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therealslimshakespeare · 9 months ago

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Those Who Can || integrated Female Air Force series

Introductory part 1: Flintenweiber, or “Rifle Broads”.

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlistment and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Authors Note: this is an Au, obviously, and I intend for the de-segregation in the force to not be entirely full, in fact in some ways they would mirror that of the Tuskegee Red Tails where they were held back from many opportunities and placed at a disadvantage, to say the least. However, as this is primarily a POW fic that aspect only effects their reception into the Stalag and the timeline of their crashes.

Inspo: thanks to all of y’all who contributed with suggestions and advice on this fic. I want to say that I based a great deal of the brutal treatment and indignity heaped on these fictional OC’s on the true and horrific treatment of the Soviet Female Soldiers taken as POWs. Taking into consideration that American ties would give these OC’s some leverage, I have moderated these horrors if anything, however as I intend for these girls to be some of the first of their kind, they in many ways endure the brunt of the cruel initiation. If you’ve got any questions or suggestions about this, have at the inbox.

Warnings: 18+ for disturbing content. War, brutality, cruelty, and references to sexual violence. Specifics: a woman’s head is forcefully shaved, a woman is kicked to death, a dog turned loose, concentration camps, brief infighting between Soviet’s and Americans, past tense illusions to rape which are underplayed and may be consequently more disturbing to some. Quite angsty ok?? It’s women at war. Rampant misogyny by Nazis.

Familiar faces: Gale Cleven, Benny Demarco, John Brady, “Hambone” Hamilton

Original Characters: Lt. Maureen Kendeigh (bombardier), Lt. Colonel Ida Brady, Lt. Tallulah Smith

If Maureen Kendeigh heard the word “degenerate” used one more time in regards to her profession, her sacrifice and skill, -she just might do something regrettable.

By this point she was ready to get off this cattle car and go back to talk with Interrogator Glasses about stupid and unnerving shit like why the clock in the mess hall at Thorpe Abbots had a broken arm. Her distressed inner monologue of “how did he know that??” at the time was preferred to this newest method of demoralization: death by aspersion and suspense.

It was nice to be back with the girls, ones she knew and ones from other squadrons. But that held a misfortune too, the fact that it was just the girls, still not a single male crew member in sight. Apparently the Gestapo and the Luftwaffe were having a spat over who got to keep them, these Flintenweiber: “Rifle Broads”.

In the meantime Maureen and her fellows got punted back and forth between the two institutions like unwanted stepchildren. First the horrible isolation but humane treatment of the Air Force interrogation cells. Then back to the prison where all bets were off and the hope of safety came from a herd-like defense of each other against the ever more erratic guards. In these holdings, if one of their members hadn’t been executed by a pistol to the temple by end of day, it was considered a successful defense by the whole. All other atrocity, indignity and assault were unbearable’s that required bearing for the time being until the Luftwaffe took them back.

And then handed them back over.

And on and on it went.

It was effective, Maureen gave them that, after each hosting by the Gestapo, the girls were softer, tenderized and more susceptible to any deal that might procure them a shred of honor and safety. Only Ida Brady, the most senior amongst them at the incomprehensible rank of Lt. Colonel, had held ranks together, spine of steel and bearing more terrifying than most men’s, she’d fought for every grueling respect of rank they had been afforded. Even if it landed them in harsher conditions, worse interrogations -anything to ensure that what happened to her girls were considered as war crimes against lawful combatants when the time came for justice.

But they’d been collecting the downed girls and holding them apart like prized anomalies while conflicting orders came in from Berlin, and while the Red Cross fussed regarding combatant status. Now they had a tidy number collected, well over twenty by the time Maureen saw Ida Brady pushed into the cell, having been downed with a significant portion of them after Munich.

But now they hadn’t seen Brady in over a day. Not since they’d been loaded on this rail car headed to god knows where by soldiers with the dreaded lightning bolts on their collars.

The SS.

With Brady missing, Maureen supposed that made her and Lieutenant Smith a leader of sorts. Most of her “leading” currently took the form of not responding to a single vile threat or taunt by the guards mingling amongst them in the ever rocking car. Ida would be proud of her emotionless detachment at one guard’s suggestion to let the dog loose and see who it chose to maul.

Lieutenant Smith -tender hearted Tallulah with the bronzed skin and knack with animals that rivaled Snow White’s- had made the cryptic observation in Maureen’s ear that she’d never known a dog could be trained away from the throat to go for the breasts instead.

As of last Sunday they now knew, and none of them were likely to forget.

“I’ll be faster next time,” Smith had mumbled in a simmering rage, “I’ll be faster. I’ll have my fist down that cur’s throat before they finish slipping the leash.”

It was a nice sentiment, would’ve been made more so if Maureen wasn’t so sure it would land dear Smith with a bullet in her head. Would be made more so if Sergeant Forsyth had lived from her injuries long enough to benefit from it. Lots of things would be made nicer by heavier coats and the presence of drinking water.

One of the new ones, a terrified little replacement who wore her ordeal on her face, made the rookie mistake of asking for a drink. She’d been given the predictable initiation of being pissed on by a guard in answer and now she bore her thirst as doggedly as the veterans.

When the train cars rolled to a halt, and the great door was hauled back, sprawling out before them appeared the most idyllic scenery one could ever hope for. A crystalline blue lake, dotted on its border with charming structures adorned with red tile roofs, a quaint church of the same, lush fields and sparkling water and deep forest for miles. Maureen did not think they would haul them so near a town only to execute them. But then what did she know?

Nothing, not even where she was.

When they had lined the girls up, some in worse shape than others and a motley collective group from various military branches, they hauled off Ida Brady to the head of the pack, her bruised face considerably more busted than when she’d been loaded on. Maureen could see her craning her neck as she was drug past, counting down her flyer girls, looking for any missing from the trip.

They were marched, four abreast and with guns at their backs, down a wide and well traversed road into town, past cottages on its outskirts with little garden plots and clothes blowing on the line. Maureen was reminded of the idyllic countryside she had landed in with her chute before being seized and hauled off. There were women and children in row boats on the lake and the path they took through the woods was more peaceful than ominous. A traitorous sort of hope began to bloom in Maureen’s heart.

That was dashed when the tree line broke and out before them stretched what seemed to be miles of wire. And beside it a sign, welcoming them to Ravensbrück -a concentration camp. A camp for civilians, a camp to never return from.

Their new guards were ready for them, smiles on their faces and whips in their hands. Among them were a few remarkable for their sex, they were women too -if women who enjoyed such craft could still be called that. And for all the horror inflicted on them by their male captors so far, there seemed to be a general presentment amongst the arriving girls that the finer arts of terror had not yet been endured.

Standing for hours in the infamous square inside the compound, roll call and registration took on a form of torture yet unheard of. Round and round it went, repetitions of ranks and serials over and over and each time they were met with two alternatives. Renounce the ranks and be admitted as civilians with no further targeted harassment. Or-

“If you insist on being special, we will be forced to make you special.” as one officer put it to Brady’s stone cold face. “Ask your Soviet compatriots, the ones who wanted to be special like you. They claimed to be officers too, and now they service officers in Buchenwald. They have not left their beds in months. Special, no?”

“I’m not ‘claiming’ a goddamn thing.” Brady would go round and round with them in turn and up and down the line was the echo of ranks and serials.

Nothing but ranks and serials.

The minute they dropped one or the other, they’d be freed from this standing purgatory, and they’d be as good as dead. They might wish it were so anyway, if the threat was carried out but they’d suffer as officers, with honor. Whatever that meant this far from home and any appreciation of it. A fresh batch of guards relieved the first and the banter continued, even through roll call of the general camp where a mass of the most miserable specters of female kind poured out of the huts and were made to await the call of their one single number.

A serial for a serial. Maureen would keep hers. By dawn she had kept it, as had all but one of her group, a navy nurse with a broken leg who’d succumbed to the allure of a chair.

Civilian status for a seat.

Maureen thought a drop of water might be her own undoing were it offered, but one look at Smith's cracked yet unmoving lips cemented her in her own determination. As did Ida Brady’s talk, straight back in front of her, trousers bloodied on the inseam but not a cringe to be discerned in her stance.

By morning roll call for the entire camp, their guards were tiring of them, or else thought a new method of persuasion more likely to bring success. Off they were marched to their new billet to “meet their Allies” and what Smith wouldn’t give to have her brass knuckles back when met with a hut full of Soviet soldiers. Females, if females could have shoulders like that. They were impressive women with murder on their faces at the intrusion of a new gang of American blowhards.

“Did you give up already?” The one with the most English taunted and for the first time since capture, Maureen saw Ida Brady’s spine bow backwards just a fraction -a pacifying gesture in the face of the Russian’s nose to nose staredown.

“Hey, we’re not here to make trouble.” she insisted, cool and stern. “Did you?”

“We’d rather die.”

Brady gave a sharp nod, “Then we’re Allies in that, too.”

“Your precious Red Cross won’t come for you here.” That likely verdict seemed to bring the woman satisfaction, and Maureen wondered how many months, weeks, hours of this grueling place it would take before she too took savage satisfaction in another’s misfortune. How long before all better impulse to be glad for others was stamped out and all that was left was crowing self preservation. “You are not the firsts. There were others, Americans, like you, they are now wearing the ink of field whores- or they are dead.”

“One might assume the same of your predecessors.” Brady pointed out mildy, and both groups shifted behind their leaders, ready and tense.

“Anyone who accepts-“ the Russian warned, “-we kill.”

With that incentive clear, a tentative peace was made, which included a few trying to fraternize, converse and share news. There was little that aligned to create any cohesive figure, despite their shared experiences and sufferings.

When night fell they were hauled out for roll call amongst the masses, and together after hours of waiting to be called upon, they answered with their ranks and serials, each in their own language. The Russian who had confronted Brady was beaten so badly she did not rise again after it. The guard left her lying there and asked Brady herself what her occupation was.

“Lt. Colonel in the United States Air Force.”

The unfortunate rookie who had so ill advisedly asked for water on the train stood beside Brady; and got a bullet to the head for her superior’s answer. What Colonel Brady thought of her judgment being given to another did not show, her face white and her lips sealed, only the speckle of blood on her profile stood in stark relief in the early morning.

“Kneel.” a very shiny Luger barrel was pressed, still smoking to Brady’s temple.

She did so, braced for the inevitable execution. A soldier's death, it’s what they’d signed up for. The Kommandant waved over one of the female guards and spoke to her in German. She took off at a run to one of the buildings with a bright smile, and Ida Brady stayed kneeling, the splattered brains of the unfortunate dripping out of her hair and into the leather of her jacket, a mockery of her own upcoming fate.

The female guard returned with scissors. “Your poor hair, so pretty. Now it is ruined.” the Kommandant bemoaned, gloved fingers sliding though Brady’s wet tresses, “See what happens to beauty when you pervert the order of things? Now it must be sacrificed. Perhaps then you will see how ugly you are become.”

Maureen felt Smith’s restraining arm before she had even registered her impulse to charge forward, caught about the middle she strained against her friend's surprising strength and in the end was forced thusly to keep ranks and watch with the rest as the Nazis fucks scalped the Colonel of her femininity with a pair of sheep shears.

Dribbling blood down her face and shaking with rage, Ida was in better shape than her Russian counterpart. When her ordeal was over, she rose again, even if she swayed dangerously upon doing so.

And when asked, she had her serial at the ready.

Crowded back into the hut, Maureen and Smith watched the Russians hopelessly fuss over their insensible leader, knowing all too well how likely it might be that they could be found doing the same tomorrow, in a week’s time, who knew. For now, Brady sank down against the wall with the rest of them, the scowl of her formidable brows deflecting any potential commiserations for her battery.

When the navy nurse was pushed into their hut next evening, a dead silence greeted her. One of the Soviets, a sniper by her markings, came up to her and unceremoniously tore open her shirt. If the girls had doubted the Russian’s warning about “wearing the ink of field whores” upon their skin as mere hyperbole, such speculation was removed. It was a dreadful tattoo, large and damning as was the reaction it elicited amongst the servicewomen.

By the end of the night there were two dead bodies on the hut floor. And it didn’t seem to matter who had killed which. One had died for honor, the other for giving it up. And in the end? Where was this ephemeral honor? Ida Brady could only find it in the tense faces of her girls, lining the room from their places along the wall, waiting for another roll call or worse.

But in war, as in peace, sometimes the dead sent favors and in this instance it came to them with screams of:“Amerikaner Soldat!” in the middle of the night. They were marched out to the square and stood to attention once more in the sweep of the spotlight, all the while were shouts of “Amerikaner Soldat!”

All they knew was the bitter waiting in the gray dawn chill and the choking anticipation of some sick, final joke, or some methodical mass execution. Maureen wished she could knock her shoulder into Ida’s one last time and tell her she’d been a rock -she was a rock- but Brady stood there in front alone, as was her privilege and her curse. Talullah Smith would not meet Maureen’s side eyed glance for a farewell. Maureen wished she had less of a roar inside her, wished she could step off calmly into whatever was on the other side but the idea was repulsive, even after all she’d endured, and she looked about in vain for some semblance of the same revolt on her fellow’s faces.

What came instead was the dreaded whistles and the order to march. They were marched right out of the gates and down the idyllic lane they’d been marched up days ago, back through town to the railway station. There the soldiers herded them back up into a cattle car that smelled more of death than livestock, and then the train pulled away, hurtling south -perhaps the only one to do so with living cargo.

There were no guards inside the car, only the cramped space to keep them docile and the lack of promise that the great door would ever grind open again.

“The hell do you think happened?” Maureen hissed to Ida, finding her superior propped up in the corner in a suspiciously casual pose that she suspected hid a limp and unfathomable fatigue.

“Haven’t got a clue, Kendeigh.”

“Maybe someone got word out.” Maureen suggested, thinking of their predecessors, thinking of the useful dead.

“Or we’re headed to a nice rural dumping ground.” was all Ida would speculate. “Or brothels.” she added after a long minute.

Maureen chewed her cheek and kept peering out the slats at the beautiful countryside flashing past. “Well, at least they’ve ensured you’ll be least wanted of the bunch at such an establishment.” she joked and watched with the careful precision of a trained bombardier as her mean joke landed and Ida Brady’s legendary eyebrow ticked up in something that might have been amused disbelief, had she any energy left for such a display.

“Pistol whipped in the mouth and still no respect for rank, Kendeigh.” Brady observed and it was so like her brother John’s flat lined humor that Mauren’s heart throbbed with something alarmingly akin to sentimentally. For John Brady -and all the other lucky souls still at Thorpe Abbots, God willing. “I’m not laying on any damn beds for them.” Brady suddenly broke the silence again in a low voice, one Maureen knew was meant between officers only.

She pitched her head closer in agreement. “Me either.”

“I don’t care if they shoot me first,” Ida went on, as if reciting it to herself, “-and I don’t care if they shoot all of you first. I’m not going to.”

“Wouldn’t want you to.” Maureen agreed again, vacillating briefly in her intent before proceeding to say, “That Sergeant -she wasn’t your fault. The nurse either.”

“I know that Lieutenant.”

“I know you know,” Maureen muttured, “but some stuff bears repeating. Places like these, we’re liable to lose our bearings without a little repetition.”

“Mm.”

Maureen shuffled beside her and wracked her brain for pleasant conversation, something besides the Soviet girls they’d abandoned and the skeletons they’d seen at Ravensbrück. “Ya know,” she remarked tiredly, “if someone in here’s hydrated enough to pee, I might be ready to drink it.”

Brady slowly turned from her view out the slats to give Maureen a blank faced stare. “Should I make an announcement or are you hoping to keep that between us?”

“Oh hell, Colonel,” Maureen grinned, mischief bubbling to the surface at the first chance, “I wouldn’t trust anyone else but you, liable to get stds from this lot.”

“Kendeigh.” Ida hissed warningly but there was that disbelieving wobble to her stern mouth, “That’s not funny -not with where we’ve come from.”

“It kinda is.”

“It’s not.”

“It is- a little. Admit it, a little.”

“It’s not.” And still her cheeks were pink with suppressed amusement, just like John’s got when Maureen pressed him on a dig about basic training.

“You sure you’re ok?” she ventured again, eyeing Brady’s extensive injuries visible above her clothes.

“Yeah?” Ida looked nonplussed, “I mean -what’re you ranking as ok, these days, Lt. Kendeigh?

“It’s just,” Maureen bit her own busted tongue briefly as a spur to get it out,

“-you’re bleeding a lot, Ida. Couldn’t help but notice.”

Ida Brady didn’t even glance down at her trousers or make a motion to feel her lacerated scalp, instead she answered in the same, almost bored way she always did, “Yeah, Candy, it’s called being a good Catholic.”

Maureen blinked. “Oh. Oh Shit.”

“You know, maybe some of you girls had the right of it,” Ida actually winced before staring back out the slats, “go off and do it ahead, in peacetime. But here I am, twenty seven and as sacrosanct as the Virgin Mary, dropping into occupied territory. What could go wrong!” To her credit, her snort was wonderfully genuine.

Maureen kept after her, “You signed up to fight, to get fought against. We all did -never this.”

“Mm, well, couldn’t choose a better gang to get put down with.” Brady smiled, begrudgingly raising an imaginary glass of her own to Maureen’s already raised one.

“To bitches who bite back.” Maureen toasted.

“To bitches who bite back.”

——————————————————-

Two cases of MIA troubled John Brady the most: Egan, who he had seen jump first after their dispute, and Maureen Kendeigh who he had learned from Blakely had jumped over Bremman. That’s two flyers who should’ve been here by now, before him even, in the case of Kendeigh, and yet they weren’t.

He went round and round the argument with Cleven and Crank and Hambone, all three downed from separate missions yet here together - proving his point. Cleven held staunchly to the belief they were being kept segregated, as befitted their ranks and sex. They could be one sector apart and not hear of them. It was the only hopeful response, it was a leader’s response. There had been women downed before Kendeigh, not many but a few of the escort fighters, and none of them had showed either. Brady wasn’t sure that was a good sign at all.

“So where’s Egan then?” he’d always hit back with, “They mistake his shoulders’ for a dame’s?”

“I dunno John.” Cleven would reply with that newly blank gaze of his somehow enhanced by the twin cuts on his cheeks.

Demarco took Brady aside when he arrived to tell him that whatever had happened to Cleven in interrogation wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t ethical. Those cheek scars weren’t both due to flack. Like a dog with a bone, Brady took this already suspected information about his stoic superior and ran with it, pointing out hotly to an uninterested Demarco, “if it’s happened to Cleven, what about them?”

“What can we do about it?” Was Cleven’s demand that always wrapped up the little circular arguments as they sat huddled in their hut. “Red Cross knows they’re not here, no colored flyers either. They know where they are. What can we do besides ask after them?”

He was right, there wasn’t anything, but still, like a presentiment hung over him, Brady found himself leaning on the wire each time a new batch was marched in, counting heads and scanning faces.

“Ida hasn’t even been shot down, John.” Crank kindly reminded again and again.

“As of two weeks ago.” John snapped.

As of two weeks, and then as of three, and then it became four and -where the hell was Kendeigh? Gale had stopped arguing when the subject came up, apparent but impotent fury slowly racking his wiry frame, face gone wane already above his grimey fleece collar. Winter wasn’t even here and they were fading.

And then it happened, what John had been waiting by the fence for, and boy was there a crush at the wire to see them marched in when they came up the muddy enclosure through the gates.

“The fuck are they bringing the women here for?”

“They don’t belong in here, bastards!”

“Ar’those Brady’s Banshees?”

“They’re not gonna hold ‘em here are they?”

Like he’d been reanimated by the presence of a cause, Major Cleven cut his way through the rabble to the front, addressing the German officer escorting them.

“Hey, hey you can’t bring them in here. They’re women, they belong in their own section.”

“If they are women,” the Commandant pointed out, not unkindly, “then perhaps your country should have recognized that before enlisting them? They belong here.”

Cleven shook his head, vehement in his conventions and rules, “It’s not right, you know it’s not.”

“Then tell your Lt. Colonel to stop fighting for combatant status.” he jerked his chin towards Ida Brady and Gale’s eyes widened at her injuries and tufted hair, “The SS had them tucked away at our most prestigious female camp. But they would not accept. They want to be men.”

“Combatants!” Gale argued the point Ida had been making since her feet touched occupied soul.

John Brady yanked his arm, whispering urgently in his ear, “She’s makin’ sign to me, torture, she says. Don’t fight it, Buck.”

Cleven searched the battered faces, some he knew like Ida, T.Smith and Maureen, and some from other squadrons, -ones who must’ve been damned unlucky to get captured considering their safer postings.

“If it can happen to you it c-“ John Brady was a bit of a pain in the ass, Cleven had found, but he had never found him to be wrong.

“Roger, loud and clear, captain.” Cleven warned him his point was made with a bite in his own tone.

“Have we come to an understanding?” The Commandant, amused by the fluster his female charges had caused, it was ample proof that women could never be fully integrated, not even by a society so pervertedly equal as the American’s. “Ja? Sehr gut. It wasn’t like you had a choice anyway, was it?

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is a writer’s life blood, let me hear your thoughts and screams, they mean so much to me.

We have so many prompts already thrown around for this AU, I can’t wait to explore them, and I welcome any more if you have them.

Taglist (if you’d like to be added please drop a note below):

@stylespresleyhearted

@ab4eva

@earth-to-lottie

@suraemoon

@blurredcolour

@steph-speaks

@crazymadpassionatelove

@rubyfruitjungle

@taestrwbrry

@storysimp

@javden

@sexualparkour

@jointherebellion215

@sunny747

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princesscolumbia · 1 year ago

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Star Trek Captains, A Review and Categorization

Star Trek is a show about a Neo-military organization that has rank structures, ships, and fights wars, so naturally there's plenty of captains to talk about, but for this post I'll be highlighting specifically the main cast captains, in something resembling chronological order. (But, I mean, this is Star Trek, so even that's kinda up in the air)

Captain Archer

That Guy who had to hand crank the warp engine up-hill both ways in the blinding ion storm. We don't need no stinkin' Prime Directive! Remember The Alamo Pearl Harbor 9/11 Florida! But...uh, maybe don't be dicks about it, not everyone who looks like the ones responsible for that thing we're never going to forget actually wants us dead. Got transformed into an alien, got possessed by another alien, slept with a couple more. Never got pregnant, though (that was his chief engineer)

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Wars started: 0

Wars ended: 3

Times on screen naked: 1

Nazi facilities destroyed: 1

Category: Grampa

Captain Pike

Midlife crisis? What midlife crisis? Everything's fiiiiine. Now eat something, it'll make you feel better. I'm not mad, I'm just disappointed. Number One, don't tell me I can't adopt more kids, I don't care that they're from the future they're mine now. Besides, we've already got a whole ship-full, what's two more?

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 2

Violations of the Temporal Prime Directive: -3 (yes, it's an irrational number, we're talking time travel, people!)

Musical Numbers Participated While On Duty: 3

Hair: Really Great

Category: Dad (or DILF if you swing that way)

Captain Georgiou

You will be captain when you can snatch the stone from my hand.

Scorecard

Ships commanded: 1

Protege's who required a redemption arc: 1

Awesomeness: Transcendent

Category: Gone too soon, also, MILF who can kick your ass

(Edit: Courtesy of @cheer-me-up-scotty for pointing out an oversite on my part)

Captain Burnham

Cosplays as a Vulcan 'cause she's jealous of her adoptive brother. Accurately called an audience-stand-in-self-insert-mary-sue (shut up, Star Trek fandom invented the Mary Sue, it was a term coined by women fans, so shut up!), but by season 2 she actually gets interesting.

Scorecard

Mommy Issues: Has a subscription

Moms: 4

PTSD inducing life events: Like, all of them

Ships commanded: 3

Mutinies led failed: 1

Category: That One Cousin who married surprisingly well and made something of herself in spite of all expectations

Captain Kirk

Golden retriever energy, would be the Useless Bisexual Himbo if he didn't have so much game. Probably smarter than he lets on. Polyamory King and certified Alien Fucker. Boyfriend is a half-space-elf, main sometimes-girlfriend will go on to create the deadliest super-weapon ever built by humans by accident.

Scorecard

Number of Klingon Bounties on his head: [CLASSIFIED]

Number of women he's slept with: [CLASSIFIED]

Nazi regimes toppled: 1

Number of times he should have had a test that determines if you can stick your dick in it that got named after an upstart from that other science fiction show instead: 1

Ships Commanded: 3

Ships He's Stolen: 3

Category: Slut(affectionate)

Captain Kirk (the other one)

Golden Retriever that got left behind when his family moved away and had to lead a ragtag team of a crotchety older dog and a wet cat on a journey...

No, wait, hold on...

Right! That's the one!

Scorecard

Times he should have been kicked out of Starfleet: At least 4

Ships commanded: 3

Ground transport destroyed: 2 (that we know of)

Number of middle fingers given to Admiralty: 2

Category: Bad Boy

Captain Picard

You know that guy who you see going to the library all the time and always seems to have his nose in a book and always seems to be telling people off for breaking the rules and doing dangerous shit? You'd never know it but he used to be That Guy in college who got, like, ALL the girls and is going to be the Hot Grampa that you don't know how he has that much game, but he got it.

Scorecard

Ships lost in the line of duty: 2

Number of times he married and then estranged his best friend's wife who named their son after her dead first husband: 1

Number of toxic omnipotent and omniscient boyfriends who are obsessed with him and spends their spare time playing with ponies: 1

Category: Inexplicable Sexyman

Captain Badass Sisko

The Cool Dad with baggage. He's got game, but he's got priorities as well, and DON'T mess with his son or you won't even exist anymore to regret it. BLM before it was cool. Led a civil rights riot two centuries before he was born. Space Jesus who can make the best jambalaya you've ever had. Fought and won a war, punched a god, then became one.

Scorecard

Civilizations saved: 4

Native Cultures Treated With the Respect They Deserve: Many

Times He Bent the Rules so his CMO could get some nookie from a Cardasian spy plain, simple tailor: The counter broke

Successful black-ops assassinations completed: 1

Category: BAMF

Captain Janeway

THE single most decorated captain in Starfleet history. Successfully dropped the hammer on dozens of petty tyrants, oppressive regimes, roaming mass murderers, and the Borg. What Prime Directive? Your Mom. Also, probably slept with your mom, that's how much she is the Domme-est of Dommes. She told the Borg to use the safe word...and they DID!

Scorecard

Borg Daughters: 1

Times she told the Borg to step off: 3 (or 4...or 5? Honestly, with the time travel shenanigans it's hard to know for sure)

Nazis she's personally shot: 1

Category: Mistress, but it's "Ma'am" to you

Captain Freeman

She's angry AND disappointed! She's just as good as all the other captains in the fleet, and the good ones know it, but all the rest? They see "cali class" and assume all they're good for is the jobs nobody else wants. But jokes on them, because thanks to that attitude her crew are the flippin' Jacks and Jills of all trades and are more capable of fixing AND fucking AND "fucking" shit up than damn near anyone else!

Scorecard

Times the ship has nearly been destroyed but she and her crew got through it: ...uh...how many episodes are there? And then there's the times that get casual mentions that we never get the details on!

Daughters who should probably be captains now if they were at least a LITTLE more respectful and didn't actively try to piss off Admirals: 1

Times the Cerritos has had to be rebuilt to the point it might as well be called "The Ship of Cerritos Problem": At least 4

Category: Your mom...get back here, I'M NOT DONE TALKING TO YOU!

Captain R'El

Cinnamon Roll, just let m'boy into Starfleet! He just wants a home and a family! I'd like to see full-grown captains who can keep up with half of what this Best Boy is capable of!

Scorecard

Number of species his genetic code is made up of: All of 'em. Even the GODDAMN Q!

Number of Janeways he impressed the socks off of: 2

Quality of his Janeway impression: Bad

Number of Ferengi he out-Ferengi'd: 1

Nazis punched: Give him time...

Category: Teenage Boy Who's NOT GOING THROUGH A PHASE, MOM!

Should I do Captains Shaw and Seven? How about Alternate Timeline Tripp or Future Chakotay? (Going too far down that rabbit hole will eventually lead to Imperial Kirk and Captain Spock from the movies.) Let me know in the comments.

Next Post in this series

#captain r'el #dal r'el #captain janeway #captain picard #captain sisko #captain kirk #captain pike #captain archer #captain georgiou #captain burnham #captain freeman #Star Trek Captains - Review and Category

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rei-ismyname · 3 months ago

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Is Magneto mistaken or am I taking this too literally?

Ambassador Magneto has a lot to say in House of X, especially to humans on the subject of violence.

All his dreams are coming true and he's not shy about expressing his feelings on the matter. At the Jerusalem habitat the other ambassadors (who are all intelligence plants) claim to be wary of military advantage Krakoa and the gates provide.

Let's fact check Magneto there. 'There has never been a mutant war.'

What's this then? It doesn't sound very good at first glance but can it be considered a mutant war? It's basically Magneto himself unleashing an EMP and making demands of the UN. A mutant sanctuary - one they gave him too - Genosha. Terrorist act? Yeah defs. War? I'd say no.

What else? Oh yeah, that time Magneto conquered Santo Marco, a fictional South American country. Spoilers for a comic from 1963.

Okay so shelling is bad, definitely a warlike action, though it's later said there were no casualties at all, mainly thanks to Mastermind's illusions. Still, really bad optics there dude. The fake soldiers are straight up goose-stepping. This is drawn by Jack Kirby too, who definitely had strong feelings about that kind of thing - not something he'd portray unintentionally.

You'll note Mags having pseudo telepathy at this point, mainly bc Stan Lee had no idea how magnetism works.

Let's be honest, there's a big Nazi vibe to this occupation. This is in X-Men #4 in 1963, over a decade before Mags was retconned into a Jewish holocaust survivor. I'm honestly not a big fan of the original X-Men run and I can see why it got cancelled. Magneto was their greatest foe, but he was a pretty one dimension Doctor DOOM expy with none of the pathos, willpower or consistent ideology Claremont would reinvigorate him with. Anyway, sensing defeat, Magneto arms a nuke to blow the whole country up. Yikes.

It's actually Quicksilver who solves that problem, deciding he's not okay with nuking a few million people. It's the start of his face turn proper, with only Wanda's 'debt' to Mags keeping her there, and therefore Quicksilver as well.

See? Not cool, Mags. Not cool. When it's all said and done though, his occupation of Santo Marco is very brief and news doesn't get out. I assume Chuck had something to do with that. Though the country refuses to accept Krakoa for 'ideological reasons' nearly 60 years later, so maybe not. I'm going to say it definitely counts as 'conquering their land and making slaves of their people ' though.

Honestly, Magneto has died a lot since then, had amnesia and barely aged in 70 years so maybe he doesn't remember. One could argue that the spirit of what he's saying is correct - Magneto the individual did a lot of supervillain shit but there hasn't been a unification of mutants who then warred upon humans. Indeed, the opposite is true. Most mutant conflicts that could be called a war were defensive after these events.

None of the 'ambassadors' took issue with past events or his record, instead focusing on future hypotheticals. Someone should tell them that if mutants united in world conquest they'd likely be very successful and humans wouldn't know until it was too late. Technically Magneto has been tried for his acts before an international court, and acquitted because he'd been turned into a baby and was considered a different person. Yes, really.

The conversation pivots to the emissaries being there in bad faith, with slick concealing a gun. (Not that it would be very useful.)

Magneto demonstrates why that's the case and doesn't budge on his position. I guess we could say Magneto was (technically) right, in this specific circumstance. A show of force is certainly needed to make them take Krakoa seriously. It's only fitting then that Mags acts as the stick to make the carrot more palatable. I've still got room for one more pic so here's the X-Men enjoying post-training birthday cake, cut by Cyclops and his POWER BEAM. The X-Men's first birthday as a group.

Note the contrast in vibes around the Brotherhood of EEEVIL Mutants' dinner table, with petty bickering, Mastermind being a creep (the X-Men have that too tho NGL,) and a very impressive tower of mashed potato. Good to know Toad has poor table manners and that Pietro is willing to punch on over it. Not to be mean, but Wanda's headgear looks super silly. Oh well, it was the sixties!

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simpingforthemm · 7 months ago

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the garcia brothers

words: like 1.7k

summary: basically a similar scenario to the whole "Cole x Jackie x Alex" thingy but with u and the Garcia brothers

a/n: sorry for not posting on here in a while. I wrote this little thing to get into fanfic writing again and will get to the other requests soon <3 probably will make this a series if I feel inspired enough

You were sitting in the cafeteria with Lee, your best friend, poking at your food, absolutely not hungry after having seen that revolting documentary on the holocaust in history lesson.

“God, I wish I could erase the last 90 minutes out of my memory so I could at least keep some of this food down and not starve for the rest of the day”, you groaned, shoving a fry in your mouth.

“Same”, Lee sighed. “That Nazi shit is seriously messed up. Honestly, I think I heard Olivia sobbing in the back row or something when the teacher named the number of the children murdered in the second world war.”

You raised your eyebrows. "Damn. Understandable though. It's so inhumane.”

Lee nodded. You noticed someone sitting down next to you and putting their arm around your shoulder. “What are we talking about guys?”, an all too familiar voice asked. Isaac Garcia, the brother of your best friend, who you shared a lot of your classes with, including history. “Just the pleasantries of that history lesson”, you said as he snatched some of your fries.

“I’m amazed at your ability to still eat after that horrifying documentary.”, you admitted, watching as he stuffed his mouth with the fried potato sticks, visibly hungry, his arm still securely around you. You didn't mind sharing your food and you often did so with Isaac. He would offer you gum when he had a pack, you would bring a second fork for him when you got lunch and you almost always shared your energy drinks and snacks. You didn't know the particular reason for why you both did this except for that the two of you loved food and that you liked eating in class / eating snacks so you could focus better.

“That's only one of my many talents, dear miss Y/L/N”, he said, smirking at you and giving you a little wink. “Besides, I love fries.”

You just rolled your eyes a little, knowing that Isaac basically had every girl that crossed his path swooning over him and he even flirted with you, his brother's girl best friend. Yeah, you shared your food and were pretty friendly with each other but you still were kind of annoyed about how he was such a ladies' man.

“Sure”, you just said, freeing yourself from his arm, catching Isaac frowning in the corner of your eye.

“Okay Isaac, how ‘bout you leave me and my best friend alone and go mind your business with all of those cheerleaders waiting on you.”, Lee said, pointing over to a table overcrowded with a bunch of girls from the cheerleading squad, some of them looking over to your table, probably wondering what was keeping Isaac there.

Lee seemed overly annoyed with his brother. Chill Lee, you thought to yourself. You actually kinda liked Isaac (not that you’d ever tell Lee that) and you didn't get why your best friend was acting all hostile. Sure, Isaac was annoying at times but he didn't exaggerate it. But of course, you were on your best friend’s side. “No need to get possessive, I’m already going”, he said, getting up from his chair.

He frowned as he noticed your sort of tense expression.“You seem tense, everything all right?”, he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. He was right, you had been tense. Exam stress, pressure to succeed, getting good grades and then your parents fighting. You were struggling. But Isaac didn't have to know that. “Okay Isaac, just go”, Lee groaned before you could answer the other Garcia's question.

“Already going, jeez bro. See you later, Y/N.”, he smirked, ruffling your hair. Ugh.

Relieved about him going back to his own table and Lee being able to go back to his normal self, you leaned back into your chair. “I’m so sorry about my brother Y/N”, Lee apologized, rolling his eyes. “I know he can be a lot sometimes.”

“It's fine”, you assured him, not knowing why he was always so cold and hostile whenever the three of you were together. When you watched Lee and Isaac hanging out together, without you, everything seemed just fine and they were laughing and having fun together, like normal brothers. This was the same for when you and Lee hung out just the two of you, everything seemed completely normal and fine. But when it was you, Lee and Isaac, he acted so strange. He was bitchy and rude to his brother, usually without reason. He always acted like Isaac was this horrible person that you couldn't be associated with. You thought that maybe he couldn't stand the thought of you and Isaac being friends? Maybe he hated how physical Isaac could be? You didn't know, but you were determined to find out.

After school, you and Lee decided to hang out and get ice cream. A lot of people thought that you and Lee might be a couple since the two of you were so close. It was true, you liked Lee a lot. Maybe you had had a crush on him for a little while when the two of you first met. But that was a long time ago and the two of you were now simply best friends. You thought so at least. Still, you couldn't help thinking he was cute when he attempted to speak French in class (which he surprisingly was horrible at) or when he geeked out about some new skateboarding equipment or tricks he wanted to try. Of course, you would never tell him that.

“Y/N, can I ask you something?”, Lee suddenly blurted out. The two of you were standing in line at the ice cream shop, waiting for your turn. You were slightly standing on your tip-toes, trying to get a look on all the flavors available so you could already decide on what you wanted beforehand.

“Yeah, sure. What is it?”, you said casually, standing normally again and turning to look at him.

Lee looked down at his shoes, seemingly embarrassed. You frowned, didn't he know he could ask you anything? You were now getting impatient and nervous. Why was he stalling?

“Oh, come on, Lee. You're driving me crazy. Spit it out!”

“Do you like Isaac?”

Your eyes widened and you gulped. So much for obvious. But you didn't like him. At least not like Lee probably meant in this moment. Okay, maybe you thought he was hot and funny, but he was obnoxious. He was always bothering you, in class, outside of class, at the Walters’ House. Just last week, he threw you in the pool, then at a party he randomly asked you if you wanted to play beer pong with him. With you, out of all people? You, the unpopular nerd. Then there were other incidents like when your grade was called to the assembly hall for some informative presentation on future college opportunities and Isaac just randomly sat down next to you. And besides all that weirdness from his side, he made your best friend in the whole world angry and tense. You didn't like that.

You decided to go for the shocked and surprised answer. “What! Lee! Why would you think that??”

“I don't know”, he shrugged, his expression blank. “You just always seem to laugh more when he's around and you don't really seem to mind whenever he flirts with you.”

“Flirts with me? Lee, I don't know what you're talking abou-”

“Oh please Y/N”, Lee scoffed. “Don't act like you're blind. He always flirts with you. Just today in the cafeteria, he put his arm around you. Do you know how weird that is for me? Jesus, he's my brother, Y/N.” Lee looked disgusted as he turned away from you. You didn't know his feelings were this intense.

“Lee, of course I don't like him. But you know how Isaac is, he’s always flirting with every girl that's in his eyesight. I don't think he's taken special interest in me. And besides, we wouldn't even fit together, you know how different we are.”

That seemed to calm Lee down as his expression softened and he sighed, nodding.

"Sorry for overreacting. You're right."

You didn't know why he was so against you even slightly taking an interest in his brother and why he was so disgusted at even the idea of you getting closer to him. But you figured the two of you weren't really in a position to talk about that.

Later that day, you were sitting on your bed, listening to music and doing homework when your phone made that vibrating sound to tell you you had a new message. You frowned slightly, checking who would text you at this time. It certainly wouldn't be Lee, as right now he’d probably be outside with his cousins, teaching Parker how to skateboard or something. Instead it was an unknown number.

The message just said: “hi y/n”.

You texted back pretty quickly out of curiosity. "Who's this?”

Another message appeared within seconds, making your heart drop. “Isaac. I got your number from Jackie, hope that's ok”

Jesus, why would he be texting you? This was the last thing you needed rn. And now you seriously didn't know what to text back.

“Okaay, why did you ask for my number tho”, you typed.

“idk cuz I think ur cool”

Fuck. Why’d he say something like that?

“okay.. I don't think lee doesn't like us talking tho"

You were panicky now. Lee definitely couldn't find out about this. He'd be so mad.

“he needs to chill out”

Was he seriously saying this rn? Didn't he know Lee had no chill whenever it came to you?

You were staring at your phone for a while, waiting for him to say something else, but when he didn't, you just typed back:

“srry but did you want anything else? I got homework to do”

“we should hang out outside of class sometime”

“we really shouldn't”, you texted back, even though you did kind of want to. But you couldn't. Not when Lee was so against the idea of you being closer to his brother. You couldn't do that to your best friend.

“Come onn y/n just for like an hour or so. pretty plsss”

He kept spamming you with messages the next minutes which really annoyed you so just to shut him up you replied: “fine but istg if lee finds out you’re done for”

“yes ma’am 🧎‍♂️”

God. What had you gotten yourself into??

#lee garcia x reader #my life with the walter boys x reader #isaac garcia x reader #netflix my life with the walter boys #mlwtwb x reader #mlwtwb isaac x reader #mlwtwb lee x reader #my life with the walter boys #hi i'm alive #hi i'm back #the Garcia brothers

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cazzyf1 · 5 months ago

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My favourite quotes from Niki Lauda's book: "Reden wir Über Geld'

I expected him to spontaneously give me the finger - p6

I hate it when I go through security at the airport and the coins clatter around again. For this reason alone, the comparison with Scrooge McDuck, who likes to swim in money, is completely nonsense - p9

My mother regularly drove me to a Dentist behind the Vienna city hall, where I was tormented for years with regulations. I was more of a wimp, or as they say in Vienna: a slob - p13

My grandfather lived more like a real millionaire. He was the country's model industrialist and lived in a palace on the Ringstrasse with liveried servants who wore black uniforms and white gloves. Hans Lauda was the general director of the Veitsch Magnesitwerke. The Nazis dismissed him in 1938, but he returned to his post after the war. As president of the Austrian Industrial Association, he was one of the pioneers of social partnership and the economic miracle. He was also president of the Red Cross until 1974 and was therefore personally acquainted with Princess Grace Patricia, who was the president of the Red Cross in Monaco. In 1956 he organized aid for thousands of Hungarian refugees. I was only seven at the time, but I know from stories. - p14

Still in my pajamas, I heated up a toy steam engine. Beforehand, I mixed the water in the boiler with iron filings. Which of course wasn't such a good idea. There was an explosion and the hot steam burned my right thigh. My parents were done. I mostly argued with my brother Florian. To this day, we have no common interests, just the fact that we are brothers. One time I was lying in bed when Florian climbed onto the bedside table and tried to jump on me. I tipped the table over with my foot and my brother hit the floor. Then my father came and gave me a slap. Sometimes we played fire brigade together. To make the whole thing a bit more authentic and challenging, one day I brought a canister over, poured the petrol out lit it and ordered Florian to put out the fire. Although the hoses were ready, the fire briefly got out of control. The garage almost burned down and a few fruit trees were singed. - p15-16

I never dreamed of flying, and I certainly didn't see flying as a worthwhile hobby. I wanted to be faster. I wanted to save time. Because I was already earning a decent amount of money at the time, I had brought a Cessna Golden Eagle, had my own pilot and learned the practical side of things by flying with others. I became a student pilot and my preferred route was Salzburg-Bolgona. That made double sense. That's how I got into flying, got one license after another and four years later I founded an airline as the first Formula 1 driver and professional pilot. - p28

I also wanted to coax a private Ferrari out of the Commendatore, but he only gave me a Fiat - p34

I usually carry around 300 to 400 euros with me, 500 at the most. If there are several notes, I hold them together with a money clip. I've never had a wallet. I avoid coins in everyday life. Not that I don't value small change, but it's too heavy in my pockets and I don't like the clatter - p36

Max and Mia also like to play 'police' they drive wildly through the house on their astic scooters and I have to say: "Stop! You were driving too fast. That will cost you thirty euros." They then count to thirty together, in English. - p37

Brigit once asked me to take the bus because the twins like doing it so much. "Sure!" I said, "I'll do it. How do you pay?" In the end I let it go. - p38

I loved spinach even as a small child, because of popeye the sailor - p39

In Spielberg I once asked him: "Lewis, do you see anything about me that needs to be improved?" He didn't know whether to laugh or cry at that moment. Then he explained to me: "You should throw away that brown sweater immediately! That is the worst color for a man. And you need different pants! Not always the same ones and besides, they just don't fit." I enjoyed listening to that and thinking about it. But then I came to the following conclusion: Why should I change anything if everything is fine for me? "Thanks for the input", I said to Lewis, "but even if my blue jeans are down to my knees hang down, I just feel so comfortable in them." - p39/40

It was also Forghieri who came up with the idea of suggesting a sponsor for my red cap. "Watch out," he said one day, "there is a salami company that now wants to get into milk production, which would be interested in advertising." - p43-4

I crossed the finish line in a first Grand Prix, with Clay Regazzoni behind me, so it was a double victory for Ferrari, a true triumph. That night, they played Blue Danube Waltz in the disco in my honour. - p45

When I sit in the cockpit, for example, I notice every speck of dust. As a farewell gift, employees of LaudaAir gave me a man size brush as a nod to my cleanliness obsession - p52

Willi Dungl wanted to find out whether I had suffered trauma from the inferno. He once lit a fire in the fireplace at my home in Salzburg and said, "look at that Niki!" I looked inside, but nothing was moving. I also couldn't care less about the fire in the accident photo - p57-8

I had waited my whole life for a guy like Attila Dogudan - p91

Is Attila Dogudan my friend? I don't want to say anything wrong now. My perception of friendship around this is that people meet in the evenings and spend their hours talking about their worries. The only person who sometimes notices my worries is Birgit - sometimes she whistles at me! -p95/6

I would describe Atilla as my long-term companion - p96

If he didn't answer I would send him an SMS: "I'll cancel the entire catering if you don't call in five minutes." Of course he calls back immediately - p97

My brother Florian, who is 18 months younger than me, is a Buddhist - p107

But the main issue was a heart operation for a three year old boy called Soumitra. That cost a few thousand euros, which we transferred straight away. We then received photos of the child before and after the operation. Since then, when I meet Claudia, I always ask her; "how is my heart?" I mean the heart of this little Indian boy, who has been able to live a normal life since the operation. P109

Fourfiveseconds by Rihanna is such an incredibly great song. Lewis Hamilton, who now makes music himself, sometimes goes with me to promotional events. He is always amazed at the songs I have saved, like an old idiot. 'Some nights' by fun, or George Ezra'a Budapest. I have hundreds of songs like that saved on my iphone and listen to them over and over again - p114

When Birigt wants something from me and I'm feeling defiant, I play her, 'Hero' by Family of the year - p115

When we have a little tangle I play her 'Blame it on me' - p115

Sometimes Birgit, who loves red wine, jokes; "drink another glass of wine, my kidney needs it!" I then sip the glass because I just don't like red wine - like alchol in general - p117

In 2000 I came up with the idea of flying into space. There are several programs running for such flights. I already tried it out in a simulator in Houston, Texas - p122

Later on I explained to my boys that there are also people with two ears. We laughed together. - p143

When Lukas was 15, I took him to a strip club. Sex education. I was shocked myself at how close women were to him. They danced around and took off one thing after another. Lukas watched it all. When it was over he stood up, took off his shirt, and put it around the dancers shoulders so that she wouldn't freeze. It was a really caring gesture. Then I knew: that guy not only has manners, but also heart. Lukas wanted to invite her out but I advised him against it. - p143/144

Sometimes Marlene went crazy when she found out about one of my escapades but she never said a bad word about me in front of the children - p144

In her boundless generosity, Marlene would have taken Christoph into our family, but his mother didn't want that - p145

#great read about niki's life #from the last book he technically made #classic f1 #f1 #niki lauda #formula one #formula 1

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smytherines · 3 months ago

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Tasting History did an episode on wartime meals in WWII Russia and it got me thinking. So hear me out.

Let's say that Tatiana is born in 1937. In my own little headcanon that makes her seven years younger than Curt, and she would be 24 during the events of the show (or her parts in 1961 at least). It makes sense to me that she would be younger, having started as a spy much earlier in life.

This introduces the possibility of some interesting backstory here. I focus a lot on Owen in WWII era Britain because I've had a big interest in wartime/postwar Britain for a long time, so I just have a lot of that information in my brain already. I have to admit I do not know nearly as much about wartime U.S.S.R.

That being said, if we say that Tatiana was born in 1937, and if we say that she was from Leningrad, that would make her four years old (at the tender age of four she was an instrument of war) when the Nazis severed the last road to Leningrad, beginning the three-year-long Siege of Leningrad.

Leningrad, being a city, did not have victory gardens or livestock to sustain themselves, so food was almost entirely imported into the city. German troops had entirely cut off supply routes to the city. Roughly 630,000 people in Leningrad died of starvation from 1941 to 1944, and most of the deaths happened in the winter of 1941-1942

This introduces the possibility that maybe Tatiana was taken from her family, OR, perhaps worse for her-- she was given to the KGB, because the only other option her family had was watching her starve to death. What kind of effect would that have on adult Tatiana? Finding out that the family she thought she was stolen from had in fact given her up to keep her alive?

Originally, before Prisoner of my Past was in the show, Tatiana had a monologue there about having a lot of brothers (I think? I can't remember if that's from the commentary or a livestream though? Hopefully I have that right). So theoretically she was the youngest, and perhaps the only girl? The Soviets were already on strict rationing before the siege, with children getting the smallest rations, so even before the Siege she could have been starving. There's the possibility that, as horrifying as being a child assassin is, it may have saved her from starving to death?

I already had this picture saved in my phone for an Owen post that has been in my drafts for awhile, but here you can see Leningrad too, and there's just something that tickles my brain about the idea of both of those characters being just barely out of Nazi reach as children, and then working for BVN as adults (for their own purposes, but still)

#spies are forever #tin can bros #tatiana slozhno #owen carvour #saf #tcb #saf headcanons

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glynnisi · 2 years ago

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Old people & murder & WWII

I saw a post about women confessing to offing step-fathers and abusive spouses, where this did not belong. But, I had an old person confess murder to me once and that post reminded me.

When I was 19 I went to France for a summer session at a language school in Vichy. In WWII, Vichy was the Nazi capital of occupied France.

My host parents forbade us to discuss WWII at table. I got the impression they'd kept their heads down in those yrs & felt ashamed. Also, when I was staying there our group of students included girls from Germany, Japan, the US, Sweden, China, and Spain. There were a variety of perspectives. I guess after years of keeping students, they'd had dinner table talk get too spicy a time or two. Not a problem, really. When I was 19, WWII wasn't a major interest of mine.

One of my classes was events/conversational. We parsed the morning radio news headlines & struggled through slang and cliches doggedly. One day, we were sent out and told to find someone and ask about Vichy and WWII.

Most classmates got jokey responses or got told that the person was too busy to chat, but good luck with that. I, on the other hand, got a murder confession.

I sat down on a park bench with an old man and told him about my assignment. He shot me a look and asked if I really wanted to know. I told him my dad served in Europe in WWII (I'm a late in life child), so I'd already heard some about it. The old man told me he served in WWII, too. He was in the Resistance in Vichy. And at the end of the War, he celebrated the good news by killing a German soldier. He told me it wasn't the right one, but they killed his mama so one of them had to pay. I asked about his mom and he said she wasn't a very good cook but he missed her bad food. And sometimes when he ate something that didn't taste very good he cried for her.

#murder confession #it happens #WWII #grief #vengeance

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matan4il · 11 months ago

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Daily update post:

I heard a report that every day, Hamas steals at least a few aid trucks with food, and as we've seen in multiple pics, vids and testimonies from angry Gazans, the terrorists don't hesitate to use force against civilians to do so. A few days ago, a Hamas "policeman" shot and killed a young man trying to get some humanitarian aid. The young man's family was angry enough to burn tired outside a Hamas police station in the city of Rafah.

The leader of Hamas in Gaza, Yahya Sinwar, published a letter to his terrorists, in which he lies about how well Hamas is doing in the war (Israel estimates that at least 8,000 of its members have been killed, and that there is no organized Hamas command in northern Gaza anymore), while promising he won't surrender.

Just a reminder, that if Hamas surrendered, the war would be over immediately, and there'd be not one more Palestinian, civilian or otherwise, killed. What Sinwar is saying, is that despite being painted by certain westerners as a Palestinian liberation movement, it refuses to save any Palestinian lives. Same goes for the Palestinian Islamic Jihad, the second strongest terrorist group in Gaza after Hamas.

Sometimes, the terrorist puppets and their financial masters disagree on what false excuse to give, regarding why they jointly made sure Jews would be massacred. Iran said it was one of the responses for the assassination of Iranian military senior Soleimani (by the US, in 2020), while Hamas denied this claim, and said that the massacre was to protect the Al-Aqsa mosque... (right, 'coz Jewish babies murdered in their crib in the south, born to the most left wing, peace seeking families in Israel, were SUCH a threat to the mosque in Jerusalem. This is the same false excuse Islamists have used repeatedly, like in May 2021, going all the way back to its invention in 1929 by the Nazi collaborator Amin al-Husseini, at a time when there was no State of Israel). Apparently, even the worst of terrorists, and the biggest financiers of terrorism, don't think the west will respond well to the more truthful, "We just want to kill all Jews."

There was a blast next to the Israeli embassy in India, and now Indian news outlets report that there was a letter found nearby, which tied the attack to Israel's war against Hamas in Gaza.

Dawn Lev and Matan Peretz, two funny Israeli Jews, answer some very serious questions, that were the most searched ones on Google when it comes to Hamas.

youtube

If it helps Dawn, I laughed. XD

While Iran is funding the attacks on Israel from Gaza, Lebanon, Syria, Yemen, Iraq, the cyber attacks on Israel (including on Israeli hospitals), and has reportedly attacked an Israeli-related ship at least once directly, it has also increased its levels of Uranium enrichment, which is what they need to build nuclear weapons. We should all be VERY concerned.

Here is an op ed, with yet another testimony regarding the systematic rape, torture and abuse carried out by Hamas on Oct 7. I found it hard not to post all of it, but if I did have to highlight only one part, this would probably be it:

This is 26 years old Shaul Greenglick:

For the Eurovision fans, he was a very talented candidate for this year's contest in Sweden, who auditioned on Dec 3 to represent our country. He was on leave from the army, so he performed while still in uniform. He was killed yesterday in Gaza. This is his audition, where he got to show off his stunning voice:

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This is 33 years old Maor Lavi:

Two days ago, he was interviewed on Israeli TV, because he had an urgent mission. While fighting in Gaza, they found a Hanukkiah in one house. As there are no Jews living there, it was most likely stolen during the Oct 7 massacre. Maor wanted to share the story, so he could find the family that owned the Hanukkiah and give it back to them. Yesterday, he was killed in Gaza, too. This is the Facebook post that Maor published in the hope of finding the rightful owners:

May their memories be a blessing.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

#israel #antisemitism #israeli #israel news #israel under attack #israel under fire #israelunderattack #terrorism #anti terrorism #hamas #antisemitic #antisemites #jews #jew #judaism #jumblr #frumblr #jewish

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lokigodofaces · 2 months ago

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Since I've been seeing more and more anti-Wanda stuff lately, I thought I'd write something out and express my thoughts in a low-key venty manner.

I really don't trust the vast majority of Wanda criticizers*.

There is so much misogyny, victim blaming, dismissal of trauma, etc. I cannot believe it. And most of this started during WandaVision.

Okay I saw criticisms before mostly for Age of Ultron but it was your classic "poorly written" criticisms which I disagree with I think that in the majority of movies she was in they did a decent enough job of writing her. The only major ones I saw were because they wrote her and Pietro as part of Hydra initially. A) That definitely was not the most well thought out decision of Marvel's, given that they are Jewish and Roma in the comics but of course they've been whitewashed so Feige didn't see it as a concern. B) If it weren't for their ethnicities, it would be kind of genius if it had been fleshed out more. Real life Nazi organizations prey on young people who have been mistreated (or perceive themselves to be mistreated) by the government or other authority figures and groom them to be fascists. Don't get me wrong, definitely insensitive to have that happen with these two given ethnicity, but unfortunately that is kind of accurate still. Unfortunately, this fascist groups manage to get POC, LGBTQ+, and other minority groups to join them. TL;DR: the way AoU handled it was not written well, but it definitely could have been something note worthy if the time had been taken to analyze this. Never claimed that Wanda was written perfectly, will be the first to admit that there are problems as well. But I will say that I used to see lots of people claiming she was "boring" pre-Infinity War. Idk, maybe I wasn't seeing what everyone else was, that's 100% a possibility. Like I said, this is more of a vent post than an academic paper.

Infinity War and Endgame I didn't see that much criticism, but those are the movies where they let Wanda be awesome and powerful so yeah guess no one had too much to say. Other than the occasional dudebro being mad that women can be powerful characters, there wasn't much I saw.

Then we get to WandaVision. Now y'all no by now that I am not a fan of the majority of newer MCU stuff. WandaVision is definitely one of those exceptions. Brilliant series. I was going wild as it was being released. I was so unbelievably hyped for Multiverse of Madness after this (Stephen and Wanda! Two of my favs! Together!). And the majority of it was really good, loved the other characters (or loved to hate them, in the case of Hayward lol), loved the sitcom references, it was a very enjoyable series. And as it came out, I didn't see much criticisms other than the reasonable ones (it isn't a flawless series). But we started to run into some things I hated, and it would just get worse and worse as time would go on.

People have no ability to understand morally grey characters these days. Any Wanda, Bucky, or Loki fan will tell you this because Marvel's been doing them dirty and the fandom hasn't been much better.

What was WandaVision about? Grief and trauma and how difficult it is to overcome these. And I think they did a pretty dang good job at that. But then what does everyone do? Freak the heck out because Wanda took over Westview. Well, first off the series suggests that Wanda wasn't even aware of it for the first couple episodes. Then at the end it implies that Wanda was not aware that she was causing pain the citizens were feeling and she tried to get them all to leave once she found that one out. And you've got Agatha who was messing around, killing dogs, manipulating Wanda, and mind controlling Ralph. And let's not forget the pressure from S.W.O.R.D and Hayward being irrational about it (he literally shot his gun at kids and his employee who tried to protect them and people try to defend him). All Wanda wanted was to be happy and have her family (no one gets mad when other MCU characters do that, such as Tony in Endgame). By no means does this justify her actions, but she is villainized so much over something when clearly her motivations are not out of ill intent but out of trauma, grief, desperation, and also being provoked by Hayward right before she got to Westview. She is feeling all of these emotions, and clearly her powers somehow got stronger/she unlocked or leveled up/something idk that's never explained as she is feeling all of this. I mean, if I had powers as ridiculously strong as Wanda's, it'd be hard for me to control them on rough days.

WandaVision introduced us to this very complex narrative of Wanda doing something wrong but not because she had ill intent yet not wanting to give up the little happiness she is feeling while she is also being manipulated by Agatha and Hayward. It isn't black or white. She isn't a villain, but she isn't Westview's hero. She's a grieving woman that needs therapy and also help to learn about her growing magic (ie what Multiverse of Madness should have been).

But half the time you see anything about Wanda in WV it's just saying that she was evil, that she was purposely hurting the citizens, that it was for nothing but fake kids, etc. Dismissal of trauma. Victim blaming. Misogyny. Let me tell you, if Wanda was a man everyone would claim that he was a good father and that he only wanted to build a family. But noOoOoO, she's a woman so she can't be complicated.

Then we get to Multiverse of Madness. Pretty sure Waldron never watched WandaVision (a literal masterpiece) before writing the flaming pile of trash he calls a script. There's so much to unpack about how Waldron didn't write her well, how she became a villain out of literally nowhere, how while Agents of SHIELD definitely supports the idea of a Darkhold twisted villain even still Radcliffe never was pure evil he was simply misguided by a sudden overflow of information that didn't happen all at once, etc. There's a lot. But, hey, it basically sums up what antis have to say about Wanda. Because Waldron seems to hate every single character he has written other than some select people in the TVA!

Now, even more motivated by the awful writing of DSMOM, antis say that Wanda was crazy for a desire to have kids (again, would they have said the same thing if she was a man?) and that she was actually this villainous the whole time (show me your receipts because even the beginnings of Age of Ultron showed her not being completely evil). And I could go on, they say so much. But, as I have said, all of it is dismissal of trauma, victim blaming, and/or misogyny.

But it's caused me to be very suspicious of people who claim to hate Wanda. Which obviously no one has to like her. Totally understand that she might not appeal to some people that like different tropes and whatnot, that is definitely understandable. But whenever anyone starts to lean into anti territory, I just have to wonder why. Why do you hate Wanda so much? Tell me why? Because generally when I find out why, it's because she's evil and insane and tortures whole towns without remorse (canonically not even true).

*Disclaimer: I am not referring to anyone criticizing the MCU and it's whitewashing of Wanda. That is a reasonable concern. I am talking about everything else listed in the post.

#wanda maximoff #wandavision #avengers: age of ultron #avengers: age of ultron critical #with that one it's a watsonian vs doylist perspective #out of universe reasoning isnt great #in universe was not fleshed out but it is something that can be explained & i'd love to read a fic/meta on it #doctor strange in the multiverse of madness critical #i hope y'all could understand me a bit i know this was a horribly worded post

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gryficowa · 2 months ago

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Boycott!

Tia… I remember once writing a post that if the whole truth about Israel and its crimes came out, they would turn out to be worse than the Holocaust… This was many months before everything that came to light…

I guess my hunches were too correct… I would have preferred to be wrong, but no, Israel committed such crimes that they surpassed the Holocaust…

I don't know how to feel about the thought that Israel, by committing the genocide of the Palestinians, exceeded the number of Holocaust victims many times over (And you have to remember that the Nazis didn't kill only Jews, so that says a lot about the number, among the Nazi victims were Roma, Poles, but also minorities such as trans people, gays and people with disabilities, and even with the entire group of people who were murdered, the number of Palestinians killed by Israel is much higher, also remember about the attacks on other countries such as Syria, Iran and Lebanon, because here there are additional victims of Israel, and also foreigners like from WCK… Already the sheer number of people murdered in Gaza surpasses all the victims of the Holocaust, and if we add additional ones, including Israelis and Palestinian Jews whom Israel murdered on October 7, then we have even more fucking victims…)

Seriously, if he had told me years ago that there would be a worse crime than the Holocaust, I wouldn't have believed it (I wouldn't have wanted to believe that it would have been possible, because I would have believed that people would have fought for victims, seriously, I still had some faith in humanity…)

I wouldn't believe that people are for killing and dehumanization… I just wouldn't believe it…

Now that I have your attention:

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

But yes, the depressing thought that my premonitions were too correct… Just the thought that I had a guess that Israel's crimes would trump the Holocaust is fucking depressing

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catbountry · 21 days ago

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Speaking as Straight White Male it is beyond tiring to see every minor viral social media post turn into justification for "actually this is why men are radicalized!" Like im sorry they thought the Bear was a safer option, im sorry that poisoned MnMs was something that hurt your feelings and so on but holy shit get some perspective. i had my little "Not all men!" phase too bu i was 19 or something. learn empathy, learn that "Men" is a demographic and not you personally. it always feels like some flavor of a lack of reading comprehension, like that time when there was that thing where there was a thing of people thinking toxic masculinity meant that all masculinity is toxic.

it seems so unreasonable to say "the way to stop white men from radicalization is for women and other minorities to take them by the hand and ask them to nicely consider them people" rather than "dudes need to learn to tamp down on their knee jerk reactions to group criticism and being exposed to people out of their demographic"

The fact that you were 19 years old and had that as a phase but got out of it. That's the thing I'm pointing to, and I feel like I've not done a good enough job at highlighting that as my point. It's not even about a lack of reading comprehension, I think a lot of people who retreat to the internet for most of their socialization are more likely to be lonely and recruited. How many fucking Twitter memes do we need to have of people reading far too much into innocuous statements to prove that yeah, it is a lack of reading comprehension, but a lack of reading comprehension is not something that happens in a vacuum. And there are people who are very eager to sell people bad ideas based on those misconstrued readings because they speak to a feeling of disenfranchisement.

When I talk about this sort of thing, it's in a preventative way. Most people don't arrive at being a moral and righteous person all on their own; usually they fuck up along the way, have to apologize, readjust their views with new information and new perspectives. Having been in anti-SJW spaces, and having that phase last far longer than I'm comfortable with... I wouldn't have gotten out if I hadn't had people who liked me push back on some of the dumb shit I was saying. Granted, I was not some kind of neo-Nazi; I was an edgelord and a transmedicalist who constantly felt like Padme in that one Star Wars meme; the one of her in the field with Anakin. It was a lot less of a leap to come to a lot of the views I hold now. But if those people around me had all cut me off? Who fucking knows how much worse I could have gotten? Who even knows if I'd still be alive, typing this right now? I got into those spaces in the first place because people proclaiming themselves to be progressive were bullying my friends and I, on top of me being depressed and then traumatized by losing my dad. I was a fucking mark.

I'm not coming at this from the angle of "oh, if we just hug and kiss all the horrible Nazis they'll realize how righteous we are, uwu," I'm coming at it from the perspective of wanting to be the kind of person I had around me that got me out to people who were in similar positions to myself. I'm not seeking these people out. I have no desire to do that. Hell, I don't even think most people should do this, but because of my own personal experiences... I at least have to try if I'm having an otherwise benign conversation with someone and they say something off. I at least want to see if they're just speaking out of ignorance and they're not really all that married to these ideologies, in which case they could be rehabilitated, or if they're just fully on board with the fascist incel shit, in which case I can't do shit for them.

I want to be the kind of person for people that I wish I had around me that could have helped get me out sooner. And if they don't want my help? Fuck 'em. I want to try and make up for some of the damage I did because it feels like the least I could possibly do. And if that means steering someone away from that pipeline before they reach the point of no return just through a pretty casual encounter through just being stupidly patient and nice? I'll try, because that's just the type of person I am. Forget everything I said about suggesting other people doing this because doing this has burnt me more times than I can count. But I think I have helped keep some guys normal, even if it's only in a very small way.

You can think that I'm stupid or naive for even bothering. I don't care. But I'm still friends with former KF people who helped me get out and we support each other. It's a lot easier to learn empathy when it's demonstrated to you.

I'm sorry, I just... this subject touches on a lot of very personal stuff for me. It's why I even bother with it in the first place.

#not fanfiction

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therealslimshakespeare · 8 months ago

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| Ida’s Law

Introductory Part

Summary: The American War Effort had conceded to the enlisting and commissioning of women into the Air Force at semi-integrated status. Deemed a more reliable if not safer combat post, the going rank of officer in the Air Force was intended to secure fair treatment and combatant status for these women, as it had for their male counterparts. Like most things in war -or life, if one is a woman- such recognition must be fought for.

Warnings: disturbing content- if you made it through last one this one should be a breeze, however it picks up where we left off so expect mentions of war, wounds, illusions to past rapes, Nazis being racist fucks, possibly some internalized misogyny about it all and some hopefully very 🥹🤧 reunions

A Note Going Forward: With this part now published, I am happy to open this series up for prompts. Ideally I’d like this series to end up being exclusively prompt-inspired and will be putting out prompt lists accordingly. I think that will be a fun way to keep the interaction going, stretch my own skills and explore all the different scenarios that may intrigue y’all. You’re welcome to come up with your own prompts, too. All are welcome, none guaranteed but let’s be real -I’m obsessed with this AU so I’ll likely do it. For now I’ll be keeping all writing to POW Camp and Liberation and Post-Liberation timelines.

“Well, what do we know?” Ida Brady asked the first officer out on the other side as they began to filter through the laborious processing of the camp. She counted them down, one familiar face after another appearing through the doorway again with no worse indignity than the new identification tags hanging from their necks.

“I hate a guy named Johann, and I like a guy named Fritz, and the lieutenant guy wasn’t bad.” Maureen declared, straightening her precious cap atop muddy auburn tresses. “Who went and named their son Fritz after the last war? I mean really? Who does that to a kid? It’s like he’s making up for it now, though, awfully nice.”

“Mm, I thought so, too.” Ida hummed, “Might keep an eye on that one, work on him a bit. You think, Kendeigh?”

“Work on him yourself, Ida.” Maureen scoffed.

“Not much to work with.” Ida retorted, the first general reference to her disfigurement she’d made. “What do you know? What’s up?” she left off to inquire after Tallulah Smith who came out the other side of processing looking more than exasperated.

“Know? They don’t know squat.” she said, “Never heard of a Cherokee.”

“I’ll be.” Maureen was grinning sharply. “Wasn't enough being a woman for ya Smith, ya had to go and be a brown one.”

“You’re tellin’ me.” She griped, “They kept insisting I was a fighter pilot. That’s what all the ‘dark ones’ are, according to them. Told them I’d rewire their insides and maybe then they’d take my engineering degree seriously.”

“I’d like to see that.” Maureen murmured, drowsiness beginning to take over at the comparative calm of their new surroundings.

“Looks like we got everyone, yeah?” Ida peered over the heads of the crowing room and counted out her charges in a silent tally.

“Looks like.” Smith agreed. “Got billet assignments?”

“I do. Colonel Clark, most senior prisoner here, said the combines are strict but the rooms aren’t. Let’s try to behave until we feel our way, then we can swap, if they allow.”

“It’s going to smell like feet no matter where and who we share it with.” Smith pointed out and Ida heaved a great sigh as if that were the hardest prospect she’d yet encountered.

“Mm.”

“Buck is out there!” Maureen suddenly cried out, grabbing at Ida’s arm, pointing out the window at the muddy yard.

“How nice. Gotta get this sorted first, eyes in, Kendeigh.”

Maureen reluctantly tore her eyes away from her dearly missed pilot. “Yes sir.”

“All right,” Ida’s voice carried as well as it ever had, commanding immediate quiet and attention, “those in the 350th, 419th, -the hundredth!- on me. Gather ‘round. That’s it, come on. Alright, well, we made it, well done. Truly, well done to all of you. Now I know you well enough to not accuse any of you of being pure idiots, just because we made it to where we wanted to go doesn’t mean any of what’s ahead is going to be easy. Be wary, don’t let your guard down, you don’t know plenty of these men and they don’t know you, I’m sure there are measures in place for spying already. Be sensible. I am certain we can rely on the kindness of those in the hundredth, but even then keep in mind, if you are cold, they are too, if you're hungry, you best believe they are hungrier, the last thing we need is a crisis of chivalry in here. Rely on them, except their help, but don’t ever take from them. Understood? And one more thing, since the human spirit is irrepressible I feel it’s warranted to make one more housekeeping note. None, and I do mean none, no inner relations at all are allowed. I don’t care how cold you are, how sweet he’s been, or how much you’ve missed him. The Red Cross aren’t sending rubbers, and don’t ever take the promise of a pull out. Do you want a one-way ticket to a death camp or a bullet to the head? Get pregnant. Simple as that. You think the Jerries think poorly of you now for being female? Try being a matron. The point is to blend in as much as possible, keep that in mind. Whatever you do, keep that in mind. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

“Colonel?” One voice demurred, raised hand and respectful title only forerunners for an obvious objection incoming.

“Yes? Sanchez, isn’t it? You’re not one of mine, I think.”

“No, sir, 55th -fighters.”

“Yes, well, welcome. What’s your question?”

“No offense sir but- what about the guards?” Sanchez asked.

“We don’t know yet,” Brady replied with typical candor, “I believe so far we’ve seen a mix here. I’m sure our friends can give us tips on who to watch out for.”

“No sir, sorry I meant-“ Sanchez kept her teeth clenched until her thoughts seemed to form better, “-you said no relations. What about the guards? No disrespect meant colonel and I don’t know about yours, but mine -they weren’t pulling out.”

“Mm.” Maureen thought that if Ida smashed her lips together any tighter they’d turn whiter than her skin, the bent aviators she had managed to preserve this entire time did a remarkable job of masking whatever feeling was stiffening her spine to the current degree, but all the same, her spine was stiff, “no offense taken, an excellent point. I’ll inquire about any possible…remedies. Anyone else?”

A multitude of hands shot up and Ida Brady scanned them with bewilderment until she realized her lapse in specificity. “Anyone else with questions, I meant! Saints alive. No? Good, let’s claim our bunks and see about a wash.”

After the dark interior of the building, being processed for hours, the hazy late afternoon light of outside glared painfully against Ida’s bloodshot eyes as she stepped out, leading the way down the three wooden steps to the muddy yard. Monochrome, this place, brown wooden buildings and brown earth and a muddy sky and brown flight jackets one after another.

And there in the midst of it, waiting for them with ever constant patience and thinned stateliness was Gale Cleven and his lost blue eyes and an alarmingly symmetrical set of facial scars.

“Major.” Ida felt her face soften into an odd expression she realized was likely that of relief. Cleven had that way about him, it was better suited to her preferences than Egan’s blustering warm hearted concern, Colonel Harding’s gruff joviality or her John’s perpetually intense concern. Her little brother was, oddly, nowhere to be seen now and that was a comfort in this wide open, highly observed space.

“Colonel.” Gale Cleven’s eyes weren’t a lost blue anymore but a pair of stormy seas and Ida steeled herself for pity. She found smoldering rage in his face instead. Another relief.

“How was it?” he was nodding to the command hut.

“Fine.” she assured.

He was searching for something in her face and Ida was sure it was easily found skin deep along her puffy, purpled left cheek, but if she had anything to do with her expression alone, he’d be kept guessing for ages. “Good.” he decided at last but his smile was tight, “Made John wait in the combine, he’s in there pacing like a madman. They make a note of who’s attached to whom, Colonel,” he explained, “a more discreet reunion seemed in order.”

“We’d appreciate all the direction you—“ Ida had begun but was cut short by Lt. Kendeigh who broke ranks from the processed group and came out of the hut behind Ida like a bat out of hell, running up to Cleven and tackling him in a hug, rather like a dog with their long lost master.

The Major’s lanky frame staggered under her surprise attack, perhaps more from shock and ill preparedness than poor rations and a weakened constitution. Or at least Ida, hoped that was the case.

Well, there went all intentions for discretion about partiality on their part, five seconds had gone by and Maureen still hadn’t let go, her valued cap about ready to knock off her head and his too. Seeing the gig was up, Cleven even belatedly brought an arm up to hug her shoulders, his pleased face bashfully pacifying her intensity. “If it isn’t my favorite bombardier.” Cleven mumbled, his lips failing not to tug upwards in the tiniest of smiles, and he gave her a pat on the back.

“Buck!” Smith was coming in hot behind Kendeigh and knocked Ida’s shoulder in her haste to get around her and join in. “Thank Jesus you’re here.” she grunted as she squeezed him and Kendeigh both, “I mean -we’re sorry you’re here but since we’re here-“

“Glad you’re here, too, Smith.” he assured her gently, another pat on another back and Ida watched Cleven’s composure began to flake as he took stock of their roughened appearances. “It’s gonna be ok now.” he offered, and coming from someone else that statement would’ve sounded a great deal less impressive than it did coming from him. It also sounded hollow without Bucky’s typical parroting of the upbeat sentiment. “Let’s get you girls sorted.” he nodded at Ida who fell in alongside him, if only to distance and displace Kendeigh and her over familiarity just a tad.

“What’s your Kommandant like?” Ida asked by way of conversation as Gale directed them in a trudge along the brown paths towards his specified hut.

“Think I know him as well as you.” Gale admitted, “Tried to stay low, been no reason for socializing. Wouldn’t advise a trip to the camp doctor though.” He added the last part after a beat.

“Why?”

“Your Johnny says he’s got an experimental mind.” Gale smiled wryly but there was a grieved look behind it that made Ida’s pulse pound in alarm, “If you go in with a cold, you might come out with a radioactive arm instead.”

“Noted.” Ida muttured with a shiver, wishing to god her jacket hadn’t been taken off her a couple stops ago, the sun was waning in the dull sky and the breeze was frigid without it. “Speaking of doctors,” she decided to go for it, “is Johnny -my John- is he alright? At the gate it was such a racket, was he…standing?”

Gale paused in his step up into the combine, brows knitted in surprise and she noticed along with him that their little march had drawn quite a little audience from the fellow inmates. Females in a Stalag -what a novelty. “Yeah, John’s fine. He’s fit.” Gale still had that quizzical look on his face.

Ida swallowed hard and gave him another curt nod, one she wanted to come across as grateful but wasn’t sure it did, her battered cheek was responding less and less to her mind’s commands. “Right. This us?”

“Yeah. Figured we’d try to keep as many close as possible.” He explained, “Welcome to paradise.”

“What did y’all name this shack?” Maureen asked him as she stepped over the threshold, it was dark inside and smelled of lumber and smoke.

“We haven’t.” Gale admitted, forlorn at the realization that things like that didn’t occur to people like him. If Bucky had been here, he’d have had it named in an hour, and something awful, too. Something that would make them all laugh.

“Damn oversight, Gingerale.” Maureen teased merrily but Cleven noticed the dimming light in her eyes as she took in the cramped, uninspired utility of the place. One wooden doorway after another.

“Talked it over with Colonel Clark during your processing,” Gale said, “decided it were best if we mingle you all among the men we know. Boys from your squadrons, friendly faces. A few of you in each room.”

“I call dibs on yours.” Maureen unabashedly grinned up at Cleven but Ida saw how a heartbroken look of protectiveness skittered across his features.

“Alright.” he muttered without a fight for once.

“Mm, Smith, Sanchez, Tong, you in here.” Ida decided and having snapped her fingers she was moving on to the next stuffy room. Asking Cleven at each about their current occupants, and with the precision of memory required of a woman who had to memorize her opponents on the promotional ladder, chose their new bunk mates accordingly.

“And where’s Johnny bunked?” she asked him in a low tone as she watched the next set settle in from the doorway.

“In with me, further down the hall, Demarco, Hambone, a few others.”

Ida seemed to hesitate as she eyed up an extra bunk in the current room that the last of her girls were settling into.

“Don’t be a stick, colonel,” Maureen spoke up gently, a surprising liberty even for her, “you need friends right now. Bunk with us. Everyone’s going to be fine. Can’t be all places at all times, ya know?”

Ida didn’t reply but after a moment she admitted, “I should go see John.”

Gale and Maureen exchanged a look and then moved in unison to catch up to her as Ida Brady walked, brisk as if she were back home at Thorpe and about to pick a fight with Jack Kidd, down the long hall to one of the last rooms. “In here?” she asked Gale, pointing at the closed door -they liked to keep it so for warmth and privacy, and to acclimate the guards to it being closed when the radio was out.

“Yeah that’s us.” Cleven replied, reaching out and snagging Maureen back a step as Ida turned the handle. “Let’s give ‘em a minute.” he suggested, referring to the Bradys.

He held her jacket sleeve for a brief moment before turning it to grab her hand, he’d missed those hands. To his horror their usual calloused elegance was a swollen paw of bruises. “The hell, Maureen?” he whispered in shock, turning it over to examine it, grip strong around her wrist before she could pull away. “Who did this?”

Maureen did her best to shrug, “Some bitch stood on them.” she said simply, and surrendered the other hand for a similar heartbroken inspection.

Kendeigh was indeed not as visibly marred as Ida Brady or a few of the others, but still, Gale kept turning her crushed hands over and over, recalling with vivid agony the way he’d admired them at all manner of work before. To hurt them that way, to restrain her so meanly- “Maureen,” she’d never heard his voice dip so low, and his eyes were simmering where they cataloged her hurts, “what’d they do to you?”

“What’d they do to your face?” she shot back, perhaps more perturbed by the immaculately symmetrical scars on his once porcelain face than her own condition. Women expected the treatment they’d gotten, in some twisted way, but this on the other hand, it disturbed her.

Gale looked taken aback by her question and quickly dropped her hand to touch his right cheek as if to remind himself the scar was obvious to everyone. “Flak.” he replied a beat too late.

“Awfully precise.” she snarked.

“I asked you first.”

“I told you, a bitch stood on them.”

“I’m your superior officer.”

“Who it looks like someone had some fun with,” Maureen snapped back, “who did this?”

“What happened to you?” He hit right back but his voice quavered.

“I’m fine now. I wanna go see the boys. Come on.”

“Just- give them another minute.” Gale insisted, pulling her back away from the doorway again, “It’s a lot.” He reminded, “For a brother to see his sister like -that.”

Maureen couldn’t argue with that, besides Gale looked so sad and more fragile than she’d ever seen him, and the gentle hold he had on her jacket was as needy and scared as a child’s. “I’m glad we’re in this together.” she whispered.

“Me too.” he admitted, guilty and sad over how true that was before letting her press her lips to his.

Ida Brady didn’t know what she expected when she opened the door, not much she supposed, just a living brother with any luck. It was a decently tidy room, plates stacked on a rough hewn board at the far end, eight bunks lining the walls, stacked three tall. A table was in the middle and there sat dear old Crank and Hambone too, Murph with Benny. A card game was ongoing.

They looked so fine, quite normal, all in all.

All motion in the small room stopped upon her entrance. Cards were dropped and cigarettes forgotten in open mouthed shock.

“Holy shit -colonel?” Demarco didn’t have a dishonest bone in his body, and his disbelieving horror over her appearance came through loud and clear in his greeting. She hadn’t seen him at the gate.

The same for Hambone’s face, one that had never bothered to be discreet in pleasant circumstances, much less in shocking ones like seeing a notorious superior officer come in looking about as battered as a body could get -although his torn cheek was one to talk. Crank recovered first, in his mild, stammering sort of way, glancing at the lean figure who still stood looking out the lone window.

“Well, if it isn’t Ain’t Pretty Brady.” Crank clapped uneasily, summoning her nickname from basic just to cut the tension, it served to startle John.

He turned from the window abruptly, blank faced and unblinking as he realized the sister he had been watching for had already arrived. If their ole nan from the motherland had suddenly materialized before him he could have hardly looked more haunted or aghast, wide fringed fox eyes and that straight fold of a mouth -always so very held together, her little brother. Even after his third belly landing.

But those startled unblinking eyes...

Ida wanted to tell him to blink, that it was all alright now, that they were both alive and that it was good enough, it had to be. But she seemed to have fully lost all power over her throbbing cheek at last, she could feel her lips move in a motion she realized with supreme panic was likely a wobble of emotion. She ripped her aviators off, as if seeing her eyes might help his to come alive.

“John John?” she croaked in greeting, oblivious of the childish endearment tumbling off her lips in a room full of soldiers. If it were something their family was in the habit of doing, Ida Brady might have rushed him like Maureen did her pilot, or held out her own hand to be held, asked for a gesture from him -after what she’d gone through, surely it couldn’t have been weakness to want a clap on the shoulder, a flick to the bicep, a little “well done” for staying alive.

But she just stood there and watched him clock her shame. She could feel her swollen lip splitting in real time as the swelling and incessant trembling tore the taut skin apart, they’d passed around a single canteen in processing and it wasn’t enough, the walls of her throat felt collapsed together. Maybe she should have asked for a mirror first, maybe Cleven or Kendeigh or Smith should have told her she’d bring a whole room to a frozen standstill by her looks alone. They’d seen her at the gate -were these meager lightbulbs really so much more illuminating?

“Eye-eye.” Johnny let it out in a breathy rush as if he’d suddenly come to, and then he was in front of her, hands cradling the sides of her neck, thumbs hooked gently under her bruised jaw. A calloused pad swiped away the ticklish trickle of blood sliding the crease of her mouth.

Eye eye -his onetime baby babble for Ida, and she’d never let him forget it.

She could have wept at the useless sentimentality of it, of the gentle familiarity of familial hands, at the seething loyalty storming across his face.

“The fuck did they do?” he articulated at last, voice gravelly as shit but also reminiscent of the squeaky olden days when his castrato role suddenly no longer served one Sunday in choir.

“You’ve got legs.” she answered instead, sounding maniacal in her happiness.

He looked at her like she’d gone fully crazy as well as beat, “Yeah? Yeah I do.”

“They said, they said you didn’t.” she chuckled, a bizarre merriment trying to take hold in her relief, “During interrogation, that bespectacled cunt told me you had your legs crushed when you crashed.”

“No? No- no I jumped.” He insisted, then let go of her face to step back and gesture to two fit legs, as long and lanky as she remembered, as long and lanky as her own. “I jumped, I’m fine. They told you that?”

“Yeah.” Ida said, “Told me the longer I didn’t comply the longer you were without medical attention. I -I’ve been so…uneasy…about you.”

“I’m fine.” He repeated, hands back on her shoulders and she was grateful for it despite the bruises he was gripping, grateful for the way he kept touching her like he was going to hold her together with his own two hands, same blood, same flesh, same memories, maybe whatever she’d lost he could supply back like a blood donation. “Those sons of bitches.” he cursed them.

“Plasma for planes.” she agreed.

He kept looking at her, at her cheek and at her ragged hair and at the missing buttons, “You didn’t tell them anything did you?” he suddenly asked, wide eyed. “You know i’d rather die than have you tell.”

Ida scoffed, and gave him a grin, the best one she could manage with her cheek and split lip, “What do you take me for, Johnny?”

“A cold hearted bitch, I hope.” he returned the small smile but his voice cracked, still that hint of something long gone and juvenile.

“That’s what their Lieutenant called me.” Ida confirmed, a little proud, and sensing a renewal of his inquiries, Ida chose to take the offensive and call out for a conspicuously absent Kendeigh, “Candy! Didn’t you want to tell Johnny about your charming admirer? The Lieutenant?”

Kendeigh came round the doorway hastily, her lips puffy and cheeks oddly red. Cleven followed after and matched her, and his blush did nothing but highlight those scars of his. “Brady.” Maureen greeted, boldly hugging Ida’s very stiff brother without care —due to his red cheeks and rigid shoulders Ida concluded Cleven had given his own inner-relations talk to the men—, “Yes, I wanted to -oh hello Crank, Benny you son of gun- wanted to tell y'all about my ticket outta here -hell Hambone, how’d you manage to get uglier? -see my integrator, he found me fairly fetching. I think one of these days he’s gonna roll up in his shiny car and take me away from here and you’re all gonna wish you’d taken time to learn a little know-how about Alligators and their hibernation tactics in the winter. He was enthralled.”

There was an awkward silence hanging in the room, Crank grimaced a smile out of sheer generosity of heart and Benny Demarco still sat with his cigarette neglected on his open lip. Cleven, used to her preening brazness kept a tight lip, though a thousand questions seemed to swirl in his eyes.

“He the one who stood on your hands?” John Brady asked her without hesitancy.

Maureen whirled round then, comedy hour over and an angry flush creeping up her neck at his directness. “No.” she snapped. “Can’t some of them be alright?”

“A German’s a German.” he countered.

“There’s Fitzs and then there’s Johanns.” she disagreed nebulously and only Ida got her reference.

“And a shower is a shower,” Ida butted in before this became an experiment in an immovable object meeting an unstoppable force “which we need, badly. We’re…filthy.”

“We’ve got working sinks, trough sinks.” Cleven clarified with an apologetic look as if it were his fault the showers only ran once a week and poorly at that, and the water they had was frigid already in autumn.

“Water is water.” Ida reasoned in return, wondering when Johnny was going to finally let go of her arm.

“We’ll clear it out for ya.” Cleven said.

“And we’ll guard the entrance.” John added emphatically.

“Thanks.” Ida muttured, “Some of us could use to mend our uniforms.” she added, refusing to blanch at the subtle inventory of her jagged tears and crusted blood being made by every man in the room.

Maureen at least had her jacket intact. Her cap, too.

“Here, you can have my trousers while I stitch yours.” her John decided and was unbuckling his belt before she even registered the hand gone from her shoulder.

“What?” Ida balked, “You’re going to go ‘round in your skivvies?”

“Not as uncommon around here as you’d think, Ida.” Gale said, a small smile on his face. “I’m afraid order and decorum has gone to shit without you.”

“Well I’m here now.” she replied sternly but didn’t stop Johnny as he stripped.

“And so am I.” Kendeigh grinned and all Ida could do was to bless the saints for having let only one terror into the camp, were Bucky Egan to be here too, things would become intolerably lax. As soon as she thought it she repented it, sending up a prayer for the poor, absent bastard.

“Say Benny, you’re shorter, can I have your pants?” Maureen pleaded.

“Why mine?” Demarco protested, only offended at the height implication.

“Because Cleven’s too tall and I’ve already been in his pants.”

“Maureen!”

“Ida, order somebody to give me their pants.”

“You can have mine.” Crank offered kindly, and then stood up and bashfully began to unlayer. It left him in skivvies, a snuggly sweater and his flight jacket.

“It’s a good look, Crank,” Maureen grinned at the finished product as he handed the trousers over. “I’m seeing you in a different light.”

“Maureen!”

“Just sayin-“

“Take the pants with you to the washroom!” Brady interjected desperately as Maureen looked ready to strip right here and now. “Jesus, Kendeigh.”

“Touchy, touchy.” Maureen ribbed him, out for blood in her tired state and if she couldn’t have that of the Germans she would of her friends’.

“Alright let’s - let’s settle down.” Gale implored, a tired expression firmly etched onto his face and Ida herself considered giving up on the wash altogether and tumbling into the available bunk to court the oblivion of sleep. Were it only blood and dirt she just might, her usual tidiness be damned.

As it was -it was, there was…the filth was so much worse.

And if Ida thought on it too long she’d go mad and want to pour boiling lye on herself to wash herself clean and to kill the shame of it. She’d have to scrub the pants before she gave them to Johnny to be mended, it was bad enough for a brother to see the blood and busted seams.

“Yes, settle down for God’s sake.” she echoed Cleven, and something about her hoarse voice compelled Maureen to temper herself more than any direct order could. “A wash, come on, let’s get the girls. Oh and one more thing, Cleven-“ Ida turned to Gale and found him alert, eager to help. She was afraid she was only setting him up for failure but she had to make an effort to find those “remedies” she’d promised Sanchez. “There any lemons around?”

The incredulous look on his face suggested he thought she knew better, but he was ever polite in his reply, “No, colonel. No lemons.”

“Mm. Nutmeg?” she tried to recall each wicked trick she’d heard condemned when a girl got herself in the family way without the needed family in place.

“No, no nutmeg.”

“Mm.”

“Nothing but potatoes and cigarettes, ma’am. Do you- why?” he asked.

“Nothing.” she assured, “Just, a hot toddy sounds good right about now. You know?”

“Uh,” he floundered, half in suspicion and half in genuine confusion, “never had one.”

“Well then,” she grinned as she passed him, “that’s something to add to our to-do list for when this is all over. Jameson, though, none of that Kentucky stuff.”

“Yes ma’am.” his tone was vacant, smiling concern brittle, “You uh, you alright, Colonel?”

Ida gave him a withering look and then Gale too, had cause to be repentant.

“Come on Kendeigh, let's get the rest.” Ida gestured as she followed Gale back into the hall, aware of Johnny’s eyes still on her, still taking stock, “They better not be in bunks without a wash. Come on, showers, everyone! Out, come on out. You can sleep afterwards. Out! Would one of you be so kind as to wake us up in time for roll call?” she inquired of the male officers straggling behind her in the hall.

“Course! Yeah, for sure.” about five offers went up.

“You wake Me up.” she clarified coming to a full stop, wary of the enthusiasm, “I’ll wake up the rest.”

“I’ll get you up.” Her John said.

He’d probably sit and watch her sleep, too, needle and torn pants in hand, like a creepy little owl but that was one of those things she figured make or break a family, you either find it endearing you have a brother who rarely blinks or you go mad. Today, after all of it, she didn’t mind having a guardian Angel. Or a watchdog. Speaking of-

“Hey,” she asked him, “you two flew out together, where’s Bucky?”

But no one had an answer for that, not even Little John.

💋Hope you enjoyed AND REMEMBER -prompts are now open.

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