#anti-citizenry

[therealslimshakespeare]

Masters of the Air Fanfic

As requested by sweet @arianatheangel-girl and the subsequent poll for a “Buck Cleven Fic before the series comes out” -and I, being a madwoman with no impulse control and a faint recollection of the book, have delivered…this…whatever this is

Song Challenge: i was challenged by dear @the-ugly-swan for a twenty favored songs challenge and I’m gonna go ahead and make this part of it. August by Taylor Swift informed some of the bittersweet timeline here, with infidelity not being the enemy but rather the lack of possessing oneself fully during wartime to give to another

Spoilers: historical accuracy and inaccuracy abound here so, beware there are some biographical facts about Cleven in here that might count as spoilers to those who wish to watch the series with a blank slate. While to the history purists I must beg for a substantial amount of artistic license to be granted me, and obviously I’ve not seen the show yet and I crunched the timeline to my own will

Reader insert but without the use of “y/n” -I’m utterly fudging a bit on the likelihood of a WAAF lady being part of the American ground crew, however, I had in my minds eye the vision of a greasy mechanic and a glamorous flyboy and it wouldn’t budge, so shhh, go with the vibe

Warnings: mature, 18+. Fluffy smut was requested and while it is very brief and mild in here, not very explicit in phrasing, it’s quite present and a plot point so beware. Also, Virgin!Gale has my heart so we went with that. No shade to dear Marjorie irl, I’ll probably end up writing fics about her once the show gives me Inspo. Some angst due to war, POW’s, etc, mild language

Word count: a monstrous 12k

They came in like locusts at the height of summer, long prayed for, oft cursed in moments of perilous isolation, those ever so intriguingly shiny Americans.

Swarming with a metal buzz over the flatlands of East Anglia, big hulking beasts touched down on fresh tarmacs with more grace than anything that size ought to have, flashing the most bizarre and suggestive paintings on their gleaming fuselages. Flying Fortresses, they were called, and deserved the name. Nothing but the biggest, the loudest, the most alarming machinery would do for the American war effort, and now all this mighty strength was Britain’s too, no longer alone, no longer enduring.

Now the fight could be taken to the enemy in earnest. Out of their flying ships poured the most alarmingly young looking faces, jaunty hats and leather jackets, they looked every bit the sort of fellows war was advertised to.

Farmers in their tractors, mothers with daughters still under their command and RAF veterans all looked askance at such pristine warriors. Had their fertile fields been paved into airfields just for this? Were these gum chewing boys the long expected aid? It wasn’t anti-climactic, nothing American could ever be, it was all just alarmingly fresh. It was understandable then, the initial tentativeness the locals felt towards their new occupants, the way the boys took up such space in the rural villages, made such a racket in the pubs, chased every skirt that swished in the rainy summer breeze, stuck hands out for a shake no matter the introduction. They were a warm, boisterous and confident lot, all much needed attributes in wartime Britain, and soon, the initial distrust of the citizenry thawed, hands were shaken in return and invitations made. An amiable amalgamation eventually occurred, Norfolk never to recover or return to whatever placidity had been her’s before the arrival of the 100th.

Personally, you couldn’t wait to get your hands on them. The planes, that is.

Amalgamation was less a choice for yourself and your service members than a duty. It was abnormal, having a mixed ground crew, British and American servicemen too often clashing in hierarchy disputes for it to be standard, but with deployment rates so high and casualties mounting, ground crew became a case of whichever skilled individuals could be called upon to keep the operation running, the pilots up and the enemy bombed.

You were just glad to be near home, first time back since ‘39 when you’d signed up in the Women's Auxiliary Air Force -even if your rural hometown was now overrun with Americans. They weren’t a bad lot at all, at least not the ones you’d encountered so far on base. Amiable and unexpectedly eager, undeterred by veterans’ grim looks and tales of the woodchipper across the channel, that line of anti-aircraft that shredded anything trying to penetrate the continent.

“Better get crackin’ then.” Was the common response followed by a grin.

Your crew chief sergeant, Ken Lemmons, an American with a forelock of sandy ringlets and the patience of a saint, made the job easier even as every ounce of expertise was exacted from each man -or woman- under him. Feeding a fiery chain of bullets into the turret gun under a hot July sun, you thought your papa may have had the right of it when he tried to dissuade you from choosing the harsher duties of the Auxiliary Force. You could’ve been pouring over a map in the cool of the boardroom right now, or passing on radio messages, even shuttling planes would’ve been more relaxing, but no, you’d spent your life passing him tools in his garage, your papa had been building flying machines when most for these boys were still in diapers, and that path called to you, too. So for you it was grueling maintenance work and the ever present grime of grease on your hands and the awkward reach of twisted metal repairs. Gratefully, after their first mission, there were plenty of them back safe, however riddled their fortresses might’ve been.

It was interesting, the way certain of the flight crew treated the ships. Some were endeared but indifferent to their repairs while others hovered at each hole and tear, like over protective mothers, while you and your mates tried to do your jobs.

Why, one plane in the five assigned to your care was even named “Our Baby”. With such a moniker it made sense that its porcelain faced pilot would caress the shredded wing with a misty eyed frown at each wound, like it were a breathing thing, a race horse, a friend. You didn’t judge it, and he didn’t seem aware of his audience, he’d be back out there doing his own check up after debriefing. Never interrupting your work, always quick to step aside or duck out of the way of a ground crewman’s path, it wasn’t time to chatter or make introductions, although sometimes when the work took long and his reports longer, he’d be there to bid goodnight to you all, soft, American drawl saying “Goodnight, thank ya, goodnight, good work, thank ya” again and again to each.

You grew to recognize them, the ones each mission spared, there were so many and under hats and bundled in leather jackets they tended to blend together, but there were those who made their mark, if not on you then on Dorace in cartography and Eileen at the Red Cross. There was much tittering and speculation, after all, spread thin as their time was, there was also plenty of off time, made all the more charged and anxious as it came in the form of waiting for new orders. The men would be vibrating with nervous energy and generous in the flush of a recent victory and they took it out on the little villagers who in good British fashion took it on the chin and challenged them to a contest of good spirits.

Those were happy days, less anxious than the preceding ones and less heavy than those making up the year after. You dared be roped into the multiple pub crawls, often choosing the most sensible and quiet of the group as your victim and attaching yourself to their side for the evening. This tactic had its fallibility, sometimes those moderates were such a bore as to be unsupportable or hadn’t enough verve to make a full night of it and retired early like respectable, curfew-abiding saps. That’s how you found yourself one night ensconced in a beer pungent corner of Flaggen’s, green leather seats sticky under your palms, with Major Egan fanning out a wad of cash in front of you. It was a blatant attempt to bribe you to clear his aircraft sooner than the last inspection suggested.

“Suggestions” was Egan’s term for regulations.

If you were less tipsy you wouldn’t have giggled at the man’s idiocy, but his arm was heavy around your shoulders and this very cash had bought you one too many gin and tonics. “These regulations keep you alive!” You chided him, shaking your head and feeling the room tip as you did. Truly these Americans could hold their liquor, almost as well as the Polish Squadron when it came to a binge.

“A little flack isn’t gonna keep her down.” he scoffed, “I’ve been grounded for a week now-“

“-I don’t have the authority-“

“-and I’m not gonna sit here while Buck goes up and racks up his number!” Eagen was vehemently slurring and your drunken mind tried to process who Buck was, if not Egan himself.

“Aren’t you Bucky?” you asked, bewildered.

-Americans and their nicknames.

“Yeah.”

“So who’s Buck?” you concentrated very hard on the ancient coaster beneath your latest pint.

“It’s Buck! It’s Gale, Cleven, Major Gale Cleven!” Egan waxed louder and more dramatic with each addition. “You keep clearing his plane! But not mine! Why’s that, huh?”

“How do you know that?” you asked, dubious and only in the raucous of this little pub would his loud voice go unheeded. Compared to the ongoing dart game to the left behind the half wall, an elephant’s trumpeting would be considered bashful.

“ ‘Cause he tells me?” he replied, bewildered at your slowness, “Says you and your crew are little fairies, crawlin’ all over his plane and patching it up better than ever after each mission. And then you clear him. Simple as that.”

“I don’t have authority to clear anyone.” you repeated.

“Huh,” Egan grunted, “how’does he mean then?”

“I don’t know.” you replied firmly, “I doubt I’ve even got your plane, i don’t see you around.”

“I don’t stay around, that’s your job, patching up. I just fly the damn thing.”

“Oh, well.” you shrugged, “I’ve had five, it’s down to three after last mission.” Three years ago the mention of that ratio of losses would’ve sank your mood to the floorboards, by now it’s horrifically routine. “What’s yours called?”

“Mugwump.” he grinned proudly, a flash of white beneath his dark mustache, the man’s face positively shimmered with sweat.

“Serial?” you asked demurely, just to be difficult.

He squinted his eyes shut briefly, head tilted back as if to ask the heavens for help and the recited in a drill master’s staccato “42-30066, ma’am, yes ma’am.”

You giggled again and Egan’s arm jostled your shoulders, smushing you further into him. They were good fun, these boys, didn’t even mind your horrifyingly unflattering uniform with its bulging pockets adding bulk where your curves should take center stage and your stupid pleated cap making you look to be half baker, half doll. You preferred your plain navy coveralls but you’d hardly be let into an establishment in them. Egan’s warm arm didn’t seem to mind the excess poof of the material, he smashed it right down with his hand’s firm grip, he was fun, you decided, no harm in good fun. “Alas, not one of mine.” you sighed, focusing hard on the serial number.

“Damn.” he swore, playing at dejection.

“No,” you went on, “but I’ve got this one, a very spoiled one, maybe you know whose it is. They named it ‘Our Baby’!”

Poor manners and personnel etiquette though it was, you couldn’t say it without tittering.

Egan didn’t laugh, he just looked at you like you’d proved his point. “Yeah,” he replied vehemently, “That’s Buck Cleven’s!”

“Oooh.” -So it was him, the fighting cherub, the walking doughboy, toothpick, baby at wings: there were a dozen or more nicknames you and the ground crew gave the wing-petting Major behind his back. “He always says goodnight to us.” you said instead.

“Is that where he is when I wanna go for a drink?” Egan exclaimed, “Ha! You’d think he was married to the ole ship.”

“He handles her beautifully.” You feel oddly compelled to defend, he’s a master at flight and as someone who must repair each fault of his landings and his leavings and his missions, you feel some loyalty to his finesse. “He handles her so well.” you repeat in the tone of a woman who’s seen some aviation in her time, young though you may be.

“Well let me let you into a lil secret,” Egan smirks and you brace without knowing why, he is, after all, not the respectable and dull men you choose to go out with, he is the dangerous sort you bring those dullards along to deter, “shes the only ‘she’ that boy has ever ‘handled’ -if ya get my drift.”

The sleazy wag of his eyebrows leaves no room for ignorance, you feel your face heat up, wether in prudery for the topic or second hand embarrassment for his friend’s sake, you don’t know.

“Nothing wrong with that.” you reply coldy, only to distance yourself from the road his body language seemed to be hurtling you both down.

“Quite right. Nothin’ at all!” Egan agrees vehemently, his smile easy and his eyes clever “But I’d be a poor friend if I didn't try to remedy his predicament.”

“Telling me is somehow part of this remedy?” you were suspicious, rightfully so.

“Maybe.” Egan drawls it out, shifting in his seat to no longer corner you, his attention drawn to the nearby dart game. The man of the moment, the subject, the handler of planes and none else, was not here. He had such a luminous head of golden hair, it would be a beacon amongst the muddy haired crowd flinging darts. “The thing of it is, dear,” Egan confided, “I've had an absolutely marvelous time since I got here. And I think that’s rather essential, for sanity and for international relations, don’t you? I’ve gotten to know all sorts of wonderful people, lovely people like yourself-“

“-word is, you’ve known them a little too biblically, no wonder Cleven avoids your outings.” You could not help but temper him. “Half of Great Britain has had the privilege, if some are to be believed.”

“And so what if I have? I love dancin’!” he laughed quite happily at your barb and you didn’t have it in you to pull down any further a man who was sacrificing so much day in and out. “Getting to know Great Britain is a better occupation than pettin’ plane wings under the moonlight.”

You tittered again at his words and the oddly endearing memories you had of watching Major Ceven petting and whispering to his plane like she was his long-standing beloved, loitering ground crew unheeded. “He does do that.” you agreed.

“Hey, everyone’s got their method.” Egan insisted in his friend’s defense, “But I have told him, it’s good for the morale to mingle, even if he hates drinkin’.“

You pucker your face at that. “I know he mingles, Violet says he’s a doll when he goes to market.” you point out, small town chatter gets around and while you can’t say you know Cleven, you know he’s mild mannered and precious. And a terribly pretty face too, which isn’t fair, he oughta be an ass which a face that cute. “And he got a tan from somewhere last week.“

“Oh, so ya noticed!” Egan is triumphant, “A bunch of us used our day passes to go messin’ around in boats on the canals.”

“Good for you.” you didn’t know what else to say. “Why are we talking about him? What’s your point? I can ask for your plane to be transferred to my crew, but it won’t get you a sloppy clearance. And if your friend is so socially awkward he can’t even manage a pub night, you can hardly expect me to be flattered that you consider me prime material to throw at him.”

“He’s not awkward.” Egan cut to the chase quite serious, in mission mode, “Buck just had his hopes tangled up back home, and now he’s here he’s finding it hard to accept that hopes were all they were. She’s real moved on.” Well that had hurt, you winced in sympathy. “I warned him, everything during this war has got to be taken as a bit inpermanent. Don’t fall in love with Texas girls when you’re headed to England -via: Louisiana, Indiana, hell, by New York she’d stopped writing.”

“And now the texas girl has-“

“-found a Texan, I guess.” He shrugged and chugged the last of his pint. “She’s gettin’ married, it's really over. So, -“ he made a broad gesture as if to explain his reasoning for this entire segue. “-you like projects, you wouldn’t be in the line of work you’re in if ya didn’t, so whaddya say?”

You looked around the dimly lit pub in search of two things, sunny blonde hair and a clock to tell you how badly you were going to regret this night, come morning. “He’s not even here.” you balked.

“Well, no-“

“-what I say is,” you grinned at him disbelieving, “you owe me another gin and tonic for subjecting me to such inane chatter.”

His grin should have served as warning enough that he would neither drop the subject nor let you off free this evening. In fact, the ticking clock and its late curfew breaking hours became the least of your concerns come morning. The cool wash of bitter juniper blended into the pungent flow of beer, it blurred everything, soon there was a great swelling of pride for your native village, a pub crawl was on, all three visited and drank from, an army Jeep was requisitioned without authority, there was some incident regarding a policeman‘s helmet. The latter being the reason why you found yourself in “jail” the next morning, nursing a raging headache and questioning life decisions while glaring at John Egan’s polished boots.

There was very little talk about bail or Air Force hours being exceptioned, the more pressing concern to the Bobbies who had nabbed you was the coed holding cell. Thorpe Abbotts was a small place, after all, and you liked it that way. If this overly indulgent night could be kept away from the military police, all would be well.

You had one hope: Harry Crosby was sensibly absent from the holding cell, having a keen sense of when to depart from the raucous joyride at the precise moment to save himself a demerit. It was an extreme embarrassment to you that you’d not had the same sense. In fact, fond as you were of a bit of a knees up, you couldn’t quite credit the fact you had allowed yourself such free reign, or accomplished such foolishness. Glowering at Major Egan’s face now, animated with delighted chagrin at your shared plight as it was, you vowed to never again hook your fortunes to his, as it were.

Your resolve, and humiliation, was about to be compounded, exponentially.

There was a bustle of a visitor entering the precinct, easily heard in the small space, followed by the low hum of mild mannered conversation. It went on for sometime, and no amount of straining at the bars and cocking of ears would allow you, Egan or your fellow misfortunates to ascertain the gist of it. Violet’s husband was the main constable, and you were quite certain he’d be moderate in his sentence, he had his helmet back, after all. It was the Air Force penalty of not being on base in time this morning that you feared, a growing nausea that compounded the misery of your aching head. They’d not discharge Egan, they’d probably not even demote him, he was too crucial and he’d done this one too many times for it to be grace alone saving him. When he was needed, really needed, he was there. That’s what counted. The same could be said of you, but that hardly mattered given your low rank.

Violet’s husband, also known as constable Herbert, came in sight and with a jangle of keys and a tap to the side of his nose, swung open the bars of infamy and gestured for you and your fellow inmates to file out.

“All sorted.” He declared. His gaze lingered on you as it had many times in your life when you’d been caught jumping in puddles after church, “Let this be a lesson and a warning to you.”

You tried your best at both obeisance and penitence, both of which were rather natural feelings at the present time, while hurrying past as fast as was respectful, your approaching shift hours making your heart thump in panic.

On the steps outside, your savior was loitering against the wrought iron fence, thumbing at the petunias in the nearby window box. Gale Cleven was a mile long of lanky body in perfectly pressed and tailored Air Force greens, fresh faced as the good conscienced are, hair combed without his cap and a smile on his soft face that was composedly long suffering, rather than endeared, as he watched you miscreants pour out of the modest brick building.

You stumbled to a halt on the first step at the sight of him and allowed your instincts to take over, hands smoothing down hair and skirt with frantic self consciousness. You must’ve looked a rumple.

“I hope last night was worth it.” Cleven drawled in that voice of his, so oddly deep for so fresh a face, his placid smile growing into something more genuinely mirthful as Egan smooched at him in gratitude and swore that he knew his Buck wouldn’t abandon them, that his Buck would pull through for them. “I order a round of toothpaste for everyone and cold showers, you stink.” Gale shied away without any real effort, nodding in greeting to the boys he recognized.

Then, as if in the most painfully slow motion with all the strong string accompaniment of a silver screen scene, his eyes landed on you and an odd ache formed in your chest at the anticipation of his disapproval.

It made you tense and draw yourself up to your full height, looking about as regal as a drenched bantam in your disheveled dignity, but you weren’t about to be relegated to another tier than these boys he so amusedly indulged.

“Y’all know what time it is?” he asked mildy, those azure orbs with their batting dark fringe didn’t waver and you realized he indeed had more guts than you’d given him credit for.

There was a chorus of “no”s and various guesses based on the fast evaporating fog and the lightening sky.

“Zero five thirty.” he ended the suspense with the cock of an eyebrow at you.

“Shit!” Egan was suddenly animated, “Shit, shit-“

“Hey, you keep your swearin’ away from my sweet lil corporal.” Cleven chided, and it took you a brief moment to startle upon realizing he meant you. And he thought you sweet? “C’mon Miss,” he waved you down the steps and for some inexplicable reason you felt very compelled to obey and suddenly stood beneath his gaze like a dutiful child awaiting deliverance or censure, “I’ve only got this bike, petrol allotment ran out when we went to the canals last week. But it’ll get ya back faster than this lot. Reckon you can manage on the handlebar?”

“Wha-?“ you glanced sideways at the bike with its large, sweeping handlebars and second guessed his meaning until he himself was straddling it. His legs required the seat to be hiked up impossibly high and the narrow nip of his waist was accentuated by the posture. Those padded, fleece puffed jackets you had seen him in had done no credit to his form, a toothpick he may have been with how terribly lean he was, but he was firm in all the right places. He was also waiting on you to answer while you ogled him.

“Gosh yes, I can, if you’re sure? Awfully kind of you.” you blathered and moved in a hurry to make up for your stalling, keenly conscious of his eyes on your back as you shimmied your backside up onto his handlebars, feeling the warm press of his hand as he helped steady you from tipping all the way back. You wiggled on the thin metal bar, spreading your legs on either side of the front wheel and doing your best to ignore the raucous commentary of the still tipsy audience of your fellow inmates swaying on the precinct steps. “Y’all just be glad there’s no mission scheduled today.” he snarked to them instead and they chimed up that last night’s idiocy was calculated with that in mind.

“Huh.” Cleven uttered, unimpressed, behind you and it made you shiver, worse than if your father caught wind of this stunt. “Darlin’ put your hands over mine, s’gonna get wobbly takin’ off.” he directed next and you did as you were told, looking back over your shoulder at him with a grateful smile that you were relieved to see returned, pink lips stretching and a freckled nose bunching up sweetly when all of the sudden a rush caught you by surprise and the bike was in motion and you whipped your head back to view the street as it rushed up ahead of you. “See ya boys!” he hollered out as a mutinous babble rose from his friends at being left to jog back.

The young man could put some speed on a bike, uphill too. Or, as much of a hill as could be found this far East. You could hear him chuckle when you squeaked at the first jolt of a pothole, your thumbs hooking under his hands and curling into his palms. They were warm and calloused, dry from the cool breeze and you may have imagined the way he squeezed them in assaurance but you did not imagine the way his voice piped up again, smooth and conversational: “Harry told me if I was quick I could get you out in time, I think we’re gonna make it. S’dont worry, even if Sergeant Lemmons gives ya trouble, I’ll insist.”

“That’s really too kind of you.” The chill of windburn and a substantial amount of remorse made your cheeks glow scarlet. “All of it is. I’m rather ashamed.”

“I didn’t take you for an all nighter sort.” he agreed but followed it with a soothing compliment, “You’ve always been nothin’ but perfect. P-p-perfectly punctual, I mean, and there’s no reason to let Egan’s idea of fun ruin your record.”

“Wasn’t his fault. Not wholly.” you sighed, giving Violet a bashful wave as you passed her opening the shop, a wave which Cleven mirrored behind you and between the two of you letting go the bike, it nearly dumped you both. It was luck and sheer persistence that righted you and kept your balance. “I’m afraid it’s a bit of a bad habit, picked it up at Northolt.”

“Where’s that?” he asked.

“South, by the coast.” you said, unsure why you felt the need to explain your debauchery away, “I was working a ground crew down there for a bunch of Polish Pilots. Spitfires mainly. That squadron nabbed the most kills of any in the RAF back in ‘40. Why, even Churchill visited more times than I can count, he found them good fun. Too much fun, they never went to bed without downing half a barrel. There was dice built into the bottom of the pints at the Black Bull, rather addictive, rolling to see who would buy the next round. —There was always a next.” You added upon reflection.

That was also the year you had lost your brother. The correlation between the habit and the loss wasn’t to be dwelt on.

“Huh,” Cleven let out one of him contemplative hums, “and how do we compare?” he asked surprisingly.

“How?” you laughed, daring to crane your neck back to see him in the early morning sunshine, pretty and sweet and arch in his expression. Dusk had not done his mama’s work on his face any justice, it made you want to pant he was so pretty.

“I dunno, in any way,” he laughed in turn, not even breathless as he sped the bike over the cobblestones, the village barely awake and mostly quiet, “how do we compare?”

“To the Poles?”

“Or the French. Or your own, the RAF ain’t no joke.” he amended, “Whoever is our competition.”

“So it is a competition.” you smirked -how very American of him. “Depends,” you hedged playfully, “Our boys are so very nice, familiar, they never run out the right coinage during a date either. But the French are better flirts while the Dutch are better dancers. But the Poles, they know how to romance. Lots of hand kissing and flowers, so many flowers there had to be rules made for overstocking the billet.”

“Sounds like we gotta step up our game.” he decided.

“Is that what you meant? How you compare? First impressions?”

“I-I- guess, yeah.” he now sounded confused, “I mean, what else? You got scores for aircraft?”

“I do.” you replied, as it was true, “But that’s unfair, you’ve only just arrived. I thought maybe you wanted to know something more -salacious.”

“Like?” His tone behind you was guarded and you doubted if the alcohol of last night were not still buzzing and fortifying your brazenness, that you’d ever go through with what you said next.

“Other performances. For instance, in bed.”

You felt his fingers flutter around the bars beneath your own, you gripped them tighter, not just because the stretch of old road before the air base was ancient and pitted but because you were in an agony of suspense as to how he’d take your forwardness.

“There’s a record of that somewhere?” he asked at last, a beat too long, too delayed for casualness, too morose for flippancy.

“In fact there is.” you responded carefully. “A little diary of rankings, actually, there’s multiple and whenever there’s a grand assembly of the WAAF or the WACs, they’re passed about and tallied.”

“Sweet Jesus.” he swore behind you, “And here I’ve been chalkin’ up railways and munition dump targets like they’re some achievement.”

“Oh it’s all a bit of silliness.” You assured, not intending to make him glum.

“Do-“ he hesitated and you prayed for strength for him to spit it out as the airfield came in sight on the flat plain ahead. He didn’t.

“-Do I what?” you prodded softly.

“Are one of these little tallies yours?” he asked miserably.

You grinned to yourself and felt the sunshine seemed brighter and the air crisper than ever before as it rushed in your face with the slowing speed of his bike. “No, not in the least. I merely keep track of Sally’s ledger. It’s all a bit too -messy, for me.”

You dared peak behind you again and he looked relieved, then blushed furiously at your observance of him. “Well, who does Sally say is winning?” he dared.

“Romania.” you chortled and he did too, in shock if nothing else. “But Egan’s caught wind of it, he’s quite determined to save your country’s dominance, you don’t need to sweat it.”

His frown was back and you had to focus on not falling off as he slowed the bike to a halt, momentum precarious as his long legs kicked out and walked it the last yard to the segregated barracks, you felt his hand again on your waist to steady you. “Does that bother you?” he asked earnestly, sorrow in his blue eyes.

He offered a hand for you as you hopped down and it was you who held onto it long after it was needed. “Bother me?”

“Yeah, him -consortin’…with Sally?” he pressed, hands quite engulfing your one, “Does it hurt you? Bucky, see, he doesn’t mean to hurt, he’s just so-“

“-Blimey, you are a dear.” you marveled and then amended your interruption as your amusement only further creased that sweet face, “If I am ever again in Major Egan’s company, it will only be to escape it just as quickly. I’ve had quite enough of…consorting.”

“That so?” The lackadaisical confidence he exhibited outside of the precinct was back again, a not unattractive smirk plastered on his vulnerable face, a scheme in his guileless eyes. “Had enough of holding cells?”

“Quite.” you smirked back. “A quiet family dinner is more my style, the occasional picnic, even a zip round Oxford as one must show the foreigners about.” you paused and squeezed his hand once more, “And I do enjoy a bike ride.”

You did not know if he cataloged your preferences for an ideal date or not, life was busy, after all, and the momentary frolics in the July sunshine and banter on the tarmac and evenings in the pub were the exception. Time went on. Most of life was spent in the air, in his case, and in yours, beneath the belly of his beast, wrench in hand. But ever after his gallant rescue of you, there was more than the passing “goodnight” paid to you, there were cheerful smiles on his exhausted face when he returned from a mission, as if you were the one face he was coming back to. With an old familiar dread you noticed the way you begin to take each hole and dent and damage to his plane personally, as if it had been exacted on something precious to you. You have begun to care, for him and for his men, and your tired heart could barely do more than dread what that might lead to.

Good fun. That’s what these boys were supposed to be.

Gale Cleven hadn’t proven much fun. And somehow that was worse. It was worse and also unbearably honoring to be the last face he saw before taking it off, flags in your hands waving in front of his hulking bomber, giving the old familiar directions for a perfect takeoff, one he executed sublimely time and again. His sober, purposeful nods to you before he engaged and taxied out for a mission of death was more intense and intimate than any bouquet or even, your thought, a kiss. It was true the donut dollies on the sidelines were often the last faces of home that many of those boys would see. But in the his cockpit, looking down at your shrimp sized figure on the tarmac, both Major Cleven and you knew that for him, it was yours.

Once, there was a scare, in the first days of august. More than a scare if you were being honest, your heartbeat about stopped and didn’t pick back up for a few hours until word came in. The rest of the base wasn’t much better.

Ten planes had not come back. -Among them, Our Baby. And Mugwump. For two officers, so crucial, so senior, idolized and beloved as they were, to not return, was a blow like none other. You weren’t alone in hovering around the control shack, taking license of your friendship with Dorace to get a play by play of any news. When news came, such as it was, it was both relieving and exasperating.

It would seem there was some problem, a defect or too great of a hit. Orders to land in enemy territory were ignored, however, by Cleven no less. He had doggedly pushed on, safely landing them in allied Africa, of all places. It took almost a day for this information to finally be pasted together, by the end of it you were sad, haggard and half useless in your coveralls, stupendously relieved for a man you were supposed to feel professionally about.

Instead, that night, tucked in your own bed after a meal with your parents and little brother, you thanked God for keeping him -them, all of them- safe. And found yourself pondering the tan on him when he got back from his African foray. Some jealous part of you feared he might be kept there but a week later the thunderous hum of approaching bombers buzzed the air overhead of Thorpe Abbotts and the satisfying thwump of wheels touching down brought them back. There was a frenzy of greetings, flight and ground crew eager to welcome them back, the radio operators, too, and even the civilians who’d managed to get on base.

Your little brother among them. Donald wanted to see them back safe and it wasn’t dangerous, and it wasn’t dire, not returning from a mission the planes wouldn’t be in such poor shape. They’d been repaired in Africa, enough to fly them all the way back to England. So little Donald was nearby and when the crowd parted and a bee-line for Cleven became apparent, he took advantage and gave the young man a firm handshake in greeting.

“Hey buddy, thank ya, who do you belong to?” Buck laughed while returning the firm grip.

“I’m her brother.” Donald pointed you out proudly among the dispersing crowd and you rolled your eyes at his expectancy for Gale to know or care about you, more than your most pertinent work on base.

“Oh are ya now, hers, huh?” he grinned at you, “Been talkin’ about me?” he greeted, there was a still healing scrape on his left temple that your fingers itched to soothe. How badly had he hit his head?

“Of course I have.” you defended, happiness bubbling under your lips and threatening to make you smile more than was professional, you could see Sergeant Lemmons observing you from the side and tried to keep some decorum. “We thought you’d died.” You stated plainly, it wasn’t any secret to Donald, as soon as the plane had gone missing and before radio contact had been reestablished, you’d rushed home and made the family pray over supper.

“We’ve been praying for you.” Donald agreed, and you saw Cleven startle, a gasped intake of breath between those lush lips and his eyes seemed to water as he searched first your brother’s face and then your own.

“You have?” he choked out, raspy and touched.

“Yes.” you whispered, mouth twisting in a ugly grimace to hold back your own emotion. It was of little use, something beyond War Effort investment in his well being had been admitted. “We thought you might be dea-“

-you didn’t finish your reiteration of your dread. Your face, a greasy and mist spattered face, was suddenly smushed into the padded leather of his bomber jacket, nose tucked right into the fleece apex where his pale blue scarf always rested on his throat.

He was hugging you, you realized with delayed surprise.

“-even though it made the potatoes cold, Da insisted on prayin’ every night after she told us-“ Donald was waxing eloquent on his own sacrifices of having one added prayer request lengthening his mealtime but you were oblivious to more than the firm press of Cleven’s still gloved hand to the back of your scarf wrapped head, some strong emotion shuddering through his body against your own. A tremor of terror and pain, you suspected, emotions he’d been suppressing all week.

After all, the saved weren’t supposed to be shaken up. They’d been saved, what was there to be off about? You’d seen enough pilots after a close call to know it was every bit as bad or worse than actual disaster. They’d send him right back up again in days, and that was what was expected, demanded, required. He was tremoring against you and you gripped him tighter, sympathetic and aching to cure it somehow. Even for a moment.

“We’ll keep praying.” you assured, and you heard him clear his throat, snotty and rough. “Oh, blast, I’ve positively greased your jacket.” you mourned as he let you go, finally, and you caught sight of the mess your filthy hands and face had imprinted on it during the embrace.

He chuckled as he looked down at the imprint, “S’fine.”

After such an exchange of emotion the air felt charged between you two, without privacy or precedence, it felt unthinkable to linger in that mood. You turned to his plane and pet the fuselage with unstudied fondness, it had been horrid having the old bird absent. You were not above having favorites and the love he poured into his ship, somehow, like some old fairytale truism, made the hulking metal beast lovable, in turn. “How’s our baby, hmm?” you asked him, giving him a sly smile and he took your proffered out seamlessly, joining you in cataloging the damage that had not been deemed severe enough to hamper his return.

“Don’t crawl under here, sir!” you protested as you wiggled under the belly only to find him beside you in the plane’s shadow, “You’ll be a mess!”

“I’ve already got stains.” he brushed your worries off, and you knew it was true. Bloodstains in fact. He had lost a man, the report said, and apparently, judging by his trousers, Buck had held the poor fellow as he bled out. “And I wanna show you the spot I’m worried ‘bout.”

“Alright.” you conceded, allowing him to direct you to the nose. “Watch it Donald!” you had to reprimand your little brother who predictably followed after, “You’ll burn yourself if you touch that, this thing was just running.”

“Careful buddy.” Gale echoed gently beside you and pushed his little head down, more into a crawl. You refused to allow the gentle way he treated the brat to warm you, you refused. Or at least, you refused to let it show, the tingle and heat you felt being all too consuming to be denied.

He was lovely. But you already knew that. He was even more lovely when, upon crawling out from under Our Baby, he took his scarf from around his neck, silk decadently soft, flesh warmed and smelling strongly of his exertions, and swiped it across your greased cheek.

“You’ve got just a lil more…” he practically mumbled and wiped down to your chin, firm, gentle little rubs of the silk which required his other hand to grasp your chin to steady you. You weren’t sure when he’d taken off his gloves, but the feel of his skin on yours was heady.

“It’ll take a couple days.” You predicted regarding the repairs, “Which means you’ll have a few days free, if they don’t drown you in reports.”

“Oh they will.” he laughed, “But s’long as my days are free, means yours aren’t.” he pointed out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“We shoulda thought of that when we chose this line of work.” he joked and your cheeks flamed at the realization he wished to spend time with you. “But you’ll have your nights still, yeah?”

Coming from anyone else, the request for your nights to be reserved would strike you as suggestive indeed. But this was Buck, and when he mentioned nights you imagined nothing but taking him home for a tepid potato and rationed powdered milk supper and the warm reception of your family. His weary eyes suggested how badly he needed that. You could give it to him, and it made your heart glow.

“Yes, I’ll have my nights.” you agreed, “And you can have them, too.”

Sergeant Lemmons agreed with your estimation of Our Baby’s damage the following day and four long days after were spent patching up damage that suggested what a hellish ride that must’ve been. Someone else hosed the blood out of the bay but it turned the puddle on the concrete beside you sickly pink.

To and fro from office to barracks to observation tower, Cleven would stop by to see his ‘baby’ on these occasions. The heckling the ground crew gave you regarding this potential double meaning was agonizing and almost made his attentions not worth it. But then he’d be dropping to a squat to chat with you as you soldered metal, heedless of the sparks, or else bringing scones from the mess to refresh you and, again, wiping your face often with his fancy scarves despite your protests that it was futile.

And at night, on the second day, you made good on yours and Donald’s word and brought him to dinner. It was a quiet walk from the base to the end of the long main road, right to the outskirts of the village, where your family’s unassuming little thatched cottage nestled amongst mama’s victory garden, daddy’s aeroplane hanger and repair shop loomed ugly and dark behind.

The look on Buck’s face when you met him outside the base’s gate at seven in the evening in a dress and heels was worth capturing. But you hadn’t a camera with you and it wasn’t like you were liable to forget. His pure look of awe and appreciation for your cleaned up and girlish state was nearly comic if it weren’t so flattering.

“Darlin-“ he began in a rush but did not finish, only taking you lightly by the fingertips and spinning you slowly, his eyes wide like he was seeing a marvel, which, maybe he was, -your womanly form finally liberated from puffy uniforms and ugly coveralls. Wholesome as your intentions were for the evening, and indeed for him in general, it was some relief and delight to know he was capable of getting hot under the collar. His mama’s well drilled manners soon caught up to his unbridled appreciation and a deluge of charmingly proper compliments rained down on you next until you had to put a stop to his babble by tugging him down the road with the reminder of dinner as incentive.

“You’re sure they won’t mind?” he began his worries again, nervous to meet your parents.

If he’d been like the rest of the boys he’d know just how much mingling was already common. It wasn’t remotely odd to bring him home, not when you lived so near. “Don’t be silly, they’ve been begging to meet you and Donald has plans of torturing you with his plane models and Papa wants to show you his shop and mama thinks you're much too skinny, I’m sure she’s gone to the black market to grab something to fatten you-“

“-how’s she know that?” he interrupted in shock.

“Oh,” you flushed, realizing your misstep, “I’ve talked of you. And she recognized you, she and Violet are thick as thieves and -it’s not like you’re unremarkable. A physical description is rather easy to give when you, well, when you look like…you.”

“What do I look like?” he cried out but his cheeks were smiling despite his outrage, “Malnourished?”

“Like a lanky cherub.” you refuted and were pleased that the late summer sun was still bright enough at this long hour to show his pretty blush.

“A cherub.” he repeated in disbelief.

“Yes.” you were firm, both in tone and the press of your hand in the crook of his offered elbow, “And as we’ve been commended to entertain angels unaware, how much more when we are certain of one?”

“Oh shut up.” he begged you and you two staggered into each other as you laughed your hearts out. It felt good to laugh, for the both of you, and a little too foreign, as well. It left a hollow melancholy in its wake that was soothed by the near and swaying proximity of each other’s body.

“They’ll be glad to have you at the table.” you dared go on, feeling you should prepare him, should the subject arise, “I’ve a brother, you see, an older brother. Rafe, he was stationed in Burma. We’ve not heard of him in over two years. There’s an empty seat at our table, it takes a certain sort of soul to fill it without it feeling like a sacrilege. But you fit the bill nicely, I think.”

“Burma.” he repeated with all the gravity of a man who understood, who knew the ache of almost hoping a dear brother, a beloved son, was dead rather than enduring the slow hell of a Japanese internment camp. How awful to almost wish for a decisive end for one so loved. “No word at all?”

“None.”

“I’m terribly sorry.”

“Thank you.” you whispered, “And thanks for making it back, yourself.” you squeezed his arm jovially and felt his other hand fall atop yours there in the crook of his elbow and a sweetness filled you at the gesture, such as you’d never known before. It was peaceful and lovely and your little village suddenly looked as pretty and idyllic again as it was always supposed to, the routine route home was seen through his eyes, the eyes of a homesick boy with a soft girl on his arm, bound to meet her parents and inspect Donald’s plane models.

Your mother and father loved him, little surprise there, he was a darling and homesick and yours was a happy home, humble and wounded though it may be. Your mother was obnoxious in her delight the moment father took him out back to see where your expertise for welding first began, the little aerodrome, no longer fitted with pleasure craft but now fitted to scrap the more useless casualties. Mother pestered you as you helped clear the table, asking after him and whatever this thing was between you. When you assured her it was only dinner to fill that chair and some unfathomable knowledge that had grown each time you stood before his propeller and waved him off to death, she knew it for what it is.

War and the urgency of living that goes with it, shrinks long emotions into fast passion and steady hearts into foolish daring. Neither of you were the sort to tumble into the passing vogue passions that had seized hold of your friends and comrades. Yours was a quieter path. Even so, after the fourth evening of dinner rations and quiet fireside chatter and the patter of late summer rain on the roof, there was a kiss as he walked you back to base, his jacket over your shoulders, his shirt clinging to him and the sweetest intent etched on his misted features as his lips descended to yours.

“Thank you,” he had said so passionately yet so subdued, a wall of wisteria at your back and his honey blonde hair dripping into his eyes, “I’ve needed this bad.”

His words suggested the family dinners, his scorching lips suggested the molded flesh of your body in his large palms.

“So you’ve wanted this?” your breathed mixed, a hazy little cloud between you in the damp evening air, your little alcove of shelter from the rain under old Mosley’s shed was like another little world entirely, fauna filled and peaceful, even the ever present drone of machinery was drowned out by the downpour.

Your mother had been right, you should've waited longer till the clouds passed but you had both cited curfew -and maybe even subconsciously sought just such a predicament as the one that had you necking Gale Cleven in a wisteria claimed tool shed.

“I’ve wanted you.” he clarified, firm grip on the base of your neck punctuating his turmoil, his lips met yours again and whatever oath of abstinence he had chosen, it did not seem to include kissing. He was soft and persistent and all consuming, those restless hands migrating in an ever mapping caress, making every part of you thrum with butterflies. “Wanted you for a long while.” he spoke into your lips, “I think you’re just great.” And there was happiness then, untinged with anything temporal beyond the feel of warm flesh beneath cold, rain soaked cloth and lips that tasted of honeyed biscuits.

It was impossible to maintain the stoic propriety of behavior you’d once managed before, on base, after that. You knew now how he sounded when he moaned into your mouth and he his stare alone could make you blush, you had spoken to his mother on the phone and he had seen your childhood bedroom. He learned once, laying amongst sea grass on the beach during a cloudy Sunday, the silky moist feel of you beneath your swimsuit, his long, bashful fingers that were ever so fond of petting anything and everything, finally finding a place that responded to his swipes with jolts and gasps and sighs and pleasure. You peaked three times on that sand dune, Buck none the wiser as he had nothing to compare your little deaths to, you kept a firm grip on his forearm and told him he was doing marvelous and that’s all it took for him to be persistent. Persistent beyond what you imagined any other man could be due to cramp. He was getting freckles from so much sunshine, but it was well, the rains would be here soon come autumn.

These happy days had you risking your life to pause your work and watch his pretty form swagger across the asphalt to his next destination and he, ever so right and proper and by the book, became devil enough to lie in wait for you and catch you by the waist when you least suspected it and drag you into some abandoned corner.

Only to kiss you.

To kiss and to ask after your day, as if your evening was not to be spent sat beside him at table or the movies, lying on a picnic blanket with him near or in the back of a jeep on top of Mayberry Rise, the tallest point around where the stars ran into the sea on the horizon.

One of the first days of September, you made good on your promise to Harry and drove with him to muck about Oxford for a day and see the college, the library, too. It was a long ride and as you were at the wheel, Harry was gem enough to allow Gale along, too, and by the end of it, driving back late and in a rush before the headlights would be needed, you were quoting favorite literary passages to each other. As if you were all students, not misplaced youths in the business of killing.

You said as much and in the burgeoning gloom Gale’s rich voice asked if you knew any Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

“Not Wordsworth!” Harry clarified.

“No, I don’t.” You admitted, for all your chiding today of their not being cultured enough, you didn’t know your American writers as you should.

“He’s got a poem for that.” Gale said, “For what you said. Or at least, it makes me think of today -that verse, ‘member Crosby?- the one it goes:

-I remember the gleams and glooms that dart across the school-boy's brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part, Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song, Sings on, and is never still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts."

The deafening silence for the rest of the car ride was filled with truth and your own heart was heavy when you bid them both goodnight that evening, headed to your seperate billets. You paused in you departure to turn back once more at the door and holler to Buck in the chilled September air, “That poem, is there more of it?”

“Lots more.” he’d spun round on his heel, pleasantly surprised at your inquiry.

“What’s it called?” you intended to search it out, though it was doubtful that a copy would be found near this remote place.

“How about I write it out for ya?” he suggested as if thinking the same.

“You’ve got a whole damn poem memorized?” you balked, incredulity warring with amusement that you should’ve guessed he’d be the sort.

“I-I-I might.” he stuttered before laughing.

“Then please do.” you grinned and threw him a kiss across the distance which he jumped up and caught from the air in a grand show of dedication. “Goodnight, cherub.” you wished him, “Sleep tight.” He had a mission in the morning, a daylight one.

“Goodnight old Bean.” He teased your accent and the door swung shut behind you blocking out the cold and the retreating sound of his footsteps.

If you’d have known that was the last time you’d hear them you’d have stayed an age out in the cold night listening to him go, memorizing the cadence of his gait, the sway of his shoulders disappearing into the twilight, the turn of his head as he’d throw a glance back at you, sweet and handsome and cheerful despite his ominous itinerary.

If you’d have only known.

It wasn’t like last time, like Africa. There had been no loss of contact. Dorace had heard every awful minute until the clock ran out. They’d been shredded, their precious ship turned into a raging inferno and Major Cleven’s gritted and garbled transmissions left only one hope that some at least had jumped out. Jumped out only to land in Nazi occupied Europe, it was a faint mercy to cling to.

The empty chair sat next to you again at the table and mocked you all. Mocked your hope and your resilience to dare love again. How foolish to bring home a man who belonged to a group they were calling “Bloody”, and not as a curse but an epithet.

The losses had been staggering all summer and now in September they hit close. You were confident that Crosby and Egan were every bit as dismal inside as you felt, Egan’s warm hand had clasped your shoulder like you were a fellow officer and told you he was sorry. You took the condolences and gave them back, a stupid little exchange that only highlighted how unspeakable some pain is.

Three weeks later, Egan’s plane didn’t come back either.

In your more fanciful moments you allowed yourself to imagine Egan and Cleven alive, somewhat whole and reunited. You could almost hear Cleven’s joking welcome, “What took you so long, Bucky?”

You’d indulged these fancies for Rafe, too, until years of silence suggested the worst.

However, this time, well into October and with an entirely new set of planes under your care, word came at last through the Red Cross, and the truth was exactly as you’d dreamed. There was only the paltriest letter back to command but it said they were well, they were alive, together indeed and being moved to the Polish border. Away from their own comrades' bombs. It was more than most ever got, and your family celebrated the news with the gratitude it deserved.

As October turned to November and your gloved fingertips froze as you worked, every sharp needle of chill reminded you of him, how much more awful it must be that far north, snow piled deep and muck everywhere and lice covered blankets and illness left untreated. As the holidays hurtled nearer, days of peace and goodwill you had planned to be spent with him, you were consumed by the dread of losing him to the elements since war had proven too clement. At night you lay abed and reread the one bit of handwriting you had from him, that damned poem he had written out, left under your door in the early dawn that had taken him from you.

My lost youth. That was the title of the thing. It cut like glass every time you read it, but Buck had touched that paper and looped those letters and dotted those i’s and it was precious to you. It became a prayer of sorts.

“There are things of which I may not speak;

There are dreams that cannot die;

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.

And the words of that fatal song

Come over me like a chill:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Strange to me now are the forms I meet

When I visit the dear old town;

But the native air is pure and sweet,

And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street,

As they balance up and down,

Are singing the beautiful song,

Are sighing and whispering still:—

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

Then, in January, as if prayers got heard, the most unexpected happened.

Major Gale Cleven, what was left of him after cold, starvation, murder and a treck across Europe, had returned. Things like this, seeing your lost beloved ride up to your workplace in the shotgun seat of a jeep, was the stuff of movies, hopeful propaganda or a woman’s mind that had finally cracked. You just stood there, welding helmet in hand, frozen rain spitting down at you, watching him jump out, watching Harry tear down from the observation tower to embrace him.

Dully, you could hear behind you Segreant Lemmons kind cheer of “so it was true, he got away from the bastards!” and a congratulatory thump between your shoulder blades. It was a moment of truth, to realize how far your faith had dwindled when the very answer to your prayers stood steaming with life in the cold air and yet you still could not accept it as reality.

“Baby.” his hands were warm compared to your damp cheeks and the span of them, so familiar and large, cupping your jaw with the calloused thumbs swiping at your temples, that was reminiscent of August and of happier days. Yet still, you had dreamed of him doing this, dreamed of a million different embraces and each time you woke up. “Baby, I’m back, I came to ya.” his voice was wrecked, from disuse and illness and whatever misery that had subjected him to. That, that was real enough, the rattling cough more so, you’d imagined his suffering in your worst nightmares too, this was something you could believe.

Familiar flesh was gaunt under your touch, gray cheeks where once there’d been freckles and the sinful pout of his once ruby red mouth was a dull violet, as if the vitality had been leached out of him. “What’d they do to my cherub?” you mourned, worst nightmares and wildest hopes blending into this one moment.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry f’me, I’m back. I came back.” he cooed to you, rough and sad himself, and your face was buried again in the placard of his coat, a great woolen overcoat this time, no fleece or any vestige of the swanky finery that got the flyboys ribbed for being soft, fancy, spoiled.

Nothing soft about these men, nothing gentle about their lot, nothing glamorous about being hurled down from the skies in a ball of fire.

“We kept praying for you.” you realized, it seemed important to tell him that however hopeless you all had felt, you’d gone through the motions anyway.

That was faith, wasn’t it? The hope of things not seen?

“I felt ‘em.” he said. “How else you think I managed it?”

It. -had managed it, that tiny word represented a host of terrors and miseries and unforgettable incidents that ricocheted in his brain like the lead fired into his boys head’s when they couldn’t manage a forced march, barefoot and underfed, in the snow.

Christmas had passed but January was not so very advanced, that evening your family turned back the clock and it was a matter of guessing as to who was celebrated more, baby Jesus or Buck Cleven. The two seemed intertwined at this point and in the warm glow of gas lamps and rationed toddy, with Buck’s hollow cheeks beginning to bloom and his dull eyes starting to animate, some part of you finally understood why so many felt worshipful on the holiday. The shit war rations felt like a feast, mama’s canned vegetables being the freshest thing he’d eaten in ages and with him sat at table again, empty chair filled, his hand creeping into your lap to lace with your own, there was peace.

Even the airforce, hard driving and high demanding though it was, took one look at his battered condition and admitted a period of conveyance was due. It wouldn’t do to send up a shoddy pilot, lose another plane, yet another crew or a hero of the hundredth. It’s not every day one of your squadron leaders escapes a POW camp and marches over occupied Europe and fordes the Channel to get back home.

A month was set aside. And you took as many weekday passes as you could during that month, happier than anything that he had been permitted to stay in town, to lodge with one of the locals. Rafe’s room was now occupied by him and mama’s broth was poured down Gale’s throat twice daily and his days kept busy with paperwork and Donald’s math problems. The ticking clock, the passing days, like the evil crocodile gobbling up time, was politely and britishly ignored in favor of enjoying what was. You no longer slept with the tear stained and crumpled poem clasped to your throat but his head lay there often enough instead. The thump of your heart helping him sleep, because exhausted and sick as he was, sleep and solitude were not comforts.

He was wracked with guilt for leaving Egan and his men behind, it had been every man for himself during that brutal forced march, he knew that and yet he’d left a friend behind. Buck waited for news of Egan like you’d waited for news of him. Nameless and senseless guilt ruining much of his own success and peace.

“He’d have expected nothing less of you.” you had taken to reminding him, “He’d be angry if you hadn’t taken the opportunity like you did.”

“I know.” he agreed miserably.

You admitted to him then, the horrid guilt of feeling that somehow, some missed defect or some lousy flaw had been the reason he’d been downed. Your work somehow not sufficient to keep him in the skies. When you’d admitted as much, Sergeant Lemmons had looked at you with all the censure such moronic introspection deserved: “Cleven got bombed to hell. He expected it, daytime raid and all. Blame the Nazis.”

“Blame the Nazis.” you suggested now to Gale as he lay sprawled in your arms, sweaty and feverish but his color was back and he looked pretty as anything so alive and near.

He looked ready to dare something, his face hovering nearer yours and the heavy weight of his limbs suddenly feeling full of intent but then his sparkling eye caught sight of something in the doorway and his lips quirked and his body shifted away.

“Whatcha doin’ sulkin’ out there Donny?” he addressed your brother and sure enough the little scamp emerged from the shadow of the doorway and joined you two on the bed, comic book clutched in his hands. They had a routine, apparently, Papa was no longer the chosen one for bedtime stories. It made you want to wince in anticipation for when Buck would move back to base and things would become full of dread again.

That day came sooner than you’d counted on. A month is not so very long, after all, and it was filled with so much work and business, stolen moments at home hardly being the norm.

“It’s an easy mission.” he’d said at dinner, as if arguing the point to you all. You knew he was trying to convince himself more than anything and so you all let him specify just how easy, how routine, how utterly unworrying tomorrow's flight would -should- be.

If it’s hard to get back into the saddle after being bucked off, how much worse to climb back into a plane after being tossed from the skies.

That evening he lounged on your bed instead of Rafe’s, the house emptied as your mother and father took Donny to the movies, the appeal of a new film finally showing cited as being too alluring to resist. He was lost in his thoughts, watching you go about your little evening routines that you tried to maintain when at home. It was domestic and cozy, warm where the world outside was cold and then there was Buck, golden as anything in the low lamp light, utterly unaware of the figure he cut lying on his side.

“I’ve missed it.” he told you, “Flying, I’ve missed it.”

“Of course you have. You were born for it.” you murmured.

“Ya know,” he reflected, “I signed up for the Air Force before it all got hot, before Pearl Harbor. I was gonna fly no matter what. I remember grittin’ my teeth durin’ training and tellin’ myself it would all be worth it. Just hang in there and it would pay off. I just felt something important would need me. Hell, guess I got more than I ever bargained for, didn’t I?”

“I guess you did.” you agreed.

“I couldn’t do this if I didn’t believe in it.” He insisted and you knew he was talking to himself again, until his face turned towards yours and the softest look of fondness crossed features turning them almost pained when he said next, “I couldn’t do it, get back up there, if it weren’t for love. The rightness of it but -love, for my boys, my family. For you.”

“I know, and we’re terribly lucky to have your devotion. -And…and I love you, too.” you vowed earnestly, then giggled at the absurdity of this being the first time to admit it.

“I’d had my suspicions.” he grinned back, some of that old cockiness returning along with his vigor as he snagged your wrist and pulled you down beside him.

“Do you know why my parents have gone?” you asked him pointedly, turning on your side to face him.

“To see a movie.” His face was so innocently perplexed you almost lost control of yourself and ruined the game right then with something terribly forward.

“My parents aren’t in the habit of seeing movies.” you corrected him soberly.

“No?”

“No.”

“So where’d they go?” Buck asked.

“Oh they’re at the movies.” you smirked, “But they’ve gone for us.”

Gale’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, if not of you then of his own naïveté. “For us.” he repeated and his voice had dropped an octave in the interim.

“Yes. Something about wanting us to have a goodbye.” you quoted.

“I’m not dying tomorrow.” he pointed his finger firmly in your face and it made you smile to see him so fiesty again.

“No,” you agreed with his prophecy, “but I wanted to give you some incentive to hurry back.”

“Oh?” those lips of his puckered again in confusion before his smarts caught up with him and the pink corner tugged up in mischief, “Ooooh.” he repeated, suddenly very close, his energy, his body, his heart, inches from being one with you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, oh yes.” you confirmed, slotting your lips against his gently only to be met with eager, desperate need in his own kisses.

Your childhood bed was narrow and the counterpane below you familiar and dear, stitched by your mother in colors you’d once wished to update upon entering maturity. Now, laid out in perfect security and familiarity, you watched Buck Cleven dangle a toe off the abyss before diving in, pausing to caress the blanket beside your hip, smiling to himself.

“What?” you were breathless to know every thought in that dear head.

“My mama made me one, looks lots like this.” his eyes were watery soft yet his smile was glad, his hips narrow and sharp in the cradle of your own, stark hipbones not yet padded by your mother’s cooking pressed you down into the bedding, grounded and right. “You’ve made me real at home here.” he whispered and it pleased you ever so much. “Do I dare take this last liberty?” he muttered as if to himself, even as those blue orbs bore into your own, his fingers fiddling with the hem of your skirt and you ached from need long deferred and the weight of remedy lying heavy between your thighs.

“It’s no liberty,” you whispered, catching his dog tags and bringing his face to yours, the size of the man so very apparent now he was hovering above you, “it’s yours.” you watched his pupils blow out at the statement, his ragged breath fanned minty across your face, even angels wield swords. “I’m yours.”

“And I’m yours.” he concluded.

With that exchange of truths something snapped between you, like a ribbon cut, gone was the hesitant cordiality and deference that had marked your courtship. Here now was fierce possession and the gloated satisfaction of those who possess something cherished and are no longer kept from partaking of it, buckles and garters snapped in the quiet room and the rustle of sheets and shirts wafting to the floor made your breaths hitch with anticipation. Precious flesh came into touch with every brush and it was enough for many minutes merely to cling and grasp, imprinting desire into the back and the arms and the throat of each other, like an armor of love against the decay of death.

“Yours, yours.” you swore as his finger played you once more, his breathing hard and rough in your ear, harsh commands for you to say it again and again, reminding you he was fearsome when he wanted to be.

“Don’t look,” he begged when you realized through a haze of joy what he was about, pressing in with all the finesse of a cricket bat knocking at the wicket, hoarse and doe eyed above you, there was only the whine, “please, darlin’ don’t look, just, my eyes, please.”

It was a fumbling entry but nature and pleasure prevailed, as it had since the first couple. And dear boy that he was, he knew you had indulged in a leg up, one or two at least, before he came along but still, he could not bear it for you to see more, not this time. He wanted it just to be the kisses and the sight of your precious face contorting at the fullness of your belly and the force of his hunger for you. All the rest were vulgar details left somewhere under your skirts, and, unbeknownst to him, reflected in your childhood mirror situated on the wall behind his plump arse.

“Oh god.” he had choked out, winded and in awe as his body shook at the feel of you accepting him deep, “You’re a slice of heaven, heaven that’s-that’s what you fee- oh god, oh god.”

He had giggled at the absurdity of this dance and then broke off with a moan that made you giggle in turn and back and forth it went as his body jerked into yours as if he’d no control over it, led quite literally by the part of himself buried inside you. He knew it was foal-like and a poor showing as a lover and he also knew you didn’t care a bit, your eyes wide at the size of the intrusion and captivated by the sight of his newly enlightened face.

“You alright?” he asked urgently, as a sudden and familiar feeling took over his body. The feeling of his brakes giving out, his flaps malfunctioning, the hydraulics failing -it took over him, his spine tingling and his vision beginning to blur and only your punched out gasps and sweet smile wavering on his horizon as the frantic, masculine, natural need to drive in deep enough to puncture your heart seized him and propelled him in you, against you, above you with such force you forgot to breath. For all Egan’s teasing of Buck’s hatred for athletics, the man wasn’t shabby when it came down to it, even after months of internment, or maybe due to that stolen time, his life force seemed to pour out in a torrent and your belly buzzed at the sweet abuse.

“I’m perfect.” you managed at some point, “You’re perfect, so perfect.”

He shuddered at the praise and as if terror struck him then, he was suddenly pulling away and moaning “I should- I shouldn’t -I’m gonna, darlin, I’m gonna lose it-“ and young and sweet and clumsy as anything he rutted against your slick frantically, mouth pressed to yours until the hot gush of his satisfaction spilled out and added to the mind fuzzing feel of him sliding against your little pearl.

You encouraged his shaky limbs to collapse on you, the lanky frame of him a sweet weight, sweaty cheek pressed to your breast, you could feel the dopey curve of his smile against your plump flesh. His hair curled at the nape from the sweat of his exertions, all winter chill forgotten in this bed. War and missions and bombs, too. You petted each other for a while before he raised his head and, gazing at you adoringly, he murmured “thank you.” his nose nudging yours and the steadiest of kisses lingering in the tingly aftermath.

“Darlin?” he broached the subject a while later, cheek again pressed to your chest and his fingers sliding in a hypnotic caress over your thigh.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“Later,” he prefaced, tentative and raw, “when -when the war’s over, and when, well, when I can make my own promises…”

Your heart hammered beneath his ear and you squeezed your legs around him, as if to shore him up enough to say what you wanted him to say so very badly. “Yes?”

“Would you marry me then?” he begged and somehow you knew this, what you had just indulged in, was never going to happen without that hope for him.

Perhaps that’s why it felt so strong, like a communion of souls more than anything else. “I’ve half a mind to make you wait and get my answer when you come back tomorrow.” you teased and his head reared up with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Don’t you dare.” he warned, grin breaking out despite himself.

The sound of the front latch grating on the door startled you both but he pressed you down when you went to scamper and clothe yourself. “The door’s closed anyway,” he argued in a whisper but you knew he felt as nervous as you at being caught, if not more so, yet still he was a stubborn one. His hand was firm and large clasping your cheek, expression arch and expectant. “Promise you’ll be a good little girl and say yes when I do ask.”

You laughed at his gall, to make you wait, to make you promise when he wasn’t even proposing. But then again -you had said you were his, and he was yours. It had already been done. Sometimes life was as simple as Gale Cleven made it out to be.

“I promise.” you whispered happily, bringing him back down to your embrace and willing away thoughts of tomorrow and flagging him out to danger.

One day he’d come back for good. One you could make promises again. Until then, there was hope.

Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writers lifeblood, I’d adore hearing your thoughts. 💋

[sapphicczaroftorture]

I CANNOT STRESS HOW MUCH IT IS GETTING WORSE.

I repeat: Bibi and Hamas NEED EACTH OTHER TO STAY IN POWER.

I feel the international community is our only hope.

Here, nobody w/ political power has political reason to have this all be over

The active calls for genocides just keep getting worse. The citizenry deserve peace, nut to be used as pawns. We have to not fall to the propaganda and remember our humanity. Release ALL hostages. People want to live. In peace. Govs and economical structure want war.

Being a jewish anti militarism and colonialism living in occupied Palestine, i really feel like i have no place.

Even the tiniest empathy for PEOPLE, HUMAN BEINGS, CIVILIANS who are Palestinian is considered as "supporting terrorism". I feel i have no place here, and im ashsamed being part of the occupying side.

I really feel This [anon online spaces] is the only place i can say that w/o concequence;

Occupation is occupation. Don't you understand every single person attacking NEVER HAD A FREE DAY IN THEIR LIVES? Evey soldier was born to insane propoganda and active justification of the occupation? They were born into the occupation, none want to die to it.

Terrorism is awful. But not ONLY muslims do terrorism. The way the military and settlers controls the Palestinians is terrorism. The massacre in Reim was terrorism. Terrorism does not justify terrorism.

Also, criticizing either is not antisemitism and is not islamophobic. I also do not blame individuals, the people being drafted are not to blame, i criticise the Governments who give no shits about human lives, they only care about political power.

Hammas and Bibi need each other to stay in power.

[racefortheironthrone]

Was the Comics Code as bad as the Hays Code?

That's a really good question!

I suppose it depends on what you mean by "as bad" - are we talking about the overall impact of the Code on American pop culture or are we talking about the actual content of the Code and what it banned and/or mandated in terms of artistic expression?

I've written a little bit about the Hays Code here, but my main focus was on subtextual judaism in Hollywood generally rather than what the Code was and what its impact on American cinema was.

So what did the Hays Code actually include?

One of the few positive things you can say about it is that the men who devised it were quite clear and forthright about what would and wouldn't be allowed, in comparison to the vagueness and inconsistency of the modern MPAA. So here's the list of what couldn't be shown:

Pointed profanity—by either title or lip—this includes the words God, Lord, Jesus, Christ (unless they be used reverently in connection with proper religious ceremonies), Hell, S.O.B., damn, Gawd, and every other profane and vulgar expression however it may be spelled; (You'll notice that the Code is very much a snapshot of the transition from silent movies to "talkies," with the discussion of how profanity is spelled as well as produced via "lip.")

Any licentious or suggestive nudity—in fact or in silhouette; and any lecherous or licentious notice thereof by other characters in the picture;

The illegal traffic in drugs;

Any inference of sex perversion; (i.e anything having to do with LGBT+ people and culture. For more on the impact of the Hays Code on the LGBT+ community, see the excellent documentary the Celluloid Closet.)

White slavery; (the 1920s version of sex trafficking, but with added racism!)

Miscegenation;

Sex hygiene and venereal diseases;

Scenes of actual childbirth—in fact or in silhouette;

Children's sex organs;

Ridicule of the clergy;

Willful offense to any nation, race or creed; and (this one was really honored in the breach more than the observance when it came to nations, races, and creeds of non-dominant groups in society.)

The following things could be shown, but "special care be exercised in the manner in which the following subjects are treated, to the end that vulgarity and suggestiveness may be eliminated and that good taste may be emphasized:"

The use of the Flag;

International Relations (avoid picturizing in an unfavorable light another country's religion, history, institutions, prominent people and citizenry); (again, depended a lot on what country you're talking about.)

Arson;

The use of firearms;

Theft, robbery, safe-cracking, and dynamiting of trains, mines, buildings, et cetera (having in mind the effect which a too-detailed description of these may have upon the moron); (I guess the idea was that the MPPDA believed very strongly in the idea that media could affect people's behavior through imitation, but the use of the word "moron" gives me eugenics vibes.)

Brutality and possible gruesomeness;

Technique of committing murder by whatever method;

Methods of smuggling;

Third-Degree methods; (i.e, torture)

Actual hangings or electrocutions as legal punishment for crime; Sympathy for criminals; (this was a big one; Hollywood had done very well from gangster films, so a lot of creators had to do some careful threading of the needle to keep the genre alive. One dodge that they came up with was that they would have a duplicate "final reel" in which the gangster would have their inevitable comeuppance, and then remove the final reel when the censors had left the theater. Very popular with white rural teens.) Attitude toward public characters and institutions; (again, Hollywood shifting from being anti- to pro-establishment.)

Sedition;

Apparent cruelty to children and animals;

Branding of people or animals;

The sale of women, or of a woman selling her virtue;

Rape or attempted rape;

First-night scenes; (i.e, wedding nights)

Man and woman in bed together; (hence the eventual TV practice of showing married couples in separate beds in the 50s)

Deliberate seduction of girls;

The institution of marriage;

Surgical operations;

The use of drugs;

Titles or scenes having to do with law enforcement or law-enforcing officers;

Excessive or lustful kissing, particularly when one character or the other is a "heavy".

So in general, we can say that the Hays Code was extremely sex-negative, very concerned about crime and anti-establishment thinking, sexist, racist, and homophobic, and in general afraid of offending anybody.

So what about the Comics Code Authority?

So this is what the Comics Code looked like in 1954:

Crimes shall never be presented in such a way as to create sympathy for the criminal, to promote distrust of the forces of law and justice, or to inspire others with a desire to imitate criminals. If crime is depicted it shall be as a sordid and unpleasant activity.

Policemen, judges, government officials, and respected institutions shall never be presented in such a way as to create disrespect for established authority.

Criminals shall not be presented so as to be rendered glamorous or to occupy a position which creates a desire for emulation. In every instance good shall triumph over evil and the criminal punished for his misdeeds.

Scenes of excessive violence shall be prohibited. Scenes of brutal torture, excessive and unnecessary knife and gunplay, physical agony, the gory and gruesome crime shall be eliminated.

No comic magazine shall use the words "horror" or "terror" in its title.

All scenes of horror, excessive bloodshed, gory or gruesome crimes, depravity, lust, sadism, masochism shall not be permitted.

All lurid, unsavory, gruesome illustrations shall be eliminated. Inclusion of stories dealing with evil shall be used or shall be published only where the intent is to illustrate a moral issue and in no case shall evil be presented alluringly, nor so as to injure the sensibilities of the reader.

Scenes dealing with, or instruments associated with walking dead, torture, vampires and vampirism, ghouls, cannibalism, and werewolfism are prohibited.

Profanity, obscenity, smut, vulgarity, or words or symbols which have acquired undesirable meanings are forbidden.

Nudity in any form is prohibited, as is indecent or undue exposure. Suggestive and salacious illustration or suggestive posture is unacceptable.

Females shall be drawn realistically without exaggeration of any physical qualities.

Illicit sex relations are neither to be hinted at nor portrayed. Rape scenes, as well as sexual abnormalities, are unacceptable.

Seduction and rape shall never be shown or suggested.

Sex perversion or any inference to same is strictly forbidden.

Nudity with meretricious purpose and salacious postures shall not be permitted in the advertising of any product; clothed figures shall never be presented in such a way as to be offensive or contrary to good taste or morals.[16]

You'll notice the similarities when it comes to the Codes' attitude to sex, sexuality, crime, and symbols of authority - so to answer the first part of your question, I would say the CCA was pretty similar to the Hays Code (in part because Charles F. Murphy, who drew it up, was deeply unoriginal and basically cribbed off the Hays Code throughout).

However, there are also some significant areas of difference that have a lot to do with the unique circumstances of the 1950s moral panic over comics. See, in the 1950s, superhero comics were considered deeply uncool and old hat - they had been huge in the 40s during the war, but by the 50s the biggest genre in comics were horror, crime, and romance comics (with cowboy comics bringing up the rear). To quote myself from another post:

"This gave rise to a moral panic in the 1950s, although more accurately it was part of the larger moral panic over juvenile delinquency. The U.S Senate established a Juvenile Delinquency Subcommittee of the Judiciary Committee in 1953 to investigate the causes of juvenile delinquency and comics became a major target. While Wertham’s book is best known today for its assertions that Batman and Robin were teaching young boys to be gay and Wonder Woman was teaching young girls to be lesbians, the main focus of the Subcommittee [edit mine: and Wertham's academic work] was on horror and crime comics for their depiction of sex, violence, and “subversive” attitudes to law and order."

The CCA made it impossible to publish two of the most popular genres in the industry for a generation (the CCA relaxed its stance on horror stuff a bit in the 70s, which is why Marvel trend-chased werewolves and vampires the moment they could get away with it), which not only scrambled the medium (and potentially created space for the Silver Age of superhero comics to flourish) but drove the former titan EC Comics practically out of business. (Indeed, William Gaines of EC Comics believed that the CCA had been specifically worded to drive him out of business.)

So in some ways, the CCA was worse.

[whinlatter]

That brings up an interesting point. Since you seen to be a canon girlie, do you think/feel that Hermione DOES become Minister?

What do you make of Harry being Head of Magical Law Enforcement?

thank you for this question anon! i do think it's very plausible hermione becomes minister of magic. i think it's equally plausible that harry becomes head of magical law enforcement. mostly because, well:

basically: i think both characters' career trajectories are in keeping with the politics of the series as a whole - eg. the goodies are all liberal, pro-state, non-revolutionary moderates who support a gradualist reformist agenda rather than a radical re-imagining of societal organisation. i also think both career options track with who each character is in canon (or rather, who the teenage versions of these characters might become as adults). and i think most of the reasons people are disappointed by either idea, and especially by harry coming 'a cop' then rising up the ranks to run law enforcement, is because they are putting their own more radical ambitions around social justice onto characters that would be poor vehicles for them.

on hermione - i don't know how many people have huge issue with the idea of hermione as minister of magic. i imagine the complaints with this idea come from people who a) like hermione and think hermione's politics as a teenager - identifying systemic injustice and labour exploitation of a subject people - jar with the idea of her settling within a political system that upholds and enforces that structure and others like it, or b) people don't like hermione as much and who think she would be too unpopular to get elected. to the former group, i'd trot out the arguments made far better than people other than me: that hermione's support for the house elves mostly boils down to a bit of a saviour complex and 'be nicer to your slaves', which is not especially radical position, and also point out the ministry's institutional culture seems to reward high-achieving technocrats with establishment credentials (or at least, prior records of academic and professional achievement), and i could see hermione riding that train straight to the top, especially on wave of post-war reformism with diminishing anti-muggleborn prejudice. (the wizarding world also loves a good (and bad) law and is extremely vigilant in enforcing them to a fault. hermione jean granger absolutely loves a rule. it's a match-made in heaven. it is - i fear - giving keir starmer).

to the second point, as i talked a bit about here, the wizarding world does not seem to be a democracy. so hermione wouldn't even need to be especially popular to get the top job. i personally love the idea of hermione quietly parking her commitments to representative democracy to get a bit of good labour legislation passed, or even thinking about wizarding democracy in victorian terms (as long as you're representing what you think the enlightened citizenry want, you're gucci). i mean honestly, what do the masses know! ignore em, queen. they're all kind of pureblood racists anyway!

on harry: i have a feeling it's harry's trajectory that most pisses people off. and i absolutely get it! people hate cops, and harry appears to become one, after spending a lot of the series raging against how shit senior leadership at the ministry of magic tend to be. while i do see the argument that teenage harry has strong criticisms of the ministry for its officials' self-interest, corruption and lack of accountability for their many miscarriages of justice, the truth is that a) harry never really associates being an auror with representing the ministry of magic as an institution, that b) he thinks of lots of characters who work in and around the ministry of magic, including in law enforcement, as agents of good (arthur weasley, kingsley, tonks, mad-eye, amelia bones) and c) harry at no point shows himself interested in thinking about ideology, about political systems, or about a more developed worldview beyond a deep sense of right and wrong and a need for justice. i think harry would like being head of magical law enforcement much less than hermione would like being minister, and i could see him finding the job enormously frustrating both for how much politicking it likely requires and for how little field action it would require. but i don't think that means it's out of character for him to rise up the ranks in pursuit of a more effective justice system and eventually take the top job as a means to an end.

the only other thing i'll say is that i do think there is something a bit culturally specific about imagining these two characters we think of as morally good actors taking up roles within the state to try to work for what they feel to be positive reform and progressive causes. the state appears quite neutrally in the hp series: it's a tool to be picked up and used to affect political change. this reflects its author's worldview, the political moment in which it was written (eg. under blair's new labour), and a longstanding dimension of real-life centre-left social democratic british politics usually expressed, at various times and to varying extents, by the political programme of the labour party throughout its history (to say nothing of a wider european context). it's not an inherently problematic political worldview (it is a core social democratic and socialist principle; it is also my own view of the state...), though ofc it can become so in the wrong hands. for instance, it's a consistent through-line in jkr's political evolution and a staple of her practically single-issue dangerous anti-trans politics even now - terf politics is a lot about wielding the state to remove legal protections from trans people, stop them from accessing health care etc. but the idea of the big state and of laws and government as a positive interventionist tool does colour hp as a text in lots of ways and is reflected in the worldview of many of its characters with which the reader is supposed to side. and i don't think we should overlook that.

conversely, hp is also a series devoid of political movements, and certainly of a meaningful far-left ideology or political sphere. and that's important to remember too if we're interested in canon coherence: hp is a liberal text in that it seemed plausible for its author to vacate a great deal of politics from her world-building. and i think that is, regretfully, worth remembering when we're claiming hermione should have been a trade union agitator or harry should have been an acab abolitionist organiser or whatever.

[psychotrenny]

I largely agree with you about the imperial core citizenry benefitting from imperialism, but I think you're incorrect in saying that they would benefit from socialism. The average imperial citizen's life would be immeasurably worse without their stolen land, infrastructure, wealth, social programs, etc. and that's before adding in reparations and repatriations to their ancestral homelands. We have to be honest as Marxists and recognize that true anti-imperialism requires returning the imperial core to where they were before imperialism, circa the mid-15th century or so.

You might wanna ask the tackle shop for a refund. Because this just isn't good bait

[ngdrb]

The Contemporary Intellectual Challenges Within Republican Politics

The age of idiots: "Are Republican politicians dumb? Let's break down the details for better understanding."

The Republican Party in the United States is facing significant intellectual challenges, particularly from within its ranks. The rise of the so-called "MAGA" (Make America Great Again) movement, spearheaded by former President Donald Trump and his ardent supporters, has brought to the forefront a concerning trend of anti-intellectualism, conspiracy theories, and a disregard for empirical evidence.

The MAGA Movement: A Departure from Reason

The MAGA movement, which has gained a strong foothold within the Republican Party, represents a departure from traditional conservative principles rooted in reason, logic, and intellectual discourse. Instead, it has embraced a brand of populism that often rejects expertise, dismisses inconvenient facts, and promotes a cult-like devotion to its figurehead, Donald Trump.

Prominent MAGA supporters such as Marjorie Taylor Greene, Donald Trump Jr., J.D. Vance, Ron Johnson, Lauren Boebert, Matt Gaetz, Elise Stefanik, Scott Perry, Kari Lake, Greg Abbott, and Ted Cruz have been at the forefront of propagating conspiracy theories, spreading disinformation, and undermining faith in democratic institutions.

The Denial of Reality

One of the most concerning aspects of the MAGA movement is its blatant denial of reality and its dismissal of empirical evidence. The refusal to accept the results of the 2020 presidential election, despite overwhelming evidence of its legitimacy, is a prime example of this dangerous trend.

Members of the MAGA movement have perpetuated the baseless claim of widespread voter fraud, even in the face of numerous court rulings, audits, and investigations that have found no evidence to support their allegations. This willful disregard for facts and the rule of law undermines the very foundations of American democracy.

The Erosion of Intellectual Discourse

The MAGA movement has also contributed to the erosion of intellectual discourse within the Republican Party. Instead of engaging in substantive debates and reasoned arguments, its adherents often resort to ad hominem attacks, whataboutism, and the demonization of those who dare to challenge their beliefs.

This hostility towards intellectual rigor and critical thinking has alienated many conservative thinkers and academicians, further exacerbating the party's intellectual challenges. The result is a political environment where emotionally charged rhetoric and conspiracy theories take precedence over evidence-based policymaking and rational debate

Threats to Social Cohesion and National Stability

The intellectual challenges within the Republican Party, fueled by the MAGA movement, pose significant threats to social cohesion and national stability. The promotion of divisive rhetoric, the demonization of perceived "enemies," and the rejection of established facts and institutions can lead to a further polarization of society and a breakdown of shared values and trust in democratic processes.

Moreover, the embrace of conspiracy theories and the normalization of disinformation can erode the foundations of an informed citizenry, which is essential for the proper functioning of a democratic society. When truth and reality are subjugated to partisan interests and personal agendas, the ability to engage in constructive dialogue and find common ground becomes increasingly difficult.

The Way Forward: Embracing Intellectual Integrity

To address these intellectual challenges, the Republican Party must recommit itself to the principles of reason, evidence-based policymaking, and respect for democratic institutions. This requires a willingness to reject conspiracy theories, disinformation, and the demonization of political opponents.

Additionally, the party must foster an environment that values intellectual discourse, welcomes diverse perspectives, and encourages critical thinking. This means embracing dissenting voices, engaging in substantive debates, and rejecting the notion that loyalty to a particular individual or ideology supersedes the pursuit of truth and the common good.

Ultimately, the path forward for the Republican Party lies in reclaiming its intellectual integrity and recommitting itself to the principles of reason, evidence, and democratic values. Only by doing so can it address the contemporary intellectual challenges it faces and restore its credibility as a party of serious thinkers and policymakers.

[anarchywoofwoof]

can't believe i haven't seen a post about this yet.

At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, the U.S. military launched a secret campaign to counter what it perceived as China’s growing influence in the Philippines, a nation hit especially hard by the deadly virus. The clandestine operation has not been previously reported. It aimed to sow doubt about the safety and efficacy of vaccines and other life-saving aid that was being supplied by China, a Reuters investigation found. Through phony internet accounts meant to impersonate Filipinos, the military’s propaganda efforts morphed into an anti-vax campaign. Social media posts decried the quality of face masks, test kits and the first vaccine that would become available in the Philippines – China’s Sinovac inoculation. Reuters identified at least 300 accounts on X, formerly Twitter, that matched descriptions shared by former U.S. military officials familiar with the Philippines operation. Almost all were created in the summer of 2020 and centered on the slogan #Chinaangvirus – Tagalog for China is the virus.

...

Some Filipino healthcare professionals and former officials contacted by Reuters were shocked by the U.S. anti-vax effort, which they say exploited an already vulnerable citizenry. Public concerns about a Dengue fever vaccine, rolled out in the Philippines in 2016, had led to broad skepticism toward inoculations overall, said Lulu Bravo, executive director of the Philippine Foundation for Vaccination. The Pentagon campaign preyed on those fears. “Why did you do it when people were dying? We were desperate,” said Dr. Nina Castillo-Carandang, a former adviser to the World Health Organization and Philippines government during the pandemic. “We don’t have our own vaccine capacity,” she noted, and the U.S. propaganda effort “contributed even more salt into the wound.”

the united states of america is a terrorist state.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Jim Carroll at The Hot Screen, via Flux:

The felony conviction of Donald Trump on all 34 counts related to his hush money payments to porn star Stormy Daniels shows that the American justice system is capable of imposing meaningful sanctions on the lawless former president — if a criminal case actually manages to run its course. The verdict came despite a ceaseless barrage of propaganda from Trump and the Republican Party, including threats against the presiding judge, so that this outcome was hardly certain. Against significant odds, accountability has come for Trump, with the potential to unsettle what has been a neck-and-neck presidential race, and cause more Americans to grasp Trump’s fundamental unfitness for office. The former president’s felony status is disqualifying, and Democrats and others must invest time and effort into communicating why this is so (for a rundown of the arguments they can make, this recent piece by Brian Beutler is an excellent starting point).  But just as important as the conviction itself is the contemptible and extreme Republican Party reaction that has exploded in its wake, as what most people view as the proper working of the justice system is being characterized by the Republican Party and Trump himself as a corrupt, rigged, and disastrous outcome that must be reversed at the earliest opportunity. More than this, though — the GOP is using the verdict to falsely proclaim that the entire justice system is corrupt, and as justification to plan radical measures to weaponize the justice system against their political opponents. In doing so, they show that they would rather burn down the entire edifice of the rule of law than see their party leader made subject to it.

We need to be clear-eyed about what these Republicans are saying, for they do not actually believe that the justice system is corrupt, and so to treat their claims in good faith is dangerous and self-defeating. As The Atlantic’s Adam Serwer observes, the problem that Trump and the GOP have with the verdict is that the system is in fact not corrupt, and has properly brought the former president to justice. But because their leader is a criminal, they must re-define the rule of the law itself to be the actual problem. This is upside-down, authoritarian logic, which basically reduces to saying that the law is whatever the Republican Party says it is. It’s a mentality that we have seen in countries like Vladimir Putin’s Russia, but which has now migrated to American shores, and been adopted by one of America’s two major political parties.

On top of this, the GOP is now using the verdict as an excuse to seek retribution against their Democratic “enemies,” even though the Democrats did not actually do anything wrong in the first place; rather, the Democrats are being scapegoated because the legal system itself worked as intended! In other words, they intend to use the everyday, apolitical functioning of the justice system that held their criminal leader to account to justify the complete subversion of the justice system to achieve anti-democratic political ends, such as jailing opponents on false charges. Doubling down on a convicted Trump, the GOP has consciously made criminality and lawlessness central to the party’s political identity, a fact that if widely understood should rightly appall and alienate a vast swathe of the American citizenry.

This Republican reaction to Trump’s conviction — highly coordinated, relentless, and nihilistic — should provide final confirmation that the GOP has transformed into an authoritarian party that rejects democracy and all of its constituents, which include free and fair elections, an independent judiciary, equality under the law, and the illegitimacy of political violence. Indeed, we should also understand that the extreme GOP unity in supporting a criminal president is in itself reason for alarm. As MSNBC host Chris Hayes remarked, “The lesson they learned is if you enforce this totalitarian unanimity, you can keep chugging along. And it is a wildly dangerous lesson. Because they will do this no matter what he does, and no matter how bad it gets.” We might say that “totalitarian unanimity” (what a great, if ominous, phrase) is the GOP’s battering ram against democracy, their answer to the rule of law: stick together, say up is down, and seek power by tearing down America’s institutions while issuing a cloud of lies, propaganda, and violent threat. Another way of looking at is one that highlights the GOP’s increasingly fascistic tendencies, as we might say that the party is attempting to will itself into power through a unified embrace of lies and a mass subversion of the rule of law.

The GOP’s refusal to accept the legitimacy of Trump’s conviction, with its accompanying assault on the rule of law, should be seen as on a continuum with Trump’s attempted coup following the 2020 election, the ever-broadening GOP refusal to accept adverse election results in 2024, and the GOP’s use of violent threat to achieve political ends (as Trump has done in threatening a “bloodbath” if he isn’t re-elected). Individually, each of these strategies can be called authoritarian and anti-democratic — but to properly understand, communicate, and confront their collective threat, we need to more precisely describe this GOP effort to overturn America’s democracy for what it is: an insurrection against the U.S. government. In its denial of Trump’s conviction, the GOP is not simply aiming to overturn the verdict, but looking to overturn for all time the idea that any verdict can ever be considered settled if it goes against Republican Party interests (here, the calls to have the GOP-dominated Supreme Court somehow step in and make things right for Trump provides a blueprint for future tampering). If they can undo this, they can undo the prospect that any other Republican leader can be held to account for breaking the law. Such a principle, once established, would render the United States not a democracy but a one-party state, where the GOP could engage in any manner of political behavior — lawless or even violent — with impunity. 

If we view the Republican war on the Trump verdict as the latest campaign in an ongoing GOP insurrection, the Democrats’ failure to date to fully amplify the verdict is not just self-defeating, but a dereliction of duty. As I said, not only does the verdict disqualify Trump, the GOP’s reaction to it is an equally — or even more important — disqualifying development regarding the GOP as a whole. There is a fundamental error in thinking that this is just about Donald Trump, and that if the public simply hears about the verdict, it will form negative opinions about the former president and his capacity to return to the Oval Office. Such thinking ignores the fact that the GOP is actively trying to convince people not only that Trump isn’t guilty, but that American democracy is itself the problem! The GOP isn’t just engaging in aggressive politics — it’s engaging in an effort that, if successful, and in conjunction with the other insurrectionary efforts I noted above, would result in the transformation of the United States into an authoritarian, one-party state. For the Democrats to contest neither the Republican lies about the verdict, nor the accompanying effort to attack the rule of law, would be incomprehensible.

[...] It seems to me that the Democrats are being cowed by what is in part an epic bluff by the GOP, both in the case of the Trump conviction and with other insurrectionary strategies, such as the preemptive refusal to accept the 2024 election results. In fact, the Republican Party is far, far out on a brittle limb in terms of advancing ideas that are alien and bizarre to the American majority — for instance, the idea that the entire judiciary is part of a plot to “get” Donald Trump, or that Democrats only ever win elections through the illegal votes of millions of undocumented immigrants. To put it in more Trumpian terms, we could say that the GOP is advancing a high-stakes pyramid scheme, in which at each step the American public is being asked to provide the party with ever more outrageous deposits of credulity (this may be a major reason why Trump, with his business history of such schemes, has synched up so easily with the GOP’s fascistic forms of politics).

The fact that the GOP might yet succeed, in large part by convincing enough citizens of objectively insane and anti-American ideas, should clue Democrats into the fact that this insurrection is being fought in the realm of ideas and emotions, not through guns and bombs (even as Trump continues to intimate terrible violence to come should he lose in November). And though the movement challenging America is far wider than Trump, Democrats can leverage the former president to inflict devastating damage on the entire GOP and the anti-democratic movement it embodies. So many Republican politicians have mortgaged their reputations to the former president, hoping that his victory in November will be worth it. But by chaining himself to his criminality over the years, and particularly in the wake of this verdict, they have made themselves vulnerable to public opinion swinging decisively against a felon chief executive, with all the burning red flags that his criminal status raises. The GOP’s reaction to the verdict — to basically declare that Trump, and by extension the GOP, is actually above the law — is equally damning and disqualifying, showing that the GOP would rather abandon democracy than abandon their criminal leader. Trump is the deranged avatar of a white supremacist, Christian nationalist movement to overturn and replace U.S. democracy with a system that serves an ever-shrinking, self-serving, and radicalized minority of the population. 

In the Republican land of Good Is Evil and Evil Is Good, most of these brainwashed jackals wrongly believe that a clearly guilty Donald Trump is “innocent” yet declare systems that hold a fascist like Trump accountable to be “guilty”, such as the justice system that did their job correctly.

[hunter-creature]

Trans Preparedness

I'm probably not the right kind of blog to be doing this, but I go a little crazy not having a plan. A friend set up a threat model and practical steps that can be made to prepare for it. If this kind of disaster preparedness might be too much for you do not force yourself to read through this. Keeping calm and healthy is paramount above all of this.

Legal documents

Ban on legal document changes, reversion of previous changes and invalidation of updated documents. This means potentially being outed any time you present your ID. If you do update your documents, this may make it impossible to cross the border and any other checkpoints (legal or extralegal), as your documents could be invalidated. Possible criminal fraud penalty, like in florida, making the continued use of an invalidated ID risky. Risk of revocation of all legal recognition of non-binary gender.

What you can do to prepare: Consider whether it would be best to have your legal documents match your true gender or your agab. If you can’t reliably pass as your true gender, it may be prudent to have your documents reflect your agab, in the event you need to go through a document checkpoint without arousing suspicion. Also, consider that, by changing your documents, you may end up “on a list”.

Anti-trans discrimination

Rollback of anti-discrimination protections in employment, healthcare, and harassment/hate crimes.

What you can do to prepare: If you work at a corporation/franchise/small business with republican ownership or coworkers, consider updating your résumé and looking for new employment. If you do land a new job, think carefully about whether to present as your true gender or your agab while at work. Be extra cautious about coming out at your job — only do so if you can’t reliably pass as either your true gender or your agab.

If possible, save money. Pick up extra shifts. Cut back on discretionary purchases. Cancel unnecessary subscriptions. Meal prep. Organize bulk purchases with your community to share costs and get better prices. Visit your local food pantry instead of the grocery store. Etc.

One possible safeguard against healthcare discrimination is to have your medical records updated to reflect a diagnosis of intersex, rather than transgender, if possible. I’m not privy to the details, but my understanding is that there are certain diagnostic codes, genetic tests, etc that can be used to mask your transgender status while maintaining access to the same treatments.

Healthcare restrictions

Introduction of insurmountable liability for healthcare providers and expansion of malpractice definition/enforcement to make providing trans healthcare impossible. Possible criminalization of doctors prescribing HRT. Possible criminalization of HRT possession/use. It will become impossible to access HRT, except through DIY. Possible discrepancies in enforcement between states, with red states imposing “bounty hunter laws” that allow anyone to sue a person who has taken HRT.

What you can do to prepare: If you have a legal prescription for your HRT, ask your provider for a 90-day prescription. Fill it as soon as possible, and refill it once before inauguration day. Consider rationing to extend your supply.

Start thinking about what you’ll do when your stockpile runs out. Look into DIY method of HRT. Plan how you can share the cost of supplies among your community to build a larger stockpile.

Bathroom bans

National bathroom ban with possible deputized citizenry/tiplines. Could be fines or criminal penalties (jail). Either way, this makes it near impossible to go out in public, even in blue areas, because all it takes is one transphobe to turn your life upside down. This applies whether you’re in the restroom for your true gender or your agab, since we can’t count on transphobes to be consistent with enforcement (i.e. you look visibly queer so someone calls the cops on you, even though you’re in the restroom of your agab).

What you can do to prepare: Consult the Refuge Bathrooms directory to find single-occupant restrooms near you. Also submit any single-occupant restrooms you come across to the Refuge Bathrooms directory to help out others in the future. If you need to go into a gender-segregated multi-occupant restroom, try to go with a buddy or in a group for safety. Choose which restroom to use based on your outward appearance, not your internal gender.

Drag bans

May define transgender people doing any form of performance as drag, including public speaking at an event or protest, or performing live music in a venue or on the street. Possible definition of transgender people merely existing as “sexually explicit drag” in many circumstances. Possible classification of transgender people as sex offenders under this premise. May bar trans people under threat of criminal penalty from entering government buildings, airports, and schools while dressed in accordance with their gender.

What you can do to prepare: If you’re comfortable and capable of doing so, work on “passing“ as your true gender through voice training, clothing choices, hair style, and makeup. If you can’t reliably pass as your true gender, consider wearing less attention-grabbing, looser-fit, gender-neutral clothing and finding other ways to express your gender. Even if you’re wearing more body-conforming clothes, consider carrying a baggy sweatshirt or jacket to conceal your secondary sex characteristics in an emergency. Consider assembling a set of clothes associated with your agab, as well as any accessories such as a binder or packer, in case you need to “stealth” as your agab.

Additional notes

Update your passport, ID, and vaccinations. Drink water. Hug your friends. We get through this together.

[ahaura]

??? Also are you implying that Hamas never misfired and accidentally bombs Gaza?? An extremely well documented, recorded fact??? With videos of bombs heading toward Israel falling and missing their targets??? Like. Why are you people desperately slobbering for a bloodthirsty Jew image. Sometimes Hamas accidentally bombs itself and its citizens. That is a fact.

the fact of the matter is that hamas does not have that kind of fire power. misfired rockets have happened, yes, but only israel has the fire power to blow up a hospital and kill 500-1,000 people. also the idea that people are trying to "paint jewish people in a bad light" does not apply when

israeli officials LITERALLY called palestinians HUMAN ANIMALS

the israeli state and western media apparatus have so thoroughly dehumanized palestinians that the idea of 2.2 million people trapped in an open air prison 25 miles long when they have been starved, abused, beaten, murdered, and oppressed does not bother the majority of western nations.

it's pretty antisemitic to assume that israel represents all jewish people. it's fucking antisemitic to say that israel = jewish people. especially when jewish anti-zionist activists exist and are actively putting their bodies on the line protesting with allies as the genocide continues. the idf regularly harasses anti-zionist israeli citizens. don't do jewish people the gross disservice of saying or implying israel represents them.

the fact that you think this is a "jewish vs muslim" issue shows that you fundamentally do not understand that israel is a settler colony who murdered and displaced the palestinian people - often times bulldozing or living in the VERY HOMES THEY LIVED IN. this is an issue of settlers vs. indigenous people. prior to british colonialism in the region, christians, muslims, and jewish people lived in the region peacefully. there are jewish and christian palestinians but the israeli state doesn't care. the israeli state has done nothing but brutalize, murder, imprison, and displace palestinians since the state's inception. or do you think that palestinians willingly left their home and just fell over and died in 1948? when zionist forces with the aid of the british army either expelled or massacred entire villages?

on second thought dont answer that. you'll only justify apartheid and utilize racist and orientalist language and say "hamas is using human shields!!!1" and how it's arab people's fault there isn't any peace and that they should just lay down and let the israeli state kill them and their families.

also hamas is literally an invention of the israeli state. hamas as it exists now is entirely the israeli state's fault.

i will not debate the humanity of people who are currently undergoing genocide by a fascist regime who claims to speak for and act on the behalf of all jewish people who has been subjecting palestinians to an apartheid since 1948. under apartheid all violence that occurs is the fault of the state, even if the oppressed engage in violent action. i am NOT saying that people should have died; i am saying that what happened on oct. 7 was inevitable . the israeli state chose fasicsm and apartheid and has now escalated to genocide.

the israeli state does not care about you. the state does not care about jewish people. if they cared about the safety and security of their citizens there would be no apartheid, no settler colonialism, no second-class citizenry. violence always begets violence; the violence of the apartheid is the DIRECT cause of what happened on oct. 7. the far-right government, including netanyahu and gvir, are squarely to blame.

the way to peace - to prevent ALL deaths - is to end the genocide, end the occupation, end settler colonialism, and end the apartheid. to make everyone equal citizens under a secular government and make restitution to palestinians and for everyone responsible for civilian deaths to be jailed. you cannot have peace if the violence of apartheid and oppression continue.

[dragonagekeeper]

Awakening Polls

Dragon Age Origins Polls

See quest and choice descriptions from Dragon Age Wiki/Keep below

Keep protected

If the Warden chooses to abandon the city to save Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine is burned to the ground. The city's destruction does not endear the Wardens to Ferelden, and although much of the citizenry wants to forget the terrible event, a small segment pledges to exact revenge on the Grey Wardens. Eventually, a mob appears at Vigil's Keep, and although many are shown mercy and survive the bloody clash, public opinion of the Wardens remain sour until the Wardens finally lead an effort to rebuild Amaranthine.

Different epilogues based on the Warden's background:

If the Warden is a Mage and chooses to abandon the city, they will spread rumors that the Warden is a maleficar and an abomination, controlled by spirits of the Fade set to destroy humanity. If the Warden is an elf and chooses to abandon the city, rumors say that the burning of Amaranthine was an act of revenge, part of a larger plot to destroy all human settlements. If the Warden is Orlesian (Awakening only) and chooses to abandon the city to save Vigil's Keep, rumors persist that the Warden was sent as part of a plot of Orlais to retake---or even destroy, Ferelden, fanning more anti-Warden sentiment. If the Warden is a Human Noble and chooses to abandon the city to save Vigil's Keep, there are whispers that the burning of Amaranthine was a move for the Warden to gain more influence at court.

If the Warden chooses to abandon Amaranthine and save Vigil's Keep, annals of the Grey Wardens hail the Warden Commander's victory at the Keep as a crucial one. Eventually, many of the Order's more clever recruits often spend days studying the account of the successful defense in order to better understand the Warden's tactics.

Peace allows the Wardens to replenish their numbers, and in time the keep bears an army with Wardens as its core, and new heroes would emerge from their ranks to challenge threats to Amaranthine and Ferelden.

2. Amaranthine protected

If the Warden-Commander does none or few upgrades on Vigil's Keep and chooses to save City of Amaranthine:

The Keep will fall. The costs to repair the Vigil are too great so the Wardens move their base of operations to the palace in city. In time, wilderness claims the Vigil. Old soldiers would visit the site, remembering the great siege but in time even they cease to come.

If the Warden-Commander made some but not all upgrades on Vigil's Keep and chooses to save the City of Amaranthine:

The battle will be long but doomed from the outset. Barely any soldiers survive the battle but the darkspawn army has also paid an enormous cost for its victory. A state and plaque is erected on the ruins of the Vigil's Keep to commemorate its defenders as their sacrifice saved all of Amaranthine.

With the Vigil destroyed the Wardens take residence to the palace in the city. This is for the Warden-Commander a politically trying time since the loss of the Wardens' military force gave an opportunity to some conniving minor nobles to shirk their allegiance.

If the Warden chooses to save Amaranthine, the citizens are overjoyed. This helps bring in large donations from other nations to Ferelden resulting in Amaranthine being rebuilt in a year and Vigil's Keep in five.

3. Keep and Amaranthine protected

The Warden found a way to save both the Keep and Amaranthine.

If the Warden chooses to save Amaranthine, and if all the upgrades are made to the Keep:

It will hold against the Darkspawn army for days in a row before the attacking horde broke upon her walls. Although greatly outnumbered, the soldiers' silverite armor allow them to kill a dozen darkspawn each before falling. The keep developed an almost mythic reputation, the few survivors immortalized in song and legend. When the magnitude of the losses came to light, sympathy drove generous donations from all over Ferelden into the region's coffers. Vigil's Keep was restored to its former glory in five years.

[daloy-politsey]

I feel like this is a no shit question but do you think that when the us and europe pushed european jews into Israel during the founding of Israel, they knew that not only would the founding be a heavily militaristic endeavor but that these people they were pushing into the area would be mired in the conflict? Basically maintaining the dehumanization of european jews and viewing then as cannon fodder or pawns? And this particular dehumanization still continues to this very day, possibly with evidence? Not that im excusing Israel in any way, but it seems like the way the west began and has maintained its support for Israel, is through a paternalistic anti Semitic relationship derived from anti Semitic foundations. Like fascist entities using an ethnic group it hates to carry out atrocities against other minorities, all the while preserving its citizenry. I feel like the oil outpost ally angle is very focused on but I've only seen snippets of figures referring to cannon fodder perspectives

Of course. This is all true. Israel was the west’s answer to the Jewish question and it uses Israel as a proxy for western interests.

[ego-osbourne]

Tumblr citizenry, it is with a heavy heart that I must do this. User Ego-Osbourne is an anti-democratic facial hair fascist. They have disregarded the sanctity of the blessed Tumblr poll and are proceeding to place Mustaches in a position of power, despite the Rightful and Decisive win of Scruff (#scruffsweep). I have done my best to fight for you, the people, but this tyrant cannot be stopped. Or bribed with gumballs. Or sued for emotional damages. In Salt in the Wound, Ego the Dragonborn will... Have a mustache. Democracy dies in darkness.

-Mellowscrolls (Tallysin)

Woe, Elvis Ego and Freddie Mercury Sanguine be upon ye

[wanderingmind867]

Hi, Hello, please tell me more about the plot of batman's villains doing community work to say fuck you to Batman and the Government. Punk as fuck! Please go off!

You asked me to elaborate on an idea, so I will try and reply. But since it's been a while, I've now got two similar ideas that I'm going to share here:

Idea 1: Possibly as a community service thing (maybe to help get more funding for Gotham's clearly broken mental health care system), Arkham begins letting the inmates sign up for community service projects. It'll help the inmates with their mental stability (hopefully), it'll make the inmates less scary to the average citizenry, it'll help encourage people to feel more strongly towards care for the mentally ill, etc.

And from here, the community service would go over so well that people actually begin to trust and like the rogues. So when next Batman comes to beat one up (possibly for dramatic irony have him bust them for something they didn't even do) the public begins to turn on him and turn towards the villians. And boom! The dichotomy of Gotham has immediately shifted.

Idea 2: More on a wide scale than this other idea. Have a team composed of famous DC Super-Villians become anti-heroes, if not full fledged heroes. Take like Lex Luthor, Harley Quinn, Reverse Flash, Captain Cold, The Cheetah, Poison Ivy, The Riddler, Two-Face, etc. Put them on a team and have them doing heroic deeds. Possibly it starts accidentally, possibly it starts as an experiment by the Justice League on behalf of rehabilitative justice (if we go this way, I get to include my favourite DC hero in Martian Manhunter), etc. Either way, we get a team of villians who slowly become relatable, sympathetic and publicly trusted.

[constant-gunfire]

In a country divided and confused, it is often considered, adding fuel to the fire to bring up something such as our second amendment rights. There seems to be a huge disconnect between logical thinking and controlled thinking. Logical thinking, reveals that God himself gave man the right to defend himself, his property, and his family. Logical thinking is what occurred when the founding fathers took the principles that God had given man and place them into a document that would hold them as guidelines and God-given rights for our country. The things that are happening in Aurora, Colorado and other places across our country should remind us of the great need for a citizenry bearing arms. Without that we are simply left without recourse in many situations. So logically thinking we do not want to be in a position where our lives, our homes, and our families are left to the whims of our fractured and self-centered government .

Control thinking tells you that guns are the problem. And that the second amendment can be changed to fit what the all knowing government believes. We are limiting free speech to quill pens. We should not be limiting the right to Bear arms to muskets. Sure, I know that we have not yet made that move, but we have systematically been conditioned to believe that automatic, firearms and certain components of other firearms violate the right to bear arms. This didn’t happen in a moment, but rather it happened overtime as the government and the media pull on your heartstrings using our children. The same government, mind you, that allows the slaughter of innocent children in the womb on a daily basis tells us that it is our moral duty to ban firearms in certain capacities and configurations for the sake of our babies. What hypocrisy! What absolute godless brainwash.

As a summarize the thought processes dominate our culture, or the lack there of I should say… Let me remind you that Venezuelan gangs have taken over multiple apartment complexes in Aurora, Colorado, USA with very little, if any resistance. Law enforcement has done very little. The government has done nothing. Except the state of Colorado has passed some of the most liberal anti-constitutional gun control bills in the country. They have disarmed the populous, the people! You know the ones our founding fathers found it necessary to protect the right to bear arms for. But, of course our weak and brainwash government knows best. Carry On!