#HES actually sending me son of war propaganda of his own free will too I WIN DUDE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thesandersinitiative · 4 years

Note

Virgil stop fangirling over Patton

“Am I....?” Virgil repeats looking fainter than before. He tugs on the strings of his hoodie staring at Patton. “NO! I am NOT alright! That is-- That’s--!! Captain Morality! Don’t you know who he is?!”

Without waiting for you to actually answer Virgil turns to you, with a spark in his eerily purple eyes and starts talking.....

....and behind him Patton’s eyes go distant.

[TW: depression, PTSD, violence, Nazis]

***

To be completely honest, Patton Hart is used to tragedy. He's been bred on sad sob stories, one after the other. A father who did not stick around long enough to see him first open his eyes, grandparents who did not live to see his third birthday, a mother who loved him too much, too often, too desperately. He'd been blessed with a forgettable face, with a submissive aura, with a backpack of items to call his own that was never unpacked because they always moved in the end, anyway. He was there and then he was gone like a bank of fog, like the sun on a cloudy day.

Patton grew up with sadness clinging to his bones, kissing nightmares in the dark, and singing eulogies in the graveyards for reflections of himself.

The Stock Market Crash paves the way for the Depression that chases him and his mother through the country, nipping at their heels, sinking its claws into their backs, and tearing their throats with its teeth. It’s bad.

But its nothing new for Patton.

The War, though.

The War is new.

The War steals the cute boy at the drug store who smiles at Patton across the counter. The War makes each penny stretch less and less. The War plasters propaganda posters condemning the Nazi menace across telephone poles and mailboxes.

(The War wasn’t America’s problem until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. The War wasn’t America’s problem when he lived in Brooklyn for six scant months at fourteen and helped a Jewish boy clean out his cuts after a group of sixteen year olds pushed him down and sneered you know, those Germans have the right idea.)

The War kills his Mom.

Not, directly, no, but. But it places her in a factory assembling turbines for the planes. They have money in their pockets for the first time in years but the War hands her ration cards and says they have to keep on starving. The War gets her sick in the factory, and the entire time she just smiles, ruffles Patton’s hair, and keeps handing him half of her rations because he’s still a growing boy.

Patton’s Mom dies when he’s seventeen; she’s sick and starving and dies with her head in her son’s lap as he strokes her hair and sobs.

Patton Hart is seventeen when he volunteers for the draft. He’s a year too young, but they don’t look hard enough, don’t care hard enough. Patton’s never known what he’s wanted to do with his life—bouncing from tragedy to tragedy and just barely managing to stay afloat but, well. He never thought he’d do this.

The War has taken all he has left; Patton thinks it might as well take him too.

Some might have started calling it a tragedy then, because if there hadn't been a war, if the Depression hadn't hit, if Patton hadn't been left all alone, he might have grown up to be a store clerk, a factory worker, a journalist, a self respecting average person. He might have learned to smile for real and not just to placate people. He might have settled down somewhere with a pretty boy and become that dad he had always wanted to be. He might have been happy.

They might have called it tragic that that sort of life had been stolen from him.

(Patton thinks it’s tragic that he could never imagine having that life at all.)

The War is...its something else really. They send him to a training camp run by both Americans and the British and they work them all to bone. Push ups, daily runs, crawling through barbed wire, carrying twice his body weight in supplies and keeping march. They press them until they can’t stand and fill their heads with delusions of grandeur that will come when they beat those pesky Germans.

The boys that he shows up with change very fast.

Patton feels like he doesn't change at all.

It's a problem, they say. Because Patton is still smiling at them while marching, still making jokes when the rest of the platoon is struggling to keep their eyes open, still acting soft and kind and friendly when they are trying to go to war.

It's a problem, they say. So they send him to the front lines.

Patton just smiles at them and nods his head. What's another order? What's another threat? What more can this life take from him anyway?

Patton thinks it's silly that the generals there are in the business of making tragedies, and yet they can't seem to see that Patton is a tragedy personified. It's a blindsiding attack: he's the comedy with a bad ending no one sees coming.

He gets captured six weeks after he’s sent to the front lines; it’s just another bump in the story, another trip into tragedy, and another thing to smile through and laugh over even as bitterness burns like acid in the back of his throat.

It’s funny he thinks, because he was the only man in his regiment to get captured. The only man in his regiment none of them would be sorry to see go. The only one that lives to see the sunrise after that day.

(Its a blood orange sunrise, that boils the sky and makes hazy lines in Patton’s vision.)

The soldiers that dig him out of the trenches, that dig him from the dirt and the rubble and the bodies, that dig him out of the grave he had been so content to lie in, force him to his feet and tell him to march. They don’t like him, don’t like the way he stumbles, don’t like the way he collapses.

And they certainly don’t like the way he smiles. With blood in his teeth and his freckles dancing and his eyes as cold and dead as the rest of the allied forces in the area.

It doesn’t matter much though. This is War, after all.

They take him to a POW camp and they stuff him into a crowded cell with two French soldiers who know scattered English, and an Italian who likely was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Patton had cared, he might have thought about how different it was from what he had been told being captured would be like, about how secret the base seemed, how violent the gatekeepers were. He might have been scared.

But all he can think about is how cold it is. How dark it is. How unfriendly it is.

This is War.

And Patton wonders why no one here knows how to smile.

Its a stand still: the days are the same and they blur together like the lines of a newspaper in the rain. He sleeps a lot, probably too much, but there’s nothing else to do. He’s got his own little corner where he keeps his legs folded up so that the Italian can lie down and without touching anyone. He offers half his food to one of the French soldiers because he’s nearly eighteen but the poor kiddo looked barely older than sixteen. He smiles, smiles, smiles, until that too becomes an unconscious action. The guards that pace the block snarl at him and Patton smiles each and every time.

He loses track of how many times they drag him out of the bars and beat him with their rifle butts. But that might just be him being bad at math.

His cellmates probably think he’s insane. Maybe he is. Maybe that’s what the War got from him.

It isn’t until three weeks later that the Brit with the mustache is thrown in with them and things start..starting again.

His name is something fancy, something posh, and Patton hears it, but doesn’t remember it at all. It seems silly that he could have forgotten how to speak English in three weeks, but it happens that he can’t figure out how to answer the Brit with anything more than a half shrug and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes even on a good day.

And good days are rare. It’s not that the others are bad, because how can something be bad when he’s got food, and quietness, and a roof over his head? It's strange to think that before he joined the Army, before the War had started, before his mother died, there had been times when he hadn’t even had that. Surely if he was tragic before, he had to be something slightly better now?

Patton tries to give his food to the French boy, who always, always hesitates. The Brit watches him.

“Why do you do that?” He asks.

And Patton shrugs.

The French boy says something, or maybe he doesn’t. There’s a hollowness in Patton’s skull that rings when he looks too hard so its better just to close his eyes and go back to sleep.

The Brit speaks French and Russian and German. Patton doesn’t really notice it at first, because he’s been used to the sounds of his cellmates whispering softly in the cold dark, but at one point he realizes that there’s an extra voice, speaking foreign hushed words in the darkness. He doesn’t know how long they had been talking before he realizes, and he hadn’t been asleep but he hadn’t been there either. It had been like his body was there and his mind had stepped from the room for a moment, or ten, or an hour.

When he glances over the Brit is listening intently to what the older of the French boys is saying, nodding along, maybe partially in disbelief. Patton doesn’t get exactly what they’re talking about until there’s motion in his direction and the Brit’s jaw drops. There’s a rough laugh that follows, and it grows like a thunderstorm, rumbling closer and closer.

And oh, they’re talking about him.

Patton smiles for them. Because even if he's the joke they’re telling, at least they’re laughing.

The Brit’s eyes widen, and he says something back to the French boys, something with too many front-rounded syllables, and then he turns back to Patton and scoots close.

“They were telling me that you smile all the time,” He says. “They call you Mr. Blueskies!”

“Blueskies?” The word chokes in Patton’s throat, rattling in his ribcage like a bird trying to break free. His own inhale scratches the inside of his throat, like nails tearing up his esophagus. It feels bad, and strange and foreign. He coughs.

“Yeah,” The Brit says, “Like clear skies. Bright and Happy. I didn’t think people like you existed in this hellhole.”

Patton doesn’t know what to say to that. So he just shrugs and smiles a bit more.

The Brit still smells like lavender soap, which was probably from a care package from home before he was caught and brought here. It reminds Patton of the flower shop he had to walk by to bring his mother lunch when she worked at the factory, before she died.

“Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says somewhat still in disbelief, “What’s your real name, Smiles?”

Patton leaned against the wall ignoring the painful cramp in his legs because the Italian was still sleeping. “Hart,” He says, “Patton Hart.”

“Unbelievable,” He says, “They should have been putting you on posters, not sticking you on the front lines.”

(And thats another tragedy for the list, isn’t it? Something so sweet and soft like Patton shouldn’t have ever been to War at all.)

“Patton “Blueskies” Hart,” the Brit hums. “Tell me something, kid, whats there left to smile for?”

And isn’t that the trillion dollar question? What is there left to smile for when his family is dead and he is halfway to meeting them again, when his legs are cramped, his cheeks are hollowed, his head rings, and his throat is dry, when he’s so far from anything that is familiar and has no chance of getting back?

But Patton knows the answer, has known for a while. He can still feel the soft hand of the Jewish boy when he helped pick him off the ground in Brooklyn, can still hear the laughter from his mother before she got sick, can still smell the cookies that his platoon-mate got that in a care package that made the man cry.

War is a Tragedy.

It takes and it takes and it takes.

What is left to smile for?

“Spite,” Patton says with the sweetest tone he’s ever managed.

And across the halls, in the cell parallel to them, laughter rings out. Patton blinks almost in surprise. He hadn’t realized that anyone else had been listening, and if he is being truly honest he forgot that anyone else existed outside their tiny blocked area.

“I like you,” The words are harsh and thickly accented, but the soldier’s voice is warm with laughter and it softens the hardness of his enunciation, “Revenge served best with smile.”

“It’s not revenge,” Patton says automatically, because the word feels wrong. Because revenge is something you wait for, an expectation that sits deep in your bones, a vicious prize you endure for. Patton isn’t waiting for anything, not a reward nor not a reparation. He doesn’t smile because he thinks he might get revenge because he knows he won’t. Patton smiles, Patton smiles, Patton smiles, because—”It’s rebellion.”

The Soviet laughs again and again, “Even better,” He says and it sends a shiver down Patton’s spine.

The Soviet-Russian isn’t alone in his cell. He’s joined by a ruddy cheeked and auburn haired Irish boy, a quiet pale-skinned Soviet-Ukranian, and a blue-eyed North Brit. Patton doesn’t know if they introduce themselves because it doesn’t matter: he won’t remember their names anyway.

They’ll all die, anyway.

But Patton will smile all the way through it.

Things start, Patton notices.

Because the next time the guards pass through, he forgets to turn away and somehow his smile is still bright enough for them to pick it out of the blue grey shadows. Patton thinks that maybe the Allied forces had been gaining ground, had beat off the Nazi’s one time too many, had tipped the War back into their favor, because the Germans are especially angry.

Its not anything new. It can’t be when Patton smiles at the grasping hands of Death, and the enemy soldiers have always been so ready to deliver him to the brink. Its not anything new when he can’t force his smile to fall, and the but of the rifle slams between the bars of the cell and clocks him right between the eyes.

And his head flings back, cracking against the shoulder of the Brit and so hard he doesn’t even hear the snapping of his wireframe glasses. The halves fall into his lap, blurry and distant and almost as broken as he is.

And Patton laughs.

Maybe it is a little new. War is like that, he thinks.

Its a repetition that repeats until it doesn’t and there’s no telling when that change will come: when it suddenly turns from him trying to inch through the haze of bullets towards the trenches across no mans land, to him trying to dig himself out from under the weight of another soldier from his platoon without screaming in frustration, because death was right there and it missed him again.

“Mr. Blueskies--” The Brit says as Patton gasps for air.

“Oi! Was that that smiley fellow?” Someone else yells from another cell, some other cell.

“Is he alright?” Another voice adds in.

“Bloody Germans!”

Its a clamor. Patton hears it; its impossible not to hear with how close the cells are to each other, with how many of them are pressed together, with how each whisper reverberates off the stone around them and makes it ten times louder.

Something warm trickles down his face and Patton blinks hard as he tastes blood between his grinning lips. He thinks there’s some orders being tossed around but the full honesty is he can’t hear at all. All there is are yells about leaving him alone, about those where those Germans can stuff their guns, about how they can pick on prisoners their own size--

There’s nothing new, and yet the entire camp, the hall of their cells, Patton suddenly feels more alive than ever before.

Their captors don’t know what to do suddenly. There’s several thwamps as something gets thrown at them, but Patton can’t see it at all.

The gunshots rattle all of them to their bones, a noise so loud in their small cells made of stone that turns the vibrations back on them. Patton’s hands cover his ears, his ringing ears, and he feels the Brit next to him stiffen. The echoes of the noise, steal all the fire from them, until they’re just cowering from the bars again, and selling lethal glares.

Patton blinks blurrily at the indistinct forms where their captors were, dully recognizing that orders are being spit out in rapid German. The cells ring with the foreign words, and then fizzle out as the soldiers move on.

And the silence returns, same as its always been.

Although something is different, Patton thinks, clutching the halves of his glasses that his mother had spent four months saving up to afford him, back before she had gotten sick. Something is different, he thinks, as the Brit softly presses a swatch of cloth he got who knows where to Patton’s forehead.

Something is different, Patton knows.

Because the next time they get their portions of food and Patton tries to foist some of his off the French boy gives him a hard “No” complete with him reaching out and pushing Patton’s hand away. Patton eats a whole piece of bread, and he thinks it even had a taste. Its strange and weird and Patton doesn’t want to think about it so he sleeps instead.

He wakes up when the Italian reaches over and nudges him, and waddles around so that his long legs fold up and there’s space in the cell for the first time. The Italian motions for him to lie down, and Patton’s first instinct is to offer it French boys, to the Brit, to the Italian who was looking far too uncomfortable.

The Brit offers him a shoulder to his head on when he’s tired, talks when he’s not. The Brit asks him questions about home, about before the War, about what America is like because he’d always wanted to visit just to see if it really was as bad as he’s thought it was. Patton can’t see anything anymore, but its nice to hear the barking laughter that shows up sometimes.

(Patton makes up things sometimes, just to hear it, because its pretty and it makes Patton’s chest warm in a way that it hasn’t, doesn’t, won’t any other time.)

The Brit is warm and gruff. He smells like lavender and sounds like the rumbling of streetcars back home. He’s strong and steady and bold and brave.

“Hey, Blueskies--”

The War is a bad thing, Patton thinks, as he starts to notice things moving again. The War is a bad thing, Patton reminds himself, as his smile feels less forced than it has in years. The War is a bad thing, Patton whispers at night, as he stares at the sleeping face of a man who’s laugh made Patton’s heart jump straight into his throat.

The War is a bad thing.

But if it weren’t for the War they never would have met.

And if it weren’t for the War the Brit never would have died. Not like this.

People disappear from the cells. Taken by the guards, dragged out of their block in the middle of the night, and they never return. The Soviet, who’s been here the longest, almost a year, spins tales of his old, original cell mates, and the people who’d originally filled the cell that Patton was occupying. They’d all been dragged off in the night, one by one, he’d claimed, and the only reason the Soviet himself hadn’t gone taken with them was because he always squeezed himself tight into a corner during the guards rounds.

“What about food?” The Brit had asked, half curious and half concerned, “How did you eat?”

“I didn’t,” The Soviet barked with laughter, “Going hungry is small price to pay for life. And now…” The Soviet reached into his tattered jacket, and pulled out a stale chunk of bread, “I am prepared.”

The Irish boy glances up from where he was playing some sort of hand game with the Ukranian, wide eyed and red cheeked, “You think they’ll come back to our block?”

“I no think,” The Soviet said with complete surety, tucking the bread back into his coat, “I know.”

And he’s right, because two weeks later Patton’s woken from a half restless sleep by his head knocking hard against the wall as the shoulder he’d fallen asleep against was ripped out from underneath him. Patton’s vision is blurry, muddled by darkness and the sudden hit he took to his temple but he can see, suddenly, the open gate to their cell blocked off by one of their bulky captors as two others wrapped their hands tight on the arms of the struggling Brit.

Desperate cuts through the drowsy fog in Patton’s mind, and he’s scrambling forward, knocking into the Italian who wakes with a sharp gasp, and accidentally kicking the leg of the French boy who squirms from sleep and proceeds to shake his older counterpart awake within in the second but Patton doesn’t notice. He’s attempting to stand, reach for the Brit, pull him back, but one of the guards shoves him away and Patton lands bruisingly hard on his backside just as the grated door is slammed shut and locked in front of him.

Patton lunges again, sticks his arm through the wire, ignores the burn, grabs onto the Brit’s shoulder, and gasps out his name, “...”

The Brit swings his head up and over his shoulder, eyes alight in the dark. A guard brings his gun down on Patton’s elbow and he screams, loud enough to wake the rest of the block, certainly. He sees the Ukranian boy with one arm around the Irish boy’s stomach and the other covering his mouth as he presses them both against the back wall, sees the other Brit, the Northern one, pressed into the less shadowed corner, shaking and doesn’t even see a hint of the Russian, but knows he’s curled into himself and watching Patton too, waiting for him to give up, let go.

He doesn’t. His fingers dig deeper into the Brit’s shoulder, grasping onto the fabric desperately, even as the guard lands a second blow on his wrist, and his vision swims with bright purple spots.

Patton lets out a ragged breath, faintly hears the Italian quietly begging him to let go through the ringing in his ears, and tightens his grip because he’s selfish. The Brit is his friend. Makes him happy in a way Patton hasn’t known in years, with his kind words and gruff voice, and Patton can’t let him go, he can’t. Not, at least, without a fight.

(The Brit deserves that much.)

“...Mr. Blueskies,” The Brit says, voice quiet, voice terrified, but still steady, “Let go.”

“No—” The guard swings his gun through the slots in the door and slams Patton’s nose with a loud crack. His vision dissolves into bright, spotted stars, and his face burns and he’s coughing on blood dripping down his throat and his ears ring, and his fingers are starting to loosen against his will and—

“LET GO BLUESKIES!”

“Let go! Let go!”

“Blueskies!”

—The clamor is back. Echoing in his ears and as violent as a thunderstorm as the rest of their block, wide awake now, scream and shout, and some of them, a few of them, are shouting swears and curses at the Germans for hurting Patton, for taking away the Brit, for everything, but the rest are yelling at him. To let go.

His fingers are loosening against the fabric of the Brit’s jacket—but he can’t, he won’t.

“Let go, Patton,” The Brit begs him, and Patton can feel his eyes burn, “And take care of them.”

The guard moves to hit a fourth time, on Patton’s fingers, on the Brit’s shoulder. But Patton unclenches his hand first. His fingers slip off. His arm hits the grated door and the guard kicks it for good measure, but Patton can’t even feel it. He just watches, through blurry, spotted vision, as they drag the Brit away.

The Brit doesn’t come back. Never comes back. And something like anger starts to burn in Patton’s mind.

Patton is not a stranger to tragedy. He’s not a stranger to the sadness that wells up in him and then floods his senses, he’s not a stranger to that grief in his chest that tears apart his heart and lungs with bargains to a god that’s not interested in anything he has to offer. He’s not even a stranger to death that calmly reaps yet another soul without an inch of mercy.

(They don’t get to see the body; Patton doesn’t know if that’s mercy, doesn’t know if after what they did to the Brit disposing him without Patton’s knowing was a favor, doesn’t know if where the grief ends and the fury begins.)

Patton is not a stranger to the tragedy that sings in his bones when he’s left in that too cold cell, but the anger that comes rushing through him is violent and bursting and that--

That is new.

And Patton embraces it.

“Oh,” The Soviet says, when Patton looks up with that rage in his eyes. “Oh.”

They come again a week later, and this time Patton is waiting.

He’s sitting closest to the door, eyes closed but alert, but the guards reach past him for the sleeping older French boy, who’d determinedly sandwiched his younger counterpart between himself and the Italian in a sham of protection hours ago. They reach for him, even though Patton is right there, and the guard has barely twisted his fingers into the thin fabric of the boy’s shirt before Patton lunges.

He tackles the guard against the wall of the small cell, and surprise on his side gives him a momentary advantage before the other three are jolted from a restless sleep by the guard’s violent swears.

Patton doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s doing it, beyond a reckless sort of anger and a desperate kind of despair, but it’s better than sitting here and doing nothing while the older French boy is taken. He knows the rest of the cell block is going to wake up and notice soon, urging him to give up again, but this time Patton is ready: ready to fight, ready to defend, ready to die.

The second guard smacks the back of his head hard with a gun and he thinks it’s the third that pulls him off of the first, the first, who’s staring at Patton with a death glare and a broken nose, and Patton grins viciously back at him. A challenge.

(Patton’s vision swims with black. His head pounds, and there’s a dripping warmth down the back of his neck he thinks may be blood.)

“Take him,” The first guard says, in clear, accented English, intended to make Patton quiver with terror and beg for mercy but Patton’s grin only widens, tugs harder at his cheeks, because in one move the guard has accepted his challenge and lost. And Patton has won.

The two guards drag him out of the cell, and Patton flashes his battle-grin at his three remaining cellmates; a reassurance, a reminder.

“Take care of them.”

And Patton does. In the only way he can manage.

The War takes and takes and takes.

It takes the great things, the good things, the not so bad things-- it takes Patton and drags him down the cell block, with his well worn leather shoes scraping the floor with a cacophony of screams behind him.

Its strange, because Patton thinks he can pick out the individual voices in the noise around him: the Soviet who threw himself from the shadows into the metal bars once he saw what Patton had forced the soldiers to do (take him, take him, take him), the French boy who started sobbing once he realized that he had been the intended target, the unknown voices from down the cell that he had come to recognize over the months. He’s pulled down the hall and he puts those voices to outraged faces for the first time.

His grin makes his cheeks ache, a feral looking sort of thing that awakens some sort of primordial beast in each prisoner he passes.

It’s his name they scream. The name that he forged in spite, the name that he earned, the name that was his and his alone.

The name the War didn’t, doesn’t, can’t take.

The soldiers drag him down the hall, out of the cell block and the metal door slams behind them, cutting off the riot of noise so effectively that Patton almost thinks he fell into some sort of alternate reality.

The noise was nothing compared to the silence.

The lab was far from pristine. It had the same old, grey rock walls and hard dirt floors. But it was filled with shelves, counters, and tables--all metal, all steel, and all shining under the artificial lights so brightly that Patton had to half-squint his eyes to keep from being blinded.

It was meticulously organized. Neat and clean in a way Patton hadn’t seen in years and had never had the luxury of experiencing. Almost painfully so. The alcohol in the air stung at his nose and made his eyes water, but Patton blinked it away hard and fast less the guards think he was crying, less they think his anger and rage and determination had faded to fear and desperation.

Because it hadn’t.

Because Patton won, would win, would continue to win even as they stripped him of his jacket and strapped him to the table, because when he dies here--goosebumps prickling at his bare arms from the chill, heart pounding hard and fast, anger dancing in his blood--it’s a victory.

Because it’s him. And not them.

The guards leave him there for what feels like minutes, yet could be seconds, but is really hours. He gazes through the lone, bar window in the lab until day breaks over the horizon and his eyes burn with the first glimpse of the sun in months.

It heats his face and warms something in his chest, but he doesn’t cry, doesn’t smile, and stops his stare. He relieves the ache in his neck and stares flatly at the ceiling, ignores the pain in his gut, in his head, and waits.

For what? He doesn’t know.

(A another lie: he waits for, wants for, craves for the end. They call him Mr. Blueskies, they call him brave, but really he’s just as much a coward as they all are: he just dresses it up in dull smiles and habitual kindness as he hopes for relief.)

(Any kind really, but at this point he thinks, knows, fears that the end is the only kind he’ll get.)

Patton waits until the sun stretches out of the window. Hunger starts to burn against the nausea in his gut. It must be past noon when the scientist comes in, decked in sterile white marred with red and checking things off on a clipboard, like he’s a doctor and Patton is a patient in for a fever, like he isn’t strapped to a table, waiting.

(Waiting to die.)

Patton’s stiff with tension as the scientist presses a stethoscope to his chest, mouthing numbers as he measure’s Patton’s rapid pulse against the watch on his wrist. His fists curl into white knuckles as his blood pressure is measured, and the scientist has the gall to chide him for it as he clicks his tongue at the results and takes them again and again until Patton’s sweaty palm is flat against the cool metal of the table. A thermometer is stuck under his tongue and Patton bites it so hard he’s almost disappointed when it doesn’t snap in half.

His headache pounds. The scientist peels back his eyelids to check with a light, and pokes at the blood-crusted bump on the back of his head until Patton hisses.

The scientist smirks at him as Patton scowls, says something that Patton forgets as soon as it’s slipped from the man’s lips. Something about “glory of HYDRA” and “dehydration.” He hangs an IV and sticks the needle in Patton's arm and leaves him.

Four vials rehung by guards and the rest of daylight pass by before the scientist returns, pushing through the door as he snaps bloodied gloves off his hands and slings them on one of the clear counters.

“Another failure,” He sighs to himself. He picks up a vial and examines it, twists it back and forth as the blue liquid catches the artificial light. He glances over at Patton through his glasses, head tilted to the side, “But...perhaps not a set back.”

The scientist swings around the table, settling just next to where Patton’s head is, holding the vial up so both of them can see it. Patton can feel the man’s breath on his skin, and he yanks on the restraints without getting anywhere.

“Do you know what this is?” The man asks so calmly, so logically, so friendly-- like Patton and him are old acquaintances about to catch up. His voice is so loud, his tone so-- so-- Patton hates it. Patton hates it so much.

There’s something about it that reaches down his spine, and picks apart Patton’s anger, his misery, his emotions that have been twisted and warped and neglected ever since that day his mother’s hand had gone limp. The scientist’s voice disarms the everything that Patton had been clinging to for the past hours, the months, the years, and with just a couple words Patton is just a kid again.

“This is the glory of HYDRA,” The scientist says, so proudly. “The glory of humanity.”

“What good is your glory?” Patton’s voice shakes, “All it does is kill people. It’s useless. It’s...stupid!”

“Oh…” The scientist trails, looking at him with something akin to pity, “You don’t understand.” He sighs, and then moves his free hand outside of what Patton can see--

Patton’s entire body seizes as the scientist over him suddenly starts pressing his fingers through Patton’s unruly curls. The man pets him, running those fingers through Patton’s oily hair, gently massaging his scalp, touching him.

Patton thinks he’ll throw up. Because-- Because this is different from them taking his blood, from them sticking needles in him, from them hitting him. This is-- its--

Patton yanks against the restraints, yanks his head away from the touch, but the Scientist just tuts at him and moves his hand further down the sides of Patton’s head, before cupping Patton’s jaw. The skin on skin contact-- it burns. Patton struggles against it, but the hand follows him wherever he goes.

“Your people never understand,” the man says, “Why don’t they understand? This is going to save the human race.” His thumb rubs the soft flesh under Patton’s chin, and Patton squeezes his eyes closed, squeezing back the tears and biting his touch when every muscle in his chest begs him to whimper.

This is okay, Patton thinks. Because it’s him and not the French boy, not the russian from the cell across from them, not anyone else. It’s okay, its okay, its okay.

This is War.

The thumb rolls a circle over Patton’s pulse, and the scientist peers down at him with a bright smile, something so blinding that Patton can see nearly all of his teeth. “I’ve heard about you-- the smiler. You make my friends very uneasy.”

The pad of the thumb presses slightly, and the grin widens when he sees Patton’s heart rate fluttering. “The one before you-- he said that I should be the one on the table.” Patton’s breath freezes in his lungs. “He didn’t know what he was talking about.”

The scientist sets down the vial and uses the second hand to go back to curling through Patton’s hair. One hand on his pulse, on hand in his hair, and Patton feels every inch where he’s touching him, every bit where his skin feels like white hot embers, every point where Patton is burning alive on that table.

“I didn’t like him, personally.” The man says, smiles in spite of how Patton’s turning to ashes under his handling. “He fought too much, screamed too much. I don’t like it when they scream.” The face comes closer. “You aren’t going to be like him, are you?”

Patton’s body seizes, and before he can even think, even register what the hell he’s doing, the bonds are digging against his chest and upper arms as he leans as far forward as he dares and spits right in the scientist’s smug face.

The scientist scrambles back cursing in a foreign tongue and Patton’s flighty enough to revel in the feeling of accomplishment, of winning-- even if he knows there’s really nothing left to win at all.

Because this is War.

And he’s just another face, another shadow, another soldier sent to die. He’s forgettable. And it's a tragedy, just like every other moment of Patton’s life.

“Whats left to smile for?” the Brit had asked him once.

And Patton’s still spiteful enough to grin as the hands come off his body, as the scientist who knows nothing and care nothing about humanity stumbles away from him, as the ceiling lights flicker, as that vial of blue liquid death is jammed into the IV line that's connected right into Patton’s body.

“This should teach you some respect,” The scientist sneers, and Patton watches as the blue drip, drip, drips down the tube, “Mr. Blueskies.”

And Patton’s fury burns hot because that’s, that’s his name. The one he earned by passing the French boy bread and getting beat by the butts of the guard’s guns. It’s his name—it’s his name that got shouted down that hall by every other prisoner, a rallying cry, a war cry, a child’s plea.

Its his name and it doesn’t belong in the mouth of a Nazi.

Patton burns and burns and burns. And when blue liquid enters his veins, he burns even more.

He does not stop burning.---

***

“I think they get the idea, Kiddo!” Patton interjects quickly, brightly, and borderline coldly. Despite his smile, there’s a sudden air about him, a sudden dangerous aura as he shakes himself from the stillness he had adopted while Virgil was talking.

Virgil blinks, realizing that he had barely gotten more than a sentence out to the new recruits, “But its...you’re really him aren’t you? Captain Morality. Patton Hart? I grew up reading about you-- and now I’m older than you! Oh god, I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Previous Ask || Rules || Ch 3 Start || Masterlist || Next Ask

#avengers au #chapter three #patton sanders #virgil sanders #thomas sanders #TW depression #ptsd #Patton is straight up not having a good time #memory unlocked (1/2)

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midnightrooftops · 5 years

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Rise of Skywalker should’ve been the entire trilogy.

Allow me to explain: Opening crawl to Force Awakens: The emperor is dead! The New Republic has enjoyed twenty years of peace and rebuilding after the Battle of Endor under the leadership of Galactic Minister Leia Organa. But, on the eve of her resignation, a voice from the past has been broadcast across the galaxy. The First Order, a group of Empire loyalist, has been waiting in the shadows for just this broadcast. Uprisings across the galaxy have erupting and the new peace has been threatened. With Luke Skywalker missing, Leia sends one team to find her brother and another to find the source of the broadcast. Poe Dameron, the Republic’s best pilot, heads to the planet of Jakku where an old Republic friend has information on Skywalker’s whereabouts. *End Crawl* The beginning of Force Awakens opens pretty much the same. Poe locates Old Guy, gets the information and gives it to BB8, then gets captured. Finn questions his position in the First Order. Kylo is introduced, as is the First Order’s harsh nature. The village isn’t ready for an attack and maybe there’s a throw-away line about “peace”. Finn’s scene reveals old stormtrooper tactics are still being conducted with the First Order. Poe should say something like “The Republic has outlawed kidnapping children” or something. Maybe he’s also surprised to see so many storm troopers. It should be evident that This Doesn’t Happen Anymore and is another thing for Finn to think about (”if it doesn’t happen, why did it happen to me? Where do I come from? Why am I doing this?”). They escape and crash. Rey is introduced the same too. She’s an orphan living alone in the scraps of the Empire, trying to survive. She meets BB8, property of the Republic and wonders why a Republic droid is this far from the galaxy capital. Finn finds her and they escape in a ship that isn’t the Falcon. They start to get boarded by a Ship We Don’t See and panic, thinking it’s the First Order hunting them. It’s actually Han Solo and the falcon. He returned to smuggling but heard a plea for help from the Republic. Rey questions why he’s not with his wife but he deflects the question, saying something like he’s “not one for politics” or maybe “peace doesn’t pay the bills”. MEANWHILE, Kylo is angry the pilot and droid got away, as he’s also trying to find Skywalker. He asks to hear the broadcast and it’s revealed that it’s Palpatine’s voice declaring ownership of the galaxy and for the loyalist to rise up. He demands any new leads, of which there are none. It’s revealed that the First Order has been decades in the making, even during the Empire should it fall. His character is very much revealed as ruthless and has something to prove. Han takes the kids to a remote “safe spot” where smugglers, bounty hunters and other criminal frequent. This is where Maz is. She’s force-sensitive, but not a Jedi and says something like “The Jedi weren’t responsible for peace but for war” or SOMETHING to open the line of questioning about the past republic system. Rey says she feels something here, something she never felt on Jakku. “They say no one remembers Jakku, not even the Force” or something to indicate maybe the Force is “blocked” or something. This would later give reason to Rey being left there ( abandon a force-sensitive girl on a force-void planet. Also, Luke leaving any information being left of Jakku would also make sense. Who looks for a Jedi on a planet where he can’t use his power. Also, it could be an old Sith Planet. Have a line about “the Jedi never went to Jakku. It’s history with the sith make it unbalanced with the Force”. That would leave it open for guessing what happened there before while still explaining that Jakku was not a planet people went to.) If you really want to stay true to the movie, stick with the First Order having a Death Star planet-destroyer ray. This would make sense because they want to RULE THE GALAXY AGAIN and this is a time of peace. So they DESTROY the New Republic. There’s a moment of fear for Han and gang about Leia. The First Order then attacks Maz’s place for the droid and we get the same results. You can end the movie the exact same way. We find our Kylo is Han’s son, Han dies. Leia is fine, steps down as leader of the Republic but into the role of general again. (Afterall, the ENTIRE REPUBLIC was just terribly attacked. It’s war for the first time in two decades.) On the ship, Rey should discover the broadcast. Maybe this is the first time we hear it and someone says “That’s the Emperor. But he’s dead” or something. Or she SEEMS to recognize the voice but doesn’t say anything. Either way, Rey is then directly connected to what’s going on with the galaxy. For the first time in her life, she’s directly involved with the fate of the galaxy. It ends with Leia getting the information about where Luke is and Kylo getting a clue on where the Emperor’s broadcast came from. Rey finds Luke, Kylo finds... a sinister planet. Basically, the beginning of Rise of Skywalker is the ending of Force Awakens. We don’t see who Kylo finds, adding drama and suspense. Maybe we have the line “I have been the voice inside your head this whole time” and the Emperor’s laugh but we shouldn’t see him. Cue- The Last Jedi Leia and co are under attack by the First Order. The galaxy is in chaos with the destruction of the Republic Capital. The Galactic Minister that was supposed to take over for Leia is MIA and so Leia is forced to do both politics AND battle strategy. Someone offhandedly makes a comment about how “this is how the Emperor got his power last time.” Therefore, doubt is being cast on the New Republic and Leia in general. Conflict! Drama! Last Jedi happens the same with Rey and Luke, revealing he left the “Jedi” after failing to restart the Jedi Order. We learn that Kylo/Ben was a failed student and he couldn’t face his sister and brother in law afterwards. Again, this reflects on the prequeals (not that anyone wants to connect to that) and criticizes them for what they did before (took children from their homes/families, rallied hard against the sith and threw the galaxy into way. It’s a great way to criticize the prequeals while actually giving them A Point, yknow?) HOWEVER, the space race with Leia, Poe and Finn doesn’t happen. Or rather, it does but not for the entire movie. They try to outrun the First Order ships to get to a safe point. Poe is frustrated with the chain of command not saying anything to anyone and tries to mutiny under the guise of Leia being incapacitated during a firing attack and rumors on the ship that people INSIDE THE REPUBLIC are trying to restart the Empire. Finn attempts to leave to find out where he came from but is stopped by Rose, thinking he’s a deserter. She traps him and Poe comes to find them, talks about the mutiny. Rose, having just lost a sister from the First Order attack, is horrified to hear it might be an inside job and agrees to the mutiny to get answers. Finn realizes Poe, his first ever “friend” is asking for his help and agrees to stay and support him. Leia wakes up in time to stop the “mutiny”. It’s revealed they’re heading to a secret Rebellion base, used during the wars that no one but Leia and Holdo knows about. But, she agrees, someone is helping the First Order track them through hyperspace. She turns to Finn and for a horrifying moment, everyone believes HE’s THE SPY. Storm troopers have implanted tracking chips, Leia explains. It’s been outlawed in the New Republic but the Empire used tracking chips to ensure absolute loyalty. She asks Finn if he knew. He didn’t. He agrees to undergo an surgery to remove the chip and it’s clear in his face he’s reflecting on the idea of continuing to help the First Order even after rebelling. He’s been a tool his whole life and can’t escape it. The tracking device is removed and the Republic makes for the hidden base. Meanwhile, confrontation on the main First Order ship with Rey, who came from Luke’s planet and Kylo. Kylo, with the whole movie “seeing” her, is trying to get her to rebel. She shows up, dedicated to “save him” but Kylo reveals she knows who she is. “You’re a Palpatine” he says, as the reveal. “You belong to the dark side. We KNOW how to run the galaxy so no child is parent-less again.” Rey refuses and she’s faced with a room full of guards and Kylo. Kylo orders her to be let free but Hux, being as he’s been (the Tarkin character) orders them both dead (BETRAYAL!!) Rey finds herself fighting along side Kylo and, even thought she failed to save him, she’s not sure he’s beyond redemption. However, her own reveal is haunting her. The republic has gained safety in the hidden base. But then! The First Order shows up. Finn yells it’s not him (funny moment) and of course not but how did they know about the base?! Oh no! Finn runs a suicide run to defeat the first order from destroying Leia and the remaining acting government? But Rose stops Finn from sacrificing himself with a message more like “you were raised for evil, but you deserve good.” instead of her stupid protest. This is stating to Finn “YOU ARE VALUED BEYOND WHAT YOU CAN GIVE” I don’t even know what to fill in for the casino scene. Maybe Finn and Rose going to a more Republic town that talks about the differences between the Republic and Empire, something that skews the line so that it reveals citizens are confused from propaganda on both sides and the role of the Empire is just a “concept” to younger people. It’s a great metaphor for WWII. Also reflects how you “can’t trust the government, can’t trust the Jedi” mentality. It’s refreshing for Star Wars fans while also being politically correct. There’s no right or wrong about the message so it still works in the Disney family. ANYWAY. Last Jedi ends with Rey saying she needs more training and Leia smiling. Even though Luke is gone, Leia has the means and desire to train Rey. “As a Jedi?” “As a promoter of peace” again to reiterate that the Jedi are DEAD as is their belief. In the next movie, we’ll see more of that. Also, it should be revealed by LUKE, that he is not the last Jedi, but Leia is. It’s probably revealed by him when Rey heads out to help the Republic. She asks Luke to take on his position, “Be a Jedi!” but he reveals. “I am not a Jedi. The path of Jedi was peace. I never was. Leia, she’s the jedi.” This reveals that Leia is the last Jedi and maybe the “past training” montage takes place in Last Jedi. Anyway, Leia is revealed as the Last Jedi. During Rise of Skywalker, Rey is trying to find the evil behind Kylo, aka Palpatine. So she is searching for the Sith Planet. This leaves her a bit MIA while Finn and Poe try to find more information on the First Order. Especially because the New Republic is in desperate need of help since the government is destroyed. Basically, the Last Jedi ends with on the idea that “the New Republic is dead thanks to attack, propaganda and doubt of the government. Stakes!!! Anyway, Leia says they need to find the source of the “First Order” and rey is off to search, all the while Kylo is starting to question his position (like FINN!!!) but Palpatine tries to use his parent’s transgressions to keep him loyal. (It also starts weighing on him, like Rey, like maybe he’s just being the tool he was trying to avoid being for the Jedi, but only for the Sith.) Rey tries to find a “wayfinder” from the first movie, leads her to the Death Star Crash Site. Finn meets fellow Storm Troopers who have rebelled and made their life on their own. He learns from them that it’s not important where you came from, or what you did, but what you strive to do. Leia dies trying to reach Ben and Poe gets notification that he’s the new LEADER OF THE REPUBLIC, like, not just the general but LEADER. He struggles to understand what that means. He’s been impulsive in the past and has learned politics through the mutiny so he’s not confident with his position. Maybe before Rey leaves, she says something like “power belongs to those that don’t want it” or something, bc she’s thinking about being a Palpatine” while Finn says “You were kind to an enemy, you’ve got my vote” or something to indicate that Poe believes in kindness over enforcement (reflecting on the mutiny) The galxy coming together to fight against the First Order/Palpatine in the end would mean more. That the galaxy fights for Peace, for the Republic would be a great moment after all those moments of doubt and manipulation. Palpatine would be defeated again by the REPUBLIC, by people that believed in the good of other people. Rey would still have a whole conflict about her “heritage of evil” while Kylo would have a full teenage rebellion arch. Basically, Kylo would eventually be redeemed like the Star Wars way while Rey succumbed more and more into darkness and hate (My parents SOLD ME, I’m the granddaughter of the EMPEROR, I mean nothing but my power) WHAT THIS ACCOMPLISHES: The ending isn’t rushed. Palpatine isn’t “oh hey, he’s alive” but instead a questionable option throughout three movies. It also expands on the lore of Star Wars with the Sith stuff and hopefully explains why certain people are more adapt at the Force (Palpatine explains his bloodline is PURE and maybe he created the Skywalker bloodline so they have a link. Or whatever they deiced to do. Maybe it’s “Skywalker was pure of Force, so I had to create my own” or something. Make the lore interesting, especially since they destroyed all of it, bastards.) Anyway, Kylo’s sacrifice MEANS something, because Rey was the first person he felt believed in him. Palpatine wasn’t a random “Oh btw, i’ve been here all along!” And the New Republic wasn’t disregarded but heavily scrutinized to create a better galaxy. It really explains the aftermath of the Empire without staying in the status quo. It doesn’t disregard what the original trilogy did but expands on it. It also unites the mistakes of the Prequels to a tangible ending. Also.... The Emperor makes so much sense, though the daughter/son should’ve been a lot older. Maybe make Rey a Great Granddaughter. Because family life in an important stance for politics, so “Senator Palpatine” would be totally more believable to have a family. Maybe we didn’t see it but I think it’s okay to say that he had a wife. A flashback about his SON, who wanted nothing to do with politics, would explain why he wasn’t evident in the prequels but also the idea of Rey being abandoned. “No one escaped the Emperor, not even his Son.” With the dialogue of the Rise of Skywalker, he didn’t give a shit that she was family except that she could give him a new body, like Voldemort.” Anyway, the “Final Order” is just an old “Empire” plot Palpatine has been saving and building. It’s not that each star destroyer has the means to destroy planets but that the Republic is so vulnerable right now. This is a sinister enough plot because not only are they the reason the New Republic has failed but they are also causing strife and doubt about the New Republic not being better than the Empire. Also, you have Rey struggle with Power vs. Corruption and then removes herself from the galaxy. You also have Leia being the Last Jedi, as intended, even though she put away her lightsaber for the galaxy. You also have the answers to the important plot questions: 1. Why is this happening NOW (bc the changing of the guard for the New Republic is a great time to sow distrust and propaganda) 2. Why are these characters important to the plot (Because Rey is the grand/great grand daughter of the last Emperor, Ben is the son of the ruling figure, Poe is a great man in line for the “throne”/leadership and Finn is a victim of the wars/ a regular joe shmoe that could change the war” 3. What do your characters want? (Rey wants to be part of something, learn where she comes from; Finn wants to understand why he’s here and what he has to offer; Poe wants to do the right thing) 4. What’s the conflict in the story? (Rey learns she could destroy the Republic and her search may have put everyone she’s grown to love in jeopardy; Finn has to reconciling being a pawn in way with being a PERSON to make a choice and what that means for his identity; Poe is battling the “do everything for good” mentality with his past mistakes and questioning how “good he really is.) Overall, all three of the “trio” teach us about choices, destiny, upbringing and that doing what’s RIGHT is a choice. Which is the main goal for Star Wars. Luke was the son of the most ruthless dictator and he fought against temptation. Anakin loved more than any Jedi and it lead to him choosing Her over EVERYTHING ELSE. Palpatine represents complete temptation and power.

#thank you for coming to my ted talk #star wars #star wars spoilers #rise of skywalker #rey skywalker #poe dameron #finn star wars #spoilers #swspoilers

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piermanwalter · 6 years

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Megatron’s Weed Dispensary: An Awful Fanfic I am Morally Obligated to Write

Because I noticed my grades weren’t good enough to get into my major, I issued myself an ultimatum: For every percent I get less than 80 for every class by the end of the school year, I will write one thousand words of terrible fanfiction over the summer, as suggested by random people online. You can send me your own unwritable prompts if you want, but bear in mind that the more requests I get, the shorter the stories, because I have 8000 words to get through all of them. (Total combined word count: 1889)

As promised:

Just as the first brittle rays of light shone over the horizon, the alarm went off. Megatron hauled himself out of the chair he shut down in last night while dealing with tax forms for too long. Pouring himself a cube of energon, Megatron made his way downstairs to the storefront. His past self would probably hate him. Shrieking like a predacon and promising to tear the entire planet apart just so everyone could suffer as he had, Megatron knew it was his own weakness and incompetence had led to their defeat, and was prepared for death. The Autobots, in all their soft and cowardly ways, had let them live in their new society, making sure he was protected from anyone seeking vengeance for the war, albeit with a few restrictions. Some mercy. He would prefer to be rotting in prison, exiled to some tiny asteroid, publicly executed, or even be forced to become a gladiator again. Instead, the great leader of the Decepticons is reduced to managing microeconomics in a tiny narcotics shop surrounded by too many gawking idiots too frightened to enter his shop and actually buy something.

The few Decepticons that had survived the last battle were also doing about as well as he did. Not destitute, but not allowed any amount of power, which he supposed they deserved. Soundwave works as a building electrician, granted the privilege of internal com reactivation for good behavior. Astrotrain joined one of the newly formed shipping companies. Knock Out became a broadcast host, getting all the attention he wants at the expense of reading out prewritten propaganda drivel. At least they weren't nearly as badly off as Starscream, who was last seen going to Earth to become a stripper or something and never spoke to them again. In the early days of their integration with society, the Decepticons constantly planned secret meetings and vandalized government property, but now, it had seemed that everyone got caught up in their mundane routines and completely forgot about their past lives.

Speaking of which, a seeker who had been nervously pacing through the crowd finally worked up enough courage to enter the shop. What was his name again? Nacelle. A low ranking grunt soldier who managed to survive the war by being overlooked. Now that the best fliers were dead, he finally had a chance to shine as a professional racer. Looking proudly down upon the Decepticon logo the flyer chose to keep, Megatron said, "Still have the mark? Good. What are you here for?" Nacelle cleared his throat in a long burst of static. "It's my fault. We had a chance and I blew it for all of you. I thought I could weave through without getting stuck and-" "What happened happened. It's all ancient history now. Don't let it bother you." The last battle was fought in a series of deep tunnels below Cybertron. The cramped spaces were barely enough to stand in, let alone transform and fly. There was nothing a seeker jet like him could do. "Hey. Um… Boss. I'm sorry, okay? If I wasn't-" "You could have gone to the big pharmacy, but you came here, and my life has gone to slag so hard that this action matters. Ha! You did good."

Nacelle started nervously chuckling, so Megatron had to throw his head back and guffaw as hard as he could in order to get the nervous flyer to laugh with him. Now significantly more cheered up, he said, "Hey! Because I got hurt in my last race, I just got my Level 3 insurance voucher approved! No more weak stuff for me." Nacelle peered greedily into the display cases. "I'll have two centagrams of crystal tetrathyllead, a bottle of uravorite-infused high grade, two octane-cookies, half a kilo-" "You idiot. Don't get yourself killed. You'd be better off following the doctor's orders. I recommend 85 kilograms of the good anticorrosives, not the diluted trash they pipe into you in hospitals, taken over the next six weeks. Pick the brand yourself."

Torn between extreme curiosity towards hard drugs and wanting to obey his leader, Nacelle anxiously shuffled around and took so long to decide on a bottle of Velocitron-synthesized DCI-4A that Megatron started to pity him. "You know what, I'll throw in one of these for free." He took out a case from under a desk and opened it to reveal tiny jars of even tinier gems ranging from ice blue to deep green. "A racer like you should know what these are." Nacelle was shaken from his panicky mood the instant he laid eyes on the little jewels. "Wow! Steamlights! I didn't know there were any of them left in the city! Most of us racers got scared off using them after Fireflight popped two in a row and crashed into the ground at Mach 3." Megatron carefully tweezed out one of the smaller steamlights, a tiny blue cylinder barely bigger than a basketball and dropped it in a vial. "This is amazing. But…wow. These things are super intense." Handing the vial to Nacelle, Megatron replied, "That's fine. If you can't deal with the boost and your turbines detonate midair, consider it the price of failing me in the tunnels. Don't use it until you have fully recovered." His plan of rebuilding Cybertronian society may have died valiantly, but Megatron was still going to look after his troops the best he could.

Megatron's good mood was almost immediately ruined by his next customer. Out of all the mecha to come through the doors, it had to be the Autobot poster boy himself, Ultra Magnus. Glitch. "Hello! I've been making rounds, checking up on the other Decepticons. I really am glad that you are all doing so well. It is a bit suspicious for a mech of my standing to be here, but here I am." After the war, Ultra Magnus, the ever-faithful soldier, had much less to do and had let himself go a little bit. His protoform increased in non-subspacable mass enough that gaps appeared in his armor, but not nearly enough to warrant Megatron's spark crushing insults.

"You morbidly obese son of a Yugo. The only reason I let you in my shop is to marvel at the medical miracle of your sustained existence." Ultra Magnus cracked a sickeningly genuine smile and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't catch what you were saying." The store made so much money off valuable goods that it could stay running from a single sale per day, so Megatron legitimately didn’t care about losing a potential customer. "I'll say it again in a way your idiot prototype cyberbrain can understand. You're a chunk and I hate you." Ultra Magnus was mildly shocked. "Well! I didn't expect you to overcome our mutual grievances this soon, so whatever you say is entirely forgivable. Also I met Shockwave today, and I'm glad to say he was very courteous. Do you want to know how he's doing?" "I can ask him myself. Go eat Optimus Prime's tailpipe. Maybe that's why you're so slagging fat."

"Don't act as though you are different from me." For a second, Megatron thought they were actually about to start fighting right there, then Ultra Magnus winked. "To be fully honest, being here to check on you gives me an excuse to gather a few treats for myself without being caught. You won't judge, right? I'll take half a kilo of hypervisco and three bottles of the ferroin Engex. Ooh. Baltic amber oil from Earth. I'll have fifteen liters of that too, thanks." Deciding that Ultra Magnus wasn't worth the effort to continue yelling at, Megatron measured out the orders and accepted the credits in silence.

Megatron briefly entertained the idea of contaminating all of his product with acid crystals and astatine, but decided against it. He might kill or sicken the slagger before he got caught, and then he'd spend a few centuries in prison, then Prime would argue to put him through another course of rehabilitation, then he'd be stuck in another dead end job under much higher supervision. Like it or not, this Primus-damned stall was all he had, and it mattered greatly to Megatron that he got to be his own boss, make his own decisions, and yell at as many customers as he wanted.

After Ultra Magnus left, the crowd outside thinned. It was getting dark. Nearly time to close. Megatron debated shutting the shop early before deciding to stay open in case a few late night partiers wanted to pick up something fun. Megatron was shaken from his daydream about what his legal consequences would be if he ate forty kilos of steamlights and went on a uncontrollable nitro-fuelled rampage when a minibot burst through the doors, vaulted over the counter, and grabbed a case containing sealed vials of concentrated Berserker Button. As bad as it was for the mighty Megatron to be robbed by a random mech, at least this meant he had something to do.

Leaping from behind the counter to the door in two massive steps, barely remembering to trigger the hard light door shield, Megatron unsheathed the energon blade from his wrist and turned to pursue the target. A pathetic weapon compared to his massive fusion cannon, but he was able to get it installed as a necessary tool of his profession. After all, it's not as if he was lying. With his massive stride compared the minibot's short steps, the thief barely made it one block before Megatron knocked him to the ground with a flying kick, a bit of overkill for such a tiny opponent. The bot pulled out a beam pistol. Caught up in the thrill of the chase, Megatron nearly decapitated the little bot out of instinct. The blade stabbed into the ground a single meter away from his neck. Interrupted by a regular police patrol, Megatron was more than happy to surrender the thief to them. The little bot had been so terrified the random drugstore he robbed was staffed by none other than Megatron himself that he confessed everything. The Berserker Button was confiscated as evidence, and Megatron was allowed to return home to await further legal procedures the next morning.

Even after the leisurely walk back, his coolant lines still pumped hard, preparing for a death battle that will never happen. Megatron laid face down on the ground for a few minutes, waiting for the feeling to pass. Able to think clearly, Megatron figured that the legal procedures tomorrow would be formality more than anything else, considering the overwhelming evidence in his favor. He'd likely get reimbursed for the Berserker Button, then things would go back to normal. The case was at most going to take three days, barring some stupid Autobot-Decepticon rivalry showing up. Looking back, this was probably not the best day to spew horrible insults at one of the most influential figures of society. Either way, there was nothing Megatron could do about it. He felt a pang of guilt. In the past, he and his army would have bulldozed anyone who dared inconvenience him, and now he was acting like a regular civilian. Just in a day in the life of an ordinary mech. At this point, what did the last six million years mean to him or anyone else?

#this is actually fanfiction #transformers #megatron #grades #study motivation #drugs #nacelle #ultra magnus #megatron is a literal ex-con #did you catch the redline reference

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jojuarez26 · 7 years

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We found love in a hopeless Place part19

Divergent fanfiction: Eric/OC. Mature content and strong language. I don't own any part of Divergent

@pathybo @tigpooh67 @clublulu333 @beautifulramblingbrains @jaihardy @emmysrandomthoughts @lunaschild2016 @iammarylastar @kenzieam @sparklemichele @frecklefaceb @kiiiimberlyriiiicker1995 @scorpio2009 @badassbaker @badassdauntlessgirl @ericdauntless @elaacreditava @dauntlessqueen99 @sporadichologramblizzard-ed17414 @readsalot73 @captstefanbrandt @desicoulter @mom2reesie

This morning had been probably one of the most amazing in my life. I played Legos amongst other things with my son and watched a movie with him.

I got all my paperwork filled out and realized Adam was napping figured I would to. Knowing in the hours to come I would be stuck in my uniform and about fifty pounds of tactical gear, I opted for boxer only and laid on the couch.

The couch dipped and fingers trailed down my temple. I smiled but nothing else. Just laid still. Sam trailed her fingers down my neck and across my collar bone.

I just lay content, eyes closed and her exploring, that is until I realized her next destination. I lightly grabbed her wrist before she could go any further. Without opening my eyes I started to talk.

"No. It's ok. We have time. Just lay down with me," I knew she wasn't ready for that yet.

"I want to," she whispered.

I opened my eyes, but she wasn't looking at me. I don't know why she suddenly felt a need to push boundaries, but I wasn't going to push her, EVER.

"Samantha look at me," I cupped her cheek with my other hand.

Her eyes were a cross of anxious and determined. Nope. Not today.

"Sam you're not ready. That's ok. I can wait, we can wait. Just lay down with me. Ok?" I was afraid it was a loose loose situation. Scare her or offend her? I'll take offended for a hundred Alex.

"It's won't be ok Eric. I hear the women talk. Waiting for Eric to get bored waiting on the freak. It's not fair and-"

"Stop. Now. Sam. First of all who cares what anybody thinks if it's not what I think. Second, I will beat the fuck out of someone if I EVER hear you being called names. Third. Sam I'm ok, I don't mind. What wouldn't be fair is me pushing you into something you're just not ready for." The tears started to slip down her cheeks, but she was smiling.

"I just want you to be happy," she whispered.

"I am. You and Adam, that's what makes me happy. I would be happier if you would just lay down with me. Please," I pouted.

"Ok." And she did. I'm not sure how or why, but just having her next to me was enough. I just want her lieing next to me, always.

I stand at the door getting ready to leave. It's the first time I ever didn't want to leave for a mission. Before I never had a reason not to rush head long into battle, guns a blazing.

Now, I have two. I'm hugging Adam while Sam has her arms around my waist from behind. For the first time I feel at home in my home and God it feels so right.

Of course, now I have to leave. It's ok though, I already know the universe hates me. So I will just roll with it.

"You be good for Sam and your mom while dad is gone ok buddy. When I come home if you've been good we'll have pizza and CHOCOLATE cake for dinner and stat up late! How does that sound?" Honestly, I can't wait, I want to do that now.

"No." He says on the verge of tears. Shit, what did I do wrong?

"No? Why not? Are you mad at dad?" Please don't let him be mad at me.

"Don't go DADDY!! I-I am I will miss yooo. No, no go," the tears were flowing and he was squeezing my neck so hard I couldn't breath

I had too take a deep breath before I could speak. Afraid my voice would fail me.

"I have to buddy. That's my job. I have to go protect our faction and keep everyone safe," for a second I hated my job. That was a new, odd feeling.

"Ohtay. Come home! I lub yoo. We we will eat pizza and moobies," he was calming down and the only thing calming me was feeling Sam's hand tracing circles on my back.

After a few more minutes, Four took Adam so I could say goodbye to Sam. I never knew how fucking much good byes suck until now.

I wrapped my arms around her and lowered my forehead to hers. We both had our eyes closed, just taking in each other.

"I just got you and you just got Adam. You make sure you come home. Because, because even forever wouldn't be enough time to spend together," she says quietly as she runs her fingers up and down my neck.

"I know. I'll be back. You owe me a back rub and the kid owes me pizza. I intend to collect" she smiled and stood on her toes to place a soft kiss on my lips.

Now I finally understand why it always took Max and Harrison so long to be ready to leave on missions. I don't want to fucking leave. Four answered the knock at my door as I just refused to let her go.

"Trust me son, I know. But it's time to leave," Max's voice was soft and reserved. I sure get it now.

I kissed her deep before I turned without another word and walked out. I had to or I would never leave. I blinked hard a few times before plastering a scowl on my face.

"Does it ever get easier?" I knew the answer but I still had to ask.

"No. It gets harder," Max mumbled.

"Fucking joy," I sighed.

The next several hours where spent strategizing, deciding where to send teams, reviewing and rerewiewing what we did and didn't know. We had reached out to the council to request a state of emergency meeting. I had a headache the size of Chicago pounding in my temples.

I was standing over the only map we had that was at least over seventy-five years out dated of the land mass known as Illinois. Before Chicago had been separated from the rest of civilization, we had belonged in the land mass referred to as the state of Illinois.

I now questioned everything we had ever been taught to believe as to why are city had came to be the way it was as a factioned society. What was still out there? Had there ever really even been a great war.

As I was rubbing my temples and contemplating everything I had ever known to be true which had influenced why I had adopted my personal beliefs in life, I sensed someone standing behind me.

"Eric take a break. That map isn't going anywhere. You need to eat, get something to eat." A gentle but familiar soothing voice spoke to me.

I turned to shrug at Lila and give her a lopsided grin. Max's wife of twelve years stood hip cocked arms crossed giving me that motherly glare.

"Boy, sometimes I think you forget you are human and not a damn machine," she teased a slow smile quirking her lips.

"I think you might be right," I couldn't disagree.

"You are the kind of soldier every commander wishes on stars for and mother's loose sleep over," she wss shaking her head handing me a cup of coffee.

"Thanks.... I think," I always liked and deeply respected the chief commanders wife.

"When you go in front of the council today try not to offend them this time. But, stand your ground as the educated, trained, dedicated soldier you are. Not the arrogant, sadistic, bully you want people to think you are," she spoke with conviction and sincerety.

"You know Lila the truth is yes I am ALL of those things and more. Today though, I will speak as a concerned leader, citizen, and soldier. More importantly though as a terrified father and overly protective boyfriend. Whatever it takes to keep Chicago safe for those most important to me."

Lila's eyes flashed with fierce pride and complete understanding. I also for the first time realized that real power and respect came from being a man, not a bully.

"I always knew what potential Max seen in the angry, over intelligent, cruel boy from Erudite. I think the rest of the faction is starting to catch up." She winked and patted me on the shoulder before leaving.

"Are you Dauntless insane! We can't allow this. It's a death sentence." Marcus Eaton of Abnegation fumed.

"How do we know these aren't lies and propaganda Dauntless are using trying to take control of the city?" Asked Andrew Prior also of Abnegation.

Before I had a chance to speak I was surprised Jack asked if I minded he answered for me. I wasn't sure the angle he was playing, but I decided fuck it, I'll bite.

"It is true. All of it and more. Whether she will admit it or not Jeanine knows it too." Her eyebrows raised a bit, but she said nothing.

"I have spent the entirety of my current position as head leader of Candor in fear of these people that live outside the realm of our society. No more. As of today I pledge my allegiance to the leader's of Dauntless and the people of Chicago. Whatever you need Max, Eric, you have Candors support."

I nodded and silently thanked Jack for his support. It truly meant alot to me. The next person to speak shocked the shit out of me. I think hell finally froze over.

"As much as it pains me to ever agree with both Dauntless and Candor, Jack is right. It is all true. I want Erudite to be free of the outside evil lurking in the shadows. Although I am not as enthusiastic as Jack. I pledge Erudites support as well." Then she locked eyes with me. I internally cringed. What is this crazy bitch going to say next.

"It is no secret that Eric and I do not see eye to eye on just about everything. However for this situation I will concede. I think Eric is the most logical choice to lead the city for this mission." I was dumbfounded.

"Thank you Jeanine. As the lead commander of Dauntless and Eric's superior officer I agree. Johanna, how does Amity stand." I looked at Max trying to hide my shock at all the support that was being given to me.

"As you know we generally stay neutral at Amity. This is different and the time for neutral standings has passed. Amity will stand with Dauntless and agree to give our support to Eric " Johanna smiled at me and sat back in her seat.

"Absolutely not. Abenegation does not and will not concede," Marcus fumed.

It was finally time to exercise my inner asshole. I smiled wickedly when I stood and stared that piece of shit down.

"Actually Marcus, your particular opinion doesn't mean a damn thing," I smiled.

"Excuse me. Have you lost your mind talking like that too ME!" His face was red and rage burned in his eyes.

"Actually there is no excuse for garbage like you. Marcus Eaton you are under arrest. You are being charged with abuse of a minor child. Sexual misconduct with a minor under the age of fourteen. Faction treason and gross misuse of a person in a position of authority just for starters. So Andrew in light of the situation just brought to light, Dauntless will except your vote and voice for Abnegation."

I expected most to he outraged and in disbelief. It was the complete opposite. As Marcus was being lead away the rest of the council began clapping. While I'll be damned.

"Abnegation concedes and will support Eric. Thank you Eric for what you just did. It has been along time coming. You are a brave and honorable man." I just nodded in Andrew's direction and tired to breath.

It felt indescribable to see and hear all the people who are responsible for our city to trust and respect me. I will not let them down. I will fight to the end to protect our way of life, our home, our city.

My perspective on life and my priorities had done a complete one eighty as well as my personal life. I'm not sure what the immediate future brings, but I will do what it takes to see our lives protected and our city free.

#jai courtney #eric coulter fanfiction #eric coulter #divergent eric #eric divergent fanfiction #eric insurgent

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dwestfieldblog · 7 years

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SUMERIANTIME BLUES

With a Red Indian Summer chant...Hitherehowareya, hitherehowareya...Hi there, how are ya? Not my joke but I love it. Please don't ask what film it comes from, not exactly highbrow film noir, more low dirty primary colour cartoon. Anyway...let's pretend to be serious...arf.

Greetings from the Golden City/Anarcadia, all hail the black Madonna and the Rosy Cross...Sultry, feral and on heat...In the hollow of the temple, the vein that needs to burst. And at last, a storm to break the tension...release...a bolt of lightning smashed down about twenty metres from my window last night with an intensity of total sound I have never heard before. The ape man cowered in terror and the magician marvelled in thrill, which is how it should be...respect and wonder. Now, Morning song...At dawn there is an unknown bird which trills the first six notes of Stravinsky's The Firebird Suite'. Yes really. And, having checked, it is even the same notes. And the magpies sound like Varese. Meanwhile, back on the island...

Oh Britain... England my cowardly lion heart....I remember reading in 2008 that the UK has1percent of the world's population but 20percent of its CCTV cameras. Now, nine years later....'Rise and rise again till lambs become lions'? Pa! And HA! (Hiram Abif, the architect) From where does such passivity to irrevocable changes stem? GM Frankenfood? The oestrogen in the water supply? Chemtrails? Always seems a touch dubious to me when there are killing attacks made just before a general election and it is revealed that the 'lone wolf' characters were already known to the security services. If I were truly into conspiracy theories (and, despite all appearances, I am not), I might suggest that they were allowed to happen in order to have yet more restrictive laws passed by whichever party is in power. And of course, it is not the parties which hold the actual power. Are those muppet caricatures Boris and Gove going to blather and oil their way up the chain of slime again? At least we have the best sense of humour in the world...self deprecating sarcastic surrealism and a monopoly on fart jokes....

A Czech newspaper had the headline 'Britain Falls into Chaos.' Think that happened quite a long bastard while ago, but it could always be worse, says the realistic pessimist. My imminent 'holiday' in the UK will see me attempting to maintain my distance from the news but it will be hard not to be infected with the national mind set again. A hard discipline of emotional distance is required but I always love walking around the heart of London, the streets are ablaze and swarming with energies, stories and multicolour.

I set a smart teenage student some homework last week about what she would do if she were World President. A moral and well balanced page of A4 writing was handed over where her main idea involved better, deeper education for the poor and the masses (as well as support for genuine refugees and limited time on the Net for young people). Good work. I would start in those countries which pretend to be democracies but appear have become run by and full of deeply soulless idiots such as (fill in the blank). Educatshun is the onlee way forward oar wee is domed. Funn wiv langwidge.

Think about what the Mass believes and the fact that they are a Mass... the believed information used to be 'If the priest/teacher tells me, they must be right'...then that nonsense became 'If its in the papers it must be true'. Now it seems to have become 'If it's on the internet it must be real' Fake news and propaganda...Vested interests... oil and other businesses and Putin surpassing the former work of the CIA and stirring the shit up all over the world. What happens if I push these two groups together... then introduce a third party to cause a deepening chaos? Evil glee. Money to be made and power to be taken because Nature abhors the vacuum left after chaos...and psychic vampires adore the blood energy of fear.

Oliver Stone's serial on Putin...hmmm...does the baldhead truly feel himself as no more than a helpless cog in wheel of history, grinding on events beyond his control? Poor fellow. Looked cute together with the golden shower kid this month.

Heard that Michael Moore is to do a documentary on Duck Fart, sure it will be as righteously destructive as it needs to be...just sticking to the absolute facts and verbatim quotes in context should be enough to do it. Hoist him high on his own petard. Nice headline in the International Guardian about America becoming a rogue state due to the blonde egomaniac's decision to go against the climate change accord (and all his other genuinely insane ideas)...well his poor billionaire friends need all the support they can get eh? 'Evil' is un-evolved energy. So perhaps I should pretend to be a smiling Buddhist and feel sympathy for the sad little (ter)mites. But I don't. He and they of their ilk are ruining this planet and Mother is going to be very very angry. Earth First. Very decent of BP (British Petroleum) to have given Duck Fart 500,000 dollars for his election celebration. After 97 million dollars in corporate donations, you can be sure they expect him to be their whore bitch...or else.

And as for all his posturing against American law itself...after having sworn 'To protect, defend and uphold the Constitution of the United States'...with his hand on the Bible...hmmm....you have to laugh at his infantile rage against a democracy which allowed him within quacking distance of the White House, let alone into the Oval Orifice...Whaddya mean I can't build a wall (between the land grab of Tex Ass and Mexico) and take total control of U.S media? The darkest is yet to come, just before a golden dawn. Illuminated Ones, it is time to get your finger out and SHINE a light

across this globe. Get with it, get this foul reptilian out. The tweeting duck needs spit roasting. But first glaze him with a golden shower eh?

And in other depressing news... one of Osama bin Liner's sons has vowed to continue 'holy' war in his father's name and install a global caliphate. Etc. Nice to have a hobby. Good to keep busy with purpose... Without such, the ennui, nausea and panic set in hard and thoughts turn to suicide rather than mass murder, and we wouldn't want that eh? And yet worse... Au Sang Su Ki...it is becoming apparent that she is following in the bloody footprints of the ones who kept her imprisoned. I truly hope not but the facts scream for themselves. And as for Iran, a country where a girl can be held criminally responsible at the lunar age of 9 (boys get off easier at 15) but cannot actually be executed until they are 18....Allah bless such a merciful state of foul patriarchs...But to close that paragraph with a skateboarding duck story to send you to bed with a smile, good to hear the founding leader of daesh has gone to meet his harem of 72 virgins and their mothers in law, hope that isn't fake news.

Facebook...the recent F8 (FATE) event...new updates to augment reality on your mobile screens and share the images...well this would almost sound like art, if not for the fact 'FACT' (copyright Duck Fart) that Mr Zuckerberg (and here the NSA can pick up on an actual name in these blogs which generally use pseudonyms) is thinking of running for office. Or an orifice, take your pick. My tube/your Facebook is designed to make money and manipulate the gullible and outsource/ in-source their users information while you thrill to the idea of an unreal connection to truth. Suckers. Why let yourself be used as fodder unless you are truly a deep masochist? You had better be DAMN sure that you do not care whether or not you are a puppet. Psychic nudity is only for those who have truly chosen such. I stand by everything I have written in every blog. Networking keeps you in touch with a distorted and distracting version of reality, i-phone therefore I am...anti-social media... 'Every day of your life, you're sitting in a database, just ready to be looked at'. E.S.

Been wondering again about the prevalence of doctors who prescribe drugs just because they have been given free holidays or various enticements by the companies which make them. Not such a far fetched idea unfortunately. I have had recent talks with various chemists in Czech and the UK about this too to check the facts. Seems a real shame that so many healers work against their own Hippocratic Oath. A promise of hypocrisy perhaps. A special circle of Hell is reserved for them...

Apart from my five worsening health problems, I seem to be recording two double cds...33 songs now and another ten possibles on the peripheral third eye horizon. I plan to have only three more sessions in which to complete all. See how I love to count. Wonder which will stop me first, illness or lack of money? Already not looking forward to the non Zen emptiness of winter...so New Zealand here I come...

'I long so much to be where I was before I was me.' (Screamin' Jay Hawkins.)

Occasionally my usual good natured self (ARF/fnord) is over-run by the blackest of humours...yesterday, walking down a long main street, I saw a small group of folk with banners and twisted expressions, and stopped to be given two leaflets which caused me to laugh out loud like Lucifer as I went on my way. Early next morning I checked their web site...; 'RAPTURE... HE WILL COME SOON, ARE YOU READY?'. That's how excited his followers make him feel. Open your orifices and let the load of the lord in. Impregnate thyselves with the holy seed...Sex and religion are always such an arousing mix.

Once more, for the lossless Hi-Fi record, I have my own personal belief in what I call God and the Christ and all the others...what I dislike is those who interrupt without being asked and push their rant/laws/insanity on others. All rivers will flow in return to the ocean. Fundamentalist missionaries of ALL creeds are foul and lonely in desperation and use fear to persuade. No Love in any of them. Humans will find their way...or not. Some of us will, some won't. The energy generated by the few will be stronger than the lack of it from the mass. Phase transitions have been taking place for decades and will continue, sense it for yourself...taking some advice from guides you have manifested in your life by 'coincidence' is not the same as blindly following leaders.

I am fairly close to being a dictionary definition of the word stupid/stoopid, just smart enough to recognise this. I have a certain unbalanced logic but made my choices decades ago. To the bitter-sweet end and until I am screaming with pain for one reason or another, will regret nothing except not having been a father. Fuj to the liars and manipulators, their own poison will destroy them eventually. Not in my lifetime but quite possibly in theirs. Self educate yourself but check the source and when certain, flow with it. Blah blah blah...Trust yourself but only after you know who and what you are. I will be all right if you kiss me. So sayeth the Omega Male.

'Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt'. Abraham Lincon said that, yes really. I should certainly shut up, but after all these pages, it must surely be clear just how deep a fool I am anyway. Anyway...

Next in the sequence of slogans and logos noticed these days, a girl with a bag upon which was written; 'Walk like you're a mediocre white man'. Easy enough to obey that command. I met an exceptionally cool black African guy last month who was applying for status here. He spoke excellent French, having lived there...I asked him why he wanted to live in Prague rather than France and he replied 'There's too many black people in France.' He was a true believer of Almighty Jah and one of his favourite songs was 'You'll Never Walk Alone' because of 'its righteous truth'. Effortlessly natural and down to Earth, with his soul in Heaven already. Surely even Nazis must realise on how many levels white folk suck? Perhaps that is one basis for their hatred...jealousy.

Back in a room with golden light, curtains of smoke at 8pm, yes I am smoking again, surely the dumbest thing anyone can choose to do...And back to Dexedrine jazz 1958, still amazed how much I love this now, a broadening mature palette or a genuine sign of old age? Straight, no chaser.... Miles Davis and John Coltrane in wild abandoned synchronised improvising harmony...My liver is going the same way as Coltranes', shame I don't have an eighth of his talent. If I could play guitar the same way I whistle, I'd be a star. Or a black hole. Arf. Anyway...the next evening...

Wide open window...evening sky, sunlight on the cloud rims, the swallows circling, the dark green spaces between the leaves of the Horse Chestnut tree...even the houses look beautiful in glass and stone, a breeze through the window, breathing, every atom open in expectant silence. Beauty. Good to feel alive before you no longer inhabit flesh. A day is a wasted blasphemy without creating, working or truly taking it easy and watching the river. Wonders never cease...Love is Light...

See you later or not, meanwhile...you (yes, YOU) might like to have a look at this website and follow various links within the vast library. Knowledge of actual truths is always useful, so go and get Gnostic on yourself...

www.halexandria.org/home.htm

Have fun, may ye be illuminated:-)

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