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lastwagontrainhopper · 4 years ago

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A guiding hand

Royai week day 2 - Serene (let’s collectively ignore how late I am posting this ok thaaaanks)

Summary: “She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke again, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ” ”

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The Colonel and his Lieutenant share a late-night conversation. (Blind!Roy)

Words: 2489

Tags: Blind Roy Mustang, Fluff and Angst, Late Night Conversations, Established Relationship, Canon Compliant

read on aot

“They had left their windows wide open, letting in a soft breeze to relieve them from the heavy summer heat. The curtains were rising and falling without a sound, fluttering in the air like ghosts. Even the streets around the house were quiet at that hour; the only thing that broke the stillness of the night was Riza's voice.

"As for Senator Harn's wife, she was wearing a very elegant apricot-colored dress. With her signature high hairdo, of course.”

Their blankets had long been kicked away to the bottom of the bed in a messy pile. Roy was lying on his back, facing to the ceiling, one hand playing idly with a lock of Riza's hair.

"Apricot?" His eyebrows furrowed slightly. "That's the yellow with a touch of pink, right?”

"That was pretty much it, yes." Riza was lying on her side, her head against her hand, elbow propped up on the pillow. The room was covered in shadows, but the flickering lights from the window on the street allowed her to see the outline of Roy's face.

"And you said Harn had a royal blue jacket...That must have made for an odd contrast.”

Riza smirked. "Yes, that's what several people seemed to think. It looked as if the General and his wife had not consulted with one another before coming to the gala.”

A sly smile spread across Roy’s face. "Ha! And you just know the rumors about their marriage are already flying high. It's sort of ironic, considering how Harn is constantly babbling to the Parliament about the “traditional family” and the “sanctity of marriage” and whatnot." His hand came to lightly circle Riza's wrist, his thumb tapping the back of her hand. "I’m sure you now understand how crucial fashion is in Central. It's not just a matter of taste: it's inherently political.”

"Sure," she answered, unconvinced. "Anyway. The Harns didn't capture the guests' attention that long, since the buffet was brought shortly after.”

Roy hummed appreciated. "And that was a good one. I've rarely tasted crab this delicious.”

"Yes, and they must have put as much effort into the presentation as in the cooking, because the set-up was magnificent. Everything was served on glittering silver plates, which reflected the glow of the chandeliers. On each table, the dishes were arranged in a sort of pyramid, culminating with the piece of meat or seafood. It looked extremely fragile, like...like some sort of house of cards, or crystal architecture, defying gravity - but they all stood the evening without crashing down. It was breathtaking.”

This had become the most constant part of their day. Almost every night, as they lay in bed before going to sleep, Riza would describe to Roy a long list of the things he hadn’t been able to see during the day. When they had first started this habit, as they were working on the the reconstruction of Ishval, Riza's descriptions had been much more pragmatic, like a mission report: which building seemed in need of repair? Which tribal leader looked unsatisfied during their morning meeting? She did her best to give him this information as the day went by, but there were always important details that she missed.

As the years had passed and the two had distanced themselves from the military, Riza's description had slowly become more lyrical. She began to tell him about beautiful sights that he was missing – a particularly colorful sunset, or the way the city lights looked at night. As time went by, she started to enjoy these conversations and more more, and they became increasingly long. It got to the point where, as Riza saw something pretty during the day, she found herself immediately thinking of the way she would describe it to Roy later at night.

"You should try to write a book," he had told her once. "You're so good at this - I can picture in my mind everything that you're telling me about like I was seeing it."

"It wouldn't be the same," she had answered, shaking her head. "I like hearing your reactions."

He had arched his eyebrows, smirking. "And yet you scold me every time I interrupt you.”

"Stop being overdramatic,” she had retorted. “Now let me continue." They had left it at that.

Sometimes Riza would rest her head on his chest as she went on with her stories. This was what Roy preferred. Ever since losing his eyesight, he had grown much fonder of physical contact, even casual, with her - after all, it was the surest way he could know that she was by his side. But Riza liked to remain slightly further, just next to him, so that she would be able to observe him during their late-night conversation. His face would take on such a special expression at those times, almost peaceful, or...serene.

Serene. That would have been the last word anyone would have chosen to describe Roy under normal circumstances. Despite his reputation as a slacker, he was a man that was constantly busy thinking about one thing or another, pondering, planning his next ploy – or his next date with a certain Lieutenant. His eyes in particular had always betrayed the constant working of his mind: they were restless, always darting around the room to study the people they were talking to, noticing details in their postures, noting suspicious movements out of the corner of his eye.

And, Riza knew it well, even the moments of rest didn’t bring Roy much serenity. More often than not, his sleep was plagued by violent nightmares that would wake him screaming in the middle of the night - or at least, that tensed and distorted his expression as he slept.

This had not changed since the Promised Day. But since Roy’s fight in the underground of Central, his blind eyes had lost their piercing look and had taken on a milky appearance. In the first few weeks, Riza had hated meeting that blank stare - it reminded her too much of what his eyes used to look like, as well as symbolizing her failure as a bodyguard.

But eventually, she had come to see a certain beauty in them, and in the calmness they brought to Roy's expression. He was still as expressive as ever, with his trademark crooked smile and taunting eyebrows. But in the evening, when they were alone together, his face truly relaxed. As Riza described the day's events to him, he would focus entirely on her voice, letting his mind recreate the image she was painting. His eyebrows would loosen and his forehead became smooth, free of its usual furrow; his mouth would fall half-open. At this particular moment, Roy took on a serene expression that Riza had never seen on him before, and she never got tired of looking at it.

"I need to tell you, unfortunately," Riza broke the silence that had settled, "that you were not the best-dressed man at the reception.”

Roy propped himself up on his elbows, frowning with surprise. So much for serenity.

"What? Who was?”

“You’re not going to be happy about this,” Riza said, trying to hide the small smile in her voice. "But Colonel Birks made quite an impression. He wore a rather daring suit, made of a black fabric from which red velvet patterns stood out.”

Roy huffed with indignation. "Velvet! Nonsense. He obviously can’t stop pushing the boundaries of extravagance – and of bad taste.”

"I don't know," Riza said evasively. “I thought it was pretty elegant…and I wasn't the only one.”

Roy ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "Outdressing the president should be considered insubordination," he muttered under his breath. "I'll call Ms. Zhao tomorrow. I need something more avant-garde for the next gala. Maybe with some silk mixed in with a cotton suit?”

He lay down again on the bed and raised his arm, inviting her to come closer. Riza moved to nestle up against him, putting her head on his shoulder, a hand on his chest. Roy wrapped an arm around her waist and buried his nose in her hair. Whenever he did that, his breaths would tickle Riza's neck, making her giggle; she would always pretend to be annoyed but it, but they both knew better.

After a moment, Roy tucked some of her hair away from her face. He brought his lips close to her ear. "Tell me again what you were wearing."

Riza felt a shiver go down her spine. That deep voice that Roy used when he whispered always got a reaction out of her, no matter what cliché or silly thing he would say.

A wry smile crossed her lips. "At this point, you know my wardrobe better than I do, Roy. ”

"I know," he answered, unabashed. "But I like hearing you describe it."

Riza chuckled. “Well,” she began, “I was wearing the flowy emerald green skirt that Rebecca got me for Christmas, a brown leather belt, and my white blouse. The one with the embroidery on the collar. ”

He hummed in appreciation. "With your golden high heels, I'm guessing."

"With my golden high heels," she nodded, "because even though my feet are killing by the end of the night when I wear them, they do really go well with that skirt." Her hand started to play with the ring that Roy wore as a necklace. "I didn't put much makeup on because of how humid the weather was. But I did wear my bright red lipstick."

She felt his cheeky smile even before he spoke. "I can recognize it by taste, now."

If they weren’t pressed so close together, she would have dug her elbow into his ribs. She rolled her eyes instead. "I also had my gold bracelet to go with the shoes, and the earrings you bought me to complete it all. What else...my hair was in a bun, and, of course, I had my necklace."

She expected Roy to follow up with a flirty comment or a joke; that was usually how this type of conversation went. Instead, after a moment, he let out a sight. When he spoke, his voice had a melancholic tone to it.

"That right there is the one sight that I really miss. ”

Riza felt her smile drop. A lump appeared in her throat. Roy rarely complained about his blindness; even in the months following the Promised Day, he had adapted to his new lifestyle with impressive resilience. At first, it seemed as if his disability had affected his Lieutenant, plagued by guilt, more than himself. Still, Riza knew that he must have carried a lot of silent regrets through the years. There was so much Roy had had to give up, so many compromises he had had to reluctantly accept on his plan to reform Amestris – and on his personal life.

Riza disentangled herself gently from his grasp and straighten up, half sitting, to observe him. One of his arms was folded under his head, and he still seemed to be looking at the ceiling - but of course, that was just an impression. She ran a hand through his hair, brushing them away from his face. He smiled slightly at her touch, but she didn't need to see the pupils of his eyes to know that his heart wasn't in it.

She didn't like seeing him like this. With thoses cloudy eyes, melancholy turned his serene expression into a confused one - like he was a child that got lost and couldn't look for his way home.

Riza laid down again and rested her head on the pillow, her face turned toward Roy. She started to gently stroke his arm. "At least, you can keep in your mind the image of what I – and you – looked like in the prime of our youth," she said after a moment in a playful tone, trying to comfort him. "You won't need to see us get all old and wrinkled.”

To her surprise, Roy's face saddened further.

"Don't say that. Beautiful women are like fine wine, they only get better with age - that's what Chris used to say. I always wanted to see how you would look as you grew old.”

Riza raised her eyebrow, surprised. "Really?" she answered in spite of herself.

He nodded. "Not everyone ages gracefully, of course. But I know that wrinkles would look flattering on you; you have such elegant features. And silvery hair never fails to give this distinguished look - at least on women," he added, running a hand through his hair, suddenly self-conscious. His eyebrows furrowed. "Do I already have grey hair?"

Riza felt her shoulders relax. "You're almost completely bald by now, Roy."

He winced. "Please don't joke with that. I don't know what I would do if this were to happen.

Riza simply smiled, and they fell back into a comfortable silence. She watched Roy’s chest rise and fall with his breathing, lulled by the calm rhythm.

"You know, I always wished I could see you grow old, also because it would have meant that we made it."

Riza felt her breath catch in her throat.

She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek, hoping her touch could tell him what her words couldn’t.

“We did make it, Roy.” Now of all time, she wished he could see her face.

"I know," he said. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a light kiss against her knuckles. "I know."

Riza propped herself up on her elbow. She close her fingers around his, and squeezed firmly.

"Listen. We'll just do like with everything else. When my hair turns grey, I'll describe it to you. And as for the wrinkles," she placed his hand on her face, "you can see that for yourself."

Roy made a small smile. For the first time, he turned to face her, placing the tip of his fingers on both sides of her face. That was something he never tired of doing. Before he had lost his sight, he had always been able to read her like a book, understanding the meaning behind even the most subtle of her facial expressions. Now, he could do it in a much more literal sense, by tracing the surface of her body, reading the lines on her skin as if they were words written in braille.

"And when my face is so wrinkled it's unrecognizable,” she continued, "you will know the story behind each one of them.” She injected a smile into her voice. “The ones I already have on my forehead, for example, come from the stress of having spent so many years asking you to do your paperwork.”

His fingers brushed her forehead, and he smiled, abashed. "And you're all the more beautiful for it, my dear." He reached toward her and, guided by his hands, placed a light kiss on her head. “I can’t wait to see the rest.” ”

#royaiweek21 #royai #blind roy #fma #fanfic

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jasontoddiefor · 4 years ago

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As Lightning to the Children eased Chapter 14

Chapter 14 is out! Read on AO3!

Padmé did not call Anakin out when she found him hiding in her living room, arms tugged beneath his knees, his chin resting on top of them. He didn’t look like he had gotten any sleep lately and she was not about to stop him from getting at least some rest.

Instead, he merely put a cup of tea in his hands and went about her work. Halfway through midday, she got the call she had been waiting for.

“Senator Organa,” she greeted her ally and friend. Bail Organa was a good man, friendly and charming on top, and Padmé wondered what would happen if she were to let him meet Obi-Wan sometime. The two seemed like the kind of people who’d get along like a house on fire. “How are you?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Bail replied. He glanced at Anakin once but didn’t further react to his presence. “And yourself?”

“Exhausted, if I’m honest,” Padmé said. “The war hasn’t even truly started and I already feel as if I’ve aged years, but let’s not linger on that. How is your charge?”

“Adjusting,” Bail said. “I offered to take him home to Breha, but he decided that he wanted to stay on Coruscant. I’m not sure whether it’s the proximity to the Jedi or if it’s because he has to protect me in turn for keeping him safe, but I decided it would be beneficial for his health to remain at my side.”

Padmé smiled at him, honestly and truly happy. “I’m relieved to hear that.”

Finally, some good news during this catastrophe. When the Jedi had taken them all back to Coruscant, nobody had been too sure what to do with little Boba Fett. Technically speaking, his father – no matter how undeserving Padmé thought him of the title – was a deceased criminal and there were enough people who wanted Boba to pay for his father’s crimes. Hi status as a clone also didn’t really improve his situation. Padmé would have taken Boba in himself, as would the Jedi, but neither was quite the right fit, and when Bail Organa had offered to take him in, then that was just good fortune.

“If you ever need someone to babysit, I can jump in last minute,” Padmé joked.

Bail smiled and nodded. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, Padmé, but I believe Boba would protest quite heavily against being babysitted.”

“He can be part of my protective detail then,” she amended. “I’m sure he will do excellent work.”

The Council room was dead silent.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Qui-Gon asked, allowing disbelief to seep into his voice.

Whereas some of his fellow Masters smiled in tired exhaustion, others only rolled their eyes.

“A new member this Council needs,” Yoda said. “Wise in the Living Force you are and raised a brilliant Padawan you did. A new member of this Council you may be if you accept.”

Qui-Gon wondered what Dooku would say about this. His Master had already departed with his own clone battalion, heading straight to the Outer Rim and into the zones that promised the most gruesome battles. Dooku was a brilliant talker and given his relationship with the Senate, he’d probably be more useful on the Council than Qui-Gon. He had already been on the Council once.

Qui-Gon knew he was stubborn and thick-headed and unlikely to change his mind unless proven wrong. Both Dooku and Obi-Wan had told and shown him so often enough. Qui-Gon wasn’t chosen for delicate and amicable peace talks. He usually went to do the negotiations where they expected things to blow up, and more often than not, they did.

He was not the best option for a War Council, especially when he struggled to wield the Force as he used to.

“Why me?” he finally asked when he didn’t know what other question there was left to voice.

“Love this Order more than anyone else, you do. Had Knight and Padawan Skywalker not found their way here, found your way to them, you would have. Listen well to the world, you do. Not afraid to speak your words, you are. Ready for this, you are.”

Not yet. Speak first. Right a wrong, my dear child, explain your scars—

“I have to talk to Anakin,” Qui-Gon said, his heart hurting at the thought of the youth, yet rejoicing at finally getting a glimpse of the Force again. “I cannot give you an answer before I spoke to him.”

The Masters nodded and Qui-Gon left.

Anakin was easy to find, hiding away in one of the lowest accessible levels of the temple. These days, he was either at Obi-Wan’s sickbed when Obi-Wan was asleep, at his mother’s when she wasn’t telling him to finally go talk to Obi-Wan, hiding away in Padmé’s apartments or down here. Qui-Gon had first thought that Anakin would try to go deeper, search for what lingered beneath the warm marble of their temple, but he never moved from his spot.

“Anakin.”

The Padawan winced when his name was called, then slowly turned his head only to return to staring blankly at his hands. He looked absolutely miserable, tired too. Qui-Gon sighed.

“Do you remember the mission to Naboo? When we accompanied Padmé back to it?”

Anakin gave no sign that he was listening to Qui-Gon, but he decided to keep talking anyway. “When we entered the ship, you collapsed. Something set you off, something incredibly dark and harmful, and, best I could tell, it flipped a switch for you. Revealed something it shouldn’t have.”

Anakin’s hands curled to fists as Qui-Gon sat down next to him. “Obi-Wan and I didn’t know what to do, so we- no, I decided to do what I thought was best. I blocked those memories, dressed them up in kinder images.”

Even now, so many years later, Qui-Gon remembered it so clearly. The chains wrapped around Anakin’s entire body, the sun burning him, reminding him that he was not supposed to be there.

“And then, when you tried to heal me later on, you needed the knowledge that I had hidden from you to do better.”

“To let you die, you mean,” Anakin said. His voice was hoarse as if he hadn’t spoken in days. “It would have stopped me from resurrecting you.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon agreed. “I would have died and it would have been alright because it was my time. My actions took away something you should be able to recognize subconsciously and I want to apologize for it.”

Silence followed Qui-Gon’s statement as they let his words linger. It was true. That he realized now. Whatever he had done, it had shifted something within Anakin that wasn’t meant to be shifted sideways.

“I think you made me human,” Anakin replied, wings unfurling as bones cracked. “I don’t think I was meant to be human.”

His eyes were still closed, but Qui-Gon could still fill all of them watching him, waiting for a reaction, a confirmation.

“No, you were not,” Qui-Gon replied. “And I’m sorry I made you something you weren’t supposed to be in my fear of what you might have become in that moment.”

“I want to be human,” Anakin muttered. He stretched out his fingers, sharp claws, golden like his teeth, bleeding as if from scratching his arms raw, trying to dissect himself and sew his flesh back together in the right way, anything less hurtful. “I don’t want to be like this. Everything is so loud and I’m always too much and if I get angry, I break the world apart. It isn’t fair that I can feel so much, but I’m not allowed to embrace it.”

“Oh, Anakin.” All thoughts of logically expressing this to his Grandpadawan were forgotten. “Who told you that you can’t embrace your emotions? You just can’t let them become too much. You can’t let them consume you. You need to find your balance again.”

Qui-Gon knew it was a cruel demand to make when he had been so afraid of what would become of Anakin almost a decade ago now. There was no telling whether Anakin would still exist once he found that balance again or whether he’d return to his silent parent. After all, what parent would abandon their child if not because they knew they weren’t needed anymore?

“I’m scared,” Anakin admitted. “I was afraid my mother would be put back together again wrongly if I healed her so I lashed out and murdered all of them in cold blood and then I was scared to lose Obi-Wan and instead he lost his arm because of me and I’m scared that if I try to fix me, I won’t be me at all. I know I can do it. I’ve been looking, I can see where you used your paint on me, but I just—”

Anakin looked up, bright blue eyes staring at Qui-Gon as he cried and wrapped his arms around him, hiding his face in his robes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Gently, Qui-Gon held onto Anakin. How strange that a being as bright and strong as him needed an anchor as fragile as Qui-Gon. He ran his fingers through Anakin’s hair, humming a melody under his breath he’d been taught years ago on a small Mid Rim planet.

Minutes passed, hours without either of them moving until Anakin’s shoulders stopped trembling.

“I can’t tell you what the right path is, Anakin. You have to decide that for yourself. The only advice I can give you is this question: do you love the Jedi?”

“What?” Anakin’s confusion was painted across his face in broad brushstrokes.

Qui-Gon smiled. “I asked if you loved the Jedi?”

“Of course! You’re my home, my family! How could I not?”

“Good.” Qui-Gon nodded. “Then you will remind yourself of the fact that you love your family and that your family loves you every day and every action you take will be in this knowledge. Do not act against this love in your heart, Anakin, and may it ease the burden on your mind.”

May it guide you well.

Obi-Wan’s hand trembled. He hardly had any control over his new appendage and it frustrated him to no end. He was a perfectionist at heart, had spent hours training his fine motor control to become a Master of his form. He tried to keep his breathing under control, to focus, and not let the pain overwhelm him. If not for his own sake and to resist the temptation of just throwing his lightsaber halfway across the room, then for Anakin.

His Padawan already felt so guilty for Obi-Wan’s injury, he didn’t want to make him feel worse.

He couldn’t stand the thought of looking at Anakin’s sad eyes.

“Rough night?”

Obi-Wan turned his head around to find Shmi standing at the entrance of the training hall. Her injuries had healed well during her stay with the Healers, only a few faint scars across her face and shoulders revealing what she had been through. She was dressed ready for battle, wearing the new armor the Jedi had been given. Obi-Wan had tried it on once and immediately wished he could message Satine and ask her whether he could borrow one of hers for the war. Mandalorian armor was so much more comfortable.

Not that he thought the Jedi should wear any at all.

“Are you shipping out?” he asked.

“Yes, Dooku asked for backup. Apparently, he’s been dealing with a Sith apprentice – a different one than the one you encountered on Geonosis – and intends to chase her down. Someone must take over his battalion. Since he dragged me back home from Tatooine, I’ll return the favor.”

“Take Anakin with you,” Obi-Wan heard himself say. “He needs to get out of the temple.”

“You haven’t talked yet,” Shmi stated, her tone not allowing for any disagreement.

“No,” Obi-Wan agreed. “And I don’t think Anakin will talk to me as long as he hasn’t gotten a proper break. So, please?”

Shmi studied him for a moment, then she sighed. “Alright, but the moment you’re fit for duty, he’s your Padawan again.”

Obi-Wan managed to crack a smile at that. “Of course, I’d never trade him for another.”

#star wars #anakin skywalker #obi wan kenobi #qui gon jinn #shmi skywalker #fanfic

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light-miracles · 4 years ago

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Would it be okay to ask for a writing prompt with SuperBat? Maybe idk Kate’s been missing for ages and Kara has been looking for her non stop and she finally comes back and like visits Kara and Kara just basically breaks down because her best friend was missing and she missed having her worlds finest buddy by her side? I realise this is a long prompt but like I love them and we need more SuperBat fanfics.

Freakin finally, L

......

It was Ally's call what woke her up in the middle of the night, after spending more hours than what she should working in a report for the Senate she had to deliver in two days. Her niece was direct and clear, like all Danvers through the generations. Faintly behind her in the background noise, she could hear Nira Nal's voice telling someone to hold on, not to lose consciousness. Kara immediately stopped feeling any tiredness and got out of the bed. "What?"

"A woman dressed as a bat literally just fell from the sky. Her DNA links her to the Kane family, but she's obviously not Kitty, and her costume seems to be a relic. Aunt Kara, I think it's an accidental time traveler. I need you to-"

Kara ran out her house and in less than ten seconds she was already there.

......

At no point did Kate lose consciousness, but her pain was so intense that she wished she had. She had a vague understanding of everything that had just happened. Alice threatening to blow up the city, the building below her collapsing, she falling, falling, falling uncontrollably and with nowhere to shoot her hook, an excruciating light and then the her painful impact against a car.

Then there was two strange faces in front of her telling her to hold on. Confusing colors. Her mind clouded. At no point the relief of unconsciousness but the blinding torture of pain.

And when she regained her mental clarity, she was sitting in a shiny headquarters, with a couple of weird cables attached to her arm and three people talking around her. Someone had found her and helped her. A great relief washed over her when she recognized Kara. "Super."

"Hey," said Supergirl leaning in front of her. It was Kara. Beautiful, brave Kara. The others must have come to help when they heard of the disaster. Kate wasn't selfish enough not to admit that she was relieved, even if it meant owing Allen a favor. "The city... Alice ..."

"Don't worry, everything is fine," said her friend, putting her shaking hands on her shoulders. "Everything is fine."

"No, it's not okay, the bombs exploded." Kate tried to stand up, remove the cables from her arms, and go back outside where her city needed her. And where was Mary? Luke? Her father?

"Kate, no, don't move, please. You're not fully healed yet."

"I have to help them."

"There's no one to help Kate. Please don't move. Listen to me. Gotham is fine. Everyone is fine. And you have to sit back and let Daydream heal you. She's the best, it won't take long. "

That must be true, because as the seconds passed clearer the image around her became. The lab was very high-tech, bright and white, with things she hadn't seen in her life. The two women next to Kara were strangers and yet they looked familiar. Kara wasn't wearing her outfit but what clearly looked like pajamas, her short hair (short?) tousled like she'd just gotten out of bed.

She looked older. At least ten years older.

"This isn't real," murmured Kate without looking away from her pretty face.

Kara put both hands on her cheeks, holding her gaze. "It's real Kate. I'm here with you."

"Where am I?" she asked trying to control the growing (strange) panic. "What's going on?"

"It's the year 2300," replied Kara slowly. "You have been missing for 280 years."

.....

The only thing that seemed real was Kara's hand holding hers firmly.

Kate thanked her training for her ability of remaining calmed at the face of the strange aspects of her life. It had been useful to her when the Multiverse died because a bald zombie in a robot suit was having a bad day, and it would be useful to her now. If Sara Lance and her team could, so could she. She just had to stick to the facts, evaluate the information, and focus on a way to fix it.

Kara's presence would make it easier.

The brown haired young woman explaining what they thought had happened. In 2020, when Kate fell from the building, somehow a wormhole opened that took her to 2300. For her it had been only seconds. For the rest of the world, centuries.

"Excuse me, what was your name?" asked Kate.

"Ally Danvers," the young woman replied. "I'm Kara's niece."

Kate looked at Kara to confirm, and she nodded. "Great great great something niece, but who counts these days?"

"And I'm Nira Nal, Daydream," the woman a little older than Ally said, stepping forward and bowing slightly. "I think that in your time they shook hands, but we don't do that anymore."

Evidently the little brunette who had been Kara's apprentice had also had a family. Kate nodded again.

"Everything must be very confusing for you, maybe we should give you a moment..."

"How do I come back to 2020?" Kate interrupted. "Someone put me in touch with the Legends. Hell, even Allen would be enough. I don't want to rest, I want to go home and stop Alice."

Ally cleared her throat a little. "It might be a bit more complicated than that. We need a little time to-"

"Look, Agent Danvers 9.0 or whatever, you may have all the time in the world but my city was literally falling apart just now. I have to go back and help my city, now."

It was Kara who answered. "It will take a while, Kate. Time travel isn't that easy anymore. But I'll take you home, I promise."

"This is the future," replied Kate, feeling a sudden rejection for the woman with Kara's face and Kara's voice but that wasn't her Kara. Not completely. "Don't you have loads of time machines and 200 mini Barrys with ridiculous names running around?"

"No, not anymore," Nira Nal replied. "Time travel was completely forbidden years ago. We can bring you home, but it's going to take us a couple of days to get a machine."

"Time travel is forbidden?"

"Yes, I forbade it," said Kara.

Kate turned to look at the blonde woman.

"I'm the President of Earth, Kate."

The bat woman blinked confusedly. "President..."

"Candidate for President of the Solar System next year!" said Nira cheerfully.

It was all too much, and Kate didn't want to show any sign of weakness but it was too much. Kara took her hands. "It's late. Come with me, please. I'll explain everything you want to know at my place, and tomorrow we'll start looking for a time machine. We'll fix it. But Ally and Nira have to go now, someone has to sleep tonight."

Kate still wasn't convinced that she shouldn't just turn around and get out of there.

"World finest, remember?" Kara asked with a small smile.

That helped her make her decision.

....

Kate thought that Kara would take her wherever she was going to take her flying. Instead, they both entered what would in the past have been described as a car but to Kate's eyes looked like a mini tank.

They didn't talk on the way, Kate intently looking at the incredible futuristic city around her, the glowing towers, the long, labyrinth-like streets, the flying vehicles in the sky, and the Kryptonian carefully staring at her at her side. Only Kara could not pay attention to the street at all and drive with absolute safety. Like everything else she did, she did it perfectly.

They left the city towards a two-story red house, which seemed totally mundane. And old, at least for what seemed to be the rest of the future. It had a porsche, two roofs and a small garden where Kate could see a lot of different flowers, dimly lit by the white light coming from the bright lamps.

"I thought you'd live in the White House."

"No, that's still only for the president of the country. I work in the embassy of the planet and live where I want. I use this house when I want to be near Ally and Nira."

"Always taking care of your family."

"You already know me."

Kate still wasn't totally convinced, but she nodded. "The city is not Gotham or National. Where exactly are we?"

"Unity City," replied Kara. "It was founded by Kal 150 years ago."

Still in her Batwoman outfit, Kate got out of the vehicle and rushed into the house, assuming no one was around to see her face or Kara would have said something, the little Bruce in her mind scolding her for having her face uncovered. But she was trying to focus on one problem at a time so she ignored her annoying imaginary cousin.

And it was when the door closed behind them that everything started to feel real.

The place looked so hideously normal that Kate wanted to snap her fingers to make sure no robot butler would come asking for her coat. Kate turned around and Kara was there, by the door, looking at her like she hadn't seen her in centuries and that look of hers broke her heart.

"I know it's only been a few hours for you," said the older-looking short haired Kara. "But I'm so happy to see you, Kate. I thought I'd never see you again. I never knew what happened to you. I thought-" Kara let out a sob.

Kate could never bear to see her sad, so she hugged her. It was the first time all day that she felt like herself. The only thing she felt familiar.

It was Kara. Older, with another hairstyle and almost imperceptible wrinkles around her eyes. But she smelled like Kara. Her hugs felt like Kara's. So Kate closed her eyes and returned her hug with all her strength.

..........

After taking off her batsuit and laying it on a chair, Kate Kane took a quick shower in a bathroom that looked normal except for a small water fountain next to the toilet and the fact that the shower water floated around her instead of falling. After coming out, she dried off and put on a comfortable green pajama that seemed never to have been worn. Probably because it wasn't pink and she didn't imagine Kara's fashion tastes changing, ever.

Kate came out of the bathroom with her hair still wet, studying the house some more. Strangely, Kara no longer had photographs, when in the past she used to have many photos of her friends on her walls. The decor was less colorful too, more sober, fewer kitten figurines and more desks and books and strange objects that Luke would surely kill to use. Kate took one that looked like a remote control, pressed a button, and a small hologram of Saturn appeared in front of her eyes.

"That's a letter they sent me from Titan," said Kara entering the living room, having changed out of her old pajamas for a clean new set. "It turns out that on some of Saturn's moons there are favorable conditions for living. A group of explorers founded a colony fifty years ago."

"Sounds like something out of a bad movie."

"Nobody watches movies anymore, but you're right."

Kate put the remote control down on the table. "Nobody watches movies anymore?"

"Well, I suppose some people still do, but cinematography is considered an ancient art now. They're not as popular as they were in the early 21st century. They're hard to find too."

"Do you still watch movies?"

"You know me, Kate. I couldn't survive without my weekly dose of Frozen," she said smiling and turning away from the door. "Would you like to have dinner with me?"

She nodded and entered the deceptively plain-looking kitchen, all the while Kara staring at her as if she might disappear at any moment. Maybe she was going to do it. Maybe this time travel thing was only safe if you were a Flash or had a time machine. Perhaps at any moment the universe would simply erase her as if she had never been born.

The food on the white table in the kitchen looked magnificent. It was a stew with potatoes. Kate didn't know how hungry she was until she smelled it.

"All kosher, of course."

That moved her deeply, but she did not allow her face to show it.

They both sat silently, facing each other, smiled slightly and began to eat in silence, until Kate could no longer ignore her own nerves and looked up at Kara. The blonde looked at her with a smile on her face, as if patiently waiting for her to talk first.

"Sorry, it's all so..."

"Confused."

"Weird," said Kate. "I had lunch with you last week and now you're... older, and we're in the future."

"I remember that lunch very well. It was the last time I saw you," she said with a sad smile. "I ... never stopped looking for you, not even when you were declared legally dead years later. No one gave up. Sara and her team even asked Gideon to look for you through the timeline, but she couldn't find you. I don't understand why."

"Maybe the thing that brought me here was something different," said Kate rubbing her hands together. "I'll look into it when I get home, and I guess you will too."

Part of Kate wanted to ask her about the future, and another part of her wanted to know absolutely nothing. She knew very well that she could be influenced and change what was supposed to be her future. However, her future was Kara's past. Or at least this Kara's, who was similar enough to her friend to trust her and different enough not to let her guard down entirely.

"So, you're president of the planet now."

The blonde nodded. "Yes, for ten years now."

"And you banned time travel."

"I did, yeah," she said, looking away for the first time, using her dinner as an excuse. "Eventually we discovered that it was too dangerous and could have catastrophic consequences so we banned it. The Time Bureou was dismantled. Brainy had to go back to his own time immediately."

"Consequences like what?"

"The timeline is much more fragile than it seems. Also, for example, if two people from different times have a child, it can create a paradox that could swallow the universe. It was too risky and I had to ban it. That's why believe me when I tell you that take you back to 2020 is practically a global priority, and you will be back very soon."

Kate's instinct told her that there was something Kara wasn't telling her, but she decided not to press it right away. "Good. Meeting Mia was good, but there are also dangerous assholes like Reverse Flash. And I respect and appreciate Sara and Barry but..."

"They were like lemurs with machine guns?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, more or less," said Kara with a sad smile. Kate realized that she had spoken in the past tense about their friends.

"And... is there anyone left?"

Kara's gaze lit up, and she drank a glass of water before answering. "Kal is still in Metropolis, but he's taking some sabbatical years. He's not as active as before but if anyone deserves a break it's him. J'onn is still alive, but he's very old, and can't move as much as before. His children and I visit him very often."

"Children? Oh, good for him."

"Yes," Kara smiled. "He and M'gann were very nervous at first, no one had had yellow Martians in millennia."

"Yellow?"

"Children of green and white Martians."

"Sounds colorful. Anyone else?"

"Charlie, Sara's friend. She hasn't really changed. It's as if time hasn't passed for her. Andrea Rojas is also-"

"Fuck, your awful boss is still alive? What the hell?"

Kara laughed, smiling like old times and making Kate feel her heart flutter. "She's not been my boss in centuries, thank goodness. And it turned out she's half Jarhanpurian. That was a long time ago," she said leaning forward, as if she were going to tell her a secret. "Do you remember Gemma Cooper?"

"Walmart Karen?" said Kate, and they both shared a laugh as they remembered what they used to call the old hideous Obsidian North member.

"Well, Gemma was secretly part of this group of Jarhanpurians hidden in the planet, Leviathan. At that time we didn't know it but she was Andrea's mother."

"Ugh, so a jerk and with super powers."

"And one of them is to age as slowly as a Kryptonian," Kara drank water again. "She's on Titan now, sometimes she sends me letters."

"Then she must not be a jerk anymore," said Kate quietly. And she suddenly knew she had to change the subject before asking about who she really wanted to ask. Mary. Luke. Sophie. Her father.

Alice

Whenever she thought of her sister she only felt pain.

"I have to go home, Kara."

"I know. I'll do anything I can to make you come back safe and sound."

Kate sighed wearily. "Being here can't be good for the timeline."

"Don't worry about that, the timeline can fix itself when you come back to 2020." Kara reached out and cupped her hand on the table, gently stroking her knuckles. Kate wished she hadn't. She was still as intensely beautiful as she was when they first met, and Kate at the time was too tired to be careful not to do something stupid, like tell her she loved her and ask her to kiss her.

So she just smiled wearily. "World Finest?"

Kara's eyes gleamed. "Always."

#This is long wtf so if you see a typo feel free of telling me #Supergirl #Batwoman #Superbat #Superbat^2 #Kanvers #Kara Zor-El #Kara danvers #Kate kane

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 4 years ago

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Losing candidates of the last 60 years

1960: Richard Nixon, Vice President (1953 - 1961), unsuccessfully ran for governor of California in 1962 after which he threw a piss baby shit fit press conference where he vowed to retire from politics, but rescinded that vow to run for president again in 1968, this time successfully because the Democratic vote was split between liberal northerner Hubert Humphrey and conservative southerner George Wallace (Nixon won with 43.4% of the vote, a record low not broken until Bill Clinton with 43.0% in 1992)

1964: Barry Goldwater, Senator from Arizona (1953 - 1965, 1969 - 1987), segregationist, staunch "states rights" activist, mentor to Ronald Reagan, father of modern conservatism, retired in the 80s, replaced by the more moderate John McCain

1968: Hubert Humphrey, Vice President (1965 - 1969), former senator from Minnesota (49 - 64) father of modern liberalism, would be considered a progressive by today's standards, pro-civil rights, later re-elected to the senate (71 - 78, died in office).

1968b: George Wallace, governor of Alabama (63 - 67), staunch segregationist, made Barry Goldwater look like MLK, famously stood on the school house door to try and stop integration, didn't let black people vote, nearly assassinated in 1972, paralyzed, continued serving as governor (71 - 79, 83 - 87), renounced racism later in life, claimed he was never truly racist, just pretended to be because he supported "states rights" (bullshit). Most recent third-party candidate to win a state.

1972: George McGovern, senator from South Dakota (63 - 81), lost every state but Massachusetts and DC, in part because President Nixon cheated (Watergate scandal, Nixon hired goons to wiretap DNC and steal intel from their HQ, forged a letter to discredit strong candidate Edmund Muskie to he would drop out and give the nomination to weak McGovern, tried to plant McGovern's campaign literature in Wallace's assassins apartment so conservative southerners would associate the attack with the Democratic Party and vote for Nixon instead)

1976: Gerald Ford, President (74 - 77), Republican House leader (65 - 73), became VP in 73 after Spiro Agnew resigned due to a bribery scandal. Democrats controlled Congress, so Nixon nominated Ford because he was a popular bipartisan mediator who the Democrats wouldn't object to, became president when Nixon himself resigned due to Watergate (Ford is the only president who was never elected to the presidency of vice presidency), started out super popular but tanked his credibility when he pardoned Nixon for his crimes

1980: Jimmy Carter, President (77 - 81), governor of Georgia (71 - 75), elected as a Washington outsider, humble peanut farmer, boring, malaise, fumbled Iran thrice (the revolution, recession, and hostage crisis), lost re-election to actor turned governor Ronald Reagan (segregationist Goldwater's protege; started his career giving anti-union speeches in the 60s despite being the president of the Screen Actor's Guild, a major union), had a much more successfully post-presidency than presidency, Habitat for Humanity, philanthropy

1984: Walter Mondale, Vice President (77 - 81), Senator from Minnesota (64 - 76), protege and successor to Hubert Humphrey, decent man, very boring, lost every state but Minnesota and DC, would later become ambassador to Japan under Clinton (93 - 96)

1988: Michael Dukakis, governor of Massachusetts (75 - 79, 83 - 91), army specialist (55 - 57), rode in a tank wearing a bullet proof vest and doofy headphones, looked like an idiot, actually polled ahead of VP Bush for a while, forgettable

1992: George HW Bush, President (89 - 94), VP (81 - 89), relatively moderate before becoming Reagan's VP (referred to trickle down as "voodoo economics"), said "read my lips, no new taxes," then raised taxes, oversaw Gulf War, sent the troops in, Iraq retreated without a fight, war was over in a couple days. Didn't invade Iraq, didn't topple Saddam; his son claims this is why he lost re-election, so he invaded Iraq and toppled Saddam in 2003, to finish what his daddy started. Faced opposition from both Democrats under Clinton and Independents under Perot; Perot didn't win a single state, but took 19% of the vote, the strongest third-party campaign all century

1992b: Ross Perot, businessman, independent, very strong candidate, qualified for debates with the major party candidates, closest thing to a 3-way race we've had since Teddy Roosevelt in 1912 (Wallace won some states in 68, but only had regional appeal; he was only on the ballot in the South, only conservatives liked him, whereas Perot was a nationwide spoiler)

1996: Bob Dole, senator from Kansas (69 - 96) senate majority leader (85 - 87, 95 - 96), fought in WW2, has a bum arm, the senate's version of Newt Gingrich, helped defeat Clinton's healthcare plan (he's part of the reason we can't have nice things). He was VP candidate under Ford in 76; Ford's VP Rockefeller was too liberal (yes, liberal Republicans used to exist, just as conservative Democrats exist), so Ford replaced him with the conservative Dole to appeal to Nixon and Reagan voters (Reagan almost unseated Ford in 76 for the nomination)

1996b: Ross Perot again, Reform Party, didn't get nearly as much support this time around (only 8.4%)

2000: Al Gore, Vice President (93 - 01), senator from Tennessee (85 - 93), very boring, but competent, actually won the election but Bush's brother was governor of Florida and illegally stopped the recount, delaying it until it was too late to restart it (subsequent investigation shows Gore would have won the recount and therefore the presidency), used his post-VP career to be a climate change advocate

2004: John Kerry, senator for Massachusetts (1985 - 2013), unremarkable but competent, lost because Bush started 2 wars and the country didn't want to change horses midstream, later became Secretary of State under Obama (13 - 17), and climate envoy under Biden (a position Biden made up to try and appeal to green advocates, but it doesn't really mean anything because he opposes the green new deal)

2008: John McCain, senator from Arizona (1987 - 2018, died in office), succeeded Goldwater but not nearly as conservative (at least, not a segregationist; he defended Obama as "a good man" when a Karen called him an Arab, got booed for it), Vietnam veteran, war monger (wanted to bomb Iran after Bush bombed Iraq and Afghanistan), actually saved healthcare by voting against Trump and McConnell's Obamacare repeal (he didn't support Obamacare, he just didn't want millions of Americans to lose their insurance; the Republicans didn't have a replacement plan, they were solely dedicated to getting rid of Obama's)

2012: Mitt Romney, governor of Massachusetts (03 - 07), relative moderate (Massachusetts is the bluest state in the country), super Mormon, hates poor people, kind of racist in a grandfatherly way ("oh, peepaw doesn't hate black people, he just grew up in a different era"), once wore brown face to try and appear tan to Hispanic voters, later became senator from Utah (2019 - present), first senator to ever vote to convict a president of their own party in impeachment (twice!)

2016: Hillary Clinton, Secretary of State (09 - 13), senator from New York (01 - 09), First Lady (93 - 01), boring gramma, disingenuous, moderate but pretends to be progressive, wasn't responsible for Benghazi but blamed for it anyway, out of touch, thinks she's the hottest shit since sliced bread, coasted to second place because she thought she didn't have to try, thought she deserved to be President, actually won the popular vote, but lost the electoral college because of low voter turnout, high third-party media coverage, and a major rightward swing in the Rust Belt

2020: Donald Trump, president (17 - 21), no prior experience, dumbest person to ever hold the office (makes George W Bush look like. Rhode's Scholar), diet Fascist: all the ideology, none of the appeal (fascists are usually good speakers, but Trump only had a base of about 35 - 40% of the country, which he couldn't grow, so instead he tried to shrink the opposition by attacking voting rights and calling the election fraudulent), super racist, super sexist, petty, vindictive, cruel, childish, spent the first two years just undoing everything Obama did for no other reason than he just hated the man (there are legitimate reasons to hate Obama, but Trump chose racism and jealousy over valid criticism), first president to be impeached twice, first president to have members of his own party vote to convict him, had a cult-like following among Republicans, close to zero support from everyone else

2024: TBD

#elections #history #American history #us history #long post

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alpaca-writes · 4 years ago

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Mystics, Chapter 19

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics by the strange shopkeeper Lyrem Nomadus, everything seems to be going well- in fact, their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as perfect as it seems….

Read Chapters 1-18 and more HERE

Taglist: @myst-in-the-mirror, @livingforthewhump

CW: psychological whump, emotional whump, memory whump, angst... like so much, Lyrem centric chapter

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

CHAPTER NINETEEN: A BLAST FROM THE PAST

Daffodils and tiger lilies.

Lyrem had to admit that they went well together. The sunshine colours would brighten the deathly cold winter’s day in an instant, and he desperately needed some warmth right now. The frigid January day was threatening to bring him under the tide of darkness. He had been away for a while. A job that was supposed to take a week turned into a month of running around and making deals with all sorts to please a certain U.S. senator. A republican, no less. He was dying to have Maria back in his arms again. It had been too long.

The radio lit up on its own.

“-great start to 1991 from Janet Jackson, folks! Next up we have Madonna with ‘Justify My Love’”-

“Scared?”

Paimon appeared in the passenger seat. Lyrem looked past him to glance at the bright yellow door at the end of the walkway. The snow had been cleared already, and the lights in the house were all out save for the porch.

“Why would I be scared?” he asked.

“You missed Christmas. Women love Christmas. They build up so much hope and sing Baby Please Come Home!” Paimon chuckled. “And you know, if you’re not coming, then she might be singing it to someone else- in more ways than one, if you know what I mean.”

Lyrem scowled at him and opened his truck door. It closed with a loud creaking at the hinges and being stupid in the moment, re-opened the door to retrieve the lovely blooms that he had picked out.

“She’s my true love,” he stated, peering in to Paimon. “Isn’t that what you promised me? She’d never hurt me like that. She’d never betray me.”

“She’s not a robot, Lyrem, she’s a human being with control over her own choices. Even true love can’t compete with free will.” Paimon shrugged and forced a small smile. “But, you know, perhaps she’s one of those really special ones. You best take care of her.”

Lyrem grew disgusted at the insinuation and slammed the door. Paimon had already vanished into thin air.

Before he realized it, he was facing the yellow door, and holding the flowers close to shield them from the cold. The door was unlocked, and he stepped through. It was just after dinner-time. Something about the house felt wrong. There was too much energy. Lyrem wasn’t much of a psychic, but he could feel the heat in the air- oppressive and… suffocating. The words that Paimon had spoken lingered in the back of his mind- or maybe it was the front of his mind disguised as the back of his mind…

Get rid of the thoughts Lyrem. They are not yours-

He turned, kicking off his shoes and flicked on the light.

“SURPRISE!”-

He ditched the flowers, and pressed his back against the door. Lyrem prepared to defend himself with a knife that would have been on his person if it weren’t for security confiscating it as he tried to take it as carry-on. The rest of the lights in the house lit themselves with the help of some extra hands from recognizable faces- but Lyrem was on high-alert. They may as well have been strangers. In reality, they were friends.

Well, Maria’s friends. Lyrem didn’t have any friends- not human friends.

There was a bright flash of light, that caught his scowling glare and froze it in time. The grinning face of a dark-haired man looked back at him over the camera as it spit out a polaroid.

Slowly, Lyrem caught himself up. There were streamers of bright colours draped along the ceiling and a shining banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY hung across the entranceway to the living room. Realizing that his reaction to the event was less than ideal, he smiled. Maria popped in front of him, escaping her hiding spot from behind the couch.

“What… what is all this?” Lyrem started. He knew what it was. It was his 42nd Birthday, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled.

“It’s your birthday, you goose!” Maria wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him quickly on the lips.

“Right.” He picked up the flowers off the floor, and handed them to her, in a less ceremonial fashion than he was hoping.

“Awe, aren’t you sweet.” She accepted them and played with the petals idly. “You forgot last year’s too, but this time, when I heard you’d be coming home, I knew you couldn’t miss out on Christmas and a birthday party! Just wouldn’t be right.” She ran off into the kitchen, abandoning him.

The rest of the guests, couples mostly milled about and filtered into the hall. Lyrem nodded and smiled to them kindly.

“Good trip?”

He nodded, taking the questions like a politician surrounded by nosey reporters.

“Where did you have to go this time?” Kelly, a blonde lady with thick lenses in her bright pink bifocals inquired of him. Her husband wrapped an arm around her waist. Lyrem always forgot his name but it was something very basic. He was the one with the camera.

Valhalla. “Norway,” he replied.

“Remind me, what is it that you do again, Lyrem?” the husband asked.

“I’m… a liaison. A third-party negotiator of sales. Very boring work, I assure you.”

“Oh? What kind of sales?”

“Depends on the client,” he answered shortly. “I’m a freelancer.”

“Happy Birthday, to you… Happy Birthday, to you…

Happy Birthday, dear Lyremmm, Happy Birthday too you!”

The chorus of voices broke out amongst the chit-chat as Maria carried the cake all the way into the hall. It was lit up and lighting up her face. Kelly’s husband lifted the camera, and snapped a quick photo.

“What are you all still doing in the hallway?” She snapped playfully. “Get in the dining room already so we can eat cake and play Pictionary.”

They all filtered off to the dining room to the side of the Georgian style house. Kelly ran off to bring in the wine that had been left chilling in the fridge. Her husband handed off the pictures to Lyrem.

“This one of you didn’t turn out, I don’t know what happened. Your face went all black and fuzzy- but this one of Maria’s looking pretty cute, eh?”

Lyrem took the photos graciously and clicked his tongue.

“Philly, could you open this one for me?” Kelly ushered her husband away to help with the wine bottles. She giggled out loud and sneered. “I have the worst grip.”

“Lyrem!” Maria scolded. “You need to blow out your candles! Make a wish!”

He sighed. He wished that the party would be over. He wished that these people would go home. He wished he could get a night alone with his fiancée. He wished that he could find something… anything that would bring him comfort. Then, he wished he wasn’t constantly wondering if he was a bad man.

And that was all he wished even before he reached the end of the table.

By the time he leaned over the cake he was completely out of wishes, but blew out the candles anyway. Maria smiled. He loved it when she did that.

The room went dark, delving into the shadows and engulfed by the confusion, Lyrem blinked, and realized suddenly that he wasn’t back in the old Georgian house, with Maria and surrounded by friends and… Phillip.

. . . . . . . .

“No, go back!” A light voice said through the dark.

“Persephone, it is unkind to spy on the lives of others, even if they are guests in our realm”-

“Pfft,” the higher voice brushed off the scolding lower one. “This isn’t our realm and you know it.”

“Nevertheless, he is our guest. We ought to treat him with respect.”

“But I want to see them kiss again”-

“Persephone, stop”-

. . . . . . .

Lyrem almost woke, but was jolted back to a time… different than his birthday and he lost control over his own mind once again.

They were awake and lying in their bed, bodies bare and snuggling beneath the quilts as the powdery snow fell, piling against the bedroom window and onto the boughs of the trembling aspen outside. It was a bit less than a year later. They were married now. The little gold ring was on his finger and hers matched just as simply. Carolers were outside, they were a week too early, but then, he didn’t mind the soft sounds that seemed to leak their way in through the window on the second floor.

He wasn’t looking out the window, entertained by counting the snowflakes like she was. He was enjoying her, watching her. Kissing her olive skin and wrapping himself in closer to her back as one hand played with her soft hair and the other stroked her waist. He felt like himself. He felt warm, and safe, and loved.

“I have to tell you something.”

He stopped kissing. Maria rolled over to face him and stared into his eyes. Suspiciously, he leaned his head away from hers and she pursed her lips nervously.

“What do you need to tell me?” he prompted.

Maria took a long breath, putting Lyrem on edge.

“You were gone a long time for this last client, you know? I didn’t have a lot to do, and I tried to start my own travel company after Jet Rover let me go. I tried to stay busy… you know?”

Lyrem nodded and swallowed. The travel agency went bankrupt soon after. Maria had been left by the wayside to pick up her life and start something new just before Lyrem needed to travel out to Belize for work. He came back with one hell of a tan. The tone of her voice grew shakier. The anxiety was growing stronger for both of them.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He said gently. He was gone too often. For too long. Dammit all. He should have told Paimon to shove it instead of going along with his ridiculous schemes. Huitzilopochtli, an Aztec God of War, never did end up striking a deal with them to give the Pentagon a little morale boost after all. Lyrem ended up losing money in that charade too. Not the wisest bet he had ever made. He wouldn’t blame her for leaving him- for sleeping with another man. These winters were hell on earth, after all-

“I bought a place,” she said.

Lyrem twisted his face-

“You bought a place?” he repeated, confused. They had a place. It was a beautiful place. He wasn’t always in it either. She didn’t need her own place.

“On seventeenth. I thought to myself, you know, there is no point in me wandering around and trying to make a living for myself in travel if you’ll be off travelling for work too. And I can’t just eat, cook, and clean for myself all the time- I’d lose my mind so... I’m starting a business!”

“Oh,” Lyrem’s eyes grew wide, and then interested. “What kind of business?”

“I… I don’t know yet”- Maria grinned excitedly, glad that his interest was showing. “I just bought the space on a whim. I don’t even really know why. I just needed to do something.”

“Well… That certainly is something.”

“You don’t like the idea?” She asked. Puzzled by his sudden change in demeanour, taking it as a briefly condescending tone.

“No, no. It’s not that. I just…” he was lost in thought as the air grew chilled. He watched the skin on her shoulder pebble up as she sighed.

“You thought I was about to tell you I was pregnant,” she surmised.

“Mm.” he nodded, even if it wasn’t true.

The thought of having children had crossed his mind. She wasn’t as old as he was. It wouldn’t be so risky to bring kids into this world except-

“Not really on my mind, you know that,” she commented in a rush.

He nodded again.

“I know… But what if we did try?” the words fell out of his mouth suddenly and without much thought. Entertaining the idea of being a father was something that he often did before Maria had announced her opposition to the idea. Perhaps something had changed in her since she was let go from Jet Rover Travel Inc.

She turned away from him, focusing on the snow as it fell from one white blanket to another.

“I just... I don’t want to be a mother,” she said quietly.

He didn’t remember how painful this moment was. Though quiet in her refusal, his heart was still brutally torn open by her words. That was her choice, and he would respect it. That didn’t make the reality any less painful to accept. True love didn’t include a perfect family. There wasn’t a written agreement for something like this, but if he wanted Maria to be happy, he would have to learn to live with her decision. He rolled off his side of the bed.

“It’s fucking freezing in here, isn’t it?” he commented, rubbing one eye. “I’m going to turn up the heat.”

. . . . .

“Are you happy, now?” the voice from the darkness asked.

“No, I thought there was more love here than that”- the light voice said annoyed. “Ugh! Did I skip over something?”

“Look at what you put him through, the man is crying.”

Lyrem searched the darkness as it quickly enveloped him once again. He remembered his place, a dead man reliving his time with Maria and how it had been squandered and painted with resentment.

He always imagined it happier than this.

“The poor thing was enraptured by her- there’s just something so bittersweet about that.”

“Hey!” Lyrem shouted into the air angrily. “I can hear you, you know!”

There was a low grunt from somewhere in the darkness. “We cannot waste our time. We need to find the right moment. The one with his call, or else we will never be able to find him again.”

Lyrem spun around. There was nothing. Nothing up, nothing down, nothing anywhere. The voices, however, emerged from every direction.

“Find who?!” Lyrem called out, brimming with frustration and an added vulnerability to the idea that these intruders could see whatever they wanted.

“Fine,” Persephone settled reluctantly. Slowly, her voice faded away. “But I get to watch their wedding after! I want to see a happy ending after all this sadness…”

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thegayhimbo · 4 years ago

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True Blood Season 1 Review Part 1 (Spoilers Ahead)

It’s been about 2 years since I first saw season 1. Contrary to the hundreds of GIFs and posts that I’ve reblogged about True Blood, I’m a lot more familiar with the later seasons of the show than I am with the first season. When I first viewed season 1, it didn’t click with me, and the only reason I sat through it is because I had seen clips from season 2 that convinced me the show was worth watching. I’m not someone who usually gets into the vampire genre (aside for a brief period of time when I was in middle school), but something about True Blood hooked me in and got me to watch it. I can’t say that it’s a show I completely love, but I am inspired to talk about it.

In any case, I’m doing a rewatch for the first time as a way of getting closure on this show, and maybe moving on so that it isn’t in the back of my head all the time. I also wanted to view the show with fresh eyes, and see if my opinions changed while watching it.

This review will be split into 2 parts because I’m realizing that I have a lot to say about season 1, and it’s gonna get lengthy. Part 1 will just focus on my general opinion about the season. Part 2 (which will be posted a few days from now) will focus on my thoughts about how the vampires ar portrayed on the show.

Overall, my opinion about season 1 improved a little bit during rewatch. It’s not my favorite season of television (and Lord knows there are issues with it), but it’s a lot better than I remember it being. The casting is stellar, and I didn’t have any problems with the actors or how they played their characters. The interactions between the characters kept me engaged even when the main story started to drag (more on that in a minute).

While re-watching season 1, I was surprised to pick up on some subtle aspects that had been planted by the writers in season 1 that I missed the first time around, and that would come into play in the later seasons. For instance:

Sookie mentioning that her cousin Hadley had been missing for over a year since she ran away from the rehab center that Gran paid for, and that she didn’t know how to get hold of her (all of which makes sense come season 2).

The appearance of Theodore Newlin (Steve Newlin’s father), his subsequent death in the 3rd episode, and Steve Newlin taking the reigns of the Fellowship of the Sun

Bill warning Malcom, Liam, and Diane that he knew of “higher authorities” than Eric, and Diane saying “Well she can suck on sunlight for all I care” (All references to Queen Sophie Anne).

Diane mentioning that Bill “used to be fun” and that he had a very “sizable appetite.” Also, the reference to Bill having a sexual relationship with Diane in the 1930s (which is around the time he left Lorena).

Jason telling Amy about how his parents died, and how he felt responsible for it (the death of their parents becomes a major plot point later on).

There’s a lot to be said about the way the later seasons handled its arcs, but I think the writers were planting seeds in season 1 for future stories and twists that would be revealed down the road. Some of them were capitalized on. Others weren’t.

I will say for the record that I firmly believe the twist about Bill that gets revealed in season 3 was planned by Alan Ball and the other writers from the beginning of the show, and it does color the way I view Bill’s character and his relationship with Sookie, even in season 1. I should also point out that one particular aspect of the season 3 twist came directly from the books (and those who have read them know what I’m talking about here), so there’s that. Again, I’ll go more into detail about the Bill/Sookie relationship and my thoughts on it as I go through this rewatch.

In regards to the main story about a serial killer coming to Bon Temps and Sookie trying to figure out who it is, I will admit that not only did I NOT find this story engaging anymore, I thought it DRAGGED and should have been resolved within 6-7 episodes as opposed to 12. It’s a lot less thrilling when you already know who the killer is, and while there are some nice clues and red herrings that get dropped, the constant attempts at misdirection (like that scene when Sam goes over to Dawn’s house and sniffs her sheets, or Jason consistently being framed for murder) feels time-consuming instead of fun. It doesn’t help that the story loses momentum halfway through the season, and gets bogged down by all these other subplots that don’t connect to it at all.

Also, I didn’t pick up on this the first time, but rewatching has helped me realize there are some irritating plot holes with the story I couldn’t overlook. For instance:

In one scene, Sam goes to Dawn's house to sniff around and pick up Rene's scent. Later on, he’s at Gran’s house after Gran died where he also should have identified that same scent since Rene climbed through the window. And considering that Rene spent a huge amount of time at Merlotte's and interacted with Sam on many occasions, Sam should have been easily able to associate Rene's scent with the scents he found at the crime scene, and figured out early on that Rene was the killer. So why does it take him so long to connect two and two when Sam already knows what Rene smells like?

Likewise, it's been established that vampires have a good sense of smell. Bill was around Rene in several scenes, and should have been able to pick up his scent at Gran's house after she was murdered. So how come this doesn't happen?

On top of that, when Bill gets interrogated by Andy and Bud about Gran's murder, he claims that he heard a car (most likely Rene's) pulling up across the cemetery to Gran's house. He also claims that vampires had heightened senses. However, when Sookie finally reads Rene's mind in the season finale, it's shown that Gran screams and Rene shouts at her before killing her. So if Bill could hear Rene driving up to Gran's house.................then how come he didn't hear Rene and Gran shouting at one another before Gran got killed?

For that matter, why did Rene go over to Gran’s house in the first place? He knew that Sookie was going on a date with Sam. He saw them leave the church together, and he had no idea when Sookie was going to be back. It came off like really poor planning on his part for someone who’s been methodical about how he killed people up to this point.

Also, why didn’t Rene throw away the video he took from Maudette’s house, as well as the tape on bulding a Cajun accent? That seems incredibly stupid leaving that stuff around from someone (like Arlene’s kids) to find, especially since he no longer had use for that stuff.

There’s also the way Sookie’s mind reading abilities work. I thought the way that was handled was not only inconsistent, but that it also didn’t make sense how she didn’t pick up on Rene being the killer in the first place. Everything about that screamed “plot convenience.”

The other thing I noticed is that a lot of the problems that fans complain about in the later seasons (added side-plots, deviating from the books, added supernatural creatures, plot holes, inconsistent mythology, characters making stupid decisions, the focus on vampire politics, the problems with the Bill/Sookie relationship, etc) can all be traced back to season 1. To give a few examples:

There were a BUNCH of side-plots in season 1, from the Jason/Eddie/Amy arc to Tara’s exorcism and her conflicting relationship with Lettie Mae to Lafayette’s hook-up with the closeted gay senator to Sam’s backstory to Bill’s trial and so on. I didn’t have an issue with this because I get the idea was to do world-building and show different sides to the characters (if anything, I found the side-plots more interesting than the main story), but I always find it odd that one of the biggest complaints about the later seasons was the added side-plots and how people couldn’t follow them. Frankly, I thought they were pretty easy to follow, and could even be engaging at times.

Even in season 1, the show introduced other supernatural creatures besides vampires. Sam was revealed as a shapeshifter, Maryann was introduced as this unknown entity (and would later be revealed to be a Maenad), Sam mentioned the existence of werewolves to Sookie, and even Sookie was implied to be a supernatural herself because of her ability to read minds. Add in the fact that the books had a plethora of other supernatural creatures (werepanthers, faeries, demons, witches, etc) that were bound to be introduced, and I think it’s pretty fair to say that this show wasn’t always going to stay “grounded in realism” like some people complain it should have been.

Vampire politics was always there from the beginning: The show was NOT subtle about its “vampires as a metaphor for oppressed minorities” message that it kept shoving out there (and again, I will talk more about that in my part 2 review because there’s a lot to be said about they way vampires are portrayed on this show). Characters like Nan Flannigan and Steve Newlin were introduced in season 1 (albeit regulated to TV) as well as organizations like the American Vampire League (AVL) and the Fellowship of the Sun (FOTS). There was already a conflict within the vampire community between vampires who mainstreamed and vampires who wanted to keep killing humans like they’d done in the past. Bill’s trial gave an extremely ugly look into how vampires dispensed justice among their own kind. And there were constant references to the VRA (Vampire Rights Amendment). This show was pretty clear from the beginning that the driving force behind this story was about whether or not vampires could integrate into human society and co-exist peacefully with humans.

Also, in addition to the added side-plots, we also had the expansion of characters like Lafayette (whose character was completely different from the books) and the introduction of Jessica (who wasn’t in the books at all). Basically, this show was already beginning to deviate from the books even before the later seasons happened.

The way V works in this universe is all over the place. For some people (like Jason and Amy) it acts like an LSD drug, whereas with Sookie, it just gives her heightened senses and dreams about Bill. Lafayette does briefly tell Jason that V has different effects depending on the individual, so maybe this really isn’t a plot-hole. However, at the same time, it just feels like V was whatever the writers wanted it to be. In other words, inconsistent mythology was already a thing in season 1.

As for characters doing stupid stuff, this came as a surprise to me as well, but it isn’t just limited to Jason. Some examples include:

Tara deciding to drive drunk down the road in the middle of the night while downing a bottle of Vodka (and later getting arrested for it).

Sam sleeping on the same bed as Sookie in dog form, even though he knew (or should have known) that he could transform back into human form while sleeping, and Sookie would see him naked (which is exactly what happens).

Lafayette deciding it’s a good idea to sell Jason V instead of just giving Jason the Viagra he requested in the first place.

Bill letting Diane, Malcom, and Liam into his house when he knew Sookie was coming over to give him the numbers for the electrician. Also it was pretty stupid of him to not consider how Diane, Liam, and Malcom would react to seeing Sookie, or whether or not Sookie would be scared off by the way those three were acting.

Bill deciding it’s a good idea to mouth-off to The Magister about mainstreaming when a.) It is painfully obvious that the Magister doesn’t care about seeing humans as equals, and b.) Bill stands the risk of angering the Magister and making his situation worse than it already is.

Andy’s insistence that Jason is good for the murders without considering all of the evidence, and his refusal to admit he’s wrong. That, and he sucks as a cop.

Sookie using the gun to attack Rene, run out of the house................and then throw the gun into the bushes instead of keeping it as a weapon to defend herself.

Bill choosing not to erase the bite marks on Sookie, which could have made her a target for other people who hated fangbangers (although it’s debatable whether or not this was stupidity on Bill’s part or if this was done intentionally).

And I’m sure there are plenty of other examples, but my point is that Jason isn’t the only one making stupid decisions here. Again, YMMV on whether or not a character’s stupidity makes sense in the context of the story, or if it just screams “plot convenience,” but it was there. It seems like Jason gets made the scapegoat by fans for everything that was wrong with the first season whereas the problems with other characters/stories get ignored because of inherent biases in the fandom.

I know it sounds like I’m ragging on this season, and I guess in some ways I am because I’ve long been tired of the constant bashing of the later seasons, as well as the excessive hate that gets directed at some of my favorite characters (Jason and Tara) while everyone consistently ignores the other problems with characters and stories that existed as far back as season 1. I am being genuine when I say that season 1 had its moments (the Tara and Lafayette moments were probably the highlights of that season) and it was better than I remember it, but it’s not a favorite of mine. I don’t really see myself going back to rewatch season 1 as often as the other season. And if it had been the only season of True Blood they made, I probably never would have watched it again. Like I said, something about season 1 just didn’t work for me, and I think a lot of that has to do with the show placing more emphasis on the character’s flaws over their redeeming qualities. It was season 2 rectified this and helped to soften the characters in a way where I cared about them.

Stay tuned for Part 2 where I’ll give my opinions on how I think the show handled vampires.

#true blood #tgh opinions #true blood rewatch #bill compton #sookie stackhouse #jason stackhouse #sam merlotte #lafayette reynolds #tara thornton #rene lenier #arlene fowler #diane hardwicke #liam mcknight #malcom beaumarchais #alan ball #vampires #the southern vampire mysteries #true blood season 1 #true blood spoilers

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96thdayofrage · 3 years ago

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Former U.S. Sen. Adlai Stevenson III dies at 90

Former U.S. Sen. Adlai E. Stevenson III, the fourth generation of an iconic Illinois Democratic political family to hold public office and who lost the closest governor’s race in state history, died Monday in his Chicago home. He was 90.

Stevenson, the namesake of a great-grandfather who served as 23rd vice president of the United States and a father who served as Illinois’ 31st governor and twice ran as the Democratic nominee for president, represented Illinois in the U.S. Senate from 1970 through 1981.

Stevenson’s political career began when he was elected in 1964 as a member of the Illinois House on the famous “bedsheet” ballot, where all candidates ran for at-large statewide seats because of redistricting problems.

He then successfully ran for Illinois treasurer in 1966, holding that office until November 1970 when he won a special U.S. Senate election following the death of Republican Sen. Everett Dirksen a year earlier.

Stevenson easily defeated Republican Ralph Tyler Smith, who had been appointed to the seat, taking 58% of the vote. After finishing Dirksen’s term, Stevenson won reelection in 1974, then decided not to run again in 1980. He stepped aside in January 1981 for fellow Democrat Alan Dixon, who won the November election.

In 1982, Stevenson ran for governor. He had initially sought the Democratic Party’s backing for the office in 1968, but was brushed aside by then-Mayor Richard J. Daley. The 1982 matchup would go down as the tightest race for governor in Illinois history, with Stevenson losing by less than 1 percentage point — 5,074 votes to be exact — to Republican incumbent James R. Thompson.

Perhaps the most memorable moment from that contest, aside from its close finish, was the debate over whether Thompson had implied Stevenson was a “wimp.”

″He is saying, ‘Me tough guy,’ as if to imply that I’m some kind of wimp,″ Stevenson said during the campaign. Thompson famously replied, “I have never called Adlai Stevenson a wimp,” before saying he didn’t know what a wimp was.

With results showing Stevenson trailing by a few thousand votes out of more than 3.6 million cast, he began the process for a recount by reviewing a portion of ballots in selected counties. He contended the partial recount indicated he would win by some 40,000 votes and his team argued the case before the Illinois Supreme Court, which at the time was made up of four Democrats and three Republicans.

Democratic Justice Seymour Simon joined the three Republican justices in ruling the state’s recount statute was unconstitutional, handing the victory to Thompson. In a 2000 interview with the Tribune, Stevenson alleged Simon’s vote was payback for Stevenson passing him up for a federal judgeship while he was senator. Simon vehemently denied the allegation as “nonsense,” while Stevenson further alleged a recount would have exposed Cook County Democrats to allegations of voter fraud.

“It will always be uncertain what was the will of the people in the gubernatorial election of 1982,” the three dissenting Supreme Court justices concluded in the controversial case.

In a 2017 interview with the Tribune, an 86-year-old Stevenson joked, “I still haven’t conceded, by the way.”

In 1986, Stevenson sought a rematch. After winning the party’s nomination in the primary, he abandoned the Democratic ticket after Mark Fairchild and Janice Hart, followers of political extremist Lyndon LaRouche, won the nomination for lieutenant governor and secretary of state, respectively.

Stevenson instead mounted a third-party candidacy on the ticket of the Illinois Solidarity Party, which all but ensured the clobbering Thompson gave him on his way to winning the third of his historic four terms in office. The Illinois AFL-CIO endorsed Thompson in 1986, a rare backing of a Republican in a statewide race by a traditional and politically powerful Democratic ally in organized labor.

In both campaigns, Stevenson suffered from a charisma deficit compared with the more convivial Thompson. A 1986 Washington Post campaign trail profile of Stevenson described how the candidate sat silently in a Downstate McDonald’s filled with voters.

“His charisma quotient is down around zero. No one recognizes or approaches the man with the bald dome and wire-rimmed glasses,” the article read. “While other campaigners would glad-hand their way through the place, Stevenson sits quietly in a booth. His wife, Nancy, who campaigns endlessly and gregariously, later explains that her husband’s respect for the privacy of others prohibits such intrusion.”

Veteran Chicago political operative David Axelrod, best known for his work on former President Barack Obama’s campaign and as his White House adviser, worked on that 1986 campaign.

“Rumpled and professorial, people often misread him,” Axelrod tweeted about Stevenson. “He had a spine of steel and kowtowed to no one-not the Chicago machine donors, interest groups…or even voters. Just said and did what he thought was right. RIP.”

After losing both the closest and one of the most lopsided races for governor, Stevenson did not seek office again. He went on to a lengthy private sector career with a focus on business relations in East Asia while holding a number of leadership positions with organizations focused on U.S.-Asian relations.

He also wrote “The Black Book,” which “records American politics and history as his family knew it over five generations of active engagement, starting with Abraham Lincoln in central Illinois,” according to the family obituary.

Stevenson met his future wife, Nancy Anderson, in 1953 while he was training at Fort Knox, Kentucky in preparation for his deployment overseas. The couple was married in 1955 at Nancy’s home near Louisville.

Nancy Stevenson summed up their marriage as “one long adventure.”

“He was a man who loved to explore every time he was in a new place,” she said. “He loved to explore ideas, and he took his family with him every chance he got.”

In a statement, Gov. J.B. Pritzker lauded Stevenson as a “rare individual” for earning both the Illinois Order of Lincoln honor from the governor and the Order of the Sacred Treasure from the Emperor of Japan.

“Whether in elected office, in the Marines or in non-profit work, Adlai Stevenson III lived each of his 90 years as an example of public service,” Pritzker said. “Most markedly, Sen. Stevenson’s pursuits were anchored in a passion for democracy. As the first chairman of the modern Senate Ethics Committee and later in his work in global development, his commitment to bringing people into politics transcended international borders.”

Acclaimed historian Michael Beschloss recalled on Twitter his days as a 16-year-old intern in Stevenson’s Washington Senate office, sorting the mail and operating the Xerox machine. Beschloss remembered Stevenson once recalling how he had to meet with famous Chicago Ald. Paddy Bauler (best known for his famous line “Chicago ain’t ready for reform”) while he was trying to break into politics.

“I once heard Senator Stevenson joke about being a young political candidate who had to audition before a Chicago boss in the boss’s saloon,” Beschloss tweeted. “Stevenson recalled being pleased to overhear the boss say afterwards, ‘Well, the little ---- wasn’t as bad as I expected!!’”

Stevenson’s great-grandfather, Adlai Stevenson I, served as vice president to President Grover Cleveland, helping deliver Illinois for Cleveland. The eldest Stevenson was twice elected to Congress from Illinois before twice losing reelection during Republican presidential years. He also ran for vice president on the losing presidential ticket of William Jennings Bryan in 1900 before narrowly losing a 1908 run for Illinois governor.

Stevenson’s grandfather, Lewis Stevenson, got appointed as Illinois secretary of state in 1914, but lost his 1916 campaign for reelection.

Stevenson’s father, Adlai Stevenson II, successfully ran for governor in 1948, ousting two-term Republican incumbent Dwight Green and becoming a national figure in the process. Stevenson had planned to run for reelection in 1952 before reluctantly getting nominated by the Democratic National Convention to run against overwhelmingly popular Republican President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

Eisenhower easily defeated Stevenson II in 1952 and again in 1956, when he received the Democratic nomination a second time. Stevenson II sought a third nomination in 1960, but lost out to the youthful John F. Kennedy, who won Stevenson’s own Illinois delegation with the support of Daley.

Stevenson III graduated from Milton Academy, Harvard College and Harvard Law School. He served with the Marine Corps in Korea and was discharged as a captain from the Marine Reserves in 1961.

In his bids for governor, the youngest Stevenson often said he was born to run for office and often referenced the political debt he owed his famous father.

In his 2017 interview with the Tribune, Stevenson noted that his son, executive Adlai Stevenson IV, and grandson Adlai Stevenson V didn’t seem inclined to follow his footsteps into politics.

“My father said he was ‘born with an incurable hereditary disease of politics,’” Stevenson said. “Apparently, the disease has been cured.”

In addition to his wife, Stevenson is survived by two sons, Adlai IV and Warwick; two daughters, Lucy Stevenson and Katherine Stevenson; two brothers, John and Borden; and nine grandchildren.

Service information was not yet available.

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xtruss · 3 years ago

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The Forgotten Tale of the Confederate Spies Who Invaded Vermont

In 1864, Southern soldiers plotted to take tiny St. Albans, rob its banks, and change the course of the Civil War.

— By Michael Tougias | July 16, 2021 | Boston Globe Magazine

Captives, including students from St. Albans Academy, under guard by Confederate raiders. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

ON OCTOBER 10, 1864, Bennett Young stepped off the train from Canada, and into the train depot at St. Albans, Vermont, 15 miles south of the border. Young, a handsome, clean-shaven 21-year-old divinity student, took a room at the Tremont House on Main Street and spent the next few days familiarizing himself with the town. But Young was not what he seemed. He was a native of Kentucky, not Canada, and a Confederate officer recently escaped from a prisoner-of-war camp. He was here in this bustling railroad center of about 4,000 residents to change the course of the war.

It had been fewer than five days since Young received a message from C.C. Clay Jr., a former US senator from Alabama. Clay, sent to Canada in 1864 by Confederate President Jefferson Davis to build a network of secret agents, had written: “Your suggestion for a raid upon the most accessible towns in Vermont, commencing with St. Albans, is approved, and you are authorized and required to act in conformity with that suggestion.”

Davis himself had approved the bold series of raids. The South was clearly losing the Civil War. Atlanta had fallen to General William T. Sherman a month earlier. General Ulysses S. Grant’s forces were hounding Robert E. Lee’s Army of Virginia. The port of Mobile, Alabama, had been blockaded by Rear Admiral David Farragut. The hope was that several dramatic raids from Canada into the North would at the least force Union troops north to defend the border, easing pressure on Lee. If Union troops chased the raiders into Canada, it might help draw neutral Canada and Great Britain into the war on the side of the Confederates. And if things went really well, it might demoralize Northern voters so much that they would elect a Democrat as president instead of the Republican incumbent, Abraham Lincoln. Plus, the Confederacy needed cash.

Over the next nine days, some 20 more men from Canada arrived in groups of twos and threes. Like Young, they were also Confederate soldiers posing as Canadian civilians in St. Albans for business or relaxation. These men, only two of whom were older than 30, made polite inquiries about horses they could rent and guns they could borrow for a bit of hunting. Some took day trips to nearby towns, to play out the ruse and scout other targets to raid. Others wandered into the town’s banks, striking up conversations with the locals or inquiring about the price of gold. Their real interest was determining how many employees each bank had. Some occasionally met with Young clandestinely at his hotel, to share information and discuss the outlines of their mission.

Young, meanwhile, played his part with flair. He courted a woman staying at his hotel, impressed the villagers with his conspicuous Bible reading, and visited the home of the governor of Vermont, railroad magnate J. Gregory Smith. Smith was in Montpelier at the time, so his wife, Ann Eliza Smith, showed Young around the grounds. She thought Young “a nice mannered man,” not realizing he intended to burn the mansion down as retribution for the burning of Southern governors’ mansions.

Young had determined two potential escape routes for the bold plan, which would turn out to be the northernmost action of the Civil War. But he also saw a threat: Just a couple of blocks west of Main Street was a busy railway station and foundry, employing dozens of men who might leap into action. Still, he was confident — the raiders were going to need 30 minutes, at most, to rob several banks, torch the town with bottles of an incendiary liquid called Greek fire, and run. In the commotion, Young hoped to also set fire to the governor’s mansion, then raid Swanton, another town, on the way back to Canada.

He fixed Wednesday, October 19, as the day of the attack.

A Confederate raider shoots at E.J. Morrison outside Miss Beattie’s Millinery on Main Street in St. Albans.FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

AT 3 P.M. ON THE 19th, St. Albans’ church bells rang to mark the hour. Under leaden skies that threatened rain, Young strolled down Main Street, then climbed a couple of steps onto a hotel porch. Reaching inside his coat, he pulled out his Navy Colt revolver and raised it over his head. “I’m an officer of the Confederate Service,” he shouted. “I am going to take this town and shoot the first person that resists!”

At first, St. Albans residents within earshot thought Young was joking. They stared at him until he pointed his gun at them and other raiders herded them onto the village green. Other Confederates went to get horses, and three groups of them headed to the town’s banks: Franklin County Bank on Main Street, St. Albans Bank at the corner of Main and Kingman, and the First National Bank on Fairfield. They were barely more than a block apart, all near the town common.

Young climbed on a horse and trotted up and down Main Street, overseeing the roundup of prisoners and monitoring his men’s assault on the banks. He knew his two revolvers had only six shots each, and would be difficult to reload while on horseback. So whenever he saw someone emerge from a building, he’d point his gun at them and tell them to get back inside, intimidating them before they made trouble.

Collins Huntington, though, on his way to pick up his children from school, ignored Young’s threats, thinking he was drunk. Young leveled his revolver and shot at him, inflicting a glancing wound along Huntington’s rib cage.

Inside the Franklin County Bank, a cashier saw a neatly dressed man named William Hutchinson approach the counter. Assuming Hutchinson was a customer, the cashier, Marcus Beardsley, asked how he could help. Hutchinson pulled a revolver from his coat. “We are Confederate soldiers,” he said. “We have come to rob your banks and burn your town. There are a hundred of us here. You must keep quiet and hand over all your money.”

A customer nearby made a run for the door but stopped when the raiders threatened to shoot. Two raiders pushed him into the vault, then began filling their haversacks with bills. Hutchinson, meanwhile, told Beardsley to give him the money from the counter, then locked Beardsley in the vault, too. The four raiders left the bank with approximately $70,000, the equivalent of about $1.2 million today.

Down the street in the St. Albans Bank, Cyrus Bishop stood, terrified, as raiders on either side of him pointed revolvers at his head. “If you make any resistance or give any further alarm, we’ll blow your brains out,” one told him. One of the raiders pointed his pistol at an assistant cashier and told him, “Not a word out of you. We are Confederate soldiers, we have come to take your town, we shall have your money.”

Then the raiders took the time to do something unexpected: They made Bishop and the assistant cashier swear allegiance to the Confederate States of America. While three more raiders entered the bank and stuffed as much money as they could fit in their pockets and satchels, one of the Confederates guarding the two bank employees lectured them on the destruction of the South by Generals Sheridan and Sherman.

The cashier was having none of it. He said if the robbery was an act of war, he should be allowed to take an inventory so that the bank could be reimbursed by the federal government. “Damn your government, hold up your hands,” hissed the raider.

At that point, someone knocked on the bank’s front door, which the rebels had locked behind them. One of the raiders opened it. In walked Samuel Breck, a merchant looking to make a deposit. A rebel grabbed him by the collar with one hand, pressed a revolver to his head with the other, and said, “I take deposits.” He took $393 from Breck and shoved him in the room with the two bank employees.

Suddenly, the sounds of gunfire erupted outside the bank, and three of the raiders ran out. The last two raiders left the bank more slowly, walking backward with their guns raised. They had been in St. Albans Bank for 12 minutes.

Inside the St. Albans Bank, a clerk is threatened at gunpoint by a group of Confederate raiders. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

YOUNG DIDN’T KNOW where the shots were coming from. There was at least one St. Albans local, possibly more, firing at his raiders from buildings on Main Street. No one had been hit, but Young hadn’t planned for armed resistance.

He had already fired his revolvers three times — at Collins Huntington; at stable owner Sylvester Field, who’d objected to the theft of his horses (the ball passed through Field’s hat); and at Leonard Bingham, a local who had tried to charge him when Young was climbing onto a horse. Young had hit Bingham, but the ball had been stopped by Bingham’s heavy silver watch, and Bingham had escaped. Young had only nine bullets left, but he was going to have to do something to regain control of a situation that was spiraling out of control.

Leonard Cross heard the commotion and stepped out of his photography studio. “What are you trying to celebrate here?” he asked Young.

“I’ll let you know,” Young said, and shot at Cross, barely missing his head. Eight bullets left.

It was time, he thought, to start setting the town on fire. His raiders began throwing their bottles of Greek fire at buildings.

An old editorial illustration depicts William H. Blaisdell of St. Albans accost a raider outside of the First National Bank as another Confederate raced toward them. Blaisdell, like others that day, was taken at gunpoint into what today is Taylor Park. The First National sat at the southeast corner of Main and Fairfield streets, across the street from what is now Taylor Park. CREDIT: VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY (these images originally appeared in Frank Leslie's magazine)

Over at the First National Bank, the third group of robbers had gathered $58,000 (nearly $1 million in current dollars). The four of them left the bank, escorting an employee toward the common, where they were going to put him with the other captives. As they were leaving, they saw a local business owner, William Blaisdell, approaching the bank. Blaisdell quickly realized what was happening and grabbed a raider, throwing him down onto the boardwalk. But other raiders pointed their pistols at Blaisdell’s head, forcing him to surrender.

Buildings should have been burning by now, Young must have realized. But they weren’t — the bottles of Greek fire had hit their targets, but they merely smoldered. Nothing was burning.

More townspeople had realized St. Albans was under attack. Nearby, at the governor’s residence, a neighbor’s servant girl rushed in to tell Vermont’s first lady, Ann Smith: “The rebels are in town, robbing the banks, burning the houses and killing the people,” the girl exclaimed. “They are on their way up the hill, intending to burn your house.”

Smith and a Scottish servant girl sprung into action, calmly closing the blinds and shades of the house and bolting the doors. Then, Smith found one of her husband’s pistols. It wasn’t loaded, but she hoped the raiders wouldn’t realize that. She carried the gun to the front steps, to stand and wait. She wished she had raised an American flag, so if they went down it would be with colors flying.

The Confederate raiders set fire to the bridge over Sheldon Creek, but it did not fully burn. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

BACK IN THE CENTER of town, Erasmus Fuller, a livery owner, grabbed an old six-shooter, pointed it at one of the raiders, and pulled the trigger. Click. Young burst out laughing. “Fetch me some spurs!” he yelled.

Fuller had other ideas. He ducked into Bedard’s Harness Shop and ran to the back door. He started shouting that the town was being attacked, hoping the men who were building a large hotel nearby would come and help him. E.J. Morrison, a Manchester, New Hampshire, man overseeing the hotel’s construction, heard Fuller’s shouts and ran to the stable owner.

Fuller, with Morrison now trailing behind, returned to Main Street. He saw Young, lifted his pistol again, and took aim.

“Look out Cap’n!” shouted one of the raiders. Then he and Young both fired at Fuller. Fuller ducked behind an elm tree, evading their shots.

Not so Morrison, who dropped to the ground, mortally wounded. He would be the raid’s sole fatality, leaving behind a widow and five children. (What the raiders didn’t know is that he was also likely the only man in town sympathetic to the Confederate cause.)

George Conger had heard the gunshots and come running. Young saw him, and asked, “Are you a soldier?”

“I am,” Conger replied. He had been a captain in the Union Army and had been wounded at the Second Battle of Bull Run.

“Then you are my prisoner,” Young said. But Conger dashed into the American House hotel, next to the Franklin County Bank, ran through the back and then down Lake Street toward the foundry, yelling, “There is a regular raid on St. Albans. Bring out your guns and fight!” Workers at the foundry and at the railroad grabbed weapons and followed Conger back to the center of town.

Young realized his plot was quickly unraveling. He began to move his men north, shouting, “Keep cool boys, keep cool!”

An old editorial illustration depicts cashier Marcas W. Beardsley and Jackson Clark, a woodsawyer who happened to be in the Franklin County Bank, being freed from the vault where they had been imprisoned, even though Beardsley had pleaded with the robbers explaining it was airtight. The men, who understood the Confederates planned to burn the town, feared for their lives either by suffocation or fire. J. Russell Armington and Dana R. Bailey heard their shouts and came to their rescue, however. CREDIT: VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY (these images originally appeared in Frank Leslie's magazine)

Conger, gun in hand, tried to shoot at the raiders, but his gun would not fire. The Confederates started firing on him and yelling the rebel yell, but this riled up their horses, which were not used to battle. Over the din, Young was hollering, “There is too great a crowd gathering round here!” He knew they had to get out of town, and quickly.

Spurring his horse around those of his men, he told them to throw their remaining bottles of Greek fire at the closest buildings. Again, they failed to ignite. It was time to go. Once Young was sure his men were all accounted for, they were off at a gallop, occasionally turning to fire pistols behind them.

Conger shouted to all those nearby, “Bring on your horses, men, and arms and we will follow them. If you can’t get arms there is no use, they are going to fight hard!”

On the steps of the governor’s residence, Ann Smith saw a man galloping to her. The hour has come, she thought, the invaders have arrived. But the man on horseback turned out to be her brother-in-law, Stewart Stranahan, who was home on sick leave from the Army of the Potomac. Stranahan told her the raiders had robbed the banks and killed a man, but failed to set St. Albans ablaze. He had come for any weapons he could scrounge.

“Here, take this pistol, it is all I have yet found,” Smith said, feeling rage build inside her. “And, Stewart,” she added, “if you come up with them, kill them! Kill them!”

Soon, Conger and a posse of some 50 men were in pursuit of the raiders, followed quickly by 40 more men led by Stranahan. The Confederate party split up before it reached Canada, to increase the odds of escape. Conger’s militia reached the border and kept going, joining with some Canadian constables. They were able to capture about 13 raiders, including Young, and some of the $208,000 ($3.5 million in today’s money) that was later determined missing.

THE PLAN OF THE St. Albans group was to bring their prisoners back to town to face charges of murder. But as they neared the border, more Canadian authorities arrived at the scene and demanded charge of the rebels. Conger reluctantly agreed. The prisoners were first brought to St. Johns and then transferred to Montreal on October 27. The raiders were well received by a contingent of Canadian Confederate sympathizers, cheered as they were brought to jail.

They gave Young and his men food, clothing, and even liquor. Some of Montreal’s finer restaurants sent over meals and scores of citizens visited them at the jail, where they had been given a large room rather than cells. A relaxed Young wrote to the St. Albans Messenger requesting two copies of the paper be delivered each day. “Your editorials are quite interesting and will furnish considerable amusement to myself and comrades,” he wrote.

Young’s taunting infuriated many Vermonters, and for a short period of time it appeared that the Confederates might succeed in dragging Canada into the war against the Union. The St. Albans Messenger editorial page stated that if the prisoners were not handed over, “The sooner we declare war on our neighbors to the north, the better.” Lincoln’s secretary of war, Edwin Stanton, later called the St. Albans Raid “one of the most important events of the war,” with the potential to draw both Canada and Britain into hostilities.

But over the next few months, a series of contentious court proceedings went against extradition, as Canadian judges ruled that the raid was an act of war, not murder and robbery. All the raiders were eventually freed.

Some of the Confederates in jail in Montreal. Bennett Young is seated at right, William Hutchinson is at left. FROM THE VERMONT HISTORICAL SOCIETY

But Bennett Young’s gambit had failed. Perhaps if the Greek fire had worked and more damage had been done, it would have enraged Vermonters more. Or if there had been follow-up raids on Swanton or other towns. But the St. Albans citizens had forced them to abandon those plans. No Union troops were diverted to the border, Canada and Great Britain did not enter the war, Lincoln was reelected, Sherman reached the sea in late December 1864, and on April 9, 1865, Lee surrendered at Appomattox Court House. The Canadian government even reimbursed the Vermont banks for the amount of money it found on the raiders, approximately $88,000. The other $120,000 was not accounted for.

After the war, Young was specifically excluded from an amnesty for Confederates. He fled to the United Kingdom, where he studied law. He returned to the United States after a full amnesty was granted in1868, becoming a successful lawyer in Louisville, Kentucky, and was regularly applauded at Confederate reunions and parades.

In 1911, when he was 68, Young took his wife on vacation to Montreal. He contacted the people of St. Albans, saying he would like to meet with them. The town sent a four-man delegation to the Ritz-Carlton, where he was staying. Young put on a Confederate uniform for the session, and told his visitors that “the raid was only the reckless escapade of a flaming youth of 21 years, steeped in patriotism for the South.” Perhaps it was something like an apology. The get-together was friendly and lasted well into the night.

— Michael Tougias is the author of more than 30 books for adults, most recently “The Waters Between Us,” and five for middle readers. He is currently working on a book about the St. Albans Raid. Send comments to [email protected]. In addition to reporting and eyewitness accounts from the St. Albans Messenger and other periodicals, significant sources for this story include materials from the St. Albans Historical Society and The St. Albans Raid, Complete and Authentic Report by L.N. Benjamin.

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bfwa · 5 years ago

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Angst Work in Progress - Round 1 Winners

we'll be looking for sunlight, or the headlights by @selflessbellamy

Bellamy and Clarke meet by chance, and move in together by choice. How they come together is not fate, though. There is no such thing.

“You need a place to stay?” Her voice is barely a whisper, but it catches his attention nonetheless. For a minute, he can only look at her, the silence enveloping them as their eyes explore each other. She can see infinite galaxies within his.

She’s never been more serious about anything.

Paint Me in Trust by @pawprinterfanfic

Clarke is on the run. It's 1997 in Britain, during the height of the Second Wizarding War. Voldemort is running rampage through the Wizarding World, fear is weighing heavily on everyone, and anyone who doesn’t side with the Dark Lord is in danger.

Clarke was expected to side with him. She’s from a pureblood family that has decades tangled with the Dark Arts, after all. But, she didn’t.

So, she ran.

Somehow, she finds her way to a safe house where she meets with other wizards and witches on the run.

All Bellamy wanted to do was keep his sister safe. Instead of saving her, he’s stuck in a safe house with her. She’s a Slytherin, and she’s the daughter of a Death Eater. He doesn’t trust Clarke; why should he?

Now, he’s stuck with her as they roam around the country, looking for places to stay safe and stay hidden. He quickly realizes that things could be worse. And… maybe Clarke isn’t as bad as he thought.

Love Brings You Home by @verbam

The ceremony is surreal, like an out of body experience. She walks up a makeshift aisle, the crowd parting to watch her, to take her measure. She’s aware a priest of some sort says words that hush the crowd, but she can’t understand them. She throws a glance over her shoulder, where her mother is bleary eyed but stone faced. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly but she doesn’t interrupt or object. She knows their survival hinges on this.

She turns back to the priest, barely glancing at the man next to her, but his presence feels overwhelming. His breathing is even, he doesn’t fidget like she suddenly realises she is. He smells a bit spicy, a little heavy. Foreign. She nearly jumps when he shifts on his feet and brushes against her arm, the heat of him searing her skin.

Her eyes are firmly fixed ahead as the priest starts proceedings, as he chants prayers that she can’t decipher. She can only pick out certain words, and they all make her blood still in her veins. Death, fight, blood. If there is a word for love in trigedasleng she doesn't know it.

Seconds Between Light and Sound by @octannibal-blake

Clarke does what any adult would do in her situation, one that has been, according to doctors, developing for years. She sells all her shit, stops taking care of herself, and moves in with a stranger. She also gets a cat.

Rock Bottom by animmortalist

When Bellamy and Echo get engaged, Clarke ends up sobbing in her room, mourning something that she never really had. The last person she expects to comfort her is Murphy, but it turns out the two have a lot more in common than she thought. While she's been pining for Bellamy, he's been realizing his feelings for Raven, who happens to be dating Shaw. In a moment of impulsivity, the two sleep together, and then say 'fuck it'. If they're going to be hurting, they might as well be getting laid at the same time. They figure it'll be easy, simple, and that no one will get hurt. Of course, they're idiots.

the naked truth by @kombellarke

Clarke meets Bellamy Blake on the worst day of her life.

She loses her dad, her boyfriend, and her apartment. She's taken in as the new girl in Murphy, Raven and Bellamy's place. Clarke just wants to recover and avoid any more heartache, but her distractingly hot roommate isn't letting that happen.

The most important House Rule: No sex between roommates. Clarke and Bellamy have their own rule: Just sex, no feelings.

Almosts and Maybes by @arysafics

Bellamy has never wanted to get married. Has never even really thought about it. That is, until he watches Clarke Griffin marry someone else.

I'll Find You in the Morning Sun by @cominguproses13x

Clarke is a survivor.

That’s all she is now. And tomorrow, she might not even have that.

He is a survivor too but he does it differently.

Bellamy survives fire. He survives ice. He can become the sun and hide the moonlight that relishes somewhere inside of him.

He is an eclipse.

And Clarke is a survivor.

Waste It on Me by @eyessharpweaponshot

There's no such thing as love, according to Clarke Griffin. She's sworn off dating after it leaves a bad taste in her mouth and there's nothing that can sway her from that. What she doesn't expect is that fate has a different path laid out for her - one that leads to a curly haired barman who just happens to be her soulmate.

Or the reincarnation/soulmate AU that I promised to post ages ago.

Give Me Your Fate by @asroarke

Not a blonde hair out of place, her suit perfectly tailored, the kind of person he was used to seeing around Washington. Bellamy glanced over at Marcus, catching the smirk on his lips as he watched this girl. She must be why they were here. “Who is this girl?” Bellamy asked, leaning in toward Kane.

“Your best bet at a career in the Senate,” Kane whispered back.

Political AU where Bellamy Blake is willing to do whatever it takes to get reelected, even pursuing an arranged marriage to a complete stranger.

Fake-Dating Your Stepbrother (and Other Terrible Ideas) by @bettsfic

Clarke is a college freshman who just wants dudes to stop hitting on her, so she starts telling people she has a boyfriend. When pressed, she rattles off details about her stepbrother, and soon the lie spirals out of control.

Bellamy is a hot dumb loser who gets kicked out of the Air Force and decides to lay low for a bit.

After an exhausting semester, dead-set on keeping the friendships she’s made, Clarke invites the entire squad to the family beach house —

Where Bellamy is hiding out. Bellamy, her stepbrother, whom everyone thinks is her boyfriend.

tears of august by @daisyqiaolianmay

When Clarke runs away at the end of season 2, instead of going north, she goes south, and stays gone for seven months. When she returns, she's not alone.

“He’s not mine,” she whispered.

“What?” Bellamy’s stomach turned.

Clarke stared into his eyes, keeping her voice quiet and desperate. “Please, Bellamy. You don’t understand. The grounders believe in purifying their bloodlines. I don’t know what they’d do if they knew I saved him… they’d say I interfered. They'd take him. I don’t know if... some of them might even want him dead.”

“Clarke, I don’t-”

She grabbed his hand and held it tight, checking over her shoulder. “Listen, okay. I’m his mother now, and I always will be, but he wasn’t always mine, Bellamy. I found him.”

#bfwa 2019 #bellarke fanfiction #bellarke fanfic #bellarke #bellamy blake #clarke griffin

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scribeofmorpheus · 5 years ago

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The Rebel Queen (i)

Chapter One: Immolation

Pairing: Poe Dameron x (OFC) Princess Calista Ordell

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist | A03

Words: 6k | Warnings: More ramblings of a delusional fanfic writer…

A/N: We finally get to meet our new protagonists and have a little bit of Poe towards the end. I had a lot of issues with this first chapter. I wrote and rewrote it three times before scrapping it and starting again. I was also anxious no one would want to read something that’s 90% OC’s. If you want to read the original version lmk, I’ll add it as a deleted scene. Expanded lore linked below:

Epilogue | About Thesmora

"Always find the courage to stand, my child," a beautiful smile graced over Lenora's timeless features, her hand reaching down. "For as long as you believe you have the strength to keep going, then you will have the strength to keep going.“

Young Calista rubbed at her cheeks, wiping hot tears away as she dusted her trousers and accepted her mother's outstretched hand. The sounds of her brother’s laughter tickling at her ear.

“Remember Calista, just because you got knocked down, doesn’t mean you belong there.” Lenora helped her daughter to her feet, glancing over at the golden shores of the beach, a content look in her eyes.

Karas the Ancient City on Thesmora…

Ash rained down from the smoke-blackened sky, a shadow cast over the white and gold flag that stood crooked in the courtyard.

Dark purple flowers trampled by lifeless bodies, the polished silver and gold armour of the Royal Guard was covered in specks of uprooted soil and soot.

An explosion in the distance heaving sand and dirt and roots out from the ground.

Princess Calista Ordell stared at her mother's funeral pyre, the flames long since dead. The smoke dancing like a sickly phantasm weighed down by gravity, trapped by the heavy air filled by a melancholy that clung to everything. Today was meant to mark the first day in a hundred days of mourning, but instead it had turned into the first day in a long number of days to be plagued by violence and turmoil.

Calista was numb to the pain. Numb to the distant sounds of explosions and boots crushing over the ancient city’s stone steps. Thesmora had lost a queen and she had lost a mother and on the eve of Lenora’s burial, the planet had lost what little hope there was for peace. Then Duchess Maligma had made a rallying cry. Traitors became patriots, brother took up arms against brother and now Thesmora was under the iron fist rule of a power-hungry tyrant.

Martial law was declared, what was once a monarchy in transition for Calista’s rule, was now a military state ripped apart by infighting and bloodshed.

All it took was one day for the galaxy to change. One day for Calista's life to fall apart. When the First Order unleashed the might of its arsenal against the Alliance, no one had been prepared for the devastation that followed. Seven planets -spinning, revolving, evolving- there one moment and gone the next, billions of lives lost succeeded by a fallout of immeasurable proportions.

Fearing for her people, the Duchess had killed her own sister after she had refused to side with the order. And even though the resistance had destroyed Star-Killer base, they had been too late to stop the panic and fear from spreading across the galaxy.

"Princess," the faint sounds of a trusted voice forced its way into the crevices of Calista’s foggy mind, shaking her from her stupor. "Princess, it isn't safe. We must get you to safety!"

Calista looked up, dazed and confused, eyes red from the salt in her tears. Her protector and long-time friend, Koa Kiddé, grabbed onto her shoulder and shook her fiercely. The wind blew her long silken hair furiously, the sunburst orange ends flickering like an open flame around her face. A look of determination turning her beautiful features stone cold. Her honey-coloured eyes drawing narrower with every wasted second.

"Now, princess!" Koa yanked her to her up.

Calista looked down at her feet planted atop the flower bed and remembered a phrase her mother would always mutter in trying times, "Find the courage to stand."

Koa held out her hand, the other armed with a viro-blade, urging Calista to take it.

Hand in hand the girls ran out of the courtyard and away from the only home they knew. Soldier's clad in black armour filing into the once lush and colourful space, covering it like ants on an anthill. Calista’s crown sinking further into the dirt as synchronised marching lifted the weak soil off the ground.

To win this war they would have to lose this battle.

Calista’s feet began to blister, her breathing ragged and shallow.

"If we hurry we should be able to catch a shuttle heading to Yotai, from there it will be easy to find ourselves a pilot willing to smuggle us out of the Outer Rim," Koa strategized.

"We won't get far dressed like this," Calista pointed at her ceremonial robes and Koa's Royal Guard attire. "And we'll need credits."

Koa hummed in agreement.

"We have no choice," Calista sighed. "We head for the race tracks and speak with Banden Murray."

"I would rather die than watch you sully your reputation by getting into business with that thug," Koa spit in distaste.

Calista looked around the housing complexes in search of clothes or material left out to dry. She spotted a purple poncho with a hood and pulled it over her clothes, obstructing the royal seal embroidered onto her breastplate.

"That may very well come to pass sooner than you think," Calista warned. "Our allies are scarce, Mokk-Toh has vanished and there are whisper's that Maligma is in talks with the First Order. My options are limited. Murray is the only option."

Koa clicked her tongue in distaste, "the thought of being bantha fodder is more comforting, but you are right. Without resources, we'd be shooting in the dark."

"Then we're in agreement," Calista nodded before heading away from the transport station and towards the race tracks.

The Shallow Pits…

The sound of pod-racers whooshed past, dust picking up and filling the air with the scent of grease, smog and engine fuel. The harmonising soundwaves of pods whirring in stasis trembled out through the orange and red rock depressions. The stands which were always filled with up-roaring fans were all but deserted. Posters and flyers advertising for a big race blowing about like unattended children.

Calista kept her head low as she manoeuvred through the sparse crowd of derelicts, gamblers, mercenaries and smugglers that frequented the race tracks. A few strange faces would occasionally do a double-take once they noticed her fine shoes didn't match her worn poncho, luckily Koa's frightening glare and imposing demeanour would scare any potential whistleblowers away.

"Hey, hey, hey, only Thessi with invitations are allowed beyond this point," a mercenary held up his hand, guarding the back entrance to the observation decks. He was an inch away from touching Calista's shoulder.

Koa unsheathed her sword with lightning quick reflexes, the heat from the plasma charge bathing the mercenary’s neck in a yellow glow, "Lay a hand on her and you lose it." Koa threatened.

"Stand down," Calista calmed her before looking up at the wide-eyed mercenary, sweat trailing down his neck -the viro-blade still painfully close to his artery. Koa's disciplined stance barely allowing for the long sword to sway.

Calista lifted the poncho to reveal the sigil, "I have a feeling your boss will make an exception about the invite rule."

The merc gulped and hit the wall panel with his elbow. The door opened with a hiss and a gust of air. "Go on ahead."

Koa sheathed her blade, yellow glow subsiding from the mercenary’s pale neck before following after Calista.

"A visitor to see you, boss," one of Murray's assistants introduced Calista. "And her bodyguard." Koa walked in right after.

Banden Murray was a tall, muscly man with thick hair the colour of tar. His skin paled in comparison to all his compatriots, making him stick out like a sore thumb in this part of town, but he didn't mind that. Murray was more outsider than native, but he had declared Thesmora his home after retiring from whatever occupation he had before.

He was widely respected by the public for being the head of the mining union with connections to various peoples of power. What few beyond the senate seat knew was that he was also an information broker with a vast network of spies who had dealings with both the Resistance and the First Order. Many believed he had amassed this network after the first rebellion ended, though none knew for sure which side he had been pledged to at the time, or if the story held any merit considering no one knew his age. If the lines on his face were any indication, he was probably past his prime years.

"Ah, I never thought I'd see the day when royalty would walk into my establishment of their own volition," Murray smirked as he leaned further into his chair, a multi-coloured poncho draped over his heavily tattooed arm. The only legible tattoo was of a name scribed over his chest: Ashani. "Please, sit."

Calista accepted his show of hospitality, Koa, however, made it a point to stand in defiance. Murray cocked his head at Koa before bringing his sights back on Calista.

"So, princess," sarcasm dripped from his tone. "How may I be of service?"

Koa's hand balled in a fist.

Calista brushed his brazen attitude aside, "I need a favour."

"Do go on," he encouraged with a wave of his hand.

"We have a contact waiting for us at Yotai who will get us out of the Outer Rim. All we need is safe transport off-world."

Murray chuckled under his breath, "Your contact wouldn't happen to be Senator Kiddé by any chance?"

Calista's eye's flickered to Koa's instinctively, her guardian, in turn, clenched her jaw with a bitter expression.

Murray had gotten his answer.

"I suspected as much," Murray snapped his fingers, ushering one of his drones with a heavily tattooed face to bring a box into the room. "He was taken captive by the Thessi Garrison a few days ago. We were able to… re-appropriate several of the personal belongings he had on him."

"Need anythin' else boss?" She asked, eyeing the two outsiders.

Banden shook his head, the rings on his fingers knocking against each other when he weaved them together, elbows propped up on the table. "I'm told he and several other outspoken supporters of yours are being transported to Illis –to the Cairn- on a shuttle tonight."

Koa's hands began to shake and Calista caught on cue, asking Murray the question that was undoubtedly plaguing her friend's mind, "Any news on his wife, the Baroness?"

"We've heard chatter underground that she fled to the safety of Naboo not too long ago," Banden replied.

Koa's shoulders relaxed slightly upon hearing the news.

"With the senator no longer at our disposal, we may have a harder time getting off-world," Calista said gravely.

Banden let out a low rumble, "Then I suppose its fate that you came to my door." He stood from his chair and walked around his desk, his tall frame leaning against the desk with folded arms. "I know a good pilot. Trustworthy. Man of his word. He can get you where you need to go, for a fee of course."

Calista sized him up, "I suppose you have conditions of your own for helping us?"

"I do indeed," Banden pulled out a lighter and burnt the ends of his pipe, filling the light deprived room with puffs of white smoke. "Wars are a tricky business. Lucrative, but tricky. I believe you'd be worth the gamble though. I can help you, be your eyes and ears on the ground. Pass information to and from. I could be your inside man, help topple this totalitarian regime your devious aunt has erected." A wicked leer pulled at his thin lips.

Calista's fingers began to drum against the chair's armrest, one of her nervous ticks.

"What's the trade?" Koa said bluntly, her voice sharp as glass.

Banden blinked as though he hadn't the slightest clue as to what she was inferring.

"Men like you, you covet one thing: power. How does helping us get you what you want?" Koa took a step forward, challenging as was her nature.

"It's simple. If you manage to overthrow this current uprising and restore balance, I want a seat on the senate… and the deeds to the prison," his steely blue eyes fell back onto the princess.

Calista's gaze snapped to his, their eyes clashing like mud and crystal. "That is no small ask."

"Neither is helping two wanted fugitives escape from the clutches of a power-mad warmonger," Banden's voice was no longer gentle, his lungs sucking in air through his lit pipe. The scent of burning sticking to everything.

"How do we know you aren't in Maligma's back pocket?" Koa asked through a narrow glance.

"I am," Banden admitted freely. "I'm in everyone’s back pockets. The resistance, the order, the cartels… everyone. I even did the odd job for the late queen now and again."

"Lies!" Koa barked, jaw muscles working hard.

"It makes sense," Calista said regrettably. "A man of your connections is an invaluable asset." She stood from the chair, determination pulling her brows together. "I cannot promise you the rights to the prison, Murray. Nor am I inclined to believe you won't just betray us once we get on a ship… but, I can assure you, that once I take my throne back, all of Thesmora will know of your role and perhaps that would be evidence enough for the senators to allow you to slink your way into a seat of power." Even though her words were low and controlled, it wasn't enough to fully flatter the mobster.

"If you succeed, we'll bring this discussion up again at your coronation." Banden held out his hand.

Calista knew she was making a deal with the devil, but she had few good choices left. She accepted Banden's hand tentatively, a new alliance forming under the roof of a desolate betting establishment.

"We'll be needing disguises," Calista informed him.

Banden whistled, ushering a skittish droid into the room. "Cory will handle any of your needs."

"And the pilot?" Calista asked.

Banden chuckled again, "He's down by the docking ramps off-loading cargo. I'll let him know you're on the way and I'll handle any remunerations he may require..." Calista motioned to leave when Banden informed her, "For now at least. There are no free favours in this world. I will come knocking if you live through this."

"You'll get what you're owed," Calista's voice was smeared with venom, no longer playing the composed little princess.

“Trust me, I know.” Banden returned to his seat, boots resting on his desk. “Oh and princess, if you run into Felix, tell him his loan is overdue.”

The mention of Felix’s name caused Calista’s breath to hitch, the first sign of her level of distress.

Calista changed into the bright orange mechanic overalls Cory had given her while Koa riffled through the crate with her father's belongings.

"You know," Calista pulled the cloth that separated them. "I think I'd make a good mechanic." Calista tried to smile in the hopes it would ease Koa from her worries.

Koa looked up at her, fishing out a small blaster rifle and holster and tossed it to her, "A gift from our gracious business partner.” She was dressed in tattered clothes. Tears and holes peppering the purple cloak that obscured her viro-blade's sheath behind her back. Black boots scarred by scuff marks.

Calista buckled the worn holster around her thigh and waist, "You don't approve."

It wasn't a question, Koa hadn't tried to hide her feelings about this plan from the start.

"That's why you're the diplomat and I'm the shield," Koa said flatly, her fingers running over the knot-work ridges of an eye-catching necklace.

"It's beautiful," Calista moved closer, tying up her long hair into a professional bun that hid her auburn tinted ends.

Koa held up the chain to the light, the octagonal metal charm scattering the beams of light into an artificial rainbow. "I've never seen it before. I don’t think it belonged to my father." Koa tossed it back into the crate, her hands gripping the edges until her knuckles turned pale.

"Hey," Calista placed her hand over Koa's, urging her to let go. "Maligma won't hurt him, he's too valuable as a prisoner. We'll save him. I promise."

Koa ground her teeth together, before lifting up the box to carry, "Let's focus on getting you somewhere safe."

Calista glanced at their distorted reflection on a polished surface. With their hair concealed and their normal clothes cast aside, they shared a remarkable resemblance. Inattentive eyes would easily mistake them for cousins, even perhaps sisters. Despite their similar bone structure and eye slant, Koa was the more beguiling of the two, with her enviable height and toned build.

Koa pulled an old cap off a hook and fixed it over Calista's head, the brim shielding her eyes from view, "Now you look like a crew member on a pirate ship."

The ship hanger housed three star-ships. One was an old Mon Calamari cruiser that looked to be a former warship, probably salvaged by Murray and his thieves after the war. The other was a beaten up rust bucket with only one working engine, parts pulled from it for salvage and left to gather on the floor like a machines graveyard. The final ship was also a relic of the past, but the colourful paint job slapped on made it look a little newer, a little shinier. Bold letters ran across its side spelling out the word Somnambulist.

As Calista and Koa got closer, they heard the odd ramblings of an unfamiliar dialect. A stout, burly man with an extended belly, greasy hair and an unkempt beard was shouting up at someone working a plasma torch. Calista guessed by the grease-stained medals pinned to the man's small jacket that he was most probably their pilot, Odhen Boro.

Murray told them Odhen used to be one of the best pilots on their side of the quadrant, a veteran in the Resistance too, but he had quit right around the time the First Order popped up.

"Don't give me excuses, one-eyed wonder, you said you'd have the tailpipe fixed hours ago!" Odhen shouted up at a small creature standing on a ladder that had been wheeled under an engine thruster, his miniature frame dressed in a brown get-up.

"Is that a Jawa?" Koa leaned close to ask.

Calista hummed in thought, "I've never seen one, but the fiery attitude and loud shouting would seem to back up that assumption."

The Jawa moved his arms frantically about, his voice small and high pitched. It would have been adorable if not for the flesh searing torch he wielded recklessly.

"Yeah, yeah, don't give me that crap. Just get the damn thing fixed," Odhen ran a hand through his beard, curly follicles falling away at the contact. He stared down at the shed hair strands and groaned in disgust. "Great… next thing I'll start going bald."

The Jawa shouted something else and this time Odhen's nostrils flared, "Yeah, well you aren’t getting’ any younger either, pip-squeak!"

"Odhen Boro I presume?" Calista startled the two hot-tempered males.

Odhen scratched at his beard as he tried to place the strange women standing before him. The Jawa sighed and threw a bolt at him, shouting again in quick, unintelligible words.

The pilot grumbled something under his breath before wiping the engine fluid from his fingers onto his less than white shirt, "My mechanic over here tells me you're our haul. The princess and her bodyguard, right?"

Koa kept her eyes fixed on the Jawa, the initial wonder from seeing a new species still working its way through her mind.

"That's Ton-Ton, my mechanic who's living up to his title less and less with more time wasted. His chatterin’ droid is around here somewhere -lookout for anything that rolls," Odhen's voice was nonchalant as he made his way to the entrance. "I'm guessing the princess has never seen a Jawa before?" he asked as he started lugging crates to and fro.

"Uhh," Calista glanced in Odhen's direction, realising he had mistaken Koa for her. "Actually, no. Koa has never seen a Jawa before. Neither have I. I didn't think they ventured out so far from their homeworld."

"Usually not," Odhen grunted as he lifted another crate. "Ton-Ton has a penchant for getting into trouble. You all set?"

Koa walked past them, setting the crate down in the cargo hold.

"I should think so," Calista told him.

"You hear that Ton-Ton?" Odhen shouted out into the hanger. "We're all waiting on you!"

The Jawa replied in his native tongue and Odhen tugged on his sleeveless jacket in frustration, "What do you mean I can't afford a real mechanic? You're supposed to be a real mechanic!"

"Is this thing safe to fly?" Koa asked, staring up at the ceiling and the leaking pipes.

"This beauty hasn't killed me yet," Odhen said passively.

Koa and Calista shared a troubled glance. Their looks were deterred by the rumbling of unfastened items placed recklessly about the cargo hold. For a moment, everyone stood still, watching, waiting. Then the walls of the ship began to shake and the Jawa cried out as the ladder started to roll, his plasma torch falling to the ground and igniting a tarp on fire.

"What was that?" Koa asked, hands held out to steady herself.

Calista kept looking around as the shaking intensified, "They feel like micro-quakes."

"Seismic charges!" Odhen's eyes grew wide as shouted after the Jawa, "Ton-Ton get your scrawny little ass in here, we're about to have some very angry guests!"

The Jawa scurried on stunted legs dragging a red trolley filled with tools along with him, the flaming tarp left to itself. Ton-Ton shouted after Odhen just as the hanger bay’s ceiling caved in and a troop of Elites rappelled down, firing off rounds from their hand cannons. Their black armour forming one uniform black line in the distance.

"Forget about it, as long as we can take off without blowing up, it's not important!" Odhen waved the Jawa into the ship as he pressed the button for the cargo bay doors to close. A plasma round scorching a heated circular hole into the wall next to the pilot. "Hurry up, spanner head!"

The Jawa waddled faster, managing to get on board at the last second, his red trolley banging against a set of crates.

"Can one of you fly?" Odhen asked.

"I trained for three years but only with smaller fighters," Calista said.

"That don' matter, a seat is a seat," Odhen jogged heavily to the cockpit. "Come on."

Just as Calista made her way to follow, she noticed the Jawa pulling Koa below deck. A sign pointing down to the gun turrets was placed right above the maintenance hatch that Ton-Ton pried open with a wrench.

Odhen didn't bother strapping himself in as he flipped switches and spun the Somnambulist to the side so the turrets would face the advancing militia.

"Sit down, strap in and do as I tell you, kid."

Calista slid into the seat, buckling the seat belt. The ship groaned and shook as several blasts bombarded the outside walls.

"Easy there girl," Odhen smoothed the flat surface of the dashboard with his free hand while the other pushed the navigation stick to the side. He snapped on his headgear and tuned the station until the static turned into rapid-fired words coming out in Jawaese. "Stop clogging up the channels, Ton-Ton! I hear ya! It's not like I'm trying to get shot at on purpose!"

Odhen pressed the ignition button and the whole ship thrummed with new life. A spray of blaster fire hit at the windshield, "Hey shorty, try shootin' at somethin' will ya? I can't be the only one doin' the heavy liftin'." He barked into his headset, snapping his fingers at Calista. "Hey kid, turn us starboard to 45 degrees and then push down that switch so our flaps descend."

Calista followed his instructions, breathing deeply through her nostrils so she wouldn't lose her composure. The sound of the ships cannon's firing off was loud enough to send trembles through to her spine. She felt like she was inside the belly of a giant turbine.

Even though the advancing soldiers were out of view, the sound of explosions signalled that several of the Elite's forces had just been taken off the board. Calista squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment, refusing to allow herself to feel any pity or remorse.

"Nice going buddy," Odhen cheered in the headset through shaky laughs. He tried the button for the hanger bay doors but it was unresponsive. Swearing under his breath, Odhen chimed into his headset. "Ton-Ton, I need you to blow up the hanger doors. The receiver isn't transmittin’."

More Jawaese filled the radio and Odhen simply pulled his headset over his ear. Noticing Calista's hand was shaking over the nav-stick he tapped her arm with two fingers. "Hey, kid," he snapped his fingers at her and she pried her eyes open. "I need you to stay focused. You're my co-pilot now. Can you handle that?"

Shaking the thoughts from her head, Calista nodded tightly, screwing her lips into a stern straight line, eyes focused on getting them out of the hanger and towards the horizon peaking over the blown open doors.

The Somnambulist took a hell of a beating as its parking legs folded into the base of the ship, its weight no longer grounded. The force of the attacking Elite's made the ship shake, the old bolts and screws groaning out.

Odhen punched the nav-stick as far down as it would go and the ship burst from the hanger at impressive speeds.

"I need you to keep a steady grip otherwise the torque will pull us into a tail-end spin," he informed Calista.

The ship tilted to the side, threatening to spin out just as he had warned, causing an animatronic scream to burst through the ship. The sound of tires rolling uncontrollably prompted Calista to peek at what was going on.

In the back, a legless droid seated atop another red trolley, rolled from an open compartment and into the stacks of boxes in the cargo hold.

"Woah!" The droid shouted as a crashing noise erupted.

Odhen clicked his tongue, "Damn droid..." He pulled his headset back over his ear. "Hey shorty, you forgot to secure your damn droid!"

In frustration, Calista peeled her headset off, trying to remain concentrated with flying instead.

Odhen raised a brow her way and she simply shrugged.

"He talks a lot."

"I hadn't noticed." Odhen laughed. "Alright kid, I'll take over from here. Hold on, I'm punching us into hyperdrive. Got any requests?"

"Anywhere as long as it's not here," she offered, palms running across her face as she let out a huff.

The stars raced across the screen like a thousand shooting stars raining around the ship. The Somnambulist had stopped groaning from all the offensive fire and was now groaning from the intense speeds it was flying at. The sounds were similar but also different, less nerve-wracking.

Calista sighed as she stood from the co-pilot seat, staring longingly at the dashboard. There had been a time when the prospect of flying a ship as large as this one would have brought her joy, but right now her heart was too heavy to allow anything other than despair in.

"You aren't such a bad shot," Koa's voice praised out to the waddling Jawa. Ton-Ton said something in his native tongue in response. Koa hummed flatly before answering: "I'll pretend I understood what you said."

"He said he thought you weren't so bad yourself," the animatronic voice spoke out. "I hope I'm not being too imposing but… would one of you help me up? I'd do it myself but I have no legs."

Koa looked to the droid in the cargo hold and walked towards him, disappearing from Calista's view. Following suit, Ton-Ton hobbled over, his arms waving about.

Odhen sighed before pulling off the headset and standing from the seat with much effort, his belly brushing against the dashboard.

"Let's go see what that’s about."

"I am immensely grateful... Miss?" The droid asked Koa as she pulled him into his trolley. The Jawa pulled out some tape from his long cloak and tried to affix the droids severed torso onto the trolley more securely.

"Knight-Captain Koa'lianu Kiddé." she greeted overly formally. “Koa for short.”

“Knight-Captain?” Odhen mouthed to himself.

"A pleasure to meet you. I am Protocol Droid M8-T7 but my master calls me Watts and so does the Captain," Watts saluted at Odhen. "I must extend my deepest apologies to you both," Watts continued.

Koa squinted her eyes in confusion, "Why?"

"When my mobility device rolled away, I accidentally crashed into your box of personal belongings. I landed on this data chip storage device and crushed its outer casing," Watts held out the necklace from before. "I hope the casing wasn't sentimental to you."

"Data chip?" Koa asked, glancing at Calista with a bemused appearance.

Ton-Ton snatched the necklace from his droids hands before Calista had the chance. His small hands bringing the shiny metal object up to his singular eye, his voice muttering something in thought as he snapped the rest of the casing off.

"Hey, hey," Odhen pointed disapprovingly. “We talked about this. Don't go stealin' shiny things. That's the reason you ended up on my ship remember? Give it back to the princess…“ Odhen pointed at Koa who in turn looked at him with a furrowed brow, “So you can get to work on the lower hull, we may have a leak to fix remember?"

"A leak?" Calista asked frantically.

"Don't worry, the most damage it could do is--" Odhen was halted from his speech when the ship suddenly fell out of hyperdrive, the momentum of the sudden stop forcing everyone to jolt forward and brace onto something for support. "Drop us out of hyperspace. Damn." He finished with a glum expression and a snap of his fingers.

Ton-Ton rambled something, his tone indicating he wasn't about to do as Odhen asked.

Watts, seeing that Koa and Calista were unfamiliar with the ships dynamic, started translating, "Ah, it seems Master Ton-Ton believes I may have damaged the data chip, but he thinks he may be able to salvage whatever was on it if you give him permission."

"Well, Princess?" Koa cocked her head to the side, staring at the hyper-active Jawa. "The choice is yours."

"Princess?" Odhen sounded shocked. "Did you know she wasn’t the princess this whole time?" He asked Ton-Ton pointing at Koa again.

Ton-Ton replied with a dismissive wave as he started tinkering with the data chip.

Odhen gaped at his small friend, "And you didn't say anything?"

Calista knelt next to the Jawa, looking him in his one good eye and nodding hesitantly, "If this data chip was with your father, stands to reason there's something important on it. Play the message."

Ton-Ton pried a panel on the back of Watts's head, moving some wiring around before slotting the data chip into the droid's head.

A hologram of a miniaturised dancing Twi’lek appeared a few feet away, her body translucent and blue. The Jawa knocked Watts on the head with a spanner before shouting at him disapprovingly.

"Oops, terribly sorry, wrong recording," the droid apologised.

This time a new hologram filled the room. It was life-sized, blue and equally translucent yet somehow more alive than the one before.

Calista let out a chocked gasp as her eyes fell on the recorded version of her mother. She was just as beautiful as she remembered and even more regal in her favourite blue gown. Her long hair falling to her elbows, a blue pin the shape of a bird clipping two braids together.

Odhen whistled in the air, his eyes widening as he shifted to get a better look at her face. Koa walked over to place an encouraging hand on Calista’s shoulder.

"My daughter," the hologram began. "If you are watching this, then it is too late for me. I failed to see my plans come to fruition. Thesmora has always been peaceful, even during times of war and we have taken pride in that. But, I fear we may no longer be allowed to remain a neutral planet in this ever growing conflict. In truth, I do not believe we should.

I watched, helplessly, during the first war that ravaged his galaxy. I had the power to shift the balance and I chose not to do so. Yes, I had a responsibility to my people to keep them safe from the ravages of war, and I did that, but as a result, an entire planet was destroyed and we allowed a force of evil to continue its reign of terror on others.

Now that evil has returned, different and yet the same. My spies tell me the First Order is building a weapon of mass destruction, much like the one the Empire used to destroy Alderaan. I cannot in good conscience allow this evil to grow, I cannot stand back and use the safety of my people as an excuse again. We must declare allegiance. Maligma disagrees, I've never seen her so frightened before. I fear she may do something rash in her blind ambition to keep Thesmora out of this war."

Lenora's chin touched her collarbone as she took a strong and purposeful breath before looking up with steeled conviction and continuing on: "I have entrusted this data chip to Senator Kiddé, he is one of the few I trust unequivocally. The other is with Mokk-Toh. I sent him in my stead to be my voice and negotiate our terms with the Resistance. There is no one else I would trust to carry my words more."

A smile appeared on Lenora's face, "The data chips work as a set. Put them together and they reveal the location of several bomber star-ships intended for General Leia, as a show of good faith. Get this data chip to Mokk-Toh, the two act as beacons once separated. Follow the signal to his location… In case I'm not around to tell you this, know that I love you, always."

The hologram stopped and Calista stared into her mother’s face for what felt like an eternity, the silence disturbed by Odhen's dry coughing. Koa side-eyed him as he beat his chest, trying to clear his airways.

"Stop the recording," Calista's voice was feather-light.

Watts's mechanical eye stopped projecting the recording. The blue glow dissipating from the walls of the ship.

"Can you trace the location of the other beacon?" Calista asked the Jawa.

Ton-Ton nodded before going to work behind Watts. A spark and fizzle popping out before a new projection painted the room blue again.

Koa walked closer to the map to get a better look at the location of the beacon. Her finger hooked in a circle around her chin as she examined the map further. "I'm not familiar with these co-ordinates but this section of the map looks familiar."

Odhen grumbled when he looked at the map, "I don't know why it would. That's Takodana, a pirate haven. One of the few places free from the Resistance and First Order's squabblin'. It's not governed by the Cartels neither."

"Set a course, Captain," Calista said confidently, no longer kneeling on one knee.

"It'll take us some time since we can't initiate the hyperdrive without blowin’ ourselves up," Odhen rubbed the skin on his neck. "You may want to grab some shut-eye on the way, I'll go make sure we don't fly into any debris. Space is littered with broken chunks since they fired that Star-Killer... Ton-Ton come on. I don't pay you second mate rates for nothin'."

Ton-Ton spoke in his usual hurried tones.

"What do you mean I don't pay you?" Odhen banged on the roof of the cargo hold with a closed fist. "You got shelter over your head don't ya?" Odhen rolled his eyes and headed off. "Pssh, I don't pay you. Maybe I would if you didn't have a stomach the size of a bantha, ever think of that?" He grumbled to himself.

Ton-Ton fixed up Watts' exposed control panel, handed the necklace back to Calista and placed a long piece of piping in the droid's hands before going off to join Odhen in the cockpit.

"Master Ton-Ton says I am to show you two to the crew’s quarters," Watts pushed his trolled using the pipe as a rowing stick. "This way, follow me please."

The Resistance Base on D'Qar...

Poe was on the ground, his back pressed to a maintenance trolley, a torch held between his teeth as he worked on the modifications for Black One.

BB-8 beeped and chimed in happy tones as he rolled about next to the X-Wing.

Poe pulled the torch from his mouth when he said, "Hey BB-8 can you pass me the '44?"

BB-8 rolled over to the toolbox, clamping arm reaching out from its hidden compartment to grab the spanner but failing to get a grip. The droid beeped worriedly before a set of boots walked up to the toolbox and picked up the spanner instead.

"Here you go, Black Leader," Paige Tico's distinctive vibrato filled the empty hangar bay.

"Thanks," Poe smiled under the X-Wing, his hand reaching out to grab it. "When did you get back?"

Paige tapped her boots on the floor, "A while, I've been spending time with Rose. She worries."

Poe fixed the nut tighter and then dropped the spanner next to the toolbox, "Gimmie a hand?"

Paige wheeled the trolley out from under the jet, tossing him the rag that was on the stool.

"Thanks," Poe nodded, whipping the grease from his hands and under his fingernails.

"Missed a spot," Paige wiggled her eyebrows at the oil stain on his overalls.

Poe dabbed at the dark stains and sighed when he realised they were already dry, "Perfect." He drolled sarcastically.

Paige laughed.

"Don't laugh," despite his serious tone, a smile of its own was spreading across the Commander's face. "This is my second pair this month. The Resistance doesn't have the budget for it." He joked.

Paige rolled her eyes, "Sure, they can afford fancy X-Wing's but not a washing machine."

Poe huffed, dropping the rag in his toolbox, "You here for a reason Tico or just to eye my baby?" Poe patted his jet affectionately making BB-8 chirp and beep, "Don't worry buddy, I can have two favourites."

"Ah, the delusions of men," Paige hummed with a smug look on her face. "And no, you caught me on one of the rare occasions that I'm not trying to pester you into letting me take Black-One for a test run." Paige pointed her thumb in the direction of the exit. "The General sent me, she wants to see you in the CC."

Poe frowned, "You couldn't have gotten to that tidbit a little faster?"

Paige shrugged as she watched him and BB-8 race down the hanger, "Eh, it's more fun watching you sweat for it!" She shouted after them.

When she was alone, Paige allowed her eyes to look over the black X-Wing with a hungry expression. A whistle of appreciation leaving her cheeks as her hands glided over the cold metal. She whispered hopefully, stars in her eyes, "One of these days, baby."

Poe slowed his pace to a slow jog when he neared the command centre. An overlapping noise of voices and machinery and buttons being pressed bombarded his ears. It was starkly different from the isolation of the hangar bay. Poe was beginning to miss his time working on his star-fighter already. He was also a little disappointed he hadn't had the time to get cleaned up before seeing Leia.

"You wanted to see me, General?" Poe announced himself into the room.

Leia turned and smiled at him, her fingers beckoning him closer, "About time Commander."

The hologram of Maz Kanada died out just as he stepped into the room.

"An old friend tells me that some new allies may require our assistance," Leia informed him. "I need you to gather a handful of your best men and head for Takodana." Leia's brow crinkled as though she had forgotten something important. "Oh, and take one of the ships we salvaged after the incident with Hosnian Prime. Don't want to arouse any unwanted suspicion."

Poe pressed his palms to the table, leaning in closer, "Mind if I ask who exactly these new allies are?"

"Maz didn't say, but something tells me they'll be revealed to you when the time is right."

"Do they know we're coming?"

"That is also yet to be determined."

Poe had to restrain himself from sighing, his head drooping down as he tried to keep his wits about him, dark curls cascading around his face and skirting across the sensitive skin right above his brow.

Lieutenant Connix walked in with a data-pad in hand, "Mission reports, General."

"Have faith, Poe. Things unravel the way they're meant to." Leia glanced over her data-pad, streams of information scrolling past her eyes as she brought her knuckles to bear the weight of her chin while she assimilated the new information.

Poe nodded, lifting his weight off the table as he made for the door.

Leia's eye twitched when she read a section of the report.

"Commander," she called after him.

Poe swivelled in a fluid motion, eyes wide in question.

"Take Ensign Tico with you. Something tells me she could use a change of scenery." Leia smiled again, "And don't dally."

"By your orders General," Poe excused himself from the room and headed for the living quarters to fetch his men and clean the grease off his fingernails.

To be continued…

Taglist is open, just ask.

Permanent Tag List: @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet @savethehoneeybees

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#poe dameron #poe dameron imagine #star wars imagine #poe dameron x ofc #poe x calista #star wars #oscar isaac #tfa #tlj #sw:tfa #sw:tlj #star wars fic #leia organa #kaydel ko connix #paige tico #first order #resistance

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schraubd · 6 years ago

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Election 2018: How Did Anti-Semites Do?

A few days ago, Tablet Magazine published a list of eight "antisemites running for Congress". It was a good start, but woefully incomplete -- there are so many more antisemites to choose from! Moreover, it doesn't really properly gradate antisemitism (there's a huge difference between a literal Holocaust Denier and someone who's been in a room with Louis Farrakhan). So while you can read how Tablet's 8 fared here, for a more comprehensive picture this post has you covered. First, the good news: the absolutely, positively, most blatant antisemites generally did not win.

Actual Neo-Nazi Arthur Jones lost to Democratic Rep. Dan Lipinski 73-27 in Illinois' 3rd congressional district.

Jones' Holocaust-denying compatriot, John Fitzgerald, lost by a similar 72-28 margin in California's 11th district to Democratic Rep. Mark DeSaulnier.

In state legislative races, the same basically held true:

In North Carolina's 48th state house district, GOP nominee Russell Walker -- who once said Jews "descend from Satan" -- lost to Black Democratic minister Garland Pierce 63-37.

In Missouri, GOP nominee Steve West (who was disowned by his own kids) fell well short of unseating Democratic State Rep. Jon Carpenter.

Finally, in California, Maria Estrada's virulent antisemitism didn't stop her from earning an Our Revolution endorsement, but it presumably did her no favors in her D-on-D challenge to State Assembly speaker Anthony Rendon -- she lost 56-44.

The two biggest antisemites to win were both incumbents.

Open White Supremacist Rep. Steve King (R-IA), last seen telling the world that European Neo-Nazi parties would just be plain old Republicans in America, had a much closer than anticipated race against Democrat J.D. Scholten. Still, King prevailed 50-47, thus proving that there is no limit to how racist you can be if there are enough Republicans in your district.

Meanwhile, in Washington, GOP State Rep. Matt Shea -- who advocated for an American theocracy where non-Christian men are executed -- handily won reelection 58-42. Huzzah.

Now, those guys represent the worst of the worst. Most (not all) were running on the GOP line, and most (not all) lost. But the Tablet list itself evinces a clear antisemitic spectrum, and once you move past the obvious cases the story gets more complex. On Tablet's list were two definite borderline entries, for whom I think it's fair to question if they are properly called antisemitic at all (certainly, they're far further afield than some of the names further down on this list):

The case for including Indiana Rep. Andre Carson (D) appears to boil down to "he's been in a room with Farrakhan and the Iranian president", which isn't exactly on the level of denying the Holocaust. Call me jaded, but this felt very thin to me. Carson's Indiana district is gerrymandered to be reliably blue, and so it was -- Carson took his race 63-37.

Lena Epstein -- the Republican candidate in Michigan's 11th congressional district -- also has fair grounds to question her inclusion. Yes, inviting a Jews for Jesus Rabbi to eulogize the Pittsburgh victims was stupid, and insensitive, and baffling, and did I mention stupid? -- but was it antisemitic? I'm not sure. But we no longer need to expend much effort figuring it out: Epstein was soundly defeated by Democrat Haley Stevens, flipping this open GOP seat blue and I suspect signaling the last we hear of Epstein in national politics.

The next tier of antisemites comprises people who aren't really accused of saying anything antisemitic themselves, but who have endorsed antisemites or antisemitic movements.

On the Democratic side, Rep. Danny Davis (D-IL) is the poster child -- while the past few weeks might have you believe that every Democrat in the country is a Louis Farrakhan fanboy, Davis is one of the few who actually has praised the man (the NOI has a large presence in Davis' Chicago district). Davis' district is one of the bluest in the country, and he took 88% of the vote against nominal Republican opposition.

On the Republican side, Rep. Dana Rohrabacher (R-CA) endorsed a Holocaust denier for school board (and that wasn't even his only connection to the Holocaust denying set). "Putin's favorite Congressman" looks to have gone down in his toss-up race, losing narrowly to Democrat Harley Rouda.

Also falling into this category (though arguably shading into the class below) is California GOP Rep. Steve Knight, who ran an ad featuring a far-right activist notorious for antisemitic and racist online comments (Knight plead ignorance about the guy's views, but you'd think the t-shirt he was wearing in the ad -- a US flag with "infidel" stamped over it -- would be a giveaway). Knight lost his seat 51-49 to Democrat Katie Hill.

Next, we get to people who have themselves said or done antisemitic things -- albeit perhaps not as vividly as a Steve King sort.

For Republicans, George Soros is the fulcrum. Rep. Matt Gaetz (R-FL), who gave a Holocaust denier a State of the Union ticket and is a major source of Soros-related conspiracy theorizing, works as a good example. He handily won his re-election race 67-33.

Speaking of Soros, in Minnesota's 1st district, Jim Hagedorn -- who claimed that Joe Lieberman only supported the Iraq War because he was a Jew and who then cut an ad claiming his opponent was "owned" by the Jewish globalist billionaire -- looks like he will squeak out a win over Democrat Dan Feehan. If that result holds, it marks one of the few districts this cycle to flip D-to-R. It also is particularly painful for me because this is the district where my wife grew up and my in-laws still live.

And while Florida gubernatorial candidate Ron DeSantis is more well-known for the racism, he too dipped his toe in the antisemitic Soros conspiracy pool, accusing his African-American opponent, Andrew Gillum, of looking to "seed[] into our state government, you know, Soros-backed activists." DeSantis, a Republican, prevailed over Gillum by about a single point in what had been thought to be a blue-leaning race.

Two more Democratic members of Tablet's list -- Leslie Cockburn and Ilhan Omar -- fit in this category, albeit for comments that are several years or (in Cockburn's case) decades old.

Cockburn wrote a book in the early 90s that was basically a "Israel is responsible for all awful things" screed; she lost her VA-05 race to Republican Denver "bigfoot erotica" Riggelman, because America is awesome and that was really a choice. The margin was 53-47 in a race that was viewed as a decent, if not top-of-the-class, Democratic pickup opportunity.

Omar, running in Minnesota's 5th district, has come under fire for a tweet where she accused Israel of "hypnotizing" the world to prevent it from seeing its "evil". While she has seemingly moderated her views on Israel, she pointedly declined to walk back this comment or recognize how it seems to traffic in antisemitic tropes (in contrast to her 5th district predecessor, Keith Ellison, who pointedly disassociated himself from prior Farrakhan affiliations). Omar won her race by a crushing 78-21 margin.

Finally, it's worth looking at some local races where Republicans (albeit not always the Republican candidate) ran antisemitic ads.

In Alaska, a GOP mailer which showed stacks of cash being stuffed into Democrat Jesse Kiehl's suit didn't seem to work, Kiehl defeated right-leaning independent Don Etheridge 60-37. (Etheridge he disavowed the Republican ad).

In California, Republican Tyler Diep painted his Jewish opponent Josh Lowenthal green, enlarged his nose, and showed him clutching $100 bills; Diep prevailed in his California Assembly race, 54-46.

Pennsylvania State Rep. Todd Stephens (R) made sure to drop the "Johnson" from the name of Democratic opponent Sara Johnson Rothman when he photoshopped her holding a stack of cash, instead going with "Stop Sara Rothman". Stephens won re-election by a narrow 51-49 margin.

In North Carolina, Republican Rickey Padgett tried to unseat State Senator Mike Woodard (D) by, among other things, posting a picture with Chuck Schumer dressed in a Nazi SS uniform. Woodward prevailed by a 62-36 spread.

Finally, in Connecticut, Democrat Matt Lesser gained national attention when his Republican opponent Ed Charamut sent out a mailer depicting Lesser with wild eyes, a huge nose, and a wad of cash. Lesser prevailed in a tight race, winning 52-48.

What are the takeaways here? Well, for starters, the most virulent and explicit antisemites generally lost. That's good, though given that those candidates generally ran in ideologically lopsided districts it's easy to overdraw from that. The Steve King victory shows that where the partisan lean works in the antisemite's favor, partisan allegiance generally trumps (seriously, does anyone have confidence that if Arthur Jones ran in Steve King's district as the Republican candidate, he would lose?). And if that holds true for to a blatant bigot like King, it certainly applies to more mild or sporadic offenders, like Davis and Omar.

The more interesting -- and troublesome -- story is how less overt but still clear antisemitism played out in more closely contested races. Those who assume that America just doesn't tolerate antisemitism are in for a surprise. Hagedorn's antisemitic past (and present) didn't seem to dent his chances in Minnesota's toss-up first district, for example. This isn't to say that antisemites were universally winning -- more that antisemitism, even when expressed, generally isn't a losing issue either even in the sort of closely contested districts where you might expect candidates to tread more carefully.

Moreover, there's a partisan lean to this that cannot be ignored. Certainly, there are incidents of antisemitism in both Democratic and Republican politics. And because American Jews (and Jewish politicians) are so overwhelmingly liberal, there are far more progressive "targets" for antisemitism than there are conservatives. Still, between Soros conspiracy theorizing and "Jews clutching money" ads, there seemed to be a noticeable step-up in GOP appeals to this sort of antisemitic sentiment that doesn't have a clear parallel among Democrats right now.

And Republican strategists must have come to a conclusion that these ads work. Yes, maybe they turn off some Jewish or more liberal-leaning voters. But Republican campaign operatives must think they make up for it by revving up the conservative base (or even independents -- for a variety of reasons I strongly suspect that right-leaning independents might be even more susceptible to this sort of appeal).

There was certainly no systematic punishing effect for Republicans going to this well -- and so we can expect they'll keep doing it. And that is a worrisome conclusion.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/2zyyHER

#anti-semitism #Election 2018 #Jews

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somethingusefulfromflorida · 4 years ago

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1960: John F. Kennedy/Lyndon B. Johnson vs Richard Nixon/Henry Cabot Lodge Jr.

1964: Lyndon B. Johnson/Hubert Humphrey vs Barry Goldwater/William E. Miller

1968: Richard Nixon/Spiro Agnew vs Hubert Humphrey/Edmund Muskie vs George Wallace/Curtis Lemay

1972: Richard Nixon/Spiro Agnew vs George McGovern/Sargent Shriver

1976: Jimmy Carter/Walter Mondale vs Gerald Ford/Bob Dole

1980: Ronald Reagan/George H.W. Bush vs Jimmy Carter/Walter Mondale

1984: Ronald Reagan/George H.W. Bush vs Walter Mondale/Geraldine Ferraro

1988: George H.W. Bush/Dan Quayle vs Michael Dukakis/Lloyd Bentsen

1992: Bill Clinton/Al Gore vs George H.W. Bush/Dan Quayle vs Ross Perot/James Stockdale

1996: Bill Clinton/Al Gore vs Bob Dole/Jack Kemp vs Ross Perot/Pat Choate

2000: George W. Bush/Dick Cheney vs Al Gore/Joe Lieberman

2004: George W. Bush/Dick Cheney vs John Kerry/John Edwards

2008: Barack Obama/Joe Biden vs John McCain/Sarah Palin

2012: Barack Obama/Joe Biden vs Mitt Romney/Paul Ryan

2016: Donald Trump/Mike Pence vs Hillary Clinton/Tim Kaine

2020: Joe Biden/Kamala Harris vs Donald Trump/Mike Pence

The same candidates tend to show up year after year. Not just President running for re-election, but Vice Presidents running for the top slot themselves, incumbents or candidates, successful or not; Richard Nixon (1952, 1956, 1960, 1968), Hubert Humphrey (1964, 1968), Walter Mondale (1976, 1980), Bob Dole (1976, 1996), Al Gore (1992, 1996, 2000)

I would expect John Edwards (D-2004) to try and make a comeback, though he was only a one term senator from North Carolina, so that’s looking increasingly unlikely. The state swung for Obama in 2008, but hasn’t voted blue since (except for governor, but he has no power because the Republicans control the state legislature)

Paul Ryan (R-2012) will be back for sure; he retired from the House in part over of disagreements with Trump, but one doesn’t just give up being Speaker and slink away into obscurity (just look at Newt Gingrich, he refuses to shut up or die), so I think Ryan is just biding his time and hoping the whole Trump thing blows over in the next decade. If the party shifts away from Trump, he might offer himself as a slightly more moderate (“moderate*”) alternative.

Or maybe Sarah Palin (R-2008) will try and reclaim the presidency for herself; she’s a hardcore right wing nutjob, she was a Bush supporter AND a Trump supporter, and she’s still relatively young, so I could see her stepping back into the spotlight to try and “being the country back” to the traditionalism of the early 2000s. Nostalgia is cyclical, so I figure around 2028 or 2032 people will start looking back fondly on the Clinton and Bush years (Clinton more so than Bush, what with 9/11 and the wars and such)

Tim Kaine isn’t even one of the famous senators; there are some senators that everybody knows, even if they’re not from your state, like Chuck Schumer, Joe Manchin, Lindsey Graham, Bitch McConnell, big names with big reputations. Tim Kaine is a nobody, just a bland and inoffensive white dude Clinton picked to be as uncontroversial as possible (she couldn’t pick a woman or a black person because then the ticket would have been “too diverse”). He’s not the future of the Democratic party, but I could see him trying to become part of the Senate leadership. Maybe the whip (vice leader), I don’t think he has what it takes to be leader outright.

I don’t think Mitt Romney (R-2012) will run for president again; that ship has sailed. Moderate Republicans are critically endangered, extinct in the wild, with single specimens in captivity (in Vermont, Massachusetts, and Maryland). After back-to-back losses in 2008 and 2012, I don’t think Republicans will run a moderate candidate ever again. Romney could maybe just maybe become the whip if he so desired, he’s a big enough name with support enough to become their presidential nominee, though he’ll never be the leader; McConnell was their golden goose, he gave hem exactly what they wanted and changed the game to give them an advantage even in minority. They will only ever elect hardliners like him from now on. Romney is too soft; he cares too much about the other side (he’s not liberal by any stretch of the imagination, he’s a Mormon for Brigham’s sake, but he voted to impeach Trump twice which means he may as well be a liberal in the eyes of the public)

Mike Pence has committed political suicide. Democrats hate him for his homophobia, sexism, racism, classism, and weird relationship with his wife who he calls “mother.” Republicans hate him because he didn’t break the law to re-elect Trump. Damned if he does, damned if he doesn’t. He’s ultraconservative and super religious, so under normal circumstances he’d be a shoo-in for the nomination, but after breaking with Trump in January he’s dead in the water (he didn’t even really break away, there was literally nothing legal he could do; if he had tried anything it would have been struck down by the courts). And besides that, Pence is boring as hell. He’s milquetoast, he’s a saltine cracker without the salt because it’s too spicy, he orders plain hamburgers with ketchup on the side, all his steaks are cooked well done, he gets a boner when he sees a woman’s ankle and has to self-flagellate for penance, he sends back water if it has too much ice because it makes his teeth hurt. He’s the sacrificial lamb they’d nominate specifically to lose so they can save a stronger candidate for later when there’s no incumbent.

Kamala Harris is basically president-in-waiting (or rather nominee-in-waiting; who knows if she can actually win?) Biden ran on the unspoken promise that he would step down in 2024, making her the front runner, but he has recently walked this back and says he plans on running for a second term himself, pushing Kamala back until 2028 at least. She has good PR and has convinced half the country that she’s a progressive instead of a cop, so if she runs she’ll definitely have an edge over Democratic challengers. The media picks the nominee, and in 24 or 28 they’ll pick her for sure.

It’s becoming increasingly harder for people to stay relevant over multiple decades. I can’t imagine any 2004 candidates running in 2024, but Bob Dole managed to get on as Ford’s #2 and come back as #1 himself twenty years later (he lost both times, but still). Richard Nixon beat the odds and actually got elected in 68 after losing the presidency in 60 and the governorship in 62; he was pretty much coasting on Eisenhower’s legacy, selling himself as the anti-Goldwater, who lost in 64 to LBJ in a landslide.

Trump is acting like he’s going to run again, but whether or not he’ll fully commit is up in the air. On the one hand, his least insane niece says that he doesn’t want to put himself in a position where he could lose again, his ego couldn’t take it, he’s so embarrassed he can’t even admit it happened the first time. On the other hand, he’s too proud to accept defeat and just let some other candidate take his spot as leader of the Republican Party; the Republicans haven’t had a leader since Eisenhower, every other president has disappeared after leaving office.

Nixon resigned in disgrace

Ford was elected out

Reagan disappeared in the 90s because he didn’t want the country to see him deteriorate from Alzheimer’s

Bush Sr was elected out

Bush Jr was despised with approval in the 20s (record low), and could potentially have been tried at The Hague if Obama had balls

Now Trump wants to stick around, even though he’s older than Reagan and FAR less healthy. He’ll probably be dead in 15 years anyway; no way he reaches 90. His mind may already be going, but unlike Reagan he isn’t self aware enough to know it, so he might try to stay in the spotlight even after the dementia sets in. Wo knows?

What his niece says, and what I think is most likely to happen, is that he will pretend like he’s running in order to scam donors out of millions of dollars to pay his exorbitant legal fees, but then bow out of the race before the primaries. Whichever candidate he personally endorses will become the nominee and go up against Biden. Biden will win the popular vote, but I don’t know if he’ll win the electoral college; if this happens for the third time in a quarter century, I expect nothing less than chaos in the streets, perhaps even civil war (well, I expected civil war after 2020, and we’re still standing, so again, who knows?). All I know is that congressional Democrats will throw a hissy fit but do nothing to stop the Republicans from sneaking their way into office without a mandate AGAIN.

The last Republican to legitimately win the presidency was George Bush Sr in 1988. Jr lost to Gore, and only got re-elected in 2004 because he invaded Iraq the year prior. Democrats have won 7 of the last 8 elections, including the last 4 in a row. There are more Democrats and left-leaning independents than Republicans and right-leaners. If the Republicans lose-but-win AGAIN, I don’t think the county could take it; there would be phony calls for secession on TV and legitimate whispers behind the scenes, there would be lawsuits, there would be an even bigger assault on the Capitol than January 6, people would riot, the National Guard would attack brown people with impunity while peacefully corralling the white ones with shields and loudspeakers.

There hasn’t been an assassination since 1963, and no assassination attempt resulting in injury since 1981. Someone threw a grenade at Bush Jr in 2005, but they wrapped a handkerchief around it so the lever didn’t release. I think multiple politicians on both sides of the aisle might be targeted in the event of another electoral college screw up.

Trump could face jail time for his tax crimes, though given his high profile I think he’d get off with a slap on the wrist. He has never faced consequences before, so why would they start now?

#politics #political #2024 #2024 election #2024 prediction #2024 presidential election #politicians #John Edwards #Sarah Palin #mitt romney #paul ryan #Mike pence #Kamala Harris #Donald Trump #Joe Biden #fuck trump #fuck donald trump #fuck Republicans

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bountyofbeads · 5 years ago

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Why Does Only One Party Play by the Rules? https://nyti.ms/2MNdCOX

Why Does Only One Party Play by the Rules?

Thanks to Trump’s deepening dependence on “alternative facts,” the assertion of reality is now a viable campaign strategy for 2020 Democrats.

By Jennifer Senior, Opinion columnist | Published October 25, 2019 | New York Times | Posted October 25, 2019 |

It’s that time of the campaign season when some Democrats are starting to feel — as President Jimmy Carter might have put it — malaise. They’re staring at their 2020 lineup and wondering whether it’s a guaranteed recipe for buyer’s remorse. Joe Biden is too old, Pete Buttigieg is too young, Kamala Harris is too uncertain, Bernie Sanders too unpalatable, Elizabeth Warren too unelectable.

All of which may be right. But I have an additional theory for why some Democrats are the vexed and depleted souls they seem to be these days, waking up with lead in their veins and worms in their stomachs. It boils down to this: They can’t escape the sense that they’re living by different rules.

Let me rephrase that: Democrats are acting as though there still are rules, when in fact they’re living in a political multiverse — with at least one parallel reality containing no rules at all.

What do you do when one party stakes its faith — and ultimately government itself — on observable, measurable realities while the other has made the cynical decision to cast these principles away? How do you strategize? How do you cope?

It’s not just that President Trump serially lies in plain sight. (What’s The Washington Post’s latest tally? 13,435? Whatever: Just imagine a whirring odometer on a shuttle to Mars.) It’s that he’s surrounded by occluders and toadies, nihilist tricksters spun directly from the looms of the Marx Brothers’ imagination. (“Who you gonna believe? Me or your own eyes?”)

A raft of House and Senate Republicans — including (say it with me) Senator Lindsey Graham — learned that Ukraine’s top diplomat had confirmed the Trump administration’s aid-for-dirt caper, yet still insists the impeachment proceedings are a sham. The acting White House chief of staff, Mick Mulvaney, acknowledged this same quid pro quo in a news conference, only to proclaim later that none of us understands English. Any public servant who dares say that two plus two just might equal four is immediately accused by Trump of radicalism, treason, witch hunting.

Compare that with President Barack Obama’s relationship with those who inconvenienced him. When James Comey, then the head of the F.B.I., made the fateful decision to announce that he’d reopened his inquiry into Hillary Clinton’s emails just days before the 2016 election, Obama could not have been especially pleased. By imperiling Clinton’s chances, Comey was imperiling Obama’s own legacy too. Yet Obama still behaved warmly toward him, according to James Stewart in his new book, “Deep State.” Why? Because “Democrats,” as Jonathan Chait explained in his review of that book, “still believed in institutions and norms.”(See review below)

This idea — that Democrats still believe in norms, customs, the rather crucial notion of checks and balances, in government itself — may be the crux of the multiverse problem. Look at someone like Joe Biden, whose essential pitch (in addition to experience, incremental change, working-class-guyness) is that he can work with the men and women on the other side of the aisle.

But this suggests that compromise is an option. It doesn’t appear that the other side is much interested. You have Mitch McConnell, the Senate majority leader, holding a Supreme Court appointment hostage for nearly a year, blocking almost all legislative debate and passing a bill to protect the 2020 elections from foreign interference only under extreme duress; the world’s “greatest deliberative body” is now a speedway for the Trump agenda. You have the House Republicans informally observing the “Hastert Rule”— named for the former speaker Dennis Hastert, who was carted off to prison for paying hush money to a former student he’d sexually abused — which says bills can come to the floor only if a majority of the Republicans support them. It virtually ensures minoritarian rule.

And you have partisan news outlets with zero interest in reporting the basic facts of Trump’s corruption or the catastrophic consequences of his impulses. We’ve gone from Pax Americana to Fox Americana in the blink of an eye.

Whereas the more traditional media, whatever their unconscious biases, do try to hold Democrats to account. Sure, let’s stipulate that there are more liberals than conservatives at these organizations. Maybe even a lot more. But it was mainstream newspapers that broke the Whitewater story, which led to an independent investigation of Bill Clinton. It was mainstream newspapers that kept Hillary Clinton’s emails on the front page in the run-up to the 2016 election. This newspaper covered Hunter Biden’s business dealings in Ukraine too — in May. These pages also ran an editorial about it. That was in 2015.

Of course Democratic politicians — all politicians — distort, gerrymander evidence, even lie and apply their greasy thumbs to the scales. (What was Bill Clinton doing on that plane with Loretta Lynch in 2016?) The question is whether their sins are occasional or habitual, whether their worldviews are Capra or Chandler. The Trumpkins are firmly in noir territory.

Now you have Trump strafing Facebook with campaign ads popping with falsehoods. Elizabeth Warren, meanwhile, ran a Facebook ad with falsehoods that acknowledged they were false midway through.

Which says it all, really.

So, to repeat: What to do about this? Do you capitulate, sell your soul and resort to the same lawless tactics as your opponents? Or do you take the high road and run the risk of losing?

The only guide we have is 2018. But it’s not a bad one. What it showed was that sometimes it pays to go high. The Democrats just have to aggressively sell an honorable message.

Specifically, what the Democrats should say is: Anyone who’s not in the business of peddling the truth shouldn’t be in the business of government. Or publishing, for that matter. Trump once said that he could probably get away with murder. (And his lawyers recently, surreally, made this same case in a federal appeals court.) That’s what Mark Zuckerberg is doing on Facebook, figuratively speaking, by allowing political ads with demonstrably false content to run on his platform, no matter what other features the company rolls out.

Right now, the Democrats are badly losing the Facebook war. But it’s not too late for them to wage this fight, and in the right way. They could still campaign on the idea of a government that believes in itself — and self-evident truths, like something as basic as the size of an inaugural crowd.

It would be a declaration of values. In the Trump era, that’s not a bad place to start.

*********

Two Candidates, Two Investigations, One Deeply Flawed Agency

By Jonathan Chait | Published October 25, 2019 | New York Times | Posted October 25, 2019 |

DEEP STATE

Trump, the FBI, and the Rule of Law

By James B. Stewart

During the 2016 presidential election, one of the two major candidates labored under the shadow of a criminal investigation by the F.B.I. That candidate was Hillary Clinton. As we now know, though voters had little reason to apprehend it at the time, there were actually two investigations underway — and, while the probe into Clinton’s mishandling of emails played out in public, the more serious probe of Donald Trump’s secret political and financial connections with Russia remained largely unknown until well after the voting had concluded.

In “Deep State,” James B. Stewart, a columnist for The New York Times and the author of “Blood Sport” and “Den of Thieves,” among many other books, tells the story of both investigations. His account produces few new facts, nor a bold new thesis, that would dramatically alter our understanding of either. Instead, his contribution is to combine the two accounts into a single chronological narrative. He shows how the twin investigations turn out to be closely linked, and not just because an election pitted their subjects against each other.

The F.B.I. agents investigating Clinton’s use of a personal email account realized early on that they would never have a prosecutable case. While Clinton had violated laws pertaining to the handling of classified material, she had apparently done so out of a combination of technical ineptitude and convenience, and the government had never charged an offender without establishing nefarious motives. As a result, the bureau concluded it didn’t “have much on the intent side.”

You might think this decision made life easier for the F.B.I., which would be spared the ordeal of having to insert itself into a presidential campaign. Instead, it made life harder. The reason for this: The bureau contained what some Department of Justice officials considered “hotbeds of anti-Clinton hostility,” especially in the Little Rock and New York offices. Stewart describes how F.B.I. officials encouraged colleagues investigating the Democratic nominee with messages like “You have to get her” and “You guys are finally going to get that bitch.” James Comey, the F.B.I. director during the Clinton email probe, went so far as to tell Attorney General Loretta Lynch, “It’s clear to me that there is a cadre of senior people in New York who have a deep and visceral hatred of Secretary Clinton.” Those agents leaked regularly to right-wing media sources that the bureau was turning a blind eye to what they saw as Clinton’s criminality.

This pressure drove Comey to make two fateful decisions. First, when he announced that the bureau was not bringing charges against Clinton, he denounced her “extremely careless” behavior, as a kind of middle course between what the law dictated and what Republicans demanded. Second, when an unrelated investigation into sex crimes by the former Democratic congressman Anthony Weiner turned up more Clinton email 11 days before the election, Comey felt trapped into announcing that he had reopened the investigation.

Stewart shows how Comey violated the F.B.I.’s norm of doing everything possible to avoid involving itself in election campaigns, especially at the end. He believed that failing to intervene would lead conservative agents to leak the story — and would result in his own impeachment by the Republican Congress after the election. As a result, Comey told his staff he needed to publicly reopen the investigation lest he create “corrosive doubt that you had engineered a cover-up to protect a particular political candidate.”

This was a catastrophic violation of protocol — and probably a decisive one; as Stewart notes, the new email story led the news in six of the seven days in the final week before the election. But what drove Comey to this error was the refusal of Republicans in the bureau and Congress to accept and follow the rules. Stewart’s narrative shows Democrats still believed in institutions and norms — even after Comey’s extraordinary intervention against Clinton, he was still treated warmly by President Obama and cordially by Loretta Lynch. Comey felt bound to appease the Clinton-haters because they refused to accept any process that failed to yield their preferred outcome.

Notably, the Republican William Barr enthusiastically endorsed Comey’s decision to reopen the case against Clinton, but then — once Comey became a threat to Trump — cited that very decision as grounds to fire him. Barr’s subsequent elevation to attorney general is an ominous development that hangs over the second half of Stewart’s book.

Unfortunately, his account of the Russia investigation is less satisfying. When Comey briefs Trump on the so-called Steele dossier and its litany of supposed ties between Trump and Russia — including the unproven allegation that Trump had watched prostitutes in a Moscow hotel room urinating on a bed where the Obamas once slept — we see the new president give suspiciously unconvincing denials. “Almost to himself, Trump repeated the year ‘2013’ and seemed to be searching his memory,” Stewart recounts. Trump tells Comey he would not need to pay for sex, and links the charges to other women who have accused him of groping them — charges that have high levels of credibility. He insists his well-known fear of germs would preclude him from enjoying such a performance, even though he could easily have done so at a safe distance.

We also see Trump or his agents dangling pardons before Paul Manafort and Roger Stone, the two advisers who had the closest political contacts with Russia and WikiLeaks, leading to both men refusing to cooperate with the investigation. We come to see Rod Rosenstein, the deputy attorney general and supervisor of the Mueller report, as human Jell-O, losing his composure at times to the point of seeming unhinged. Stewart points out that Rosenstein agreed to meet with Trump privately. “Each time, against seemingly long odds, Rosenstein emerged with his job intact,” he notes. “What did he offer Trump in return? What threats, explicit or implied, did Trump bring to bear?”

Stewart also recounts the harsh treatment dispensed to government officials who, as a result of their involvement in the Russia investigation, became Trump’s targets. The Department of Justice publicized an affair between two agents working on the probe. It demoted the Justice Department lawyer Bruce Ohr after he spoke out, and ended the career of the longtime F.B.I. agent Andrew McCabe. All of these things, Stewart writes, “raise disturbing questions about their willingness to stand up to a president and preserve the long tradition of independent law enforcement and the rule of law.”

However, for all the suspicious patterns he reveals, for all the dots he connects, Stewart does not manage to produce a smoking gun that proves misconduct. We never learn the depth of Trump’s involvement with Russia, or whether he or Attorney General Barr applied undue pressure on the department. If these questions have incriminating answers, the people who hold them probably have no incentive to reveal them and possibly never will. What “Deep State” does tell us is that there are ample grounds for suspicion that Trump’s well-documented efforts to obstruct justice succeeded. To what end? That remains a mystery.

*********

In Tribute to Cummings, Obama Hints at Rebuke of Trump

The former president said that Representative Elijah E. Cummings showed that “you’re not a sucker to have integrity.”

Peter Baker

Oct. 25, 2019Updated 3:52 p.m. ET

WASHINGTON — Former President Barack Obama, who has remained largely silent amid the convulsive impeachment debate now gripping the nation, offered a tribute to a late Democratic congressman on Friday that sounded to some listeners like an implicit rebuke of President Trump.

Speaking at a service for Representative Elijah E. Cummings, who died last week, Mr. Obama never mentioned the president by name but seemed to draw a contrast between his successor and the congressman whom Mr. Trump denigrated last summer.

Mr. Obama said that Mr. Cummings showed that being strong meant being kind and that being honorable was no flaw.

“There’s nothing weak about kindness and compassion,” Mr. Obama told a packed hall at New Psalmist Baptist Church in Baltimore, which Mr. Cummings, a Democrat, represented in the House for the past 25 years. “There’s nothing weak about looking out for others. There’s nothing weak about being honorable. You’re not a sucker to have integrity and to treat others with respect.”

Warming to his topic, Mr. Obama pointed to a sign behind him referring to “the Honorable” Mr. Cummings.

“This is a title that we confer on all kinds of people who get elected to public office,” he said as the largely African-American and Democratic audience responded with knowing applause and laughter. “We’re supposed to introduce them as honorable. But Elijah Cummings was honorable before he was elected to office. There’s a difference. There’s a difference if you were honorable and treated others honorably outside the limelight.”

As chairman of the House Committee on Oversight and Reform, Mr. Cummings, 68, had become a major thorn in Mr. Trump’s side and was one of the leaders of the drive to impeach the president for abuse of power. Last summer, Mr. Trump lashed out at Mr. Cummings, calling him “racist” and “a brutal bully” who had done “a very poor job” representing a district that he described as a “disgusting, rat and rodent infested mess.”

Mr. Obama was part of an all-star lineup of speakers and guests at the Friday’s service, including former President Bill Clinton, former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, Speaker Nancy Pelosi, former Vice President Joseph R. Biden Jr. and Senator Elizabeth Warren.

But much of the attention was focused on the 44th president, who has largely avoided weighing in lately on his successor even as Mr. Trump lately has repeatedly accused Mr. Obama of illegally spying on him while in office and blamed the former president for various policy setbacks.

Mr. Obama made no reference to any of that, but did call on his audience to step up as Mr. Cummings did. “People will look back at this moment,” he said, “and ask the question: What did you do?”

*********

Elijah Cummings’s Funeral Draws Presidents and Thousands of Mourners

Presidents Barack Obama and Bill Clinton spoke Friday at the service for the longtime Maryland congressman.

By Nicholas Bogel-Burroughs | Published October 25, 2019 Updated 3:39 PM ET | New York Times | Posted October 25, 2019 |

BALTIMORE — Representative Elijah E. Cummings was firmly rooted in Baltimore, but for decades his voice extended far from his brick rowhouse on the city’s west side. On Friday, the legacy of his tireless advocacy brought powerful leaders from Washington and elsewhere to his city.

Mr. Cummings, a Democrat who rose in prominence in recent years for his unwavering pursuit of President Trump, died at 68 last week in the city he called home, the same one in which he was born and lived all his life.

Two former presidents, Barack Obama and Bill Clinton, were among the prominent cast of politicians, mentees and relatives who spoke at his funeral on Friday morning. Others included Speaker Nancy Pelosi, Hillary Clinton and Elizabeth Warren, the Massachusetts senator and presidential candidate.

Mr. Obama roused the congregation, extolling Mr. Cummings’s values and saying that the congressman had earned the title, “the honorable.”

“This is a title we confer on all kinds of people who get elected to public office,” Mr. Obama said. “We’re supposed to introduce them as honorable. But Elijah Cummings was honorable before he was elected to office.”

“There’s a difference,” Mr. Obama continued, his voice rising as many in the crowd stood up and clapped. “There’s a difference if you were honorable and treated others honorably — outside the limelight, on the side of a road, in a quiet moment counseling somebody you work with.”

Mr. Cummings’s success validates the concept of the American dream, Mr. Obama said, and his compassion and empathy were a lesson that kindness can be a sign of strength.

“There’s nothing weak about looking out for others,” Mr. Obama said. “There’s nothing weak about being honorable. You’re not a sucker to have integrity and to treat others with respect.”

Earlier in the service, following a psalm read by Ms. Warren and a song from one of Mr. Cummings’s favorite singers, BeBe Winans, Ms. Clinton took the stage and thanked members of Mr. Cummings’s district “for sharing him with our country and the world.”

Ms. Clinton said Mr. Cummings never backed down in the face of abuses of power or from “those who put party ahead of country or partisanship above truth.”

“But he could find common ground with anyone willing to seek it with him,” she continued. “And he liked to remind all of us that you can’t get so caught up in who you are fighting that you forget what you are fighting for.”

Ms. Pelosi asked attendees how many had been mentored by Mr. Cummings, and at least a dozen raised their hands. She recalled that he had sought to mentor as many freshman representatives as he could after Democrats took control of the House in the 2018 election.

“By example, he gave people hope,” she said.

Ms. Pelosi had spoken at another funeral in Baltimore on Wednesday for her own brother, Thomas D’Alesandro III, a former mayor of the city.

Earlier in the morning, thousands of grieving Baltimoreans stood in looping lines as the sun rose outside of New Psalmist Baptist Church, which seats 4,000 people and filled up shortly before 10, with many still outside. It’s the same church where Mr. Cummings sat in the front row most Sundays even after he began using a walker and wheelchair.

Mr. Cummings’s body lay in an open coffin at the front of the church on Friday, his left hand resting on his right as mourners passed by and a choir sang gospel music. An usher stood nearby with a box of tissues in each hand.

Elonna Jones, 21, skipped her classes at the University of Maryland to attend with her mother, Waneta Ross, who nearly teared up as she contemplated Baltimore’s loss.

“He believed in the beauty of everything, especially our city,” Ms. Ross said. “It’s important we’re here to honor a civil rights activist who was still around in my generation.”

Ms. Jones, a volunteer coordinator for a City Council candidate, said Mr. Cummings had motivated her to pursue a role in improving her city.

“As a young, black woman in Baltimore who wants to be in politics, he inspired me,” she said.

Mourning residents stood in black coats, hats and heels and sang Mr. Cummings’s praises as the police corralled the extended lines of people who woke up early to pay their respects. Above all, attendees noted, he always looked out for his city.

“He never forgot who we were,” said Bernadette McDonald, who lives in West Baltimore. “He was a son of Baltimore and a man of the people.”

The big names on the service’s agenda, the television cameras lined up outside and the large crowd belied the way many attendees interacted with the devoted congressman, who lived in the heart of West Baltimore and would simply give a knowing nod to those who recognized him on the street. He carried himself like anyone else when running errands or taking a walk around the block.

“If you didn’t already know him, you wouldn’t know who he was,” Ms. McDonald said.

Mr. Cummings saw his profile rise in recent years as he consistently sparred with Mr. Trump, determinedly pursuing the president, his businesses and his associates as head of the House Committee on Oversight and Reform. Mr. Cummings became a leading figure in the impeachment inquiry and was said to still be joining strategy discussions with colleagues from his hospital bed.

Rhonda Martin, who works at a local high school, said Mr. Cummings had inspired the next generation of Baltimore’s leaders by speaking to students in schools around the city.

“He brought a message of hope and told students that he did it, and they can do it, too,” Ms. Martin said.

Mr. Cummings, whose parents were former sharecroppers in South Carolina, graduated from Howard University in Washington and earned a law degree at the University of Maryland. He was first elected to Congress in 1996 and never faced a serious challenge over 11 successful re-election campaigns.

On Thursday, Mr. Cummings’s body lay in state in the Capitol, the first black lawmaker to do so, and Republicans and Democrats praised his integrity and his commitment to his constituents.

Over more than two decades in Congress, Mr. Cummings championed working people, environmental reform and civil rights. He served for two years as the chair of the Congressional Black Caucus and frequently spoke of his neighborhood while pushing legislation to lower drug prices, promoting labor unions and seeking more funding for affordable housing.

Even in his war of words with the president, the battle made its way to Baltimore when, in July, Mr. Trump called Mr. Cummings’s district a “disgusting, rat and rodent infested mess” and appeared to make light of a break-in at Mr. Cummings’s home, during which the congressman scared an intruder away.

The president’s insults still anger Baltimore residents. “See? We’re not all trash and rats,” one congregant said as she sat down in the church on Friday.

Mr. Cummings responded to the president by saying it was his “moral duty” to fight for residents in his district. “Each morning, I wake up,” he wrote, “and I go and fight for my neighbors.”

Jennifer Cummings, one of Mr. Cummings’s two daughters, recalled early morning calls from her father on her birthdays and the ice cream they shared in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

Reading from a letter to her father, Ms. Cummings said her father had taught her to “love my blackness” by insisting on buying her dolls with brown skin and telling her to appreciate her lips and nose.

While she was proud of all the titles he held over his life, “perhaps the most important title you held in your 68 years on earth was dad,” she said.

One of Mr. Cummings’s brothers, James Cummings, said that in one of their last conversations, the congressman spoke of his heartbreak over the unsolved killing of James’s 20-year-old son, Christopher Cummings, in Norfolk, Va., in 2011.

The killing “haunted Elijah for the rest of his life,” James said.

Adia Cummings, the congressman’s other daughter, said Mr. Cummings always challenged her and her sister to be better people. And even though he would nudge her about owing him money, he rarely turned down her requests, even recently making sure that she could attend a concert for the rapper Cardi B.

“He didn’t really know who she was, but he went out of his way, even from his sick bed, to make sure I could go see her,” she said.

Maya Rockeymoore Cummings, Mr. Cummings’s wife and the chairwoman of the Maryland Democratic Party, gave a fiery speech that brought multiple rounds of applause and many congregants to their feet more than once. And while she did not cite President Trump by name, she invoked him clearly, saying her husband’s work had become “infinitely more difficult” in the last few months of his life when he “sustained personal attacks” on him and his city. “It hurt him,” Ms. Cummings said.

Looking at Mr. Obama, she recalled that Mr. Cummings had stood with the former president early and proudly. “But you didn’t have any challenges like we have going on now,” she added with a smile, as Mr. Obama nodded and responded with an appreciative chuckle.

Ms. Cummings said she felt as if people were trying to tear Mr. Cummings down, and that the celebrations and outpouring of love this week had assured her that he was sent off with the respect he deserved.

Two days before Mr. Cummings died, his wife said, the staff at the Johns Hopkins Hospital had wheeled him up to the roof to see the sun and look over the city he never left.

“Boy, have I come a long way,” he said, according to Ms. Cummings.

*********

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antoine-roquentin · 6 years ago

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Early this month, Cori Bush was defeated in the St. Louis MO congressional primary, by Congressman Lacy Clay. Clay has held the seat since inheriting it from his father in 2001, and his father had it for 32 years. That’s 50 years of a congressman named Clay. Missouri’s first district includes Ferguson, an inner suburb of St. Louis. When four summers ago we saw a handful of public officials in the streets trying to chill out Ferguson protesters, there was a black congressman among them. But that was Emanuel Cleaver, from Kansas City, not the black face who’s family by then had repped the district a good 45 years.

Challenger Cori Bush lost no opportunities to remind people that Clay was AWOL during the entire Ferguson episode, but it was not enough. Bush campaigned on free college, not accepting corporate money, raising the minimum wage, restraining killer cops, more money for public education and Medicare For All, but that wasn’t enough either. She had a great personal story too, a single mother who earned a nursing degree, and spent a while living out of her car. Bush won the backing of Justice Democrats, a national outfit that had quite a lot to do with the mechanics of the Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez campaign in the Bronx a few weeks before. Unlike Ocasio-Cortez, Bush is not a member of Democratic Socialists of America , and has never identified herself as a socialist.

So how exactly did she lose? Nobody else seems willing to offer explanations, beyond shallow wisdom that “St. Louis MO ain’t da Bronx.” The folks who had a thousand good reasons Ocasio-Cortez was the front end of a blue wave have passed on explaining why this blue wave missed in Missouri.

The first thing to see is the obvious, that St. Louis really is NOT the Bronx. Ocasio-Cortez was a working class Puerto Rican woman in a largely Latino district, and her opponent was a 20 year incumbent white guy who was obviously ready to leave for a more lucrative career as a lobbyist. Lacy Clay on the other hand, really wanted to keep that St Louis congressional seat. In 2016 he faced another black woman who’d been tear gassed in the streets of Ferguson, state rep Nadya Chappelle-Nadal, who got 24 thousand votes to Clay’s 56 thousand. So unlike Crowley in the Bronx, Clay didn’t sleep the 2018 race, he ran up 81 thousand votes to Bush’s 53 thousand.

Another dimension in which St. Louis is not New York is voter turnout. New York Republicans and Democrats have deliberately engineered primary elections for low turnout, requiring votes to register as Democrats many months prior to election day just to be eligible. But in Missouri you show up and ask for the Democrat ballot. So Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez’s 57% of the vote was just under 17 thousand. But Clay’s 57% share in Missouri was 81 thousand, again to Bush’s 53 thousand. Ocasio-Cortez said it took 120,000 phone calls to get that. I don’t know yet how many calls Bush needed to get her 53 thousand but I’ll be asking.

We have to look at the national organizations which backed Ocasio-Cortez, Bush and the rest of this blue wave which is supposed to swamp Congress and state legislatures in 2018. There are at least 3 organizations which help raise money, funnel experienced campaign help, do social media, recruit national phone and text banking assists and more. Those would be Our Revolution, Brand New Congress and Justice Democrats. Brand New Congress claims to have “recruited” Ocasio-Cortez, who was previously one of those in charge of Bernie Sanders’ New York effort. A leader of Justice Democrats served as Cori Bush’s communications director, and both outfits named Bush, who’d run statewide in Missouri for US Senator in 2016, as one of their own. Unlike Ocasio-Cortez Cori Bush has never been a DSA member either, and has never called herself a socialist.

What Brand New Congress, Our Revolution, and Justice Democrats have in common are three things.

The first is a common commitment to taking over or rescuing the Democratic party.

The second is a real reluctance to make any but the sketchiest reference to anything that takes place outside the US – as if the US didn’t have troops in a hundred foreign countries, at least 800 bases in a hundred countries and a trillion dollar military budget supported by most of the Democrats in Congress. Justice Democrats has a statement at the end of their foreign policy that seems to put the military budget around $100 billion instead of the actual trillion, which ten times that size. Cori Bush’s page is typical of the blue wave, it doesn’t mention anything on foreign policy or empire at all.

The most optimistic way to see this collective blind spot is that maybe the blue wave of Congressional candidates don’t want to incur the wrath of the DCCC, the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee, which is running about 40 former CIA, Homeland Security, State Department, local police and military types for Congress this year, and has plenty money for last minute negative media offensives against would be peacenik congressional candidates in places where they don’t even have candidates.

The least optimistic view is that sketchy or absent references to US empire and foreign policy are how the blue wave candidates signal their willingness to adopt the imperial consensus if they are lucky enough to get elected. After all four fifths of the Congressional Black Caucus and just over half the House Progressive Caucus just voted for Trump’s record military 2019 military budget.

The third thing they all have in common is that few or none have distanced themselves from the drumbeat of RussiaGate, the nonsense that holds Russia responsible for Trump’s victory in 2016, that posits a credible ongoing Russian plot to steal the US elections. To our knowledge none of the blue wave candidates nor the national outfits which back them have stood apart from themselves tendency to label anybody to their left stooges of Russia either.

Bringing it back to St. Louis, Cori Bush had to face something Ocasio-Cortez didn’t. It was something her blue wave backers hadn’t dealt with either. It was the peculiarities of black politics in the US. The 1st CD Missouri is 50% black and there are some unique and well established characteristics of the Democratic party in districts like that, whether they’re in Chicago or Philly or Dallas or Atlanta or wherever.

The first is the black church, which is ridden with local, and since the advent of Bush’s and Obama’s faith based initiative, federal patronage. Black churches are often tied hand and foot to local politicians for everything from real estate deals to charter school contracts, and their leaders are often fixtures in local Democratic party affairs, even public officials themselves. The second is the nonprofit industrial complex, a literal army of advocacy groups sometimes doing housing and homeless activism, sometimes feeding the hungry, sometimes doing worker centers, womens health, tenants rights, LBGTQ activism, environmental stuff. There’s another section of the nonprofit industrial complex which can’t even be called nonpartisan with a straight face, offshoots of the NAACP and the Movement 4 Black Lives. These forces are tied to the political preferences of their corporate philanthropic funders. Executive directors of nonprofit organizations who don’t find a way to support the right Democrats in primary season and all Democrats in general election put their careers, the livelihoods of all their employees, and the outfit’s good works in jeopardy. And there are the unions – heavily public sector and disproportionately people of color, again all tied to the most right wing established Democrats on the local, state and federal level.

Unlike the troops the blue wave outfits can raise once every two years, these things are permanent institutions in black communities. Remember when Atlanta civil rights icon John Lewis stood up in Ebenezer Baptist Church to tell young black folks that free college tuition and free medical care were un-American and the crowd was with him? That’s the complex of forces against which relatively leftist electoral candidates in black communities must run. In old school political language that’s called a Machine, a standing bunch of political institutions which can put significant money into broadcast ads and mailings, speakers and preachers into pulpits, hundreds of bodies in the street and hundreds more the phone banks. Clay had them, and Bush did not. All Bush had was what she could raise on the issues.

The big blue wave outfits probably hadn’t done much work in black communities and didn’t know this. Maybe they were listening to DSA theoreticians like Adam Hiton who imagine the Democratic Party in such places has no real organization. But it’s organized, and it’s very, very real. If you’re going to knock out the right wing Democrats who dominate the electoral politics of black communities you have to do more than hire the right black consultants, although they and the Movement For Black Lives Electoral Justice Project will be glad to keep taking your money. Somebody has to build some other permanent organizations, some other centers of popular power in those communities. It hasn’t been done yet, and won’t be done before the 2018 midterm elections. That’s why Bernie didn’t crack the black vote in 2016, and that’s why the blue wave didn’t crash Missouri in 2018. It’ll be why the wave misses in other black constituencies.

these four orgs (DSA, Our Revolution, Justice Democrats, and Brand New Congress) form the main part of the “Bernie-electoral complex”. essentially, they offer to secure the consent of enthusiastic young workers with enough spare time to be electoral volunteers for the party in exchange for concessions from the Dem donor class, ie unions, lawyers, tech companies, non-profits, etc, on social welfare. thing is, most people in dire straits tend to go for the sure bet over any potential shift in electoral loyalties, which is why machine politics tend to go so well, at least until they don’t. they prefer to have the political patronage they know they already get, even if it’s very minimal, than to risk it on an unsure thing and watch it slip away.

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