#the Cold War and Vietnam is a close second/third.

[lxvvie]

I find it interesting that whenever I talk about school and tell people my major is History, they'll tell me they're a history buff, and said interest usually revolves around the World Wars or the Civil War.

[whatisonthemoon]

Kishi Nobusuke’s Bandung of the right

Excerpted from "The conservative imaginary: moral re-armament and the internationalism of the Japanese right, 1945–1962" by Reto Hofmann

In 1962, MRA launched its Asia Center in Odawara, Japan. Perched on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean and designed by a Swiss architect, Charles Rudolph, MRA no doubt modelled Odawara on Caux – as a place made to impress.26 Indeed, the inauguration ceremony spoke of the connections and the high profile the movement had built in the 1950s across Asia (Figure 3). The long list of guests included Kim Jong-pil, the head of the Korean Central Investigation Agency (KCIA); Truong Cong Cuu, Minister of Culture of Vietnam; General He Yingchin, a close aide of Chiang Kai-shek, from the Republic of China; U Narada, a Burmese monk; and representatives from forty-two countries, including Australia, South Africa, Malaya and Korea. Among Japanese dignitaries figured the sitting Prime Minister, Ikeda Hayato, as well as his predecessors, the aging Yoshida Shigeru, and, crucially, Kishi Nobusuke: he had been instrumental, during his prime ministership from 1957 to 1960, in setting up the Asia Center as he flirted with MRA as part of his vision to recast Japan as a hub for Asian regionalism.

Broadly speaking, the MRA Asia Center was the product of three intersecting forces. First, having made a name for himself in the West, Buchman determined to apply European lessons to Cold War Asia and, as seen in MRA’s courting of Hatoyama, decided to make Japan into its linchpin. In a report dated 17 July 1953, barely a week before the end of the Korean War, MRA stated that ‘Asia has to start all over again’. In the face of communism, greed, and poverty, MRA’s ‘moral ideology’ was the ‘only superior alternative offered to Asia’ – ‘only “heart-washing” will supersede “brain-washing”’. In this vision, Buchman earmarked a special place for Japan, calling it the ‘light of Asia’.

Second, Odawara must be regarded in the shadow of other pushes for Asian regionalism in the 1950s, such as the Colombo Plan, SEATO, and, in particular, the Afro-Asian Conference held in Bandung in 1955. At the Bandung Conference, as it is more commonly known, the participants strove to forge unity among Asian and African nations in order to remain non-aligned in the Cold War. As pointed out by Miyagi Taizo, for Japan, which was in Asia but closely tied to the United States, Bandung raised an old dilemma: was Japan part of Asia or the West? Put differently, Bandung offered Japan the prospect to ‘return to Asia’, but, at the same, embracing Bandung-style neutralism was impossible given Japan’s alliance with the United States (Miyagi 2001, 10–17). To reconcile this contradiction, Kishi envisioned an Asian regionalism centred on Japan and the MRA Asia Center was integral in this plan.

Third, Kishi’s promotion of the Asia Center reveals the postwar history of Pan-Asianist ideology within the conservative establishment. Kishi, the political scientist Richard Samuels has argued, ‘personified Japan’s transwar continuities’ (Samuels 2003, 141, 248). Also nicknamed the ‘monster of Showa’, he epitomized the survival of right-wing thought not just as far as domestic politics were concerned, but also, and perhaps especially, in his vision of Asia. Throughout his life, Kishi praised Kita Ikki, Japan’s foremost fascist thinker, Okawa Sh umei, the Pan-Asianist guru, and Uesugi Shinkichi, the promoter of an emperor-centric interpretation of the Constitution (Kang and Hyun 2016, 32–33). In the 1930s, Kishi became a top ‘reformist bureaucrat’ in Manchukuo, where he made it his goal to build a ‘fascist economic policy’ that would undergird Japan’s ‘security state’ (kokubo kokka) and its hegemony in Asia – ‘Manchuria was my masterpiece’, he remarked.27 From Manchurian bureaucrat, Kishi turned wartime politician in Toj o Hideki’s cabinet. As an expert planner, he led the Ministry of Munitions, the forerunner of the postwar Ministry of International Trade and Industry (MITI).28 Coming closer than anyone to an ‘imperial fascist’, Kishi was arrested by Occupation authorities and imprisoned as a suspected Class-A war criminal, but released without charges by Occupation authorities in 1948. He returned to political life in 1952 and became prime minister in 1957.

While Kishi professed himself a ‘democrat’, it is clear that, as Kang SangJung observed, ‘a thought core straddled [Kishi’s] pre and postwar’, namely a ‘patriotism’ that was grounded in state power and ‘national pride’.29 Asianism, too, remained a constant in Kishi’s thought – until old age he remained firm that the ‘fundamental principles’ behind the East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere were ‘not mistaken’ (Iwami 1994, 193). In the postwar period, Asianism was, in fact, bound up with patriotism. For Kishi, just as postwar Japan had to free itself from the US-drafted ‘colonial Constitution’ to regain its honour, so it had to reconstruct a sphere of interest through a ‘medium-sized imperialism’ to feed its population.30 But, given that the age of formal empires had passed, Kishi resolved to turn to more informal solutions to recast Japanese power, such as that presented by the MRA Asia Center.

Kishi earmarked Southeast Asia as Japan’s new sphere of influence in Asia. That is why, upon becoming prime minister in 1957, he visited Southeast Asian leaders even before flying to Washington (he wanted to make it clear to president Eisenhower that Japan was still the ‘centre of Asia’, or, as he put in private, that ‘Japan stands alone, like Mount Fuji, to dominate in Asia’).31 As it turned out, however, Kishi’s Southeast Asian diplomacy faced a hurdle. While during the two trips undertaken that year he settled some questions of wartime reparations, Southeast Asian leaders were by and large reluctant to sign up to the Asian Development Fund, the tool whereby Kishi hoped to integrate the region into Japan’s economic sphere. There was, especially in countries such as Burma, Indonesia, and the Philippines, which had been subjected to brutal Japanese occupation in the Second World War, much lingering resentment toward Japan. It did not escape Southeast Asian leaders that Kishi’s strategy bore parallels with the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere, anathema also because they believed that their new-found political independence hinged on economic independence. Kishi’s proposals, as the Manila Times commented, came with ‘inbuilt boobytraps’ (Kurzman 1960, 319; Hatano and Sato 2007, 58–59).

The setbacks he encountered in his Southeast Asian diplomacy explain why Kishi turned to MRA. To rebuild an Asian regionalism centred on Japan it was of paramount importance that the countries of Southeast Asia ‘trusted’ Japan.32 MRA were reconciliation specialists, with established networks across Asia, who appeared capable to bring to fruition informal diplomacy where the official one had hit a wall. Kishi had recognized MRA’s mastery of the art of public diplomacy since the early 1950s and appointed staff with MRA connections. He had been privy to the numerous MRA initiatives – he attended the performance of The Vanishing Island in 1955, seemingly at the invitation of the actress and singer Tanaka Michiko, a member of the cast and, reportedly, a ‘close friend’ (Entwistle 1985, 147). The politician Hoshijima Niro, an active member of MRA as well as ‘confidant’ of Kishi, also seems to have kept the prime minister updated with MRA activities (Entwistle 1985, 147). He also appointed the ex-Governor of the Bank of Japan Shibusawa Keizo, a central MRA member, to promote economic diplomacy in Southeast Asia (Kishi 1983, 384).

MRA opened crucial avenues to an informal diplomacy of reconciliation with Asian countries through personal channels and practices of compromise. The first instance of Kishi reaching out to it came, not coincidentally, in 1957, the year he launched his Asian diplomacy, by becoming involved in an MRA conference in Baguio, the Philippines. Organized by the core Japanese activists in collaboration with the Filipino section of MRA, the Baguio conference was intended to provide a forum for an unofficial gathering of personalities from Southeast Asia, Korea, and Japan in order to come to terms with past grievances, whether Japan’s wartime atrocities or its colonial rule. MRA lobbied politicians, including Kishi and President Magsaysay, to support the event.33 According to MRA sources, after the ‘former oppressed’ people met the Japanese MRA delegation, participants broke down in tears and proffered forgiveness. Most dramatically, Hoshijima, who attended with Kishi’s ‘consent,’ handed over a Korean national treasure – an ancient stone lion that had belonged to the last Emperor of Korea – to the Koreans as a symbolic gesture. He added that he would ‘go directly back to the Prime Minister and tell [him] that Japan must settle the claims that they now hold in Korea to property and monies’.34 Until then, in fact, the Japanese government had advanced property claims in Korea and claimed that its rule had been economically beneficial for Korean development – two positions that profoundly angered the Korean position. After Baguio, however, Kishi reportedly promised that he had ‘no intention of holding to our past legal interpretations’ and that he would withdraw the Kubota statement.35 It would not be until 1965 that Japan and Korea formally resumed diplomatic relations, but Kishi’s earlier unofficial diplomacy shows his determination to mend fences as a first step to reposition Japan to power in Asia.

In later years, Kishi pursued an ever bolder collaboration with MRA. All these initiatives were presented under the umbrella of Asian regionalism. In May 1959, for example, MRA held a conference in Otsu, near Kyoto, to discuss such questions as the ‘unity of Asian nations’, the ‘creation of an Asian continent that gives an answer to a divided world’, and the ‘purification of our nations from top to bottom, in order to give them the certainty of an incorruptible leadership’. Supporting messages were sent by Ngo Dinh Diem, the president of the Republic of Vietnam, the former prime minister of Burma, U Nu, and the General Secretary of the Arab League, Abdel Khalek Hassouna. Kishi welcomed the attendees, writing that ‘I have great respect for MRA, because it builds unity among nations on the basis of morality’.36 It was with these goals in mind that Kishi matured the idea of supporting the MRA Asia Center in Odawara.

Our conventional knowledge of Kishi ends with this resignation after the ANPO protests in 1960, but he continued his involvement in politics behind the scenes, and his fight for an Asian regionalism of the right is one such example. Having intervened for the MRA Asia Center as prime minister, he also championed it in later years, as emerges from a letter Kishi sent to the South Vietnamese strongman president, Ngo Dinh Diem, probably in early 1962. Kishi praised Diem’s ‘statesmanlike action’ to invite Japanese students to stage the MRA play The Tiger. He declared himself ‘convinced that now more than ever before the free people of Asia must unite in a common bid to save freedom, and this play is such an action’. He then urged Diem to attend the inauguration of the MRA Odawara Center. ‘Odawara, he explained, will be the first center in Asia wholly dedicated to training leadership in all fields and the youth in an ideological answer to Communism’.37

Kishi’s embrace of MRA, however, went beyond simple Cold War logic. The encounter between MRA discourse and Kishi’s Pan-Asianism led to a grey area of conceptual ambivalence, as seen in the meanings attached to ‘East’ and ‘West’. MRA envisioned Japan as a ‘third way’ between East and West, understood in Cold War terms, where East referred to the Communist bloc and West to the Free World. Conservatives such as Kishi, however, gave East–West a different meaning, much in line with the prewar rhetoric of East as Asia, and West as Euro-America. As argued by Ikeda, for example, when Foreign Minister Shigemitsu Mamoru talked in those years about ‘Japan as a bridge between East and West’, he meant that Japan would ‘reconcile Asian anticolonialism with the countries of the West’. Kishi’s mantra of ‘Japan as a member of Asia’ needs to be seen in the same light – that it was ‘Japan’s special place and mission’ to mediate between these two civilizations (Ikeda 2016, 38). Kishi, in other words, co-opted MRA rhetoric to repurpose the ideology that underpinned the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere for which Kishi had worked with conviction during the Second World War.

Ultimately, MRA, and its Asia Center in particular, added legitimacy to Japan’s wartime Pan-Asianism, by staging Asian unity through an aesthetics that evoked simultaneously the tropes of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere and those of the Bandung Conference (Figures 4, 5, and 6). As Naoko Shimazu has argued, the Bandung Conference developed important rituals and symbolism to present the ‘esprit de corps’ of newly independent nations and, in so doing, remained a model for a ‘variety of post-colonial experiences’ (Naoko 2014, 1, 6). Indeed, the imagery of Asian leaders at Bandung, which cast them as subjects of history – forward looking, diverse yet united – was also appropriated by MRA with the crucial difference that Japan, through Kishi, was added into the mix. Odawara was Kishi’s response to Bandung – it was a Bandung of the right, part of his vision to move Asia, and Southeast Asia in particular, away from the neutralism of the non-aligned movement and to tie it instead to a regional order in which Japan was the linchpin. At Bandung, Japan had played a marginal role, largely as observer; Kishi was determined to restore it to a central place.38 But this co-optation meant recapturing the aesthetics of the discourse of the Greater East Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, in which Japan played the role of the leader of Asia. In hijacking the symbolism of the Bandung Conference through MRA, Kishi proposed a vision of Asia that ran counter to Bandung itself, and which lent legitimacy to Japan as an independent actor in Cold War Asia.

[z34l0t]

"Wars start quickly but end messily. No one really knows how armies, technologies, and economic resources will behave when thrown into kinetic competition. Plans fail, confusion takes hold, and military advances give way to periods of stalemate."

"The past year in Ukraine is far more typical of war than Desert Storm was. Russia’s overwhelming power was anything but; instead of unleashing modern war on the Ukrainians, Russia relied on antiquated weaponry and command structures. Instead of taking Kyiv within weeks, Russian forces experienced major system breakdowns. Since then, Russia’s problems seem to have gotten worse. Putin has changed commanders like socks, equipment quality has degraded, and the number of casualties has skyrocketed. Now Russian and Ukrainian forces are facing each other in long lines of blood-soaked trenches, and Putin has little prospect of ending the war on his terms."

"And though one side in a conflict almost never simply overpowers the other, the risk of failure is especially high for a deeply flawed power such as Russia. The second lesson of the current war is that military power is not the foundation of national power but rather the product of the economic, technological, political, and social factors that shape a nation’s armed forces. Russia’s invasion of Ukraine is sometimes portrayed as pitting a great power against a small power. In Western policy circles, the dominance of Russia experts—many of whom have spent their career viewing Russia as a regional hegemon and its neighbors primarily as post-Soviet states—contributed to this framing of events."

"Russia is indisputably a nuclear power, but by virtually all other measures, it lags considerably behind its reputation. Russia’s economy is seriously flawed. Its GDP ranks about tenth in the world and is less than one-tenth the size of America’s. Creating much of its wealth through resource extraction, Russia makes few high-technology products and indeed little else of any real value. Socially, Russia—where the population is shrinking and life expectancy is relatively low—exhibits signs of great distress. Politically, it has ossified under a dictator who has consolidated his hold on his country by tolerating corruption among those close to the throne."

"In other words, today’s Russian military is the product of a declining kleptocracy, not of a great power. Yet even observers who perceive the factors sapping Russian power underestimate their importance relative to the squadrons of military equipment that the country’s decaying social structure has managed to create."

[…]✂️

"A third lesson of this war—and many others since 1945—is that underestimating the importance of national identity leads to military disaster. By conventional criteria, Ukraine is far stronger relative to today’s Russia than Afghanistan was relative to the U.S.S.R. in the 1980s—and than North Vietnam was to the U.S. in the 1960s. Both Cold War superpowers were humbled by their attempts to suppress local resistance by force, and both had to withdraw."

[animefreak1145]

The Irony of Adler and Bell

Call of Duty: Black Ops Analysis of Adler’s Brainwashing

It’s me again. And I’m here with another analysis! This time based solely around Adler. It’s always about Adler. But also Bell.

And this is about the brainwashing of not Bell, but Adler.

We have all had our theories since we first saw Adler getting tortured in the Cinematic Warzone Trailers, shown in Season 3 of COD:BOCW. Our suspicions growing when we see Sus Adler™️ doing what he does best in Season 4 by stealing an important looking chip within the crashed satellite that was taken down. (Also, Hudson, what is wrong with you letting Adler be cleared for a mission when he was just rescued like two weeks ago?!)

And although we did not see him in Season 5, we can all gather that anyone could be potentially brainwashed if you have a certain brand of earpiece. (Woods and Stryker appeared unaffected despite having their own earpieces). So the naive hope and calming words to others that Adler being different and strong is out the window. All it takes is hearing the numbers. What do the numbers mean, Mason?

Besides Bell wasn’t your average run of the mill agent either. An amazing decoder and created codes(I am with the theory that Bell did create the codes for Perseus that we have to decrypt in the game for Operation Chaos and Red Circus) with a brutal close combat skill as well as charming based on how one could talk to everyone and be a social butterfly. Also, able to handle and withstand torture after one hour of leaving Cuba despite previous injuries AND be able to go to Solovetsky/Duga and able to aim and shoot despite having a needle shoved in their eye a few hours earlier.

Bell had crazy skills. Just like Adler does. Bell was brainwashed. So is Adler.

Confirmed with this bundle that will be released. Thank you to @reclaimedbythesea who first found it and pointed it out.

We have the confirmation—the amazing, horrible, war criminal man we all love has become an agent of the man who he swore to chase down and capture/kill for longer than a decade. (Adler said thirteen years in COD:BOCW universe, so 1984 it would be sixteen years. Sheesh. Correct me if I’m wrong. I may be mistaken.) Is it wrong I kinda find it funny? Especially since he did the same thing to Bell—believing it to be necessary. Just as Stitch I’m sure finds it necessary.

It’s just a big brainwash back and forth between these two countries, a race to see who has the most mindless agents on their side in the end. But we’re not focusing on that.

We’re focusing on how Adler’s karma finally caught up to him with all his war crimes. We can infer that he hasn’t just done a cruel action like that to Bell, but to others. “Whatever it takes.” That’s his motto. He’s messed up other’s lives—hundreds, maybe even thousands. The Vietnam War has a deep dirty history, such as the real operation of Fracture Jaw, Operation Ranch Hand with the use of Agent Orange, the Mai(My) Lai Massacre and who knows how many other operations that would/did affect civilians. Not that I would see Adler doing anything like the massacre, but you can’t expect me to not believe that he may have been involved with Agent Orange somewhat? And who knows what other operations and missions he’s done as a CIA agent after the war?

My point is, the man has been gathering karma for awhile. Not just with Bell(I am aware he had his orders in the war, I’m just saying I’m not sure if he feels much guilt about some said orders. Guilt I believe he may has, but I’m not sure it’s a high degree.) Of course, Bell isn’t a saint either. They were willing to kill millions with Perseus after all. A wayyyy higher body count than Adler. And who knows what Bell did with Perseus even before the Greenlight plan? Didn’t seem to mind millions blinking in an eye, so must be pretty cold or delusional about the whole free world killing their country thing. Thank you @yunatheintrovert for this post pointing out and showing a hint of just how not good a person Bell was.

I’m not going to say they deserved what happened to them due to Adler. I feel for Bell. I really do. Just like I can’t say if Adler deserves it for everything—just can’t say that because I’m not at liberty to judge other’s actions and claim what is deserved and undeserved. Leave that to judges.

But now I’m going to point out certain things—other things. Such as what I think to be Adler’s “new” name. At least to those in the Perseus Collective/Stitch.

Do I realize that “Cipher” may just be what this awesome skin is called? Yes. Will I rather ignore it and rant about the name for two ten minutes? Also yes.

On to the analysis!

ci·pher/ˈsīfər/: a secret or disguised way of writing; a code.

This first definition is what we can all gather of what the numbers represent—the code and simultaneously the key of brainwashing others in earpieces with just a certain order of number together.

Stitch and co. used said numbers on Adler, so why not call him Cipher? The Code? Funny, cause he killed Bell—the Decoder. Maybe Bell would’ve helped him out if he didn’t kill them.

Another hammer to the irony of between these two.

But no. The name gets better. Second definition!

ci·pher /ˈsīfər/: a person or thing of no importance, especially a person who does the bidding of others and seems to have no will of their own.

PAHAHAHAHAHA! *clears throat* Now, this, this is what I think Stitch calls some true vengeance. Not only did he get to torture the man who did the same to him before, but made Adler a shadow of who he was before. A husk. Nothing really there. “Whatever it takes” indeed but for the opposite side now—a puppet with numbers for strings. Stitch did a good job in naming Cipher—I mean Adler. We don’t even know how far Adler shall go now, will the CIA have to kill him or will they be able to recondition him when/if they capture him? Will he even be the same? Nope.

Why do I find that definition funny? Well, I think Adler had a multitude of reasons for naming Bell, Bell. Just like Stitch did with Adler. And not just the obvious reasons of him ringing the bell at them to condition them as he was torturing/brainwashing them(we love Pavlov!). Let’s get the first definition out the way.

bell /bel/: a hollow object, typically made of metal and having the shape of a deep inverted cup widening at the lip, that sounds a clear musical note when struck, typically by means of a clapper inside.

I wonder if anyone knows where I’m going with this or I’m starting to seem like a madwoman.

I’m going to ask you guys to focus on the word, “hollow” for me. Hollow, as in not filled. There’s something in the bell alright, but it doesn’t do enough to fill out the hole does it? Like Cipher is now made a husk. Bell was made hollow—only a little bit filled with the little memory they got back before they were killed(maybe they weren’t, let’s just go with it for now). Or perhaps just a bit filled with false memories of Vietnam, of camaraderie. I doubt Stitch did anything like that.

Also, Bell is just an instrument for someone else to play. Play the right tune, and the Russian agent will do anything for you. Right, Adler?

Cipher is the puppet, just doing what he’s told when they give the orders. No will or thought. Just how Stitch likes it.

I’m not done yet! Second definition!

bell /bel/: a. A stroke on a hollow metal instrument to mark the hour.

b. The time indicated by the striking of this instrument, divided into half hours.

Another play on words of Bell being struck(jabbed with needles) to do what needs to be done. But it also represents the limited time that Bell has. Bell needs to help to stop Perseus and quick, Adler will make them go faster if needed by putting the highest dosage as possible without killing them to accomplish it. Or maybe it’s also a representation that Bell does actually have limited time left—Park did say MK—Ultra will be hard on the body physically and mentally. Perhaps MK-Ultra was slowly killing us and Adler just decided to give us a mercy kill while he was at it as he “tied up our strings.”( @cryinginthebackseat does point this out in their Adler/Bell story, go check it out!)

Let’s focus on the instrument thing again though, but back to Cipher. The third definition!

ci·pher /ˈsīfər/ : a continuous sounding of an organ pipe, caused by a mechanical defect.

Oh man. Sounds like Adler is being played like an instrument too, continuously due to all the numbers and how the numbers can be everywhere if one is in the armed forces since they all use earpieces. Interesting shape too, a pipe. Long and thin and has two holes, a beginning and an end but which one is the top or the bottom? The beginning and the end? We don’t know how far Adler will go like this—as Cipher. It will eventually come to a point, where something squeezes within the pipe and manages to get out. Maybe. Or maybe Adler is just forever defected, like the definition suggests.

Not quite Adler anymore and just Cipher.

Just like Bell will always just be Bell. The other self practically gone.

It seems these two will always somehow reflect and affect one another, whether one is dead or not.

I swear I love Adler, so don’t mind some of my dark humor about him and this situation he’s in. It is pretty funny. At least to me. Stitch is funny. And petty.

Hope you guys enjoyed!

@salvija @smokeywhalee @quizzyisdone @efingart @samatedeansbroccoli @weirdoartist21 @tr1ppylady

[ronnie-azumane]

Haikyuu guys as stuff my dad did

This idea has been in my brain for a while, so I'm writing it out. Hope y'all enjoy :)

CW: idn, its pretty wholesome

Daichi answers your frantic phone call home expressing that you forgot your backpack and laptop for college when you went home over the weekend. Expressing that all of your notes are in the backpack, he decides to wake-up extra early Monday morning and make the 2 1/2 hour drive to your university, then drive all the way back to your hometown to go to work.

Sugawara came up with the best hiding spot for you while playing hide and seek at your 7th birthday party. He squeezed you in-between the back of the couch and the back couch cushions. Then, he sat in front of it to conceal the awkward lump it made in the couch. It took the others 30 minutes before giving up and telling you to come out.

Asahi asks you to style his hair for a zoom meeting he has later that day. After some deliberation, you both decide to do a mohawk style. He braces himself as you run off to get the brush, hairspray, hair gel, and hairdryer.

Nishinoya still wears the Annoying Orange shirt you got him when you were in 3rd grade. It's faded and has a giant picture of Annoying Orange on it, which faded from popularity in 2010, but he still wears it. In public.

Tanaka makes the dumbest jokes while in the audience of your colorguard/dance competitions. For example, he asked your mom if he should shout "Go get 'em George" to the group of girls performing to confuse everyone. Another favorite joke o his is to chant "the worm, the worm,, we worship the worm" while the previous team is carrying out their floor.

Ennoshida talks with you as you make one of the biggest changes in your life. Midway through your second semester at university, you determine that business is not for you, however, you do not have a backup plan. Talking with him, you end up changing your major to Geography, and now you love every second of it.

Kageyama drinks the milk out of you cereal. You hate the taste of milk by itself, but you don't want to eat dry cereal. To not waste milk, he drinks it after you finish eating your cereal.

Hinata fails miserably when your mom tells him to reapply the medical glue on your forehead. The day before, your sister threw a wooden block at you, causing a major tear in your head. Your mom took you to the emergency room, but they were busy and it was a school night, so they told her to just take some liquid band aid (which we called glue) and close the wound. Your mom told him to replace the glue, and he took ELMERS GLUE and placed it on the open wound. It hurt like a bitch.

Tsukishima takes you to go see the museum of natural history once a month. He knows you're the odd girl out of your class that would rather play with dinosaurs than dolls, so he takes you to see the dinosaur fossils. He also gets a discount because his place of work donated a significant amount of money and resources to one of the exhibits.

Yamaguchi helped set up your setup once you moved to zoom university. He attached your laptop to a monitor his job had extra, so now you feel like a badass whenever you use the two screens.

Oikawa out of nowhere invites all his high school friends over to stay the week at your house. A trip that probably should have been planned in weeks, even months, is planned in just a weekend. Everyone ends up sleeping on air mattresses and blankets on the floor due to your mom just finishing up replacing the floors in the house (she was not too happy with the sudden trip, but was welcoming anyway)

Iwaizumi makes you watch Godzilla with him whenever it's on TV. Some of his fondest memories include receiving Godzilla themed ornaments from his mom ever Christmas. He also unironically watches those cheesy fan-made Godzilla fights on YouTube for hours on end. Man just likes Godzilla.

Hanamaki and you wear funny hats to a volunteer cookout. The organizers told every one to wear a hat so that their hair didn't get in the food, but you two take it a step further. You wear a banana hat while he wears a hotdog hat.

Matsukawa taught you how to make all kinds of breakfast food at a young age. Whether it was a simple as a fried egg or as complex as French toast, he worked with you until the recipe came out perfect.

Kyotani scares the other parents off when it comes to the silent auction selling the class are projects. Now the shelf you and your kindergarten classmates fingerprinted flowers and bugs on sits proudly in your closet holding crafting supplies.

Ushijima scolds you for leaving the lights on. Most parents do that already, but he takes it to a new extreme. Your mom explains that he would never turn the lights on in his apartment when he was in college and would simply get his homework done before dark. Sometimes, if he had something to do, he would light a candle to finish something up.

Tendou recalls a story in which he stole a bus battery with his buddies to power an air conditioned tent at boy scout camp. He also recalls the year he and his friends tried to build a pool in the wilderness at the same count, only to get caught and reprimanded for it before filling it with water which totally had nothing to do with a camp counselor finding it and having a Vietnam flashback

Goshiki watches anime with you. He always acts like he is uninterested in whatever show is on, but he soon gets super into it and it will be the only thing he talks about for a week.

Kuroo sits at the table with you until 2am working on that math assignment you have been struggling with. You've definitely run out of tears to cry, and had to redo the assignment twice, but he is guiding you through the answers

Yaku isn't a fan of all the pets you and your mom have collected over the years. I mean, in his defense, at one point we had 8 cats an 3 dogs. However, he is also super cuddly with them, always giving them nose boops and belly rubs.

Kenma plays Xbox, Wii, and the ds with you. He doesn't find the bulk of the games you play with him entertaining, but he is willing to run through LEGO Star Wars with you. His personal favorite to play is Mario Kart and he doesn't let you win >:(

Lev is trying to convince the family to let him take the position in Alaska with higher pay. When mom raised the concern that the long winters wouldn't do well for your mental health, his counter argument was, "Yeah, and that sucks, but hear me out. We could have a pet Polar Bear." We didn't move to Alaska

Bokuto was definitely the most enthusiastic dad at the girl scout father daughter dance. He twirled you around in your pretty little JC Penney dress and made sure you two were the center of the dance floor. At one point, he lifted you above his head with each foot in a hand like a cheerleader. Truly terrifying.

Akaashi drives out to the 24-hour pharmacy to pick up some cold medicine when you couldn't sleep due to a stuffy nose. He also checks up on you every hour when you are coughing with some mysterious disease (due to the lack of tests and priority of the high-risk, I will never know if I had Covid when I got sick in late March)

Aone gives you the biggest hug after you get released from the graduation ceremony. He isn't the best with words, so this hug speaks so much to you.

Terushima has been taking you to Mardi Gras in New Orleans since you were a baby. He doesn't care that it's mostly an adult party, he believes that everyone in the family should enjoy a good ol' Mardi Gras

Atsumu carries you on his shoulders all the time when you're small. He just thinks it's the cutest thing.

Osamu makes sure to host a crawfish boil every year. Whether its the neighbors, family, both, or just the household, you can expect some good, spicy crawfish with corn and potatoes whenever he cooks.

Kita teaches you how to drive a stick shift. He's frustrated that you cant move three feet before stalling, but then realizes that the issue was that you were in third gear, not first. He is now impressed that you were even able to start moving at third gear.

Sakusa takes you along with him to work. His job is full of tough men, so when they see him with you in a little blue dress-up tutu and a plastic tiara on your head, their hearts just melt.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

I just picked up an old paperback copy of a Vietnam War book called SEALs: UDT/SEAL Operations in Vietnam by Tim Bosiljevac. The book chronicles the early history of the Sea, Air and Land Teams, from their founding under President Kennedy through the end of the Vietnam War. The SEALs were created to be the Navy’s superhuman version of the Green Berets: “a naval guerrilla/counterguerrilla [force] with an emphasis on direct action raids and missions on targets in close proximity to bodies of water.” I love that line, “in close proximity to bodies of water.” That could mean a puddle…or hell, when you consider that human beings are about 70% water–“bodies of water” could mean just about anything.

There are a lot of great Vietnam War books out there, mostly memoirs, as Dr. Dolan explained:

Virtually anyone who saw combat and has a decent memory can write a decent book about it — and Vietnam, a war characterized by thousands of small skirmishes, was richer in incident and gore than an inner-city basketball tournament. When next you hear that rough voice asking, “War — what is it good for?”, you tell it: “First-person memoirs, that’s what!”

…This high literary output was a delayed gift of the utter lack of strategy which doomed the American enterprise in Vietnam: a war which consisted largely of sending small contingents of infantry out into the jungle to find the enemy, usually by getting ambushed, is bound to be a military disaster — but equally bound to produce an extraordinary number of fantastic combat tales.

Unfortunately SEALs lacks this first-person immediacy–it’s a third-person history, Bosiljevic’s Navy College master’s thesis turned into a book, and unfortunately it sometimes reads like a thesis.

Still, this is Nam, Dude–and we’re talking about the SEALs here. That means page after page of ambushes and skirmishes, some of which make for some pretty amazing reading, even in the third dry person.

One such ambush stuck out–one of those rarely reported, long-rumored showdowns between our guys and the hated, invisible “Russian advisors” who were never officially supposed to be there in South Vietnam.

ou kids out there who were born too late to remember the Cold War grudges probably won’t grasp the profound satisfaction that a scene like this offers your average armchair Cold Warrior. See, one thing our side could never get over was griping about how the Soviets were somehow cheating. This scene is the sort of “This is what happens when the SEALs catch you cheating” fantasy that all the armchair Cold Warriors dreamed about. It takes place in 1967–a big year for the SEALs in ‘Nam–in a province in the southwest corner of South Vietnam. Meaning, Russian advisors were operating in our own backyard, the bastuds!:

One particular SEAL ambush in 1967 in Kien Giang Province provided a surprise to a frogman force. The SEALs had been watching a reported supply route used by enemy forces on a remote canal. Late in the afternoon of the second day of their surveillance, a VC sampan floated into the kill zone. Besides the two indigenous guerrillas onboard, a tall, heavy Caucasian with a beard rode in the bow. He was dressed in what looked like a khaki uniform and was holding a communist assault rifle. Just as the craft pulled into the area, the communists became leery, as if sensing the danger nearby. Although initially startled at seeing the white man, the SEALs immediately let the law of the barroom prevail–when a fight is unavoidable, strike first, and strike hard. The frogmen unleashed a hail of fire into the enemy force. The Caucasian was hit in the chest in the initial burst of fire and went overboard. The VC attempted to jump in and assist him. Just then, a superior Vietcong force appeared and counterattacked. Outnumbered and outgunned, the SEALs fought a running gun battle to an area where they could extract. Later, they were debriefed about the incident by an intelligence officer. They were told to remain silent about the action. South Vietnamese intelligence had reported that the white man had been a Russian. It would remain a little-known fact that the guerrillas and North Vietnamese were assisted in their Third World brushfire war by a host of foreign advisers and technicians, including Soviets, Chinese, Eastern Bloc, Cuban, Korean, and other communist nationals.

There’s a serious ethical contradiction that seems lost on the author here, a contradiction that’s built into our DNA: On the one hand, the SEALs (very wisely) attack and kill without warning on the barroom theory about striking first and striking hard. Which makes sense, but goes against the suburban middle-class rules of fighting. Real middle-class American bar fights go something like this: a lot of shouting, a lot of loud long well-telegraphed empty threats, even formal declarations marking the combatant’s geographical location (“I’m here! I’m here, mutherfucker!”), dramatic tearing off of one’s shirt, verbal commands expressed in the Imperative Mood (“Come on! Come on, mutherfucker!”)… All that pre-game shouting in American bar-fights establishes the combatant’s sense of “fair play” that suburbanites tend to vastly overrate. It’s as though everyone’s worrying about what the post-game highlights will look like, what they’ll say after  the fight–about securing your place in history, or in the homecoming king vote. I dunno. I remember in Moscow in the mid-90s watching a Russian and an American go at it, and there couldn’t have been a bigger fight-culture clash: The American, some ripped red-head, went through the whole tearing his shirt off schtick, screaming and yelling about his geographical location, calling his Russian opponent all sorts of names implying that the Russian was a cheater whereas he wasn’t…It seemed ridiculous to everyone watching, especially the Russian guy, who tagged the redhead a few more times, messing up his Tony Award-winning act.

American Cold Warriors, armchair and otherwise, always carried around this grudge about the “rules” and about how Americans are just too damn decent for this corrupt awful world. And at the top of the grievance list was the fact that Russian advisors operated with the Vietnamese. Somehow, that just…wasn’t fair. Those damn Russkies–always cheating!

For anyone interested, I found a Russian site set up by Russian veterans of the Vietnam War, which features plenty of old war photos, as well as articles and short memoirs from the Russians who served. (Click here.)

About a decade ago, I was in Vietnam with a bunch of Russian friends from my old Moscow newspaper The eXile. One day, I peeled off from the group and took a tour of the Cu Chi Tunnels, the setting for one of the best of all the Vietnam War books. None of the Russians gave a shit about Cu Chi and all the stories I forced them to listen to out on the beaches–they found anything military boring, they’d heard too many war stories already from the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan, stories that were hard to top.

So off I went on an official Cu Chi Tunnels tour. There were 10 of us in my group, all but two Americans, including a retired couple from Texas: the wife was nervous, thin, harried; the husband one of those squat military retirees who infest the American southwest, tight shirt, large gut hanging over his belt, big fat forearms and fingers. Almost as soon as our tour started, the husband let us know that he was a Vietnam War veteran. He was a real loud-mouthed asshole–it was as though he’d practiced for this moment ever since Saigon fell. He did everything imaginable that day to reignite the Vietnam War. But our guide, a respectful young Vietnamese man, kept calm, letting the sore old loser blow off his steam. It added another layer of tension and entertainment to the whole Cu Chi Tunnels tour. Actually, just  walking around the cheap victory museum dedicated to my own country’s defeat made me feel like some neutered German tourist–isn’t that what post-war German tourists do, respectfully visit monuments to their defeat?

But the real action was the toothless rematch going on right here in Cu Chi: Old Veteran Guy  versus Young Wiry Vietnamese Guide. It went something like this: Our guide would show us some half-cheesy, half-horrifying commie exhibit on, say, Agent Orange, and our guide would say something like, “Agent Orange cause many death, many deformity for Vietnamese children, American government not recognize effects of illegal chemical war, refuse to pay reparations”…and the Texan would snarl, “Nope! Nope, nope, nope! Not true! No evidence! It’s all a crock, people, I know all about this, I was there. Agent Orange never hurt anyone–they’re just trying to get money from our government, that’s all.”

Or our guide would proudly relate how underdog Vietnamese, wearing shoes made out of torn tire treads, managed to defeat and outlast the mighty American imperial army. To which the veteran would bark, “Not true! You had the Russians backing you the whole time. You had an endless supply line of Russian weapons, Russian advisors, Russian and Chinese material. Don’t whitewash this little propaganda tour of yours, I know what happened! You cheated–you had all the help in the world!”

Or our guide would show us some of the clever ways that the Viet Cong concealed the entrances to their tunnels, and how they fooled the Americans with their earthy ingenuity; our veteran from Texas would literally walk over and stand between us and our skinny Vietnamese guide, and shout, “We could have pumped in poison gas into the tunnels, and it’d’ve all been over. I asked for poison gas, other commanders asked for poison gas too, believe me. The problem was that our side played fair–we were signatories to the Geneva Conventions. The jerks in Washington cared more about the Geneva Conventions than they cared about winning this war.”

The Americans winced and cowered. But our guide didn’t seem bothered–he seemed more worried that we would be dissatisfied tour customers. I realize now, his main goal was to make sure that the old veteran didn’t lodge a complaint.

“Our hands were tied because we couldn’t use poison gas–and let me tell you, if we were allowed to use chemical weapons or poison gas on those tunnels, we’d’ve saved a lot of lives, something the do-gooders in Washington couldn’t understand. So what could we do? We used fire hoses to pump in river water into the tunnel entrances that we found. That, or tear gas. But that was a waste of time. If we could have used poison gas on the communists in these tunnels here, it would have saved a lot of lives. A lot of lives.”

That was stunning–even this jerk had to couch his little fascist plans under the guise of “saving lives.” It crossed the line from asshole Ugly American to something almost downright impressive.

I kept waiting for our Vietnamese guide to blow a fuse or shout the old Texan down, or rip the vet’s cholesterol-hardened heart out with some Bruce Lee move and chomp it down while it was still beating, Jim Carrey-style. But our guide seemed genuinely empathetic, and genuinely worried that the tour would end badly. Maybe the guide had seen a lot of these types on his tour. Whatever the case, comparing the old loud-mouthed vet with this zen Vietnamese guide, you could see, in some small way, why and how we lost that war.

At the end of the tour, ol’ Texas veteran softened up, shook our guide’s hand, and congratulated him and the Vietnamese on their victory–a victory which, he now magnanimously conceded, they’d earned.

It was like witnessing the “25-years-later” scene of what happened to the Robert Duvall character decades after he wistfully declared, “Some day, this war’s gonna end…” Which is to say, there’s a reason why Coppola never filmed the 25-years-later scene.

- Mark Ames, “PHANTOM MILITARY ADVISORS AND “FAIR” FIGHTING.” The eXiled Online. June 21, 2011.

[somethingusefulfromflorida]

Alternate Cold War Elections

Democratic Presidential Nominees

1960: John F. Kennedy/Lyndon B. Johnson

1964: John F. Kennedy/Lyndon B. Johnson

1968: Lyndon B. Johnson/Hubert Humphrey

1972: Lyndon B. Johnson/Hubert Humphrey

1976: Hubert Humphrey/Fred Harris

1980: Ted Kennedy/Mo Udall

1984: Gary Hart/Jesse Jackson

1988: Gary Hart/Jesse Jackson

1992: Jesse Jackson/Al Gore

Republican Presidential Nominees

1960: Richard Nixon/Henry Cabot Lodge Jr

1964: Barry Goldwater/William E. Miller

1968: Nelson Rockefeller/Ronald Reagan

1972: Ronald Reagan/George Romney

1976: Ronald Reagan/Bob Dole

1980: Ronald Reagan/Bob Dole

1984: Bob Dole/George Bush

1988: Pat Robertson/Pat Buchanan

1992: Ted Stevens/Pat Saiki

1960 occurs as it did in our timeline, but 1964 sees Kennedy survive his assassination attempt and win re-election against segregationist and father of modern conservatism Barry Goldwater.

1968 sees Vice President Johnson as the front runner following the assassination of the president’s brother and Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy. Johnson still picks Hubert Humphrey as his running mate in this timeline as he did in our 1964, because Humphrey was a civil rights activist and father of modern liberalism (he’d be a progressive today, but in the 60s that was seen as a Republican term because of Teddy Roosevelt). Because Kennedy is still alive, Richard Nixon doesn’t stand a chance at securing renomination; he won in our 1968 because he positioned himself as less extreme than loser Goldwater, but in this timeline it would be a close race between moderate governor Nelson Rockefeller of New York and conservative governor Ronald Reagan of California. Rockefeller would probably pick Reagan as his VP to balance the ticket, east and west, liberal and conservative, while in our timeline the non-extremist but still conservative Nixon chose moderate governor Spiro Agnew of Massachusetts. Rockefeller/Reagan loses because Johnson’s messaging is clear (liberal), while Rockefeller’s is muddled (mixed ticket).

1972 sees Johnson and Humphrey narrowly win re-election because of their handling of the 1969-1970 recession and their promise to end the Vietnam War. Johnson died in 1973 in our timeline, so it’s possible he might bow out and let Humphrey get the nomination in 72, but I think he would be more likely to stay on as president and die in office. Ronald Reagan would be the front runner for the Republicans, and I see him likely winning the popular vote, with moderate governor George Romney of Massachusetts as his running mate. For a long time, Republicans tended to run on split tickets; liberal Eisenhower and conservative Nixon, conservative Nixon and moderate Agnew then moderate Ford, moderate Ford and conservative Dole, conservative Reagan and moderate Bush, years later we saw moderate McCain and conservative Palin, moderate Romney and conservative Ryan. That ship had sailed though, it’ll be noting but conservatives from here on out. But in this version of 72, Reagan plays it safe with moderate Romney (father of Mitt)

1976 sees president Humphrey run for re-election and lose in a landslide to Reagan who was so popular with Republicans that they would nominate him again despite losing. This is what they did to Nixon in our timeline, and it’s what the Democrats did to Adlai Stephenson in the 1950s. At first I thought Humphrey would run with former Georgia governor Jimmy Carter because he needed a moderate southerner to stand a chance, but Carter was not nationally known; he only won our 1976 because he positioned himself as a non-corrupt Washington outsider in the wake of Watergate. No Nixon in this timeline means no Watergate, so no need for Carter to run. Humphrey is super liberal, and he actually considered picking Oklahoma senator Fred Harris as his running mate in our 1968, so I’ll go with him instead. Harris supported Johnson’s Great Society (New Deal 2.0, War on Poverty), but didn’t support his war crimes in Vietnam. He ran himself in 72 and 76, losing both times, so I think he’s the perfect choice for Humphrey’s Vice. Reagan chooses fellow conservative Bob Dole as his VP this time because he figured Romney and the moderates were a liability last time; he goes full conservative (in for a penny in for a pound). I chose Dole because that’s who Gerald Ford picked in our 1976; moderate Ford originally had moderate Rockefeller as his VP, but replaced him with conservative Dole because he didn’t want to alienate conservative voters with a moderate/liberal Republican ticket against the moderate/liberal Democratic ticket of Carter and Mondale.

1980 would be much closer in this timeline than in ours. The economic policies that made Reagan king of the 80s make him royal fool of the 70s. The 1980 recession is seen as his fault instead of Carter’s, he pushes for wars against Iran after the revolution and the Soviets after they invade Afghanistan, which are unpopular so soon after Vietnam. Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts, brother of the still alive former president John F. Kennedy, is the frontrunner for the Democrats, and he picks representative Mo Udall as his VP. Udall was super liberal and the frontrunner in our 1976, only losing because Carter had less baggage; he would have been the first sitting representative to be elected president since James A. Garfield in 1880. When Kennedy challenged Carter in the 1980 primaries, Udall was his main supporter, so it makes sense for her to unite in this version of 1980. I think Reagan would win because he has a slight incumbency advantage, but it’s nowhere near the landslide of his 84 re-election in our timeline. I expect he would be impeached by House Democrats over his dealings with Iran and the Mujahideen in Afghanistan; in this timeline there was no Watergate, so this would become the defining scandal of the 20th century. Reagan wouldn’t resign because he was too proud and figures he had enough support to survive impeachment; he’s probably right, becoming the second president to be impeached and acquired after Andrew Johnson in 1868. But this means he is reviled by both parties after leaving office, going down in history as a middling-to-bad president like Nixon or George W. Bush

Senator Gary Hart of Colorado was a frontrunner in both 84 (losing to the late VP Walter Mondale, liberal protege of Hubert Humphrey), and 88 (dropping out of the race because of reports of an extramarital affair). Without Mondale as a challenger, he would win the 84 nomination hands down. I have him pick Reverend Jesse Jackson as his running mate to mirror our Mondale’s choice of Geraldine Ferraro. Ferraro would have been the first female VP, and Jackson would become the first black VP. After the economic collapse brought on by the scandal plagued Reagan administration, the Democrats were all but guaranteed to win back the White House as they did in our 76. Reagan’s VP Dole would be the front runner, and he would go back to the split ticket strategy, picking moderate CIA director George Bush as his running mate. Bush was the frontrunner in our 80 because he was the most experienced candidate with the highest qualifications, a foreign policy expert who lost to Reagan because he was REALLY boring. Regan picked him as VP to unite the party’s wings, so I can see Dole trying that here.

Side note: President Hart would have a very different relationship with Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher of the UK (if the Conservative Party was still in power in this timeline; they won in part because Democrat Carter was a terrible president, making their UK analog Labour Party look bad). In our timeline, Obama chose Hart as Envoy to Northern Ireland (like an ambassador, but Northern Ireland isn’t an independent country), so this Hart would be integral in opposing Thatcher’s death squads, helping to ease tensions during the Troubles

1988 sees Hart/Jackson re-elected, though his affair might become an analog to Clinton’s Lewinski Scndal, leading to the Republican Revolution in the 80s instead of the 90s. Reagan would be redeemed in the eyes of conservatives, and the Democratic sex scandal would lead them to pick another far-right evangelical as their nominee, televangelist Pat Robertson, who came in third in the Republican primaries in our 88 against VP Bush and senator Dole. No Bush and no Dole means Robertson is the frontrunner, and I figure he’d pick equally conservative columnist Pat Buchanan as his VP; Buchanan challenged Bush from the right in the 92 primaries, winning nearly a quarter of the vote (for the record, most incumbents run unopposed). Robertson and Buchanan are both non-politicians, so think of them as Double Trump.

1992, VP Jesse Jackson would be the frontrunner for the Democrats, though challenged from the right by moderate governor Bill Clinton of Arkansas. I think Jackson would get the nomination, but I don’t know if he would win because of conservative opposition to the super liberal Hart administration; it would be like Al Gore’s race in the 2000, with everybody comparing him to the divisive Clinton. Jackson would stand a better chance than Gore though because he would make history as the first black presidential nominee, a proto-Obama. A Midwesterner, I figure he’d want to distance himself from westerner Hart by picking a southerner like Clinton, though Clinton would reject him because he wants the top spot, not the #2. He might then go for governor Douglas Wilder of Virginia, the first black governor since reconstruction, though having two black candidates on the same ticket would be a pipe dream in the 90s. He would probably end up with senator Al Gore, just like our Clinton; Gore chose not to run for president in 92 because his son had been hit by a car, which wouldn’t happen in this timeline because of the butterfly effect. Republicans in our timeline rallied behind senate majority leader Bob Dole; if he were VP under Reagan and the failed nominee in 84, they would probably gather around Ted Stevens of Alaska instead. Stevens was the Republican whip (#2) and frontrunner for majority leader in 1995 before narrowly losing to Dole, so he would probably be leader in this timeline, making him the presidential frontrunner in 96, though he was more moderate because he was personally pro-abortion and eventually pro-environmentalism (conservative Nixon created the EPA, so maybe Stevens would be similar). He might pick Patricia Saiki, former Republican representative from Hawaii, just to create a totally Pacific ticket as a gimmick, as well as nominating the first woman VP like Ferraro in our 84.

I have no clue who would win in this 92. If Jackson, he would run again in 96, but I have no idea who against. If Stevens, he would run again in 96 against Bill Clinton; Clinton was like Reagan, extremely ambitious, he would not stop until he took the White House.

I’m open to suggestions going forward from here. 1992 largely depends on whether or not Ross Perot runs as an independent and gains as much traction as he did in our timeline. Most third party candidates have either no national appeal or exclusively regional appeal, but Perot was a legitimate contender, qualifying for debates with Bush and Clinton and eventually winning nearly a fifth of the popular vote. It would also depend more on the Cold War; without Reagan in the 80s, US-Soviet relations would be very different, and there’s no guarantee that the USSR would collapse. The Berlin Wall would definitely fall, but I don’t know what 1991 would look like in this alternate Russia.

What do you guys think?

[yessoupy]

/bastogne & lt. schott

a very cold episode

from the time they get there to the time they’re relieved by patton, they’ve been in the cold for about a week. we’re watching the men get adjusted to living in below-freezing weather day after day. no winter clothing, either. 

here, i suppose, is where i let you know what i’ve found out about my grandmother’s fiancé. 2d lt. raymond “ray” schott was born and raised in columbus, ohio. he attended capital university and enlisted at bowman field in louisville, kentucky on 15 june 1942, aged 21. he graduated as a flight officer from victorville army air field on 17 february 1943. he was assigned to 94th squadron of the 439th troop carrier group, 50th troop carrier wing, IXth air force troop carrier command. while stationed at upottery, england (from april to august of 1944) he was in charge of the officer’s mess for the entire base. due to this and prior service as the squadron mess officer as well as a successful flight as a glider pilot during operation market-garden, he was promoted to second lieutenant in november 1944. 

ray’s final mission was part of operation repulse, flown on 27 december 1944 to resupply the 101st airborne at bastogne. he flew chalk 39. the last third or so of the 50 gliders on this mission suffered heavy losses, with many pilots taken as prisoner. the C-47 that had towed his glider crashed, and he landed his glider safely about half a mile away. a farmer from the nearby village of salle found his body, and he’d been shot as he moved away from his glider. he had no weapon on him, meaning the germans had stripped him.

ray’s death in war turned my grandmother into an anti-war activist. she participated in peace marches and war protests. you would not have seen her shunning the troops who returned from vietnam, like some did. her problem was with the men sending boys to war, not the boys. later, she would volunteer at AIDS clinics. whenever i want to feel close to her, i wear her st. michael’s medal. i don’t know where she got it, but in talking with my aunt today she speculated that she’d likely bought it at the national cathedral, since she lived nearby there for so many years. 

i’ll follow up with photos in the next post!

[newstfionline]

Friday, June 25, 2021

The United States ranks last among 46 countries for trust in news (Reuters Institute) Trust in news worldwide grew slightly in the wake of the pandemic, according to the Reuters Institute’s annual Digital News Report. But not in the United States—it was one of the few countries that did not see an increase in trust from 2020 to 2021, and the percentage of Americans who trust news overall—29%—was the lowest among the 46 markets surveyed. The long-predicted end of the “Trump Bump” showed up clearly in the research, with Americans’ interest in news declining by 11%. National news outlets like The Washington Post, The New York Times, CNN and MSNBC have all seen significant dips in their audience numbers.

Western drought brings another woe: voracious grasshoppers (AP) A punishing drought in the U.S. West is drying up waterways, sparking wildfires and leaving farmers scrambling for water. Next up: a plague of voracious grasshoppers. Federal agriculture officials are launching what could become their largest grasshopper-killing campaign since the 1980s amid an outbreak of the drought-loving insects that cattle ranchers fear will strip bare public and private rangelands. In central Montana’s Phillips County, more than 50 miles (80 kilometers) from the nearest town, Frank Wiederrick said large numbers of grasshoppers started showing up on prairie surrounding his ranch in recent days. Already they’re beginning to denude trees around his house. “They’re everywhere,” Wiederrick said. “Drought and grasshoppers go together and they are cleaning us out.”

Condo building partially collapses in Miami-Dade (Washington Post) A large oceanfront condo building near Miami Beach partially collapsed early Thursday morning, killing at least one person, injuring another 10 or more and prompting a mass search-and-rescue response as 51 people remain unaccounted for. Dozens of units from police and fire agencies rushed to Champlain Towers South in Surfside, Fla., at 1:30 a.m. after the northeast corridor of the building collapsed, assistant fire chief Ray Jadallah said. Rescuers evacuated 35 people from the 12-story building, including two recovered from the rubble. Fifty-five of the more than 130 units were destroyed. The partial collapse came one day after the building had passed inspection.

Calls grow to evacuate Afghans to Guam as US troops leave (AP) In the chaotic, final hours of the Vietnam War, the U.S. evacuated thousands of South Vietnamese who supported the American mission and were at risk under the communist government. With U.S. and NATO forces facing a Sept. 11 deadline to leave Afghanistan, many are recalling that desperate, hasty exodus as they urge the Biden administration to evacuate thousands of Afghans who worked as interpreters or otherwise helped U.S. military operations there in the past two decades. Despite unusual bipartisan support in Congress, the administration hasn’t agreed to such a move, declining to publicly support something that could undermine security in the country as it unwinds a war that started after the 9/11 attacks. The Biden administration for now is focusing on accelerating a special visa program for Afghans who helped U.S. operations. Even if the legislation passed immediately, the number of visas would fall far short of the estimated 18,000 Afghans waiting to be processed. And the average wait is more than three years. The process also has been hampered by the coronavirus pandemic, which led the U.S. embassy in Afghanistan to suspend visa interviews.

Footage of Amazon destroying thousands of unsold items in Britain prompts calls for official investigation (Washington Post) British lawmakers are demanding a meeting with tech giant Amazon’s country manager after an investigation at a warehouse in Scotland revealed that thousands of unsold or returned items—including televisions, books, sealed face masks and laptops—were being destroyed by the company. Footage from the undercover investigation by ITV News at a warehouse in the Scottish town of Dunfermline, also showed drones, headphones, jewelry and countless other high-value products being placed into boxes labeled “destroy,” before huge trucks were followed carrying the stock to landfill sites and recycling centers. One ex-employee told ITV News that workers were expected to get rid of an estimated 130,000 items a week. The broadcaster described the practice as “waste on an astonishing level.” Amazon operates 175 centers worldwide, spanning more than 150 million square feet of space where employees prepare items to be shipped and delivered to customers around-the-clock. ITV News noted that the reason for the destruction of the goods may be attributable to Amazon’s business model. Companies worldwide store items in warehouses owned by the online shopping giant. However, if the items fail to sell, they are charged rising fees that some may struggle to pay, leading to piles of goods that need to be stored—or dumped—elsewhere. Many Britons, also concerned by the investigation, demanded to know why items that appeared to be in good condition were being dumped when vulnerable people or charities could have used the goods.

Black Sea tensions (Foreign Policy) Russia complained on Wednesday of a “blatant British provocation” in the Black Sea, as a British Navy vessel sailed near the Crimean peninsula on its way to port in Georgia. Both sides contest the facts of the incident: The Russian Defense Ministry said it fired warning shots near the British ship and dropped four bombs in its way, while the British Defense Ministry said no such obstruction occurred. A BBC journalist on board the British ship said he heard shots “out of range,” and that Russian military planes shadowed the vessel. Tensions in the area are expected to remain high as NATO conducts military exercises in the Black Sea starting on Monday.

It’s 118 Degrees in Siberia (Vice) The Arctic Circle is known for viciously cold winter temperatures that can cause frostbite within minutes—but this summer, parts of the area are so hot that touching the ground could burn your skin. The Siberian town of Verkhojansk recorded ground temperatures of 118 degrees on Monday, according to the European Union’s Earth Observation Programme. The agency’s satellites captured images of the record-breaking heat wave gripping the Russian north. The Siberian town of Saskylah saw an all-time peak ground temperature of 90 degrees, and other towns recorded temperatures near 110 degrees, according to the EU’s space agency. The World Meteorology Organization highlighted how dire the situation is in the Arctic, which is warming more than two times quicker than the global average. The fast rate is caused by a phenomenon called “Arctic amplification,” or the domino effect of the region’s highly reflective snow, large water volume, and fragile ecosystem. The high temperatures are causing wildfires in the Arctic too. As early as April, wildfires began to spark across Siberia, and got so bad the smoke could be seen from space, according to NASA imagery. In 2020, Siberia was also hit by record-breaking hot temperatures, dating back to 1885, according to National Geographic. “For a long time, we’ve been saying we’re going to get more extremes like strong heat waves,” Ruth Mottram, a climate scientist at the Danish Meteorological Institute, told National Geographic in 2020. “It’s a little like the projections are coming true, and sooner than we might have thought.”

Afghan government could collapse six months after US troops withdraw (The Hill) Afghanistan’s government could collapse as quickly as six months after all U.S. troops withdraw from the country, according to new analysis from the U.S. intelligence community. The latest intelligence assessment, reported by The Wall Street Journal, said that the Afghan government, led by President Ashraf Ghani, could collapse between six to 12 months after all American forces are pulled from the country. Some other officials, however, said that the government could fall as soon as three months after the U.S.’s withdrawal from Afghanistan is finished, the Journal reported. Previous analysis, the newspaper noted, said that Afghanistan’s government could stand for as long as two years after the American troops leave.

China’s borders (Foreign Policy) China’s borders will remain closed to most visitors until at least the second half of 2022 over concerns of further COVID-19 outbreaks imported from abroad. Chinese officials are reportedly worried about two sensitive events: the Beijing Winter Olympics and the formal conferral of an unprecedented third term for Chinese President Xi Jinping near the end of 2022. It’s possible some restrictions will remain until after the annual Two Sessions in early 2023. But the move may also reflect China’s lack of confidence in its own vaccines. Although its domestic vaccination program has been highly successful, with more than 1 billion doses administered, case data from other countries shows the Chinese vaccines aren’t doing a good job at preventing the spread of the virus, particularly the spread of new variants.

China says after massed drills that Taiwan’s future lies in ‘reunification’ (Reuters) Taiwan needs to be clearly aware that its future lies in “reunification” with China and that it cannot rely on the United States, China’s military said on Thursday, responding to questions on a massed incursion by Chinese warplanes last week. Twenty-eight Chinese air force aircraft, including fighters and nuclear-capable bombers, entered Taiwan’s air defence identification zone (ADIZ) last Tuesday, the largest number to date reported by the Chinese-claimed island’s government. The incident came shortly after Group of Seven leaders issued a joint statement scolding China for a series of issues and underscoring the importance of peace and stability across the Taiwan Strait, comments China condemned as “slander”.

Japan proposes four-day working week to improve work-life balance (DW) Japan is attempting to buck its “salaryman” stereotype and improve the work-life balance of its citizens in new economic policy guidelines that recommend a move to a four-day workweek. The Japanese government cited increased employee retention, especially for those caring for children or older relatives, as an incentive for employers to adopt the policy. Japanese authorities are hoping an extra day off per week will lead its citizens to solve even more societal problems: By using the time to do more shopping to boost the economy and by giving young people more time to socialize, which may, eventually, boost the country’s sluggish birth rate. However, there is concern that management will be reluctant to do away with some of the attitudes towards business that have served Japan Inc. so well for generations—even if there is clear evidence that traditional approaches are less effective than they were in the past. Employees, on the other hand, find the idea of a shorter working week appealing, but they do worry about reduced wages and accusations that they are not fully committed to their company.

Settlement Is Reached Over Stuck Ship That Blocked Suez Canal in Egypt (NYT) The owner and insurers of the enormous container ship that blocked the Suez Canal for six days in March and disrupted global shipping have reached a settlement with the Egyptian authorities, one of the insurers said on Wednesday. The insurer’s statement did not specify the amount, but said that once the settlement was formalized, the ship—after nearly three months of haggling, finger-pointing and court hearings—would finally complete its journey through the canal. Since the ship was freed in a huge salvage effort in March, about six days after running aground across the Suez, the canal authority had been locked in an often acrimonious standoff with the ship’s owner and operators over what the authority said it was owed for the incident. The authority had sought up to $1 billion in compensation.

[milkboydotnet]

Kwame Nkrumah on the methods of neo-colonialism (from Neo-Colonialism, the Last Stage of Imperialism):

Some of these methods used by neo-colonialists to slip past our guard must now be examined. The first is retention by the departing colonialists of various kinds of privileges which infringe on our sovereignty: that of setting up military bases or stationing troops in former colonies and the supplying of ‘advisers’ of one sort or another. Sometimes a number of ‘rights’ are demanded: land concessions, prospecting rights for minerals and/or oil; the ‘right’ to collect customs, to carry out administration, to issue paper money; to be exempt from customs duties and/or taxes for expatriate enterprises; and, above all, the ‘right’ to provide ‘aid’. Also demanded and granted are privileges in the cultural field; that Western information services be exclusive; and that those from socialist countries be excluded.

Even the cinema stories of fabulous Hollywood are loaded. One has only to listen to the cheers of an African audience as Hollywood’s heroes slaughter red Indians or Asiatics to understand the effectiveness of this weapon. For, in the developing continents, where the colonialist heritage has left a vast majority still illiterate, even the smallest child gets the message contained in the blood and thunder stories emanating from California. And along with murder and the Wild West goes an incessant barrage of anti-socialist propaganda, in which the trade union man, the revolutionary, or the man of dark skin is generally cast as the villain, while the policeman, the gum-shoe, the Federal agent — in a word, the CIA — type spy is ever the hero. Here, truly, is the ideological under-belly of those political murders which so often use local people as their instruments.

While Hollywood takes care of fiction, the enormous monopoly press, together with the outflow of slick, clever, expensive magazines, attends to what it chooses to call ���news. Within separate countries, one or two news agencies control the news handouts, so that a deadly uniformity is achieved, regardless of the number of separate newspapers or magazines; while internationally, the financial preponderance of the United States is felt more and more through its foreign correspondents and offices abroad, as well as through its influence over inter-national capitalist journalism. Under this guise, a flood of anti-liberation propaganda emanates from the capital cities of the West, directed against China, Vietnam, Indonesia, Algeria, Ghana and all countries which hack out their own independent path to freedom. Prejudice is rife. For example, wherever there is armed struggle against the forces of reaction, the nationalists are referred to as rebels, terrorists, or frequently ‘communist terrorists'!

Perhaps one of the most insidious methods of the neo-colonialists is evangelism. Following the liberation movement there has been a veritable riptide of religious sects, the overwhelming majority of them American. Typical of these are Jehovah’s Witnesses who recently created trouble in certain developing countries by busily teaching their citizens not to salute the new national flags. ‘Religion’ was too thin to smother the outcry that arose against this activity, and a temporary lull followed. But the number of evangelists continues to grow.

Yet even evangelism and the cinema are only two twigs on a much bigger tree. Dating from the end of 1961, the U.S. has actively developed a huge ideological plan for invading the so-called Third World, utilising all its facilities from press and radio to Peace Corps.

During 1962 and 1963 a number of international conferences to this end were held in several places, such as Nicosia in Cyprus, San Jose in Costa Rica, and Lagos in Nigeria. Participants included the CIA, the U.S. Information Agency (USIA), the Pentagon, the International Development Agency, the Peace Corps and others. Programmes were drawn up which included the systematic use of U.S. citizens abroad in virtual intelligence activities and propaganda work. Methods of recruiting political agents and of forcing ‘alliances’ with the U.S.A. were worked out. At the centre of its programmes lay the demand for an absolute U.S. monopoly in the field of propaganda, as well as for counteracting any independent efforts by developing states in the realm of information.

The United States sought, and still seeks, with considerable success, to co-ordinate on the basis of its own strategy the propaganda activities of all Western countries. In October 1961, a conference of NATO countries was held in Rome to discuss problems of psychological warfare. It appealed for the organisation of combined ideological operations in Afro-Asian countries by all participants.

In May and June 1962 a seminar was convened by the U.S. in Vienna on ideological warfare. It adopted a secret decision to engage in a propaganda offensive against the developing countries along lines laid down by the U.S.A. It was agreed that NATO propaganda agencies would, in practice if not in the public eye, keep in close contact with U.S. Embassies in their respective countries.

Among instruments of such Western psychological warfare are numbered the intelligence agencies of Western countries headed by those of the United States ‘Invisible Government’. But most significant among them all are Moral Re-Armament QARA), the Peace Corps and the United States Information Agency (USIA).

Moral Re-Armament is an organisation founded in 1938 by the American, Frank Buchman. In the last days before the second world war, it advocated the appeasement of Hitler, often extolling Himmler, the Gestapo chief. In Africa, MRA incursions began at the end of World War II. Against the big anti-colonial upsurge that followed victory in 1945, MRA spent millions advocating collaboration between the forces oppressing the African peoples and those same peoples. It is not without significance that Moise Tshombe and Joseph Kasavubu of Congo (Leopoldville) are both MRA supporters. George Seldes, in his book One Thousand Americans, characterised MRA as a fascist organisation ‘subsidised by . . . Fascists, and with a long record of collaboration with Fascists the world over. . . .’ This description is supported by the active participation in MRA of people like General Carpentier, former commander of NATO land forces, and General Ho Ying-chin, one of Chiang Kai-shek’s top generals. To cap this, several newspapers, some of them in the Western ;vorld, have claimed that MRA is actually subsidised by the CIA.

When MRA’s influence began to fail, some new instrument to cover the ideological arena was desired. It came in the establishment of the American Peace Corps in 1961 by President John Kennedy, with Sargent Shriver, Jr., his brother-in-law, in charge. Shriver, a millionaire who made his pile in land speculation in Chicago, was also known as the friend, confidant and co-worker of the former head of the Central Intelligence Agency, Allen Dulles. These two had worked together in both the Office of Strategic Services, U.S. war-time intelligence agency, and in the CIA.

Shriver’s record makes a mockery of President Kennedy’s alleged instruction to Shriver to ‘keep the CIA out of the Peace Corps’. So does the fact that, although the Peace Corps is advertised as a voluntary organisation, all its members are carefully screened by the U.S. Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI).

Since its creation in 1961, members of the Peace Corps have been exposed and expelled from many African, Middle Eastern and Asian countries for acts of subversion or prejudice. Indonesia, Tanzania, the Philippines, and even pro-West countries like Turkey and Iran, have complained of its activities.

However, perhaps the chief executor of U.S. psychological warfare is the United States Information Agency (USIA). Even for the wealthiest nation on earth, the U.S. lavishes an unusual amount of men, materials and money on this vehicle for its neo-colonial aims.

The USIA is staffed by some 12,000 persons to the tune of more than $130 million a year. It has more than seventy editorial staffs working on publications abroad. Of its network comprising 110 radio stations, 60 are outside the U.S. Programmes are broadcast for Africa by American stations in Morocco, Eritrea, Liberia, Crete, and Barcelona, Spain, as well as from off-shore stations on American ships. In Africa alone, the USIA transmits about thirty territorial and national radio programmes whose content glorifies the U.S. while attempting to discredit countries with an independent foreign policy.

The USIA boasts more than 120 branches in about 100 countries, 50 of which are in Africa alone. It has 250 centres in foreign countries, each of which is usually associated with a library. It employs about 200 cinemas and 8,000 projectors which draw upon its nearly 300 film libraries.

This agency is directed by a central body which operates in the name of the U.S. President, planning and coordinating its activities in close touch with the Pentagon, CIA and other Cold War agencies, including even armed forces intelligence centres.

In developing countries, the USIA actively tries to prevent expansion of national media of information so as itself to capture the market-place of ideas. It spends huge sums for publication and distribution of about sixty newspapers and magazines in Africa, Asia and Latin America.

The American government backs the USIA through direct pressures on developing nations. To ensure its agency a complete monopoly in propaganda, for instance, many agreements for economic co-operation offered by the U.S. include a demand that Americans be granted preferential rights to disseminate information. At the same time, in trying to close the new nations to other sources of information, it employs other pressures. For instance, after agreeing to set up USIA information centres in their countries, both Togo and Congo (Leopoldville) originally hoped to follow a non-aligned path and permit Russian information centres as a balance. But Washington threatened to stop all aid, thereby forcing these two countries to renounce their plan.

Unbiased studies of the USIA by such authorities as Dr R. Holt of Princeton University, Retired Colonel R. Van de Velde, former intelligence agents Murril Dayer, Wilson Dizard and others, have all called attention to the close ties between this agency and U.S. Intelligence. For example, Deputy Director Donald M. Wilson was a political intelligence agent in the U.S. Army. Assistant Director for Europe, Joseph Philips, was a successful espionage agent in several Eastern European countries.

Some USIA duties further expose its nature as a top intelligence arm of the U.S. imperialists. In the first place, it is expected to analyse the situation in each country, making recommendations to its Embassy, thereby to its Government, about changes that can tip the local balance in U.S. favour. Secondly, it organises networks of monitors for radio broadcasts and telephone conversations, while recruiting informers from government offices. It also hires people to distribute U.S. propaganda. Thirdly, it collects secret information with special reference to defence and economy, as a means of eliminating its international military and economic competitors. Fourthly, it buys its way into local publications to influence their policies, of which Latin America furnishes numerous examples. It has been active in bribing public figures, for example in Kenya and Tunisia. Finally, it finances, directs and often supplies with arms all anti-neutralist forces in the developing countries, witness Tshombe in Congo (Leopoldville) and Pak Hung Ji in South Korea. In a word, with virtually unlimited finances, there seems no bounds to its inventiveness in subversion.

One of the most recent developments in neo-colonialist strategy is the suggested establishment of a Businessmen Corps which will, like the Peace Corps, act in developing countries. In an article on ‘U.S. Intelligence and the Monopolies’ in International Affairs (Moscow, January 1965), V. Chernyavsky writes: ‘There can hardly be any doubt that this Corps is a new U.S. intelligence organisation created on the initiative of the American monopolies to use Big Business for espionage. It is by no means unusual for U.S. Intelligence to set up its own business firms which are merely thinly disguised espionage centres. For example, according to Chernyavsky, the C.I.A. has set up a firm in Taiwan known as Western Enterprises Inc. Under this cover it sends spies and saboteurs to South China. The New Asia Trading Company, a CIA firm in India, has also helped to camouflage U.S. intelligence agents operating in South-east Asia.

Such is the catalogue of neo-colonialism’s activities and methods in our time. Upon reading it, the faint-hearted might come to feel that they must give up in despair before such an array of apparent power and seemingly inexhaustible resources.

Fortunately, however, history furnishes innumerable proofs of one of its own major laws; that the budding future is always stronger than the withering past. This has been amply demonstrated during every major revolution throughout history.

[researchers3]

The Researchers

Cold War in the XXI Century

 As we all know the Cold War with the second World War shaped not only the modern geography, yet society, politics, ideologies and even modern technologies. It is believed that the conflict was a direct consequence of the victories of the allies over the axis. When it all ended over half of Europe was communist meanwhile the other half was capitalist, this extreme difference between the ideas caused a disruption of the fragile peace and raised up the tension between the Eastern and Western Block. This rising crisis resulted in the Warsaw pact, the creation of the NATO, the Berlin wall, the Iron curtain, among others. It's important to say that not only Europe was under huge political stress.  Asia, Africa and America, were also involved in their own ways, therebefore the Proxy Wars, minor fights, between minor countries with supplies of nations like the USA and USSR.

In Africa were many civil wars between military and political dictators, in Asia brutal wars like the Korea and the Vietnam ones, furthermore in South America, brutal civil conflicts between the Communist, Guerrillas and the right-wing dictatorships, one after another. Finally, it all ended in 1991 when the Soviet Union collapsed and was dissolute thanks to internal problems and by a man called Michael Gorbachev.  

Consequently, for some years the Cold War was interrupted and the western bloc NATO was expanding its dominance while the Soviet Union was reemerging as a new nation called the Russian Federation.  Sadly, the tensions were revived after the sanction on Russia were imposed and as a counterattack, they decided to involve the middle east conflict led by western forces.  

Therefore, the Russian influence in the world's economy and military dominance among the world is still striking even though its nation has been through many turbulent changes during the last centuries.

The Russian Military forces are by far one of the largest in the world, their huge influence is still present in many parts of the middle east. Afghanistan is a clear example of a country destroyed by the ideological interest of both the USSR and the USA, in 24 Dec 1979 – 15 de Feb 1989 the communist soviet forces steamrolled through Afghanistan, this conflict was called the Soviet-Afghan war, on the other side, the official war ended with the withdrawal of the Soviet forces. However, the conflict did not end then. There are still some military remains like all their equipment and guns. Thus, in 2001 the US started an invasion of Afghanistan to stop “The Taliban''.  Modern-day Russia is supporting the Taliban as a direct consequence for all they're to the 40 years sanctions and restrictions, as says Gibbons (2017) “KABUL — The general in charge of the U.S. forces in Afghanistan appeared to confirm Monday that Russia is sending weapons to the Taliban, an intervention that will probably further complicate the 15-year-old war here. The Kremlin’s relations with the United States.” (parag.1) For an instance, we can confirm that their interest in helping the terrorist forces. Another point we have to confirm there are remains in soviet ideology and interest is the areas said by Dmitriy Frolovskiy (2020) “Memories of the balance that existed in the days of the Soviet Union and the threat of chaos posed by the rise of radical non-state actors such as ISIS paved the way for Russians to return to the Middle East and the acceptance of its growing regional role.” (parag. 3) their main goal is the counterweight the US insolvent in the Middle east as said by Dmitriy Orlovskiy “Russia was deemed both effective and powerful enough to act as a counterweight to the U.S” ...  Previously mentioned data state clearly that Russia is still present in most of the conflict zones where the western forces are involved to destabilize the opponent forces.

 lthough the Soviet Union was dissolved, their ideology still remains in some foreign countries, even continents like Asia or America. A clear example of communism in China is thanks to Deng Xiaoping he was the beginning of communism in China as he was the one who confiscated the companies to build industrial China which after a long time of struggling became one of the most influential countries worldwide (BBC News Mundo/ 30/8/19 / said in the last argument "the political communist spectrum around the world is still large, but what about the new left? Is there any change in their ideas? The answer is yes, but don't get ahead of yourself, it is simple in 1970-1980 the USSR was losing the economic and ideological war and therefore they had to change their mechanics, they would stop fighting in a militaristic, violent way and would turn their focus in a social-cultural war". 

 Here we see the rise of the new thoughts like the ideology of gender, the social war between the Woman and the Man and third wave radical feminism. As Juan Elman says (2018)” Communism did not die ”, state the authors. With the fall of the Soviet Union in the 1990s, the left shifted from economics to culture. He conquered the classrooms, the arts and communication. He conquered backpack pins, cell phone cases and Pinterest graffiti. Conquered. The proclamations of the revolution, although in cool packaging, did not die: to carry it out, the left “invented” new conflicts. This was born the so-called gender ideology, the concept -central link” (parrag. 11) this was originally said by Agustin Laje an writer and an historian which talks about the new left in a series of books, one of the most popular of them is “The black book of the new left” Therefore, having ideological influence in the world keeps Russians and their philosophy present in many spheres of the world.

The Cold War began thanks to the fact that the United States and Russia were fighting over who would be the next to lead the world since they had wiped out the Nazis. Their race caused that more missiles and other dangerous weapons were created to show who was the one who had the power,  and many consequences have been seen worldwide.  Both countries would have much larger weaponry that needed to be used to defend their country  and their ambition for ruling the world has never stopped even though Russia played a less influential role in the previous two decades.  The F-4 Phantom the US Navy's Phantom F-4 fighter-bomber could carry a payload of more than 8 tons of weaponry and was also noted for its speed, reaching a close maximum. at Mach 2.23. This Cold War icon has served the United States and its allies in Vietnam, Iraq, and Kuwait. This is stated by the page (RT / Published June 24, 2017 00:24 GMT / no author)  

    The Cold War was widely recognized and we believe that it is one of the most important and major conflicts in history, since it was a warfare that did not use weapons it used planning, spying and proxy conflicts. At the conclusion of this problem, it can be said that beyond these two blocks there was a third world, the non-aligned countries, but their responses to conflicts were really conditioned by some block. The Cold War avoided a generalized direct confrontation, therefore it was called a “COLD WAR” however don't let that name fool you, it was a cruel, violent and changing war, as said it shaped the modern word, and so for its important to learn about it, to understand the why, where and when.  

“You have to know the past to understand the present.” - Carl Sagan

Bibliography and Sources:

 Gibbons-Neff, T. (2017, 24 Abril). Russia is sending weapons to Taliban, top U.S. general confirms. Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/checkpoint/wp/2017/04/24/russia-is-sending-weapons-to-taliban-top-u-s-general-confirms/

 Frolovskiy, D. (2020, 1 June). Russia’s involvement in the Middle East: Building sandcastles and ignoring the streets. Middle East Institute. https://www.mei.edu/publications/russias-involvement-middle-east-building-sandcastles-and-ignoring-streets

 BBC News Mundo (2019 30 ago) Cuán comunista es realmente China hoy | BBC Mundo Cuán comunista es realmente China hoy | BBC Mundo

 Bermúdez, E. A. (2018, February 5). Who's Afraid of Agustín Laje? Zero seventy  https://cerosetenta.uniandes.edu.co/laje-derecha/ RT (2017 JUN 25)

[bravadoseries]

Probably weird and hard, so take you time to answer, but if Audrey was canon in the comics, what changes would be made when adapting her character into a MCU? I mean stuff like the fact that Tony built his in Afghanistan in the movie when in the comic he did it in Vietnam.

this was such a fun question thank you so much!  i’m gonna separate this into two parts: audrey’s comics storyline and how her mcu adaptation is different.  so sorry this is so long! 

audrey rogers (later audrey lange and audrey banner) was introduced in the 1950s after captain america’s popularity declined and the war ended.  her original aging thing was that she aged pretty fast and then like maxed out when she was physically 18 or 20 (like the baby from twilight).  she was originally supposed to speak to teenage girls and other women to encourage them to embrace patriotism and reject communism, and she’s mentored by her father (since peggy’s originally written in the comics as a pretty minor character).  audrey is given her batons by howard stark but in the comics they’re much more torchlike (really emphasizing the whole lady liberty moniker).  

throughout the 50s and 60s, she’s got a dual-identity thing going on.  she’s audrey lange (nee rogers), a teacher married to Joshua Lange, her high school sweetheart and a young, good-hearted, all-american politician.  nobody knows about her identity except for her father, howard stark, and howard’s son tony.  

during the 60s, lady liberty and black widow are often portrayed as character foils and enemies.  lady liberty is sweet as apple pie, she likes to kiss babies and shake hands with senators and say things like God Bless America while the black widow is seductive, brutal, and most importantly—communist.  the two are each other’s biggest rivals for the beginning of their respective comics’ histories (ok i just watched killing eve and i am obsessed with it but i think they are usually trying to track each other down similarly to eve and villanelle).  idk if you watch glow but it’s like the zoya/liberty belle characters. that’s what’s going on. 

in the comics, lady liberty is responsible for helping black widow defect from the red room and join the American cause.  their first enemy together is julian bardot, who is selling nuclear tech to the highest bidder, and both of them want to discourage their respective organizations from purchasing nuclear bombs as the comics began to go into more anti-war propaganda.  audrey teams up with tony at this point and their comics characters become friends.  

during the vietnam war, the whole american propaganda thing was declining in popularity so they sent audrey to vietnam as a spy, where she was known as the angel of mercy.  after realizing that the war was a corrupt cause, she abandoned the angel of mercy title and began working as a vigilante with civil rights activist and empire state engineering student lindsey dubois, caroline, a secretary heavily implied to be gay (living with her close female friend and unmarried) who would become the vigilante ace of spades, chinese refugee and nurse claudia liau, and delphine lamontagne, a french exchange student who came to the US looking to find a scientist to help her understand her powers.  They specifically target human traffickers.  

At this point, Josh Lange becomes mayor of New York City, and the strain of audrey’s vigilantism and her unwillingness to have children leads their marriage to crumble.  they divorce and it’s a big comics thing (later, backlash causes marvel to try to retcon their marriage at all and say they were just engaged)  

lady liberty is written into the avengers in the 1970s again because she realizes that the vigilantism was too dangerous or something (i feel like realistically it’s just that sales were low for a diverse group of female heroes but whatever).  her storylines are based around that for a few years, however, after the marvel comics watergate, captain america abandons his title and becomes nomad and audrey abandons superhero work in favor of working as a lawyer (? i think).  

in the 1980s, audrey is written as working as a law professor at culver, where she meets bruce banner.  i don’t know a ton about hulk comics but i think he was permanently hulked out for the 70s and started gaining control in the 80s? pretty sure.  anyway audrey’s never met bruce before but he’s got a dual identity thing going on and she’s like You Really Seem Familiar.  when she figures out his dual identity a) they become romantically involved and b) she tries to get into hero work again.  

there was a lack of interest in her character as more than a love interest, though, so from the late 80s to ’91, audrey is kidnapped and brainwashed by hydra.  she’s given powers through hydra experimentation but refuses to use them unless forced to because they cause her immense pain.  she is activated through trigger words and known by the name Red Scare.  During this period, she serves as one of Captain America’s primary antagonists, but he doesn’t realize that Audrey is his daughter, he just thinks she’s dead.  

When the Soviet Union falls in 1991, Audrey is returned to the united states and begins working as a shield agent because of the intelligence she’d collected while abroad.  Josh Lange, now running for president of the United States, proposes to her in the late 90s and they marry, but Audrey begins to secretly undermine his political agenda once he’s elected due to his staunch anti-gifted stance and preference for order, no matter the cost.  Audrey is portrayed as an unsatisfied First Lady until 2005, when Tony Stark starts the New Avengers to help defeat the mass breakout of the Raft, a prison holding many supervillains.  Knowing she cannot just stand by, she leaves Joshua and commits to becoming a hero full time.  

During the Civil War comics arc, Audrey opposes the mandatory federal registration of super-powered beings due to her experience with politicians.  However, many oppose her presence in the movement for that very reason.  She and Bruce Banner attempt another romantic relationship, but he favors the registration act and they soon break up.  When her father attempts to surrender in order to stop the violence, she does so instead, knowing that she will be less of a loss to the movement.  

At the same time, the United States launches Hulk into space (idk this was a real thing with the whole planet hulk arc) and Thor, wanting to help turn Hulk back into banner, breaks Audrey free from prison and brings her to Sakaar.  She helps him turn back into Bruce and the two actually begin a romantic relationship, with him seeing where the registration act got him (Launched Into Space).  When they return to Earth, Audrey and Bruce both decide to retire from hero work and open a school not for mutants but for other powered people which becomes a rival to charles xavier’s school.  

From there, it’s a bunch of sporadic storylines.  I think at some point she may become director of SHIELD when Steve is president?  Because I know that was like a thing in the 70s. audrey’s powers are connected to thanos in a way that’s spoilery so I won’t go too into detail but when he pops up with the infinity stones arc, she plays a part in that.  

anyway!

So there’s a lot of differences between the hypothetical movies and the hypothetical comics but i think obviously the biggest is Audrey’s backstory and aging.  Since she ages slowly and was without Steve’s guidance, she grew up isolated and protected from the rest of the world.  Audrey’s personality at the beginning is supposed to be reminiscent of her personality as the initial Lady Liberty—very sweet and positive and very much a character foil to Natasha, but instead of Audrey recruiting Natasha to SHIELD and helping her become a hero, it’s the other way around.  Obviously Peggy’s role is very different, too, as is Josh’s (he’s a much more minor character in the films than in the comics).  

The first Lady Liberty film adapts her transition from more of a hollow, symbolic hero to someone who is directly involved in the fight.  There’s also references to her Red Scare arc except it’s the 60s and not the 90s.  Here, we also have reference to Natasha and Audrey fighting Julian Bardot and his weapons, but removed from the Cold War context and instead shifted to the post-Chitauri circumstances.  Delphine is also introduced, though not as a vigilante at this point or as a student but as a capable DGSE agent.  The setup here is for her to have her own adventures eventually I think.  

A lot of the changes have to do with the order of things.  Because the MCU takes place over a decade and not like 50 years, things get switched around.  TWS and AOU are both more modern plotlines that got reinvented and brought into the MCU.  I think I’m probably gonna be changing the Civil War conflict to add more of the comics element to it as well.  

Audrey’s vigilante team storyline, though unpopular at the time of its original publication, works better now, so it’s brought back for the second Lady Liberty film, which is set after Civil War.  Audrey at this point is much more brutal and has lost faith in the system similarly to how she lost faith in the system because of Vietnam.  Audrey never becomes a lawyer, but she does have a reunion with Bruce post CW during the MCU equivalent of Planet Hulk because (though unlike the comics he went by choice) he got launched into space.  Audrey’s involvement in this storyline is much more accidental in the movies than in the comics.  

I think also unlike the comics, Audrey doesn’t use her powers more because she feels unnatural when she does and not because it physically hurts.  She also loses control.  The movies also more specifically detail how where her powers came from.  

The third Lady Liberty film, resurrection, is a movie that covers Audrey, Thanos, and more of her outer space adventures lol.  And the next gen TV series, which primarily just features guest appearances from the Avengers, adapts the idea of the Avengers Academy.  

thank you so much again for this ask sorry it got so long i had so much fun answering it !!!

[the-original-b]

Archangel: Todesengel

Format: Prose / Fiction, one-shot

Word Count: c. 9,100

Summary: Krueger leads Amur Company on a hellish mission that leaves an indelible black mark on the souls of the survivors.

Warning(s): blood, gore, graphic violence, sexual violence

Firebase Ash, the Laos-Cambodia border region, late 2012.

 The Mi-26 landed on the helipad and opened its bay door as its rotors slowed, and the six members of Amur Company stepped down the ramp dressed in tiger stripe BDUs. They continued further away from the helicopter as they surveyed their surroundings—the perimeter walls, command tower a few hundred yards before them, the barracks in one direction, the armory in another, probably other buildings in places out of sight.

Krueger recognized it immediately as an old military outpost, likely used by top-secret groups like MACV-SOG as a launch pad for all of their clandestine operations in the lands bordering Vietnam during the war. A mark on history written in invisible ink, hidden away where nobody would care to look—he found the similarities in his own life and career outside of Special Forces.

The six of them were greeted by two medium-skinned men of unremarkable stature dressed in officer’s uniforms. The wider of them wore a dark beret to cover his graying hair. The other sported a full head of jet black hair cut in a military fade and appeared much younger than he likely was. He approached the six of them. “Who among you is Archangel?” His English was remarkable.

Krueger stepped forward, removing his dark sunglasses and tucking a wayward lock of hair behind his ear, smoothing it out. These days it was long enough that he tied it into a pony tail that brushed the space above his shoulder blades. “I am.” He held out his hand for the man to shake. “Are you San Boran?”

The other man shook it. “I am Chea Hang,” he introduced himself. “Second-in-command and interpreter for Commander San.” He gestured the other man, who gave him a respectful downward nod. “He extends his appreciation for your willingness to help.”

“Of course.” He let go of Chea Hang’s hand. “As I understand, we’re here to assist your soldiers in driving out a resistance force from the region. Have your men located where they operate?”

Chea Hang looked over to the other officer—to San Boran—and relayed Krueger’s question to him in Khmer. San Boran replied, and Chea Hang delivered the message: “We’ve narrowed it down to an area of the forest south and west of our base, but our patrols have so far been unable to pinpoint their location.”

Essentially, the task at hand boiled down to search-and-destroy; something Krueger had done a hundred times before. “Weapons on site?”

“The armory is this way,” Chea Hang said. “If you’ll follow me…”

Krueger gestured the other members of Amur Company to join him on the way to the armory.

On the way there they passed by the barracks and a makeshift holding cell, out of which a soldier stepped as he buttoned his pants back up. He turned to leer at Seza, who didn’t as much as look in his direction.

Krueger briefly looked inside the door to see their barely-clothed prisoner handcuffed to a chair just before the soldier shut it again behind him. He now fully understood the type of people Chea Hang and San Boran were, and concealed his contempt for them as they made it to the armory.

The six members of Amur Company inspected the weapons and munitions stored there—ammunition designed for maximum damage like the M67 and 7N6 soviet rounds, a vast collection of AK derivatives, and a handful of reclaimed Cold-War-era western weapons.  

Brock examined one of these crates labelled 60mm WP. “Willie Pete,” he said. “Hoped I’d never see you again.”

“Willie Pete?” Seza was unfamiliar with the designation.

“White phosphorus,” Krueger said. “A pyrophoric.”

“Meaning it catches fire on contact with air,” Jackson elaborated. “Then boils as it burns, throwing smaller chunks of the stuff over a wider area which, also catch fire and boil and throw chunks.”

“More toxic than cyanide if absorbed by the body,” Krueger continued. “The fumes are dangerous too, forming phosphoric acid in the lungs.”

“What you’d get if Satan spat on napalm,” Brock concluded, turning away from the incendiary devices.

Chea Hang leaned a little closer to them. “Is this sufficient.”

Krueger was aware of the possibility of having to use the chemical weapons, but resolved to use as many other available tools as possible before it came to that. He nodded in response to Chea Hang. “It will do.”

 ~~~~

Chea Hang and San Boran led the members of Amur Company to the command building, where they reviewed the mission parameters and outlined a strategy. Afterward he showed them to their quarters in the same building—a row of individual rooms that likely once domiciled officers or other VIPs—and wished them well on their hunt.

Krueger laid his duffel on the floor beside the desk and hung his BDU jacket over the back of his chair, then stood before the window overlooking the rest of the compound and the forest line beyond the walls. Absentmindedly he watched the people below, and followed a helicopter with his eyes as it took off from the helipad to get to who-knows-where.

“You’re lucky,” Seza said to him from his doorway, in her fatigue bottoms and a dark t-shirt with her air tied in a fat braid. “You have a window.” She crossed the threshold and locked the door behind her.

“Yes,” Krueger said as he drew the blinds. “Well, the view is nothing special.” He had only taken a few steps in her direction before she sprang into him, throwing her arms and legs around him and squeezing. The world around them—the stuffy room in the old building, the jungle, the job—all seemed to fall away as they shared fervent kisses, her palms pressed against his bearded cheeks, his hands under her shirt pressing against her skin of her back and holding her warmth closer.

“I’ve been waiting to do that since Tây Ninh,” he sighed when they finally broke contact.

“I can tell,” she whispered, her eyelids still shut and lips curling upward into a smile as her forehead touched his. It was almost a year since the last time they were in the field together.

Krueger kissed her again gingerly as the world around them returned, and sighed wistfully.

“What is it?” She opened her eyes again, unwrapping her legs from around his waist but keeping her hands on him.

“I don’t like this job, Seza,” he said. From the beginning he didn’t want to take it, but he thought of the others when he forwarded the offer to them. “We hunt people like San Boran, we don’t work with them.”

“I know,” she said. “But it was our choice too. We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t all make the decision.” She shifted one hand to caress his ten-day beard accented with gray hairs. “We’re with you, Archangel,” she whispered as she pulled herself close again, “I am with you.”

She sealed her promise to him with another deep kiss as she and Krueger fell backward onto the mattress. She straddled him as she worked her hands underneath his sleeveless undershirt to lift it off of him. He returned in kind, raising her t-shirt above her head to expose her skin, sports bra, and tattoos—both the stripes she shared with him and the rest of the unit, and a string of words written up her ribs on her right; the warrior’s truth Krueger shared with her that day in Italy, memorialized in Arabic.

 ~~

The two of them joined Brock, Wyatt, Alicia, and Jackson for dinner that evening, and Seza returned to Krueger’s bed later that first night, as she regularly had since the Pergola job three years ago.

Their first day on patrol, they and a contingent of San Boran’s forces surveyed the area where the resistance were believed to be headquartered. In their reconnaissance they discovered the area was about twice as large as previously thought, and identified a network of rudimentary villages hidden in the forest. Wyatt deduced the resistance occupied one at a time, and moved between settlements to throw their pursuers off their trail.

While circling back to return to headquarters, one of the soldiers was killed by an improvised trap, and Krueger saved another from a similar fate when he spotted a tripwire. As they had more experience than anyone else there with booby traps, Jackson and Alicia led them out of the field, disarming any traps they came across on their way back to Firebase Ash.

Krueger reported his findings to San Boran and Chea Hang that evening, and after dining with his team he returned to his quarters. Seza slept with him again.

On the second day, Krueger decided to split the patrol group into six squads to cover more ground, sending Alicia, Brock, Wyatt, Jackson and Seza with each of five of them while he joined the sixth. He made them all aware of the traps in the field, and ensured there was at least one other English speaker in the squads so his team can communicate with them.

While out on patrol, Seza’s team came under fire from a resistance scouting party, and by the time Krueger and his squad arrived to assist, they had dealt with the resistance and managed to capture one alive, a woman.

Krueger discreetly checked Seza for injuries—a few scrapes aside she appeared otherwise unharmed. “You okay?” he asked her.

Seza nodded. “They wounded one of us, but he’s alive.” She watched three of the soldiers deal with their captive.

Krueger watched them with her. “Do you know what they’re saying?”

“My Khmer isn’t perfect,” she said, “but I can make sense of it.” She watched them get the wounded woman to her feet. “They’re telling her she’ll live… they’re also commenting about how they lost their last prisoner.”

Things took a turn when two of the soldiers ripped her clothes off and held her down by her wrists while the third unbuttoned his pants.

Krueger turned away the moment the one soldier mounted the resistance fighter. He rested his hand on his jacket collar to stop it from reaching down to his sidearm holstered on his thigh. Most of the other soldiers present averted their eyes as well.

Seza didn’t turn away; she watched the man assault their prisoner while the other two held her down, probably waiting their turn, with growing disgust as her grip tightened on her AKM.

“Don’t,” Krueger ordered, not turning his head.

She let the rifle hang on its sling and shook her head. “Is there nothing we can do?” she whispered.

“Not here,” he said. “No.”

Seza loosened her hold on the rifle, dropping her one hand from the rear grip and resting her other hand on the foregrip near the rear sights. She shut her eyes and let what was happening before her happen, wishing to herself for anything to stop it.

Her wish came true when she heard one of the soldiers shriek—she and Krueger turned back to see the one solder recoil away from their prisoner, his pants around his ankles, covering half his face. Apparently she was able to get a hand loose and claw at him.

One of the other soldiers responded by stepping on her freed wrist to pin her down and ramming the butt of his rifle into her head and jaw a few times, knocking her unconscious. He had his associate bind her wrists together and hoist her over his shoulders to continue back to base along their patrol route. The injured soldier broke formation to address his wounds before heading back; Seza discreetly followed him.

 ~~

She stalked him to the river, and observed from a distance as he knelt down beside the running water to splash his face several times; she couldn’t see the damage from her angle but was able to see streaks of red that kept trickling into the river no matter how many times he tried to clean the wound. She decided it wasn’t enough.

Seza crept out from her hiding place and stealthily approached him, reaching for her knife on her left hip and pulling it from its sheath as she closed the distance. She snuck up behind the kneeling man and inverted the grip on her blade when she was a few yards from him, just outside of striking distance.

She hadn’t even noticed Krueger emerge from her peripheral vision to walk right up beside the knelt-down soldier and plant his boot onto the back of his neck, holding his head underwater.

The soldier thrashed under Krueger’s heel, the water around his face bubbling as it turned red from his gushing wound. For the nearly forty seconds he held the man’s head underwater, Seza studied his posture and profile, deducing his lack of remorse over his actions. For all of the seven years she observed him, he was always so precise and efficient in delivering death. This was different—she saw he nearly savored what he was doing to him. She saw him as his enemies did—grim, violent, and merciless.

Seza re-sheathed the knife and slowly approached Krueger as the man below him eventually stopped moving, and life escaped him with a few more bubbles and involuntary spasms. When he was finally dead Krueger turned him over onto his back to take an M70 bayonet and sheath from the soldier’s belt, then stood back up and slid the body into the running water with his foot.

“The knife would have been too easy,” he deadpanned. “He had to suffer.”

“On that, we agree,” she said.

“And there are more at the base,” he continued, looking her in the eye. “They’ll do the same thing to her over and over for days until they either break her or kill her.” He hesitated, his doubts beginning to surface. “I know what has to be done to spare her from that,” he added with the faintest quiver in his voice, “but I don’t know if I’m strong enough to do it.”

The prisoner didn’t deserve to die but, given her fate, death may have been be a mercy. Seza understood that struggle too well, and knew what it meant that he fought with it. Beneath his wrath and violence he was still every bit the man she fell in love with—the good man.

He was still Archangel.

She took his hand in hers and tiptoed to whisper something in his ear, then placed a kiss on his cheek. “Give her the choice,” she said to him. “I will make an example of the others.”

“Do you remember them?”

“I do. When I’m done, the rest will know why.”

 ~~

Krueger sneaked into the dank holding cell that night, when the rest of the compound was asleep. He used a key he’d lifted from a passing guard earlier that evening to enter the room, and cringed when he found their prisoner bruised, barely clothed, and bound by her wrists to a thin pipe running from floor to ceiling in the far corner. He had to step up to her and watch her shoulders move to make sure she was still breathing.

Then he got to work. He worked the point of the fallen soldier’s bayonet into the knots around one of her wrists, moving it back and forth along the rope to slice her one hand free.

She stirred underneath him, and Krueger stopped to place his hand over her mouth to quiet her. With a look he let her know exactly where he stood, and reassured her that he wasn’t one of San Boran’s soldiers. Slowly, he let go of her mouth, then finished cutting her one hand free.

Then he took a few steps back and placed the blade on the floor within her reach. He looked her in the eye and said to her, “seripheap.” Then turned to leave, ensuring the door was open behind him.

Freedom. The phrase Seza had whispered to him by the river earlier that day.

The prisoner understood, her freedom came from the bayonet, either by cutting the ropes binding her or by taking her own life. He offered her the chance to escape, either through death or the open door. The prisoner took up the bayonet and made her decision.

 ~~

Krueger placed himself onto his bed when he returned to his quarters, then rested his elbows on his knees and head in his palms. He let out an exasperated sigh as he wondered what fresh slice of hell this job would belch up and deliver him tomorrow morning. He closed his eyes and took another breath to compose himself, then let it out slowly into his palms as he cupped them over his face.

Seza arrived in his quarters soon afterward, making sure to lock the door behind her. Krueger stood up when he turned to face her and promptly closed the distance, pausing when he noticed tiny drops of blood on her forehead and left cheek. He looked her up and down to notice a tiny bit more smeared on her hands. He took them in his, caressing them a little before leading her back toward the bed.

“Tell me this gets better,” he pleaded. “I need to know I didn’t make a mistake bringing us here.”

Seza rose up to place a gentle kiss on his temple. She placed another one there before she retracted to look him in the eyes while she cupped his face. “You didn’t make a mistake,” she reassured him. “You didn’t do the wrong thing in bringing us here, and as long as I am by your side, you will never have to doubt yourself. I will support you,” she said, resting her forehead on his. “Whatever you do. I love you, Milo Krueger.”

They shared a heartfelt kiss. “I love you, Seza.”

She straddled him as they kissed again and fell onto the bed.

 ~~

The knocking on his door and Chea Hang’s voice on the other side of it woke him on the third morning. “Mr. Archangel,” he called between knocks, “Commander San would like a word if you have a moment.”

Krueger exchanged a look with Seza curled up beside to him, and took his arm away from around her to let her up. He watched a dark A-shirt and the jagged camouflage bands of her BDU bottoms conceal her skin again as she got back into her clothes to find her boots. Krueger did the same, getting out of bed to find his pants and a pale gray T-shirt.

Chea Hang knocked on the door again. “Mr. Archangel, please.”

“One moment,” he responded. He shot a look in Seza’s direction as he laced his boots up and stood. She nodded, leaning against the corner of his desk with her hands behind her on the desk top. He stepped up to her to plant a passionate kiss on her lips before heading to the door to unlock it. He opened it just enough for Chea Hang to see him. “What is it?”

He gestured the hallway. “Commander San has to share something with you,” he began. “There’s also been an incident in the barracks last night. What do you know of it?””

“I fail to see how I can shed any light on what’s happened,” Krueger said, stepping out of the room and pulling the door shut behind him.

Chea Hang caught a glimpse of Seza before the door was closed, then led Krueger down the hall toward San Boran. “One of the men had his throat slashed open in his sleep, and another was blindfolded and gagged, tied to his bed post and woken up by a knife in his genitals.”

Krueger made a mental note to commend Seza for that later.

“In addition,” he continued, “somebody got into the holding cell, and we lost our prisoner. Some of them suspect your unit is responsible.”

“What makes you think mine are culpable?”

“You’re outsiders,” Chea Hang clarified. “Mercenaries. They don’t trust you.”

“As I understand, some of Commander San’s men didn’t approve of the treatment of prisoners by others.” Krueger said. “This could just as well be an act of vengeance on their part—I’m not here to solve that problem.”

“And what of the missing man from yesterday? Your unit was accompanying him, were they not?”

“He went off to nurse his wound. He was missing an eye—he could have tripped and hit his head.” By now they reached San Boran. “Again, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Very well,” he added sotto voce. “If you’re here to deal with the resistance, Commander San would like you to deal with the resistance.”

“We’ve narrowed their location down to a number of settlements deep in the forest,” Krueger explained. “We can only attack one of them at a time, and if we do they’ll flee to another before we can reorganize to strike again.”

Chea Hang relayed the message, and San Boran returned with one of his own. “Commander San doesn’t care, he wants you to do as you promised—” San Boran said something else, and Chea Hang paused to confirm before continuing. “And he says if you don’t by tomorrow at sunrise, he will withhold your compensation.”

Krueger’s brow furrowed visibly as he registered the message. “It’s unwise to threaten me, Mr. Chea.”

“It is unwise to disappoint Commander San,” he countered. “If you do not do as you’re told, he will hire somebody else who will.” Chea hang turned to leave before Krueger could say anything else.

San Boran remained a moment longer. “Finish it,” he said in English. “Or no pay.” Then he turned to leave.

The threat repeated from the source gave Krueger pause. He unclenched his fists as he considered all of his options. He could either leave with his team before the job was finished and forego the pay, eliminate San Boran and forego the pay, take his time and efficiently flush out the resistance and forego the pay…

…or he could commit a war crime and get the job done in time for his team to get compensated. It wasn’t a decision he could make on his own.

~~

“San Boran delivered an ultimatum,” he said when he addressed his team that afternoon. “Personally. He said if we don’t drive out the resistance in 18 hours he won’t pay us.” He leaned over the table, placing his hands on its top to support himself and taking a breath to prepare himself to deliver his next thought. “Now I’m going to say what we’re all thinking—in the absence of time and a better option, if we’re going to get paid for this trip we will have to use the pyrophorics.”

A few of them muttered their discontent under their breaths.

“I know it’s not something any of us want to do, so I didn’t make the decision for you.” He sat down and raised his head again to address his team. “I’m leaving it to the five of you to make the call. Yay or nay..?” He looked to his right at Brock.

Brock sat contemplatively with his arms crossed, looking down at the table. “Mom’s back in the hospital,” he divulged, “and her bills are piling up again. I need the money, boss.” He looked up at Krueger and nodded. “Yay.”

Krueger nodded in understanding, then looked at Alicia.

Alicia shook her head. “It’s not who we are,” she said. “This isn’t what we do.” She shook her head again to emphasize her decision. “Nay.”

“Fair dinkum,” Wyatt added. “I’m with Alicia on this one. We do this and we’re no better than the wankers we kill… Nay.”

“Maybe so,” Jackson said. “But who knows when the next job is coming after this? The landscape’s changed—the demand for dirty guns for hire is rising. We can’t survive just on hunting the bad guys anymore, we’ll have to start working with them if we’re gonna make it.” Reluctantly, he nodded. “Yay.”

Krueger looked to his left at Seza, having made his way around the table.

She sat with her arms crossed as she silently considered the options for all of thirty seconds. Finally she looked back at Krueger and nodded. “Yes.”

Krueger sighed and let his head hang. “Three to two,” he said, standing back up. “It passes.” He leaned over the table top to address the map spread across it, and outline a plan to deploy the white phosphorus munitions strategically in a manner that the fires spread away from the firebase as they consumed the resistance territories.

 ~~~~

It was nearly two in the morning when they moved out.

“Talk to me Wyatt,” Krueger whispered into his communicator. “Are you and Brock in position?”

“Holding steady, boss,” he said. “Just say when…”

“Alicia, Jackson, get ready to fire on my mark.” He motioned Seza to ready the mortar while he prepared the munitions.

“Copy.”

“Three. Two. One…” Krueger held the shell steady at the edge of the mortar barrel. “Mark.” He let the round go and let it slide down to the firing pin, sending it high into the air before it came crashing down with a boom and cloud of smoke. “Fire at will.” He signaled Seza to adjust the angle of the device before loading a second round into the tube, which fired and landed a few yards from the first.

Seza looked up from the tube after firing a few more volleys, and noticed the glow of the growing fires through the trees. “I think they know what’s going on,” she said, noting the panicked chatter she could hear through the chaos.

“Then it’s time to finish up here,” Krueger added. He loaded the last of his ammunition into the device and fired. “Brock, Watt, you’re up. Seal their exit.”

“Solid Copy.”

Krueger felt the shockwave moments later, letting him know the explosives were detonated successfully and a second set of fires were started to seal the resistance in a trap that would kill them all.

 ~~

Krueger and the rest of Amur Company returned to the compound afterward, and headed straight for their respective rooms. Seated on the mattress, Krueger watched the glow of the burning fires on the horizon through the window of his quarters. As before, Seza made it to his room later that night, and didn’t say a word to him as she placed herself beside him to lean her head on his shoulder and squeeze his hand, looking out the window at the fires with him. Neither dared to sleep and ignore the dozens of lives they extinguished.

On the fourth morning, Krueger stepped off the helicopter with the rest of Amur Company onto the literal scorched earth where the resistance cell was once based. All that remained now was the charred remains of the rudimentary village; columns of dense white smoke still billowed from certain piles of smoldering rubble, and wisps of a surreal fog hung in the air around them.

Krueger carefully stepped through the ruins not to get too close to the denser smoke, and paused when a twig snapped in two beneath his tread. He looked down and saw there were actually two twigs next to each other, and that they were connected to the partially clothed body of a man at the thigh, under the knee where his shin would be.

He realized they weren’t twigs at all.

He studied the remains next to his boot, identifying the broken twigs as a human tibia and fibula. The man’s extremities were burned to their singed bones, and his face was gone—what was left reminded Krueger of an anatomical diagram detailing a frontal cross-section of paranasal sinuses.

The featureless face stared back up at Krueger with empty eye sockets, its teeth exposed and locked in a sinister half-grin not unlike the sigil his great-uncle wore from 1939 to 1943.

He looked away from the body below him and scanned the clearing all around him, finding other bodies in varying states of desecration. Some still maintained something resembling their natural skin tones with deep holes burned into them, as if a large-bore drill was taken to their soft tissue, while others were reduced to carbonized forms resembling twisted mannequins leaking darkened blood from the cracks in their flesh, frozen in their final, horrible moments.

Seza cursed in Arabic under her breath, in disbelief of the sight around her. “I didn’t know it would be like this…” She took a few steps and found herself next to Krueger. “My God, this is awful,” she lamented.

“God had nothing to do with this,” Krueger said. He continued his path through the carnage, stepping over the burnt bodies lying in pools of coagulated blood and human waste to make his way to Chea Hang and San Boran, who stood among a contingent of soldiers inspecting the ruins.

“Well done, Mr. Archangel,” Chea Hang said. “Commander San is impressed with your work.”

“It’s not all of them,” Krueger clarified. “But whoever escaped the fires will likely succumb to the poison they inhaled trying to get away.” He looked San Boran in the eyes, making sense of the look in them. “He can give my portion to my people.”

Chea Hang relayed the message to San Boran, who maintained his gaze on Krueger while he replied.

“Commander San will ensure your people are compensated,” he said.

“My thanks.” Krueger turned away before addressing them once more. “Have your men exercise caution around the settlement,” he advised. “They may inadvertently start another fire.” He headed back toward the landing zone with Seza, signaling the other four to join them on an outgoing helicopter.

 ~~

Seza returned to Krueger’s quarters that evening, after the others had gone to bed early to catch up on lost sleep. She tapped on his closed door.

“Archangel..?” she entreated. Since they got back to Firebase Ash she felt he was avoiding her. She feared he held her vote to use the incendiary devices against her and wanted to make it right. She knocked again and opened his door. “Milo?”

The room was empty—the bed was made and his duffel was missing. The only clue the room had been occupied the last three nights was a singular square of paper centered on an otherwise clean desk top.

She picked the note up to examine it, recognizing the string of digits as a phone number, hastily jotted down in Krueger’s hand. Call me as soon as you see this, the text read underneath the number. She looked away from the paper, disheartened. “Oh, Milo…” she sighed, looking out the window and absentmindedly crumpling the note in her hand.

Her attention was stolen by a pair of voices down the hall behind her. She heard one of them mention how one of the rooms was empty, and that the two of them were probably together.

Seza darted behind the bed and held herself close to the floor to stay out of sight when the door opened up again. From under the mattress she spotted fresh blood spattered on the boots of the one soldier that walked in to quickly scan the room.

The soldier with bloody boots took a few steps deeper into the room before commenting how this one was empty as well. His associate entered the room behind him, also with bloodied boots that left prints on the floor as he walked. She heard him mention how four out of six was good enough.

Then Seza did the math—the bloody boots, the two soldiers going room to room down the hallway, she knew what it all meant. Her rage began to boil.

The moment the closer pair of boots to her turned back toward the hallway, she slid out of cover and jammed the point of her knife just above the soldier’s heel to sever the tendon, then just as quickly reached up and around him to drive the point of the knife deep into his neck and take him down.

She threw the first solder aside and flung the knife at the other one just as he turned around, landing it just below his collarbone as she sprinted across the room at him and leapt forward, throwing her knee into his jaw and landing on top of him. Sinking her weight down on his chest and pinning his arms to the floor with her shins, Seza pulled the knife out of the other man with her left hand as she pulled his head back by his hair with her right to expose his neck. She jabbed the blade under his jaw and pushed her weight against it, ignoring the warm slick on her hand as she locked eyes with the man and watched him die.

Slowly she stood up, retrieving her knife from the fallen soldier’s gushing neck wound and wiping the blade clean on her fatigues before returning the knife to the sheath on her belt. She scrambled down the hall to the first of the four rooms and shoved the door open.

To her horror, there lay Jackson, lying in bed with his eyes open, the sheet stained dark red underneath him with a deep gash across his neck.

She cupped her hands over her mouth and backed away, barely containing her grief and sorrow for the man. She turned and pressed on Alicia’s door and—to her terror—beheld the same sight. She opened Brock’s and Wyatt’s doors as well, holding out some measure of hope that they were somehow spared but finding them in the same state as the other two.

Seza wouldn’t allow their deaths to go unanswered. She knew what she had to do next, but first she had to temper her anguish at the loss of her squadmates for the moment and find a way off the compound.

Krueger waited for her at the air strip in Tây Ninh, seated at a small square table tucked away in the corner of an aircraft hangar. He tapped his finger impatiently on the table top waiting for her to contact him, ignoring the food in the plate before him as it cooled.

His satellite phone started to ring in his duffel by his boot, and he scrambled to answer it. “Ja,” he said. “Hier ist Krüger..!”

“Milo,” Seza whispered after a brief delay.

“Seza,” he sighed, relieved to hear her voice. “Where are you now?”

“A safe location,” she said.

Krueger stood up from his seat, and started slowly pacing back and forth in front of the table “Listen, you and the others have to meet me here in Tây Ninh, where we first landed. Quickly, before it’s too late.”

Seza’s silence was longer than the expected delay from the satellite phone.

“Seza..?”

“The others won’t be coming,” she finally whimpered. “They’re dead.”

Krueger stopped in his tracks, in disbelief of what she was telling him. “…What?”

“They’re all dead,” she repeated. “Wyatt. Jackson. Alicia. Brock… all of them. Murdered in their sleep.” The pain in her now-brittle voice was audible, and that—more than the news she delivered—is what ripped Krueger apart.

Krueger slowly sank down back onto his seat, reeling from the weight of what she just told him. “Mein gott,” he lamented. He took the phone away from his ear for a moment and leaned his forehead against his knuckles, shutting his eyes tight.

“Did you know..?” Seza finally asked. “Is that why you left?”

“Seza… I—”

“Do not lie to me, Archangel. Did you know?”

Krueger took a breath to compose himself before answering her. “I suspected he might,” he said. “Yes.”

In his mind’s eye he could see the heartbreak in her ice blue eyes, and it nearly brought him to tears. “Then why did you leave us?” she finally pleaded. “Why did you leave me?”

“Because I wanted for you all to be paid. You know I wanted no part of this fight, I even told him to give my share to all of you, because I knew that’s what you needed… I assure you, I had no idea he would turn before paying you all..!”

Seza took a while before answering. “They will pay,” she said. “If not with money then with blood.”

“Seza.”

“I found a way off the compound,” she continued. “We can strike tonight while they sleep.”

“Seza, let it go. Leave this place with me.”

“…what are you talking about?”

“Let’s get out of here,” he explained. “Start anew. The transport to Hanoi No Bai leaves in three hours, you can still make it if you start moving.”

Seza was quiet for a while before she finally answered. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing,” she stated.

“Seza, listen to me.”

She didn’t let him speak. In her grief and disappointment in him, she cursed him in Arabic. “Khayin!” she shouted. “How could you turn your back on them!? How could you turn on me..?”

“I’m not turning on anyone..! We move forward, and live our lives in a way that would please them. This is the way to honor our fallen, trust me.”

“Jaban..! I won’t let their deaths be in vain.” At this point her grief began to subside and all that was left was her building, seething wrath. “Their spilled blood cannot go unanswered.”

“I understand your desire for revenge, Seza, but I promise you will find no peace at the end of that path,” he warned. “I know this.”

She exhaled audibly on the other end of the line. “You brought us here, Archangel. You started a job you couldn’t finish. But that’s why you have me, isn’t it? For the uglier parts of the job you’re too weak to carry out on your own?”

He knew it was anger talking, but her words still cut him deeper than any knife.

“Do what you have to do,” she continued. “I will finish what you started.”

Then the line went dead, leaving Krueger alone to hear with her final, hurtful words over and over again for what would become years.

 ~~~~

Seza retuned to Firebase Ash late that night under the cover of darkness. She crept through the shadows on her way to her objective, silently moving toward her first victim as she drew her knife from its sheath on her belt.

She sank down to the ground as she buried the point of her blade into the back of the soldier’s knee, then sprang upward and ripped it out sideways to jab it backwards into his neck. She had already taken his knife as well and started moving again by the time she felt his blood start to soak through the fabric of her BDU jacket.

She remained hidden near the armory entrance for one other soldier to step up to the door and open the gate, and pounced the moment he crossed the threshold. She stabbed him in his right side from behind, then quickly wove around to his front to remove the blade and reclaim it, reversing her grip and hitting him twice more in the upper chest and once at the base of his neck on the same side with the other knife.

She took him to the floor quietly, then retrieved her blades and moved deeper into the armory to rig a few crates of explosives for remote activation when the time came. On her way out, she spotted a sheathed machete hanging near the rifles which she took. She poked her head out the door and quickly scanned the area before her before heading to the command building. On her way there, she crept up behind another soldier and planted her boot heel into the back of his knee, and plunged one of her knives into the base of his neck on the left side, leaving him to bleed out while she proceeded inside.

 ~~

Chea Hang stepped into his room, absentmindedly flinging the door shut behind him and heading deeper into his quarters. Seza, hidden behind the door, emerged and kicked him in the small of his back to take him by surprise and knock him onto his front. Just as he hit the floor, she whipped both knives at him one after the other; the first landed below the ribs on the right side of his back and the second lodged itself higher up near the shoulder blade.

Chea Hang yelped as each of the blades struck. Writhing, he turned just enough to see Seza start to walk up to him, blood all over her fatigues. Terror took hold of him once he recognized her, and he began to crawl away toward a desk to raise the alarm.

It wasn’t the time for that yet, Seza thought.

When she caught up to him, she knelt down and took hold of the knives in his back to pull him toward her, then freed one hand to grab him by his hair and pull his head backward to expose his neck. Chea Hang fought back a little, trying to move her off of him with his body.

“This is what they felt,” she whispered in his ear. She pulled one of the knives out of his back with her other hand and buried its point into the base of his neck. Chea Hang convulsed violently under her as she slowly pulled the knife sideways across his neck, holding his head back and carving a gash so wide and deep it nearly decapitated him.

When she was done she stood up to look down at him, the bloody knife still in her hand as more of the crimson fluid gushed from his open neck. He gurgled as more of it poured forth, and finally expired with an unremarkable hic and a twitch.

Seza placed her boot between Chea Hang’s shoulder blades and bent over to pull the other knife out from the man’s shoulder, then stepped over the pool of blood to the desk to retrieve his knife before turning and heading out.

 ~~

Seza stood over San Boran as he slept, holding two of her three knives in her hands and waiting for the right moment. By now, the nighttime patrols outside should have come across one or more of the bodies she left behind on her way to the command building, and they’d raise an alarm of sorts to make the others on site aware of what was happening.

The radio crackled to life across the room, lining up with Seza’s plan and stirring San Boran awake.

Just as his eyes parted, she plunged the knives in her hands into his wrists, nailing him to the mattress as he shouted out in pain and surprise.

“For Brock and Alicia,” she said, freeing one hand to draw the third knife and plunge it into his ribs. He screamed again. “For Jackson.” She pulled the knife out and buried it into his side once more, leaving there this time as his pained screams dissolved into a whimper. “For Wyatt…”

Then she took a step back and slowly, methodically drew the machete from its sheath, watching the fear build in San Boran’s eyes and savoring it.

She inverted the blade and held it above his stomach with both hands. “For your prisoners…” She plunged the blade straight down into him, conjuring another pained scream as the sirens began to blare outside. “…each of them.” She twisted the blade ninety degrees opening the wound and bringing forth more blood and gurgling screams, dropped one hand and repositioned her grip with the other, and then slashed him open. “And for me.”

She stood beside San Boran watching his disbelief at the sight of his own intestines bubbling out from his open stomach. It didn’t last long enough, however; shock, blood loss, and a rapid change in blood pressure took their toll shortly afterward. Seza watched San Boran’s eyes roll back and his body go limp as he lost consciousness. Within minutes he would be dead.

Seza shut her eyes and took a deep breath, dropping the machete onto the floor next to her as she slowly exhaled to calm herself. She inhaled deep again, ignoring the smell of blood and excrement in the room with her, and waited for relief as she exhaled again.

She opened her eyes again when she felt no elation, and realized the lives of San Boran, Chea Hang, and the others she killed in the minutes leading up to this moment would do nothing to fill the gap in her life that her squad—her family—left behind. The terror she saw in the eyes of these men in their final moments, while welcome at first, started to bother her now that anger no longer blurred her vision.

In these last moments, Seza fell so far away from everything Krueger shared with her. She was an Angel of Death, so unlike the man she so deeply admired and loved.

She felt no vindication or sense of victory, only a calm certainty that Krueger was right, and that this moment would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The chatter of AK fire in the hallway snapped her back to the moment, and the bullets tearing through the door behind her drove her to seek cover behind the bed. She cursed herself for allowing the soldiers to arm themselves—she was supposed to blow the armory sooner.

Krueger, she thought, would have kept her focused were he here.

She fumbled for the detonator in her jacket pocket, braced herself for the shockwave, and hit the trigger. In that instant the flash and roar of the exploding munitions illuminated the night as the shockwave shattered the compound’s windows, sending a blizzard of glass shards into the soldiers in the hallway.

The window in San Boran’s room, though not facing the explosion, didn’t stand up to the blast either, and Seza absorbed the full impact of the shockwave as it entered the room and disoriented her. She struggled to reclaim her balance as she stood up and staggered back towards the door. If she hurried, she thought, she could still meet Krueger at the air strip before the transport left Tây Ninh.

She carefully placed her steps over the bodies of the soldiers in the hallway. A few yards from San Boran’s room her attention was stolen by a faint crackle outside. She turned her head to see orbs of bright light scattered throughout the base, and identified plumes of dense white smoke coming from them.

Seza shot backward toward the wall, realizing she was looking at the rest of the white phosphorus munitions that hadn’t been used on the resistance the night before.

She covered her mouth and nose as she scrambled deeper into the command building, as far away from the windows and surviving soldiers as she could go, and retreated an emergency bunker at the heart of the building. She pushed the door shut behind her and leaned against it, sliding down to have a seat on the floor.

She wrapped her arms around her knees and rested her head on her forearms as her adrenaline filtered out of her bloodstream. As much as she tried to fight it, she couldn’t stop the tears as soon as the first one escaped.

But the grief she felt for her fallen squad mates and the realization of what she did to those men were nothing compared to what she soon realized—by the time it was safe for her to leave the bunker, the only other person on Earth who understood her would be long gone, scattered to the wind in any of a thousand directions. She was alone, and likely would be for the rest of her days. She sobbed mournfully into her own arms as she lay on the floor, offering apologies to Krueger as if he were in the room with her to hear them.

 ~~~~

The hope drained from Krueger as the minutes since speaking to Seza over the phone turned into hours. He took one final look at his watch before wistfully gathering his duffel and heading to the aircraft bay doors.

The pilot looked him over. “How many?” he asked.

“Just me,” Krueger croaked. He looked over his shoulder in the direction of Firebase Ash. “I’m all that’s left.”

The pilot remembered taking six of them across the border a few days ago. He broke eye contact and reached into his inside jacket pocket to retrieve a photo. “My condolences,” he sympathized, handing it to Krueger. He turned back and headed toward the cockpit.

Krueger looked down at the photograph in his hands, which he had the pilot take just days before at the same location. He knew he would treasure the memory for the rest of his life as he stepped aboard the aircraft and settled in for the trip back to Hanoi.

 ~~~~

Seza emerged from the Command Building the following morning, her uniform stained brown with hours-old blood. She scanned the clearing before her—like the last time she loosed the pyrophoric weapons on a target the floor around her was scattered with the charred remains of both people and the infrastructure they once inhabited. She made an effort not to look too hard at the carbonized mounds around her while she scanned the horizon, and found what appeared to be an intact four-by-four in the distance, far enough away from the fires that its fuel remained intact.

She made her way to the vehicle and inspected it for damage, then got into the car’s driver seat and started the engine. She let it hum for a moment before putting it into gear and heading toward the front gate of Firebase Ash. She crashed through the gate and headed out into the unknown, unsure of what the future would bring, but knowing that she would have to find the strength to face it on her own from now on.

Rego Park, six miles southeast of Manhattan, present day.

“Sorry I’m late,” Khai said as Krueger let her into his home. She placed her weekend bag by the door and tiptoed up to kiss him hello. “I hope we can still salvage the evening.”

“Of course we can,” Krueger replied, taking her coat and scarf. “It’s just dinner and movies, there’s nothing formal about tonight, or anything for the rest of the weekend.”

Khai mused a little at the prospect of a real weekend getaway, her first since the death of Simon Wells. “Informal fun is just what I need right now,” she said. “I’ll try my best to not let work get in the way.” She took a few steps deeper into the living area and leaned on the back of a couch to face him. “Is it weird that I’m still nervous about meeting Emma and your daughter tomorrow?”

“You shouldn’t be,” he grinned. “I’m sure they’ll love you.”

“If not, then at least it’s at the High Line. A public place, where they can’t make too much of a scene.”

“Come now,” Krueger teased. “You’re the scariest woman in the Five Boroughs. What will your rivals say if they found out you were fearful of an eighteen year old girl and her mother?”

“Shut up!” she laughed, getting off the couch to hit him playfully. Her attention was drawn to a row of framed photographs sitting on top of his mantelpiece. “I hadn’t noticed these before..! May I?”

“By all means.”

Khai stepped up to survey the framed photos of him with his son, the ones with his daughter, and paused at a picture of what she assumed was his other family. She picked the framed photo up off the mantelpiece to examine it and confirm her theory. In it there were six people dressed in tiger stripe camouflage BDUs posing by the open bay doors of what looked like a cargo plane or helicopter. She scanned the figures and, after some scrutiny, found Krueger’s bearded face among them tilted slightly upward mid-nod with dark sunglasses and a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. Immediately to his left in the photo she recognized Seza, a beaming smile spread across her face.

She correctly deduced it was Amur Company, and noted the handwritten text in the corner. “Rain makers and life takers,” she read. “Tây Ninh, 2012.” She looked back up at Krueger and offered him a grin. “It’s weird seeing Seza smile like that.”

“If you think that’s odd,” he jested, “you should have seen my hair.”

“What,” she teased. “Were you rocking a man bun behind that smirk?”

“I think they called it a ‘messy pony tail?’ It just made sense to keep it out of my face.”

“What??” she laughed. “No way..! I’d actually like to see that someday.”

“It’ll be a while before it gets that long again,” he chuckled. He looked at the photo in her hand. “The big guy next to me, leaning on the bay doorway, is Brock,” he said. “The one beside Seza, with his hand on my shoulder, is Wyatt. His other arm is around Alicia, and Jackson is at the other end.”

Khai could almost feel each of their personalities in the photo. It captured them perfectly.

“That was taken before we left for what would become our last job together,” Krueger continued, his tone growing melancholy. “And until two months ago I thought I was the only one left. I kept that photo in their memory, and would look at that photo every time I left this house for eight years, wondering if this was the day I would join them again.”

Khai put the picture back down on the mantelpiece, then reached up to cup his face with both her hands. “You don’t have to think that anymore,” she told him.

Krueger reached up to squeeze her hands. “I know,” he said. “I’ve got a left lot to live for.”

“Just being clear,” Khai said with a smirk and a quick kiss. “So,” she continued on her way towards the kitchen, “shall we get started?”

“Of course,” he said, following her. “Chicken and peppers, yes? Who’s recipe?”

“I found on the internet,” she said, inspecting Krueger’s spice cabinet. “I haven’t tried it yet so, you know… disclaimer.”

“I’m sure it’ll be fantastic,” he said. He rolled his sleeves up and retrieved the bag containing the still-marinating chicken breast from his refrigerator and placed it near the stove top for her. Then pulled a red and green pepper out of the refrigerator to place onto a cutting board next to a yellow onion. Finally he reached into his wine cabinet to retrieve a cabernet sauvignon while she took two glasses out of the cabinet.

(Masterlist)

[tactical-weapons]

Heckler & Kock GmbH - HK MP5 A3

The MP5 (German: Maschinenpistole 5) is a 9x19mm Parabellum submachine gun, developed in the 1960s by a team of engineers from the German small arms manufacturer Heckler & Koch GmbH (H&K) of Oberndorf am Neckar. There are over 100 variants of the MP5, including some semi-automatic versions.

The MP5 is one of the most widely used submachine guns in the world, having been adopted by 40 nations and numerous military, law enforcement, intelligence, and security organizations. It was widely used by SWAT teams in North America, but has largely been supplanted by M16 variants in the 21st century.

In 1999, Heckler & Koch developed the Heckler & Koch UMP, the MP5's successor; both are available as of 2019. It however, was not met with the same level of success.

Heckler & Koch, encouraged by the success of the G3 automatic rifle, developed a family of small arms consisting of four types of firearms all based on a common G3 design layout and operating principle. The first type was chambered for 7.62×51mm NATO, the second for the 7.62×39mm M43 round, the third for the intermediate 5.56×45mm NATO caliber, and the fourth type for the 9×19mm Parabellum pistol cartridge. The MP5 was created within the fourth group of firearms and was initially known as the HK54.

Work on the MP5 began in 1964 and two years later it was adopted by the German Federal Police, border guard and army special forces, referring to as the "MP64" or later "MP5". The MP5A1 was introduced in the late '60s, which the first model to have the iconic ring front sight and the slimline handguard. In 1970, the MP5A2 and MP5A3 was introduced. The MP5A3 was actually used in the Vietnam War by the MACV-SOG as a limited service weapon and Thailand Forces. It also had its first film "The Millions Games" released on October 18, 1970. In 1974, the MP5SD was introduced, which is a suppressed variant of the MP5. In 1976, the MP5K was introduced as a request for a variant for South America. In 1977, the Standard Curved was introduced for the MP5A2 and MP5A3 design. In 1978, the Tropical forearm was introduced to be produced with the MP5.

In 1980, the MP5 achieved iconic status as a result of its use on live television by SAS commandos in Operation Nimrod, where they stormed the Iranian Embassy in London, rescuing hostages and killing five terrorists. The MP5 has become a mainstay of SWAT units of law enforcement agencies in the United States since then. However, in the late 1990s, as a result of the North Hollywood shootout, police special response teams have supplanted most MP5s with AR-15-based rifles.

The MP5 is manufactured under license in several nations including Greece (formerly at EBO – Hellenic Arms Industry, currently at ΕΑΣ – Hellenic Defense Systems), Iran (Defense Industries Organization), Mexico (SEDENA), Pakistan (Pakistan Ordnance Factories), Saudi Arabia, Sudan (Military Industry Corporation), Turkey (MKEK), and the United Kingdom (initially at Royal Ordnance, later diverted to Heckler & Koch Great Britain).

The primary version of the MP5 family is the MP5A2, which is a lightweight, air-cooled, selective fire delayed blowback operated 9×19mm Parabellum weapon with a roller-delayed bolt. It fires from a closed bolt (bolt forward) position.

The fixed, free floating, cold hammer-forged barrel has 6 right-hand grooves with a 1 in 250 mm (1:10 in) rifling twist rate and is pressed and pinned into the receiver.

The first MP5 models used a double-column straight box magazine, but since 1977, slightly curved, steel magazines are used with a 15-round capacity (weighing 0.12 kg) or a 30-round capacity (0.17 kg empty).

The adjustable iron sights (closed type) consist of a rotating rear diopter drum and a front post installed in a hooded ring. The rear sight is mechanically adjustable for both windage and elevation with the use of a special tool, being adjusted at the factory for firing at 25 metres (27 yd) with standard 8 grams (123 gr) FMJ 9×19mm NATO ammunition. The rear sight drum provides four apertures of varying diameters used to adjust the diopter system, according to the user's preference and tactical situation. Changing between apertures does not change the point of impact down range. For accurate shooting the user should select the smallest aperture that still allows an equal circle of light between the rear sight aperture and the outside of the front sight hood ring.

The MP5 has a hammer firing mechanism. The trigger group is housed inside an interchangeable polymer trigger module (with an integrated pistol grip) and equipped with a three-position fire mode selector that serves as the manual safety toggle. The "S" or Sicher position in white denotes weapon safe, "E" or Einzelfeuer in red represents single fire, and "F" or Feuerstoß (also marked in red) designates continuous fire. The SEF symbols appear on both sides of the plastic trigger group. The selector lever is actuated with the thumb of the shooting hand and is located only on the left side of the original SEF trigger group or on both sides of the ambidextrous trigger groups. The safety/selector is rotated into the various firing settings or safety position by depressing the tail end of the lever. Tactile clicks (stops) are present at each position to provide a positive stop and prevent inadvertent rotation. The "safe" setting disables the trigger by blocking the hammer release with a solid section of the safety axle located inside the trigger housing.

The non-reciprocating cocking handle is located above the handguard and protrudes from the cocking handle tube at approximately a 45° angle. This rigid control is attached to a tubular piece within the cocking lever housing called the cocking lever support, which in turn makes contact with the forward extension of the bolt group. It is not however connected to the bolt carrier and therefore cannot be used as a forward assist to fully seat the bolt group. The cocking handle is held in a forward position by a spring detent located in the front end of the cocking lever support which engages in the cocking lever housing. The lever is locked back by pulling it fully to the rear and rotating it slightly clockwise where it can be hooked into an indent in the cocking lever tube.

The bolt rigidly engages the barrel extension—a cylindrical component welded to the receiver into which the barrel is pinned. The delay mechanism is of the same design as that used in the G3 rifle. The two-part bolt consists of a bolt head with rollers and a bolt carrier. The heavier bolt carrier lies up against the bolt head when the weapon is ready to fire and inclined planes on the front locking piece lie between the rollers and force them out into recesses in the barrel extension.

When fired, expanding propellant gases produced from the burning powder in the cartridge exert rearward pressure on the bolt head transferred through the base of the cartridge case as it is propelled out of the chamber. A portion of this force is transmitted through the rollers projecting from the bolt head, which are cammed inward against the inclined flanks of the locking recesses in the barrel extension and to the angled shoulders of the locking piece. The selected angles of the recesses and the incline on the locking piece produce a velocity ratio of about 4:1 between the bolt carrier and the bolt head. This results in a calculated delay, allowing the projectile to exit the barrel and gas pressure to drop to a safe level before the case is extracted from the chamber.

The delay results from the amount of time it takes for enough recoil energy to be transferred through to the bolt carrier in a sufficient quantity for it to be driven to the rear against the force of inertia of the bolt carrier and the forward pressure exerted against the bolt by the recoil spring. As the rollers are forced inward they displace the locking piece and propel the bolt carrier to the rear. The bolt carrier's rearward velocity is four times that of the bolt head since the cartridge remains in the chamber for a short period of time during the initial recoil impulse. After the bolt carrier has traveled rearward 4 mm, the locking piece is withdrawn fully from the bolt head and the rollers are compressed into the bolt head. Only once the locking rollers are fully cammed into the bolt head can the entire bolt group continue its rearward movement in the receiver, breaking the seal in the chamber and continuing the feeding cycle.

Since the 9×19mm Parabellum cartridge is relatively low powered, the bolt does not have an anti-bounce device like the G3, but instead the bolt carrier contains tungsten granules that prevent the bolt group from bouncing back after impacting the barrel extension. The weapon has a fluted chamber that enhances extraction reliability by bleeding gases backwards into the shallow flutes running along the length of the chamber to prevent the cartridge case from expanding and sticking to the chamber walls (since the bolt is opened under relatively high barrel pressure). A spring extractor is installed inside the bolt head and holds the case securely until it strikes the ejector arm and is thrown out of the ejection port to the right of the receiver. The lever-type ejector is located inside the trigger housing (activated by the movement of the recoiling bolt).

In the early 1970s, HK introduced a conversion kit for the MP5 that enables it to use rimfire ammunition (.22 LR). This unit consists of a barrel insert, a bolt group and two 20-round magazines. This modification reduces the cyclic rate to 650 rounds/min. It was sold mostly to law enforcement agencies as a way to train recruits on handling the MP5. It used ammunition that was cheaper and had a lower recoil than 9×19mm Parabellum. This reduced training costs and built up skill and confidence in the operators before transitioning them to the full-bore model.

Threading is provided at the muzzle to work with certain muzzle devices made by Heckler & Koch, including: a slotted flash suppressor, blank firing attachment (marked with a red-painted band denoting use with blank ammunition only), an adapter for launching rifle grenades (for use with rifle-style grenades with an inside diameter of 22 mm using a special grenade launching cartridge) and a cup-type attachment used to launch tear gas grenades. An optional three-lugged barrel is also available for mounting a quick-detachable suppressor.

The receiver housing has a proprietary claw-rail mounting system that permits the attachment of a standard Heckler & Koch quick-detachable scope mount (also used with the G3, HK33 and G3SG/1). It can be used to mount daytime optical sights (telescopic 4×24), night sights, reflex sights and laser pointers. The mount features two spring-actuated bolts, positioned along the base of the mount, which exert pressure on the receiver to hold the mount in the same position at all times assuring zero retention. All versions of the quick-detachable scope mount provide a sighting tunnel through the mount so that the shooter can continue to use the fixed iron sights with the scope mount attached to the top of the receiver.

A Picatinny rail adapter can be placed on top that locks into the claw rails. This allows the mounting of STANAG scopes and has a lower profile than the claw-rail system.

Aftermarket replacement handguards with Picatinny rails are available. Single-rail models have a Picatinny rail along the bottom and triple-rail models have rails along the bottom and sides. They allow the mounting of accessories like flashlights, laser pointers, target designators, vertical foregrips, and bipods.

 Semi-auto

The MP5A2 has a fixed buttstock (made of a synthetic polymer), whereas the compact MP5A3 has a retractable metal stock. The stockless MP5A1 has a buttcap with a sling mount for concealed carry; the MP5K series was a further development of this idea.

The MP5A4 (fixed stock) and MP5A5 (sliding stock) models, which were introduced in 1974, are available with four-position trigger groups. The pistol grips are straight, lacking the contoured grip and thumb groove of the MP5A1, MP5A2, and MP5A3. The selector lever stops are marked with bullet pictograms rather than letters or numbers (each symbol represents the number of bullets that will be fired when the trigger is pulled and held rearward with a full magazine inserted in the weapon) and are fully ambidextrous (the selector lever is present on each side of the trigger housing). The additional setting of the fire selector, one place before the fully automatic setting, enables a two or three-shot burst firing mode.

A variant with the last trigger group designated the MP5-N (N—Navy) was developed in 1986 for the United States Navy. This model has a collapsible stock, a tritium-illuminated front sight post and a 225 mm (8.9 in) threaded barrel for use with a stainless steel sound suppressor made by Knight's Armament Company together with quieter subsonic ammunition. It had ambidextrous controls, a straight pistol grip, pictogram markings, and originally had a four-position selector (Safe, Semi-Auto, 3-Round Burst, Full Auto). This was replaced with a similar three-position ambidextrous selector after an improperly-reassembled trigger group spontaneously fired during an exercise. The "Navy"-style ambidextrous trigger group later became standard, replacing the classic "SEF".

The MP5SFA2 (SF – single-fire) was developed in 1986 in response to the American FBI solicitation for a "9 mm Single-fire Carbine". It is the same as the MP5A2 but is fitted with an ambidextrous semi-automatic only trigger group. The MP5SFA3 is similar except it has a retractable metal stock like the MP5A3. Versions delivered after December 1991 are assembled with select-fire bolt carriers allowing fully automatic operation when used with the appropriate trigger module.

The semi-automatic "MP5SF" models are widely used by British police forces including London's Metropolitan Police Service Specialist Firearms Command, Diplomatic Protection Group, Authorised firearms officers, and the Police Service of Northern Ireland to name a few.

The two-position trigger unit was used in the single-fire HK94 carbine that was produced specifically for the civilian market with a 420 mm (16.5 in) barrel.

Suppressed

In 1974, H&K initiated design work on a sound-suppressed variant of the MP5, designated the MP5SD (SD—Schalldämpfer, German for "sound suppressor"), which features an integral but detachable aluminium sound suppressor and a lightweight bolt. The weapon's 146 mm (5.7 in) barrel has 30 2.5 mm (0.1 in) ports drilled forward of the chamber through which escaping gases are diverted to the surrounding sealed tubular casing that is screwed onto threading on the barrel's external surface just prior to the ported segment. The suppressor itself is divided into two stages; the initial segment surrounding the ported barrel serves as an expansion chamber for the propellant gases, reducing gas pressure to slow down the acceleration of the projectile. The second, decompression stage occupies the remaining length of the suppressor tube and contains a stamped metal helix separator with several compartments which increase the gas volume and decrease its temperature, deflecting the gases as they exit the muzzle, so muffling the exit report. The bullet leaves the muzzle at subsonic velocity, so it does not generate a sonic shock wave in flight. As a result of reducing the barrel's length and venting propellant gases into the suppressor, the bullet's muzzle velocity was lowered anywhere from 16% to 26% (depending on the ammunition used) while maintaining the weapon's automation and reliability. The weapon was designed to be used with standard supersonic ammunition with the suppressor on at all times.

The MP5SD is produced exclusively by H&K in several versions: the MP5SD1 and MP5SD4 (both have a receiver end cap instead of a buttstock), MP5SD2 and MP5SD5 (equipped with a fixed synthetic buttstock) and the MP5SD3 and MP5SD6 (fitted with a collapsible metal stock). The MP5SD1, MP5SD2 and MP5SD3 use a standard 'SEF' trigger group (from the MP5A2 and MP5A3), while the MP5SD4, MP5SD5, and MP5SD6 use the 'Navy' trigger group—a trigger module with a mechanically limited 3-round burst mode and ambidextrous selector controls (from the MP5A4 and MP5A5). A suppressed version was produced for the U.S. Navy—designated the MP5SD-N, which is a version of the MP5SD3 with a retractable metal stock, front sight post with tritium-illuminated dot and a stainless steel suppressor. This model has a modified cocking handle support to account for the slightly larger outside diameter of the suppressor. The design of the suppressor allows the weapon to be fired with water inside, should water enter the device during operation in or near water.

 Variants

MP5A1: No buttstock (endplate/receiver cap in place of buttstock), "SEF" trigger group.

MP5A2: Fixed buttstock, "SEF" trigger group.

MP5SFA2: Fixed buttstock, single-fire (SE) trigger group.

MP5A3: Retractable buttstock,"SEF" trigger group.

MP5SFA3: Semi-automatic carbine version of MP5A3. Retractable buttstock and single-fire (SF) trigger group.

MP5A4: Fixed buttstock, 3-round burst trigger group.

MP5A5: Retractable buttstock, 3-round burst trigger group.

MP5-N: Model developed specifically for the U.S. Navy. Ambidextrous "Navy" trigger group, 3-lug/threaded barrel for attaching a sound suppressor; rubber-padded retractable stock.

MP5F: Model developed in 1999 specifically for the French military. Rubber-padded retractable stock, ambidextrous sling loops/bolts and internal modifications to handle high-pressure ammunition.    

MP5K: Short (kurz) version created in 1976. It has a shortened 4.5 in (114 mm) barrel, shorter trigger group frame, and a vertical foregrip rather than a handguard. There are no MP5KA2 or MP5KA3 models because it does not come with a fixed or retractable stock.

MP5K Prototype: A stockless, cut-down MP5A2 with regular iron sights and an open vertical foregrip. It was created in 1976.

MP5KA1: MP5K with smooth upper surface and small low-profile iron sights; "SEF" trigger group.

MP5KA4: MP5K with regular iron sights; four-position 3-round burst trigger group.

MP5KA5: MP5K with smooth upper surface and small low-profile iron sights; four-position 3-round burst trigger group.

MP5K-N: MP5K with "Navy" trigger group and 3-lug/threaded barrel for mounting suppressors or other muzzle attachments.

MP5K-PDW: Personal Defense Weapon; MP5K-N variant introduced in 1991 for issue to special operations aircraft or vehicle crews. It adds a Choate side-folding stock, 5-inch 3-lug barrel for mounting a quick-detachable Qual-A-Tec suppressor, and an ambidextrous 4-position trigger group with a 3-round burst mode. A shoulder cross-draw or thigh quick-draw holster is available.

MP5SD: An MP5 model with an integrated suppressor (Schalldämpfer) created in 1974.

MP5SD1: No buttstock (endplate/receiver cap in place  of buttstock), "SEF" trigger group, integrated suppressor

MP5SD2: Fixed buttstock, "SEF" trigger  group, integrated suppressor.

MP5SD3: Retractable buttstock, "SEF" trigger group, integrated suppressor.

MP5SD4: No buttstock (endplate/receiver cap in place of buttstock), 3-round burst trigger group, integrated suppressor.

MP5SD5: Fixed buttstock, 3-round burst trigger group, integrated suppressor.

MP5SD6: Retractable buttstock, 3-round burst trigger group, integrated suppressor.

MP5SD-N1: Fixed buttstock, "Navy" trigger group, KAC stainless steel suppressor.

MP5SD-N2: Retractable buttstock, "Navy" trigger group, KAC stainless steel suppressor.

MP5/10: Chambered in 10mm Auto, available in various stock/trigger group configurations. It was produced from 1992 to 2000.

MP5/40: Chambered in .40 S&W, available in various stock/trigger group configurations. It was produced from 1992 to 2000.

[superpuppies]

WWC River’s companion.

               This is the story that started it all, I don’t recall the exact date because I didn’t start the challenge until about a year later but this is the story that triggered it in my head.  Truthfully I don’t even remember the prompt. (I have a bit of a better system for that now.)

For the first half or two third of this story my main character doesn’t have a name and that started as me just refusing to give another voice any foot holed in my head as I have way too many characters who just pop up and tell me a short story randomly anyway. But it finally got to a point where I have two female characters in one room and we needed one. And as those who were around me when I was writing this one can tell you in the beginning it was going to be shorter but halfway through the two main characters meeting each other I just knew they were soulmates and so it went on.

So, if you like detectives, sweet and snarky-ish bar keeps and a touch of the supernatural this is a fun little romp of a tale.

This story contains implied sex, so now you know.

Word count: 11,746

To read this story & all of 2019′s weekly challenge stories check out the Archive link Here  Or keep reading below.

River's Companion

The cold grey walls, to dark to be clinical but pushing heavily into industrial were barren. The two-way glass shines in the fluorescent light washing out her reflection. Her soft peaches and cream skin and ashen brown mid back length hair tied back into a messy fishtail braid look almost white in the glass. Her hands are folded on her lap almost primly. The officers that had brought her in here had left her in the room alone in an attempt to make her sweat. She’s been through things similar to many times to be concerned by it. Though she does get a small amount of pleasure from watching their confusion as they observe how calm she is. To help pass the time she pops her shoulders and rolled her neck.

The door opens and a disheveled, unkempt man in what she assumes is his late thirties though it is clear that stress and lack of sleep have aged him onto looking like he was in his late forties, stomps in pushing the door closed behind him. “I’m Detective Rolif,” He says opening the manila envelope he had tucked under his arm. “And you have some explaining to do.” He locks eyes with her for the first time and she notes they are a soft gray green and hardened by the human tragedy he deals in daily.

“Oh?” She gives him a gentle eyebrow raise before attempting to continue but stops herself when he tosses a pile of photos onto the steal table. She glances down at the photos and immediately sees herself at the latest inauguration a dark smile on her face. She shifts her gaze to Detective Rolif to confer that he actually wants her to look through them. He gives a slight nod. She pushes the inauguration photo to the side and finds another one of herself in the protest line against the Vietnam War.  The next image is at Pearl Harbor as she assisted in the treatment of wounded soldiers. The next had her at the trial of Baby Face Nelson, yet another showed her in the crowd at the opening of the Eiffel Tower in 1889. She lifts her eyes back to detective Rolif, a picture of pure confusion.

Detective Rolif leans across the table towards her. “Who are you?” his voice is low, almost threatening.

A dark smirk creeps onto her face as she watched the curiosity play in his grey green eyes. “That isn’t what you want to ask me.” she keeps her eyes locked on his. They could be pretty, if it weren’t for the dark bags under them and the frown lines around them.

“It isn’t?” He frowns.

“No, it isn’t.” The smirk grows on her face.

“What do I want to ask?”

“Mhmm?” She gives a small shrug.

“What are you?” He slams his hands down onto the table in frustration.

A smile brakes out across her face, confident and cocky. “Ah, there it is.” His eyes narrow. “What do you think I am?”

“Stop that.”

“I’m just curious.”

“What are you?” He leans farther over the table.

“Currently, I am watching a man try to intimidate me for reasons unknown and as such am mildly confused.” He shifted back slightly. “Has it occurred to you that I might be a model who does a lot of historically themed photo shoots?”

“These aren’t recreations.” He stands back up and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Oh, really? Maybe they are just really good ones.” She leans back in her chair.

“They are not recreations.” He narrows his eyes at her in bubbling frustration.

“Okay let's say they aren’t recreations. What does it matter?”

“What are you?”

“Why does it matter to you?”

Detective Rolif lets out a heavy sigh. “As far as I can tell you are at least two hundred years old, how is that possible?”

“Two hundred? Two hundred! The oldest photo you have here is from the opening of the Eiffel Tower which was march of 1889, so at most, by your logic I am one hundred and thirty.”

Detective Rolif smirks thinking he’s got her cornered. “The oldest photo in that pile is from the opening of the Eiffel Tower. I have older ones.”

“Older ones, oh no!” She puts her left hand to her cheek with a soft shrug. “They can’t be that much older. I mean do you even know when the camera was invented?”

The detective finally sits down across from her, a haughty smirk on his lips. “It doesn’t matter, I have paintings and sketches of you.” She places her elbow on the table top with a low hum. “They date back to the sixteen hundreds.”

“Do they?” She places her chin in her palm as she leaned forward. “I’m starting to think you’re obsessed with me. Do I need to get a restraining order?”

“What are you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“What are you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“You are going to tell me what you are, what makes it so you’re still alive.”

“Until you tell me why you want to know I’m not going to tell you a damned thing.”

“Do you want to be locked up?”

“Two-part answer.” she leaned back in her chair again. “First, what in the world would you arrest me for? Second, according to you I have all the time in the world, what’s a few years to me then?”

He watches her for several long heartbeats. “Were you made into this or have you always been one?”

“One what? I still don’t know what you think I am.”

“I don’t know, a, a vampire or something.” this time the frustration softens him and he slumps down in his chair.

“Is that what this is about? You think I’m a vampire and what, I’m going to go on a murder spree, possibly create a hive of my own?”

He glances down at the table, a small show of embarrassment. Her head tilts to the left ever so slightly as she wonders if she’s hit the nail a bit too hard on the head. “No, not exactly.”

Her face softens. oh dear, this has to do with someone in particular. she inhales deeply. “No, I am not a vampire.”

He lets out a soft sigh, it might be relief. “Can you make more like you?”

“Not the way I’m guessing you want me too. In answer to an earlier question, I was not made this way I simply am this way. If there are to be more, they will be born this way.”

“I see.” The dejection is palpable. “So, what are you?”

“I am an eternal, I pose no threat to you mortals. I am simply an observer.” He scrunches his face up and frowns. “I have a question for you Detective Rolif, why did you bring me in here?”

“I’m dying.”

“Are you now?”

“Testicular cancer.”

“That is a shame for a man so young. It’s a rather unpleasant way to go.”

“That's why I was hoping you could change me.”

“Ah yes, I’m afraid that isn’t possible, but I will offer you this. I have watched thousands of friends die and I will be here for you should you seek someone who understands loss.”

Detective Rolif gives her a soft quick smile, she reaches across the table motioning for him to hand her the pen in his breast pocket. He handed it over without question. Opening the folder again she writes her name and number. “Thanks.”

“Of course. Now is there another reason I’m here or did you pull me into your place of business for a personal reason.”

“Right,” He re-bundles the photos back into the folder. “About that, you witnessed a robbery last month.”

“Yes.”

“We have reason to believe that the robbers were part of the white dragons and that they are attempting to locate any and all witnesses.”

“I see, so what am I supposed to do with this information?”

“I,” He paused and glanced at her. “I don’t know, can you die?”

“AH- so you think they aim to kill me.”

“Yeah, can they?”

“Kill me? Yes, not that its ever stuck before though.”

“Oh.” Detective Rolif chuckles unnerved.

“So, what would you like me to do, if I suspect these Dragons are nearby?” She folds her hands back onto her lap.

“You should call us, well me.” He looks down at the tabletop tapping his pen against it.

“So, you’re the officer assigned to me.”  

“Yes,”

“You do, of course, realize how creepy everything you've just done comes across.”

“I’m starting to. I can see about having someone else assigned as your contact.”

“No, it’s fine just as long as you’re aware.”

“I am.”

“Good,” She claps her hands to her knees. “Do you have a card or something.” Detective Rolif reaches into the inner breast pocket of his jacket and pulls out a silver card case. Opening it he hands her a card. “Thank you, now if there isn’t anything ells. I have appointments to keep.”

“You’re free to go.”

“Thanks for the warning, and do feel free to call me if you need to talk or if you just want a drink.” she stands and pockets the card.

“Thank you for coming in today.” Detective Rolif offers her his hand and they shake farewell.  

“Of course.” She turns and walks from the room.

 It was seven weeks later when her phone rang at eleven forty-six in the evening. Detective Rolif’s name flashed onto the screen, she sat up from where she had been lounging across her sofa, soft ethereal music drifting from the speakers on the far wall.  She smirked to herself and swiped across the screen to answer. “Hello, Detective.”

“Uhg, Hel, hello.” he sounds surprised that she answered though it could be surprised that he called in the first place.

“Is there something I can do for you, Detective?”

“Umm, I, I'm sorry for calling so late.”

“It’s fine.”

“You said I could talk to you about my…” His voice fades out.

“Of course. Would you like to meet? I know of a quiet bar where we can have some privacy.”

“I don’t know about that. I”

“I, by no means, want to pressure you but most people find these conversations easier face to face.”

He sighs heavily then goes silent for several long heartbeats. “Yeah, that’s probably true. Text me the address.”

“Of course, I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Right, see you then.” He hung up, she sent the address and cleaned up her cup of tea before changing.

 Ten minutes later she walked through the old brass doors of Styx. Stopping at the bar she tapped her knuckles on the counter. “Hey, Boss lady, what brings you back here? Or do you just hate having time to yourself?”

“Marcus, I have a guest coming shortly, a Detective Rolif.  When he arrives get him whatever he likes and bring him to my booth.”

“Sure thing, you want your usual?”

“Yes, and some of those nibbles I like. If you would be so kind.” Marcus smiles his award-winning smile at her. She simply narrows her eyes and turns towards her booth. She’s seen to many young women fall for that smile in their time together.

“I’ll have them to you in two shakes of my sweet, sweet ass.”

“Don’t hurt yourself now.” She smiles walking away from him, towards the booth in the back-left corner. The bar is quiet, though that is to be expected of a Wednesday. Only the regulars are settled in their places, some reading, musing and listening to the soft violin music being piped in tonight. She settles into the soft leather of the high-backed booth and pulls off her hooded sweatshirt.

Five more minutes had barely passed when Marcus leads Detective Rolif over to the booth along with her whiskey sour. “Have a seat Detective.”  

Detective Rolif slid into the booth, a bourbon on the rocks glass in his hand. “I’ll have those nibbles out to you in just a bit.” Marcus tosses over his shoulder, walking back to the bar.

“Thank you, Marcus.”

“You come here often?” Detective Rolif asked looking into his glass. She tilts her head to the right with a quick smile.

“You could say that, you didn’t look into me at all after we spoke did you.”

He shakes his head slightly, looking up at her. “Should I have?”

A warm smile eases onto her lips. “No need, I will gladly share my story. I own Styx.” She motions around them to the bar. “It’s a place of quiet reflection for me in the noise of the city.”

“It’s nice,” He glances around the dimly lit room. “Quiet, Comfortable.”

“Thank you, most nights we have live music. You should come by and see it.”

“That would be nice.” He sips his drink turning back to her.

Marcus slid a plate of mini quiches and meat pies onto the table between them and disappeared as quickly as he had appeared.

“Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about or did you just want to see how it goes?”

“I think, I just wanted to talk. To be honest I can’t believe I called you let alone came down here to meet with you.”

“I see.”

“I don’t mean to offend you. I know how bad that sounded. I just don’t know a better way to say it.” he drops his gaze to his drink again.

“I never did ask you; how did you find all those photos of me?”

He keeps his eyes on his drink and lets out a nervous chuckle. “Well actually, my niece is in art school and the last time she came to visit me she was showing me some of the photos her professor had been talking about in class. And I noticed your face kept popping up over and over again. I didn’t think too much of it, you know how some people look like historical figures.” She nodded but he isn’t paying attention. “But then maybe two or three days later I was at a crime scene and one of the uniforms was taking your statement and you looked so familiar. My instincts just kind of took over and the next thing I knew I had found you all over the world, all throughout time.” His face lights up as he laughs a genuine sound. For the first time she sees he is a handsome man, his face is creased by stress, worry and laughter. The salt and peppering of his auburn, short fluffy hair offsets the warm gray green eyes.  “I sound like I’m obsessed with you; I promise I don’t mean you any harm.” He sobers from his laughter and locks eyes with her. “It’s just that you’re the only person I’ve told about my cancer.”

“Why haven’t you told your family?” She leaned on the table, concerned that he would talk to a stranger instead of his family. This question opened the floodgates. His concern of over worrying his sister and niece. How he feared losing his work before he was ready to should they find out he was sick. While the detective spilled out his concerns Marcus moved silently in and out refilling drinks and nibbles.

 “Excuse me.” Marcus politely interrupted. “It’s time for me to head out, is there anything else you two need before I go?”

“Go? What time is it?” She asked glancing down at her watch, a quarter to five glared back at her. “Wow, okay, is everything closed down?”

“Yes ma'am, patrons have gone home, tables are bussed, kitchen is closed and cleaned, cash collected and locked up, everything is done except for your table.”

“Alright, thank you. I think we are good here. I can take care of anything else we’ll need. Get some rest, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes Ma'am, See you tonight.” Marcus turned toward the door, “Text me so I know you got home safe.”

“Thank you, Marcus!” she shouts after him, he waves as the door clicked shut behind him. She turned back to detective Rolif shaking her head. The detective was looking down at his own watch.

“I’m so sorry.”

“What?” She tilted her head confused.

“I didn’t mean to keep you out so late. I’m so sorry, I should head out and let you get home yourself.” Detective Rolif said standing.

“It’s fine, there is no need to rush off.”

“No, you’ve been so kind already, I couldn’t knowingly keep you up any longer.”

“If you’re sure.”

“Yes, Thanks for this. I feel a lot better.”

“Well that’s good to hear,” She stood and collected their glasses. “If you need to do it again, you are always welcome to call or stop by.”

“Thanks.”

She locked the door behind him and finished cleaning out their booth before heading home herself.

 To her surprise, three nights later, Detective Rolif walked into Styx, ordered a drink and stood watching the string quartet. She watched him watching them for a few minutes before walking over. “Detective,”

He started and turned to face her. “Hi, where did”

“Won't you have a seat?” She begins leading him toward Her booth. “I’m afraid I'm still working on a few things, but I can join you shortly.”

“Oh, right, sure.” she left him at the booth and stop the young waitress, Kari, telling her to check in on the detective.

Marcus walked into her office, hung his coat. “I see your visitor is back. What have you gotten mixed up in?”

“Nothing you need to worry yourself about. Would you please finish this order for me before heading out to the bar, he’s been waiting almost a half hour already.”

Marcus shoots her the side eye. “Alright.” She ignored him heading out into the bar.

“Detective,” She slides into the booth across from the Detective. “What can I do for you?”

“You didn’t have to rush back, I’m just tired of being at my house.” She smiled her understanding and they settle into watch the quartet. Marcus slides a plate onto the table between them before heading behind the bar.

Detective Rolif was the last to leave again, this became something of a pattern though the times between his arrivals fluctuated slowly becoming shorter.

As time passed, she learned about his niece, his sister and the passing of his parents. She helped him find a lawyer to set up his will and some affordable life insurance. He began asking about her life, all that she has seen and done.

Marcus grew suspicious as the weeks turned to months and the months to years. before they realized it this pattern of theirs and been going on for two years. And yet now she found herself waiting for him, disappointed when he didn’t arrive and worrying over him whenever she heard of a, police involved shooting.

 One afternoon she and Marcus where checking in an order when the radio announced that the white dragons had opened fire at Rolif’s precinct. Marcus watched her freeze in mid motion as the story washed over her. “Do you want to head down there?” Marcus asked taking the clipboard from her hand.

“No,” she straightened back up. “No, I would just be adding to the mess.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’ll, I’ll go or call him later. If I go now, they’ll just wonder.” Marcus watched her silently. “They have enough to worry about, they don’t need me getting in the way.”

“Alright,” Marcus gave her shoulders a quick rub. “We’ll call over later.”

“Thank you.” She shot him a quick smile; Marcus nodded.

“Let's get this bar open.”

The violinist arrived and started, bringing with her a rather large crowd, creating a constant stream of work in the bar leaving both she and Marcus constantly running back and forth.

Finally, a loll came and she went back to her office to complete some paperwork. Rolif walked through the brass doors, disheveled, exhausted and headed straight to the bar. “Marcus.”

Marcus turned at the sound of his name, his eyes going wide at the sight of Rolif. “Rolif, You’re here. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, can I get a bourbon on the rocks?”

“Sure, no problem.” Marcus turned to grab the bottle, handing over the glass. “She’s in the office.

“Right.” Rolif took a sip from the glass, turning for the office.

“Rolif,” He turned back to Marcus. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Thanks.” Rolif’s lip twitched in something of a smile, Marcus nodded returning to the other patrons.

She was sitting, going over the payroll when the office door opened. The clink of ice against glass made her look up. Instantly her chest tightened at the sight of him, she rose from her chair in a daze. “You’re here.” She moved toward him.

“Yeah, I hope that-” her arms wrapped around him, startling both of them.

“You’re here and you’re not hurt.” Her hands scratch into the back of his jacket as she fought to wrap her brain around the fact that Rolif was standing in front of her.

“I’m not hurt, it’s okay.” He moved slowly but his arms came up around her as well.

Her ear found his heartbeat and for a moment she is reassured, suddenly she can’t stop the words from rolling off her lips. “I heard what happened on the radio, I was so scared. I wanted to come down and make sure you were okay but I didn’t want to know if you weren’t.” without realizing what she was doing she stretched up him and brushed her lips against his.

Within an instant his tongue brushed over her lips easing into her mouth. The glass slid from his fingers while hers dug into his hairline, shattering on the floor as he pulled her tighter to him.

In all of her previous encounters she had never felt so hazy before, her skin tingles from his touch.

He led her through the room toward the sofa on the far wall. They sank down into the soft leather, his hand sliding up her side to squeeze her breast.

A wave of frightened screams came from the bar, breaking the spell they had fallen under. Their lips separate and that stared at each other until the screams came again. They moved in unison for the door, she entered the bar a step before him.

A man stood with a shotgun pointed at Marcus, while another stood watching the front door. She moved into action immediately, quickly and quietly working her way toward the bar. She picked up a half empty bottle of wine from one of the tables as she passed. “Hey!” she shouted throwing the bottle at the man with the shotgun. He turned just in time to get a bottle to the face while Marcus reached across the bar and disarmed him, turning the gun on the other man.

Rolif burst through the crowd his hand gun drawn, they moved toward the would-be robbers with a somewhat threatening ora. She put a foot over the downed man's genitals before nodding at Marcus, who then put the shotgun down behind the bar to call the police. Rolif cuffed the man by the door first and sat him at the bar. He then turned to her and the gunman. “I got him.” Rolif said reaching down to grab the man by his arm, “Get up.” she removed her foot and stepped back.

“She threw a bottle at me!” the man shouted.

“Yeah she did, but you tried to rob her.”

“Seems like a fair trade.” She snapped, Rolif smirked watching her move to sit at the bar and wait for the patrol car to arrive.

Once the car arrived it was a thrill for her to watch Rolif take full charge of the scene. In under two hours the would-be robbers were carted away, witness statements taken, paperwork was completed and the patrol car had pulled away. A few of the regulars came to check on her and Marcus, once the commotion had settled down. Rolif sat next to her at the bar while Marcus slid her a rum and coke. “You want anything?” Marcus asked him while signaling to the band to start back up.

“Na, I’m good.” Marcus nodded leaving them to talk. “You’re surprisingly prepared for things.” Rolif turned his full attention on her.

“This is hardly the first time I’ve had someone try to rob me.” She chuckles taking a sip.

“You’ve certainly been around long enough.”

“Oh, har har.”

He smiles and her chest tightens again. “So, I hate to … whatever this was and run but,” He glances down into her glass, just so he didn't have to look her in the eye anymore. “I don’t know how to end this and it super weird. So- I’m just gonna go.”

She couldn't help but snicker as he stood. “How about dinner in a couple of days?”

“Yeah, sounds good.” He reached for his wallet.  

“Don’t worry about it,” he glanced up at her. “Did you even drink any of it before it smashed all over my floor?”

He shrugs. “Maybe a sip or two.”

“That hardly counts.”

“Thanks.” she waved it off while he pulls his coat straight.  As he turned for the door, she grabbed his wrist, stopping him. “I’m glad your okay.”

“Thanks.” he leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Me too.”

“Go get some rest, I’ll see you soon.”

He plants another kiss on her cheek. “See you soon.”

 Four days later she was called out of the office just after opening to speak to some gentlemen who wanted a word. There were three of them, two with army short hair, probably in their early thirties. The other is in his late forties with long hair and a receding hairline along with a broken Italian nose. She plastered on a placating smile. “Gentleman, what can I do for you?”

“You the owner?” the oldest one asked clearly accustomed to speaking for the group.

“I am.”

“I understand you know a colleague of ours.”

“Do I?”

“I also understand he was here a few nights ago while you were being robbed.”

“It was an attempted robbery; they didn’t manage to get anything for their trouble. And I’m afraid there were a number of people here at the time so you’ll have to tell me your colleagues name.”

“Hmm,” He snorted condescendingly. “So, you’re telling me that Rolif has a shit day at work and then a shit night.”

He tried to imply something though she didn’t have the patience to entertain him. “I’m sure it wasn’t exactly what he had planned for the evening. It certainly wasn’t how I envisioned mine.”

“Where was he when it happened?”

“He was in the office with me.” She can feel the path of their eyes down her body as they give her a lecherous once over.

“What was he doing in there?”

“Talking, he’s a friend who came to see me after having, as you said, a shit day at work.”

“Your friend.” they scoff. “How long have you known him?”

“Right around two years.” she wove her fingers together and cracked her knuckles. Marcus looks over at the sound, taking it as the bad sign it is.

“Alright, how did you meet him?” The older man popped his neck to the left with a dark smirk, her eyes narrowed slightly.

“She was a witness,” Rolif answers from the door, a heavy scowl on his face. “Why are you here, Costa.” Rolif settles himself next to and slightly in front of her.

Costa instantly takes on a false friendly, innocent persona. “Just trying to figure out where you’ve been running off to the past few years. Guess now we know.” Costa shoots her a quick leer.

“Well, look at that you found me, maybe you have actually learned how to do some of your job. Now go away.”

“Now, now, don’t be like”

“Go away.” Rolif gently turned her away from Costa and the other men, walking her toward her booth. “I’m sorry about this, I should have known shit was going to get around the precinct after the other night.”

“Rolif,” Costa shouted after them. “Rolif, don’t you turn your back on me!”

“Leave.” Rolif turns back to Costa a dark fire blazing in his eyes. “Now, or I’ll have you escorted out in bracelets.” they stared each other down for several long tense moments before Costa and the other two turned and walked out the door.

She waited for the door to close before turning to Rolif, poking his shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

“Costa’s an idiot.” Rolif explains rubbing his shoulder.

“That may be, but why are you concerned about the precinct knowing about you being here. Are you trying to hide the fact that you know me from them? Why is Costa looking for you with such a darkness in him? So, help you if you brought shit to my door!”

“No, No I didn’t, at least I don’t think I did.”

“Then explain.”

Rolif glanced around clearly hoping they weren’t so public despite there only being one other party in the place. “I just like having a place to myself.” She tightens her face but remains silent. “Look, I’m sorry Costa showed up and all, but I came over here today kinda hoping we could go get that dinner you talked about last time I was here and talk about a few things.” He looked up at her with sad puppy eyes.

She sighed and rolled her eyes through the room. “Fine,” crossing her arms she turns for the office. “Let me get my purse.”  She marched past the bar, sure this conversation was going to be a long and weird one. She walked into her office.  

“Rolif.” Marcus waved Rolif over. “I just want you to know that I saw that.”

“What?”

“The other night, I saw that.”

“What, are you talking about?”

“You behave yourself tonight.” Marcus wiggles his eyebrows a devious little smile on his lips.

“Marcus, you good if I head out early?”

“Sure am, I’ll call your cell if we need you.”

“Thanks.”

“Yep,” Marcus leaned on the bar closest to her. “Have fun on your date.”

“Don’t even start right now.” She and Rolif walk towards the door.

“Have fun you two!” Marcus called after them with a chuckle.

 Rolif had them seated in a quite booth in the back of a mom and pop Italian restaurant. They sat in awkward silence well after ordering, neither sure how to start the conversation. “Okay so,” Rolif started. “I get how what I said may have made it sound like I was embarrassed or trying to hide you. But I swear that’s not what it is. Truth is I don’t like Costa, he’s loud and a dick.”

“I kinda picked up on that.”

Rolif smirked. “I have to deal with him all the time, his desk is right next to mine and it drives me nuts. So, I really did just like having a place that the others didn’t know about. I didn’t want you to have to deal with their Bullshit and everything. I’m sorry they showed up today.”

“Okay, that’s fine. It is. Though I just want to point out to you that they seem to have some particular issue with you.”

“Yeah.” He shifts in his chair. “So, the other day when we were moving into defend the precinct. I was in the back of the line and while heading in I was hit,” her gut tightened. “With this ridiculous pain, it toppled me right there. They didn’t notice, not that they would there was a hell of a lot going on but a few of the guys were shot two died on scene and three others are in the hospital. Costa thinks I froze and if I had been there, they wouldn’t be where they are now, and he is you know, pissed about it.”

“Do you know what it was?” She motioned at him.

“I ducked out early today to see the doc and guess what’s back.”

Her stomach dropped. “Oh no.”

“Yep, and with a vengeance this time.” Rolif lifted his eyes to hers. “He wants me to start heavy chemo in two weeks.” She reached across the table, taking his hand. For some reason this wasn’t something she had thought would happen again. “I know it’s a lot to ask you, you shouldn’t have to go through this with me again, but I don’t think I can do this alone.”

“You let me know when your appointments are and I will make sure I’m available. You can crash at my place afterwards as well. You know you don’t have to ask.”

“Are you sure?” There was a twinkle of something she couldn’t quite decipher in his eyes.

“Of course.” she squeezed his hand and he smiled at her.

The awkwardness faded and the dinner conversation turned much lighter. Before the night was done, he kissed her cheek once again and got in his car. As he drove off, she wondered how such a simple action sent such tingles shooting through her body.

 When the first appointment came do she had the office prepped for him to crash in and the guest bedroom ready for when he thought he could manage the stairs. He held her hand through the entire treatment, chuckling as she told him stories to keep him occupied. He fell asleep on the sofa in the office for several hours’ afterword. The following day he swore he was well enough to return home and begrudgingly she agreed.

Two days later as she and Marcus were preparing for opening, she received a text from Rolif. “Come get me.” everything stopped and they headed for the car, while she called him and Marcus explained what still needed doing to the two waitresses.

“Where are you?”

“Precinct, hurry.” His voice was strained with pain.

 Marcus dropped her in front of the precinct as he searched for parking. She darted through the building pushing past the main desk to the detective’s bullpen. Rolif was hunched over in his desk chair, vomiting violently into his trash can. Most of the other detectives stood watching him, weaving her way between them she placed a hand on Rolif’s shoulder. “What that hell are you?”

Rolif began to laugh, still vomiting. “Don’t make me laugh,” He spits into the can and wipes his mouth. “It hurts.”

“Who’s trying to make you laugh, you should be at home resting.” he turns enough to look at her and she can see just how much pain he’s in etched into his face as sweat pours down it. He began vomiting again and she reached out to stabilize him in his chair as is body rocks from the force of each heave.

“Your uncle is on his way.” Marcus stated waving between the still ogling detectives.

“What! Why?” She snapped whipping her head around to face him.

“Because I called him.”

“Again, Why?”

“Because you didn’t.”

She does a slow angry blink. “What is wrong with you, we don’t have time for him.” Her voice is strained as she tries to control her anger. Rolif began to slide from his chair as a new wave of heaves overtook him, she caught him under his arms and kicked the chair out of the way sinking to the floor behind him to support him herself as he rode the wave out. “Help me get him in the damn car.” she growled at Marcus.

Rolif leaned his head back against her shoulder, she wipes the sweat from his face with her sleeve.

“What is it I have to come see right, oh.” A tall thin man in an expensive suit and an intelligent sweeping haircut stops next to Marcus.

“Edgar, that’s Rolif.” Marcus motioned to Rolif without need before kneeling down to scoop Rolif up off the floor.

“Oh, my.” Edgar watched her balance the trash can on Rolif’s stomach.

Marcus turned to head for the door. “Talk to her.” he says to Edgar as he passed.

She picked up Rolif’s jacket from the back of his chair and began digging through the pockets. Deciding she needed to head over to his apartment and pick up some clothes for him. Once she had his keys and wallet in her hand, she started past Edgar but he reached out and grabbed her wrist keeping her next to him.

Edgar ripped the keys and wallet from her hand and pressed them in to his assistant’s, telling the assistant to do the same as she had planned to. He then dragged her out of the precinct toward his waiting car, ignoring her protest as they went. He pushed her into the car then shouts something to the driver. All through the ride he sent out texts offering only disappointed glares in her direction.

She folded Rolif’s jacket over her arms and huffily looked out the window. She knew she shouldn’t have been so surprised when they pulled into Lizzy’s driveway but that didn’t change the fact that she was. “Oh God, why are we here?” she meant to sound angry but it came out as a whine.

“You need to talk to her.” Edgar said leading her from the car into the house and down the hall. Edgar pushed her into a chair as they entered Lizzy’s home office,

“Rude.” she spat at him refolding her arms and hunching down in the chair.

Lizzy smiled up at them, clearly not surprised by the mid day interruption. “Now Edgar, River is never going to like you if you keep manhandling her like that.” There was a slight chuckle to her voice. Lizzy had her black hair braided over her left shoulder; she was sitting at an outrageously ornate desk writing out checks by hand.

“You need to talk to her. I assume you know about her latest boy toy.”

“Boy Toy! He’s hardly a boy and neither is he a toy, have some tact for god's sake, man.” River huffed but Edgar ignores her watching Lizzy nod that she had heard that River had one.

“I just saw them together, she glows.”

“Oh my.”

“I what?”

“You Glowed. As in were glowing.” His stare pierced through River.

“I did not!”

“You did.” He turned back to Lizzy. “Talk to her.” with that said Edgar marched from the room, leaving the two women looking at each other.

“Hey, Lizzy.” River shifted uncomfortably under the older woman's gaze.

“Glowing,” Lizzy raised an eyebrow with a smirk.

“I find that hard to believe.” River scoffed.

“Really? I don’t.” Lizzy put down her pen and closed the checkbook.

“Why?” River realized she was still hugging Rolif’s jacket and quickly put it down on her knees.

“You’re the only one of us who hasn’t found their companion and now, my dear, it appears you have.”

“My companion?” She swallowed a snort of laughter.

“Of course.”

River sank farther down into the chair, put off by the seriousness of Lizzy’s face.  “My companion, how could that. That can’t be right.”

“Oh, come now. I know you haven’t been actively looking but you can’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“He can’t be my companion.” River glances down.

“Why not?”

“He’s dying.”

“Oh, dear girl, that doesn’t matter at all.”

“How can that not matter,” River straightened up in the chair. “It’s kind of a big deal.”

“It doesn't matter.” Lizzy stood and walked over to stand beside her.  River looked around the room, suddenly sure that she was the butt of some joke. “Men are made, only women are born.” Lizzy said settling into the chair next to her. River stared at her a bit wide eyed. “I know it’s been a long time since one of us was born and the last one was the only one you saw. You probably thought nothing of the fact that it was a girl.” River nodded slowly. “But all of our children are female.”

“How, can that be, Edgar’s been around forever. And Marcus, he’s younger than me.”

Lizzy smiled. “As I said, men are made.”

“But what about all the things you drilled into me. We can’t heal, we can’t make others like us. Why say it if it isn’t true?”

“It is true, for the men that we make.” River shook her head trying to clear the confusion. “This world has always been more interested in the affairs of men then those of women. Several decades before you were born an ancient man of science, an alchemist, realized what we are and caught one of the men. He was a good man, never revealed that there were others. The alchemist experimented on him for months, killed him time and again. Thankfully we became aware of where he was being held and a few of the other men went to collect him. They took all of the alchemist’s notes and burned down his lab with the cruel man trapped inside. Much of the alchemist’s work is what you were told. Men can not heal or create more of us but we had already known that wasn’t true for us women. Now I will admit that we probably should have told you about this before you found your companion but we usually do when the younger ones start to show interest in finding a companion and you never did. You kind a snuck in here on us.” Lizzy gave her an apologetic smile.

“So, I could have fixed him when he first asked?”

“Yes, yes you could have, but”

“Why would you hide this?!” River shot forward in her chair, her fingers tightening in Rolif’s jacket.

“We don’t want just anyone joining the ranks. The main side effect of healing people is eternal life.”

River stares at her unable to process what she’s heard.  How is this possible, how is she going to explain to Rolif that she could have stopped all his pain from the day he asked her. River runs her hands through her hair and lets out a frustrated groan.

“River, my dear, don’t worry about it so much. I’ll tell you what. We’re having our yearly get together in what,”

“Thirteen days.” River supplied automatically.

“Yes, so why don’t you bring him along. Let us have a look at him and if we think he’s a good fit, I’ll tell you all you need to know.” River looks up at her completely lost. “Don’t dwell on it too much, it will be over before you know it.” Lizzy said shuffling River toward the driveway and into one of her cars.

 Rolif is asleep in the guest bedroom, River settled on the beds edge to watch him sleep. She brushed some wayward hair from his eyes, noting how his face had softened in his sleep.

 River awoke to fingers sliding across her cheek. “Hey.” Rolif smiled at her softly.

“Hey,” She mirrored the smile.

“So, your uncle is the deputy Mayor?”

“Yea-h”

“This never came up before because?”

“You never asked.”

Rolif wiggles closer to her on the bed. “Fair enough.” He brushed his lips against hers and she leaned into the kiss happily. His thumb rubbed soft circles over her cheek. “Where did you go?”

“He dragged me off to see my aunt.” River shrugged and pulled him in for another kiss before he could ask another question. That kiss leads to another and then another until it becomes a chain of slow lazy kisses.

Marcus shouted down the hall that River needed to get moving. Rolif smiled at her as he watched her huff and roll out of the bed.

For the next twelve nights River found herself curled up beside Rolif. Some mornings they would talk and others were warm and quiet. She told him of the coming gathering and asked him to join her. Rolif readily agreed and indeed seemed to look forward to it. He was doing much better these days, up and wondering most of the day light hours.

The day of the gathering Rolif was called down to the precinct to fill out some paperwork. River was glad for his absence as she was overwhelmed enough with the food prep. Marcus drove Rolif to the precinct on his way to pick up a last-minute order.

The others began to arrive just after four and the bar began to fill with noise and liveliness. Lizzy made a point of being one of the first to arrive and stood in the kitchen watching River, her eyes burning with curiosity. The feel of those dark eyes so fixated on her made River shiver. The reinvigorated noise from the front as another group arrived finally got Lizzy to leave River be with her work.

When five thirty rolled around River was balancing trays of finger foods on her arms as she walked out into the main bar. A heavy bell ring, rang out as she eased the trays onto the table. with an exaggerated sigh she, along with everyone else, turned toward the door. “Who the hell put that bell on my door?”

“I thought that was new.” Rolif chuckled softly, though in the sudden silence of the room it seemed like a small boom. “Hi.” He greeted the room, the unease he felt, apparent in his voice while they all simply stared at him.

River started towards him and was surprised herself when the group separated for her. their collective gazes shifting from River to Rolif in amazement. “Did everything go alright?”

“Fine,” Rolif let go of the door, letting it close behind him with another heavy ring. “Why are they looking at you like that?”

River glanced at the others, “Because my idiot uncle told them that I glow.” she rolled her eyes at Edgar with a glare before quickly turning back to Rolif. He had an oddly endearing, questioning smile on his face.

“You’re always glowing.”

“What?” River’s steps slowed.

“You’re always glowing, did you not mean to be?”

“No, why would I?”

“I don't know, I thought it was some make up thing. I’ve heard the ladies at the precinct going on about the glowing look. So, I just thought, why are you looking at me like that?”

“I don’t wear makeup, why would you say that?”

“I didn’t say you did, but what else am I supposed to think it is?”

“Oh my.” Lizzy chuckled from the bar.

“Why would you say that?” River can't tear her eyes from him as panic begins to bubble in her chest.

“Well it's true, you always look like your glowing.”

“I think you have found your companion, River, dear.” Lizzy laughs out right.

River snaps a glare at her the strange spell suddenly broken as the panic turns to rage. “If you’re going to be an ass, I have things to do.” She turns pushing her way back to the kitchen. The strange moment turned embarrassing as she ran from it.

River pressed her four head against the cold steel door of the refrigerator. The kitchen door from behind the bar swung open as Marcus walked over to her. “Lizzy is talking to him.”

“About what?” She whined, hating herself for it, as she turned desperate eyes to him.

“Mom.”

“Oh, hell.” She bangs her head against the refrigerator. “Oh! Hell!” She turns back to Marcus, who just shrugs.  She rushed past him, skidding to a stop at the door and peering out the window. Part of her wanted to bust through the door and separate Lizzy and Rolif though she knew she would only make herself look like some crazy woman if she did. Marcus came to a stop beside her and nodded at the floor. “Thank you.” she whispers sinking to her knees. He nodded again and pushed the door open, letting her move out ahead of him.

 “You can what?” Rolif’s voice has the same authoritative tone it did when they first met though it is definitely angrier.

“So that is all you’re after, how disappointing.” Lizzy sighed.

“Of course, it’s what I’m after, I’m dying! Why wouldn’t she tell me about this?”

“Well now, there are side effects, the main one being the whole eternal life thing, so you’ll forgive us if we don’t go advertising. Also, River didn’t know until I told her thirteen days ago.”

“Thirteen days!” Rolif’s grip tightened around his glass.

River squeezed her temples between her palms in an attempt to stop herself from jumping up and strangling Lizzy.

“Don’t hold it against her, she was never all that interested in finding a companion, so we never revealed the truth to her.” Lizzy paused adjusting herself in her chair. “Can’t say I blame her she only had her mother to guide her. Her dear mother was obsessed with finding a companion, the quest possessed her and led her into one bad relationship after another. When those failed to find her the company, she sought she decided to make her own. And so River was born but that too proved to be no consolation. Young River watched her mother’s self-destructive path, hearing nothing but stories of companions as if they were fairy tales. We did not gather then as we do now. Until finally River was old enough to be on her own and she abandoned her mother to her fruitless search.” Marcus slides a fresh glass of bourbon to Rolif while Lizzy continued. “River embraced her freedom and found herself in many key moments of history. Some two hundred years after their separation her mother had finally met her companion and had married. The man was a widower with a son, he and his son were terribly injured in a car accident, both dying. you see, River’s mother revealed the truth to her husband, offering to save him but he declined. Instead insisting that she save his son, she did as he asked. As soon as her husband was buried, she took her son and moved here, bought the bar and called for River.

River reluctantly arrived in time to hear her mother's story meet her new brother and inherit the bar before her mother passed away.”

           “Wait, I thought you couldn’t die.” Rolif had calmed while engrossed in Lizzy’s tale.

           “In order to save Marcus things had to be changed, so instead of sharing a life she had to give one. In essence she gave Marcus her eternity.”

“Wow.”            “Yes, so you see all River had ever really known of companions were fairy tales and death. I think she actually believes that she has to die in order to save someone. So please don’t hold her reluctance against her.”

“That is fucked up, Oh sorry.” Rolif immediately corrects himself.

“No, no, you’re fine.”

Marcus nudged River’s hip with his foot before waving her back into the kitchen. He propped the door to the kitchen open as he leaned in to grab something off a shelf. River slid across the floor and propped herself against the refrigerator, this was hardly going to any sort of plan. She brushed the dust from her legs and folded her arms over her knees. She had not felt this young and small in decades. The oven timer buzzed forcing her back to work, she pulled herself to standing and silenced the annoying sound before washing her hands.

“Lizzy, left him gazing into his drink and now,” Marcus struggled for a moment picking up a tray laden with plates beside River. “The others are bombarding him with questions.” River lifted the second tray on to Marcus’ other arm. “You really should go rescue him.”

“I would but I can’t.” River shrugs, continuing to plate the next course.

Marcus snorted turning back to the door. “Such a chicken.”

“Shut up Marcus!” River snapped, embarrassed.

“Nice one.” Marcus smirked letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Is that really the best you can do?” Lizzy asked from behind River. The plate River had just picked up clattered loudly against the counter top as it slipped from her startled fingers.

“Damn it, Lizzy!”  River turned on her with a sharp glare.

“Have you thought about it?” she asked coming to stand beside River.

“Thought about what?” River turned back to plating food with a huff.

“What you would do if he was gone?”

“Yes, it’s all I can think about since our little chat.” River spit the words with a sad venom.

“And?”

“And, I don’t like it.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not! I’ll tell you why not.” her eyes flashed at Lizzy for a moment. “How am I going to convince him to forgive me when I can’t find a single reason to forgive myself. And what if once it’s done, he just disappears?”

“I don’t think that will happen and neither do you. And if it does, we’ll all just hunt him down and fix it.” Lizzy chuckles at the dark implication. “Besides You know what I think. I think you’re just concerned that you’re turning into your mother.” River glanced up at her in hopes that that can’t be true. “You and your mother are two very different people. You will never be the desperate woman she was.”

A small smile crept onto River’s face. “So, let’s say I did decide to do this.”

“Mm-hmm”

“How would I go about it?”

“It’s quite simple actually.” Lizzy smiled brightly, lifting herself onto the counter top.

 River finally joined the others out in the bar only to find the majority had already finished their meal and were separated into smaller groups, talking softly. Marcus was leaning against the bar picking at a plate, talking with Rolif. River took the time to sit in her booth and watch the groups as she thought things through. Photos where being snapped and shared, laughter floated about the room. It was comfortable and peaceful; River rested her head against the back of the booth and let her eyes slide closed.

 “Hey, River” Rolif gently rocked River awake. It took her a moment to realize where she was in the gloom of the now empty bar. “Hey there, why don’t you head up stairs. Marcus and I have everything just about done.”

River rubbed her right brow looking past him. “Done? Where is everyone?”

“They went home.” Rolif chuckled. “Go to bed.”

“Went home? What time is it?” She perked up as the realization that she had slept through the entire event hit her.

“Four fifteen now go to bed, your useless like this.” Marcus growled walking past them.

Rolif backed out of the booth letting her slide past him. “I can help at least a little. Thanks.” She nods to Rolif as she followed after Marcus berating him. “You should have woken me. You don’t have to do all this work yourself.”

Marcus stops wiping down the bar and stared her down, she simply stared right back at him, he let out a huff. “You needed the rest, you’ve been up the past two weeks getting him squared away,” he waved the towel at Rolif. “And prepping for this stupid party. You should have postponed the damn thing, but No!”

“Postpone it? Do you have any idea what size mess that would have been?”

“Yeah, yeah. Go to bed.”

“If you’re going to be a pouty baby about it, I will.”

“So, go.”

“Fine.” With a playful smirk River turned and headed for the stairs beside her office.

Fifteen minutes later she heard them coming up the stairs, another twenty and there was a soft rapt of knuckles on her door. “You told me to sleep.” River folded her arms over her chest as she lay in bed.

“Actually,” the door creaked open slowly. “Marcus told you to go to sleep, I told you to get up.” Rolif’s head popped into view a shit eating grin plastered on his face. She can’t help but smile back at him.

“So, you did. Well come on in and tell me what’s on your mind.” she waved him into the room.

“Why thank you.” he stepped into the room wearing the beat-up t-shirt and boxers he usually wore to bed. He made a point to shut the door behind him while she patted the mattress as an invitation. It was quickly accepted, he settled next to her on his back and turned his head so that he could see her without the intimacy of being full face to face with her. “So, I had a chat with your aunt Lizzy today.”

“Did you now, and what did she have to say?” River kept her voice light and playful but at the mention of Lizzy’s name she wanted to do nothing more than sink through the mattress.

“A Few interesting things.”

“I’m sure she did.”

“So, this is going to seem like a shift but,” River glanced at him from the corner of her eyes a small smirk playing on her lips. “I want to kiss you all the time.” She turned her head to look at him fully, her eyes wide and confused he just gave her a quick nervous smile. “Bare with me here,” he continued. “I do want to kiss you all the time, like all of the time. I have for quite a while now but I didn’t want to upset the relationship we already have going. But then the night the White Dragons hit the precinct, you kissed me, and I thought I was going to explode. But we got interrupted and then it was over and we never talked about it. I convinced myself it was just us caught up in the moment.” He shrugged. “Then the other morning I woke up and you were next to me and I couldn’t stop myself from running my fingers through your hair. When you woke up kissing you just felt so natural. God smiled on me when you kissed me back but then once again, we never talked about it, what it meant if anything. Though I did get to wake up beside you again.”

River bit the inside of her lower lip as she watches him, unsure what to say. He flashed her that nervous smile again before continuing. “You’re probably wondering what this has to do with me talking to your aunt. She told me that there might be away for you to fix me.” River turned away from him, her face pinched with frustration. “Now just hear me out. That’s not what I’m asking you for.”

She glanced at him from the corner of her eyes again, this time highly suspicious of him. “Then what are you asking for?”

“Mostly a kiss, like a real one where you know how I feel about you and where you feel the same, then maybe a date and when that one goes well, another one.”

A genuine smile slid across her lips. “So that first one is gonna go well is it?”

“Well, I mean, I have known you for a couple of years now. I think I can put together a pretty good date.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“Okay.” River rolled on to her side to face him. “What would we do?”

“First,” he rolled onto his side so that they paralleled each other. “I’d take you out for a nice dinner, not even in this part of town.”

“Oh, fancy, then what?” she laughed.

“You like movies, so we would head off to see a movie.” A playful glint sparked in his eyes. “Then we would walk through the park eating ice cream.”

“That sounds ridiculously corny.”

“And you love every second of it don’t you.”

Her smile broadened. “Maybe a little bit, I do.”

He chuckles a sound like honey, a small shiver ran down her spine. “So, you want to go on a date with me?”

Her smile softens into a gentler one as she shifts closer to him on the bed, she placed her hand on his cheek and stroked it gently with her thumb for a moment before pulling him into a deep lingering kiss.

His lips fallow after hers as they break apart for air. “I would love to go on a date with you.” He pulls her back for another kiss. “If we’re having ourselves a moment of honesty, can I share something with you?”

“Oh, I suppose so.” he rolls his soft puppy dog eyes with a mock dramatic sigh.

“I had already decided to help you.” His eyes snapped back onto her disbelief clear in them. “I know Lizzy told you a lot of embarrassing things about me but she and I also had a chat. So, this is how it has to play out. In small stages, this is for your benefit as well as mine.”

“It would be weird if I just showed up perfectly healthy one day.” He said as clarification.

“Exactly. So little by little, but here’s the main thing, once it’s done you can’t just disappear on me. If you do, we’ll find you, we’re all over the place and we do know how to kill each other. Not a threat just letting you know.” Rolif narrowed his eyes playfully. “This by no means, means you are trapped with me. Edgar and Lizzy have separate lives 90% of the time but you can’t just wander off.”

Rolif rested his forehead against hers. “Promise.”

“Good.” she smiled placing a quick kiss to his lips. They moved closer together arms wrapping around each other and settled in for sleep.

 Despite her better judgement they spent the next day in bed. The warmth of his skin and the weight of his body was an intoxicant she had never before encountered. It set the glow of her skin higher than he had ever seen it before, to the point where she began to cast out actual light. The process of healing him began and it was more fun then she had thought it would be. their bodies were slick with sweat and utterly spent by the time the sun set.

 Rolif’s health improved quickly and despite its lack of romance and spontaneity they made sure he got a dose of her after each round of chemo. Until another year had passed and he was declared back in remission as well as in near perfect health. He was looking better than he ever had in the time she had known him. the wrinkles around his eyes had eased, color returned to his cheeks, it made him look almost ten years younger. While they were nearly completed with the change, River also noted how much happier they both seemed as the year had passed them.

The gathering had quickly approached again and River was busy with preparations. The bar was noisy and warm, Marcus was behind the bar, Lizzy's distinctive laugh cut through the air. River felt Rolif arrive, a side effect of the change in him and the connection they now shared as almost companions. the hair on the back of her neck stood up as if a cool breeze had brushed past her. She turned and smiled at him as he came through the door, then quickly went back to work.

The sound level dropped in the room. “River,” Rolif said from behind her. She finished placing the last dish before turning to find him down on one knee, a hand in his jacket pocket.

“What are you doing down”

“Will you,” he pulled a small box from his jacket pocket. “marry me?”

She blinked at him several times as she tilted her head to the right while she processed the scene and question “Yeah, all right.” Rolif's brow twitched. “Yes, yes that would be good.”

Marcus burst out laughing from behind the bar. “You can't have expected a different answer.”

“I guess I shouldn't have.” Rolif agreed over his shoulder before turning back to River with a careful smile. “So that's definitely a yes then?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Good, now help me up.” River smirks as she offered her hand and hoisted him back to standing. “Thanks, though I was hoping for more of a gushy response.”

“I'm not all that gushy of a person.” River shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess.” Rolif opened the box revealing a modest amethyst and sapphire set in a white gold band. A warm smile spread across her lips. “Sorry it's not as grand as you deserve but you know what a detective's pay is like.” He apologized taking the ring from the box and slipping it on to her finger.

“It’s perfect.” She lifted his chin and kissed him to the outburst of cheers from the others.

 Once the others had left, Marcus shoved Rolif and River out of the bar claiming their displays of affection were making him nauseous. River had found it difficult to keep her hands to herself after receiving the ring, often running her fingers through Rolif’s hair while they spoke with others or interlocking their fingers. So, when Marcus pushed them through the door neither put up too much resistance. The two fumbled up the stairs together, River’s fingers worked to undo what seemed like an unreasonable number of buttons on a man’s shirt. Every brush of his fingers on her skin brought an ever-building pleasure into her. They left a small train of Rolif’s clothing to River’s bedroom and shed the last of it before they fell onto the bed itself. It became one of the most passionate and intimate couplings, setting off a glow in her that filled the room.

 Rolif and River married in the fall, Marcus moved into Rolif’s apartment and Rolif moved in with River.

River was introduced to Rolif’s sister, a lovely robust woman despite all that overwhelmed her, and his niece. The young woman's hands stood out most to River calloused and ink stained as they were. The young woman was a credit to her work and her mother. More of the detectives began to come by Styx.

 The years passed and Rolif, River and Marcus didn’t age. Marcus and River began to worry, this was the first time they had been so known in a long time. They sat Rolif down and began to explain their concerns. Thankfully they found that Rolife himself had started to wonder about it as well.

Different locations were discussed until the three settled on a small island in the south of France. Marcus and River worked out an arrangement for the youngest of the eternals to come and start learning how to run the bar. Things were falling into place now they just needed to wait for the right opportunity to make their exit.

They didn’t have to wait long; the White Dragon’s came raiding the precinct again. Rolif saw it for the opportunity it was and saved a fellow officer by taking the bullet meant for her. As soon as River got word, she called Edgar and the wheels began to turn. She set herself into a state of shock and grief as best she could manage.

Rolif’s memorial was hard as she had to lie to those who cared for them. Rolif’s sister was by far the hardest the only grace River had was that Rolif had already set out to their new home and didn’t have to witness his sister in such a state of grief. His wish to let his sister know that everything was alright might have led him to reveal the truth, but instead River pushed down the need to comfort with the truth and kept the dear woman in the dark.

A month after the memorial River signed the bar over to her cousin and she and Marcus left to join Rolif in their new home. Settling into the new town and their new names they found Rolif who was now Rupert had already made great progress on the new business. A bakery that he had dubbed River Cakes. Marcus who was now known as Matthew would take position as head baker while Rupert would be manager. River would take a step back from the controls for this round let the boys have a go at being the boss. She would work the counter and run the home, it would be a nice change of pace until she got board and took the whole thing over.

 “Helena… Helena?” Rupert’s voice drew closer. “Helena?” River snapped to attention as she remembered that was her new name and popped up from behind the counter.

“Yes?” she couldn't help the smile on her face as she sees him in the new shop uniform, a crisp white high square collared button-down shirt with deep blue apron and slacks, it’s adorable.

“There you are, I’m about to go on a supply run. Do you want to join me?”

“Why, Rupert, are you asking me on a date?”

“I am indeed.” The matching laughter glitters in their eyes.

“Why I would love too.”

“Oh my god, would you just go already. And make sure you get what’s actually on the list this time.”

“Such a grump.” Helena chuckled walking around the counter. “Don’t worry Matthew you’ll find someone to play with sooner or later.”

“GO, leave me to my work.”  He shouted walking back into the kitchen.

“Alright, alright.” Rupert waves dismissively at Matthew’s back then offers his arm to Helena. “My Lady.” they linked their arms together and walked out onto the quiet street. They were the very picture of a silly Hollywood romantic cheese fest only better because for them, for now at least it was their life.

“You know, this place is starting to grow on me.” Helena said squeezing closer against his arm.

“It’s not too bad, is it?”

“Nope, but we have to get Mar-Matthew a date soon.”

“His pouting is starting to wear on me.” Rupert nodded.

“Yeah, I’m kinda surprised how inactive he’s been, not his usual.” Helena leaned her head against Rupert’s shoulder. “But hey, we never know what we’ll find at the market.”

Helena and Rupert laughed as they turned into the first stop of many.

  The end.

[diaz-fox]

KLAUS HARGREEVES || LEVEL TWO

                                                         the dark days are gone                                                      and the bright days are here

POSSIBLE TRIGGERS: death tw, drugs tw, addiction tw, ghosts tw, abuse tw, child abuse tw, murder tw, claustrophia tw, anxiety tw, depression tw, suicide tw (brief implication), self harm tw (brief mention), panic attack tw, war tw, ptsd tw, mental illness tw, blood tw, shooting tw, guns tw

a door closes behind him with a harsh slam, like the sound of metal clanging against metal. a sound he knows too well, followed with a familiar sound of the door locking that makes his stomach churn with the threat of vomiting. in an instant, the room changes and he shrinks in on himself. it's dark. cold. the stone walls have names carved into them that are burned into his memory, a mark of the deceased that had been laid to rest in the four walls that klaus' mind has been trapped in since he was a child.

he crosses the room on shaking legs, arms curling around himself as if it would do anything to protect him from the horrors inside the mausoleum. he turns, back pressing against the wall when he reaches it and he slides down until he's curled up in the corner. he tries to ignore dave's blood coating his hands as he wraps his arms around his knees and tucks himself into a ball. tries to ignore the ghost standing in the corner already watching him like it wants to devour him. tries to ignore the tears already running silently down his cheeks, the tightening in his chest fear creeps in.

and there, curled in a ball in the corner of the mausoleum, klaus feels like he's eight years old all over again. so he waits. he knows by now that it's all he can do until dad lets him out.

ONE HOUR

                       KLAUS

                                       help us, klaus!

         i had so much left to live for

                         my daughter is alone, klaus, you need to find her

     KLAUS

                                  klaus. they killed me for it but i didn't do it. i didn't do it

               they're still out there somewhere, klaus

                                                                              HELP US, KLAUS

his hands are pressed over his ears but it does nothing to drown them out. his eyes squeezed shut but he still knows what they look like. gory mangled ghosts screaming out to him. he doesn't need to look, he's had this his whole life. it's ingrained into his head at this point.

he’s glad he can control his powers better now. it’s horrible being back here, it's so fucking horrible, but he can handle it better than he could when he was eight. ghosts grab at him, try to reach out, try to use his body as their own. he doesn’t let them. it’s hard, and his chest heaves with the threat of panic, but he pushes back, pushes them away and tells them no. 

they can’t have him. 

                                   it’s his body. his. 

                                                          but then again… his body has never really been his, has it?

TWO HOURS

it’s getting worse.

he’s been possessed twice now. both of them left when they realised there really was no way out of the mausoleum and that they couldn't use him to roam around and get to whatever unfinished business they had. as if klaus hadn’t clawed at the walls a thousand times already, breaking his nails and drawing blood from how aggressively he was trying to break out. 

the ghosts keep grabbing at him, their sinewy fingers curling around whichever part of him they can get to. he's learned by now that if he makes himself as small as possible, there's less of him to get to. but he's not a child anymore and there's more of his lanky frame to try and bundle up and it's useless

                              just like him

his hands come up to cover his ears, the action having become somewhat of a defense mechanism. even more so since vietnam. he presses the heels of his hands into his ears to try and block the sound out but it's no use. they just yell louder, grab at him more frantically and no amount of talking to himself is going to block them out.

THREE HOURS

the door opens. 

his dad turns up in the third hour, his presence looming in the doorway. at first it's just a silhouette standing there but klaus knows. he knows that this is the part where he begs and pleads with his dad to let him out because he's not scared anymore, even though the tear tracks on his face and the way he trembles say the opposite. 

he lifts his head and feels a spark of hope that he knows is going to fan out the second his dad talks. he knows, and yet he asks anyway.

"can i go home now?" his voice is small and shaky. he's eight years old again.

"have you learned?"

"what?"

"have you learned to control yourself, number four?" 

he blinks. then nods. anything to get out of here.

"then why is number seven dead?"

it hits him hard, like someone with luther's strength has punched him in the chest and knocked all of the air out of him. he can't breathe, chokes on a sob that he tries not to let out. his mouth moves and he tries his best to get his words out to convince reginald he's fine regardless of what happened, but he's hyperventilating and all he can see is vanya.

vanya being smothered by ghosts that he was controlling. vanya's lifeless body on the ground because he had killed her.

                                                          "four more hours!"

the door slams shut and he's left alone again, his sobs reverberating off of the cold stone walls.

FOUR HOURS

he wants to be numb again. he wishes he couldn't feel anything anymore. wishes he had some pills he could take to make this all easier.

as soon as the thought comes into his head, it feels like he's in withdrawal all over again. his skin is on fire, his head is pounding and he feels his stomach churn. and the cravings… god, the cravings are horrendous. 

he needs a fix.

                        he needs to get out.

his fingernails claw at the crook of his elbow, his veins itching for something to run through them that will make this somewhat bearable.

he hasn't craved it like this in months and it's torture. 

he glances down, sees deep red welts forming on his arms from the scratching. see the blood coating his hands, a mixture of dave's and his own, and the craving gets worse.

he wants to forget it all. he wants to forget what he did to vanya. wants to forget that dave got shot in front of him again. wants to forget that he could be dead somewhere and klaus doesn't have a clue. 

the cravings get worse and he breathes heavily, head tipping back against the wall with no choice but to ride it out.

his eyes close and he tries to block out the ghosts yelling his name.

FIVE HOURS

he screams. he screams and screams and screams until his throat is raw and his voice is hoarse and broken.

it's not the ghosts this time. or the cravings. it's so much worse

                                                      it's dave.

klaus had been sitting on the floor, curled up in a ball with his hands over his ears and his chin tucked into his chest as the ghosts screamed and yelled at him for help. it was only when it went deathly silent that klaus looked up again, slow and cautious to see why they had gone quiet. the ghosts were gone and for a split second, he was foolish enough to hope they had left him alone or that he had finally regained control over his emotions enough to control his powers again.

it takes all of four seconds for his vision to hone in on the body laying in a pool of blood directly opposite him. he crawls on all fours, making his way towards it to see who it is.

he knows. he already knows, but he needs to see. 

once he's close enough, he reaches out tentatively and tugs the body over, moving them onto their back so he can see their face.

dave's face. 

it's like being at the rave again, when he had seen dave's body. but this time there's more blood. it's not just coming from the bullet wound in his chest, but from the newest addition in his side too. shaking hands move to cover them both, one blood stained hand covering the chest wound and the other covering the wound in his side. he realises a second too late that it's pointless. dave's already dead.

"no… no, no, no…" klaus whispers, voice teetering on the edge of tears. his hands move, cradling dave's face now. "please… please, no…" his hand taps dave's cheek gently in a desperate attempt to coax him awake. "s- stay with me, please… please don't leave me again. not again. i love you… i love you, don't-"

his forehead presses against dave's and he cries, sobs wracking his entire body as he frantically begs and pleads and mourns the love of his life again while the sounds of gunfire and helicopters fill the empty mausoleum.

he doesn't know how long he's there for, but eventually he's spent and exhausted from the hours of screaming and he lays down next to dave, forehead pressed against his shoulder and his hand gripping on the fabric of his shirt. 

                        the tears don't stop.

SIX HOURS

the ghosts came filtering back in a little while ago. at least they had the decency to let him grieve for a little while, he thinks.

they're taunting him now. they tell him how much of a failure he is, how much of a disappointment he is. how he should just join them already because nobody needs him here anyway. his family will hate him when they find out what he did to vanya. dave's gone. what does he have? nothing.

the words cut through him like knives. it's true. all of it. he knows it's true.

he's moved away from dave now and has retreated back to his corner, because when he lifted his head from dave's shoulder and glanced around the room, he saw vanya sprawled out on the ground a few feet away from them and he had scrambled back faster than he ever knew he could move.

vanya's body has been there for… ten minutes? maybe longer? and all he's done is stare at her the whole time, expression blank and defeated. 

klaus has killed people before. on missions, in training, on the streets by accident. murder, unfortunately, is nothing new to him. in fact, it’s so common now that he can see a body and ask if they're burning or burying it without flinching. he hates violence and killing and all the stuff that's supposed to come easy to him, but he's more than capable of it. he's capable of being ruthless if he has to be.

but he was never supposed to be that way towards his siblings.

he watches vanya in silence, his eyes never leaving her even when the ghosts try to grab his attention. two of the people he loves most are lying dead in front of him and it's his fault. it's all his fault. it always is. when he finally speaks again, his voice is hoarse from all the screaming and crying but his words seem to ring loud and true above the ghosts.

                                            "i'm sorry, vanny."

SEVEN HOURS

he’s curled up on the concrete floor, dave’s dog tags clutched in his hands, when reginald finally comes back. the door opens and klaus scrambles up like a spider on roller-skates, shifting to sit as his head turns to glance in his father’s direction. his dad, however, looks surprised to see him which only makes klaus more unsettled. it fills him with more fear than anything else he’s seen in the mausoleum. his dad fills him with more fear than anything else.

“you’re still here, number four?” reginald comments, his tone matching the surprised arch of his brow behind that stupid fucking monocle klaus would just love to smash into his eye.

klaus blinks, eyes adjusting to the stream of light coming through the door behind his dad’s silhouette. he nods slowly, not trusting his voice not to crack. 

“i see. you’re still afraid,” his dad comments, his tone as judgemental and disappointed as it always was with him. it was nothing new. klaus almost shrinks back, wishing his dad would just fuck off and leave him alone. it’s only when reginald steps inside that klaus starts to panic. his father walks forward, stops when his foot lands a few inches from vanya’s head and looks down like he’s only just noticed her there. then he looks at dave like he’s just noticed him and that same disappointed sigh klaus has grown so used to echoes against the mausoleum walls.

“the world is full of injustice. good people die along with the bad…”

the words twist klaus’ stomach and he feels sick. he’s going to be sick. he knows what this is and he doesn’t want to hear it. he doesn’t need to hear it. ben’s eulogy is the last fucking thing he needs right now.

“no-”

“this cosmic equation will never change unless evil itself is wiped from existence. thankfully, there are powerful forces pushing back against the wicked and iniquitous, individuals who have the strength to pull together against insurmountable odds-”

“stop it.”

“-to face adversity with unblinking courage and not to hesitate to sacrifice themselves for another. unfortunately-”

“dad, please-”

“-you are not such a person.”

the change in the speech renders klaus speechless, putting an end to his protests. it’s not aimed at the team anymore, it’s aimed at him. because he’s the one that failed this time, not his siblings. just him. 

it’s always him. 

“you have failed one of your own, number four,” reginald continues, once again aiming his words at klaus alone which cuts deeper than this speech had the first time he’d heard it.

“i didn’t mean t-”

“what did i say at your brother’s funeral, number four?” his dad says, tone rising in annoyance at his son’s protests. klaus fell silent, knowing exactly what was coming. “well?” reginald snaps impatiently.

“hold onto thi-”

“hold onto this feeling, children. let it fester in your hearts so there is never a next time,” his father interrupts, finishing the line that stuck with klaus for years after ben’s funeral. 

he needs to be sick.

“and look at this! there was a next time. and worse, number seven is dead because of you.” 

he can’t breathe. he’s going to be sick. his bloodied hands come up to curl around his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to stave off the nausea. 

“all that potential wasted. you finally pull yourself together and for what? to kill your own sister? you’re a disappointment, number four…”

he needs to get out of here. he’s suffocating. he can’t breathe.

“you’ve failed. again. you will always fail.”

“shut up!” he screams and he’s on his feet in an instant, even though he doesn’t remember standing up. it’s his powers, it has to be. there’s a faint blue glow bouncing off the walls and when he glances down, his hands are clenched into fists and he’s glowing blue up to his forearms. the ghosts around him are blue, too, all of them rounding on reginald at klaus’ subconscious command. reginald actually has the gall to look surprised. impressed, even, at the unexpected display of power shown from his greatest disappointment. and, in true hargreeves fashion, he tests it. experiments on him the way he did more than any of the others.

“what now, number four? am i next?” reginald taunts and klaus’ jaw clenches. he has enough control over his powers now to let the ghosts attack, to control their every move and stand back while he watches them tear his father apart without a scrap of remorse. he hates him. he fucking hates him. and yet… 

"i could kill you," klaus rasps but despite his words, he doesn’t do anything. he stands his ground, keeps the ghosts standing at attention as a threat but the spark in his father’s eye says that he knows klaus won’t do anything. he doesn’t want more blood on his hands. not even his piece of shit father’s.

“so do it.” reginald’s gloating now, klaus can tell. “you’re too weak. too pathetic to make yourself useful.” well, that’s nothing he hasn’t heard before. his siblings always love to remind him how useless he is. he tries not to flinch, but as used to it as he is, it doesn’t make it sting any less. “number two? died. number seven? dead. number six? dead again. the soldier? dead. it’s your continuous failure that brings about these events, number four. all those years of training and you’re still not good enough. you’re still afraid of the dark. it's no wonder i kicked you out of the academy. you drag them down. you were never anything more than a burden to me and to them."

each word is like a jab in his chest. each word makes him shrink back, the blue glow dying out with each blow. his back presses against the wall and he shrinks in on himself. the ghosts go back to moaning and wailing and wandering around the mausoleum now that he doesn't have a hold of them anymore.

“your siblings would be better off without you and you know it.”

and that’s what does it. that is the straw that breaks the camel’s back.

                   ‘nobody needs your shit, klaus. that’s why you’re always alone.’

                                     ‘you’re useless!’

                                                                ‘you’re my greatest disappointment, number four.’

      ‘to be blunt, i don’t really like you all that much.’

                                                ‘people still don’t take me seriously!’

   ‘is there any way to silence that voice in your head that screams out to be the center of attention?’

                           ‘stay in this body. we need someone responsible behind the wheel.’

           ‘you’re the lookout.’

                                        ‘i’m the one person in that house nobody will even notice is gone.’

‘all i do is watch you make the same mistakes over                                                                                           and over                                                                                                             and over                                                                                    and over                                                                                                         and over again.’

despite all the shit he’s been through, the years of being haunted and tormented, the years spent on the streets, the years spent high out of his mind and battling addiction, the years spent abused by the people he met through it all… there’s still a small part of him that's alight. a part that burned and wouldn’t go out no matter how much the world tried to snuff it out. a small part of him that his father still hadn’t broken...

until now.��now he feels it break. he's broken. and a fear that he can't ever be fixed settles in nicely with the rest.

reginald turns to leave and klaus’ eyes are fixed to the floor, staring ahead blankly. the door slams shut again and a soon as he knows his father is gone klaus sinks down, expression blank and unfeeling as silent tears roll down his face while he stares down at the same patch of concrete. 

the ghosts grab at him again. he lets them. doesn’t bother fighting back anymore.

                          what’s the point? he’s useless.