#capt wit a t

[clairehadenough]

👃 Can you smell the desperation 😂

As if she doesn’t know that DM posts on Sunday the messages she’s been receiving all week😆

Baby your tantrums are a joy to watch, keep them coming Capt with a T😍

[xuchiya]

"Epilogue: 2 years as CEO, many years of protecting you" || kang yeosang [a mini-series]

genre: non!idol yeosang. fluff. angst. violence. mentions: gun. knives. attempt murder/kidnapping. blood. anxiety attack.

  "Oh my Seonghwa!" You witness your sister throwing her arms around her fiance. Seonghwa chuckled, wrapping his arms around her waist pulling her up in the air, her squealing in delight, “Hi darling.”

Pulling away, taking his face on her hands, “You scared me— all of us! You went flatline on us! Flatline.” She screams on his face, Seonghwa only shakes his head– a big smile on his lips seeing her eyes filled with concern yet in his eyes, she looks cute.

Leaning down to capture her lips, shutting her up. “I know but you were the reason I still want to live. I can’t leave my bride alone on the altar.” 

Your sister shuts up, her face was colored in red hue as she stutters words so incoherent that you had to pull her away, “Sorry Hwa , I’ll take her from here.”

You put your sister on a nearby bench, giving her water as you leaned back; watching your boyfriend throw the disk towards Yunho and San while Mingi stands watching Jongho pull off soccer moves. Seonghwa is on a picnic blanket with Wooyoung, feasting on the snacks you brought with you.

“You know … it felt like just yesterday all of this drama with Wanyoung unfolds and now, all of them are chilling like nothing happened.”Your sister said, leaning closer to you, you nodded, agreeing. 

It had been two years since the harrowing events unfolded. Seonghwa's near-death experience still haunted your dreams. He had flatlined for two excruciating minutes after Yunho and the others left him, but Jongho's quick actions saved him, finding a faint pulse and rushing him to the ER to stabilize his condition. The memory of Yunho handing you to Yeosang, taking down the pursuing Mercedes with San's unmatched weapon skills, still played vividly in your mind. San's interception of the phone call from Mr. Kim to Daniel's men, Yunho overhearing the entire plot through the earpiece, and Wooyoung's precision in taking down Wayoung from afar all seemed like scenes from a gripping thriller.

Now, with Wayoung, your grandfather, and your cousin Daniel behind bars for their crimes, peace has finally settled over your family. The company, once teetering on the brink of collapse, was now thriving. The sense of normalcy and safety was a welcome change.

You and your sister, overlooking the serene cityscape, the green view of the park, the setting sun casting a warm glow over the scene.

“Yeah but at least we’re okay now. You’re getting married.” You teased her. She laughed, nudging you playfully. "And you have a boyfriend now. A biker."

You shake your head, “A bodyguard too.”

"Mine too," she replied, and the two of you burst into laughter, the sound blending with the gentle breeze.

As the laughter faded, a sense of calm and contentment filled you. The turmoil of the past was finally behind you, replaced by a hopeful future. The peace was almost surreal.

Just then, a commotion broke the tranquility. A man tripped nearby, his grocery bags tumbling to the ground, apples and cans rolling in every direction, you could hear him cursing as he picked up the fallen items and inside the bag. His cap hid unsuccessfully his hair that was two-toned, you notice it since Wooyoung is also two-toned but the front part of his hair.

 You instinctively rushed to help him, crouching down to gather the scattered items. As you handed him a can, you noticed a dog tag hanging from his neck. The inscription caught your eye: "Capt." Your heart skipped a beat, a strange feeling settling in your stomach. The man thanked you, his eyes meeting yours from beneath his cap. There was something familiar about the dog tag that made you want to call for him yet your lips were sealed shut.

Before you could say anything, he turned and walked past you. You stood there, confusion and curiosity swirling within you. 

Who was he? 

You turned to follow him, but it was as if he had vanished into thin air, leaving you with more questions than answers. Before you could go and look for him, your boyfriend calls for you.

“My lady, come on. Wooyoung is about to blow his cake.” You hum, smiling at your boyfriend. With an outstretched hand, he took your hand and led you down towards your crowding friends. 

“Who was that guy?” You look at him with a playful hint in your eyes, “Why? Jealous?”

He chuckles, pinching your cheeks, “No silly. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You nodded, taking his hand in yours; intertwining them tightly. “I know.”  The memories of the past two years with him flooded your mind. From the adrenaline-fueled escape to the quiet, tender moments you shared, your relationship had been through its share of ups and downs.

You remembered the late-night talks where you both bared your souls, sharing your fears and dreams. The times when Yeosang held you close as you cried, the weight of the world pressing down on you. And the moments of joy, like the spontaneous trips to the beach and the laughter-filled cooking disasters in the kitchen. Through it all, Yeosang was your rock, his steady presence a constant source of comfort.

But it hasn't been easy. There were disagreements and misunderstandings, times when the pressure seemed too much to bear. Yet, each challenge only strengthened your bond, forging a love that was resilient and unbreakable. You were thankful for him. You were glad to meet him. 

“I love you.” Shocking Yeosang, he looks at you with wide eyes. You chuckle letting go of his hand before running away from him. Blinking numerous times, he chases after you, “You can’t just say that out of nowhere!”

You stuck out your tongue, running again. 

From afar, the same man looks with a small smile on his lips, "Happy birthday Woo~” Eyeing one by one, the smile of his members sent pain down his chest. His past is in the past, things he would do to go back and be with them in a different timeline, but he knows he has to accept the fate. For now.

Jongho, who– for the first time loses a game of rock, paper, scissors returns from the convenient store with drinks when he notices a male leaning on a tree, overlooking a group of people. His group of people. He felt a sudden rush of disgust yet seeing upclose of the man's appearance, it flushed down, “Excuse me?”

The man turns around, surprise with the voice to which Jongho were surprise too his eyes widening as his mouth stutters open and shut in shock, to see who was in front of him.

“Hongjoong-hyung?” 

THE END

taglist: @yeosangsbabygirlsblog, @hi-karii , @ateez-atiny380

[mixergiltron]

Arrr Laddies!

Aye,be it that time o' year a'gin. The day where we speak the tongue o' the buccaneers. 'n t' save ye seadogs from scurvy,I've a pair o' grogs t' make ye merry. Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum!

Mix #227 Peg Leg

1oz Plantation 3 Star 3/4oz Lemon Hart 151 3/4oz lime juice 1/2oz simple syrup 1/4oz Demerara syrup 2-3 dashes grapefruit bitters

Shake wit' ice 'n pour inta mug.

Sink me,t'is a beauty of a riff on the traditional grog/daiquiri. Birthed by a landlubber named Kyle Davidson,a barman in the former tavern Blackbird in Chicago,this will send you t' Davey Jones if ya have t' many. Blackbeard hisself would'a drank dis.

Mix #228 Capt Vadrna's Grog

2.5oz spiced rum 3/4oz lime juice 1/2oz white grapefruit juice 3/4oz Demerara syrup 1 dash Angostura bitters

Shake wit' ice 'n pour inta mug.

That 'ol seadog Beachbum Berry made dis t' honor his matey Cap'n Stanislav Vadrna. 'tis a bit tart,but then mayhap so was his heartie? The 'ol pirate Hemingway would'a toasted Calypso with this'n.

'n here be some more pirate drinks I've done,t' keep ye smilin'.

Mix #10 Traditional Grog

1.5oz navy strength rum 1oz lime juice 1/2oz Demerara syrup

Shake with ice and pour into glass or mug.

Mix #11 Navy Grog

1oz light rum 1oz dark rum 1oz Demerara rum 1oz honey syrup 3/4 oz lime juice 3/4oz grapefruit juice 2oz club soda

Shake everything except soda with ice. Pour into double rocks glass and top with soda.

Mix #12 Sailor's Grog

1.5oz spiced rum 1/2oz 151 Demerara rum 3/4oz lime juice 3/4oz orange juice 1/2oz falernum 1 dash Angostura bitters 1.5oz ginger beer

Shake everything except beer with ice and pour into double rocks glass. Top with beer.

Mix #15 Black Beard's Ghost(mine)

2oz light rum 2oz orange juice 1oz lemon juice 1oz blackberry brandy 1/2oz orgeat

Shake with ice and pour into mug.

Mix #14 Pirate's Parley

1oz Demerara rum 3oz pineapple juice 3/4oz lime juice 1/2oz apricot brandy 1/2oz orange curacao

Shake with ice and pour into mug.

Mix #13 Corsair Punch

2oz Appleton Estate 8yr Reserve 2oz orange juice 2oz pineapple juice 3/4oz lime juice 3/4oz grenadine 1/2oz orgeat

Shake with plenty of ice and pour into mug.

Mix #51 Blackbeard's Ghost

1.5oz white rum 1/2oz demerara rum 1.5oz orange juice 1oz lemon juice 1oz falernum 1/2oz apricot brandy 2 dashes Angostura bitters

Shake with plenty of ice.

Mix #84 Mariner's Ghost

3/4oz dark rum 3/4oz light rum 1oz mango juice 1oz grapefruit juice 1/2oz lime juice 1/2oz allspice dram dash of simple syrup

Shake with ice and pour into mug.

Mix #94 Skull & Bones

1.5oz Lemon Hart 151 rum 1/2oz Bacardi Gran Reserva Diez rum 3/4oz lime juice 1/2oz passionfruit syrup 1/2oz grenadine 1/8tsp Pernod 1 dash Angostura bitters

Shake with ice and pour into your spookiest mug.

Mix #124 Tortuga

1oz Demerara 151 rum 1oz gold rum 1oz sweet vermouth 1/2oz orange curacao 1/2oz white creme de cacao 1/2oz lime juice 1/2oz lemon juice 1/2oz orange juice 1/4oz grenadine

Shake with plenty of ice and pour into classic style Tiki mug.

Mix #116 Buccaneer's Bounty

1oz Navy rum 1oz dark rum 1/2oz Demerara 151 rum 1oz honey syrup 3/4oz grapefruit juice 3/4oz lime juice 1/2oz cinnamon syrup 2 dashes bitters

Shake with ice and strain into glass with fresh ice.

Mix #130 Yellowbeard's Grog

2oz Pyrat XO Reserve rum 1oz lime juice 1/2oz Pierre Ferrand Yuzu 1/2oz Small Hand Foods orgeat 1/4oz Demerara syrup

Shake with ice,stagger-stagger-crawl-stagger,then pour into upturned skull of someone you don't like. Garnish with Mr Prostitute's moustache and a speared piece of Spam.

Pleasant seas me hearties,'n here be a pirate's blessin':

May your ANCHOR be tight, Your CORK be loose, Your RUM be spiced, And your COMPASS be true.

[todaysdocument]

Treaty Between the United States and the Pawnee Republic signed at St. Louis, June 20, 1818. 

Record Group 11: General Records of the United States Government

Series: Indian Treaties

File Unit: Ratified Indian Treaty 94: Pawnee Republic - St. Louis, June 20, 1818

Transcription: 

A Treaty of Peace and Friendship made and concluded by and between William Clark, and

Auguste Chouteau, Commissioners of the United States of America, on the part and behalf of Said

States of the one part; And the Undersigned Chiefs and Warriors of the Pawnee Republic on the part

and behalf of their tribe; of the other part.

   The parties being desirous of Establishing Peace and Friendship between the United States and the

said Tribe, have agreed to the following Articles. -

Art: 1st;  Every injury or act of hostility by one or either of the contracting Parties, against the other, shall be mutually forgiven and forgot.

Art: 2nd; There shall be perpetual Peace and Friendship between all the citizens of the United States of America, and all

                the individuals composing the said Pawnee Tribe.

Art: 3rd; The undersigned Chiefs and Warriors for themselves and their said Tribe, do hereby acknowledge themselves to be

               under the protection of the United States of America and of no other nation, Power, or Sovereign whatsoever.

Art: 4th; The undersigned Chiefs and Warriors for themselves and the tribe they represent, do moreover promise and oblige them-

               selves to deliver up, or to cause to be delivered up to the authority of the United States (to be punished according to law)

               each and every individual of the said tribe who shall at any time hereafter, violate the stipulations of the Treaty,

               this day concluded between the said Pawnee Republic, and the said States.

In Witness Whereof; the said William Clark, and Auguste Chouteau Commissioners as aforesaid and the

Chiefs and Warriors aforesaid have hereunto subscribed their names and affixed their seals, this Twentieth day of

June, in the year of our Lord, one thousand Eight hundred and Eighteen, and of the independence of the United States the forty second.

[left column]

Done at Saint Louis}

in the presence of   }

[signed] R. Wash  Sectry of the Commission

[signed] T. Paul Col.  M. M.

              C. Interpreter

[signed] R. Graham I. A. Ill. Ter.

[signed] John O'Fallon  Capt R. Regt

[signed] John Ruland Sub. Agt. Translator

[signed] A. L. Papin interpreter

[signed] J. T. Honore   Id. Iptr.

[signed] S. Julian  U. S. indn. interpr

[signed] Wm. Grayson

[signed] Josiah Ramsey

[signed] John Robedout  

[right column]

William Clark      [seal w/ red ribbon]

Aug. Chouteau   [seal w/ red ribbon]

Pe-ta-he-ick      }             x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

   the Good Chief}

Ra-rn-le-share }             x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

   the Chief Man }

She-rn-a-ki-tare   }           x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

   the First in the War Party }

She-te-ra-hiate  }             x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

   the Partisan Discoverer  }

Te-a-re-ka-ta-caush      x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

   the Brave   }

Pa, or the Elk                    x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

Te-ta-wi-ouche  }            x      [seal w/ red ribbon]

  Wearer of Shoes }

[reasoningdaily]

Authorities arrested seven people Wednesday on federal drug and gun trafficking charges in an investigation of two Harbor-area gangs’ ties to imprisoned members of the Mexican Mafia.

Wilmington is claimed by two Latino gangs, Westside and Eastside Wilmas, whose members consider Avalon Boulevard the dividing line between their territories, said Capt. Brent McGuyre of the Los Angeles Police Department’s Harbor Division.

“At the street level, they’re rival gangs,” McGuyre said. But those in the gangs’ upper ranks are “all answering to the same people” — the Mexican Mafia.

At a news conference at the LAPD’s Harbor station, Thom Mrozek, a spokesman for the U.S. attorney’s office in L.A., acknowledged that the people facing charges were mid- and low-level dealers selling to people on the street, not the traffickers responsible for bringing the drugs into the United States.

“Where the wholesale quantities of the drugs came in, it’s anyone’s guess,” he said.

But above those defendants, people with far more power were pulling the strings, authorities said.

One Westside Wilmas member, Raul Molina, is said by law enforcement officials to have been inducted into Mexican Mafia around 2004. Molina was not charged in the complaints unsealed Wednesday. But an FBI agent’s affidavit makes clear that authorities believe the 56-year-old, who has been imprisoned since 1995 for second-degree murder, is directing his old gang’s rackets.

In October 2022, an informant used WhatsApp to call Molina, who apparently had access to a cellphone, FBI Special Agent Hannah Monroe wrote in her affidavit. Although it’s illegal for an inmate to possess phones, they are easily purchased after being smuggled in by corrupt staff or dropped inside the walls using drones.

A few minutes after asking Molina for a drug supplier, the informant got a WhatsApp message from someone who introduced himself as “Speedy,” Monroe wrote. Agents identified Speedy as Daniel Nunez, an inmate on San Quentin’s death row.

Nunez, 47, was sentenced to die for murdering a Black couple, Edward Robinson and Renesha Fuller, in what witnesses described as a racially motivated attack. He has been behind bars since 1999.

The informant gave Nunez the WhatsApp number for an undercover law enforcement officer who was posing as a buyer of drugs and guns. Over the next five months, Monroe wrote, Nunez sold the officer methamphetamine, fentanyl and guns, negotiating prices and arranging delivery through associates on the street.

Outside a Food4Less in Torrance, a Big Lots in Lomita, a taco shop in South Gate and a doughnut shop in Paramount, drugs, guns and money changed hands — all arranged by a condemned inmate with a cellphone, according to Monroe.

Molina at one point made a video call to the informant who introduced Nunez to the undercover officer and asked whether Nunez was “able to make it happen for you guys,” Monroe wrote. The informant said he had, and thanked Molina for putting them in touch. Molina said Nunez was “the homie that makes it happen” and “puts everything out there.”

Molina and Nunez were not charged in the case.

“They’re already doing life and it’s so much more complicated logistically to prosecute those guys,” Mrozek said. By naming the men in the charging documents, law enforcement was signaling they know of the inmates’ crimes even if they were not being prosecuted, he said.

Patricia Limon, 53, of Lomita, was charged with filling several of the drug and gun orders the undercover officer placed with Nunez.

After Nunez agreed to sell the officer 5,000 fentanyl pills for $5,000, Limon told the officer to pick up the drugs in a Gardena shopping plaza from a “gringo” called “Chip,” Monroe wrote.

Lake Davis Pasley, whom Monroe described as an “associate of a white supremacist gang,” is charged with delivering a bag of pills totaling 225 grams of fentanyl. He has yet to enter a plea.

Limon is charged with delivering more drugs and guns in subsequent deals arranged by Nunez. She has yet to enter a plea.

After Cristobal “Stalker” Aguilar delivered guns to an informant at Nunez’s direction, the LAPD and FBI got a warrant to search Aguilar’s home in South Los Angeles. In a shed behind the house, they found 16.4 kilograms of meth, 2.5 kilograms of fentanyl, 1.7 kilograms of cocaine, a rifle and two handguns, Monroe wrote.

Aguilar, who has since been imprisoned on unrelated state charges, is charged with distributing a controlled substance and has yet to enter a plea.

In another case unsealed Wednesday, Bud John Phineas, who Monroe said is a high-ranking Eastside Wilmas member called “Ghost,” was charged with delivering five pounds of methamphetamine in a deal orchestrated from prison.

In October 2022, the same informant who contacted Molina sent a message to Gabriel Huerta, a reputed member of both Eastside Wilmas and the Mexican Mafia called “Sleepy,” Monroe wrote.

Huerta, 64, has been serving a sentence of 17 years to life since 1984 for shotgunning a man who had underpayed by $4 a woman whom Huerta was pimping in Wilmington, according to transcripts of his parole hearings.

At a hearing in 2017, Huerta said he’d pulled away from gangs two decades earlier and was trying to set an example for younger inmates by participating in self-help groups. “I’ve created new values for myself,” he said.

According to Monroe, the informant introduced the undercover officer to Huerta as a drug customer. “What exactly does he want??” Huerta asked. “Black? White? Or what??”

After some discussion of prices for methamphetamine, Huerta told the informant he would “have the homie get at him,” Monroe wrote. Ten minutes later, the informant got a call from someone who introduced himself as “Borracho,” Spanish for drunk.

Agents identified Borracho as Carlos Guadalupe Reyes, an inmate at Centinela State Prison serving 54 years to life for murdering his estranged wife in Carson in 2008.

After Reyes agreed on a price — five pounds of methamphetamine for $6,500 — Phineas delivered the drugs the next day, Monroe wrote.

Reyes and Huerta were not charged in the case.

[hardynwa]

Aviation workers declares seven-day ultimatum ahead of indefinite strike

Aviation workers’ unions, yesterday, warned of an impending indefinite strike action should the authorities fail to resolve the nagging non-implementation of Condition of Service (CoS), and other welfare-related issues in the next seven days. The unionists, at the end of their two-day warning strike on Tuesday, vowed to shut down the airspace to jolt the attention of the current administration. While the Minister of Aviation, Hadi Sirika, has since kept mum on the development and remained seemingly unperturbed by the disruptions, the Nigerian Civil Aviation Authority (NCAA) has been engaging in negotiation with the aggrieved workers. On the day-two of the warning strike yesterday, offices of aviation agencies remained shut nationwide as airports witnessed mild disruptions and low patronage of travellers. In Lagos, nooks and crannies of the domestic terminals witnessed a heavy presence of security operatives, forcing the unionists to lead a procession to the Murtala Muhammed International Airport (MMIA) corridors. Recall that the coalition of aviation workers’ unions made up of members of the National Union of Air Transport Employees (NUATE), Air Transport Services Senior Staff Association of Nigeria (ATSSSAN), the National Association of Aircraft Pilots and Engineers (NAAPE), the Association of Nigeria Aviation Professionals (ANAP), and Amalgamated Union of Public Corporation Civil Service Technical and Recreation Services Employees (AUPCTRE), recently bemoaned the non-implementation of the CoS about seven years after it was negotiated with the workers. They also rued the non-implementation of minimum wage consequential adjustments and arrears for the Nigeria Meteorological Agency (NiMet) since 2019, and the planned demolition exercise of all the agency buildings in Lagos by the Minister of Aviation for an airport city project, but without consideration for workers that will be displaced. ANAP Scribe, Abdulrarak Saidu, expressed disappointment that the aviation workers had been left hanging in the last eight years. “For eight years, the conditions of service were not implemented. This is because Sirika has usurped functions of the Governing Boards of aviation agencies to himself. So, there is no check and balance. “He also wants to pull down buildings in the sector for a roadmap that was not approved for Lagos. The one approved in Abuja for the aerotropolis, nothing has happened there, and he wants to turn his policy into law. This warming strike is the beginning. If nothing is done after seven days, then we will go on indefinite strike, and shut down everywhere,” Saidu said. However, the Director-General of Civil Aviation (DGCA), Capt. Musa Nuhu, has urged the workers’ unions to sheath their swords, assuring that their demands would be met. Nuhu, on Sunday, conveyed meetings with the union members, the Salary and Wages Commission, along with heads of aviation agencies, and their Heads of Finance Departments. Another meeting was slated for late yesterday. The meeting with the Salaries and Wages Commission is for the examination of their various account books to determine whether or not the increases in salaries being demanded could be accommodated in their various Internally Generated Revenues (IGRs). The outcome of this meeting will be forwarded to the Head of Service of the Federation for consideration and approval, he said. He also pleaded for more time and understanding of the Union. The General Secretary of AUPCTRE, Sikiru Waheed, told reporters in Abuja that the warning strike was to warn the traveling public to make other plans as they intend to shut down the airports should their demands go unmet. Waheed explained that the controversial CoS, and the payment of minimum wage were the main issues on the ground, adding that since 2009, the consequential allowance had been approved by the federal government. However, they are yet to be implemented in the sector. “If the CoS to enhance the service is not forthcoming, how do you expect people to feel when we are all going to the same market with everyone? Our purchasing power has gone, and it has become difficult for the aviation industry to work in line with the economic situation of the country,” Waheed said. Read the full article

[freedomseeker91]

The Ultimate Betrayal....

Chapter 21

Title: Set In Stone

Summary: As Beca takes the stand, she makes a decision that will drastically change the future of her relationship with Chloe. But is it for better or worse?

Rating: T for Angst

Warnings: None.

If Beca had still had legs, they would’ve been bouncing right at that moment. Luckily her prosthetics didn’t possess the ability to send signals to her brain, effectively eliminating the nervous tick from giving away how she truly felt sitting on that stand. The only give away that anyone could’ve picked up on, was Beca seeking out Chloe’s gaze whenever she felt particularly anxious.

A reassuring head nod and a soft smile would often greet her, letting her know that she was okay and giving her that boost to keep talking, to keep pushing forward. But it was hard. Even though Beca had spoken about her time in Afghanistan with Chloe and the prosecution team, it still didn’t make it any easier.

All eyes in that courtroom were zeroed in on her, taking in every single piece of information she was willing to divulge. Even though she wasn’t the one on trial she still felt like she was in an observation room being judged.

“Capt. Mitchell can you explain to the court the extent of the injuries you suffered during your captivity?” came the voice of the lead prosecutor.

Beca knew this was coming, it was all part of the plan. They didn’t want her to just to list off injuries, they wanted to create a vivid picture of the violent cruelty that Beca and her fellow soldiers were subjected to.

Gazing towards the jury, Beca recounted details of all of the injuries she could remember in as much detail as she could, to the extent that she even detailed just how she came to acquire those injuries. Beca quite literally worked her way from her head down to her non-existent toes. By the time she had elaborated on the loss of her legs and just how she came to lose them, she was reaching down towards her ankles.

The stand Beca was currently positioned on was seated and open, meaning everyone in the courtroom had a full view of her. Grabbing the hem of her pant legs, she hoisted them just enough to show off the prosthetic limbs where her legs should have been. A few audible gasps circulated around the room before she released the material from her grasp allowing it to once again cover her prosthetics.

Everyone in the room had seen Beca make her way to the stand on her crutches, and watched as she awkwardly navigated stepping up on to the stand and taking a seat, a soldier positioned nearby retrieving her crutches to hold them until she was ready to leave the stand. Even though they had witnessed all of this, actually displaying her prosthetics was a more direct visual. One they couldn’t ignore or unsee.

“That’s all for now your honour,” the lawyer said as he took his seat, allowing the defence attorney the opportunity to question the soldier. The man stood up, a file in hand as he flicked though it, his slicked back hair glistening under the lights of the courtroom.

“Capt. Mitchell, it says here that scans taken of your brain showed significant evidence of scar tissue indicating that you had suffered multiple concussions throughout your life. It’s also noted that upon your return to the US you were prescribed medications for Depression, PTSD as well as sleeping aids to combat disruptive sleep patterns is that correct?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Beca answered making sure she spoke loud enough for the mic to pick her up.

The lawyer closed the file and gripped it with both hands, turning his attention to Beca.

“That to me would indicate a significant amount of brain trauma would it not?” he asked

Beca nodded her head, knowing that this would come up in trial. Beca just zoned in on the man, her gaze steady as she spoke.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life serving in the US Military Sir. Two thirds of that time on the frontlines in active-duty warzones and a further two years as a Prisoner of War. It would take an act of God to survive that without experiencing some form of trauma.”

The lawyer grinned at her, seeing her response as an openly defiant stance against his tactics.

“Touché Captain. But considering the circumstances you would agree that it would be fair to question the stability of the mental health and memory of someone with a medical record such as this would it not?” he asked, directing his question towards the jury before turning back to face Beca. The soldier nodded.

“Of course, why wouldn’t you? But then I did spend two years protecting the very secrets of military intel that safeguarded the United States of America whilst routinely being beaten and tortured,” Beca responded.

“And not once, not even in my most concussed and physically delirious state of being did I ever break. Not once did I let slip information that could’ve been detrimental to the lives and wellbeing of the people of this country, the very people sitting in this very courtroom. And not once, in any of my psyche evaluation examines did I fail a test or express any significant signs of severe mental deterioration that would suggest that I’m incapable of remembering important details. I think you’ll find the conclusive evidence of this in your file signed and dated by Doctor Petersen before I was discharged.”

Beca sat back, her shoulders resolute, the prosecution team grinning as Beca’s sheer determination to ruin Chicago rose to the occasion. The lawyer faltered, jaw clenching as he gripped the file tighter.

“No further questions your honour,” he said as he returned to his seat, Chicago looking at him with an expression of pure exasperation.

Beca had played them at their game. They were depending on her mental wellbeing to be weak enough to back her into a corner, to trigger her PTSD and rattle her. But she wouldn’t, she couldn’t, not when Chloe’s gaze was beckoning her like a lighthouse, her very eyes looking right past Beca’s walls and speaking of her faith in her.

Two years Beca had survived the most vicious torture, she’d be damned if the thing that broke her would be Chicago Walp.

The judge called a halt to proceedings to break for lunch, giving both teams time to reconvene and go over their notes. Beca was excused from the stand, her crutches being handed to her mere moments later. She gingerly accepted them and saluted the soldier who helped her down from the stand before carefully making her way back to Chloe and Aubrey.

As the room began to empty out Aubrey was deep in discussion with the lead prosecutor, but Beca was too drained from her time on the stand to really pay attention to what was being said. As soon as she was standing outside the aisle of the row she had been sitting on, Chloe stepped out, hands coming to rest against Beca’s chest as she leaned in for a kiss.

“You were incredible Bec’s,” Chloe smiled, her forehead now resting against Becas’s. The soldiers’ eyes closed as she took some deep breaths. Chloe could feel Beca’s heartbeat thundering beneath her hands and her brow furrowed in concern.

Beca’s eyes opened as she gripped the hand rest of her crutches tightly, knuckles turning white.

“Can we go outside? I need some air,” she whispered.

Chloe instantly nodded her head, sensing that Beca was on the verge of an anxiety attack. She quickly turned to Aubrey and told her they would be outside and that she would call her in a bit, silently indicating that Beca needed a moment away from everyone.

The blonde merely nodded that she understood and watched as Beca and Chloe made their way out of the courtroom. Aubrey gestured for their escort not to follow and explained to him the situation, the man reluctant to step back from his duties. Eventually he agreed to give them a moment before joining them outside at a respectful distance so that he could keep an eye on them and Aubrey thanked him for his understanding.

Outside, Beca sat on a stone bench, crutches discarded on the ground as she choked on the air she was trying desperately to take in. Chloe instantly took a seat beside her and cupped Beca’s cheeks.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re okay, just take it easy,” she said before reaching down towards Beca’s neck and loosening the tie for her that currently felt like a noose and opening the top button of her shirt. Then she grabbed a hold of one of Beca’s hands and placed it against her own chest, exaggerating her own breaths so Beca could feel the rise and fall of her chest.

“Breathe with me, copy my breaths,” Chloe coached as Beca began to mimic the redheads breathing, her own heaving chest beginning to calm to a less erratic state.

Once Beca was in a much calmer state, Chloe reached into her bag and retrieved a bottle of water and a pill bottle. She dispensed a pill into her hand and placed the bottle bag in her bag before removing the cap of the water bottle and handing both to Beca, the solider taking both with shaking hands and swallowing them.

“Thanks,” Beca said as she handed the bottle Beca, Chloe screwing the cap back on and placing it back in her bag. The redhead placed a comforting arm around the woman sitting next to her, her hand stoking a soothing pattern up and down Beca’s back as she gave her a moment to collect herself.

“Are you okay?” she asked, failing to hide the worried tone in her voice.

Beca just nodded, reaching up a hand to her tie and loosening it more.

“I’m fine, I guess it was just more than I was able for, talking about, everything y’know,” Beca elaborated and Chloe just nodded her head in understanding.

“Of course,” Chloe replied her voice clearly indicating that’s he understood.

It had been difficult for her watching Beca on that stand. She hated having to sit so far away while the woman she loved was cross examined about horrific details of her life in the military whilst not being able to hold her hand to offer comfort.

Though hearing the details this time around had been less gut wrenching than the first, they still cut Chloe deep. She hated the images the details conjured in her mind of Beca in agonising pain with no one able to end her suffering.

It tortured Chloe. The thought that those two years would forever scar Beca’s existence. She wanted nothing more in this world than to be able to erase it, to make it go away. To be able to press rewind and stop what had happened from happening in the first place.

But she couldn’t do any of that. All she could do now was be there for Beca in whatever way she could and try and help her move forward onto a better future. Glancing over Beca’s now calmer face, Chloe reached up a hand and massaged the tense muscles at the back of a pale slender neck.

“We’ve got some time before courts back in session. There’s a taco stand at the corner of the street why don’t we grab some and sit out here for a bit,” Chloe suggested, wanting to take both their minds off of what was next, even if just briefly. Beca scrunched up her nose.

“I’m not really that hungry,” she replied, and Chloe knew then that Beca wasn’t completely relaxed because she never said no tacos.

“I get that. But if you don’t eat something your medication is gonna make you feel nauseous,” Chloe reminded, and in that moment, Beca nodded her head.

Chloe gazed around her for a moment assessing the area to see if mobility wise it would be easy for Beca to navigate. When she noticed that their escort was standing a respectable distance away keeping an eye on them, she decided it would be better if she just grabbed the food herself.

“You stay and catch your breath. I’ll grab us some tacos and drinks and be right back.”

Pressing a quick kiss to Beca’s lips, Chloe stood up and bounded down the steps, making her way to the end of the street a couple of hundred yards away and coming to a stop at the stand. After ordering her food and drinks, she pulled out her phone and shot a text to Aubrey letting her know what they were doing.

The blonde had responded to her question of food with a short message letting her know that she was currently in a café with one of the other lawyers grabbing a bite to eat and to take her time. When her food was ready, Chloe returned to the court and found Beca now sitting under a bench the far side under the shade of a tree. Beca glanced up at her as she approached, gesturing towards the sunny sky.

“I hope you don’t mind. It was getting a little hot out with this suit on,” she said, and Chloe simply shook her head as she took a seat, leaving enough space between them to lay out their food.

They ate in relative silence save for Chloe interjecting with idle chit chat to keep their minds occupied. Neither really seemed to be able to focus on anything else and it was the only thing she could do not to get caught up in thinking about the trial and Chicago taking the stand.

As they sat there, Chloe watched as Beca seemed to mindlessly play with Chloe’s right hand, her eyes staring at something in particular. And then Beca became more alert, as if she had suddenly jumped back into her own body. Both of her hands were now cradling Chloe’s and then her fingers began to twist at the engagement ring Chloe kept there in pride of place.

“What are you doing?” Chloe asked incredulously as Beca suddenly removed the ring from her finger as delicately as possible, the brunette now staring at it. Beca swallowed thickly.

“I almost died,” Beca said, a reality Chloe was all too familiar with, but she wasn’t sure what this had to do with Beca taking back her ring.

“I almost died, and if I had, everything we planned for would’ve died with it,” Beca sighed, her thumb running over the ring in her grasp.

“I gave this to you because I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you, because I couldn’t imagine a life without you in it.”

Beca swallowed thickly, licking her lips as she gazed out at the city before her, trying to put her thoughts into words.

“Being in that courtroom, seeing Chicago, talking about everything again, it made me realise how short life is. How much time we waste because we’re so caught up in hurt feelings and moments of time that will pass us by without a second thought or chance.”

Chloe’s eyes welled up as she listened to Beca talk, and she remembered vividly the anguish she had felt when she thought about all of the time she had missed out on in being with Beca. The pain she felt when she thought she would never get that time back. Beca was right, time was often lost in translation, filtering around moments that shouldn’t matter instead of existing in a space that was timeless. Beca looked up into Chloe’s eyes.

“I don’t wanna waste anymore time Chlo. I don’t wanna look back and feel like I wasted time we could’ve had being together letting pain and distance keep pulling us apart. I want the future we planned for and I want it now. I don’t wanna keep filling up space with thoughts of what if’s or maybe’s.”

Chloe swallowed around the lump rapidly rising in her throat.

“What are you saying?” she asked as she willed her tears to hold steady. Beca gripped Chloe’s left hand tightly.

“I wanna marry you, Chlo. As soon as this trial is over I wanna file the paperwork and get married. I don’t care if it’s in a courtroom or a car wash,” Beca said, Chloe giggling as tears cascaded down her cheeks.

“I want you to be my wife and I wanna have the future we always planned for. I’m done waiting. I’m done taking things slow. Marry me?” Beca asked, and Chloe simply nodded her head without a second of hesitation and cupped Beca’s face in both her palms, her tear-stained cheeks rubbing against Beca’s as she eradicated any ounce of space that existed between them and captured her lips for a deep meaningful kiss.

“Yes,” kiss, “yes,” kiss, “a billion times yes,” Chloe managed to get out between kisses before resting her forehead against Beca’s her chest now heaving as her heart raced to keep up with all of her emotions.

Beca smiled at her as she retrieved Chloe’s left hand from her cheek and slipped the ring back on the ring finger it belonged on. Both of them beaming at the sight of it sitting prettily where it belonged. Chloe then cleared her throat and spoke up.

“I do have one request though. Can we get married somewhere else?” she asked and Beca looked at her questioningly. Chloe bit her bottom lip as she gazed over Beca’s shoulder noticing non other than Miranda Walp watching them from the entrance of the courthouse having witnessed the whole thing.

“I don’t care where just, not here. I don’t wanna get married someplace with Chicago’s family around. I wanna start fresh. Just you and me.”

Beca merely nodded at this because she was more than fine getting as far away from the past as they could.

“Yeah, I’m cool with that. You think Aubrey could help us get everything filed when we get back?” Beca asked, Chloe grinning at the thought.

“I think she would be more than happy to help us out.”

Chloe pulled Beca in for another kiss by the lapels of her jacket her eyes than catching a glimpse of her ring now sitting proudly back on her finger where it belonged.

No matter the outcome of the trial, Beca and Chloe’s future was set in stone and Chloe couldn’t wait to get home so she could finally become Beca Mitchells wife.

[thisdayinwwi]

Aug 4 1919 - Giant pile of planes Burnt in Pyre

Pile of airplanes worth $1,000,000 ($14,451,100 in 2019) burned in giant pyre.  August 4 1919  The Richmond palladium and sun-telegram

The burning of huge piles of airplanes, many of them new and practically all pronounced to be in good condition, to make an officers' holiday in France, has stirred the ire of Congress. The facts as unearthed bv Representatives Oscar Bland and Royal C. Johnson, Republican members of the house sub-committee on military expenditures, are that 150 airplanes valued at more than $1,000,000, were piled in great heaps by officers at Colombes-les-Belles, and deliberately burned.

Engines Destroyed It was testified by witnesses of the 1st Pursuit Squadron, some of whom had taken part in the destruction, that 160 airplanes were turned after their engines had been removed and smashed. Some of the engines were described as in good condition. One had been In the air only twenty minutes, according to its logbook. New wings new tires and undamaged fuselages were burned.

Witnesses agreed the guards were placed around the fire to keep people away, and were given express orders not to permit photographs to be taken, Marion Payne of Oil City, Pa said he and others "crushed in the sides of the planes with hammers, loosened the bolts fastening the engine to the fuselage, tied a rope to the tail and tipped up the plane, letting the engine fall to the ground four or five feet. The fall would make the engine useless unless remodelled." New Liberty Motors Destroyed The planes were described as Liberties, Sopwith, Camels, De Havllands, Spads and Sampsons. The number of Liberty motors destroyed was not- known. The committee emphasized that the Liberty motors must have been almost new, for these were late in reaching France. Sergt. Alfred T. Rorer of Scranton, Pa., said the commanding officer of the flying field ordered him to furnish a detail of fifty to seventy-five Troops, mechanics or laborers to report to the master electrician. When they returned, he said, several told him that had been destroying planes. He said he examined a pile of wings and found them practically new. "I understand," he said, "the order came from Lieut. Col. Ashire, the commander of the field, to Capt. J. L. McGrath, commander of the squadron.

"Wanton Destruction" According to Rorer, the Liberty motors looked new. He was told some still had shipping tags. "It was wanton destruction of good material," he added. "On some planes there were new tires. So far as I known, there was no attempt to take them off. Lieut. Paul L. Lockwood said airplanes were destroyed at other places. John C. McKeague said he saw 150 planes destroyed and some were so good that they were flown to the burning place. He said the gasoline in the tanks exploded.

[hogwartswnw]

WW Post // Week of 10-28-19

Happy Halloween everyone! It’s Arb- here today to bring you some of that pumpkin-spicy tea for Halloween! Without further ado- let’s get to it!

===

1. ‘Tis the season for Quidditch (fiNALLY)

Character Name: Virgil Etter  Your Character House: Ravenclaw  Other Characters Involved: May Appleblossom ( @Capt. May Appleblossom ) Adam Farley ( @Adam Farlay [Michael] )  Tsukiko ( @Nemo [Prof. Fujimura/Tsukiko W.] )  Elliot Ashby ( @Elliott Ashby [They/He] )  Hugo Moore ( @Mason [Hugo Moore/Carson A. H.] )  Hellion Towers ( @[Wolfy] Hellion T )  Channel: #quidditch-pitch  === Timeline: Sunday/Monday Summary: First quidditch practice of the term, and May (Our lovely captain) decided to hold a mini match. Virgil, Adam and Tsukiko on one team, with Hellion, Elliot and Hugo on the other, with May refereeing. The match started normally, but Elliot's talent as a beater came into play, and throughout the match Virgil got hit not once, not twice, but at least three times with a bludger. Safe to say he has some bruises. Hellion, Elliot and Hugo won the match, two to zero. It has now been assumed that Virgil is either the bludger punching bag of the team, the bludgers have been hexed to go after him, or have had a gaydar installed. 

IRP Public Knowledge: Everyone on the team that was on the pitch that day would have witnessed this, and anyone in the stands or around the pitch at that time would have had the opportunity to notice.  ===

2. Unlikely Reunion?

3. A Shank has appeared!

===

Thanks for reading our issue this week! As always, if you’d like to see more, go ahead and join our server! It’d be much appreciated! Until then, see you next time for the next issue of-

~ Witch Weekly ~

- Arb

https://discord.gg/VASkbfw

[holden-woods]

✆✉☎⁇@ツ$♀ :-)

Send “✆” for a MORNING text.

( 7:19 am ) jesus fuck i just heard you leave the house to jog. god, you’re a national HERO( 7:20 am ) my capt ladies and gentleman, woRKIN ON HIS FITNESS, IM HIS WITNESS 😩😩😩💦💦( 7:20 am ) well not technically bc i am in bed like a sane person but lmao

Send “✉️” for a text that WASN’T SENT. 

( 12:14 am ) was just thinking about it, and i think your mom would be so proud of the person you’ve become. ( 12:15 am ) i know i am. 

Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. 

( 4:47 pm ) I WOU DL CASH A GRENADE FOR YAAAA( 4:48 pm ) WAIT F UCK WRONG SONG, WHAT DID W E SWITHC I T TOO? ( 4:48 pm ) AL SO IM AT LINE AT TRADER JOES TF BROU GHT U PANCAKE MIX!!

Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text.

( 3:33 pm ) yERR BO I IS FAD ed WY A??/??( 3:34 pm ) LO OL FUXKI CALE D JUN 4 TIME Z( 3:34 pm ) dARE ME 2 DO MO RE? TME?

Send “@” for a SCARED text.

( 8:19 pm ) i’ve come to the conclusion that june and i are never going to work out. and i’m like, fucking terrified ( 8:20 pm ) bc shit dude, like you only get one really great love in life and daisey fucking murdered it for me before she got murdered herself ( 8:20 pm ) fuck fuck fuck. god, i’m gonna be alone forever 

Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text.

( 9:11 pm ) WHAT��S GOOD, CAPTAIN HAWTHORNE? 👀( 9:13 pm ) HOLY FUCK, i cannot believe we won tonight. shit, your leadership: fuckin goals. ( 9:14 pm ) wya? i’m gonna buy us rounds. you fucking deserve it. ( 9:15 pm ) GOD I STILL CANT GET OVER US KICKING THE SHIT INTO YALE

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text.

( 12:48 am ) oooofff, idk if i can sneak you in it’s kinda late and my roommates have elephant ears. plus you’re not exactly a quiet kinda gal ; ) ( 12:49 am ) oh my fuck, ok. so. not for you obv( 12:50 am ) and you’re DEF not a quiet gal. so you can’t judge me 

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.

( 4:14 am ) you’re probably still asleep but i just had a dream that you were the next fuckin victim and i’m super fucked up over it. ( 4:14 am ) i would never let that happen though. i’d rather them take me. ( 4:15 am ) i dont even know how to exist w/o u tbh. ( 4:16 am ) lmao guess u could say... i could catch a grenade for ya. 

[clairehadenough]

I mean, not only they know everything about Alba’s films, all the details that only a hardcore fan would care to know (!), how deranged must you be to get so worked up over something so insignificant related to someone you supposedly hate and don’t care about and despise and shame?

No but, seriously!

3 F bombs and charmingly calling people uncultured swines😂 I mean they’re awfully affected and butt hurt for something that “isn’t real”, don’t you think?😂

[littlelolay]

THORN? TORN. *THREE/2

A/N: Hello fellow readers, this is a part two of chapter 3. I know it revolves around more on the reader, but I'd like everyone to have an insight of our fellow avengers about our reader. Just a little snippet. Hopefully, this will help decide on who to partner our reader with! Any suggestions? Send them through asks! Thank you for reading!

This chapter doesn't include reader's thoughts or anything, mostly what the team thought about her. I know Bruce Banner isn't here, but he'll appear soon enough. I hadn't really thought this was worthy to be considered as a chapter itself, so that's why it's just a part two of chapter 3 because it's mostly thoughts. 

I know most of them have this certain pull towards our reader but I'll be able to explain that in one of the next few chapters, I won't be giving out anything just yet. But feel free to draw up your own conclusions, let me know what you think.

Anyway, moving onnn! 

CHAPTER(S): ONE. TWO. THREE. THREE/2. FOUR. FIVE. SIX.

WARNING(S): T. 

PAIRINGS: reader x ???? 

H/C: Hair Color

BUCKY BARNES P.O.V

Everything was just going so fast. Honestly, I didn't know who had reacted first or even at all. From the moment that Strange's sister had entered the room to when she flung him across as if Strange was some kind of teddy bear to her dropping into Steve's arms unconscious. It was too fast. I was honestly just staying in the shadows, watching everything unfold– there wasn't any time to react. My feet felt like they were stuck to the floors.

Going back to Y/N's first arrival, I have to say I was impressed at how she had handled herself. Of course, I knew it was all an act. There was something about her that pulled me in. No, Buck. Stop it. 

When she faced the team, she held her ground. Not showing any emotions, despite probably feeling fear. What is with people these days and capes though? My eyes were glued, to be honest. Not just because of her outfit, please– I'm not like that. Or her H/C flowing along her every movement. Okay, honestly. I just– don't know, I can't exactly put my finger on it. There was just something about her that was so alluring. So captivating. 

And when she was in rage, somehow I felt the pain radiating from her. Was that weird? Possible? It probably is, or I'm just thinking too much into this. I even felt the room shake a little from her outburst, maybe she was dangerous. Or maybe, I'm just imagining things. But as she collapsed into Steve's arms, I was actually worried for her. It was a lot to take in. I ignored the protests from the disapproving Clint Barton, he just couldn't understand. He should understand. 

She needed protection. 

A safe haven. 

Because once her vulnerable state gets manipulated by the wrong hands, then that's when we should start getting worried about her being dangerous. Because there's no going back from there. 

CLINT BARTON P.O.V

All eyes on Capt. when he returns from sending an unconscious Y/N Strange into her room. Am I the only one thinking that this could backfire on us? Should I have felt bad when the sob story came pouring out from Strange's mouth? No, she was a danger but no one could understand that. 

"We need to discuss this." I announced, grabbing the attention from everyone. Nat just shakes her head. "What?"

"What's there to discuss, Clint?" Nat asked, her brows furrowing. 

"That she's a danger to everyone here! It isn't safe, not for us or the world!" I said as I slammed my fist down onto the table. 

Steve begins his approach and I shook my head, already knowing what their choice was. "We protect our own."

"Our own!?" I scoffed in disbelief and irritation, "She's not one of us, tell them Stark."

"She's Strange's family, Barton..." Tony trailed off, bringing his hand up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, "And he's helped us through a lot, we have to help them." 

"Maybe we think this through, yes?" Wanda spoke slowly, "It's true, that it's going to be dangerous, or that she's dangerous but we've faced worst..."

Her brother instantly agreed with her as he nodded, "She's clearly scared and her life was just turned upside down, have a little compassion old man."

I just stare at them, obviously this was a battle I was going to lose. I shook my head, they had their valid points but they weren't thinking about safety. Not a single plan being discussed, not wanting to press the buttons of a girl that got her whole life turned upside down. Giving them one last look and a shake of my head, I stalked out of the room– wanting to cool myself down before I say anything I might regret. 

LOKI LAUFEYSON P.O.V

From the moment she barged in, I was captivated– intrigued. As anger consumed her, you can feel the energy radiating off of her. She is clearly capable of being powerful. As I watched her angered self unfold before me, it was obvious that she had not unlocked her inner Kree yet. The power she had by throwing her brother across the room was remarkable and with enough practice and knowledge of the matter, she would be able to beat even Thor himself. 

I listened disapprovingly at Clint Barton's protests, of course he would think she was a danger to them. Of course, the hell she is! She can be a strong warrior, that I know for sure. He was scared– probably because I've given him a reason to be wary of such new comers that have certain abilities. He was right about Y/N being dangerous. Like I said, she is powerful– but right now she was in a vulnerable state with her life being turned upside down. They were clearly in danger if the Kree were after her, we could be running out of time already but pushing Y/N would be the wrong move. She could pull back and everything would be ruined. 

I need to discuss this with my brother, as it is obvious that none of the members of the team would bother listening to me. Though, with my knowledge of the Kree race– I would be able to try and reach out to Y/N more than the others. 

I couldn't help but watch as she gets carried away by the Captain himself– I would have offered but clearly that wasn't an option. The team was still clearly wary of my presence. I must find a way though. 

There was something about her that made me frustrated, I have never really cared for someone. Much less a Midgardian or a Kree. Maybe, I'm getting myself pulled because of her situation– something similar to mine. No, don't let it get to your head. 

I have to find a way to reach out to Y/N. 

She will need all the help she can get. 

NATASHA ROMANOFF P.O.V

I felt my heart break at the scene before me. I had wanted to check on Y/N as everyone took off to either calm down or find some other thing to do. Clearly the events that took place today have been draining, for everyone. 

I watched as Y/N cries into the arms of Stephen, her whole body going limp as she clung onto her brother. 

Not wanting to intrude in a personal matter, I stalked away– making sure to leave as quietly as I could to not make my presence known. My thoughts go back to everything that had happened, my heart reaching out for Y/N. Poor girl. I wish Clint would understand, this was obviously difficult for Stephen.

My feet took me off towards the direction of Barton's quarters and I didn't even bother to knock for permission, I just barged myself in. There he sat, on the edge of his bed– clearly tense, but my entrance barely made him flinch.

"You really need to get your emotions in check, Clint." I scolded him as I close the door behind me, not wanting anyone to intrude in our conversation. 

Clint lifted his shoulders up in a shrug as he looks up at me; eyes mixed with fear and regret, he probably felt guilty of the way he handled things but was conflicted. "What do you want, Nat?" 

Walking across the room and settling myself on the edge of the bed beside him, I place a hand on his back, "I want you to understand the situation without getting mad. I understand what you mean, that it's dangerous but your words towards Stephen and his sister were as if you were pouring salt on open fresh wounds."

Silence.

He doesn't even look at me anymore. 

I sighed. "I understand that you're conflicted, and don't bother denying it. I know you too well..." I trailed off, the corners of my mouth tugging to to a small smile, "All I'm saying is calm yourself down first, think things through because those two need our help and they won't be able to get it elsewhere. The team is a family, Strange has been a part of us for awhile now. We can't let him down."

"I know..." he whispered underneath his breath.

PIETRO MAXIMOFF P.O.V

Honestly what was all the commotion about? Who were they even talking about? Last I remembered, the rest of the team had been talking about a mission to stop Hydra while Wanda and I excused ourselves to the training room, and now they're suddenly huddled around talking about a sister and some Kree empire. It was all difficult to take such information, there were a lot of missing pieces to be filled– so I stood quietly at the side but the talk on Kree had interested me just a tiny bit, I suppose. 

Then she appeared, her face filled with anger. She was hurt. She had heard everything. This was bad. I run towards Wanda as she was closest to Doctor Strange after I had realized that the Y/N girl they had been talking about was lunging towards their direction. Instantly, I wrapped Wanda's waist with an arm and pulled her away to a corner. I watched the scene before me unfold, she was devastated. You can clearly see it in her face. I just knew I had to do something.

Rushing towards the supplies, I grabbed the sedative that I have become so familiar of lately because of missions. I quickly returned just in time to witness her throw Doctor Strange across the room without much effort coming out from her. My eyes widen from the this but I shrugged it off as I got myself near her– injecting the sedative. Captain America was instantly by my side as she collapsed. Of course he would. 

"Quick thinking, Speedy." Tony said as he approached me, patting my back. I give him a nod, my eyes locked on the unconscious Y/N. 

Steve hoists her up into his arms, holding her close against his chest. "I'll take her to her room." he announced and I couldn't bring myself to tear my attention away until she was out of sight. 

STEVE ROGERS P.O.V

I've always had the urge to protect the people. More so often the ones that I truly care about. Always keeping them close to keep an eye on them. I'm usually often cautious of the ones I don't know anything of. She was a complete mystery to me but yet– there was this pull that made me want to protect her from the Kree that wanted to take her and even from Clint. 

Was I attracted to her? I don't know. Y/N is certainly beautiful. The moment she had entered the room before this whole mess started that has caused the team to go tense– I would have to admit, she did captivate me. It took me a few more seconds to regain my senses and stand my ground in case she was someone we were going to fight. An intruder or some sort. Though, I doubted that. I can't quite understand it yet, but there was something about her that clicked– made me trust her instantly. 

Even though she was consumed by her anger from the 'betrayal' of her brother, I wasn't worried she might hurt anyone– I didn't think she was capable to do so. I was more worried she would hurt herself. So as I carried her close to my chest, I couldn't help but stare at her facial features. She was calm when she slept. Innocence sweeping across her features. I couldn't stop staring– I barely knew her yet, she already had me wrapped around her finger. In a romantic way or a brotherly way? I don't know. I'm not sure just yet. 

So as I lay her down on her bed, I let out a sigh before brushing the hair off of her face. "Stay strong, kid." I whispered softly before leaving the room and closing the door behind me, making my way back to the team. 

All I know is, there was a good chance that I'll be one of the few that will be protecting her.

STEPHEN STRANGE P.O.V

"Come on, let's help you up." Tony said as he approached me from the corner where Y/N had tossed me aside. I was in shock, barely able to make myself move from my position until Tony grips onto my arm and helps me up.

Guilt. 

That was what I was feeling. Pure guilt. 

"Don't beat yourself up for it, Strange. You did what you had to do." he said, obviously my face said it all. I shook my head. 

"I shouldn't have kept this from her, then we wouldn't be having this problem. How could I have been so stupid?"

I plopped myself down onto one of the couches and let out a sigh of irritation, and exhaustion. I didn't even care that my back was hurting from the impact of Y/N tossing me aside. I deserved it. I betrayed her. This wouldn't have happened if I would have just told her like the masters who trained her insisted. 

But, no. I was against that from the very beginning. 

What good would it have done? Telling a young girl that her parents were murdered and that she wasn't really my sister? That would have broken her.

No, she would have handled it. She's stronger than you think. I'm a fool. She probably hates me. 

"You couldn't have known, Strange." Tony said one last time before leaving the room with my thoughts. 

I sighed and leaned back against the couch. I had a lot of thinking to do before approaching her. 

THOR ODINSON

Today was just a whole bunch of entertainment. As soon as everyone dispersed, Loki and I had decided to walk alongside towards our chambers– or is it bedroom the Midgardians call it?

As we walked, I couldn't help but glance over my brother with a raised eyebrow. He was obviously deep in thought, "What has gotten you so silent, brother?"

He shook his head, " The girl– she is clearly powerful than Strange had anticipated."

I nodded my head in response. The Strange girl– huh, I suppose that's one catchy way of calling her, obviously possessed such great power within her but it has yet to be shown. "I'm afraid that none of the others will be able to be much help for the Strange girl. She– she is in dire need of assistance if she were to survive what is to come."

"And who do you have in mind, brother? Certainly, you are not contemplating on bringing her to Asgard. She will receive no help there." 

Once again, Loki was right. Asgardians– as much as they had knowledge of the Kree race, they were not going to be much help. "I will seek help elsewhere– find connections, if I must."

He halted behind me, I spun around and raised a brow at his actions. "Surely you're not suggesting of leaving me here with these people? I'm positive they wouldn't even allow it."

"I will speak to them but for now– you are the one who has more knowledge of the matter. You are the only one capable of addressing the girl with her situation. Try your best to stay out of trouble, brother. I will return shortly."

TONY STARK

Leaving the tension filled room was exactly what I needed. Everyone was on edge now– hoping to find answers as quick as possible just to ease the stress. I shook my head, I could feel it already– we'll be going on a rollercoaster ride for the next couple of months. Hopefully not. 

Finally in the comforts of my lab, I couldn't help but get my thoughts pulled back to the events from earlier– it was obviously distracting me that tinkering with new gadgets wasn't helping. Everyone was obviously taken back, not to mention Clint had blown his top off. We were the Avengers, obviously who wouldn't be able to get a break soon. Breaks around here were impossible, a miracle most of the time if it happens. 

Y/N is obviously a danger, that much I agree with Clint but at the moment, she wasn't a threat. Her emotions were just sending her off, and Clint wasn't helping with his comments. It was best that everyone would ease her in, let her know that we were there for her when she needed. 

She is clearly powerful. 

Going back, I remember the conversation I had with Stephen just before this happened. 

"You have to help me, Stark." he pleaded desperately. "They're after her and I won't be able to protect her on my own. You and the team are the only ones I can think of to trust."

"Stark." Thor's voice boomed across the room, snapping me from my thoughts. I looked over at his direction, my brows raising at his stance– his brother nowhere to be found.

"Aren't you suppose to be taking care of your brother?" I reminded him with a sly grin. 

He chuckled as he approached me. Oh boy. I already have a bad feeling about this. "I'm afraid I will be leaving my brother in your custody as I search help on the matter at hand. The Strange girl clearly needs all the help she could get, and I'm afraid I won't be much. Loki has knowledge on the matter, allow him to approach the girl with the doctor's blessing. He can help. I know you aren't fond of the idea of Loki changing, but give it time. I believe he's truly changing for the better."

I sat there, completely dumbfounded at his words before shaking my head. Thor does, what Thor wants. There was obviously nothing stopping him. "Fine, but I'm calling in Banner just in case. He'll be the one keeping an eye on Loki. Not me."

WANDA MAXIMOFF

The only ones left were now me, Pietro and Vision. We sat there quietly, staring at absolutely nothing. The events that we had just witness had obviously put us all into shock. Not that we haven't been through worst things– but obviously it's still taking some time to get used to. 

I looked over my brother, trying my best to read his thoughts. He clearly had a soft spot for the girl– I can sense his care. "You want to help her?" He nodded in response, not even bothering to say a word to me. "You stay away from her until we know more, she is clearly dangerous." 

"I don't think that's up to you, sister." he muttered underneath his breath before disappearing from my sight. I rolled my eyes– this was going to be bad news already. 

"I know that you don't trust the girl, Wanda." Vision said interrupting my thoughts, "but showing it to the girl will only cause more danger."

I stared at him for a second before shaking my head. Standing from where I was seated, I leave Vision to himself– walking towards the direction of my room. 

It's not like I didn't want to trust the girl, but we know nothing yet of her and she was clearly a danger, even to herself. My priority, will always be Pietro. And I'll be damned if he lets his feelings for a girl he barely knows get in the way. 

VISION

I watched Wanda leave in confusion. She was stubborn. I for one, am also wary of the girl that suddenly appeared in our lives. 

She had danger written all over her– but negative comments during a vulnerable state will only cause more danger. I had come to realize that everyone mostly kept to themselves for the time being, keeping their thoughts about the girl a secret until we find more answers. That is, except Barton who was very vocal about the situation at hand. I on the other hand, agree with Barton but being vocal about it wouldn't help. Most of the team wanted to wait and let the girl get settled in.

But, I'm afraid– waiting wasn't an option. If the Kree had broken through the doctor's hidden manor, then clearly the tower wasn't safe. For anyone. I must approach Stark about this immediately. For all we know, the Kree are just waiting for the right time to attack. The tower was no place to hide the girl. 

The girl.

Such innocence. So vulnerable. 

Her whole world turned upside down less than a day. No one else to trust but her brother. I will keep my distance, but keep an eye on her in case something goes wrong. Even we were no match for her in case her powers grow stronger each passing day.

We shouldn't be waiting. 

I can already sense the danger approaching.

TTTAGGED: @alessia--winchester @totobyafricaa

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“In April 1826, Mackenzie, the reform-minded editor of the Colonial Advocate, became embroiled in a heated press debate with J.B. Macaulay, an attorney and member of the provincial executive council, concerning the dismissal and reinstatement of John Fenton, a parish clerk in Dr. John Strachan’s church. Mackenzie claimed that Fenton’s reinstatement constituted an “attempt to hush up some conflict” in the church (Flint 40). Macaulay responded to the allegations with a pamphlet that “questioned Mackenzie’s past business dealings, mocked his ancestry, and jeered at his mother” (41). In retaliation, Mackenzie set up an elaborate satire, announcing on the 4th of May that he was retiring as editor of the Advocate and that its regular contributors would meet to choose his successor. Accounts of these two “colloquies” were published on the 18th and 25th of May. 

The articles, which Mackenzie claimed were intended to “strip vice and pride of their masques, and to shew them forth to the world in all the distinction of their naked deformity” (Colonial Advocate 25 May 1826), functioned as “a diatribe against the social pretensions of the capital’s administrative elite” (Romney 117). These documents function not only as print artifacts of political discontent but also as an archival record of Mackenzie’s rhetorical performance enacted on the pages of his paper. Mackenzie recognized the potential performativity of his editorial intervention: this is clear in his formal choice of dialogue rather than strict prose. The language he uses to describe his intentions—he desires to “strip” his enemies and to show them to the world in all their “naked deformity”—also evokes a future performative moment using the vocabulary of shame and sexualized violence, implying the presence of an imagined spectator gazing upon bodies revealed as corrupt. This rhetorical violence will prove significant in considering the rioters’ actions and the legal repercussions that followed the riot.

While Mackenzie’s articles from the 18th and 25th of May clearly upset the young Tories, the final straw that provoked the riot appears to have been an article that appeared in the June 8th edition of the Advocate. Mackenzie cast yet another blow against the Family Compact  by reviving discussion of an 1817 scandal that arose from a duel between Samuel Peters Jarvis and John Ridout, an example that underlines the ambiguous conventions governing the behavior of young, upper-class men in the colony.  Around six o’clock that evening, these same young, upper-class men—law students and clerks, members of the Juvenile Advocates’ Society, sons and nephews of the leading members of the Compact— took action against Mackenzie. Armed with “clubs or sticks in their hands” and allegedly disguised as “Indians” (Mackenzie 12), they paraded through the streets of York. After stopping “for a moment on the bank in front of the Advocate Office,” perhaps to decide on a tactic, they “appeared to go in towards the office in Indian file one after another at a quick step” (8). Mackenzie was not in the office but two of his employees—James Lumsden and James Baxter—fled when the rioters entered. Mackenzie’s elderly mother and fourteen-year-old son James were upstairs, as the office was located on the ground floor of Mackenzie’s home. James Mackenzie witnessed the rioters destroying the printing press when he ventured downstairs; he saw Jarvis:

[T]aking a chase to the front of the office, full of types—he threw them down out of the chase upon the stones, the quoins flew out and the type fell out, then two or three more scat- tered them over the yard, and Jarvis took the rules, bent them up and threw them away— Afterwards Capt. Peter M’Dougall came out from the printing office and said, ‘I think we have done enough.’—Three of them carried three cases and threw them into the bay. (qtd. in Mackenzie 13-14)

While this was happening, Mackenzie’s mother went outside, “greatly agitated” by the disruption (Lumsden, qtd. in Mackenzie 12). The young men, upset by Mackenzie’s insults, took their revenge on surrogates, terrorizing his son and mother, intimidating his employees, and destroying the objects that had allowed Mackenzie to publicize his criticisms. ... This admittedly brief historical overview underlines the strangeness of the types rioters’ actions. Why would these young men with close links to the Family Compact, presumably both personally and professionally invested in preserving British ideals of civility, choose to commit such an obvious act of lawlessness against Mackenzie? Furthermore, considering the ambiguous relationship between Indigenous peoples and settlers in the colony, how and why did their actions evoke the ideas of Indigeneity that remain preserved in the archive?

If the rioters did don some form of “Indian” disguise before entering Mackenzie’s office, they were partaking in a longstanding tradition of what Phil Deloria terms “playing Indian.” In eighteenth- and nineteenth-century North America, settler-colonists often referenced ideas and images of Indigeneity in acts of protest. While Aboriginality was a shifting signifier, taking on specific meanings in response to the particular circumstances that caused discontent, referencing Aboriginal identities allowed protesters to position themselves as upholding the “native” customs of the “new” world in opposition to authorities enforcing laws and social practices from the “old” world. 

Phil Deloria argues that since, “Native people had been on the land for centuries, [. . .] they embodied a full complement of [. . .] necessary traditions” which colonists could claim superseded royal law; by “playing Indian,” protesters “evoked and invented local understandings about the freedom, naturalness, and individualism of native customs” (25-6). “Playing Indian,” according to Deloria, “suggested that a powerful landscape had somehow transformed immigrants, giving them the same status as Indians and obligating them to defend the same customary liberty” (26). Although settler-colonists who “played Indian” implied that their performances demonstrated a specifically “American” sensibility based on the appropriation of Indigenous customs, these performances actually often referenced folk traditions, such as charivari, with long histories in western Europe.

Charivaris were popular across early modern Europe and, like many forms of popular performance, occurred in a range of contexts and included diverse performance conventions. Martin Ingram notes that although charivaris varied widely in scale and formality, “[b]asic to all of them was mocking laughter, sometimes mild and good-hearted, but often taking the form of hostile derision” (82). These performances were also widely practiced in North America, with examples documented in the American colonies, in the United States, and in both Upper and Lower Canada. Terming the charivari a “ritualized mechanism of community control,” Bryan Palmer notes charivaris could “be directed against virtually any social offender,” but were, in North America, most commonly directed against “adulterous relationships, cuckolded husbands, wife and husband beaters, unwed mothers, and partners in unnatural marriage” (9).  A charivari was usually “initiated under the cover of darkness, a party gathering at the house of the offender to beat pans and drums, shoot muskets, and blow the ubiquitous horn, which butchers often rented out for the occasion” (9). The precise conventions of the charivari varied and while disguise was not always part of the event, many perpetrators dressed up to execute their performances.

While charivari traditionally provided a way for a community to discipline domestic transgressions, they also allowed community members to respond to political offenses. In England, charivaris could “involve an element of social or political insubordination [. . . and] a political flavour was sometimes present even in charivaris ostensibly concerned with domestic situations” (Ingram 90). Strictly political charivaris were far less common than domestic charivaris, but these events, which temporarily reversed the “natural” social order, “were a reminder that rulers were, after all, only as other men” (97). Politically-motivated charivaris also occurred in the American colonies. For example, in New Hampshire in 1734, settlers were so disturbed by Assistant Governor David Dunbar’s attempt to enforce a law reserving tall pine trees for ships’ masts, prohibiting their use in home construction, that they entered the tavern where he was eating, wearing blankets “wrapped Indian-style and sport[ing] caps and feathers on their heads. They had blackened and painted faces, and they grimaced and brandished clubs at the frightened group” (Deloria 11). The “Mast Tree Riot” is notable because the rioters explicitly employed “Indian” disguise as they executed rough justice against Dunbar, recognizing an important link between performance conventions and the disciplinary function of charivari to restore the “natural” order of things.

There are parallels to the Mast Tree Riot in both Upper and Lower Canada as well. For example an 1802 charivari protesting the marriage of Augustin Boiton de Fougeres, a French royalist, to Eugenia Willcocks involved young men “dressed as Indians” who “kept up the ‘shivaree’” for a total of four nights (B. Palmer 19). John Bigsby’s 1850 work, The Shoe and the Canoe: or Pictures of Travel in the Canadas, notes that a similar charivari occurred in Montreal, involving “[f]ifteen or sixteen people [. . .] in the garb of Indians, some wearing cows’ horns on their heads” (qtd. in B. Palmer 20). These examples show that participants in North American charivaris recognized that “Indian” disguise served both performative and disciplinary functions, demonstrating how “two social contexts [. . .] the penal and the festive” merged in charivaris (Ingram 92).

In both Europe and North America, charivaris tended to be performed by the lower and working classes, although members of the ruling classes were not always excluded from the events. In England, “more substantial members of the community often encouraged the demonstrators and sometimes took active part” and supported forms of rough justice “privately” (Ingram 104, 105). In Upper Canada, members of the upper class participated in charivari until the mid-nineteenth century, although their participation was generally limited to “customary wedding-night celebrations” (B. Palmer 50). 

While charivaris initially appear to undermine authority and to validate “rough” forms of justice, the participation of the upper classes demonstrates that “rough” and legitimate justice were not necessarily at odds. Martin Ingram underlines this relationship by pointing out that early modern charivaris had “extremely close affinities with the shame punishments meted out officially by certain courts of law” (92) and that the participants in charivaris that stemmed from political discontent may “have believed that they were acting in quasi-legal fashion to draw attention to the malfeasance of their governors” (93). Charivaris in North America, similarly, were often ultimately conservative rituals, demonstrating performers’ “active attachment to ideological principles justifying a social order in which they, for the most part, occupied subordinate positions” and allowing performers to simultaneously insist “on their own right to regulate certain aspects of the life of the community” (Greer 33).

I am not claiming that the Types Riot was precisely a charivari but that the event made use of some of charivari’s structural elements for a similar socio-political purpose: it was a disciplinary act, intended to intimidate its victim(s) into complying with normative social and political values, executed through an invasion of Mackenzie’s public and private space. While it is unclear whether the types rioters were aware that charivaris often involved “Indian” disguise, it is difficult to imagine that they were unfamiliar with one of the best-known examples of “playing Indian” in the eighteenth century: the Boston Tea Party. 

The Boston revolutionaries’ protest bears significant similarities to the Types Riot. For example, Phil Deloria notes that although the participants in the Tea Party are remembered as “faux Mohawks slinking home down Boston alleyways,” conjuring images of men in full costume, only “some participants donned feathers” and “for most a smear of soot and a blanket proved an easier choice. Others eschewed disguise altogether, making no effort to hide their identities” (6); the types rioters, if they were actually costumed, were also thinly disguised and were easily identified by witnesses (Mackenzie 12).

Although the Boston rioters did not attempt to hide their identities through their disguises, they “took pains to offer up Indian identities, grunting and speaking stage Indian words [. . .]. If they did not care much about actual disguise, they cared immensely about the idea of disguise and its powerful imputation of Indian identity” (Deloria 6). The idea of Indigeneity was essential as the “Tea Party revolutionaries crossed the boundaries of civilized law in order to attack specific laws that displeased them and to speak to the British from a quintessentially American position” because it allowed them to be “both Indian and not-Indian, [. . .] representative of social order and disorder” and to thus “open [. . .] the door to the creation of the new” in the colony (31-2). “Playing Indian,” in the context of the Boston Tea Party, provided a way for unhappy colonists to speak back to the British empire by positioning themselves as citizens of a emerging nation legitimated by their ability to balance “new” American “Indigeneity” and traditional civility.

While the types rioters likely recognized the performative and political purchase to be gained by “playing Indian,” whatever claim to Indigenous authority their performance attempted to make actually complicates Deloria’s interpretation of “playing Indian” as a specific act of protest. The Boston Tea Party, an event enacted by American revolutionaries unhappy with British rule, is a strange example for the children of Loyalists and British immigrants to emulate. But the strangeness goes beyond this. When members of social elites engaged in “playing Indian”—as in the case of the Boston Tea Party rioters (Deloria 28)—their actions were imagined as a protest against flawed models of governmentality: despite their high social and economic status, the Tea Party rioters disguised themselves as “Indian” to signal their exclusion from and dissatisfaction with the political establishment. In contrast, the types rioters were members of the provincial establishment with easy access to disciplinary apparatuses like the courts and the press: unlike the Tea Party rioters, they did not need to express their disapproval of Mackenzie’s actions through performative protest.

The Types Riot is not, then, an example of political protest directed from the margins toward the centre but an example of “lawless law,” a term Lawrence Friedman uses to describe unlawful events that “take place ‘inside’ the legal system itself [. . . when] lawlessness masquerades as law [. . .] or replaces law” (172) and which Carol Wilton applies to the Types Riot. Lawless law collapses boundaries between legality and illegality, law-enforcer and law-breaker, civil and uncivil acts. This collapse of binary oppositions precisely parallels one that occurs in the types rioters’ evocation of Indigeneity: their actions collapsed the binary opposition between extralegal authority legitimated by custom, which legitimated many performances of “playing Indian,” and legal authority legitimated by governmental power. While Deloria’s reading of the Tea Party posits that the performance gained its power by allowing protesters to balance and juxtapose competing legitimacies, the types rioters’ act of “playing Indian” merged Indigeneity and civility, suggesting that such a merger formed one foundation of the Family Compact’s authority in Upper Canada.”

- Heather Davis-Fisch. Lawless Lawyers: Indigeneity, Civility, and Violence. Theatre Research in Canada / Recherches théâtrales Au Canada, 35(1). (2014): 

[keywestlou]

CAPTAIN TONY.....ARGUABLY KEY WEST'S MOST BELOVED RESIDENT

Captain Tony was a unique personality who in his lifetime became the conscience of Key West. An icon unquestionably. Part and parcel of the island.

He died at 92.

Tony is remembered as a saloon keeper, boat captain, rum runner, gun runner, politician, gambler, Key West mayor, and a story teller.

Married several times. Actual number not certain. Perhaps 4. Married to his last wife 38 years. Fathered 13 children.

Jimmy Buffett was a good friend. Ran one of Tony’s mayoral campaigns. When Tony died, Buffett wrote a song commemorating him: Lost Mango in Paris. The song’s opening line: “I went down to Captain Tony’s / To get out of the heat / Heard a voice call out to me / ‘Son come have a seat.'”

Tony’s father was a bootlegger. Tony dropped out of school at 9 to sell liquor which was illegal at the time.

Tony was lucky to get to Key West.

He got involved with the New Jersey Mafia. Screwed them on some horse races. Became persona non grata. The Mafia thought they killed him in retribution. Dumped his body somewhere in New Jersey. He was not dead. Escaped to Key West.

I know only one of Tony’s children. A daughter nick-named Toni. Warm and charming. Loved her father. Even though long dead, she arranges a birthday party for him each year at Captain Tony’s. I have been fortunate to attend several.

Steve knew Captain Tony personally. He wrote of him in TACOS paragraph 14.

An old man came from the bar next door / In his T-shirt he looked like he had slept on the floor / He had a cigarette and a lot to say / And a poker game if I wanted to play / At first I thought he was full of baloney / He said his name was Capt. Tony / He’d eat a burrito and we’d listen to his wit / Thinking back, he never did pay for it / Tony shot a robber one night late / The guy ran past my store while trying to escape / When I asked Tony about it the next day / Without hesitation he explained it this way / He said he aimed for the leg but to his surprise / He hit him right between the eyes / They found the guy later it wasn’t hard / A block away in Miss Jesse’s yard.

Back to today.

The House’s Special Committee Hearing re January 6 began with a bang! Four Capitol and Municipal Police Officers testified. Honest and more sincere witnesses I have never seen.

Their testimony made most of the House Republicans and Trump look like liars. Which they are. Trump’s claim it was a “love fest” did not hold up. Nor some Republican House member’s claim that the insurrectionists were tourists.

A Washington, D.C. Police Officer testified. He suffered a heart attack, concussion, and traumatic brain injury. He was dragged down the steps of the Capitol, beaten and tasered.

While he was testifying, his cell phone was in his pocket and on silent mode when a message came in. He did not read it till his testimony had been completed. A vulgar threatening voice said, “I wish they would have killed all you scumbags, ’cause you people are scum…..Too bad they didn’t beat…..you more…..They stole the election from Trump and you know that, you scumbag.”

The caller appears to have had a limited vocabulary.

The Officers were clear as to what they thought should done from this point forward. They advised in effect the Committee should dig deep. Besides charging the insurrectionists themselves, the identities of those who helped plan and finance January 6 should be discovered and charged.

I recall hearing in a TV newscast last week that on 3 consecutive sundays, for 3 hours each time, a group met in the White House to plan January 6.

Everyone from any walk of life who was involved should be charged, convicted, and sentenced to long jail terms.

A proposed outline for a bipartisan infrastructure bille was passed in the Senate last night. The vote 67-31. Seventeen Republicans crossed the aisle to vote with the Democrats.

The proposed bill is for $1.2 trillion.

Trump advised immediately the bill was a “terrible deal.”

Biden advised the bill was “the largest federal investment in public transit ever…..the largest federal investment in passenger rail since the creation of Amtrak.”

COVID is on the rise in Key West, as in all of Florida. Cause involves the Delta variant, the unvaccinated, and the July 4th holiday weekend. More infections will come because of the Hemingway Look-Alike Contest and mini-lobster season which have brought huge crowds to Key West this past week.

I personally am aware of several new cases this past week. Three had been vaccinated. One I had a brief conversation with 12 days ago in the Chart Room.

Nationally, the unvaccinated are spewing the virus everywhere.

At least half the U.S. population has failed to be vaccinated for a number of reasons that do not carry weight. Some are realizing they initially were wrong. Want to correct the situation by being vaccinated.

Fear however friends and family members will get on their asses. So they are disguising themselves before getting vaccinated. Missouri an excellent example. People getting vaccinated in “secret.”

Insanity! First in failing to be vaccinated initially for any reason. Second, to be ashamed or whatever what people will say.

In my opinion, the Monroe County School Board is heading in the wrong direction re the mask issue. Schools are scheduled to reopen August 12. The Board’s present concern is limited to masks.

No official policy yet. However it is leaning towards “optional.” The Board Chairman said, “Parents know what’s best for their children.”

Amazing! Even here in little Key West and relatively small Monroe County elected officials are half assed doctors.

Even in Washington, D.C. House members consider themselves half assed doctors. Speaker Pelosi said we are going back to wearing masks. The Republicans are in an uproar.

The solution a simple one. If one or two House members get sick and die, everyone will then understand. A harsh way to learn. One invited upon themselves, however.

A sad occurrence. The Key West Naval Station is the site for the Army’s Special Forces Operations School. The School has been operating there for a number of years.

One of the attendees died yesterday while training in a pool

No other information available at this time.

Enjoy your day!

          CAPTAIN TONY…..ARGUABLY KEY WEST’S MOST BELOVED RESIDENT was originally published on Key West Lou

[msrheyrhey]

Copying this here because its behind a ducking paywall!

This article found here talks about how Asian-Americans adopted into white families can’t take off their advocacy hat, even when they are at home because their families are often still “colorblind“ to their own POC struggles. Now I want this to stay as a topic for Asain struggles, but as BIPOC adopted into a white family myself, I super relate to this to this day. 

“For the last year, and especially since the devastating Atlanta-area murders on March 16, many of my Asian American friends have been sharing deeply personal, painful stories of talking with their parents and elders, pleading with them to take care, being exhorted to be careful in turn. As an adoptee, I don’t really have Asian elders in my family—or many elders at all, since the deaths of my father, grandmother and mother. Yet I’ve found myself wondering: If my adoptive parents were alive, witnessing the spike in anti-Asian racism and violence in the U.S. and around the world—with Asian women the most common targets—would they be concerned about me? Would they understand why I cried when I told my own Korean American daughters about the spa shootings? Would I have reached out to them during this past hard, heavy week, or held back, uncertain of how to share my fear and rage as the only Asian in my white family?

My parents loved and would have done anything within their power for me. But one thing they struggled to do, at least fully and consistently, was to see and understand me as a Korean American woman. Acknowledging it flew in the face of everything “experts” had told them when they adopted me in the early 1980s—the adoption agency, the social worker, the judge had all maintained that it wouldn’t, shouldn’t matter. So we never talked explicitly about race when I was younger, even though I was usually the only Asian kid in every room; the closest they came were statements such as “we would have adopted you if you were Black, white or polka-dotted” and “we’re all the same on the inside.” Even after I grew up, I cannot recall having a single conversation with them about anti-Asian racism specifically. Not the “model minority” myth. Not perpetual-foreigner syndrome. Not the exotification and fetishization of Asian women. Not the history of American imperialism that is partially responsible for my birth family’s and my presence in this country.

One of the manifestations of white privilege is not having to think about it.

Often, people who’ve read my memoir will note my white family’s “colorblind” approach and ask whether this led to me thinking of myself as white. My answer is always swift, unequivocal: No, I never thought I was white. I don’t think my adoptive parents thought of me as white either, nor do I believe they imagined their whiteness would extend to me through proxy or proximity, because they didn’t think much about their whiteness at all—one of the manifestations of white privilege is not having to think about it. But they did assume that I’d be protected from racism because the world would see me as they did—their child, no more, no less—and as my race was irrelevant to them, they could not imagine anyone else caring about it either.

I’ve lost track of how many times my relatives told me, “I just don’t think of you as Korean.” But from early childhood, I understood that other people certainly did: white adults called me an “Asian princess” or asked where I was from; white boys at school chanted racist songs at me; a white girl singled me out at recess and demanded to know whether my “Asian vagina” was different from hers. While my adoptive family saw me as almost raceless and therefore safe from racists, I lived every day from the age of 7, when I heard my first slur from a classmate, understanding that my Korean face made me hypervisible where we lived—and that it could also make me a target.

The truth is that it is entirely possible to love and care for one Asian American—"your" Asian American—and not see other Asians as equally, fully human.

Since the start of the pandemic and the racist scapegoating that has persisted throughout, I’ve often thought of the many thousands of Asian American kids currently growing up in white families and white spaces. Our experiences are of course not interchangeable, but I know it can feel like a unique burden when you witness or experience racism in a kind of isolation, unable to retreat and process your rage or sorrow with people who also know what it’s like to live in an Asian body. When the constant labor of pointing out or educating others about the racism you face doesn’t necessarily stop at home. When, even within your own family, you might hear people stereotype or mock Asians, use Asian slurs. I wasn’t surprised to learn that Cherokee County Sheriff’s Office Capt. Jay Baker, who stated that the Atlanta shooter was having “a really bad day” and was found to have promoted racist T-shirts that read “COVID 19 IMPORTED VIRUS FROM CHY-NA” on his Facebook profile, has an adopted Vietnamese brother. The truth is that it is entirely possible to love and care for one Asian American—“your” Asian American—and not see other Asians as equally, fully human.

Before and after the 2016 election, I tried to explain to my parents how it felt to live and raise Korean American children, their grandchildren, in a country where so many racists seemed emboldened by Donald Trump’s lies and attacks. I remember pleading with them more than once: “I need you to hear me and believe that this racism is real, and that we experience it.” I cannot say we found precisely the common ground I wanted, but at times I felt we were moving closer to it. Over the years, I’ve talked with so many other transracial adoptees who, like me, have undertaken the task of asking, sometimes begging our adoptive relatives to acknowledge our experiences; to stand with us; to challenge the racism endemic in our society as well as our own families and communities. Now, in this moment, I hope that every white parent of an Asian child is paying attention to the rise in anti-Asian hate. I hope that white people with Asian family members recognize and internalize the fact that no amount of love, good intentions, assimilation or proximity to whiteness will protect their loved ones from racism. I hope that every parent is thinking about how they will talk about anti-Asian prejudice with their children.

It’s impossible to know what my own parents might have said about this wave of hatred and violence, part of a long history of anti-Asian racism. By the time the former president began calling COVID-19 “the Chinese virus,” by the time racists began shouting and tweeting (and spray-painting) the term “Kung Flu,” my father was gone and my mother’s cancer had spread, and the difficult conversations left to us were about our grief and how much we loved and missed one another. Like most everyone who has lost one parent, let alone two, I’ve had to accept that there are questions I’ll never get answers to, things we’ll never be able to settle. That my parents didn’t entirely understand or accept my racial reality will always be with me, part of my adoption story—but it’s not the most important through line of our story as a family, nor does it typically ascend to the forefront of my memories of them. They were, perhaps, vindicated in this: our love for each other was what mattered most, in the end.

Because of that love, which I’ve never doubted, my best guess is that they would have tried to follow when I drew a connection between the cresting anti-Asian hatred and the steady churn of dread and anger I’ve known over the last year. I think that the people who long tried to keep me safe would have asked me to be careful now; that the parents who never stopped worrying about me would have at least tried to understand my worry as the mother of Asian American children. At the same time, when I hear my mother’s voice in my head—as I still do, and have, nearly every day since she died in May—she is forever reminding me to trust myself, to know my value, to focus on what feels most important and life-giving and fulfilling. I know that the last thing either of my parents would have wanted was for me to despair, or live my life in fear. And so, for their sake and my own, I won’t.”

[captainkurosolaire]

Beyond Fathom

Nagging instinct swelled rampantly throughout Captain’s exhausted frame at the approaching duo. Eyes of skilled excelling killers they each spelled danger.  The more ominous edgy looking fellow was more silent and concealed. He might’ve well been a walking corpse. The lass, on the other hand, her particular chosen attire, seemed to really drive even more concern, without awareness his cheekbones were tense. “Shelah… Ye don’t have t’ stick around. This vessel most likely attacked me n’ hopes fer its Capt’s knowledge and valuables at this point.” She looked flabbergasted at even this suggestion, what sort of monsters were these if Captain even saw them as trouble. It meant even if he was in a hundred percent, he’d possibly not stand a chance. The sort of auras and presence that commanded their rooms that the weak often wouldn’t know better or try to shrug off in arrogance. Suddenly, the Rhino-Roe they left and fell through the stairwell mustered up his control still intact somewhat enough as it was revealed only a crack was done to his influence. His aetherial wares reflected this only damaged variation. “Move over shorties, these pests are mine!” Though the Red-Gloved chimer individual didn’t take too much for the tone. In deepened intense vocal decibel’s picking up the volume from such an average-sized guy, “Believe you’ve failed. We’re the clean-up.” Snickering on the other side of him the chaotic swirling scarlet-haired approached the sniper, “Aw, shucks, ye b’ all wounded en’ alls, how unfun! Carving isn’t as fun if th’ caught can’t try t’ run o’ home.'' accented in some foreign islander-talk akin to Shelah’s own, only made Captain flinching attempting to stand-up but couldn’t his body reached its limit and needed a recuperation who was even more onto his suspicions to be fearful of them. Only solidified as the Rhino leaned his massive frame over to someone he underestimated in the pint-sized Midlander, who drew one single Red-Glove-Handed touch on the lug’s head. His entire being cried out as every aetherial compound and everything he was materialized was dismantled and destroyed by that deathly touch not stricken or punched just an open palm tap so trivially achieved with little to any explanation. Captain erupted in horror his eyes couldn’t fathom these two workings in cohorts with a disgusting putrid hider underneath this shelled vessel? The Rhino and everything dissolved into aetherial sparkles that were scattered into the wind possibly returning to the belonging life-stream. He could force that with just a single touch, was that a relic, or was that hand a curse? Captain had acquired and met many dangerous opponents before, including the Scourges that commandeered this ship, but he was witnessing a whole nother’ level to absurdity.

Shelah pulled out a golden stray arrow and held it in one-arm alongside her rifle, tending to treat it like a dagger. Whilst their opponent swirled and danced with flinging juggling daggers, “Ye want t’ get frisky anyway? I like ya!” The wolf pelted the hide wearer who was possibly a part of her own upbringing of monsters and even tethered to the biggest cause of ‘giant’ death itself if Captain was correct on his hunches and her affiliation. Wording to her corpse partner, “I’ll take em’ they’re wounded lambs no reason t’ clean them. If they can beat me ya’ can have a saddle yuh?” The other held a face of emotionless bore, “Whatever. End this job quick, Fiona, don’t play too long or I’ll grow impatient. We’ve other paychecks to fetch from clients.”

Kuro for once was speechless, unable to speak. Knowing that Shelah was going to fend off for their survival and be brave. She fought her own customs and being born on an Isle often foreign discovered and of complete mystical chronomancy manipulators all seers and amazonian women of oddities. Sworn to the seas, Captain should’ve pieced together by now, those blues never would let him forget their effect of how shallow the depths couldn’t always entirely result in answers.                (Previous)  — / References /  —   ♫ — (Next Page)