#gold plated soviet watch

[ricardian-werewolf]

Chapter 6: Crawl Out through the fallout!

Summary:

Alina, Nikolai and Genya are on the run from the Darkling, and in order to flee his malevolent grasp, they must make a decision - go West to the safety of Novyi Zem, or return East to find Morozova's herd before the Darkling can. It is this choice that will rend them apart or bring them closer together.

Notes:

Title taken from the song: Crawl out through the fallout - References to other universes are pretty explicit in this fic, and feel free to comment if you catch any references! Swearing otters is of course owed to @rthstewart. - Serious apologies in the length between chapters of this fic - my writing muse abandoned me for two months straight and i'm only now just getting her back. Hoping this continues!

Taglist: @lordbettany, @fauxraven, @portiaadams @jammerific

Reblogs/replies appreciated, and for every kind comment, another chapter!

Chapter below the cut

3 weeks later, close to the Fold.Kiribirsk.

Alina rolled straight from her bed-roll to the hard, packed earth of the First Army tent.

At her side, Nikolai crouched, his fingers taut on the canvas flaps of their tent. They’d pitched camp here easily enough - three Grisha refugees hidden amongst the First Army. Nikolai had slipped back into his major’s uniform, with Alina clad in his hussar’s pelisse and dolman. The usual olive linen uniform’s summer skirt covered her legs, with standard issue puttees and boots. Around her neck was a scarf of Shu silk edged in gold, the colour of the scarf a blazing teal. 

With them, Genya had pinned her hair back and sat clad in the First Army medical corps’s nurses uniform. Behind the lines against the Fjerdan forces, she’d found work in a medical tent and put her work in healing the wounded with scalpels and forceps. Her tailoring had been a secondary concern, and she did so sparingly. Alina sat beside Nikolai as the three of them broke their fasts with cups of hot tea, slices of fried potatoes, smoked herring and wafer-thin slices of black rye bread with small dollops of plum jam. Typical First Army fare.

“I’d forgotten what army food tasted like.” Nikolai muttered as he swigged back his tin cup of tea. Reaching across Genya’s plate, he exchanged her smoked herring for a pile of fried potato cakes and picked up Alina’s compass. 

“We’re facing directly east.” He twigged the compass for a few moments to ensure the mercury was level, and then leaned over to watch Alina tap her pencil against the map-paper. Three weeks of hiding amongst the very people sworn to find them had made each of them jumpy in their own ways. Nikolai badly wished to run straight for the Volkvolny at the first chance he had, but doing the cowardly thing didn’t save Ravka from its own evils. Alina needed him, and Genya needed someone on the inside of the Great Palace to clear her name. No doubt the Tsarina and Tsar were hungering to plaster Genya’s face across the countryside for a fat reward. Palace servants carried more secrets of the realm than even the cabinet-ministers.

What none of them had been prepared for was the Darkling’s revolt against the Tsar, backed by the Apparat. Nikolai had learned the news from a harried runner he’d intercepted on the camp’s outskirts and taken the message directly to the commander of the fort. He’d been a mere corporal. Long-term fighting against the Fjerdans had picked off their commanding officers and the new weapons of warfare Fjerda was importing from the Soviets and rapidly re-arming (illegally) Weimar Germany made Fjerda the undisputed master against the pitiful Ravkan army. 

Nikolai swished the tea in his cup as he took another sip and examined the paper map more closely. “Baba said that the herd was here…” His finger traced a path up from Kiribirsk to Chernast, a long, difficult trek to the north. It would’ve been better to go directly, but the lack of First Army outposts from the two bases put them in direct fire of Drüskelle attack or roaming brigands. Only an army caravan would keep the threat mediated.

“Any suggestions?” Alina asked as she sniffed her potato cake and stuck it between her teeth. “We could take the Vy back to…” She studied her map more closely. “Ryevost and then head into the Petrazoi…”

“Too many people.” Genya tapped the grey expanse of space between the Sokol, breaking the capital zone with the Midlands of the plains. “But do we know if there are any places to hide on the western river's edge?” 

“We could…” Nikolai traced the Sokol’s expanse up into the Petrazoi with the pad of his finger. “Take the canal boats or barges up. Hide there amongst the traders. It’ll be easy. Obviously…” He broke off as he looked at Alina, and furrowed his brows. Alina flinched.

“I’m not being tailored to make me look less Shu.” She murmured. 

“Of course not, Sunshine.” He rushed to explain. “I was more worried because I saw things on our trip out here - they’re making icons and relics of you.”

“Relics?” Alina breathed. “O-of what?”

“Bones.” Genya scraped up the remnants of the drippings from the bacon she’d pilfered from the cook-wagon with the last of her rye bread, and popped it into her mouth. 

“My bones?” 

“Your bones.” Nikolai squeezed her hand. “Seeing your face could cause a panic. And what with their iconography of you making you more Ravkan…” He shuddered. “I don’t want you to be plucked off the street and mobbed by your followers.”

“My followers?”

“The Apparat.” Nikolai handed her a rolled-up newspaper, which Alina flipped open. The headlines were filled in a bolded typeface of the ongoing search to locate her. SUN SUMMONER MISSING, ROYAL GUARDS BROUGHT OUT TO HELP SEARCH.

She shuddered and pushed the paper away. “No more, please.” She begged. “I just want to get out of here. We’ve lost weeks already. If we don’t do it, he’ll find the herd.”

“Alright.” Nikolai reached for the paper once more. “We’ll go. Tonight.” He squeezed her hand and then Genya’s. “Does Dominik know where we are?”

She nodded. 

“Make sure he forgets. As far as he knows, we’ve disappeared off the map. I’ve gone back to my apprenticeship in Novyi Zem and taken Genya with me. Alina has gone…” Nikolai paused to consider what to say, and she provided. “I’ve fled, driven mad by the Darkling’s powers and his lust.” She paused. “And I’ve become with child.”

She could not ignore the way Nikolai’s hand tightened on hers, the crush of his fingers. She swore that in the moment, Nikolai would have bludgeoned the head of Second Army to atoms. 

Alina did not stiffen, did not draw back. She couldn’t bring herself to. Why should she? She finally had a protector. Mal had done nothing to keep her safe, nothing to keep her from being taken by the Darkling. But Nikolai had. He’d taken her into his household, subtly moulded her to be her own person. Now, she would be that person. She straightened.

“I agree with Nikolai’s plan.” She examined the scar on her palm, the one she’d made to keep the testers off her back. The mark that without fail reminded her of Mal. Distantly, she remembered an instance of seeing the peasant wives who had not received their ducal lord’s favours as children. She wouldn’t be that girl. She wouldn’t let herself take the life of a wife. If she did, it would be of her choosing, and when she wished it. Lifting her head again, she held out her palm to Nikolai and Genya.

“Can one of you remove this?”

“Are you sure?” Genya murmured, her fingers paused over her skin. 

Alina gave a firm nod. “I want it gone.”

Nikolai silently watched as Genya’s fingers twitched, moving the flesh’s cells to heal over the scarred tissue. He leaned forward as he stuffed a map into the tube case and let out a low whistle. “She’s getting better.”

“Not good enough.” Genya growled as she concentrated. “It’s as permanent as I can make it.” She swatted Nikolai’s hand away and got to her feet. Looking around the tent, the three misfits paused for a moment.

“Tell me how we’re giving this place the slip.” Alina implored as she tugged on her old cartographer’s tunic. Genya shrugged. Nikolai smirked. “We just walk out. First Army’s experiencing a notoriously high level of desertion. As far as the Crown is concerned, we’ve already been gone for weeks. Now, come along.”

He tugged on an enlistment’s worn greatcoat and hid his officer’s sword in the map tube. Genya twisted her hair up under a peasant’s headscarf. Alina stuffed the scarf and dolman out of sight over a similar worn greatcoat.

From their tent they crossed the expanse of flat, barren land given over to the cookwagons and hospital tents. Kiribirsk had spread out from its command tents to encompass an entire division of regiments. Amongst all the yelling of the sergeants and whinnying of horses in the Hussars and artillery, the three of them slipped into obscurity easily enough.

Alina paused however, for she spotted several of her old friends from the cartography tent sitting around a fire, drinking tea and eating pierogi. Their lives of drawing surveyance maps and doing scouting missions sounded so strangely safe to her own. Alina stopped dead.

“We need to go.” Genya hissed, clutching her bag of provisions close to her as a hand-drawn cart rumbled past with that day’s dead piled high. The stench of rotting flesh rolled over the air, causing officers and soldiers alike to curse out the poor souls doing the duty. Alina pressed a hand over her face and dropped her head. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned her back on the cartographers. With them went prayers of safety and hope. 

Nikolai winced, his normally warm face turning the colour of curdled milk. Alina watched his hand pull the signet ring he wore with the king’s sea from his hand. Into his pocket it went. In its place was a simple silver band with a fox in mid-leap. Looking into his face, Alina realised that her own powers had saved her from the horrors of war. Being the Sun Summoner had been her ticket away from the war against Fjerda and now… she owed it back a thousand times over.

“Let’s go.” She hefted her pack of food, books and compass further up her back, then took Nikolai’s hand. He pressed her knuckles to his lips and she blushed, but welcomed the touch. No one gave them a second look as they passed over forged passes to the guard at the gate. Another division was arriving, armed with stolen Fjerdan repeater rifles. Two soldiers heading eastwards under the care of a nurse was routine - war fatigue. Shell shock.

The war had gotten to be too much, so they were breaking. Instead of shooting them, sending them east to the care of one of the royal hospitals was much preferred. Nevermind if they were ever seen again…

Alina shook her head, and let Nikolai take the lead. As they made work along the Vy, he broke into a whistling tune that Alina recognized snippets of. She remembered hearing it once when Mal and she had disappeared into the nearby town to see the penny operas play in the dingy theatre hall. 

Mack the Knife.

“Oh, the shark, babe, has such teeth, dear

And it shows them pearly white

Just a jackknife has old MacHeath, babe

And he keeps it, ah, out of sight

You know when that shark bites with his teeth, babe

Scarlet billows start to spread.”

Alina turned the lyrics over and over in her mind as they moved eastwards. Their back-tracking of weeks of travel forced them to realise that winter was fast drawing to a close, if one followed the Gregorian calendar. However, this was Ravka and winter lasted from October to May. There was still snow on the ground. A blizzard that swept down from the Petrazoi and through the riverlocks of the Sokol set them back another week.

“Fancy gloves, oh, wears old MacHeath, babe

So there's never, never a trace of red

Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh

Lies a body just oozin' life, eek

And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner

Could that someone be Mack the Knife?”

Ryevost came into view on a balmy Sunday morning, and Alina realized with a jolt that it was Butter Week already. The city shimmered in the light of the morning sun, with even its poorest districts bearing clean stoops and washed windows. Such a craze of cleaning frenzy had swept the entire city that the three travellers stuck out like dirty sore thumbs as they made their way through the streets. Nikolai led in front with Alina sandwiched between him and Genya for her own protection. If anyone tried anything it would be good for Nikolai to cleave them in half or charm them back into their darkened alleyway.

Alina, who had little experience with cities, found herself soon overwhelmed by the rats-warren of streets and alleyways that double-backed or became dead ends. Genya was incredibly composed, and waved her hand at the various smells and noises emanating from alleys. 

“We leave them alone and they won’t bother us. Now, if you were alone, I’d have advised you to come into the city through the main gate. It would’ve put you into the central district near the river and out of this section. But Nikolai knows his way around.” 

“How?” Alina asked. She knew Nikolai was barely at court but the idea of him coming to a port city like Ryevost made her feel uneasy. Nikolai, who had stopped at a stand to haggle with the owner, looked at Genya. She nodded, and Alina barely had time to say anything as Genya stuffed a kepi onto her coiffure and shoved Alina behind her larger form. 

“Two bedrolls, please. And who can I ask for maps of the Petrazoi?” Nikolai asked as he felt the bag of coins in his palm. All of them were gold 10 cent pieces. His fingers reached to his wallet tucked into one of his breeches pocket as the owner handed over two bedrolls and tent-bags. 

“Thank you.” He had already calculated the amount in his head he owned along with the tax, and slid three 20 bills over the wooden tabletop. The owner counted them, looking furtively from Nikolai to the money, then back again. He shrugged, and finally pocketed the money.

“Map seller off the Sankt Grigori square should be able to offer something, Major.” His gaze skirted to Alina who had been looking over Genya’s shoulder and his face whitened. “Sankt-” He shook his head suddenly and squinted. 

Nikolai froze, the bedrolls still in his hand. Too late, he realised he’d unbuttoned his coat to reach for his wallet and the golden braid of his uniform had become apparent. Steadying his breath, the second-prince of Ravka slid a golden coin across the table.

“You didn’t see us.”

“Never did. Travel safe, Major.” The man saluted Nikolai discreetly and then went back to assessing his wares. As Alina and Genya passed, an uproar broke out. Not from the seller, but a group of First Army scouts had been taking tea from a shop on the pavement. They rose to their feet as one, voices raised in cries of shock and anger.

“She’s with me, gentlemen!” Nikolai announced, weaving his way through the serfs and peddlers who crowded the street. His tall form and broad shoulders made his appearance even more imposing. 

“Major Lantsov..” One of the scouts stammered. “Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve got orders to take both ladies back to the Great Palace. Tsar’s orders, you must understand.”

“Tsar’s orders?” Nikolai replied blankly. Since when was his father making orders about servants and missing Grisha? Normally that would be for his ministers. Or… Nikolai hated to think that the Darkling was finally acting on his plans, that he’d delay this long until they were so close to safety. All they had to do was get to the port a few streets below this one and hop on a Gyptian barge. Then, assuming they were on the Costa’s, they could float merrily upstream till they reached the town at the bottom of the Petrazoi-

“I’m not going!” Alina hissed, coiled close to Nikolai. He shook his head, and refocused on the situation. “Soldiers, I believe there’s been a mistake. The woman here with us is a nurse from the Sisters of Mercy. She is escorting this patient to Os Alta for medical treatment.”

“Why go through Ryevost, then?” The tallest scout of the trio challenged. His friends cast one another wary glances. Challenging a Major on such a statement was a death sentence. Nikolai’s face hardened and he stepped forward, grabbing the scout by the ear. In low tones, only for the other scout’s hearing, he hissed:

“When I find out who you three are, I’ll have you court martialled so fast that you won’t even be able to find clemency with a lawyer.” He pushed the scout back, and stepped back himself. 

“Let’s go.” He hissed to Genya and Alina. The bedrolls he slung up onto his back. With a wave of his hand, the glasses of tea in the scout’s hands shattered and they began to scream. Nikolai barely spared them a second glance. Passing by little shops selling tea, clothes, knick knacks and stalls of religious wares. Alina breathed in scents of unwashed bodies, cloves, spices from Novyi Zem, saw Jade pieces from mines in Shu Han, the exquisite embroidery and odd, brutal weapons of Fjerda all laid out on tabletops much like the one Nikolai had traded over.

Looking up, she saw the rickety buildings of stone and brick of Ravka with their arched windows which merchant’s wives leaned out of to talk, hang washing and simply people-watch. She knew, with an uncanny instinct, that if anything went awry, a simple cry from one of these birds on high could send the local militia and police sweeping down to apprehend any pickpocket. She buttoned up all her pockets just to be safe, and hoped she hadn’t already been pilfered. First Army soldiers of all the regiments mingled, some on leave from the nearby fort stationed here, others en-route to be shipped West to the Fold. Some were retirees, who wore the old, faded blue uniforms of the Pre Halmhend First Army. Nikolai watched those men with hawk’s eyes and grumbled under his breath.

The slowness of their trek up a single street made Alina realise just why people loved Nikolai so. Anything they needed, from salt to cooking oil was made with an added inquiry to bless and keep the royal family in their thoughts. Even with the fact that so many of them were serfs indented to some lord or another who held their lives and family’s welfare in their hands, these people loved Nikolai like a son. Some of the older babushka pinched his cheeks and fretted over his lean frame. Other women, the wives of merchants, asked for his advice on how to make something just right. His embroidery on the cuffs of his hussar’s Pelisse were fawned over, with the seamstress (or seamster) asking how he got something so complicated to lie flat. Offers of paying for their items were waved off, and Alina and Genya found themselves being handed entire wheels of cheese or links of smoked sausage, all from Nikolai’s charm. Simply due to the fact that he was kind enough to listen to these traders' woes with landlords and offer suggestions had them on the edge of their seats.

“How do you do it?” Alina asked as she shoved the massive wheel of cheese into her pack. She’d stopped at a stall to admire a pair of fur gloves and hat. Now they adorned her person simply due to the fact Nikolai had once helped the stall owner appeal his taxes to a proper magistrate. Nikolai, who had been chewing on a stick of bingtang hulu from a sweet seller, spoke around a mouthful of sugary sweetness:

“What, sunshine?” He murmured, taking her pack. He placed another stick of the sugar-hardened fruit into her gloved hands. Alina sniffed it, her eyes widening in pleasant surprise. She’d not gotten much of a chance to try Shu delicacies, and munched on her stick as Nikolai turned them left and then right down a series of winding alleyways. Making up for a good period of lost time, he led the three of them into the port district. The smell of river-traffic only heightened the sticky-sweetness of spices and aromas permeating the city’s air, and the stench of fish from the fish-wives crowded the docks.

“Who’re we getting a boat from?” Genya asked as she bit into a powdery bun dusted in sugar, filled with jam preserves. The size of it made Alina’s massive wheel of cheese feel juvenile in comparison. Nikolai whistled a cheery tune as he led them down a set of winding sandstone stairs, across a long wooden dock made extremely cramped by long stands of tables headed by fish-wives disembowelling that day’s river catch. The river otters waiting in droves at the bottom of the docks swore at one another.

Audibly.

“Look here, you fucker! Give me that fish head or I’ll drown you with my own paws!”

“Shut up you wheezing old windbag! It’s mine!” Thus displeased, the otter armed with the fishhead dove under the water and the others gave a rapid and angered chase. Amongst this the fish-wives’s curses at the otters rang out, threatening turning several of them into gloves and stoles. Returned threats to the fish-wives consisted of telling affairs and destroying their stock, or enlisting the local beavers to eat through the wooden frames of their homes.

Alina scurried to follow after Genya and Nikolai and passed by fewer and fewer stalls until the bustle of the town had retreated into the distance. Yet the docks and jetties wove further onwards as the river slimmed down at its banks. As the ground beneath them turned to fresh planks, then worn and finally, rotting, they stopped.

“They’re here.” Nikolai slung the two bedrolls off his back and marched down the dock to a long houseboat carved and painted in a multitude of colours. Sitting on top of the boat was a boy with dark hair and eyes, a hawk at his shoulder, which in an odd way, seemed to mirror the boy himself.

“Tony.” Nikolai greeted, swinging himself up onto the rooftop of the boat. Tony stirred, and jumped to his feet. “Nikolai! We got your letter and came as soon as we could. Good too, since it’s nearly spring and we want to be back in Oxford for the Trinity term. Lots of College boys and their families wanting to sample our-” His voice broke and took on a vaguely debonair air. “Such rustic and mysterious wares.”

“That’s ‘nough out of you, Tony. Get back below deck. I’ll ‘andle ‘im.” A woman with another hawk at her shoulder had appeared out of the stern end of the rowboat. Bearing the same dark hair and eyes as her son, this woman merely had to give Nikolai a glare and he was scampering across the boat-top to kiss her hand. She pinched his cheeks more aggressively than any babushka and cast her gaze to Alina and Genya waiting on the dockside.

“Who’re they?” Tony asked, as his mother whacked the top of his head with the back of her hand. He stuck his tongue out and scurried below deck, cackling as his hawk screeched gleefully. Nikolai turned back to the woman.

“Ma Costa, this is Genya, who I’ve told you much about and you met her at the horse festival last autumn.” Nikolai explained, to which Mrs Costa nodded in recognition. “The other? Small, spry girl. One of us?”

“No, not that I think. This is Alina Starkov, the Sun summoner.”

Mrs Costa’s eyes widened and she looked at Alina more closely. “Heavens and all the stars, this is something.” She murmured. “Come below, all of you. We can talk more easily. Your blasted First Army has been having us rope up out here. Fearing ‘ell do somethin’ unpalatable.” She scoffed. 

Nikolai sighed, and sat down on a long bench-seat set into one of the porthole windows. Alina collapsed next to him and Genya next to Alina. Out of sight of anyone, Genya undid her scarf over her hair and shook out her curls. Alina yanked off the kepi and tucked it inside her bulging pack.

“Here, these are for you.” Nikolai reached into his pack and began to withdraw a whole multitude of items he’d gotten from talking to people. Alina had thought it strange when the items he was buying had begun to veer into things no one needed for an expedition to hunt a stag, and now realised this was their way north. She went to her own pack but stopped herself.

Nikolai waved his hand over all the cloths and bolts of linen, medicinal herbs, maps of the “North,” and other bits and bobs, from sewing kits to hunters knives. “Is this enough?”

“Yes.” Ma Costa examined a long bolt of Zemeni purple cloth and held it to her knee. “‘Hat’ll look lovely with your complexion, Nikolai. You should keep it.”

“It’s more important for your upcoming Roping, Ma Costa.” Nikolai pressed a hand over hers. He reached into his pack and held out something else, for her eyes only. “I got this from an informant. It’s about Billy. Use it as you wish or bring it to John Faa.”

Ma Costa seemed to pause in her work for the moment as she looked at the package. Finally, with trembling fingers, she took the package and unwrapped the paper. Out fell a small, metal disk inscribed with a person’s name and an image of the animal on the other side.

“This is what the Gobblers have been doing. They don’t know you have this.” He closed her fist around his own and squeezed tight. “Take it to John Faa, and he’ll do somethin’ I’m certain.” Alina watched this all play out with her eyes locked on Nikolai’s. 

“What do you folks need in return for all this, eh?”

“Safe passage to the mouth of the Sokol. I believe there’s a tear up there.” Nikolai raised a brow. “One that leaves you somewhere within the bounds of the Fens.”

“This boy!” Ma Costa murmured to herself. “Always one step ahead of everyone else.” She shook her head, then settled her gaze on Nikolai once again. 

“‘Eard that, Tony?” She called to her son. Tony put his head into the cabin and gave a nod. “I’ll go unrope her and we can get set off at ‘nce.”

Ma Costa got to her feet and lit the spirit flame under the little stove set into the opposite wall. Wordlessly, Genya got to her feet and came over to stand beside Ma Costa, who wrapped her arm around Genya’s shoulder. Genya leaned her head against the older woman’s, and sighed. Alina examined her pack wordlessly as Nikolai slid into Genya’s old spot.

“Who are these people?”

“Gyptians. Romani. They’re a nomadic group from England, which they call Brytian in their world.” He paused. “Genya and Ma Costa are very close since I took her to England last autumn for the Horse Fair.” He paused and looked at Alina. “You hadn’t been found yet. It…” He shook his head. “I’ll tell you later. There’s something I need to look at.” 

He got to his feet and rummaged about in the cabinets for a moment, then pulled out a long canvas tube. Alina watched him roll it open on the table and got a good look at the paper for a few moments, then looked away. For some reason, she was seized by the urge that this map, whatever it read, was for Nikolai’s eyes alone.

She had never seen anything like it, however, and she found herself taking short glances whenever she could. The map was dark blue, and instead of countries displayed multicoloured dots arranged in a circle connected with grey, almost white lines. An outer circle of more connected dots of varying colours made up the rest of the map, and vaguely shaped constellations brought it all together.

He took a pen in one hand and an abacus in the other, and set to work. While the tea brewed, the long-boat slipped its moorings and began to glide up the expanse of the Sokol, leaving Ryevost behind. Alina leaned her head back against the wall of the cabin and closed her eyes. It had been several long weeks of walking, and as she let herself fall asleep, she realised that this was the first time she’d felt safe since fleeing the Little Palace with her friends. 

As the coal-powered long-boat steamed further north, far to the east, the Darkling began to mount a rescue attempt to find the Little Saint, and capture the Stag. Too much dalliance during the long winter months had robbed him of a chance to set out a proper rescue mission. With the weather turning warmer, he knew it was needed for him to find Alina.

He had to find her, and no matter the cost, he would. Not only that, he would put the antlers of Morova’s stag onto her thin shoulders and let fate decide what came next.

 For the Darkling, fate was his servant and his lever. It was up to Alina whether she would let fate control her. 

End of chapter 6.

[cockroachshop]

[blueiscoool]

Russians Looted Priceless Artifacts From Museums in Mariupol and Melitopol

The heist started when a mysterious man in a white lab coat showed up at the museum.

A squad of Russian soldiers stood behind him, with guns, watching eagerly.

Using long tweezers and special gloves, the man in the white coat carefully extracted scores of special gold artifacts more than 2,300 years old from cardboard boxes in the cellar of a museum in Melitopol, a southern town in Russian-occupied territory, Ukrainian officials said. The gold items were from the Scythian empire and dated back to the fourth century B.C.

Then the mysterious expert, the Russian soldiers and the gold disappeared.

“The orcs have taken hold of our Scythian gold,” declared Melitopol’s mayor, Ivan Fyodorov, using a derogatory term many Ukrainians reserve for Russian soldiers. “This is one of the largest and most expensive collections in Ukraine, and today we don’t know where they took it.”

This was hardly the first attack on Ukrainian culture since the war began.

In Mariupol, the town that has been hammered for weeks by Russian forces, officials said that Russian agents broke into an art museum and stole masterpiece paintings, a famous sculpture and several highly valued Christian icons.

Across Ukraine, officials said, dozens of Orthodox churches, national monuments and cultural heritage sites have been destroyed. In one town near Kyiv, Borodianka, Russian soldiers shot the bust of a famous Ukrainian poet in the head.

On Saturday, Ukrainian officials said that more than 250 cultural institutions had been damaged or destroyed.

But perhaps no cultural heist has been as brazen as what unfolded in Melitopol just a few days ago.

According to Leila Ibrahimova, the director of the Melitopol Museum of Local History, the trouble started in late February, when Russian forces shelled the airport and took over the city. Soldiers went on a rampage, smashing into supermarkets, stores and homes.

Most of the city’s residents hid inside their houses. But a few museum workers, including Ms. Ibrahimova, made their way back to the museum.

It is an elegant, three-story, stone building in the old part of town, home to 50,000 exhibits, from Soviet-era medals to old battle axes. But its prized collection was a set of rare gold ornaments from the Scythians, a nomadic people that founded a rich, powerful empire, centered in the Crimean Peninsula, that endured from around the eighth century B.C. to the second century A.D.

It was the Scythian gold that Ms. Ibrahimova was most worried about.

She and other staff members secretly hid it and some other historic artifacts in cardboard boxes, stashing the boxes in a dank cellar where they didn’t think anyone would find it.

“We knew that any second someone could come into the museum with a weapon,” she said. So they worked fast, she said, because “the collection is priceless.”

In mid-March, Ms. Ibrahimova said Russian troops burst into her house with assault rifles, threw a black hood over her head and kidnapped her. After several hours of intense questioning, they let her go. Two weeks later she left Melitopol for an area not under Russian control.

But on Wednesday, she received a call from a caretaker at the museum. The caretaker said Russian soldiers, along with intelligence officers and a Russian-speaking man in a white lab coat, had come to her house in the morning and ordered her, at gunpoint, to go with them to the museum.

They commanded her to take them to the Scythian gold.

The caretaker refused, Ms. Ibrahimova said. But the man in the white coat found the boxes anyway with the help of a Ukrainian, Evgeny Gorlachev, who was appointed by the Russian military as the museum’s new director, she said. A Russian crew filmed part of the robbery.

“We hid everything but somehow they found it,” she said.

What was stolen: at least 198 gold items, including ornaments in the form of flowers; gold plates; rare old weapons; 300-year-old silver coins; and special medals. She said many of the gold artifacts had been given to the Scythians by the Greeks.

In an interview on Russian television, Mr. Gorlachev said the gold artifacts “are of great cultural value for the entire former Soviet Union” and that the previous administrators of the museum “spent a lot of effort and energy” to hide them.

“For what purpose, no one knows,” he said. “But thanks to these people and the operational work carried out, residents of the city of Melitopol — and not only Melitopol — will be able to observe again a large collection of Scythian gold.” He did not say when or where the artifacts would be displayed.

Ms. Ibrahimova, who spoke by phone, sounded despondent as she spoke about the Russian invaders.

“Maybe culture is the enemy for them,” she said. “They said that Ukraine has no state, no history. They just want to destroy our country. I hope they will not succeed.”

Scythian gold has enormous symbolic value in Ukraine. Other collections of the artifacts had been stored in vaults in the capital, Kyiv, before the war broke out. But Ms. Ibrahimova said events unfolded too fast for her museum to spirit out their collection.

For years now, Ukraine has been locked in a complicated dispute with Russia over collections of Scythian gold that several museums in Crimea had lent to a museum in Amsterdam. After Russia seized Crimea in 2014, Ukraine pleaded with the Amsterdam museum not to return the gold. Russia demanded the museum do just that. A court has ruled in Ukraine’s favor and the gold remains in Amsterdam.

But historians said the looting of the artifacts in Melitopol is an even more egregious attempt to appropriate, and perhaps destroy, Ukraine’s cultural heritage.

“The Russians are making a war without rules,” said Oleksandr Symonenko, a fellow of Ukraine’s Archaeology Institute and a Scythian specialist. “This is not a war. It is destroying our life, our nature, our culture, our industry, everything. This is a crime.”

The caretaker who refused to help the Russians was released on Wednesday after the gold was stolen. But on Friday she was taken away from her house at gunpoint again, Ms. Ibrahimova said, shortly after the mayor, who is also in exile, announced the theft.

She has not been heard from since.

By Jeffrey Gettleman and Oleksandr Chubko.

[applsauss]

Östliche Helden | I

Description: Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

Fandom: Hetalia


Pairing: Human!Prussia (Gilbert Beilschmidt)/Reader

Word Count: 4k+

Warning(s): None.

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden.

The words are printed on a sun-bleached poster featuring two working class men, one holding the red and gold banner of the Soviet Union, the other with a German flag with three stripes: one black, one red, one yellow. 

“Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace,” you whisper to yourself. Staring at the smiling men, trying to read into their expressions, you pick at the peeling corners of the poster, then try to smooth them down. 

Behind you, through the window, the sky is aglow with a strong orange and dusty red that fades into pink. You’ve wasted the afternoon in an abandoned factory, with the small, portable radio Gilbert spent a fortune on tuned to a western station. The announcer is saying something about a concert, but you don’t hear him. The sun is setting. The wind drags its fingers through the trees.

Gilbert is sitting in the window, with one leg bent at the knee and propped up on the window sill, the other dangling against the outside of the building. He’s reading a book your brother gave to you about Frederick II, the greatest king of Prussia. You could never sit through it, but Gilbert hasn’t been able to put it down for the last two weeks. 

You hum lightly to yourself as a different, tinny voice advertises some household cleaning product, and continue to observe your boyfriend. His brow is furrowed in focus, eyes scanning each page with intent, and his platinum hair is painted red by the blazing sun buzzing behind him. You can’t help but stare at him, and then past him. 

The view from the window is framed by Gilbert’s body, and then by large, dark trees that inhale and exhale with the breeze. Behind the trees is a demolished industrial block, rubble left where it fell at the foot of the wall--then past that is the Berlin Wall, itself: nearly four meters tall, two thick, and with various layers of increasingly horrible deterrents running the length of the death strip. It is a grisly sight. 

Behind that though, lies true innovation and freedom. Sunlight bounces off the windows of pristine West Berlin as if to say Look! Look at what is here. Look at Germans like you--but not--as they live with American autos, French wine, and Italian designer bags.

The radio announcer’s voice cuts off, and then the guitar chords of the next song fade in, plucking at all of your drifting thoughts and drawing them back tight again. It is a song of freedom, the western stations like playing it because they know it can be heard even behind the Iron Curtain. You close your eyes and let the music take you away, swaying in rhythm. 

“I, I will be king,

And you, you will be queen.

Though nothing will drive them away,

We can beat them, just for one day,

We can be heroes, just for one day.”

You never listen to western radio in your house. It is silent except for when your father listens to a concert performance, or when your brother used to practice piano in the sitting room. Besides, your mother is frighteningly aware of the ears in the walls, and your father makes a point of socialising with people he suspects of being connected to the Stasi--probably in hopes of being recruited. It’s why you’ve been left alone, even after your Onkel took bolt cutters to the chain-link border fence at the Austrian-Hungarian border.

You hear your shoes scrape on the floor as you step side to side, getting more into the song, nodding your head and then you hear Gilbert snicker under his breath. You peak your eyes open to find him watching you. His book is closed, resting on the window sill, and he’s now sitting with his legs inside the building. You stop dancing, laugh, but the music continues on without you, the sound like an afterthought calling to you.

Gilbert leans forward, watching you with steady eyes, then pushes off the window sill to stand. He tilts his head for a moment, like he’s appraising the music, then begins to snap his fingers on beat, tapping his foot and bobbing his head.

You join him, shimmying, waggling your eyebrows and he snorts, then gets more into the song, shaking his hips and dramatically reaching up towards the ceiling, then closing his fist and dragging it down in front of him like the disco stars on TV.

Trying to upstage him, you click your heels together and start to do the twist, but the song’s chords are drawn out, and so the shuffling you’re doing is more for comedic effect than anything else.

You pause when you’re closest to the ground, then jerk your head up to catch Gilbert’s eyes in challenge. He lets out a breathy laugh, then changes tactics. Not one to be outdone, he throws his arms above his head and begins thrusting his hips in time with the drums, while training his expression to remain serious, smoldering, almost. You laugh.

“And you, you can be mean,

And I, I'll drink all the time,”

“ 'Cause we're lovers, and that is a fact,” he mouths the words dramatically, then winks and blows you a kiss, making you snicker again. “Yes, we're lovers, and that is that.”

Still thrusting his hips, he begins to make little hops towards you, dust from the floor kicking up around his feet. Grinning, you rise back up to both feet and meet him halfway, swinging your arms and stepping in time with the beat. 

When you finally meet each other, he reaches forward, smooshing your face between his hands, then ducks down to plant a silly, solid kiss to your lips. Your teeth clack, your nose presses hard into his cheek, and he laughs into your mouth, then quiets when you kiss him back. 

The music becomes less of something you hear, and more of something you feel thrumming in your heart, thrumming in Gilbert’s as it beats beneath your palm, and thrumming in the way you both sway side to side, caught up in the moment.

“Though nothing will keep us together,

We can steal time, just for one day.”

Gilbert sucks in a breath through his nose, kissing you earnestly, sincerely now, then pulls back slowly. His hands are cupping your face, thumb gently rubbing your cheek, and you’re humbled by the expression on his face, still painted in increasingly soft shades of red-pink. Affection blooms in your chest, warm like a candle, and spreads until you forget about the bite of the approaching evening. Almost overwhelmed, you pull his arms around you and lay your forehead on his shoulder, watching the West as the sun dips farther towards the horizon, as the sky begins to bleed the same red, the same damn Sowjetisch Rot, that paints their bloody flag.

You can hear him smiling in the way he breathes, feel it in the way he settles the weight of his arm over your shoulders and presses his face into your hair. You forget about school, you forget about the stress of your parents’ disapproval of Gilbert, of you, you forget about the future and you forget about the gottverdammte West. “Lieb’ dich, Liebchen,” he whispers into your hair.

The intimacy scares you. You think about pinching the soft fat on his stomach and twisting like you would a bottlecap to relieve some of the carbonated tension that’s filled the space, the tender moment buzzing around the two of you, surrounding you with its quiet intensity. The sudden thought makes you laugh, and you settle farther into his embrace instead, letting yourself sink into this feeling despite the fear for once. “Lieb’ dich, doch. You’re my favourite, you know.” 

You somehow both see it coming and are taken by complete surprise when he pinches the meat of your arm and twists enough for it to smart.

“Ow-a!” You shove him off you and he stumbles back over a piece of broken furniture, snickering. You huff, dust your pants off, and try to glare at him, but you can’t bring yourself to be all that annoyed. Afterall, you chose this place and you chose him.

And the sun continues to set.

***

The morning is grey outside the apartment. It’s still early enough for the streetlamps to be on, and from under your bedroom door, you can tell the hallway light is on as well. You hear the muted clamor of breakfast coming from the kitchen, and your father coughs.

You smooth your hair back in the vanity one more time, double-checking your appearance, then grab your backpack and head out into the hall.

“You came home late last night,” your father comments from the dinner table as soon as you enter the sitting room. In front of him sits an empty plate, a mug of coffee and a half-empty glass of orange juice. 

You set your bag on the table and head into the kitchen. “I know.” 

“You shouldn’t ride your bike at night,” he calls after you.

“I know.” 

Your mother is by the stove, wearing her sunflower print apron and black slippers. The room smells like breakfast sausage. She has her back turned to you and when you approach, she spins on her heel and pushes a full plate into your empty hands before you can do anything else.

“Ah--Guten Morgen, Muti. Vielen--” you’re caught half-way through a yawn--“Dank.” 

“Good Morning, Liebling. Eat up.” 

You smile and return to the table. Your father is waiting, but says nothing. He continues to say nothing as the clouds are pushed across the sky and the food on your plate disappears one bite at a time.

Eventually, he grows tired of the silence. He takes a long sip of his coffee, then says, “You were out with that boy, weren’t you.” It is not a question.

“You know his name,” you say mildly as you push your chair back and stand to take your plate into the kitchen. Your mother appears at your elbow and collects it for you instead. Without another excuse, you pull your bag across the table to check if you have everything you’ll need for school.

Still sitting where he is, your father asks, “When are you going to break up with him?” 

“I’m not.” 

He gives you a hard look. You pull your arms through the straps of your bag. “Is there really no one else for you?”

“I’m going to class now.” 

He sighs, seemingly giving up on the conversation. “You have work after, right?”

“Right.” 

Another sigh. “Alright. Be safe. See you soon.” 

He drains the last of his coffee. Your mother kisses you on the cheek and tells you to have a good day as well. 

“You, too. Lieb’ dich.” You turn to your father, “Bye, Vati. See you soon.”

***

Childhoods are not made equal, and the law of even-stevens is not something adults seem overly interested in. You first learned this in year three, when you were dropped off by your mother to play with a friend who lived in an apartment the size of your living room. Her bed was folded up neatly under the coffee table and the bathroom was two floors below hers. When you explained all this to your parents, they never allowed you back.

The second time you learned that adults were not as worried about being fair as they pretended to be was at Gilbert’s house, when the two of you could only play cards on his bed because his newborn brother was sleeping and anything else would have woken him. His mother made you sandwiches and when you asked about her lunch, she said she wasn’t hungry, then ate the discarded crust off your bread. 

The third was when Gilbert was visiting your house, and switched on your family’s brand-new color television set. He casually flipped through the channels until he found one you’d never seen before, and you watched with confusion as image after image of the glamorous, rich, free West Germany flashed on the screen--something you’d never seen before, something he thought of as common knowledge, and something that made you begin to question what else was hidden from you. Your father catching the two of you soaking in the perverse capitalist propaganda movie ‘Grease’ was the beginning of his long-lasting feud with Your-Best-Friend-Gilbert. 

The list goes on and on, your eyes not so much being opened to a single dawning realisation--but rather that realisation was inevitable, a full picture fed to you piece by piece each time you bore witness to some other lie fed to East Germans, who chew and chew and swallow because they’re so starved of everything else. 

This is what you’re thinking about as Kristian goes on explaining Nietzsche to you. It’s terribly pretentious, he’s terribly pretentious, and so, regretfully, terribly, are you. 

“I thought it was interesting. Didn’t you as well? What Herr Ullman was saying about the difference between Nietzsche’s master and slave morality--obviously we are the strong masters. We must not be pitied.” 

Kristian is a person who never for a second thinks for, or critically, of himself. He is in your Philosophy lecture, your father knows his, and he has never once wanted for anything. The urge to fidget overcomes you, and so you grip the underside of the shop-counter, and rock back and forth on your heels to stop the annoyance from crawling up your arms. 

“Y/N?” 

“Hmm?” 

“I asked what you thought of how Nietzsche’s ideas could be applied to our politics now.” 

“Oh, well--” you pause for a moment to think about how much of yourself you’re willing to put into this conversation-- “It’s interesting how some people claim to be masters--”

“Of course!” he interrupts. “You’re brilliant--because in reality, they are not. Take here, in the DDR, for example. The majority of the working class think of themselves as masters, while holding slave moralities,” he finishes for you, incorrectly. You bite your tongue.

Sometimes, Kristian is enjoyable to be around because it’s like a game, to have a conversation with someone who refuses to hear anything you say. You like to test the limits of his perception of you and see just how far he’ll go to rationalise whatever you say so that in his head, you agree with him.

Recently though, it’s become clear that he has an interest in you that is just a little more than friendly, and casually letting him down is becoming a problem because he refuses to take a hint. Now, at Uni, every time you turn a corner, he’s there to follow you to your next class, and his forwardness is beginning to unroot whatever amusement you used to feel around him.

Kristian is another item to add to the growing list of reasons you’d rather be wasting your day watching the clouds go by than be at Uni--or be trapped behind the counter of the Apotheke you work at, begging the powers that be that Kristian leaves before your shift is up, otherwise he might get it in his head that you have free time to spend with him.

Time moves in slow motion as Kristian stands in front of the register and continues to talk. No one has come in after him so you don’t have any excuses to leave the conversation. You feel awkward, like being alone with him is a mistake that you can’t escape from because the owner of the Apotheke is out taking his lunch in the park across the street. 

“We think so alike, you and I…” Kristian trails off, and then he fiddles with the soda he bought ten minutes ago, and looks away, embarrassed. “Hey,” he begins again, and at the tone of his voice, your stomach drops. Before he was just dropping hints or loosely suggesting the idea of going on a date, but this is a confrontation that you’re not prepared to deal with. “I was wondering if sometime you’d like to--”

The bell above the door trills, and you jump into action. “Ah--Willkommen! How can I help you today?” you speak loud enough to smother the end of Kristian’s question.

“Liebe,” you hear the customer say, and immediately you know that it is Gilbert. What timing! He’d taken the morning off to go see Ludy’s school play and mentioned that he might be able to swing by after running a few errands for his mother. “You’ll never guess what happened! Oh! Kristian--” he pauses-- “Hallo. Anyways, I was riding my bike down Schulstrasse after the play and I--” 

“We were talking,” Kristian interrupts, whatever boyish shyness he’d had evaporating as he crosses his arms and turns to face Gilbert, almost puffing out his chest like a bird.

Gilbert gives him a funny look, then asks, “yea?” He looks to you for confirmation.

You shoot Gilbert a wobbly, unconfident smile and gesture to Kristian with wide eyes. He furrows his brow in confusion, then looks around and realizes you’re alone in the shop. He then turns his full attention to Kristian and, with fake pleasantness, asks, “how are your classes, Kristian?” 

Kristian rocks back on his heels and unfolds his arm at the sudden question. “Good, I guess…” He shoots a look back at you, and you pretend to be seriously inspecting the cash register for defects. You pop open the drawer and feign counting the Deutsche Marks.

“Good!” Gilbert presses forward. “I hear Herr Ullman is a hardhead.” 

“A bit,” Kristian replies, then turns his back to Gilbert and tries one last time to get your attention. “Y/N--” 

At the sound of your name leaving Kristian’s mouth, Gilbert slides an arm on the counter between you and Kristian, who bites off the rest of his response and drops all pretenses to glare at Gilbert. 

“Interesting,” Gilbert says flatly, “Sowieso, Schatz, when does Herr Friedman get back from his lunch?”

Kristian doesn’t wait for your response. He just huffs, snatches his drink off the counter, and stalks out of the Apotheke. The bell trills as he pulls the door open, then lets it slam shut in its frame.

“Tschussi!” Gilbert calls after him, and you really should reprimand him for that last, unnecessary taunt, but the amount of relief you feel now that Kristian is gone is ridiculous, and so you reach over the counter to grip his forearm with both hands, grinning up at him.

“Don’t be so mean,” you say half-heartedly. 

Gilbert cocks his head to the side. “Then he should take a hint and listen when you tell him no.” 

His genuine response surprises you when it shouldn’t. Afterall, you know what sort of man he is; you’ve known for years. It’s what kindled your crush on him in secondary school, the year before he went off for his apprenticeship in that garage he still dreams of, it’s what fanned the flames when he returned for his year of mandatory service, and it’s what stokes the love even now. “Thank you.” 

“Why?” He grins. “Did you think it was awesomely sexy when I made him back off--”

You choke on a laugh, cheeks warm. “Oh, shut it! You ruin everything!”

He laughs like a witch’s cackle, and you pretend to be put out, then ask,“what were you trying to tell me about before?” 

“Oh!” He straightens. “Remember that pigeon from school?”

***

“Gib can talk to birds, you know,” Ludwig says factually. ‘Gib’ is his childhood nickname for Gilbert. You nearly trip at the sudden change in topic.

“See!” Gilbert throws a hand out to gesture at Ludwig, vindicated. His other hand holds his bike steady as the three of you continue to walk down the sidewalk.

You groan. “I swear to god, the pigeon does not know you!”

“Yes he does! I’ve named him--” 

“Don’t remind me--” 

“His name is Gilbird.” Gilbert proudly sticks his nose up, and you resign yourself to pushing your bike in silence. You’ve had this same dispute since school. Gilbert is convinced that since he saved a pigeon from a hungry alleycat one time, it now owes him some sort of life debt, or at least he thinks the pigeon thinks that.

“I think it’s clever,” Ludwig says quietly, squeezing the straps of his backpack tighter in his hands as he continues to walk beside you and Gilbert, who are pushing your bikes to keep pace with him.

“Ludy,” you stage whisper just loud enough so Gilbert can still hear you, like you’re sharing some grave secret, “he’s been saying the same thing since year five. I don’t even think it’s the same bird!”

“Schatz!” Gilbert cries, outraged.

You roll your eyes dramatically. “C’mon,” you say, and goad Ludwig into jogging ahead of Gilbert with you. As much as Ludwig hero-worships his elder brother, he also can’t resist the temptation of teasing him, especially when you offer him the upper hand. 

“Ah!” Gilbert exclaims once he realizes your plan. “Hey!” When you pass him, you stick your foot out to unhinge his kickstand, making him stumble over his bike.

 “I’m too awesome to not be telling the truth!” he calls after you. “You were there! Hey!”

Ludwig laughs out loud, and so you turn around as well, only to see Gilbert struggling to untangle his handlebars from a bush. “Quickly!” 

You swing your leg over the seat of your bike, then usher Ludwig into the basket fixed over the rear wheel. It’s not meant for a person and is an uncomfortable fit, even for little Ludy, but the two of you manage. 

“That’s cheating!” Gilbert calls out sorely, still a little ways behind the two of you, though you know he’ll catch up in no time. Ludwig giggles right in your ear, and then you push off the concrete and begin pedaling down the sidewalk. 

“Look at him, all the way back there,” Ludwig teases. 

You can’t turn around to bask in your victory, you’re afraid to lose balance and throw Ludwig off the bike. “Is he still stuck?” 

“Yes--No! He’s just freed himself! Schneller! Faster!” Ludwig leans more of his weight forward, onto your back, and you laugh breathlessly, then pedal harder. You take the curb hard, pushing yourself off the seat to absorb the shock of your front wheel dropping onto the asphalt, then the rear wheel squeaks in protest under Ludwig’s added weight.

From around the wide bend of the road, you see the young trees that are planted in front of Gilbert and Ludwig’s Plattenbau, the tall apartment building looming over the road like a victory line. Your thighs begin to burn under the exercise. You pant, and Ludwig squeezes your shoulders tighter. “Oh no!” he cries. 

Then it’s over. “Ha ha!” Gilbert tuts victoriously as he flies past the two of you, legs stuck out in a silly pose as his gears rapidly click. 

“Aw! That’s no fair, Gib! Y/N has me on the bike, too!” Ludwig defends you from over your shoulder. 

“You should have thought about that before you two unawesomely conspired to push me into that bush!” 

“We didn’t push you! You tripped!” You slow to a stop in front of the side entrance next to Gilbert, and wobble under yours and Ludwig’s combined weight. Gilbert drops his bike in the grass and moves to help Ludwig down from his perch on the basket.

Gilbert rolls his eyes. “Same thing.” He sets Ludwig on the ground, then adds with fake scorn, “cheaters.”

Ludwig laughs, and you inspect your backpack, which Ludwig had been crouched on for the duration of the short ride. “Do you go to work now, Gib?” he asks.

“Ja. But I’ll be back like normal.” You look up in time to see Gilbert messing with Ludwig’s hair. You feel a pang of jealousy, thinking of your own brothers.

“Okay.” Ludwig walks to the entrance, then pulls open the door. “See you later!”

“Bye!” 

“Bye, Luddy!” 

For a moment, the two of you just breathe the filthy air. This part of town always stinks like a car’s exhaust pipe. Then Gilbert looks back at you. “Race you to your house?” 

You eye him critically for a moment, then turn your bike around and begin pedaling as fast as you can without so much as waiting for a fair start.

Your grin is unabashed when you hear him shouting after you.

***

Translations:

Unsere Freundschaft mit der Sowjet-Union erzwingt den Frieden. Our friendship with the Soviet Union enforces peace. From this 1979 propaganda poster.

Deutsche Demokratische Republik. DDR. German Democratic Republic. Abbreviated ‘GDR’ in english. The official name of ‘East Germany’.

Onkel. Uncle.

Sowjetisch Rot. Soviet Red, referring to the Soviet Union’s flag colour.

Gottverdammte. Goddamn (f).

Lieb’ dich. Love you (slang, not proper grammar).

Liebchen. Sweetheart, lovely (noun). Term of endearment. (Literally: little love, love I am fond of, the -chen is diminutive and cute).

Doch. Too, totally, all the same, nevertheless. This is a ridiculous german word.

O-Saft. Orange Juice (slang).

Guten Morgen. Good morning

Muti. Mom.

Vielen Dank. Thank you very much. 

Liebling. See Liebchen, though this is a more common version.

Vati. Dad.

Apotheke. Drug store, pharmacy.

Willkommen. Welcome.

Liebe. Love.

Hallo. Hello, Hi.

Deutsche Marks. Mark der DDR. Currency of the GDR.

Sowieso. Anyways.

Schatz. Babe, baby. Term of endearment. (Literally: Treasure)

Tschussi. Bye-bye, toodles. Cute with children, though usually used sarcastically by adults, especially men. (Gilbert is making fun of Kristian here)

Schneller! Faster!

Plattenbau. A cheap style of building made from prefabricated concrete slabs common in the GDR. (Literally: Panel building)

Masterlist | Posting Schedule 

[littlefreya]

The Way to Hell - Part 9

MANY Thanks to @raspberrydreamclouds who designed this cover as a gift! ☝

Summary: Post Mi6, Alternate Canon. August escapes Ethan Hunt with his face intact and is currently the most dangerous man alive. Unwilling to back down from his murderous agenda, he plots to continue where he stopped, unaware of the trained assassin who is sent to bring him down.

Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10| Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Completed.

Pairing: August Walker x OFC (Lacey)

Word count: 8.3k

Warnings: Dark themes, smut, fluff and angst. Unprotected sex, hints of stalking, violence, swearing, sexual mentions, slight gore, choking, death.   

A/N: Okay, this chapter is long, it was hard to write, you guys may never speak to me again after this. So I’ll just post it now, and turn off my phone and hide beneath the blanket with excessive anxiety. Thanks @agniavateira for editing my work and being my muse.💖 

As always, comments and feedback are more than welcome 💖💕

*No permission is given for reposting my work, copying it or parts of the source material and claiming it as your own*

Title: Lacey

~*~

Have you paid the ferryman?

~*~

The cool light of fluorescent doesn’t do the honeyed gold of her hair justice. 

Doe eyes meet him, a striking green. Pure, like freshly-cut grass on a spring morning. The navy-coloured suit she wears counters the sunny shade of her slightly curly hair. She sports mid-length tassels, cut neatly just above her shoulders. She looks like she had it done this morning by the looks of it . 

“Hartmann, Lacey.”

Sitting at his desk with a pen pressed to his lips, the CIA agent observes her while ignoring the small hand in front of him. A tall, fit man in his late 20’s, face clean-shaven, hair like pure chocolate, combed neatly to the side but for a large rogue curl that falls on his brow. He collects it between his fingers and attempts to tuck it back in place.

“I don’t do partners, sweetcheeks.” he retorts after a short glance and turns away from the young agent, returning to his computer to browse a file he was just reading before she interrupted him.

An amused sigh passes through her plump lips as she shakes her head with sheer disbelief. “Do you have it any more cliche than that?” 

“I might, depending how long you are going to loom over there, princess.” August shoots back and slightly adjusts the tie around his shirt collar, not bothering to face the young woman again. It’s obvious what this is: a muzzler, or rather a babysitter in the form of a really good-looking girl. 

He fights the temptation to take another gander at the way her hair frames the apples of her rosy cheeks. 

“But since you’re already here, how about you fulfil your purpose in life and get me a cup of coffee? Double espresso, no sugar.”

August shoots her a look, observing her immediate reaction. Lacey’s green eyes widen, her mouth slightly opens. She rubs her knuckle between the soft pads of her fingers while thinking of what could be a suitable response to his disrespectful request.

I guess Erica didn’t bother prepping her.

Sloane, the heartless lioness. She leered at him with that sour look on her face since the day he stepped into the building. He swears the woman must have slices of lemons hidden in her panties. There is not even a drop of respect in those dark eyes whenever he sits in her office. Nor does she harbour any trust in his performance on the field. 

It all just worsened thanks to Ukraine. 

The explosion in the old Soviet power plant killed dozens of innocent lives at the cost of one. Though that man was responsible for the death of thousands, if not more. 

If you want to tear down a building, you better use a fucking hammer.

That cunt should thank him and promote him. 

“Nothing but daddy’s boy.” That’s what she sees in him. He might as well be another dead CIA agent like his father, then. Erased from memory, his great achievements discredited. At least he doesn’t have a family to throw to the dogs so they can rip them to shreds.

Oh Sloane, if only you knew half of the shit that goes beneath that stuck-up nose of yours.

Releasing another deep sigh, Lacey slumps to the seat in front of him, crossing her long legs together and leaning back in her chair while grabbing the folder on her desk. Her lips clamp together tightly, trying to hide the saltiness on her face. Long lashes curtain her eyes which pretend to read through the file. August rolls his eyes with annoyance, trying to ignore her existence and continue working his way through a case he’s been reading before she interrupted him. 

Yet every now and then his storm-touched eyes peer at the naive-looking woman, observing her and trying to determine how long will she last.

~*~

Is this hell?

~*~

That dusting of freckles on her nose and the fresh shimmer in her eyes give out much softness, yet she is anything but weak. Lacey Hartmann is a shield-maiden of some sort. For 2 months she withstood August’s “boot camp,” meaning she appeared unaffected by his cold demeanour.

At times there is even a hint of a smile hiding beneath that peach shade lipstick when August challenges her with an obscene dark joke. A hint of amusement tints the green of her irises, but she never dares to admit it. 

Too coy, almost chaste, yet iron-willed. 

August finds her behaviour borderline masochistic as he continues to prize her with nothing but arctic affection. Even so, she always listens when he speaks, her eyes open with pure intent, a fertile green field in her glance. 

Something spikes at the marrow of his bones, intrigue or so. Trivial thoughts find themselves latching into the tunnels of his complicated mind. His CIA brain begins to note her morning routine. A glacial stare registers the vanilla latte she drinks almost religiously every morning at 9, with two teaspoons of sugar. Lacey has a sweet tooth, it seems. She never misses dessert at the cantine and he once caught her bending the rules and sneaking candies back from their previous mission at eastern Europe.

He also noticed how when she is nervous, she twirls a finger in her hair with agitation and chews her plump lips. 

Blue is another point of interest. The colour seems to be dominant in her attire and accessories for some cryptic reason, though. not obsessively. She wears black or grey but then ties a silk scarf the shade of the sky around her delicate throat. When she is having a bad hair day, it’s the red pencil suit that draws attention to her body instead. The combination is horrifying when she sits in front of him holding her favourite mug which is glittery cerulean. 

He begins to wonder about her life outside of the headquarters. Her file rested in his apartment for weeks yet only recently he found himself bored enough to peek inside and read about her personal life. No husband is listed under her marital state, yet he wonders if a woman as attractive as Lacey has a man waiting for her at home. Someone kind, he imagines, and pitiful. She looks like a woman lacking a strong man in her life. 

“Are you going to finish that?” 

August’s brows furrow as she cuts into his adventurous trails of thought. His glassy eyes pierce at her as she sits in front of him at the cantine, sharing a lunch table. He hardly speaks during lunch anyway, and only listens to her musings with the usual sulk on his face. 

Lacey appears slightly frightened when she sees his menacing expression, yet her fright melts into a soft blush and a coy grin, in an attempt to pacify him. He nudges the plate with a slice of chocolate cake in her direction. 

“No, go ahead.” he watches as she digs her fork into it with excitement, her eyes shutting with near orgasmic pleasure as the chocolate melts on her tongue.  

His mind continues to wander, offering him possible imaginary visions of her personal life while she mumbles something in the background about the cake being outrageous. 

Her home address would be in that file too. 

It’s nothing but idle curiosity, after all.

~*~

You don’t believe in hell.

~*~

It’s been over 6 months of enduring her by his side. August imagined she’d run off crying to Sloane 2 days after being forced into this partnership, but she keeps a vow of secrecy, even when he bends a guideline or two during missions or violates nearly every HR policy. At first, she would warn him about his behaviour, but now she just calls it “The Walker Way”. 

It almost feels like he has a partner in crime. 

They arrived in Sicily a night ago, their mission is to locate and capture a millionaire-turned-terrorist and bring him in for questioning. It’s a  high profile target, which means the CIA spared no expense providing them with the finest hotel suites and fancy attire to attend a gallery opening. An informant suggested the suspect might be doing his bidding at the same mansion. 

Lacey meets August at the hotel’s main parking lot, wearing a cornflower blue mermaid-cut gown. Threads of silver adorn the outlines of her cleavage and little pieces of sparkling glitter draw his attention to her bust. He doesn’t attempt to hide the way his eyes fixate on her breasts. Beaming at the pale pink fat of her bosom before his gaze finally wanders to meet her face, giving her his regular cocky stance.

Is she wearing a bra underneath?

“You look handsome,” Lacey compliments, swallowing a complaint about the obvious way he objectified her. “We look as if we’ve matched colours.” The royal blue three-piece suit brings out the ocean in his eyes and she allows herself to dwell in the calm water as she glances back, offering him a smile.

Stoic, he ignores her praises, studying her face quietly. The shade on her lips is not the usual one; it’s darker, making her look more vamping. He doesn’t like it, her natural appearance is sweet and supple, and this colour clashes with her complexion and the concept of her in his mind.

The unnerving silence between them greatly challenges her. The need to crack the autumn evening air with some sort of dialogue pans in her chest. 

“Are you…” Lacey begins speaking when her eyes squint at the region of his mouth. “...growing a moustache?” Bold fingers reach up, ghosting over his upper lip where a few days’ stubble seems to grow longer than the rest on his jaw. August cocks his eyebrow as the tips of her fingers almost touch his mouth. She notices his disapproval and pulls her hand away apologetically.

“For the mission, I thought it might make me look older.” 

An amused smile cracks on her face, her cheeks rounding up to perfect blushing circles. “The real Mrs. Walker would be mortified.”  

August scoffs, rolling his eyes at the notion before turning away to watch the cars that pass by. His hand rests on his chest, straightening the vest underneath his suit and stretches the muscles of his back. A timid-blowing zephyr caresses his face; his Adam apple rises and drops dryly in his throat.

“Is there a…”

“Oh c’mon, Hartmann! You know the answer to the question, don’t act stupid and play small talk with me, it’s not your style.” 

Lacey’s lips press shut together, her green eyes dropping to the floor. She knows the only Mrs. Walker is his mother, and Madeleine has been gone for a couple of years now. Everything is in his file, allowing her to learn about the “mundane life” August Walker leads, or at least the ones he allows her to see through her CIA spectacles. 

It was an obligation to do the same with her. His old man once told him to learn who he’s dealing with before opening his “goddamn mouth.” That’s all there is to it, and his curiosity if he has to admit it.

Lacey Hartmann lives alone with her cat, Sir Podrick, on Hampshire St 457 on flat number 45. A magazine two-room apartment, picture-perfect, tidy to the point of OCD. She has an older sister but they rarely see each other. On her free weekends, she loves to watch romantic comedies while drinking hot chocolate with tiny marshmallows. 

He often wonders if her sweet tooth is compensating for something missing in her life. Yet there is never a man in her apartment.

Sometimes she dances in front of the window, especially after a hard day at the office. He can’t tell which music is playing in her headphones, but the way she moves her body makes him believe it’s something upbeat and cheerful. 

The images of her bedroom window vanish as a slightly irritating thought peaks in his mind at her comment. Mrs. Walker. A hiss of violent air shoots from his nostrils. 

Relationships were not something he cared to pursue. Life had other offerings. 

Besides, the women he liked were too tender and he was too rough. So, his conquests never lasted more than a night. 

Agitated, he pulls his sleeve to look at his Rolex, muttering something obscene under his breath which makes Lacey shift uncomfortably on her feet. The driver should have arrived by now. Every car that parks at the pebbled road bears disappointment, dropping off more honeymooners and rich, older married couples. 

A soft smile breaks on Lacey’s painted lips while she stares at August who’s facing the driveway with his fists clenched at the sides of his body.

“Well, since we’re stuck here waiting for a ride, you better entertain me.” Lacey speaks with grace, not a hint of nervousness or fright in her voice. She learnt how to deal with August and his tantrums by now. 

August remains silent, his sight never breaking from the driveway and the alley of palm trees that pave the path. 

“Or I guess we can stare at the big full moon,” she says to herself, lifting her eyes to the clear sky.

August stares back at the golden-haired woman, her long lashes fluttering gently as she counts the stars in her mind. A naive glint sparks her eyes as she’s captivated by her own fascination. The pale blue of the moon reflects on her milky skin, making her look like a siren in her beautiful dress.

“Yeah, it’s lovely,” he says in his deep voice. 

*~*

And even if it existed, hell wouldn’t have you.

*~*

The expo is held at a royal mansion of some sort. A large Sicilian palace that is owned by an ageing millionaire. Golden floral embellishments spread across the azure velvet walls, shimmering at the lights of the crystal chandeliers which dangle in the halls.   

Various ancient trinkets are placed in glass cubes. Crudely-made bows and arrows that were carved from cheap wood by a half-brain neanderthal are offered for the price of 200,000,000 Euros.    

Ridiculous.

Keen on finding their target, both August and Lacey decide to split up upon their arrival, planning their strategy ahead by protocol. August is the striking image of professionalism tonight, stretching his gaze around the large hallway. He has been this way for the last several missions, working by the book, making sure to perform as clean as possible, whatever that means in CIA terms. 

He even managed to win a word of praise from Sloane, who still can’t stand the very sight of his face. But at least she ceased from eating his head at the conclusion of every mission. 

And Lacey seems to appreciate it, too. 

The brooding man spends the night pretending to be enthralled by the exhibition and its boring guests who continually attempt to strike pointless conversations with him. As part of his task, he only speaks with those who seem to be an asset and brushes others away by answering in fluent Italian, pretending to not understand a word in English while smiling at them politely. 

Blending in, the young agent stands by one of the bars, leaning onto the marble counter and enjoying some type of strawberries-in-cream dessert which was offered to him by a tall,  abnormally attractive waitress who’s been walking around with a silver tray. 

Lacey would love this fruit-pudding thingy, he muses as his fingers brush through the mid-length stubble above his lip. His eyes carefully scan the room for any group of men in their late 30s for a clue or a sign. 

The sound of a woman’s laughter chips away his attention like a siren’s call.

So that’s how she sounds like when she laughs. 

Grabbing a glass of champagne, he steps forward on the black carpeted floor, following the cheerful voice as it rolls delightfully in his ears. Storm clouds gather in his eyes. The siren is behaving unprofessionally to the point of being offensive. A tall glass of half-empty Lambrusco hangs between her slender fingers while her head falls back; her hand rests on her chest, trying to contain her laughter. 

She is the centre of attention to a group of famished men. 

August frowns with disapproval. She’s supposed to act drunk, not get buzzed. Standing at the large pathway, he watches how she smiles widely, mouth gaping, small dimples peeking at the corner of her lips. The honey of her hair makes her stand out in a room of dark beauties, the shade of her dress an anchor for any travelling eyes.

He takes an irritated sip from his champagne, swallowing the sparkly liquid, trying to ignore the bells of laughter which begin to sound like an insult, meant to provoke him. His piercing eyes search for the target in the room, focusing on the task on hand and being the professional his father urged him to be. 

Yet as if magnetized, his glare returns to her.  

For a moment there he nearly forgets that she is a CIA agent. The men around her flirt nearly barbarically, their mouths salivating with predatory hunger. Is she too pure to understand their intentions? The vultures are waiting to tear her limb by limb. Possibly hoping she will be drunk enough to be dragged by one of them.

The storm inside him rages. Thoughts of her being tainted by one of these hideous men enter his mind and poison bubbles in his throat, drowning him in anger.

He puts his champagne flute on the tray of one of the hostesses who passes by. He fixes his tie over his neck and swallows hard. His strides are confident and charismatic as he marches into their circle abruptly, reaching an arm over to Lacey. 

“Sweetheart, here you are. Come see this piece, you’re going to love it.” hee speaks with contained anger, his baritone loud and clear, roaring through his puffed chest and squared shoulders.

Lacey turns to smile at him as he latches his fingers around her forearm, rescuing her by pulling her away from the predators with as much elegance he can muster at his current aggravated mood.

“Are you fucking drunk, Hartmann? What’s wrong with you?! We have a dangerous man to catch.” He whispers angry and low in her ear, carrying her toward an open terrace where they can discuss and re-strategize the mission.

The cool breeze caresses their faces, tenderly running through their hair as they approach the open air. The young woman continues to giggle as August’s fingers tickle beneath her armpit while he takes her to stand next to the large renaissance modules that hide them from the guests of the event. He lets go of her forearm, looking down at her with a scowl.

“Relax, I was trying to make it look convincing with these decadent, empty idiots.” she attempts to pacify him, looking up into his eyes, her head reaching just beneath his square chin. 

“Isn’t it ridiculous?”

“What is?”

“The way they sell these artefacts on such a high price when it was created by a primitive creature who ate his own fleas,” she mocks with a mischievous smile. “This is the end of human culture, this capitalistic point of view.”

A cold shiver crawls at August’s spine as he hears her speaking of his ideals. He had never seen her this way before. 

So opinionated, so bold. 

Has she been reading my mind?

They have never been this physically close, he can smell the lupines on her skin and the Lambrusco on her breath. Lacey’s amused grin begins to relax somewhat, her eyes now staring at something with stark fascination.

“You have a brown spot in one of your eyes.”

August brow furrows even deeper, dark lines forming between his thick eyebrows as the woman ogles him in a bizarre way. His blood thickens as the pleasant wind brushes at his face.

“Sectoral heterochromia, I was born with it.”

“It’s beautiful,” she answers with an enchanted glare, batting her lashes and moving further to study the shape of his flaw. Her feet arch to the tip of her toes, reaching higher to his face. August remains still, watching as if within a haze when her lips crash onto his. 

Chills spiral through his nerves, his eyes wide open as her soft lips press into his in a long, chaste kiss. There is a small hum in her voice, painted lashes look like black curved trails as her eyes shut with an enchantment. For a second he can feel her body press into his, her breasts grinding at his broad chest. She slowly detaches from him, opening her eyes and falling flat on her feet.

Alarm spills onto her face, her hand covering her mouth with guilt as panic surges. August stares back without a sign of emotion on his arctic face.

“I’m so sorry!” She calls out in utter embarrassment, moving away from him by a step.

His breath grows rigid, his mind a war. In an instant, he pulls her wrist away from her face and claims her into his grasp, kissing her earnestly, even violently. Lacey’s moans melt into his mouth, her body crashing into his, writhing as her lips gape, accepting his insidious tongue. 

She tastes like sugar.

August slams her against the wall, growling as her hands roam down his body and messing his outfit. A fervent stir tingles at his groin and the way she squeezes the muscles of his behind and tries to shove her hands under his trousers does nothing to relax his racing heart. Depraved, his hand pushes between her legs, trying to cup her heat through the tight dress, yet it cages her legs too tightly. 

“I want you out of this fucking dress.” August growls, breaking the passionate kiss to breath hot and heavy in her ear. 

“Then take me back to the hotel.” she retorts breathlessly, grinding her pelvis into the growing hardness in his groin.

“We can’t, the mission.”

Lacey emits a frustrated huff, sounding as if she’s meaning to beg as her body constantly pushes into his in a snakelike dance. “Forget about him, he’s not here, we’ll do it the Walker way.”

There is nothing in this world strong enough to convince him otherwise as those big doe eyes peer at him with admiration and a sense of need he never received from any woman before. It wasn’t like the women who begged him to fuck them as he tormented and delayed their release.

For the first time in his life, he felt purely wanted.

~*~

The ride back to the hotel is the most dreadful experience he had to endure in his life. Both Lacey and he sit at each side of the car, avoiding eye contact whilst their organs throb with aching need. She keeps her fingers laced together while the driver listens to some old Italian love song and sings along the tunes on the radio. August attempts to avoid drowning into his thoughts but the idea of having her tonight makes the blood pool hot in his loins.

They hardly make it into her room. Exploiting every moment left in solitude to make out like horny teenagers. Whenever a hotel staff member or a guest passes by, they break away from one another in the most obvious manner.

As they finally arrive at the suite, August kicks the door shut with his foot and preys at her, his talons reaching for her face, his thumb wiping off whatever remains of her lipstick before kissing her again. 

“I don’t like this, it isn’t you.” he states in between invigorated kisses while Lacey battles to take off his clothes, pushing the blazer off his shoulders and then working the buttons of his vest and shirt with lust guiding her fingers. She ignores his remark, answering with another breathless kiss instead while moving to fumble with his belt.

Their feet kick at one another as August leads them toward the king-size bed, fondling the curves of her body through the terrible prison that is her dress. His long legs nearly lose their balance as she successfully unzips his trousers and finds him fully erect and pulsating in her small hand. 

Logic turns to steam at the manipulation of her hands. His gasps resonate through the length of his throat, giving in to the whispers of his heart. How long yearned for her, wanting to keep her in the birdcage of his vision. 

Lacey, so bold yet so sweet.   

With the swiftness of his hands, he turns her around, tugging at the zipper of her dress while dotting her collarbone with possessive nibbles. Her naked figure unveils to him as a flower opens to the sunlight of spring.

Left in nothing but her baby-blue lace underwear, she steps out of her dress and moves to face the large naked man, pacing back as he sneaks toward her like a direwolf. The look on her face is admirable. Drenched of fear and desire at once, feeding his natural dominance.

“August…” she whispers his name. Her lips quiver at the sight of his broad form, appreciating every sinew, every muscle. August reaches to hold his cock as the blood stirs into it with rage, wanting to be inside this angel, to taint her and mark every piece of skin. 

“I don’t have a condom.” he warns, licking his lips as she slides her underwear down her long, creamy legs. Her mound is completely waxed, just the way he wants it. Pure.  

“I’m clean and protected.”

Inviting him into her mysteries, Lacey offers him a devoted stare and reaches her delicate hand toward him. No clarity is left in his mind; desire clouds every rational thought, every self-preservation instinct. He ignores her hand and lunges at her like a predator.

They fall into a sea of silken sheets together, August covering her body with his, giving no care of how his weight crushes her. His hands hold her wrists pinned to the mattress as he pushes her smooth thighs apart with his knees.

Lacey’s moans are mesmerizing as he sinks himself into her wonders. Singing her pleasure at him like a true siren. An overwhelmed groan breaks from his own lips as the wetness of her flesh encloses around his cock, sucking him from within with an embrace of lust. Soft and delicate, she writhes against his crude, rugged body and he thrusts inside her with teetering grunts, taking her with sheer, primal dominance. 

She feels different, like no other woman he ever had before. Completely submissive to his darkest desires. Her body opens to him, like a precious, heavenly nymph and he takes what he wants. Deeper and deeper, drowning into her womb, never wanting to stop, invigorated by the way her hands clutch at his body with the same desperation that is in his chest.

For three days, they never leave the suite. Lost in a carnal euphoria that makes both of them forget the existence of the outer world.

~*~

Oh, hell indeed exists, it’s on the earth you walked your entire life.

~*~

The delicious aroma of crispy, caramelized bacon and fluffy pancakes tickles his senses to wake up. Salty and sweet, the scent draws him to sit upon the bed that’s slightly too small for his wide frame. A drowsy smirk crawls onto his face. This scent is his second favourite thing to wake up to.  

Locating his cobalt trunks on the floor, he hauls himself out of her bed, pulls them on and tries to tame the messy bundle of curls on his head while he walks to find her in the kitchen. The bacon sizzles on the pan as Lacey stands next to the stove in his buttoned-up shirt. She is flipping an impossible quantity of pancakes and frying strips of bacon in another pan. 

Her rounded ass peeks at him with every shift her body makes.

August sneaks behind her with the skill of a CIA agent, looming closer and wrapping his arms around her torso, his chin resting on the top of her head, while his hungry eyes feast on the pancakes and amber bacon.

Lacey flinches in his grip, he can feel her heart jump for a moment before she relaxes into his embrace, lips melting into a wide smirk as August rocks her from side to side.

“Morning,” she hums delightfully. “Go sit, there is freshly brewed coffee waiting for you.”

August drops a kiss on the top of her head, a low growl of serenity climbing up his throat. “You’re a dream, princess.”

And you’re all mine. 

With a wisp of unwillingness, he detaches from her and walks to the table, where Lacey’s favourite mug of coffee awaits him with steam rising from within. His eyes are a calm sea sparkling at the sunrise as he looks at her with admiration. 

Everything about her tips him across the edges of sanity; the way she smiles at his horrible dark jokes, the way she listens to everything he says with devotion and appeal, the way she speaks about her ideals and sees him like no person ever did before.

Lacey turns her head and sneaks a small glance at him, giving a smile and a wink before returning to the stove.

It took 5 months to admit to himself that he likes this, that he enjoyed being here, with her and her stupid cat, or in every distant location in the world. It didn’t matter if they were in Afghanistan or Paris, as long as he got to listen to her breathing in her slumber. That night in Sicily wasn’t just mindless sex. It was a union of two souls. They spent the night talking and while he was reluctant to open up-as he still is-he was stunned to find out just how much this woman shared similar points of views.

Though she never says it specifically, Lacey wants to watch the world burn. 

He hasn't even told her about his idea, not yet. It’s probably too soon anyway as he only started formulating his intention a couple of months ago. A part of him still fears how she may react if she finds out he’s been selling CIA secrets and dealing weapons right beneath Sloane’s nose. 

“I hope you’re hungry,”

Lacey calls out as she places two large plates of pancakes and bacon on the table and walks quickly to get the maple syrup from the counter. Sir Podrick jumps on the table as she puts the syrup next to the plates. Aggravated, August shoos the cat away and reaches to grab the woman's forearm, forcing her into his lap possessively.

“You know I am, princess.” he murmurs as he kisses her shoulder and then her lips, before grabbing a piece of pancake and some bacon with his fork and nibbling it deliciously. Lacey remains on his lap, grabbing a stripe of bacon from his plate and chewing on it with a pleasant moan before directing her gaze to August.

“How long do you think we can keep this a secret?” she asks, slight concern appearing on her face. August swallows the remaining pancake in his mouth and sips some coffee to clear his throat. His fingers thread through the gold of her hair, combing the large waves repeatedly.

“I don’t want them to take you away from me.”

His voice is nearly that of a child.

The agency’s protocol won’t allow partners to be in a relationship due to an incredible conflict of interest. “Sloane would lose her shit if she’d find out this entire time we’ve been doing this.” He chuckles dryly and shoves another piece of pancake into his mouth while still looking at Lacey. The first morning rays shine through the wide-open window, basking her face with a shimmering summer glow. 

“We can run away,” she teases. “Buy a yacht, tell Erica to go fuck herself and sail the sea.”

August smirks, his hand descending to the small of her back as images of embarking to the great unknown with her fill his chest with euphoric bliss. 

A daydream, perhaps in the future, after mankind is free.  

“I think she’s beginning to warm up to me though.” 

“Well, she did start calling you The Hammer after the last mission.” Lacey answers and grabs the mug from August’s side, stealing a mischievous sip. “If only they knew it has a different meaning to some of us.”

August crooks his eyebrow up at Lacey and wipes his moustache clean. His hands reach to tickle the sides of her belly, causing her to let go of the mug before he snatches it back. Her giggles make his heart feel at ease, something he’ll never dare to tell or show her. 

Asserting his dominance by only giving as much. 

“Why did you join the agency in the first place? You never told me.” she wraps her arms around his shoulders, the green of her eyes appearing yellow at the ray of sunlight that beams on her face.

His gaze falls upon the table, staring at the remnants of the pancakes while licking his teeth. Thoughts of his past begin to echo in the chasm of his mind. 

The day his mom fell to her knees and let out a banshee-like howl of agony at the empty ceiling as two agents came into their house.

He was 13, and from that moment on, he was all alone in a cold, ravenous world. 

“I wanted to die for the government, just like my father.” he spits out, thinking of how his life turned over one autumn morning. A tall, lanky boy who couldn’t even comfort his mother as she tore off tufts of her hair. 

August didn’t even cry, not since then.  

The curious look on Lacey’s face fades into sadness, compassion welling on her now golden-green irises. “You never told me how he died.” 

A muscle twitches in his cheek, his eyebrows knitting together as anger begins to slightly boil his blood. “Like all heroes, forgotten. I don’t know how, it was during a mission in Moscow. Nothing in his files but a mention on an accident, no details other than that.” 

“Is that why you have such small faith in the government?” Lacey asks innocently, referring to their pillow-talk. The ones they have while she presses her soft cheek to his chest and draws invisible circles onto his chest.  

The lump in his throat dries as he remembers the weeks that followed after his father was gone. They were thrown to the dogs to be gnawed at. No compensation, no financial support, and no one to comfort young August. 

His mother couldn’t even look at him anymore. Those blue soulful eyes, the cleft of his chin, and even the shape of his nose were inherited from his father. 

The most pain August has ever endured was when someone he loved was unable to look at him anymore.  

Madeleine was a loyal housewife from the midwest who never took a real job. Arthur provided for them. While he wasn’t the warmest father, he kept his family close, taking them with him on his trips, unless they were too dangerous. 

By the time August was seven, he’s already been to all continents. 

After his father’s death, both the money and his mother withered away. Having no experience in anything but waiting tables, Madeleine couldn't support her own child and perhaps she didn’t want to. The boy was a painful memory of what she lost. 

The last he remembers of her, she dragged him with her to church and went on her knees as August sat on the bench. She prayed and cried out to God until her knees bled and her eyes rimmed red from the tears she wept.

But God never answered.

That week, social services arrived at their door. He never saw her since that day and needless to say, no one wanted a hostile 13-year-old boy. 

August turns his face to stare at Lacey, examining her round, freckled face and her plump, pink lips. They make her look like a renaissance painting of an angel. At times, he’s afraid that his rage will tarnish her, swallow the light of her spirit. Yet he can never hold back, fucking her so roughly, she hurts for days. His instincts drive him to spill all his fury into her cavities. To offer all the spite and hurt that poisoned his soul, as if it will cleanse him. 

And for a few seconds, he is sanctified. Coming inside her makes him feel complete in every sense of the word.   

The soft purring of Lacey’s cat grounds him to reality. The chubby ginger cat rubs around his leg affectionately, his yellow diamond eyes staring at August. 

“Let’s not talk about it, anymore,” he replies in a somewhat final tone.

Lacey nods at him, giving him a look full of understanding. Her fingers reach behind his ear, stroking the soft chocolate curls and tucking them back. “Okay, Aug. But we really need to talk about that!” 

Her fingers move to point at his thick moustache, her eyes narrowing with disdain. 

August strokes his moustache with his thumb and index finger and lets them slide down the stubble of his square chin. “You don’t like it?”

Lacey shakes her head with protest, trying her best to appear irritated. “No.”  

Princess is so cute when she pretends to be angry.

August offers her a smug smirk in return, grabbing the last remaining piece of bacon from his plate and sliding it whole into his mouth. “Too bad, it stays.” he answers with his mouth full, grease smearing on the corners of his lips. “It makes me look dangerous and you love it.”

“No, you look like pornstar.”

“I’d fuck you like one.” he answers with a dark glint in his eyes. In a sudden movement, he places both hands on Lacey’s waist and stands up with her in his grip. The woman squeals with surprise as he flings her over his shoulder with little to no effort and stings her ass with a sharp slap.

“Do you want it here, sweetheart, or in the bedroom?” he asks and bites the fat of her behind. Lacey cries out in pain, her legs kicking the air.

He loves to hear her laugh, just as much as he loves to hear her scream.

*~*

If hell is on earth, then what does it make you?

*~*

Like a creature dwelling in the darkness, he sits in the bleak hours of the night, fingers stroking the keys as if he’s a composer, conducting his symphony of destruction. The flesh of his lips chafe at the lack of sleep and insufficient fluids, yet he gives no care. 

This will be his legacy, his gift to the world, his gift to her.

The pale teal light of the screen flickers lightly on his weary corneas. It’s nothing but pixels, black on white, five blocks of paragraphs for now, but the raw power in words proceeds beyond any other weapon known to mankind. So pure, so cataclysmic. 

Just like an atomic reaction.

She will see through his eyes soon. The potential, the greater good. All her words of breaking the system, about dreaming of a better world. A sweet, naive girl with a mind fed with agenda. It was as if they were threaded into one another’s life, destined to be. 

The paving of a new world has already begun. They call themselves the apostles, a group of no more than 12 people, men and women of science and power. Their identities are unknown among one another. It matters very little, the seeds have been sown into the earth. Small acts of terror, biological and chemical incidents around selected locations around the globe, just enough to test the waters. 

Greatness from small beginnings.

It will take time, yet he is patient, and his little angel of destruction will be by his side once the time is right. All mankind will be reunited in peace after the earth will shudder beneath their feet.

~*~

Does it make you a monster?

~*~

Something sharp prods his mind to wake up. A nightmare, whispering toxic words in the darkness. He hears a vague ruffle in the webbed darkness of the night and he blindly reaches his palm to stroke her and finds himself abandoned. There is a knot in his gut and a storm brewing in his mind. Carefully and silently, he reaches for the loaded gun in his nightstand and slips out of bed. 

Pale blue and humming, a soft light invites him to follow to the office next to his bedroom. His heart drums heavily in his chest, his face falling as his vision becomes clear. Bright pink winks through the molten mixture of shadow and light. She hovers over his open computer, spreading files and paper plans over the surface of his desk, all the while holding her digital camera, violating his secrets.

Whatever is in his chest shrieks and bleeds with misery.

“Would be more efficient if you’d switch the light on.”

The woman jumps as she hears his voice and a heavy flood of bright light showers her crimes as August flicks the switch on. She straightens up, as stiff as a frozen tree. Unable to face him right away, her face remains hidden from him. August can see the spasm of her legs beneath her nightdress.

“What are you doing?” August asks, his voice low and menacing, eyes travelling from the Nikon camera that hangs from her hand to his secret scribbles as they lay on his desk, right next to his open manifest. 

“Look at me.” he demands, stern and composed as he can. 

Lacey turns slowly to peer at him, her lips aquiver, eyes shining with guilt. The only sound from her is the shudder of her breath that rushes through her heaving chest. 

The hurt must have blinded his thoughts. He doesn’t remember aiming his gun at her head, it’s only when he sees the woman’s surrendering gesture does he register his actions.

Taking a deep breath, he lowers his gun and places it carefully on the floor. His hands splay in the air, disarmed, offering a truce as he stretches to stand straight. 

“Was I…” he swallows the dryness in his throat and licks his lips. 

It would take a real fool to be so blind to see what was in front of him the whole time. 

“I was your mission?”

Lacey remains quiet, her eyes refusing to meet his. Tears glide down the apples of her rosy cheeks. 

“Tell me the truth Lacey, please. I just want to understand.” The threat in his voice turns soft, becoming nearly a plea as he takes one step forward, watching the woman flinch and step back, her behind colliding with the desk.

The woman weeping in front of him is a trained CIA agent, yet the despair in her eyes shows no signs of panning struggle. The only way out of this room is through him, a man who is nearly twice her size and knows her every move.

“Erica suspected you’re the one who is leaking secrets, so she sent me…”

That’s why she inquired so much, wanted to hear his thoughts, to sleep at his home despite his reluctance. He agreed for the first time tonight, unaware of her insidious intentions. 

Did you really think you deserve this?

August scoffs, his heart clenching painfully in his battered lungs. 

He was wrong. There is something more painful than having someone you love never look back at you. 

“Did she tell you to sleep with me?”

Lacey’s gaze drops to the floor in silence; her answer is nothing but a pathetic sniffle as she pinches her nose.

Bile rises in his throat as he sees shame on her face, so obvious, so obscene. Her purity was false. 

There was nothing sweet or innocent about her, she was nothing but a whore.

“Answer me!!!” he rumbles, more beast than man. 

Lacey jumps and sobs with panic, nodding her head at him with her confession.  “Ye..Yes… any means possible.”

Running his palm through his face and groaning with frustration, the young CIA agent exhales hoarsely. He takes another small step towards her, gradually closing the distance between them, watching his shadow loom on her porcelain skin.

Lacey’s eyes widen with panic. Her ankles kick back the wooden legs of the desk, her hands scattering August’s belongings. White sheets of paper fly down to the floor, ink smudged by tears.

“Stay away,” she warns.

“Does she know? Did you tell her or anyone else at the agency?” he ignores her pathetic threats, taking another step closer. Her floral scent fills his nostrils, nearly triggering his instinct to claim her lips. His gaze softens with an ocean of mercy as she shakes in front of him so violently, breaking into tears of grief. 

Delicate fingers cup her jaw, sliding across the slick moistness of her tears as he tilts her chin up. “Please, tell me the truth.” 

Lacey lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes puffy and red, her plump lips swollen. She wipes her nose with the back of her palm. “I had nothing to report, until now.”

His grasp tightens around her chin, forcing her head back to look at the text flickering on the monitor. “All this talk about a better world, I thought this is what you wanted.”

She snaps her head back to glare at him, eyes narrowing with disgust and anxiety. “You thought I’d like this?! This is sick!”

August’s nostrils flare yet he gives a gentle nod of understanding and hushes her sudden surge of stress. His hand caresses her round, damp face. The thick pads of his thumbs wipe the salty tears away from her skin and his body presses into hers. 

Even a tremoring mess, she is still so soft and warm. 

“Did you ever love me?” 

His lips are merely an inch from her temples as he whispers. His large hand slides down her cheek, stroking down her jaw and descending further below her chin.  

Unable to muster another lie, she remains silent, aware of the fact that the sand in the hourglass has all but diminished, along with her chances of survival.

Words are unnecessary. The truth speaks loudly in her eyes, the poisonous infidelity was always there all along. Struck by her angelic beauty he was too blind to see, leeching onto false heaven, a childish fantasy of love that never existed.

Small spots of blood begin to form in her wide-open eyes as his long fingers lock around her thin neck, squeezing with intensifying force. Tighter, harder. His name remains caged in her throat as she fights for the air she thinks she deserves. 

“No, you didn’t.” August whispers, his vision beginning to blur. “You never did.”

Strangled yips of pain wheeze through her mouth. Struggling frantically while August hardly even bats an eyelid, staring at her with no emotion on his face. Desperate arms reach out to both heaven and hell, her body squirms and her eyes plead for August to let go. 

Begging for her life.

Something breaks inside her throat. Her last breath follows, a short gasp, frozen in her body for eternity as both her heart and her eyes become still. 

August glances at her pale skin, her gaping lips stained violet, her bloodied eyes glassy, returning his broken reflection.

Sorrowful tears roll down the lines of his face as his heart pumps with pain black as tar. A loud gasp of agony rips from him, shuddering across his entire existence as the very base of his soul chars in his chest. Broken, he falls to his knees with Lacey cradled in his arms, his hand stroking her dull hair and her blue cheeks while husky cries of anguish come through his throat.

All emotions end. An empty abyss claims the spot where his soul once laid. The only thing left to him now is pure, undistilled hatred.

~*~

I am the one who reigns in hell.

~*~

Black cold liquid seeps into weary lungs. Skeletal hands caress his face unkindly, the thin bones, so hard and frozen as they travel down his grey cheeks. No grace is given to him, no redemption. This was nothing but a dream of a life. 

As tar oozes from his throat, her voice continues to call for him. 

His last memories are of Erica, sitting on her throne of lies, swallowing his accusations while peering at him through her dark eyes. Face filled with guilt, oh, she didn't have a clue. Everyone believed Lacey Hartmann was the double agent this entire time. Angelic eyes hiding dark secrets. He planted the evidence in her house, in her computer, sparing his manifest of course. Just enough to tarnish her name forever. 

A painful wheeze splits his throat. Iron tinged his tongue. 

The promotion was won right after the body was cremated. A fine medal given for having his life put at risk.  

Glory and fame won over the woman you loved.

I never loved her. She was a lying whore, she betrayed me.

But you did love me, August. 

Blood spills through his mouth as he coughs. His blue eyes shoot open, peering at a great hole in the ceiling and the dust that floats calmly in the chill air of night. The pain sears his shoulder, throbbing furiously to remind him there is still blood running through his veins. He grunts as he clutches at the gaping wound, trying to hold onto the blood that still remains in his wretched heart. 

Run and hide, little Ingvild

I am no one but Lucifer himself. 

I will have my vengeance.  

__________________________________________________

Disclaimer: I don’t own Mission Impossible franchise or August Walker

[enkelimagnus]

Pork

Bucky Barnes Gen, 1777 words, rated T for Hydra shit

Jewish Bucky Barnes, pre TFATWS, post Endgame

Coming out of that disastrous therapy session, Bucky comes home and tries to deal with some of his feelings.

TW: mention of torture and death, of family member deaths.

Read on AO3

Part 6 of Making a Home - the Jewish Bucky series

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The door slams behind him as Bucky storms into his house.

He has lunch plans but Raynor’s words and eyes and behavior stick to the corners of his mind, sickening like too-sweet candy he shouldn’t have eaten. Except he didn’t even want to eat it. It was shoved into his forced-open mouth. He tried to spit it out but he couldn’t. It was too late. It was already clinging to his teeth.

He rips the gloves off of his hands, then the jacket off of his back. There is light in the room, the light from the outside streaming in through the one window he keeps unshaded. There is the tv, playing an endless loop of soccer. The green and the gold bounce against the glass protecting the Smithsonian postcard he put up on the wall.

Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes, laughing at some stupid joke he can’t remember. He’s looking at Steve like he hung the moon, and in that moment, he knows that’s exactly how he felt about this sun-kissed Brooklyn kid.

It hurts to think about this picture. To see himself smiling like this. To know he was already Hydra’s, even if he thought himself free. To know he’d probably already lost Steve.

He forces himself to take a deep breath. The expanding of his lungs is uncomfortable.

Why is this upsetting to you?

Because I don’t get to have secrets. I don’t get to be a person. My mind is yours to tear apart and put back together and you’re just Hydra wrapped in star-spangled banner paper.

This isn’t the first time he’s come back from seeing Raynor feeling like there’s a vice-like grip on his heart.

She doesn’t care enough to do her job properly. She doesn’t care enough to do the paperwork to get him someone who will be good for him. So he’s stuck, because she can’t be fucked to make life less terrible for him.

No one fucking cares enough. Not Raynor, not the people at the VA, not his superiors in the taskforce. And not Steve.

The Smithsonian postcard is an insult. 4 dollars and change for a snapshot of a memory. 4 dollars and change and you can bring home Captain America and Bucky Barnes, and look at the card and think you know what it was like to be either of them in 1944. Best friends since childhood. Inseparable. Bullshit.

Bucky wants to tear that card from the wall and throw it away with all of his strength. But he doesn’t. He knows he’ll regret it. He knows he’ll hate himself for it. He’s supposed to keep loving Steve even if he’s gone. He’s supposed to think of him as this… beautiful, glorious, perfect man. He’s supposed to be okay with this.

He told him he’d be. He told him he would be fine, that he could go, that he’d manage.

And now it’s been a little over 2 months and he’s not fine. He’s not managing. And he wants to slap himself. He should have told Steve to stay. He should have told him he needed him. But he hadn’t. Because Steve wanted to leave, and Bucky’s always been the one to tell Steve to pursue what he wanted. Because he made sure he could afford those art classes by taking that second job on the docks, because he kissed his cheek and told him he was going to be famous one day. That he was going to be respected, too.

Bucky’s never been an obstacle in Steve’s way. And he wasn’t going to stop now. So he told him to go.

And now he wants to scream for him to come home to him. To come get him. To come rescue him from this horrible fucking life he’s made for himself.

He knows Steve won’t come though. He didn’t come in ‘45, when the Soviets got their hands on him. He didn’t come in ‘50, when Zola bought him from the Soviets, in the same breath he bought a bomb. He didn’t come in the following years, and eventually, Bucky forgot the name Steve.

Some nights, he hears his own begging. Steve, Ma, HaShem. No one came. No one saved him. And no one is going to save him now, in 2024. He’s going to drown in the sorrow of too many lifetimes.

What else can he do? Once his brain stops coming up with names to add to the list, what will he do?

He has no idea. And he doesn’t want to think of it. Once he’s not useful anymore, what will he be? The list is his expiration date. Sometimes, he hopes the names keep coming.

There is pent-up energy in his bones, but he doesn’t know how to get it out. It’s broad daylight, and he can’t go on a proper run right now. People will see. He has no desire to go into the military base’s gyms right now. He can probably go into the guest room and pull out the punching bag and rip it to shreds.

He doesn’t have a lot of time. Lunch is coming up. It’s Wednesday. One of the names on his list is waiting. He needs to do that. To fulfill the promises he made. It’s his purpose now.

He feels like an open wound, standing in his living room, bleeding out everywhere, burning and stinging with every miniscule spasm of muscle, every brush of air.

When he shows up at Izzy’s, Yori will ask what’s wrong with him, and he’ll lie. He can’t tell him. Yori thinks he’s just a sweet, if a little lost, guy. Moved away for a while, only recently came back to Brooklyn. Ex-military. All things that aren’t exactly lies. They aren’t exactly truths either.

Izzy’s a Japanese restaurant. The building it’s in is old, the kind of old that Bucky actually remembers. In his day, it was a butcher shop, a non-kosher one. Before his mother died, Steve would sometimes be sent to get some leftover pork trimmings from there, to thicken the soup. It smelled bad at the end of the day.

Now it’s a clean and chic place, all painted in dark colors. It’s busy at lunch time, every day. It’s also busy at dinner time, when he walks by on his way back to work. Sometimes, he grabs something to go.

He’s starting to know his way around a sushi restaurant’s menu. He’s not an enormous fan of the rice, so he usually orders those thin slices of fish, the sashimi. Izzy’s has this plate, red tuna and salmon with a side of seaweed salad. The red tuna has a meaty quality that surprised him at first, but he really enjoys it. It tastes thick and fat on his tongue. He surprises himself with the diverse arrays of foods his palate accommodates.

Thinking about the food, about Yori, and Leah, the lady that serves them at Izzy’s somewhat feels good. They’re relatively untouched by the horrors of his mind. At least for now. One day, he’ll have to tell Yori he killed his son.

For now, he wants to be a little selfish. Yori’s old. The kind of old that makes Bucky feel comfortable.

He still has to watch himself, make sure he doesn’t talk too much like an old man, that he doesn’t tell stories he shouldn’t know about. When he says things about the old Brooklyn he grew up in, he says they’re his grandfather’s stories. If no one looks too close at the details, it works.

It doesn’t help the weird distant feeling he has sometimes when it comes to his life. It pulls him away from it. As if it wasn’t really his life.

He guesses he has little in common with the James Barnes of the 1930s. A name. Some memories. Nothing else. His family’s gone, his neighborhood’s gone, his friend is gone, his shul is gone.

He eats sashimi now, with that spicy green paste - wasabi. He watches soccer on a tv in color that he can afford. He has a computer - that he doesn’t use - and a mobile phone. He’s a soldier. He never went to college.

He was smart, back when he was James Barnes. He could have gotten into university despite the quotas. That was what his father used to say. And then he died.

He departed years before Bucky lost his mind to Hydra. He was 16 the first time he led the family in Shabbos prayers. He remembers the quivering of his voice as he stood at the head of the table, in his father’s place, and recited kiddush. He remembers the tears in his ma’s eyes.

He remembers his father teaching him how to shave with steady hands. He asked him to shave him when Bucky was barely a man, before even his bar mitzvah. His hands still remember how to use both the safety razors and the straight-edged ones. Even with decades of Hydra, he remembers it. He’s thankful for that, because the clippers and electric razors people use now are out of the question for him.

The clock ticks and tocks, minutes melting away as he stands there lost in feelings and memories.

Suddenly, he’s late to meet with Yori and he almost runs to the restaurant where the old man sits at the counter like he always does, saving a seat for him.

“You’re late,” Yori points out and Bucky finds himself sheepish.

“Didn’t see the time.”

He takes his seat by Yori’s side. They talk about sports and the papers, and the obituaries. Bucky finds himself looking through the names and wondering if he knew any of them, if they were the loud kids from down the streets when he was a teenager.

Leah comes over with a smile. Today’s special is subuta.

“What’s that?” Bucky asks in a hushed voice to Yori as Leah walks away with a smile and lets them think through their options.

Yori leans back towards him. “Sweet and sour pork. Very tasty. Izzy’s the best in town. You should try it.”

“Ah,” Bucky sighs softly. “I don’t eat pork.”

It’s a lie. He’s eaten a lot of pork in his life. Pierce loved his bacon. But it’s also true. He hasn’t touched pork since he’s left Hydra. The smell of it cooking makes him think of Pierce. And there’s something inside of him that avoids it, even if he doesn’t keep kosher in any other way. He hasn’t ever announced it that way.

Yori nods quietly, not realizing what those four words mean.

There’s no way he can know. It’s Bucky’s secret.

[darylandbethfanforever9]

Downfall Of Us All: Chapter 8

Downfall Of Us All

Chapter 8 

AN: Thank you, to everyone who is enjoying the story and thank you to @jtargaryen18 for sending me positive thoughts.

Link to master list: 

Warnings: Character death, mention of past sexual assault and PTSD.

They reached the kitchen without anyone catching them, but Grace swore she could hear the soundtrack for Swan Lake playing in the distance. Maybe it was just her imagination. Clint grabbed a pack of chocolate cookies, while Grace made the popcorn, and some salted caramel brownies. There was plenty of stuff left over, as they sneakily went to Clint's bedroom. Clint was amused to see Grace's cats were asleep on the lounge near his bed, with Lucky settled peacefully on the large dog bed. He turned on Netflix, and found a film called Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol. He waited until Grace was comfortable and played the film, as they sat together in a comfortable silence while watching the film. Grace felt safe around Clint, he reminded her of a fierce hawk. She smiled, and offered him the plate of brownies, he took one and bit into it with a smile of thanks. They both watched the film, and were impressed so far.

Bucky found himself unable to sleep again, his nightmares were constantly waking him, and it made him hate what he was even more. He hated HYDRA, and he hated the KGB for turning him into the Winter Soldier. At least he wasn't that anymore, he preferred the name White Wolf that the Wakandan children had given him during his stay with the kind, gentle villagers. He heard music playing from the ballet studio, and curiously went to see what was going on. He was surprised to see it was Sophie, and she was dancing to Swan Lake, her movements graceful. It was reminding Bucky of Natasha, if he thought about it. "You're up late, doll." Bucky said quietly, Sophie jumped at hearing his voice, and turned around to face him. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake up anyone. I just couldn't sleep, my mind's just a jumbled mess," Sophie explained shyly, she was wearing a grey tank top with a pair of black sweatpants. Her eyes strayed to Bucky, he was in a pair of black sweatpants and shirtless, his left metal arm glowing in the dim lighting. She could see the gold outlines on his left metal arm. He looked intimidating but at the same time gentle, she cautiously put a hand on his left arm feeling him shiver against her touch. He swallowed roughly, and turned his face away. "Monster," he said bitterly, Sophie shook her head and squeezed his metal hand gently. She didn't think he was a monster, he'd been used as a weapon by HYDRA and the Soviet Union. "I think you should be calling me that, James. I was born out of rape, a lot of people would think I'm a monster." Sophie said quietly, feeling heartbroken at how terrified her mother must have been as had their father had been. "You weren't given a choice Sophie, your father...I remember him vaguely. My memories are slowly coming back, I write them in my journals," Bucky explained quietly, and Sophie looked at him quietly. "So, they're memory books?" She asked stunned, a part of her felt terrible for how Bucky must feel having to have these horrific memories of his crimes. He was a victim, just like her parents and Grace had been. The thought of what Grace had been put through, horrified her when they heard Jarvis speak. "Shall, I turn off the music Miss Sophie?" The AI asked politely, Sophie nodded in agreement at his suggestion. "Yes please, Jarvis." She said softly and looked at Bucky who was fussing over Raymond who'd come to visit. The Bengal rescue cat purred loudly and allowed him to stroke his chin.

Bucky nodded. "Yeah, I started journaling not long after S.H.I.E.L.D. fell and I was a fugitive for a couple of years." Sophie stopped to consider that. "You must have been… I can't imagine what that was like for you. All of a sudden you were free in a world that was so different from the one you came from. Was there no one to help you? Anyone?" Bucky shrugged, continuing to pet Raymond. "I could have gone to Steve. I should have gone to Steve. I spent most of that time avoiding him and he was just trying to help me." "Did you remember him at all?" Sophie wondered. "I know you were close before all of that happened to you." "In bits and pieces, Sophie," he admitted. "What I read about him in the Smithsonian seemed like an encyclopaedia next to what I remembered about him then. He said he was my friend but… I didn't know who to trust." His gaze met hers, the sympathy in her expression made him pause. "That's why I want to help you and your sister, I guess. I have an idea of what it's like to be tossed away when you're no longer useful and have to try and survive in a place you're completely unprepared for." He handed her Raymond, glancing around the ballet studio. "I'm grateful that you and Grace are here. This might not be what you wanted but it's better than falling into HYDRA's hands." Wrapping her arms carefully around her cat, she nodded. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous about all of this, Bucky. I'm used to making cakes, not kicking ass." He laughed at that. "You'll do better than you think," he told her. "You showed a lot of promise today." "Yeah." Rolling her eyes, she put Raymond down at her feet. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel like I was… getting somewhere with that." "You did great," he told her. "And you weren't acting at all?" she said with a challenge. He'd kind of guessed that she was proud. He was starting to realize that he'd only just scratched that surface. "I wasn't acting at all," he said seriously. Sophie seemed to consider that. "I guess it wasn't terrible then. Grace showed me up." "She took down Peter." He snorted. "He wouldn't have gotten up off that mat so fast if you'd been the one who nailed him." She nodded, seeming embarrassed by the praise. "We could match you up with someone else to spar if that would help," he offered. "If that would make you feel better." "No," she said quickly, her face darkening. "No, I'd rather work with you. I don't want easier to feed my ego. You give me something to work towards. If I ever get to a point where I can take you down, well, I'll have some sense of accomplishment." "You will, huh?" Sophie was flustered, and it was adorable. "Don't make fun of me," she said with a nervous laugh. "Wouldn't dare, doll," he said with all honesty. "There's a lot of things I can't do. I couldn't make a cake to save my life. Hell, I can barely heat canned and frozen stuff when I have to." Her laugh was a warm, beautiful sound. "I sure couldn't dance like that," he admitted. "You can't dance at all?" She quirked a brow at him. "I didn't say that," he explained. "Used to love going dancing before I went into the army. I'd stay out on the floor with the dames—ladies for hours. Used to drive Steve nuts when I'd set him up on a blind date and drag him along." "Show me," Sophie challenged him. "We're up anyway. Dance with me."

"You're on doll," Bucky said intrigued, and he gently held her by the waist as Jarvis began playing slow jazz music on the speakers. He effortlessly spun her around, and pulled her into his arms, as they began doing a very intimate dance. He distantly recalled dancing before the war, and Sophie smiled at him as he threw her over his shoulder in an effortless move. She laughed, and they continued to dance. He didn't feel like a monster and smiled as the music changed to swan lake. He watched impressed as Sophie pointed her toes and leaned against the bar up against the mirror. She smiled at him, and he pulled her into him as they did pas de deux, and he smiled when she did the spin with attitude. She was like one of those miniature ballet dancers in a music box, spinning around delicately. "I'll catch you, trust me," he said quietly, she nodded at him and did the split leap, landing gracefully in his arms as the soundtrack finished dramatically. Neither of them had noticed Steve, and Natasha watching them.

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"It's like watching a Soviet Union version of Swan Lake, you know?" Natasha said softly, as they both watched Bucky and Sophie perform ballet. Steve nodded in agreement, he couldn't help but admire Bucky's dance moves, which clearly had ballet incorporated into the choreography.

Sophie performed a split leap, which would make any gymnast jealous as the music began ending dramatically. She landed gracefully in Bucky's arms, and Steve smiled.

Bucky looked relaxed, and happy. He was happy that Sophie had been able to make him, smile.

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Clint woke up to see that Grace was fast asleep, and it was three AM in the morning. He vaguely remembered that after watching Mission Impossible, they'd brushed their teeth and put the food away. He quietly put the quilt around her, and she curled up into him even more, seeking his warmth. He stilled, but relaxed and laid down beside her. Laura hadn't liked him holding her too much, that should have signalled warning bells, but he'd been in love with her. He had genuinely thought she had loved him and look how that turned out. Last night, Grace had comforted him and confessed that she felt the exact same way as he did about her son. She knew his pain, and the terrible heartache it left. Unlike Grace, he had closure, but she didn't have that small comfort. She'd been left in an agonising limbo with her sister, ever since S.H.I.E.L.D had taken Zach away. Hopefully they would find him, he felt Grace trembling in the bedsheets and saw she was crying fearfully. "Please don't do this, just let me go home. I swear I won't tell anyone," she sobbed frightened.

"Grace?" He muttered, his voice rough from sleep. "Please don't," she began to cry in her sleep. "Don't touch me. Please. I just want to go home—" "Grace!" Clint had firmly grasped her upper arms and shook her enough to awaken her but not enough to make her terror worse. "Gracie, wake up." Her eyes flew open, rolling around wildly until she began to focus on him. Her palm smoothed up to his face, staring hard at him for a moment as if she didn't know him. "Grace, it's Clint. It's me. Breathe," he whispered. Tears ran over her cheeks. Christ, she looked so scared. "Clint?" She asked, sounding so small. "Yeah, it's me," he told her, keeping his voice calm. "You're safe. I've got you." Her eyes scanned the room frantically, she seemed to be remembering how she'd got there and why. "He's not here?" "No, honey, he's not. Just me. You're safe with me," he whispered. "Please breathe. You're scaring me." It reminded him of the nightmares Cooper used to have when he was small, worried about monsters killing his daddy. She sucked in air before a sob ripped from her chest, a low painful sound that broke his heart as he watched her crumble. "Come here," he whispered, pulling her to his chest and holding her close. "It's okay. I've got you. You're safe with me." "Oh my God, Clint," she managed between sobs and breaths. "He's… he's still out there." "Not for long," he swore. Brock Rumlow's days were numbered. Clint would personally guarantee that. "What if he… f-finds me?" Her voice sounded so broken. "One day," Clint told her, rubbing small circles on her back, "he will find us. You and me. And we'll finish him, Grace. We'll keep him from ever hurting anyone else. I promise." Her arms wrapped around him, held him tight. He felt her nod against his chest. "Yes… yes, we will. I want to be there, Clint," she said, sounding stronger. Pulling back, she stared up into his face, her eyes filled with shadows of the pain he felt. "I want to be there to see it." Pressing a kiss to her forehead, he pulled her into his chest and stretched out on his back. "You'll be there, Grace. You'll see it." Nodding, she rested her head on his chest, throwing one slim leg across his own as she sought comfort. Trusting him as her sobs faded and her breaths slowed down into the cadence of sleep. Clint, who had a hard time sleeping himself, just enjoyed holding her. Her sleep seemed peaceful now and he'd take that. She'd need her sleep for the days ahead. He wasn't just telling her nonsense to get her to go back to sleep. He'd meant every word he'd said. He didn't care if Rumlow found him or it was the other way around. The outcome would be the same. Rumlow was already dead.

Clint had never hated someone as much as he did about Rumlow, and Laura but he did hate them. He'd make Rumlow suffer for what he'd done to Grace, and all of his other victims. He held Grace close and leaned back against the pillows as Starling came over and sat by his feet. The black cat purring lightly, as he lulled Clint into a restful sleep.

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Jarvis woke up the team for their morning training session, causing a bleary-eyed Tony to stumble out of his bedroom. His dark brown hair was tousled, and his Metallica t-shirt looked like it was covered in motor oil. "Eat breakfast, then we'll be doing team training," Steve said amused, when he saw Bucky and Sophie coming together, Bucky had a peaceful expression on his face while Sophie looked more at ease than she had yesterday. "Who's turn is it to cook?" Natasha asked curiously, the team had come up with a weekly rota, so each team member could cook breakfast, lunch and dinner. "Mine, Sam cooked yesterday." Bucky answered, as he began getting the ingredients out for Belgian waffles, pancakes and beef sausages. "Are we doing the training, and then eating?" Sophie asked tentatively, she didn't know how this worked out but was curious about how the team did it. "We'll be eating breakfast, and then doing training, shortly. We want you to build muscle, not waste away." Natasha explained patiently, and Sophie smiled in understanding. "Mr Stark, there are two police officers wishing to speak with you," Jarvis announced, Tony frowned but nodded at the AI. "Let them in, Jarvis." He said wearily, and they heard a car driving into the car park before seeing on the security camera two non-uniformed police officers entering. "Mr Stark, I'm Lieutenant Olivia Benson and this is my partner, Detective Amanda Rollins. I'm afraid, something has happened to Happy Hogan." The woman said gently. The room became quiet, everyone looked worried and Tony had paled considerably. "Is Happy alright? Where is he?" Tony asked worriedly, he cared a lot about Happy and the man had always supported him. "I'm so sorry Mr Stark, but Happy Hogan was found murdered this morning outside Stark Industries. Do you know where we can find Virginia Potts? She was the last person who Happy spoke to." Olivia explained sympathetically, her hazel eyes meeting his. Tony opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Happy was dead......someone had murdered his close friend, and he felt sick to his stomach. The others looked at him worriedly, wanting to say something to try and console him. "I haven't spoken to Pepper since yesterday morning, she wants a divorce and I'm signing the papers today," Tony said quietly, feeling distraught. Who would want to kill Happy?

"Are you… are you sure it's him? Has the body been identified?" Tony tried, praying with everything he had that this was a mistake, that he and Happy could laugh it off later.

"You can help us with that, positive identification," Detective Rollins told him. "If you'd come with us."

Natasha gently embraced Tony from behind. "Maybe this is a mistake," she whispered.

Tony felt fragile at the moment like Nat was holding him up.

"Stay here and manage things," Tony told her. "I won't be long."

To Steve he nodded. "Take care of things, Cap."

Steve's face mirrored the sadness that was crushing him from the inside. Steve clamped a hand on his shoulder.

"Whatever you need," Steve told him.

Tony saw Bucky and the one spider girl, read their concern. Since when did people feel sorry for him? Pity him?

At least he had his shoes on as he trudged after the two policewomen and headed out of the front of the compound. The detective – her name was Amanda, right? – turned back to him as she motioned to their unmarked sedan.

"Would you like to bring someone with you, Mr. Stark?" she offered.

Tony felt lost, realizing everyone was back up in the kitchen. Glancing up and down the sidewalk, he saw one small woman coming up the walk, lugging a bag as big as she was. Her dark brown hair had gold highlights in the sun and it looked like she'd spent some time styling it. Her blouse and skirt looked professional, the heels he could tell she wasn't used to walking in were scuffed already and there was a huge runner in her stockings as she carried the bag up to the sidewalk.

Deliberately he came to a stop in front of her. "Who are you?"

Her mouth dropped open when she glanced up at him, her grey eyes wide. "Lillia Dumitrescu."

"Do you work here?"

The young woman nodded. "It's my first day."

She was adorable, and she would do.

"You work for me?"

"Yes, Mr. Stark."

"Okay, we're going to the police station," he told her before opening the back door and ushering her in the back of the car, huge bag and all. "Get in."

Once they were settled, she sat demurely in the back with her hands folded in her lap. "Am I in trouble, Mr. Stark?"

Tony shook his head. "I just need someone to come with me to the police station."

"Okay."

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

Tagging list: @jtargaryen18, @marvelfansworld, @sapphirescrolls, @kitkatd7, @sweater-daddiesdumbdork, @nomadicpixel and @queenoftheunderdark, and @my-favourite-fics​

[watchprizes-org]

This Post Contains The Price, The Images, And The Features, The review And The Rating of RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof  Buy Now  Price: 125,00 USD The Images The Description, The Features, The review And The Rating RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof Pocket watch Raketa This Raketa pocket watch is in working condition. It was fully serviced and tested by master (cleaned, oiled, tested). The last picture shows you that mechanism is clean. I sell only original vintage Soviet (USSR). All watches have high quality mechanical wind up mechanism (caliber) #2609 with 18 jewels (rubies). Mechanical, 19 jewelsCaliber (movement) # 2609Diameter - 50 mm, 2 inchesMade in USSR (Soviet Union)Original Soviet watch, not fake Gold plated case. RARE model. Top Reason Why You Should Buy From UsLongtime memberPositive feedbacksWorldwide Airmail shipping with track numberQuick answer to your messages (not more then 24 hours)Approximately shipping terms 7-14 working days (USA, EU, Canada)Combine shipping and reduce shipping costAccept payment via PayPal IT'S TIME TO MAKE YOUR BEST PURCHASE! What is the price of RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof Pocket Watch Watch Parts and Accessories: The Watch Parts and Accessories of RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof Pocket Watch. Pocket Watches: The Features, The review, The Rating, And The Price of RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof Pocket Watch. Pocket Watches: The Full Description of RARE Pocket watch Gold plated Raketa Cardinal Luxury Soviet Russian shockproof Pocket Watch. rare,pocket,watch https://watchprizes.org/the-price-of-rare-pocket-watch-gold-plated-raketa-cardinal-luxury-soviet-russian-shockproof-pocket-watch/?feed_id=13185&_unique_id=624133c0eb2ac

[huong-mac]

The Mitten (1967)

The Mitten is a 1967 Soviet animated film directed by Roman Kachanov. This animation is a stop motion movie. Like other forms of animation, stop motion technology uses physical objects and multiple frames of film to create the appearance of movement and action. Dolls and scenery of it were made by Pavel Gusyov, Oleg Masainov, V. Petrov, etc. In The Mitten, no words are said. Its running time is 10 minutes.

The main character is a little girl named Anya, who dreams of having a dog. This animation begins with Anya standing by the window to see some children play with their dogs. She seems to desire to have a pet like them. Then, Anya goes up the stair and ask her neighbor to get a puppy. Unfortunately, her mom is strict and busy, so she does not allow Anya to adopt a dog. That is why the poor girl has to return it. Anya feels upset and wanders alone outside. Then she imagines her mitten is a dog and plays with it like a real puppy, and together they take part in the local kennel club competition. In her eyes, the puppy is perfect, and it can stand out from other dogs. However, there is an unexpected problem that makes Anya’s puppy lose the award. She hugs the poor dog and brings it home. It begins to snow; Anya wants to feed her puppy with a dish of milk in the cozy room. At that time, her mother wants to check the room to make sure Anya does not have any pets. However, when Anya’s mother sees her daughter trying to feed the mitten, she sympathizes and decides to get Anya, a real dog. A truly happy ending!

Although The Mitten has simple plots, many audiences love it. That is why this animation has several awards such as:

• The Moscow International Film Festival (MKF) - a silver medal in competition of childrens movies, the movie "The Mitten" 1967

• MKF of movies for children and youth in Gijon - the Grand Prix "A gold plate", the movie "The Mitten" 1968

• MKF of animated cinema in Annecy - the first award, the movie "The Mitten" 1967

• MKF of movies for children and youth in Gijon - a prize of the city of Gijon "For high art quality of animation", the movie "The Mitten" 1968

• All-Union Film Festival - the first award, the movie "The Mitten" 1968

Besides, according to The IMDb Pro, it is rated 7.8/10 (506), and The Russian Film Club Newsletter evaluates 9.5/10.

In fact, I am interested in Stop motion animation so much because this style is very complex by creating dolls and the background made by hand like the craft. I have seen some Stop motion animations, such as Shaun the Sheep, Corpse Bride, etc. However, I had not seen The Mitten before until I found the information about the animated short film in the 1960s. In my opinion, this animated film is a touching story. It describes the emotion of a lonely girl deeply. Anya is one of the children who need friends and a loved animal. She wants to play, take care of a puppy, and be responsible with her pet while her mother does not have more time for her. Besides, The Mitten is successful in depicting a second character, Anya’s mom. In the beginning, the mother is quite strict and does not agree to bring a dog into the house because she is busy. Then, she changes her mind and asks her neighbor to get a puppy by herself. This action proves she loves her daughter and wants to do anything for her kids. In conclusion, I believe that anyone who watches this animated film will like it and recommend it to others like me.

Referents

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KIg81JMDYLI&ab_channel=ByJuliet

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Mitten_(film)

https://russianfilmhub.com/movies/the-mitten-1967/

https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0393932/

https://amp.en.google-info.in/28064582/1/the-mitten-film.html                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

[ladybugmeat]

Childhood. 3

The night had everyone charmed by good drink and my father’s stories from the Torah and Talmud, the tables shaking with Guba’s brothers thumping fists. In the company of friends, my father would call Mama ‘Holub’, his dove, and would hang her paintings in the kitchen for the guests to see. Mama would sometimes shoot Guba warning looks when he said something controversial about the state but I knew she adored my father’s trying remarks and played to treating him like a naughty schoolchild, shaking her head and smiling.

The extended family would eat, drink, talk, and eventually, attentively and slowly list everyone absent. Whilst night purred along the alcove of fir trees, I listened to my aunties reminisce of their youth in the Soviet Union, of uniforms and marches and military classes in school. My great aunt from the south was once dubbed queen Kalashnikov; boasting a twelve-second disassembly and reassembly of the gun. Ruslan, from a small stool, listened with wide sleepy eyes, imagining when his school would train him in the underground government shooting ranges. Between mouthfuls of meal, I tugged at my mother’s veil, pleading her to take me up onto her shoulders. There I’d have my cheeks pecked and thighs pinched by merry relatives with hooked noses. My superior aerial view gave sightings of the receding hairlines of my uncles and movements of toads and shrews in the undergrowth beneath the patio.

At the seventh chime of the town bell, the center table would erupt with steam: plaited breads on large ceramic plates, spoons and forks in green and red pitchers and cucumber-tomato salads arranged like flowers. Then Vareniki in globules of goat’s butter and Nalesniki enrobed in fig jam and milk. Pig’s fat was kept to marinate in garlic for Sundays when the sisters from the monastery stayed. Boiled potatoes, pink borsch and beef enveloped in cabbage and pastry, the dishes would circulate until the table was stacked with only the plates like heavy gold discuses, topped with scraps left for the dogs. Ruslan and I would be carried off to our cribs before card games commenced and Cognac was carried out in funny balloon glasses. Papa took on the guise of watching us to catch the news and sport on the television in his study,  Ruslan and I wrestling on the carpet. We lived a simple life, Kozova was a quiet farm settlement- miles of undulating land separated us from the metropolitan monster of Ukraine. Mama said we could be the friends of the Soviet Union if we just knew how to keep our mouths shut.

[orbemnews]

George Carruthers, Whose Telescopes Explored House, Dies at 81 George Carruthers constructed his first telescope from a package in 1949, when he was 10 and dwelling in rural Ohio. Fascinated by area, he devoured journal articles about area journey. If the unknown was going to be explored, he needed to be part of it. 20 years later, as an astrophysicist and engineer — one of many few on the time who had been Black — he would design a complicated telescopic machine that was used throughout the Apollo 16 mission in 1972 and produced ultraviolet pictures of the geocorona, Earth’s outermost ambiance, in addition to stars, nebulae and galaxies. “In March 1610, Galileo Galilei reported the primary use of a telescope to view mountains and maria on the moon,” Dr. Carruthers and Thornton Web page, his collaborator on the challenge, wrote in a NASA report in late 1972. “On April 21, 1972, the Apollo 16 commander positioned a considerably extra advanced optical instrument on the Earth from the moon and obtained a number of outstanding pictures exhibiting atmospheric reasonably than floor options.” Dr. Carruthers, who went on to design much more telescopes that flew aboard NASA spacecraft, died on Dec. 26 in a hospital in Washington. He was 81. His brother Gerald stated the trigger was congestive coronary heart failure. A slight, reserved man who typically rode his bicycle to work, Dr. Carruthers began at the US Naval Analysis Laboratory in 1964 and dropped at it his fascination with telescopes. He headed a staff that designed a telescopic equipment that amplified pictures from area by changing photons to electrons, which may then create electron-sensitive movie pictures. The machine built-in telescopic optics with a digital camera and a spectrograph, which disperses gentle from objects into its element wavelengths. In 1970, considered one of his telescopic creations, despatched into area on an unmanned rocket from the White Sands Missile Vary in New Mexico, proved the existence of molecular hydrogen between stars and galaxies. Molecular hydrogen, which is important to how stars are shaped, had till then been notoriously troublesome to detect. By then, Dr. Carruthers was engaged on the Apollo mission and main a staff that constructed the light-weight, gold-plated Far Ultraviolet Digital camera/Spectrograph, which the astronauts John Younger and Charles M. Duke Jr. would deploy on the Descartes Highlands. On every of their moonwalks throughout their 71 hours on the moon, Mr. Younger and Mr. Duke switched the telescopic machine on. “As soon as the astronauts set it on an object, they may transfer away and work, then come again and alter the route of the digital camera,” the area historian David H. DeVorkin, senior curator of the Nationwide Air and House Museum, stated in a telephone interview. The machine was left behind when the astronauts departed. Presumably it’s nonetheless there. “He was a terrific device builder who utilized himself to scientific questions,” stated Mr. DeVorkin, who’s writing a biography of Dr. Carruthers. “He didn’t give you new questions, however he and his science had been very sensible.” In 1973 Dr. Carruthers obtained the Helen B. Warner Prize from the American Astronomical Society because the 12 months’s excellent astronomer below 35. In 2013, President Barack Obama introduced Dr. Carruthers with the Nationwide Medal of Expertise and Innovation, the nation’s highest honor for technological achievement. When Dr. Carruthers was honored by NASA throughout Black Historical past Month in 2016, Charles F. Bolden Jr., the area company’s administrator, stated, “He has helped us have a look at our universe in a brand new method by his scientific work and has helped us as a nation see ourselves anew as properly.” George Richard Carruthers was born on Oct. 1, 1939, in Cincinnati. His father, additionally named George, was an engineer at Wright-Patterson Air Pressure Base, close to Dayton, Ohio. His mom, Sophia (Singley) Carruthers, was a postal employee. The household moved northeast to Milford, a farming neighborhood, within the Forties. “Once I was about 8 or 9 years previous, I obtained a Buck Rogers comedian guide from my grandmother, and that was, in fact, lengthy earlier than there was any such factor as an area program,” Dr. Carruthers stated in an oral historical past interview with the American Institute of Physics in 1992. “Because it was science fiction, no one took spaceflight significantly in these days, again within the late ’40s, early ’50s.” His father died when he was 12, and his mom moved the household to Chicago, the place George took telescope-building courses on the Adler Planetarium and located inspiration in articles concerning the way forward for area exploration in Collier’s journal written by consultants just like the German-born grasp rocket builder Wernher von Braun, the science author Willy Ley and the astronomer Fred Whipple. Dr. Whipple’s suggestion that there might be benefits to astronomical work from area confirmed George’s curiosity. “Many of the astronomers on the planetarium,” Dr. Carruthers stated within the oral historical past interview, “thought that was nonsense, that astronomy is completed with ground-based telescopes, and also you shouldn’t waste your time fascinated about going into area.” In October 1957, throughout his first semester on the College of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, the Soviet Union launched Sputnik, the primary synthetic earth satellite tv for pc. He and different members of the college’s astronomy membership watched Sputnik because it handed overhead. Extra essential, Sputnik’s success legitimized Dr. Carruthers’s want for a profession in spaceflight engineering. After graduating from the college in 1961 with a bachelor’s diploma in aeronautical engineering, he continued on the college, receiving a grasp’s in nuclear engineering and a doctorate in aeronautical and astronautical engineering. In Dr. Carruthers’s first eight years on the naval laboratory, his more and more subtle telescopic gadgets flew on quite a few unmanned rockets. However his Apollo 16 telescope was his most vital; he was on the Johnson House Middle in Houston throughout that mission. “We may really hear them speaking about our instrument,” he informed an interviewer for an area middle oral historical past in 1999. Mr. Younger, he recalled, “was utilizing a sight on the facet of the digital camera to level it on the Earth with a view to set the reference for the entire different targets that we had been going to be utilizing, and he verified that he had sighted the Earth and it was within the middle of his discipline of view.” Dr. Carruthers’s gadgets flew on varied different missions. One in all them noticed Comet Kohoutek in 1973 from Skylab, the primary United States area station; others flew on varied rockets, together with one which unexpectedly captured a meteor disintegrating in Earth’s ambiance; and one was aboard the Spartan satellite tv for pc that was launched by the area shuttle Discovery in 1995 to hunt the fabric from which new stars and planets type. Dr. Carruthers retired from the naval laboratory in 2002. Along with his brother Gerald, he’s survived by his spouse, Debra (Thomas) Carruthers, and one other brother, Anthony. In retirement, Dr. Carruthers taught earth and area science at Howard College, the place he had been concerned because the Nineteen Nineties as an evaluator for the college’s NASA-funded Middle for the Examine of Terrestrial and Extraterrestrial Atmospheres. At night time Dr. Carruthers introduced college students to the college’s Locke Corridor observatory to take a look at stars and planets from a telescope. He additionally helped highschool college students construct telescopes in a summer season outreach program on the college. “He had a really reticent persona, and also you’d have to attract him out to make him discuss,” Prabhakar Misra, a professor of physics at Howard, stated by telephone. “However when he interacted with college students — which was his ardour — he grew to become a special individual.” Supply hyperlink #Carruthers #Dies #explored #George #Space #Telescopes

[newstfionline]

Friday, December 11, 2020

I.C.U. Beds Near Capacity Across U.S. (NYT) In El Paso, hospitals reported that just 13 of 400 intensive care beds were not occupied last week. In Fargo, N.D., there were just three. In Albuquerque, there were zero. More than a third of Americans live in areas where hospitals are running critically short of intensive care beds, federal data show, revealing a newly detailed picture of the nation’s hospital crisis during the deadliest week of the Covid-19 epidemic. One in 10 Americans—across a large swath of the Midwest, South and Southwest—lives in an area where intensive care beds are either completely full, or fewer than 5 percent of beds are available. At these levels, experts say maintaining existing standards of care for the sickest patients may be difficult or impossible.

Poll: Only half in US want shots as vaccine nears (AP) As states frantically prepare to begin months of vaccinations that could end the pandemic, a new poll finds only about half of Americans are ready to roll up their sleeves when their turn comes. The survey from The Associated Press-NORC Center for Public Affairs Research shows about a quarter of U.S. adults aren’t sure if they want to get vaccinated against the coronavirus. Roughly another quarter say they won’t. Many on the fence have safety concerns and want to watch how the initial rollout fares—skepticism that could hinder the campaign against the scourge that has killed nearly 290,000 Americans. Experts estimate at least 70% of the U.S. population needs to be vaccinated to achieve herd immunity, or the point at which enough people are protected that the virus can be held in check.

U.S. and States Say Facebook Illegally Crushed Competition (NYT) The Federal Trade Commission and more than 40 states accused Facebook on Wednesday of buying up its rivals to illegally squash competition, and they called for the deals to be unwound, escalating regulators’ battle against the biggest tech companies in a way that could remake the social media industry. Federal and state regulators of both parties, who have investigated the company for over 18 months, said in separate lawsuits that Facebook’s purchases, especially Instagram for $1 billion in 2012 and WhatsApp for $19 billion two years later, eliminated competition that could have one day challenged the company’s dominance. The applications have helped catapult Facebook from a company started in a college dorm room 16 years ago to an internet powerhouse valued at more than $800 billion.

‘Welcome to Texas!’ (NYT) Long before Elon Musk, the Tesla magnate and billionaire Californian, announced that he was moving to Texas, Marie Bailey, a California transplant now living north of Dallas, fastened a customized license plate onto her very own Tesla, with a message that has become her ethos. “Move2TX,” it reads in block letters, underneath an emblem of the one-starred Texas flag. The news by Mr. Musk, who announced his move on Tuesday, in a snub to California and its strong regulatory environment, added fuel to the longstanding rivalry between the nation’s two most populous states. California, with its steep housing costs, raging wildfires and strict business regulations, has been losing residents to other states, with Texas as the most popular exodus destination. Of more than 653,000 people who left California last year, about 82,000 went to Texas, more than any other state, according to census figures. Or, as The Stanford Review wrote in a nod to the native Texan George Strait, “All of California’s Exes Are Moving to Texas.”

SpaceX launches Starship on highest test flight, crash-lands (AP) SpaceX launched its shiny, bullet-shaped, straight-out-of-science fiction Starship several miles into the air from a remote corner of Texas on Wednesday, but the 6 1/2-minute test flight ended in an explosive fireball at touchdown. It was the highest and most elaborate flight yet for the rocketship that Elon Musk says could carry people to Mars in as little as six years. Despite the catastrophic finale, he was thrilled. “Mars, here we come!!” he tweeted. This latest prototype—the first one equipped with a nose cone, body flaps and three engines—was shooting for an altitude of up to eight miles (12.5 kilometers). That’s almost 100 times higher than previous hops and skimming the stratosphere. The full-scale, stainless steel model—160 feet (50 meters) tall and 30 feet (9 meters) in diameter—soared out over the Gulf of Mexico. After about five minutes, it flipped sideways as planned and descended in a free-fall back to the southeastern tip of Texas near the Mexican border. The Raptor engines reignited for braking and the rocket tilted back upright. When it touched down, however, the rocketship became engulfed in flames and ruptured, parts scattering.

In Cuba, Internet Fuels Rare Protests (NYT) In another era, the detention of a young Cuban dissident may have gone completely unnoticed. But when the rapper Denis Solís was arrested by the police, he did something that has only recently become possible on the island: He filmed the encounter on his cellphone and streamed it live on Facebook. The stream last month prompted his friends in an artist collective to go on a hunger strike, which the police broke up after a week, arresting members of the group. But their detentions were also caught on cellphone videos and shared widely over social media, leading hundreds of artists and intellectuals to stage a demonstration outside the Culture Ministry the next day. This swift mobilization of protesters was a rare instance of Cubans openly confronting their government—and a stark example of how having widespread access to the internet through cellphones is testing the power balance between the communist regime and its citizens. The fact that such a large protest happened at all—and led to the creation of a formal movement with a name and a Facebook page—is in itself extraordinary in a country where the opposition is barely existent.

Lockdown Gardening in Britain Leads to Archaeological Discoveries (NYT) Gardeners in Hampshire, a county in southeast England, were weeding their yard in April when they found 63 gold coins and one silver coin from King Henry VIII’s reign in the 16th century, with four of the coins inscribed with the initials of the king’s wives Catherine of Aragon, Anne Boleyn and Jane Seymour. The archaeological find was one of more than 47,000 in England and Wales that were reported this year, amid an increase in backyard gardening during coronavirus lockdowns, the British Museum said on Wednesday. In another discovery, in Milton Keynes, a town northwest of London, gardeners found 50 solid gold South African Krugerrand coins that were minted in the 1970s during apartheid.

As Brexit cliff edge looms, miles of trucks stack up near southern English port (Reuters) Trucks heading towards the English port of Dover were stacked up for miles on Thursday, just three weeks before Britain exits the European Union’s orbit in a potentially tumultuous finale to the five-year divorce, a Reuters photographer said. Logistics groups have reported surging demand from companies trying to bring parts, goods and food into the country before Britain leaves the EU’s single market and customs union, a move that is expected to cause even more disruption in January. The British government has warned that even with a trade deal, 7,000 trucks heading for the Channel ports in south-east England could be held in 100-km (62-mile) queues if companies do not prepare the extra paperwork required.

Eyes on a reset (Washington Post) European leaders plan to use a summit that starts Thursday to agree on a sweeping new strategy to rebuild strained relations with the United States, after four years of a divide-and-conquer approach from President Trump. From rebuilding the Iran nuclear deal to fighting the pandemic to addressing climate change, Europeans are scrambling to seize the moment with the incoming U.S. leader. Because of Joe Biden’s age and history, many here believe he will be more interested in cooperation with Europe than any U.S. president for the foreseeable future, Democrat or Republican. But leaders on both sides of the Atlantic warn that some of the irritants of the Trump years will remain, and other divides could still open—especially on what may be the greatest foreign policy challenge of Biden’s presidency, an increasingly aggressive and expansionist Beijing. European countries vary sharply on how they think they should manage relations with China, and the biggest and most powerful country in Europe, Germany, also has the closest trading relationship with Beijing. European leaders also have become embroiled in an intramural debate about the extent to which they should seek independence from the United States, a goal increasingly pushed by French President Emmanuel Macron and opposed by Germany and others.

Poles voice fears of ‘Polexit’ as govt defies EU over budget (AP) As the Polish government plays a game of chicken with the European Union over its next long-term budget, some Poles are voicing fears that a drawn-out conflict could put their country on a path toward an eventual departure from the bloc, or “Polexit.” Poland’s conservative government, led by Jaroslaw Kaczynski’s Law and Justice party, denies that it has ever wanted to leave the 27-member bloc, and popular support for EU membership runs extremely high. But critics fear the combative tone of Polish leaders—who have recently compared the EU to the Soviet Union and used terms like “political enslavement” to describe Poland’s predicament in the standoff—could create momentum, which if unstopped, could accidently bring the nation to the exit door. The fears are rooted in a threat by the Polish and Hungarian governments to block the EU’s 1.82 trillion-euro ($2.21 trillion) budget for the next seven years, including a coronavirus recovery package. The veto threat comes after other EU members voted to introduce a new rule that would allow the bloc to cut funding to EU nations that violate the rule of law.

World’s pharmacy gears up for vaccine race (Reuters) India, the world’s biggest vaccine maker, is getting set for the massive global blitz to contain the coronavirus pandemic with its pharmaceutical industry and partners freeing up capacity and accelerating investments even without firm purchase orders. India manufactures more than 60% of all vaccines sold across the globe, and while its $40 billion pharmaceutical sector is not yet involved in the production of the expensive Pfizer Inc and Moderna shots, the nation will play a pivotal role in immunizing much of the world. Indian companies are set to produce eight, more affordable vaccines designed to fight COVID-19. But much of India’s vaccine production could be, at least initially, for domestic use. With nearly 10 million infections, the world’s second-highest after the United States, India’s government is likely to order a huge chunk of the vaccines for its 1.3 billion people.

South Korea to criminalize sending leaflets into North Korea, bowing to regime (Washington Post) South Korea’s ruling party is pushing a law through parliament that would criminalize sending leaflets, flash drives and money to North Korea, in what the opposition calls a “disgraceful submission” to Pyongyang and human rights groups say will stifle freedom of expression and humanitarian work. The move follows pressure from Kim Yo Jong, the sister of North Korean leader Kim Jong Un, who in June labeled defectors based in South Korea “human scum” and “mongrel dogs” for sending items across the border designed to undermine the North Korean regime. She warned Seoul would face a “dear price” unless it prevented this “wicked and sordid act of hostility.” President Moon Jae-in’s government, which has made improving relations with North Korea a priority, immediately began cracking down on groups that dispatch such materials across the heavily guarded frontier. Lawmakers from the ruling Democratic Party then introduced a bill to make it a felony punishable by up to three years in prison to send promotional pamphlets and storage devices such as flash drives, money and other financial benefits to the North without the government’s permission.

China restricts US official travel to Hong Kong (AP) China is imposing restrictions on travel to Hong Kong by some U.S. officials and others in retaliation for similar measures imposed on Chinese individuals by Washington, the Foreign Ministry said Thursday. U.S. diplomatic passport holders visiting Hong Kong and nearby Macao will temporarily no longer receive visa-free entry privileges, spokesperson Hua Chunying said. U.S. administration officials, congressional staffers, employees of non-governmental organizations and their immediate family members will face “reciprocal sanctions,” Hua said. Hua said the move was taken “given that the U.S. side is using the Hong Kong issue to seriously interfere in China’s internal affairs and undermine China’s core interests.”

Australia largely beat the virus. But it left thousands of residents stranded abroad. (Washington Post) Australian entry restrictions have stranded tens of thousands of Australian citizens and residents overseas. As a group, they form part of an unexpected phenomenon of the pandemic: displaced people of the developed world. And for Australians overseas or with loved ones abroad, the tyranny of distance—a largely bygone concern conquered by jet travel—is once again very real. There is no authoritative figure on how many people have been stranded as a result of restrictions that countries have imposed during the pandemic. In late March, more than 50,000 Americans were stuck overseas when cross-border travel almost ceased, U.S. officials said at the time. Australia’s situation is extreme, though. The island continent has one of the strictest border closures—residents need special permission to leave, and only citizens, residents and a few other select groups have been allowed in since March 20. Arrivals are limited to about 8,000 a week and they must isolate in a hotel for 14 days at their own expense. Besides allowing entry to travelers from New Zealand, the country has largely sealed itself off. In January, about 2.3 million people came to Australia. By September, the figure was 16,720.

Morocco joins other Arab nations agreeing to normalize Israel ties (Reuters) Israel and Morocco agreed on Thursday to normalize relations in a deal brokered with U.S. help, making Morocco the fourth Arab country to set aside hostilities with Israel in the past four months. It joins the United Arab Emirates, Bahrain and Sudan in beginning to forge deals with Israel, driven in part by U.S.-led efforts to present a united front against Iran and roll back Tehran’s regional influence. In a departure from longstanding U.S. policy, President Donald Trump agreed as part of the deal to recognize Morocco’s sovereignty over the Western Sahara, a desert region where a decades-old territorial dispute has pitted Morocco against the Algeria-backed Polisario Front, a breakaway movement that seeks to establish an independent state in the territory. President-elect Joe Biden, due to succeed Trump on Jan. 20, will face a decision whether to accept the U.S. deal on the Western Sahara, which no other Western nation has done.

[iwannabeawriter1996]

Thanks for tagging me @eowima!! This was a lot fun! 💙 you 😘

1. What is the color of your hairbrush?

I don’t think i even own a hairbrush?

2. Name a food you never eat

Cheese. i hate cheese. As Emperor Kuzko said, ‘Cheese, me no likey.’

3. Are you typically too warm or too cold?

Typically, i’m too cold. But i’m in Australia and we’re going into summer right and damn, it’s so hot right now.

4.What were you doing 45 minutes ago?

Drinking a beer

5. Whats your favorite candy bar? 

Mmmm.... Milky Way, i think.

6.Have you ever been to a professional sports event?

Yes a few times I've been to Football (rugby) and Basketball games with my dad and my sisters.

7. What is the last thing you said out loud?

‘Good fucking luck, you fucking pricks.’

8. What is your favourite ice cream?

Chocolate 😋 😋

9. What is the last thing you had to drink?

Orange Juice

10. Do you like your wallet?

I do, it’s a Ripcurl wallet my sister bought me for my birthday a few years ago but I think I need to get a new one soon. It’s a bit old and worn :)

11. What is the last thing you ate?

Chicken & Gracy sandwich, it was a nice lunch.

12. Did you buy any new clothes last weekend?

Do shoes count? If so, than yes.

13. What’s the last sporting event you watched?

Rugby League’s State of Origin, NSW vs QLD

14. What is your favourite flavour of popcorn?

I don’t eat popcorn very often but when I was a kid there was this popcorn shop in my hometown, I forget what it was called but they had this popcorn called ‘creamy creamy caramel’. It was the best popcorn ever but since that shop shut down, I haven’t been able to find any as good.

15. Who is the last person you sent a text msg too?

My mum

16. Ever been camping?

Yes, I was actually camping my way on a trip around Australia before Covid-19 hit and screwed it all up 🤬. But I love camping, it’s awesome.

17. Do you take Vitamins?

No

18. Do you regularly attend a place of worship?

No, I’m a proud Agnostic Athiest. Meaning, basically, I don’t know if there is a God, so I don’t see the point in pretending I do.

19. Do you have a tan?

Yeah, I’d say I do....

20. Do you prefer Chinese food or pizza?

Pizza! Personally, I’m not a big fan of Chinese food.

21. Do you drink Soda through a straw?

Sometimes

22. What colour socks do you usually wear?

Mostly white

23. Do you ever drive above the speed limit?

I try very hard not to but sometimes i speed without noticing and slow down when I do.

24. What terrifies you?

That Freedom of Speech is under attack in the stupid SJW controlled academia and these stupid people constantly demanding ‘equality of outcome’ instead of ‘equality of opportunity’ is going to lead us back down the path of the Soviet Union & Mao’s China, which killed over a 100 million people in the pursuit of an equal Utopia where no-one was ever offended or privileged over another person. The ignorance of the modern day world shocks me.

25. Look to your left, what do you see?

An empty table, out the back of my house.

26. What chore do you hate the most?

The never ending chore of laundry.

27. What do you think, when you hear an Australian accent?

Since I’m Australian, I don’t think much of it. When I compare it to other accents, I think, ‘is that my voice?’ 😂

28. What’s your favourite Soda?

Coca-Cola

29. Do you go in a fast food place or go through drive through?

Ahhh..... both, don’t really have a preference.

30. What’s your favourite number?

17

31. Who’s the last person you talked too?

My sister

32. Favourite meal?

Perfectly cooked steak 😋

33. Last song you listened to?

Love on Display by Guy Sebastian

34. Last book you read?

Crime and Punishment by Dostoyevsky

35. Favourite day of the week?

Sunday, it’s the only day I get off work 😩

36. Can you spell the alphabet backwards?

Probably, if I tried hard enough

37. How do you like your coffee?

I don’t drink coffee.

38. Favourite pair of shoes?

My red, white and blue Nike Air-Max’s ;)

39. Time you normally get up?

6:30 Monday to Friday but I work all night on Friday and Saturday, so probably around 10:00am usually on Saturday and Sunday, depending how late I work.

40. Do you prefer sunrise or sunset?

Probably sunset, I don’t know to be honest 🤔

41. How many blankets on your bed?

Atm just one, which I’m kicking off during the night, because we just started summer here in Australia and it’s so hot 🥵

42. Describe your kitchen plates?

Boring, round, white & gold

43. Desribe your kitchen atm?

Messy, I’ll do the dishes tomorrow

44. Do you have a favourite alcoholic drink?

I’m Australian, I love my beer 🍺 but I also love bourbon, particularly‘Gentleman Jack’.

45. Do you play cards?

I have played cards but not very often.

46. What color is your car?

Atm I don’t own one

47. Do you know how to change a tyre?

Sure do, I do it a lot at my work

48. Favourite state or province?

Oh there’s too many to choose from. I’d love to visit London, Paris..... I want to travel all through Europe :)

49. Favourite job you’ve had?

Probably the one I have now, I fabricate a lot of interesting things and I’ve learned a lot of new skills.

Tagging: @you-guys--are-losers & @victor-physikorov if you’d want to :)

[imjustthemechanic]

The Stone Knight

Part 1/? - Two Statues Part 2/? - A Curious Interview Part 3/? - John Doe Part 4/? - Escape Attempt Part 5/? - Making the News Part 6/? - Fallout Part 7/? - More Impossible Part 8/? - The Shield Thieves Part 9/? - Reality Sinks In Part 10/? - Preparing a Quest Part 11/? - The Marvelous History of Sir Stephen Part 12/? - Uninvited Guests Part 13/? - So That’s What It Does Part 14/? - The What and the Where Part 15/? - Gearing Up Part 16/? - Just Passing Through Part 17/? - Dinner with Druids Part 18/? - Kracness Henge Part 19/? - A Task Interrupted Part 20/? - The Red Death Part 21/? - Aphelion Part 22/? - The Stone Giants Part 23/? - Nat the Giant Killer Part 24/? - An Interrogation Part 25/? - Guilt Part 26/? - Rushman’s Brilliant Idea Part 27/? - Hunter in Hiding Part 28/? - Ridiculous Part 29/? - The Guy from Barton Part 30/? - Sherwood Forest Part 31/? - Buckeye’s Fall Part 32/? - Robin Hood Part 33/? - Fantasies and Consequences Part 34/? - Swords of Damocles Part 35/? - The Road to London Part 36/? - View from the Top Part 37/? - Storming the Castle Part 38/? - Beneath the Chapel Floor Part 39/? - Jurisdiction Part 40/? - Royal Assent

If anybody’s wondering, the reason I never use the Queen’s name is because she’s a stand-in of sorts - she’s not meant to be the real Queen Elizabeth any more than the president in the Marvel movies is meant to be a particular president.

I’ve been waiting this whole fic to use the phrase ‘barmy git’.

           Having taken in the contents of the pit, the woman in pink turned her gaze to the clandestine archaeologists who’d uncovered it. “What’s all this, then?” she asked, peering nearsightedly at them.

           Everybody else was standing, but Sir Stephen laid his sword on the ground, and held his shield at his side as he took a knee. “Your Majesty,” he said, inclining his head respectfully.  “Behold the Holy Grail.”

           “I’m beholding it,” said the Queen.  “How’d it get here?”

           “William the Conqueror hid it here,” Nat explained. “It was originally in Scotland. We don’t really know what it is or where it came from.”  Her mind flashed back to those ridiculous conspiracy websites that said it was from outer space.  That suddenly didn’t seem so unlikely.  “The people looking for it are responsible for all the weird things that have been going on the past few weeks.  The hospital collapse in Raigmore, the stuff on Flotta, the Loch Ness Monster, all of that.”

           The Queen considered the contents of the hole, then tossed her purse into it.  It landed on top of the upper slab, and a bit of the black fluid between the two licked up to drag it off and down out of sight, like a fish snatching an insect from the surface of the water.  Seeing that, Natasha was certainly glad none of them had tried to use the object as a stepping stone.

           “Who’s in charge of nonsense like this?” the Queen asked her bodyguards.

           “Cornelius Fudge?” somebody suggested.

           The Queen was not amused.  “I’d prefer somebody who actually exists, thank you,” she said, and beckoned to the group in the apse.  “Since it seems like I’m not going to Monte Carlo this morning, I think you’d better come and tell me what’s going on, someplace where we don’t have to shout to each other from either side of an open portal to hell.  Someone put something over this hole so nobody falls into the abyss,” she told her followers, “and we’ll take this lot back to my place.”

           Nat was pretty sure that was the strangest way anybody had ever been invited to Buckingham Palace.

           “Your Majesty,” Sir Stephen protested.  “We cannot leave the Grail unguarded!  The Red Death now knows its location, and he will surely come for it.”

           “The Red Death?” the Queen frowned.  “You mean, Count John Totenkopf from the poem?”

           “The very one,” Sir Stephen said.

           “Then before we go, somebody better ring the Prime Minister and get the army in here,” she decided.  “I’m gonna go wait in the car.  You,” she pointed at Allen Rushman.  “You look like you need a good stiff drink.”

            She tottered off again, with her bodyguards around her and Allen in tow.  The rest of the security guards stayed behind, looking nervous and keeping well back of the open pit.  Another twenty minutes or so went by with everyone just standing around, and then more people started to arrive.  The first of these were soldiers, who brought some big sheets of Dunbar plate to lay across the Grail pit.  Nat tried not to show how nervous she was walking across this, but the substance between the stones didn’t bother them.  Maybe, she thought, you had to be touching it for it to do anything to you.

           In the upper levels of the keep, scientists were preparing equipment and military types were clearing space to set up a command post.  People looked up and watched as the soldiers escorted the group past them, but everybody was too busy to try to talk to them, although some did point and whisper to their co-workers.  Nat wondered what they’d been told.

           Outside, police and military were cordoning things off. The Tower grounds, which had yesterday been full of tourists, were today full of soldiers.  Two helicopters were lowering supplies and gear on chains. Men were taking sandbags off trucks to build up fortifications, while others gathered up things like the animal sculptures and the old bronze cannon and moved them out of the way.

           “Didn’t you say your Queen wasn’t able to call up an army?” Sir Stephen asked Nat.

           “I said she couldn’t force civilians to fight,” Nat corrected him.  “She does have an army.”

           “I have to admit, I didn’t know she could actually give it orders,” said Sam.

           “Probably she’s never tried to,” Sharon observed.

           A sleek black limousine was waiting for them at the Tower’s entrance gate, where the tourists normally waited – a few early risers were already there, being kept back by the police as they tried to figure out what was going on.  Inside the car, the Queen was sitting watching while one of her bodyguards fed sashimi to a pet corgi.  Across from her, Allen Rushman was sipping a glass of something, trying not to look awkward.

           “Oh, here’s the rest,” said the Queen.  The corgi got up on its stubby legs to growl at them, but she put a hand on its rump and made it sit down again.  “Sit, Lancelot,” she ordered.  “They’ll have your hairs all over them soon enough, and then you’ll just assume they’re yours.”

           After days of riding in increasingly cramped rental vehicles, nobody wanted to get back into another car – even a spacious and comfortable one with a built-in bar.  They climbed in regardless, though, and Nat took a last worried look back at the Tower.  It was positively crawling with people now, busily setting up defenses and weapons as if they were expecting an actual medieval siege.  More were arriving by the minute, both by air in helicopters and by water, in boats on the Thames.  Would all this do them any good, she wondered, or was it a lot of show for nothing?  Would the Red Death find it intimidating, or laughable?

           Not far away was a man in an olive-brown coat and peaked cap, with a gold cord on his shoulder – a general.  Nat went up and tapped him on the shoulder.  “Excuse me,” she said.

           The general turned around.  He was a very dark black man with a bald head and a short beard, and peered at her with his left eye while the right one, a slightly different colour, looked off in another direction.  “Can I help you?” he asked.

           “You need to put horseshoes over every door and window in the outer wall,” said Nat, feeling a little silly but at the same time sure he needed to be told.  “And don’t clear the ivy from the outer walls – surround the windows with it if you can.”

           “What for?” asked the General.

           “Keeps the fairies out,” said Natasha, staying deadly serious despite her urge to smile.  It was no laughing matter.

           “Do what she says, Nicky!” the Queen shouted from inside the car.  “It’ll let me get out of here faster!”

           “Yes, your Majesty,” said the General, and nodded to Nat.  “Horseshoes and ivy.  Got it.”

           “Thanks.”  She let herself smile, and glanced at his pocket to see his name.  “General Fury.”

           Nat climbed in the car, which as large as it was, could just barely hold them all.  It didn’t help that nobody wanted to be the one who sat next to the queen – or angered her corgi.  The dog kept looking at them out of the corners of its eyes as the limo pulled away, as if daring them to try something.

           “So who are you lot, exactly?” the Queen asked.

           “I am Sir Stephen of Rogsey,” Sir Stephen said. “Also from the poem.”

           She nodded approvingly.  “You’re even more handsome than I imagined you.  Pity you couldn’t have turned up when I was in my twenties.  I’d have climbed that like a ladder.”

           Sir Stephen thought for a moment, then simply pretended she hadn’t said anything.  “I understand you are the distant descendant of William of Normandy,” he added, “but if it is your intention to keep England and her people safe, and to keep the Grail from the hands of the Red Death, then you shall have my sword and my fealty for however long you and I shall both live.”

           “Very good, I accept,” said the Queen.  “I don’t have any holy oil or whatever nonsense on me at the moment but I’m sure we can work something out later.  What about the rest of you?”

           “Robin Hood, of Sherwood Forest,” said Robin, perhaps hoping for some flattery of his own.

           The Queen looked him over.  “Not as handsome as I imagined you,” she decided.  “Still, one can’t have everything.”

           Robin sat back, disappointed.

           “The rest of us are real people,” said Nat, then glanced at Allen and amended the statement, “almost all of us.  I’m… I’m Dr. Rushman from the archaeology department at Dundee University, except I’m actually a former Soviet secret agent.  My real name is Natalia Romanova.”

           The Queen cocked her head.  “You totally sure about that ‘real person’ thing?” she asked.

           “Most of the time,” said Nat.  “You’ve already met Allen,” she added.

           “He’s your father, except not, because you conjured him up with a wishing stone the same way that barmy git in Scotland conjured up a lake full of monsters,” the Queen agreed.  She looked at Sam and Sharon.

           “We’re the boring ones,” said Sam.  “I’m Dr. Sam Wilson, formerly of Raigmore Hospital.”

           “DI Sharon Carter, of the Inverness Police,” said Sharon.  “Probably also formerly, once they find out what I’ve been doing.”

           “I’m sorry about your colleagues, Dr. Wilson, that was dreadful,” said the Queen.  She held out a hand, and the bodyguard paused in hand-feeding the corgi in order to give her a snifter of brandy.  “I always feel awkward at this bit,” she admitted, swirling the glass in her hand a little.  “As if I ought to be introducing myself in turn, but it’s not as if you don’t know who I am and it would be a waste of time to pretend.  So let’s skip that, and you can tell me about this Grail thing.”

           “I think Sir Stephen is the best person to do that,” said Nat.

           Sir Stephen started at the beginning – he explained how he’d learned of the Red Death’s own quest for the Grail, and how he’d gotten involved in it.  Nat, Sharon, and Sam each described how they’d been brought into the adventure, with Nat telling about Allen’s arrival and Sharon Robin Hood’s.  The Queen listened, and had her bodyguard refill her brandy.

           “I’d have said you were all daft as badger sandwiches if I hadn’t seen it with my own two eyes,” she said, as the car finally turned up the Mall through St. James Park, towards the palace.  “So what are you going to do with it now you’ve found the thing?”

           “That’s the part we’re stuck on,” Natasha admitted. “Originally, we were going to sneak it into Kazakhstan and shoot it into space on an old Russian rocket, but when we came up with that we were picturing something I could put in my purse.”

           “Even I don’t have a purse that big,” the Queen agreed.

           “So for the moment,” Nat went on, “we just need to keep the Red Death away from it, while we figuring out something else.”

           “I’ll find some smart folks and put them on that,” said the Queen.

           “There’s one other thing,” Natasha added.  “I’m worried the Red Death might try to bring something like those golems into the city, and if he does…”

           “You’re proposing we evacuate London?”  The Queen sipped her brandy thoughtfully.  “I don’t think it’s ever been done.  We didn’t even evacuate during the Blitz.  The shores of the Thames probably haven’t been empty in three thousand years.”

           She was probably right.  There’d been a prehistoric settlement there before the Romans arrived, and then Londinium had soon grown into the largest city in the province of Brittania.  After the Empire fell, London had remained important in Saxon times and right through the Middle Ages.  It had burned down several time, but people always came back.  The wealthy fled the Black Death but the rest of the population had stayed put and weathered in.  Londoners didn’t get out of the way of oncoming disaster: they just hunkered down and sat it out.

           “We’d better try it now, I think,” said Nat.

           More military types were waiting in the palace’s red-carpeted foyer with updates for the Queen – the Tower Bridge had been raised, and the nearby streets barricaded.  The Tower complex itself was being fortified and manned as if for war. The castle probably hadn’t seen this much military activity in a couple of hundred years.  Announcements were being prepared for radio and television asking people to leave the city due to a potential terror threat in the Southwark district.  Members of Parliament had already departed for the countryside with their families, and police were being dispatched to make sure traffic kept moving and everybody didn’t try to board the trains at once.

           This was all something of a relief to Natasha, and she could tell to the others as well.  So far they’d been fighting this weird battle alone, believing that they couldn’t enlist any help because nobody would believe them.  Now that they actually had the Grail uncovered, people couldn’t disbelieve, and they suddenly had the resources of a country at their disposal.  Nat still wasn’t sure it would actually help, but it did feel like a weight lifted from her shoulders.

           That, in turn, meant that for the first time since she’d learned about the disappearance of Mr. Pierce from his warehouse in Scotland, Natasha could actually relax. After being so tightly wound for so long, it was downright bizarre to sit calmly eating breakfast while other people dealt with things.  Especially when the breakfast was eggs benedict and poached salmon in a gilded palace dining room, with men in wigs and frock coats looking down their noses at her from the enormous paintings on the walls.

Whatever else Nat could say about this week, she certainly couldn’t claim it hadn’t been full of new experiences.