#a la their little outing before he got arrested by the military

[dashiellqvverty]

my opinion on season 11 is that ian and mickey were all over the place from episode to episode and i ultimately wasn’t very happy with where it ended for them

[rokhal]

GR/RE7 AU fanfic: Weird Fungus

Referencing this piece of meta explaining @wazzappp's amazing All-New Ghost Rider/Resident Evil fusion AU, here is a little fic about Robbie and Gabe settling in to their little off-grid house where the BSAA stashed them after they survived Dulvey, Louisiana, and developed a cleaning compulsion (Robbie) and a sudden desire to wander away where no one can find him physically, audibly, or psychically (Gabe).

To set the scene, imagine some well-meaning BSAA agent sends Robbie this thing in their regular food delivery.

“I appreciate the gesture,” Robbie said, keeping his voice level and his eyes facing the camera of his BSAA-issued laptop, “but please don’t send us any more legs.”

The agent on the other end frizzled out into pixels and cocked her head on a two-second delay. “Legs? Oh, the, uh.” She tapped on her screen. “Jam-on serano? It’s supposed to be really good with wine.”

“Jamón, ham, the leg. With the foot, and the bones and, uh.” Robbie swallowed as he recalled opening the weekly food delivery and finding the top half of the box occupied by a skinned, cured-and-dried, but still massive animal limb, the thin flesh just below the toes still printed with rope marks. He could see the seams between every muscle. He could see its kneecap. At the opposite end, he could see the severed end of its thigh bone. “M-my brother has sensory issues. He doesn’t eat meat anymore. I won’t eat it in front of him.”

The BSAA agent made a note. “We can accommodate special dietary needs if you let us know. Is there anything specific you would prefer?”

Robbie fought the urge to tear at his hair. “Um. Tomato soup? Like, regular tomato soup, not gazpacho? Macaroni noodles. Some kind of cheese that doesn’t get all stringy as soon as it cools down. Frijoles, you know, normal refried beans? He likes those but not the ones that come swimming in the weird broth. Um, fish is okay—as long as it doesn’t have heads or bones in it. Potatoes are good. Eggs are good.”

“There’s some stores near the military base that cater to Americans,” the agent offered, and Robbie died a little inside. “I’ll see if we can order through there. How about vegetables?”

“His garden is growing really good. We’re good for vegetables.”

“Wow.” Robbie wondered if he’d said something wrong as the agent made another note. “Very nice, I’m glad you two are settling in.”

Not much of an option, being on house-arrest, Robbie thought. “Thanks.”

“Are you excited to start classes?”

Robbie knew this script, a back-and-forth he’d muddled through with a half-dozen social workers back in LA. “Very much. I value my education and I will complete my assignments independently and on time.”

She chuckled. Robbie wondered if he’d said something wrong. “You know, this is the real world, not high school. You can ask for help if you need it. Have you picked a major yet?”

The BSAA hadn’t asked before enrolling Robbie in the University of Barcelona’s undergraduate correspondence program, anymore than they’d asked Gabe before signing him up for remote learning with the local equivalent to middle school. “Pick?” he asked hesitantly.

“I think you’ve still got a few weeks to think about it, and you can always change majors, but, yeah, you might want to contact their guidance department if you’re not sure what courses to sign up for.” Now it was Robbie’s turn to make a note. “Chris will be over today, you can try asking him.”

“Oh.” Mr. Redfield’s visits were always on short notice, but Robbie usually had more than a matter of hours to mentally prepare himself. “Uh. We also need more bleach, please.”

“You just got two liters last month,” the agent said. “You know it’s bad for the septic system?”

Robbie kept his face blank, open. “It’s for cleaning. I’m not pouring it in the drains.”

“You know you’re supposed to dilute it?” the agent pressed him.

“One to ten,” Robbie recited, realizing as he said it that he’d managed to use about five gallons of disinfectant in a single month. He may have a problem. “I’m keeping the kitchen clean. The counters and the refrigerator. And both bathrooms. The grout. Under the lid for the cistern. Door handles.”

“Okay, okay.” Robbie winced; two okays was never okay. “I’ll send you more bleach. And some gloves.”

“Thank-you.”

“You sleeping alright?”

Loaded question. Robbie’s eyes flicked involuntarily to the BSAA-issued Alexa perched on a high shelf in the kitchen. “I’m sleeping.”

“Bad dreams?” The agent’s image pixelated again before stabilizing, and Robbie took advantage of the brief signal disruption to press his face hard into both palms. He could control himself during the day but of course their bugs heard it when he woke up screaming.

“Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Robbie doubted she would take no for an answer and doubted his own ability to prevaricate. He shrugged. “Louisiana. Dinner table with Momm—Mrs. Baker, and her husband and Eveline.” That was an odd feature of his recurring nightmares: he identified Mr. and Mrs. Baker in his thoughts as Mommy and Daddy, and his fear of them was twisted together with familiarity, even gratitude. “They had my body chopped up in pots.”

The agent made a sympathetic noise. “They tried to eat you?”

“Could be worse,” Robbie said, shrugging again. At least the people they ate didn’t turn into fanged piles of black sludge and stagger around their decaying home for eternity. “I think I’m just…” He glanced around the study: empty, except for the big table and the bookshelf full of Spanish novels that had proved embarrassingly challenging. “I’m, like—in my dreams I’m looking down at myself in the pot and Mm-Mrs. Baker tells me to eat up. I mean. They didn’t have any real food.” He crossed his arms and dug his nails into his own elbows, fighting vertigo. “It was all rotten. No cans left. The animals were all dead.”

“You’re worried about what your brother went through,” the agent said, and Robbie straightened.

“No.” He held his breath, grasping for some plausible argument. They killed dogs that ate people, didn’t they? The BSAA’s hold on their lives now was absolute. “They only had him a few months. I, I mean. It’s my dreams. Making things up.”

“Any problems with your medication? You have the list of side effects to watch for?”

“No.” It was a daily BSAA-issued pill. The first day on his antifungal, Robbie threw up black mold into the toilet until he passed out and slept for ten hours. Better out than in, he’d figured. The next day, and every day since, had been fine. “I mean, no side effects. We’re okay.” A bird warbled and piped from outside, loud and close. Robbie hadn’t left any windows open overnight. He straightened and turned, just as he heard the side door click shut. “Gabe?”

“Should we cut this short?” the agent asked, helpful for once, and Robbie nodded.

“I appreciate it. It’s probably nothing.” He ended the call and checked the dining room, where Gabe often read or watched laggy videos on his own BSAA-issued laptop, and Gabe’s room, where a cornucopia of superhero collectibles spilled from the bed to the floor and a faint (illusory, had to be) scent of mildew lingered despite Robbie’s vigorous daily whole-house cleaning schedule. “Gabe?” He must be outside. Robbie tried to calm himself. Just because Gabe had left the house, didn’t mean he was going to wander over the hills and disappear for two days. Again.

He stepped over the threshold, out from the hundred-year-old walls of his new home and into the alien wilderness: hot sun and rocky hills, no sound but the wind in his ears and birds chattering in the spicy-sweet desert shrubs. He squinted downhill, to the south: shrubs, cliffs, the Mediterranean sea glittering up at him. He peered west: shrubs, hills, the distant remains of a shattered stone fort and the faintly visible danger signs surrounding a radioactive ghost town. He checked north: shrubs, gravel driveway that carved switchbacks over the hills until it disappeared over the horizon, still no Gabe. Assuming that it had been Gabe shutting the door behind him and not the wind, he’d only left the house a few minutes ago; he couldn’t have run out of Robbie’s sight that fast. He might be crouched down to examine some plant or insect, or he might be hiding. (It was still so strange to see Gabe doing these things: running, climbing, hiding. The goddamn study had never even suggested their treatment would do anything for Gabe’s physical limitations, just save his life. When he’d first found Gabe in the Baker house, strong and agile and trying his best to stab him to death, he’d thought Gabe was literally possessed by a demon. The little girl’s mental influence was gone; the abilities she’d given Gabe remained.) He circled around to the east side of the house, reassuring himself that he could always run back inside and climb out onto the roof to get a bird’s eye view (Gabe could just crouch down below some fragrant desert bush and almost disappear), and then all the air rushed out of his lungs with a strange little wheeze when he saw Gabe hunched over and kicking something in the garden.

“Hey, Bud.” Gabe hated being snuck up on after Louisiana, and honestly, so did Robbie. (Gabe could sneak up on him now.) Robbie picked his way through the sprawling jungle of the vegetable garden: beans twining up gnarled bushes and driftwood stakes, tomato vines heavy with fruit stretched out over the sandy ground between lush bunches of lettuce, mellow paprika peppers blazing like Christmas lights from leafy stems. Most of Gabe’s plants, he’d started by planting left-over stems and seeds from their weekly meal prep shipment directly into the dirt with a handful of rotting food-scraps, and they never failed to sprout with a few days of watering. Robbie found himself happy to eat these home-grown vegetables; watching Gabe mulch and water them as they unfurled their leaves and their flowers set into fruit made them more trustworthy, somehow, than the bitter green things sold chopped up in bags at the grocery store. If he’d known growing his own food was this easy, he’d have dug up a roadside strip back in Los Angeles years ago.

Normally there were bees buzzing around the pepper and tomato blossoms, but Gabe’s kicking had scared them off. Robbie approached slowly as Gabe grabbed his digging stick. He hated the tingle of fear down his spine. He had to concentrate to keep from grabbing the scar on his left forearm, reminding himself as he so often did that Gabe was a physically normal kid now. Normal kids could be violent. It didn’t mean anything was wrong. It didn’t mean this wasn’t Gabe.

Gabe side-stepped to hide what he’d been kicking from Robbie, shoving dirt over it with his well-worn stick. Robbie still saw a flash of something red, fleshy. He swallowed. “What is that?”

Gabe dropped his stick and rubbed his face in the crook of his elbow, breath hitching. Robbie stepped closer and saw that the red meaty object was not, to his profound relief, an animal. He wasn’t sure what it was: narrow, spongy, bruised and moist from Gabe’s shoe, with dark gray parts and a tapering red stripe on each of its wedge-shaped segments, looking like a dog’s mouth or one of those bizarre tropical flowers that only blooms every hundred years. “Weird fungus,” Gabe managed.

Robbie knelt down to look at it. He’d never seen a wild mushroom before; he didn’t expect them to be so big, or to be shaped like an open mouth. The colors were a bit like the red and white mushrooms in cartoons, though. “Is it poisonous?”

Gabe shook his head. “It helps the vegetables,” he choked out. “But, I. I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry you got nightmares. I didn’t mean to.”

Robbie covered his mouth. This was his fault; he hadn’t checked that Gabe was in his room before his call with the BSAA agent. He had to get it through his head that Gabe could move quickly and quietly now, that this was their normal. “I’m so sorry you heard that,” he said. That wouldn’t undo that Gabe had heard that. “Buddy. Gabe.” He reached up for a hug, and Gabe hesitated, staring at his left arm. “That’s just a dream. That’s just my brain trying to make sense of things that make me unhappy, and I’m unhappy about what the Bakers and, and Eveline did to you. Not anything you did. Okay?” Gabe sniffled and rubbed his face again, and Robbie kept his arms open, waiting. “I’m so proud of you for making it out of there. For surviving. I’ll never blame you for anything you had to do to survive.”

Gabe stared down at the stomped remains of the mushroom. “I’m not creepy?”

“No, never. You’re my little bro,” Robbie assured him, and Gabe sat down and flung himself against Robbie’s side. “Why’d you kill the mushroom?”

“Cause it gave you my nightmares,” Gave mumbled. He must mean, nightmares about me, an accurate deduction that would make Dr. DaCosta back home intensely proud of his social reasoning skills, except that Robbie had never seen this mushroom before. Robbie figured that before Gabe smashed it, it must have been nightmarish to look at, in a Hot Topic sort of way. “It’s creepy.”

“I think it looks cool,” Robbie remarked. Spain was full of cool things, now that he had the time and safety to sit back and contemplate them: bugs. Seaweed and weird critters that washed up on the beach. Flowers. Birds that sang—he’d thought their reputation for “singing” was an exaggeration, but it turned out that birds actually do sing. An infinite carpet of stars stretching out overhead, pinks and blues and yellows and so many tiny white lights that the black night might as well have been splashed with foam. And now, huge mushrooms that looked like toothy mouths. “You said it helps the garden, right? I’m not scared of mushrooms that aren’t poisonous.”

“Sure you’re not,” Gabe muttered.

“I’m not scared of mushrooms outside the house,” Robbie qualified. “Will the vegetables be okay?”

Gabe looked up and bit his lip. “Maybe. If I water more. They can’t use the seawater.”

“I’ll calculate how much we can spare from the cistern without running low,” Robbie offered. “We can take shorter showers.”

“I’ll just grow another one.” Gabe poked at the fragments of mushroom with his shoe.

“You can do that?” Robbie had heard that mushrooms were easy to grow with a kit, but he’d never seen it done. He felt a swell of pride at the gardening knowledge Gabe had absorbed from his tablet so quickly.

“It’s really easy,” Gabe said. “But. You gotta tell me if you get my dreams again. Okay?”

“Okay.” Robbie hugged him tighter. “I won’t take your dreams.”

“I don’t think you can do that.” A bee circled overhead and landed on a bean flower. They watched as it nudged its whole head inside the petals, wings and legs fluttering industriously.

[sailorspica]

HI KAT !! completely appro po of nothing,,, can i hear about 📝🏷️❤️👀 ?

we did it we hit every single question in this self-ship game!! ty for feeding the yap y'all. the others are one ; two ; three ; four ; five

oh CAT

📝: How would your story in canon go? How would you influence the events of the original story?

i got 0 influence. this is the canon compliant, nothing changes AU baybee. going off of scant worldbuilding where

there are stray arab and japanese names in the survey corps (rashad and keiji);

city boy jean has "never seen anyone who looks like" mikasa before;

the military police and wallists keep the walls scientifically/socially late medieval/early modern;

mikasa's maternal line was shunted to the mountains near shiganshina;

the AU imagines some mixed-race eldians like mr leonhart work in resource extraction and in the "industrial towns" that produce ODM gear mentioned in one Currently Available Public Information bit. a la the west virginia coal wars, the military police have been violently strikebreaking and unionbusting in these communities for decades. basically, kenny, other people have serious beef with the military police who aren't disgraced aristocrats (ackermans) or blond (erwin + armin + historia), e.g. racial minorities. so we meet because i hatched a sloppy plan to assassinate some MP instrumental in these conflicts that probably involved like. seduction but i'm a 20-year-old idiot virgin and i basically "get in kenny's way" and i don't think i'm sanitizing him in reading that he ONLY KILLED COPS, so he probably tells me to scamper off but instead i'm like "fuck YOU i had a plan" and he's like "a plan to get gutted maybe" et cetera. i lead him to the next guy on my arya stark-style kill list and we dispose of the bodies and he lives with me on-and-off for a couple years before disappearing, so i assume he either got arrested or killed, but in the interim i definitely managed some solo kills of my own of MPs who came dangerously close to tracking him down, and maybe my association with kenny the ripper has my neighbors run me out of town so i eventually settle in wall rose as a pathetic little blacksmith who only makes like, cookware at first. by 847 i'm in some position for the royal government to contract me with making some of the weirdly huge anti-personnel control squad's new ODM gear. come to find out kenny is not dead but a sellout, but i am, too, as an armorer. we probably hook up a few times before the uprising arc and then he is dead

🏷️: What is you and your f/o’s ship name?

well katken but if we're going with the four-syllable katakana tradition i think my (our) name can be chopped up to kya su ri n... so something's there. kenrin is kind of cute. rinken looks like a skate rink or abe lincoln

❤️: How popular is you x your f/o? Are you a rarepair?

kenuri is a rarepair in terms of like, ao3 totals but it's unequivocally both of their most popular ships. so yes

👀: How does your ship with your f/o influence both of your characterisations and the world? Would there be any interesting metas written about your dynamic?

i believe, not to suck my own dick here, the entire AU premise hinges on class and racial politics in the walls and basically invents the wall equivalent of appalachia, and doesn't let us forget the ackermans were a noble house. so yes. but specifically about katken's one-on-one dynamic, i think it's the ghoulcy thing of "i'm you, sweetie" which HONESTLY >>>> is a little sannes "break a leg, hange." whoa

[purebarnes]

courage to change— (fem!avenger x bucky!)

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ ➢ sam, bucky and y/n get in an intense therapy session when bucky gets arrested, lashing out at eachother only wanting to finish the mission and go their separate ways.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ ➢ 3.1k

ᴅɪꜱᴄʟᴀɪᴍᴇʀꜱ ➢ angst, mention of deaths, intense convo, yelling/swearing

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ! ➢ nothin, please enjoy!

every once in awhile, silence would creep upon y/n and it was completely be torture for her. she would stay quiet for along time and just stare at the floor or even at a wall. it was unhealthy for her to not talk about how she felt but she had no one. she stared at the all slumping into her chair just waiting to get off the plane. sam looked up to see bucky and y/n silent just not saying anything. he closed his eyes and then spoke up, “you alright?” she swore every time someone would ask that question, she grew even more aggressive. it wasn’t their fault but she hated that question and it was even worse when she wasn’t. she looked up to meet sam in his brown eyes before nodding to not worry him about anything.

she was someone to express her feelings and especially to sam or bucky, she saw them as family even when she didn’t want to admit it. sam went on to go and ask bucky if he was fine, “let’s take the shield. let’s take the shield and do this ourselves.” bucky spoke wanting to have that shield back so badly, “we can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. do you remember what happened last time we stole it?—maybe—I’ll help you in case you forgot. sharon was branded enemy of the state, and steve and i were in the run for two years. i don’t know about you, but i don’t wanna live the rest of my life la vida loca. we just got our asses handed to us by super soldiers, and we got nothing.” sam explained.

y/n looked up to see them, “not entirely true.” bucky got up his seat and went to go sit next to sam moving slowly, hearing his dog chains move along while he went to sit. he wouldn’t say anything until he spoke up, “there is someone that you guys should meet.” they made it to baltimore and had to walk down to someone’s house. the girl honestly was going to leave and not look back but sam dragged her because he didn’t want to be alone with bucky. they encountered two kids playing on he streets, “hey, it’s black falcon, what’s up?—it’s just falcon, kid.” sam told the little kid, “no, no. my daddy told me it’s black falcon.” sam stopped with y/n to hear how this was going to end, bucky kept on walking.

“is it because i’m black and the falcon?—well, technically, i mean, yes—so are you, like, black kid? i got him, right?” sam chuckled when he rolled his eyes in defeat while y/n kept walking to meet behind bucky to finally be standing in front of a grey house and a sign that said no trespassing. y/n looked over to see the neighborhood, bucky knocked on the door making it open. “we’re here to see isaiah—nobody named isaiah lives here.” the boy said not wanting them to enter but bucky begged.

bucky told him, “we just want to talk to him—you must not hear what i just said. you ain’t getting in this house. y’all can leave now.” he said to them making y/n stare at him uneasy, “tell him the guy from the bat in goyang is here. he’s gonna know what that means.” the kid went to leave to see if they could all come in and once he came back, he opened the door and let them all in. y/n grew confused as what was happening and how bucky knew this older man as he never told her anything about him. “look at you—this is, uh, sam and this is y/n. sam, y/n, this is isaiah.” he introduced all of them to each other.

“he was a hero. one of the ones that hydra feared the most. like steve. we met in '51—if by met, you mean i whupped your ass, then, yeah.” bucky smiled lightly, “we heard whispers he was in the peninsula. but everyone they sent after him, never came back. so the u.s. military dropped me behind the line to go deal with him. i took half that metal arm in that fight in goyang, but i see he’s managed to grow it back.” isaiah said noticing the metal arm bucky had on, “i just wanted to see if he got the arm back. or if he’d come to kill me.” he finished before bucky spoke, “i’m not a killer anymore.” bucky whispered softly, “you think you can wake up one day and decide who you wanna be? it doesn’t work like that. well, maybe it does for folks like you.”

the man through a lot and y/n could tell how, the way he spoke and the pain in his voice. “isaiah, the reason we’re here is because there’s more of you and me out there—you and me.” he interrupted him not believing anything he was saying, “and we need to know how—i’m not gonna track about it anymore.” isaiah grabbed something and through it into the wall with a lot of force making y/n look at him. he walked to bucky, “you know what they did to me for being a hero? they put my ass in jail for 30 years. people running tests, taking my blood, coming into my cell. even your people weren’t done with me.”

the pain in his voice and hurt made y/n want to show sympathy but he wasn’t having it from her, “get out of my house!” he yelled as y/n walked behind sam following them outside and y/n couldn’t believe what was happening. “sam—why didn’t you tell me about isaiah? how could nobody bring him up? i asked you a question, bucky.” sam was angry, “i know—steve didn’t know him, did you know?” sam pointed at y/n and she shook her head , “no, she didn’t. i didn’t tell her or steve.” bucky said looking at her, “so you’re telling me that there was a black super soldier decades ago and nobody knew about it?”

the next thing they heard was siren and they all looked up to see what was happening, “hey—what’s up, man?” sam asked not wanting to cause anything, “is there a problem here?—no, we’re just talking.” sam tried once again to not cause anything with the police. y/n knew what this was about and it was wrong of them, “can i see your id?—i don’t have id. why?” y/n sighed at the police men and was grossed out to them, “okay, sir, just calm down—i am calm. what do you want? we’re just talking.” sam said.

“give him your id so we can leave—no. i’m not giving him shit. we’re just talking.” y/n moved from behind bucky and the police saw her and softened when she noticed who she was, “oh, miss stark. is he bothering you?—what, no, he’s not bothering me. do you know who this is?” she raised her voice as bucky pulled her back, they both whispered something about them being the avengers. “oh, god. i am so sorry, mr. wilson. i didn’t recognize you with the goggles. i’m really, really sorry about this.” the officer laughed nervously which no part of what he was doing funny at all. bucky moved to them before whispering, “i didn’t tell anyone because he had already been through enough.” sam just looked at him in disbelief.

the officers went back to all three of them, “mr. barnes, there’s a warrant out for your arrest—the president pardoned him for all that.” sam said telling him before the officer explained it again, “not for that. you missed your court-mandated therapy. it’s like missing a check-in with your po. i’m sorry, mr. barnes, you’re under arrest.” bucky sighed walking over to get handcuffed and entering the cop car.

sam and y/n went to the police station to see bucky but was met with a unknown face. “sam. I’ve heard a lot about you. i’m dr. raynor. i’m james therapist.” she stopped when she saw y/n looking at the floor just think about anything, “and you must be y/n. i have heard a lot about you as well, a little more than expected, miss stark.” y/n looked up smiling and got up to shake her hand and greet her and her heart ached a bit. “oh, it’s nice to meet you.” sam thanked her to get him, “that was not me.” she said before looking at john.

the door buzzed and bucky came out while bucky kept staring, “james, condition of your release, session now. you too, sam and y/n.” she said before y/n could protest to not wanting to be in a therapy session with bucky. “no... that alright, i’m—that wasn’t a request.” she told them as y/n sighed before following her already looking annoyed. they all sat next to each other not speaking already. “who would like to start?—all right, look, dr. raynor? i get it why you want us to talk to freaky magoo over here. but i’m 100% fine.” sam said gesturing towards bucky.

“it’s my job to make sure that you’re okay. and so, yeah, this may be slightly unprofessional, but it’s the only way that i can see if you’re getting over whatever’s eating at you.” she told them while y/n rolled her not that this lady was bogus but that she didn’t need this at all. “this is ridiculous—yeah, i agree—yup.” they all agreed not wanting to be in that position, “see? making progress already. so, who wants to go first.” no one spoke up and the silence was eating them alive, “no volunteers? wow. how surprising. okay. we’re gonna to do an exercise. it’s something i use with couples when they are trying to figure out what kind of life they wanna build together.” bucky glanced at y/n but she kept looking away so she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“sam, i want james and y/n to go first though. turn around face each other.” she said while sam moved to the side waiting for bucky and y/n to face each other. y/n moved her chair and bucky did the same meeting her eyes but she just stared at the wall. dr. raynor saw y/n not meeting bucky’s eyes. a moment passed before she spoke, “okay, y/n tell me what bothers you about james.” y/n looked up to see bucky and glared at him as bucky went to stare but in a timid way, “he’s prevaricator. yeah you know it’s funny because sometimes i thought you would turn out different but i guess they were right.” she said.

bucky looked at her wanting to say sorry for everything he has done to her, “honestly, i feel fine. i don’t need this okay?” she told them sitting up straight crossing her legs. dr. raynor looked up and sighed since she wasn’t getting anything from her, “y/n, you’re father died. i lost many people, you must feel some type—nope, i’m alright. when will people stop telling me how to feel.” she sighed not meet the therapist’s eyes because deep down she knew she was right. “he’s gone. but nothing will bring him back... i’m waiting for some easy way out. i was isolated in my room and i wouldn’t leave, not when i had no one.” y/n breathed out, her foot shaking.

it was something she did to calm her nerves, “i never called.” bucky paused looking back up to see her staring to see what he would say, “i never called because i didn’t know what to say.” bucky felt this way because the winter soldier was the one that killed her grandparents. she knew that but she also knew that he was brainwashed and so that wasn’t him. not the real him. y/n inhaled and sensed, “i lost everything, i... uh, i was hurting and all i wanted was someone. to ask me how i was doing or to tell me everything was gonna be ok but— i kept hoping to get a call from the person that i loved..”

bucky looked up to her and looked at her with sympathy as she said she loved him but winced at that being in the past. he couldn’t let her be in pain but could anything he would say to her, help at all in the situation. “i guess miracles don’t just happen.” bucky sighed when she got up and moved to the side.

after dr. raynor went to write a few things in her notebook as sam went to move his chair, “you should really enjoy this—i’m going to—i know you are.” not even ten seconds and they started bickering at each other while turning to see each other. “let’s do it. let’s stare. this a good exercise. thanks, doc—all right,get close. get closer.” she said when they went to get close, “which way you want to go?—right or left?—you know what? fine here.” they kept arguing about how close they wanted to be, “you happy now? we’re locked in—that’s a little close.”

“that’s very close. that’s what you wanted right?—guys.” dr. raynor told them to stop it before telling them to look at each other, “look each other in the eyes.” it took a moment before they both looked up, “there, you see? that wasn’t t so hard.” they started staring at each other trying to intimidate each other as y/n rolled her eyes at their childness. “wait. what are you doing? at you having a staring contest? just blink.” she snapped her fingers causing them to blink. she asked what agrravated bucky about sam.

bucky smirked wanting to say something, “and don’t say something childish—why did you give up that shield?” y/n could sense something was going to happen between them both, she knew this was a horrible idea. “why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?—steve believed in you. he trusted you. he gave you that shield for a reason. that shield. that shield is... that is everything he stood for. that is his legacy. he gave you that shield, and you threw it away like it was nothing—shut up.” y/n was hurt by hurt bucky was feeling, she understood what he was feeling but maybe sam had a reason to do that.

“so maybe he was wrong about you. and if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” bucky seethed while sam asked if he was finished so he could go, “all right, good. maybe this is something you or steve will never understand. but can’t you accept that i did what i thought was right?” sam scoffed wanting to end all that was happening. “you know what, do ? I don’t have time—no, we don’t have time for this.” sam looked at y/n, “we have some real serious shit going on. so how about this? i will squash it right now. we go deal with that, and when we’re done, we both can go on our separate, long vacations and never see each other again.” sam spoke.

y/n nodded while getting up, “thanks, doc, for making it weird. i feel much better. let’s go y/n. i’ll see you outside.” she nodded walking out the door before glancing at bucky then making her outside. this was a chance where she could leave and not look back. when sam and bucky noticed she wasn’t by their side, bucky went to call her name. no response, bucky sighed going to walk towards her and grab her hand as she yanked it away. he stepped it back and it was a habit that she would do.

she bit her lip them turning to see him, “where are you going?—i’m leaving bucky. this wasn’t a good idea. we both know that.” she scratched the back of her head while sticking her tongue inside of her mouth. “you can’t leave. we need you.” bucky put his hands in his pockets as the wind his his face, “no, you guys don’t. i’m unstable and will ruin—just stay. please, i need you to stay.” bucky wanted to bring up what happens back there but he saw sam calling him over. “stay here. give me a minute.” she nodded waiting at the exact same spot, him running off.

the girl could hear faint arguments from the boys and john but didn’t seem to care. she was getting colder as time went by, she saw them walking towards her. y/n shivering and her nose red and her not having a coat or jacket made everything worse. bucky noticed her getting cold and started to take off his jacket but she stopped him, “keep it. i’m okay.” she lied right through her teeth, she wanted that jacket so badly but she wouldn’t show him that he had that effect on her. he took it off completely and handed it but she wouldn’t grab it.

bucky took that as she didn’t want it then he went to put it around her shoulders. she gripped her shoulders from behind and tensed at the feeling when he let go. the tension they both had for each other made things difficult and sam watched them awkwardly not knowing what to say. “yeah, ok. can we go?” bucky looked at him, glaring at his direction leaving to walk with both of them.

y/n asked what john had to say to them and they just told her that they needed to stay out of his way. she raised an eyebrow at what they told her, walking around. “i know what we have to do. when isaiah said “my people”—don’t take that to heart. that’s not what he meant.” sam told him when bucky went to explain what they needed to do even if y/n was still going to work with them. “no. he meant hydra. hydra used to be my people.” sam scoffed not wanting to listen to bucky about his new plan. “walker doesn’t have any leads—i know where you’re going with this and no.” y/n spoke up and bucky turned to see her and when she had his jacket wrapped around her arms he smiled but not enough so she could see.

“y/n, he knows all of hydra’s secrets. don’t you remember siberia?” y/n shook her head not understanding the whole concept of what he was getting out. “so you’re just gonna go sit in a room with this guy?—yes.” bucky hesitation come from him while sam and y/n shared a look then sam spoke up. “alright. we’re gonna go see zemo.”

[theoswriting]

fault line [part. i]

summary: To y/n, freedom feels like wind in her hair, sounds like old school rock'n'roll and tastes like Elle's lips. From the fire in front of them comes warmth. With every passing second, bloodied clothes burn beyond the point of recognition.

pairing: elle greenaway x fem!reader

a/n: uhm okay, this totally got out of hand. from that request, my brain went crazy and I ended up having to cut it into two, so this is part 1. Hopefully I'll post part 2 in a couple of days. I feel weird about this story, but I hope you'll enjoy it at least a tiny bit, haha.

warnings: mentions of rape and sexual abuse (nothing graphic), murder but it's pretty lowkey, sociopathy?, bad profiling, 

ao3

Jennifer Jareau's steps are hurried when she walks from her office to Hotchner's. 

She can feel the eyes of Prentiss, Morgan and Reid following her as she crosses the bullpen. She ignores them, the files she's holding in her hands are far more important. She doesn't wait for an answer after she knocks, not caring that she's interrupting Hotchner in the middle of a phone call. 

Hotch doesn't startle at the irruption, and when he sees the urgency in the liaison's eyes, he doesn't hesitate before saying, "I'm afraid I'll have to call later," to whoever was on the other side of the line. 

"We have a bad one."

***

To y/n, freedom feels like wind in her hair, sounds like old school rock'n'roll and tastes like Elle's lips.

Elle's hand rests on y/n's thigh as she drives with the other, sunglasses covering her eyes as she stares at the road straight ahead. There's a strength in the way she holds the steering wheel, getting them to their next destination with nothing but confidence. As she looks her over, y/n feels a familiar spark wake inside her. It makes her lean towards the driver's side to drop a long kiss on the corner of Elle's mouth. 

Elle doesn't hesitate to turn her head and make it a real kiss, the kind that always leaves y/n breathless and wanting more. When Elle leans back to focus on the road again, the car has swerved to the other side of the road and Elle brings it back to the right lane. 

Not that it matters. It's been hours since they had passed another car, not  a lot of traffic in the middle of the Nevada desert. And if they were to drive off the road, what a way to go, y/n thinks. She'd happily die twice if it meant dying with Elle kissing her with all the love and passion in the world. That'd probably be the only way y/n would ever make it to heaven. 

For now, she leans her head on Elle's shoulder and sighs contentedly at the kiss her girlfriend drops on her temple. 

"I think we can stop soon," y/n says after seconds, "We're far out enough, and I really need to stretch my legs."

It's barely fifteen minutes later when y/n finally gets to use her legs after being in the car for so long. As she stretches, Elle stands beside her, drinking from a water bottle. She passes it to her and y/n thanks her. The heat of the desert is heavy around them, but y/n barely feels it. 

The warmth comes from the fire in front of them, small and controlled. 

With every passing second, bloodied clothes burn beyond the point of recognition. 

***

"LAPD called me this morning for a consultation on two cases they suspected might be connected."

Everyone looks at the files as JJ begins presenting the case. 

"First victim, Matthew McGregor, 36, was killed with a single gunshot wound to the head a year ago after he came home from a party," She explains, "Second victim, Eric Laurens, 28, two days ago, same M.O., single GSW to the head coming home from a party."

JJ sees Derek nod slowly as he reads over the information again, "Seems pretty clear to me that they're connected."

Emily hums in agreement, "And both had gotten arrested on rape charges, but weren't convicted, prior to their deaths."

"A vigilante?" Rossi theorises out loud. 

"There's more," JJ sighs as she clicks on the remote. Five more men appear on screen, a picture from their driver's license and one from a crime scene, "LAPD aren't the only ones who called about similar cases."

Spencer frowns at the screen, "Wyoming, Illinois, New York, these are from all over the country," he observes. 

"Yeah" JJ nods, "And the oldest murder goes back to 2007, the most recent being Eric Laurens two days ago."

"That's seven victims over the last 3 years," Derek observes and that's when Hotch gets up to stand next to JJ.

"Seven that we know of," He says, "We might have a transient serial killer in our hands. We'll be flying out to LA to see what we can learn from the most recent crime scene. I've already asked Garcia to look for unsolved murders with a similar M.O. all over the country, we'll debrief more on the jet. Wheels up in 20."

Without another word, all the agents leave the room to gather their belongings and get to the plane that'll take them to their case. 

***

After being together for almost four years, y/n and Elle had settled into a routine. It was inevitable, y/n guessed, that after so much time together. Some things were bound to become repetitive. 

Elle always takes the left side of the bed, while y/n prefers the right. Elle always cooks if they want their food to be edible, and y/n always cleans up. When it comes to coffee, though, y/n always makes it, Elle's always coming out too strong for both their tastes. When it comes to work, Elle excells at planning while y/n handles the social part.

Their routine is rooted in balance though, and y/n loves the way they compliment each other.

y/n lures the men, Elle shoots them. 

She worries sometimes. She worries that their lives are getting boring, that they have settled into this routine too comfortably and forgotten how to surprise each other. 

"Mmmh," y/n feels Elle stretch next to her, "G'morning."

Her worries never last very long. How could they, when all y/n has to do is look at Elle to realize that there is no way she's ever falling out of love with the woman. 

"Good morning," She replies, getting closer to her girlfriend to drop a kiss on her lips. Elle hums contentedly into the kiss and y/n can't help the grin that takes over her features. When Elle leans back, she keeps her eyes closed and settles back into her pillow and y/n bites her lip as she watches her. 

"We need to go soon," Elle mutters.

y/n quickly agrees, even though she's pretty sure no one is on their tails. They can never be too careful. Never stay in a place too long if you don't want to get trapped. They'd stopped in a random motel for the night, paid in cash, left most of their stuff in the car, ready to take off at any time. 

It was the way things always were the days that'd follow one of their… projects.

Some would consider this lifestyle tiresome. y/n, however, thinks she's the luckiest person in the world. In the last four years, she's travelled through the country and seen the most beautiful sights with the woman she loves by her side. Sure, they have a job to do, but it's never really felt like a job to y/n. She's always heard that people weren't supposed to enjoy their jobs, that's always what grownups had complained about when she was a kid. 

And y/n? Well, she enjoys her job very much. 

***

Reid stares at the board in front of him. He's just put up all the information they have so far and it's… a lot. 

Or rather, there's very little useful information, but many, many, victims. Garcia has managed to find an overwhelming number of unsolved cases with a similar modus operandi: men, killed by a single gunshot to the head on their way home from a party, all previously accused of rape or sexual misconduct. 

They are up to 32 possible victims on top of the 7 they started with, from all over the country. That number only keeps going up the longer Garcia keeps looking. 

By now, they are pretty sure all these cases are connected, even though no evidence connects them directly to each other. Even ballistics couldn't link the different shootings. 

They're missing something. Spencer only wishes he knew what that was. 

On the jet, they'd all agreed on a few things concerning the preliminary profile. Their unsub was most likely highly intelligent and had military or law enforcement training. It was most probably a man in his mid-thirties, carrying out his own justice after the system failed him or someone close to him. He was organized, evident by the lack of clues left behind. Whoever the unsub was, he might even have stalked his victims prior to the crimes. 

It sounds right on paper, but something is missing. Spencer knows it. 

Something is missing.

***

y/n's hand is wrapped around a cup of coffee as she sits on the patio of a little shop. Her sunglasses are small, barely protecting her from the rays coming from the sun above. It's almost noon.

The world is an ugly place. 

That statement had made its way into y/n's head years ago, laying roots, unmoving. With every stroke of her father's anger, with every touch of a man's hands, the roots dug deeper and deeper until they found their way to y/n's heart. The world held no justice for people like y/n. They didn't care about the bruises, the touching, the screaming for help, they never listened. 

She had learned a long time ago that if she wants something, she needs to do it herself. 

"How can you be married to someone like that?" Elle suddenly speaks up from next to her. 

When y/n looks at her, Elle's eyes are fixed onto the man they'd followed. He's at the restaurant on the other side of the street, right in front of the coffee shop. He's sitting with his wife, holding her hand and y/n tilts her head.

"Maybe she doesn't know."

Elle's eyes don't leave the couple, her face still contorted in disgust, "Then, we're doing her a favor."

It brings a smile to y/n's face. The way Elle's voice sounds resolute, confident. It's comforting. It reminds her that she's right to trust Elle, that Elle hates the world just as much as she does and that she'd gladly watch it burn with her. It makes her want to lean in and kiss her, but that would attract too much attention. Instead, she reaches out for her hand and brings it up to her lips. Elle shoots her a small smile, and y/n's heart warms.

It's impressive how a smile from Elle offers y/n a reassurance she hadn't even known she craved. It had always been her against the entire world, the only love she knew was the love she was willing to give to herself. That hadn't always been easy.

Then, she'd met Elle and she had shared a story so different from y/n's but the consequences of it felt familiar. It made sense that y/n had been drawn to her, the strength Elle exuded softened by the understanding y/n saw in her eyes each time she talked. 

The world was an ugly place, but Elle Greenaway makes it worth holding on for a little longer. 

***

"The body was found right where you're standing," Derek says as he looks back at Prentiss from a few feet ahead, "Which means our unsub must've been standing right here," He adds, pointing to the ground under his feet. 

He looks around him as Prentiss voices his exact thought, "There's no way he didn't see the unsub coming. There aren't any good hiding spots out here."

They're standing next to a fence, on the outside of a park, "The sidewalk is big, no trees, or parking allowed, so no cars to hide behind," Derek observes, "Which means our unsub is unsuspecting, someone the victims wouldn't consider a threat."

Emily nods and starts looking up, in search of camera surveillance. Two catch her eye, on the other side of the street and she points out to Derek with a raised eyebrow. Local PD hadn't found anything of use but they decide to call Garcia anyway. If anyone could find something, it was her. 

As Morgan talks to their tech analyst, Emily walks past him, then back, retracing the steps their unsub had most likely taken two nights ago. When she stops, she raises her hands, mimicking a gun and aiming at where the victim would've been standing. Whoever it is, they're a good shot which makes her think they were right in saying the unsub had some kind of firearm training. 

She sighs as she drops her hands down and puts them on her hips. As she looks around again, a thought crosses her mind, "Where did Mr. Laurens live?"

Derek who just hung up with Garcia wracks his brain to remember the address he'd read in the file, "He lived… three streets down, that way-" He points out to the direction their victim had supposedly been walking from and it dawns on him, "So why was he walking in the opposite direction to his home."

Emily nods, "And how did the unsub know they'd find him here."

"They followed him."

"Walked past him, turned around and shot him?" Emily asks as she walks back to stand where the body had been found.

"Or, he was lured out here," Derek speaks and Prentiss has to agree with him. 

"It's the perfect killing spot," She says pointing back at the cameras, "Even if Garcia gets anything from them, it'll be grainy at best, impossible to get a clear shot of our unsub."

Derek looks at the empty street, void of any passerbys, "Quiet street in the day, probably even quieter at night. Less risks to run into an unwanted witness."

"So if he was lured out," Emily says, "We need to figure out who he left that party with."

***

y/n stumbles slightly and giggles as a strong arm wraps around her waist and helps her stay upright. 

"Shoot, I'm such a klutz," She adds with a laugh and her companion replies in kind. 

His laughter grates on her nerves. It's too loud, resonating all around them and using up too much oxygen. She only has to walk with him a couple more minutes but even that feels too long. She feels his too big hand squeeze her hip and she feels anger spike inside her chest. She wants to hurt him. 

Deep breath. Clenched fist. One more minute. 

He's started talking again but y/n isn't listening. She's staring straight ahead to the street they're going to walk into where Elle will be waiting for them and the hand will finally fall from her hip. That's when you feel it, that spark you've come to call freedom. It's small but grows as you round the corner with him following you closely.

It starts burning under your skin when you spot Elle's silhouette further down the street.

The man next to you doesn't even take notice of her and isn't that ironic. He spent his life thinking of women as less than and y/n finds it befitting that what'll bring him to his end is the last woman he'll ignore. 

Elle raises her gun and with the sound of the gunshot ringing in her ears, y/n's whole body is set aflame. 

She watches as the hand lays limp next to his lifeless body and a gleeful laugh escapes her. The hole in his head oozes blood and she can't stop laughing. The hand is laying there unmoving and y/n feels the urge to step on it. 

Hurt him, hurt him, hurt him, hurt him like he hurt you. 

She's vaguely aware of Elle calling out her name but y/n doesn't snap out of it until a hand yanks her away from the body by the shoulders. She steps back, but slaps the hands touching her away. Only then does she realize that it's Elle looking at her, confusion in her eyes and something y/n doesn't want to ever see from her own girlfriend. 

Fear.

"We have to go," Elle announces slowly, like she's explaining it to a child, or a wounded animal. y/n doesn't know which comparison she likes best. She looks back at the body and regretfully nods.

They start walking away, hand in hand, but something inside of y/n doesn't feel quite right. The fire that had roared inside of her is long gone and she feels her body shiver at the cold. Elle notices and wraps an arm around her shoulders, dropping a kiss on her hair as they keep walking side by side.

She wants to smile but she can't manage it. 

He hurt her.

He was going to hurt Elle.

He hurt her.

***

"Laurens' friends say he left the party alone," Emily announces to the team as she sits down next to JJ in the conference room. At the same moment, Derek's phone starts ringing, attracting everyone's attention.

"Baby girl, tell me you have good news," Derek answers, putting his phone on speaker so everyone around the table can hear. 

"I wish, but no. The cameras on the street were of no use, it's a blind spot. I tried the cameras from neighbouring streets but got nothing. Whoever it is your looking for, they're like a ghost."

There's a collective disappointed sigh and shoulders sagging, and Garcia isn't done, "to make a bad day even worse, a body was just found in Twin Falls, same M.O."

Everyone visibly tenses at the news, Rossi speaking first, "Two kills in less than three days."

Hotch looks at JJ and before he can even say anything, she's out of her seat, "I'll call the local PD, tell them we're on our way."

Hotch nods his approval, turning his stoic gaze to the rest of his team, "Get your bags ready, we're flying out as soon as the jet is ready."

***

It is getting boring and y/n had been right to be worried. 

That's the first thing that crosses her mind as she wakes up next to Elle, hours later, in a nameless city in the middle of nowhere. 

Elle lays peacefully next to her, deep into slumber, and a smile stretches y/n's lips. She watches her girlfriend's chest rise and fall, her naked body barely covered by the sheets. It's a hot night, y/n can feel the sweat in her lower back making it uncomfortable for her to fall back asleep. As she gets up from the bed, Elle moves, getting closer to where y/n lay seconds ago, chasing the heat despite the already too high temperature. 

y/n lets herself watch her for a moment before walking to sit on the chair next to the window. There's nothing to look at, the motel they'd chosen is outside of the city and the lights are barely visible. It's dark, except for the slight light of the moon landing on the cars outside. 

She feels empty tonight. The thrill she'd felt hours ago hadn't lasted long and the only thing she could remember about it was the look Elle had thrown her way. 

Fear.

Elle had always looked at her with interest. From the moment they met, y/n had been drawn in by her hazel eyes. Something in her made her feel safe in a way she never had before and days after meeting her, she had told Elle about her unpleasant memories, how the world wasn't a nice place.

Elle had listened and, to y/n's surprise, agreed with the statement. Usually, whenever y/n told people about the ugliness of the world, they tried to make her see the parts that weren't so bad, try to make her see that some things, and some people were worth it. Elle hadn't done any of that, she had scoffed and agreed.

"Only person you can trust is yourself. The rest? Always leads to disappointment."

They had ended up in bed together soon after that, spent the night in each other's arms and imagining a world that'd be worth their time. 

Two days later, they had killed their first man together.

Their routine hasn't changed in nearly four years, and it used to be enough for y/n. She's the bait, easily transforming herself into whoever the men want to see in front of them. She pretends to be too drunk, unstable on her feet, asking for help to walk back to her place or her car, and the men never think twice before following her. 

Elle waits for them and then. She shoots. 

And it used to be enough for y/n to watch the proud look on Elle's face anytime she made a perfect shot. Smoking gun in hand and a confident smirk, y/n had never seen anything sexier in her entire life. 

What followed was always a passionate kiss and hurried hands, trying to touch every inch of skin. 

Earlier, y/n hadn't even kissed Elle, the only contact between them being the arm that Elle had thrown around her shoulder. 

y/n can feel that there's something not quite right. She feels it in her body, in the way her arms itch, in the way her chest feels a bit too empty for her too breath comfortably. 

y/n loves Elle, there's no way that has changed. She's sure of it. When she turns her head to watch Elle sleep, her heart flutters at the sight of her girlfriend curled up on the side of the bed that she had vacated. She couldn't see it, but she could picture her girlfriend's face, mouth slightly open if she were to believe the little snores she could hear. 

She is just bored of the routine. 

When she finally climbs back into bed with Elle, her girlfriend automatically drapes a hand over her waist. 

"Where did you go?" Elle asks sleepily, and y/n lays a kiss on her nose. It makes her scrunch up her face and that's the cutest sight she's ever seen. 

"Couldn't sleep."

Elle hums and goes back to sleep. y/n sighs and follows suit, not long after. 

***

"What's this, on the palm?" Morgan asks the M.E., pointing at the left hand of the victim where the skin seems slightly bruised.

The doctor on the other side of the autopsy table nods at Derek and Spencer, "His hand was broken post-mortem, although I'm having a hard time figuring out what broke it."

Reid leaned closer to the hand and frowned, "It looks like something was pushed from the palm to the other side."

Again, the doctor nods, but before she can say anything else, Reid suddenly stands up straight and looks over at Morgan, "I know what did this."

At that moment, Morgan's phone rings and upon seeing Hotch's name, he excuses himself to reply. When he comes back, his face looks somber.

"A man was killed not far from here, local PD just got the call. Hotch wants us to check it out, just in case."

[typingtess]

NCIS: Los Angeles Season Twelve Rewatch:  “Raising the Dead”

The basics:  An incarcerated killer requests to speak to Kensi to help find a possible Presidential assassin.

Written by: Frank Military wrote/co-wrote "Little Angels", "Deliverance", "Lockup", "The Job", "Greed", "Betrayal", "Crimeleon", "Vengeance", "Out of the Past" Part One, "Rude Awakenings" Part Two, season four’s finale "Descent", season five’s premiere "Ascension", "Allegiance", "Spoils of War", "Black Budget", SEAL Hunter", "Rage", "Unspoken", "Unlocked Mind", "Revenge Deferred", "The Seventh Child", "Crazy Train", "Uncaged", "The Silo", "Monster", "Line in the Sand", season ten opener "To Live and Die in Mexico", "The Patton Project", "Better Angels" and "False Flag" (the season 11 finale), "A Bloody Brilliant Plan" and “Code of Conduct”.

Directed by:  Terrence O’Hara directed “The Only Easy Day”, “Brimstone”, “The Bank Job”, “Borderline”, “Tin Soldiers”, “The Job”, “Backstopped”, “Crimeleon” (written by Military), “Blye, K.” Part Two, “San Voir” Part Two, “End Game”, “Paper Soldiers”, “Descent” (written by Military), “Ascension” (written by Military), “Fish Out of Water”, “Blaze of Glory”, “Command and Control” (episode 150), “Matryoshka” Part Two, “Belly of the Beast”, “Payback”, “Mountebank”, “Asesinos”, "Searching" and “Yellow Jack”.

Guest stars of note:  Adam George Key returns as LAPD Officer Harrison.  Executive producer and the episode’s writer and series occasional director Frank Military plays David Kessler.  Izabella Miko as Michelle Boucher, Angel Parker as Secret Service Agent Alicia Monroe, Matt Peters as FBI Agent Michael Rudolph, Bojesse Christopher as Deputy Warden Max Fielder, Daryl Crittenden as Randy Sinclair, Jason Medwin as Prison Guard #1 and David Proffitt as Prison Guard #2.

Our heroes:  Are doing their own version of “Silence of the Lambs”.

What important things did we learn about:

Callen:  Impressed with Kensi’s work to capture Kessler. Sam:  Feeling the racism from FBI Agent in Charge. Kensi:  Got the OSP job for her work arresting Kessler. Deeks:  Out of NCIS for good as the LAPD Liaison. Eric:  Only mentioned in iTunes. Nell:   Has to tell Deeks he’s out of NCIS as Liaison and too old to join NCIS> Fatima:  Found Kessler’s connection to the White House. Roundtree:  See Sam. Hetty:  Showed the team Kensi’s work on the Kessler case before bringing her to LA.

What not so important things did we learn about:

Callen: Sure Hetty is getting Deeks back on the team. Sam:  Looking for pliers to remove Deeks’s earwig. Kensi:  Thinking only positive thoughts as she and Deeks go down the fertility road. Deeks: Worried that the fertility road, along with the house and the bar bleeding money is going to bankrupt them. Eric:  Not today. Nell:  Proud of Deeks and the work they did. Fatima:  Put in a difficult position by Deeks. Roundtree:  An amateur arachnologist. Hetty:  Through this episode couldn’t pull the strings to keep Deeks with NCIS.

Who's down with OTP:  Kensi and Deeks are on the road to fertility and possible bankruptcy.  Deeks is in protective overdrive when Kensi gets involved with Kessler.

Who's down with BrOTP:  Not a lot of Callen and Sam time but the one good thing throughout this episode was how well Sam and Roundtree worked in both capturing Sinclair and dealing with the racism of the FBI Agent in Charge.

Any pressing need for a cranky retired Admiral?  I’d like the Admiral to have a few words with Kessler.  Mostly of the four-lettered kind.

Who is running the team this week?  Outside forces – Kessler has everyone but Deeks playing his game and Deeks isn’t playing because LAPD ended the liaison position.

Fashion review:  Day one - long sleeve blue-green tee-shirt for Callen.  Sam is wearing a long-sleeve, dark blue tee.  In the field, Sam has on a tan cargo pants, black baseball cap and jacket.  Kensi is wearing a long-sleeve burgundy henley and a black hooded jacket when she visits Kessler.  Deeks is in a black tee-shirt.  Nell shows up late with a green floral dress with another big bow.  Fatima is wearing a lovely oversized gold blouse over an off white and light brown tee.  Roundtree in the field has on a blue zip-up hoodie over a green-tee shirt with a green baseball cap and tan cargo pants.

The following day, Callen is in a blue plaid button down shirt.  Sam is in a long-sleeve black tee.  Kensi is wearing dark blue long-sleeve sweater with thin white stripes.  It is a medium blue long-sleeve tee-shirt for Deeks.  Fatima is in a pale pink and orange cardigan with big buttons over an orange sweater.

Music:  Does Frank Military whistling  and singing “Yankee Doodle Boy” count?

Any notable cut scene:  Wasn’t there enough to this episode?

Quote:  Nell:  “Deeks, um, I don't think NCIS normally takes people your age.” Deeks:  “Doesn't normally, or... or never? Because it feels like there should be an exception, considering the fact that I was a lawyer and I spent years here.” Nell:  “I'm pretty sure it's never.” Deeks:  “Right. So... “ Nell:  “I'm so sorry.” Deeks:  “No, no, you're fine. It's okay. I just didn't want to make a big deal about this, so if you just want to let everybody know...” Nell:  “Yeah, of course I will.” Deeks:  “I'm gonna, um... I'm gonna miss this. And I think we did good work here. We did great work.  All right, well... keep it up. Make me, uh, make me proud.” Nell:  “You made us proud, Deeks. Every day.”

Anything else:   In a rural area, two men are being chased by law enforcement.  The area is surrounded by mountains with a hilly terrain and some ravines.  The men are both fit and in shape – they are able to navigate the hills with some ease.  As they get to the bottom of a hill, the younger man knows the escape route but the slightly older man says “See ya” and starts in the other direction.  The men split up as do the law enforcement officers.  The younger man is quickly run down by an officer.  As he orders the younger man to the ground, the officer is killed by a gunman working with the younger man.  They pull the dead officer off the main path.

Whistling “The Yankee Doodle Boy” and then singing the song loudly, the other man is strolling through a wooded area.   Law enforcement catches up with the man – calling him Kessler and “a crazy bastard.”  Kessler agrees – “you can’t even imagine.”

Kensi and Deeks arrive at the office.  Toting boxes to pack up his things, Deeks is discussing the two “going down the infertility road” but she’s having none of that.  Kensi is being positive – it is about fertility, not infertility.  Deeks is looking for a budget because treatments could get very expensive, very quickly.  Kensi thinks they should do whatever it takes, even if it means debt.  If they are willing to go into debt for something like a house, isn’t something as important as having a child, someone who will define their lives, worth the same investment?  Deeks is worried – the bar is bleeding money, they are closing on the house and he just wants to know how far into bankruptcy they are willing to go.

Kensi gets a call from Fatima, cutting off Deeks’s laments about their financial woes.  Fatima is driving in – the Secret Service needs to speak to Kensi immediately on a secure line in Ops.  Deeks starts to pack his things, Kensi tells him it is a waste of time – Hetty will have him back in a week.

In Ops, Secret Service Agent Monroe is filling Kensi in on the prisoner escape from a federal prison in Winona, Arizona.  The younger man is Randy Sinclair, in jail for plotting to assassinate the President.  Agent Monroe admits it was just luck that they were able to arrest Sinclair before he could try to kill the President.  Kensi said she heard a rumor that Sinclair was CIA.  While the Agency denied it, Sinclair was not only CIA, he’s incredibly smart and an uncontrollable psychopath.  When he was fired from the CIA, he decided to kill the President.

Kensi wants to help but wonders how.  When Monroe moves to the recaptured David Kessler, Kensi reacts.  Kessler is willing to help but only help “Special Agent Kensi Blye”.  Monroe believes Kessler is obsessed with Kensi.  The Secret Service wants her in Arizona “fast”.

Walking through the armory with a packing Kensi, Deeks is not thrilled with this.  Kessler has been sending Kensi “creepy Valentine’s Day Cards” through the Navy Yard every year.  She asked NCIS to stop forwarding them.  Sam comes on comms with Fatima and a driving in Callen.  Kensi explains that she arrested Kessler just before joining the OSP.  Callen tells her the team was shown the case file when Hetty was bringing Kensi to the team.  They were all really impressed.

Sam is familiar with Kessler’s history of dealing arms in Argentina and Iran.  Kensi adds that Kessler was also a trafficking minors.  Deeks calls Kessler “super creepy and a scumbag” which makes his presence known to the others.  Callen tells Deeks he has to leave, Sam threatens to pull out his comms with pliers until things are straightened out.   Deeks promises to take the comms out and doesn’t.  Callen is sure Hetty will have him back with the team quickly.  When Kensi says she’s going to Arizona, Deeks wants to go with her.  Everyone but Deeks agrees - he can’t go.  

Fatima joins in.  Kessler’s former girlfriend, Michelle Boucher, is living in Los Feliz.  Callen is going to bring in Boucher.  Sam and Roundtree are going with Kensi to Arizona – maybe they can find Sinclair before Kessler spills.

As the Warden and Kensi is walked through the rough part of the prison to get to Kessler’s cell, the prisoners are enjoying her presence.  Kessler is in a super-secure unit.  Seems he was a delight when he arrived in prison – biting guards, throwing urine.  About a year ago, he “found God” and calmed down.  The warden believed Kessler changed and allowed him to work in other wards of the prison.  It could have been part of his escape plan.  The prison is sending all the video of Kessler for the last year to Ops for review.  

Ops also has a full view of Kessler’s cell.  Kessler is doing push-ups and doing them loudly.  The Warden tells Kessler that Kensi is there but Kessler will only speak to Kensi alone.  When the Warden calls Kessler an “arrogant bastard”, Kessler explains it is all about power and right now, he has it.  

As the Warden leaves Kensi on the other side of the plexiglass cell, Deeks walks into Ops.  Fatima wants him out but he’s not going anywhere.  Kessler tells Kensi she looks more beautiful than he remembered.  Kensi wants to know about Sinclair – she’s not staying long.  Kessler disagrees – he didn’t ask her there to share what he knows and watch her “walk out of my life again.”  According to Kessler, this reunion was years in the making.  Kensi is having none of it.  Deeks is taking in all of it and Fatima really wants him to leave – he’s putting her in a bad position.  Deeks is not leaving.

Kensi wants to know where Sinclair is.  Kessler expresses his disappointment in Kensi – she got married.  When Kensi tries to deny it, Kessler points out a red irritation on the ring finger on her left hand.  Kessler doesn’t mind – they can still have sex. Deeks thinks Kessler is dangerous.

A confused Kensi figured Kessler would hate her – she put him in jail for 30-years.  Kessler is sure he can still hate her and have sex. Mocking his workout, Kensi thinks it is sweet he was doing pushups just for her.  Kessler explains he’s keeping himself ready – Kensi is a capable woman and when he’s freed from prison, he is going to hunt her down, have sex with Kensi and then kill her.  “Maybe not even in that order.”  Deeks thinks if Kensi doesn’t kill Kessler, he will.  That gets Fatima on comms to Callen.  Deeks is tossed from Ops.  If he won’t go, Callen will send people up to remove him.  Tossing his comms on the big table, Deeks tells Fatima she made a mistake.

Callen pulls up at Michelle Boucher’s house just as she is leaving.  When Callen mentions David Kessler, Boucher has a small reaction.

Agent Rudolph from the FBI fugitive squad is running his recapture.  When Sam and Roundtree introduce themselves, Rudolph asks if Kensi got anything from Kessler.  Where they are located, there is nothing but forest on one side and way to the highway on the other.  Rudolph believes Sinclair is on his way to the highway and a ride out.  Sam disagrees – Sinclair would know that and could be going deeper into the forest.  Since it is December, Sinclair would likely freeze in the forest, according to Rudolph.  Rudolph thinks Sam and Roundtree – “you boys” – are just there to tell him what Kensi learns.  

Sam is a bit surprised by “you boys”, Roundtree is just shaking his head.  They decided to go for a nice trip to the forest (tm, The X-Files).  Sam thinks as a former CIA Agent, Sinclair knows they’d be looking for him to go to the highway.  If he has help, there could be cold weather clothes, a tent, supplies including food and water waiting for him.  Sam and Roundtree are going hunting.

Kensi compliments Kessler on his cell – the nicest one she’s ever seen.  Kessler credits his lawyer and loyal connections in Washington.  Kensi doesn’t think people in Washington are all that loyal to convicts doing 30-years.  “So naïve, my sweet, sweet government employee.”  There is a safe deposit box filled with photos and videos of important men in compromising positions.  Kensi isn’t impressed – Sinclair is on the move and all the info Kessler has gets less useful by the minute.  

Callen gently questions Boucher, who said she really wasn’t Kessler’s girlfriend.  She was young and blinded by the money, private jets and lifestyle.  There was also the cocaine – Kessler made her an addict.  She had more of a relationship with the drugs than with Kessler.  Callen mentions that the AUSA prosecuting Kessler thought Boucher ran his prostitution business.  Boucher admits she “invited” friends into their social circle – friends who were as young and susceptible as she was.  She didn’t run Kessler’s prostitution business, she was a victim, that’s why she wasn’t charged.

Callen asks why didn’t Boucher testify against Kessler.  She couldn’t.  “David” knew everything about her past, met her family.  If she testified against him, he’d find and kill her.  Not from prison, Callen says.  “David Kessler will figure a way out.”  Kessler is the smartest man Boucher ever met.  Also the most evil.   When Callen tells Boucher that Kessler escaped prison and was recaptured that morning, Boucher is visibly upset.  She want to make sure he’s back in prison.

Walking through the woods, Sam starts talking about possible spiders they could encounter.  Roundtree corrects Sam on some of the spiders listed – he’s into spiders.  There’s a lot more out in the woods for the two of them to worry about than spiders.  Sam agrees, finding a spot for a tent.  At the same time, Roundtree finds a shell casing – they are concerned Sinclair is armed.

After Kessler finally puts on a shirt, Kensi tells him this is all a show for attention – like a four-year-old who says he has a secret but doesn’t know anything.   When Kessler mocks Kensi’s psychological skills and take on him, she notes that her skills were good enough to catch him.  He drops a “touché”.  Kessler explains that in prison, there are three things to think about – sex, suicide and escape, though the last two are different versions of the same thing.  He adds one new thing – revenge.  Kensi points out his failure in the escape, his cowardice when it comes to suicide and his fantasies of sex and revenge are just that – fantasies.

Kessler slams into the plexiglass and gets really close the Kensi.  Even in the “glass box”, Kessler says he’s in Kensi’s head – “every day and every night.”  That makes his fantasies real.  

When Roundtree calls in with the discovery of the shell casing, he’s immediately dismissed – it is elk hunting season, there are fresh shell casings everywhere.  Rudolph reminds Sam and Roundtree that the FBI has special training for tracking – “these are things you boys might not understand coming from an urban environment.”  Roundtree and Sam share a look.  When Rudolph is off the walkie-talkie, Sam asks Roundtree about not mentioning that he was an FBI Agent.  “Think it would have mattered?” Roundtree replies.   Sam admires Roundtree’s restraint.  Lighting up Rudolph won’t help find Sinclair.  They agree that sometimes they have to call out the racism they endure and “call it for what it is.”  Roundtree just wants to be better than Rudolph.  Sam finds another shell casing.

Fatima has news on Dan O’Brien, Kessler’s former lawyer who is also a former lawyer period – he was disbarred for insider trading.  O’Brien is now a lobbyist in DC and the only person who visits Kessler.  After each visit, O’Brien immediately contacts James Lancaster, the Chief of Staff to the President.  This has been going on for three years.  And while O’Brien always calls the White House, the White House never calls O’Brien.  Kensi thinks that makes sense – the White House would want nothing to do with Kessler.  Kensi wants to know if Fatima finds anything else.

Callen asks Boucher if she loved Kessler or his money.  Boucher said she was used and manipulated like the other women – she was a victim. The other women were sold into prostitution, Callen notes, “some of them were kids.”  As she starts to cry, Boucher tells Callen she can deal with what happened to her but what was done to the young girls – “I should have done something.  I’ll never forgive myself for that.”  

When asked about Kessler’s weaknesses, Boucher calls him “wicked smart” but he can’t read or spell.  Kessler grew up in an abusive home – chained to a radiator in his mother’s bedroom in the Bronx.  Kessler’s mother was a crack addict and a prostitute who beat her son and even sold him to some of her clients.  Boucher isn’t sure that’s true but that was Kessler’s story.  Fatima on comms confirms some of it – Kessler’s mom, Karen Lerman, is doing time in Sing-Sing for solicitation, possession of cocaine and vehicular manslaughter.  That info is shared with Kensi.

When Kensi returns, Kessler is back to working out.  Kensi calls him a “regular Richard Simmons.”  Kessler tells Kensi he just wants to be ready.  She thinks that’s pathetic.  He’s being thinking about her all the time and she hasn’t thought about him once in the last 13-years.  She has an amazing and successful life.  Kessler doesn’t think it is all that successful – Kensi doesn’t have any children.  Kensi reacts for a second before asking how does Kessler know that.  Kessler goes on a rather long description about Kensi’s body and her sadness was palpable.  He asks if the problem is that “hubby doesn’t want kids” or maybe things aren’t just working out.

Kensi lashes out, asking how Kessler felt about being sold into prostitution by his mother.  Inflict the same pain on women that his mother inflicted on him.  Kensi tells Kessler it doesn’t take Dr. Phil to know Kessler has “mommy issues.”  Kensi keeps going after Kessler tells her to go to hell, wanting to how badly it feels to know what his mother did to him.  Kensi makes an offer – she could bring Kessler’s mother to Arizona to let Kessler scream at her, to make her apologize.  “She would never do that,” Kessler tells Kensi.  And as “satisfying a conversation with Mommy may be,” he wasn’t trading it for the information he has.  Kensi asks what would be a fair trade.  Locked alone in a room with his mother and full immunity against murder would be a tempting offer.  

Roundtree asks Sam about the CIA actually helping Sinclair escape.  Sam does the NCIS: Los   Angeles OSP greatest CIA hits with the mole.  They come across the dead guard from the teaser.  While the FBI is looking at the dead guard, Sam is on the phone to Kensi with an update.  Did Kessler know about who was helping Sinclair escape.   Roundtree tells Sam the FBI is sticking with the highway theory – whoever was helping Sinclair is still driving him away.  Sam and Roundtree are going deeper in the woods.

With Callen in her ear, Kensi tells Kessler that he wants something, she wants to leave, what deal can she offer.  In prison, what would Kessler want?  Callen offers a phone call with Michelle Boucher.  When Kensi offers it,  Kessler reacts.  “She’s the only person from your past you don’t want to kill,” Kensi notes.  Kessler doesn’t believe Kensi – Boucher would be too terrified to speak to him.

Callen asks Boucher if she would talk to Kessler – “five minutes, max.”  Boucher wants no part of this.  Saying that the man they are looking for is going to kill the president, it is vital for Boucher to help.  With Kessler in prison, he’s never getting out.  Callen assures Boucher she is completely safe.  A reluctant Boucher agrees.  Kessler agrees – once he speaks to Boucher, he’ll spill what he knows.  While Kensi doesn’t immediately go with that – she wants Kessler’s info before the call – Callen thinks they have nothing to lose doing it Kessler’s way.  Kessler also wants no charges filed for his escape.  Kensi has no say in that – that’s up to the AUSA.  Callen has Kensi agree.  “You’re a terrible negotiator.”

Callen calls an ancient flip phone which is passed on to Kessler.  After Kessler does a snarky hello, Callen reminds Kessler that if he isn’t cooperating, he will make sure that Kessler is charged with everything and will die in prison.  “I don’t like whoever this is,” is Kessler’s reaction.  Callen puts Michelle on the phone.  Michelle is having a hard time speaking.  Kessler asks “are you there my angel?”  Callen tries to get Boucher to speak, promising her she’s safe.  Kessler promises “I remember you like it was yesterday.”  Kessler keeps talking but Boucher can’t say a word.  Kessler understands why – “I did unspeakable things to that woman” and offers a big smile.

Sam and Roundtree come to a clearing.  They can see the broken branches and flattened grass of a helicopter landing site.  Sinclair could be miles and miles away while the FBI is looking at the highway.  Just before Roundtree calls in their findings, Sam thinks the FBI should be looking at radar for any more helicopters and checking out smaller airports for anyone looking like Sinclair.

As Deeks has his final box packed, Nell arrives.  He promises “Mom” that he’s leaving, he loves her and hopes to see her at the bar that night.  Nell isn’t worried about that.  She’s done all she could to keep him with the team but it is official.  The liaison position has been terminated permanently.  Hetty exhausted all her options too but this is an LAPD decision, not an NCIS decision.  Deeks keeps saying “right” as Nell speaks.

Deeks talks about going to FLETC even though he’d lose his LAPD pension and start at the bottom of the pay scale while he and Kensi are buying a house and trying to have a baby.  NCIS won’t take Deeks either – he’s aged out of being a trainee.  Deeks is hurt – he was a lawyer and spent 11-years working with NCIS, that should count for something.  Deeks is near tears and so is Nell.  She’s sorry but he assures her she’s fine.  He doesn’t want to make a big deal of this so just tell everyone.  As he walks out, he turns around and struggles to say he is going to miss NCIS and he thought they all did great work.  Nell agrees.  “Keep it up and make me proud,” Deeks says.  Nell tells him that he made them proud, “every day.”  It is a great scene in an otherwise terrible episode.

With the Boucher move a failure, Callen tells Kensi to say the escape charges will be dropped if Kessler tells everything now.  Kensi is giving him two minutes and then she’s leaving.  Callen can see Kessler in his cell – Kessler is banging on the plexiglass looking for Kensi.  Kessler offers Kensi a deal – he wants a two-minute phone call with an old friend and then he’ll tell her everything.  The old friend “goes by the unfortunate acronym of POTUS” which to Kessler sounds like ‘poet’ and ‘doofus’.   Kensi tell him that’s not happening.  Kessler disagrees – he knows the President, knew him before he was a congressman.  

Dropping Boucher back home, Callen asks if there is anything he can do.  Boucher would like to know when Kessler is released from prison.  All of Kessler’s victims will be notified upon his release, Callen will make sure she is on that list.  Boucher is sorry she couldn’t help – couldn’t help Callen, couldn’t help Kessler’s other victims.  Callen doesn’t say much but it is obvious he isn’t so sure.

Nell tells Kensi that POTUS remembers Kessler and is willing to give him two-minutes on a secure line if that is what it takes to find Sinclair.  There is to be no news of this call – the White House does not want every criminal in America to think they can speak to the President at will.  The Secret Service will have a secure satellite phone to the prison in 20-minutes.  

When Kensi sees Agent Monroe, Monroe makes it clear the Secret Service was never at the prison.  Monroe has the phone.  All the prisoners have been removed from the cell block, the cameras are off and only Monroe and her partner are going in to see Kessler.  Kessler starts up with Monroe but she’s having none of it.  Kessler gets his conversation with the President.

When the call is over, Kessler will only tell the information about Sinclair to Kensi.  Kessler does Kessler things which annoys Kensi.  He wants a map.  What good is the map if Sinclair flew out in a helicopter.  Kessler thinks the helicopter was a set up – it didn’t show up on radar and nobody at the nearby airports looks like Sinclair.  The helicopter’s purpose was to get the search called off.  Sinclair has six weeks of food and water – Kessler wants a map.

Kensi returns with an iPad with a map of the area.   Kessler orders her close to the plexiglass – it’s like they are going to kiss.  Kessler keeps talking about being in her head.  She just wants to know where Sinclair is.  He finds the spot on the map – a cave near a ravine.  “He’s inside.”  Kensi says goodbye.  “Until next time, my love.”  Kensi sends Sam and Roundtree the coordinates.  

At the cave, Sam and Roundtree fear losing the light if they wait for the FBI.  Sam yells federal agents and has he watched this show?  Everyone is shooting at each other.  Roundtree goes around the side to the entrance of the cave and after Sam puts down some fire, Roundtree throws in a flash-bang.  Sinclair is out of the cave.  Roundtree gets to tell Rudolph that they have Sinclair in custody.

The following morning, Deeks is walking Kensi to her car with the two quite unhappy about not working together.  They get a call from Fatima.  “For both of us?”  Kensi takes the call and Kensi is immediate told to hang on, Fatima is getting Callen.  “That’s not good,” according to Deeks.  

When a driving Callen joins the call, Fatima tells all that Kessler was released from prison eight hours earlier by a Presidential Executive Order for national security issues.  Deeks reminds everyone that Kessler promised to kill Kensi if he got out.  Callen orders Kensi and Deeks to a secured location before doing a U-turn.  Kensi and Deeks quickly drive to safety while Callen wants LAPD sent to Michelle Boucher’s house.

At Boucher’s house, several LAPD black and white vehicles are outside and in her driveway.  The house is empty, a neighbor saw her leave overnight with some luggage.  There is a BOLO for Boucher’s car.  Callen checks out the house – everything is tidy.  Sam is on comms, asking about Boucher.  He thinks Boucher ran after a call from Kessler saying he was free.  Callen disagrees – the bed was made the empty closets are neat, it doesn’t look like she left in a hurry.

Kensi on her cellphone, speaker on, asking if Boucher is gone.  Deeks is horrified by all this.

In a drawer, Callen finds a romantic 8x10 framed photo of Boucher with Kessler.  He tells the others about the photo – “they’re in love.”   Kensi can’t believe Boucher would keep a photo like that.  “She would if they were working together,” is Sam’s thoughts.  Callen realizes that Kessler was caught on purpose to leverage Sinclair’s threat to the President into a release.  NCIS gave Kessler a direct line to the White House and got him out of jail.  “And now he’s coming after Kensi,” Deeks reminds the group.

What head canon can be formed from here:  What a disappointment this episode was.  There is a really interesting story to tell about how young NCIS Agent Kensi Blye caught the eye of Hetty Lange.  Look at the others on the team – you have Callen with experience from all over the feds alphabet agencies, former SEAL Sam, really good at his job LAPD undercover officer Deeks as field agents.  Then you had Kensi who was fairly new to all this (and look how that worked out for Dom).  How did she catch Hetty’s (and Macy’s back in the day) eye?  Doing a TV-movie version of “Silence of the Lambs” with Kensi as Clarice isn’t it.  

The episode had the interesting scenes between racist Agent Rudolph, Sam and Roundtree – that deserved to be in a better episode.  So did Nell’s goodbye to Deeks.  By the way, do we think FBI Agent Rudolph was named after longtime most-wanted fugitive Eric Rudolph – the FBI wasn’t all that good on that real life case and Rudolph had ties to white supremacists.  

The iTunes description of the episode includes the line “Also though Eric is desperate to keep Kensi safe, he is forced to leave NCIS.”  No, Deeks, played by a guy named Eric, is forced to leave NCIS.”  

Episode number:  Episode 267 overall, five of season 12.

[xjoonchildx]

airplane, pt. 2 | jjk x reader chapter three: koreatown

pairing: jungkook/reader

word count: 3.4K rating: 18+

genre: smut | silly smut | nonsensical smut

warnings:  criminal!jungkook, koreanamerican!jungkook, reality has left the chat, plausibility has left the chat

A/N: so...as i’m turning this PWP into a P “with” P i actually had to add some plot lol. i really hope you guys like the direction this story is taking and i’m starting to feel a bit more confident about how it’s going to end. but please let me know what you think, hearing from you guys makes my day. i’d love to know if you think the plot is making any sense.  i mean, as much sense as a story about jungkook as a super hot criminal robber on the run with a federal agent lover could possibly make, ya know?

xoxo

Chapter 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06

artwork by the shmexy @ppersonna​ who’s smut is even better than her art

***********************

A postcard comes in the mail seven weeks after San Juan.

Colorful block letters urge you to VISIT BELIZE over decorative shots of the country’s beautiful beaches and most visited spots.

The only thing that appears to be written on the card is your address. You examine it dozens of times, looking from front to back for any other marking. You come up empty.

There is one unusual thing you notice, though.  

The postmark.  

Clearly written at the top: Los Angeles 90005.

There’s no way this card was mailed out of Belize and there’s very little chance Jungkook managed to get back inside the country without setting off a thousand alerts on your phone.  

You assume he must have routed it through his parents.

You’ve tried so damned hard these past few weeks not to think about what happened in Puerto Rico.  You’ve tried to forget the full-body shock you experienced when he asked you to play along with his absurd fantasy.  You tell yourself there’s no way he could possibly believe that you would go on the run with him.  

But then you remember the look on his face.

Seeing this postcard -- holding it in your hands -- makes San Juan real again. It’s not some bizarre fever dream you had or some figment of your imagination.  The emotions it dredges up are uncomfortable to confront. 

Is he in trouble? Is he asking for help? What are you supposed to do with this?

Logically, you know there’s nothing you can do.  

So you slip the card into your bedside drawer and file the information away in that part of your brain that seems to now be dedicated to thinking about Jungkook Jeon full-time. 

************************

Over the next few weeks, two more cards arrive.

Guatemala.

Honduras.

That fake passport Jungkook apparently managed to get his hands on seems to be getting a workout.

Each time a new card comes in the mail -- always postmarked out of LA, the knot in your stomach seems to loosen.  He’s still going. He’s not locked away somewhere.  

Not yet, anyway.

You try to remind yourself that he’s smart -- really, really smart. He has a knack for staying under the radar. His Spanish is probably pretty decent at this point. He’s making or finding enough money to stay on the move.

Maybe he’s got a plan. Maybe he’s figured something out.

But it’s hard to keep the anxiety at bay. You watch your phone like a hawk, waiting to see an email or text saying he’s been caught.  You spend every day waiting for the other shoe to drop.  

So the cards go into your drawer -- and you get up and get dressed and go into the office every day like you’re not secretly rooting for the criminal so many of your colleagues are looking for.

*************************

The other shoe finally drops when you bump into Agent Novak in the cafeteria one afternoon. 

Novak is one of those guys who looks like he’s straight out of central casting on a crime show.  He has the appearance of a boxy, overgrown boy.  Always dressed in a muted grey suit, always sporting a military-grade short haircut.  The only thing that stands out on his completely non-descript face is his big mouth.

And right now you should be very glad for his big, fat mouth.

“You hear about your boy Jeon?” he asks, while piling his plate high with mac and cheese.  The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end for a moment at the mere mention of Jungkook’s name.

You move down the buffet line next to Novak slowly, the sudden adrenaline rush making your limbs feel weak and loose.

“Jeon?” you ask with feigned nonchalance. “Courthouse Houdini?”

“That’s the one,” Novak says, dropping two huge pieces of fried chicken onto his plate.  “My buddy in the Marshals says they’re pretty close to bringing that asshole in,” he continues, adding some crinkle fries into the mix for good measure.

God, you hope he doesn’t have a heart attack before you get all the information you need. 

He needs a trough, not a plate.

“Well, it’s about time,” you reply carefully and you hope it sounds convincing.   “Where?”

“Central America,” he says, reaching down to his plate to start picking off the crinkle fries one-by-one.  “Guatemala or some shit.”

A chill runs up your spine when you think about those postcards in your drawer. 

They’re close. 

They could be there right now.  

He could be in handcuffs again right now.

“Hope they have better luck than I did keeping him nailed down,” you say, willing your voice and face to stay even.

“Oh trust me,” he says, talking around a mouthful of crinkle fry. “They’re going to teach that motherfucker a lesson when they get their hands on him.  He won’t be able to walk, much less run.”

You swallow against the bile rising in your throat.

“That’s what he gets, right?”

Novak nods, grabbing for a chicken finger. You cringe when he shoves it into his mouth. Tiny pieces of the breading stick to his lips and you fight the urge to gag. 

God, has he always been such a pig?

“Damn straight.”

****************************

You circle the block three times before you feel comfortable enough to park.  

The neighborhood is quiet and clean and solidly middle-class.  The house you are looking for is neat and well-kept, lawn trimmed and flower beds nicely maintained. It looks like a nice place to live.

You cut the ignition and take a deep breath.

You have to remind yourself that Jungkook is not Al fucking Capone and there’s no reason for the government to have around-the-clock surveillance on his family home.  You have to maintain a level head even under this insane set of circumstances.

You try not to think about how furious he would probably be if he knew you were here right now.  

Maybe someday he’ll understand why you’re doing this.

Maybe someday you’ll understand why you’re doing this.

You’d worked late at the office, preferring to make this move when the sun went down.  You’re glad for the cover of darkness when you step out of your car and knock on the front door at the Jeon family home.

“Can I help you?” 

You take a deep breath when Mr. Jeon opens the front door. He has the same kind, handsome face as Jungkook, only his is weathered with age and worry.  

“Mr. Jeon, I need to speak with you about your son.”

His eyes widen for a moment. He seems to pull back and assess the way you’re dressed, figures out you’re one of those government-types.

“I’ve already said everything I have to say on the matter,” he says shortly, moving to shut the door.

“Wait, please,” you say urgently.  “I’m trying to help him, I swear. I can explain if you let me in.”

He stops for a moment, levels you with a critical look.

“I think he’s in trouble,” you say quietly.

Mr. Jeon sighs heavily before opening the door wide and letting you in.  

“I’m sorry to turn up at your home like this,” you say, moving immediately across the living room to close the blinds on all the street-facing windows.  “But I’m not sure how much time I have.”

He watches in total silence but you can see he’s unnerved.

“I’m just...being cautious,” you explain, and he nods.

Once you’re satisfied no one can see inside, you start to calm down a bit.  Mr. Jeon offers you a seat on the living room couch.

“This is a very strange situation, I know,” you admit. 

He remains mute and still, waiting for you to cough up some kind of explanation. 

“Do you know who I am?” you ask.

“No.”

His response is clipped and severe and you really can’t blame him.

“Okay,” you say, blowing out a breath. “Yes, I am with the FBI. But I --” you pause for a moment, grasping for a way to explain this bizarre situation. “ -- I know Jungkook.  Personally.”

Intimately. Biblically, as they say.

“Okay,” he says cautiously.

“I need you to get in touch with him because I think he’s going to be arrested. Soon.”

Mr. Jeon rubs a hand across the back of his neck.

“I don’t know where he is.  And I can’t get in touch with him,” he admits.  “He doesn’t want us to know where he is because then you people will have something to hold over us.”

You wince at the venom in that statement.

A faint voice from another room calls out.

“Excuse me for a moment,” Mr. Jeon says. 

He leaves you alone on the couch in the family room.

You wipe your sweaty palms on your dress pants as you take a look around.  The decor is soft and welcoming, with a few nods to Korea in the artwork on the walls.  It looks like a nice place to grow up, you think. The thought helps calm you.

He reappears after a minute.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says apologetically.  “I would really prefer my wife not know about this. This situation has already caused her a lot of pain.”

“Of course -- I understand,” you say quietly. “So you have no way to contact him?”

“No.  Not directly.”

“Then I need to know how you contact him indirectly.  He’s been sending me postcards somehow. Do you know who could be sending me postcards from him?”

His face falls a bit.

“I shouldn’t say.  I’m not trying to get anyone else in trouble.”

You lean forward a bit, fix him with a look that you hope conveys just how sincere you are about trying to help.

“I don’t want anyone else to get in trouble, either. But if you don’t give me that name, I promise you Jungkook will be. Please.”

Mr. Jeon sighs.

*****************************

You pull the brim of your baseball cap low over your eyes and adjust your sunglasses before walking into Min’s Market.

The small, family-owned store is in one of Koreatown’s most populated neighborhoods. You keep your head low as you dodge people on the sidewalk to make your way inside. An electronic chime sounds when you walk in.

The only thing you see in your quick glance around the store is a young man behind the register. He stands when you make eye contact and you take that as the go-ahead to approach.

He’s not a large guy by any means, but he definitely gives off a do not fuck with me vibe.  You straighten your spine and get right to the point.

“Are you Yoongi?”

“Nope.”

He’s lying, of course.  His eyes are narrowed at you beneath long black fringe bangs and you can’t blame his skepticism given the giant sunglasses and the hat and the workout clothes you’re hiding under.  You look like you’re trying way too hard not to be noticed.

“I need to talk to you about Jungkook,” you say anyway.

“Never heard of him.”

Okay, not entirely unexpected.  You’d come prepared for the possibility that he wouldn’t want to play ball.

You reach into your bag and pull out the postcards, drop them on the counter in front of him.

“You’ve been sending me these,” you say firmly. “And we need to talk.”

******************************

Yoongi takes you to the tiny office tucked into the back of Min’s Market.  The space is cluttered with invoices and notes written in Hangul.  There’s a monitor display where he can watch the surveillance cameras at the front of the store.

He motions for you to take a seat on the one small chair he has and opts to lean against the office desk, arms crossed.

“So you’re Carver Street, huh?”

You take your sunglasses off so you can look him in the eye.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re… a Fed.”

He delivers that line with a cynical twist to his mouth that makes you feel self-conscious.

“Yeah.”

“Shit’s wild,” he says, more to himself than to you.

“Yeah, wild,” you exhale nervously. “Look, I’m sure you don’t want to be involved here any more than you already are, so I’ll just come out with it,” you say.  “I need to get in touch with Jungkook.”

Yoongi rolls his eyes.  

“Look, I don’t know you, okay? Maybe he does, but I don’t.  And I’m not trying to be an asshole here, but I’m not going to give you that information.”

You rub at the corners of your temples with your fingers.

“You know he’s been reaching out to me. You know he trusts me.”

Yoongi snickers.

“We haven’t exactly had the chance to catch up over beers since this whole mess started.  The only thing I know for sure is that he wants you to get those postcards,” he says.

“Okay, okay, you’re right,” you concede.  “I’m pretty sure he’s in Honduras right now.  And I need you to reach him as fast as you can. Because they are closing in on him and I don’t know how long he’s got.”

Yoongi shoves a hand through his hair.

“Okay.  I’ll tell him.”

“How fast can you reach him?”

“Look, I said I’ll tell him, okay?”

You tell yourself to relax before you scare Yoongi off entirely.  It looks like his patience with you is already worn thin.

“Okay.  Please tell him to try to get to Nicaragua,” you say, careful to keep the agitation from creeping back into your voice.  “They have a history of denying extradition requests to the U.S.  It could buy us some time to figure out what to do.”

“Us?” 

Yoongi quirks an eyebrow at you, the corners of his mouth lifting in a barely-concealed look of astonishment. You feel the blush that spreads across your face all the way to the tips of your ears.

“Him,” you correct yourself awkwardly, “it could buy him some time to figure out what to do.”

He grabs a pen and scribbles on a sheet of paper on the desk.

“Nicaragua, okay. Got it.”

“And please -- if you can -- get him this,” you say, handing Yoongi your own slip of paper with a number written on it.  “It’s a burner.  In case he needs to get in touch.”

Yoongi takes the number from you and nods.

“Alright.”

You stand to leave, knowing you’ve taken as much of his time as you’re allowed.  

“One more thing and I promise you’ll never hear from me again,” you say, pointing to the monitor inside the office.

“Delete that,” you say. “Please.”

*************************************

You dig around in your cabinet until you find the wine glass you’re looking for -- the huge one -- and then you reach into the fridge for what’s left of your Sauvignon Blanc and dump it into that glass.

Nothing to do now but hope he gets the message in time.  

Nothing to do now but watch your work phone and see if he’s been arrested.

Nothing to do now but watch your burner phone to see if he’s contacted you.

It’s time to admit your nerves are shot.  Weeks of heightened anxiety are taking its toll and the past two days have felt like a marathon.  

You run a bath -- make sure the water is close to painfully hot before you sink into the tub.  Your body feels exhausted but your mind is still racing like you’ve shotgunned a cup of coffee.  

You lean your head back against the ledge of the bath and take a long drink of the wine.

What if he makes it to Nicaragua? What does that even mean? You buy a few more weeks of the same on-the-run bullshit and for what? 

What is the end game here? And for that matter why on earth are you doing any of this?

You barely know this man.  And now it’s starting to feel like you barely know yourself.

Your fingers and toes are pruny and the water is lukewarm at best when you finally crawl out of the tub.  You down the rest of your wine, throw a soft t-shirt on and fall into the bed.

All night you toss and turn and when you finally wake it’s like you never slept at all.

****************************

It’s a few days before you see Novak again.  

You happen to overhear his obnoxiously loud laugh just outside your office and your entire body jolts to attention.  

You jump up from your desk and peer outside.

Novak is busy chatting up a woman who works a few spaces down, no doubt boring her with unwanted banter about his weekend.  He happens to look up and you motion for him to come over. 

“Hey, yeah, I’ll be right there,” he says, and you head back to your desk on leaden legs.

Maybe he knows something, maybe he doesn’t.  

You’ve got to figure out how to walk the line between interested in the search for Jungkook but not too interested. Thankfully, Novak doesn’t strike you as the type to pick up on the subtleties of most interactions.  If he was, he’d stop bugging that woman right away.

He knocks loudly on your open door when he finally makes his way over.

“Hey,” he grins widely. “What’s up?”

“Hey,” you smile back, feeling a cold panic spread across your chest.  Maybe you’re not ready to hear what he has to say. 

“I was wondering if your buddies ever caught up to Jeon.”

“Man listen,” Novak says, helping himself to a chair. “You are not going to believe this shit.”

Your fingernails grip your legs underneath the desk, dig painfully into the skin just above your knees through the thin fabric of your pants.

“Did he...get away, again?” you ask, desperate to keep a note of hope out of your voice.

“Yup,” Novak confirms.  “Piece of shit cleared out by the time the Marshals they sent down there managed to get to where he was. Some place in Honduras or something.”

Novak shakes his head.

“My buddies are sick of looking for his ass at this point. At some point they’ve got to call it off, right?”

You can barely register a thing he’s saying because oh my god he made it out.

“Wow,” you manage, trying to appear appropriately sympathetic and outraged. “That’s unbelievable.”

“Yeah so,” Novak says, “back to the drawing board on that one, I guess.”

You’re forced to sit through a few more minutes of his blabber and small talk but all you can think about is Jungkook making it out in time.  All you can think about is getting back to your house and to that burner phone.

When Novak finally stands to leave, you nearly sigh out loud with relief.

“Hey, good luck to your buddies, yeah?  That’s got to be pretty frustrating,” you say, walking him out the door. 

“Yeah, I’ll pass the message along,” he says. “I’m sure you’re just as ready as they are to see this guy get what he deserves.”

You smile weakly.

“Oh, definitely.”

***************************

You make a beeline for the ladies room and walk right into a stall.  

Once inside, you drop the seat lid and sit on top, desperate for just one moment to be alone with your thoughts.

He made it out.  He’s not in custody.  Maybe there’s a way to fix this entire mess.

Then you fall apart. 

You’ve reached the limit of what you can handle without some kind of emotional release.  The panic and the anxiety and the relief and the hope come together and boil over inside you.

The tears start coming and they don’t stop. 

You have to flush the toilet three times to cover the sound of your sobs.

***************************

You race home from the office and practically dive for the burner phone in your nightstand.  The entire drive back, you’ve told yourself not to expect a message.

It’s entirely possible he doesn’t want to contact you.  

It’s entirely possible that he doesn’t have anything to say to you after the way you left things in San Juan.  You tell yourself to be ready to see absolutely nothing when you check the burner.

But when you do unlock the phone, you find a waiting text.  You steel yourself for what he has to say.

nicaragua is boring [ 3:15 PM ]

send nudes [ 3:15 PM ]

You laugh.  

You laugh for so hard and so long your tears gather in the corner of your eyes.  You laugh until your sides start to hurt from the absolute absurdity.  

It’s so him that you have to laugh.

That night, when you fall into bed you sleep an inky black sleep, without dreams or interruptions.  

It’s the best rest you’ve gotten in weeks.

************************

[brookecuzyes]

The Captain’s Kid —

E.2: The Star-Spangled Man (Part 2)

The Falcon and The Winter Soldier Fanfic

Main Masterlist — TCK Masterlist

Summary: We think of the after-life as a peaceful place. A place where there are no worries. When a girl comes back from the dead, so to speak, she has to find a new place in society— which ends up with her becoming a superhero. She’s been trained for the worst, but nothing could’ve prepared her for the things she was going to endure.

Word Count: ≈3.5k

Warnings: a little cursing, racial bias

———————————————————————-

Three knocks could’ve been a delivery. A whistle indicated a rebellious group. The door opened with a small creak. The person behind the door unlocked the lock which held chains together so no one could get in. The girl who knocked on the door, Karli, stepped back while the person opened it all of the way. She and her group walked into the building without a word, while the person looked around and closed the door, locking it immediately.

“You must be famished.”

“Very hungry,” one replied, everyone unanimously agreeing.

“Okay. My wife and I cooked. It’s an old family recipe made with the finest chicken livers. Please serve yourselves. Anything you want. Anything. You ask me.” The group walked over to a table that held containers of the dinner the couple had cooked. “There is some coffee here and some crackers. Uh, anything we can do for the cause. Please follow me.” He started walking and talking.

“You’re becoming a bit of a legend. I hear more and more people talk about the freedom fighters who are pushing back.” He turned to Karli. “They call you Robin Hood. Every day, more people love you. You’ll find refuge wherever you go.” He opened a door which led to a small room, letting everyone in.

“My wife and I made this just for you. Everything is completely clean. She made it nice and cozy.” The group was starting to settle in, saying their thank you’s to the man, when Karli’s phone went off.

You took what was mine.

I’m going to find you and kill you.

One guy walked over to the computers to see the news on them. “Shit,” he said. “They’re already looking for us. I’m wiping out aliases off any public traffic sites now.”

“Karli, we can’t stay here for long,” said Lennox, another one of the soldiers. “Six years ago, would you have imagined people supporting a cause like this?”

“We’re not playing no more,” she responded. “We can’t let the same assholes who were put back in power after The Blip win. The GRC cares more about the people who came back than the ones who never left. We got a glimpse of how things could be. I need to know that you’re all committed, because after tomorrow, there’s no going back.”

“Yeah,” said Matias, after a few seconds. “One world.”

“One people,” replied everyone else.

“One world.”

“One people.”

“One world!”

“One people!”

——

Back on the plane, Sam was laying across the seats, Alyxandria was leaned back in a chair with her head thrown back, and James was sitting on a small cargo box (the same box Alyx and Torres was using earlier) and was just staring off into space in deep thought.

Sam looked at James and noticed his face. “You all right?” he asked softly. After a moment, he responded quietly.

“Let’s take the shield. Let’s take the shield and do this ourselves.”

“We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up and take it,” Sam replied, sitting up. “You remember what happened the last time we stole it?”

“Maybe.”

“You stole the shield?” Alyx asked.

“Yeah. Seems like James forgot, though. Let me help you out: Sharon was branded enemy of the state, and Steve and I were on the run for two years.”

“Oh, shit,” she muttered.

“I don’t know about you,” Sam continued, “but I don’t wanna live the rest of my life la vida loca. We just had our asses handed to us by Super Soldiers, and we got nothing.”

“Not entirely true,” Bucky responded. He hopped off of the box and walked over to sit a few seats away from Sam. “There is someone that you should meet.”

In a few hours, they landed in Baltimore, Maryland. The trio was walking down the street— in the middle of the street— to get to this person's house. There were two kids sitting on the sidewalk and they were excited when they saw Sam

“Hey, it’s Black Falcon!” The kid exclaimed.

“It’s just Falcon, kid,” he replied.

“No, no. My daddy told me it’s Black Falcon.” Sam stopped walking to converse with this kid but James continued walking.

“Is it because I’m Black and I’m the Falcon?”

“Well, technically, I mean, yes.”

“So are you, like, Black kid?” The kid threw a look and his friend started laughing.

Sam chuckled. “I got him, right,” he said to the kid laughing. The other kid blew him off saying, “Whatever, man.” Sam couldn’t stop laughing.

He caught up with James and Alyxandria who were on the steps of the patio. James knocked on the metal door, and it made a loud rattling noise. A teenage boy opened the door and inspected the three.

“We’re here to see Isiah,” James said.

“Nobody named Isiah live here,” the kid replied. James sighed.

“Look, we just want to talk to him.”

“You must not hear what I just said. You ain’t getting in this house. Y’all can leave now.”

“Tell him the guy from the bar in Goyang is here. He’s gonna know what that means.”

The kid took a minute before responding back. “Alright, wait here.”

“Nice kid. How do you know this guy?” Sam asked after the teen closed the door.

“I used to. We had a skirmish during the Korean War.”

“I feel like this is more than some skirmish,” Alyxandria added. James looked at her as the door opened again. He just gave her his stare and started walking in. The three walked in together.

“Today’s your lucky day,” the boy said. “He said he wanna see for himself.” They didn’t say anything, until James started talking.

“Isiah?”

“Look at you,” Isiah said.

“This is, uh, Sam and Alyxandria. Sam and Alyx, this is Isiah. He was a hero,” James explained. “One of the ones that HYDRA feared the most. Like Steve. We met in ‘51.”

“If by met, you mean I whupped your ass, then, yeah. We heard whispers he was on the peninsula, but everyone they sent after him never came back. So, the U.S. military dropped me behind the line to go deal with him. I took half that metal arm in that fight in Goyang, but I see he’s managed to grow it back. I just wanted to see if he got the arm back. Or if he’d come to kill me.”

“I’m not a killer anymore,” James replied. Isiah looked at him like he was crazy.

“You think you can wake up one day and decide who you wanna be?” he asked. “It doesn’t work like that. Well, maybe it does for folks like you.”

“Isiah, the reason we’re here is because there’s more of you and me out there.” Said James.

“You and me,” Isiah repeated.

“And we need to know how.”

“I’m not gonna talk about it anymore,” Isiah said harshly. He picked up a small metal container and threw it. It got stuck in the wall and made a loud noise while doing so. The boy looked upset. Sam and Alyxandria were looking at the container in the wall, while James was looking at the ground. Isiah started walking up to him and started talking.

“You know what they did to me for being a hero?” He asked. “They put my ass in jail for 30 years. People running tests, taking my blood, coming into my cell. Even your people weren’t done with me.”

Sam looked upset, in a way. “Isiah,” he said, but was cut off by him.

“Get out of my house!” He yelled. James turned around to start leaving and Sam was still looking at Isiah. The boy came up to him and said, “Let’s go, man, let’s go.” Alyxandria followed behind James, not sure what to think about all of this.

Sam was walking quickly down the stairs.

“Sam,” James said, but Sam cut him off.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Isiah? How could nobody bring him up?” He was mad. Alyxandria hadn’t seen this side of him before. They all walked back to the street and were walking side-by-side. James didn’t respond.

“I asked you a question, Bucky,”

“I know.”

“Steve didn’t know about him?”

“He didn’t. I didn’t tell him.” They stopped walking. Sam and James were standing across from each other and Alyxandria was standing on either side— in the middle, almost.

“So you’re telling me that there was a Black Super Soldier decades ago and nobody knew about it?” James didn’t respond and just stared at him. A police car approached them and let their siren go off for a second. Everyone turned their attention to the car.

“Hey,” an officer said, getting out of his car.

“What’s up, man?” Sam asked. He still sounded pissed, and this wasn’t helping matters.

“Is there a problem here,” a second officer asked.

“No, we’re just talking.” Sam replied.

“There’s no problem,” Alyxandria said.

“We’re fine,” James added. The officers walked closer to the three.

“Can I see your ID?”

“I don’t have ID. Why?” Sam asked.

“Okay, sir, just calm down.”

“I am calm. What do you want? We’re just talking.”

“Just give him your ID so we can leave,” James said.

“James, no. What have we done?” She told him, siding with Sam.

“Thank you, Alyx. I’m not giving them shit. We’re just talking!”

“Hey, hey. Is he bothering you two?” The officer asked.

“What- no!” Alyxandria exclaimed.

“No, he’s not bothering me. Do you know who this is?” James said, harshly. The other officer went up to his partner and whispered, ‘Hey, these guys are Avengers.’ The officer looked at him and went wide-eyed.

“Oh, God, I am so sorry, Mr. Wilson,” he apologized. I didn’t recognize you without the goggles.” Sam looked disappointed. “I’m really, really sorry about this.” James gave the same disappointed look when another cop car pulled up. “Guys,” the officer sighed, “just wait here, okay?” He walked away back to his car, his partner following along.

“I didn’t… I didn’t tell anybody because he had already been through enough,” James said to Sam, finally answering his question. Sam and Alyxandria just looked at him. Sam was pissed, Alyx was silently observing the situation. Sam shook his head when the officer came back.

“Mr. Barnes,” he said. “There’s a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Look, the president pardoned him for all that,” Sam explained.

“Not for that. You missed your court-mandated therapy. It’s like missing a check-in with your PO.” James just sighed. He knew. “I’m sorry, Mr. Barnes, you’re under arrest.” James complied with the officers, letting them take him. Sam and Alyx watched as they put him in cuffs. Sam continued to stare at him and didn’t say a word as the car started driving off. Sam looked back at Isiah’s house before walking off. Alyxandria followed him.

“Hey, Sam,” she said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” He responded, keeping his eyes in front of him. Alyx turned her head away from him, catching the mood.

“Sorry, I’m just… pissed. That’s all,” he said after a moment. He stopped walking and put his hand on Alyx’s arm. “Don’t let me take it out on you.” She nodded and gave him a sad smile.

“Where are we going?” She asked.

“Getting Bucky. I don’t want to, but it’s the right thing to do.” Alyx chuckled at the statement, Sam too. They started walking again and Sam put his arm over Alyx. She rested her head on his shoulder, thinking about everything.

“Let’s not make this a regular thing,” Alyxandria suggested. Sam smiled and chuckled.

——

They arrived at the police department and sat down, waiting for James to be released, when someone came up to them.

“Sam and Alyxandria. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Raynor. I’m James’ therapist,” Raynor introduced herself. The two sat up and Sam was the first to get up and shake her hand.

“So nice to meet you. Thank you for getting him out,” he said.

“That was not me,” she replied.

“Christina!” Someone called out. Sam and Alyxandria turned their heads to be met with John Walker. “It’s great to see you again.” Alyxandria groaned, putting her forehead on Sam’s shoulder— she didn’t want to look at the man.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Sam said. “You know him?”

“Yeah, we did some field ops back in the day,” she responded.

“I hear you were working with Bucky, so I thought I’d step in,” Walker explained. “Bucky’s not gonna be following a strict schedule any longer.” Alyxandria, by that point, had lifted up her head.

“We haven’t finished our work. Who authorized this?” Dr. Raynor asked.

“Um…” Walker said, then pointed at himself. A buzzer went off and a door opened. Alyxandria looked over and saw James walking out of the doorway. “He’s too valuable of an asset to have tied up. Just do whatever you got to do with him, then send him off to me. Got some unfinished business, him and I. You guys, too.” He walked away saying, “I’ll be outside.” Sam stared at him, and Alyxandria scoffed.

Unfinished business…

“James, condition of your release, session now. You too, Sam,” Raynor announced. She started walking to the corridor James walked out of.

“That’s okay, I’ll be out here with-“ he started, but was interrupted by Raynor.

“That wasn’t a request!”

“What about Alyx,” James asked.

“Rogers, you don’t have to come,” Dr. Raynor said.

“This isn’t fair,” Sam complained.

“It’s not my fault I’m the only functional one here,” she teased, turning around and walking out of the building. Sam glared at her before walking towards the corridor Raynor and James went through.

When Alyxandria walked outside, the first thought that crossed her mind was that she was going to sit out there for thirty or so minutes, waiting for the guys to finish their little therapy session. However, she was met with a different fate.

“Miss Rogers!” someone called out. She looked around and recognized two faces that she didn’t want to: John Walker and Lemar Hoskins. She reluctantly walked over to them, giving them a small smile.

“It’s Lieutenant Rogers, Captain,” she corrected, putting emphasis on ‘Captain’.

“My bad, didn’t know you were keeping the rank,” Walker responded, leaning up against the police car they were standing next to.

“Tell me a bit of what you got on these guys,” Alyxandria asked, stopping in front of the two.

——

“You guys are leaving me with no choice. It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.”

“I like this better,” James said.

“Oh, God. He’s gonna love this,” Sam added. Their voices soon started overlapping each other, while the guys moved their chairs to face each other.

“You should really do this,” Sam said.

“I'm going to,” James responded matter-of-factly.

“Get close,” Raynor directed.

“This is a good exercise. Thanks, Doc,” James thanked.

“Alright, get close,” she said again. The guys scooted their chairs up, where their knees were touching. “Come on, a little closer.” They started to scoot up but stopped half-way.

“Which way you want to go?” James asked, moving his hand from left to right.

“Why’re your legs open?”

“Right or left?”

“You know what?” Sam said, moving his knee in between James’ legs. “Fine. Here. You happy now?” He pulled James’ chair closer to him. “We’re locked in.”

“That’s a little close,” James exclaimed.

“Very. That’s what you wanted, right?”

“Now, look at each other. You need to look at each other in the eyes.” Both guys started looking at each other. “There, you see? That wasn’t so hard.” The guys weren’t breaking eye contact. They weren’t blinking. Dr. Raynor caught on

“Wait, what’re you doing? Are you having a staring contest?” Sam’s eyes twitched a little bit. “Just blink,” she said, snapping her fingers together in between their faces, making them blink. “Sweet Jesus. Alright, James, why does Sam aggravate you?” James turned and smiled. “And don’t say something childish.” He hung his head and thought for a second.

“Why did you give up that shield?”

“Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?”

“Steve believed in you. He trusted you. He gave you that shield for a reason. That shield, that is… that is everything he stood for. That is his legacy. Alyx can tell you, she’d know. Steve was her dad. He gave you that shield, and you threw it away like it was nothing.”

“Shut up,” Sam replied.

“So maybe he was wrong about you. And if he was wrong about you, then he was wrong about me.” James’ voice trembled at the end. Sam just stared at him.

“You finished,” Sam asked. James replied with a quiet, ‘yeah.’ “All right, good. Maybe this is something you, Alyx, or Steve will never understand. But can you accept that I did what I thought was right? You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this. We have some real serious shit going on. So, how about this; I will squash it right now. We go deal with that, and, when we’re done, we both can go on separate, long vacations, and never see each other again.”

“I like that,” James responded.

“Great. Well, let’s get to work. Thanks, Doc, for making it weird. I feel much better. I’ll see you two outside.” He finished, standing up and giving James a harsh pat on his shoulder.

“Thank you!” Dr. Raynor said. “That was… really great.” After Sam walked out the door, James got up from his chair and started towards the door before Raynor continued speaking.

“I know that look, what’s wrong?”

“What was rule number two, again?” He asked.

“Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Goodbye, Doc,” he replied, waking out of the room.

Sam and James walked out of the police department together in what started out in silence before Sam made a comment.

“Well, I feel better,” he said.

“I feel awful,” James replied when a siren and its lights went off. Sam and James looked over to see what was happening, and saw John Walker messing with the cop car. They saw Hoskins next to him, and Alyxandria leaning on the car next to John.

“Gentlemen!” Walker cakes out to the guys. They started walking over. “Good to see you again.” No words eeee said to him.

“Look,” he continued, “if we divide ourselves, we don’t stand a chance— you guys know that.”

“So, what do you got?” Sam asked. He stood in front of Walker, and James went over to the end of the hood to lean his arm against.

“Well, the leader’s name is Karli Morgenthau,” Alyxandria started.

“We’ve been targeting civilians who’ve been helping Karli move from place to place,” John said.

“They geotagged a location, then scrambled the signal,” Lemar explained. “But our satellites have found their symbol popping up in various displaced communities all across Central and Eastern Europe.”

“We think that she’s taking the medicine she just stole to one of these camps,” Walker finished off.

“Well, there are hundreds of those all over the planet since The Blip. So, I guess you’ll have to look real hard,” James taunted— at least, that’s how it came off.

“Good thing I have 20/20 vision, huh?” Walker shot back.

“Where is she now, Walker? Do you know?” James asked, raising his voice.

“No, we don’t know, Bucky,” Walker responded, also raising his voice. Alyx looked at him funnily. “But, it’s only a matter of time before we find out.”

“Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker?” Alyxandria got off of the car and moved so she could face everyone.

“Take it easy,” Sam told him. “Look, Walker’s right. It is imperative that we find them and stop them. But you guys have rules of engagement, and all kinds of authorizations you have to get. We’re free agents. We’re more flexible. So it wouldn’t make sense for us to work with you.” Sam and James started walking off and Alyxandria took one last look at John and Lemar before following.

“A word of advice, then,” Walker said, stopping the trip for a second. “Stay the hell out of my way.” The two walked off dramatically. Sam, James, and Alyx were watching them leave, but turned back to go do their own thing.

“Asshole,” James mumbled under his breath.

“So, what are you thinking?” Sam asked James after walking for awhile.

“Well, I know what we gotta do,” he responded. “When Isiah said, “my people”…”

“Oh, don’t take that to heart. That’s not what he meant.”

“No, he meant HYDRA. HYDRA used to be my people,” James explained. Sam scoffed.

“Not a chance,” he said.

“Walker doesn’t have any leads.”

“I know where you’re going with this, no.”

“He knows all of HYDRA’s secrets. Don’t you remember Siberia?”

“So, you’re just gonna go sit in a room with this guy?” Sam asked.

“Yes,” James replied, hesitantly.

“Wait, what’s happening?” Alyxandria asked.

“We’re gonna pay a visit to someone,” Sam said, stopping on the sidewalk.

“Who?”

“We’re gonna go see Zemo.”

———————————————————————-6/25/21

[rosesvioletshardy]

can we do it? - billy/four - chapter 3

chapter 3 is here and i’m surprised i’m still writing this story despite y’all don’t really read it (not really begging you guys to do so but it’s your choice) but it keeps me sort of busy until i get called into work and start school.

also this isn’t edited btw

summary: one team, seven people, two lovers, things are about to get crazy and zero and four don’t know if they can do it with everything that is going on

masterlist

# of words: 2,246

warnings: angst?, language, fluff?

taglist: (message or inbox me if you want to be tagged)

The next few days were a blur for everyone. Seven has officially met everyone but questioned as to why there were only six of them instead of eight and why they skipped six. Zero did the part and explained it to him despite One wanting her not to tell him and everyone could still see that she was grieving. One gave Four a talk about him and Zero and he felt more guilt than he could imagine. He didn’t know that One had practically forced her to say that they were only friends but even then she still wouldn’t talk to him. Not after the way he treated her. It was his turn with Seven to talk about what they do and talk about One. They were sitting in another trailer that wasn’t really occupied that he used to watch his shows that were filled with dvds with Wally the dog and the Beaver show One loved so much playing in the background. Four was sitting in a chair throwing random cds after seeing what they were as Seven asked him a question.

“Hey, what do you know about One?”

“Well, for starters, he loves Wally the dog. He’s obsessed with this beaver show. I think he’s an orphan now that I come to it actually. We got a little bet on it if you want to put some money in. He really got rid of every evidence about his existence that even Zero can’t find, but I think she knows.” he told him

“This is an interesting crew you got here, bro. How many missions have you guys run?”  he asked

“Counting Florence? Uh, one.” 

“One what?” Seven asked eyeing him confused

“Actually, no, there was, um this, like, mini-mission, so maybe one and a quarter. It was in Sicily. But Florence? Absolute shitshow. I mean, if I wasn’t there, probably more than one of us dead. That’s all I’m saying” four said turning to face him 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I don’t fuck around”

“You realize I just buried myself in front of my family and friends?” “Yeah, One told me about that. Big military funeral. Guns popping, flags. It was pretty cool. At my funeral, there were only five people there and two of them left before the end. It is tough watching your mum cry at your grave. I feel like mine is still cursing at my grave for it. Love that woman, I do miss her, but you get over it. Anyways, this mission. I got a good feeling. I got a really good feeling about this mission.” Four said with a proud smile

“Yeah. how come you can’t find this guy?” Seven asked looking at a picture of Rovach’s brother

“I don’t know. Zero can usually find anyone but she’s been off since the last mission and isn’t in the right headspace for it. I tried telling her to take a break but she isn’t listening. To me or the advice. The only thing she said was that Americans caught him a few years back.”

“Americans?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Zero has something to do with it? Maybe Two as well, she has some sort of training that seems like it would tie into it.  Not sure but that’s all she said and won’t tell me anything else without One’s permission.” Four told him as seven went and sat next to him

“What’s going on between the two of you? Are you guys dating? Did you date in the past? What is it?”

Four didn’t know how to answer the question because he still wasn’t over his feelings for her and neither was she but the two couldn’t be together and she wasn’t listening or talking to him. He sat there quietly as he tried to figure out something to say. 

“Well, there isn’t anything going on between us because One has this rule that none of us can hook up and if we do, it basically has to be if we are undercover, with someone else,  and it’s the last thing we need to do.” “But what about two and three? They seem like they’re hooking up.”

“Yeah I don’t know why he’s all up in our business when he should be paying attention to them but I think it has to do with the fact that we almost kissed and I guess he saw us. Which is really creepy if you think about it now. Also, maybe because he sees her as a little sister and he doesn’t want to get hurt again.” he said before finishing what he was talking about Rovach’s brother

“Back to what I was saying. The Americans caught him years back and gave him to his brother. The bald looking fella. You like him though, One?

“I mean, I guess I didn't really get to know him that much and we mainly talked about me. Feel like he was an asshole when he was younger.” Seven told him

 “Yeah he's definitely an asshole, but a likable asshole, no?”

“No.”

“Well, out of all of us, probably likes you the most.” four said

“What about Zero? She seems to be on his good side and close to him”

“Yeah she was the first one recruited and knows most of her past. Thinks of her like a little sister. They’re like twins but not twins. They’re both good at hiding their trails and finding people and all that. From what I’ve heard they actually had a run with each other when she used his tech to find out all this stuff on American politicians that almost got her arrested before all of this. They both realized how helpful this stuff is since the government doesn't help anyone.”

 One knew all about her past and he wondered if that was why he didn’t want someone like her to be with someone like Four but he didn’t tell either one of them that to make sure there wasn’t going to be drama between them.

“So you guys aren’t together? Even going behind his back and trying to secretly date?”

“No it’s too risky mate, and plus she said she only sees me as a brother and a friend”

“Damn. I haven't even known you guys a whole week and I think the two of you would’ve actually been good together.”

As they continued to talk, Zero walked past them and overheard the last of their conversation and how Seven liked her and Four together. It made her a little red until she remembered what One said and she continued to walk to where she was going. 

They haven’t done much besides try and figure out where the four generals were and figure out a plan as to who was going to get the information out of them. Deciding it should be Three and Two since they have the most training and are more qualified for it they got everything ready. Four and Zero have started to talk again and are slowly reforming the friendship they had before. He tried to make it look like he wasn’t hurt by the fact that the first person he liked didn’t like him back and that he wasn’t threatened about dating her. 

The day of the mission had everyone feeling nervous. Even though they had gone over everything they still felt like something was bound to go wrong like what happened in Florence. They had packed up everything they were going to need while in  Las Vegas after finding out who is in charge of handing off Rovach’s brother. After gathering in their “Batcave”, Zero started to list off everything that was going to happen when they get there and how they all needed to be careful

“Listen, there are pretty much cameras covering every single inch of Las Vegas. You have to be careful about what or who you decide to go as or else they’ll have your face plastered on the news within the minute. Rovach set the four generals up in the penthouse and there’s going to a party, so be careful of who you injure.” zero told them

“Don’t worry, I used to be a hitman. I got this.” Three told her as he started packing everything

“Didn’t you almost shoot Four before Florence?” Five asked smirking remembering the memory

“Nearly took my ear out. Couldn’t hear anything out of the left ear for almost a week” Four grumbled

“I paid you back with the spaghetti carbonara and the many beers.” 

The rest of the group couldn’t help but smile and laugh while One let out a sigh at the group he had created and how they were acting like children. 

“This means that you can’t fuck up and you have to choose wisely. Even though she’s going to be staying, Zero is going to keep an eye on all three of us at all times and stay in communication with us. Who knows what they’re going to do while they're there.”

“Please I’m a grown man. I can handle my shit. I know what i’m going to be though”

“Don’t think that’s how the expression goes. Don’t handle you shit, flush it down the toilet like a grown ass man. You have to disappear. One more thing, just because all three of us are going to be doesn’t mean any of you can do shit.” One said mainly aiming at Zero and Four as their eyes darted each other for a split second

Now, we’re done. Leave and get ready.” He finished

The rest of the night was just them getting everything prepared as Zero made sure every form of communication was connected to each other was hooked up with one another and her computers. The group disbanded and went their separate ways back to their trailers before Four stopped in his tracks wanting to talk to Zero. He waited until everyone had left the room before he talked to her. Why he wanted to talk to her was so he can make amends but he didn’t know if she would talk to him or even want to be alone with him so he decided he wasn’t going to do anything and left her alone. Before he left, he took one last look at her and the way she was focused on getting everything set up. Yeah, he knew people as quick and smart as her, but he never has met anyone who was just as kind as her and would rather deal with other people’s problems rather than take on her own. She has been like that since she was a child, always had this maternal instinct to make sure everyone’s needs were put first. Maybe that was why she was so reserved and didn’t talk much of her own life that night and she made sure he didn’t feel uncomfortable when talking about his past life. Rather than hanging out with the crowds and going to parties throughout high school and college all the time, she would focus on her studies, only going every now and then. 

Gathering up her stuff and the papers she had, but stopped as soon as she saw Four turn around and she didn’t stop him in time as he skated off back to his trailer. She let out a sigh and walked back to hers. It took her awhile to get adjusted to her new life and she still wasn’t used to how they lived. They had everything they could’ve asked for, yet it still didn’t feel like home for her no matter how many things she had with her from her past life. Turning on her music and getting ready for a bath to relax, she heard a knock on the door interrupting her quiet time. Setting everything down on the sink, she went back to the front. Opening the door she saw Four standing there with his hood up and hands in his pockets waiting.

“Hey”

“Hi”

The two stood there awkwardly for a few seconds before she remembered to invite him in instead of standing outside.

“I’m sorry, please come in.” she gestured moving out of the way letting Four step in. He looked around her place and noticed everything she talked about with him about herself and from what he saw that one time looked like everything she’d described. Vinyls were neatly stacked, fairy lights were hung all across, monitors that covered one corner of the room, and pictures of family and friends everywhere. He thought it felt right for her and more her style. The two of them walked over to her bed and sat down in quiet for what felt like forever before Four spoke up.

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what? You didn’t do anything wro-” she tried to tell him before getting interrupted by him

“Yes I did. I treated you like shit even by not talking to you and just overall being me” he said

“But you didn’t do anything wrong. If anything, it’s my fault I'm the one who had to hide away their true feelings and then forced to say something I didn’t want to say.”

“Zero please, cut the b-” Four started to say before he felt lips on top of his. 

At first, he was shocked until he loosened up and kissed her back. Their lips began to move together in sync as his hands moved to cup her face as hers snaked around his neck.

[greatworldwar2]

• Wilhelm Canaris

Wilhelm Franz Canaris was a German admiral and chief of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service, from 1935 to 1944.

Canaris was born on January 1st, 1887 in Aplerbeck (now a part of Dortmund) in Westphalia, the son of Carl Canaris, a wealthy industrialist, and his wife, Auguste. Canaris believed that his family was related to the 19th century Greek admiral and politician Constantine Kanaris, a belief that influenced his decision to join the Imperial German Navy. However, according to Richard Bassett, a genealogical investigation in 1938 revealed that his family was actually of Northern Italian descent, originally called Canarisi, and had lived in Germany since the 17th century. In 1905, at the age of eighteen, Canaris joined the Imperial Navy and by the outbreak of the First World War in 1914 was serving as an intelligence officer on board the SMS Dresden, a light cruiser he had been assigned to in December 1911.

After the Battle of Más a Tierra, the immobilized Dresden anchored in Cumberland Bay, Robinson Crusoe Island and contacted Chile with regard to internment. While in the bay, Royal Navy ships approached and shelled the Dresden. The crew scuttled the ship. Most of the crew was interned in Chile in March 1915, but in August 1915, Canaris escaped by using his fluency in Spanish. On the way, he called at several ports, including Plymouth in Great Britain. Canaris was then given intelligence work as a result of having come to the attention of German naval intelligence. German plans to establish intelligence operations in the Mediterranean were under way and Canaris seemed a good fit for this role. After being assigned to the Inspectorate of Submarines by the Naval Staff in October 1916, he took up training for duty as a U-boat commander and graduated from Submarine School on 11 September 1917. Canaris spoke six languages with fluency, one of which was English. As a naval officer of the old school, he had great respect for Great Britain's Royal Navy, despite the rivalry between the two nations.

During the German Revolution of 1918–19, Canaris helped organise the formation of Freikorps paramilitary units in order to suppress the Communist revolutionary movements that were attempting to spread the ideals of the Russian Revolution into central European nations. Also during this period, he was appointed to the adjutancy of defence minister Gustav Noske. In 1919, he married Erika Waag, also the child of an industrialist, with whom he had two children. In the spring of 1924, Canaris was sent to Osaka, Japan, to supervise a secret U-boat construction program in direct violation of the Treaty of Versailles. Unfortunately for Canaris, he made some enemies within Germany during the course of his secret business and intelligence negotiations, partially as a consequence of the bankruptcy incurred by the film-maker Phoebus Film in his dealings with Lohmann. At some time in 1928, Canaris was removed from his intelligence post and began two years of conventional naval service aboard the pre-Dreadnought battleship Schlesien, becoming captain of the vessel in December 1932. Just two months later, Adolf Hitler became Germany's new Chancellor. Enthused by this development, Canaris was known to give lectures about the virtues of Nazism to his crew aboard the Schlesien.

One month before Hitler's annexation of Austria (known as the Anschluss), Canaris put the Abwehr into action, personally overseeing deception operations designed to give the Austrians the impression of what appeared to be substantial German military preparations for an impending act of aggression. After the outbreak of war between Germany and Poland in September 1939, Canaris visited the front, where he saw the devastation rendered by the German military—seeing Warsaw in flames nearly brought him to tears and it was reported that he exclaimed, "our children's children will have to bear the blame for this". He also witnessed examples of the war crimes committed by the Einsatzgruppen of the SS, including the burning of the synagogue in Będzin with 200 Polish Jews inside. Moreover, he received reports from Abwehr agents about several incidents of mass murder throughout Poland. Canaris visited Hitler's headquarters train on September 12t, 1939, to register his objection to the atrocities. Canaris told chief of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht (OKW) Wilhelm Keitel about the "extensive shootings ... and that the nobility and clergy were to be exterminated" to which Keitel informed him that Hitler had already "decided" the matter. After this experience Canaris began working more actively to overthrow Hitler's régime, although he also cooperated with the SD to create a decoy. This made it possible for him to pose as a trusted man for some time. He was promoted to the rank of full Admiral in January 1940.

With his subordinate Erwin Lahousen, he attempted in the autumn of 1940 to form a circle of like-minded Wehrmacht officers. At the time, this had little success. When the OKW decrees regarding the brutal treatment of Soviet prisoners of war related to the Commissar Order came to the attention of Canaris in mid-September 1941, he registered another complaint. Keitel reminded Canaris that he was thinking in terms of "chivalrous war", which did not apply, as this was "a matter of destroying a world ideology". Canaris had also worked to thwart the proposed Operation Felix, the German plan to seize Gibraltar. At a conference of senior officers in Berlin, in December 1941, Canaris is quoted as saying "the Abwehr has nothing to do with the persecution of Jews. ... no concern of ours, we hold ourselves aloof from it".

In June 1942, Canaris sent eight Abwehr agents to the East Coast of the United States as part of Operation Pastorius. The mission was to sabotage American economic targets and demoralise the civilian population inside the United States. However, two weeks later, all were arrested by the FBI thanks to two Abwehr agents who betrayed the mission. Because the Abwehr agents were arrested in civilian clothes, they were subject to court martial by a military tribunal in Washington, D.C. All were found guilty and sentenced to death. Due to the embarrassing failure of Operation Pastorius, no further sabotage attempt was ever made in the United States. After 1942, Canaris visited Spain frequently and was probably in contact with British agents from Gibraltar. In 1943, while in occupied France, Canaris is said to have made contact with British agents. In Paris, he was conducted blindfolded to the Convent of the Nuns of the Passion of Our Blessed Lord, 127 Rue de la Santé, where he met the local head of the British Intelligence Services, code name "Jade Amicol", in reality Colonel Claude Olivier. Canaris wanted to know the terms for peace if Germany got rid of Hitler. Churchill's reply, sent to him two weeks later, was simple: "Unconditional surrender".

Canaris also intervened to save a number of victims from Nazi persecution, including Jews, by getting them out of harm's way; he was instrumental, for example, in getting five hundred Dutch Jews to safety in May 1941. Many such people were given token training as Abwehr "agents" and then issued papers allowing them to leave Germany. However the evidence that Canaris was playing a double game grew and, at the insistence of Heinrich Himmler, Hitler dismissed Canaris and abolished the Abwehr in February 1944. Previous areas once the responsibility of the Abwehr were divided between Gestapo chief Heinrich Müller and SS-Brigadeführer Walter Schellenberg. Some weeks later, Canaris was put under house arrest. He was released from house arrest in June 1944 to take up a post in Berlin as the head of the Special Staff for Mercantile Warfare and Economic Combat Measures (HWK). The HWK coordinated resistance to the Allied economic blockade of Germany.

Canaris was arrested on July 23rd, 1944 on the basis of the interrogation of his successor at Military Intelligence, Georg Hansen. Schellenberg respected Canaris and was convinced of his loyalty to the Nazi regime, even though he had been arrested. Hansen admitted his role in the July 20 plot but accused Canaris of being its "spiritual instigator". No direct evidence of his involvement in the plot was discovered, but his close association with many of the plotters and certain documents written by him that were considered subversive led to the gradual assumption of his guilt. Two of the men under suspicion as conspirators who were known in Canaris' circle shot themselves, which incited activity from the Gestapo to prove he was, at the very least, privy to the plan against Hitler. Investigations dragged on inconclusively until April 1945, when orders were received to dispose of various remaining prisoners in July 20 plot. Canaris' personal diary was discovered and presented to Hitler in early April 1945, implicating him in the conspiracy. Canaris was placed on trial by an SS summary court. He was charged with and found guilty of treason. He was sentenced to death.

Canaris was led to the gallows naked and executed on April 9th, 1945 at the Flossenbürg concentration camp, just weeks before the end of the war. A prisoner claimed he heard Canaris tap out a coded message on the wall of his cell on the night before his execution, in which he denied he was a traitor and said he acted out of duty to his country. Erwin von Lahousen and Hans Bernd Gisevius, two of Canaris' main subordinates, survived the war and testified during the Nuremberg trials about Canaris' courage in opposing Hitler. Canaris died at the age of 58.

[kuramirocket]

Carlos Muñoz, Jr. remembers when he first began to ponder the meaning of his Mexican roots.Muñoz, now 80, was living in the crowded Segundo barrio of El Paso, Texas. His family—like thousands of other émigrés—had settled there decades earlier, refugees fleeing violence spawned by the Mexican Revolution.Neither of his parents had made it past elementary school, but they wanted more for their son. So young Carlos walked across town every day to an Anglo neighborhood where the local school had more resources than barrio campuses.In that world, Carlos became Charles—rechristened in fifth grade by a white teacher in an attempt to “Americanize” him.

His school records were altered to label him Charles. But nothing else about him changed. “I began to wonder about what that meant,” he recalls. “That was the first time that I started thinking about identity and culture and that kind of stuff.”

It wouldn’t be the last.

The next year his family moved from El Paso to Los Angeles, where they hopscotched among barrios from the Eastside to Downtown to South Los Angeles. And no matter whether his teachers called him Carlos or Charles, their ingrained attitudes about his Mexican heritage narrowed his path.

The counselors at Belmont High School steered Charles away from college prep and toward vocational ed, even though he was an honor student. They suggested he become a carpenter, like his dad.

“If you were Black or Brown and a male at that time, you automatically got to be an industrial arts major,” he says. “You take the basic courses in English, history and government, but you don’t get the algebra and the biology courses.”

He didn’t realize until after he graduated with honors in 1958 that those courses he missed were required for admission to California’s public universities.

It would take six years for Charles to navigate a route—through community college, military service and a white-collar job that paid well but left him unfulfilled—to the campus of Cal State LA.

There, in the midst of a nascent Chicano rights movement, Charles reclaimed Carlos and played a key role in a history-making venture that would create new paths for Latino students: the creation at Cal State LA of the first Mexican American Studies program in the nation.

Its launch five decades ago—which Muñoz, then a graduate student, helped lead—would usher in a new era of ethnic studies across the Southwestern United States and ultimately around the country. Today more than 400 universities have programs dedicated to the study of the history, circumstances and culture of Latinos in America.

“Right now, there’s an awareness of ethnic studies. … But the beginnings of ethnic studies, as a discipline, were right here at Cal State LA,” says Professor Dolores Delgado Bernal, chair of what is now the Department of Chicana(o) and Latina(o) Studies.

“The discipline offers a lot to students, in terms of their identities, their intellect, what interests they pursue. Taking these courses allows students to say, ‘I can claim and be proud of who I am, and that allows me to better understand and accept others who are not like me.’ ”

“It’s becoming increasingly important to have that interdisciplinary background, and an understanding of other cultures and races,” Delgado Bernal says.

Today Muñoz is a professor emeritus in the Department of Ethnic Studies at UC Berkeley. He’s an author, political scientist, historian and scholar, specializing in social and revolutionary movements.

But the challenges Muñoz encountered on his journey from the barrio to the ivory tower typify the struggles that many Latino students still face today—and illustrate why Chicano Studies was necessary decades ago, and still has an important role to play.

In its early years, the Cal State LA program was a resource for local students who felt intimidated by college and invisible on campus.

The spotlight on Chicano history and culture allowed them to see themselves through a new lens, one scrubbed of stereotypes. And its sweeping scope connected them to other marginalized groups, illuminating struggles for equality that students found ultimately empowering.

“To me, the thing about Chicano Studies is that it was eye-opening to the truth and history,”  Carmen Ramírez, an Oxnard city councilwoman who attended Cal State LA for two years in the 1970s, says. “If you don’t know the truth, you can’t fix the future. … We need to know our history.”

And the dividends spread far beyond the campus, the student body and local communities. By its very existence, the Cal State LA program gave national credibility to the concept of ethnic studies as an intellectual pursuit.

“Chicano Studies opened the door to possibilities of employment on university faculties,” said Raul Ruiz, professor emeritus in the Department of Chicana and Chicano Studies at Cal State Northridge, which hired him in 1970. He earned a bachelor’s degree from Cal State LA in 1967, and went on to earn his master’s and Ph.D. at Harvard. Ruiz died this year at 78 years old. 

“Chicano Studies gave us opportunities to teach at the college level. And that was very significant in an era when many of us never had a Latino professor.”

At that time, “there were only about five Mexican Americans in the country with Ph.D.s in the social sciences,” recalls Muñoz, who earned his B.A. in political science from Cal State LA and a Ph.D. in government from the Claremont Graduate School.

Like Ruiz and Muñoz, several of the campus movement’s leaders went on to become college professors and scholarly experts in the field.

But even when they were offered faculty positions in Latino Studies, their contributions were often minimized or disregarded.

“Now we’re very visible at universities across the nation,” Muñoz says. “But during my career, I often had to face that perspective— you’re just ideologues, not scholars—from conservative faculty. It was not an easy path.”

For students like Ruiz, the path was equally challenging.

Ruiz had moved to Los Angeles from El Paso as a child in the 1950s. Told he wasn’t “college material,” Ruiz enrolled in Trade Tech, studied mechanical drawing and took a job drafting engineering plans for aviation systems. A year of that made him miserable, so he quit and in the mid-’60s applied to Cal State LA as an English major.

Then, as now, the Cal State LA campus was walking distance from one of the largest urban Mexican American communities in the United States. But few students in that community were being prepared for college.

The university experience seemed so remote that Eastside parents who could see the hillside campus from their yards thought “the building on the hill was the Sybil Brand Institute” for incarcerated women, Cal State LA Professor Ralph C. Guzmán told the University’s College Times newspaper in 1968.

Guzmán, who helped draft early Chicano Studies proposals, was one of just a handful of Latino faculty members then.

Ruiz was the only Mexican American kid in most of his classes, he said.

“I remember as an English major, the sense of me being up against everything. I remember making a presentation and the other students came at me hard with criticism,” Ruiz said. “I remember saying to myself, ‘Next time you’re going to know more than everybody else.’ ”

Ultimately, that would motivate him to develop a rigorous background in research. But as a new student, he found the social isolation to be a destabilizing experience.

After a professor told him he was smart “but basically illiterate,” Ruiz spent hours alone in the library—after classes and before his post office job—teaching himself to write.

“I would practice writing sentences and improving them until I could write a paragraph, and then an essay,” he said. It took him six months to develop the skills he needed. The skills he should have been taught in high school.

Cal State LA already had a robust interdisciplinary program of Latin American Studies, with classes that focused on Mexican culture but had little connection to the American experience.

“It was a marvelous program. It opened up my consciousness,” Ruiz said. But he came to realize that he knew more about Mexicans in Mexico than he did about families like his, “Mexicans in my own community.”

Beyond the University, in his own community, unrest and outrage were brewing. Mexican Americans had found their voice and were beginning to challenge the status quo. And nowhere did that coalesce more vividly than in the neighborhoods around Cal State LA.

“It was actually right here in the city of Los Angeles where the Chicano movement started,” noted legendary civil rights leader Dolores Huerta, when she visited campus to celebrate the 50th anniversary of Chicano Studies in September 2018.

The Chicano Studies program helped empower young activists and bring national attention to the challenges and concerns of Mexican Americans, she said.

Ruiz remembered what that felt like. “We were becoming part of this growing social movement that was sweeping the country, with massive anti-war protests and civil rights marches,” he recalled.

Community organizers rallied Eastside families to join the demonstrations. Student groups on campus worked together behind the scenes for change.

“I was not a radical person,” Ruiz said. “But you couldn’t help but become involved, or at least think about it.”

In March 1968, that awareness came to a head, as thousands of students at five high schools within a six-mile radius of Cal State LA walked out of classes and took to the streets, to challenge an educational system that didn’t recognize their worth or value their needs.

Thirteen adults would be arrested, jailed and charged with conspiracy for helping organize the walkouts. Muñoz—who’d proudly changed his name back to Carlos—was among them.

By then Muñoz was a Cal State LA graduate student and a U.S. veteran, who understood why students were walking out. The kid whom counselors steered away from college prep classes in high school was now on his way to becoming a university professor—and he was on the front lines of the battle to improve education for younger Latinos.

Police arrested Muñoz at gunpoint three months after the walkouts, as he sat at the kitchen table in his apartment doing his political science homework, and his wife and two young children slept upstairs. Muñoz spent two years on bail and faced a possible prison term of 66 years, until an appellate court dismissed the charges as a violation of the defendants’ First Amendment rights.

The walkouts alarmed the educational establishment, but energized the local community and moved education to the front of an activist agenda.

Cal State LA students, faculty and administration partnered with community groups to help broaden opportunities.

That summer Cal State LA’s student government voted to allocate $40,000 for an Educational Opportunity Program that would provide the support needed by students who were motivated but underprepared. Sixty-eight Latino and Black freshmen were admitted through the program that first year.

And University leaders agreed to work with student activists to get the Chicano Studies program up and running. The pioneering program was launched in the fall of 1968—with four courses and funding from student government.

Muñoz wound up teaching the program’s introductory course in the fall of 1968: Mexican American 100. Graduate student Gilbert Gonzalez taught Mexican American 111, a course on Mexican American history, and Professor Guzmán taught two upper-division classes.

“I was a first-year grad student in political science,” Muñoz recalls. “I had no teaching experience. I didn’t even know how the University worked. … We were very, very fortunate that there were progressive people in the administration. They were very helpful in generating support.”

In fact, the Chicano Studies movement at Cal State LA created a blueprint for collaboration—in an era when campus clashes were the primary tools of social and academic change.

Students worked with parents and with University leaders. Chicano and Black student groups supported one another. Both groups wanted a voice, a bigger presence on campus and a curriculum that reflected their culture and history.

Today, the Department of Chicana(o) and Latina(o) Studies offers more than 150 courses, taught by scholars from a wide range of disciplines. Its academic legacy is strong and its graduates have contributed immeasurably to the University, the region and beyond.

The number of students majoring in Chicano Studies has grown by almost 40% over the past 18 months, said Department Chair Delgado Bernal at the anniversary celebration.

“Maybe that’s because of the political climate,” she surmised. “Students are looking to understand it, and to have the skills, knowledge and rhetoric to respond.”

Over the years, the department has opened new career paths for students, elevated the status of Chicano scholarship and empowered successive generations in ways that only understanding your culture and history can do.

Its success reflects the foresight of its founders and the University’s ongoing commitment to academic rigor, inclusion and equality.

“Our whole purpose was assisting our community, supporting the aspirations of students and asserting our right to be here,” Muñoz says of the department’s creation a half-century ago.

“We said let’s do something so our younger brothers and sisters won’t be victimized by racism, the way we were.”

[boredout305]

Kat Talley Jones (Urinals/100 Flowers)

John Talley-Jones and Kat Talley-Jones, Santa Barbara, California, circa late 1978/1979.

Kat Talley-Jones was an early photographer of The Urinals and 100 Flowers. She is the lyricist of “Ack Ack Ack Ack” and has compiled an impressive 1978 to 1983 gigography of The Urinals and 100 Flowers. Talley-Jones is the wife of the bands’ bassist and vocalist John Talley-Jones.

Professionally, Talley-Jones is an independent exhibit developer and writer. She’s worked on teams that created the Dinosaur Hall and Nature Lab at the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County and visitor center exhibits at Mammoth Cave National Park, Devils Tower National Monument, Badlands, National Park, Stones River National Battlefield, and Santa Monica Mountains National Recreation Area among many others.  

Talley-Jones is still involved with The Urinals and 100 Flowers, taking photos and contributing in countless other ways, something she’s done since the late 1970s.

Interview by Ryan Leach

This interview originally ran on Razorcake’s website. 

Ryan: Where did you meet John (Talley-Jones)?

Kat: Like John, I come from a military background. I was born in Italy. I later lived in Japan, the (Washington) D.C. area and Iran. I met John at the University of Texas at Austin. We gravitated towards the same circle. There were Texans and then there were army brats. We had a different frame of reference than other people did.

           John was walking down the hall of the dorm I lived in. I had pulled a picture out of the NME of Kevin Ayers and put it on my door. Kevin Ayers was wearing some blue silk jacket. It was a great photo. I loved Kevin Ayers, The Soft Machine and the Ayers, Cale, Nico, Eno album.

Ryan: That’s a great live record.

Kat: Yeah. My roommate was a lesbian, so we had a nude pinup of a woman on the door too which was very scandalous—we hoped.

Ryan: At that time in Texas it was. Even in Austin.

Kat: Right. John and a friend of his were walking down the hall. They stopped, saw the photos on the door, and wondered, “Who lives here?” I opened the door and there was John, wearing blue eye shadow, black nail polish and a toothbrush around his neck (laughs). We got to know each other after that, running in the same circles. I went out with a guy and John went out with his sister—you know how it is being college aged. Everyone is switching partners.

           John left UT. His parents thought—and maybe he did too—that film school would be better at UCLA than at UT. That probably wasn’t the case, but John left for California. My parents had moved from Iran to Redondo Beach. So we got back together again. It’s complicated.

Ryan: John had mentioned that he had moved to San Francisco before attending UCLA.

Kat: He was in San Rafael in Marin County. He lived with his aunt and uncle and worked at a bookstore in San Rafael. That was before he went to UCLA.

           My parents went back to Iran. I moved in with my brother in Santa Barbara. I was living in Santa Barbara, John went to UCLA, and then we started going out. I did not see the first Urinals iteration when they played the talent show at UCLA. However, I did see the first three-piece show at UCLA with Kevin (Barrett), Kjehl (Johansen) and John. That was on the fourth floor of Dykstra Hall.  

Ryan: Had your parents not moved back to California, would you have likely stayed in Austin?

Kat: Probably not. At that time, there wasn’t really a scene yet. It was sleepy. It was a place where you could get by getting stoned, paying $100 a month for an apartment. I was ambitious, but I didn’t happen to paint or anything. I didn’t love Austin. Just as I was leaving, friends of mine were forming The Huns. We would go to Raul’s and bands like the Skunks were playing. The Ramones and Patti Smith came through there. So there was stuff, but LA felt much more exciting.

Ryan: You mentioned The Huns. So you knew Phil Tolstead and the rest of the band?

Kat: Yes. Phil was an Air Force brat. We had a mutual friend named Victoria (Jones) who Phil went to see the Sex Pistols with in San Antonio. She had lived in London. We were people with a broader background. I can’t say that above everyone in The Huns. I’m still friends with Dan Puckett who played keyboards in the band. I knew their drummer, Tom Huckabee. My boyfriend at the time had a crush on him which was awkward (laughs). I was getting away from that situation too. My parents moving back played a part. But my brother was at UCSB and needed a roommate. I thought, “Well, I’ve got nothing going on in Austin, so I’ll live with him.”

Ryan: You took a lot of early Urinals photos—obviously, for most of their record sleeves. Was photography something you had been pursuing previously?

Kat: Well, I had a camera (laughs). It was just because I was there and I had one. I wasn’t really trying to be expressive. I didn’t take that many photos of shows; the cost of film and developing was expensive. Also, with the low light, the photos often came out horrible.

Ryan: You need an SLR and a lens with a low f-stop. Even then, results aren’t guaranteed.

Kat: I had a Canon FTb camera. I was the beneficiary of trickle down: my dad would get something new, and I’d get the old version of whatever he replaced it with. It was a nice camera that was unfortunately stolen. I didn’t take photographs as a means of self-expression. I just had a camera and I was standing there.

Ryan: If you don’t mind me digressing back a bit, did your parents have to flee Iran when the Shah fell or had they already moved back to the States? I can’t help but think that all of this—you having lived in Iran—played some part in the naming of “Surfin’ with the Shah.”

Kat: Yes, they did. They went on Christmas vacation and never went back.

Ryan: Amazing. I’m glad to hear they got out safely.

Kat: Yeah. My dad was an army officer. He liked that kind of excitement (laughs). I was in Iran and John would write me and send me punk mixtapes. Iran was very much on his mind. I would say that had a lot to do with naming of the song, “Surfin’ with the Shah.” But not the modality or anything.

Ryan: What years were you in Iran?

Kat: I was there when I was in high school, so 1970-1973. I then went to the University of Texas. I was an insane overachiever and graduated UT in three years. My parents moved back to Iran. I went to visit; I thought, “Why go back to the States? I can get a job here.” So I got a job typing repair logs for Bell Helicopter. I came back to the States with something on my resume: “I’ve had a job!” When I moved back to Austin, I was employed by a contractor that worked for the Air Force at what was then Bergstrom Air Force Base.

Urinals practicing at Dykstra Hall (UCLA). Photo by Kat Talley-Jones

Ryan: Going back to the early days of The Urinals, do you recall the first 7” EP (self-titled) coming out?

Kat: Oh, sure.  

Ryan: You took the photo for the back cover. I can only imagine being part of a self-released 7” was pretty exciting back in 1978.

Kat: It was very exciting. I had been a prog fan. I loved Yes and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. It seemed so out of reach; what ordinary mortal could release a record? To think that you could control the means of production that way was amazing. I can’t remember if that’s the one with the taped piece of Super 8 film on it, but I certainly sat down with Kevin and Kjehl and taped pieces of film on one of the labels. I stuffed the singles too into the plastic bags. I would go around with John and we’d drop the records off to stores on consignment. I was still living in Santa Barbara. I recall going to record stores there. People were often extremely uninterested, because the records were so handmade looking. Not all of the record stores—even the independent ones—were interested in the DIY thing yet.

Ryan: I grew up in Newbury Park, between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara. I found it surprising that The Urinals played an early show in Santa Barbara (at George’s on November 4, 1979). The recording was recently released as a live LP, Pin the Needles. You must have been the conduit for that show.

Kat: Yeah. There was a band that was playing up there, The Neighbors, and someone in the group worked at a record store in Goleta. I would go and hang out there and that’s how that connection was made. Santa Barbara doesn’t seem that likely, does it? There wasn’t much going on up there.

Ryan: Nearly zero. You don’t think of Santa Barbara and punk.

Kat: There was a little bit. There was The Rotters.

Ryan: That’s true. Lance Loud was from Santa Barbara.

Kat: But he had moved on.

Ryan: Right. To New York.

Kat: I lived in Isla Vista. The Rotters played a park there and I saw them. I would walk down the street and people would yell, “Hey, punk rock!” Nobody looked like that in Santa Barbara then. There was this club called The Fubar in Goleta. I saw Magazine play there. There were probably 15 people there. It was not a crowd. People didn’t know about them.

John might not frame it this way, but I was also pretty instrumental in setting up the Raul’s shows in Austin (March 27, 1978, and March 28, 1978).

Ryan: That’s interesting.

Kat: Phil Tolstead had been John’s roommate (at UT), so I can’t say that they weren’t close. But I had a connection with the Huns. The Urinals played with the Re-Cords (at Raul’s) which was Tom Huckabee from the Huns’ band. They also played with the Norvells which was Sally Norvell’s band. I don’t have a specific remembrance of setting the Raul’s shows up, but I was always writing letters to (Huns keyboardist) Dan (Puckett), Victoria (Jones) and less to Phil (Tolstead). Phil could hardly manage to write you back. We were in touch a lot. When the Huns had their bust (September 19, 1978), they sent me a T-shirt with the image of Phil being arrested by the police officer. I still have a photo of me wearing it. I think I have the original cover art for their 7”. Victoria painted the cover and sent it to me. I’ll have to look for it. I’ve got boxes filled with stuff.

Ryan: It’s pretty amazing that the first Urinals show outside of UCLA was in Austin at Raul’s. Do you recall trekking out there?

Kat: I think we drove out to Austin in Kjehl’s Chevy Caprice. It was a small Chevy; it wasn’t big. We crammed everyone in there. My particular gift is that I wake up very early. When everyone else can’t drive another moment, I’m starting to wake up. With the four of us we were able to make it to Austin in one shot. I think it was 27 hours. We just brought guitars. Kevin borrowed Tom Huckabee’s drums. We stayed with friends and drank a lot of frozen margaritas. I think those two shows at Raul’s happened over spring break (1978). That was the only time everyone could get together to leave town.

Ryan: That makes sense.

Kat: Yeah. We weren’t in school or working.

Urinals performing at a house party. Photo by Kat Talley-Jones

Ryan: Can you talk about writing “Ack Ack Ack Ack.” As far as I know, it’s your only songwriting credit, but it’s a great one.

Kat: Right. Why not stay on a highpoint? I had heard the news reports about Brenda Spencer, the girl who shot some kids in school. It was the same event that inspired the song “I Don’t Like Mondays” (by the Boomtown Rats). I was thinking about that. When I was a kid, as everyone does, I’d play war with friends. We’d chase each other around and pretend to shoot each other. The boys—I don’t know if it was genetic or what—but they could always make that machine gun sound better than I could. I was always jealous. They could vocalize “Ack Ack Ack Ack” and I couldn’t. It was a word you’d see in comic books. I always liked it as a sound. Why did I name the subject of the song Johnny? Possibly because of John.

Ryan: How did the music come together? You wrote the lyrics and John composed the music?

Kat: I wrote the lyrics. I typed them up. I was still in Isla Vista. I probably mailed them to John. But we saw each other virtually every weekend. I would drive down (to West Los Angeles) and occasionally he’d drive up. But John had an old Volkswagen that couldn’t get over the Conejo Grade.

Ryan: I lived right at the top of the Conejo Grade for years. I know exactly what you’re talking about.

Kat: Yeah. So John would take the Greyhound Bus to Santa Barbara and he’d smell like the bus for a day or two. It’d take a while to get that smell out.

Ryan: Los Angeles to Santa Barbara isn’t too far. Nevertheless, it’s still about a two-hour drive.

Kat: There would be a Urinals or 100 Flowers show. Afterwards, I’d sleep until about 4 AM. And then I’d scoot out when there was no traffic to work. I had a Buick Skyhawk with a V6 engine. It was a terrible car; the clutch cable would always break. I’d drive it straight to work. It’s no wonder why I didn’t get the best performance reviews.

Ryan: Do you recall taking the photo for the Presence of Mind 7” EP? It has a real dada feel to it.

Kat: John came up with the idea. I think it was taken at Kevin’s apartment. I don’t know why it was just John and Kjehl (on the front cover). It feels like Kevin was developing in another direction. He had gotten extremely political. I wrapped them up in newspaper and took the photo. That one turned out nice because the black and white was more saturated. It seemed like the photos for the other albums were washed out. We may have had a rudimentary darkroom; it’s possible we made the prints ourselves. That sounds like something we would’ve done. It’s insane to me that we have so few photos. We just couldn’t afford it at the time.

Ryan: You’ve compiled an amazing Urinals and 100 Flowers gigography. How did you put it together?

Kat: I had these tiny datebooks my dad would get from the USAA. I would get one and he’d keep one. When we lived in Iran, I’d make daily notes. What I was doing in Tehran, the dates I’d been on and other things. I had a habit of making daily notes. Later on, I went back to those little pocket calendars and made that gig list. It’s moderately accurate.

Ryan: It’s an incredible resource. I didn’t realize 100 Flowers played Phoenix with the Meat Puppets (on October 17, 1981). I thought those early shows at Raul’s in Austin was the only time the early incarnation of the band left California.

Kat: We drove in Seabiscuit—the name I gave my horrible Buick Skyhawk. Again, it was Kevin, John, Kjehl and I and we drove straight to Phoenix. We left early. I remember Savage Republic drove out too and played; they might have been called Africa Corps then. I did take some decent photos of that show. It was at a boxing ring (Phoenix Madison Square Gardens). There’s a nice one of John and David Wiley that I took. David was in Human Hands.

Ryan: The Consumers too.

Kat: Right. We stayed at David’s house. Bruce Licher and the other Savage Republic guys stayed with the Meat Puppets at their place. The Savage Republic guys were pretty clean cut, but the Meat Puppets took acid and were playing cowboys and Indians over them all night. 

Ryan: That makes sense.

Kat: Yeah (laughs). It was always kind of a blitzkrieg thing. We actually spent one night in Arizona. 100 Flowers played in San Francisco. We drove up for the gig and then drove back home (to Los Angeles) afterwards. It was pretty horrendous.

Ryan: I’ve done Los Angeles to Phoenix and back to see a show. It’s pretty rough.

Kat: It’s doable.

Ryan: I did it in my early twenties. I’d just spring for a motel now.

Kat: Yeah. I mean, if they were playing in San Diego now, we’d stay the night at a hotel. We drove back from a show in San Diego one time. A truck tire bounced over the center divider and hopped over us, hitting the car behind us. That was scary.

Ryan: With the benefit of hindsight, it’s interesting seeing The Urinals evolve. You can hear their musicianship develop on each EP. Eventually, they’d release compilations like Keats Rides a Harley on their own imprint, Happy Squid. I picture The Shaggs evolving like that had they actually wanted to be in a band. There aren’t many similar examples. Maybe The Raincoats? I can’t think of any at the moment from Los Angeles.

Kat: They learned more and more as they went along. I don’t think they initially had aspirations to release, say, Keats Rides a Harley or The Happy Squid Sampler. An LP was unthinkable when they started. I’m sure John and Kjehl have mentioned this, but getting a mentor like Vitus (Mataré) was key. Vitus knew how to do things. Obviously, being in The Last he had a much broader reach. They knew Gary Stewart (The Last’s manager) and people who were more record business savvy. But there was never any aspiration to get picked up by a record label. That was also unthinkable. It wasn’t a political thing: “We’re pure of heart. We’re not going to sign.” But who would’ve signed The Urinals in that era? There was some interaction with Greg Shaw at Bomp! It seemed like it was all a natural progression. It wasn’t aspirational—if that makes sense.

Ryan: It does. The Urinals and 100 Flowers weren’t trying to get on Enigma Records.

Kat: Right. I think it was really satisfying to put out friends’ work. I think about the little Happy Squid Sampler (1980). Getting stuff out by Neef and Phil Bedel (“Bells in Ice” 45, 1980). I’m not going to say it was done out of generosity of spirit; they’d just figured out how to do it. John is extremely thrifty and a monetarily conscious person. Doing things as cheaply as possible resonated with him. They were playing with all of these great bands—Leaving Trains, Meat Puppets, and Gun Club—and they had simply figured out how to get records made. So they did it without being careerist. It was coming from an artistic standpoint.    

Ryan: Do you recall the last two 100 Flowers shows at the Anti-Club (January 28 and 29, 1983)? I think that was the only time the band headlined a bill.

Kat: Oh yeah. It was so crazy—it was celebratory, but it was also the end of the band. There was that psychological development: celebrating and mourning at the same time. I don’t know why, but it always seemed like 100 Flowers played when it was raining. That’s true up until the present. I think the Anti-Club shows happened during an El Nino year. It was really wet outside; everyone at the club was wet. It was humid; the walls were dripping. The Minutemen played. It was a lot of fun. I remember thinking, “Why couldn’t it have been like this all the time?” But people didn’t appreciate them until they were ending the band.

           The second night was with the Leaving Trains and The Last. I don’t remember that show being as wild as the one where The Minutemen played. But how could it ever be?

Ryan: With the release of the Negative Capability compilation and reunion in 1996, it seemed like folks caught up with the Urinals. It was the same thing with Mission of Burma when they reunited.

Kat: Yes. Honestly, I think some of it had to do with the singles being collectors’ items. They were being bootlegged back in the 1990s. “Oh, that band I paid $100 for their 7” is reforming.” Perhaps I’m wrong on that

Ryan: I think you’re right. I was in New York City two years ago and I went to Almost Ready Records. They had just gotten the first Urinals 7” EP in. I remember saying, “Oh, wow! That’s the first one I’ve seen in the wild.” It has an effect.

Kat: Oh really?

Ryan: Yeah. I’d never seen an original copy of the first 7” before. Those records suck you in. We were talking about Vitus and The Last earlier: I recall seeing a test press of Look Again (1980)—obviously, the record was never released—on the wall at Amoeba for hundreds of dollars in the mid-2000s. It sticks with you. Especially with self-released records like The Urinals 7”s. They had an initial small pressing, limited distribution, and often record labels—with or without a band’s approval—will repress titles once used copies hit a certain price. If you released it and you’re not repressing them, prices go up and they sometimes get pirated.

Kat: It always irritated me. The band never saw any of that money. Like I said, John was very thrifty. I’m sure he wasn’t in the red. But they weren’t sold for much originally. I don’t know how many copies of the first EP we have. I’d be surprised if it was five. You wanted them out in the world.

Ryan: You’re still involved with the Urinals and 100 Flowers. I see you’re still taking photographs. It’s amazing seeing them play places like Belgium and China.

Kat: Yeah. I always thought they were doing interesting things. It wasn’t random. I had mentioned that their records being scarce had some allure, but they were doing something different. They continue to. All of John’s iterations of the band have been good. There are things I’ve liked more than other things. There have been times where I’ve liked the band less than at other times. But they’ve persisted because they have merit. All of the band members have a vision. I believe in it. There have been times where I’ve been busy with my own work and haven’t gone to shows. As I mentioned earlier, I wake up early, so having a set start at midnight isn’t always my favorite thing. But I enjoy watching them play. I think John appreciates that if I think something sucks that I’ll tell him. But not with an axe to grind.

Kat and John today, photo by Pat Aldarete. 

#urinals #100flowers #kattalleyjones #johntalleyjones #ackackackack #happysquid 

[ilguna]

i also have a list of shit my history teacher (this year) has said and done so I will share it with you:

warning: its really fucking long bc he would say/do shit MULTIPLE times a day

goes onto the next slide, “it’s a meme, get it?” proceeds to explain the meme (its the hey arnold meme with the first)

also goes onto another slide, with the twitter opinion meme. at the end of the paragraph it says “this class smacks, I’m lit”

“I’m going to beat up your brother. i am going to pummel him.”

On the 6th day of class he finally realized that there was a total of 6 guys and the rest were girls

student: “You should not put it in (as an assingment)”. teacher; ���laugh out loud, im dead”

he was teaching us how to write a DBQ, the computer had a pop up saying that the battery was low, and then a spider shows up out of fucking nowhere, hanging from the ceiling. he CLAPS it, jokes about eating it, and then sets it on his desk (not in the trash can 2 feet away) so he can “deal with it later”

his endless military stories, specifically ORANGE DESERT

he wrote “if you would have had your thinking skull on” on my first DBQ

him saying “I hate this” after typing a word wrong multiple times while teaching us DBQ’s lmfao

“For the lols”

Threw a box of tissues across the room into the trash can

threw a box of tissues at a student

he had this obsession with throwing expo markers at his whiteboard, trying to make it land on the metal part so expect that a lot.

“Do you want me to drown him in a bathtub?” (which was about a student’s dog that had separation anxiety lmaoo)

Sang the rain drop, drop top song

The collars on his shirt turned up

“He’ll be beaten for that distraction” (after his son called him during his lesson and he willingly answered)

“Stay woke” 

“It was a hot boy summer for him”

expo marker landed on the metal thing for once thanks to a towel that was there

kyle (it must have been a story or something i dont remember)

He woah’d at some point

HAHA so there was a kid in my class that had got caught with a bong on the second week of school and he was suspended. when he came back to class, we were going over what the south grew in the U.S. very early on into colonization. and he used the bong kid as an example of a tobacco farmer

tried to eat a balled up paper

“important revolutionary war stuff”

“My bae, George Washington”

“They could’ve killed g-dubz, but they didn’t”

called george washington “g-dubz” frequiently

“Facts”

“Swagtastic”

he got excited over a military general (baron friedrich von steuben) for being a gay military general--”That was very well respected!”

“He had a ton of swagger”--referring to ben franklin

“His nickname was the swamp fox. You guys can call me that”

The snowball fight story--his brother was friends with a kid he hated next door. my teacher challenged the kid--Eric--to a snowball fight. In preparation, my teacher had froze snowballs, and so when he did have the fight, he LITERALLY knocked Eric out and left him on the front lawn unconscious (he was an elementary school kid)

one time he gave us the punishment quiz by accident, tried to make up for it by giving everyone the answer to #6. however, it turned out to be wrong so he just gave us all 100′s instead

another military story of the goat he bought from an old man with his buddies. unfortunately they had to kill the goat to eat, but the FACT that my teacher said this “a cute little goat--you know, baaa?” as if we didn’t know what a goat was 

He was the golf/hockey coach!! so not only would he talk about beating up the kids in the golf club

he would also do random golf swings all the goddamn time! with no gold club or ball, it was just air.

“You are about to get clowned, young lady”

pronounced pamphlet as pamplet fora good part of his teaching career (another story he told us)

“It’s definitely not the declaration of independence you mouth breather!”

George washington = bae on a powerpoint

“you tied me up real good”

“France also popped off”

Compares the Connecticut compromise to ppap (with the song and everything!)

Told someone to shut up after they suggested that Iowa was the least populated state (he’s from Iowa)

hick iowa, to be exact

Wrote 23 as 32, realized his mistake and said “oop im dyslexic”

“If it’s a purge, I’m killing everybody”

“Federalism, not onion!’

“Who’s the dumbass guy? Ducey!” (our state governor)

he got arrested once. his mugshot is on google images and everything

he got arrested bc some guy was destroying his house w a baseball bat at a party his friendw as throwing (but it was at my teachers house). my teacher respectfully punched him and brought him to the front lawn. called the cops when the guy wouldnt leave and ended up being arrested too. teacher thought his career was over and threatened the guy the entire way to the police station

“laugh out loud!”

“We beat the begeezus out of a bunch of british people”

pronounced wolf as woof

“Who was his daddy? Who’s his daddy?”

Called a swim cap a bonnet

“Kick!”--then proceeds to kick a tennis ball. before that he had just thrown it to get out of his way

“Jesus, you’re a big boy”

for like 2 weeks straight he used that same tennis ball to try and erase a whiteboard. and im not talking rubbing it on the board, he fucking threw it at the wall, getting it off little by little. he eventually gave up, though

“I’ll snot rocket into the trash can”

“Cause I realize most of you are morons”

was obsessed with the cowboy boogie

“Every time I cough, my tail bone hurts”

“Do i look normal?”

“I look like an old man”

“Shut up your faces”

“I see you back there, queen”

“Some of you girls need to learn from this article”--the article was old & about girls being submissive

“that would hurt some people’s feelings, but I’m not gonna show it hurt mine”

“He’s just--’meow’”--about his cat

he had a sweater that had his face on it, photoshopped over a boxer that a student gave him. he wore it during winter

flicked a tennis ball across the room with a hockey stick. hit the coffee thermo on his desk, stared for a couple of seconds, and THEN realized that it was open

First off, all you kids making memes about dodging the draft--we don’t want your dumbasses anyway” --continued to rant for a few minutes after that

he HATED the national anthem with a burning passion

“I’m old as shit”

also, his cat’s name IS meow cat

more expo marker throwing

“Hey there handsome”-- to the teacher next door

“Henry clay is going to haunt you until april” (unfortunately we didnt make it that far into the school year bc of covid. disappointed that i didnt get to be haunted)

Singing electric avenue

“but here’s the tea”

“Flagstaff is like--” *reaches as high as he can to put expo marker on the wall

“I’m adopting all of you, and we’re moving to saudi arabia”

teacher: “I’m gonna break bowers kneecaps in front of you. you still want to be on strike?” not bowers but a different kid: “no...?”

Cleaned the shades in the middle of him explaining something

“You know your pinky toe? this little roast beef?”

THE TURTLE SOUP STORY. when my teacher was still a kid, he found a turtle in the wild, and brought it to his grandparents house (they owned a farm). he took care of the turtle for a while, even after his grandfather found out. until one day he came home and saw blood everywhere, went to find the turtle to see it was gone. then found his grandfather chopping up the fucking turtle so they could have it for soup for dinner. his grandfather literally made him fatten up the turtle so they could eat it

“Did mr.*****--?” (referring to himself in 3rd person, also blocked out to protect privacy)

“i’m going to staple your nostrils closed. staple, staple. ‘I can’t breathe mr.*****!’ should’ve done your DBQ!!”

his pedo stache 

stood with a paper and smiled, thinking that a student was taking a picture of him when it was really the paper

doesn’t know who gaston is???

him: “I’m going to staple your noses together. One staple” Student: “*****’s piercing parlor!”

*singing* “beauty and the beast”

“I’m going to tackle you”

more random golf swinging

“What’s up (my name)?” me: hi *he then hits the bun on the top of my head on his way in the door*

And he did it again the next day

he literally made kids compete with pastries

which reminds me, he brought donuts in 2 days in a row like a week after that and make us (his first hour) take bites bc he realized he didn’t want to eat it. one of the girls was glad to take it from him, everyone else told him no

“Good morning (my name) how are you?” me: “I’m sick again... do you need help? (with the door)” him; “Actually, yes” (normally he can open the door even when his hands are full but there was a stack of pop tart boxes that were as tall as him so) i opened the door, he goes in and says, “thank you (my name), for not being rude”

the following quotes are for the Hot Seat

Student: “what do you do--?” him: “you’re in the hot seat!”

“Some people cry”

“La *****, luxurious”

“You sit here, and you stare (into the projector light)”

basically everyone in the class had to answer a question as a review. there was a stool in front of the smartboard, perfectly placed so that the projector light would LITERALLy be in your eyes. i actually got the question right on some miracle.

“2 points of weed?”

“Can I get some of that hot leaf?”

“They will make more drugs! You can’t do that much drug!”

“You guys bullied me and stole it”

“Whole rest of the nation sucked an egg”

“Whelp, let’s just kill myself”

“Do you guys know david chapel?” *sigh when everyone says no*

*some girls singing the national anthem* Him: “no! none of this, none of this!”

“Calibri’s for idiots” (the font)

“The only thing that was in--shit”

“and uncle sam--gettin lit”

“Their daddy--UH--”

“They’re going to blame the jews--my people” (he got a dna test done, he’s not actually jewish)

“Whatever you say, boomer”

“Use my words to plagiarize in college”

“I’m jewish, that’s offensive”

“Tell him he gave me instant cancer”

Me: “can i go to the bathroom?” him: “I’ll allow it”

him: “He’s antisemetic and it hurts my feelings” student: “what does that mean again?” him: “Hates jews :(”

“You guys can call me kingfish if you’d like”

~ after we said no to the nicknames, we tried to make one for him ~

student: “cornhusker!” him: “no, that’s offensive... and it’s also nebraska”

student: “corn picker!” him: “no--that sounds like a racist term or something”

“Unless corona really does take over--” (thank u, mr. for ruining the school year”

Student: “how old was she (his mom) when she had you?” him: “thirteen”

“My mom just turned 40 the other day...” (a joke)

him: “My brother got t-boned by a semi truck last night” Student: “Why are you laughing?” him: “Because he lived.”

“Yeah bc I would hide out in a public school with 300 new kids a year” (about him not living in iowa so he’s hiding out in az to get away from his “criminal record” (refer to the 1 time hes been arrested))

“Baby death?”

“Their family has more money than jesus”

*Standing outside the door yelling “CORONA” to students walking in”

“Hey I’m *****, f-word, blah, blah”

“We should fight our cats.”

“OH that’s a big chonk cat.”

“Mortal Kombat is pretty cool. I haven’t played in 25 years”

he told us in class once that we shouldnt open the front door if cops show up at a party. just to shut the blinds and be a little quieter bc the cops cant legally open the door

also one time he had a gun pointed to his face but he never finished that story bc he never liked it

during quarantine he set a DBQ as 1000 points (and i still didnt do it)

and “Here’s the tea, kiddos!”

honorable mentions: all the time he’s sent out emails bc theyre fucking hilarious

[introvertguide]

Casablanca (1942); AFI #3

I am very proud to present the next film on the AFI list, Casablanca (1942). It is truly one of the best examples of fine film from Hollywood's Golden Age. I was surprised to find out that the film only received 3 Oscars and none for the acting. Lead actress Ingrid Bergman was actually nominated for another film that she had made that year (For Whom the Bell Tolls), but it is was highway robbery to think that Humphrey Bogart did not get a Best Actor award for this film. On the bright side, the 3 Oscars were for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Screenplay. But maybe it really isn’t a good idea to try and compare older films, but instead recognize a masterpiece for what it is. I would love to continue complimenting the movie, but first let me relay the story to you. Oh yeah. One other thing as well:

MAJOR SPOILER ALERT!!! WE GOT ONE OF THE GREATEST MOVIES OF ALL TIME HERE!!! GO AND WATCH IT!!! DON’T LET ME SPOIL IT FOR YOU!!! SERIOUSLY!!!

The film starts out with stock footage and a map showing the plight of many Europeans and how they were being herded to Casablanca and looking for a way out to Lisbon and eventually to America. It is December 1941 and it is the height of the exodus in an attempt to escape Nazi invasion of France and any French colonies. In Casablanca, Morocco, there is an expatriate American that owns a bar in the city that serves both refugees and locals, French and German soldiers. Rick Blaine (Humphrey Bogart) is the American and he is known for taking no sides and only looking out for his own best interest.

It is stated on the radio that two German couriers have been killed for their letters of transit and that people in Casablanca will pay top dollar (and by that I mean anything and everything) to get those papers so that they can leave the country. A conniving thief named Ugarte (played by the great Peter Lorre) entrusts Rick to hold on to the letters. Rick allows the local corrupt police captain Louis Renault (Claude Rains) to arrest the thief and Ugarte dies in jail before revealing who has the papers. Things are getting a little hot and Rick is considering leaving the country so he is very happy to have the letters. It would take a lot for him to even consider selling the letters...that is until...

The reason that Rick is so cold and cynical walks in the door and asks the piano player to play “As Time Goes By” and it becomes apparent that this women has hurt Rick and is his kryptonite. A flashback shows that the two had met and fallen in love in Paris. When the city was raided and Rick and Ilsa were supposed to leave together on a train, he only found a letter that said she could never see him again. Even worse, it turns out that the woman, Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman), is with her husband, the notorious Czech Resistance leader Victor Laszlo (Paul Henreid) who is attempting to escape to Lisbon. A German major name Strasser has also arrived in Casablanca to make sure that Laszlo does not leave and ideally can be arrested or killed without making him into a martyr. 

To really exemplify how bad the situation has gotten, a couple of very short side stories show a young wife that is willing to sleep with the French captain in order to get a plane ticket for herself and her husband. At the bar, a proud French woman is drinking with a German soldier because she feels that some promiscuities might keep her safe and even get her out of Africa. Rick allows the young husband to cheat at roulette so that the wife can keep her honor and the two will have enough money to purchase a passport. Famously, the German that the promiscuous French woman is drinking with starts singing Die Wacht am Rhein and Laszlo asks the band to play La Marseillaise to drown out the German singing. Rick gives the OK, and the band plays the French nationalist song and causes a patriotic fervor, including the French woman who leaves her German partner and sings along with tears in her eyes. The German captain does not like this and tells Renault to close down the club, which he does.

Ilsa and Laszlo hear that Rick has the letters and she goes to try and get them. Rick does not want to give them up and she actually threatens to shoot him. She cannot follow through and she admits that she is still in love with Rick. It turns out that she was married before she met Rick and was under the impression that Laszlo had been killed when she was with Rick in Paris. She suddenly disappeared because she found out that he husband was alive and telling anyone where she was going would be a risk to both her and Rick. The bar owner finally melts off that icy crust. He is willing to give a letter to Laszlo and have Ilsa stay. However, Laszlo has been at a meeting that was broken up and he wants Rick to go with Ilsa to Lisbon to make sure she is safe.

Renault tries to arrest Laszlo on some fake charge that will only hold him the night, but Rick promises to set him up for a more serious crime. Rick pretends to turn on Laszlo, but he actually has used the time to arrange for Laszlo to leave on a plane that night. The German commander is informed and races over to the airport to stop everything and Renault is being held at gunpoint by Rick until Ilsa and Laszlo can leave. A final showdown occurs at the airport hanger where Rick is holding the two officers at bay while Laszlo and Ilsa leave. She is hesitant and that is when we get the famous “maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow” speech. It is beautiful and poignant, making for maybe the best couple of sentences of dialogue in American cinema. Strasser tries to warn the tower but Rick shoots and kills him. The French Captain tells his men to round up the usual subjects, not revealing who actually killed the German officer. Rick and the French captain walk away discussing what they will do next, ending the film with the famous line, “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

I am so happy to have watched this film again because it puts me in a great mood every time that I see it. Not surprisingly, the AFI has a strong affinity for this film and gave it accolades whenever possible. The film was #37 on the top 100 thrills, #1 on the top 100 passions, #4 greatest film hero for Rick Blaine, #2 song for “As Time Goes By,” 6 different lines on the top 100 movie quotes, and #32 on the top 100 cheer films. I have to be a little careful when I watch this films because it has a carryover effect and can make the films I see immediately before and after seem like garbage. Speaking of which...

I was surprised watching All the President’s Men with how close to the actual event that the movie was produced, yet Casablanca did it even closer in time and did a much better job. There are stories of soldiers that joined the military after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and saw the film before leaving to take part in Project Torch, which was the Allied mission to retake North Africa including Casablanca. The IMDB trivia mentions that some of the actors that played the extra Nazi officers were German Jews that escaped to America. The actress that played the French woman who was cavorting with the German officers is shown crying during the famous French National Anthem scene...that wasn’t scripted. She was a French citizen who had family fighting against the Germans back home and she was upset. The German singing was supposed to be a Nazi rally song, but the film producers could not acquire the rights without having to deal directly with Nazi representatives and possibly pay royalties to the group. That sure as hell wasn’t happening so they picked a royalty free German song.

There were a lot of Americans in the US at the time that did not think that the Nazis were all that bad and were more focused on the clear and present danger of Japan. There were many people that were confused why the US was fighting in Africa when Pearl Harbor was attacked by Japan. At some level, this film served as a form of propaganda to help drum up support for the war in Europe and Africa. It worked well. The beginning intro to the film that explained the volatile situation in North Africa was news to many moviegoers at the time (it kind of was for me as well). 

I have spent the week praising this film, but I do have to point out a couple of egregious flaws with the special effects. There is a scene of Rick and Ilsa back in Paris and, since the country was occupied, there was no way lo film on location or even get any up-to-date establishing shots. Therefore, all they had was old background roll for driving and at a café, so that is what they two characters did in France: took a terrible looking car ride and sat at a café. It looks pretty terrible, but luckily it does not last and accounts for a very short portion of the film. They also couldn’t get permission to fly planes so low over Hollywood lots so they just paper used cutouts layered over the film to show the planes taking off and landing at the airstrip in Casablanca. It is blatant, but the movie is so old and is otherwise so perfect that it is more charming to me than anything else. 

So does this movie belong on the AFI top 100 as #3? Sure does. This is one of the quintessential American movies that should be seen. There was some discussion amongst my group of whether the film was too high because of films like Gone With the Wind and The Wizard of Oz being lower, but there was no argument that it is Top 5 as far as greatest American films. Do I recommend it? Of course! It is a time capsule of the 40s, it is an excellent story, it has quotes that are excepted as part of American English vernacular, and it stars two of the biggest actors in all of Hollywood cinema history. Please go and watch it. And tell me what you thought, because I have not had anybody who was sorry that they took the time for a viewing. You will thank me later.

[yousadclownofaman]

Happy Worldbuilding Wednesday! Lets talk about family, found or otherwise. How do people track lineage? What does a typical home arrangement look like? Do people tend to stay in touch with their relatives? Do blood relations even matter much, or does "family" mean something different?

Man, these questions hit it out the freakin park every wednesday! Since I have a hard time generalizing abt the world as a whole in regards to “”typical”” households, as this is a world where social class varies so wildly from person to person, I think I’ll tryn crack this Q in bits;

Besides blood lineage, one major development in near-future society has beeen the idea of your company being a new family, and a new identity. For example, a sarariman is provided for entirely by their company’s staff, from housing to food to health care, which in theory makes them a greater worker & more productive. What it really has done is allowed multinationals to erode the “traditional family unit” that they originally had to push in the name of sales, and to retrofit it in terms of producing not for the nation but rather for whomever the land owner is. The families of life-long businessmen are tooled to provide carne por la machina, meat for the machine, so that the chosen industrial giant can continue surviving. In this way, Lifers can be incredibly socially inept in large crowds, and such behavior company-wide has spawned a whole sub-sect of the population including techs and programmers with about as much intersocial sense as spiders. That being said, let me talk a little abt Lincoln & Roy’s family situations.

Lincoln’s mom, Mama Hooper, is a single parent which is very common nowadays in the future. Artificial insemination & gene therapy have made adoption a super-science, but Lincoln was not adopted. Instead Mama gave birth herself, and has since found out she wasn’t even technically supposed to be able to grow Lincoln in her womb due to underlying medical issues, and yet Lincoln came out relatively healthy with only a minor issue with his sight & processing light naturally thru his eyes. Mama had to take two jobs plus began hustling smuggled authentic grain alcohols out of the back of her business (a high-tech bodega in a nasty part of New Boston) in order to get him thru public primary school and had plans to attend a Community Career Center a couple years after graduating from primary school (a mix of on-campus and virtual schooling). Most kids his age don’t get the chance to finish High School let alone plan for the Trip-C so all things considered, he’s not doing toooo bad. The real issue is that his civil record is tarnished now, and after getting releases back into the population after a stint in jail, re-adjusting to the world has shown him certain aspects of what it means to have true, trusted friends and therefor, an extended found family. Lincoln’s living with his Ma again after getting out of the city hoosegow, and though their relationship is strained over the reason for Linc’s arrest, Mama Hooper’s apartment is a safe haven and comfort zone for Linc whether he likes to admit or not.

Roy on the other hand had a slightly different upbringing. Both parents of his were present for his upbringing, and one is still alive today living in a retirement community off the coast, but eventually Roy’s trying to make enough money to get her off-planet and into Low Orbit where she can spend the rest of her days feebly croaking out ‘One Toke Over the Line’ on repeat & roastin’ up a bone all the way to the big potfields in the sky. Already I think that’s an image of his mom to work with; in her youth she married an army man, Roy’s dad, and they stayed married only a year before they had their first child, Roy’s (unnamed as of yet) older brother. Roy’s dad was a member of the Key Lime Commandos; a group of private military contractors hired out by Global Delights Foods Inc. to secure land-rights to the last living grove of healthy, genuine Florida Key Limes in order to patent the genetic material & begin developing hybrid plants while maintaining exclusive rights to anything produced thereafter. During his tour he was exposed to an experimental chemical weapon that, unbeknownst to him, had seeped into his own genetic material. Roy’s older brother, the couple’s first son, was entirely healthy save a cleft lip & a temper like his father eventually, but the lip was corrected expertly at birth & all that’s left is a rather fecting lip-scar. ROY on the other hand was the second and last child because Roy was born with all sorts of health defects that almost made him a candidate for stem cell harvesting. Fortunately a new program director at the hospital had just been instated and those policied had been given stricter guidelines to adhere to by the time Roy came along. He was born without working eyes, as the structure of the organs themselves had more-or-less collapsed in-utero, along with a degenerative aging disorder that exponentially gets more severe as he gets older. This made him the Black Sheep, the runt of the litter whose birth was the final straw for his father’s bitterness. Roy’s dad soon slipped back into drugs and alcohol while Roy was growing up & eventually just disappeared one day with money coming in over the wire every couple of weeks. It devestated his mom for years and his brother’s almost entirely left the family, so really Roy’s just got himself and dear old Mam to worry about. That being said, he tries to take really good care of her, sends back as much as he can when he gets his paychecks to make sure she’s got money for her medicines & activities. Roy cares about his mom more than his own hide a lot of the time which gets him into trouble. Occasionally. But the ‘ceuticals help even him out now & again.

[cardstumble]

https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/The-Year-of-Dangerous-Days/Nicholas-Griffin/9781501191022

police brutality    drug crisis     immigration    white/latin/black tribes

Excerpt

Chapter 1 CHAPTER 1

DECEMBER 1979

By 1979, there were several Miamis that barely lapped against one another, let alone integrated. The county itself was a strange beast, twenty-seven different municipalities with their own mayor, many with their own police departments. But Miami wasn’t divided by municipalities; it was separated into tribes.

There was Anglo Miami, which the city’s boosters were still hawking to white America: beaches, real estate, hotels, and entertainment. Tourists dominated the region. Dade had 1.6 million residents but

2.1 million international visitors a year. Anglo Miami was far from monolithic. There were southerners, migrants, and a large Jewish population that ran some of the most important businesses and institutions in Miami Beach.

Across the causeway in Little Havana and up the coast in Hialeah sat Latin Miami, created by the Cubans who’d fled Fidel Castro’s revolution twenty years before. Whenever there was violence south of the border, Latin America coughed up a new pocket of immigrants. Most recently that meant that the Cuban population in Dade was being watered down by Nicaraguans, Salvadorans, and Colombians.

Then there was black Miami. It, too, had more divisions than cohesion. There was a strong Bahamian presence, plenty of Jamaicans. Both felt distinct from the African Americans who had moved south from Georgia, and those who were born and bred in Miami. The latest immigrants were only beginning to spill in: a large number of unwelcome Haitians. Arriving on rickety boats, fleeing both political persecution and economic despair, they were docking at a time when not one of Miami’s communities was in the mood to reach out and welcome them.

For all the nuances, if you were black, white, or Latin, you tended to know so little about the other tribes that you regarded them as rigid blocs. Who knew a Jamaican turned his nose up at a Georgia-born black, or that a Puerto Rican couldn’t stand another word from a Cuban, or that a Jew couldn’t walk through the door at the all-white country club at La Gorce? There was enough inequality to go around, but in this one thing, the black community got the most generous helping.

In 1979, if you were black in Dade County, you most likely lived in one of three neighborhoods: Overtown, the Black Grove, or Liberty City. Liberty City was the youngest of the three, dating back to 1937, when President Franklin Roosevelt authorized the first large public housing project in the South. It was Roosevelt’s response to local campaigns for better sanitation. In the ’30s, Liberty City had what most houses in Overtown and the Black Grove did not: running water, modern kitchens, electricity. Overtown remained the center of black life in Miami until the arrival of I-95, the vast stretch of American highway that ran from Maine down the East Coast all the way to Miami. It stomped right through the middle of Miami’s most prominent black neighborhood in 1965, a ravenous millipede with a thousand concrete legs.

Had the 3,000-kilometer highway been halted just 5 kilometers to the north, black Miami might have had a different history. Instead the highway, touted as “slum clearance,” bulldozed through black Miami’s main drags. Gone was much of Overtown’s commercial heart, with its three movie theaters, its

public pool, grocery store, and businesses. Goodbye to clubs that had hosted Ella Fitzgerald, to the Sir John Hotel, which had offered their finest suites to black entertainers banned from staying in whites-only Miami Beach. But more important, goodbye to a neighborhood where parents knew which house every child belonged to. Goodbye to the nighttime games of Moonlight Baby, where kids would use the bottle caps of Cola Nibs to mark the edge of their bodies on the pavement. Goodbye to unarmed

black patrolmen walking black streets.

Overtown had its own all-black police station, with strict rules. Black officers couldn’t carry a weapon home, since “no one wanted to see a black man with a gun.” They could stop whites in Overtown but

had no power of arrest over them. The closest affordable housing for Overtown’s displaced was in and around the Liberty City projects. Block by block it began to turn from white to black, until neighboring white homeowners built a wall

to separate themselves from ever-blacker Liberty City. White housewives in colorful plaids and horn-rimmed glasses carried protest signs: “We want this Nigger moved” and

“Nigger go to Washington.” Someone detonated a stick of dynamite in

an empty apartment leased to blacks. Nothing worked, and by the end of the 1960s the first proud black owners inside Liberty City were joined by many of Overtown’s twenty thousand displaced. As white flight accelerated, house prices declined, local businesses faltered, and unemployment and crime began to rise. By 1968, Liberty City had assumed a new reputation. The CND—the Central-North District—had

earned the nickname “Central Negro District” from both the city and the county police departments.

There was still beauty in Liberty City, still sunrises where the light would smart off the sides of pastel-painted houses, and the dew on the grass would glisten, and churches would fill, and the jitney buses would chug patiently, waiting for the elderly to board. Still schoolchildren in white shirts tightening backpacks to their shoulders and catching as much shade as possible on the way to the school gates. There was still beauty, but you had to squint to see it.

Eighty percent of South Florida homes had air-conditioning in 1980, but in stifling hot Liberty City,

only one in five homes could afford it. It was a neighborhood without a center, few jobs to offer, seventy-two churches but just six banks,

not one of which was black-owned. There were plenty of places to pray for a positive future but few institutions willing to risk investment in one. The fact that a teenager called Arthur McDuffie got out at all was unusual. The fact that he came back, found a good job, earned steadily, and raised a family was rarer still.

Frederica Jones had been Arthur McDuffie’s high school sweetheart at Booker T. Washington, one of Miami’s three segregated schools. They’d met while Frederica was walking home from the local store, where she’d bought a can of peas for her mother. She’d swung her groceries at her side, and McDuffie, who’d been watching her from across the street, fell into step beside her.

After a few moments of banter, McDuffie made a simple declaration. “I like you.” Then he asked for Frederica’s number. That night McDuffie called, and the two talked for an hour. At the end of the conversation McDuffie, two years Frederica’s senior, asked, “Would you go with me?”

“Yes!” she said.

They became inseparable. They were in the Booker T. Washington band together. McDuffie was the baritone horn

and Frederica a majorette. She watched McDuffie win the local swim meets. When McDuffie graduated, he joined the Marine Corps, and for the next three years, they communicated through letters. Then, within two months of his honorable discharge, they married. Two children quickly followed. After which came problems, separation, and, in 1978, divorce. McDuffie had always had a reputation as a ladies’ man, and now he had

a child with another woman to prove it.

Yet toward the end of 1979, the thirty-three-year-old McDuffie was back visiting the house he’d once shared with Frederica. He mowed the lawn, fixed the air conditioners, and trimmed the hedges of their neighbor, the last white family on the block. The warmth in the failed marriage seemed to be returning. The two spent the night of December 15, 1979, together, and McDuffie asked Frederica to join him on a trip to Hawaii—a vacation he’d just won at the office for his performance as the assistant manager at Coastal States Life Insurance.

The following day, Sunday, under bright 80-degree skies, Frederica, a nurse at Jackson Memorial Hospital, drove McDuffie back to his home. She parked the car feeling like there was positive momentum.

They’d talked of remarriage in front of their families. The deal was that if McDuffie could make “certain changes” in his life, then they could go ahead and make it official. As they sat in the car, McDuffie kissed his ex-wife goodbye and promised to be back at her place that evening to take care of their children before her shift. Normally, Frederica worked only afternoons, but the hospital was short-staffed over the Christmas period and she’d agreed to work that night at 11:00.

Shortly after 2:00 p.m., McDuffie walked into 1157 NW 111th Street, the home he now shared with his younger sister, Dorothy, a legal clerk. It was a modest building, painted green. Inside there was a record collection and books of music. McDuffie played

five instruments, all horns. There was

an entire white wall “covered with plaques and certificates of achievement,” including his “Most Outstanding”

award from his Marine Corps platoon. He wasn’t a war hero, hadn’t fought in Vietnam, but McDuffie had been faithful to the corps, a military policeman who had done his job impeccably.

A dutiful father, McDuffie had already wrapped Christmas presents for his two daughters and hidden them in a closet in his bedroom. His nine-year-old would get a wagon, a jack-in-the-box, and clothes. His oldest would get a watch, a tape recorder, a radio,

and a pair of roller skates.

He’d saved for months, but it hadn’t been an easy year to make money. Under President Jimmy Carter, the country, most especially the South, had been battered. Unemployment was stubbornly high, and it looked like the president was being swept downstream by the economy. For all Carter’s preaching of forbearance, the reality was that interest rates were up to 17 percent. In thirty years, inflation had never run higher.

Gas prices had doubled in two years. Even hamburger meat was two dollars a pound.

Despite all this, Carter was about to enter an election year in comparatively good standing. Whatever America thought of his ability to steer the country, he retained the people’s sympathy,

with an approval rating of 61 percent. Six weeks before, the Iranian revolution had become very real to the distant United States. The sixty-two hostages captured in the American embassy in Tehran had helped generate a sudden sense of solidarity in the United States. Between that and the following month’s Soviet invasion of Afghanistan, there was an understanding that Carter had a tricky hand to play. He would promise a strong and quick response to both situations. By the end of the year Carter led his presumptive challenger, Ronald Reagan, by

an enormous 24-point margin.

Still, the mood was summed up best by the

Miami Herald

in 1979. It was a year the average American wallet had “barely survived.” The unseen benefit, according to the paper, was that Miamians like McDuffie lived in Florida. They weren’t being hammered on heating oil like the rest of the country.

By Miami standards, the evening of December 16 counted as cold, expected to dip below 70 degrees and then drop below 60 the following day. Miamians traditionally overreacted, digging out winter coats and scarves for a rare outing. McDuffie selected blue jeans, a navy shirt over a baby-blue undershirt,

and a black motorcycle jacket. He searched his house for a hat to wear under his helmet. At 5:00 p.m., he closed the door behind him.

His own car, a 1969 green Grand Prix, wasn’t parked in its usual spot in his driveway. A friend had borrowed it. So he climbed on an orange-and-black 1973 Kawasaki 2100, “a more or less permanent loan” from his cousin. McDuffie turned the key, revved the engine, and drove the motorcycle south to Fifty-Ninth Street, to his friend Lynwood Blackmon’s house. He pulled up at the front door, feet still astride the bike, and talked to Blackmon’s seven- and eight-year-old daughters. He explained to them that he couldn’t help their father tune their car as he’d promised. His tools were in the back of the borrowed Grand Prix. Next he drove to his older brother’s house, his most common stop, and found him washing his car in his driveway. McDuffie grinned, revved the engine, spat up dirt over the clean car, and sped away before his brother could grab him. He raced to the far end of the street, turned, and braked hard.

“You better slow that bike down,” shouted his brother. McDuffie nodded, grinned, and pulled away.

Sometimes on weekends McDuffie moonlighted as a truck driver, making deliveries to Miami Beach. Sometimes he gave up his time to help jobless youngsters, teaching them how to paint houses. Just two years before, he’d painted the Range Funeral Home, where his body would arrive in exactly a week. On this particular Sunday evening, he was going to see Carolyn Battle, the twenty-six-year-old assistant that McDuffie had hired at Coastal Insurance. She was pretty, independent, and stylish, with a preference for dresses and wearing her hair in an Afro. He’d brought a helmet for her.

McDuffie shouldn’t have been driving at all. His license had been suspended months before, and he’d paid his thirty-five-dollar traffic fine with a check that had bounced. He’d told a coworker that he was worried about getting stopped again, but there were no alternatives for

driving back and forth to work. Public transport was pitiful in Miami, and Liberty City—barely serviced—was reliant on independent jitney operators who rarely worked weekends. Not having a car was a self-quarantine.

McDuffie collected Carolyn Battle. They drove fifteen minutes south, to the edge of Miami International Airport, where they watched planes arcing out over the ocean or dropping into landing patterns above the Everglades. Tiring of the airport, McDuffie drove Battle across MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. When McDuffie was a child, dusk would have found an exodus heading the other way:

black Americans subject to a sunset curfew. But on December 16, on the three lanes that ran east over the bright blue shallows, McDuffie showed off, hitting eighty miles an hour. They walked in the sand, stopped for Pepsi, and then at 9:00 p.m. headed back to Battle’s apartment at 3160 NW Forty-Sixth Street, just

five blocks from the Airport Expressway.

At one in the morning, McDuffie slept in Battle’s bed while she watched television on her couch. At 1:30 she woke him up. “Jesus,” said McDuffie, reaching for his watch. He was far too late to show up at his ex-wife’s house. Frederica would have taken the kids over to a babysitter two hours ago. How was he going to make that up to her? Had he blown it? McDuffie gathered his watch, his wedding ring, his medallion. Still dressed in his blue jeans, two blue shirts, and boots, he put on his knitted cap under his white helmet, tied his knapsack to the back of the Kawasaki, and headed north toward home.

Was it a wheelie, a rolled stop sign, a hand lifted from a handlebar to give the finger that caught the sergeant’s attention? The officer would later offer all three explanations of why he’d first noticed the Kawasaki pass by him. It was 1:51 a.m. The sergeant got on the radio, described McDuffie’s white helmet and the tag number of the motorbike, and flipped on his red light and siren. On a cool night, with the rider in jeans, jacket, and helmet, he couldn’t have known if he was black, Latin, or white.

McDuffie appeared to glance in his mirror and then sped through a red light on NW Sixty-First Street. As the sergeant followed in his white-and-green county squad car, McDuffie blew through another red light and swept around corners,

not even slowing for the stop signs. He’d picked a very quiet night for these traffic infractions. Within sixty seconds of the beginning of the chase, McDuffie was being followed by every available unit within Central District.