#family vacation / diplomatic duties ? sign me up

[mangobilorian]

Cooperation | (explicit)

Pairing: Captain Rex x Reader

Genre: Smut

Words: 5085

read first chapter

Summary: You fully intend to get a night alone with your captain.

Even if it means disguising yourself and outrunning rabid paparazzi.

Many people think that princesses live in indulgence. Opulent palaces, luxurious vacations, rare fashion. They’re not wrong; most of the time you find yourself living a more expensive life than the majority of the galaxy. But the galaxy is at war. A war that your planet, including many others, was dragged into. A war that blurs the edges between right and wrong, loser and victor. In wartime, there’s little to celebrate except for winning battles. However, despite the war sowing chaos and famine and death among your people, you can say, with confidence, that there's one good outcome to come of it: Rex.

Rex has been your one indulgence in the entire war, ever since the first attack on your diplomatic mission to now, nestled next to him in a dark alleyway. You would never be caught in such a scandalous position, your head nuzzled into his neck, arms wrapped tight around his armored body. The thought of getting caught, ruining your reputation, and potentially being cast off from your family occurs to you almost immediately, but— wrapped in the comfort of Rex’s arms— you can ignore the impending consequences for a bit longer.

“Are they gone?”

“Hopefully. Let’s wait for a bit longer,” Rex says, voice a filtered whisper above your head. He leans back, eyeing you through his visor. It’s not his usual helmet, no blue paint or jaig eyes or tally marks. No, he wears a simple white one to match his mostly-new, slightly scuffed armor. You remember him telling you that he swiped it off a shiny. The disguise worked of course; since the army is made up of identical men, civilians won’t bat an eye. As for your disguise… you should have worn better makeup and maybe a less transparent headdress. Or possibly a sturdier one? Honestly, you should have dressed up as anyone but a Pantoran. Oh well. You didn’t listen to Riyo when she said the plan wouldn’t work, but it’s not her place to talk when she has her own clone commander to sneak out with.

“You good? How’s the makeup holding up?” You frown. The blue paint already faded from your fingers long ago when you first held a cold glass of beer. It was an amateur move, and you’ll use better body paint next time. If there is a next time.

“I feel sticky. And hot.” Rex chuckles, causing you to rock in his arms.

“We did run around Coruscant.” He lifts a finger to your cheek and wipes. “Yeah, the yellow is completely gone.” Of course. The distinctive Pantoran markings were the first to go once you and Rex started fleeing. Rex peers over your shoulder and slowly detaches himself. You try not to whine at the loss of contact, but you do anyway, and Rex gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Come on.” His hand warms your own and, despite being slightly overheated due to an unforeseen chase, you welcome it.

Together, you dart between buildings and people. As you near a more commercial area, the crowds begin to grow. Rex separates himself, opting to walk a few paces behind. Even with the headdress on, you make sure to duck your head. No one questions Rex since the armor is a big enough deterrent. When you see two Coruscant guards, you force yourself to keep moving. It would be more suspicious for you to wait for a random clone trooper talking to his brothers.

By the time they reach Rex, you’re far enough ahead that you can’t make out their conversation. As much as you want to hide and wait for him so you can maintain a reasonable distance, you have another task at hand. You hail down a speeder cab, making small talk with the droid driver. Just before you speed off, you turn to Rex, a few meters behind. He scratches his helmet, once, twice. To anyone else, it wouldn’t be anything of note. To you, it’s a sign that he understands. Feeling reassured, you speed off.

The entire ride through the busy Coruscant night traffic is in complete silence. While the droid tries to make some conversation, your mind is entirely focused on one clone captain. The last time you both had the chance to meet was around three standard months ago. His recent campaign had been a long one, and he didn’t want to talk about it. You understand. It’s hard to lose fellow soldiers. It’s even harder when they’re your own brothers.

Despite not having any siblings of your own (courtesy of the strict regulations on the ruling family), you know what it’s like to lose the ones you care about. The last three months have been hard on you too: traveling all over the galaxy, passing legislation at home, dealing with scheming politicians. But the majority of your worry centered around Rex and how he was doing. It's sad, you think, that the moment he got back, he had to immediately deal with the complexity of your relationship.

He never explicitly told his brothers about you, but they know him well enough to read between the lines. Especially Kix. The medic figured out Rex’s feelings before he even confessed. He never compromised his duties, but suspicious marks on his neck and sneaking out at random hours only added to the theories. You worried that the rumor mill would spread, and your relationship would reach your parents.

While you might be stripped of your title as princess or forced to marry someone else, Rex faces the very real threat of decommissioning. Or reconditioning. Thankfully, the clones only gossiped amongst themselves. So while an entire battalion could know certain, scandalous details, no one else (not even their commanding Jedi) would know.

When Rex got back, you planned a simple date night at a bar with him. With precautions and his brothers’ discreet help, of course. He had to dress up as a shiny since, as Anakin Skywalker’s second in command, he was among the most recognizable clones. For you, a princess who’s friends with multiple senators, the spotlight isn’t new. Everything was going well, and you were well on your way to being tipsy. But—as odds have it— you were spotted. The people who saw you hounded you with questions. What neither you nor Rex knew at the time, was that a female Pantoran celebrity landed on Coruscant the day before. The media hoped to catch a glimpse of her and, despite your yellow tattoos looking nothing like hers, they latched onto you. And the fact that a clone trooper was next to you. You sincerely hope the real Pantoran won’t suffer too much from the media’s onslaught.

The droid’s robotic voice jolts you out your thoughts. Fumbling a bit, you insert a credit chit (a temporary, untraceable one), and hop off. The apartment building itself isn’t that discrete. While the building doesn’t reek of poverty, it pales in comparison to your regular Coruscant residence. You think of the handmaidens and guards you tricked and hope they aren’t too mad you snuck out.

Sighing, you enter the unit and flick on some lights when something grabs you. It’s a testament to your upbringing that you don’t scream outright. Or attack back. The attacker in question begins laughing, a full-bellied, happy laugh. You’d smile if it weren’t at your expense.

There, grinning from ear to ear, Rex stands, one hand on your arm.

“How did you get here before me?” He shrugs, leading you further into the unit and tossing you a pack of wipes.

“Skipper and Boot dropped me off two buildings down.” Ah. The two Coruscant guards, you suspect. You begin wiping the blue paint off your face and neck first before moving onto your hands.

“They weren’t suspicious?” Rex gives you a little grin before sliding a hand to your backside and giving a little squeeze. You yelp, more out of how uncharacteristic it is than surprise. You try to levy a glare, but his smug face is too much of a deterrent. Bastard. Hot, sexy, romantic bastard.

“I’m not the first clone who snuck off to an apartment building. And since I look shiny, they were even more willing.” He takes the wipe from your hand, rubbing at the spots you miss, and you have to stop from swooning at how sweet he is.

“Oh really?”

“Yeah, something about ‘little brothers growing up.’ I told them I had a hot Pantoran waiting for me, and they broke half a dozen laws to get me here.” You raise a brow, a smile tugging at your lips.

“That eager, huh?”

“Always,” Rex whispers. It occurs to you, just now, how close you are. Sometime during your conversation, Rex had maneuvered you to press against his armorless chest, one hand on your waist, the other on your lower back. He tugs you even closer, and you can feel the hardness of his muscles beneath his skin-tight blacks. You realize, with some disappointment, that you’re still fully clothed in a heavy outfit, cloak, and headdress. Rex seems to have the same realization, and he leans down to steal a kiss.

You let him, closing your eyes and reveling in the steady, comforting way his lips move against yours. A hand slides up your shoulders, and you hear the gentle thud of your cloak falling. The fresh air against your now bare arms makes you gasp, and Rex takes the opportunity to brush his tongue on the roof of your mouth. You shudder, head already swirling at the sensation.

Rex leads you with a steady grip on your waist. You don’t bother separating, and stumble a bit. He catches you, and you giggle, breath mixing with his own. The ground moves beneath you before something hard presses into the backs of your knees. You open your eyes just as you tumble backwards into the bed, headdress already discarded. Rex gives you a smile, trying to be seductive but looking much too adorable. You can’t help but laugh. He flushes, the beautiful red decorating his dark skin, and his cuteness increases tenfold. It gives you whiplash, honestly, how someone so hot and sturdy can be a total, bumbling sweetheart.

Hands grab at the closures on the side of your dress, and you shift downwards to allow the garment to slip off. Rex throws the dress to the side, and if it were anyone else, you’d complain. The dress, despite being a disguise, is still a collector’s item from Alderaan’s latest fashion season. But, since Rex was the one to haphazardly throw the dress equivalent of priceless art on the ground, you hold your tongue. Actually, you open your mouth, but only to let Rex slide his tongue into it.

Moaning around his lips, you feel the rest of your undergarments loosen and fall aside. In your haze, you grasp at Rex’s biceps, pleased at the strength under his muscles. You slide a hand down his chest, feeling every hard plane, every dip. Rex pulls off you for a moment, eyes wandering over your exposed body. He unzips his blacks hastily, almost desperately, and you mourn about the fact that you didn’t have enough time to admire Rex in his blacks. It’s a simple protective undergarment, but the way it hugs his body is much too tantalizing for you.

You sit up on the bed, bracing yourself on your elbows, and watch. The material clings to his skin, even as he wiggles out of it. It’s tempting to say that he strips sexily. With his darkened eyes and languid movements, Rex definitely looks like a seasoned man. But the concentration on his face alongside the uncooperative fabric makes him seem all too adorable. You want to laugh again but opt for sending him a smile instead. Just because Rex’s ego isn’t high doesn’t mean you should damage it right before sex.

You don’t bother hiding your appreciation as he reveals more skin. Finally, after what feels like hours of agony, Rex stands bare. Without another second to spare, he leans over you, nudging you to your back. Lips graze over yours for a moment before forcing your mouth open. Groaning, you wrap your arms around Rex’s broad shoulders.

He slides you up the bed, closer to the headboard, and his lips leave yours before attaching to your neck. The steady sucking and occasional bite make your head dizzy, and you close your eyes. Your cunt throbs already, anticipating, waiting. Rex shifts, tongue licking at the skin below your collarbone, and you feel something half-hard against your leg. It feels good, like always, to have Rex’s mouth on you, but a sudden thought pierces through your hazy mind.

“No. Visible… marks,” you manage to say. Rex’s head lifts from his assault on your neck.

“Oh. Forgot about that,” he says, sending you a sheepish smile. He’s cute, you think. Too cute. And, despite being so much bigger and stronger, you have the urge to wrap him up in a big hug and protect him forever. After you get your brains fucked out of course. It seems like he’s on the same wavelength, and his adorable face plunges into the valley between your breasts and- oh .

Rex goes straight for sucking and biting and licking everywhere but the one place you need him. By the time Rex finishes marking your entire chest, your nipples almost ache at being left untouched. You whine, going so far as pushing his head closer to you. He chuckles, and his warm breath feels so good against your already heated skin. Finally, after moments of pure torture, his tongue grazes over your right nipple.

You moan, momentarily satisfied. Laying here, with Rex’s mouth on you, feels better than expensive vacations or gaudy clothes or aged alcohol. Rex makes you descend into pure bliss, and he manages it with foreplay alone. You shift a bit, trying to open your legs to wrap around his waist. He lifts up, and your legs ease out from beneath him.

With Rex paying attention to your chest, you take the opportunity to grind up against him. Your clit grazes against his lower abdomen, just above the thing you desperately want inside you. But you have some patience and, since it took a lot of work to plan this night, you have hours to spare. The thought makes you giddy; hours alone with Rex sounds like the closest thing to heaven.

You rock gently against him, the grinding just enough to satisfy you. Rex, ever the vigilant lover, takes notice and separates from your chest. Before you can whine, he unhooks your legs from his waist and crawls down. A moment later, he wraps his arms around your thighs, encasing his head between your legs. You only have a second to breathe before a warm tongue touches you right there . Your right leg drops to the bed, no longer held, and a hand reaches up to wrap around your breast.

Rex’s tongue circles your clit, once, twice, three times in slow, delicate motions. It’s akin to torture and only makes your clit throb. You try to push up off the bed, but his grip on your left leg traps you down. The only thing you can do is throw your head back and close your eyes.

“F-fuck, Rex. Too… slow,” you groan. He chuckles in response, the uneven vibrations of his voice making you even hotter. Rex squeezes your breast for a brief moment then begins to suck on your clit in earnest. He alternates between sucking and using his tongue to swipe in multiple directions. Up and down, left and right, even a constant pulsing motion centered around your clit. To add to your yearning, he doesn’t even touch your center. You know, without a doubt, that you must be dripping.

All it takes a long swipe up your entire cunt for you to scream. Thankfully, you manage to throw a hand over your mouth despite your head being too fuzzy to think about anything else. His tongue continues to lick you, coaxing you through the high, until you whine about overstimulation. After a minute or two, your breathing slows, and the tingles all over your body seem to subside. When you open your eyes, you see Rex grinning over you. His mouth is shiny and wet—your doing, you think with pride— and you pull him in for a kiss, not minding the taste.

“Good?” he murmurs softly against your swollen lips.

“Yeah. Very good,” you say and pull away for a second to plant a messy kiss on his neck. Just as you open your mouth to suck a hickey there, Rex backs off. Suppressing a pout, your eyes trail from his neck, down his chest, and to the very hard cock Rex holds in his hand.

He spreads your legs with his knees, and lowers down. A hand hovers right above your mouth. You give Rex the sexiest look you can manage—to which he responds with an endearing smile— as you lick a wet stripe down his palm. You take two of his fingers in your mouth, sucking and swirling with your tongue. His smile transforms into something hungrier, more primal, and you clench around empty air. It’s messy and wet and much too hot, even for you. Against your protests, Rex retracts his hand. He pumps himself once, twice. Despite him already being hard, his cock seems to grow larger. He has a prominent vein on the underside of his cock, a glistening red tip. You want him in your mouth but… Force, you need him inside you first.

“ Please , Rex,” you plead. He presses himself against your core, and thrusts his hips up and down, coating his cock with your wetness. His motions cause the head to brush against your pulsing clit.

When he’s satisfied, Rex pushes in just a little bit. “Ready?” You nod desperately, too excited to think straight. Rex groans as he slides in the rest of the way. It’s a tight fit— Rex is a supersoldier, and you haven’t had sex in three months— but Rex manages to fill you up perfectly. The first time you had sex had been a tad painful. The both of you were inexperienced since he never bothered with sex, and you had a reputation to think about. Granted, you fucked in an empty closet aboard a Star Destroyer, which might have added to the somewhat painful encounter. But here, trapped by his arms in a secret apartment, you’re proud to say that Rex stretches you in the most delicious way without any hints of real pain.

He pulls back a little bit before thrusting a little harder, and he starts at a steady pace. It’s not fucking, but Rex definitely isn’t going as slow as he can. There’s a slight urgency in his movements, a hint of care and intimacy. He leans over you, bracing himself on his elbows, and you grip his biceps, his hips meeting yours with every thrust.

“Fuck...,” he groans. “You’re so. Kriffing. Tight,” he says, dipping his head into your neck. You feel the bare trace of teeth and tense, slightly worried about marks, but it’s his tongue that darts to the dip above your collarbone.

Rex alternates between an in-out-in-out-in-out motion and grinding as you reach down to rub your clit. “So good,” you mewl, baring your neck for Rex. It’s altogether a bit too much: your fingers combined with Rex’s cock send you spiraling. You can feel the tell-tale sign of an orgasm coming— the urge for release just barely out of reach.

“Close?”

“Hmm... yeah.” Rex detaches himself, and you pout. The absence of his chest on yours allows the room’s air to cool your sweaty, heated skin. His thrusts slow until they stop. Frowning, you try to grind back, but Rex places a hand on your lower stomach and presses down.

“Can we change positions? For a bit?” Rex asks, looking shy despite his cock seated deep inside you. You nod; the brief interruption already has your orgasm dancing even further out of reach.

Rex pulls out in one motion, and you groan at the sudden loss. You spare a glance at his cock, moaning all the while. Rex flushes. Cute.

Hands grip your hips and gently urge you to turn. You follow his instruction, pushing yourself up on your elbows to flip and lie on your stomach. The air feels good against your back, and you prop your knees up, face planted into the sheets. It’s a presentation of sorts, a tantalizing, submissive position. You shake your ass for a good measure and smile when you hear Rex’s breath hitch.

You yelp when a rough hand grips your ass for a second, squeezing tight , before leaving. Then a sharp slap rings throughout the room, and a distinctive, stinging pain registers. “Good?” Rex asks, voice throaty and raw and much too attractive.

“Yes, captain,” you say, smiling into the sheets. When you first addressed him by rank, you had been making out in an empty medbay. He came in his blacks—armor included— and apologized profusely to which you responded with another kiss.

Rex slaps you again, and you jolt in surprise. The force isn’t hard, but it surprises you nonetheless. You feel two hands on each of your cheeks, and they pull at the flesh there, exposing you. The air feels good on both your holes but not as good as Rex manhandling you. He pushes your cheeks together and apart again. Rex moves them up and down too, pinching at the junction of your ass and thighs, massaging your lower back. He’s playing, you realize, and you love it. “Your ass is so fucking good,” he groans, sending another slap down. One of his hands snake to your waist and grips the skin there.

“Please, captain. I need-” Rex shuffles on his knees a bit and, without warning, pushes into you all the way. At this angle, he fills you deeper than before, and you have no choice but to take it. Rex starts slowly, making sure you get used to the new position. A hand settles on the dip of your lower back.

He grinds down and little by little starts to pick up the pace. His speed pushes you up the bed, and you can hear the supports squeak against the floor. You manage to sneak a hand between your body and the bed, finding your clit with practiced ease. As you begin rubbing yourself in desperate figure-eights, Rex thrusts a little faster, a little harder. He presses down, rocking your whole body, forcing all coherent thoughts out your head.

“You like that, princess?” You can only groan in reply, the warmth in your stomach building. “So kriffing hot,” he grunts and licks a blistering stripe up your spine. He presses in as deep as he can and, instead of almost pulling out and ramming back in like before, he thrusts shallower but harder. The increased pressure makes your head loll, and you distinctly feel a wet pool by your chin where you drooled.

Your fingers on your clit pick up their pace, bordering on pure agony and pleasure. You forget following patterns and move messily to stimulate your clit. It’s harder to keep your hand there though because Rex leans over to press against your back, trapping you. His chest is sweaty but hard and sturdy and firm. “ Fuck , princess. You’re so good to me.” He sends a particularly hard thrust into you, and you yelp at the pressure.

“I- kriff- love you, Rex,” you breathe out, mind delirious but honest. Your confession seems to send him into a frenzy because he pulls away, grabs your biceps to haul you off the bed, and sets a bruising pace. He bends you so your back arcs, face upturned to the ceiling while the captain pounds into you from behind.

Lips attach to your right shoulder, and you keen as Rex bites down. With every thrust in and out, you hear the sinful way your ass smacks against his hips, the wet squelch of his cock rearranging your guts. Rex’s rough grunts when he grinds deeper into you, your choked moans at his roughness. He rocks against you, pushing up-up-up . It’s thrilling: being used like this. You’re like a rag doll in his arms. And it’s oh so delightful to let Rex wreck you. With his speed and aggression, your breasts bounce uncontrollably, almost painfully. In your haze, you manage to cup your chest with your hands, trying to ease the pain. Your fingers roll around your stiff nipples which sends a new wave of pleasure to your cunt. But you can barely hold on; the sheer speed makes your breasts bounce too fast. Rex’s thrusts send your hands tumbling away, unable to grip on.

The bruising pace makes your eyes roll, and you finally let go. Your entire body goes limp in Rex’s hold, content to let him have your heart and your body and your mind. He continues to use you, not relenting in his pace. Sensing your tiredness, Rex lowers you to the bed, unlatching his hands from your biceps but keeping one on your lower back, still pounding into you.

It takes three more deep thrusts before you come, gasping into the pillow. Colors burst behind your closed eyelids, clouds of pure pleasure and dizziness and affection. Rex grunts once, twice, and tenses, groaning. You feel a warm burst, and suddenly, you’re fuller than you thought possible.

He drapes his body over yours, and the both of you stay there, content to be together. It takes minutes before you return to your senses, and even then you’re still a little fuzzy. He stays inside you the whole time, and you feel his cock soften with a slight throb here and there. Even while limp, however, he still manages to fill you enough so nothing leaks out.

Something gentle brushes against the side of your face, tethering you to the physical world. “Love you too, princess,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “My cyare,” Rex adds with another kiss on your neck. You shiver despite feeling much too hot and grin into the bed.

A moment later, he pulls away, the both of you groaning. You feel empty and cold, and your cunt clenches as he leaves. A steady trickle of his release drips down your skin and onto the sheets below. Rex lets you go and, with an undignified grunt, you roll to your back, Rex joining you. The two of you lay there, basking in the aftermath. More cum drips out of you, and the thought makes your clit throb. Fuck, you just came twice and you’re already horny again.

“Come here,” Rex orders, tugging you into a hug. He grabs two pillows and places them under your heads, but you migrate over to his. “Pillow stealer,” he accuses. You smile back. After all, it’s much better to share one pillow. He drapes an arm over your torso, and you nuzzle into his neck.

“That was good,” you murmur.

“Yeah? You liked that?” There’s a small hint of vulnerability in his voice, something unsure and worried.

“Of course. You know what I like.”

“I guess... I didn’t go too hard, did I? You went limp all of a sudden, and I thought I hurt you.” You separate from his neck, looking up at his concerned face.

“You’d never hurt me. Never. It just felt so good that I let go. I’d… like that again,” you blink up at him. Already, the pull of sleep calls to you.

“Oh. Ok.” His eyes drift down to your neck. “Sorry.”

“Hmm?”

“There’s quite a few visible marks.” You smile tiredly at his guilty expression.

“I can cover it with makeup. I’ve gotten better at it, haven’t I?” The both of you laugh. Rex places a hand on the back of your head and tugs you closer. You entangle your legs and, with a shy smile, feel the wet trace of his cum spill down your thighs. He seems to feel it too because he tenses. Worried that he might be uncomfortable, you try to pull back but stop when something nudges against you.

“Already? How?”

Rex grins. “Enhanced human, remember? Besides, you’re sexy and naked and tight.”

“And wet,” you add on.

“And wet.”

“I’m a little tired though,” you say as a yawn escapes your lips. While the thought of getting fucked by Rex again is enough for even more of his cum to gush out, you’re still tired. The whole day has been exhausting: putting on a disguise, running from the press, and getting fucked by the man you love.

“If you want, you don’t have to move.”

“Oh?” He hums, tracing a nonsensical pattern on your skin.

“I’ll be on top and you can lay there. You can even sleep.” The idea is tempting; not having to do anything while Rex fucks you sounds like a dream. But you want to make sure he doesn’t get too tired or feel like he’s being used. He deserves to relax. You think of ways to show him how much he deserves it. Maybe later, after a round or two, you can wrap your mouth around him, bob your head, and taste him for the first time in three months. Swirl your tongue on the underside and-

Well. You’re tired but still very much horny.

“If you really want to.”

“Oh I definitely want to, princess.” You giggle at his enthusiasm and place a tiny kiss on his collarbone, eyes almost closing out of exhaustion.

“Well then, captain, go ahead.” He pulls away to lean down and peck your lips then turns you to lie flat on your back, already slicking his impossibly hard cock against your cum-filled, dripping cunt. Rex slots into you and the intrusion is tighter than before. You’re already a little sore, and you definitely won’t be walking straight tomorrow. He thrusts shallowly then slowly picks up the pace, grunting delicious sounds. Part of you wants to stay awake just to see and hear him. But a bigger part of you wants to rest, and his promise of fucking you to sleep is too novel and exciting to pass up.

The last thing you see before you sleep are his golden eyes looking equal parts hungry and adoring.

[vannahfanfics]

I'd like to request some Maiki (Mai x Suki) headcanons please, it's my second favorite ship from ATLA right under Zukka! (Zuko x Sokka)

~rubs hands together with an evil grin~ Thank you for the rarepair food, love. I will have fun with this one!

Maiki General Headcanons

Two gorgeous ladies, kickin’ ass and lookin’ fantastic doin’ it? Sign me up please! Here’s a breakdown of how these dynamite gals end up together: 

Honestly, Mai didn’t really register Suki’s existence until Ty Lee joined the Kyoshi warriors. Suki just began to travel in Mai’s social circle, at all Mai really knew about the girl was the fact that she was a fierce and determined warrior- and that she was dating Sokka, because it always came up in conversation. Ty Lee loves romance. 

Mai and Zuko split up again; their personalities just don’t mesh as significant others, and Mai made her peace with that. For a while, she enjoyed single life; she could concentrate on herself and her own ambitions. 

Just at the point where she considered possibility looking for love again, she was traveling to Kyoshi Island with her family for some diplomatic proceeding or another. After all the boring niceties, Mai went to reminisce with Ty Lee to find the girl comforting a very despondent Suki. 

It seemed that Sokka and Suki had broken up in a mutual agreement; their respective duties were just too demanding, and they both felt that they each deserved someone who could support their efforts at a closer range. 

“Ugh. Men and their honor and duty,” the ravenette scoffed as she plopped down beside the tearful Suki. As the girl began to protest, Mai shut her down, slinging and arm around her slim shoulders and tipping her head back with an aggravated sigh. “Once they get that tunnel vision, there’s no going back.” 

The diplomatic mission was set to last several weeks (mostly because her parents wanted to vacation on the Earth Kingdom island). So, Mai spent most of her time with Ty Lee and Suki. It got to the point where she accompanied one or the other on island patrols. Mai found that she greatly enjoyed patrolling with Suki especially; she was the perfect balance of fun, but not overbearingly so like Ty Lee could be. Mai loved Ty Lee to death, but a introverted girl like Mai could only handle so much bubbliness in a day. 

They talked about many things on the long, leisurely loops around the island perimeter- their lives growing up, their likes and dislikes, their roles in the takedown of the Fire Lord, their goals and dreams for the future. Mai found herself melting into a sense of security with the girl, more than she’d ever felt with Azula or Ty Lee or even Zuko. Suki just pervaded this sense of serene grounding that pulled Mai in so easily. 

Mai found herself dreading the inevitable departure from Kyoshi Island. Mai is no fool; she knows when she’s attracted to someone. She is very well aware that Suki has managed to capture her heart. 

The day comes, and Suki and Ty Lee come to the docks to see Mai off. Not one to skirt around the bushes, Mai saunters up to Suki after her parents have boarded the Fire Nation ship and just plants a kiss on her cheek. 

Suki turns beet red, Ty Lee gasps and covers her mouth with wide eyes, and Mai is just smirking audaciously. 

“Be sure and write,” was all she said before turning around and walking up the gangplank, robes swishing as she ascended. As soon as Suki couldn’t see the ship on the horizon anymore, she zoomed back to her house to start writing (with an enthusiastic Ty Lee’s aid). 

[warsofasoiaf]

The Celtic Tiger - A Kaiserreich Ireland AAR Chapter 2: An American Tragedy

12 February 1937 - Home of Michael Collins, Cork, Ireland

“The United States of America has faced challenges since its founding, but it is an enduring republic. When we were invaded, we fought off our attackers. When the Great Storm hit Galveston, we built cottages from the storm lumber. When Black Monday reached our shores, we passed the Garner-Wagner Act to deliver our people relief. The American people, through this election, have made their will clear. They do not want the empty promises of Jack Reed. They demand more than the sayings of Huey Long. Words are not enough, action is required. That is what I shall promise: action. We will stand firm against the threat of populism and syndicalism.”

Benjamin Franklin, after the Constitutional Convention, was asked whether the United States was a democracy or a republic. His words were: ‘a republic, if you can keep it.’ That was not mere wit, but a charge; a sacred duty given to every citizen. Today we say: it is our republic, and we shall keep it.” -US President John Garner, Excerpt from Inaugural Address

In Michael Collins’s case, war never seemed to have a countdown, but sure enough, the war looked like it would begin in 30 days. Just the thing to ruin his vacation; he had hoped to spend a few days in Cork to recharge his batteries, and ended up having indigestion and headaches the entire trip.

The United States had been a roiling mass of discontent since 1925, but it had only gotten worse during Black Monday. President Garner had won a lot of support in his campaign, which had focused on trumpeting the successes of the Garner-Wagner Act and touting the President’s willingness to fight any who threatened democracy. “A snake is a snake is a snake,” Garner had been fond of quoting on the campaign trail, swaggering with a pair of revolvers. “I plan on working to fix the mess that we’ve found ourselves in. If Jack Reed and Huey Long want their voices heard, I’ll listen to them. If they want prosperity for America, they’ll listen to me. And if they want to fight, they’ll get one. I don’t plan on striking first, but as God is my witness, I’ll be striking last!” 

That had been enough for the Presidency. Jack Reed’s Socialist Party of America and Huey Long’s America First Party had strong regional support, but neither movement received enough votes to beat the Republican candidate Alf Landon, let alone Garner. Yet the victory was narrow, and both candidates claimed voting irregularities arranged at the polling places by supporters within the state voting commissions, along with other accusations of beatings and intimidation campaigns. Herbert Hoover endorsed Garner in a show of cross-party American solidarity, and Landon himself was a guest of honor at Garner’s inauguration. Garner had already promised the Republicans some Cabinet appointments in the hopes of building a coalition government strong enough to stop Long and Reed. It was an uphill battle; the 1936 voting season had been marred by political demonstrations turning violent, they had even called it the Red Summer, and now Long and Reed were railing against the legitimacy of the vote.

When the populists had made their accusations, the governors in their regional strongholds had backed Long and Reed. The populists, it seemed, had called President Garner’s bluff. The governors demanded a “national reconciliation council” under their talking head, and both had made it plain that the other would not be welcome on it, making it all but certain that war would come, and it would not be small. Jack Reed was popular in the Steel Belt and Huey Long had an almost religious appeal in Louisiana and in the rest of the Southern United States. Reed had much of the industrial heartland, but Long had far more pull among the military including high ranking officers. It wouldn’t be an easy fight, no matter what Texans had to say. In both ways, it was bad for the United States.

Collins had hoped it wouldn’t be war, but he was sure that it would be. If Jack Reed was able to successfully overthrow Garner, the Internationale would be emboldened. The Communards might still be reluctant to face Germany, given how large such a war would be, but Mosley would almost certainly want to snap up Ireland to carry forth syndicalist momentum. Anti-Irish rhetoric had only intensified in the months following Ireland’s meteoric 1936 rise, with Mosley claiming that Michael Collins had become “every inch the oppressive king he fought against.” Collins laughed when he was first told it, but as the days went on he seethed against the man, wishing he could have five minutes alone in a room with him. He was sure his sainted ma would not look fondly on him for beating on a man with a limp, but she’d forgive him.

When the reporters asked for a quote, Collins was sure to give them one. “Look at Mosley in the war. Gallivanting around in an aeroplane like war was just boys at camp, crashing trying to be a showboat. I suppose I must be kind, he tried to prove he was a brave man, I’m sure it’s not his fault he ran behind a desk before a year was out. That’s where he’s most comfortable, hiding and sipping his gin while he sends young boys to do the fighting and dying.”

Collins had a good laugh, but he made sure to tell his diplomatic service to make sure that Ireland would have plenty of friends on both sides of the Atlantic, just in case the Union tried anything. Laugh in public, but service your pistol in private.

---

14 March 1937 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

It was war. The entire world was aflutter with the news that the United States had descended into a civil war. President Garner’s deadline had come and went, and both Jack Reed and Huey Long had declared war on the United States. In response, Garner had appointed General George Marshall as Chief of Staff of the Army. The Internationale had already voiced its support for Jack Reed, with Chilean, Communard, and Union supporters already on their way to support the newly-formed Combined Syndicates of America. The German Empire was far more reserved in its support. German-Americans primarily lived in areas controlled by the Combined Syndicates, and the United States government had primarily conducted a pro-Entente policy during the Weltkrieg, leading the Kaiser to support Huey Long out of pure pragmatism. Canada had fallen into debate within the Houses of Parliament on who they were supporting. 

Collins had no such reservations about debating who to support in the Dail. Collins had sent out a call for a volunteer division, the 1st Thunderbolts, and had placed them under the command of Daniel McKenna. The East Coast was dense with urban areas, and McKenna was just the man to fight in that difficult urban war, having fought the English in the cities before. The Thunderbolts had been training for months in preparation for the outbreak of hostilities. Most were young men, too young to have seen the Independence War, but their officers and senior NCO’s had. That would carry them, fighting in unfamiliar territory would mean they would have to adapt quickly and rely on the experience of the leaders. Other IRA volunteers, particularly those with families in the United States, had opted to go there themselves, fight in the American army, and return later.

The first target would have to be the syndicalists. With their position in the American industrial heartland, they’d have the manufacturing prowess and the civilian manpower to build and repair war materiel far faster than the mostly rural southern states. They would have to trust in their greater manpower and equipment to hold the southern front against the aggressive generals of the American Union State. The United States had begun mobilizing forces on the West Coast to get them to move east, and requisitioned several rail lines for exclusive military use, but it would be hard fought. America was going to need all the help it could get.

---

13 April 1937 - Northern Maryland, United States of America

“We have traitors to our left, and traitors to our right

Our Congress and our president have long since taken flight

No ammo, no armor, no pills, no cargo

No prayers, no chance, no hope of tomorrow

Just you and me and a hell of a lot of fight.” -Frank McHewlitt

Pennsylvania had become a battlefield for the Second American Civil War just as it had for the first. The Pennsylvania governor had declared for Jack Reed, but the Federals had made a march into central Pennsylvania, seizing York to Fulton counties, but lack of manpower, difficult terrain, and Communard volunteer tank brigades had ensured any excursion was short-lived. From New York to the Midwest was controlled by the Syndicalists. Fearing being overrun, Joseph Kennedy Sr. had asked Canada to send an occupation force to protect them from the Syndicalists. This had infuriated President Garner, but pragmatists in his Cabinet had argued that the region was indefensible since the Syndicalists held New York, and better that the Canadians occupy it, and the Combined Syndicates risk a war with the Entente, than the factories be taken over by Jack Reed. Further south, Canada had sent a force to occupy the Panama Canal after the Americans had withdrawn their garrison force. The Canadians had said their mission was to protect trade, but had banned ships flying Communard, Union, or Chilean flags.

Further south, Texas to the Carolinas, and everything south, had pledged loyalty to Huey Long’s vision. Several companies had even signed on to the “Share Our Wealth” program. His men were heavily-armed and competently led, and they had already made significant inroads pushing north into Kentucky from Tennessee, even making contact with and fighting Jack Reed. George Patton had been named the overall commander of the American Union State, and on land the America First Party had shown themselves to be exceptional fighters pound-for-pound. Their goal had been to push and seize whatever territory they could, to turn the factories over to Longist control and get their war materiel production up to match the Federals and the Syndicalists. It had been remarkably successful, Patton’s armor techniques had run circles against disorganized Kentucky militia and revolutionary syndicalists alike. Already there were unconfirmed reports of mass shootings of CSA prisoners by AUS irregulars. The Federals were hard-pressed, often surrounded and potentially encircled by hostile forces in Kentucky. Only the chaos of the war and the close proximity of all three forces, kept them from being killed outright. Desertions, particularly from militia unfortunate enough to be in the encircled regions, were high.

Washington was no longer the capital. With Maryland under fire and the Firsters pushing from the south into Virginia, Garner had decided to temporarily move the capital to Denver, where he could oversee the political business of state. MacArthur had elected to remain in place as the commander of the East Coast Enclave, suggesting that Dwight Eisenhower take command of the main Federal forces in the Midwest. “He’s a Kansas man, there’s no man better in command from the Midwest. The troops will fight tougher and harder if they know we haven’t abandoned them. Don’t worry, Mr. President. Those bastard traitors won’t set a foot in D.C.” With his trademark corn cob pipe and a wave to the press, MacArthur took a ride on a Vultee V-1 to take up command, with Eisenhower being named the overall commander of Army Group West, with the goal of pushing east from Kansas into Missouri. 

MacArthur welcomed the service of the volunteers sailing and landing on the Chesapeake, no traitor forces had been able to ensure naval supremacy on the East Coast and none were willing to risk firing upon a flagged vessel and invite any nation’s full-blown entrance into the conflict. Lavr Kornilov, eager to project strength and stability after the assassination of President Kerensky. Hirohito had also dispatched volunteers citing the strong relationship between the United States and Japan and the need for legitimate government to be re-established in the United States to project stability in the Americas. Calles in Argentina, eager to re-establish the Monroe Doctrine to act as a bulwark against the Patagonian Worker’s Front, and always eager to fight syndicalists. Brazil likewise had ordered troops to support the United States. Mexico, eager to avoid any war spilling over their borders, had closed the borders to the American Union State and had sent divisions through the Gulf of Mexico before the Longist navy could seize control of the waters and potentially cut off trade and transit. MacArthur ensured that each division had several bilingual Americans to serve as liaisons and communications personnel. He couldn’t command the volunteers, but he did demand adherence to military law and that any abuse of US civilians or military personnel would be dealt with by firing squad. Similarly, MacArthur promised his own men that they would be punished harshly if they stole from or fought with Federal volunteers. Regular correspondence was mandatory, and passwords changed regularly to allow foreign soldiers to identify themselves quickly to friendlies, passed via radio operators who had signed up with the Federals in record numbers when President Garner forced a bill and executive order expanding the civil rights of Native Americans to shore himself up for the upcoming emergency. The Navajo Nation, who provided one of the largest units, dispatched signals operators to coordinate with the volunteer brigades, providing exceptional communications security and coordination between the Federals on both fronts.

Yet things were not going well. MacArthur had enforced military law within the East Coast enclave, and garrison forces frequently looked to seize supplies and materiel for their war effort. Oftentimes, a token effort at compensation or promise of restitution to come later was the only balm in Gilead; it did not help those who starved.

The volunteer forces moved north to the Mason-Dixon line, where the Combined Syndicate militia were threatening to move south into Maryland from their regional headquarters in Philadelphia. The Russians opted to secure themselves in Baltimore, while the Argentine and Mexican forces moved to Cecil County to secure Delmarva from the syndicalists seizing the east bank and potentially cutting off vital access to the Chesapeake. McKenna and the Irish 1st Thunderbolt, acting aggressively, crossed into Pennsylvania and secured themselves in York. Not willing to pass up a fight, Russian and Irish volunteer brigades pushed into Lancaster County, threatening Philadelphia and forcing the Communards to reinforce their position lest Philadelphia fall and the road to New York be pushed wide open.

---

17 April 1937 - Economic Committee of the Dail, Dublin, Ireland

It had been a constant flurry of activity in the new year. The Dail was debating loosening immigration restrictions to help bring in new blood to help support Ireland’s effort to modernize. Even if good policy and hard work had led Ireland out of the depression following Black Monday, manpower was still the hard limit on everything they could do. Once unemployment fell, there would be no new employees for businesses, and they’d turn away from Irish investment. 

There had been two major sources of pushback against immigration reform. The Unionists in Ulster had been vocal opponents, calling the efforts part of a planned demographic shift to stock the north with people that would sideline their concerns as Unionists. Their proposal had instead suggested an increase in immigration from select countries, notably Canada, Australasia, and the British Dominion of India. Gearóid Ó Cuinneagáin was far more hostile to immigration overall, demanding no immigration save from Celtic-majority countries, particularly those who wished to depart the Union of Britain from Scotland and Wales. Some of the measures proposed had truly been radical, such as instituting a Gaelic language entrance exam to new immigrants. The hAiséirghe crowd had always been a touchy subject, they had enough support in Munster that they couldn’t be ignored as much as Collins wanted to throw the bastards into the ocean. 

Collins had been lucky, his Dublin financial capital idea had already been receiving positive responses. The German Kaiserreich, still deep within the throes of Black Monday, had debated whether or not to permit German businesses to invest in Ireland. The protectionists in their government had argued that the last thing that they needed to do was open up subsidiary companies in Ireland and send work away from Germans. The market liberals were far more enthusiastic, suggesting that the profits made could be reinvested in Germany; an influx of cash that wouldn’t increase the money supply and devalue the Mark. In the end, Wilhelm II had agreed to the proposal. He had known that the Irish Republican Army had been looking to re-equip their forces, and Krupp could easily manufacture rifles and mortars with a sizable government contract. Krupp opened Krupp Rüstungsbetriebe Irland, redesigning the Krupp Radreifen into the shape of a shamrock.

The Kingdom of Spain had also looked to establish an arms company in Ireland, eager to arm those who were also hostile to the syndicalists, and quite isolated on the European continent, with France and the German Protectorate of Morocco making an uneasy set of neighbors. Having a well-armed Irish Republic was a benefit to King Alfonso, who agreed to set up a subsidiary of Llama-Gabilondo y Cia SA, taking the name Dóiteáin-Gabilondo Incorporated, and selling their famous pistols to the Irish Republican Army. With regular army drills, and now a larger armaments industry within Ireland itself, a more significant and professional Irish Republican Army was starting to take shape.

The Italian Republic, floundering in the wake of massive German and Austrian stock selloffs, were eager to find ways to bring in cash and stabilize their own economy. Seeing a pressing need, the Italian Republic opted to establish a naval manufacturing dockyard in Dublin as Gio Ansaldo Irish Sea Shipwright, Ltd, to help produce submarines for the Naval Service. Italian engineers could work in Ireland, the revenue would flow into Italy, and the Irish would receive a powerful deterrent against the Union of Britain’s navy. Working in the choppier northern waters was different from the warmer and calmer Mediterranean, but the Italians proved up to the challenge, christening the first Irish U-Boat the new Fenian Ram.

The rush of European activity to invest in Ireland had not gone unnoticed in the Netherlands. After a fierce and competitive bidding war, the Dutch government, very busy with their preparations for the upcoming elections in May, had given the go-ahead for Royal Dutch Airlines KLM to do business within Ireland. Rather than operating a strict subsidiary, as the government was still facing the worst of Black Monday, Royal Dutch instead opened a joint venture with Aer Lingus, operating a civilian airfield that would bring in much needed tax revenue, and providing expertise for the construction of a military airfield in Leinster. The Union of Britain had lodged a formal complaint against the move in the Netherlands, but the ambassador had been dismissed out of hand, the official response being “Ireland has a right to the sky, and Britain has no right to dictate policy to the Netherlands.”

The United States had been considered highly unlikely to invest in Ireland. Even with the positive relationship that had existed between the two countries, the USA had been facing an existential crisis. To Collin’s great surprise, Garner had actually encouraged American companies to open subsidiaries in Ireland before hostilities broke out. In a diplomatic message to the Irish President, Garner had written: “I am certain there will be war. American industry will certainly not be spared. This initiative may save American lives and enrich both our countries. If the worst comes to pass, may God protect us both.” General Irish Electric, as the company titled itself, designed a logo incorporating the Irish harp in the signature “G” of the GE logo. The company received a grant from the National Industrial Investment Fund and purchased a factory abandoned during the Black Monday fallout, bringing up to speed in record time to produce civilian and industrial-grade electronics. Almost immediately, GIE had orders tasked almost to capacity for factories across Ireland to upgrade their own operations, throwing itself into the greater industrialization efforts that Michael Collins had championed the previous year.

The Dominion of Canada was a much more difficult beast to wrangle. Edward VIII had made no secret that he wished to reacquire not just the British Home Isles, but the British Empire as well; he would not be a second-fiddle to the Kaiser. That would mean the Six Counties, surely, perhaps even re-establishing the Free State as a Dominion. Collins had debated even making the offer to Canada, but a good relationship with Canada was, putting Edward aside, a sound policy. Canada needed money to support their war efforts, and a friendly relationship with Ireland would mean less problems when launching their operation to take back the Home Islands. Collins privately feared that they would want to use Ireland as a staging ground. Ireland had situated itself as a prominent financial hub, and since Dublin was designated a Special Economic Zone, it could potentially be very lucrative and offer a way to sell to the rest of Mitteleuropa without dealing with the Kaiser. The Canadian government had assented to Canadian Arsenals, a crown corporation to open a subsidiary in Dublin named North Atlantic Arms. Collins made sure that it acted in all things as a private company, insisting that King Edward appoint an executive staff the same as any other business. That had been a headache in the Dail, with Eamon de Valera angrily demanding not to sell Irish land to King Edward. Collins had countered that Ireland was a free and independent republic, and that the King had to obey Irish law rather than dictating laws to Ireland.When rumors came around that Jim Larkin had supported Dev’s objections, the Fianna Fail politician withdrew his opposition in favor of a more moderate compromise, asking only that the Dail be presented the terms of the contract in open session so that they could vote on them. Dev’s desire not to give Larkin more ammunition had rapidly diminished opposition to the measure within Fianna Fail, and Sinn Fein offered only a token dissent, permitting the venture to go forward.

With the outbreak of war in the United States and Ireland’s rapid industrialization, Sweden had sensed an opportunity to open a subsidiary business in Ireland as well. AB Landsverk had originally sought to open a tank manufacturing plant, since the Irish tanks were largely outdated and the Irish Republican Army was going to need to modernize its arsenal. Fierce protest erupted from the social democrats within Sweden’s Parliament, opposing the idea of arming Ireland and facilitating a possible war between Ireland and the Union. The hawks within Sweden had supported the venture, but military arms, even support equipment, could not secure a large enough coalition for the Economic, Defense, and Foreign Ministers to agree to the venture. Not wanting to lose out on the potentially lucrative deal and already facing their own problems with syndicalist unrest, Sweden’s market liberals had offered a compromise within the Riksdag, allowing Landsverk to open Landsverk Inneal, specializing in tractors and harvesting equipment to support the modernization of the Irish agricultural sector. Several prominent military analysts noted that the new Inneal tractors, with a few modifications, looked suspiciously similar to a light tank with the turret removed, but these were dismissed as products of an overactive imagination by both Swedish and Irish military analysts.

The Austrian Empire was in a difficult position in 1937. Emperor Karl I had been making significant plans for his Ausgleich Federation plans, and saw the Irish initiative not simply as a means to support his economy, but as a means to demonstrate both Austrian power and his willingness and initiative to support cooperation efforts for mutual gain. The Emperor had made his commitment to pluralism plain within his proposed federative model, he had hoped that participating in Collin’s economic initiative would help sway skeptics and naysayers to his side to give him greater support against Hungary. If it could help his economy and put neutral voters who cared more about their own personal livelihood than the greater plans of Austria-Hungary, that was fine as well. Daimler founded Irish-Daimler and focused on developing automobiles and lorries. While the Emperor could not be there in person, he had prepared a statement for the opening of the plant in Dublin. “Irish-Daimler is in the business of Irish business. Her success is our success, and our success is her success. May we both prosper in the days ahead.” 

Eight nations had opted to do business with Ireland in such a short period of time, and there had already been murmurs for other nations to do likewise. The success of Irish Black Monday reforms had been the talk of the European financial sector. Even distant Japan had expressed an interest in perhaps opening a branch of one of their zaibatsus in Ireland to sell to Western markets, though such a discussion was in the planning stages. When interviewed by The Financial Times, Lemass had made the quote that had made the headlines. “Ireland is the Emerald Isle. She always sparkled in our hearts, now everyone can see it.”

When Michael Collins had heard that, he smiled. The man had the head of a businessman but the heart of a poet. The head and the heart needed to complement each other if he wanted to see Ireland through.

---

8 May 1937 - Áras an Uachtaráin, Dublin, Ireland

As the war passed into its third month, Collins started to wonder about the upcoming elections in the fall. America had been on his mind a lot lately. An emergency act by the Oirechtas called the Díodean initiative had allowed Americans seeking refuge to come to Ireland, and plenty had taken Collins up on his offer. Many immigrants came with much of their wealth with them, which had provided an influx of capital. Even more valuable, however, was the technical knowledge. Many of the immigrants had been factory managers or entrepreneurs, and they had knowledge which made them highly valuable in the industrial sector. Not every tale was so fortunate, however. Some culture shock was perhaps inevitable, but it had been incredibly slow going. Collins had remembered the first time he saw a new settler to Ireland drive on the wrong side of the road and cause a car accident. This felt like seeing that unfold in slow motion on a national scale. The poor Americans had felt the Irish were cheating them out of wages and exploiting their desperate circumstances, while the wealthy felt their standard of living drop precipitously. 

The hAiséirghe crowd again troubled him. Reports of nativist gang uprisings in the poorer parts of cities and rural areas were on the rise. There were demonstrations that the new arrivals were stealing all of the good-paying jobs; this had been going on since the new immigration reform but now was reaching a fever pitch. The Unionists again rallied against Collins, accusing him of colonizing the north with people opposed to King Edward under the guise of humanitarian aid to defeat the Ulster Unionists at the ballot box. They demanded a series of refugee and work permits that did not confer voting rights as opposed to outright immigration and naturalization. That had caused a firestorm on the debate floor, causing no shortage of headaches for Collins.

To alleviate the shortages, Collins had organized refugee brigades in the Republican Army, where young men could earn a wage and provide a livelihood for their families. The Yanks were excellent shots, and Collins had hoped that seeing immigrants wearing a uniform would cause the locals’ respect for the military to undermine nativist tendencies. It was a mild success at best, mostly in Leinster where there had already been fewer problems overall. Collins had weighed outright banning the Ailtirí na hAiséirghe, but that would just send them underground like the Labour Party had. He had to settle for punishing assaults when they were reported, and increasing Gardaí patrols to keep the peace. 

In the leadup to the elections, Collins had seen cracks start to form in his ironclad voting bloc. While syndicalism had little popularity in Ireland itself, Sinn Fein had seen an upsurge in popularity with Black Monday despite Collins’s efforts. The Irish Christian Front and the Ailtirí na hAiséirghe had campaigned against him thanks to his immigration policies. Fianna Fail had campaigned on greater liberalization, and the National Centre Party had wanted to re-orient foreign policy to a more pro-Entente position. Sinn Fein and Fianna Fail had opted to engage in tactical voting, with candidates withdrawing from ballot races in order not to split the vote. Jim Larkin had endorsed the move, promising to work with Sinn Fein to provide greater relief to the Irish working class. The Irish Christian Front opted to boycott the elections and both they and the Ailtirí na hAiséirghe accused Collins of bringing in foreign refugees to ensure he had the votes needed to win.

At a closed door meeting, Collins was asked a simple question. “Sir, what should we do about the election?”

Collins, his hands shaking, had only one response. “Whatever it takes.”

---

15 July 1937 - West Virginia, United States of America

“We’re in the right thick of it now, ain’t we?” Daniel McKenna shouted over the din of battle. 

The East Coast Enclave had stabilized its borders after the early initial push, but still faced the difficulties of being surrounded by the enemy. Food and water shortages, irregular supply shipments, and losses from attrition were starting to take their toll on the beleaguered Federals. The Appalachian mountains had stymied Syndicalists pushing in from Ohio and Illinois, and the hilly and forested terrain had helped somewhat slow the push by Long’s forces, but only barely. Eisenhower had more success on the west, where the greater manpower has really started to pressure the American Union State on their Texas front. 

The Federals still controlled the air though. That had made securing their defenses much easier. Flying over the Great Plains was effectively a death sentence, and few had the nerve to establish air cover on the east coast. That was a small comfort to Dan McKenna, who had gone to the Applachians in response to a new Syndie push. The Federals had retaken Charleston in June, but their position was tenuous there, and with new militia units being sent into battle, someone had needed to defend this key western outpost. 

American militia units had stayed to defend the city, but McKenna had looked to secure the hills to the northeast. The Applachian plateau looked to give a good vantage point for artillery if any could succeed in the arduous task of towing them up to that position. Loyalist civilians had offered to do it on their own, pulling the units with their own work trucks, but that would be a dangerous undertaking without escort. McKenna took his Thunderbolts, with their own artillery pieces, to secure the hills first, while the militia guns could follow second when the way had been cleared. The Syndicates, tipped off by sympathetic informants, launched a massive push with their own 45th Thunderbirds, supplemented by local revolutionary forces, to prevent bombardment. The battle plan called for an overwhelming attack to break the dug-in mountain entrenchments, attacking from multiple directions in an attempt to dislodge the stubborn Irish defenders and find a weak spot.

McKenna demanded that the forces hold, using high-explosive burst shells over the heads of the enemy to maximize effect on the enemy. The engineers had dug in extensively, and had used dynamite to blast further fortifications and built entrenchments. The Thunderbolts only had a few guns, which were primarily pointed toward the northwest against the more highly-trained Thunderbirds. At such high elevation, and with such difficult terrain, evacuating casualties was difficult on the mountain, and men sometimes collapsed where they stood due to a combination of fatigue and high elevation.

That had been days ago, and the Thunderbolts were in tatters. The less wounded had even taken up shifts at night, or taking over service positions so able-bodied men could shoot and spot for the artillery. They had been holding, but just barely so. If it hadn’t been a mountain, they would have already been overrun. “I’ll be damned if I die on some cold rock half the world away from home.” McKenna defiantly continued to stand, hoping to wear down the superior numbers with artillery shells. He was the Wall of West Virginia, and he wouldn’t let the bastards through.

---

10 September 1937 - Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

It had been months of hard fighting. Charleston had remained in Federal hands, and the front had stabilized, but all hopes of recovering the Federals in Kentucky were lost. The loyalists could only hope that the army groups had disbanded to make their way back to Federal territory in smaller numbers rather than being shot en masse, or worse, deserting to fall in with the enemy for their own salvation. 

MacArthur had relied on the volunteers to fight a great deal of battles, more than he had preferred. The states under his control were tapped out for manpower resources, and if he started poaching from the factory floors for more able bodies he’d run out of supplies. Supply was irregular, especially for fuel, which he needed to keep the planes in the sky and the troops moving across the front. Olds and Tunner were able to airlift a lot of supplies, but demand always outstripped supply, and the more supplies he lifted the more danger there was for explosions in the cargo holds. 

Ultimately, MacArthur decided that he needed to attack, to keep the pressure on the east so that the Syndicalists did not pull more men to prevent Eisenhower from marching toward Chicago from Kansas and the Dakotas. The Syndicates had been attacking south against the American Union State and fortifying out of New York City, and MacArthur had theorized that they would be weak in between those two strongpoints. The Brazilian and Argentine volunteers offered to push toward Philadelphia, with the hopes of breaking the regional command post and sending Syndicalist forces into disarray, while the Irish opted to push into Pittsburgh to seize the valuable steel mills and threaten a push into Ohio. The Mexican volunteers opted to remain in Virginia to help guard the line against the Longists; they had feared if the American Union State won, there may have been calls to expand further south to seize valuable oil and mining territories; fears of the Golden Circle expansion as it was dubbed in Mexico had been a hot button issue for the Mexican volunteers. If the Irish could secure Pittsburgh, that would give them control of the railroad junctions and the rivers, and allow MacArthur to bring in militia units to bring the territory under control with little fighting. With that, they could push further north toward Erie, splitting the Syndicalists and isolating them in New York. With Canada closing the border to the Combined Syndicates, even to the point of having the Royal Canadian Mounted Police arrest suspected border crossers and turning them over to the Federal government in Denver, that would render a similar fate to the lost Federals in Kentucky. MacArthur just hoped that his south could hold against the Firsters. Trading Virginia for Pennsylvania was not a winning proposition.

The B&O Line had been cut early, forcing McKenna and the Thunderbolts to march for most of the trip. Even in September, Pennsylvania was still hot, to help with water and the unfamiliar terrain McKenna had largely followed the Mononghaela river. To the east, he had Federal troops supplemented by Maryland militia moving north to take Harrisburg. McKenna force-marched his troops into Syndicate territory, hoping to secure a clear pathway along the rail lines for American repair crews to fix the B&O.

McKenna had been fortunate, western Pennsylvania had been defended by irregular militia units, poorly armed and lacking artillery support. In many cases, McKenna found that they didn’t have enough rifles for every man and only a few machine guns, some had taken to using shotguns better suited for partridge than men. When he was lucky, a few barrages from the field guns was enough to send them packing, but even without that, a dedicated attack usually was able to force back the disorganized units. A pity he didn’t have tanks, even a couple of old Weltkrieg landships would simply be able to drive to Pittsburgh unimpeded as long as it was gassed up.

The locals were fiercely divided. A few times McKenna had gone near towns, he had been welcomed and told where the Syndicates had kept their ammunition depot. Most of the time, however, the homes were ransacked, the supplies taken. Horror stories came to McKenna about “war syndicalism,” Reed’s name for the efforts taken to ensure his fighting men had the food they needed to fight. Sometimes it was the Combined Syndicates directly, but more often it seemed to be neighbors seizing on old grudges, summarily beating those they suspected of disloyalty and stealing their possessions, donating them to Reed as an act of solidarity. Worse still was what happened to those suspected of disloyalty. The Combined Syndicates offered a bounty on saboteurs and informants, and that had led to hastily-convened People’s Courts, serviced by hanging judges. Even so, there were plenty of people loyal to the Combined Syndicates, shouting their approval at finally destroying the brutal oppressors of Wall Street and their puppets in the Federal government. For a moment, McKenna thought of Ulster, and remembered everything he had heard 15 years before, and then he remembered the refugees from the British Isles after their revolution.

Pittsburgh had been hastily-fortified, with burned out hulks of cars blocking the bridges into town, forcing McKenna to navigate the crude fortifications with great care. The civilian population had largely huddled in buildings with boarded-up windows. The large buildings had been long ago hit by artillery fire or bombings from aircraft. Rail tunnels had been places of safety, McKenna’s scouts had found a few brave souls trading for various materials on picnic blankets. The mayor, who had thrown in his lot with the Syndicalists, had fled the city with the rest of the CSA, and they had thrown those city councilmen loyal to the Federal government into the Ohio. Coordination was largely infrequent, done by amateur radio. The civilians largely wanted to be left alone, out of the civil war, but the war had come to them despite their best wishes.

McKenna set to work, ordering his engineering corps to get the guns into firing positions. He positioned men near the Alleghany to prevent any CSA attack using the river to bypass his fortifications, and fortified the major exits with sandbags and machine guns. He had barely gone through half of his fortifications when he had heard the bad news: The Syndies were on the march along the Alleghany, and they would attack the city soon.

Yet, McKenna was not alone. The 12th Hohei Shidan, volunteer forces from far-off Japan, had come to support the Irish forces, and they had brought with them their Type 90’s, doubling McKenna’s supply of artillery. The Japanese and Irish soldiers met on the south side, and drew up plans for an attack. McKenna was given overall command, and elected to put his Irish veterans in the more dangerous forward position while the Japanese would fire on the CSA to draw them in under a battery of withering artillery fire. Once the enemy had descended past Lower Lincoln and could no longer enjoy visibility from Upper Lincoln, the Irish would ambush them in close quarters. 

The CSA announced their attack with a radio command ordering all civilians to remain indoors, and all “foreign invaders” to surrender to the 2nd New York Revolutionary Guard, for handling by the legitimate United States government for repatriation. The 12th Hohei Shidan responded with a cannon barrage, thus commencing the Battle of Pittsburgh at 0900 on 10 September. McKenna’s Thunderbolts fought in ambush-and-retreat tactics, dividing themselves into seven-man fireteams. McKenna would fire on advancing CSA forces, retreat into a building, then have a second fireteam flank the New York Revolutionaries from across the street. Casualties were high on both sides, especially among the Irish who often refused to fight until in incredibly close combat, hoping the shock of the ambush would carry the day. Friendly fire incidents were high, especially as the day went into night, both from accidental fire on friendly troops and sympathetic civilians accidentally firing on who they believed were enemy soldiers. Yet the day stood. On 14 September, his squads battered and American troops pushing through central Pennsylvania, Oliver Law reluctantly ordered a retreat to the northeast. Western Pennsylvania stood liberated, but the war was not over yet.

---

20 December 1937 - Welfare Island, New York City, United States of America

The icy winds of winter were howling, but the pit in Daniel McKenna’s stomach wasn’t from the cold. He had hoped to warm himself with a cigarette as he surveyed the successful conquest of New York City, but that had all left him. Naught but a short time ago, the celebration had been high. The Syndies had lost both a major symbol and, perhaps more pragmatically, their eastern command center. The Dominion of Canada had officially supported the Federal Government, and there had been Canadian, Indian, and French Republican volunteers sailing to Maryland to join MacArthur and the Volunteer Brigades, along with massive shipments of weapons from the Entente. Manhattan had surrendered rather than risk a massive urban brawl amongst the skyscrapers. That too, had seemed like a cause for celebration, but there was little sense of Christmas cheer among those who were picking through the ruins of New York City, for they had finally come to Welfare Island.

Inside, McKenna had found cell after cell of prisoners, skin stretched and hair falling out from starvation and malnutrition, their bodies broken from months of hard labor. When New York had fallen to the Syndicalists, they had imprisoned anyone who had worked in the financial sector, any who rented an apartment to another, or any who they considered to be bourgeoise, and demanded that they atone for the crimes of their previous lives with new, honest labor for the Syndicalist cause. They had been forced into the most dangerous jobs of the arms industry, like manufacturing artillery shells to the point where their skin had turned to a greasy yellow. Bleeding gums and fingers, limbs lost in machinery or explosive accidents were routine, each prisoner was a laundry list of atrocities written out upon their bodies.

Each horror that McKenna heard made him feel numb. He had nearly torn his gloves in two after listening, but he had made sure that he had heard it all, and that his staff heard it as well. A patriotic young woman, formerly a social columnist for the New York Tribune who had signed on to help with the support staff, volunteered to transcribe every word. “Be damned, lass, you’re a damn sight braver than any fella. Write it down, every bloody word, and know that ye’ve got a ironclad heart three times larger than any bastard who tells ye different.” 

McKenna had dispatched three messages from New York. The first was to General MacArthur, who had said: “Am pleased to deliver to you New York as an early Christmas present.” The second was to Michael Collins, relaying a request for more reinforcement of men and materiel. The third, a private correspondence, bemoaned what he had seen. “The brutality of what I’ve seen is beyond words, and the only thing that breaks me more is the thought that this is not some singularly unique moment of malice, that we’ll find another Welfare Island in the South run by those America First bastards. God help me, is this what we left the English to in ‘25? Did we look at an Englishman for all those years and see the English and not the man?”

“Private. Bring all the Syndie prisoners we’ve got, make them see what went on here, make ‘em stare at each one. If they look away, hit ‘em. Then find the officers, and see which ones knew about it. And if ye find one that did...hang ‘em from the Brooklyn Bridge.”

---

Alright, that’s the second chapter, with the Syndicates on the ropes and the Firsters being slowly ground down in the western theater. The third chapter will handle the defeat of the Syndicalists and the Firsters and Mosley’s opening shots for his invasion of Ireland. Let me know what you think. And yes, I know some of the pictures are from 0.12, I’ve already mentioned that in my first post on the topic, and I know the battle map is crude; I suck at art. Also, what do you think about cropping the screenshots to make them easier to read? I think it looks fine, not too pixelated or zoomed in, but it does lose the sort of authentic “AAR screenshot” feeling. Which do you prefer, readers?

Images

Cactus Jack Becomes President

Standoff in America

Second American Civil War Begins

Battle of Baltimore

Encircled Federal Troops in Kentucky

US Moves the Capital to Denver

Germany Approves the Irish Business Initiative

Spain Approves the Irish Business Initiative 

Italy Approves the Irish Business Initiative

The Netherlands Approves the Irish Business Initiative

The United States Approves the Irish Business Initiative

Canada Approves the Irish Business Initiative

Sweden Approves the Irish Business Initiative

Austria Approves the Irish Business Initiative

Rigged 1937 Election

The Wall of West Virigina

The Battle of Pittsburgh

Pittsburgh Battle Map

The Fall of New York

-SLAL

[necromancy-enthusiast]

Day and Night

Fandom: Danganronpa

Pairing: Sonia/Akane

Words: 1,688

Rating: Gen

Warnings: N/A

AO3: x

Summary: As Sonia prepares for her first firework festival with Akane, she reflects on their relationship.For the Danganronpa Rarepair Week Day 1 Prompt: Fireworks.

Notes: If your unfamiliar with kimono-related terminology, there’s a bit at the end with an index for your reference.

Thanks to @danganrarepairweek

“Are you almost done?”

“Just another moment, please.”

Akane sighed, looking over her shoulder to see Sonia struggling with the obi she insisted that Akane wear with her yukata. It had been at least ten minutes since Sonia had begun trying to tie the obi, and never had she wished for the assistance of her dressing maids back home more than now. Despite Akane’s extreme disdain for being fussed over, she had been a good sport for Sonia’s sake. But Akane had never had much patience, and what she had mustered up was starting to wear thin.

“Can’t you just tie it in a shoelace bow or something?” Akane asked.

“Absolutely not!” Sonia replied. “Now please, hold this,” she continued, handing one end of the obi to Akane. Akane sighed quietly, holding the end while Sonia struggled with the other, trying to remember exactly how to tie it into an elaborate fashion she had read about in a book some time ago.

It was Sonia’s first summer vacation in Japan. Last year, she’d returned home to Novoselic at her parents’ request, but this year she’d convinced them to let her stay. This finally gave her the chance to see one of the firework festivals she’d long to witness ever since she first read about them as a little girl. She was eager to go with her classmates, and especially with Akane.

“Ah, forget it, I don’t need an obi,” Akane said. “I’ve got the kumihimo tied on already, it’ll hold everything together fine.”

“Akane, I’m sorry, I really appreciate your patience...But just let me try for a little longer?” Sonia asked.

Akane sighed. “Alright, but just because I can’t stand it when you give me those puppy-dog eyes.”

Usually, when people found out that they’d been dating for a couple of months, they assumed it was a joke. They would laugh, but it would inevitability dissolve into uncomfortable, half-hearted chuckling once they saw the unchanged look on Sonia’s face and realized that yes, she was in fact dating Akane Owari.

Some had been polite enough to keep their doubts and questions to themselves. Others, however, were more than eager to express their confusion, even bewilderment.

Why would a princess ever date someone like her when she could have anyone she wanted?

Another moment of silent struggle passed before Akane spoke up again. “Hey, maybe you should check Youtube or something. They must have videos about tying obi on there.”

Sonia stopped mid-action, looking up to meet Akane’s gaze.

“Youtube...Of course!” Sonia said. “You’re a genius, Akane!”

If Sonia had been told two years ago that many people in Japan didn’t know how to properly wear kimono in the traditional fashion, she would’ve been shocked. But she had learned a lot in her time here, a lot she never would’ve learned from books or foreign diplomats. For instance, not everyone in Japan knew how to wear traditional dress. Not everyone was intimately familiar with Japanese dramas. Not everyone was well versed in Japanese history. And the most relevant lesson to her current situation, putting on a kimono and tying an obi was not as easy as it seemed.

“I mean, I don’t get that compliment often, but hey, I’ll take it,” Akane smiled. Retrieving her smartphone, Sonia opened the Youtube app and quickly found a video guide on how to tie an obi. It was a much simpler fashion than she had originally wanted, but given how much time she’d already spent struggling with it, Sonia decided that at least in this case, she could settle.

One of the things Sonia had most looked forward to about attending her first firework festival was getting to wear a kimono. True, she had some back home, but they were all elaborate affairs, some with multiple layers that required the assistance of her dressing maids to properly put on, and the more casual nature of the festival called for a yukata instead. For weeks, she’d been looking forward to taking Akane shopping and finding the perfect outfits to wear together.

Of course, Sonia had done all the appropriate research beforehand. She had asked Hiyoko where her family purchased her kimonos, and took Akane to the most affluent store Hiyoko had mentioned. Sonia had to frame it as a ‘surprise date’, but Akane, despite what many thought, wasn’t totally clueless. She became more suspicious as they’d neared the store, and once she knew where they were going, had nearly refused to go in, citing every possible excuse.

“You know I don’t like dresses. Those things are so expensive! I’ll just end up tearing it or staining it, then you’ll have spent all that money for nothing.”

It wasn’t just dresses that Akane tended to abstain from, she avoided just about any sort of elaborate or fancy clothing if she could get away with it, she didn’t even like wearing their school uniform. Despite Akane’s claims of more utilitarian reasons, Sonia could sense a deeper reservation.

“Aaaaaand...Done!” Sonia said. She lead Akane over to the full body mirror nearby and turned Akane around so she could admire Sonia’s handiwork.

“It’s nice babe,” Akane said. “You did way better than I would’ve.”

“Only because of your suggestion,” Sonia said.

“Hrmm…Can’t promise I won’t accidentally ruin it with all the street food I’m gonna eat, but you did insist.” She made a full turn as she checked her reflection in the mirror. “This is probably the most expensive thing I’ve ever owned.”

“Imagine how many people you could feed with all the money you’d spend on one of those kimonos. It feels like a waste.”

Akane had never been secretive about her less-than-ideal background, about how she often went hungry and cold as a child, but she still hid things deep in her heart. She always insisted that she didn’t need much, just the feeling of the wind through her hair as she climbed and jumped across the city and a full sensation in her stomach. From an early age, she’d learned that asking for or wanting anything more was a sign of weakness.

Sadness and vulnerability were also synonymous with weakness, and where Akane came from, the weak had a tendency of disappearing. Sonia couldn’t blame her, after all, she’d been taught that it was a princess’ duty to always smile and be strong for her people. There was no room for frailty, perceived or otherwise. If you were weak, you didn’t survive.

“I want to do this for you. You deserve something nice every now and then, don’t you think?”

“Well…”

“I’ll take you to your favorite ramen shop afterwards, my treat.”

A beat passed.

“I’m in.”

Sonia had wanted to get Akane one of the gorgeous, elaborate furisode on sale, and had even talked Akane into trying one on. It was a brilliant shade of crimson with a gorgeous floral and mountain scenery pattern, and with matching kanzashi, Sonia had absolutely fawned over how beautiful Akane was. But Akane had balked at how confining and pointlessly complex the furisode was, and how hot it would be to wear in the middle of summer.

Sonia decided that in this case, Akane’s complaints were fair, so they opted instead for a deep blue yukata for Akane with a maple leaf pattern and a red obi to go with it, while Sonia purchased a lavender yukata with a chrysanthemum motif and light green obi for herself. The furisode would have to wait for colder months, hopefully by the time Akane had forgotten all her woes about being fussed over by what she referred to as ‘an army’ of dressing assistants.

“I suppose I should start on my own obi,” Sonia said, picking it up from the dresser nearby.

“I can...Try and help?” Akane offered. Sonia laughed, wrapping her arms around Akane.

“Don’t worry, I just need you to hold my phone up for me as the video plays.”

“Alright!” Akane said, picking Sonia’s phone up from where she’d placed it on the dresser. “I’m gonna hold the hell out of your phone!”

Sonia giggled boisterously at Akane’s remark, waiting until she calmed down to tell Akane to replay the video.

There were many things that Akane didn’t know, but that didn’t mean she hadn’t taught Sonia more than almost anyone else during her time in Japan. Akane had shown Sonia the best ramen shops in the city, how to ride public transit, the best way to minimize personal injury when falling, how to use more modern slang and vernacular. The nature of Akane’s knowledge and skills were vastly different from Sonia’s, but that didn’t mean it was any less valuable. Sonia wanted to learn everything she could, and Akane had been one of the best teachers she’d ever had.

Before long, Sonia’s obi matched Akane’s.

“Looks great,” Akane said

“Thank you. I’m glad it took much less time than yours.”

“Ah, it’s fine, as long as we make it in time for me to get first pick of the street vendors.” Sonia laughed again, something she did far more around Akane than most people.

“I’m sure they’ll have more than enough food for you and everyone else.”

“They’d better. It’s not a festival without good food.”

It was Mahiru that had said that Sonia and Akane were like day and night, and Sonia would be lying if she denied it. It wasn’t at all that she wanted to, though. After all, what would one be without the other? They brought out the best in each other, complimenting each others’ strengths while helping to address their weaknesses. And really, wasn’t that what love was all about?

“You ready to go?” Akane asked after Sonia had gotten her purse.

“Ready!” Sonia said. After they.made their way to the door, Akane linked arms with Sonia before they headed out into the dusk.

Later that night, as they watched the fireworks light up the sky, Sonia held Akane’s hand. True, they may have been like day and night, but just as true was that fact that without one, the other wouldn’t be as remarkable.

NOTES ON TERMINOLOGY:

Yukata: An informal, unlined kimono consisting of only one layer meant for warm weather. Furisode: A very formal, colorful kimono mostly worn by young women and girls. Consists of two or more layers. The kind of kimono Hiyoko is always wearing. Obi: The ornamental sash worn with a kimono. Kanzashi: Traditional Japanese hair accessories. Kumihimo: AKA karihimo. It’s similar in function to an obi but more utilitarian, thinner, non-ornamental, and with a wider range of uses.

[wantslegs-blog]

‘  honey  ,   you  haven’t  even  started  to  pack  –––  we’re   leaving   in   the   morning  !   ’

@aquaheir .

[persuadedproject-blog]

Chapter 3

     The he in question was not the pastoral Wentworth, but his brother. To most of the world, this variety of Wentworth was a diplomat. To Anne, he was an ex almost-fiance. He had come to stay with Pastor Wentworth the year of Anne’s senior year in college. Even then he was a remarkable young man - he was fresh out of college and pushing hard for a job with the international diplomatic corps. He was intelligent, serious, exuding a happy confidence. When Anne met him, she was still in her first bloom; her eyes sparked with life, and she was one of the few people who can embody both common sense and deep feeling. 

Only half the attraction they both felt would have been necessary to bring them together - he had nothing to do all summer other than wait for his contacts to respond, and she had almost no one to love. Meeting under such prime conditions meant they could hardly help but fall in love. A deep friendship and compatibility were the cherries on top, which seemed to put them on a path towards a lasting relationship. Although they had gotten to know each other slowly (Anne could not put a point of time when she had first seen or spoken to him), once they knew each other, they were completely sold out. They quickly came to the point of knowing each other through and through, from family history to current mood based on a raised eyebrow. He learned about Anne’s mother, and the effect her death had had on the entire family. She discovered how he had gotten the nickname Captain (it had to do with signing up to captain a soccer team when he was ten, and then never showing up for a single practice), and heard stories of all the Wentworth siblings - where they had been adopted from, their personalities, and how all of them had eventually moved east for work. Every detail was part of a sculpture of their past, present, and future -  a future which they speedily assumed would be intertwined. 

     What they had was a mutual affection between equals, and no one looking on could say who was happier. Not that many people were looking on; Mary was busy with summer school and out most of the time, so that only left Pastor Wentworth, Senator Walter, Liz, and Mrs. Russell. Pastor Wentworth was ecstatic to see his brother living outside of his vocational pursuits, Liz was indifferent, and the Senator (although not outright condemning the relationship) refused to give it any serious thought or comment. The year that Anne was in the relationship, he gave it the silent treatment. In Senator Walter’s well-documented opinion, diplomats were politicians who weren’t good enough to get elected and stay on U.S. soil. Particularly diplomats who were raised in Wyoming and looked Middle-Eastern (Anne found both of these things to be attractive qualities, but they repelled the senator away from anything close to approval). Since the topic was not a popular one with the senator, Anne did not keep him in the loop with how things were going, even when Cap first started talking about marriage. Anne had been curled up on the floor of her dorm room, doodling around her spring finals notes and talking to him on the phone when he had first broached the subject.

    “Anne, what would you think about getting married?” Her busily sketching pen stopped abruptly.

    “Getting married in general, or…?”

    “You and me. Getting married.”

    “Oh, well, I didn’t want to assume that is what you were asking. I didn’t want to misunderstand you, then have you cornered into marrying me or something.”

    “Anne, you are the least presumptuous person I know. And do I seem like the kind of person who is going to let myself get cornered into getting married?”

    “Your politeness is one of your finer points,” she defended herself.

    “Well, I am not thinking about marrying you to be polite, I promise. You’d be the one doing me a favor. And I don’t need an answer right away, I know this came a little out of left field.”

    “I mean, a little - I knew things were going well, and I kinda assumed we would get here eventually. What made it less eventual for you?”

    “You know the diplomatic assignment I was hoping for?”

    “Yes.”

    “You know how people in Washington say they work for the government, but can’t go into a lot of detail about what they do?”

    “Yeah, as a D.C. kid I met a handful of people like that over the years. You just learn what questions not to ask”

    “Well, I have been accepted into...one of those positions.”

    “You’re a spook?”

    “I’m about to be in a government position I can’t talk about.” He said carefully. Anne leaned back against the wall.

    “Okay, so how does not communicating work with a relationship?”

    “Well, that’s why I was thinking about marriage. If we were married, I could tell you more. Not everything, but more. You would have a right to know at least generally where I am, and what I’m up to. I do want you to know what’s going on, and I do want you in as much of my life as possible. Like I said, you can take some time to think about it - but my assignments will start in August.”

    “Well, everything is figure-outable, right?”

    “If we put our heads together, I think we can make anything work.”

     After this discussion, Anne approached both her father and Mrs. Russell - not with the CIA side of things, of course, but with the general situation. The senator continued to not actually forbid the relationship, but also to withhold his approval. Mrs. Russell also saw it all in a dim light - but her views were far less influenced by the fact he was a Washington outsider. She saw this as a chance for Anne to throw her future away for a somewhat unknown person. Anne was young; she had the world before her, she had just been offered a scholarship towards a master’s degree. All he had to offer was himself; no established career, no guarantees other than his leaving the country shortly after marriage. Although he said he wanted Anne to continue her education, Mrs. Russell saw marriage as Anne’s chances of completing her education plummeting. To her, this was young Anne (full of life and potential) being snatched away by a stranger. To be allied with someone who must also be married to his duty, to share the anxieties and rootlessness that came with his career, it broke her motherly heart to see a bright future degraded into - well, what Anne’s mother had experienced, more or less.

    Cap was aware that he was not offering much, but he was sure - so sure - that he could make a viable career (and more than that a happy, loving life for Anne). His confidence was enough for Anne, and his strength fed her own. She thought that they were enough for one another, but Mrs. Russell saw things differently. She saw his confidence as reckless blind faith. To Mrs. Russell, risk was a thing to be entirely avoided - and Captain Wentworth represented nothing but risk. Anne could have withstood her father’s reasoning (or lack thereof) and disapproval. On the other hand, Mrs. Russell’s advice was harder to overlook. Her counsel was grounded in love, and certainly seemed sound. It was not spontaneous or giddy or overwhelmingly happy like Anne’s love, but it was certainly more pragmatic. After countless late night phone calls and sleepless nights, Anne was convinced within her own mind that it was best to end the relationship. She was persuaded that getting married was not only a bad idea, it was a wrong one. Of course she was not just swayed by seemingly selfish caution; the only thing that gave her the resolve she needed to end the relationship was thinking that it was for his good, as well of hers. She felt that it would be morally wrong for her to accept him. Her own mind had echoed for days with ways being unmarried would help advance his career, how she could be used against him, how for his own safety he needed to be 100% focused, without distraction. The belief that she was acting in his interests was her only consolation - and Anne needed every shred of comfort she could get, since she endured not only the pain of a bad breakup, but also knowing his bad opinion of her. He thought she had caved in to the snobbish tendencies of her family, that Mrs. Russell’s (and later Anne’s) concerns were rooted in a distrust of him. He had disappeared into the service with these thoughts, and had remained entirely out of her life.

    They had known each other for a year, but anyone who has been lucky enough to find someone their soul loves knows the impact one short year can have. Overshadowing any happier times, the reverberations of the relationship impacted Anne for all the years following. More than five years had gone by, and there wasn’t one day when she had not thought of him, or felt the ache of regret. All of the butterflies that had once filled her whenever she heard his voice had turned to stone, and it was almost like they were still inside of her, weighing her down, and mocking her for ever having thrown herself into love. She got to the point where she could not remember a time when his name was not synonymous with the pain in her heart. Probably part of the problem was that she had added no variety to her life other than time, which passed without her permission. Anne went to work, she read, and she enjoyed watching quiz shows at night. She went on vacation only when her family insisted that she should come along (knowing the Elliots, can you really blame her?). No one who came into their circles could ever compare with her memories of Cap. A new love is the quickest cure for an old, pining one - but Anne could not find it. Charles Musgrove had taken her out a couple of times when she had come home to take care of her father, but she just could not generate the feelings she knew should be around for a long-term relationship. Mrs. Russell had been dissatisfied this turn of events; she had liked steady, thirty-year-career-path Charles, but (to her credit) she kept her disappointment to herself. After Anne ended her relationship with Cap, she and Mrs. Russell never discussed it. Anne never so much as alluded to it in all of their time spent together. Although she did not blame Mrs. Russell for the outcome, or her younger self for taking her advice, at twenty-seven she thought very differently of the whole situation. Anne knew that if a younger girl in the same situation asked for her counsel, she would not give them advice that would lead to such immediate misery, with only a 50/50 (maybe less) shot at happiness in the future. Comparatively, the life she had chosen to give up (even with all of the uncertainty, all the worry and secrecy involved in his work) would have been bliss compared to the last stretch of years.

    Despite having limited resources of finding out how he had been, Anne gleaned that Cap’s confidence had paid off. Law enforcement agencies really ought to tap into the intelligence resource that is ex love interests searching (with no-traces-left meticulousness) through all of the social media accounts of said love interest, their friends, and their family. FBI research hath no fervor like a woman in pursuit of information on her ex-boyfriend. From her extensive reconnaissance, Anne knew he had been all over the world, that his career had been treating him relatively well, and that he had never remarried - his family had never even posted photographs of him with another girl. This research happened in Anne’s moments of weakness - most of the time, Anne thought it beneath her dignity, but about once a year, on a very lonely Friday night, she gave in. Not that it made her feel any better - most of the time she walked away vowing never to check on him again with a familiar, cold feeling in the pit of her stomach. Anne had been forced to be wise and practical in her younger years, and so it was only as she got older that she learned romance. This is the reverse of typical experience, but learning to appreciate reckless abandon was a natural, reasonable consequence of her careful caution.

    With all of these circumstances, thoughts, and feelings floating around in Anne’s mind, she could not think of Captain/Frederick Wentworth visiting her home without a twinge of distress. Try as she might to tell herself it was ridiculous, that if she just tried hard enough she could ignore awkwardness and discomfort of it all, she could not be completely comfortable with the idea. Considering the fact that the Crofts, their relations, and their business were all that her family talked about for the next couple of weeks, she had to at least reconcile herself to the idea of the Crofts themselves. Her father, Mrs. Russell, and her sister acted like they had no memory of a little detail like her almost marrying Mrs. Croft’s brother-in-law. The oblivion (or feigned mindlessness, whatever it was) was almost a relief to her. She knew none of them would even think to breath a word to the rest of the world, since they could not be bothered to remember it with Anne around. Because Mrs. Croft had been on base near her husband during the entire year of Anne and Cap’s relationship, Anne thought that she would be safe from her realizing who she was. With all of this, she steeled herself for the eventual (inevitable) acquaintance with the assurance of all the awkwardness existing only inside of her own head.

Here ye, here ye! The author would like you to know that the decision to have Wentworth called Captain or Cap has nothing to do with Captain America of late popular acclaim, and everything to do with the fact the author could not bear the idea of a protagonist named Frederick or Fred. That is all, carry on.

Chapter 4: http://bit.ly/2hXEKgL

[thisdaynews]

What Politicos Are Reading This Summer

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What Politicos Are Reading This Summer

From the frenzy of the 2020 presidential field to Robert Mueller’s congressional testimony to the unremitting tweets of @realDonaldTrump, summer 2019 has shown no signs of slowing down. But for those who can pry their eyes away from the news, even briefly,Politico Magazinehere presents our annual summer reading list. We asked some of the most interesting people in politics—writers, activists, lawmakers, scholars and more—to tell us what book is at the top of their reading list and what they’re packing as a guilty pleasure on vacation. (We asked all the Democrats currently running for president for their reading recommendations; those not listed below declined to respond.) Ranging from histories of America’s past, like Rick Atkinson’sThe British Are Coming, to poignant modern memoirs like Tara Westover’sEducated, to bestselling novels like Tomi Adeyemi’sChildren of Blood and Bone, this year’s selections span a variety of genres and forms.If you’re itching to fit in some reading this summer, grab your drink of choice and pair it with one of the following.

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James Comey, former director of the FBI:

Right now, I’m readingThe British Are Coming: The War for America, Lexington to Princeton, 1775-1777, by Rick Atkinson. As for a guilty pleasure suggestion, I would recommend that Republicans read the Mueller report, maybe concealing it inside the cover of the latest work by a Fox News broadcaster so they aren’t judged negatively by their colleagues.

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Jay Sekulow, chief counsel at the American Center for Law and Justice, religious liberty advocate, author and member of President Donald Trump’s legal team:

I’ve just finished volume two, and am starting volume three, of Winston Churchill’s six-volumeThe Second World War. My fun read isPhotograph, by Ringo Starr.

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Gretchen Carlson, journalist, author and advocate for sexual harassment survivors:

These are at the top of my reading list:The Moment of Lift, by Melinda Gates, inspiring stories from around the world about women rising up and the greatness that happens when we do;Educated, by Tara Westover, an unbelievable journey of one woman to educate herself that inspires all of us to rekindle that fire in our belly to make the most of our lives (and it happens to be my son’s required reading this summer with parents!);Maid, by Stephanie Land, an empowering story of a woman determined to pull herself up in life through which we all feel stronger; andThe Sun and Her Flowers, by Rupi Kaur, a book of poems, with one of my favorites being:

I stand on the sacrifices of a million women before me thinking what can I do to make this mountain taller so the women after me can see farther.

My beach read isThe Most Fun We Ever Had, by Claire Lombardo, because every family has its issues, and by acknowledging that, we live truer lives and grow as people.

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Beto O’Rourke, former congressman from Texas, currently a 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

I’m readingThe Fall of Carthage, by Adrian Goldsworthy, andStorm Lake, by Art Cullen.

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Ben Shapiro, political commentator, author and editor-in-chief of theDaily Wire:

The Adams-Jefferson Letters, edited by Lester Cappon, is great reminder that despite brutal political disagreements, those who share the founders’ vision are not enemies but brothers. AndThe Last Pirate of New Yorkis a wild ride through Civil War-era American history from Rich Cohen, one of my favorite authors.

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Alan Dershowitz, professor emeritus at Harvard Law School:

At the top of my reading list right now isShadow Strike, by Yaakov Katz. My guilty pleasure is reading about David Boies “ethics” inBad Blood, by John Carreyrou.

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Marianne Williamson, 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

At the top of my list isWar on Peace, by Ronan Farrow. Transitioning from a war economy to a peace economy is high on my list of priorities, which is why as president I plan to establish a U.S. Department of Peace. Our national security agenda should not be guided by corporate profits for defense contractors, but solely by our legitimate security needs. I plan to make that happen. For the lighter read, I’m obsessively rereading anything by Jane Austen.

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Alicia Garza, writer, co-founder of Black Lives Matter and special projects director for the National Domestic Workers Alliance:

For nonfiction, at the top of my reading list isHow to Be an Antiracist, by Ibram X. Kendi, a powerful follow-up to his first book,Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America. These are two really important books on how race is shaping America and what that means for our future. What’s important to me about these two books is that they not only tell the truth about how racist ideas translate into power, but also provide the counterweight with what we can all do to ensure that everyone gets to live a dignified life.

Unfortunately, my beach read also isn’t light, but it’s excellent nonetheless:A Thousand Splendid Suns, by Khaled Hosseini. Hosseini is a master storyteller, and each one of his characters is so perfectly imperfect and human.

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Cory Booker, senator from New Jersey and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

At the top of my summer reading list isCan’t Hurt Me, by David Goggins, a fun book. Also on my list are:The Soul of America, by John Meacham, which I just finished, andBecome America, by Eric Liu.

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David Petraeus, retired U.S. Army general and former director of the CIA:

I’ve already begun readingIll Winds, by Larry Diamond, which provides a superb description of the state of democracy in America and around the world—and promises to explain to readers what is needed to shore up democracy at home and abroad. And also at the top of my list isOur Man, by George Packer, which reviewers have praised for its enormous insights not just on Ambassador Richard Holbrooke, with whom I was privileged to partner during his final mission as a diplomat, but also on the three wars in which he played significant roles.

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Lori Lightfoot, mayor of Chicago:

At the top of my list isBluebird, Bluebirdof the Highway 59 series. I like mysteries, especially if they deal with complicated issues around intersections of race and class. My guilty pleasure/fun reading is the magazine theWeek.

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Michael Bennet, senator from Colorado and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

On my list areThere Will Be No Miracles Here, by Casey Gerald,Frederick Douglass: Prophet of Freedom, by David W. Blight, andThis America: The Case for the Nation, by Jill Lepore.

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John Delaney, former congressman from Massachusetts, currently a 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

The books on my summer reading list areEducated,Songs of America,Make Your Bed,The Second MountainandThe Soul of America.

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Newt Gingrich, former speaker of the House:

Daniel Silva’sThe New Girlis at the top of my reading list. Every Daniel Silva novel is at the top of my reading list, and John Sandford novels are a close second!

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Shaun King, writer and civil rights activist: At the top of my summer reading list are two essential reads:The Person You Mean to Be: How Good People Fight Bias, by Dolly Chugh, andHow to Be an Antiracist, by Ibram X. Kendi. Both get to the heart of how we can all actually make this world a much better place.

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Alyssa Mastromonaco, former deputy chief of staff for operations in the Obama White House, author, and senior adviser and spokesperson for NARAL Pro-Choice America:

At the top of my list isLife Will Be the Death of Me, by Chelsea Handler. Chelsea is one of my most supportive friends, and this book is a gift to anyone who is interested in the journey to learn more about yourself, laugh your ass off and cry. Second isHow to Change Your Mind: What the New Science of Psychedelics Teaches Us About Consciousness, Dying, Addiction, Depression, and Transcendence, by Michael Pollan. As someone whose life was changed immeasurably by medical marijuana, I am fascinated by the research and discussion of alternative therapies.

My guilty pleasure read isConfessions of a Prairie Bitch: How I Survived Nellie Oleson And Learned to Love Being Hated, by Alison Arngrim. I love “Little House on the Prairie” and started rewatching it this year. My friend and I did research and found out that Melissa Gilbert and Alison Arngrim were actually inseparable friends. I wanted to know more.

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Ro Khanna, congressman from California:

Trade and rural America are always on my mind, so I’m currently reading Beth Macy’sFactory Man, about how one Virginia town came together to fight for American manufacturing. The book was a gift from that town’s congressional representative, Morgan Griffith. Our political views don’t always align on every subject, but this is a great opportunity to reach across the aisle for a story of American strength. My guilty pleasure for the summer will be following the Phillies. I try to follow the Warriors, but I started my baseball career playing little league in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, so that’s where my loyalties lie.

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Gloria Allred, women’s rights attorney:

At the top of my reading list for the summer is the Mueller report. I feel that this is the most important book published this year and that I have a duty to read it in order to understand Russia’s role in the last election for president and why special counsel Robert Mueller felt that he could not exonerate President Donald Trump on charges that he obstructed justice. My guilty pleasure would be to readI Remember Nothing and Other Reflections, by Nora Ephron. I love her wit and honesty, and I know that this book will make me smile, even as I remember that she left this earth too soon.

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Neal Katyal, former U.S. acting solicitor general and law professor at Georgetown:

At the top of my list is Tara Westover’sEducated. I recently met Tara and was taken by her brilliance and depth, and everyone I know who has read the book raves about it. My guilty pleasure reading is John Grisham’sThe Firm. I’ve got a legal thriller I’ve been dying to write for a dozen years, and I worked out the plot back in 2007. But I want to learn how masters of the genre actually write. Plus, I love books like this.

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Donna Brazile, political analyst, author and former chair of the DNC:

My list includes George Will’sThe Conservative Sensibility, Henry Louis Gates’Stony the Road, Jennifer Eberhardt’sBiasedand Brittney Cooper’sEloquent Rage. I also have David Baldacci’s latest,Redemption.

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Jay Inslee, governor of Washington and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

Right now, I’m currently reading and enjoyingThe Feather Thief, a caper about a young man who steals bird feathers from a museum in the United Kingdom. I just finished and highly recommendWest with the Night, a memoir by Beryl Markham. It is an incredible adventure story, and one that highlights the power of perseverance. Another book I just finished isFreedom’s Forge, a story about the full-scale mobilization of the U.S. economy to defeat fascism during World War II. This story is especially relevant in this moment we’re in, as we will need that same type of mobilization to defeat the climate crisis.

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Colin Powell, retired four-star U.S. Army general and former secretary of State:

I’m currently readingThe Back Channel, by Ambassador William J. Burns, andPresidents of War, by Michael Beschloss.

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Seth Moulton, congressman from Massachusetts and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

I’m looking forward to readingLeadership in Turbulent Times, by my friend Doris Kearns Goodwin. I gave signed copies to my staff for the holiday but haven’t had a chance to read it yet myself.

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Dambisa Moyo, economist and author:

At the top of my list isTrillion Dollar Coach: The Leadership Playbook of Silicon Valley’s Bill Campbell, by Alan Eagle, Eric Schmidt and Jonathan Rosenberg. It’s an insightful book on a man with unique talents and attributes that helped shape one of the most important industries today. My guilty pleasure book isBoom: Mad Money, Mega Dealers, and the Rise of Contemporary Art, by Michael Shnayerson, a fun read on the key players and vagaries of the fascinating contemporary segment of the art market

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Eric Swalwell, congressman from California and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

On my list areAn American Summer, by Alex Kotlowitz, a chronicle of one summer in Chicago’s South Side and the impact of gun violence on a community, andAda Twist, Scientist, by Andrea Beaty, a favorite of my daughter, Cricket. It’s even better when her 2-year-old brother tries reading it to her.

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William Darity, author, professor of public policy, economics and African and African American studies and director of the Samuel DuBois Cook Center on Social Equity at Duke University:

My recommended serious read for the summer is Tanya Hernández’s bookMultiracials and Civil Rights: Mixed-Race Stories of Discrimination, a superb critical exploration of the evolution and political consequences of multiracial identities in the United States. My guilty pleasure read is Adrienne Maree Brown and Walidah Imarisha’s edited volumeOctavia’s Brood: Science Fiction Stories from Social Justice Movements, a collection of short stories paying homage to the late Octavia Butler.

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Bill McKibben, author and environmentalist:

I’m reading (rereading, actually, since I got to read a galley a year ago) Richard Powers’The Overstory. Winning the Pulitzer has given it attention, and deservedly. It’s about, in the largest sense, the relationship of people and trees, and it manages the trick of making trees into characters in ways that really expand the boundaries of literature. It’s a book that will be read for generations to come.

I’m almost disinclined to list Kim Stanley Robinson’sNew York 2140as a beach read or guilty pleasure. Usually listed as a science fiction writer, he’s one of the finest writers in any genre at work in America today, and this account of New York once the waters have begun to rise is superb—there are strong notes of Mark Twain, and his usual remarkable insight into how politics could be made to work. It’s also the best book for lovers of our greatest city since, maybe, E.B. White’sHere is New York. A delight.

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Deray McKesson, author and civil rights activist:

On my list areThe Great Believers, by Rebecca Makkai,Children of Blood and Bone, by Tomi Adeyemi, andThe Poet X, by Elizabeth Acevedo.

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Charlotte Clymer, writer, U.S. Army veteran and press secretary for the Human Rights Campaign:

While we all wait patiently for the last installment of Robert A. Caro’s phenomenal L.B.J. quintet—please, Mr. Caro, do finish soon; it’s terribly impolite to keep a lady waiting—I have two books at the top of my summer reading list: Rick Atkinson’sThe British Are Coming, the first meaty portion of the Pulitzer Prize-winning historian’s announced trilogy on the Revolutionary War, and Dr. Tressie McMillan Cottom’sThick: And Other Essays, a collection of brilliant musings I keep hearing about from friends.

Doesn’t all pleasure reading feel “guilty” on some level for those of us working in this chaotic political era? Despite her anti-pineapple-on-pizza proclivities, I will likely reread Sarah McBride’sTomorrow Will Be Differentfor the umpteenth time because of her powerful, empathetic and nuanced writing on making history as a trans woman. For dessert: Lauren Wilkinson’s debut novelAmerican Spylooks to be a hell of a thriller, and I’ll be partaking.

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Charlie Sykes, political commentator, author and editor-in-chief of theBulwark:

I had a big stack of books to read but just got Tim Alberta’sAmerican Carnagein the mail, and now everything else is shelved. Except for Brad Thor’s latest,Backlash.

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Julian Brave NoiseCat, writer, director of Green New Deal strategy at Data for Progress and narrative change director at the Natural History Museum:

To better understand the troubling times we find ourselves in, I will read my friend and mentor Bill McKibben’s bookFalter. To learn more about policy, politics and history for my ongoing work on the Green New Deal, I have been referring to Ira Katznelson’s tomeFear Itself, about the New Deal and its costs—particularly for people of color. I also just finished my friend Nick Estes’ book,Our History Is the Future, which puts the anti-Dakota Access Pipeline movement at Standing Rock in historical context. The book is, in my view, a significant contribution to environmental justice and the broader left.

On the beach, which, for me, will be more metaphor than physical destination, I’ll turn to some of my favorite journalists in the pages of theNew Yorker. I am particularly excited for Jia Tolentino’s debut,Trick Mirror. The excerpt in a recent issue of the magazine was dazzling. I am also eager to read the pieces collected inShapes of Native Nonfiction, edited by Theresa Warburton and my friend Elissa Washuta. (If I’m honest though, I will likely spend too much time scrolling Twitter, where I gravitate to tastemakers like Cardi B, Lil Nas X, Brother Nature and Hari Nef, to name a few.)

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Anand Giridharadas, author and editor-at-large forTIME:

I’m currently readingCommon Ground: A Turbulent Decade in the Lives of Three American Families, because busing, racism, white resentment and the search for a way for us to live together are as much with us as in the post-1968 era that J. Anthony Lukas covers. I’m in the early stages of reporting a new book, and in these between times I tend to go back to the nonfiction classics for technique. How do you tell the story of an age intimately through people? I’m also eager to dive into Robin DiAngelo’sWhite Fragility, Jill Lepore’sThis Americaand Shoshana Zuboff’sThe Age of Surveillance Capitalism, which for me will follow the tough act of George Packer’s new masterpiece,Our Man: Richard Holbrooke and the End of the American Century.

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Anthony Jack, sociologist, author and professor at Harvard Graduate School of Education:

On the top of my list areThere There,Where the Crawdads Sing,What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You BlackerandHeavy: An American Memoir. This summer is about reuniting with narratives and the experience of getting to know oneself in an increasingly unequal and complex world.

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Helen Zia, journalist, author and activist for LGBTQ and Asian American rights:

Right now, I’m reading three books: an advance copy ofAmerica for Americans: A History of Xenophobia in the United States, by Erika Lee, which is due to be out in a couple of months. It’s an eye-opening look at how today’s demagogues repeat history with their drumbeat of “new immigrants are the scum-of-the earth”—which was employed by Ben Franklin and other “Founding Fathers” against Germans and later to rally hatred toward the Irish, Italians, Mexicans and many others, and also during the ethnic cleansing to rid America of Chinese and Asians, the first legislated “illegal” immigrants. For fun, I’ve been reading Lisa See’s latest novel,The Island of Sea Women, a spellbinding tale of two friends who grow up with Korea’s tumultuous modern history as a backdrop, and Meredith May’s inspirationalThe Honey Bus: A Memoir of Loss, Courage and a Girl Saved by Bees. And I have cued up Min Jin Lee’sPachinko, Viet Thanh Nguyen’sThe Refugeesand Maxine Hong Kingston’s ground-breakingThe Woman Warrior.

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Joe Sestak, former congressman from Pennsylvania and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

At the top of my reading list areThe Last Lion: Winston Spencer Churchill, Defender of the Realm, 1940-1965, by William Manchester and Paul Reid, andWashington, by Ron Chernow. Just an enjoyable read is Fredrik Backman’sA Man Called Ove.

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Jose Antonio Vargas, journalist, author and filmmaker:

At the top of my list isAmerican Presidents, Deportations, and Human Rights Violations: From Carter to Trump, by Bill Ong Hing. We all must understand the full picture of our country’s modern deportation history. My current guilty pleasure read isOn Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, by Ocean Vuong. It’s like reading the best kind of dessert: It’s so rich you gotta slow down.

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Kim Foxx, state’s attorney for Cook County, Illinois:

At the top of my list isMore Than Enough, by Elaine Welteroth. I strongly relate to Elaine’s notion that when you are identified as a first, you have the responsibility to bring your best self, especially to those who challenge your right to be in the space you deserve to be. Also on my list isCharged, by Emily Bazelon. Emily’s unbiased narrative examines the role of prosecutors in advancing criminal justice reform while keeping communities safe.

InStyle Magazineis my guilty pleasure.

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Wayne Messam, mayor of Miramar, Florida, and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

On my book list areBorn a Crime, by Trevor Noah, andCan’t Hurt Me, by David Goggins. I’m interested in Noah’s improbable success coming from South Africa, and, as a former athlete, I’m impressed with Goggins’ military accomplishments and success as an endurance athlete. He’s a living Superman!

My beach read is the Warchant newsletter. I read these updates multiple times per day to get the latest recruiting news about Florida State University Football.

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Melina Abdullah, civil rights activist, professor and chair of Pan-African studies at California State University, Los Angeles:

On the top of my list isHomegoing, by Yaa Gyasi. It’s a deep and powerful series of interconnected stories of African people from Ghana and their descendants in the Americas, woven together as a painful, beautiful, hugely important novel. It’s a perfect read for this year’s “Year of Return” to Ghana for black people in the diaspora, as 2019 marks 400 years since the beginning of the transatlantic slave trade.

Also on my list isJust Mercy, by Bryan Stevenson. Written in autobiographical form, Stevenson’s work challenges us to examine what justice should look like. His focus on how we treat youth in the justice system is an important companion text to Ava DuVernay’s Netflix series “When They See Us.”

As for my guilty pleasure read, maybe Roxane Gay’sDifficult Women? I love that it’s a collection that allows me to read a bit and feel satisfied before picking it up again, and I love the characters and the humor interwoven into stories that have meaning and challenge oppression.

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Mike Gravel, former senator from Alaska and 2020 Democratic presidential candidate:

I’ll have to reread Michael Parenti’sAgainst Empire. It’s a classic polemic against the crimes of the U.S. empire, burning with Parenti’s muscular voice and sharp command of the details of infamy. A guilty pleasure is Henry Kissinger, who despite being a moral abomination of a man, writes clearly, coherently and intelligently. ParticularlyDiplomacy.

Produced by Ruairí Arrieta-Kenna and Shawna Chen, art direction by Erin Aulov and Lily Mihalik, and photography by M. Scott Mahaskey.

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