#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.

[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.

[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.

[highrhulain85]

How Long Has It Been ... 4 Million Years

Words: 3018

Rating: General Audiences

Optimus Prime/Elita One, Chromia/Ironhide

My tribute to the Transformers 40th Anniversary and inspired by the amazing works of Jorge Rivera-Herrans Musical EPIC.

 To "Would You Fall in Love with Me Again" of the Ithaca Saga of EPIC: the Musical.

I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE MENTIONED SONG, CHARACTERS AND FRANCHISES AND PLEASE, PLEASE LISTEN AND/OR WATCH EPIC: the Musical IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT YET! ITS AMAZING. The scene written has no set Transformers Fandom, just my own version.

The great war is over and Optimus Prime and many Autobots return to Cybertron with all they had promised. Many welcomed them home with joy, however some have not. Yet, this was not Optimus' concern, he can deal with the negativity from multiple bots, however only one bot's opinion matters to him above all.

After 4 million years Optimus and Elita One would reunite, yet would all that time away have faded their bond and would Elita accept who Optimus had become?

I made a few tweaks in the lyrics to make it more accurate to the characters.

Once you see this "#", you can start playing the song, "Would you Fall in Love with Me Again." Make sure you read the full story first to get an idea of how each scene plays out in the song.

All rejoiced that the war was finally over. All factions could return home to Cybertron, the world they had to abandon. Relations were reforging in many forms, some bad, most are good, and a few are much better. They had praised the Autobots and their Prime for their victory and welcomed them home with gratitude and glory.

Yet, a tension still creeped in the celebrations with the victorious bots.

Cybertron 20XX, Iacon (Currently under restoration.)

The group of returning Autobots drove through the wrecked terrain of their former home world. With Optimus in the lead, his vanguard and staff behind him, and their human companions, Spike and Carly Witwicky, in between them while riding within Bumblebee. They followed the blue warrior and vanguard of the Cybertronian Resistance, Chromia. Each of the Autobots had feelings of longing, regret, fear, and resignation of the chaos that lay before and beyond their sights. Most knew the restoration, since Earth’s discovery of an energon deposit on one of Saturn's moons, had relieved tension of starvation to their planet. However, the scars of war ran deep for both warring factions and would take a very long time to heal. 

A taste of resentment hung in the air despite welcoming celebrations, when the Ark finally returned to Cybertron with the needed energon and reinforcements. This resentment was not just at former Decepticons, Autobots, and Neutrals to each other, but also at the returning Prime who made a promise of said return. Which he did keep, but they felt he had come so late and few felt that he and the promised relief was not needed. A campaign was held by one small group for the Autobots to leave Cybertron and be accountable for the war at the spaceport. One former noble mech tried to take a shot at the visiting humans for being disgusting Organics that took Cybertron’s needed resources from them. It had been broadcasted how humanity was integral to their home world’s revitalization, but many weren’t fully accommodating to it. Only Prime’s orders, and all the strongest bots, had to restrain Bumblebee, Arcee, Hound, and even Prowl from doing anything rash to retaliate.

If Optimus was offended or remorseful at all the negative feedback at him, he didn’t show it. He knew he would face this to some extent when the war was over, the matrix of leadership kept his processor running without the burden of self-doubt and professionalism in his role. Part of the perks of having an ancient artifact filtering emotions and grants wisdom.

He gave a heartfelt speech to the hostile crowd and was able to deescalate the situation from boiling over when Chromia arrived. Seeing the vanguard of the resistance, the protester crowd dispersed not wanting to anger who they considered a “true hero”; Optimus stopped an outraged Hot Rod at that. After getting a debrief of events and planning from Chromia she informed them that Elita One was waiting to speak to Optimus. She stated that it was about how to proceed forward with restorations and try to reestablish relations with all Cybertronians and colonies. Whatever opinions Chromia had of her own about the Autobots and Prime, she kept to herself, especially when Ironhide tried to talk to her. She wasn’t being coarse with him, just setting where their priorities should lie, but she did tell Ironhide she’ll talk to him when appropriate.

Now, the group of returned Autobots followed Chromia down the broken paths of Iacon to an area that Optimus knew very well, the old apartments of the docks. In the short distance, the restored Iacon Archives, where he as Orion would go on his day off and read despite his class level back then. Past memories were quickly repressed by the matrix when the group came to an old ruined single floored building. The luster of its chrome finish lost with time, with walls that had crumbled into rubble, and the entrance door missing one side, but to Optimus, he was finally home. Chromia stopped in front of them and announced they had arrived at their destination and all of them transformed into bot mode, with Bumblebee letting his friends out beforehand.

Optimus wasn’t surprised Elita was here of all places, but the meaning as to why she was didn’t escape his mind. He had kept his promise, but was it worth it for her? Ordering his men to wait outside with the humans, Optimus tentatively approached the door.

“Understand this, Optimus Prime,” said Chromia with no emotion in her voice. Optimus stopped to look at her. “It may have been a few years for you, but it was millennia upon millennia for us.” 

She tightened her grasp on the spear she carried, still looking blankly back at the path they traversed. Of a still ruined city she had witnessed fall, had fought in, and was now seeing real progress of returning life.

“We know that you tried and moved as quickly as possible to return our hope. But it was a long, long, and grueling time for us. For her. Some feelings.” She looked to Ironhide, who had a resigned look on his face. “Can fade with time.” She looked away from her Conjunx Endura back to her Prime with a sad smile. “Yet, despite all we faced she still let out hope of your return. Please, don’t squander it.”

From there, she headed toward the group and stood in front of Ironhide, who gave her the same sad smile back at her. After a few soft words, they walked off together to have their own private talk. The group remained back as their Prime walked forward to the building and opened the only door left wide open. 

This was supposed to be a private meeting, a long awaited reunion, but all those involved wanted everything to be said in the open and out to all present.

When they first arrived Bumblebee gave the humans a short summary of what was going to happen. The Witwicky couple felt unsure they should stay but a kind word from Prowl and Ratchet let them know that they were just as welcomed for this. Feeling awkwardly honored, Carly stood with Spike, holding his hand nervously, as they watched the Prime stop at the door to the building, with an equally nervous looking Bumblebee. They stayed silent as to not add to the tension, yet…

“I keep forgetting,” Spike quietly mentioned. Carly looked at him, his face had a look of sadness and understanding. “They've lived much longer than us. Our perception of time is so different from theirs. Four million years, a long time to us, longer than our species' existence, but how was it for those here on Cybertron? Constantly fighting, forging, and preserving their culture? They've all waited so long for Prime and the others to return home and most of that time Prime was offline after their crash and defending Earth.” Spike lowered his head, his voice trembled slightly. “But for the Bots here, for Elita One, she kept waiting for Prime. How could they–”

“Hey,” Carly interrupted. Her husband looked back at her, and she smiled slightly at him. “Let's just watch and see what happens for right now, because this is something they have to settle themselves. Everything else can come later.” Carly leaned into him, both of them giving each other a one-sided hug. They watched as Prime slowly moved forward.

Before entering, Optimus looked upon his reflection in the tarnished chrome mirror of the door. To him, there was no regal Prime returning home with honor and glory looking back. He saw all the dirt, the grime, the scratched paint, and the scarred metal of his body. He looked into his optics, though they are not like human eyes, he could see the tiredness, the past sorrows, the distress and regrets. More prominently, he saw the age in them. He was not coming in at his best, yet despite his current sorry state, Elita One fought for the home he left behind for far longer. He had no right to compare himself to her. He forced the Matrix of Leadership to release their filter on his inner spark, he will not let repression and old wisdom deny him emotional release. The Prime didn’t know what would be discussed, but he was ready for every harsh full criticism of his choices and mistakes. He will face his comeuppance at the one who fully deserved setting it to him. 

He took one last inhale, and let it go with the name he had thought he would never say with such a hopeful tone again. #

“Elita…” 

The room of his former life, while ruined, still held most of the furniture he had precious memories of. The war had destroyed most of the walls, only a few were still standing while everything else had toppled and left the building fully open to the scenery of all Iacon city levels and the horizon of their home world. The sun of their solar system was already rising.

There she stood, a statue of a fury rose color that contrasts the rising dawn over the far horizon, her back to him. At the moment he said her name, she turned to him with the same tired yet hopeful eyes looking back. At the mech of scuffed red and blue, who she hadn’t seen for 4 million years.

“Is it you?” Elita asks with folded arms across her front, looking at him with judging eyes. 

“Have my prayers been answered? 

Is it really you standing there, 

or am I dreaming once more?”

She looked at the mech, at all his scars and wear. 

“You look different, your optics look tired

Your frame is lighter, your mask torn. 

Is it really you, my love?”

After a moment, Optimus looked down to his hands, at the hands that may have saved many, yet also took away many.

“I am not the mech you fell in love with,

I am not the mech you once adored.”

He looked back up at her with defeat in his voice. 

“I am not your kind and gentle Endura,

And I am not the love you knew before.”

Optimus took a tentative step towards the Conjunx he left behind placing his worn hands upon his frame where his spark lay.

“Would you fall in love with me again,

If you knew all I've done?

The things I cannot change,

Would you love me all the same?

I know that you've been waiting, waiting for love.”

Elita looked at Optimus with an uncertain look and turned away from him, her profile silhouetted by the rising sun. “What kinds of things did you do?”

Optimus knew what words to say and said them without hesitation, letting each sentence form the memory it depicted.

“Left a trail of red on every planet.”

The memories appear of Cybertronians displaying a Decepticon or Autobot sigil littering many battlegrounds as Optimus fought Megatron. Cutting down the tyrant's followers with his energy axe.

“As I traded friends like soldiers I could use.”

Times in before and during the war, Optimus formed great friendships and careful recruiting to the ranks. Sadly, many had faced their death in battle under his orders or from blind loyalty. He never should have involved them, he always mourned.

“Hurt more lives than I can count on my hands.” 

Battles on Earth showed the Prime the true extent of their growing war. Visons of city or rural battles, where Humans tried to run, hide, or even fight against the Decepticons alongside the Autobots when they got caught in the crossfire. Sometimes he dreams of the screams of those he couldn’t save as debris fell.

“But all of that was to bring me back to you.”

He raises his helm to look back at her with surprising strength and voices his longing. He held a hand out to her to take.

“So, tell me.

Would you fall in love with me again,

If you knew all I've done?

The things I can't undo.”

Optimus seemed to wilt with regret.

“I am not the mech you knew,

I know that you've been waiting, waiting.”

Elita’s voice interrupted him as she looked to contemplate his words.

“If that's true, could you do me a favor?” She looked at him with a calm stern look. 

“Just a moment of labor,” she then pointed to her right. “That would bring me some peace.”

Optimus followed the direction, blinking at the sight of a bed made from a Founding Crystal Tree, a special type of living crystal that only grew and formed from right where it was planted. The very one where they had first met long before the war, long before Megatron, when they were only just Ariel and Orion.

“See that bonding bed? Could you carry it over?

Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far away from here.”

Elita threw her hand out toward the exit dismissively.

Optimus looked back at her, shocked at her challenge.

“How could you say this?

I had built that bonding bed with my fuel and mesh.

Carved it into the crystal tree where we first met,

A symbol of our love everlasting.”

His anger started to rise, gesturing at her then to the bed with an angry pointing digit. 

“Do you realize what you have asked me?

The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots.”

Outraged, Optimus turned and started to walk away, refusing the request, knowing by doing so would end with his broken spark.

“Only my Conjunx knew that!”

He froze at her affirming tone.

“So, I guess that makes him you!”

Optimus slowly looked back at Elita, who now stood straight and confident in her claim. He turned shocked at her, his earlier anger gone, and hope filled his unfiltered spark.

“Elita…”

Elita One, leader of the Cybertron resistance, slayer of spark eaters, last beacon of hope on Cybertron, and Conjunx Endura to Optimus Prime looked at him with fierce blue twin pools. She began a slow walk toward him, each step she took added to the affirmation in her reply.

“I will fall in love with you over and over again

I don't care how, where, or when.”

As she got closer, she gestured at him with a stern digit.

“No matter how long it's been, you're mine.

Don't tell me you're not the same person!” 

Elita swept her arm out, throwing his earlier said claim aside. 

The passion in her voice seemed to resonate with their world, their universe, and all other universes in existence, as if to challenge all of them that their love still exists.

“You're always my Conjunx and I've been, 

Waiting…” 

In a universe of origin, a different Optimus and Elita are reaffirming their affection and purpose to each other outside a large dome structure of their home world.

“Waiting…”

In another, two Autonomous Robotic Organisms are fighting their own battles, one decapitating his traitorous mentor, while the other tries to find her purpose.

Optimus' voice joined with hers to slowly match her passion and walked to meet her.

“Elita…”

“Waiting…”

A different Earth with a city called Detroit, a Prime regrettably fights against his former friend, who attacks him with long legs and poisoned fangs. 

“Waiting…” 

A planet of cold victory, a broken Optimus says goodbye to a glowing ethereal ghost of Elita who reassures her love to him.

“Elita…”

“Waiting…”

A different Cybertron, Elita tries to stop Optimus from destroying Earth’s Energon that she tried to steal. Desperately holding his gun as it shakes with his sorrowful choice.

“Waiting…”

A dying Elita comforts a distraught Optimus as he aims a glowing blaster at his former gladiator friend, who laughs mockingly while saying it’s the Prime’s own failure.

“Waiting…Oh!”

On the surface of a Cybertron, Elita One encourages Orion Pax to rescue their people from a false Prime. 

Optimus stood still as Elita stood directly in front of him. She raised her hand to his face as he retracted his mask to show her his scared face and tired loving optics. 

“For…” 

He leaned into her warm hand, as she looked back at him lovingly.

“...you.”

Optimus broke into tears and embraced her, and Elita did the same with equal ferocity. Both wept and tugged at each other letting so many millennia of separation melt with each second.

All that time, all their companions had approached the building entrance and watched their reunion with sad but happy tears. Ratchet, Blur, Arcee, and even Hot Rod, let their tears flow softly. Jazz and Bulkhead wept loudly as the normally stoic Prowl comforted them by patting them on their helms while secretly fighting his own tears. Spike gave Carly her own handkerchief as they both tried to dry their crying tears while they both embraced each other warmly. Simultaneously, Spike patted reassuringly on a bawling Bumblebee’s leg. Ironhide, after having come back from his own conversation with Chromia, was wiping his whole arm across his optics as he wept, complaining how they were all acting like sparklings. Chromia gave him a small teasing bump on his shoulder as she tearfully smiled, relieved of her friend’s happiness.

No one said a word as their two leaders continued their reunion, at one point Optimus lifted Elita up in their hug and twirled her around, her laughing at the absurdity of the action. After a moment, he set her back down and they finally separated just enough to look deeply at each other. 

With all the dirt and grime of years of separation and war, tired, but no longer burdened with a love no longer buried.

Elita looked back at him with a soft smile.

“How long has it been?”

Optimus smiled back.

“4 million years…”

They both settled in their embrace.

“I…I… love...” 

Their helms reached to nuzzle each other, their optics closing.

“You.”

To just enjoy the moment of togetherness at last, not as leaders, not as Optimus Prime and Elita One, or as Orion and Ariel, but two lost sparks finally together as one.

--

'Hands over a tissue box': Need a tissue? Because I needed 60 while listening to the song every time I write, rewrite, edit and re-edit, and review and re-reviewed this story. Primas!

Hope you enjoyed it, and if anyone can recommend an artist or if yourself wants to draw this story as a comic or animatic please leave info in the comments and we could work something out. Thank you. Happy New Year!

Added notes A) Having a filter from the Matrix of Leadership was inspired from another story on Ao3, "Not a Prime Situation" by CarlottaPrime. You should also read it as well, real hard look at what Prime would be like without the Matrix of Leadership.

B) if you want to know the order of scenes-based media in the "waiting part", also it's not in chronological order, its: 1. G1,

2. Bayverse Movies,

3. Animated,

4. War for Cybertron Trilogy,

5. Skybound,

6. TF:Prime (My own Implied Head-canon),

7. Transformers One

[eretzyisrael]

by Canaan Lidor

Mervyn Kersh, a Jewish Londoner and D-Day veteran who turned 100 on Dec. 20, has lived through some of modern history’s most tumultuous chapters.

But the events of recent months have stirred fears in Kersh unlike anything that he has felt since he stormed the Normandy beaches 80 years ago, Kersh told JNS in several interviews in the last few months.

Fears for the destruction of Israel—a place this British patriot also calls home—and about antisemitism on display in his native England.

Kersh, who fought with the British Army during the Allied invasion of Nazi-occupied France, now fears both for the safety of the Jewish state and for that of Jews in the United Kingdom. (He celebrated his 100th birthday with family in London.)

Looking back on his role in helping liberate Western Europe, Kersh has mixed feelings, not about the bravery of his comrades or the necessity of the war but about whether the sacrifices he and others made still hold the value they intended.

“I thought what we did was worth it,” he told JNS. “I have my doubts now.”

The Hamas-led terrorist attacks in southern Israel on Oct. 7, 2023, which Kersh calls his “first home” even though he has never lived there, and the resurgence of Jew-hatred in Europe and beyond have left him questioning whether his generation’s hard-fought victories have been eroded.

“Our politicians are repeating the same cowardly lack of military action as those politicians did in the mid-1930s,” Kersh said about the British position on Israel’s fight against its enemies. “All words but no action while the enemy was still relatively weak.”

The recent decision by French officials to honor Gaza Strip journalist Motaz Azaiza during the D-Day anniversary events, which Kersh attended in France in June, added to Kersh’s disappointment.

Azaiza, who has accused the Jewish state of “genocide” and justified Hamas’s actions, received Normandy’s Prize of Liberty. That included a $27,000 award, but it was mostly the symbolic weight of the recognition that angered Kersh.

‘We became occupiers, victors’

This frustration is just part of Kersh’s broader unease. Rising Jew-hatred, both in Europe and internationally, has cast a shadow over his belief in the progress made since World War II.

“I thought life in the U.K. and Europe was pretty good for a long time,” Kersh said. “But since October, it’s really changed. The way so many have jumped to attack Israel—verbally, physically or financially—has me deeply worried.”

Kersh’s connection to Israel and his Jewish identity runs deep, dating back to his youth. Born to “British, British, British Jews,” Kersh grew up in London during a time of rising antisemitism. 

Bullied for being Jewish, he learned to box to defend himself. By the time he joined the British Army, he was unflinchingly open about his faith, even wearing a dog tag identifying him as Jewish despite the risk if the Nazis had captured him.

Kersh told JNS that he knew “plenty” of Jewish young men who wrote “CofE,” for Church of England, on their dog tags.

“I kept mine as ‘Jew,’” he said.

During the Normandy campaign, Kersh took pride in his dual identity. “I was a British soldier but more importantly, I said I was a Jewish soldier,” he said. 

When his unit entered Germany, one of his first stops was Bergen-Belsen, the concentration camp where tens of thousands of Jews, including Anne Frank, perished.

He could not enter the camp due to a typhus outbreak, but Kersh met survivors who reinforced his connection to the Jewish homeland. “Every one of them, except one, wanted to get to Eretz Yisrael,” he said, using the Hebrew for the “Land of Israel.”

Kersh’s visits to pre-state Israel in 1946, while still in the British army, cemented this bond. His pride in his Jewish identity has been a constant throughout his life, even during moments of danger, he told JNS.

“I enjoyed telling German prisoners of war that I was Jewish,” he said, of his encounters during the war.

Reflecting on his wartime experience, Kersh spoke of a shift in perspective as the Allies advanced. In France, Belgium and the Netherlands, he felt solidarity with the people he helped liberate. But crossing into Germany brought a sense of justice.

“We became occupiers, victors. That made a big difference,” he said. “Liberating the French, Belgians and Dutch felt good. But defeating Germany—that had to be done.”

Nearly eight decades later, Kersh fears the world is losing sight of the lessons of history. As antisemitic rhetoric and violence surge, he sees parallels to the threats his generation fought to overcome.

“Israel is again facing a Nazi enemy, only this time by another name,” Kersh said, of jihadist terrorists.

Kersh’s perspective is informed by decades of covering Jewish community and general current affairs as a journalist. 

Before his retirement, Kersh had worked as news editor for the now-defunct South African Jewish Herald and as the writer of Kersh’s Corner, a column in a regional paper in Manchester and Liverpool. He also ran a small printing shop business and wrote a study of the events of the Torah and early Prophets, until  the death of King Saul.

Despite his current concerns about Jew-hatred, Kersh draws hope from the Jewish people’s resilience.

“We’ve been through so much, all the way back to Abraham, the fighting Jew,” he told JNS.

[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.

[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

Chapter 12

"Come again?"

Across the candlelit table, Roger Salier smiled, straightening in his seat, lines crinkling around his blue eyes, "I read the piece you wrote for The New Yorker in April."

"Oh." It had been an essay critical of the influence of big-dollar donors on party politics, Nesta’s last major story before joining the Starborn campaign. The irony was not lost on her -- Roger was a mega-donor, and the Salier family owned half the newspapers on the East Coast. “It didn’t offend you?”

"You're a talented writer. I'd be proud to have you in any of my newsrooms." Roger's smile never faltered. "Why did you step away from writing to work for Congressman Starborn? It's quite a career pivot."

Nesta picked up her wine glass, swirling the red liquid inside. "I'd hope that was obvious."

"Indulge me for a moment."

CONTINUE ON AO3

[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.

[maxwell-grant]

So because I'm curious: what do you think would have happened if Francis had died of - more or less - natural causes before Sofia found out she's alive or where she is, in a way that would make it hard for Oz to spin it as her direct fault? What if for example she had died in the bath tub that day, or died in her sleep at some point? Do you think he still would have had that whole "excising his own heart and soul metaphorically and literally by killing Vic" moment?

Probably Oz wouldn't have come to that realization so quickly and brutally - the very fact that Sofia was able to attack him via his mom was a big part of why he ultimately did what he did, why he felt like he had to do it. Maybe it would take more for him to decide to kill Victor the way he did. It's hard to consider what would have happened if Francis went out like that, and took his entire justification / life's motivation from him like that. Because as is, Oswald can still lean on "Francis" for validation and justification, he can do things in her name and keep her there in the penthouse and try to keep this part of his life intact even if there is no actual love there anymore, but if Francis went out from under him, if the love Oswald believed was there never soured, with him never hearing what she actually felt the whole time or having anyone threaten his foundational lie, I think it might go one of two ways:

Either he kills Vic in the exact same way out of sheer (and far greater) heartbreak, in the moment she goes or after he "wins" and the hollowness of the victory gets to him - or his desperate and all-consuming and now, somehow far more unresolved, need for approval and validation starts to bleed more heavily into the only two people he has left, and that ultimately sours his relationship with them faster. Like they said in the podcast: if Oz had it his way, Victor would be the guy planning his funeral parade and telling Oswald Cobb stories the way he told Rex Calabrese stories. But Oz will never get things his way, never entirely, and so that was never gonna be an option for Victor. I don't think survival in Gotham City was ever an option for Victor.

No gangster in town would have taken a chance on a weak scrawny stuttering kid who tried to rob his car, no gangster in town would have let the kid who knows he murdered the new kingpin live, no gangster would have been as empathetic and understanding to him and his disability as Oz. And no gangster in town would have murdered their Number One Guy, their greatest and only ally who gave them an army and a revolution and campaign-winning rhetoric and did it all asking for literally nothing, the sole justification for everything they're doing, their most loyal and devoted henchman and partner, over such a weak and sentimental and unnecessary reason.

Even if Oz managed to completely corrupt Victor, even if Victor somehow never found out about the truth of what he's done, eventually Oz would have left him to die or sold him out as soon as it became the convenient thing to do. I don't think he was ever actually going to bond with Victor to the point of prioritizing his safety - even if they truly liked and even loved each other as family, the best thing that Victor can ever be for Oz is a brother, and we know how he feels about those.

[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.

[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.

[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)

[k-nayee]

CHAPTER 13. FORGED IN BATTLE

❝In the crucible of war, friendships become unbreakable bonds.❞

Warrior M.List | Act Two

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˚＊˚✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・⚔️・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ・・✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ˚＊˚

War on Troy: Year 3

Two years had passed since the Greeks’ arrival at Troy. The days blurred into a monotonous cycle of skirmishes and strategies, both sides locked in a bloody stalemate.

Neither side had gained an upper hand, and though you and Penelope had done all within your power to tip the scales, the walls of Troy still stood firm against the Achaean assault.

Much of that resilience came from their champions. Hector, Paris, and Aeneas; the unyielding pillars of Trojan defense.

Their leadership on the battlefield was unparalleled.

On more than one occasion you had caught glimpses of them amidst the chaos of battle: Hector, wielding his spear like a force of nature; Paris, his arrows deadly and precise; Aeneas, orchestrating the Trojan ranks with a strategist’s precision.

Unfortunately there was never time to linger. Every fleeting glance was followed by the clash of Trojan steel and the need to fight for survival.

The Ithacan forces had held their own under Penelope’s leadership. Your strategies with her commands were brilliant, and her ability to inspire unwavering.

Yet the sheer size and strength of Troy’s army—and the aid of their Gods—had stymied even the best of plans.

Amidst the ceaseless struggle, Achilles and Patroclus had found new ways to irritate and amuse you. Their flirtations had become a constant backdrop to the war, their teases ranging from playful to shameless.

“Another flawless strike.” Patroclus’ voice broke through the roar of the battlefield, his tone rich with mock admiration. “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were trying to impress me.”

You didn’t bother to look up from where you stood, your sword buried deep in the chest of a fallen Trojan. “Flawless would mean no blood on my armor,” you replied dryly. “Which means you’re not paying attention.”

From the corner of your eye you saw Achilles approach, his golden hair catching the sunlight like a beacon. “Oh he’s paying attention,” he said with a grin, his voice booming with laughter. “Trust me.”

You sighed, pulling your blade free with a sharp tug. “Don’t you two have your own battles to fight?”

“Consider this one ours,” Achilles said, leaning casually on his spear. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “It’s not every day we get to see such beauty and strength in action.”

“And yet here you are. Every day.”

Patroclus chuckled, stepping closer with a mock look of seriousness. “What can we say? You’re irresistible.”

You’d rolled your eyes but there was no malice in it. For all their antics, you knew they respected your boundaries—and perhaps even admired your loyalty to the Ithacan Royals.

That didn’t stop them from trying though.

When Penelope finally permitted Achilles to take you along on a campaign to raid nearby towns and disrupt Troy’s supply chains, it had almost felt like a reprieve from their constant attention.

Almost.

The campaign was brutal. Each raid was a calculated blow to Troy’s resources, a necessary evil in the grand scheme of war.

Achilles led his men with ruthless efficiency, dismantling supply lines and leaving destruction in their wake. But the aftermath of these raids was where the ugliness of war truly revealed itself.

Towns were left in ruins, their people broken and desperate while women were taken as spoils of war, a grim reminder of the cost of victory.

Among the Ithacan forces such acts were rare.

Perhaps it was respect for you and Penelope, or perhaps it was fear of the sharp consequences you had made abundantly clear.

You had learned to keep your head down in these moments, knowing that drawing attention to every injustice could spark discord among the already volatile Greek forces.

But there were times when you could not—would not—stay silent.

“Leave her alone,” you snarled at a soldier who had cornered a terrified woman during one raid.

The man had sneered, his grip tightening on the woman’s arm. “What’s it to you?”

Without hesitation, you’d drawn your sword and leveled it at his throat. “Try me.”

The look in your eyes must have been enough because he’d released the woman and backed away, muttering curses under his breath.

You had used your sword more than once, standing between a trembling woman and the leering eyes of a soldier. You had struck without hesitation when a man became too rough, his grip leaving bruises on skin that had already suffered enough.

Some whispered about you after those moments. Others grew wary.

The whispers turned into warnings and the warnings turned into fear. It was well known among your men that to cross you in such matters was to risk a swift and brutal end.

“Stay away from the women,” you had overheard one Myrmidon soldier mutter to another during the aftermath of a raid. “She'd gut a man for less.”

The other soldier had nodded, his expression grim. “Saw what she did to one of Agamemnon’s men. Didn’t even flinch.”

They were right. You hadn’t.

Your sword had been swift, your anger sharper. The man had dared to test you, his drunken laughter turning to screams as your blade found its mark.

You didn't care about his rank nor the consequences.

War was chaos, and if anyone thought that gave them free rein to harm the innocent, they would find themselves at the mercy of your fury.

Achilles, however, remained unbothered by your actions. If anything his respect for you seemed to grow, his teasing remarks often accompanied by genuine admiration.

“You’re terrifying,” he’d said, his lips curling into a grin as you cleaned the blood from your blade.

“And you’re lucky I’m on your side,” you’d replied, your tone cutting but your eyes steady.

The campaign continued—and while the strain of war weighed heavy on your shoulders, you found a strange solace in the determination to endure and to win.

══════════════˚･:*:★☽✧⚔️✧☾★:*:･˚═══════════════

The camp was quieter than usual, the absence of Achilles and the majority of the Myrmidons lending an uneasy stillness to the air.

Achilles’ temporary quarters were spacious for a war tent, yet the silence that hung between you and the young girl made it feel stiflingly small.

You sat on a low bench near a pile of furs, the battered leather bracelet Odysseus had given you resting in your lap. Your fingers worked diligently, re-threading the worn edges with care.

Beside you on a makeshift table lay a book Achilles had brought back from a raid, its spine cracked from wear but the words within invaluable.

The Art of War—a rarity that he had smugly handed to you, declaring, “A treasure for my war maiden.” His grin had been insufferable (as always).

You had rolled your eyes, muttering about how his priorities needed work, but secretly you cherished the gesture.

The quiet sound of fabric shifting made you glance up briefly. Briseis sat across the tent on a pile of cushions, her small frame curled in on itself.

At twelve she looked even younger, her wide eyes darting nervously to you, then away when she thought you might notice.

You had of course. You always did.

Without lifting your gaze from the bracelet, you broke the silence. “You’ve been staring for a while now.”

Briseis flinched at your words, her pale hands twisting in her lap as her cheeks flushed. “I-I’m sorry,” she murmured barely above a whisper.

You softened slightly and leaned back against one of the wooden beams supporting the tent. Setting the bracelet aside, you turned your full attention to her.

“You don’t have to apologize,” you said gently. “But if you have something to say, speak plainly. I prefer honesty over silence.”

She hesitated, her hands gripping the fabric of her dress tightly. When she finally spoke, her words were shaky, but her tone carried a faint edge of defiance.

“How...how do you do it?” she asked, her accent—Trojan, unmistakable—lending a melodic lilt to her words. “How can you fight alongside them? The men who…do this.” Her voice cracked and her gaze dropped to her lap.

The question struck you like a blade but you forced your voice to remain steady. “What exactly do you mean by ‘this’?”

Briseis’ head snapped up, her eyes wet with unshed tears and burning with anger.

“This!” she cried, her voice rising. “The raids. The killing. The taking. The way they look at us as if we’re nothing. How can you stand beside them and pretend you’re not like them?”

The words were like a slap. Her trembling frame, her furious tears, her small fists clenched in helpless rage—it was too familiar.

Your chest tightened as anger—directed at the men who had made her suffer and perhaps at yourself—bubbled beneath your skin.

But you held it in, taking a steadying breath before speaking. “You think I don’t know pain?” your voice was low and quiet, carring a weight that made Briseis look up.

Her tear-streaked face met your hardened gaze as you leaned forward, your elbows resting on your knees.

“Do not presume to think you know me girl,” you said, each word measured. “I know exactly what it means to be a woman in a world like this. A world where men measure your worth by what’s between your legs.”

Briseis recoiled as though struck, her eyes widening at the bitterness in your tone, but she didn’t look away.

“I fight,” you continued, your voice gaining an edge, “because I’ve been where you are. Because I’ve seen what happens when no one stands between them and their prey.”

You stood abruptly, brushing past her and motioning for her to follow. “Come with me.”

Reluctantly, Briseis rose and followed, her steps faltering as she moved into your shadow.

Together you stepped out of the tent and into the camp. The camp buzzed with activity as men milled about, their laughter and banter punctuated by the sharp clang of weapons being cleaned or repaired.

But as you strode through the rows of tents, Briseis began to notice a change.

Men who had been jeering at a group of captured women fell silent when they saw you. Their postures stiffened, and some even stepped away from the women, avoiding your gaze.

A few more abandoned whatever they were doing, their faces darkening as they retreated from your path.

Briseis clung close behind you as she held you tighter. “They’re…afraid of you,” she whispered.

“They should be,” you replied flatly.

Briseis glanced up at you, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and confusion. “But why? You’re…”

“A woman?” you finished for her, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “Exactly.”

You stopped near a group of soldiers sharpening their blades. The men immediately quieted, their eyes darting to you before returning to their work.

“You see this?” you said, your voice soft but cold. “It's not because they respect me, but because they know I won’t hesitate to end them if they cross me.”

Her lips parted, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief.

“I can’t stop all of them,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I can’t undo the horrors they’ve committed or save every innocent caught in their path. But in my presence, they know better.”

Briseis’ gaze dropped to the ground, her shoulders slumping. “It’s not enough,” she whispered. “It doesn’t change what they’ve done.”

“No,” you agreed. “It doesn’t. But life isn’t fair Briseis. In a world where even Goddesses are forced below their male counterparts, what power do mortal women have?”

Your bitter laugh made her flinch, but you didn’t apologize. You couldn’t.

“I fight because it’s the only way to survive,” you continued. “Because if I don’t, I’ll never see the people I love again. And if that means carrying the weight of their sins so be it. They’ll answer to Hades eventually.”

You turned your gaze toward the horizon, the setting sun casting long shadows over the camp. Your voice grew softer, almost empty. “The bloodshed. The screams. The slaughter of innocents. I hear it all Briseis. I see it all. And I’ll see it again if it means making it home.”

Briseis shivered, her wide eyes fixed on your distant stare, her mind conjuring images of her father’s tales of warriors who had seen too much.

For a moment she said nothing, her small hands clenching at her sides as if searching for strength. Then softly she asked, “How do you bear it?”

You looked down at her, your expression softening. “You don’t,” you said simply.

Before she could respond, the sound of boisterous laughter broke the tension.

“Ah! My two favorite women bonding!” A familiar voice rang out. You turned to see Achilles striding toward you.

The Son of Peleus was grinning like a fool, a sack of loot from the day’s raid slung over his shoulder.

Briseis shrank slightly behind you, but you rolled your eyes. “I’ll gut you one day, Achilles,” you muttered.

“And ruin all the fun?” he replied with mock horror. “Never.”

He clapped a hand on your shoulder, his grip firm but not unwelcome as he peered at Briseis. “You’re making an excellent mother for our daughter you know,” he teased, earning a sharp glare from you.

You rolled your eyes, flipping him a gesture that made him laugh even harder. “Go find a new hobby,” you snapped despite your tone lacking true venom.

Turning back to Briseis, you extended a hand. “Come on,” you said gently. “Let’s head back. I’ll teach you a few tricks with a knife—something to make the men think twice.”

Her hesitation melted as she placed her hand in yours. Smaller fingers tightening around yours, a hint of a smile flickered across her face.

Achilles watched you both with a soft expression, his grin never left.

In the fading light of the camp, you led Briseis back toward the tent, a strange but not unwelcome reminder that even in war, there were moments of light.

*･:*:★☽✧⚔️ BONUS ⚔️✧☾★:*:･*

The tension in the main camp was almost palpable.

A week had passed since your return, and in that time, the mood had shifted to a simmering unease.

Word of reinforcements summoned by Priam had spread quickly, casting a shadow over the Greek forces.

The arrival of Sarpedon and the Lycians, along with Thracian contingents, had bolstered Troy’s defenses, making every step forward feel like wading through mud.

It was early afternoon and the faint scent of salt from the nearby sea mingled with the earthiness of the camp.

The faint clang of smiths hammering weapons and the murmur of soldiers in the distance formed a subdued backdrop as you sat with Penelope and a handful of other Greek leaders around a rough wooden table strewn with maps and battle reports.

“Skirmishes along the River Scamander have left us at a standstill,” Ajax the Great grumbled as he leaned heavily on the table.

His broad shoulders were tense, his voice tinged with frustration. “Hector and Aeneas lead their forces with precision. We can’t seem to break their line.”

“Diomedes and I have held them off,” Penelope said, her tone calm yet firm, “but it’s a temporary solution. We need to adapt or we’ll lose ground faster than we gain it.”

She stood tall at the head of the table, her red cloak falling in perfect folds, the gold cuffs in her braids catching the faint sunlight streaming through the tent.

Her presence was magnetic, her authority unquestioned.

You leaned back in your chair, your arms crossed as your gaze flickered between the map and the leaders. “It’s not just their defenses. Priam’s reinforcements have shifted the balance. Sarpedon isn’t a fool and the Lycians fight with strategy, not brute force.”

Nestor, the elder general, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “And the Thracians?”

“They’re relentless,” your fingers tapped idly on the armrest. “But they lack discipline. They’re manageable if we can isolate them.”

Penelope nodded as she scanned the map. “Then we focus on breaking their cohesion. Ajax and Diomedes, you’ll coordinate with our forces along the Scamander. Distract Hector and Aeneas—pull their attention away from the Lycians.”

Ajax grunted in approval, his massive hand curling into a fist as he studied the map. Diomedes, seated beside him, gave a curt nod.

As the discussion continued a soft laugh drifted from a nearby tent. You glanced up, your brow arching slightly at the sound.

Patroclus.

The man had clicked with Briseis almost immediately upon your return. He treated her like a daughter, doting on her with a tenderness that seemed at odds with his role as a warrior.

She was embarrassed by his attentions, her cheeks often pink with flustered protests, but the light in her eyes told you she welcomed the care.

“Patroclus has been a surprising addition,” Penelope said softly, noticing your brief distraction.

“He’s good for her,” you replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “She’s been through enough. It’s...good that she has someone like him.”

“Kinda like us,” Penelope adds, her gaze steady as it met yours.

The words lingered between you, unspoken memories shared in the quiet weight of her tone.

Before the conversation could deepen, a messenger arrived, his face pale and drawn. “Captain Penelope,” his voice was tight with urgency. “New reports from the Scamander.”

Penelope’s gaze sharpened as she took the scroll and unrolled it swiftly. Her brow furrowed as her eyes scanned the words. “More counterattacks,” she murmured. “And Hector…he’s pushing closer to our supply lines.”

You stood, stepping closer to read over her shoulder. The tension in her posture was mirrored in your own as you processed the information. “We need to act fast,” you said, your tone low. “If we lose those lines, we lose everything.”

Penelope nodded, her jaw tightening. “Then let’s make sure we don’t.”

The meeting dissolved into action, leaders dispersing to relay new orders and strategize. Penelope turned to you, her eyes sharp but filled with unspoken trust. “We’ll discuss the details tonight. For now see to the troops.”

You gave a curt nod, your hand brushing briefly against hers—a fleeting moment of connection before you strode off into the heart of the camp.

As you passed by the tents, you spotted Patroclus crouched near a small fire, Briseis perched on a log beside him.

He was showing her something—likely another one of his stories or teachings—and her laughter, though quiet, was genuine. For a second the weight of duty was replaced by a flicker of something worth fighting for.

Then, with a steadying breath, you turned back to your task, the sounds of war creeping back into focus.

[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.

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