#victory bond campaign

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"Push Up in the Front … For Victory," Montreal Star. October 21, 1943. Page 12. --- SPEED THE VICTORY! HATONS LA VICTOIRE! ---- Here is one of the most eye-striking sights in Montreal to mark Canada's Fifth Victory Loan campaign, one of the four specially painted street cars donated by the Montreal Tramways Company. Working as usual, each car will travel 200 miles every day of the drive and it is estimated will carry on an average, 128 passengers per hour.

[iwritethingssometimes]

I'm seeing some posting about a feeling of fishiness about the recently completed US Election.

In the attempt to do something more productive than my last post, I'm gonna do an adhoc examination of how feasible I think a "rigged election" actually is, looking at a few methods that could have been used. So, to start with, what is the actual evidence here?

Most of it is... honestly vibes based, which I get, but don't put a lot of stock in, There was a lot of energy around the Harris campaign, and she had some good polls, but Donald Trump has proved nothing else in the past fucking decade, its that the polls literally do not matter for him, and he can outperform them by a hundred miles.

But. There's also some numbers.

None of this has been verified yet, and I want to make that clear, but this year has largely reported record turnout in a ton of states, especially the swing states, and yet, so far.

The number of votes seems much lower this year.

Not republican votes, not democrat votes, all votes. Hell, third party voting collapsed this year--whatever else you take from this election, this was not a case of the left splitting the vote.

Now, it's true that the vote count hasn't been completed, and it's possible that the numbers will make more sense once that's done. It's also true that the states didn't have quite the same turn-out as last year... but it was only a percentage point or two lower.

Add that to the frequent postings about people having their ballots rejected for... questionable reasons, and.

Well. It starts going from a "the moon is fake!" conspiracy to "Epstein had sex slaves" conspiracy.

But, okay, is it even possible for Trump to have faked the vote like this? People talked about it, but it was mostly in terms of legal challenges trying to overturn a Harris victory, or pulling in the supreme court to decide narrow districts. This, by all accounts, seems to be a straight forward Trump sweep.

So if there is shenanigans afoot, how could he have done it?

There's three feasible(ish) pathways, in my opinion:

Voter suppression and manipulation pre-ballot: Yeah this happened. It's also irrelevant to any possibility that the vote counts were tampered with. Look, this election was flooded with misinformation, legal suits, court cases, and election officials doing everything in their power to fuck with people's right to vote. It was filled with ballot boxes being lit on fire. Elon Musk did a fucking paid vote scheme! Of course there was voter suppression! But there always is, and although it was worse this year than many others, it wouldn't cause any numerical mismatch between turn out and votes, and there's not much that can be done now for this election. Even if someone voted because Musk slipped them $100, no court will ever be able to prove they didn't just happen upon $100 bucks and then voted for Trump.

Voting machines were manipulated: A few hours ago I would have said this was practically impossible, but apparently a bunch of election officials and cyber-security experts were sounding the alarm about this a few months ago, so, uh. That being said, I've seen people claiming that Starlink or whatever hacked voting machines, and no. No, Starlink did not hack voting machines. No one "hacked" voting machines. They weren't connected to the internet, or any wireless communication systems, because anyone with any degree of cybersecurity knowledge will tell you that's how you create an insecure system. Now, it's not impossible, technically speaking, than Elon Musk or fucking Russia managed to hire engineers and somehow bribe enough officals to get access to the machines and install hardware that would allow external access, but in that case we live in a Bond movie and somehow have bigger problems. So, if the voting machines themselves were compromised in any technological way, it would have required direct, physical access, which should be basically impossible, unless...

Ballot officials fucked with the vote This is the one I think is plausible. Basically, in this case, what could have happened is that various election officials at different levels of the process more or less lied about the vote count. This could have happened in a lot of different ways--they could have found reasons to reject mail-in ballots, which several states attempted to make legal, they could have found reasons to reject in-person ballots, which several states attempted to make legal. They could have, if the corruption ran deep enough to make this feasible, just... not counted or reported votes that swung for Harris. They could have, if the election machines work similar to the ones up here in BC, seen the results from the machines, then called the central election office over the phone--because remember, the ballot boxes should not be connected to anything. I don't know. There's a lot of options, and it varies from state to state, because remember, each state runs their own elections, and has their own rules and procedures.

So yeah, three explanations, only one of which is really plausible.

Now, I want to be clear, I don't think this election was fraudulent. Not yet, at least, I need to see actual evidence, or this is nothing more than a theory, but I also want to be clear.

...3 makes sense.

3 would explain why urban areas seemed to be underrepresented in this election, while rural areas surged. 3 would explain a discrepancy between voter turn out and votes counted. 3 would fit the strategy Trump and MAGA loyalists have been describing for the last four years, of infiltrating the election machinery and manipulating it to their own ends.

So I'm not saying it's likely that Trump fucked with the vote, not without evidence. Not yet.

But I will say this looks a hell of a lot more plausible than any claims made in the aftermath of the 2020 election.

[stylesispunk]

Blades of Fate

marcus Acacius x f!reader / lucius x f!reader

Summary: Lucius and you are celebrated champions of the arena, each with their own unique force. Marcus Acacius returning from a victorious campaign, attends a grand gladiatorial event where he witnesses your bravery firsthand and something about you captivates him.

w.c: 4,4k

warnings: messy writing, angst, mentions of blood, mentions of violence, and mentions of arranged marriage, tension

a/n: okay, I had two days off from work and I still have post london depression, but I finally wrote something and I had no idea what the plot of this was or is, but I was dying for writing something about this two characters and I out them both here. Okay I have no idea what plot gladiator II will follow so this is the only thing that came to my mind. Perhaps some events or details of the story will not fit with the history events of the Roman empire and gladiators, but still this is just for fun. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. I hope you like it and have fun reading 💌.

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

The sun hung high in the Roman sky, casting golden rays over the Colosseum's colossal structure. The massive stone amphitheater, a testament to Roman engineering and grandeur, was alive with the roar of the crowd. Citizens from all walks of life, from the lowly plebeians to the esteemed senators, filled the seats, their cheers and shouts blending into a symphony of anticipation.

The blood of past battles stained the sand in the heart of the arena, a silent witness to the countless lives lost for entertainment. Today, the atmosphere was electric with excitement, for the arena was set to witness a spectacle unlike any other. The gates on either end of the battleground creaked open, and out stepped two of Rome's most revered gladiators.

Lucius, tall and muscular, with a presence that commanded respect, raised his sword to the cheering masses. His sharp and focused eyes scanned the crowd before settling on his partner. You, a gladiatrix of unparalleled skill, moved with a grace that belied the brutality of your fate, matching the rage of your lover. Your lithe form was clad in leather armor, and your hair was braided back to reveal a face marked by determination and a fierce will to survive.

Seeing a woman fight wasn’t something common, but you had won your respect and reputation, and besides Lucius, you had become nothing but stronger, a team, as the two champions you were destined to be.

A hush fell over the Colosseum. The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe.

The only sound was the distant call of a hawk, circling high above, as if it too were a spectator. Then, with a sudden crash, the gates on the opposite end burst open, and their opponents emerged—a team of seasoned warriors, each one a formidable foe, determined to bring down the beloved gladiators.

The battle began with a clash of steel and a flurry of movement. Lucius and you fought with seamless coordination; your movements synchronized as if you were one entity. Lucius's strength and brute force were complemented perfectly by your agility and precision. The two of you moved through your opponents like a tempest, leaving a trail of fallen adversaries in your wake.

High above, in the VIP stands, General Marcus Acacius watched intently. His stern face, weathered by years of warfare and command, betrayed no emotion. Known for his ruthless efficiency and strategic brilliance, Marcus had seen countless battles, but there was something about these two gladiators that intrigued him. Your skill was undeniable, but it was your unspoken bond, your mutual trust and respect, that caught his attention.

As the last of your opponent’s fell, the crowd erupted in deafening applause. Lucius and you stood victorious, your chests heaving from exertion, but your eyes were sharp and alert. You raised your weapons in salute to the crowd and then, as one, turned your gaze towards Marcus.

From his seat, Marcus leaned forward slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Arrange for a private meeting," he instructed his aide, his voice carrying the weight of command. "I want to see if their skills match their reputation."

The aide nodded and hurried off, while Marcus's gaze remained fixed on the two of you. There was something about you both—a spark that he couldn't quite place. He intended to find out what it was and how it could serve his own purposes.

As you and Lucius exited the arena, you exchanged a smile. Another victory, another day of survival in a world you didn’t choose but were destined to be part of. You reached out, gently touching his arm. “We are a team,” you said, trying to convince yourself that the love you had for him was bigger than the exhaustion you felt.

Lucius looked down at your hand on his arm, then back at you. “Yes, Dulcissima,” he said softly. He closed his eyes; there was a sort of pain evident on his face. “But I want us to be free from all of this," he admitted.

He opened his eyes, searching for yours once more. The anger had faded, replaced by a deep sorrow. "Dulcissima,” the nickname, slipped from his lips once again. “I want us to get married, and I want to make you happy.”

You stared at him in disbelief, the weight of his words sinking in. “Lucius,” you whispered, overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions.

Lucius took your hand in his; his grip was firm yet tender. "I’ve been thinking about this for a long time," he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. "Every time we step into that arena, I fear it might be our last. I don’t want to lose you, not without having truly lived with you."

Your heart ached at his words. You had always known the dangers of your life as a gladiatrix, but hearing Lucius speak so openly about his fears brought a new depth to your own anxieties. "I want that too, Lucius," you replied, your voice trembling with emotion. "But how can we ever be free?"

Lucius's eyes darkened with determination. "We’ll find a way. There has to be more to life than this constant struggle. We’ll fight for our freedom together."

Before you could respond, a group of soldiers approached, their stern faces in stark contrast to the celebration that surrounded you. The leader, a tall centurion with a scar running down his cheek, addressed you both. "General Marcus Acacius has requested your presence for a private meeting. Follow us."

You and Lucius exchanged a quick glance, both sensing the gravity of the situation. With a nod, you followed the soldiers through the winding corridors of the Colosseum, your minds racing with thoughts of what the general might want.

The soldiers led you to a grand chamber within the Colosseum, its walls adorned with intricate tapestries and bronze statues of Rome’s greatest heroes. General Marcus Acacius stood near a large table, studying a map spread out before him. As you entered, he looked up, his eyes locking onto yours with keen intensity.

"Welcome," Marcus said, his voice smooth and commanding. "I wanted to speak with you both personally. Your performance in the arena today was nothing short of extraordinary."

"Thank you, General," Lucius replied, his tone respectful but guarded.

Marcus nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips. "And honor Rome you have. But I sense that there’s more to your partnership than just skill and survival. There’s a deeper connection, one that could be of great use."

You felt a chill run down your spine at his words. "What do you mean, General?" you asked cautiously.

Marcus leaned forward, his eyes piercing. "I’m offering you an opportunity—a chance to fight for something greater than yourselves. To serve Rome in a way that could ultimately lead to your freedom."

Lucius’s grip on your hand tightened slightly. "We’re listening," he said, his voice steady.

Marcus gestured to the map on the table. "Rome is expanding, but with that expansion comes the need for strong, capable leaders. I believe the two of you could be valuable assets in securing our borders and maintaining order. Prove yourselves in the upcoming challenge, and I’ll ensure that your skills are recognized. There could be a future for you beyond the arena, one where you have a say in your own destiny." He paused. "However," he continued, a glint of challenge in his eyes, "I propose a new test of their mettle. A special event, where our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a mock battle."

A murmur of excitement rippled through the hall. You felt a surge of determination at the general's words. This was more than a mere challenge; it was an opportunity to prove yourself further in the eyes of Rome and its most powerful figures.

You stepped forward, your voice clear and resolute. "I accept your challenge, General. I will show you and all of Rome what a true gladiator is capable of."

Marcus nodded, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Very well. The event will be held in two days' time. May the gods favor the brave."

Lucius, standing beside you, gave your hand a reassuring squeeze. "We’ve faced worse," he whispered. "You’ll show them all."

Your heart raced at the prospect. Could this be the chance you and Lucius have been longing for? Is there a way to escape the bloodshed and find a life together, free from the chains of the Colosseum?

"We’ll do it," you said firmly, meeting Marcus’s gaze with unwavering resolve. "We’ll prove ourselves."

Marcus’s smile widened; satisfaction was evident in his eyes. "Good. The challenge will take place in two days. Prepare yourselves, and may the gods be with you."

As the banquet continued, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this challenge was more than just a test of skill. It was a pivotal moment, one that could alter the course of your life and your bond with Lucius. And in the shadows, the ever-watchful eyes of Marcus Acacius followed your every move, already plotting the next step in his intricate game.

The next two days were a blur of intense preparation. You and Lucius trained tirelessly, refining your techniques and strategizing for the upcoming mock battle. The anticipation in the air was palpable, both among the gladiators and the spectators who eagerly awaited the spectacle.

On the morning of the event, the Colosseum was packed with spectators, their cheers echoing through the grand structure. The atmosphere was electric, charged with the excitement of the unknown. This was no ordinary battle; it was a test that would determine your fate and perhaps even reshape your destiny.

Marcus stood on a platform overlooking the arena, his presence commanding respect. He raised his hand, signaling for silence. "Today, we witness a display of courage, skill, and determination," he announced, his voice carrying across the Colosseum. "Our gladiatrix will face my finest soldiers in a test of strength and strategy. Let the battle begin!"

The gates creaked open, and you stepped into the arena, your heart pounding with a mix of nerves and adrenaline. Across from you stood Marcus’s elite soldiers, their expressions hard and focused. You glanced at Lucius, who stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes locked onto yours with unwavering support.

"Together," you whispered to yourself, drawing strength from the bond you shared with Lucius.

The clash of steel rang out as the battle commenced, a whirlwind of movement and noise. You moved with a grace and ferocity that left your opponents reeling; your every strike was precise and powerful. Despite the odds, you fought with everything you had, driven by the desire for freedom and a future with Lucius.

As the battle raged on, you felt a surge of energy, pushing yourself beyond your limits. You danced around your opponents, using your agility and speed to outmaneuver them. The crowd's cheers grew louder with each successful strike, their excitement fueling your resolve.

Finally, as the last soldier fell, a hush descended over the arena. You stood victorious, your chest heaving, your body bruised and battered but unbroken. The crowd erupted in applause; their cheers were a testament to your triumph.

Marcus descended from the platform, his eyes filled with admiration and something else—something deeper. "You have proven yourself today," he said, his voice carrying a note of respect. "Your skills and determination are unmatched. You are a true warrior."

You nodded, the weight of his words sinking in. "Thank you, General," you replied, your voice steady despite the exhaustion.

Lucius rushed to your side, his eyes filled with pride and relief. "You did it," he whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace. "I knew you would."

As you stood there, basking in the glow of victory, Marcus stepped closer, his gaze intense. "There is more to this than just a test of skill," he said quietly. "I see potential in you—a potential that could change the course of our future."

You looked at him, curiosity and apprehension swirling within you. "What do you mean?"

Marcus smiled a hint of mystery in his eyes. "All in due time. For now, rest and recover. We will speak again soon."

In the days that followed, you and Lucius were treated with newfound respect and admiration. The other gladiators looked up to you, and the soldiers who had once seen you as mere entertainment now saw you as formidable warriors. Yet, despite the praise and the promise of a brighter future, a sense of unease lingered in the air.

One evening, as you were returning to your quarters after another grueling day of training, a sudden commotion caught your attention. The sound of clashing steel and muffled shouts echoed through the corridors. You hurried towards the source of the disturbance, your heart pounding with a sense of impending danger.

As you rounded a corner, you were met with a chilling sight. Lucius was engaged in a fierce battle with a group of unknown assailants. His movements were swift and deadly, but he was outnumbered. Without a second thought, you drew your weapon and rushed to his aid, your determination burning brighter than ever.

Despite your best efforts, the sheer number of attackers overwhelmed you. You fought valiantly, but the odds were stacked against you. A sharp pain exploded in your side as one of the assailants landed a brutal blow, and you fell to your knees, your vision blurring.

Lucius's voice echoed in your ears, filled with desperation. "No! Leave her alone!" But his cries were in vain. The attackers overpowered him, and as darkness closed in, you felt yourself being dragged away.

When you awoke, you found yourself in a dimly lit cell, your hands bound with a rough rope. The cold stone walls pressed in around you, and the air was thick with the scent of dampness and decay. You struggled against your restraints, but they held firm.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing louder with each passing second. The door to your cell creaked open, and Marcus stepped inside, his expression unreadable.

"You’re awake," he said quietly, his voice carrying a note of regret.

"Why?" you demanded, your voice hoarse. "Why did you do this?"

Marcus sighed, his eyes dark with emotion. "It wasn’t supposed to be like this," he said, stepping closer. "But there are forces at play here that even I cannot control. I had to act quickly to protect you."

"Protect me?" You spat, your anger flaring. "By taking me hostage?"

He knelt beside you, his gaze earnest. "Yes," he said softly. "There are those who see you as a threat and who would stop at nothing to eliminate you. I couldn’t let that happen. This was the only way to keep you safe."

You stared at him, your mind racing. "And what about Lucius? What have you done to him?"

Marcus’s expression tightened. "He’s unharmed for now. But there are conditions. You must stay here, cooperate with me, and in return, he will be spared."

Your heart ached with the weight of his words. The future you had envisioned with Lucius seemed to slip further away with each passing moment. "What do you want from me?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"I want you to trust me," Marcus said, his tone sincere. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to believe that I’m doing this for the greater good. Together, we can change the course of history."

You looked into his eyes, searching for any sign of deceit. Instead, you found only a deep, unyielding resolve. Despite your anger and fear, a part of you wanted to believe him and trust that he had your best interests at heart.

"I’ll cooperate," you said finally, your voice steady. "But if anything happens to Lucius, I swear I will make you pay."

Marcus nodded, a flicker of relief crossing his features. "You have my word," he said. "Lucius will be safe.

The next evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm glow over the cell, Marcus arrived with a tray of food. He set it down on a small table and took a seat across from you. "How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice gentle.

You shrugged, picking at the food. "As well as one can feel in captivity," you replied, a hint of bitterness in your tone.

Marcus sighed. "I understand your frustration," he said. "But believe me, this is the only way to ensure your safety."

You looked up at him, your eyes searching for his. "And what about Lucius? How long do you intend to keep us apart?"

"Until it’s safe," he answered, his gaze unwavering. "There are those who would see you both dead. I need to neutralize that threat before I can reunite you."

You frowned, the weight of his words sinking in. "And how do I know I can trust you?"

“Because I wouldn’t hurt you,” he said, leaning forward towards you, his expression earnest. "I have given you my word. I will do everything in my power to protect you.”

“And Lucius,” you said.

“I don’t care about Lucius.” He confessed, “But if you ask me to protect him, I will.”

You recoiled slightly at Marcus's confession, his words echoing in your mind. "You don’t care about Lucius?" You repeated it, disbelief coloring your tone.

Marcus hesitated, his gaze dropping for a moment before meeting yours again. "Not in the same way I care about you," he admitted quietly. "But I understand how important he is to you. If protecting him means protecting you, then I will do it."

You took a deep breath, trying to process the storm of emotions swirling within you. Marcus’s honesty was unexpected, and it stirred something in you, something you could decipher.

"I appreciate your honesty," you said finally, your voice steady despite the turmoil in your heart. "But my loyalty lies with Lucius. He’s... he’s a part of me."

Marcus nodded slowly, his expression somber. "I understand," he said softly.

You looked your gaze with his; an electric feeling passed through the both of you, but you ignored it, not wanting to commit treason towards Lucius.

“I don’t like this life, you know?” Marcus began, his voice carrying the weight of the weariness of years and sincerity. He leaned forward slightly, his gaze searching yours as if seeking understanding.

You nodded slowly, feeling a surge of empathy for the man before you, the man who seemed to be different from his strong exterior. "I can imagine," you replied softly. "The burden of command, the weight of decisions that affect so many lives..."

Marcus sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping slightly. "It’s not just that," he admitted, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I’ve seen too much bloodshed, too much senseless violence. In these gladiatorial games, they glorify death while the people cheer on."

His words resonated deeply with you, stirring up memories of battles fought and lives lost in the name of entertainment. "I never wanted to be a fighter," you confessed quietly. "I wanted... I wanted a life of peace, of freedom."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "Yet here we are,” he murmured. “Bound by duty, by the expectations of others.”

You nodded, the weight of shared experience forging a fragile bond between you.

"I’ve spent my life in service to Rome, sacrificing countless lives for its glory. But lately, I find myself questioning the cost."

You nodded slowly, sensing the weight of his words. "I understand," you said quietly. "I’ve felt that way too, at times. I never wanted to be what I am now—to live and die by the sword. But I grew up with Lucius, and we shared the same resentment and anger at the hand life dealt me."

Marcus’s gaze softened, a flicker of understanding passing between you. "We’re more alike than you realize," he murmured. ”

"I never imagined my life would turn out like this," you admitted, a pang of vulnerability in your voice. "But every battle, every victory—it’s shaped who I am."

Marcus reached across the table, his hand resting gently on yours. "You’re stronger than you know," he said earnestly. "And you deserve more than the chains of the Colosseum."

You met his gaze, seeing a depth of compassion and empathy that surprised you. "What about that?" you asked softly. "What do I deserve?"

“To be caressed and protected,” he replied, not taking his eyes from yours.

His words stirred something deep within you—a yearning for tenderness and safety amidst the chaos of your existence. "And you?" you pressed gently, your heart racing with uncertainty and anticipation.

Marcus’s expression softened further, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his features. "To find redemption," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "To make amends for the lives I’ve sacrificed.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his confession settling between you. "We both seek something more," you said softly, reaching to cover his hand with yours. "Perhaps we can find it."

The touch of your hands and the electricity were enough to make you guilty of sin.

"One of my men has uncovered a plot against you," Marcus confessed while holding your hand. "There are those who believe you and Lucius pose a threat to the stability of Rome. They’re planning an attack."

You drew in a sharp breath, the weight of his words settling heavily in your chest. "Who would want to harm us?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern and disbelief.

Marcus shook his head grimly. "Enemies within the Senate, rivals who see you as a symbol of defiance," he explained. "They fear the influence you hold over the people, over the rebels.”

You glanced at him, a mixture of fear and gratitude swirling within you. "What do I do?" you asked quietly, realizing the gravity of the situation.

Marcus’s gaze hardened, a flicker of determination crossing his features.

"What do you propose?" you asked, a sense of foreboding creeping over you.

Marcus took a deep breath, meeting your gaze with resolve. "An arranged marriage," he said quietly. "Between you and me."

You stared at him, stunned. "What?”

"Think about it," Marcus said, shifting closer. "As my wife, you would have the protection of my name and my position. It would make it much harder for our enemies to harm you. And it would give us the legitimacy and power we need to navigate the political landscape of Rome."

"But what about Lucius?" you demanded, your heart aching at the thought of betraying him.

"I would ensure his safety," Marcus promised. "He would be free, and you could see him. But we must present a united front to the world. This is the only way."

You turned away, struggling with your emotions. The thought of marrying Marcus, despite your growing bond, felt like a betrayal to Lucius. Yet, the logic of Marcus’s proposal was undeniable.

"Please, think about it," Marcus said softly, his voice filled with sincerity.

You spent the night wrestling with conflicting emotions, torn between loyalty to Lucius and the pragmatism of Marcus's proposal. As dawn broke, you found yourself standing before Marcus once more, a decision forming in your mind.

"I've thought about it," you began slowly, meeting Marcus's intense gaze with determination. "I... I agree."

Marcus's expression softened with relief, yet he remained composed. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice laced with concern for your well-being.

You nodded, steeling yourself against the ache in your heart. "Yes. It's the best way to protect both of us, and Lucius too. We need to do this."

A weight seemed to lift from Marcus's shoulders, replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. "Thank you," he murmured, stepping closer to take your hands in his. "You won't regret this. I'll make sure to be the best husband.”

As Marcus took your hands in his, a sense of finality settled over you. The decision was made, driven by a combination of necessity and the undeniable connection you felt with him. Despite the pang of guilt for Lucius, you knew this was a path you had chosen for the safety and future stability it promised.

"I need you to know that my heart belongs to Lucius," you replied softly, meeting Marcus's earnest gaze. "But I’ll believe you’ll prove me right."

A faint smile touched Marcus's lips; relief and determination shone in his eyes. "We'll face this together," he said, his voice steady with conviction. "I'll ensure that you're protected and that we navigate these turbulent times with strength and unity."

Marcus nodded solemnly, his gaze unwavering as he listened to your heartfelt confession. "I understand," he replied softly, his voice tinged with both acceptance and a hint of sadness. "I will do everything in my power to earn your trust and respect."

You felt a surge of gratitude towards Marcus, appreciating his understanding despite the complex emotions involved. "Thank you," you murmured, squeezing his hands gently. "For being so understanding."

A sense of mutual respect and determination filled the space between you, a silent agreement to face the challenges ahead. Marcus's commitment to protect you and navigate the political intricacies of Rome gave you a measure of reassurance in the midst of uncertainty.

"We'll announce our intentions and make preparations," Marcus continued, his voice regaining its usual resolve. "Our marriage will be more than just a shield; it will be a symbol of unity and strength."

As you nodded in agreement, a sense of resolve settled within you. Despite your heart belonging to Lucius, you knew that this alliance with Marcus was necessary.

When Marcus left your side, you looked up at the sky, promising heaven and God that Lucius would be your only love, just as the weight of your decision settled in your chest—a blend of duty and sacrifice for a greater cause—for your freedom. Despite the practicality of your alliance with Marcus, your heart still yearned for Lucius, a truth you held onto in the quiet moments.

Unbeknownst to you, Marcus observed you from a distance, his gaze fixed on you with a newfound sense of purpose. As he watched you under the vast Roman sky, a resolve hardened within him. He had made a commitment to protect you, but now he harbored a deeper ambition—to win your heart.

[minecraft]

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[bananathebookworm]

TLOVM S3 Eps 4-6 Ramblings

Ep. 4

Ashley is just... so good at what she does...

Hell is disgusting. I love it.

I know splitting the party is almost always a bad idea in D&D, but I really like how they've done it in this series. It helps to get through so many important plot points. (And also makes it easier on the animators to have less characters involved in each scene.)

The concentration check fail to drop their disguises is a nice touch

I like that we get more about the NPCs stories simply because they introduced things like EXU later. They expanded on lore that didn't exist when this campaign was originally played and it's really cool to see. I'm only disappointed we didn't get to see Senokir.

Loving this card game between Pike and Zerxus.

I really want Bell's Hells to go to the Hells and talk to Zerxus. I mostly just want Luis back at the table. Let him take over like Abu did.

Also the Aabria, Brennan, and Matt in the stained glass pictures while Zerxus is retelling of his friends during the Calamity is phenomenal.

"Do you want your family here?" Damn Pike. Get him.

"We all have blindspots." I refuse to believe that wasn't a deliberate reference to Ashley's show. Especially after Scanlan's reference to Phoenix Wright a few episodes ago.

I need a mini-series of Zerxus life in Hell please.

Ep. 5

Kima and Allura being badass is always a plus. I want a mini-series of their adventuring days.

I wish they had included Scanlan slaying the pit fiend with Mythcarver. It was one of the only times Scanlan used his sword and we got one hell of a cutting words song from it. And also no one but Keyleth saw his victory which would've added to the "Scanlan is not appreciated enough" story.

"Let's get weird." I love that they throw in the various player phrases too. Not just the one-liners from characters, but the actual quirks of the players at the table that span all characters.

Kaiju battle! The only thing missing is Pike's Divine Intervention punching Vorugal out of the sky.

The Magnificent Mansion baby!

Ep. 6

Chateau Shorthalt! Love it.

Okay, but the cannonball contest is one of my favourite downtime moments. I know it was probably passed over for time, but I'd love to see it animated.

Oh god, the bath scene. I knew they wouldn't pass it over just because of how everyone reacted to that moment, but I wasn't sure how they were going to do it. Welp. Here we are. Fucking hilarious as always.

I love these moments of character bonding so much. I know we can't have as many of them in the series as in the game, but it's good that they include at least a few.

Oh this scry is rough... Scanlan is not well.

Well shit. I didn't think he'd leave at that moment. Though I do like that Pike both knows and encourages it because Ashley wasn't there for this whole thing. Sam said that if she'd been there Pike would've been the only one that could've convinced him to stay. I'm really curious if we're still going to get the "What is my mother's name?" breakdown.

Are Kash and Zahra going to return? I know they were there for at least part of this lead up to Thordak.

I really love how these different battles are choreographed. I love that they can combo and support each other's abilities now that initiative order doesn't need to be tracked.

General

I'm really enjoying this season so far. So many important character things are happening both independently and as a group.

I don't necessarily love the pacing, but I also understand that condensing a 500 hour campaign into seasons that are about 4.5 hours long total is a fucking behemoth of a task. Like even if we go two more seasons, that's only 20-25 hours total. So much has to be cut and reworked to make a coherent story.

[mariacallous]

Hungarian Prime Minister Viktor Orban, the only EU leader to openly back Donald Trump in his bid to reclaim the White House, was unsurprisingly among the first to congratulate the former president on Wednesday morning, even before the final results were in and rival Kamala Harris had conceded.

“The biggest comeback in US political history! Congratulations to President @realDonaldTrump on his enormous win. A much needed victory for the World!” Orban rejoiced on X (formerly Twitter).

Orban, who will be hosting European leaders in Budapest later this week, was swiftly joined by other illiberal leaders and fellow populists in Central and Southeast Europe, likewise unable to contain their glee at the return of Trump, who by midmorning Europe time had gained 266 electoral votes — just four shy from the 270 he needs to be elected the 47th US president.

Another close ally of Trump in Central Europe, Polish President Andrzej Duda, who met the former president in New York earlier this year, posted excitedly, complete with emojis: “Congratulations, Mr. President @realDonaldTrump! You made it happen! 👏👏👏🇵🇱🤝🇺🇸”.

In the Czech Republic, the former prime minister and Trump admirer Andrej Babis posted on X: “Sensational comeback @realDonaldTrump! He wasn’t stopped by an assassination attempt, nor by politically motivated lawsuits, nor by a systematic smear campaign in the media. American citizens have made it clear who they want as US President. I am confident that his victory will bring prosperity to the United States and peace to the world.”

More subdued comments came from Prime Minister Petr Fiala, who Babis is looking to oust in 2025, also on X: “Congratulations to Donald Trump on winning the presidential election. Our shared goal is to ensure that the relations between our countries remain at the highest level, despite changes in administration, and that we continue to develop them for the benefit of our citizens.”

Populist Slovak prime minister, Robert Fico, is currently on a state visit to China, though his ally, President Peter Pellegrini, offered his congratulations to Donald Trump on X. “I wish you and the American people all the success. Slovakia remains to be a strong and reliable Ally on NATO’s tested Eastern Flank living up to our shared commitments. I sincerely wish for a continuation of our good cooperation. Let’s make the transatlantic bond great again.”

Serbian President Aleksandar Vucic, who visited the White House during Trump’s first term in office that ended in 2020, welcomed Trump’s win on X. “Congratulations to Donald Trump on his victory. Together we face the serious challenges ahead. Serbia is committed to cooperation with the USA on stability, prosperity and peace,” Vucic wrote.

Turkey’s strongman leader, President Recep Tayyip Erdogan, said he wanted to congratulate his “great friend” Trump on his victory.

“In this new period that will begin with the election of the American people, I hope that Turkey-US relations will strengthen, that regional and global crises and wars, especially the Palestinian issue and the Russia-Ukraine war, will come to an end; I believe that more efforts will be made for a more just world,” Erdogan wrote on X.

The first to hail Trump’s win from Bosnia and Herzegovina was, unsurprisingly, the president of the Serb-dominated Republika Srpska entity, Milorad Dodik. “One of [the] most important electoral wins in recent history of the USA but the World as well! Congratulations, Donald Trump, 47th President of the United States of America!” Dodik wrote on his official X profile.

Late last year Dodik said that a victory for Trump would mean a “better geopolitical situation for Republika Srpska”, claiming that he regretted not declaring his entity’s independence from Bosnia and Herzegovina during Trump’s 2016-2020 presidency.

North Macedonia’s conservative prime minister, Hristijan Mickoski, sent his “heartfelt congratulations” to Trump on Wednesday morning. “This victory is a confirmation of the deep faith of the American people in the principles of freedom and democracy,” Mickoski, whose conservative, right-wing government came to power earlier this year, wrote on Facebook.

Mickoski and his cabinet are not among European leaders who fear a second Trump term could wreak havoc with transatlantic and international relations. His ruling VMRO-DPMNE party nurtures close ties with one of the biggest Trump endorsers on the continent, Hungary’s Orban, and over the summer Mickoski’s series of meetings with close Trump associates made his preference even more obvious.

“We look forward to further deepening our strong partnership and cooperation,” Mickoski added.

Warm words from the Balkans

The president of Montenegro, Jakov Milatovic, congratulated Trump on his victory. “Montenegro and the USA are friends and steadfast partners, united by shared goals and values, focused on advancing democracy, security, stability, and freedom. As NATO allies, we look forward to working very closely with Your administration on strengthening our friendship and deepening cooperation,” Milatovic wrote on X.

Montenegro’s first congratulatory message came earlier from the president of the parliament and leader of the pro-Serbian NOVA party Andrija Mandic. “I am sure that together we will build bridges of cooperation and preserve peace and stability in the Western Balkans,” Mandic wrote on X.

From Kosovo, which has deep ties with the US since the 1998-99 war, President Vjosa Osmani also congratulated Trump on his White House comeback.

“The US remains Kosovo’s steadfast partner and indispensable ally. I look forward to working with the new administration to further deepen our unique bond and strategic alliance,” Osmani said on X.

A similar message came from Croatian Prime Minister Andrej Plenkovic. “Congratulations on a convincing victory and a second presidential term,” Plenkovic wrote on X. “I look forward to our cooperation and further progress in Croatian-American relations.”

Plenkovic’s domestic political rival, President Zoran Milanovic, hailed “the will of the majority of voters” in choosing Trump. He wrote on Facebook: “Since Croatian independence, the USA has been a partner and friend, I am convinced that this will remain the choice of the new president”.

Albanian Prime Minister Edi Rama was also effusive in his congratulations: “I look forward to the great privilege of working with the 47th President to further enhance our partnership for peace, prosperity and further progress,” Rama wrote on X.

In Bulgaria, Boyko Borissov, leader of recent election-winners GERB and former prime minister, posted a photo of himself with Trump on social media, saying: “I’m ready for us to work together, again!”

Bulgarian President Rumen Radev also congratulated the Republican victor: “I am confident that our effective dialogue at the highest level will continue in the interest of the strategic partnership between Bulgaria and the USA,” Radev said.

Opposition party We Continue the Change’s Kiril Petkov described Trump’s comeback as US president as “a serious achievement”, while noting: “Of course, Bulgaria’s fate depends first and foremost on the will of the Bulgarians, but good cooperation with the US is crucial in the positioning of our country amid the changing geopolitical reality.”

In Greece, Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis added his voice to the congratulatory messages from countries across the region. “Greece looks forward to further deepening the strategic partnership between our two countries and working together on important regional and global issues,” Mitsotakis wrote on X.

[captain-price-unofficially]

November 26, 1917. 'Victory' the Bulldog posing on a Mk IV tank (Nº130 'Nelson') in Trafalgar Square, London, during a campaign to promote War Loan Bonds.

[whencyclopedia]

The Mutual Destruction of Sennacherib & Babylon

The reign of Assyrian king Sennacherib (705-681 BCE) was chiefly characterized by his difficulties with Babylon. Throughout the history of the Assyrian Empire, Babylon had caused problems and had even been destroyed by the Assyrian king Tukulti-Ninurta I in c. 1225 BCE. Even so, there were direct cultural bonds between Babylon and Ashur, capital of the Assyrian Empire, and the city was always re-built and re-populated. Babylon was more than just a physical city of bricks and streets in the minds of the Mesopotamians: it was a cultural center of immense significance. Tukulti-Ninurta I's desecration of Babylon and her gods, in fact, led directly to his assassination. Owing to its status among the people of Mesopotamia, however, the people of Babylon seemed to feel that they could repeatedly throw off the authority of whatever ruling body held the region with impunity, and one can understand how a king could become tired of such an attitude. This was precisely what happened with Sennacherib in his dealings with the great city.

Sargon II & Sennacherib

Sennacherib's problems with Babylon were largely inherited. His father, Sargon II (reigned 722-705 BCE) had defeated the tribal chieftain Merodach-Baladan and driven him from Babylon but had allowed him to live. Once Sargon II was dead, and Sennacherib took the throne, Merodach-Baladan returned to Babylon and re-claimed the throne. The Babylonians welcomed him; Sennacherib had done nothing at all to endear himself to the city. As the new king, he was supposed to have participated in the ceremony in which he took the hand of the statue of the god Marduk as a sign of respect for the god, Babylon, and the people Marduk presided over. Instead, Sennacherib had simply sent them word that he was now king of Babylon and never even bothered to visit the city. Merodach-Baladan was not in the least bit concerned about the new king. Sennacherib was considered a weakling. He had never taken part in any of his father's military campaigns and had spent his earlier life as crown prince with administrative duties, while Sargon II had achieved his glorious victories on the battlefield. When Sennacherib heard that Merodach-Baladan had taken Babylon, he did not even lead a force to re-claim it himself but, instead, sent his commander-in-chief at the head of an army. This force was swiftly defeated by the combined forces of Babylon and their allies the Elamites and Aramaeans in 703 BCE. Babylon then arranged its troops, just in case the Assyrians came back again, and settled down to its own business. According to the historian Susan Wise Bauer:

That was the last straw. Sennacherib himself came sweeping down like the wrath of Assur and broke through the allied front line, barely pausing. Merodach-Baladan ran from the battlefield and crept into the marshes of the Sealand, which he knew well, to hide himself; Sennacherib marched the rest of the way to Babylon, which prudently opened its gates as soon as it saw the Assyrian king on the horizon. Sennacherib came through the open gate, but chose to send Babylon a message: he ransacked the city, took almost a quarter of a million captives, and destroyed the fields and groves of anyone who had joined the alliance against him (384).

The people of Babylon quickly realized that the poor opinion they had held of Sennacherib was misguided. In this early campaign the new king showed himself an adept tactician, able military leader, and ruthless enemy.

Continue reading...

[theworldofwars]

November 26, 1917 'Victory' the Bulldog posing on a Mk IV tank (Nº130 'Nelson') in Trafalgar Square, London, during a campaign to promote War Loan Bonds

Colourised by Doug

[feith-rikya]

All these characters are from an RPG campaign called; Gehenna's Gates, set in the world of Vampire The Masquerade. Feel free to ask any questions!

Rebecca, Aaron & Devon: This is the story of Rebecca, Aaron, and Devon, raised by the ancient vampire Adan, an Angellis Ater whose dark purpose was to breed heirs destined to wreak havoc upon the world and survive the impending Gehenna.

(TW: abuse)

Adan, a vampire bent on global destruction, resided in a sinister mansion in Spain. There, he adopted orphans, subjecting them to ruthless trials to groom them as his progeny.

The children endured his sadistic games, designed to shape them into perfect instruments of chaos. He honed their skills, whether in music, art, or cruelty, ensuring they'd unleash their worst selves upon the world. Under his roof, the children were left to fend for themselves, provided with the bare necessities to survive: rooms, a playground, but also subjected to his twisted games meant to toughen them up. Whether it was instilling fear, honing their skills in music or art, or resorting to any means necessary to shape them into perfect beings, Adan spared no cruelty.

The mansion itself was a labyrinth designed as a sinister puzzle, a test to determine which of the children possessed the strength to become his heirs, to be transformed into vampires and amplify their potential for malevolence. Three children, against all odds, managed to decipher his lethal puzzles: Rebecca, Aaron, and Devon. But little did they know that their victory marked the beginning of an even darker chapter.

Rebecca: A very clever girl, was Adan's prized creation. He orchestrated her descent into darkness by forcing her to change her appearance, transforming her once-blonde hair into a fiery red, erasing traces of her former self with every tint. She emerged as Adan's favorite, a mirror to his cruelty and depravity. Post-transformation, her fixation on wealth knew no bounds; she bartered with morality, trading anything and anyone for financial gain.

Despite her initial bond with Aaron and Devon, her transformation into an angelis sater, akin to her sire, weakened these ties. Her path was paved with despicable acts, and a curse shadowed her every move. She became a prominent member of Camarilla’s Red List, knowing for using her power like a puppeteer. Completely controlling the mind of her slaves, substituting their will with her own, always making them tint their hair red.

Aaron: Music flowed through Aaron's veins, a gentle soul with a heart tuned to melody. Yet, Adan's machinations twisted his passion into a tormenting symphony. Confined to a room devoid of sound, Aaron's senses sharpened, a cruel preparation for the role Adan envisioned: a toreador. Adan, in his pursuit of perfection, forcibly turned Aaron, seizing an ancient toreador musician, Giuseppe Tartini, to sire him against his will. Aaron's attempts to flee earned him scars, both physical and emotional.

Post-liberation, he sought solace in drugs and hedonism, desperate for the love he was denied. He became less cruel than his brother and sister, but not less dangerous.

Devon: From his early days, Devon displayed signs of psychological instability, a seed that Adan nurtured into full bloom. His passion for painting became a twisted outlet for Adan's malevolence, as Devon's skin became the canvas for his depravity. Each stroke etched deeper into Devon's psyche, cultivating a cruelty and psychosis that would define his existence. The only thing he couldnt do was making him learn how ti tie his tie, he broke his hands every time he didn't do it right, but never really managed to make him learn. As he transitioned into a vampire, his descent into darkness reached new depths, evolving into a serial killer whose atrocities were both savage and disturbingly artistic. Despite his monstrous actions, a curious attachment to his siblings persisted, a fragile thread of humanity amidst the chaos of his mind.

Adan's demise came when he moved to eliminate Aaron for his attempt to free his sire and escape. Devon leaped to his brother's defense but was ultimately overwhelmed by the sheer power of his sire. In a crucial moment, Rebecca, harboring a deep-seated hatred for Adan, made a decisive choice. Instead of siding with her former mentor, she turned against him, using her powers to block his advances and shield her brothers from harm. It was her intervention that provided the crucial opening for Devon to strike, driving a stake through Adan's heart. However, even as they believed victory was theirs, Adan's kept moving trying to free himself. In a final act of desperation, Devon made his siblings escape and then absorbed what he could of his sire's essence through diablerie, but it proved to be an incomplete victory. Despite his best efforts, a part of his essence remained, stubbornly refusing to fade away. Adan's influence continued to haunt him, a constant reminder of the darkness they had faced. Now, with the Gehennah on the horizon, Adan's shadow looms larger than ever. His presence threatens to resurface, more formidable and dangerous than ever before.

(this drawing are meant to represent the path of these three characters, from their childhood to the present, there are many details that i haven't mentioned but tried to convey)

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"FIRST TO BUY BOND," Toronto Star. April 29, 1943. Page 8. ---- Kenneth Morley Boyd, Toronto Star carrier boy, was the first purchaser of the Fourth Victory Loan at the Orillia headquarters. He purchased a $50 bond.

[stillwintering]

All's Fair in Love and Politics (a modern Nessian AU - where Rhys is running for president)

Summary: In the ruthless arena of politics, victory demands risking everything, even one's own heart. Rhysand has his eyes on the presidency. Feyre convinces her estranged sister, Nesta, to join the political campaign. Nesta and Cassian find themselves forging an unexpected bond as the campaign intensifies. But can their budding romance survive the treacherous waters of modern political warfare?

Read on AO3

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10

Chapter 11

"I have it on good authority," said Azriel slowly. "Kallias is intent on staying in the race through the fall debate cycle."

Rhysand looked up from the papers in front of him. The muscles in his jaw feathered. "Does he have enough funds to sustain him until the Iowa Caucuses?"

Azriel nodded. "It seems his strategy is to split the anti-Thesan block of the party -- prevent us from consolidating the votes."

Rhysand leaned back in his office chair, his head tipped towards the ceiling. "I see," he sighed.

Cassian hummed to himself in the corner of the office, crumpled into a small chair. "You don't suppose..." Cassian's voice trailed off.

"Kallias knows he doesn't have a pathway to victory," Azriel supplied. "It's personal. For him."

Rhysand dragged his hands down his face, looking suddenly more ragged and tired than ever before. "I was afraid that was the case." His violet eyes were dark.

Cassian looked down at the worn carpets. "This is my fault," he whispered, "it was my operation in Herat that killed his men."

Both Azriel and Rhysand bristled immediately.

"Cass, don't --"

"It's really not --"

Cassian stood, pulling himself to his full height. "I made a bad call, Rhys," he said. "Now you are paying the price."

"No, you made a strategic choice," replied Rhysand. "I was the one in the field with Kallias's platoon. It was -- " his voice faltered, "I made the bad call. I am responsible for their deaths. Kallias is right to blame me."

The air in the small office turned thick as if the war had never ended. Cassian let out a shaky breath.

A sharp knock at the door broke the silence.

"Rhys, I need you to look at these polling numbers from -- " Nesta stopped. "Am I interrupting something? I can come back."

Cassian turned towards the door, his posture stiff. He frowned, eyes downcast, a man haunted. Azriel's face was blank, but his skin looked ashen.

Rhys recovered first. "I think we are done here," he said, clearing his throat.

Nesta shifted her weight, eyes bouncing between the three men, the skin on her back tingling as if something terrible had happened. "I can come back," she repeated.

"What about the polling numbers?" Rhys waved her in.

Nesta hesitated. Azriel looked at her blankly. Cassian refused to look at her.

"You would tell me if there is anything for me to know, right?" she asked, steadying her voice.

There was a beat -- she felt it. Azriel blinked. Cassian looked stricken. Rhys clenched his jaw.

She entered the office and placed the new polling numbers on the desk.

Rhys nodded stiffly. "Of course."

---

Tortilla Coast was a Capitol Hill institution -- an unassuming Tex-Mex restaurant just blocks from the Capitol Building and one block from the Cannon House Office. It was possibly the absolute closest restaurant to those seats of power, and everyone, really everyone, went there.

The windows are bedecked with decals promising "MARGARITAS" and "BBQ RIBS"; inside are worn vinyl booths, neon beer signs, and murals of leaping fish on walls of deep red and acid green. The interns showed up in droves every afternoon for cheap drinks and free chips and salsa. Yet, it was the unlikeliest power hub in town, one of Washington’s busiest venues for political fundraisers and power dealings.

During happy hour on a crisp September day, Tortilla Coast was practically bursting at the seams. Nesta begrudgingly followed the Starborn office staff to the promise of mediocre tacos and cheap beer.

Amren surveyed the clientele with a practiced eye.

The Capitol Hill set came here to be seen -- power plays were set in motion, alliances were soft launched, and deals were announced. By the door, Thesan Morgenstern was holding court. A gaggle of eager political underlings around him, holding on to his every word. Nesta immediately recognized the man next to him -- a feature writer from Vanity Fair.

"Looks like Thesan will have a profile in the next issue," she murmured to Amren.

Azriel and Cassian disappeared into a throng of top military brass and foreign policy types -- laughing and smiling like they were amongst old friends. Nesta had never gotten along with the hawkish foreign policy establishment -- The Blob, as they had been derisively termed amongst commentators -- that dominated Washington. They seemed to her like a bunch of outdated dinosaurs championing the old-time gospel of American leadership on the world stage like it was still the 1990s.

Nesta observed Cassian clap the backs of several men in sharp suits and regulation haircuts, reeking of the Pentagon. Their heads bent in hushed conversation. Cassian's face slowly turned stern and resigned, like when she had walked in on them all in Rhys's office last week.

What happened in Afghanistan? The question clanged through her.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nesta spotted Eris by the bar -- his red hair clashing against the kitschy decor. As the Chief of Staff to the Speaker of the House -- Eris was, by the transitive property, the third most powerful man in the country. The crowd around him treated him almost reverently, giving him a wide berth while he made his order with the bartender.

"Proximity to power deludes some into thinking they wield it," Amren commented drily into her beer.

Nesta hummed in agreement. Part of what made Tortilla Coast special was how much one can learn by just observing the crowds.

"The first debate is scheduled in Nashua, New Hampshire, next month," Amren said, turning back to her. "I'm going to send you and Cassian a week ahead of time -- advance team. Bring whomever you need."

Nesta nodded, her mind compiling tasks and logistics immediately. "We'll start planning," she acknowledged.

Eris's gaze snagged on her as he turned from the bar. He greeted her with a nod, then walked away into a crowd of Capitol Hill staffers.

Nothing had sat right with her since the Hewn fundraiser. She needed to know.

Nesta frowned. "Excuse me," she muttered to Amren and pushed her way into the crowd where Eris's distinctive red hair could be seen through the gaps between bodies.

The jovial laughter from his companions died as soon as Nesta planted herself in front of Eris. He eyed her intently, a smirk on his lips.

She pulled his head down towards her shoulder -- the cacophony of music and voices buzzed loudly around them. "What's the play, Eris?" she hissed in his ear. "Is Thesan going after Rhys's military record? Not strong enough on defense?"

Eris chuckled, his breath hot against her cheeks. "Why, hello to you too, Nesta." He smelled like limes and cloves and something smokey.

She walked into him, needing answers. She pushed him through the crowd into the wall nearby. His amber eyes glittered, amused and dangerous. He let her into his personal space, the bodies around them shifting and squeezing them closer against the wall. The air between them was hot, sweaty, and tight.

"Now, now," he murmured, "the interns are going to gossip if you manhandle me in public."

Their faces were pressed so close together -- it was the only way they could talk in private with everyone drinking around them.

"Botched missions? Is that it?" She continued, undeterred.

Eris snorted. "Have a little imagination."

"Then it's to embarrass Rhys?"

He clicked his tongue.

"Why Cassian?"

He leaned back against the wall, and his head thudded against the wood. "So," he sneered, looking down at her from the refined ridge of his nose. "You've got a soft spot for the brute?"

Nesta felt a jolt of electricity run down her spine. "Honestly, I didn't think I meant enough to you to make you territorial, Eris."

"Are you fucking him?" he asked baldly.

She swallowed, her face heating with a heady mix of indignation and shock.

"No?" He studied her keenly, roaming from her eyes to her lips and back. "But you want to."

"You don't know anything about what I want," she snapped, indignation winning out.

His hand suddenly rose to cradle her face. He leaned against her ear, all heat and tequila on his breath. "Oh," his voice rumbled deep, "but I do."

Nesta shoved him back -- he went easily. "Don't touch me," she warned.

He lifted his hands, holding his palms up, satisfied that he got under her skin.

There was a version of Nesta who would have let him feel her up in the back of a crowded bar, who would have even taken him home after. Nesta had kissed Eris for the first time at Tortilla Coast, years ago when she had started working on the politics beat at her first newspaper. She had been desperate and reckless and damaged -- Eris seemed right for her back then. She remembered the weight of his body between her thighs, how he'd made her keen, how she'd made him weak.

She never liked that version of herself.

"That part of our relationship is over," said Nesta, her voice firm.

Eris grunted. "I know." Something flashed across his face -- contrition.

He kept his hands raised and away. Nesta decided to press back into him, taking back control. He let her pin him against the wall -- the bar too cramped and boisterous for anyone to notice them.

"What will Beron do with the oppo research on Rhys?" she asked him. "Did you already give it to the Morgenstern campaign?"

Eris relaxed against her. "Thesan doesn't want to get his hands dirty," he replied quietly. He tilted his head, looking over her into the crowd. "He wants a clean primary, save the hard hits for Hybern. He's far enough ahead in the polls to stay above the fray. No sense in getting involved in petty party in-fighting."

She nodded. "So it's Kallias," she said. "The oppo research is for Kallias. He's meant to take down Rhys so Thesan can skate through to the general unscathed."

Eris smiled -- he always appreciated her intellect. It almost bordered on affection.

"The party higher-ups are rigging the primary for Thesan," Nesta concluded.

"You didn't hear it from me," he said as he slipped away.

Nesta watched him go. She could still smell the limes and cloves and smoke he left behind.

---

Cassian was pushing through the drunken masses towards her.

Tortilla Coast was getting rowdier by the minute as Happy Hour drew to a close -- the cheap beers and margaritas loosened everyone up. Laughter pealed over the hum of conversations, punctuated by the occasional shout as someone called for another round. Standing head and shoulders above the crowd, Cassian was striking -- a dark beacon in the dimly lit bar, his eyes locked on her alone.

He was close now, close enough for her to notice the faint stubble along his jaw and the slight upturn of his lips as he leaned in. His words were a deep thrum against the clamor of the bar, "Ready to get out of here?" His body aligned with hers in the small space, pressing solidly against her.

Nesta nodded quickly.

His hand dropped to the small of her back, a commanding pressure guiding her. Together, they began to make their way towards the exit, his presence a shielding force from the jostling bodies around them.

They spilled out onto the street and into the sunset -- it felt like coming up for air.

He stepped away from her. The loss of heat from his hand on her back made her acutely aware of the early evening chill.

"What did Eris want this time?" He pushed his hand through his hair, loose out of its usual neat tie from the workday.

She looked up at him, momentarily taken aback by his rugged features. He had taken off his necktie, too, collar open. The one drink she had earlier had worked through her system, loosening up her usual defenses.

She needed to know.

"Do you trust me?" asked Nesta.

His brow furrowed. "Of course," replied Cassian immediately.

"I know I'm crashing your little inner circle," Nesta began, unable to keep the bite out of her voice after months of feeling like she was on the outside. "You don't have to tell me everything. But I need to know -- I need to be able to do my job."

"You know everything, Nes." He was staring at her -- hazel eyes burning into her, completely open and all-consuming. Has anyone ever looked at her like that before?

"I swear I would never keep anything from you."

She felt like her skin was on fire.

"What happened in Afghanistan?" She whispered the question.

He blinked. "What -- " Then, his face twisted at the non sequitur. "Afghanistan? What does that have to do with -- "

"I don't care if -- "

"Rhys's service record is exemplary. You have access to his service record, his commendations."

Nesta steeled herself. "What did you do in Afghanistan?"

"Me?" Cassian eyebrows shot up. "What -- ? How is that -- ?"

"Eris pulled your FBI file."

She watched Cassian's entire demeanor change. His body went rigid, his expression closed. "That's classified," he said carefully.

"Eris mentioned that most of your personnel file was redacted," said Nesta, letting out a long exhale. "I need to know if there is anything in there that could be damaging to the candidate."

"Damaging?" Cassian startled. "Where is this coming from? I don't understand how this is relevant to -- "

"You can tell me what happened," she cut in, her heart beating hard against her ribcage.

Please tell me what happened.

Suddenly, he was bending down close to her, his hazel eyes intense, glowing like bronze in the low evening light. "Nes," he breathed. "I want to -- believe me -- but I need you to -- "

She felt goosebumps all over her arms; she couldn't look away from his beautiful face, frozen in place.

"Cassian," she inhaled. "I won't -- " She didn't know how to finish that thought -- tell? care? judge him? She couldn't promise him anything.

His face was only a few inches from hers, and his eyes dipped to her lips.

"My missions were top secret." His voice was low and pleading. "I can neither deny nor confirm anything he's told you. I would do anything, Nes, just ask me -- "

"There you two are! Ready for our run?"

They both snapped to attention at the door behind them, where Azriel had just stumbled out of Tortilla Coast. He observed the scant distance between their bodies and immediately pivoted.

"Nevermind, Amren said she was buying the next round -- "

Nesta took a step back, breathing hard.

"It's fine, Az," she said, surprised her voice was steady. "I need to get a run in."

Cassian looked away -- even in the disappearing light, his face was luminous -- and nodded.

---

First, they had to stop by the Congressional Staff Wellness Center to change out of their work clothes and into athletic wear. Then, the three of them took their usual 8-mile route around the National Mall. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, but the sky was still bright. The yellow September dusk made the monuments glow otherwordly.

This evening's post-work run was uncharacteristically silent. Usually, Cassian teased her. The three of them frequently talked about campaign strategy or upcoming legislation while they warmed up or paused at stoplights.

Tonight, Cassian was particularly solemn. Azriel was silent in his own unique way -- hyperaware, assessing. Nesta focused on her body, feeling her muscles work as they passed the Reflection Pool and then on to the Washington Monument. She pushed herself especially hard, needing to resolve all the tension that had built up in her body from her talk with Eris and then Cassian.

She had meant what she said to Eris, that the sexual part of their relationship had ended. After the spring charity gala at the Hewn Mansion, she felt a kind of finality to their intimacy. They used each other and for a long time, Nesta thought that it was enough. It took leaving DC and coming back years later -- older and only marginally wiser -- for her to finally be ready to let him go completely. Eris made every decision based on a calculus of power -- always looking for the upper hand in every interaction. He could never be what she needed.

But what did she need?

Nesta was a stranger to herself.

She had spent the entirety of her adult life closing herself off to her needs. She left home at 18 -- after her mother died and her father disappeared in all but name -- and never looked back. Her departure was as much self-preservation as it was an act of retaliation.

She was barely a teenager when her mother wasted away in front of her eyes. Her sisters were too young, too soft. Her father... he couldn't bear it. Nesta held a 10-day vigil over her mother's deathbed. She didn't have a good relationship with her mother, but she also couldn't leave her alone in that sterile hospital room.

Those last days were a cruel torture.

Her mother drifted in and out of consciousness -- cancer and morphine consumed everything that had made Elinor Archeron the formidable woman she had been in her wakeful life. She had asked for her sisters, for her father -- each time, all Nesta could do was shake her head, unable to speak, until finally, Elinor had stopped saying anything at all and just stared at Nesta like she wasn't there either.

Nesta would never forget her mother's last words to her. In a rare moment of lucidity, Elinor had whispered, with a ragged breath, "It's better if he loves you a little bit more."

Those words imprinted themselves on her like a tattoo across her heart. Nesta had resented her father's weakness, his absence, his failures. But she resented him, most of all, for not loving them enough to stay.

It's better if he loves you a little bit more.

Eris never loved her. She wasn't sure he could -- not with her, at least. And Nesta needed -- no.

She needed more than what she'd allowed herself to hope for.

---

Azriel peeled off from them at the last mile, making some vague excuse about needing to take a detour on the way home. He gave Cassian a meaningful squeeze on the shoulder and Nesta a soft smile before heading in the opposite direction.

Nesta followed Cassian toward the Lincoln Memorial, where they usually started or ended their evening workouts. They slowed at the far side of the steps, finding a private spot and avoiding the few tourists coming through.

The sun had set entirely now. The white marble edifice was bathed in spotlights, its magnificent columns rising like ancient sentinels into the starless sky.

Cassian turned to face her, his chest rising and falling from their run, breath heavy. His eyes were clear and intent, the exercise seeming to focus his mind.

"I trust you, Nesta," he said, using her full name for the first time in weeks.

She considered, eyes searching his handsome face, then slowly nodded.

"Do you trust me?" Cassian asked.

She could feel her heart beating hard against her ribcage -- adrenaline and endorphins flooding her senses.

When she did not reply, he asked again, "Nesta, do you trust me?"

She felt light-headed, but her words felt right as she spoke them, "I trust you, Cassian."

He stepped towards her, their chests inches apart. His hands reached out to gently grip her biceps, the contact grounding her. The professional boundary between them suddenly felt permeable. She felt a tug towards him, like falling into gravity.

"I served on Delta Force for 15 years," he began softly, his voice tinged with resigned anguish. "I was deployed with the United States Central Command and Southern Command. My focus was on unconventional warfare and counterinsurgency. I've been through hundreds of missions… done things that haunt me every day. The war was brutal. I have scars -- " his right hand moved from her bicep to her wrist, guiding her hand to rest against his right hipbone, "shrapnel wounds here -- "

He gently pushed her hand down the length of his muscled thigh, tracing the wound. Her breath hitched at the intimacy of the gesture and the horror it represented.

"I fractured my femur in three places," Cassian continued his voice a hushed murmur as she explored the outlines of his quadriceps through the thin fabric of his gym shorts.

"And here -- " he placed her left hand over the center of his chest " -- a bullet just missed my heart." His voice was low, and Nesta imagined the tattoo across his skin there, camouflaging the puckered scar. His chest was hot and solid beneath her palm -- she could feel his pounding heart.

"I've had to make impossible choices, ones that I can never take back." The intensity of his attention on her was overwhelming. Nesta listened silently, rapt. "The guilt, the weight of it all… it’s always there, like a shadow I can’t outrun. But I don't want to hide any of that from you."

"Stop," she murmured, removing her hands from his thigh and chest before she did something she would regret. "You don't have to -- "

"I do," he interrupted. "I want you to know everything about me."

She took a deep breath, letting the cool evening air fill her lungs. He smelled like black truffles, bergamot, and something distinctly Cassian.

Feeling bold from touching him earlier, she reached out and cradled his face in her hands. His eyes fell immediately, nuzzling into her touch.

"How many people have you killed?" she asked in a whisper.

Cassian's eyes remained closed, but his brows furrowed immediately, and he frowned. She traced the notched scar along his eyebrow with her thumb, wondering how that particular wound came to be.

She needed to know if she could bear it.

"I don't know," he finally said, opening his eyes -- hazel and pained. "I stopped keeping track. I don't know how many enemy combatants I have killed. There are always unintentional consequences of war. The civilians, I -- " His voice broke, looking like he was on the edge of tears.

Nesta softened. It was like she could finally see him in his totality for once -- all the jagged edges and the aching tenderness underneath. "That's why you left the military," she supplied for him.

He nodded, leaning forward to press his forehead against hers. "Nesta, my ledger is red as sin," he said. "And I'll try to rebalance it for the rest of my life if I have to. When I first enlisted, I believed in the mission, in the idea of fighting for the greater good. But war changes you. It strips away the illusions... There were times when I had to prioritize the strategic objectives over my conscience. The faces of those I've lost, of those I've hurt, they never leave me. I live with the consequences."

His voice wavered, and Nesta could see the pain etched deeply in his features. "I've tried to make amends in whatever ways I can. I work with veterans, advocate for survivors of armed conflicts, help get Rhys elected -- I'll do anything to give back, tip the scales... but it'll never be enough, I know."

He paused, his confession hanging between them, suspended in the autumn night. Nesta felt his sorrow, his regret -- a raw, untamed thing that resonated within her own soul.

"Cassian," she whispered, her voice barely audible. Her hand gently brushed away a tear that escaped down his cheek. "You are a good man."

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, hopeful. The evening lights caught the edges of his irises, gilding them with a golden hue that made them appear almost like a painting. Cassian’s hand reached up to touch hers, his fingers trembling slightly as they interlocked with her own. He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles softly. It was one of the most erotic moments of her life.

"That’s more than I ever hoped to be," he said against her skin, his warm breath sending a shiver down her spine.

Nesta felt time slow down, the world narrowing down to just the two of them, their faces inches apart.

He moved first, a slow and deliberate motion that closed the remaining distance between them. His lips met hers with an unexpected gentleness. Nesta responded instinctively, her lips parting slightly as she melted into the kiss.

Cassian's hands, callous from so much destruction, now held her with a careful reverence, fingertips tracing the lines of her jaw, then behind her ear, down her back as if memorizing the map of her body. Nesta's arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer and deepening their kiss. The taste of him -- spicy with a hint of something darker, more primal -- was intoxicating, driving her to explore further, her tongue seeking his with a boldness that matched his own.

As the kiss went on, Nesta moaned against his mouth, hands roaming over the hard planes of his back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt as if she could somehow pull him even closer. Cassian reacted with equal fervor, his lips trailing burning kisses down her neck, finding the tender spot that made her gasp, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

Cassian’s mouth found hers again, this time his kiss demanding, consuming, as if trying to drink her in, to drown in the very essence of her. His teeth grazed her lower lip, coaxing a gasp from her that he swallowed with a deep, throaty groan.

Nesta's heart raced, her senses overwhelmed by the wet heat of his mouth and the hot press of his body against hers -- every inch of her tingled like lightning was about to strike. It was like getting everything she wanted and everything she feared at the same time. She desperately wanted to lose herself in what it might feel like to fully let go of the past.

She never wanted the kiss to end.

[allthebrazilianpolitics]

The power of an NGO in advancing maternity leave benefits in Brazil

In November 2022, in a landmark decision, Brazil's Supreme Court extended paid maternity leave for mothers whose childbirths are followed by prolonged hospitalizations. This new law has benefited benefit mothers of preterm and medically fragile newborns by starting the 120-day leave after hospital discharge, promoting both mother-baby bonding and breastfeeding. This change was the result of advocacy by the Brazilian Parents of Preemies’ Association and civil society groups who highlighted the struggles of families with preterm babies.

This decision reflects years of campaigning with Brazilian ministries and officials to support families in difficult situations. The historic change showcases the power of organized advocacy, as groups persistently engaged legal and political avenues to drive policy reform. This victory marks a significant step toward broader maternal and family rights, underscoring the necessity of policies that adapt to the unique needs of working mothers.

Continue reading.

[atmilliways]

Wrong On The Money (28)

part 28 of ?? | 862 words | Teen+

Blackmail fic on Ao3 | on tumblr

Summary:

The next time Dustin visits, Eddie goes out of his way to agree that, okay, sure, Steve is pretty great. Dustin is ecstatic, bragging about how he knew they would be friends if they gave each other a chance. Steve himself dozes through the start of the conversation, but Eddie is pretty sure he wakes up with a smile, so who knows.

Happy Monday, have some idiots. (affectionate)

28.

And with that, the floodgates have broken.

-

The next time Dustin visits, Eddie goes out of his way to agree that, okay, sure, Steve is pretty great. Dustin is ecstatic, bragging about how he knew they would be friends if they gave each other a chance. Steve himself dozes through the start of the conversation, but Eddie is pretty sure he wakes up with a smile, so who knows.

-

When Robin stops by, Eddie name drops a possible mutual friend. Her eyes go big and her mouth drops into an O before she rounds on Steve and hisses, “Dingus, I know you’re on medication but did you tell him?”

“What? No,” Steve yelps, eyes flashing back and forth between them in sudden confusion. “I mean—” and oh god, his poker face is laughable, whoever dubbed this guy Mr. Cool was hilariously wrong “—uh, no? Told him what? I don’t know anything.”

Eddie smirks and cuts in with a smooth, “Nah, he’s innocent as a little baby. It just takes one to know one, Bucks.” (He’ll come clean to her about the blackmail some day, but. . . not without the ability to book it out of there in the event of nuclear rage.)

They bond over laughing at Steve for sputtering that he is not a little baby, he was a whole nine pounds at birth—

-

Lucas stops in again, between visits with Max, and Eddie clears the air about the end of the last Hellfire campaign.

“But look,” he concludes, after apologizing for cutting him out, “if it ever comes up again, don’t have your friends try to make the reschedule happen for you, ‘kay? Being there to plead your case is a much better look, and shows a lot more respect for everybody else’s time. Catch me, or . . . whoever runs the club next year, between classes or something.”

The kid nods, saying he will, and after he’s gone Steve peers over at him.

“Are you finally going to graduate this year, Munson?” A little coil of hurt starts to form in Eddie’s chest, only to be immediately unwound when Steve beams at him. “That’s great, man, congratulations! Maybe ‘86 is your year after all.”

“It's not,” Eddie mumbles, face reddening—except for where a livid scar already crawls up the side of his cheek. The stitches only came out of it yesterday. “I missed finals, so it depends whether good ol’ Hawkins High decides to send me off in victory or disgrace, which. . . .” He sighs. “Let’s just say that there’s already a precedent, and it ain’t the good option.”

“Oh come on, if they let me graduate they can let you graduate too,” Steve argues. “I racked up two concussions and a shit-ton of missed days in senior year because of migraines.” (And yeah, Eddie remembers his comment about how he’d helped Wayne and ‘didn't even get another concussion doing it.’ Jesus H. Christ.) “You nearly died, and as far as this town knows it’s because a mob came at you with torches and pitchforks! They can cut you some slack.”

“They won’t.”

“I can call my parents,” Steve offers, and holy shit he looks serious. “My mom’s super respected by the school board. If I promise to move out so they can sell the house, I’m sure she’d do me a favor.”

Eddie winces. “Steve. Where would you live if you did that?”

“With you and Wayne,” he replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world and totally not causing Eddie’s brain to self-destruct. “The government’s giving you guys a house, and I’ve spent the past couple months pre-paying on rent.”

“I. . . .” Eddie blinks. A pretty boy is asking to live with him. A pretty boy he threatened for money, for months, is asking to live with him, even knowing what he did and that he’s a flaming homosexual. “Are you sure you don’t have another concussion?”

“Yeah, nothing got me in the head this time. Why?”

Why. Jesus H. Christ, this guy. “Steve,” Eddie says gravely, “You might be insane. Sweet . . . but insane.”

Steve smiles. “You think I’m sweet?”

“Oh my god.”

-

The thing is, Eddie knows Steve is sweet. In kind of a bitchy way—he’s half convinced the guy plays it a little dumber than necessary sometimes just to wind him up. But that, Eddie's embarrassed to admit to himself, is part of the appeal. Steve keeps him on his toes, which is generally where Eddie likes to be anyway. It’s fun.

But. 

Okay. 

So, he might be falling for Steve Harrington. 

He just can’t see how Steve could ever feel the same. And it’s fine, they can be friends. Shit, with how much half the town still probably hates his guts, Eddie needs all the friends he can get—and he’s got a lot now.

Helping save the world will do that, it seems. 

So Eddie has to kill this crush before it gets any more off the ground than it already has. Kill it with fire, because he doesn’t need an actual rejection (that Steve would be sweet about, fuck) to know that Eddie Munson doesn’t get the guy. Not like that. 

Being friends is fine.

[dancingineclipse]

Persona Eclipse | Custom Online Text Tabletop RPG

A fan of the mainline Persona series and SMT? Wonder what a Persona game based off of the Moon Arcana would be like? Ready to explore the dreamscape while navigating everyday life full of drama?

Monkeku High, a famous school in Tokyo, suffered a terrible event that destroyed half of the school. Eight students, sponsored by a famous researcher, were able to go to a prestigious school in Okinawa to enjoy their last year of high school. They were given free education, a beach house dormitory, and an internship at the top hospital on the island.

As the students settle into their new schools, they notice something strange within the island. People were falling into comas, never waking up again until they let out one blood curdling scream before dying. The Nightmare Syndrome. Working with their mentor, Dr.Nazamo, the students work tirelessly to cure the nightmare syndrome in the dreamscape, find the source of this disease, and end it once and for all. The power of persona and the connection they make, aiding them in saving countless people.

Explore the dreamscape, save people, find your true self, all while studying for your next exam in Persona Eclipse!

What Awaits You Under The Eclipse?

> Unique Story: A campaign filled with original events, npc, villians, and Dreamscapes (dungeons). Everything was written and thought of by the GM with heavy inspiration from the existing Persona series. Enjoy both the linear storytelling in the main story beats while taking your sweet time to craft your own story during the downtime of everyday life outside of curing the nightmare syndrome.

> Make Your Own Character: Make your Persona protagonist with their own arcana, persona, social link events, and perks. Immerse yourself with a character you are really proud of.

> Social Links Matter: Forge bonds with your fellow players, students, teachers, and even enigmatic figures outside of school. Your relationships will strengthen your Persona, unlock new abilities, and influence the course of your journey. Form strong bonds with both player and npc and even start a romance?

> Turn-Based Tactical Combat: Exploit enemy weaknesses, trigger bonus actions, and execute powerful All-Out Attacks with your team. Each fight is a strategic puzzle where knowing your enemy’s vulnerabilities could be the difference between victory and defeat. With the luck of the dice and a little bit of foresight, this dnd style of combat will get you excited to fight in the dreamscape.

> Puzzles: Easy to hard puzzles are sprinkling throughout the campaign. The students have to use critical thinking skills to solve puzzles to progress in the dreamscape, figure out who the eminator, and much more!

> Economy: Built in an economic system so students could get jobs for extra cash and social stat increases. Or spend money they get from the dreamscape. Buy helpful items, gifts, weapons, and more!

> Everyday Life: When you aren’t killing shadows or fighting a boss, enjoy the slow complexities of everyday life. Go to school, hangout with friends, study, go to the arcade, shopping, and more. With your limited amount of time slots, carefully choose what you want of your story and who you choose to form bonds with.

> Mystery and Intrigue: Unravel the secrets of the island and the strange events that have begun to unfold. What is the connection between the rising number of comas and the dreamscape you explore at night? The truth might be closer than you think.

Join the Team!

If you're a fan of deep character development, tactical combat, and a story that challenges you to look within, then this campaign is for you.

Game Sessions: TBD

Campaign Length: Several Months

Platform: Online | Discord | Text-Based

Age: 18 +

Requirements: RP experience | Access to discord | Commitment

Interest Forms: https://forms.gle/5LA5rnG3kKTF5z5GA

Embrace Fears. Dream Nightmares.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

June 12, 2024

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUN 13, 2024

On June 13, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued Executive Order 9182, consolidating a number of different government information offices into the Office of War Information (OWI). The mission of the new agency was to gather public information and to spread it across the U.S. and abroad through the press, radio, motion pictures, and other media. Its aim, in the middle of World War II, was to develop “an informed and intelligent understanding, at home and abroad, of the status and progress of the war effort and of the war policies, activities, and aims of the Government.”

The United States had experimented with a government information bureau during World War I. After the U.S. declared war on Germany on April 6, 1917, the Secretaries of State, War, and the Navy asked the president to create a Committee on Public Information (CPI) to unify Americans behind the war. They had watched as artists whipped up enthusiasm for enlisting to fight the Germans as early as 1915, with the sinking of the Lusitania, and wanted to create a similar shared experience over the war itself.

On April 13, 1917, President Woodrow Wilson created the committee through an executive order, then put newspaperman George Creel in charge of it. Creel had organized a committee of friendly newspapermen to promote Wilson's reelection in 1916. Strongly opposed to the idea of government censorship during the war, he instead promised to create an agency that, as he later wrote, would use “every possible media…to drive home the justice of America’s cause. Not to combat prejudices and disaffection at home was to weaken the firing line.” The CPI set out to reach every person in the U.S. by flooding the media zone with pamphlets, newspapers, posters, films, and short speeches given by so-called Four Minute Men, local figures who embellished talking points handed out by the CPI.

In 1940 the Council on Foreign Relations, a nonpartisan foreign relations think tank in New York City that had grown out of Wilson’s internationalism, published a book by Harold Tobin and Percy Bidwell titled Mobilizing Civilian America. It set out plans for putting the nation’s manufacturing and military on a war footing. It also noted that in the modern world, in which war was often about domestic production as much as numbers of troops, “victory may depend not so much on the skill of generals or the fighting quality of their troops, as on the loyalty and stamina of the men and women on the home front.” 

With that in mind, the authors examined the Committee on Public Information and concluded that while the committee had done brilliantly at informing the public of the facts, the Four Minute Men and other local writers during World War I had spread “hysterical and fanatical outbursts,” sometimes in connection with bond drives, that had whipped up communities against their foreign-born neighbors and other alleged “spies in our midst.” After the war, Americans were so disgusted by their own campaign of hatred and violence against German-Americans, the authors wrote, that they were hugely resistant to anything they saw as propaganda. 

Nonetheless, the authors said, if the U.S. got involved in another war, the government must be prepared for a public relations campaign. In such a case, they said, it was crucial for the government to make sure it stuck firmly to the truth and did not permit the kind of freelancers whose extreme rhetoric had hurt the CPI. 

That advice seemed prescient in the months after the bombing of Pearl Harbor ushered the U.S. into World War II. Information came from different departments and bureaus, but no one seemed to be explaining what America’s goals were or what it was doing to achieve them. FDR was reluctant to set up an agency that his political opponents would charge was a propaganda outlet, but gradually he greenlit small agencies to explain the war to the country. 

In June 1942, FDR pulled those agencies together as the Office of War Information, putting popular news commentator Elmer Davis in charge. Davis vowed to focus not on building morale but on delivering news that would enable people to understand what was at stake. OWI officials were chagrined to learn that in summer 1942 almost a third of Americans said they did not know what the country was fighting for, while Representative Joe Starnes (D-AL), for example, complained, “I think it is an insult to the intelligence of the American people to say that we do not know why we are fighting.” 

In the three years it operated, the Office of War Information created radio programs that explained to Americans which nations were at war and why and others that portrayed life on the home front, and film documentaries about Japanese American incarceration, military training, and so on. Overseas, the OWI established the Voice of America, which is still the official U.S. international broadcasting service, as well as running secret radio stations and disseminating propaganda to harass enemy forces in combat zones. The OWI also examined scripts for Hollywood movies—1,652 of them before the war ended—to make sure they supported the Allies’ mission. 

The OWI ran into trouble quickly as reporters determined to explain facts were overridden by advertising men who wanted to sell the war with positive stories, and both were often tripped up by military leaders who withheld information, especially negative stories, for “public safety.” By 1944, OWI operated mostly overseas, as FDR’s opponents insisted its domestic efforts were designed to help him politically. In September 1945, with the war over, president Harry Truman ended the OWI by executive order after congratulating it for its “outstanding contribution to victory.”

In the years to come, especially after the government’s disinformation regarding the Vietnam War, the idea of government propaganda fell into even more disrepute in the United States than it had in the aftermath of World War II, as the excesses possible under someone like the chief propagandist for Germany’s Nazi Party, Joseph Goebbels, became clear. 

But we have been far less guarded against the ways in which other actors shape public opinion. 

In February, cyber experts said that Russia was already spreading disinformation to influence the 2024 election, and in April, Senator Mark Warner (D-VA), the chair of the Senate Intelligence Committee, warned that the U.S. is more susceptible to Russian influence operations than it has ever been, despite the understanding of the importance of Russian influence operations on the 2016 election. “With polarization in this country, and the lack of faith in institutions, people will believe anything or not believe things that come from what used to be viewed as trusted sources of information,” Warner told Julian E. Barnes of the New York Times. “So there’s a much greater willingness to accept conspiracy theories.” 

Also in April, Microsoft said it had uncovered fake social media profiles run by Chinese operatives to destabilize U.S. politics, and in May, TikTok said it took down thousands of accounts from fifteen covert influence operations in the first four months of 2024. Last week, NewsGuard reported on a network of 167 Russian disinformation sites fronted by a former deputy sheriff from Florida.

On June 6 the State Department’s top official on digital and cyber policy, Nate Fick, told an audience: “I don’t think most American citizens really viscerally understand how much of the content they see on social platforms is actually a foreign intelligence operation…. I just don’t think we viscerally get how much of what we see is bot-generated or foreign intelligence service–generated.”

Today, officials from the Office of the Director of National Intelligence (ODNI) told lawmakers that Russian influence operations aimed at undermining support for Ukraine and faith in democratic institutions provide the top threat to the upcoming U.S. election. China is the second-greatest threat but is more cautious because it is concerned about U.S. blowback, while the third, Iran, acts primarily as a “chaos agent,” trying to confuse voters. The ODNI officials said they have been issuing warnings to political candidates, government officials, and others targeted by foreign groups. 

Senator Angus King (I-ME) urged Director of National Intelligence Avril Haines to make threats known to the public. “I’m worried that you may be overly concerned with appearing partisan and that that will freeze you in terms of taking the actions that are necessary,” he said. “Please ramp it up. We’ve got about six months and...we know that these adversaries are going to be coming at us.”

The modern propaganda flooding the U.S. portrays us as bitterly divided along lines of race and gender, religion and ethnicity. In contrast to this version of America is the one portrayed during World War II by the OWI documentary photography unit. Photographers who had been moved into the agency from the Farm Security Administration documented war work, women in the factories, and civil rights struggles, including those of the incarcerated Japanese Americans as well as Black and brown Americans, showing them at work or in their small towns or cities. The images were of ordinary Americans, often singled out as heroic individuals in their own frames, to represent the American people as a whole. 

And these images were some of the most lasting and vital elements of the OWI’s work. If the hero of the military was the ordinary soldier, the G.I., as newspaper reporters wrote, the hero of the home front was the ordinary American who, in order to make sure that the G.I. had supplies, went to work in a factory or on a farm. 

That image was central to the shaping of postwar America. 

[Alfred T. Palmer, Operating a hand drill at Vultee-Nashville, woman is working on a "Vengeance" dive bomber, Tennessee, 1943, Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Color Photographs, Library of Congress]

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON