#the 60s were a no man's land of medication

[ko-fanatic]

It being the 60's, if Loid went to the doctor about feeling exhausted and finding it difficult to balance his work and home life, they'd really just write him a prescription for diet pills. Because they were made of Speed and other amphetamines.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART NINETEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, not many for this chapter :p masterlist a/n: wanted so badly for this chapter to be longer but just as i finished a 60-hour work week, i fell down with the flu. boooo.

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Price kept his promise when the time came, the next morning shifting to evening, the sun resting along the horizon. You’d spent the better majority sleeping off the pain, unable to stay awake for long while the parasite ate away at you from the inside and out.

Waking to a booming ‘Land ho!’ was the relief you needed to relax properly, the potential of you receiving urgent attention easing your worries momentarily.

You hadn’t had a proper moment alone, always waking to another man in the room watching over you, appearing just as tired as you. Gaz was often the one who took over, or in his place it was Soap. The Captain was making haste in steering to landfall in order to guarantee your spot in healing. He was wasting no time, keeping all hands on deck to make it happen.

You weren’t expecting Ghost, however, when you opened your eyes. He was lounged in Price’s chair at his desk lazily, eyes blinking sleepily at the floor, his fist on his cheek. He looked oddly comfortable, sat at ease rather than a man who seemed to always have a target on his back.

“Ghost?” you croaked, habitually attempting to sit up. It knocked the air out of your lungs immediately and you settled back down once you noticed Ghost tense up.

He grunted in response, eyes darting up from the floor to you. You’d hardly seen him since Graves’ unsettling show, and you were sure he was only in the room because he thought you’d be asleep long enough for him to switch shifts with somebody else.

“Y’alright?” he asked, gaze flickering down to your side where the bruising was becoming a disgusting black, almost resembling rotting flesh.

“We are almost there?” you asked instead, shifting the blanket over you subconsciously.

He nodded, taking his fist off of his cheek and leaning back in the chair. “Not too long now,” he responded. “Just sit tight.”

You fiddled with the hem of the sheets, picking at a loose thread. The air felt heavy with awkwardness, and it nearly suffocated you. You hated how strange it always felt in Ghost’s presence, like a force between you condemned you away from one another, but you weren’t too sure if it was you or him creating it.

Judging from previous actions, it was definitely him. He wasn’t an easy person to talk to—even after his apology.

“You don’t like me, do you?” you asked without a second thought. Once it came from your mouth, you instantly regretted it. If you were able to move on your free will, you’d have slapped yourself by now.

“What?” he grumbled.

You swallowed, peering up at the ceiling to avoid looking at him. “You do not seem very fond of me. Even after everything.”

You felt his stare on the side of your face. It was burning into you. “Is that so?”

You nodded once, a curt movement that was stiff and uncomfortable. Now that you had bitten off more than you could chew, the only solution was to continue gnawing.

“S’not that,” he answered. He shifted in his seat, tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the table. “You’ve already forgotten our talk? I’m not the type to repeat myself.”

“I have not.”

“Then why are you always stressin’ ‘bout it?” he huffed, almost like a child. At times, he surely acted like one—a rather rude one, but you digress.

“You seem tense with me,” you replied quietly, wondering why the conversation was brought up in the first place. It was never easy speaking of feelings with Ghost, and you were learning that the hard way. You didn’t understand why you felt compelled to begin something with no finish.

“I’m tense because you’re hurt,” he corrected, albeit a bit coldly. “S’not you.”

You gnawed on your lip as you stared into nothingness. Ghost was always an enigma, a puzzle piece you couldn’t quite fit anywhere, and the more you spoke with him, the more difficult it became.

You wanted to understand him, but how could you understand somebody who didn’t want to be understood? Then again, perhaps he thought the same of you.

“Has Graves done this before?” you asked, tone growing soft.

You knew Ghost was at the hands of Graves more than once. The unspoken trauma he held was evident simply in the way he fueled his hatred for the evil captain. If there was anybody who knew Graves for who he truly was, it was Ghost.

“Worse,” he said shortly, as if the matter was so simple to understand. It made your stomach twist up, imagining the horrors that lie along Graves’ past.

“Worse?” you murmured to yourself in disbelief.

Truly, what had Graves done? Surely, he had killed plenty. He held the card of death, dealing it to those unknowing. He played the game until he grew bored, tossing his pawns aside when he wanted a new one.

Were you simply his plaything for the time being? What would happen when he sought out a new one?

You turned your head to look at Ghost. You studied the skull ring that glistened on his finger, as well as the matching mask that locked up his true identity.

Ghost was just as much a pawn as you were—he was simply the last one standing.

“Why do you wear it?” you asked, and when his eyes simmered with confusion, you continued. “The skulls. They are his, yes?”

Ghost glanced down at his ring, wiggling his finger for good measure. “It angers him,” he explained calmly, toying with the ring with his thumb. “He takes pride in his ship. The skull flag on his ship is his staple—he thinks only those deserving are allowed the opportunity to flaunt it.”

“So… you wear it because he does not think you’re deserving, and it angers him?” you finished.

“I consider it a game,” Ghost shrugged. “He took what was mine. I take what’s his.”

You blinked, trying to piece together the puzzle. It made sense in your head, but you felt you were missing something.

“What did he take from you?”

Ghost finally looked at you, pupils blown with that familiar hatred you’d seen all this time. Now, though, you know it’s not for you.

“Everythin’,” he muttered. “I’ll be sure to do the same for him."

Ghost left rather quickly after that. You hated to see him go, but you knew a nerve was struck and he wanted to be alone—it was something he preferred. You could respect that.

Soap was the one who took charge, talking your ear off while you drifted in and out of sleep. He was lifting your spirits as always, trying desperately to get you out of the funk you’d been stuck in.

The conversation with Ghost took enough energy from you that it left you lifeless, resuming to your exhausted state and only offering an occasional hum of acknowledgment to Soap. You felt horrible for seeming so uninterested, but Soap didn’t seem to mind. In fact, if anybody were to understand, it would be him.

“After all this is over, I say we take a li’l vacation, aye?” Soap piped in. You glanced at him blearily, silently nodding in agreement. “Ye ever drink before, dove?”

You shook your head, causing Soap to gawk at you as if you’d just offended his entire family. “Never? Well, we’ll have to change that the second yer all fixed up. Get ye to a nice pub and drink yer sweet heart out. Yeeeah, that sounds real nice ‘bout now.”

He let out a dramatic sigh, shoulders slumping. Soap, ever the sweetest, always kept a peppy attitude for you, even if you could see the exhaustion lines forming on his face. He was so compassionate with you, and you feared you didn’t deserve it. It was your fault for all this mess.

“Yer first drink’s on me, aye? Hell, once yer back on yer feet, I’ll pay for all yer drinks, how’s that sound?”

“Bargainin’ to a sick bird, am I hearin’ that right?”

Both you and Soap looked to the door where the Captain stood, hand on the knob. He was so silent as he came in, presumably not to wake you in the case you were asleep.

“Ach, the girl deserves a drink after all this. M’just tryin’ to make her feel better,” Soap defended with a huff, shooing his hand.

Price snorted in amusement, stepping into the room. He made his way to your bedside where Soap sat, peering down at you and observing.

“How’s my dove doin’ today?” Price asked, his tone affectionate.

You caught a glimpse of Soap’s side eye towards the Captain’s behavior, evidence of confusion washing over his expression. He said nothing, only blinking slowly. You could practically see the gears in his head clogging up the workings in there.

Price looked a bit more hopeful that day, albeit sluggish. His smile was tilted as if his lips were too heavy to lift fully, his eyes were dimmed from the light you’d seen recently. You knew he was pushing past his limit, hardly sleeping and overriding his brain with too many steps in his plans.

“I’m fine,” you assured quietly, though you prayed he couldn’t see through it.

You weren’t fine at all. You felt like a vessel while your soul floated above your body and watched on as you slowly crumbled to ash. You no longer felt completely present, only forced into living from the consistent wakings for meals or check-ups.

The mess on your ribcage had blossomed into a murky pool of black, only spreading rather than weakening. The poisoned veins were like a wildfire, untamable as they slithered their way through your body and organs as if making them its collection.

You were a disastrous mess on the inside. On the outside, though you were gray and sickly with sunken bags beneath your eyes, you tried to present yourself as anything but, mustering up the strength to converse with each and every one of them when you weren’t sleeping.

It was easy for any of them to see it, though. The spark in your eyes had vanished and you resembled more of a corpse than a woman.

Price tilted his head, staring at you for a moment. His hand lifted and he brushed the back of his knuckles across your forehead, resting them there. What met him was warmth. While it would’ve been a comforting feeling, it made him more worried than anything.

“You’re still hot,” he murmured, more to himself. “Have she been like this all day?”

Soap shrugged, frowning. “She’s been asleep for half of it.”

Price glanced at Soap before sighing through his nose. “We’ve got just a couple of more hours. Think you can wait it out a bit more for me, dove?”

You nodded sluggishly. What more was another hour or two? You had already dealt with it for days. The pain wouldn’t subside regardless.

Price attempted another smile, one you couldn’t return. It pained him to see you in a state so depressing, but it wouldn’t be the last that you and his crew would go through hell. He’d seen Ghost in far too similar circumstances before.

He gave your cheek a soft squeeze, frowning to himself when even that didn’t wash away the hollow expression you wore. He felt like he was looking at the shadow of a person that once existed.

“We’ll come and collect you when it’s time,” he told you softly. You only hummed through a sigh, feeling the unfortunate taste of exhaustion once again.

Soap and the Captain shared a look before they exchanged a few quiet words you couldn’t hear. Price seemed reluctant to leave but did nonetheless, slipping the door closed with such gentleness that it didn’t dare disturb you.

Soap remained where he was, studying your every feature as you slipped back into that unforgiving dream state, unable to take his eyes off of you—not when they were so close to getting you to a healer.

He feared if he looked away for even a moment, you might just slip through his fingers.

You’d loved helping people ever since you were a child. You couldn’t remember much, but you knew for certain that you’d been that way all your life—the simple aid of carrying items for the elders in your village, helping the merchants set up for the day, caring for the younger children if they’d hurt themselves or scraped up a knee or two.

It was something you’d always known that soon developed into a bigger dream the older you got. An obsession, some would say, to the idea of being your village’s healer and curing them of their misfortunes. Medicine was a calling, and you listened to its guide, working day and night to learn and discover all new possibilities that you’d never seen before.

Yet, that love for helping others labeled you crazy. The village slowly lost their affection for you, turning their backs as if you’d never been apart of them, disgusted by the fact that a woman of your age was unmarried and childless.

You knew you were meant for more, yet the people who you’d spent your entire life becoming apart of had shunned you over your mere dreams. There was a great, big world out there to discover, but they wished to keep you confined to their little home and grant you misery for the sake of keeping tradition.

Women didn’t have dreams. They didn’t have hopes. How silly of a world was that?

You still wanted to pursue them. You had the whole world ahead of you, and you were angry that there was a possibility of it being snatched away from you, all because of one man. He was ruining the work you'd spent years prioritizing, and you'd be damned if you didn't get what you wanted.

Even as you lay, rotting away in Price’s cot, that desire never went away. It only blossomed, the need nipping at you like an aggravating tick.

It was a wonder how you hadn’t succumbed to the vile venom that Graves’ had slipped under your skin when he bashed his boot into the workings of your ribcage. How you were still alive was unfathomable, something even you didn’t understand after working for years to do so.

Was it simply will that people needed to survive? Was it determination? Or was it just you, the lucky one?

Your mind was muddled with these screaming thoughts as you remained in your unconsciousness. Yet, even asleep, you could feel your body being jolted, like somebody was slipping their arms around you and carrying you to a place unknown. You tried to wake up, but you were trapped in your own world as if needing to seek answers before escaping.

Your ears pricked at the sounds of voices. They sounded far away, muffled as if underwater, and inside your cafe of your mind, you fought to hear, to get a glimpse of your reality that you were missing out on.

“I don’t know, Cap. There are rumors swirlin’ that this woman works wonders, has the hands of the Gods workin’ with her,” a voice exclaimed. Gaz, as clever as ever. You’d know his voice anywhere.

“You speak nonsense,” another voice said. You recognized the gruffness as Price. He sounded closer than Gaz did, but you couldn’t pinpoint why. “We cannot get our hopes up over stories. She’s a medic, just as the others. We will not rely on foolishness to fuel our hope for dove’s recovery.”

You heard Gaz scoff, and you could nearly picture the tightening of his jaw and the slight downward curl of his lips—like a child pouting.

“You do not find it strange, Captain, that our dove hasn’t perished to the willingness of Graves’ curse?” Gaz asked. “Perhaps the rumors are true. Maybe this woman knew we were comin’, and that’s why dove’s held out for so long. Don’t you think a li’l extra hope is what we need?”

“We will know it when we see it,” Price retorted, clearly still unbelieving of Gaz’s claims. “I will not believe in such sorcery until it has been done to dove. What matters is healin’ her.”

“You have seen what Graves has done to others,” Gaz tried once more. “Sorcery is always possible.”

The captain didn’t reply, and you knew that meant he was stumped. You wished dearly to wake and speak with them yourself, to hear of Gaz’s story and to understand where Price is coming from. The desire to meet both their needs felt heavy, and it only grew the longer you went without it.

“Sorcery is what got us in this situation in the first place,” another voice joined in. You were surprised to hear Ghost chime in his own thoughts. It made you wonder if he spoke more when you weren’t around. “If you do not recall that, Gaz.”

You heard another scoff, one could only assume from Gaz. A tempered one, he was.

“Ever the so positive one, aye, Ghost?” Soap. There was no mistaking that heavy accent and chirpy tone.

You heard a snort, then Ghost speak, “Always.”

The world fell silent after that. If you listened close enough, you could hear the shifting of clothes and the crunch of dead leaves. You hadn’t a clue what was happening, though your best bet was that the ship had made landfall, and your path to getting healed was closer than ever.

So why did it feel like something else was beginning to unravel out of control?

[screamting]

Once again trapped in trying to figure out what Wayne Industries actually Does. "Everything!" yeah sure but they had to get there somehow. Amazon was an online bookstore at first there was a lot of very rapid growth between then and now.

Usually I hear that they started as a shipping business which makes sense when Gotham is 90% waterfront, but at some point they had to transition from just shipping other people's things to shipping things they made as well. I suppose if they started making their own transports for shipping (starting with their own steamboats and later trains and cars) that would make sense. Maybe in the industrial revolution they even bought their own steel mill upon getting tired of having fluctuating prices or a steel shortage and just deciding they were going to get their own damn steel and sell the extra instead. If they chose to manufacture higher quality steel instead of cheapest possible steel that's also laying the groundwork for them to be well liked by their customers. Not railroad barons but making the steel to lay the railroad and build the trains. It's the 1800s so they have a couple patented medicines by then as well that are.... not really medicine but no one has officially noticed yet. They ship their own chemicals out west for a good time.

In 1880s Alan Wayne makes the building that becomes Wayne Tower?? Which I think is much too early, but apparently we were building sky scrapers in 1888 so business must have been booming I fucking guess. This is also the man that has them go corporate.

Of course the railroads start to fall out with the growth of cars and car lobbying. They are still used along with boats for transport but with railroads not being built as much and not being maintained and the union wars, Wayne Industries has to make a pivot somewhere to stay in the race. The family can have a lot of personal money but the business itself is still going strong in Gotham even before Bruce takes over.

I guess if they're already in shipping, they're probably importing as well by then. They may have started with steamboats but then in WWI and WWII all steel factories started producing things for the war efforts, surely they made a couple big ships by then capable of crossing the Atlantic, if they weren't already in oceanic shipping by then. It lets them ride out the great depression because of government maritime subsidies that were a little out of control until the new deal kicked in. That would've also presumably kept WI employees working in the depression and cemented them harder in the city as smaller businesses closed around them.

The patented medicine starts shifting to actual generics that are a little less Heroic post 1918.

Maybe at around that point was when WI started manufacturing... sort of everything. You get your ships, and all the things on board that you need to run a ship. You get your ovens and stoves and big pots and your radar and hell your sailors can even buy their boots and uniforms from us.

When WWII ends they shift back to transporting other people's goods but also maybe more luxury vehicles as well. Cruise services. Some nicer kitchen installations. Kitchens on land even. Get a nice WI electric mixer. Get your waterfront boots. Get your generic ibuprofen.

At that point we're closer to Martha and Thomas' era and they're just... Along for the ride I guess. Thomas is a figurehead CEO. He's off doing medical school and mostly just shows up for formalities, while Martha works in the Wayne Foundation (either the only thing Thomas really made or opened in the 60s to try and get Gotham really booming) as a charity liason. They're still not really celebrities as much as a charismatic couple in high circles. WI doesn't need them to function. It's basically just funding them as they do their own things.

And then the murders happen

And then Bruce, over eighteen, shows up having inherited the figurehead CEO title and his entire family's controlling stock in WI, and announces they're going to be doing things his way now.

The CEO/Board of directors is supposed to do things in the best interest of their stock holders.

If Bruce is the controlling stock holder, they do what he says his best interest is.

[armed-with-a-waffle-iron]

The Bat Family Timeline and Ages (Post-Crisis and New Earth) with Sources

Evidence

In Batman: Year One, Bruce is said to be 25 in the January he returns to Gotham. The 1976 DC Calendar puts Bruce's birthday on the 19th of February so Bruce is 26 during his first outing as Batman in April.

Marv Wolfman's Batman: Year Three (Batman vol. 1 #436) tells us that Dick Grayson's parents die in Bruce's third year. In Batman vol. 1 #441 (also by Wolfman) Tim says that Robin started appearing around 6 months after the death of the Flying Graysons. For Dick's age when he becomes Robin, see below.

Bruce joins the Justice League before Dick forms the Teen Titans. Both these teams form before Barbara Gordon becomes Batgirl at 16 (Batgirl: Year One).

Barbara and Dick are each other's dates to their high school prom and so are less than 2 years apart in age (Detective Comics vol. 1 #871).

I suspect Dick, who was an emancipated minor, graduated high school and started college a year early, which allows Dick and Barbara to have some time as the new Dynamic Duo, as we see in Batman Family.

Dick Grayson is 18 when he forms the New Teen Titans, all of whom are also teenagers (Nightwing vol. 2 #137 by Wolfman, who also created the New Teen Titans).

Dick Grayson is 19 when he becomes Nightwing (Batman vol. 1 # 416).

21 year-old Helena becomes Huntress (Huntress: Year One #1), and interacts with Batgirl, meaning that Barbara is not yet Oracle.

Jason dies at 15, 4 months before his 16th birthday (Batman Files). This is before the New Teen Titans' third year anniversary (New Titans #71), before any of the Titans turn 22 (Deathstroke vol. 1 Annual 1), 2 years after Dick becomes Nightwing and almost 10 years before Dick's parents are killed (Batman vol. 1 #436). Dick is hence 21 during these events and 11 when he became Robin.

I also kinda like Dick being 17 years younger than Bruce because that's also the age difference between Adam West and Burt Ward from the 60s TV series.

After these events, Tim Drake becomes Robin and is 13-14 (Batman vol. 1 #441 and Robin II #1)

Soon after, Stephanie Brown is 15 when she becomes Spoiler (Secret Origins 80-Page Giant).

Stephanie is still 15 when she realises that she is pregnant (Robin vol. 2 #59) and Tim is almost 15 during this time (Secret Origins 80-Page Giant).

Cassandra Cain is 17 when she comes to Gotham during this time (Batgirl vol. 1 #1), during No Man's Land which lasts one year.

Helena’s family were killed when she was 8 and during Batman/Huntress: Cry For Blood, Tim says the murders happened roughly 15 years ago, making her roughly 23 during this storyline.

Cass turns 18 in January (Batgirl vol. 1 #39), Tim Drake turns 16 (Robin vol. 2 #116), Jason would have turned 18 in August (Detective Comics vol. 1 #790), and Stephanie is 16 when she "dies" (Batman Allies Secret Files & Origin).

Personally I'd re-arrange Tim's 16th birthday to be the last of these events four events to accommodate him still being 17 late into the Batman: Reborn, see below.

Jason soon returns to Gotham as Red Hood, not long before Infinite Crisis, 52 and One Year Later.

Following the one year time skip, Dick says it's been almost 10 years since his misadventures with Metal Eddie and Liu as a 16-17 year old (Nightwing vol. 2 #133 by Wolfman), which makes sense because he would be 25 by my math.

Stephanie returns from her time as a medical volunteer in East Africa, finishes high school and begins university during Batman: Reborn. She'd turn 19 by the end of this year by my math, which is a typical age to be begin attending university (Gotham Underground and Batgirl vol. 3 #1).

Dick calls Damian Wayne a "10 year-old" before Stephanie attends university (Batman and Robin vol. 1 #2) and Steph still calls Damian a "10 year-old" while she's in her second semester (Batgirl vol. 3 #13 and Batgirl vol. 3 #17). He might have turned 11 before the reboot.

Batwoman: Elegy (Detective Comics #858), during the Batman: Reborn year, shows that Kate was 12 when she was kidnapped and saw her mother and sister killed. This incident is also said to happen "20 years ago”, making her 32 and hence 30-31 during her first appearance in 52/One Year Later.

Tim Drake is still 17 while Steph is in her second semester of her first year at university, and it's stated that he is meant to be in his senior year at high school (Batgirl vol. 3 #13, Red Robin #17 and Red Robin #25). It's possible he turns 18 before the reboot.

Mistakes I Made

Cassandra Cain is 21 in Year Eighteen.

The "Titans disbands" in Year Thirteen was definitely a year early but it's done.

[scotianostra]

12th January 1932 saw the death in India of Isabel Kerr, a doctor and missionary who pioneered the treatment of leprosy in India.

Isabel, born Isabel Gunn, was a Scottish medical missionary who, with her husband George McGlashan Kerr, founded a leprosarium (the Victoria Leprosy Hospital) in Dichpalli, India.

The news of her mission and dedicated work and medical treatment without any bias spread far and wide like summer bush fire.  Consequently, the response was just overwhelming and she needed additional space and beds to accommodate them. Being a man of charitable disposition, the Nizam of Hyderabad  helped her build the Victoria Treatment Hospital by donating land - 60 acres of land in 1913  at Dichpali (10 miles away from the town), and in 1915  larger and more permanent facility opened.

Her medical skill and her devotion to the cause of the leper, together with her modest reserve and womanly charm, won her innumerable friends both in India and at home.'

By the early 1920s, the hospital  gained better name and had more than 120 buildings dedicated to leprosy related problems. Many buildings were built by the Nizam family members. The complex comprised 360 acres of land. In 1923 Dr. Kerr was awarded the Kaisar-i-Hind Gold Medal in recognition of her services. She worked  closely with Ernest Muir who had experimented with the use of hydrocarbons to treat leprosy.

Their centre at Dichpali  became a leading center for leprosy treatment and cure  and people in thousands were benefited at this center.  In view of their dedicated services to the cause this dreaded disease and their establishment of a leading hospital to treat leprosy. patients, the British India government  awarded  Kaisar-i-Hind Medals to the couple in 1923.

Isabel Kerr died in January 1932 (at the age of 56) and her husband George Kerr continued her mission until 1938  after which he got back to Scotland to lead a retired life. In the 1960s, the hospital founded by Isabella Kerr could take care of 400 patients. The incidence of leprosy in India has come way down. Isabella Kerr's name is permanently etched in the medical history of India related to leprosy. The words of John Wesley (1703-1791), the founder of Methodism gave Kerr the needed inspiration:

“Do all the good you can. By all the means you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all the times you can. To all the people you can. As long as ever you can.”

[blood-n-candy]

Fragments of the one who trails smoke

Fandom: Pressure

Summary: You died to Chainsmoker, of all monsters of the Hadal Blacksite. You were ready to walk up to the box like usual, but something's wrong...

Warnings: Medical Trauma (I guess?), it's kinda angsty too

Yep. Somehow, you managed to die to Chainsmoker, the old man that “runs” around spreading those sulfur-smelling green smoke from his mouth. 

Maybe you were too impatient, or maybe you misheard the chains for Pandemonium’s scraping metal, but that’s not the point. All that matters now is that the cleithrophobia kicked in at the wrong time and Mx. Chains got you.

You already know the drill: you’ll wake up on the island, you’ll walk up to the box, and once it opens your soul will be ready for Mr. Lopee to pick you up.

As you open your eyes… Something’s not right.

Sure, it is dark with neon green waters around… But that doesn’t look like the island you saw last time. No, this time the land looks bigger, it’s more of a coastline with lots of vegetation and a few houses nearby. A dark fog obscures the sight after 60 ft.

Suddenly, you see a girl no younger than 16 run through your body like a ghost.

You stumble a little, scared: how did she do that?

Immediately, somebody phases through you again: it’s now a very tall boy, of the same age as the girl. He has a green fish tail, dark green finned ears, and aqua green hair… 

Huh. You already know a guy with the same characteristics, don’t you?

You see the two hug each other and kiss, ignoring you completely. Their voices are weird too: you see them whispering to each other, but you can still hear them echoing in your head. 

“Chibuzor, if my parents see me with you they’re gonna kill me!” you hear the girl concerned.

“Your father knows me well, Folorunso,” replied the boy, “He wouldn’t be contrary to our love now, right?”

Folorunso steps back from her lover’s embrace, her eyes carrying such heavy sadness. The boy feels like she is bearing horrible news: “Folorunso, is something wrong?”

“Actually, yes… We cannot get married, Chibuzor. My father wants me to marry a man from Bakana…” The girl starts tearing up: “I’m so sorry my love…”

You see Chibuzor trying to confort Folorunso, but his words immediately get foggier and foggier as the dark smoke from afar envelops them and you. You instinctively raise up your arms to cover your face, but the only thing that happens to you is a sheet of paper flying into your forearm.

As the fog around you starts to slowly dissipate, you inspect the object: it’s a missing poster in English and Igbo, the person on the poster has again aqua green hair and dark green finned ears. He now looks like a mix between that Chibuzor guy and… Chainsmoker? Is this what tide looked like back in the day?

You thought you couldn’t imagine what kind of life kelp could’ve had before Urbanshade. Not that you could’ve asked kelp that much, you’re not as close to kelp as your fellow expendable Reby is. And now there you are, finding out that Mx. Chains once loved a girl but could not marry her, and that one day fin vanished…

Or so you thought.

In front of you, there’s now a small crowd, surrounding a blocked off crime scene with the police analyzing the case.

With your recently acquired knowledge that all of this is the recreation of a memory, you walk towards the police tape, ignoring the people speculating on what happened there. Once you reach the tape, you now can see what’s going on… And goodness gracious! The person on the poster is there, laying dead on the sand.

You do recall that from Chainsmoker’s section of the Z-283 document that fin was found dead in 2004, just to come back to life hours later in the morgue. If you connected the dots correctly, then this must be the moment his body was found by authorities… But how could he remember that if he wasn’t conscious at that precise moment?

You see the fog surrounding you again. You take a deep breath, close your eyes, and once you open them you find yourself somewhere very familiar: dark gray floor, blue walls, and black doors with led displays on the side… Yes, you were at the Hadal Blacksite again.

You see to your left a calendar, and you deduce from the page it displays that this particular fragment is set in September 2007.

Somebody is yelling in pain a couple of rooms away from you. The noise is quite muffled, but you manage to follow the source of the noise and arrive at a testing room with a giant cylindrical tank and a group of scientists with gas masks covering their faces.

In the tank there’s the same Chainsmoker from the last memory fragment, just a bit more chubbier, curled up on the bottom. A green gas comes out of kelps mouth as kelp screams: “LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT OF HERE PLEASE! I CAN’T TAKE IT ANYMORE!”

The scientists don’t reply, they just keep taking notes.

The whole scene is deeply disturbing: how do those guys act like nothing in front of the pain Mx. Chains were going through? Why was he in the tank in the first place?

You feel compelled to find out more about what’s happening. Swallowing your apprehension, you get closer to peek at what are the scientists are writing: “Z-283 Medicine test n.12-”

Not even the time to finish the first phrase that the fog envelops you once more. This time, it leaves you in the darkness.

A familiar voice calls you: “Ah! There you are!”

You turn around to see Mr. Lopee is here. You run up to him, suspicious he has anything to do with what you just witnessed: “No, there YOU are! I just witnessed a fish man’s memories and I don’t even know why! You surely know how it happened, right?”

The black and green ghost grins at you: “Unfortunately not, young one, but it doesn’t matter. I now have to deliver you back to life, so that you can go back on your mission.”

Confused, you ask him again: “You don’t understand, I was-”

“Yes, you were supposed to end up on the island.” Mr. Lopee interrupts you, “Then again, I cannot explain to you properly why you ended up witnessing Chibuzor’s past memories, or why exactly those memories. Come on now, follow me.”

You follow Mr. Lopee in silence, but you can’t stop thinking about Chainsmoker: since you see him trailing the smoke around, that means that he’s in pain. Probably always has been ever since tide came back to life.

What could’ve he done to deserve this torture? Nobody will probably never figure it out.

[snowaftermidnight]

Marble Moon AU Explained

note: while this is heavily inspired by the movies Europa Report and The Thing, it doesn't follow their events exactly! in other words, having watched either movie will not spoil this AU for you :3 (also if you haven't, please watch both of those movies theyre so good)

I haven't figured out everything for this AU yet so some stuff might get changed later (which is why i'm not posting 100% of what i have written lol) but this is the synopsis:

A manned mission is sent to Jupiter's moon Europa for the first time. The crew of astronauts consists of the full cast of Marble Hornets. In this AU, they're all research scientists, most of them in graduate school or post grad (yes ik a deep space mission irl wouldnt be grad students but. shh gbhfdjbf)

The objective of the mission is to confirm biological readings taken by a rover stationed on the moon. A base of operations was constructed in advance of their arrival by some little robot dudes, and another is currently in construction under the ice, scheduled to be finished a few months into the crew's arrival.

Now before I continue, if you're not familiar with Jupiter's moons, here's some infodumping background info :D

Jupiter has like. over 90 moons discovered atp? but the 4 largest are named the Galilean moons, since they were discovered by Galileo. Europa is one of these moons, and it is theorized to have a global liquid ocean under a thick layer of ice (i say "theorized" but it's pretty much agreed upon by astronomers lol).

for reference, Earth's ocean is about 11 km deep at its deepest point. Europa is 1/4 the size of Earth, with 1/9th of its gravity. its ice shell is 15-25 km thick, and the ocean under it is anywhere from 60-150 km deep!! aka at the very least almost 6 times deeper than Challenger's Deep!! it also likely has hydrothermal vents (think underwater geysers) and produces its own CO2. because its ocean is so deep, the mission is mostly focusing on the ice shell and the top layer of the open ocean, around 4 km.

so!! here's what each character is on the mission for :D

alex: marine xenobiology, invertebrate xenobiology; he proposed the mission, and is using it as his thesis. he's trying to document the first alien life, and is hoping for it to be equivalent to around the cambrian period on Earth.

amy: paleontology, invertebrate paleontology; she and alex are engaged in this AU, and she was the first crew member to join besides Alex. her thesis is trying to find evidence of preserved remains/fossil life in the ice (and on the seafloor if theyre able to reach it eventually)

jay: geophysics, glacial ice and tectonics; he was friends with alex through undergrad and grad school, and joined the mission because alex asked so he could study the tectonics of the ice shell (it behaves kind of similar to how the Earth's crust floats on the mantle!)

brian: medical grad student, specifically studying the effects of low gravity on astronauts; he and alex have been friends since high school. he was asked personally by alex to join the mission, and alex then suggested inviting tim as well mostly to convince brian

seth: botany, aquatic botany and low-light environments; also a general handyman around the base.

sarah: seismology, marine volcanology; she and jay are also collaborating on tectonics research

tim: astrophysics, radio astronomy and deep-space objects; last minute addition. he was friends with brian in undergrad and grad school, and brian convinced him to join the research mission. also helps seth with base repairs sometimes since he worked construction in undergrad and does the observatory repairs/maintenance himself

jessica: astrophysics, meteorology of Galilean moons and Jupiter's magnetic field; she and tim worked for the same professor as research students in grad school so they're pretty good friends

After landing, the first few months of the mission are fairly normal, but the crew is made aware of an incoming magnetic storm from Jupiter. The storm will be strong enough to block radio signals to Europa and within the moon itself for an unknown amount of time. They're told to carry out the mission as best as possible, and a rescue team will be dispatched "as soon as the storm ends" (aka they're left for dead). The team have nothing to really do besides keep working, so they try to keep going. Around this time, the under-ice base is completed, so Alex and Amy move down to it, followed eventually by Brian, Sarah, and Seth. Jay, Tim, and Jessica are left in the original base on the surface, as their research can't be done under the ice.

The storm prevents communication through the ice, and eventually, Jay gets worried about Alex and the others since he hasn't heard from them in a very long time. Alex, being Alex, recorded himself on a tape recorder rather than taking written notes of his findings, so Jay starts to retrace his steps and get more information rather than immediately go to the underwater base and risk walking into a dangerous situation. He'll still have to go down there eventually, and who knows what he'll find? lol

[puella-1n-somn10]

Meet the Warlocks! Meet them Ȁ̵̬̯̖͉̐͒̀̕͠L̴̝̹̱̽͋̽́̾͋Ļ̶̦̥̇̏̈̈́̚͜͠!̴̢̡͓͉̞͒

-

Inspired by Candeloro's depiction in A Different Story, @bluethepearldiver and I were brainstorming on the idea of how the mercs' warlocks would look like in human forms the other day. After messing around with loadout.tf, we're glad to bring you the manifestations of our blorbos' despair, traumas, and obsessions!

Full details and items used will be under the cut.

_____________________________________________

Disclaimer; Spy's, Jane's, and Dell's warlocks were all made by Blue, including PG-1986's (Spy's warlock) loadout. The rest was made by me.

Bear in mind that I am still working on a good deal of them; the only one who is remotely finalized is Medic- and Tavish's and Mundy's are still nameless, for corn's sake. I tend to take my time with these buggers, so most of them are subject to change.

-

Scout

Becquerel, the thunderstorm/disaster warlock, with a hubristic nature.

Voodoo-Cursed Scout Soul

Masked fiend

Biomech backpack

Orion's belt

Fuel Injector

Tomb wrapper

Flak Jack

Fortunate Son

Crook combatant

Searing plasma effect

Weapon: Boston Basher

Themes: Radiation (from all that Bonk! he's been drinking), speed, vermin, rabbits, natural disasters ("I'm a force of nature!"), lightning, war, his huge ego translating into his warlock being fucking huge, also humanity's hubris ending up biting them in the ass, victim of the apocalypse

-

Pyro

Girra, the oracle of Tartarus, with an idealistic nature.

Blazing bull

Waxy wayfinder

Scrap pack

Hard-headed hardware

Lunatic's leathers

Charred chainmail

Burning flames effect

Weapon: Backburner

Themes: Hell itself, power metal music (ignore the fact that TF2 takes place in the 60's-70's), forged by fire, the uncanny valley, uncontrollable smiles and laughter, unawareness, accepting help from a burning hand.

-

Spy

PG-1986, the cloaked warlock. His nature is futility.

Bedouin bandana

Puffy Provacateur

Doublecross-comm

Griffin’s gogs

Voodoo cursed spy

Backstabber’s boomslang

Weapon: L'Etranger

Themes: Post-apocalypse, civilians being the targets of these bloody conflicts, lone survival, loss of identity, regret, family curses, separation, tough measures, possible backstabbing, snakes, rabbits, hiding

-

Soldier

Anthony Clement McAuliffe, the vermin warlock, with a patriotic nature.

Lieutenant bites the dust

Tin pot (Battered)

Chaser (grenades ver)

Lone survivor

Man in slacks

Grub grenades

Sharp chest pain

Weapon: Beggar's Bazooka

Themes: The reality that America is a pile of flashy garbage embedded on stolen land, pollution, propaganda hiding the truth by claiming it to be a land of the free, lead, vermin like raccoons and maggots, plastic, poverty

-

Heavy

Pushkin, the guardian warlock, with a selfless nature.

Pocket medic

Spiral sallet

Big steel jaw of summer fun

Purity fist

Fortune hunter

Batter's bracers

Kapitan's kaftan

Cerebral discharge effect

Weapon: Brass Beast

Themes: Guarding, old tales being passed down through generations, the harsh winter, flames, defenses, steel, gentle strength- with a dash of bloodthirst ofc, leadership.

-

Medic

Asclepius, the warlock of reconfiguration. His nature is wonder.

Voodoo cursed medic soul

Second Opinion

Blighted beak

Wings of Purity

Vicar's vestments

Main cast (critical)

Quadwrangler

Archimedes

Infernal Grip effect

Weapon: Vita-saw

Themes: I don't feel like copying and pasting every little detail from that megapost, folks. Here's him without the mask, tho!

-

Engineer

Robert, the bell warlock, whose nature is bewilderment.

Texas ten gallon

Teufort tooth kicker

Fancy spellbook

Something special for someone special

Flared frontiersman

Iron fist

Underminer's overcoat (paint sweater)

Electric hat protector

Weapon: Southern Hospitality

Themes: Repentance, faith in a higher power, trust, regret, loss, holiness, sainthood, blueprints, transhumanism, mourning

-

Demoman

???

Prince Tavish's crown

Whiskey bib

Lordly lapels

Sole saviors

Shin shredders

Fireproof secret diary

Rings of fire effect

Weapon: Loose Cannon

Themes: Royalty, abandonment, sudden loss, honor, plants, ghosts, family curses, loyalty.

-

Sniper

???

Crocodile smile

Falconer

Wet works

Lil' snaggletooth

Bruiser's bandana (clean)

Final frontiersman

Scoped spartan

Eldritch horror effect

Weapon: Sydney Sweeper

Themes: Hiding away, efficiency, rain forests, underwater, approval- or lack of it, being out of place

[goodbysunball]

Cement mixer blues

A couple more for your March, with Opening Day right around the corner. Four picks, all hits, and more waiting in the wings - but until then:

Thomas Bush, The Next 60 Years LP (Jolly Discs)

Album number three from Thomas Bush, one carving his own path through the history of quietly devastating British folk. That Bush has much to do with "folk" in general is debatable at this point, but there are fractured fragments within his damaged, precise compositions. On The Next 60 Years, he refines his vision further, not solely through reduction (though that, too) but with a bit of surprising bombast on the B-side. "Same Life Flowed" opens the album with plodding pop, the double-tracked vocals opening up just enough during the chorus to complement the harpsichord melody, and runs into the pensively dueling guitars on the accurately named "Pure Intention." As is Bush's wont, the album never keeps a straight course after this beautiful opening; some songs, like "Mulligan" or "Flood of Light," creak like floorboards in an empty house, whereas "Face In the Water" jumps out of the speakers from behind the curtain. I've never pieced together any influence of Talk Talk or Mark Hollis on Bush's sound, but now it's crystal on "Burn Clear," the patiently brushed cymbals and pattering drums pairing with slowly ringing chords, all directed by Bush's carefully delivered vocals. The samples on "Burn Clear" get turned inside-out on "Face In the Water," its booming synth chords leaving backwards bubbling loops in their wake, the distortion becoming ever more prominent as Bush's most clear, confident song unravels over its duration. The synth chords turn green midway through, and the garbled loops run rampant to cloud any pop ambitions with more unease. The album closes with the quietly devastating "Xtrails," a repeated descending progression of guitar notes and scattered synth chords, tying the album together neatly with only the necessary ingredients. In early listens, "Burn Clear" and "Face In the Water" were the highlights, but now tracks like "Thirsting" and "Xtrails" have become my favorites, the ones where Bush takes something recognizable and strips it to a skeleton and makes the bones vibrate with noise, creating a new story for the figure largely free from its past. Stunning, especially during my pre-dawn drives, but potent enough, and enveloping enough, to transport the listener from start to finish anytime. Sold out at the source, but I suspect copies will land stateside soon; if not, All Night Flight is handling the distribution - hop to it.

Contaminated, Celebratory Beheading LP (Blood Harvest)

Amidst a glut of ho-hum, self-referencing contemporary death metal, I wasn't really prepared for the complete onslaught that makes up Contaminated's second LP. I liked Final Man a lot, but things seem to have gotten a lot bleaker in the seven years since that came out, and Celebratory Beheading is the record that balls up collective agony into relentless, boneheaded death metal. It takes all of 15 seconds into opener "Suffer Minutiae" for the band to launch into a chugging breakdown riff, and even after multiple spins I feel as if I haven't captured the right words to describe music so single-mindedly brutish. There are no synths, electronics or really anything resembling a breather across the album. This new-look Contaminated feels like layers alternating between Carcass (pre-Heartwork) and Autopsy, with a dash of County Medical Examiners or other goregrind practitioner. Each song is made up of multiple movements, which is the stupid way my brain's been reduced to describing this record when it's on, but the very basic recipe is to pound with death metal crunch and follow it up with a grinding blast, before pulling back and taking another swing at your head. These parts are masterfully fused together without gaps or any recognizable structure, suffocatingly dense compositions coming one after another. Once your ears adjust, the pieces of the bulldozing sound can just barely be picked apart. The drummer's right up front with the vocals, and the two seem to goad each other on; the guitars, drenched in distortion and as beefy as I've heard (sans exterior electronic noise) in ages, churn out mercilessly hard or dizzyingly fast riffs. "Final Hours" is the point in the record where I finally catch my breath, and by "Apex C.H.U.D." (stands for Circular Headbanging Under Duress, pretty sure) you're stomping around like a sumo wrestler. Imagine running in a sewer tunnel away from a tidal wave of waste, each turn bringing no more distance or relief from the chase; at some point your legs and chest give out and you submit. I haven't looked at the included lyric sheet - the album and song titles are illustrative enough - but this seems to be the soundtrack to intentionally hammering a nail through your finger, pure visceral animal thrill, presented without concessions or interludes. My favorite record of the year so far.

Los Doroncos, Sun and Fireworks LP (An'archives)

There's nothing like the first whiff of springtime to bring me around to an album that made little sense during the dregs of the new year, and Los Doroncos' Sun and Fireworks is one for the ages. Seasoned vets with deep ties to the Japanese underground - members from Denudes, Maher Shalal Hash Baz, Doronco Gumo - but what you get here is a dream dive bar band, playing music both intimately familiar and somehow buoyant, not bogged down with expectations or concerned with much else than playin' hits. If the band set out to make classic rock feel fresh again, they nailed it, taking the scoff right outta my throat and using it to hit another solo. The band rips on the two longer tracks, "A minor" (one of the young year's best tracks) and "Drum," but elsewhere things are downright breezy. Guitars are largely unadorned until solos call for distortion, vocals are charming, paper-thin but hopeful, and the drums do enough to keep everything together. For me, any cynicism is eradicated by the beautifully disarming guitar lines littered about in "LuLu 2," but just as often it's the solo pushing its way through the clean chords of "Tin Ear." I'm in the midst of fixing up my porch, and if I get my way, I will be having a few beers back there with Sun and Fireworks elevating my mundane accomplishment. Come through.

Peg, We Know Who You Are and Everyone Is On the Lookout CS (No Rent)

Meeting of the minds between Cube's Adam Keith and Jackie-O Motherfucker's Dave Easlick, both of whom previously teamed up in SPF. I can't remember SPF's music much, though it may be time to revisit given how much I've enjoyed Peg's debut cassette. The music on We Know Who You Are feels like dub recorded without or presented without permission, as if found on a thrift store cassette, and then given added rhythm by Easlick and Keith's drumming and programming. "Mutual Percussion" is a sterling example, drums fading in and out while viscous treated guitar bubbles and the sound of a breeze or footsteps periodically emerge to confusingly give the feel of a field recording. The album feels sometimes ominous, sometimes sarcastic; the intention feels pure but you're never quite convinced with a track like "Agenda Jazz," either. Beyond sifting through the tape for intention, there's deep enjoyment here, skewering and distorting sounds in a way not unlike Equipment Pointed Ankh, though Peg's got a decidedly more abstract, glowering, smirking result. Hard to pick favorites, but if forced: the slouched strut of "Athletic Posturing"; the disarming "Everyone," all glistening synthesizer and distant drums; and my favorite, "Bog Standard," Easlick letting loose on the kit while a bassy loop and high-pitched noise build towers in the shifting sands. Really feels like these two met each other head-on this round, keeping stakes low for themselves but understanding one another intuitively to create one of last year's best albums.

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Martyrs and Kings - Chapter 4

Tell Me Something I Don't Know

Rating: T (rating varies by chapter; mature content will be tagged)

Pairing: Kix x archivist/historian OFC

Wordcount: 3.1k

A/N: The angst has landed. Also, over the course of this fic, Maree is going to get some details wrong. She's relying on incomplete data, but she does her best. This is for realism; after all, our understanding of history changes all the time as scholars explore new contexts, perspectives, artifacts, and information.

Warnings: angst; post-traumatic stress; description of a panic attack; brief mention of self-unaliving (no description); Maree being obtuse

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The next morning, Kix leaned against the wall of the library next to the staff entrance. He saw Maree approaching the building before she noticed him. She looked a little worse for the wear, her cheeks drained of color, and her eyes squinting against the harsh light of the sun. She was visibly surprised to see Kix waiting for her outside the door.

“Good morning,” she greeted him. “You didn’t have to wait outside for me; the library is open.”

He shrugged. “I figured I could avoid the front desk inquisition if I came in the staff entrance. Besides, it’s nice to breathe the fresh air.”

She mumbled something unintelligible.

“Gorgeous morning, isn’t it?” he asked affably. “So sunny. So… bright.”

She shot him a dirty look.

“You have absolutely no right to be this cheerful,” she said. “I saw how much you drank last night.”

“I have a fast metabolism,” he grinned.

“I used to have one of those. I could stay out all night partying and walk it off the next morning. Then I got old, and now I have to pay for my sins.”

“You’re not old,” he objected. “But I do know a few tricks to help, if you’d like.”

“Ooh, Kix has tricks,” she murmured. 

Her voice was low with a suggestive edge, accompanied by a sexy little smirk, and Kix felt his blood heat. He ignored it and handed her a small tablet, which she swallowed dry without hesitation.

“What is that, a Peezo?” she asked.

“No, and do you always just pop whatever pill a strange man gives you?” he asked severely.

“You’re not a strange man; you’re my nine o’clock appointment. If anything happens to me, TJ-60 will hunt you down, and Valsi will finish the job. Am I going to start hallucinating?”

“No. It’s not spice and it’s not a stim. It's just a supplement to help replenish the vital nutrients that got depleted when your body metabolized the alcohol.”

“That’s very wholesome,” she said. “Where did you learn that?”

“I used to be a medic,” he said.

“Did you?” she asked. “And when you were learning to be a medic, did they ever teach you about the dangers of overconsumption of alcohol?”

“I must have skipped that lesson,” he said. “Shall we?”

Kix followed Maree into the library, and the moment she passed through the doors, he watched with fascination as she transformed effortlessly into a model of professionalism. She gave no indication of a hangover, and while she was still friendly, there was no trace of the flirty banter he’d enjoyed outside. In a way, it reminded him of his brothers snapping to attention at the arrival of a superior officer, no matter how ribald the conversation had been seconds before. He followed her to her office, nodding at the colleagues who greeted her on the way. They passed Dr. Harik and he shot them a sour look. Kix just gave him a friendly wave. Once inside her office, she took his coat and hung it up next to hers and then went to make a pot of tea.

“Please take whatever seat you like,” she said. “We’ll get started as soon as I pull up the report.”

“It’s freezing in here,” he observed, reclaiming the armchair he’d chosen on his last visit. He sank into its luxurious softness even as he double-checked his sight lines to make sure he had a clear path to the door.

“You would not believe the amount of time the staff spends complaining about the temperature,” she sighed. “That’s why I keep all these throw blankets in here. Use as many as you’d like.”

She loaded a tray with the pot of tea, a jar of honey, and a plate of biscuits and set it between their armchairs. Kix picked up a biscuit and sniffed it tentatively. It smelled like sweet spices, and it was encrusted with sugar crystals. He took a bite. It was surprisingly delicious, and he crammed the rest of it into his mouth as Maree turned on the holoprojector in the middle of the room.

“As you can see, the report is quite long. I doubt we’ll be able to get through it entirely this morning, and unfortunately, my afternoon is booked with meetings.”

“I’ll be on Hosnian a few more days,” Kix said. “If we don’t get through it all this morning, could we schedule another appointment?”

“Of course,” she smiled. “Before we get started, I feel I should warn you that this report is going to be depressing.” 

“It was a war,” he said grimly. “I don’t expect it to be jolly.”

“War is never an easy topic,” she acknowledged, “but what happened to the clones is one of the most tragic events to unfold in recorded galactic history.”

Ice skittered down his spine. What the hell happened after I went into stasis?

“In what way?” he asked, keeping his voice level.

Maree took a deep breath.

“There has been a great deal of debate and discussion over the ethics of cloning since the fall of the Empire. In fact, the New Republic’s Coruscant Accords banned cloning and genetic engineering wholesale, although some have argued that their motivation for this was driven less by ethical considerations and more by the fear that another clone army could be created to challenge their governance.”

“What were the ethical arguments?” Kix asked.

He wondered darkly if any of the debates had included actual clones, or if they had been led entirely by sheltered, privileged rich people for whom the entire discussion was simply a rhetorical exercise.

“The Republic sent millions of clones to their deaths without ever giving them the opportunity to consent, much less dissent. Some historians contend that the reason the Republic never recorded the clones’ chosen names was to avoid confronting their humanity. If it had acknowledged them as individuals, it would have been far more difficult to justify throwing their lives away. But the Jedi share responsibility with the Republic in this war. It is true that the clone army was commissioned by a rogue individual, but the Jedi council’s decision to deploy the clones has led some historians to question the order’s ethical integrity. We have the luxury of hindsight to know that Sheev Palpatine had been manipulating both sides of the conflict from the beginning, but the Jedi cannot be absolved of responsibility. They knew what they were doing when they agreed to send an army of mind-controlled ten-year-olds into battle.”

Kix stiffened. “The clones may have been ten years old at the start of the war, but their accelerated aging meant they were fully adult by that point. I doubt they would appreciate being infantilized.”

“Of course,” Maree said. “I didn’t intend to imply that they were children. We know that biologically, they were fully developed. But so much of our mental development and maturation depends on our life experiences, and those were denied to the clones. They were bred for battle, trained from birth, and thrown into the fray before they ever had a chance to experience anything else.”

“I guarantee the clones gained more ‘life experience’ during the three years of the war than most civilians get in decades,” Kix growled.

Particularly civilians who weren’t even born until decades after the Clone Wars began, he thought, but did not say aloud.

“I don’t disagree,” Maree said, and he hated how calm her voice sounded. “But when they gained those experiences, they did not always adhere to the Kaminoans’ programming. We have records of some clones who deserted almost immediately after the first battle of Geonosis. There were also incidents of clones turning against the war and the Jedi—I believe the most famous case was at the battle of Christophsis, when a clone trooper collaborated with the Separatists because he felt that he and his brothers had been enslaved by the Jedi.”

Kix stood abruptly.

“The clones weren’t traitors!” he snapped.

“No, they were not,” Maree agreed. “They were overwhelmingly loyal. Those few instances I mentioned are notable for their rarity. As a whole, the clones were exemplary in their service, and they are widely considered to have been the greatest soldiers the galaxy has ever seen.”

Kix paced back and forth across the office. It was unfair of him, he knew, to expect Maree to understand his agitation; after all, the war and the clones were ancient history to everyone in the galaxy except him. This was a purely academic exercise for her, and he’d opted not to reveal how immediate it was for him. Maree watched him closely, waiting until he was ready to continue. At length, he came to a halt in front of her.

“You’ve told me what the general opinion of the clones is,” he said. “Now tell me what you think.”

“I think—” she paused. “I think the clones deserved better. They served the Republic with honor.”

“Even when they turned on the Jedi?” Kix asked, bitterness making his voice sharp.

“They had no choice!” Maree objected. “After the fall of the Empire, the New Republic declassified the records pertaining to the Clone Wars. We learned that the clones were controlled by inhibitor chips that were programmed to override their free will when Palpatine gave the order to kill the Jedi—Order 66. The clones were the tool the Emperor used to destroy the Jedi, but they were not responsible for their actions.”

Kix relaxed slowly and returned to his seat. At least she knows about the chips, he thought. He wasn’t sure what he would have done if she had believed the clones acted of their own free will. 

“So that was it for the clones?” he asked. “Their chips activated and wiped their personalities completely?”

“It’s not quite that simple,” she said. “The chips’ effectiveness began to wear off not long after Order 66.”

Kix darted a glance at her. “It did?”

“Yes. Some clones began to question their orders. Over the next year, more and more clones began to desert. Some of them blamed themselves for the Jedi’s deaths and—took their own lives.” Her voice trembled slightly, and he felt a brief, savage satisfaction that she was not as unaffected as she had seemed earlier. But that emotion was quickly overwhelmed by the pain of hearing how his brothers had suffered. Because of him. Because he had failed.

I can’t do this, Kix thought, dropping his head into his hands.

The silence stretched out.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” Maree suggested at last.

“Yeah. I need to get some air.”

Kix lurched to his feet and strode out of the room. He’d only traversed the winding passageways to Maree’s office once, but he backtracked unerringly to the staff entrance. He walked quickly, blindly. The walls of the corridor felt like they were pressing in on him, and he was nearly jogging by the time he reached the door. He burst through it into the bright sunshine, his gasping breaths puffing swirling clouds into the cold air. Instinctively, his medic’s brain cataloged his physical state with clinical efficiency: elevated heart rate, shortness of breath, trembling, nausea. Classic symptoms of a full-blown panic attack.

He walked and walked, forcing himself to breathe deeply in through his nose and out through his mouth until the jittery tension eased. The walkway was lined with trees that were just beginning to open their blossoms, and he leaned against one, staring up through the branches into the clear blue sky. He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes. 

He focused on the sensation of the gentle breeze on his skin, chilling his face and hands. As he inhaled, he took in the unmistakable smell of the city. He could hear the cacophony of airspeeders whizzing by in the skylanes, the honking of impatient horns and the shouts of irate drivers. Slowly, his emotions began to settle, and when he had regained some sense of equilibrium, he made his way back to the library.

Maree was waiting for him outside the staff entrance. She held two bottles of water, and she offered Kix one as he approached. He nodded his thanks and downed half of the contents in a single swallow. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, until at length, Maree broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t realize how personal this was for you.”

Kix tensed. “What do you mean?”

Had she guessed who he was? He had relied on his beard and long hair to disguise his clone identity, as well as the fact that fifty years had passed since clones were a common sight in the galaxy. But she was a Clone Wars scholar; she would have seen the holograms. His anxiety returned in full force.

“You mentioned earlier that you were a medic,” she said. “You used to be a soldier, didn’t you? A combat medic. I must have dredged up some very painful memories for you.”

Kix breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“I was a soldier,” he said carefully. “It’s complicated…”

He trailed off. Maree took his hand and gave it a gentle, sympathetic squeeze.

“I understand,” she said. “You don’t have to tell me anything that you don’t wish to. It’s not my place to pry into your personal life.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“Kix,” she began slowly, “would it be better for you if I just send you the report? I wonder if it might be easier to read it than to talk about it.”

He shook his head.

“No, I’d like you to be there so I can ask questions if I need to,” he said. “I’ll be all right. It was just a lot to take in.”

“Of course,” she said. “I will try to do better as we move forward. I’m more accustomed to debating the topic with other academics, and it was insensitive of me to editorialize.”

“You didn’t know my history.” His voice was flat, neutral.

“Well, I do now,” she said. “And I’ll keep it in mind going forward. We can take as much time as you need, and we can take as many breaks as you’d like.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I think I’m ready to get back to it, if you are.”

“All right,” she said, leading him back into the building.

“Just one thing,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any more of those spiced biscuits?”

The report began with the battle of Yerbana, the 501st’s next engagement after Anaxes. 

The combined forces of the 501st and the 212th secured a Republic victory. Immediately following the battle, the Jedi were contacted by a faction of Mandalorians who requested assistance in liberating their planet from the control of the Sith crime lord Maul. They were preparing to mobilize when they received word that Coruscant had been invaded by a massive Separatist force, and then-Chancellor Palpatine had been taken captive by Count Dooku.

Kix leaned forward as he read. “What happened?”

“The decision was made to divide the 501st into two forces,” Maree said. “The larger bulk of the legion returned to Coruscant under the command of Jedi General Anakin Skywalker. However, the smaller force, called the 332nd Division, was deployed to Mandalore under the command of CT-7567—Commander Rex—in the Venator- class Star Destroyer Tribunal.”

Rex made commander, Kix thought proudly.

“Both units were successful in their engagements,” she continued. “The 501st successfully extracted the chancellor and drove the Separatists from Coruscant space, and Count Dooku was killed in the battle. General Grievous withdrew to Separatist space. On Mandalore, the 332nd encountered heavy resistance. The siege was brutal, but the division fought with distinction and secured the planet. They captured Maul and were ordered to transport him to Coruscant and rendezvous with the rest of the 501st.”

She paused for a sip of water, and Kix waited impatiently for her to continue.

“What next?” he asked.

“That is the last record I was able to find of the 332nd,” she replied. “It’s likely they were reabsorbed into the 501st when they arrived on Coruscant, though I was unable to find any record of their arrival, either. Would you like me to do a little more digging?”

“Yes, please,” he said. “What happened to the 501st after that?”

“The legion’s next recorded mission is the assault on the Jedi temple at the end of the war,” she said.

Kix’s heart plummeted, and she must have noticed his reaction, because she continued in a softer tone.

“Following the end of the war, the 501st continued to serve the Empire. In fact, the legion was active through the entire imperial era, though the original clone troopers were eventually phased out in favor of recruited soldiers, as with the rest of the Imperial Army.”

“And when did that happen?” Kix asked.

“Officially, the Empire began to decommission the clones about a year after the fall of the Republic,” she said. “Though there is evidence to suggest that the process was already underway well before the Senate made it official. The 501st clones actually stayed in active service longer than any other unit, but eventually, they were replaced by stormtroopers.”

“I see,” Kix said. “When you say ‘decommissioned,’ what exactly does that mean? Were the clones killed?”

“No,” she said, and relief flooded through Kix. “They were retired in waves as the new recruits were brought in.”

She hesitated as though she had something else to add, but she apparently thought better of it. Just then, her comm chimed.

“Excuse me, Dr. Finnall,” said the robotic voice of the office droid. “I’m sorry to intrude, but I must remind you that you have another meeting scheduled in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Teejay,” Maree said. “I’ll be done soon.”

She turned to Kix.

“The morning passed too quickly,” she said. “Would you like to schedule another time to meet?”

“Yes, please,” he said.

“My schedule is clear the day after tomorrow,” she said. “Does that work for you?”

“Yes,” he said. “Same time, same place?”

“Perfect,” she said. “Is there anything else you need before then?”

“Do you have a list of the clones who were assigned to the 332nd?”

“Yes, I’ll transfer it to your datapad,” she said, tapping a few buttons on the projector console.

His pad chimed with the incoming file notification. He thanked her and departed, waiting until he was out of the library before he opened the file. At the top of the list was a number that made his heart clench.

CT-5597.

Jesse.

---

Chapter 5

Tagging: @blueink-bluesoul @secondaryrealm @spicy-clones @wings-and-beskar

[madamlaydebug]

Walter Bonner, holding a picture of his great-grandfather Anderson Bonner, at Anderson Bonner Park in Dallas, Texas below.

"People have no idea that a Black man owned property there," Bonner said. "It's kind of sad to me, in a way."

Bonner, now 78, is the great-grandson of Anderson Bonner, who was born a slave but became one of the biggest landowners north of Dallas by the turn of the 19th century.

"To think that a man could do that, after he was freed from slavery, I am very proud," Walter Bonner said. "Just think what he did. It was something great."

He was born on a plantation in Alabama in the 1830s. At some point, presumably before the Civil War, he was sent to Texas as a wedding a gift for his owner's daughter, according to the Bonner family.

He was eventually freed and settled northeast of Dallas, along White Rock Creek, near where Forest Lane cuts through Lake Highlands today.

Piece by piece, he bought up property along White Rock Creek and across present-day north Dallas, near where U.S. 75 meets the LBJ Freeway.

"Bonner couldn't read or write. He signed his name with an "X." But he knew how to live off the land," Walter Bonner said.

Family records indicate that the deed for one of his earliest purchases, 60 acres, was filed in Dallas County on Aug. 10, 1874.

Over time, he amassed nearly 2,000 acres in the area.

And while he came to own a large chunk of land, it was hard to keep it all. There were stories, Walter Bonner said, of people who agreed to buy parcels of his property but never paid him.

Anderson Bonner died in 1920, at the age of 86.

He left his land with his nine children and their families, and it was eventually split up or sold off over the years, long before it was known how lucrative North Dallas real estate would become.

Part of the land owned by Anderson Bonner became home to Medical City Dallas, one of the largest hospitals in North Texas.

The Bonner name remained intertwined in the history of North Dallas.

Black children in the area attended the Anderson Bonner School until 1955, when a new school in Hamilton Park opened. Walter Bonner and siblings went to Hamilton, where Walter graduated in 1961.

For Walter Bonner, he wants his great-grandfather's story to be remembered, too. And he hopes it can be an inspiration.

"If a man can not read or write his name can do this, think about what you can do," Walter Bonner said.

At the park, the city plans to dedicate a new piece of art in the coming weeks.

The piece, in honor of Anderson Bonner, will be placed along the trail, feet from the banks of the White Rock Creek, where he built a legacy that lasts today.

While the work remains under wraps, Walter Bonner said it will tell a story about coming from somewhere and "looking back."

And if his great-grandfather could be there, to see what his farmlands became?

"Oh I don't know," Walter Bonner said with a laugh. "He would probably just faint."

[rachelbethhines]

60 Years of Doctor Who Anniversary Marathon - McCoy 8th Review

The Professor & Ace: The Left Hand of Darkness - Behind the Scenes

There's potentially several things you can cover in this section during the wilderness years. There's sequels, spin-offs, documentaries, articles, books, interviews, Big Finish, and various unrelated films that have nothing to do with Who but seem to be cast with nothing but actors from the old show.

But for my money, the absolute wildest thing to come out of this period is straight up Bootleg Who.

Same actors, same writers, same basic premise, same characters in all but name.. or even in name in some cases... But it's not called Doctor Who so legally it's not Doctor Who you see.

Man, UK copyright is weird.

There were two prominent bootlegs at the time.

The Stranger, staring Colin Baker, was a series of direct to video films with a few spin off audios. He and his companion 'Miss. Brown' (played by Nicola Bryant) travel through time and save the day... you know, just like in Doctor Who, but they never say their names and you never see their actual method of travel.

The second is The Professor and Ace, aka The Time Travelers, aka The Dominie... yeah this thing had a lot of monikers. It's called the Professor and Ace on Audible where I bought it so that's what I'm going with.

This was an audio series staring Sylvester McCoy and Sophie Aldred as two time travelers, one a mysterious 900 year old alien called the Professor and the other a delinquent teen called Ace... but her real name is Alice in this, not Dorothy, so it's totally a different character guys.

It's insane!

It's glorious!

It's the closest you can get to official Doctor Who with out it actually being officially licensed Doctor Who.

Even the 60s Dalek movies are more canonical than this...

Which is in some ways is a shame as, it's actually good. Or at least the one episode that I listened to was.

The series manages to be mature without being grotesque. It succeeds where I think things like the Virgin New Adventures fails.

There's cursing, but it never feels out of character, or unwarranted, even as Ace peppers her dialogue with the usual kid friendly slang.

There's mature topics discussed but nothing is gratuitous or in your face. It's all real things being brought up like, loss, grief, and trust; bad childhoods and the effects of traumas ... not gory violence for the sake of being shocking.

There's nudity, but only in scenes that call for it in the story... like medical treatment or a bath after running around in the jungle. It's not awkwardly sexullized, but there to add realism to the story and to help ground the setting.

It's basically Who for grown ups, not 'Who for teens that want to appear grown up'. Therein lies the difference... despite what the original cover would have you believe.

Was this really needed, BBV?

Anyways, I've waffled long enough. Let's get down to the actual story shall we?

Ace becomes separated from 'The Professor' and winds up in a crashed spaceship. She's the sole survivor of the wreck and is rescued by a mysterious man named Dorsai.

Dorsai is also a survivor of a previous wreck. A group of scientists crashed landed on the planet that they had originally intended to study. With no workable communications and no hope of rescue from pasting ships due to the remoteness of the planet, the group built a home out of the wreckage of their ship and continued their work.

Dorsai is the only one left now as the rest of the crew have died off one by one. Ace doesn't trust the man, but finds herself reliant on him for survival. Not only because he's the only person around who knows the area and has all of the supplies... but also because she's been blinded by the crash.

(The Left Hand of Darkness By Hisi79)

Like I said previously, this feels more like a continuation of the adventures of Seven and Ace on screen then the actual official continuations we got. Heck in some ways it's an improvement over the tv show itself!

Remember how I bitched about how vague Ace's arc was in The Curse of Fenric novelization?

Yeah, this actually addresses that!

We finally find out why Ace hates her mum. It's nothing we couldn't have figure out with some basic guess work, but it's still nice to actually hear it from the character herself. You know, because it something that effects her and informs her decisions... like why she travels and why she doesn't trust anyone but the 'The Professor'.

We also delve deeper into her blind faith in 'The Professor' and how shaky her strongman act really is, but in a way that feels real and frightening, and not her being manipulated by virtual gods to further some convoluted plot point.

Finally, we address the elephant in the room that I think was set up in Survival but was never fully resolved... Ace going home for real. Not just to see her school mates... whom she all quickly forgets in favor of hot catgirls... but actually returning to where she left off and confronting her problems/past.

Fuck it! This is cannon to me. This is where she leaves the Doctor for real and what she and Seven were discussing in Power of the Doctor. It's my box of head-cannons and you can't take it from me!

[tortoisesshells]

3, 15, and 22 for the writing asks please!

3. ... that encompasses my style:

Answered here, and here, but from a Timeless drabble; Lucy really is a POV character that is just for me in terms of constantly shuffling through details of the past and trying to derive meaning from them.

“Tambora,” she replied, nearly flubbing and saying Krakatoa, as usual – and thought, too, of how this slotted into teaching the survey course: the fun little tidbits about the Shelleys and Polidori and Byron at the Villa Diodati, the crop failures in New England that would drive settlers west and drive Manifest Destiny like a railroad spike in the land. She had watched smokey skies and wildfire sunsets in California, either two years ago or two hundred years in the future. Whether it was oncoming frostbite or fear or wonder or the Romantic’s sublime she was feeling, she couldn’t say, but certainly did not protest when Flynn nodded towards the tavern ahead, promising a windbreak and warmth.

15. ... from an old piece that I like:

I got very nostalgic for The Tick the other day, and I think, thusfar, this is one of the few times I wrote a modern-day fic where the POV character actually plausibly sounds like someone who wasn't born in 1700.

“Technically,” Arthur says over the phone, sounding like he’s talking around a sandwich. Dot gets hungry immediately. “Technically, so long as this UnCLE league is amateur, it’s not actually illegal.” “It’s just UnCLE. “League” is already in it,” she replies, absent-mindedly, as she rifles through her fridge for anything that’s not six-day old pad thai or one of three jars of Claussen Kosher Dills that each only have a single half-pickle left. Note to self: dumping the brine down the drain isn’t that hard, and she’s never going to get around to reusing it for keeping carrots and radishes like Maria did. Besides, Walter’s been looking for new containers to keep his eye bolts separate from his j bolts separate from his eye lags. That’s probably a better second life for a pickle jar than the 60-odd percent of glass in recycling containers that doesn’t get recycled, she thinks. Hanging out in Walter’s totally-just-a-garden-shed-not-at-all-a-field-operative-lair garden shed. “Uh-huh.” Her brother clears his throat. There’s more noise on the other end of the line, like static or like her brother’s going through a stack of paper. “Anyway. It’s not illegal, so I was thinking that if it was legal, there’d be some kind of paper trail: insurance, mostly. But it’s been considered an amateur sport competition for twenty-two years now, and the state doesn’t regulate that, because it’s too expensive for them. So if UnCLE isn’t insuring its fighters or hiring medics above-board – which it doesn’t have to – there’s nothing for me to find.”

22. ... that is so blissfully self-indulgent:

Answered here, but: honestly, the whole of Mansion House Hospital, but with Vampires is some of the most self-indulgent nonsense I've ever written, but special points awarded to the following.

But all this was ignoring the head nurse, who was busy about her tasks beside him. It was poor coin to pay her for his parole with (and the half-second’s pull of his whole being towards the thud of her pulse in her neck, worse still!) and so he put it all out of his mind, save her and her causes and her counsel: “There is something wrong with that man,” he said. “He’s a Seccessionist, is he not?” Mary Phinney replied. “Undoubtedly, but that is not what I meant.” She hummed. Her hands were busy with something – foul-smelling poultices, only slightly less pungent than rot – and her eyes were downcast. At such an angle, he could not see the little silver brooch at the neck she had begun to favor, of late – he preferred to not look at it, he found.

Send me a number and I'll share an excerpt of my writing!

[usafphantom2]

Seahawks Strike Back and a squadron of SR-71 Blackbirds gets activated.

Navy Seahawks respond in the Red Sea and looking back on the squadron of SR-71 Blackbirds which were activated.

PilotPhotog

“Every gain in speed increases not only the attacker’s security but the defender’s insecurity. For the higher the speed the greater the chance of, and scope for, surprise. Speed and surprise are not merely related; they are twins.”

-B.H. Liddell Hart

Mission Briefing

Happy New Year! 2024 is shaping up to be a significant year on many fronts, and 2023 certainly ended with a bang of sorts. Early in the morning hours of December 31st, the waters around the Arabian Peninsula were suddenly disrupted by a distress call. It's the containership Maersk Hangzhou, under siege for the second time in less than 24 hours. This time, the attackers are four small boats, manned by Iranian-backed Houthi forces, emerging from Yemeni territories under Houthi control.

The Maersk Hangzhou's crew, facing a dire situation, watched as these boats, armed with crew-served and small arms weapons, advanced and fired on the ship. These boats would get dangerously close, just 20 meters away, and even attempted to board the ship. In response, the ship's security team fights back, but the situation escalated rapidly.

Enter the heroes of our story: US Navy H60 Seahawk helicopters. These powerful machines, part of the USS Eisenhower and Gravely's compliment, fly to the rescue. They issue verbal warnings, but the small boats, undeterred, fire upon the helicopters. The Navy pilots and crew, trained for such moments, return fire in self-defense. Their precision and skill are undeniable as they sink three of the four boats and drive the fourth away. Remarkably, the US personnel and equipment remain unscathed.

An MH-60S Seahawk helicopter of HSC-7 landing (US Navy)

The exact H60 squadrons involved remain unconfirmed by US Central Command. However, among them were likely several helicopters from HSC 7, aka the "Dusty Dogs" of Carrier Airwing 3 aboard the USS Dwight D. Eisenhower. These pilots, flying the Sierra model of the Seahawk, probably relied on the formidable .50 caliber machine gun mounted on the aircraft's starboard side.

While I normally do videos and newsletter articles about fighter planes, we need to take a moment to appreciate the Navy’s MH-60 Seahawk, which is an incredibly versatile machine and somewhat underrated. The Sikorsky SH-60/MH-60 Seahawk is a marvel of modern aviation technology. It's a twin-engine helicopter equipped with turboshaft engines, skillfully designed for multiple missions by the United States Navy. This impressive bird is derived from the U.S. Army's UH-60 Black Hawk and is part of the renowned Sikorsky S-70 family. What sets the Seahawk apart are its unique design tweaks – the main rotor blades can fold, and it has a hinged tail, making it a perfect fit for the confined spaces on ships.

In the vast blue expanses where the U.S. Navy sails, the H-60 airframe takes on various roles, embodied in the models SH-60B, SH-60F, HH-60H, MH-60R, and MH-60S. This helicopter is incredibly versatile, able to operate from virtually any air-capable naval vessel – be it a frigate, destroyer, cruiser, fast combat support ship, expeditionary transfer dock, amphibious assault ship, littoral combat ship, or even an aircraft carrier.

The Seahawk's mission profile is impressively diverse. It's a master of anti-submarine warfare (ASW) and anti-surface warfare (ASUW), making it a formidable foe against underwater and surface threats. For more covert operations, it excels in naval special warfare (NSW) insertion. In times of crisis, the Seahawk is a guardian angel, performing search and rescue (SAR) and combat search and rescue (CSAR) missions. It's also a lifeline for logistical support through vertical replenishment (VERTREP) and plays a crucial role in medical evacuations (MEDEVAC). All in all, the Sikorsky SH-60/MH-60 Seahawk is a multi-mission powerhouse, essential to the U.S. Navy's operations across the globe.

Looking ahead to 2024, given the ongoing events unfolding around the world, you can expect more mini documentaries not just on fixed wing aircraft, but helicopters like the Seahawk and other support aircraft.

This week in aviation history

1 January 1965: The Cold War is at its peak, and the United States Air Force is in dire need of a reconnaissance aircraft that can outrun and outmaneuver any threat. Enter the SR-71A, a marvel of engineering, capable of flying at speeds over Mach 3 and at altitudes above 85,000 feet.

On New Year’s Day in 1965, a significant day at Beale Air Force Base in California. On this day, the 4200th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing was activated, specifically to operate this groundbreaking aircraft. The SR-71A wasn't just a plane; it was a statement of technological prowess, capable of gathering crucial intelligence while remaining virtually untouchable by enemy defenses.

An SR-71 in flight. Note the water vapor plumes (USAF)

The wing's mission was clear: strategic reconnaissance, a vital component in the high-stakes game of the Cold War. The SR-71A's capabilities were unprecedented. It could cover vast distances incredibly fast, capturing detailed photographs of enemy territories without being detected or intercepted. This wing, with its Blackbirds, was a key player in the strategic balance between the superpowers.

Fast forward to January 25, 1966, the wing underwent a significant change, being redesignated as the 9th Strategic Reconnaissance Wing. This wasn't just a change of name; it signified an evolving and enduring role in strategic reconnaissance. The 9th Wing continued to operate the SR-71A, playing a crucial role in gathering intelligence during many Cold War flashpoints and beyond.

The SR-71A's service under these wings is a tale of technological achievement and strategic importance. It set numerous flight speed and altitude records, some of which remain unbroken. The aircraft itself became an icon, symbolizing speed, stealth, and the cutting-edge of aerial reconnaissance technology. Nearly 60 years later, the Blackbird still looks futuristic.

In case you missed it

I made this video as soon as I heard the news:

Photo Outlet

The Navy Blue Angels are always a sight (and sound) to behold. If you haven’t seen their routine with the Super Hornets, you should in 2024 - they put on a great show!

Super Hornet Blue Angel #1 Taxis into position (Tog)

Post Flight Debrief

New Years are often about new beginnings, here’s to hoping for a productive, fulfilling, and healthy New Year to you and yours.

That’s all for this week, thanks for reading! If you know a fellow aviation enthusiast that would enjoy these weekly newsletters, then please forward this along. Now you know!

-Tog

Thank you for reading Hangar Flying with Tog. This post is public so feel free to share it.

[sangthael]

doomsday o clock…. can i know more about jay and / or tyler :) i like their designs (also “straight (gay)” made me laugh)

YAYYY DOOMSDAY OCLOCK neither jay nor tyler are as fleshed out as adrian and sparks are BUT they do have stories ❤️

jay was born in 1996 in america after his grandparents + parents immigrated from siberia in the 60s. he was born in california, in which his parents (and grandparents, who lived with him) relatively neglected him. his family held a conservative lifestyle, where his mother was a housewife who tended to jay and her husbands (judgmental) parents (jays grandparents) and his father was the money maker in control of most of the house’s food, money, status, etc. his father was an Unkind man, who would get loud and start arguments when he felt his place was being challenged. and since jay was the unwanted son, his father felt his status as man of the house was challenged regularly for the smallest things. jay, neglected by his mother (who really had no choice in the matter, she tried to placate her husband more than anything to take the focus off of jay) and abused by his father, started sneaking out in middle school, finding a small friend group at school to bring with him to shoplift as a scapegoat, and disregarding his own safety. this worsened the older he got, misdemeanors turning into criminal activity such as selling and doing drugs, underage drinking, breaking and entering, even fighting with police the few times he was caught. jay had landed in juvinele quite a few times, even spending several months alone in the detention center before (unwillingly) returning to his family. this pattern of behavior has led to his development and diagnosis of ASPD. his parents sent him off to psychiatric wards quite a few times, which resulted in his diagnosis when he was 19. he moved out of his parents house soon after and fled to the midwest (florence, kentucky) so his parents could no longer find him, and decided to spend his free time pursuing making indie/electronic music after consulting with a therapist to find healthy outlets, even going to a nearby community college and holding a job at a guitar center. (on that note his theme song is summertime! by jojomber :3)

when the apocalypse started, jay was relatively ruthless at 24 years old. full of energy and pent up anger and repressed trauma, he was a threat to everyone around him, infected or otherwise, especially since running out of his prescribed medication. soon enough, though, his episode ended, and he retreated into the corners of his now abandoned town. eventually, he’d found the local radio station, long since abandoned as well, and used scattered around manuals around the building to put the radio station back into use and into a functional home for himself. currently, jay uses it to play music, both recommendations and his own original songs, and tell surrounding communities or individuals with radios about the weather, incoming shipments of fresh food or supplies from out of the local area, the movement of zombie hordes, etc. because of his usefulness to the surrounding people, he’s been generally deemed useful and a neutral party to both sides, uninvolved in fights or battles or other disputes. bexley (adrian) even supplies him with ssri’s when possible, while both communities give him food and other supplies to keep him alive. he houses people in his station sometimes as well, making the acquaintance of sophie and lance quite a few times :)

ANDDD TYLER TIME i dont own tyler but this is what i got from his creator :D

tyler was raised by your typical evangelical christian family who seemed relatively normal on the outside, but his parents were in truth relatively controlling. while not entirely strict, they liked to control what tyler did in terms of identity and career path, which led to tyler playing football for a lot of his life in high school (with parker). tyler trailed parker for a lot of their high school years, hiding his true feelings and sticking to his side as a side-kick in parker’s endeavors. when the apocalypse started, tyler fled the city of chicago. guilt eventually drove him back to search for parker, but parker was long since gone, deeper in the south by then. tyler spent a lot of his time searching for parker in the apocalypse, usually isolated and avoiding others, until he found himself in sophie’s cabin. he was not above eating human meat by then, which sophie warned him some meals she makes may include some, since animal meat was scarce in the apocalypse, and he’d agreed to it. and, after this delicious meal tyler had eaten, whose corpse does he find dismembered in sophie’s tool shed but parker’s?

the realization tyler had eaten parts of his longtime friend (crush?) ruins him inside and out. sophie realizes what must have happened and apologizes to tyler and tries her best to comfort him, but tyler, obviously freaking the fuck out, flinches away from her and runs. he doesn’t touch meat again after that, traumatized by night terrors and overwhelmingnausea upon even thinking about it.

tyler survives the rest of the apocalypse (somehow), entirely in a fugue state, and lands himself in the same government facility as sparks. sparks comforts him, spends sleepless nights with him, takes care of him, and helps tyler accept himself and what had happened so long ago. they get together and love each other very much :)

[mariacallous]

A hunger strike by migrants held in the Przemysl detention centre, which began on September 5 and is ongoing at the time of publication, is the biggest protest organised so far by migrants in Poland.

The department of the Polish Border Guard managing the Przemysl centre confirmed to BIRN that “several dozen residents are currently refusing to come out for meals”.

Prolonged detention and poor living conditions have led a growing number of migrants residing at centres across Poland to protest over the last two years. The number of migrants reaching Poland has been rising sharply with the opening of the new eastern land migration route via Belarus.

According to Grupa Granica, one of the main groups assisting migrants in Poland, at least five protests took place in detention centres across Poland over the last two years, including a previous one at Przemysl.

However, the current protest likely reflects a feeling among migrants that Polish authorities are lately pushing them faster towards deportation.

BIRN spoke to three migrants on hunger strike in Przemysl, two from Africa and one from Asia. All requested their names and countries of origin be withheld, to avoid being identified by the authorities of the centre, where they all complained that guards use physical violence against inmates.

“This is about freedom, not about the quality of the food in the canteen – not that the food is adequate either,” one of the hunger strikers told BIRN over the phone from Przemysl. “It is about us being detained here, without having any idea when we will be released, or what will happen to us in future. Some of the people have already had two birthdays since they are closed here.”

“Even criminals in prisons know when they will be released,” the man added.

Under EU law, migrants can be detained for up to six months, a period that can be prolonged to 18 months in exceptional circumstances, such as non-cooperation with authorities.

The migrants at Przemysl claim they are neither being informed properly, nor in a language they understand, about the predicted duration of their detention. In some cases, they recounted episodes of themselves or colleagues being told a few days before the six-month expiry date that they would have to stay on, without being given a clear reason that they could potentially challenge in court.

“We call this the ‘Polish Guantanamo’,” one of the migrants told BIRN. “If there are any rules this place is run by, then no one is explaining them to us. This is absolute lawlessness.”

They say the lack of information about their legal status in a language they can understand is adding to the psychological burden.

One migrant at Przemysl tried to commit suicide at the end of July, according to Grupa Granica, and others are in poor mental shape but don’t receive proper psychological care, according to those interviewed.

“We are being treated like animals, not humans,” one of the migrants said, adding that guards do not use the migrants’ names but refer to them by numbers.

The department of the Polish Border Guard managing the Przemysl centre told BIRN that  some of the hunger striking migrants were using food packages in their personal possession and shared photos with BIRN of a few migrants apparently eating in the canteen, which the spokesperson said happened September 7.

The spokesman denied allegations of violence and insisted the centre provides adequate medical care. He also said migrants are typically detained there for 60 days or three months, a period which can be prolonged in some cases, on the basis of court decisions. “The majority of the 94 residents are in return procedure,” the spokesman said. “The either wait for their identity to be confirmed, or for the return decision to be made or executed.”

According to one of the migrants interviewed by BIRN, an aggravating factor leading migrants to go on hunger strike has been that, in the last months, people held at Przemysl have been seeing their asylum applications processed faster, which is in line with the goals of EU migration policy – speedier procedures and faster deportation. Given that acceptance rates are only around 5 per cent in Poland, most migrants can expect to be deportated to their home countries faster than before.

That would also close a small window of hope for migrants in Poland, which BIRN described in a previous article. According to the BIRN investigation, while Polish authorities were taking too long to process applications, migrants ended up being released after six months without a decision on their status being made, some of them making their way to the West. If applications are processed faster, that possibility closes, leaving most migrants facing only two choices: detention or deportation.

Poland’s Office for Foreigners, responsible for processing asylum applications, did not respond to BIRN’s questions about the speed of processing cases by the time of publication.

Zuzana Kaciupska, a lawyer at the Association for Legal Interventional, a legal NGO helping migrants, told BIRN that, based on her case work, she can confirm that processing times appear to be faster for those in detention in the last year, compared to the year before, which prevents people from being released after the six-month mark.

“Most of us are not in good shape, physically or emotionally,” one of the men told BIRN three days into the hunger strike. “But unless someone comes to us to explain the procedures and when we can expect release, we will keep going with our protest.”