days." Hugo shook his head, "But you're hurt!"

You smiled softly, as you stepped back toward him. "I'll be fine," your hand grazed over his for a moment, "You'll see." He smiled quietly as he watched you go, then Hirschberg gasped, "Is Hugo smiling?!" "No." Omar rolled his eyes, "Great you ruined it." Smitty shook his head, "I didn't even get to see." Wicki asked, "Did Y/n ever say who the nazis call the Little Man?" Smitty shrugged, "Huh...guess we'll never know."

***Months Later Aldo was pacing around. They'd recently lost Andy, Simon, and Michael. Now, the basterds needed some extra firepower, and had nowhere to turn to. At dawn, they'd be moving toward a nearby village for their mission. Hugo was looking east, as the first splash of red and orange began to glow in the distant horizon. "What are you lookin' for, Hugo?" Aldo turned, taking a sip of watered down, stale, coffee. They then all heard footsteps. Boots over fallen leaves. A face peered through some low hanging branches, glad to have stumbled upon them. "Y/n!" The basterds had never seen Hugo run so fast. And they were even more shocked when they saw him wrap his hands around yours. "Klaus lässt grüßen, mein Lieber." 'Klaus sends his regards, my dear.'

Hugo smiled, and held you. You'd heard quite a few rumors in the past few months about the basterds. And seeing their faces now... Seeing Hugo... You knew where you were needed.

[femmeharringrove]

we belong - chapter one

tag squad!! - @a-magey​ @harringrovetrashh​ @lostnoise​ @greyspilot​ - if you’d like to be added to the list hmu!!

     Steve Harrington is arguably the strangest beta in Hawkins. Everybody agrees on this one fact. In a town comprised mostly of betas, it’s easy to notice when one is different, and Steve’s behavior has him sticking out like a sore thumb. He’s got plenty of normal beta characteristics, sure. He’s an excellent peacemaker, a level-headed thinker most of the time. But he’s incredibly fiery when he wants to be, aggressively protective, like an alpha hovering over his pack. He’s also adopted six older pups out of the blue, and the rest of Hawkins has watched in utter confusion as he’s marched about town herding his kids along like an omega watching over his litter.

     Billy Hargrove isn’t sure what to make of it.

( read on ao3 )

     And it’s not like he usually spends his time thinking about the brunette’s habits, not outside of the night the other started swinging fists in an attempt to protect Max and her dipshit friends from his rage, but he’s had plenty of time to think lately. He’s had nothing but time in this stupid hospital, with its stupid walls and stupid sterile smell. Once he gets out, he’s determined to never step foot in this place again. Max has been visiting every day, according to the nurses, and her company makes it bearable at best. She actually spent the first three nights sleeping in the waiting room with Harrington of all people.

     Harrington, who, according to Max herself, was admitted into the hospital the night of the mall incident too. Billy just barely remembers seeing the beta there that night; his face littered with bruises and oddly bloody. Max didn’t know what exactly happened, Steve and Dustin won’t tell anyone about it, but from what she gathered the Soviet Union was involved. Billy doesn’t think about that too much – he’s more interested in the way Steve’s been at the hospital every single day with Max, as long as he’s been conscious to see it.

     The nurses say Steve’s been with her ever since he was discharged, coming in every day and comforting her whenever she gets upset. He’s seen the beta do it too, the way he opens his arms up the moment Max’s lip begins to wobble and holds her close until she’s calmed, petting her hair and murmuring in her ear something he can never hear.

     Sometimes he brings little Byers with him, and the kid’s nice. Billy likes him. The first time the pup came to visit, he sat right next to the scowling alpha and told him that he got it, he’d been there before, and if he ever wanted to talk about it he’d listen. At the time, Billy snapped about not needin’ to talk to some pup about any damn thing, but that didn’t deter the kid, and now the blonde was thinking he just may take the kid up on the offer. Every time Will comes, he sits by Billy for a few minutes and makes easy conversation before retreating to Harrington and plastering himself to the beta’s side so Max can be close to Billy, piping up to add to the conversation every now and again.

     Other times, instead of Byers, Steve brings the Henderson kid. This one’s loud and pushy, but it’s clear to Billy that this is Harrington’s pup. Steve looks at the curly-haired bastard with all the fond pride of a pleased parent, even when he’s trying to scold the pup. And the kid’s smart, he knows Steve would be hard pressed to actually get mad at him, but it seems he doesn’t really want to make the beta mad anyway – the bond between them goes both ways, that much is clear. They make an odd pair; Harrington’s on the quiet side, more reserved than the pup. Henderson can’t seem to stay quiet longer than two minutes, and he likes saying whatever comes to mind, almost painfully blunt in his mannerisms. Billy has to admire that a little bit, even if it irks him at times.

     Harrington brings the others too, sometimes, but for the most part it’s Max, Dustin, and Will. El will occasionally tag along, quiet and observant, her large eyes filled with kind understanding every time she looked at him, and Sinclair came by once to keep Max company. The kid’s still wary of him, and the alpha can’t really blame him, not in the slightest. Billy supposes he owes the kid an apology. He’s not good at those, but he’ll spit one out sooner or later. He owes a lot of people apologies – Max, all of her little friends, even Steve. Steve’s promises to be the hardest, because the guy’s got this obnoxious habit of being unbearably kind even when Billy’s a dick. Every day he’s come into this hospital he’s offered a gentle smile, a kind greeting, and brings him books to help ward off boredom when he’s on his own. Last week, the beta brought a bag full of yarn and sat there for a good half hour showing him how to crochet and knit. Billy, of course, bitched about it the whole time, because what alpha willingly learned that shit anyway?

     And, hey, if he now has a scarf in the works hiding in that stupid bag, who’s going to say anything about it?

     The answer is Neil, he knows. Neil would kick his ass if he saw the way Billy’s fingers nimbly dance with those needles, regardless of whether his son is sitting in a hospital bed or not. But the nice thing, if it can be called nice, is that Neil Hargrove hasn’t shown his face once in the hospital. Max told him that he came the night Billy was admitted, stayed until the blonde got out of the barrage of surgeries he’d underwent, and promptly left. And yeah, it’s sucky, but Billy supposes it’s for the best. Neil can drain a room of warmth faster than anything, and Billy’s uncomfortable already. And if he came and found Steve sitting there, the chances of being called a fucking fairy were higher than he’d like them to be, as well as the chances of getting the shit beat out of him. Sure, he supposes he can just tell Harrington to go, but the thing is the beta’s good at making the cold hospital room feel a smidge warmer. Billy isn’t sure he wants to willingly force that warmth out for anyone, let alone his father.

     Which is why Billy’s mad at him. It’d be easy if Steve was cruel to him, but the doe-eyed brunette is surprisingly soft. He’s got his edges, his eyes flash with a certain element of danger every now and again, but he’s overwhelmingly made of soft lines and gentle corners. And Billy isn’t sure how to respond to that most of the time. Today, however, crossing his arms as he stares at the beta and his redhead sister, he knows just the answer to give to Steve’s kindness.

     “Absolutely the fuck not.” Max’s sharp blue eyes are wide as she glares at Billy, unimpressed with the alpha’s stony expression.

     “Why not?” she demands. “Bill, you know you can’t come back home, it’s not a good idea for your recovery. Steve’s house is huge, you could avoid him all you wanted!” Her eyes flicker towards the man next to her, features softening for a brief moment. “No offense, Steve.” Steve smiles faintly in reply, hands raising up slightly.

     “None taken.” Billy rolls his eyes, lips pressing into a thin line.

     “Look, I’m not going to live with your stupid babysitter, Maxine.” His voice is a nasty growl, mean and sharp and fully intended to stop this conversation, but Max isn’t that easy to put off.

     “Can you stop being so stubborn?” she growls right back, arms crossing over her chest and teeth baring in a snarl almost identical to his. “I’m just trying to keep an eye on you, you dumbass, because I don’t want you to end up getting worse, and we both know you’re not gonna be able to recover all the way at home!” She’s so goddamn fiery, Billy gripes internally. She’s learned that from him, however, so he hardly has a right to say anything. If he has to put money on it, he’s almost completely convinced this kid’s going to be an alpha. Neil isn’t going to like that, and the idea sends a flash of worry through the blonde for a fraction of a moment.

     “And, what, you think I’ll do better with him?” His head jabs sharply towards the other man. “I’ll try my luck in my own damn house, thanks.”

     “Billy, please!” Max’s lighter blue eyes clash with his ocean hues, her face pinched and far too serious for any fourteen-year-old. “Look, I get it. You and Steve aren’t friends or whatever, but he said he’d let you stay – not live there, you don’t have to move in forever.” Max’s reasoning isn’t half bad, Billy has to admit. Her hands grasp at one another as she presses on, words tumbling over each other in their haste to escape her lips. “It’s just for a little while, just until you finish recovering, then you can come home. Just think about it!”

     “And you think my absence won’t be noticed?” he interrogates. Because Neil certainly isn’t going to react well to something like this. If the man finds out he’s staying with another boy, it’s going to lead to trouble for him and for Harrington. Max waves her hand frantically.

     “We’ll just tell him you’re still in the hospital! He won’t check, you and I both know that.” And she’s right, he does know it. Neil hasn’t so much as called, the chances of him deciding to do so anytime soon are slim to none. His sister’s eyes are staring at him wide and hopeful, and Billy’s too tired to fight her on the matter any further.

     “Don’t you and your stupid friends spend, like, all your time at his house?” he asks, shoulders dropping slightly. Max sees the move for what it is and grins broadly.

     “Well, yeah, but we won’t bother you! Promise.” Her promise isn’t worth shit, they both know it, and judging from Harrington’s knowing look, so does he. Billy’s icy eyes settle on the man.

     “You’re awful quiet over there,” he grumbles. Steve’s shoulders rise and fall in a loose shrug.

     “I wouldn’t have agreed to do it if I didn’t want to,” he replies. “It’s like Max said, we aren’t friends or anything, but she’s convinced you’ll get better faster at my place. If it means that much to her, then I’m game.” Billy’s eyes narrow as they consider Steve. Brown eyes blink back at him, wide and surprisingly kind all things considered. He really hates that. He hates that Max is so worried. He hates most of all that this is his best bet in all truthfulness. A heavy sigh escapes him, turning into a defeated groan as it draws out.

     “This is only until I think I’m better,” he relents, scowling at Steve’s relieved look and Max’s elated bounce. “I don’t give a shit what the two of you think, when I think I’m done, I’m done. And don’t think we –“ A hand shoots out to point at Steve warningly. “ – are gonna get chummy or something. I’m only doing this to get her to shut up.” The beta’s shoulders relax as he leans into his seat. Max, standing beside Harrington, grins broadly.

     “And I promise, I won’t say anything about it,” she relents. “You can come home as soon as you’re better again.” She moves closer to him, wraps her smaller hand around his, and squeezes, a hesitant smile on her face. This is another new thing about their relationship, the ease with which Max shows her affection now. Billy supposes that’s what happens when you almost die. And he likes it, really. Even if he’s been shit at showing it over the years, he does care for Max. He’s protected her from Neil for a long time, and she’s patched him up more times than he’s willing to count. Their dynamic has always been a strained one. But the way Billy’s seen it, his dad’s a bad alpha, and he’s always needed to step up and take that position for the pup.

He’s not sure he’s ever been particularly good at it, but he’s trying, you know?

     And so it’s settled that day. Billy’s going to move in with his high school rival, and he can’t make sense of it for the life of him.

     The thing is, Steve’s not really used to the idea of having a pack. Richard Harrington needed an heir for his company, and Antonella Bianchi-Harrington thought a baby would solve her marriage problems; that was the only reason they’d had a pup. Both had planned on a quiet, strong alpha son, but Steve destroyed that concept the moment he was born; of all the dynamics, only omegas could be spotted at birth due to their genitalia, and when Richard saw what his son was he nearly abandoned him in that hospital. Antonella’s maternal instincts demanded they keep him however, and so he was brought home; that was where her mothering ended, essentially. Growing up, Steve didn’t know that was the cause for his parents’ distaste for him. He knew they despised omegas, but he hardly knew what an omega was, and certainly didn’t know he was a part of that group. All he knew was that his father always looked at him with disgust, that his mother avoided him like the plague, that they never talked about dynamics except when Richard felt like sneering about omegas and boasting about alphas.

     Neither of them were home when a thirteen-year-old Steve woke up drenched in sweat, his leaking slick soaking the mattress, his abdomen cramping and his mind panicked and hazy. He suffered three days in that state, cried and curled up in bed trying to comfort himself. On the fourth day, he made his way to Melvad’s to purchase scent blockers, and that’s how he’s lived life up to this point. That day he presented was the day it clicked, the day he’d realized why his parents despised him.

     And the thing was, he couldn’t blame them, still can’t blame them. Male omegas are a rarity, and many people think of them as abominations. Those who ended up with women are seen as unmanly, and those who end up with men are called names Steve wouldn’t dare repeat in his own head, let alone out loud. Steve knew that before he presented, and he knows it now, so he’s kept his presentation a secret. As far as Hawkins is concerned, he’s just a beta, and he’s not planning on telling anyone otherwise anytime soon.

     But he’s got the kids now.

It was a matter of instinct; Dustin needed help, and so he helped. Max feared Billy’s rage in the Byers’ home, so he fought the alpha. Mike wanted a listening ear to rant about Nancy too, so he began letting the kid come over. He never meant to adopt the gaggle of older pups, but here he is, constantly scenting them and making sure they’re safe and comfortable. Will likes to joke that Steve’s become their pack omega. He’s not entirely wrong, but Steve’s not going to tell him that.

     And it’s the first time he’s been allowed to be himself, really. With the kids, Steve can just be an omega, he can worry over them and fuss and feed them copious amounts of baked ziti. Steve can let them curl up on his chest and groom their hairlines and listen to their troubles. He can mother them about and spoil them to his heart’s content. He’s allowed to give in to his instinctive need to nurture and care for and protect, and he’s beyond grateful because he can’t do this for other people.

     He especially can’t do it for Billy fucking Hargrove, if he wants to keep some sense of dignity. And that’s going to be easier said than done. He sits in his Beamer and watches silently as Max guides the familiar blonde out of the hospital doors. He looks good, Steve decides. He’s got a little limp, looks a little stiff, but he’s moving on his own mostly, and judging from the faint noise Steve hears and the annoyed, faraway look on Max’s face, his talkative attitude hasn’t taken a hit. The omega takes a deep breath and prepares himself as the passenger door is yanked open by Max.

     “ – Which is why I’m half-tempted to write to one of those big-time newspapers and tell them all about this shit,” Billy is ranting. Max looks ready to stab someone.

     “Can you shut up and get in the car, please?” she growls. The elder of the two alphas obeys without much of a fuss, easing himself into the passenger seat while Max deposits herself in the back.

     “Hey, what did those fuckers do with my Camaro?” Billy questions, his sharp eyes landing on Steve with an accusatory look. “You totaled my baby, Harrington, you might owe me a new fucking car.”

     “I’m not buying anyone a car,” Steve replies, throwing his car in reverse and backing out of the parking lot. The Camaro is sitting in Hopper’s driveway at the moment, Steve asked the chief to help him fix it after the mall incident, after learning that the other boy was still alive. The keys are sitting in a dish in his kitchen right now. But Steve’s not handing that thing over until he’s sure the blonde is capable of driving without keeling over and dying on the side of the road. Billy makes a face at him, narrowing his eyes.

     “Well, you at least owe me a pack of smokes, amigo,” he drawls, that stupid smug look creeping over his freckled features. Steve makes an indignant sound.

     “Are you fucking insane, Hargrove?” he spats. “You’ve been in how many lung surgeries and you want to smoke? Absolutely fucking not.”

     “Aw, you’re no fun,” the alpha groans, slouching in his seat and reaching out to lazily flick the radio to life. Steve’s eyes drift off the road long enough to glare at the other boy.

     “Stop complaining and put your damn seatbelt on.” Billy growls, but obeys again, switching the station to some garish rock music and turning it up loudly. Steve’s head is beginning to throb.

     “Hey Steve,” Max pipes up, “can we stop by McDonald’s?” He notes with interest the way Billy perks up at the mention of the restaurant. It’s been months since the guy’s eaten anything outside of the hospital’s shitty cuisine, he supposes greasy fast food sounds as good as a five-course meal in his grandmother's Venetian home right now.

     “Yeah, yeah, alright.” Billy’s master plan must be to drive Harrington crazy, because he begins chanting various menu items like a child as Steve zips down the road.

     To Billy’s credit, if that’s his plan then it’s working. Steve’s considering driving into the next tree he sees.

     He dishes out a stupid amount of money at McDonald’s; Billy demands four burgers, a hefty order of fries, and a huge milkshake. Max settles for one burger, and Steve orders chicken nuggets for himself, much to Billy’s amusement. He teases Steve most of the way home. The brunette throws a nugget at him at some point and Max laughs so hard she chokes on her root beer. Billy is blissfully silent after that, though he grins triumphantly as he chomps on the thrown piece of chicken.

     In a stunning turn of events, today is meant to be a kid-free day. Steve drops Max off at the Byers residence on the way home and cruises on into Loch Nora. Billy’s silence comes to an end with a low whistle. “Damn, pretty boy, I forgot you live in Rich People Central,” he muses. “I’m gonna get so bored around here, everyone knows rich people are stuck up as all hell.” Steve doesn’t feel like dignifying that with a reply, his hands flexing around the steering wheel instead. By the time they pull into the driveway of the Harrington family’s ridiculously large house, Billy’s openly staring at him, and the omega finds himself on edge. He slows to a stop in his long driveway, turns off the engine, and turns to meet that blue-eyed stare, his eyebrows arched upwards. Billy’s eyes are completely unreadable, he hates it.

     “Do you want a picture, Hargrove?” he deadpans. The alpha skips over the question and instead offers his own.

     “Shitbird says you’re here alone most of the time, that true?” Steve’s hackles go up faster than anything, his arms crossing over his chest as he glares openly at the boy across from him.

     “Why the fuck do you care?”

     “Never said I did, Harrington.” Billy holds his hands up in a placating gesture, before settling back in his seat. “Just wanna make sure I don’t wander into the kitchen one morning with my dick out and find Misses Harrington trying to enjoy her coffee or something.” Steve scoffs and rolls his eyes, getting a cheeky grin in response.

     “If I have to wake up and see your dick in the morning when I’m drinking coffee I’m kicking you out, Steve announces, getting out of the car. He hears Billy follow him up to the door, and once the two get in the shorter boy whistles again.

     “Your house feels like a fucking museum, Harrington, you really live in here?” Steve makes a beeline for the kitchen.

     “Yes, I do. And you do too, for the time being.” The brunette yanks the fridge open and grabs a bottle of soda off the shelf. “I let Max bring some clothes and shit over the other day, it’s all in the guest room down the hall on the right.” Steve pauses to give the boy a pointed look. “Do not go into the room on the left, nobody goes in there.”

     “Ooh, sounds ominous. What’s in there, all the Harrington family secrets? Family skeletons? Real skeletons?” Billy’s eyebrows waggle obnoxiously, and Steve rolls his eyes with a long-suffering sigh.

     “No, it’s my dad’s office. Nobody goes in there but him. And it’s where the good booze is, and I don’t need you drinking me dry.” Steve already did that a little over a month ago, nearly got alcohol poisoning during a bad night. hopper found him passed out by the pool and took the omega to Indianapolis to buy replacements; he doesn't think the chief will be too keen about helping out again so soon. To his surprise, Billy doesn’t offer any sort of reply, oddly silent behind him. Steve turns around, another soda bottle in hand to offer to the alpha, and finds him staring at the counter. At the dish on the counter. At the keys in the dish on the counter. The omega moves closer and swipes them up, depositing the metal in his back pocket. “You can’t drive yet, don’t even think about it.”

     “You have my car?” Blue eyes look around as if the Camaro might appear right there in the kitchen. Steve shakes his head, then nods, then shakes again.

     “It’s not here, if that’s what you’re asking.”

     “It was fucked to hell, why do you have the keys?” Billy’s face is completely serious now, his body leaning towards Steve’s intently. The taller boy frowns deeply and takes a step back, his eyes shifting away.

     “I, uh, well. Hopper and I fixed it up. Figured you might want it back. We had to repaint it, I don’t think the color’s exactly right, but it’s working now.” Billy’s eyes stare a little longer.

     “Why’d you put me in the room downstairs?” Steve frowns again, brows furrowing in confusion.

     “You’ve still got stitches in, and Max says the doctors said you shouldn’t go up and down stairs.” Large brown eyes blink at the alpha, who seems to be thinking hard about something, before Billy’s face twists into a sneer.

     “What’s your game, Harrington? Why are you doing this?” Steve hasn’t been this confused since high school math.

     “You needed a place to go, and I’ve got space,” he replies slowly. “It means a lot to Max, and if it matters to her it matters to me. Just wanted to be helpful.” Blue eyes narrow and he stares at Steve for a long time. The omega shifts on his feet awkwardly before finally holding out the unopened soda bottle. “You thirsty?”

     It’s meant to diffuse the odd tension, and it works. Billy blinks, looks between Steve’s face and the soda bottle before he shakes his head and takes the offered drink, all smug charm and general obnoxious snarkiness again.

     “Alright, alright. Gimmie the grand tour, pretty boy. I wanna see as much of the Harrington Mansion Museum as I can.” Steve isn’t quite sure what just happened, but he obliges easily and begins making his way down the hall, shaking his head in wonder. Maybe he sould have thought a little harder about letting his old rival stay in his house; this is already beginning to feel like the beginning of a very chaotic nightmare.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

The Yamal Mission

In the first book IV quest of Dragon Raja appears to take place immediately after Luminous is installed as the Student Union President. However, this is not the case in the novels.

In the game, right after you celebrate Luminous’s new job, you are called in for a mission from EVA that will send you on a mission with Johann on the “Luxury Cruise ship.”

However, in the novel, Johann’s mission takes place a full year after these two scenes!!! I’m not sure why they did this, your character in the game should have reflected a whole year’s worth of new dragonslaying experience. At this point, your character is not a freshman, but a student well into their second year.

It also doesn’t make sense that Johann is in charge of the mission when the School Board tends to prioritize Hybrid bloodline over experience. For example, in Book 2, Johann is reporting to Luminous in the Quest to find the King of Earth and Mountains even though Luminous is otherwise inferior in everyway. It makes no sense that on a lesser quest of investigation, he’s your supervisor.

I just wanted to clarify these things to anyone who is going to do these quests in case they become confusing later.

Anyway, below is the translation of the second half of the Story Quest for 118

72 degrees north latitude, Greenland Sea

Under the dark night, the big scarlet boat rushed through the broken ice, leaving a 20 meter wide blue-black waterway behind.

This place is well within the Arctic Circle, and it is in the dead of winter. Although the sea surface is not completely frozen, the floating ice is all over the sea surface. Only this monster-class ice breaker dared to continue to rush towards the North Pole at this time.

The YAMAL, the world’s largest icebreaker, belonged to Russia. Two heavy water nuclear reactors provided it with almost endless power. The thick armored bow can easily smash a 6 meter iceberg. Among the icebreakers in the world, except for a few military monsters who identities cannot be disclosed, only this ship has sailed to the North Pole.

The tragedy of the Titanic will never happen to the YAMAL. What is an iceberg when you can just ram into it? The crew of the YAMAL has always  thought about the problem this way, which is why they can’t be hired by other polar cruise companies after they are retired... This group of people might end up driving an ordinary ship into an iceberg just out of habit.

“Hello! Hello! This is the YAMAL. We are sailing on he 72 degree North latitude line. Is there a dear friend nearby who can chat? I hope you’re an American with a sense of humor, ha! I met one German guy before who lived in Munich and he told a really cold joke. I didn’t get it until a week after I went ashore. Everyone thought I was crazy when I suddenly burst out laughing in the middle of a bar.”

A middle-aged Russian captain drank vodka straight from the bottle and yelled into the radio system, as if he were the host of an evening radio show.

The radio remained absolutely silent, without so much as static.

This was par for the course. In this season, there may be ten ships in the world that dared to sailed openly in the Arctic Ocean. At this moment, other ships  are either docked at military ports or scattered in other corners of the Arctic Ocean and the most advanced long-wave radio can only call a few hundreds of kilometers out.

In other words, they sail in a dead end space where almost no one can reach. A crew who frequently runs this route can suffer depression if they’re not careful and the best medicine on board for this malady is alcohol.

The captain was just trying his luck after having a drink. If he happened to be able to call other polar ships, usually everyone would change voyage a little and go for a short period of time, staying close enough to each other to talk over the radio for an hour or two.

“Oh! I can’t find anyone to chat with tonight!” The captain sighed, “Then I’ll go to the casino to try my luck, Mr. Chief Officer, this ship will e handed over to you temporarily!”

He staggered out, completely unaware that the first mate entrusted with the task was drunk and had been lying on the steering wheel for half an hour.

The casino on board was magnificent. The warm air was wrapped in the rich smell of whiskey and high-end perfume. The Belarusian girl, standing 5��9″ and wearing high heels acted as the dealer. A waiter who can speak various languages enthusiastically advised the guests to experience the richness of Tibetan wine and hand-rolled cigars from Cuba. A source of enormous wealth has created a small Las Vegas in this lifeless dead-end space.

The YAMAL was originally planned to be used as a scientific research ship, and it assumed the strategic goal of the former Soviet Union to head towards the North Pole. However, after the disintegration of the Soviet Union, this strategic goal also fell into disuse. The hugely-built ship could not be left idle and was put to civilian use, transformed into a luxury gambling ship, cruising on the Arctic Ocean all year round.

The Arctic Ocean is the high seas, you can’t help but gamble. Plus, you can enjoy the polar scenery on the way. So even if the tickets are expensive, the ones for this “Christmas Journey” are sold out.

There are eleven floors on this ship. Six floors have been transformed into luxurious cabins. At the moment, these cabins are full of 1,200 tourists, plus a crew of almost 1,000 people and service personnel. This ship can be said to be a small city floating on the Arctic Ocean.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please look out from the porthole on the left. You will see a medium sized iceberg with a height of more than 25 meters. Anyone who knows ice bergs must know that only 1/10 of the volume of an iceberg will surface. The underwater part occupies 9/10. This means that the height of the entire iceberg is almost 250 meters, of which more than 200 re below the sea surface.”

The navigator’s voice echoed in the hall. “That ice berg is the giant remains of the ice sheet, and feel off the arctic Ice cap 32 years ago and is always floating in the nearby sea. In summer, it will move further north, and it winter, it will be close to the edge of the Arctic Circle. The crew affectionately calls it the “Mary Girl” but as you can see, after 32 years of melting, the once hugeg “mary Girl” has only 250 feet of ice left. This year maybe the last time that Mary Girl will accompany us on our ice sea journey. Goodbye, Mary Girl, we will miss you.”

The wall-like ice cliffs slid past the hull of the cliffs, showing a dazzling blue color The white water fowl stood on top of the Mary Girl, staring blankly at the red behemoth driving by. After that, it floats far away.

Few tourists actually went to see the last side of the Mary Girl. Sexy Belarusian girls, hot gambling games, and mellow wine, kept their eyes on the gaming table.

The captain woke up a bit from the wine, pace to the porthole, looked out and let out a faint puff of smoke.

“Is it like seeing off an old friend?” A very young voice spoke next to him, but it was low with an iceberg-like feel.

The captain raised his head and was surprised to find that there was a young man in a black suit standing beside him, with black hair and an extremely clear face, carrying an elegant suitcase in his hand and a long black bag on his shoulders. He should be Chinese, but his accent is standard American English. The captain had been standing by the porthole for five minutes but didn’t notice when the young man approached him.

“It is, isn’t it? Always sailing in such lonely waters, we give each iconic iceberg a girl’s name in our hearts. Mary is like a bright girl in white, waiting for us in this sea forever. Seeing her, we don’t need to look at the theodolite to know which area of the sea we’re sailing in.” The captain emotionally explained. “So what’s your name?”

“Chu. Chu Zihang.”

“is there anything I can do for you? Mr. Chu.”

“I want to see the captain.”

“Then you are looking for the right person!” The captain smiled and straightened his captain’s hat. “The name’s Sasha Rebarko, Captain of the Yamal. Ready to serve you!”

“No. I don’t want to se you. I want to see the real captain.” Chu Zihang said lightly.

The captain was stunned, a sharp light flashing in his pupils. But it was fleeting.

“How can there be two captains on a ship?” He shrugged. “Only when I am sick and unable to perform the duties of captain will the chief officer take over. As as you can see, I’m as strong as an ox!”

“Your real name is not Sasha Rebarko, but Alexander Rebarko. You were a major of the Alpha Special Forces of the Russian Federal  Security Service. After retiring in 2001, you were hired by the real captain. The ship’s technology is actually very rudimentary. This ship is usually managed by the chief mate, but you are a proficient marksman, skilled in unarmed combat, and practiced in using almost all military equipment. So You’re responsible for the security of the ship.”

“You have been married once, now divorced. Your parents live in St. Petersburg. You have a 16-year old sister.” Chu Zihang’s one was steady like this big ship, but the captain’s heartbeat was as steep and tortuous as the icebergs outside.

He subconsciously bent his knees slightly and leaned forward and his hands drew into his sleeves. This was an attempt to grasp the dagger hidden inside, but he felt empty.

This kind of “muscle memory” came from being trained to be very skillful with a knife. Major Alexaner Rebarko, when he was wearing the Alpha Force uniform, he would have had a dagger in his sleeve at all times.

But he hasn’t used the name Alexander in more than ten years. In order to sever his relationship with the past, he took great pains to change. He changed his address, phone number, broke off contacts with old friends and hired hackers to break into Alpha Forces serves to delete all his files. He performed a bit of facial surgery... Since then it was like Alpha Elite Major Alexander Rebarko had never existed in this world and was replaced by senior captain Sasha Rebarko.

Now the past buried by his own hands has been completely restored in the cold and plain narration of this young man, as if he were some sort of guardian angel that had seen his whole like with his own eyes.

Anyone, as long as he has existed in this world, will always leave countless marks, which can not be easily modified.” Chu Zihang finally said. “As long as the Cassell Academy is interested in anyone, they can always be investigated and found out.”

The people around them flowed like water around rocks.

After a long silence, Sasha’s body relaxed from being tight as a bow. He looked at Chu Zihang again. “Cassell Academy?”

Of course, they can’t really use force in such a public space. The offensive posture was just Sasha’s stress response.

Chu Zihang flipped the collar of his suit and showed Sasha the silver coat of arms pinned inside it. On the coat of arms was a huge tree with lush branches on one half and completely withered on the other half.

“I’ve never heard of it, and never seen that emblem.” Sasha shook his head.

“I think the captain may recognize this emblem. I’m referring to the real captain.”

“What do you want?”

“I just want to meet the captain. I know there is a hidden rule on this boat. The person who gambles the most is eligible to go up to see the captain.” Chu Zihang raised the suitcase in his hands. “I prepared funds before I arrived here.”

Sahsa glanced at the sturdy suitcase. The suitcase seemed to be right. High gamblers liked to carry such suitcases, full of two million dollars in cash. Two million dollars is not a lot. Some gamblers have subordinates to help carry a dozen or so cash boxes in and out. But if he just wants to meet the captain, two million should be fine.

“Okay,” Sasha shrugged. “It’s okay to take you to the captain, but I must first wish you good luck.”

“Wish me luck?”

The captain doesn’t like to see outsiders very much. If he sees an outsider and doesn’t like him, that guy will be brainwashed. Brainwashed people end up a little messed up if it doesn’t go right.” Sasha said. “I don’t want you to be so unlucky.”