#olive drab four pointed star

[nothingunrealistic]

review roundup: billions 7x06 “the man in the olive drab t-shirt”

a return to disappointing form! what did reviewers think?

New York Times: ‘Billions’ Season 7, Episode 6 Recap: From Russia With Love

At any rate, by the time the closing credits roll, neither one has tried to body slam the other, figuratively or otherwise. That’s the best thing about Chuck and Bobby’s big reunion, actually: the lack of fireworks.

i would have said the best part was that it didn’t stretch out for more than five minutes, but to each their own, i guess.

He allows the menacing robber baron to threaten to throw Krakow off a rooftop unless he puts the kibosh on the divorce filing and stops shtupping Grigor’s ex-wife.

untrue. he threatened to throw krakow out a window. totally different.

Everyone’s a winner! The same cannot be said for the participants in the Mike Prince story line. Like a trio of plotters straight out of Shakespeare, Wendy, Wags and Taylor are constantly kibitzing in hopes of taking their dreaded boss down before he can win the White House.

get their asses!

At this point in its run, “Billions” feels a bit like a spinning top starting to wobble — but I mean this as a compliment. There are only so many times the schemes of one of the show’s preposterously competent main characters can go right before they start to go disastrously wrong. Each meticulously plotted episode moves us incrementally closer to that tipping point.

i wouldn’t say wags & wendy’s schemes have been going “right” so far, per se, but they have avoided ending in disaster, so point taken.

“When did I become Lex Luthor?” Mike asks Wendy plaintively. I dunno, Mike, probably when you decided to run for president as a bald billionaire, something the comic-book villain did over two decades ago. He won, too, if you can somehow imagine a United States of America willing to elect a wealthy megalomaniac as president. Try not to strain yourself.

truly one of the top lines of the episode. look in the mirror, prince! literally!

Yes, that was President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine talking to Axe, but if you thought he might have better things to do than make a cameo on “Billions,” you would be correct. A Showtime spokesperson confirmed that the show edited existing footage of him into the episode.

i’d definitely wondered about that myself. billions pulls some pretty high-profile celebrities for cameos, but that seemed a bit too tall an order to be done just for the show. (though i still wonder what kind of permission, if any, they needed in order to do that.)

Vulture: Billions Recap: Double Turn

each of vulture’s billions episode recaps (and presumably its recaps of other shows) includes an episode rating out of five stars. this episode received four stars — the first after a long string of three-star ratings. would you like to guess what the last episode of billions to receive four stars from vulture was? go ahead, guess. i’ll give you some time to think about it.

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that’s right! it was 6x10 johnny favorite! that episode of billions that everyone loved so much because it was so well-written!!! 🙃🙃🙃

I’m conflicted over “The Man in the Olive Drab T-Shirt.” In many ways, it’s Billions’ best episode of the season yet because it brought back everything the show has been lacking since Axe skipped the country. But it’s also one of the series’ worst episodes on account of how much was crammed into a single hour of television. By overstuffing “The Man in the Olive Drab T-Shirt,” most of the important plot points were diluted.

THEN WHY DID YOU GIVE IT FOUR STARS?

Oh, and remember what I said last week about Billions not spending enough time on Kate Sacker? I continue to be appalled by how major developments in her story line are shoehorned into already overflowing episodes like this one. In short, Wags plants seeds of doubt in Kate’s head about sacrificing her congressional ambitions for the sake of Prince’s presidential campaign (yay!). But after one dinner with her media-mogul father, who reminds her that connections are more powerful than political smarts (he’s right, dammit!), Kate decides to remain at MPC and eventually run as an independent on Prince’s ticket. She’s a political animal, all right.

it was truly baffling how sacker seemed to just bounce back and forth among what everyone else in this episode was telling her without ever having a thought of her own. shouldn’t she at least suspect that wags is messing with her head?

In an exposition-heavy dialogue between Malkovich and Damian Lewis — their superb acting is the only thing that makes this tedious scene bearable — Andolov makes it clear that he’s not letting bygones be bygones yet.

was it bearable? i didn’t notice.

“When did I become Lex Luthor?” Prince moans to Wendy. (This is hands down the funniest line of the season so far. Look in the mirror, pal!)

i must have plagiarized this exact sentiment when reacting to that line being mentioned in the nyt recap. oops! still true though.

Right before Prince goes live, Wendy tells him she knew he would put himself back together, only for Andy to snidely remark that she put him back together — and that she knows Wendy was the one who tore him apart in the first place. It looks like Andy may be the most monumental challenge for the Fifth Column yet because Prince’s speech does gangbusters.

i’m interested to see whether andy becomes a significant player in the battle against prince or if she’s just kind of lingering on the sidelines resenting the influence wendy has on prince. i’d expect her to be showing up in more episodes if it’s the former.

And let’s be honest, we all needed Danny Strong’s exposition so badly here because even I didn’t initially understand how Andolov’s arrest and deportation was going to benefit the oligarch: Andolov agreed to say he was trying to steal American military secrets, which would make him a hero in Russia, thus killing any “rumors” that he was secretly funding Ukraine.

i think him saying “i am a citizen of the greatest nation in the history of the world, led by the greatest leader, so fuck you and fuck america” into news cameras while wearing a t-shirt saying RUSSIA under a hammer & sickle and putin riding a bear also helped out.

Can Wendy, Wags, and Taylor please stop conducting Fifth Column meetings IN THE OFFICE DURING THE WORKDAY? MPC is an open-floor plan. There is no way their machinations will remain a secret for long.

HONESTLY. at least they had the sense to hold their second meeting in wendy’s apartment, but huddling up to discuss their schemes in their extremely high-visibility workplace with all their coworkers around is amateur shit! sacker could have overheard them and ruined everything if she’d approached just a little more stealthily!

As insane as the entire double-turn sequence was, it was worth it just to watch John Malkovich don a USSR-era T-shirt and scream “Fuck America!” in his creepy Russian accent.

not really USSR-era, given the “putin riding a bear” detail, but that was indeed the highlight of that sequence.

Fan Fun with Damian Lewis (Damianista): Billions on Showtime, Season 7 Episode 6: The Man in the Olive Drab T-Shirt

As Grigor Andolov rightly points out one should avadversary is the one that knows about your abilities the most.

PLEASE get an editor. hell, i’ll do it if you want.

We actually kind of knew that it is Grigor Andolov that Axe partnered with to provide weapons for Ukraine.

honestly, lol. even if we hadn’t seen grigor in the trailer, axe’s line of “i got a guy you would not expect to deliver weapons to ukraine” in 7x01 would have immediately set me up to expect that it was grigor.

Once the other oligarchs leave the room, Grigor sits next to Axe. He is very straightforward with his demands and threats. A number of oligarchs who are against Putin’s policies are dead (and the people Andolov mentions were all found dead in apparent suicides! Read about Menlikov and Protosenya here.)

i did not realize that the dead oligarchs grigor listed off were the names of real people. damn.

And knowing that Chuck may not want to do this personal favor for him, Axe talks about the “old combatants’ code” in the example of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, one of the biggest rivalries in the sports history. And remember Axe and Chuck likened their rivalry to that of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier in Season 5 Episode 12 No Direction Home.

i did remember that, but didn’t realize that “smokin’ joe” referred to joe frazier.

I have read comments on different social media platforms where some viewers do not understand why several characters are against Prince running as a presidential candidate. This shows me that, unfortunately, some undemocratic tendencies and practices have been normalized in American democracy. Mike Prince quoted from Hitler’s 1929 Munich speech in Episode 1 Tower of London. Mike Prince told Wendy that the founding fathers never intended to establish a democracy but a constitutional republic, and that politics in the US went downhill when politicians decided they had to listen to people in Episode 2 Original Sin. Mike Prince promised his Taiwanese business partner special trade privileges as soon as he is in the Oval office in Episode 4 Hurricane Rosie. If you think this kind of person can be the POTUS, then vote for him. I would never vote for someone that has a clear authoritarian agenda.

THANK YOU. not only have i seen this sentiment, i’ve seen a few people suggest that the Real threat to democracy is “a few elitists” (meaning wendy, wags, and taylor) trying to keep prince from the presidency and therefore depriving the american public of the chance to decide whether or not to vote for him. please be serious. (though i must correct you to point out that prince’s points about the founding fathers and politicians were also in 7x01, not 7x02.)

Kate basically buys ads on major TV networks in a way that if another candidate wants to buy TV time like Prince within a week, they cannot because there is no time left! I know I am repeating myself but this is something we should all think about as citizens: Money holds politics hostage in this country.

*turns on a big blinking neon sign that says ↑THEME↑*

The survey obviously does not work when they do it survey with Prince and Bradford in the room since the employees naturally see this as some kind of “loyalty test.” Answers vary from Tuk’s “I don’t deserve you” (Tuk) to Dollar Bill’s “Mike, you’re a combination of Benjamin Graham and fucking Hal from Space Odyssey” to Rian’s FREE PASS. If this was Axe, he would tell his employees that his cholesterol is high enough that they should stop buttering up his ass – like he did in Season 1 Episode 1: The Pilot. But Prince who genuinely believes he is LOVED is very happy with the survey result that Wendy needs to intervene.

one of the strongest axe-prince comparisons ever made. axe fully expects that his employees will talk shit about him! he knows how the world works and how people see him!

When the couple arrives at the studio for Prince’s talk, Prince is grateful to Wendy for putting him back together while Andy says that she, Andy, collected the pieces Wendy kicked across the floor and put him back together. Hmmm. Well, I remember Lara did not like Wendy much, either 🙂

i sure thought about that as well! but wendy’s dynamic with prince definitely shouldn’t worry andy for the reasons that wendy’s dynamic with axe worried lara. as the scripture says:

One storyline that has not been compelling for me this week is that of Kate’s. And this hints that the story is way more complex than it seems. When Wendy says they need to get rid of Kate since she is very effective in helping Prince, Wags takes on the responsibility to convince Kate that it staying at MPC would not work in her favor if she still planned to run for Congress. Since Mike is running as an independent candidate, why would the two major parties nominate Kate, someone so close to Prince? Kate is not naive. And she is smart as hell. There is NO WAY Kate has not thought about this or other potential scenarios. And if she is still staying, she has a plan. And here is what I believe Kate’s plan is: Kate already knows about Prince and his shady ways, his untaxed billions in crypto, and I think her plan is to take down Prince as a presidential candidate, become a public hero, and both parties knocking on her door to ask her to be their nominee for Congress. Yet, Kate does not know about Wendy, Wags and Taylor plotting to take down Prince and so she chooses to play dumb with Wags and brings in a list of attorneys as her replacement to Prince and Scooter. She also talks to her dad for them to go over her plans which I believe her dad is involved in. Mr. Sacker tells Kate about Donna Summer who made him go broke as a music manager but also made everyone answer his calls because he was working with Donna. And when he tells Kate to stay at MPC, I don’t think he tries to tell her that she will win if she stayed close to Prince but she will win if she stick to her plan: Both parties will be after her if Kate takes down Prince as a presidential candidate. I am now convinced Kate will be an essential character in taking down Prince and I think she may recruit Bryan to help her.

um. i strongly doubt that this is the case. i think it’s plausible that sacker will turn on prince eventually, but i really don’t think that's what she’s planning at the moment.

Food for thought: I keep going back to Wendy telling Wags at the end of Episode 4 that they have to do it like in Agatha Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express. I love the book and the original movie. In Murder on the Orient Express, 12 people coordinate to murder a man who hurt so many people in the past. And since every word and reference used in Billions has a purpose, I am wondering whether 12 people will coordinate to take down Prince in the series finale. So let us count: Wendy, Wags, Taylor, Chuck, Ira, Dave make 6. Axe will join them so we have 7. Kate, and if she recruits Bryan for the cause, we have 9. As a bond forming between them, I would not be surprised if Wendy did have Bradford Luke as an ally at some point and it makes 10. And more importantly, one of the dozen murderers in Murder on the Orient Express is the victim’s right-hand man! So, ladies and gentlemen, it could actually be Scooter who can join the ranks to take down Prince as well. Scooter’s face spoke volumes when Prince came to his office to say he could not allow him to conduct the NY Philharmonic in Episode 4 Hurricane Rosie. And I am positive this is not the first time Prince disappointed Scooter. And if Philip joins his uncle, we have 12 right there to take down Prince. What say you?

i don’t think it’s out of the question for brian & david to go the extra mile in fulfilling the reference by arraying twelve against prince, but i think you’re leaning too heavily on hoping that prince’s inner circle will turn against him and too readily ignoring the possibility of rank-and-file prince cappers, or characters currently outside the spheres of the law and mpc, to join the fight. here’s my thinking:

wendy, wags, and taylor are givens, and chuck and axe will join them eventually. it’s possible one or more of these characters will switch sides at the last minute, for The Ultimate Twist, but i expect this to be the core of the fight against prince from episode 10 on.

ira makes sense as an ally to chuck. dave is certainly trying to take down prince as well, but she might insist on doing it her own way.

luke’s first loyalty here is to prince. sure, he might be torn over his growing attachment to wendy, but i don’t think he’d choose her over prince.

sacker and scooter’s first loyalties are also to prince, but he’s done more to undercut or diminish them than he has to luke, and sacker might still feel some attachment to chuck. i could see either of them switching sides at the last moment, but i don’t consider it likely. nor do i expect connerty to come back again.

in my opinion, philip is the real wild card in prince’s inner circle. he came aboard for prince, yes, but he’s been chafing under prince's rule almost as much as taylor has, and his love for scooter might mean he takes prince’s treatment of scooter as enough of an insult to justify working against prince. plus whatever prince does in 7x07 to put philip in “a tough position” will probably only embitter him more against prince. (of course i’m also hopeful that however philip feels about taylor will be a factor in him switching sides. but i’m trying to be Objective and Reasonable here.)

looking at characters outside mpc: based on dan soder’s recent-ish appearance on brian koppelman’s podcast, mafee will appear in one or two more episodes, and if so, him siding with axe et al is far more likely than him siding with mpc. god knows if winston will ever show up again, and whether he’d take a stance on this fight other than “i hope you all kill each other,” but if he does pick a side, i’d bet on him picking taylor’s side.

as for the rank-and-file prince cappers: i’d love it if ben and tuk found it within themselves to fight against prince from the inside (or even the outside), but i doubt they will. dollar bill and victor might be torn between “axe my man axe” and “guy i’m currently making money working for,” but i don’t care enough about them to puzzle out which way they’d lean. rian seems most likely to both want to turn against prince from inside and actually do it, but as we’ve learned, the first rule of predicting rian’s behavior is that you can’t predict rian’s behavior.

Entertainment Weekly: Billions recap: Prince for president

you’re seven episodes too late to have that as your headline!

Axe says that he needs Chuck to arrange safe passage to the United States for none other than Grigor Andolov (John Malkovich), the Russian oligarch that Chuck ran out of the country a few seasons ago. Axe and Grigor became buddies when they came together to help get military reinforcements to Ukraine, but now Grigor is seen as a traitor to his country and asks (or threatens) Axe to get him out of the country.  Chuck isn't eager to let Andolov back into the country, but Axe tells him he'll return the favor at some point and Chuck knows that having Axe in his back pocket is too valuable to pass up.

do you realize that you’re using “the country” / “his country” to refer to three different countries, without clarification, across three sentences? what do you have against proper nouns?

Meanwhile, Kate (Dola Rashad) briefly considers leaving Michael Prince Capital to run for congress within one of the big parties but decides to come back to Prince and run as an independent alongside him. 

squashing sacker’s whole subplot into one vague sentence, without naming any of the other parties involved, and failing to capitalize “Congress” while you’re at it! you really do hate proper nouns!

While I'm not sure this final season of Billions is amounting to much of anything as a whole, this is the kind of episode that still entertains. The storylines are fun and loose without being overly serious, and the performances are great. While the season in general doesn't have much left in the tank and the Prince run for president is mostly dull, it's nice to know that Billions may still have a few good moments and episodes left before it goes off the air. 

peak “half-hearted high school book report” prose right here.

Fan Fun with Damian Lewis (Gingersnap): The Unbeatable, Unstoppable, Unparalleled MVPs from Billions Season 7 Episode 6, “The Man in the Olive Drab T-Shirt”

Gingersnap […] Food For Thought: Love when Axe and Chuck banter different names at each other. On the tarmac Chuck says, “I’ll need a name, Robert.” We know Bobby, we know Axe; but Robert on the other hand is Chuck’s formal way of chastising. Like when you were a kid and you knew you were in trouble when one of your parents yelled your first, middle and last name at you from another room. But this isn’t the first time Chuck has called Axe out of his name. Back in season 1, episode 12 The Conversation, Chuck pronounces, “Because you’re a criminal…BOB!!”

see also: axe showing up at chuck & wendy’s house in 3x12 elmsley count.

CHUCK: ‘lo, Bob. AXE: Charles. CHUCK: You know, Wendy asked, and I said: Mm, you know, I’m no longer the U.S. Attorney. So there’s no conflict. And I have nothing against the guy. Not anymore. AXE: I said much the same. CHUCK: So come on in. Join us. AXE: Love to.

though i think chuck calling axe “robert” is a first.

Damianista […] First Rate Hypocrite – Dollar Bill Bill before the MPC employee survey: “I’m calling bullshit on this whole exercise, and I sure as fuck won’t suck up.” Bill at the MPC employee survey: “Mike, you’re like a combination of Benjamin Graham and fucking Hal from Space Odyssey. Everywhere all at once… Processing, prodding me to make better trades.”

get his ass!

TheTailThatWagsTheDog Best Duo – Bobby and Chuck  – this has always been the best part of this show.

[CROWD BOOING]

Chuck Sr May Have Delivered the Line But We Know Who Wrote Them – Chuck is all anti-religion huh? And quite vociferously at that. That seems a bit over the top. I wouldn’t be surprised if we looked back at some Chuck Sr scenes in the first six seasons and found him proclaiming to some deity along the way. But this fits their M.O. The writers are obviously not fans of the Christian right and so this is their way of mocking them. Weak sauce.

you seriously think chuck senior is a mouthpiece for the writers’ opinions? have you even watched this show? at any given moment he’s far more likely to say something the writers obviously disagree with! including in this very episode when he’s ranting about how he Has to control his wife and child and Had to apply a firm hand to chuck to make him turn out right!

There is plenty to critique in organized religion, but this is not the way to make a convincing statement. (Full disclosure, I am a cradle Catholic).

of COURSE you are. fucking hilarious.

Fan Fun with Damian Lewis (Lady Trader): From the Trader’s Desk

i don’t believe lady trader is doing a review of 7x06, as she mentioned she was going on vacation in her 7x05 review. if she does publish a review for 7x06, i’ll update this post accordingly.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Wet Sugar” [Part 9 of 30]

Summary: Erik returns...

NSFW. Mature Audience. Smut

If you enjoy it, please like/comment/reblog, etc! Share the love!

"You've crossed my mind, a thousand times The cost was fine, I draw the line I'm back, relapse, I'm fiending Yes, what's that? The fact, I'm dreaming Coconut oil, the scent of your body still lingers on sheets I got a shot at you, you wouldn't reach Cock back, cock back, trigger release Pop that top, take a sip of your holiest water I know I'm a part of your flow now See when you cut her, don't matter you love her And now you got part of her soul, now I ain't know then, but I know now…"

Ari Lennox (Feat. J. Cole) – "Shea Butter Baby"

Erik couldn't breathe any relaxed air until they had flown out of Nigeria.

It became clear after they had left the African continent that Klaue was on a master hit list in several countries he was doing a brisk business with. The man tried to play it off that he was not concerned with the new threats, but Erik could tell from Klaue's unnatural quiet manner that the man was facing a crisis. 

Confirmation came when Erik and Limbano took down two outed S.H.E.I.L.D. agents in Egypt as they slipped into Europe via Italy and had to take a long land haul into Afghanistan with several vehicles. Slipping into ghost-mode, they needed the help of Tahir to route them into Kabul safely. The irony. Kabul being a safe space for them.

Brain on battle mode, Kabul was to be the place to exchange coveted goods that Klaue would not reveal to anyone, not even Erik. Two weeks in the waiting period, Erik was told that he would take the secret goods back to St. Thomas and watch over them until Klaue could find a buyer. Erik could only think in three-hour units of time while in Kabul. Any future thoughts of the Virgin Islands or what waited there for him could not be entertained. Battle mode meant survive while completing the immediate task. Compartmentalize. Stay alert. Prepare alternative solutions ahead of time. Being off the grid was a life of extreme uncertainty even with the best-laid plans.

Stress ate at him.

He was abrupt with everyone around him, including Klaue. His evenings were spent in the bar inside the five-star hotel he stayed in. Klaue's way of rewarding him for saving their asses in Botswana. Erik spent twenty hours of each day holed up in his suite, ordering room service, watching mindless cable, and drinking for the four hours he left the room each day. Klaue gave him a week there. He wished he could enjoy it, but all he wanted was to finish the transfer and get the fuck outta Dodge. Return to sun, sand, clear waters…

He refused to check on Yani. Had to. Too much was happening around him with Klaue that he couldn't spare the mental energy just to look at any recent pictures or posts on her social feeds.

After polishing off what amounted to a full bottle of whiskey in one of the few hotels in Kabul that allowed liquor for tourists only, Erik received a private text from Klaue that the pick-up would go down the next day.

"Shit," Erik whispered, feeling a little unsteady as he went back to his suite. Everything was need-to- know with Klaue there, and Erik wished he had word four hours previous before he drowned his liver in alcohol. He would have to drink a lot of water to piss it out.

Showering and then packing, Erik wasn't surprised when Klaue showed up at his door.

"You look quite comfy in that robe, mate," Klaue said.

Erik finished organizing his duffel bag on the king-sized bed and stuck his hands inside the pockets of the plush robe.

"Wish you woulda mentioned go-time sooner."

"I have to keep things close. You know this. We're going near the Bagram base. My contact is an insider. Only you know this."

Erik studied Klaue's face.

"That's risky."

"What are great rewards without great risks?"

"Shits been hella sketchy, man—"

"I told you. Last gig before a little break. I'm going deep underground right after."

"How long?"

"I'm going to play it by ear, but I need you working the moment you get to Our Lady's Manor. You are going to take my prosthetic with you."

The statement gave Erik pause.

"Do what you have to do to stabilize the damn thing. I have some vibranium there, enough for you to experiment with. Use all your goddamn talents to fix this thing. I'm heading to Jo'Burg after this—"

"Are you fucking crazy? Why would you go back—"

"Why wouldn't I? The place I'm least expected to show up. I have more security there and ways to completely vanish."

"What are you gonna do? Fly over and parachute down, because there is no way you can cross borders…fuck…you're going to jump in? You crazy muthafucka."

Klaue gave a wicked smile.

"I'm a pirate at heart. You know that. Fly in…drop in."

Erik did his absolute best to keep his face neutral. He should go with him. If things were different, that would be exactly his plan. Go to South Africa, experiment on Klaue's arm there and other weapons, then prep for a Wakanda opening. Smart move would be to post up on the continent.

But he wasn't being smart.

He was being reckless. Unscripted. Compulsive. Opening himself up to trouble.

It would be so easy to tell this devil that he was going to Jo'Burg too. Huntsman or Limbano or Shipley could oversee the St. Thomas compound. He didn't need to be there…

"Run it down for me. I don't want to wait for tomorrow. You know I don't like last-minute shit."

"That's why I'm here," Klaue said.

Erik sat on the bed and focused.

###

"I don't like this."

Limbano drove to the second checkpoint of their journey, his voice gruff, and his fingers tapping on the steering wheel of the jeep they were in.

"Everything is cool, my friend," Tahir said, checking his cell, "the man up ahead is one of ours. Move over to the next lane and relax."

Limbano did as Tahir instructed and Erik could feel the man's tense mood escalate. They just needed to get past the checkpoint and then head out toward the desert following the GPS coordinates Klaue finally released to them.

Fake I.D.'s clipped to their military-issue gear, the first checkpoint had been a breeze to cross through. Erik just had to keep his face forward when he spoke so his slugs wouldn't tip off the private contractor's checking them through.

Their rendezvous point had a limited time gap, and they were ahead of schedule thanks to Tahir and his groundwork. The military base did external vehicle patrols in ninety-minute intervals and Erik had their timing down to a T. Once they passed a certain point that brought them closer to the base, they could not afford to attract any attention, hence the U.S. military get-ups to blend in.

The guard at the second checkpoint was a beefy-faced Afghan police officer in a drab olive-colored uniform. A brown flak vest covered his chest and the helmet he wore on his head looked cumbersome. He had an AK-47 pointed toward the ground as he directed cars to drive through or pull over to be inspected. Several vehicles were pulled to the side and being thoroughly checked by other officers. At their approach, his furtive glances inside their jeep let Erik know he was a newbie. But a newbie easily swayed by money to look the other way.

The police officer held up a biometric scanner to Limbano's face. He cleared.

They were waved on and Limbano visibly relaxed. Tahir patted him on his shoulder.

"Head West," Tahir said.

Behind them were Klaue, Shipley, Huntsman and a native interpreter…just in case. Erik and Tahir were fluent in Arabic, but not the nuances of a lot of Afghan contacts they could possibly run into. A third jeep brought up the rear. They all made it through the checkpoint with ease.

Simple plan.

Get in. Collect the goods Klaue had planned for Erik to smuggle back to the island. Get back to the local airport and part ways. Outside of Erik and Tahir, everyone else was firepower, each jeep filled with enough weapons to start a mini-war if needed. Whatever was inside those artifacts needed a small vetted army to get it out of the country. On top of that, Klaue only wanted Erik to guard it while they all went into hiding.

Someone inside the Airforce base was in cahoots with Klaue. Whatever was in the "package" was worth the risk, and worth going underground for a spell. Erik could only think of one thing. Intel. Intel that could destroy lives and save Klaue's as long as he held it. Intel he wouldn't take with him to South Africa. Intel that couldn't be downloaded or transferred from military protected servers, but handed off in person. Saving the man's life twice had afforded Erik the privilege to hold the goods. Alone.

They bypassed going through the private contractor checkpoints and went off-road to rendezvous ten miles from the base.

"Fuck is that?" Erik said.

They all caught sight of a speeding unescorted military S.U.V. heading their way kicking up a sandstorm behind it.

"Klaue, what is this?" Erik barked into a two-way radio.

It was too damn soon for the pick-up and too damn close to the base. They didn't even have a chance to do reconnaissance…

"It's our guy. Don't know why…shit—"

Klaue's voice dropped on the radio as they saw a wide swathe of desert sand billowing up at least five miles behind the runaway S.U.V. A caravan of vehicles chasing the lone rogue.

"Gun it!" Erik shouted to Limbano as he grabbed the AK-47 Tahir handed him.

The jeep surged forward as Limbano switched gears.

"Always cutting it fucking close…" Erik grumbled.

Limbano swung the jeep around next to the S.U.V.

A white woman in civilian clothing leaped out of the vehicle carrying a gun-metal hardshell attaché. A camo bucket hat covered her hair, and dark wrap-around visors kept her eyes hidden.

"My cover was blown!" she shouted handing Klaue the case.

Klaue's eyes peered over her shoulder as the surprise vehicles barreled down on them. Erik counted five S.U.V,'s and three military jeeps. Tahir stood next to Erik with an RPG resting on his shoulder.

"They'll scatter and surround us if I shoot this now," Tahir said.

"They'll circle us either way," Erik said as the other men stood near their closely parked vehicles with their AKs. They'd have to use their own jeeps for cover.

"What happened?" Klaue asked as the men grabbed weapons.

The woman removed her shades.

Shit. She was Klaue's squeeze from St. Thomas. Amy.

"Site exit codes have been switched every four hours on base. It took longer to secure the package and I had to move before the attache was seized and I missed your window. There was nothing I could do. I had to move," Amy said. Her eyes glanced behind her.

The vehicles were separating.

"Good luck!" Amy said as she ran back to her S.U.V., hopped in, and gunned it past them.

SSS-BLAM!

A rocket grenade streaked overhead from the sky and hit one of the oncoming jeeps.

Erik's eyes stared as a Mi-17 flew in low and fast.

Tahir let one of his rocket grenades fly striking another S.U.V. Erik kept his eyes and AK-47 on the chopper.

"This you?" Erik yelled at Klaue.

"Always have a Plan B, C, and D," Klaue said winking.

The chopper touched down behind their jeeps and a woman jumped out in full fatigues carrying a small laptop. She slammed it on the hood of Erik's jeep and typed fast.

"Nice to finally meet you in person, Killmonger," the woman said when her eyes caught his.

Erik grinned.

"Nice entrance, Linda," he said.

"Load up!" she yelled. Klaue and the others ran to the chopper. Limbano stood next to Erik, accustomed to seeing things through like him.

"This will shut down their S.U.V.s. They put Safetrak software on their cars to retrieve stolen vehicles, but that left them vulnerable to people like me. I can only disable the S.U.V.'s though…one more second….and done. Last one back!" she yelled running toward the chopper.

Once Erik and Limbano dived into the chopper behind Linda, the Mi-17 lifted up fast. Linda grabbed two hand grenades from her vest pockets, popped the pins, and dropped them down on their jeeps blowing them up.

Swooping away from the scene, Erik glanced out the open side door. Below them, he could see Amy driving her S.U.V. like a rabid bat out of hell as she headed for the mountains.

"She might make it," Erik said.

"She'll make it. I gave her a nice nest egg for this," Klaue said clutching the attaché that brought all the trouble.

Erik buckled up into his chopper seat. Linda plopped down next to him securing her own belt.

"Nice work," he said holding out his fist. She bumped her fist with his.

"I get your final approval then?"

"Hell yeah," he said.

Her face was flushed from the exertion and her smile was wide.

"Buy me a drink and thank me properly," she said.

"Bet."

###

Linda drank him under the table.

Once they escaped the desert, Klaue released everyone after money was deposited in offshore accounts and secret banks on the deep web. Erik was already comfortable with funds, but the Kabul job rewarded him handsomely with extra. Part of it was a babysitting fee to keep Erik off the market in St. Thomas for the next three months, or until Klaue was ready to emerge again from hiding.

Housed in a Lebanese hotel, Klaue treated them all to a lush meal and the best alcohol he could throw money at. They cut loose.

Everyone spruced up a bit for dinner, and Erik was right about Linda being sexy when she went all out. She was comfortable and fit in with all the testosterone and masculine energy surrounding her. Even while wearing a fancy red cocktail dress. She cursed like the best of them, and damn if she didn't make some of them look like children trying to hold their liquor.

The Black geek in both of them came out later in the evening when they started discussing ways to shut down security systems that were more complicated in just two years. He felt like he was back at M.I.T. or his old Stark internship while shooting the shit with her over coding and cybersecurity. She had a brain he could respect. She also didn't make fun of him when he had to slow down his drinking to keep his eyes from swimming. For the first time in weeks, he was feeling breezy. He survived some tough jobs and could now chill for a couple of months with a bounty in his bank account.

Tahir found a club that played decent enough music and he brought along more women that made their little party merrier after dinner.

Erik couldn't tell exactly when he let his guard down low enough for her to climb over, but on the cab ride back to the hotel Klaue set up for all of them, Linda crawled onto his lap, her lips smacking on his, and the liquor pushed him to respond.

He missed being around a woman.

Missed how they smelled.

Missed titties.

And feminine curves.

Kissing.

Softness.

He took her to his hotel room, and in his stupor, tried his best not to think of where he was headed next once he left Lebanon. Erik wiped away all images of a certain young woman with eyes that cut deep and a voice that melted his insides.

What he was about to do was just a release. No different than jerking off to porn. He wasn't cheating. That island girl was not truly his woman yet. Not until he had her in the biblical sense. And she was probably dating or seeing someone for sure. Some nigga probably slid into her DMs and wore her down. He wouldn't blame her if she moved on fast. Hell, he expected women to handle their business in his absence. He couldn't be mad if some other dude got between her thighs before he did…

Liar.

He must've been really off with the sauce if he was hearing Yani's voice in his head.

She told him before he left St. Thomas that she hadn't been with a man all the way since Chez got her pregnant. He wanted to be the first man stroking her walls with his dick. Be the first to cum inside of her. Over and over.

The liquor didn't stop his manhood from plumping up and making his pants tight.

Linda took notice and kissed him with a passionate fervor. He let her tongue slip deeper into the recess of his mouth as he felt up her chest, groaning when he held breasts and nipples again.

Stress relief.

That's what he kept telling himself.

Rolling a condom on his engorged length, he widened his knees on the carpeted hotel floor as Linda arched her back for him, ass poked out, her hands gripping the couch she was facing. She must've been really horny for him because she cut the foreplay the moment she saw his dick. They went from kissing to him lining up his glans against her weeping slit in zero to five.

"When's the last time you had dick?" he said as he pushed into her.

Her head turned back to look at him.

"Good dick, or just dick?" she asked.

He slapped her ass.

"Good dick," he huffed out as he let her feel inch by slow inch of him. He was planted in her nice and tight and her gasps let him know she was pleased.

"Oh…shit…your dick is feeling fucking great right now and you haven't even started yet," she said moaning when he pulled out slowly and sunk back into her again.

"You acting like you wanna rush shit," he said swiveling his hips as he pumped into her. Her back muscles quivered. She clutched the couch tight and pressed her forehead into the cushion.

"Fuck! You're stretching me out…hold up…let me—"

He slapped her ass again and grabbed both of her arms and pulled them back. Her head was lifted up and she couldn't get loose from him.

"Ain't no holding up. You want this hard and fast. That's how you're acting," he said.

"Oohhh!"

"Huh? Saw my shit and wanted the dick bad—"

"Yeah…yeah—"

"You gettin' it-"

"God, yes! Fuck me!"

Lips curled, balls slapping her ass, erratic horniness fueling his thrusts, Erik made Linda beg for the pounding he gave her. Pumping in and out of her his glutes flexed and unflexed, his back muscles working just as hard.

Her cell phone lit up and vibrated on the couch.

"Who calling you right now?" he asked, not stopping his thrusts. He could see the avatar of some tanned male torso.

"Shit, Sergio!" she squealed.

"Boyfriend?"

"Ooohhh!" she screamed letting her head drop down even as his grip held her arms tight.

"You fucking me and your man is calling?"

"Shut up and keep fucking me!" she shouted.

"Answer your phone."

Erik released her hands and they dropped to the floor. Her head turned to the side looking back at him.

"Hell no!" she yelped as he double-tapped her pussy, cramming himself even deeper making her eyes squeeze shut, "You feel so fucking good Eri—"

"Answer your phone, bitch!"

He struck Linda's ass again then reached down and gripped her neck. He stopped thrusting and she threw her ass back trying to keep his momentum in her pussy.

"I can call him back later."

Reaching for her phone she lifted a finger to swipe it silent, but Erik snatched up her hair and yanked her neck back.

"I said answer your damn phone. Now!"

His tone froze her. He kept his body still.

"Bitch, don't play wit me. Answer it. Talk to him."

"You are so foul," she hissed.

"I'm foul?"

The weight of his dick had her mouth open.

Erik leaned over her sweat-laced back and swiped her phone putting it on speaker. Linda slapped his hands.

He resumed fucking her.

Slowly.

"Sergio?"

"Linda…sweetheart, why haven't you returned my calls. You have me worried…"

Spanish accent. A few words of Spanish endearments to seduce her ears from so far away. Andulusian dialect. But not native to the region. His English was perfect. A dual-language learner like himself.

"I am fine, babe. New job is keeping me…keeping…busy…hmmm"

Erik pumped a little faster as he gripped her waist, causing her to lose track of language. "Sounds like your phone is cutting out," Sergio said.

"N-n-no…it's fine…"

Linda shoved her right hand over her mouth as Erik squeezed her nipples and long-stroked her pussy.

"Get this dick," Erik whispered and her hand left her mouth and reached back trying to hit him once more to silence him.

"Squeeze my dick, bitch," he said a little louder. "What was that?" Sergio said.

"I have the t-t-tv on, Serg," she blurted out in an odd octave.

"Is everything okay?"

"It's good…soooo good," she hissed dropping her head on the couch again. She bit the cushion to prevent her cries from escaping her lips.

Sergio prattled on about his job, the weather, when she was returning to Spain, and Linda responded with muffled grunts and groans that made Erik's dick harder.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asked.

"I'm just tired, Babe," she blurted out fast. She pressed the mute button on her end and Sergio kept talking. Linda tossed her ass back hard.

"That's it…give it to me…show me how much you want this dick."

"Erik! Shit!"

"How you letting me fuck you like this?"

"Oh God! You're so deep inside my pussy…Erik! Erik!"

She was turned on by her boyfriend being on the phone.

"Take it off mute. Let him hear me wearing this pussy out! I'm bustin' this shit wide open—"

"Damn—"

"You want him to know I'm digging you out—"

"Fuck—"

"Play with my balls."

Linda's fingers reached past her mound and stroked his fat sack.

"Take it off mute!"

Her fingers left his balls for a second as she unmuted herself while Sergio was still jabbering non-stop. Erik hunched down tight against Linda's back.

"You a dirty bitch," Erik whispered in her ear. "Yes," she squeaked.

"Yes, what?" Sergio asked.

Erik tried to hold back a laugh as Linda covered her face from embarrassment.

"Nothing," she gasped into the couch.

Erik pulled out of her while she still held her phone in her hand. He motioned for her to lay back on the couch facing him. She did what he wanted and he plunged back into her while holding her legs wide open.

Her slippery walls made him hit the bottom off her vagina and his long strokes made the squelching sounds their friction created louder. Soon, her pussy was taking in too much air and queefing sounds erupted. Erik threw his head back. Her pussy felt so good to him at that moment.

"Oh shit!" he shouted.

When he looked down at Linda her face looked horrified that her pussy was making farting sounds.

"Linda, what's going on?"

Sergio sounded distressed.

"I'll call you back, Serg. I'm getting a call from my boss," she shrieked into the phone. She ended the call and tossed her cell on the couch. Erik pulled all the way out so that her vagina could release the rest of the air trapped in it. He settled himself behind her on the couch and pulled her body to line up with his so he could insert his erection back in while holding her leg up.

"You didn't want your man to hear me cum in your pussy?"

Linda yanked on his locs with her right hand. He shifted his arm so that he held her leg back and could stroke her clit that sat like a tiny pink pearl. He could feel the light stubble on her shaved mound and outer lips as he rubbed her clit. "You gon' let me cum in this pussy?"

"You know I will," she said, a bit of sass in her voice. He pumped harder to knock the confidence out of her voice. He liked her begging voice more.

"Show me you want me to nut all in you."

He pressed that slick pearl of hers harder and her legs trembled. She arched her back and pushed against him, trying her best to slam her pussy down his shaft.

"I like that. Keep doing that," he commanded. Pinching her clit, he watched her breasts jiggle as she forced herself back on him, trying to match his pace. Her body jerked and shuddered. She was cumming on him and he wasn't ready for her to tap out so soon.

He held still as the last big gasps fell away from her tense mouth. When he thought she was done he thrust his hips into her again and she laid there like a dead fish.

"Help me out, baby," he whispered to her, trying to coax her to wiggle or grind her hips, or anything that would help him release.

She gyrated a little bit and he heard her suck in a breath when his dick went deep. She came back around again and started fucking him with added zeal, ushering back the intensity of his arousal.

"I'm gon' cum on your clit."

His heated panting had grown heavier and he could hear her whimpering as she opened her legs wider for him.

"Here it comes!"

He pulled out and she removed the condom from his erection. Rubbing the tip against her clit, his semen splashed a fierce streak across the top of her mound and all over her stomach. Her fingers rubbed all over his sensitive glans, smearing his cum around the spongy slick head. It was a decent orgasm. He wanted another.

They retired to the hotel bed and Erik fucked her again in missionary, this time making sure to cum first. Linda's orgasms wiped her out and it took her time to snap back from her release. His second orgasm with her was so much better, the condom felt like it had more ejaculate in it than the amount he spewed on her stomach earlier.

She gave him a nice blowjob in the early morning before they had to leave the hotel. He found it interesting that she didn't like oral sex done to her. He tried to go down on her, but she admitted readily that it wasn't her thing. His curiosity compelled him to pester her about it until she explained.

"I just don't like it. I don't get pleasure from it. It doesn't excite me."

"Have you ever had one great session?"

"No."

"Really? Cuz I can eat some pussy—"

"Erik, I don't like doing it. Do you know how many men have told me they eat pussy well? It doesn't matter. I don't enjoy it, so I don't do it."

Her voice had a touch of petulance to it so he didn't push her further on it. It was just a rare thing for him to encounter.

They shared a friendly kiss when they separated at the airport. He almost felt bad that her first job with Klaue went well but she would be left hanging until he came out of hiding.

"Hopefully we will work together another time," she said. Eyes twinkling at him, she sounded sincere. Welcoming to anything more that could happen in the future. She knew her stuff and would come in handy when he decided to make that final move. He'd keep her name on the backburner. Klaue was stoked on her so Erik would see her again. She rubbed his arm and the non-sexual touch bothered him suddenly. He was going to fly into Turkey, change planes with Klaue's goods hidden in his computer bag, fly to Miami, and then hop a flight to the Virgin Islands. He didn't want to feel another woman's touch on him. Not now. His body was filled with strange jitters. He felt nervous. Perhaps it was a bad idea to mess with Linda. He needed to feel pure. Clean. And he didn't feel that way. He had killed four people while he was away from Yani and Sydette. He didn't want that energy around them.

When he landed in St. Thomas, his mood lifted tremendously. Whatever it was about this place, it made him feel lighter and unsullied when he rode the taxi to the compound.

Once his retina scan gained him complete access and control of the compound at the front gate, Erik stood in the main driveway for ten minutes with his belongings and Klaue's next to him. Three months. He had ninety days to experiment and watch the compound. That's all. Ninety days to be still when he wanted to be.

The sun warmed his body and he took off his shirt, letting the light and heat burn away the tension he carried in his body from being with Klaue. He was back in the same place as her. That girl was somewhere on that rock with her baby. Their baby.

He tilted his head back and let the light strike his closed eyelids until all he could see were visions of pure red.

Go to the beach.

He could cleanse his body in her seawater. Take a few days alone to settle himself.

Then and only then would he feel secure enough to face her once more.

###

Yani stared at the estimate on the piece of paper that the mechanic handed her.

"This much?" she said fretfully.

"I'm afraid so, Miss."

The mechanic, Petey, gave her a sympathetic look.

"Are there things you can hold off on doing right now?"

"I took off as much as I could already."

Sydette wiggled on the side of Yani's hip, the yellow and red beads in her hair pressed into Yani's shoulder.

"I'll have to come back," she said.

"I wouldn't wait too long to fix—"

Yani left the auto shop ignoring the rest of the mechanic's words.

She felt cheated.

Buying the little-used Subaru seemed like a great deal at the time. She finally had her own car, her own transportation, and things had been going well until she noticed the Subaru vibrating hard when she came to a stop sometimes. Then there were the transmission leaks, and the need to replace two balding tires. She took the car in and the diagnosis was a failing U-Joint. It would cost about five-hundred dollars for everything and a little more if they had to order and ship parts from the States. She couldn't afford all that now. She had just put aside hard-saved money for the deposit and first month's rent on a new apartment she was sharing with a fellow nursing student from the university. She and Marla were both single-mothers and decided to pool their resources and share childcare duties around their school schedules in the fall.

She texted Chez.

I coming by to pick up the baby's money.

As she drove into Red Hook, she prayed that he had all that he was supposed to give her. His portion of childcare funds would help her get through this crisis. She could dip frugally into her savings to cover the rest. The summer season at the restaurant was coming, so she could count on tips to help plump up her funds again soon.

Pulling up in front of Chez's house, she texted him again.

I'm here.

Come inside.

Bring me the money, I have to take the baby home.

I can't, I'm here with Star. Ursula is at work.

Bring her outside then.

She's sleep.

"Fucking annoying, man," she yelled at her cell.

Sydette babbled at her from the backseat.

"I know, I know…it's your little sister. I won't wake her up. Shit."

Yani unbuckled herself and then Sydette from her car seat and carried her to the front door.

"Detty!" Chez squealed holding his hands out for his daughter.

Yani let him take her and put her hands on her hips.

"Come in for a minute," he said.

"No."

"Let me have some time with her before you jet. Let her play with her sister—"

"You said she was asleep—"

"She was, but my ringtone woke her up. Ten minutes. Let the girls be together."

"I'll just go to the house and come back—"

"Don't waste gas. You here."

"If that bitch comes home, I don't want no problems—"

"She's not coming back until three. Trippin' all the time."

Yani stepped in and saw the chaos of their household. Clothes everywhere, adult clothes, and tons of toys. More than Sydette owned. The place stank of baby wipes, cheap perfume, and cigarettes. Shoes were everywhere unorganized. Chez's various trainers, flats and heels that belonged to Ursula. A whole two-bedroom house and no place to put things away properly? Pigs.

Chez made space for her on the hard couch that was all fashion and no comfort. It made Yani's ass hurt immediately.

Chez set Sweet Pea on a blanket on the floor, and their daughter sat there looking around confused. This wasn't Auntie's house. He ran into a bedroom and came back carrying his now nine-month-old. Wide-eyed, Star looked half-sleep and irritated, her thin hair plastered to her skull.

"Look whose here!" Chez said sticking Star into a walker where her legs dangled. Sydette looked at her sister, then stared back at Yani.

"Say hi to Star, Sweet Pea," Yani said.

"Mum," Sydette said. She stuck a finger in her mouth and then pointed at Star.

"Yes, that's Star."

Chez patted Sydette's hair beads. He walked back to the couch and sat down next to Yani. They both watched the girls.

"See, they get along good."

"If you say so," Yani said. The annoyance was back.

Sydette crawled over to a pile of wooden builder blocks and began playing with them. Star shook her body to try and move, and Yani cracked up with Chez. The baby looked hilarious flopping her arms and legs like someone electrocuted her. She was cute. Literally Chez in tiny light-skinned female form. The laughter left her when reality came back again. That was his cheat baby. The outside house child. The creation that tore apart their family.

It wasn't Star's fault, and Yani did her best to keep her hateful feelings toward Star's mother away from the baby itself.

Chez turned on the tv and found a toddler-friendly channel that caught both children's attention. Yani held her hand out.

Chez reached into his pocket and pulled out some folded bills.

"All good in the hood. I even got you two hundred extra this month," he said. She was relieved.

She reached for the money. He put it back in his pocket.

"Tell me about school. You all set?"

She rolled her eyes.

"C'mon, Chez. I have to go—"

"You can put your business on social media, but you can't talk to your baby's faddah about it? How that sound, Yani? Serious? I need to know what you are doing while you have my child, just like you get in all my business—"

"Chill, damn. I have my schedule ready for the first semester."

"You look excited."

"I am excited."

"Good. What are you taking?"

"Pathophysiology, Health Assessment, Intro to Nursing, and Communication for Health Professionals…yeah that's first semester."

She explained to him what the courses would entail and how she was excited about wearing a nurse's uniform. She excluded any mention of her new apartment and roommate. Yani didn't want him to know anything about that until school had started for her and she had a routine going that Sydette was comfortable with. She didn't need Chez rolling by checking on her and scaring the other woman.

Yani checked her cell.

"We need to go, Chez."

"I miss talking to you like this."

He glanced over at the girls. They seemed content. Star played with the noise-makers on her walker and Sydette had her hands clapping with Cookie Monster on Sesame Street. Star squealed and Sydette stared at her, reaching up and hitting one of the noise-makers herself. Star grabbed her fingers and Sydette squealed too, then looked over at them with a smile on her face.

"I want the girls to be together more. I want them to be close. No matter how much I messed up, they are still blood. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He pulled her money out again. She reached for it and he pulled his hand back.

"We can still be close too, gyal."

"No, we can't."

"I think we can."

She felt her skin crawl. Her belly clenched tight.

"What is this?" she asked. Her eyes went to Sydette.

"I give you something extra this month…you give me something a little extra. We stay real friendly."

Closing her eyes, Yani shook her head. She should've never come into the house.

His hand snaked over and rubbed her thigh. She kept still. Ran through options. Came up with none. She needed that money. She had to fix her car so that it was safe for her and her baby. She needed to have her own apartment so that she could be close to school and the inexpensive daycare she found. Her Aunt's house was too crowded, too loud, and too stressful for her and Sydette.

"What…what do you want me to do?"

"Everything you used to do," he said.

His eyes looked unbothered by the request. She leaned forward as he spread his legs, then snatched the money from his hand and stuffed it down her bra.

She jumped off the couch and hurried over to pick up Sydette.

"You are a piece of shit!" she screamed at him.

He sprang from his seat to catch her and she used her foot to push Star's walker, rolling the baby toward him.

"Kicking mi pickney?!"

"I didn't kick her!"

Her heart was in her throat when she rushed to the front door as Chez picked up Star.

"Bitch!"

She flipped him off and slammed the front door on her way out.

###

J'ouvert was not for the weak.

Yani was up at three in the morning doing her make-up for the breaking in of carnival season before daybreak. There would be a shit-ton of drinking and walking. And dancing. Playing Jab Jab with colored chalk and paints. And people-watching. She was going to meet her friend Kemba's co-worker who was single. Conrad. Two kids. A J'ouvert fete seemed the best occasion to meet and dump someone if there was no connection. Conrad's IG photos were cute, and they spoke a few times over the phone. He had liked a couple of her swimsuit photos and didn't act creepy about her posing on Junior's album compilation. Good job. Good teeth. Baby Mama lived in Orlando, Florida.

Yani watched Twyla throw a purple plastic shower cap on her head.

"Last year I thought that shit would wash out my hair easy without protection…nope!" Twyla said tucking loose locs under the cap.

Their cousins Cee Cee and Sonya wore black satin bonnets.

"You sure you want to leave your hair out? Some people were throwing colored paint like last year. That shit was thick and took too long to come off." Sonya said.

"What is a little colored paint or powder on a baldie, huh?" Yani said.

Sonya sucked her teeth, "Yuh brave cuz."

Yani adjusted her blue jean bootie shorts, tugged on the black fishnet stockings that pinched at her thighs, and admired her black sleeveless top with the silver lettering under her breasts: Cruzan Junction. Twyla's shirt said, 'Thirsty?'. Her other two extra-thick cousins had 'It's All Natural' on their shirts.

"Kendall really on the mobile stage?" Cee Cee asked lining her lips with a lip pencil and pushing Yani away from the bedroom wall mirror.

"You loud women woke the babies up," Leona said carrying Sonya's toddler son, Bam.

"Twyla's the one that's loud," Yani fussed shoving Cee Cee back over so she could check her eye make-up. She rubbed mica-infused lotion on her arms, neck, and face to make her skin sparkle like Killmonger's earrings once the sun rose up.

"It smells like liquor in here," Leona said.

Yani watched her cousin Sonya hide the big plastic cup of Henny she was already breaking in behind her back. Yani hid her drink in a yellow custom cup, pretending not to hear the liquor comment. Her hips were already revving up and Conrad texted her that he would meet her by the mobile music truck/stage.

Leona took Bam back to Sydette, and once she was gone, more Henny was poured into other hidden cups.

How she missed this time with her cousins preparing to fete. She had laid up in her bed with a tiny newborn Sydette the previous year watching the women prepare and she felt sad, tired, and out of place. But not this year. She was going to make her bumper roll, and if Conrad was choice, he would get her rump on his groin as she threw it in a circle.

Cee Cee pulled out a joint and Twyla snatched it stuffing it into her bra.

"Yuh, craze gyal? She right there in the next room!" Twyla hissed slapping Cee Cee's arm.

"You know Auntie did this in her day. She nuh always a saint."

"True!" Sonya clucked. They all giggled and sipped.

"Aw, damn!" Twyla said peeking out of their shared bedroom window.

"What?" Yani said coming up next to her.

It was sprinkling.

"It's not supposed to last long. On and off. But it'll help cool us down," Yani said.

"It'll be messy out there," Twyla said with a scowl.

"Messy is your middle name," Yani teased.

Twyla punched her.

"Ow, bitch. You always so rough!" Yani complained.

"Let's go!" Cee Cee cheered clapping her hands.

Moist air, a soft sprinkling of water dropping from the dark sky, Yani rode shotgun in Leona's car with the window down and her right arm hanging out feeling the air.

Cleansing.

That's how it felt riding with her family.

A stripping away of stress and worry. Freedom to dance in the streets as a Galiber Queen, long blood descendants of the first rebel Queen in their family, Queen Mary Thomas of St Croix.

Self-proclaimed royalty was still royalty and having Thomas blood in her veins garnered respect on the island to those who knew. Every girl born to them was a Queen, skipping Princess on mere principle. From St. Croix to Copenhagen, to St. Thomas, Mary's bloodline was kept alive.

"What you grinning for cuz?" Twyla asked, glancing at her as she drove toward Charlotte Amalie.

"Fireburn!" Yani shouted.

All of her cousins laughed.

"Fireburn!" Twyla yelled out of her open window.

"Respect," Yani said. She sipped more Henny from her cup, the burning of the liquor down her throat equal to the burning that lived in her DNA.

Her eyes appreciated the light rain. A cleansing. Water. And fire. And faith in her heart that all things came together for her good, a Galiber Queen.

###

Erik bought a Henny rum punch from the mobile bar with "V.I. Feters" spray-painted with pink, green, and purple letters over its white covered façade. Drinking that hard so early in the morning was a different kind of treat. He sported black trainers, black joggers, and a white tank, his body enjoying the itinerant sprinkles of rain as revelers partied hard. This J'ouvert thing was no joke. He had no problem mingling and dancing with the crowd.

The early morning darkness brought out the surreal beauty of the hills twinkling with house lights on looking like stars decorating the island. Stars and diamonds. The dancing crowd reminded him of Brazil and the times spent celebrating carnival there as a child and a young man. He gazed in wonder at all the different people dancing as individuals or as part of clubs wearing matching colored t-shirts, waving white towels or shirts, blowing whistles, and partying hard. The Black diaspora was the same everywhere they were in the world celebrating any type of bacchanal.

He was confused when he saw so many women wearing shower caps, and bonnets, but when colored chalk flew around him striking bodies with gleeful exuberance as the sky turned a brilliant purple, Erik figured out why the coverage was needed. Dark black and dark brown bodies decorated in pink, green, blue, purple, red and yellow colors smeared from the light sprinkling of rain looked wondrous and whimsical. The colors became more vibrant as the sun rose above them and the music became more infectious. Soca rhythms soaked the streets and rattled the mobile D.J. stage that most of the people followed like a huge New Orleans second line. Umbrellas included.

Erik tried to stay low key and not very close to the mobile stage. He had heard a radio broadcast mention Kendall's name, and he knew if the young rapper was there, Yani would possibly be there too, and he still wasn't ready to see her just yet. He followed the source music from a distance, sipped on his drink and flicked hands from grabbing him. The women were pretty aggressive, especially the white ones, and although he appreciated the variety of beauty and revealing shapes around him, he didn't want to be touched by strangers, didn't want to be rubbed upon while he walked and drank and shook his ass a little bit. He just wanted to observe. Marvel. Allow his drink to keep him comfortably buzzed.

The revelers became a little too dense when the mobile D.J. truck stopped. Erik slipped back near a light post to give himself room to breathe. The merrymakers surged around him anyway and a familiar face caught his eye. Her hips shook fast and she danced with a man with a t-shirt wrapped around his head.

Erik drifted away from the light post as a slender woman climbed up part of it to wiggle her backside suggestively to the crowd while wearing an outfit that was almost a bathing suit. He eased over to the woman he spotted that had his heart beating a little faster. He reached out and touched her hand and she jerked away from him, her eyes narrowed and her lips curled up in a challenge.

"Who this big nigga, yeah?" she said in a loud voice.

"Your name is Twyla, right?" he asked.

"Who you?" she said standing closer to him.

These Galiber women were fine as fuck and Erik saw men shaking hips and moving around them while sneaking looks at her tall amazon ass sprinkled from head to toe with colored chalk.

"I know your Aunt Leona and your cousin…Yani."

"How you know dem, Black?"

Twyla had her own red cup in her hand and guzzled down its contents. Her eyes took him in.

"Our Lady's Manor."

Her eyes did a slow pan of him from top to bottom.

"Ah, the bad man on the hill. You fuck up Chez, yeah?"

"Something like that."

"Why are you pestering me? Yani is around here somewhere—"

"I was just saying hi, that's all."

"Okay, hi. Now what?"

She made him smile.

"You cute bad man. Mi see why Auntie liked you so much. You not ugly like dem other ones."

The longer he stood talking to her, the more anxious he got. His nerves were spiking. Why did he actively talk to Twyla? Yani could probably spot him now. He needed to blend back into the sea of colored black bodies. He wasn't ready—

"Mi call her for you—"

"Nah, I'll find her eventually…"

He walked away from Twyla as she held her cell, making his escape toward the mobile bar that pulled up far behind the D.J. truck. Ordering straight up Hennessey he leaned against the side of the bar and took small sips of his drink. He felt weird. Off-balance. The push and pull of yearning to see her, but not wanting to see her was confusing. He was a grown-ass man who had faced shit in his life over the past two months that most people would never recover from in a lifetime, and yet there he stood hiding near a liquor stand afraid to see a woman. Him. The fuck?

On God—

His stomach dropped when he heard Yani's voice over the loudspeakers on the D.J. truck. She stood near the D.J. and Kendall on the portable stage. The mic was near her cheek and she talked to a man next to the D.J. who had switched the Soca beats to a grime sound that echoed around them all. It was a nice switch from the Soca and Reggae. Kendall's voice was picked up too and there seemed to be some confusion over another person being on the stage with them.

"Just start it and we'll figure it out," Yani mumbled.

Kendall took his own mic and faced the joyous fete crowd.

"This is for my Queens," Kendall said with a quiet storm drawl. It made Yani laugh and that sound made Erik shake his shoulders as if something light crawled across them.

Yani was covered in blue and pink chalk. Her bootie shorts accentuated the thickness of her lower half, and her black top was just titty spillage. Her short fade was no longer blonde, but platinum and somewhat straight.

"Queen Yani!"

Twyla shouted from the crowd to her cousin.

"Yes, yes, y'all, the Black Mermaid is here, Queen Yani, mi blood, mi Fam. We come from a long line of women rebels, seen? Yeah…tell 'em, Yani."

Yani lifted the mic to her lips and sang what sounded like a vengeful folk song.

"Queen Mary, ah where you gon' go burn?

Queen Mary, ah where you gon' go burn?

Don' ask me nothin' at all

Just get me the match and oil

Bassin Jailhouse, ah deh de money dey…"

Some of the revelers knew the words to Yani's a cappella performance and joined in until Kendall jumped on it.

"Where you gon' go burn, Queen? She gon' burn it all!" he yelled as a thunderous futuristic-sounding bass line slammed down and he shook his head in a wild frenzy to accompany the hard beats. Yani jumped up and down getting Kendall more hyped before she declared,

"And Queens don't vibe, hear me now…"

"With no fuck niggas!" the crowd responded back as Yani held the mic out to them.

The fete audience went buck, booties thrown in wild circles standing, and on the ground, backs arched deep, heads bobbing like marionettes being plucked by puppet master strings. It was just a cold as fuck live performance.

He couldn't get over how bold Yani was. That one line was the refrain throughout the entire song, the call and response from the crowd always the same. They finished and another boisterous Soca beat pumped up again and Erik watched Yani drop down from the truck into the arms of a man who pulled her into the melanated wave of people. The throng of bodies grew.

Yani danced with Twyla and her younger sister Anika who wore a pink tutu and carried a super soaker that sprayed blue colored water. Erik smiled when he saw Yani toss pink powder at her friends and sister with packets she held in their hands. The merriness was infectious and Erik wanted to join her, but there was pleasure in watching her be free. She bent over to allow Twyla to smack her butt and Anika shot a stream of blue onto her chest. Yani chased her tossing colored powder that flew over other people who also threw colors at everyone.

A few revelers, mainly males, asked to take pictures with her, probably fans of the album compilation. He didn't like how close most of them got to her, arms thrown around her shoulder or waist.

He lost track of her and drank a little more. It sprinkled again and he moved closer to an occupied bench and watched people jump on top of cars to dance, hang off of the D.J. stage to shake ass and grind on willing participants. He enjoyed the view of the waterfront and boats.

He thought about returning to the compound before the street party officially broke up to avoid gridlock. Perhaps get some sleep since the whole celebration started at four in the morning. A few women brushed up against him trying to entice him to dance but he wasn't feeling it. A frisky college-aged white woman standing up behind him on the bench tapped him and then wrapped her arms on his shoulders, her beer breath odor strong as she tried to rock with his body to the music.

"Nah. Let's not," he said when he turned back to make sure she knew he wasn't having it.

"You're not all that," she snapped.

"Yeah, okay," he replied turning from her and enjoying the last of his drink.

She kept bumping into him from dancing and he stepped a couple of inches away from her so he could keep his spot and not be bothered. He tossed his empty cup into the trashcan next to the mobile bar and saw that the D.J. truck was moving along with Kendall still bouncing to the music.

The bitch's hands came down on him again and his anger flared up white-hot.

"I told you once already—"

Lips on his neck.

The alluring scent of vanilla and nutmeg and fresh rain on soft brown skin.

He froze and his eyelids shut.

Sliding his hands up to caress the arms that held him, a shuddery breath left his chest and made his throat tight.

He spun around and she stood on the small bench a little above eye level with him.

Yani.

Her bewitching eyes connected with his and her inviting smile centered him. Wrapping his arms around her painted waist, he pressed his forehead into hers.

"Killmonger, why are you shaking? I scare you?"

Yes.

###

Part 10

Previous Chapters Here

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[thelastswallow]

What Tears Us Apart, Ties Us Together

Chapter 9

John - Legwork

In which there is home made spaghetti - Alan Tracy learns the origin of a nickname - Lieutenant Cooper Waverly pines after an imaginary woman - Virgil Tracy has an assignation with a real one - a young man crosses the border into Turkey and it is a long way to Illinois

There’s something about deserts that has always appealed to John.

Something about the horizon. The towers of empty space and the flat, lunar surface. It makes him feel calm and clean.

Like a moth to a bug zapper, Grandma used to say, as she attacked him with the tube of sunscreen when he was a kid, or painted the tip of his nose with aloe Vera when he came home pink and peeling. He’s not built for the desert. Only Gordon’s sallow skinned and quick to tan, buy of the five of them John burns the quickest, roasts the colour of poached salmon in the time it takes to boil an egg; some unfortunate throwback to the Scotch-Irish roots of the Tracy clan. But Man wasn’t made for space either, yet his Dad stood on the face of Mars. So maybe it’s natural that John wants to explore the places he doesn’t belong.

When he was 11, the six of them had spent one February Fourth in a specially built capsule in the Mojave Desert that mimicked the lunar simulation modules the SETI Institute had used in the early 2000s, when NASA had been prepping to go back to the moon. John doesn’t remember a time when he’d been happier than he was staring out the porthole of that cramped little module, imagining himself among the company of the great men and women who had walked on the moon.  

Sometimes, when he needs to gather himself, John imagines himself curled up in the porthole window, watching the lunar landscape of the Mojave.

Yet But when he imagines the desert, this isn’t what he pictures. It looks all wrong as it hurtles past the window, in blocks of olive and grey under a forget-me-not sky. This desert doesn’t make him feel calm, just sweaty and anxious and itchy all at once. It looks yellow and scrubby and full of rattlesnakes; scar tissue on the landscape. It hurtles past and he wishes he were somewhere else.

A good first test.

There’s a chime above his head that signals the magnet train is slowing down and he breaks his fixed gaze on the winding landscape. His tablet has gone unattended for long enough that it’s gone dark. He’s too easily distracted all of a sudden.

He gathers his bag and tablet and rises. A few people make note of his movement, but nobody else in the carriage makes a move to disembark.

The magtrain glides to a halt and there’s a whoosh of hot, dry air as the door unseals itself. He steps out onto the raised platform. Along the train’s length passengers, most in uniform, diffuse in and out of the train. No one pays him any attention as they hurry towards the stairs and the exit, swiping their passes through the scanner. He follows.

There are convoy trucks waiting to pick up officers in the parking lot, and a dusty town taxi idling out in front of the red brick building, looking for business. He ignores it and makes the short walk into town.

By the time he gets there, there are dark patches of sweat beneath his armpits.  He wipes his brow and stops at a dispenser to by a soda.

Avalon is a small, neat little place that mainly serves to support Rainshadow Airbase. There’s a county hospital and a couple of mom and pop stores, though most of the business has drained out of the centre of town. School kids wander around in packs. An elderly woman walking a tiny poodle smiles at him as he sips his pop. He finds McGruck’s, a sports’ bar, in a big lot off the main street.

The bartender is quick to ID him, but only shows real interest in his birthdate and not the person attached and after he’s been satisfied, leaves him nursing his beer and his tablet at the bar. Off duty airmen come in in dribs and drabs, and he earns a couple of curious looks, but nobody bothers him.

A little before seven there’s a tap on his shoulder, “Tracy?”

A rangy man in captain’s stripes has come up behind him. There’s a stir from the peanut gallery. This is not, John guesses, habitually a bar where officers come to drink. “John Tracy, right? I’m Skip Guerra.”

They’ve met before, though Skip probably doesn’t remember and John doesn’t remind him. Skip and Scott had been at school together and though Skip had been some years older, they had made friends running varsity track together. Scott had dragged John round to the dressing room to meet Skip the night he led the school football team to state. He had been gracious as he accepted John’s congratulations, though obviously wired to the moon and unlikely to remember. Skip had left for the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs the same year Scott had gone off to Yale. Now they serve in the same unit.

Skip is big in every dimension, has inches even on Scott. A small moustache makes him look older than his 26 years, and he is, John can tell, despite his bluff handshake, nervous.

“Thanks for coming.”

A tight nod. “I’ve got a car outside.”

They drive out of town, talking around the subject in question. Skip talks about the weather, their old school, Williams’ Prep and the differences between the GDF and the space programme. They reach Skip’s house, which is off base, where Skip’s wife Lisa and home-cooked spaghetti are waiting to ambush them.

John’s impatient to get on with the task at hand, but it’s rude to say no, particularly when he’s asking such a big favour, so he accepts as graciously as he can manage.

Skp and Lisa have got an 18-month-old son, Jake, and from the size of Lisa’s belly, another one on the way. Jake is fascinated by John’s red hair, and John – for whom babies have always been a separate country he is not planning on visiting – puts up with his interest. Lisa asks interested if routine questions about WWSA and Skip tells anecdotes about air force life. If it’s all designed to make John feel guilty, he thinks, as he passes around the basket of garlic bread, it’s working.

But when dinner is over and the plates are cleared Skip rises. “Time for John to be going,” he says. “I’ll be back later.” He kisses Lisa’s cheek.

As John closes the car door he says, “You don’t have to do this.”

“Sure, I do.” Skip starts the engine and puts the car into gear.

They drive. Within minutes they’re approaching Rainshadow Base and John feels his throat constrict.

Dad is Dad so of course he heard through channels first.

Scott is AWOL.

Or, to be precise, he is only guilty of Failure to Repair; but at 0900 hours yesterday Lieutenant Scott Tracy did not report to base after leave, and by 1700 hours he still has not reported to his commanding officer.

He’s not the only officer ever to fail to report in after leave. Maybe he missed his flight. Maybe he got the dates wrong. Maybe his mates, in high spirits, duct taped him to a pole and have forgotten where they left him. This sort of thing happens all the time.

Just not to Scott.

From the expression on Skip’s face he thinks so too.

Dad had called just as John was out for his morning run, having spent most of the night bailing Gordon out of a premature court marshalling at the WASP gala. “I’m telling you this,” Dad had said once he had broken the news, “Only because there’s a reasonable chance where you’re working that you might hear through other channels.”

John had never thought of himself as someone to be gossiped about or at. Maybe it was different with Scott. There was enough cross-over between the WWSA and the GDF that there was a possibility he would hear from some other source.

“You haven’t told the others?” he had asked.

“I don’t think there will be a need to.”

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

“The morning he left the island he called me a selfish, conceited son of a bitch. So at least we know he wasn’t acting out of character.” The attempt at a joke had fallen flat.

“He’s been missing a week?” He had been bundled up against the arctic cold. Suddenly his brain had felt as numb and clumsy as his hands.

“Absent. Not missing. Your brother’s always been good at letting me know he’s upset. Torching his career is certainly a potent signal fire.”

“Dad…”

“Kyrano’s already on his trail. And we’ll find him. I want you to stay where you are. Attend to your studies. If he contacts you, of course, let me know. Otherwise, I’ll update you periodically.”

“Dad, can I…”

“This is a good first test for you.”

A good first test. A test that he’s failing.

John Tracy is hacker like no other. John Tracy writes code the way Paul McCartney wrote pop hits. John Tracy has never met a digital door he did not want to open.

John Tracy cannot find his stupid, ignorant luddite of an older brother.

It should have been easy. Scott’s financial records, his flight history, his passage in and out of the security net that encircles the globe, it should have led John to him like a luminous contrail.

But Scott had landed in Algeria, withdrawn 2,000 dollars’ cash at the airport foreign exchange, disappeared into the city and…

Nothing.

No Scott. No trail. Nothing but white noise. Not even a starting point.

John spent half his time in MIT thinking and writing about search heuristics; for search and rescue; for stars; for prime numbers. Even the most basic search needs a node to start from.

And so now, here, with Skip, smiling politely in the passenger seat as they were waved through gate at Rainshadow Airbase, looking for somewhere to begin.

Scott had been the one to ruin their trip to the Mojave, hadn’t he? For three days all six of them had lived in close quarters, in the lunar simulation module, mimicking the lives of the first settlers on the moon, and how Dad had lived with Captains Taylor and Tsang when they had been building Shadow Alpha One. But on the morning of the fourth day, Scott had stumbled out of bed, and out the airlock, to relieve himself against the side of the capsule, decompressing the pod and killing his father and four brothers in the process.

Scott had been apologetic but unconcerned. Said it was an accident and that he had forgotten where they were. He had been nearly 14, unhappy about Dad’s decision to leapfrog him two years ahead into ninth grade, and ready for a little kickback. John, on the other hand, had been distraught, not ready for the adventure to end. He had begged Dad that they be allowed a do over, but Dad had said no. There were no second chances in space.

He doesn’t know why he’s thinking about that now.

Scott lives in unaccompanied officers’ quarters. Skip pulls up to the squat block of condos and parks. “This is it.”

“Thank you, Skip.”

Skip shrugs, nods. “Do you know what you’re looking for?”

Not really. Some clue or hint. Some trace of where Scott’s going or where he might be going, or what he might be thinking. An impression. A scent. “I’ll know it when I see it,” he says.

“John, I hope you find what you’re looking for, but you should know, I don’t think you’re going to find your brother in there.”

What a strange thing to say.

“You and Scott fly together, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re friends?” He’s got a sudden overwhelming feeling that this was a bad idea.

But Skip gives him a cryptic smile. “I’m not doing this because you asked politely. He does talk about you.”

“He does?”

“And I get the distinct impression that if anyone can find that squirrelly motherfucker and get him back where he belongs then it’s you. Yeah, we’re friends, John.”

A good first test.

“Okay.”

They get out of the car. Skip’s swipe key gets them into the building and up the stairs to Scott’s condo.

The first thing he notices is how clean it is. It’s at odds with the Scott he knows, who leaves dirty dishes in the sink and a breadcrumb trail of his clothes from the bathroom to his bed every night when getting undressed. Any habit can be learned, he supposes and somewhere along the way, someone has beaten neatness into Scott.

The kitchen-living room is sparse, impersonal. He rifles through the kitchen, but the cupboards are bare of anything more exciting than protein powder and cereal. The fridge holds nothing but ketchup and mustard.

He tries the bedroom. Skip follows.

In here too is neat and orderly, the corners of the bed are squared off. There’s a Light Type interface built into the desk that would have connected to Scott’s personal drive. When Skip isn’t looking, John takes a HUB from his pocket and sets it down, activating pre-set commands to clone everything that the interface has processed over the last two months.

He doesn’t linger by the desk and crosses to the other side of the room. The closet contains only neatly pressed uniforms, a couple of casual shirts in blue and cream, and rows of folded white t-shirts. There’s a small safe in the bottom of the closet, but it hangs open and any valuables have been cleared out.

There’s a digital picture frame on the windowsill that clicks to life when it detects motion, but the photos it cycles through are curiously blank of personality. A group picture of Scott’s squadron, a formal photograph of him smiling starkly at the camera at the receipt of his bronze star and a family portrait, the same one that goes out to the press when they’re looking to write about “Billionaire industrialist Jeff Tracy and his five fine boys”.

John feels a creep up his spine, like razor scraping bone. None of this feels genuine. It’s like he’s walked into an exhibition showcasing the life of one, ‘Lieutenant Scott Tracy’ rather into a place where anyone actually lives.

Angry again suddenly, he yanks open the drawer of the nightstand.

Inside the drawer are a flotsam of personal effects; a string of condoms; a blue inhaler, 11 months out of date, because Scott always forgets to resupply his prescription unless he’s having one of his infrequent asthma attacks; a Rubik’s cube, half-solved and then forgotten; a slim book.

He takes the book out of the drawer, turns it over, recognising it. It’s a copy of Slaughterhouse Five. The red and yellow dust jacket and leaves are real precious paper and the publisher’s seal says the volume was published in 1972. John had sourced it himself, from a small antique book dealer in San Francisco. It had been a rather pointed Christmas gift to Dad and he remembers noting now, how it hadn’t been on Dad’s book shelf the last time he was in his office.

It looks well-thumbed. There are greasy finger marks along its spine and its pages are dog-eared, like it’s been read and read again. He doesn’t remember it ever being a favourite of Scott’s

He’s about to open his mouth to ask Skip if he knows anything about it when Skip puts a finger to his lips. Outside there comes the murmur of soft voices and the bleepclick of the latch unhooking.

John puts the book back and slides the drawer closed.  Skip quickly crosses the room and switches off the light. He motions for both of them to step into the bathroom. There are footsteps in the outer room, the jangle of keys and then nothing.

Through the crack in bathroom the door John peers out into the bedroom. The light in the outer room comes on, throwing a slim rectangle of white light against the bedroom wall.

He glances at his watch. It’s 9:45. There’s no reason for anyone else to be here.

“Are they looking for us?”

Skip gives the slightest shake of his head.

If I’m caught, he thinks, I’ll just step out. No one needs to know Skip was here. His pulse is hammering in his ears.

A rhomboid of white light slides across the floor as the door swings open. Whoever is outside, they are coming in.

“This is it. Be quick, okay?” says a woman’s voice in a whisper. “I’m deep in the shit if they find you here.”

“Okay.”

John’s still trying to figure out what’s going on when Skip surges forward. “Goddamn it to hell, Stubbs, what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

The electric light comes on and the light box vanishes from the floor. He hears the woman falter at the sudden appearance of Skip. “Captain!”

“Airman, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Sneaking civilians onto the base? Breaking and entering. Do you know how many charges you’re risking?”

“Please, it wasn’t her fault. I asked her to,” says a voice, a familiar voice, a very familiar voice.

“Virgil?”

“John?”

He steps out of the shelter of the bathroom and sees Virgil standing in the doorway. His younger brother practically looms over the young Airwoman with dark hair standing in front of him. Skip looms over them both, but flinches when John sticks his head around the door.

“What are you doing here?” Virgil gapes at him.

“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?”

“I…uh…”

“Well, isn’t this a clusterfuck?” says Skip, placing his hands on his hips. “Stubbs, I oughta write you up.”

The airwoman fidgets. She’s tiny, with black hair looped in a tight braid and anxious sloe black eyes. “I know. I’m sorry, Cap. Really I am. But they’ve been talking shit about… There’s been inappropriate talk about Lieutenant Tracy in the mess, Captain and why he hasn’t reported to duty. And he,” She taps Virgil on the shoulder “Was so determined to find him. I wanted to help him, you know?” She gives John the side eye and the flash of a smile. “I guess you do know. Which one do you got?”

“The astronaut. Who’s that?” Skip glares at Virgil. “The Olympian?”

“The artist. Except he says he’s a pilot now.”

He says he’s a what?

But Skip just rolls his eyes. “Go figure.”

“We have names, you know,” says Virgil, peevishly. “We’re not a collectable set of breakfast cereal toys.”

“Of course not, kid,” says Skip, placating but patronising. “What’s your youngest brother again? The congressman?”

“He’s in middle school!” both John and Virgil snap, simultaneously.

Joh scowls and Virgil digs his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“What are you doing here, Virgil?” John asks.

“Same as you. Looking for Scott.”

“You’re supposed to be at school.”

“Yeah, well. You’ve got better places to be too, right?” Virgil raises his chin so he’s looking at John and not the floor. There’s a stubborn jut to it, at once familiar and out of place on Virgil. Something seems different about him and for a moment John can’t place just what it is. Then he realises. Virgil’s always run to stocky, ungenerously even to chubby. At thirteen it had made him self-conscious enough to start to camouflage his weight with layers of shirts and t-shirts. Somewhere in the last week he’s shed those extraneous layers. In just a pair of faded jeans and a v-neck grey t-shirt it’s immediately clear what should have been obvious last week. The puppy fat is gone. Virgil’s tanned and fit and for the first time in his life, probably in better shape than John.

He’s still got that stupid moustache though.

“Hey, Stubbs,” Skip says, a little louder than is necessary. “Come out here for a sec, I got something real important to show you in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Captain.” Stubbs winks at Virgil and they both step out of the room, pull the door shut behind her.

John eases himself away from the bathroom door and Virgil pushes off from the wall. They shuffle a little closer to each other.

“I didn’t think you knew he was missing.” John says. “Did Dad tell you?”

“Sort of.” Virgil’s fingers brush the tucked in corner of the bed. “I was with him when he got the news.”

“He came to see you in Chicago?”

“Something like that,” Virgil murmurs. “I’m surprised he told you.”

“There’s a lot of air force personnel with the space agency. I suppose he was afraid the news would get to me anyway.”

“And did it?”

“No. Why would it?”

“I dunno. It seems like Stubbs was saying there’s a lot of talk about him.”

“Maybe I just don’t’ pay attention to that sort of stuff.”

Virgil looks around. “Does he really live here?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No.”

Virgil jostles past him, as if he doesn’t trust John to look, or as if maybe Scott’s hiding in the bathroom too.  He looks inside, brushes the shower curtain back, and then pulls the wardrobe door open. His fingers grope right to the back of the empty safe.

John lets him at it, goes to retrieve his hard-drive where a one-two-three blink tells him it has finished its work. He pockets it and picks up the digital photo-frame. It cycles to the family portrait, the five of them smiling blandly on the balcony of the New York penthouse. Teeth immaculately white, hair immaculately brushed, each of them arranged so that John’s red hair won’t clash with Alan’s blonde and Scott’s height wouldn’t look comical among his smaller brothers. Dad’s wearing a black bomber jacket, like he’s just leapt off the gantry of Artemis 5. Heroic astronaut and family man. They look perfect.

The reality was that they had been miserable. None of them had wanted to give the first day of school holidays over to the dreary photoshoot. Virgil had crashed through arpeggios on the baby grand piano between set ups and Alan, who had been only seven, had thrown a DEFCON One tantrum because he was jet-lagged and out of sync with the time zone and it was way past his bedtime. Every time John found a quiet place to read he was disturbed by a stylist trying to stick yet more safety pins into his hated grey and green sweater vest.

Scott had turned up at quarter to six, fresh from his first year at college and with Miss Rhode Island in tow. He’d showered, thrown on the white shirt and slate grey trousers selected for him, thoroughly charmed the stylists and posed for the photos without ever alerting anyone from the press that he and Dad weren’t even speaking to each other.

That had been the same article in which Dad had said, “the future of space exploration is the property of the capitalist” John remembers, with a wince.

He wonders what it is about that photo that makes Scott want to keep it around, want to display it here people can see it. Why he wants this reminder of their wax figure selves, so artificial that if you tapped them hard enough they might shatter. John can never believe just how dreamy and dim he himself looks in those photos, or how Gordon looks butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth angelic.

And the louche Scott in the picture looks nothing like the immaculate model soldier who fades up as the balcony photo fades out. The buttons on his uniform and the medal pinned to his chest sparkle. He gleams.

Virgil is peering over his shoulder now, his brows knotted together. “Hey, Scott,” he says to the photograph and then to John, “There’s nothing here,” Virgil says.

“No.”

“I thought there’d be something.” He sounds disappointed.

“What are you doing here, Virgil? Were you expecting to find him hiding out in the bathtub?” It comes out more harshly than he mean.

But Virgil just seems amused. “You’re going to give me grief about being here? What are you doing here? Guilty conscience?”

“Of course not. Why would I have a guilty conscience?”

Virgil gives him a look. “Gee, I don’t know, Johnny. Maybe something to do with the shouting match you had just outside my door last week.”

“You heard that.”

“Grandpa Grant heard that.” Virgil pulls one of Scott’s hoodies over his head and puts his hands into the pockets. “And I’m here because I thought this would be as good a place as any to start. Figure out where he’s been, so I know where he’s going. Talk to his friends. I’m going to find Scott,” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Drag him home kicking and screaming if I have to. You can help. Since you’re here.”

“Gosh. Thanks.” But suddenly he does feel guilty. Not about Scott, but for Virgil. Poor Virgil. Of course, he wants to help. Of course, he wants to be seen to be doing something useful for once. It seems petty to point out if Kyrano can’t find Scott, if not a single digital rock John’s turned over has offered up one lead there’s precious little Virgil’s going to be able to do in the situation.

“It’s not like he just disappeared. People don’t just van – ” Virgil breaks off, colours suddenly. “I didn’t mean. Sorry, John.”

“What? Oh. That.”

When he was nine years old John had been kidnapped. He had been walking home from school one day when Scott had stayed late for basketball practice. An arm had gone around his waist and another over his nose and he had been picked up and tossed into the back of a van. One of his kidnappers had brandished a knife at him in the van, told him that good little boys were well treated but bad little boys had their fingers cut off one by one.

After that they had been civil to him, fed him cold spaghetti hoops and given him a gamegle to play with.

He wishes he could say he had been brave or plucky or clever, that he had outwitted his captors and escaped on his own, but the reality is that he had spent a long weekend playing Tetris Masters in a cramped duplex in downtown Portland. At the end of the third day there had been terrifying sounds outside and he had buried his head beneath his blanket. But when the door creaked open it had been Kyrano who had been outside, ready to scoop him up and take him home.

When he looks back on it now it seems like something that happened to someone else.  The worst part had been when, firmly held in Dad’s arms, he had had to wade through the sea of flashing cameras and shouting reporters from the steps of the hospital to the car.

In the aftermath, Dad had insisted on subcutaneous GPS transmitters for each of them. Before leaving Algiers, Scott had cut his out and flushed it. John’s seen the records It had transmitted for three days from the bottom of a reservoir outside Algeria before blinking out.

John feels a sudden creep along his spine. Had it been flushed? Had Dad sent divers to retrieve it? Had they checked the rest of Scott wasn’t down there with it? And why hadn’t that occurred to John before now? He’d just assumed that Scott had taken himself off to sulk, to lick his wounds in private, to throw his disapproval in Dad’s face by torpedoing his career. Before now he’d never considered other possibilities. He had thought Scott understandable, quantifiable, a problem he had already solved.

But who is this Scott who can make himself vanish without leaving a digital trace? And who is this person living a carefully studied half-life in place of his dreams?

John’s legs give out from under him and he sits down on the bed.

“John.” Virgil’s hand grips his shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“I’m fine.”

A good first test.

But Dad hadn’t meant that finding Scott was his first test. He had meant:

When you’re 200,000 miles above the Earth’s surface, dropping everything and coming home is not going to be an option available to you.

He had meant: You’re going to have to learn what it costs to be able to do nothing when people you care about are in trouble.

He had meant: I need someone cool, collected, dispassionate. Someone who can be rational even when people they care about are in danger; especially when people they care about are in danger.

So, John’s already failed this test, because he’s here, chasing his tail in the desert, imagining worst case scenarios and achieving nothing as the possibility of finding Scott gets more and more remote.

Fuck you, Scott.

Because even in his absence Scott’s deconstructing him, making him doubt himself, pointing out he’s not the man he thought he was.

“Come on, John.” Virgil takes him by the arm. “We should go. He’s not here, okay.”

“Yeah, okay.”

He’s quiet as Virgil says goodbye to Stubbs and as Skip drives them back off the base. They pull in in the parking lot of a 7eleven. Beneath a no loitering sign a beat-up jalopy stands parked. “This is me,” says Virgil.

The car looks like it runs on rust and prayer. Skip raises an eyebrow as he pulls in. “Is this what the Tracy boys are driving nowadays?”

Virgil scratches his head, embarrassed. “It belongs to Dave, my neighbour. He loaned it to me in exchange for a painting and my bike. I don’t think he ever thought I could get it to run.”

“Can’t imagine why.”

“Wait a second.” John allows this to sink in for a moment. “Your neighbour? In Chicago?! You didn’t drive clean across the country in that?”

Virgil nods, shrugs. “Had to. Dad grounded me.”

“Virgil, you’re nearly nineteen. He can’t ground you.”

Virgil shrugs. “Froze my assets then. Revoked my clearance to my bank accounts, even the ones he wasn’t supposed to know about.” John doesn’t miss the way Skip’s eyebrows go up. “Gave me sixty dollars a day to live on and five days to clear out my apartment and hand my notice in at my job.”

“Why?”

Virgil shrugs, sanguine. “Maybe he was afraid I’d take off to New Mexico to look for Scott.” He opens the door of Skip’s car to let himself out. “Thank you very much, Captain Guerra.”

“Nice to meet you, Virgil. And nice moustache.”

John jumps out of the car after him. “You’re not going to drive back in that death trap?”

“Sure. Wanna ride? Where you going?”

“I’ve got a 7am flight,” he says stiffly. To LAX with no connecting flight. It had seemed a good international hub to start from. He had figured by then he would know where he was going. “I’m booked into an airport hotel in Albuquerque.”

“Yeah. That’s on my way. I can take you.” He reads John’s expression. “Or I can drop you back to town and you can get the train.”

“Come back with me.” John rolls his eyes. “I’ll pay for your flight.”

“I don’t need your money, John.”

“No, you need a miracle to keep that thing running.”

“Anyway, I promised Dave I’d have the car back.”

Dave, John decides at once, is clearly a frustrated serial killer.

“Virgil, I… I’m pulling rank. I can’t let you drive that thing across the country.”

This is the part where Virgil folds. It’s where he always folds. If it were Gordon or Alan it might be different, but Virgil can be relied upon to be sensible and obedient. Except this Virgil is grinning a most un-Virgil like grin, and folding his arms on the roof of the car. “Then I guess you have until Albuquerque to convince me not to.”

*

There was a time, when gasoline was cheaper and more readily available, that freeways were the arteries of America, but that was before economies of scale in fusion tech made public transport the faster, cheaper option. Nowadays, automobiles are mainly used for short distances. Driving is a dying art. The freeways are half-empty and poorly maintained, populated mainly by the huge 26 and 48-wheeler transport wagons, itinerant nu-gypsies and the occasional motoring hobbyist.

They speed along in silence that stops just short of companionable. The night is squid ink black and full of stars. The head beams of the transport wagons dazzle him as they harrumph out of the darkness and rattle past. There’s music playing softly over the speakers. It’s neither unpleasant nor identifiable. Virgil’s always been an early adopter when it comes to new music.

The jalopy doesn’t even have an autodrive function so Virgil has to steer, but they’re making good time. John can’t shake the sensation that he should be saying something, but he’s just not sure as to what it is. Every time he tries it gets turned into a clearing of his throat or a groan.

But a sign tells him that Albuqueque is only a hundred miles away so he clears his throat once more and asks, “Did you know about any of this? Did he confide in you?”

Virgil keeps his eyes on the road as he says, “Johnny, Scott doesn’t really talk to me at all, except to say, ‘Uh, how’s the art thing going, Virg?’ like I’m seven.”

“Oh… uh, how is the art thing going?”

“I quit.” Virgil’s expression doesn’t change. “I’m going to Stanford in the fall, on Dad’s dime. Engineering.”

“Oh.”

He wants to ask more but something in Virgil’s manner strongly discourages it and a minute later he pulls into one of the roadside gas stations and stops. “I’m starving. Getcha anything?”

John shrugs. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”

“I’ll get two of everything then.”

A second later John remembers the danger. “No granola bars, Virgil.” He calls at his brother’s retreating back. “And I don’t want a kale smoothie!” John’s got an astronaut’s general outlook on health but a computer programmer’s compulsive need for E numbers.

“Sure thing, John. Just caffeine, cocaine and gin.” He waves a hand and keeps walking.

He gets out of the car to stretch his legs and goes for a short prowl around the tiny outdoor seating area. Just as he’s stretching out his quads, his phone rings.

“Hey there, polar bear.”

Rest, and a day of forced routine attending lectures, have obviously done Gordon some good. He’s evened out a little, lost that manic gleam. Last night – or rather in the early hours of this morning – it had been all John had been able to do to coninvce him to get some sleep. He had spent most of the evening stuck between gears, trapped between being furious at this Lady Penelope and being utterly besotted. One minute John had been talking him down from turning her and himself in to the Admiralty, and the next he seemed about ready to start carving “GCT hearts PCW” into bulkhead walls. He had paced back and forth, bouncing up onto his hammock and back down again, peeling off one item of clothing at a time until he was down to his t-shirt and boxer-briefs, repeating things that had been said to him or about him, collapsing with a sigh in his chair and then leaping up to say, “And another thing!”

This evening at least he seems calmer, though the first words out of his mouth are still, “I’ve been thinking about that Lady Penelope chick.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah, really,” says Gordon, who is maybe not as oblivious to sarcasm on the subject as John had thought. He’s tipped back precariously on his chair, slurping kelp noodles with a pair of ceramic chop sticks. “Do you think you could track her down?”

In fact, there’s already a burgeoning file about the Lady Penelope Creighton Ward in John’s personal vault, locked behind every digital protection John can come up with, but he’s not going to tell Gordon that. “I’m not sure.”

“Oh, come on, Johnnycakes. You can find anybody.”

John winces. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel tonight’s session. Something’s come up.”

“No prob. Everything okay? John?” Gordon’s looking hard at him now and the edges of his smile are starting to droop. He looks unsettled.

“Everything’s fine,” John says and to change the subject he says, “What would you say if I told you Virgil wanted to go to Stanford to study engineering.”

Gordon nods. “Makes sense. Good school.”

“It is a good school. Don’t you think it might be too good a school? Virgil’s always been more focused on the arts then academics.”

“That’s… true.”

“Some of the guys I work with studied engineering at Stanford. They said that was excellent but intense. Might it not be too much for Virgil? He barely scraped through high school math.”

Suddenly Gordon cracks a broad smile. “Oh no. Are we about to have the birds and the bees talk? We are! Oh, no. Johnny!” He throws back his head and laughs.

“Gor… Cooper!”

“Sorry. Sorry. So. When a mommy and a daddy love each other very much and the mommy and the daddy both have IQs pushing 160…”

“Cooper, be serious.”

Gordon slurps a kelp noodle back into his skull. “What I mean is… John, you know Virgil’s good at math, right?”

“Of course, he’s fine, sure. But there are standards–”

“John, you know that Virgil is smart, right?”

“Of course, but multiple intelligences are -”

“No. Not multiple intelligences. Not everyone is special in their own special way. Not everyone get out your crayons and form a circlejerk because we are all about to be blowtorched by the fiery intellect by John Glenn Tracy… I’m losing the run of this metaphor. To rephrase: You know Virgil is smart, like smart smart. Like, you smart.”

There is a moment’s silence, then Gordon groans. “Oh man, you didn’t. Oh, no. I was counting on you to tell Scott. Does this mean I’m going to have to tell Scott? I’m not telling Scott. Why do you think his ‘math tutor’ was an emeritus professor of mathematics instead of the usual broke post-grad?”

“I thought… I thought that was just Dad being Dad.”

“Well, yeah, sure, little bit. Also, no! C’mon, Dude, he got 1007 on his SAT scores the year the mean score was 1006. He nearly failed basic trig yet somehow managed to get by in all those AP calc courses. John, he actually read your dissertation.”

For just a moment John goggles. “Oh, shit.”

Gordon’s noodles nearly come back down his nose. “Johnny, you said a bad word!”

“I’ve got to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Don’t forget to keep up with your reading.”

“Yes, teach. Say hi to Virgil for me.”

By the time Virgil returns with supplies John’s already got their route to Chicago planned out along with appropriate rest stops and gas stations for re-supplies. “It’s a 26.2-hour drive to Chicago traveling at 60 miles per hour. We’ll each take two six hour shifts, with fifteen minute breaks every two hours. Why don’t you take first shift, while I work out our rest stops.”

“Okay, Johnny.”

Virgil takes the first six hours and John the second. By the time he finishes his shift he’s been awake for 39 hours, so while Virgil drives he dozes in the back seat.

When he wakes up, they’re already in Kansas.

[jgfiles]

Random info on the Military Uniforms (陸軍軍服 Rikugun Gunpuku) seen in ‘Joker Game’

(Take it with a grain of salt as I had to go through tons of Japanese webs about military uniforms to find the Japanese terms and I’m still not sure I picked up the correct ones...)

Anyway, Sakuma politely volunteered to pose for the picture above so here’s what he’s wearing.

Military Cap (軍帽 Gunbō): Olive drab in colour with visor. On it there’s a Star Badge (星章 Seishō).

Star Badge (Cap Badge) (星章（帽章） Seishō (bōshō)): Gold in colour and placed on the front of the headband of the Military Cap.

Type 98 Military Coat (９８式軍衣 98-Shiki Gun'i): It’s a coat (上衣 Uwagi) olive drab in colour and made either of cotton or wool with a turn-down collar (折襟 Orieri) open collar (開襟 Kaikin), four pockets (ポケット Pocket) with flaps, and 6 buttons (釦 Botan).

Collar Insignia (襟章 Erishō): Varies according to the soldier rank and affiliation. In the Type 98 Military coat 2 Rank Insignia (階級章 Kaikyūshō) are placed on the collar. Along them there can be other insignias pointing to the soldier army. In combat areas, neither officers nor men ordinarily will wear any insignia of rank or branch of service.

Rank Insignia (階級章 Kaikyūshō): Military rank insignia. Vary according to the rank of the soldier.

Mountain Type Chest Insignia (山型胸章 Yama-gata Kyōshō): A mountain shaped insignia reporting the Army colour (兵科色 Heikashoku) indicating the military service at which the soldiers wearing that uniforms belong. Since Sakuma is under Mutō and Mutō has it magenta I assumed Sakuma’s might be magenta as well (it would point to them both being in the Infantry).

Military Gloves (軍用手袋 Gun'yō Tebukuro): Also called 軍手 GunTe for short they’re white and, usually, in cotton.

Trousers (袴 Hakama): Semi-breeches, cut high in the waist and held up by two webbing straps.

Boots (長靴 Nagagutsu): Russet riding boots with soles with ridge-like cleats under the ball of the foot for better traction.

Type 14 Handgun (十四年式拳銃 Jūyonen-shiki Kenjū): The Nambu model 14 (1925) 8-mm pistol is a semiautomatic, recoil-operated, magazine-fed hand weapon with safety lever and an unusually large trigger guard permits firing with a gloved hand. It’s capacity is 8 rounds.

Suspension Cord (懸紐 Agata Himo): The cord to which the gun was tied.

Gun Holder (拳銃嚢 Kenjūnō): In leather.

Shoulder Belt (携帯革 Keitai kawa): In leather, it’s the belt that supports the weight of the Gun Holder (拳銃嚢 Kenjūnō).

Leather Belt (帯革 Obikawa): It’s thin, wrapped around the waist and supposed to hold the gun holder in place. Truth to be told, although ‘Joker Game’ is pretty accurate in the details, you can’t really see it in the picture above as only the Sword Belt (刀帯 Katanaobi) is clearly visible so let me show it to you from a picture from the ‘D no Maō’ Manga.

Miyoshi, please, come forward.

Type 98 New Army Sword (九八式新軍刀 Kyūhachi-shiki Shin Guntō): A Japanese sword produced for use by the Japanese army. Higher up could change the blade to a more valuable one even if they had to keep the army mounting and the scabbard.

Military Sword Scabbard (軍刀刀鞘 Guntō Tōshō): In metal, it’s where the sword was held. The one Sakuma has is for the Type 98 New Army Sword (九八式新軍刀 Kyūhachi-shiki Shin Guntō).

Sword Belt (刀帯 Katanaobi): Leather belt to which the sword was usually tied.

Strap (釣革 Tsurikawa): It’s the string that basically connect the scabbard of the sword to the sword belt.

Clothing worn under the uniform:

Belt (帯 Obi): It holds the pants in place.

Loincloth (褌 Fundoshi): Traditional Japanese undergarment (g-string codpiece) for adult males.

Undershirt (襦袢 Juban): Collarless, in wool or cotton, white, grey or light green undershirt.

Military Socks (軍足 Gun ashi): Heelless and made of wool or cotton.

Soldiers who were to go to war would often wear a Senninbari. We know that Sakuma doesn’t, although he’s doing it in an illustration with him in his Chibi version

Senninbari or “1000-stitch Good Luck Belt” (千人針 Senninbari): 千人針 meaning “thousand-person-stitches”. A Senninbari is a red sash, made with 1000 stitches and sometimes worn by Japanese soldiers around the waist under the uniform. It was supposed to confer luck, courage, and possible immunity from enemy fire.

Just by looking at the previous picture of ‘D no Maō’ someone might have noticed that Miyoshi in it is wearing an uniform that’s different from the one Sakuma wears in the ‘Joker Game’ anime. That uniform is occasionally seen in the ‘Joker Game’ anime as it’s the uniform soldiers used to wear previously (Sakuma’s uniform started being used from 1938).

So Odagiri volunteered to show us how different the old uniform is from the new one.

Military Cap (軍帽 Gunbō): Apparently it’s slightly different in size. Not that you can see it in the picture.

Type 5 Military Coat (5式軍衣 5-Shiki Gun'i): Differently from the previous coat the old one has a Standing Collar (立襟 Tachieri). It seems the standing collar was high uncomfortable hence the change. On the collar you can see the colour of the army to which the soldier would belong. Occasionally there were also Collar Insignia (襟章 Erishō) pointing to the soldier’s unit.

Rank Insignia (階級章 Kaikyūshō): We can see that the Military rank Insignia in the old uniform were placed on the shoulders.

Type 94 New Army Sword (九四式新軍刀 Kyūyon-shiki Guntō): The old model of Japanese sword produced for use of the commissioned officers by the Japanese army. The Type 98 was meant to be an improvement... only, due to the war, funds ended up getting scarce and so late Type 98 Swords are also not very good. The Type 94 comes with its Military Sword Scabbard (軍刀刀鞘 Guntō Tōshō) which is slightly different from the Type 98.

We see that Sakuma too wore this uniform when he was a student at the military school... only back then he didn’t wear any rank insignia.

Now let’s give a second of attention to Mutō’s uniform.

Aiguillette (飾緒 Kazario): An ornamental braided cord. Mutō is the only official we see that wears it as Akutsu, despite being higher in rank, doesn’t.

Mountain Type Chest Insignia (山型胸章 Yama-gata Kyōshō): A mountain shaped insignia reporting the Army Colour (兵科色 Heikashoku) indicating the military service at which soldiers wearing that uniforms belong. Since his one is magenta he belongs to the Infantry. Ah, if you want to know they chose red to tie it with the colour of fresh blood.

And now... group picture.

From left to right, Tobisaki (Odagiri), Sakuma, Yūki, Kazato, Mutō and Akutsu.

Now... we don’t see only soldiers in ‘Joker Game’ but also the Military Police, which technically belonged to the Army but was a bit peculiar.

It’s worth to note how in the army the ranking remarked if you were just in the Army or if you were in the Military Police, so you would say Army First Lieutenant (陸軍中尉 Rikugun-Chūi) if you’re in the Army, while if you were in the Military Police you would say Military Police First Lieutenant (憲兵中尉 Kempei-Chūi).

Anyway, let’s see how the uniform changes if one is a member of the Military Police. Honma, if you please...

Mountain Type Chest Insignia (山型胸章 Yama-gata Kyōshō): A mountain shaped insignia reporting the Army Colour (兵科色 Heikashoku) indicating the military service at which soldiers wearing that uniforms belong. The one for the Military Police is black. It seems black symbolizes “Unreachable Influence”.

Collar Insignia (襟章 Erishō): In addition to the rank insignia on the collar they all wear the Rising Sun Insignia Emblem (旭日章エンブレム Kyokujitsu-shō Emblem).

Rising Sun Insignia emblem (旭日章エンブレム Kyokujitsu-shō emblem): Back then it was the Military police emblem and is still used by the Japanese police, only back then it had an hexagonal form while currently it has a pentagonal form. The hexagonal one was dismissed after the war.

“Military Police” Armband (「憲兵」腕章 ‘Kempei’ Wanshō): A white armband on the left arm with the characters Ken (憲 “Law”) and Hei (兵 “Soldier”).Note that it seems this armband was worn only by low ranking members. We see that Oikawa (an MP captain) or Sakuma and Tazaki (when impersonating a MP First Lieutenant) won’t wear it.

Type 95 Shin Guntō (九五式軍刀 Kyūgō-shiki Guntō): Worth mentioning is that Honma’s Military Sword Scabbard (軍刀刀鞘 Guntō Tōshō) is the one of a Type 95 Shin Guntō (九五式軍刀 Kyūgō-shiki Guntō) which was a sword released in 1935 that was designed for use by non-commissioned officers. It seems that, when impersonating Military Police soldiers, Miyoshi and Co also had it. Sakuma and Oikawa though, are shown having a Type 98 New Army Sword (九八式新軍刀 Kyūhachi-shiki Shin Guntō), so I guess the Type 95 Shin Guntō (九五式軍刀 Kyūgō-shiki Guntō) was also used by the lower ranks in the Military Police.

Also we see that when Sakuma goes at Hanabishi to investigate he shows around this (though I've no idea if it really belongs to Sakuma or he kept it after impersonating a Military Police officer... :P):

Military Police Notebook (憲兵手帳 Kempei Techō): It's a notebook but it also works like a badge that proves you're in the police. Present day Japanese police also has one.

And now... group picture.

More relevant stuffs.

When the ‘Joker Game’ Anime showed us low ranking soldiers marching, we could see they didn’t wear boots but...

Puttees (腳絆 Kyahan): Bandage covering the lower part of the leg from the ankle to the knee. It consisted of a long narrow piece of cloth wound tightly and spirally round the leg, and serving to provide both support and protection. Interesting enough that’s not the case for the Military Police, which always wears boots.

Knitted Shoes (Shōwa Type) (編上靴（昭五式） Henjōka (Shōwashiki)): Exactly as the tin say leathered knitted shoes.

Type 38 Infantry Rifle (三八式歩兵銃 Sanhachi Shiki Hoheijū): The rifle that was in service with the Imperial Japanese Army from 1906 to 1945, a 6.5mm weapon which appeared in both 'long' and 'short' models.

In cold weather we see that Tobisaki (Odagiri) and his companions are wearing:

Army Coat (陸軍外套 Rikugun Gaitō): With double buttons and a big hood, which make them distinctive, and made in khaki fabric.

There’s more, I should probably mention the other types of hats or the various bags those poor guys carry but I’ll spare you (and myself really, this research was terrible).

The last thing I’m going to mention is just an interesting tiny little info about the swords.

See this cute blue thing hanging from Tobisaki’s (Odagiri’s) sword?

Tassel (刀緒 Tōcho): It’s a pendent ornament consisting commonly of a bunch of threads that displays an officer's class.

Generals, like Akutsu, have it yellow.

Field officers, like Mutō, have it red.

Company officers, like Oikawa and Sakuma but also Tobisaki, have it blue.

The rest (Honma, Miyoshi and Co when they dressed up as low ranking Military Police Members) gets it brown.

...and with this I’ve finished.

Corrections and additional info are always very welcomed!

[tipsoctopus]

"Abysmal", "Astounding" - One thing Neil Lennon keeps doing has riled these Celitc fans

Celtic beat Kilmarnock in fairy-tale fashion on Saturday afternoon, but Neil Lennon’s use of one January signing is driving fans crazy.

Celtic picked up yet another win on the road to their eighth consecutive title on Saturday, but this one came in truly wonderful fashion.

In a week when the club lost their greatest and most iconic player, captain Billy McNeill, Jozo Simunovic headed in the only goal on 67 minutes to give the Bhoys all three points.

Be sure to check out the incredible story of the man who rose from a Tanzanian refugee camp to become one of Australia’s biggest football stars in the video below…

Simunovic of course dons the same number five that McNeill won 23 major trophies in, and 1967 was the year McNeill guided the Lisbon Lions to the European Cup.

It wasn’t all plain sailing in the match though, and the drab performances with little creativity are starting to become a serious mark against Lennon’s chances of becoming permanent manager.

His use of Oliver Burke in particular is infuriating fans, as the dynamic winger once again warmed the bench and watched on as the Hoops struggled to crack open the Killie defence.

The January loan signing has mustered four goals and three assists in 16 appearances, and the Twitter reactions down below are bemused by Lennon’s decision not to include him on Saturday…

Abysmal performance, game was crying out for Burke or Weah's direct pace,

— David Sinclair (@DavidSi70823076) April 27, 2019

Right what’s Lennon doing think he needs questioned why doesn’t he play @OliverBurke55 nearly every celtic fan is shouting get Burke on what is up with lennon it needs questioned @chris_sutton73 get on the case ya fans want to know what’s Lennon doing wasting Burke

— Kelly McGeachy (@kellybaby3) April 27, 2019

It’s official, Neil Lennon is on drugs.

Hayes on for Forrest when you have Burke on the bench

— Keith Robertson (@Krobertson5808) April 27, 2019

Obviously normal punters don’t know injuries and stuff! But how Burke doesn’t start since Lennon came in is astounding!! And no Weah wtf different ?

— scott corrigan (@corriganscott1) April 27, 2019

Get burke and hayes on

— Fergie (@cfergie1982) April 27, 2019

Surely need to put Oliver Burke on crying out for him

— SJ (@JohnstonStef) April 27, 2019

Incredibly one dimensional under Lennon, Lustig & Izza our first choices back in 2012, shows zero intention. Oliver Burke has to come on sharp, another scrappy 0-0 or 1-0 looks inevitable. #celtic

— Connor Brennan (@ConnorB05563538) April 27, 2019

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After the siren: Best weekend ever? It’s right up there

IN TERMS of drama and impact, nothing will ever beat the final round of the home and away season in 1987.

Hawthorn champion Jason Dunstall’s last-minute goal at Kardinia Park knocked Geelong out of the finals and paved the way for Melbourne to make it for the first time in 23 years by beating Footscray at the Whitten Oval.

Meanwhile at Waverley, Carlton kept the Hawks from claiming top spot – and the precious week’s break that came with it – courtesy of Stephen Kernahan’s goal after the siren.

But the weekend of footy just gone comes awfully close. Hawthorn’s fabulous win over Adelaide on Thursday night at Adelaide Oval (17th beating first for the second straight week) might have stood up all weekend.

Yet the events that followed over the next 72 hours had already consigned it to the “ancient history” basket by Sunday night.

We’ll get to the Hawks a bit later. Let’s start instead with the really close ones. This was the first round since round 23, 2013 to have two one-point results. Add the West-Coast Melbourne and Geelong-Fremantle games and you have four games decided by less than one kick – giving us a weekend of drama and excitement not seen for, well, 30 years.

• The run home: How the race for the finals is shaping up

Comeback Cats do it without Joel

As he sat dazed on the bench after the head clash that sent him off the ground after just one minute on Sunday, Joel Selwood was entitled to wonder whether, after so many games over the last decade in which he carried his side to victory, that gesture would be reciprocated.

Thankfully for him it was, and the two-point win over Fremantle turned out to be one of Geelong’s bravest for years.

By the final quarter, Tom Stewart and Darcy Lang were also out of action, yet it was the Cats who finished all over the tiring Dockers, who at one stage during a mesmerising second quarter led by nearly six goals.

WATCH: The thrilling final minutes at Simonds Stadium

It might have been at home in front of their adoring fans, but such a win can only fuel the belief at Geelong that anything is possible this year. We’ve moved on from the ‘Dangerwood’ phenomenon at Geelong this year, but to claw back and win in the fashion the Cats did without one of them, bodes well for what is to come for the rest of the year.

A grand old flag? Win in the west gets Dee faithful dreaming

Saturday night marked Melbourne’s first win over West Coast since 2009 and the first by the Demons over West Coast in Perth since 2002.

They had no business winning the game, really. Jack Watts, Jesse Hogan and Nathan Jones were watching on TV on the other side of the country while a fourth star, Jack Viney was running around with a crook shoulder.

• Nine things we learned from round 14

Yet the toughness and the versatility for which they’ve become renowned in 2017 came to the fore. Viney was magnificent after spending part of the third term off the ground and Clayton Oliver (despite an awful theatrical flop to the ground right on half-time) relished the hard contest.

Demon takes on ex-Test cricketer in Twitter spat

And then there was the career-best five-goal haul to Tom McDonald. Usually a defender, the absences of Max Gawn, Hogan and Watts have required him to play everywhere but in defence, and he has emerged as one of the better swingmen in the competition.

And that goal to put the Demons ahead just before the death was superb. A bit lucky, but superb nonetheless.

WATCH: McDonald’s five hauls Dees across the line

Social media was abuzz afterwards as to whether the Demons are premiership material. Footy history suggests this group might need to experience some finals footy heartbreak first, but with the best ruckman in the competition and the right blend of speed, hardness, scoring power and flexibility, Melbourne’s premiership window is open. In this new era of AFL parity, why not this year?

Dogs thrill, but 2016 still a distant memory

About a quarter of an hour earlier, the Western Bulldogs outlasted North Melbourne to win by a point, having led for most of the night.

Only in the final seconds of the game, when they went coast-to-coast to get the ball to Jake Stringer for the match-winning point, did they resemble the premiership winning team of last season. Otherwise, they played in fits and spurts and it is hard not to hark back to 12 months ago when the Bulldogs would have put this game to bed much earlier.

WATCH: The final thrilling minutes of WB v NM

The umpiring will be a talking point out of this one – the 26-14 free kick count (which at one stage was about 14-2) and episodes such as Shaun Higgins being called to play on by the non-controlling umpire 40m away just before half-time will dominate the Monday AFL talkfests this week.

Frustrated Scott not dwelling on costly free kicks

The Dogs have been mainly good at home but woeful away and are going to have to manufacture some wins at places such as Adelaide Oval, Cazalys Stadium and Eureka Stadium before the end of the year to a) make the finals and b) enter them with any degree of confidence. After Saturday’s clash with the Eagles they play just three more games at Etihad Stadium for the year.

Swans get the little things right in huge win

The night before at the SCG was insane. What is it about Sydney, Essendon and close finishes?

But while the spotlight will be about the Bombers and the number of errors they made in the final few minutes, the takeaway should also be about how well the Swans played the last few minutes. Heath Grundy and Callum Mills made some enormous defensive plays and player after player made the correct decision during those same frantic contests.

WATCH: The final two minutes of the Swans’ thrilling win

It’s what you get with a mature group that is never out if the game and is a product of one of the best coaching set-ups in the AFL. John Longmire looked as though he couldn’t believe what he saw, but in fact, he shouldn’t have been too surprised. He has engineered the Swans to finish the game as they did.

• Forecast the road to the flag with the AFL Ladder and Finals Predictor

Clarko’s still the king of coaching

Hawthorn’s triumph on Thursday night was another triumph of coaching. Adelaide’s forward line contained Eddie Betts, Taylor Walker, Josh Jenkins, Tom Lynch, Wayne Milera, Hugh Greenwood and Andy Otten. The Hawks countered with Kaiden Brand, Blake Hardwick, Ryan Burton, Taylor Duryea, Luke Hodge, Grant Birchall and James Sicily.

On paper the Crows win that every time, but Alastair Clarkson’s brilliantly crafted defensive game-plan didn’t let the Crows get the easy goals out the back, which has been their modus operandi for much of the year.

The Hawks recalled 774 games of experience to their side and it showed. Birchall was a key inclusion and it was a night where the veteran savvy of both Hodge (how fantastic was it having him mic’d up by Channel Seven?)  and Shaun Burgoyne came to the fore. We still don’t see Hodge playing next year, but giving Burgoyne another year at this stage appears a no-brainer, even though the Hawks should rightly wait until the end of the season before making the call.

But the most important person at Hawthorn right now is Clarkson. In a fascinating interview on ABC radio on Saturday he gave every impression of someone determined to stick around for the rebuild, even if nobody at Waverley is calling it such. He remains the best in the business, as Thursday night in Adelaide amply demonstrated.

Other observations

1. It’s all about the wins for the Tigers these days, so excuse the lack of style in their defeat of Carlton on Sunday. Things such as poor conversion can be worked out to a degree at training, but the Blues came at them several times and the Tigers held their nerve. Bachar Houli likely won’t be playing any time soon after what was one of the most uncharacteristic reportable acts in recent memory.

2. Fortress Subiaco? Perhaps not. Saturday night was the first time since 2010 that West Coast has lost a game at Domain Stadium by less than a goal, having won the previous seven. West Coast’s last four games at home this season have been decided by an average margin of eight points. It is becoming increasingly likely that West Coast’s round 23 clash with Adelaide there will be the last AFL game before the move to the new stadium next year, because hopes of a home final for either the Eagles or the Dockers are fading fast.

3. This was the second time this season North Melbourne has lost by one point, and North in 2013 is actually the last team to lose two one-point games in the same season. Adding further salt, they’ve played in five one-point games since 2011 and lost them all. 

4. Hayden Ballantyne’s value to Fremantle was evident from the very start against the Cats on Sunday and he was a factor until he ran out of petrol tickets in the final quarter. He’ll be better for the run, as they say, and Ross Lyon will be delighted to finally have him back.

5. Compared to the lofty standards set elsewhere this weekend, Saturday’s Collingwood-Port Adelaide clash was a relatively drab affair. But the brilliant work of Robbie Gray, especially in the first half, was worth the price of admission alone and his five-goal haul was easily his best return in 12 games at the MCG to date. Ken Hinkley made the point post-match that Gray wasn’t hurt, which hopefully for Port’s sake is a portent of what is to come for the rest of the year.

WATCH: Robbie Gray’s MCG masterclass

6. Expect some of South Australia’s best investigative football journalism this week as the locals examine how North Adelaide’s Ryan Burton slipped twice through Adelaide’s grasp at the 2015 NAB AFL Draft and found his way to Hawthorn. Those two third-quarter goals against the Crows were all class and Burton now shapes as the best first draft pick made by the Hawks since Cyril Rioli a decade ago. He’s signed through until the end of next year, but some of that extra money the Hawks now have thanks to the new CBA will surely find its way into Burton’s bank account before too long.

7. Dayne Beams can’t take a trick and let’s hope the Lions captain, who has been riddled with injury since moving home two-and-a-half years ago, gets on the ground again this year. Beams stood no chance up against Shane Mumford, who as long as he keeps things legal, will scare the bejeezus out of the Giants’ opponents between now and the end of the year.

• Around the state leagues: Who starred in your club’s twos?

8. Relax, Saints fans. Cool your jets everyone else. Jack Billings (30 disposals and a goal against Gold Coast on Sunday) is becoming a super footballer and is on track to give the club all it could hope for from a No.3 draft pick.

WATCH: Jack Billings puts on another show

9. We have the technology but… goal line reviews are still sketchy. Thursday night and twice on Friday night, the TV pictures weren’t quite clear cut to support what the naked eye seemed to show. Some clarification from the AFL on Monday about want the goalpost padding means when it comes to the ball crossing the goal-line would be helpful as well.

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