#army of twenty nations

[tenth-sentence]

We took up our residence in the rancho, or hovel, of a curious old Spaniard, who had served with Napoleon in the expedition against Russia.

"Journal of Researches into the Natural History and Geology of the Countries Visited During the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle Round the World, 1832-36" - Charles Darwin

[asynca]

This man messaged me on Twitter asking me to reblog his fundraiser and I saw he had a new account, so I was a bit suspicious, and asked him to write my name in the sand outside the front of the tent he had in his photo to prove he was real and in Gaza. I didn't expect to hear anything else.

He did it. And in the recording he sent with it, you can hear the warplanes/drones overhead. He is in Gaza, he's real and he needs our help.

Here's his story:

I went from being a digital marketing student to an ice cream vendor due to the lack of job opportunities, then to a prisoner in the hands of the Israeli occupation forces. My name is Abdulrahman Mushtaha, a 21-year-old from Rafah city in southern Gaza Strip, where the Israeli occupation sent me after more than 25 days of detention. This might be just a number to you, but during this time, I experienced some of the worst forms of torture and humiliation from soldiers and recruits not older than twenty. All of this because of my nationality. Maybe I would have stayed in northern Gaza, enduring 100 days without seeing my mother's face, kissing my father's hand, or playing with my two-year-old nephew. 100 days without hugging my sister Heba, who is starving in northern Gaza due to the occupation army besieging their house for more than 50 days. Now, Abdulrahman is without university, without a job at the ice cream shop, and without shelter. Perhaps with your simple help, I can return to life? Perhaps your simple donation could be a chance for me to survive, if life remains, maybe with your help, I can save my mother, father, my nephew, and whoever is left of my family. Help me rebuild my life at my beautiful city that the occupation has turned into a ghost town.:

If you've got some spare money, send it his way. It'll go to someone who really needs it.

[tenebrous-if]

LINKS:

🜲 Play the Game

Estimated Release: N/A

🜲 FAQ

🜲 Pinterest

🜲 Character Descriptions

🜲 Family Descriptions

🜲 Map of Arvandor

🜲 Genre(s): Fantasy, Romance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, and Action/Adventure.

🜲 Rating: Tenebrous is an 18+ Fantasy IF set within the mythical world of Arvandor.

The Kingdom of Aetheria, within the world of Arvandor, is a nation ripe with history. King Lysander du Aetheria rose up and led the fledgling Aetherian Army against The Forsaken One— Herald of the Abyssal Uprising— and came out victorious when everyone else had failed. With his victory, Lysander placed Aetheria as one of the key pillars of keeping Arvandor safe; allowing for peace to reign over the continent for centuries.

Peace, however, was never meant to last.

The Order of Netheron, Followers of The Forsaken One, had captured you at the tender age of fifteen, holding you captive for a decade within a tower only labeled as “The Spire”. All due to their wish of resurrecting their fallen deity— something that they believe could only be accomplished by using the blood of King Lysander’s descendants; it was a ritual that didn’t go as planned— one that did bring back their deity, but only for your eyes and ears only; the both of you attached to the other in a way that probably wasn’t intended.

And that’s how you spent the last decade of your life… Growing used to the presence that now appears whenever the time calls for it. It isn’t until your twenty-fifth year that you’re finally found and taken back to Aetheria, to everything you had long thought you’d lost.

Your time in the sun, however, was short-lived as the tidings of an even darker uprising was beginning to grow— one that threatens to demolish everything and everyone.

Can you figure out how to save your home?

🜲 Create your Aetherian Royal:

Name/Nickname

Gender [Male, Female, or Non-Binary]

Appearance

Hobbies

Personality [Mainly involving unique reactions to certain situations— the MC is semi-set in some ways]

🜲 Romance 1 of 4 potential love interests— each offering their own unique experience within the story and how the world at large will react to the burgeoning relationship.

🜲 Bond with your family after being apart for so long. They have missed you a great deal. [The MC is a middle child.]

🜲 Harness the magic that flows through your veins due to the gift of your blood.

🜲 Choose from a variety of skill sets that your MC may be able to acquire. [Note: This means you can choose something to specialize in, instead of having to constantly choose between being a diplomat or warrior. You can instead choose to be a swordsman while also focusing on the art of diplomacy.]

🜲 Build a codex from the various interactions that you can have throughout your story— from places, to people, to old legends that have tested the passage of time within Arvandor.

Astorian/Astoria du Aerilon: The Heir to Aerilon, and the person that was your betrothed from the time you were seven until your disappearance. Astorian/Astoria spent every winter with you, and you every summer with them, in hopes that a union between the both of you would bring your countries together. You remember many things from that time of your life: their warm laugh, brazen attitude, arrogant smirk, and their inability to stay still for long. Meeting them again? It simply proves how much can change in a decade. [Can choose to have been in an almost relationship with them or still rivals.]

William/Wilhelmina du Arvandor: A recent addition to the Holy Order, who has an iron-clad need to help and be of assistance to anyone that may require it. Being a Paladin has been something they’ve strived towards for the last eight years of their life; training being second to nothing. It’s simply a mere coincidence, or the Divine’s Will, that their first major mission was to rid Arvandor of the last dregs of Netheron… A mission that brought them to The Spire, with a small band of warriors, to carry out that very task— wherein they find the Lost Heir of Aetheria. You.

Gabriel/Gabrielle Adair: Being renowned within the arcane arts, having achieved the rank of High Mage within the Aetherian Institute of Magic, it’s of little surprise that the royal family of Aetheria would call on someone with their skill set— if it weren’t for the scandal that still plagues them. You’re not sure what could have been so bad that would force them to retreat within themself like they have, especially if your parents had seen them fit enough to tutor you, but it’s obviously something that weighs heavily upon them. Will it be possible to wrangle out the secrets of their past when you’re still trying to figure out your own gift?

Ilyran/Ilyria Caelestis: The Forsaken One, an individual that’s visible only to your eyes from a ritual gone wrong. There isn’t much you can glean from them, after all you can only take what they say with a grain of salt, but the shadows that lurk within their eyes has nothing to do with the darkness that now lives within them. It’s hard sometimes to look at what they’ve become when you’ve seen what they were in Old Texts, when they weren’t the Forsaken One, weren’t the Divine’s Disgrace… When they were simply Ilyran/Ilyria Caelestis, High Priest/Priestess of the Holy Order.

[mylittleredgirl]

lennier “from birth, I was raised in the temple and studied the ways of the religious caste, six months ago I came here” is pretty funny when you think about it.

not only is this his first job, it’s his first time living outside a monastery. imagine spending twenty years or so never meeting anyone who isn’t also in a minbari monastery, and then one of the nine-most important people on your planet plucks you out of divinity school sight unseen to come work for her. so they put you on a space transport and now you live at the United Nations International Airport (*soon to be the Independent Galactic War Outpost International Airport) with the most cosmically relevant people alive. and all This is happening.

maybe that’s to his benefit actually!! everyone else has to have their moment of reckoning when they realize “we are living in unprecedented times and, regrettably, it seems i am a named character in biblical-level events 😐” while lennier, fresh from minbari religious mythology and history class (one subject), is like oh yes they warned us about the biblical events! how fascinating to experience them in person.

his direct supervisor is the second coming. it turns out that he personally knows Jesus George Washington from a thousand years ago who he’s been praying to this whole time. then he’s right there in the front row when the First Ones get kicked sternly shamed out of the galaxy and there’s a civil war on his planet because society broke down and it’s still his first job!

honestly we’re too hard on him for being a dramatic disaster in season five when 73% of his life experience outside the temple has been directly related to the End of Days (the rest is administrative errands and that time londo took him to a bar). every person he knows is unhinged. he has never seen normal life even from a distance. it’s a lot to expect him to handle an ordinary thing like “falling in love with your milf boss who’s the first lady of the known universe and is also like if the pope had a massive well-trained space army personally pledged to die for her” with anything less than shakespearean levels of drama.

[felassan]

Some things in BioWare's transcript of the August 30th dev Discord Q&A are a lil different to what was actually said in the Q&A. not only editing to tidy up and be concise etc; some of it seems to actually be new/additional (or updated?) information. this post is just a quick summary of the new or different things I noticed when comparing the BioWare transcript to a word-for-word transcript (or at least the ones that stood out to me anyways). DA:TV spoilers under cut.

This post is a mix of new snippets and rephrased answers to things that were rephrased in a way that stuck out to me or interested me. nb, it doesn't highlight changes if the change was something not being included in the BioWare transcript (there was some of that too).

John Epler: "I don't know if any of [the Evanuris] consider [tea] a favorite beverage"

[re: hugging Assan] Assan "always appreciates the attention. He's got a sharp beak and he'd let you know if he didn't."

Variation of the WEWH question answer:

"There's always going to be politics to some degree - there are a number of different groups with different priorities, and not all of them are going to be immediately disposed towards trusting you. But while the Inquisitor had an organization and an army (and even Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden spent more time moving in political circles), Rook's situation is a little more desperate and immediate. Their approach is therefore a little more direct, and so while they may occasionally find themselves in the political sphere, they're not trying to assemble an army or build consensus amongst nation states."

[on companions' ages] The part of this where they described the companions' age range has been changed from where it said "early-mid twenties" to just say "mid twenties". Also, Taash was said to be "early twenties"; she is now simply "the youngest".

New sentence on the ages: "We don't usually nail down a specific age, unless it's something that comes up in their content, but we want to have an idea as to their general age range as we're writing them."

If no side characters stand out as a good candidate for a 'light' romance, this is never something they want to force

Griffons as half-bird half-lion - it now reads half-eagle half-lion

"Thedas has always been filled with extraordinary people, and in DATV you're trying to save the world. It stands to reason that the people you're bringing on board are going to be people with extraordinary circumstances of their own."

On the Veil not being in great shape and having been deteriorating in recent times/the intervening period between games, a more specific figure is given: "things in general have been slowly getting worse over the past decade and a half"

Lucanis and Bellara find out they have a lot in common and develop a "really fun" friendship, even though "it's hard to think of two companions who feel more different on the surface"

Neve and Bellara's friendship "kind of evolved organically as we were writing them, and finding out all the opportunities we could to throw little tastes of it into dialogue was a blast"

when enemies are slowed due to Slow Time, Rook stays moving at full speed

Rook's weapons and companions' gear can also be transmogged in addition to Rook's armor gear and casualwear

New sentence: "I've built Harding as a Support Character one run, and a DPS the next run. If you want to use Davrin as a DPS, you can do that."

"But each Companion has a gift that you can purchase from vendors in the world, and then give it to them." - it sounds like there is only one unique gift that you can give to the companions each?

"In general, something like a short story anthology is a volunteer thing - we ask people what they want to write and, generally, people tend to gravitate towards character ideas and concepts they already had in mind for a companion."

"So it's rare that we write a character that isn't intended to be a companion and then think 'oh wow this character would be a great fit', but it's not unheard of either."

"Ultimately we wanted to be sure that The Veilguard could be a good entry point to Dragon Age for new players and people who know almost nothing about the universe. But if you're the kind of player who wants to catch the most references, I'd suggest reading The Missing (most recent comic series) and Tevinter Nights. The former is a direct narrative setup for the beginning of the game" while Tevinter Nights is "less of a direct narrative tie", though it introduces "characters, concepts and story elements" that show up in the game

New sentence and info: [John Epler] "The Archon's Palace floating was something we came up with midway through writing Tevinter Nights and I had to furiously rewrite a few things." - the Floating Building is the Archon's Palace?

"Mae is a character that means a lot to so many DA fans" (<3)

Crow politics are now described as "complex" as well as deadly

"Some romances allow you to express interest without 'committing'" - so it sounds like not all of them allow this? - "but all romances eventually end up being exclusive"

"With each specialization we wanted to explore, both visually and through gameplay, what a specific class member of that faction might look like. Spellblade, for example, is our answer to the question 'what does a mage assassin look like'."

Our ability to save PCs so we don't have to start from scratch in CC each time was very important to the devs

"the feeling we want to evoke over the course of the game is one of growth, both in yourself as Rook and in your companions as they overcome their own problems with your help. These problems are often external in nature, but they are always tied, at their core, to the conflict that the character carries within them. And they are, also, always uniquely Dragon Age problems on the surface, but still relatable."

The difference in the answer to the is Lucanis possessed question interested me.

Original for the sake of comparison:

"So, again, spoilers, everyone has been warned, fairly warned. So Lucanis Dellamorte is also known as The Demon of Vyrantium. And, he has spent a lot of time killing Venatori, who are mages, and who do know a lot about demons, so. Yeah, somebody decided that it might be a good idea to make that nickname stick."

New:

"There's definitely something going on with Lucanis - and before you hired him, he was known as the Demon of Vyrantium. Might be that someone took offense to that nickname, especially since he earned it by killing Venatori."

New sentence in the answer to the is Thedas a southern continent question:

"Of course, nothing says that distance to the sun is the only factor impacting weather."

.. [probably reading too much into this don't look at me ik many factors influence weather irl hhh] magic? the Veil? the deteriorating Veil? the risen Gods? the Blight? Thedas is experiencing global warming? :D

"As part of our attempt to make the companions feel like they have their own lives outside of just Rook, we asked ourselves what pairings made the most narrative sense and then talked about how they might actually unfold in the game. And even before companions get together, you can see that interest starts to develop. Which is, I think, one of my favorite things about the companions. They don't just fall in love with each other, they become friends, confidents, and even rivals at times"

It takes Davrin a while to trust others. He can be a little standoffish, but eventually he warms up to anyone who shows that they have his back

As a monster hunter a lot of Davrin's hobbies revolve around that

"a lot of elves go around shoeless, and that's in part because they believe it brings them closer to nature. What better way to understand what the world and ground are saying than to walk directly on it? but not every Dalish follows this custom" [...] "The Veil Jumpers, in general, are a little more likely to wear boots and shoes, as they're far more likely to end up in dangerous places and fighting unsettling creatures than the average Dalish"

On Bellara's boots: "you never know when you're going to find a broken artifact with a lot of sharp edges."

Bellara is a big fan of pan-frying anything she can (re: food)

Lucanis has the refined palate of an Antivan Crow

Getting the beards to work with all the armor variations that they have was especially challenging with dwarves because they "tend to be" shorter

Those beards that were designed with dwarves in mind can alsobe used for humans and qunari (I wonder then if elves cannot have beards in CC? Like I know they usually don't have them or have it in CC and that lore says they don't but there are a also a few lorebreaking instances of it and I wasn't sure which way this one would go given how 'free choice/options for all' the CC in this game has sounded like it has been designed to be)

"You'll see more on this as we showcase character creator in our runup to launch"

For this question "Since you can choose to be a part of the same faction for most of the companions, will that give you an advantage when trying to befriend them?", the answer now reads that in addition to the unique dialogue same-background Rooks have with the companion of that background, it can also "change the timbre of your relationship a little bit"

John Epler: "one of my favorite things about this group of companions is how much time they spend with each other"

[on the companions] "They're a family, and like a family, they don't always get along"

"A lot of Solas' relationship with the player is personal. He sees a lot of himself in Rook - both the good and the bad - and largely talks only to you, as you're the one he has a connection with."

"Not to mention at least a couple of followers who would likely love to ask an ancient Elven god some questions."

"a common complaint we've heard in past games is that many players disliked always feeling like they needed a Rogue to be able to lockpick, so fortunately Rook finds a method to use these exploration abilities even when the associated Companion is not in your party"

An example of a companion's unique exploration ability is that Emmrich has an ability to briefly reanimate skeletons to open gates

Qunari not wearing helmets and only vitaar allows more flexibility when it comes to horns customization in CC

"yes - there will be some pretty obvious Act breaks. Not all content fits neatly into these buckets, as it's more a way of breaking up the critical path (companion and other side content follows a different cadence), but there are some pretty obvious Acts built into our game. A lot of the missions, though, we want to make sure players have the freedom to decide what they do and when they do it, so while they may have internal acts (follower missions form their own arcs), they don't conform to the overall main quest arcs"

The difference in the answer to the is Assan the only griffon question confirms that Assan was specifically one of the baby griffons that hatched at the end of Last Flight. (as opposed to another clutch that was laid in the last decade)

Old:

"So, again, just to be clear, spoilers, but yeah, Assan has brothers and sisters, so Assan is not the only griffon that shows up in Dragon Age The Veilguard."

New:

"If you read Last Flight, you'll know that Assan isn't the only griffon from that clutch of eggs, so he's got brothers and sisters. And if one griffon is good, a whole family of them is better, right?"

"We briefly experimented with other options for last names but it became unwieldy as we do refer to your Rook by their last name on several occasions, and accounting for 6 potential last names is already a lot of complexity."

Variation of the 'what goes into bringing back old characters' question answer:

"We always - both for Morrigan and any other characters we bring back - think about what they would've been up to since the last time anyone saw them. These characters should feel like real people, and the last thing we want to imply is that their stories stalled out while they weren't directly in the player's adventuring party. So we look at their arc before the time skip, and then think about where that arc would've taken them. In the case of Morrigan, she's coming to terms with a lot of truths about herself and about her mother. There are elements of her past that she's come to terms with, which is why she wears a version of Flemeth's crown. Ultimately you want the world to feel like it's real. And no one's the same person today that they were 10 years ago. That's stagnation, and it's bad in fictional characters as it is in real people."

The orb part of orb and dagger is called an Elemental Orb

Variation on the Dalish Elf vs City Elf question answer:

"While I think 'city elf' vs 'Dalish elf' is a useful distinction in the South, there's a lot more nuance in the North. Rivain, for example, has Dalish settlements intertwined with other cities. There's just not the same separation, so each of the factions has a unique approach to your lineage. You can define some of that further with choices you make in conversations - we really wanted to leave a lot of that open to players to RP."

[localization question answer variation] "Games are so complex and have so many moving pieces that you need to be in regular communication or things get missed. And a lot of that is because ultimately localization is more than just a straightforward translation. Jokes, metaphors, sayings - even specific lore terms - aren't just a matter of finding the equivalent word in another language. Every writer has a story about a time they had to explain the specifics of an off-color joke they wrote so that localization could properly capture the intent."

So mostly variations (as in rephrasing) and things, but some of the new info that particularly stood out to me was things like the description of Emmrich's exploration ability, the mention that the Floating Building is the Archon's Palace (iirc this was speculated before but not confirmed?), the new lil details or insights on Assan and Davrin, the bit about Assan being from the Last Flight eggs, etc.

[2000s-music-tourney]

We have 72 songs, this can be raised if 96 if the need arises

Pokerface by Lady Gaga 

Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance

Toxic by Britney Spears

Sk8ter Boi by Avril Lavigne 

All my Life by Foo Fighters

American Idiot by Green Day

1985 by Bowling for Soup

Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand 

Somebody Told Me by the Killers

Hey There Delilah by Plain White Tees

Feel Good Inc by the Gorillaz

Sugar we're goin down by Fallout Boy

Brave as a noun by AJJ

Hot N Cold by Katy Perry

Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) by Beyonce

The Dog Days are Over by Florence + the Machine

Seven Nation Army by White Stripes

Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down

She Hates Me by Puddle Of Mudd

Stacy's Mom by Fountains for Wayne

All the Small Things By Blink 182

Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

Hurt by Johnny Cash

Hey Ya by Outkast

Rehab by Amy Winehouse

Stan by Eminem

Do you realize by The Flaming Lips

Sexyback by Justin Timberlake

Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus

Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) by Train

Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers

Fireflies by Owl City

TiK ToK by Ke$ha

Gives you Hell by All American Rejects 

Paper Planes by M.I.A.

Can't get you out of my head by Kylie Monogue

I write sins not tragedies by Panic! At the Disco

Short Skirt/Long Jacket by CAKE

Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus

Bring Me to Life by Evanescence

Before he cheats by Carrie Underwood 

Vida La Vida by Coldplay

Photograph by Nickelback

99 Problems by Jay-Z

Hash Pipe by Weezer

A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton

Love Story by Taylor Swift

Unwell by MatchBox Twenty 

Yeah! by Usher

Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland

Beautiful by Christina Aguilera 

My Hips Don't Lie by Shakira

I gotta Feeling by Black Eyed Peas

Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani

Watcha Say by Jason Derulo

Drop it like it's Hot by Snoop Dogg

Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield

Numb by Linkin Park

Umbrella by Rihanna 

Crazy in Love by Beyonce and Jay Z

How to Save a Life by The Fray

Get the Party Started by P!nk

Survivor By Destiny's Child

Everytime we touch by Cascada

Beautiful Girls by Sean Kingston

Bad day by Daniel Powter

Chop Suey By System of a Down

I'm Yours by Jason Mraz

Crazy by Gnarls Barkley 

The Middle by Jimmy Eat World

Harder Better Faster Stronger by Daft Punk

Chewing Gum by Annie

[hanjsquokka]

thank you for the tag @pearbunny <3

❀࿐　　⁺　.　　get 2 know your fav blogs!

nationality : south asian

birth month : december

fav movie/series : twenty five twenty one, lost on space, 5 centimeters per second, haikyuu, jujutsu kaisen, queen of tears, drawing closer, stuart little (and a lot more lol these are what i can name off the top of my head)

current fav song : jjam & chk chk boom - stray kids, supernova & armageddon - aespa, sparks fly & enchanted - taylor swift, boy in luv - bts, right here & mamacita- chase atlantic

fandoms : stay, army, moa, engene (but i listen to a lot of other groups, i just don't know them that well yet)

fav idol : han jisung, taehyung, jungkook, beomgyu, xu minghao, keeho, jeongin, heesung, jake

no pressure tags: @stayconnecteed @starlostastronaut @starlostseungmin @starseungs @j-0ne25 @hyunverse @soobnny @skzonthebrain + anyone else who wants to join in :)

[demaparbat-hp]

the audacity you literally have to make a GENOCIDE SURVIVOR (whose entire culture was decimated by the fire nation) proudly work for the imperial fire nation army in some fuckass au? zutara shippers are never beating the colonial apologism allegations.

Woah, okay, I wasn't expecting this. I'm a firm believer that people should, first and foremost, treat each other on the basis of respect, so I'll do my best to explain this to you, clearly, and with the benefit of the doubt in mind, okay? I'm a nice person like that.

First of all, I'm working under the assumption that you haven't read these posts, and thus don't have all the information I've shared about the AU. I've been as clear about this subject as I can be, especially in my replies but, for the sake of fairness, I'll say it once again again:

I do not condone nor find it moraly correct to justify a victim of war joining the side of the ones responsible for her people's genocide.

I try to view this AU, and war in general, through a mature, realistic lense. Turning Katara into a victim with glorified Stockholm Syndrome isn't really my style. It's honestly insulting and deeply disturbing for me, as a creator, a woman of color born in a country that has a very, very long history of colonialism, and an empathetic human being, that anyone would believe me capable of thinking like that.

That being said, I know I really shouldn't, but would you like me to give you a step by step response?

(...) proudly work for the imperial fire nation army (...)

Okay, like I said before, I'm going to assume you saw only the artwork, didn't read either the tags or the two separate, in depth posts about the characterization and plot in this AU I made literally twenty four hours ago, and drew your own conclusions instead.

First of all: Katara doesn't proudly work for the Fire Nation army. That's her cover, as it is Zuko's. She joined Zuko and his crew, all traitors to the throne and good, honourable people, under the pretense of hunting the Avatar. Truly, they're destroying the Fire Nation military from within. And are, most definitely, not proud soldiers of the Fire Lord.

Katara hates the Fire Nation. But if joining a Fire Nation crew is what she needs to do to end the war, she will do it.

And, honestly, these are not excuses. But context is important, and it's not healthy to draw conclusions from the title instead of actually reading the book, if you know what I mean. It could get you in trouble some day.

And, please, I'm begging you—this has been talked about a lot, and I don't really like drama all that much, so I won't even rise to the accusations of condoning a non consented, colonialist and abuse apologist relationship.

That's just rude.

[mesetacadre]

When the Red Army entered Korea in early August, 1945, heavy battles took place in the north, but the Japanese rule remained tranquil in the south, for the Russians stopped by the Yalta agreement at the 38th parallel, while the Americans came several weeks after the surrender of Japan, and ruled at first through the Japanese and then through the Japanese-appointed Korean officials and police. So naturally all of the pro-Japanese Koreans – former police and officials, landlords and stockholders in Japanese companies – fled south to the American zone. The flight of all these right-wing elements amazingly simplified North Korean politics. The Russians did not have to set up any left-wing government, assuming that they wanted one. They merely set free some ten thousand political prisoners and said, by implication; “Go home, boys, you’re free to organize.” Under Japanese rule all natural political leaders either served Japan or went to jail. With the pro-Japanese gone, the ex-jailbirds became the vindicated heroes of their home towns. They were all radicals of sorts, including many Communists. Anyone who knows what a tremendous reception was given to Tom Mooney when he was released to come home to the workers of San Francisco, may imagine the effect on the small towns and villages when ten thousand of these political martyrs came home. North Korea just naturally took a great swing leftwards, and the Russians had only to recognize “the choice of the Korean people.” People’s Committees sprang up in villages, counties, and provinces and coalesced into a provisional government under the almost legendary guerrilla leader Kim Il Sung. Farmers organized, demanded the land from the landlords and got it in twenty-one days by a government decree. (Compared to the land reforms of other countries, this sounds like a tale of Aladdin’s lamp!) Ninety per cent of all big industry – it had belonged to Japanese concerns – was handed over by the Russians “to the Korean people” and nationalized by one more decree. Trade unions organized, demanded a modern labor code, and got it without any trouble from their new government, with the eight-hour day, abolition of child labor, and social insurance all complete. Another decree made women equal with men in all spheres of activity and another expanded schools. Then general elections were held and a “democratic front” of three parties swept unopposed to power. The natural opposition had all gone south, to be sheltered – and put in power – by the Americans. This is the, reason, I think, for the almost exaggerated sense of “people’s power” that the North Koreans express. Their real class struggle is coming; it hasn’t fully hit them yet. The reactionaries all fled south, where they are bloodily suppressing strikes. In North Korea the farmers are building new houses and buying radios because they no longer pay land rent, while the workers are taking vacations in former Japanese villas. The North Koreans assume that this is just what naturally happens when once you are a “liberated land.” “They aren’t yet liberated down south,” they told me. “The Americans let those pro-Japanese traitors stay in power.”

In North Korea: First Eye-Witness Reports, Anna Louise Strong, 1949

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Wise Pair of Fools: A Retelling of “The Farmer’s Clever Daughter”

For the Four Loves Fairy Tale Challenge at @inklings-challenge.

Faith

I wish you could have known my husband when he was a young man. How you would have laughed at him! He was so wonderfully pompous—oh, you’d have no idea unless you’d seen him then. He’s weathered beautifully, but back then, his beauty was bright and new, all bronze and ebony. He tried to pretend he didn’t care for personal appearances, but you could tell he felt his beauty. How could a man not be proud when he looked like one of creation’s freshly polished masterpieces every time he stepped out among his dirty, sweaty peasantry?

But his pride in his face was nothing compared to the pride he felt over his mind. He was clever, even then, and he knew it. He’d grown up with an army of nursemaids to exclaim, “What a clever boy!” over every mildly witty observation he made. He’d been tutored by some of the greatest scholars on the continent, attended the great universities, traveled further than most people think the world extends. He could converse like a native in fifteen living languages and at least three dead ones.

And books! Never a man like him for reading! His library was nothing to what it is now, of course, but he was making a heroic start. Always a book in his hand, written by some dusty old man who never said in plain language what he could dress up in words that brought four times the work to some lucky printer. Every second breath he took came out as a quotation. It fairly baffled his poor servants—I’m certain to this day some of them assume Plato and Socrates were college friends of his.

Well, at any rate, take a man like that—beautiful and over-educated—and make him king over an entire nation—however small—before he turns twenty-five, and you’ve united all earthly blessings into one impossibly arrogant being.

Unfortunately, Alistair’s pomposity didn’t keep him properly aloof in his palace. He’d picked up an idea from one of his old books that he should be like one of the judge-kings of old, walking out among his people to pass judgment on their problems, giving the inferior masses the benefit of all his twenty-four years of wisdom. It’s all right to have a royal patron, but he was so patronizing. Just as if we were all children and he was our benevolent father. It wasn’t strange to see him walking through the markets or looking over the fields—he always managed to look like he floated a step or two above the common ground the rest of us walked on—and we heard stories upon stories of his judgments. He was decisive, opinionated. Always thought he had a better way of doing things. Was always thinking two and ten and twelve steps ahead until a poor man’s head would be spinning from all the ways the king found to see through him. Half the time, I wasn’t sure whether to fear the man or laugh at him. I usually laughed.

So then you can see how the story of the mortar—what do you mean you’ve never heard it? You could hear it ten times a night in any tavern in the country. I tell it myself at least once a week! Everyone in the palace is sick to death of it!

Oh, this is going to be a treat! Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a fresh audience?

It happened like this. It was spring of the year I turned twenty-one. Father plowed up a field that had lain fallow for some years, with some new-fangled deep-cutting plow that our book-learned king had inflicted upon a peasantry that was baffled by his scientific talk. Father was plowing near a river when he uncovered a mortar made of solid gold. You know, a mortar—the thing with the pestle, for grinding things up. Don’t ask me why on earth a goldsmith would make such a thing—the world’s full of men with too much money and not enough sense, and housefuls of servants willing to take too-valuable trinkets off their hands. Someone decades ago had swiped this one and apparently found my father’s farm so good a hiding place that they forgot to come back for it.

Anyhow, my father, like the good tenant he was, understood that as he’d found a treasure on the king’s land, the right thing to do was to give it to the king. He was all aglow with his noble purpose, ready to rush to the palace at first light to do his duty by his liege lord.

I hope you can see the flaw in his plan. A man like Alistair, certain of his own cleverness, careful never to be outwitted by his peasantry? Come to a man like that with a solid gold mortar, and his first question’s going to be…?

That’s right. “Where’s the pestle?”

I tried to tell Father as much, but he—dear, sweet, innocent man—saw only his simple duty and went forth to fulfill it. He trotted into the king’s throne room—it was his public day—all smiles and eagerness.

Alistair took one look at him and saw a peasant tickled to death that he was pulling a fast one on the king—giving up half the king’s rightful treasure in the hopes of keeping the other half and getting a fat reward besides.

Alistair tore into my father—his tongue was much sharper then—taking his argument to pieces until Father half-believed he had hidden away the pestle somewhere, probably after stealing both pieces himself. In his confusion, Father looked even guiltier, and Alistair ordered his guard to drag Father off to the dungeons until they could arrange a proper hearing—and, inevitably, a hanging.

As they dragged him to his doom, my father had the good sense to say one coherent phrase, loud enough for the entire palace to hear. “If only I had listened to my daughter!”

Alistair, for all his brains, hadn’t expected him to say something like that. He had Father brought before him, and questioned him until he learned the whole story of how I’d urged Father to bury the mortar again and not say a word about it, so as to prevent this very scene from occurring.

About five minutes after that, I knocked over a butter churn when four soldiers burst into my father’s farmhouse and demanded I go with them to the castle. I made them clean up the mess, then put on my best dress and did up my hair—in those days, it was thick and golden, and fell to my ankles when unbound—and after traveling to the castle, I went, trembling, up the aisle of the throne room.

Alistair had made an effort that morning to look extra handsome and extra kingly. He still has robes like those, all purple and gold, but the way they set off his black hair and sharp cheekbones that day—I’ve never seen anything like it. He looked half-divine, the spirit of judgment in human form. At the moment, I didn’t feel like laughing at him.

Looming on his throne, he asked me, “Is it true that you advised this man to hide the king’s rightful property from him?” (Alistair hates it when I imitate his voice—but isn’t it a good impression?)

I said yes, it was true, and Alistair asked me why I’d done such a thing, and I said I had known this disaster would result, and he asked how I knew, and I said (and I think it’s quite good), that this is what happens when you have a king who’s too clever to be anything but stupid.

Naturally, Alistair didn’t like that answer a bit, but I’d gotten on a roll, and it was my turn to give him a good tongue-lashing. What kind of king did he think he was, who could look at a man as sweet and honest as my father and suspect him of a crime? Alistair was so busy trying to see hidden lies that he couldn’t see the truth in front of his face. So determined not to be made a fool of that he was making himself into one. If he persisted in suspecting everyone who tried to do him a good turn, no one would be willing to do much of anything for him. And so on and so forth.

You might be surprised at my boldness, but I had come into that room not expecting to leave it without a rope around my neck, so I intended to speak my mind while I had the chance. The strangest thing was that Alistair listened, and as he listened, he lost some of that righteous arrogance until he looked almost human. And the end of it all was that he apologized to me!

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather at that! I didn’t faint, but I came darn close. That arrogant, determined young king, admitting to a simple farmer’s daughter that he’d been wrong?

He did more than admit it—he made amends. He let Father keep the mortar, and then bought it from him at its full value. Then he gifted Father the farm where we lived, making us outright landowners. After the close of the day’s hearings, he even invited us to supper with him, and I found that King Alistair wasn’t a half-bad conversational partner. Some of those books he read sounded almost interesting.

For a year after that, Alistair kept finding excuses to come by the farm. He would check on Father’s progress and baffle him with advice. We ran into each other in the street so often that I began to expect it wasn’t mere chance. We’d talk books, and farming, and sharpen our wits on each other. We’d do wordplay, puzzles, tongue-twisters. A game, but somehow, I always thought, some strange sort of test.

Would you believe, even his proposal was a riddle? Yes, an actual riddle! One spring morning, I came across Alistair on a corner of my father's land, and he got down on one knee, confessed his love for me, and set me a riddle. He had the audacity to look into the face of the woman he loved—me!—and tell me that if I wanted to accept his proposal, I would come to him at his palace, not walking and not riding, not naked and not dressed, not on the road and not off it.

Do you know, I think he actually intended to stump me with it? For all his claim to love me, he looked forward to baffling me! He looked so sure of himself—as if all his book-learning couldn’t be beat by just a bit of common sense.

If I’d really been smart, I suppose I’d have run in the other direction, but, oh, I wanted to beat him so badly. I spent about half a minute solving the riddle and then went off to make my preparations.

The next morning, I came to the castle just like he asked. Neither walking nor riding—I tied myself to the old farm mule and let him half-drag me. Neither on the road nor off it—only one foot dragging in a wheel rut at the end. Neither naked nor dressed—merely wrapped in a fishing net. Oh, don’t look so shocked! There was so much rope around me that you could see less skin than I’m showing now.

If I’d hoped to disappoint Alistair, well, I was disappointed. He radiated joy. I’d never seen him truly smile before that moment—it was incandescent delight. He swept me in his arms, gave me a kiss without a hint of calculation in it, then had me taken off to be properly dressed, and we were married within a week.

It was a wonderful marriage. We got along beautifully—at least until the next time I outwitted him. But I won’t bore you with that story again—

You don’t know that one either? Where have you been hiding yourself?

Oh, I couldn’t possibly tell you that one. Not if it’s your first time. It’s much better the way Alistair tells it.

What time is it?

Perfect! He’s in his library just now. Go there and ask him to tell you the whole thing.

Yes, right now! What are you waiting for?

Alistair

Faith told you all that, did she? And sent you to me for the rest? That woman! It’s just like her! She thinks I have nothing better to do than sit around all day and gossip about our courtship!

Where are you going? I never said I wouldn’t tell the story! Honestly, does no one have brains these days? Sit down!

Yes, yes, anywhere you like. One chair’s as good as another—I built this room for comfort. Do you take tea? I can ring for a tray—the story tends to run long.

Well, I’ll ring for the usual, and you can help yourself to whatever you like.

I’m sure Faith has given you a colorful picture of what I was like as a young man, and she’s not totally inaccurate. I’d had wealth and power and too much education thrown on me far too young, and I thought my blessings made me better than other men. My own father had been the type of man who could be fooled by every silver-tongued charlatan in the land, so I was sensitive and suspicious, determined to never let another man outwit me.

When Faith came to her father’s defense, it was like my entire self came crumbling down. Suddenly, I wasn’t the wise king; I was a cruel and foolish boy—but Faith made me want to be better. That day was the start of my fascination with her, and my courtship started in earnest not long after.

The riddle? Yes, I can see how that would be confusing. Faith tends to skip over the explanations there. A riddle’s an odd proposal, but I thought it was brilliant at the time, and I still think it wasn’t totally wrong-headed. I wasn’t just finding a wife, you see, but a queen. Riddles have a long history in royal courtships. I spent weeks laboring over mine. I had some idea of a symbolic proposal—each element indicating how she’d straddle two worlds to be with me. But more than that, I wanted to see if Faith could move beyond binary thinking—look beyond two opposites to see the third option between. Kings and queens have to do that more often than you’d think…

No, I’m sorry, it is a bit dull, isn’t it? I guess there’s a reason Faith skips over the explanations.

So to return to the point: no matter what Faith tells you, I always intended for her to solve the riddle. I wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t—but I wouldn’t have asked if I’d had the least doubt she’d succeed. The moment she came up that road was the most ridiculous spectacle you’d ever hope to see, but I had never known such ecstasy. She’d solved every piece of my riddle, in just the way I’d intended. She understood my mind and gained my heart. Oh, it was glorious.

Those first weeks of marriage were glorious, too. You’d think it’d be an adjustment, turning a farmer’s daughter into a queen, but it was like Faith had been born to the role. Manners are just a set of rules, and Faith has a sharp mind for memorization, and it’s not as though we’re a large kingdom or a very formal court. She had a good mind for politics, and was always willing to listen and learn. I was immensely proud of myself for finding and catching the perfect wife.

You’re smarter than I was—you can see where I was going wrong. But back then, I didn’t see a cloud in the sky of our perfect happiness until the storm struck.

It seemed like such a small thing at the time. I was looking over the fields of some nearby villages—farming innovations were my chief interest at the time. There were so many fascinating developments in those days. I’ve an entire shelf full of texts if you’re interested—

The story, yes. My apologies. The offer still stands.

Anyway, I was out in the fields, and it was well past the midday hour. I was starving, and more than a little overheated, so we were on our way to a local inn for a bit of food and rest. Just as I was at my most irritable, these farmers’ wives show up, shrilly demanding judgment in a case of theirs. I’d become known for making those on-the-spot decisions. I’d thought it was an efficient use of government resources—as long as I was out with the people, I could save them the trouble of complicated procedures with the courts—but I’d never regretted taking up the practice as heartily as I did in this moment.

The case was like this: one farmer’s horse had recently given birth, and the foal had wandered away from its mother and onto the neighbor’s property, where it laid down underneath an ox that was at pasture, and the second farmer thought this gave him a right to keep it. There were questions of fences and boundaries and who-owed-who for different trades going back at least a couple of decades—those women were determined to bring every past grievance to light in settling this case.

Well, it didn’t take long for me to lose what little patience I had. I snapped at both women and told them that my decision was that the foal could very well stay where it was.

Not my most reasoned decision, but it wasn’t totally baseless. I had common law going back centuries that supported such a ruling. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and all. It wasn't as though a single foal was worth so much fuss. I went off to my meal and thought that was the end of it.

I’d forgotten all about it by the time I returned to the same village the next week. My man and I were crossing the bridge leading into the town when we found the road covered by a fishing net. An old man sat by the side of the road, shaking and casting the net just as if he were laying it out for a catch.

“What do you think you’re doing, obstructing a public road like this?” I asked him.

The man smiled genially at me and replied, “Fishing, majesty.”

I thought perhaps the man had a touch of sunstroke, so I was really rather kind when I explained to him how impossible it was to catch fish in the roadway.

The man just replied, “It’s no more impossible than an ox giving birth to a foal, majesty.”

He said it like he’d been coached, and it didn’t take long for me to learn that my wife was behind it all. The farmer’s wife who’d lost the foal had come to Faith for help, and my wife had advised the farmer to make the scene I’d described.

Oh, was I livid! Instead of coming to me in private to discuss her concerns about the ruling, Faith had made a public spectacle of me. She encouraged my own subjects to mock me! This was what came of making a farm girl into a queen! She’d live in my house and wear my jewels, and all the time she was laughing up her sleeve at me while she incited my citizens to insurrection! Before long, none of my subjects would respect me. I’d lose my crown, and the kingdom would fall to pieces—

I worked myself into a fine frenzy, thinking such things. At the time, I thought myself perfectly reasonable. I had identified a threat to the kingdom’s stability, and I would deal with it. The moment I came home, I found Faith and declared that the marriage was dissolved. “If you prefer to side with the farmers against your own husband,” I told her, “you can go back to your father’s house and live with them!”

It was quite the tantrum. I’m proud to say I’ve never done anything so shameful since.

To my surprise, Faith took it all silently. None of the fire that she showed in defending her father against me. Faith had this way, back then, where she could look at a man and make him feel like an utter fool. At that moment, she made me feel like a monster. I was already beginning to regret what I was doing, but it was buried under so much anger that I barely realized it, and my pride wouldn’t allow me to back down so easily from another decision.

After I said my piece, Faith quietly asked if she was to leave the palace with nothing.

I couldn’t reverse what I’d decided, but I could soften it a bit.

“You may take one keepsake,” I told her. “Take the one thing you love best from our chambers.”

I thought I was clever to make the stipulation. Knowing Faith, she’d have found some way to move the entire palace and count it as a single item. I had no doubt she’d take the most expensive and inconvenient thing she could, but there was nothing in that set of rooms I couldn’t afford to lose.

Or so I thought. No doubt you’re beginning to see that Faith always gets the upper hand in a battle of wits.

I kept my distance that evening—let myself stew in resentment so I couldn’t regret what I’d done. I kept to my library—not this one, the little one upstairs in our suite—trying to distract myself with all manner of books, and getting frustrated when I found I wanted to share pieces of them with Faith. I was downright relieved when a maid came by with a tea tray. I drank my usual three cups so quickly I barely tasted them—and I passed out atop my desk five minutes later.

Yes, Faith had arranged for the tea—and she’d drugged me!

I came to in the pink light of early dawn, my head feeling like it had been run over by a military caravan. My wits were never as slow as they were that morning. I laid stupidly for what felt like hours, wondering why my bed was so narrow and lumpy, and why the walls of the room were so rough and bare, and why those infernal birds were screaming half an inch from my open window.

By the time I had enough strength to sit up, I could see that I was in the bedroom of a farmer’s cottage. Faith was standing by the window, looking out at the sunrise, wearing the dress she’d worn the first day I met her. Her hair was unbound, tumbling in golden waves all the way to her ankles. My heart leapt at the sight—her hair was one of the wonders of the world in those days, and I was so glad to see her when I felt so ill—until I remembered the events of the previous day, and was too confused and ashamed to have room for any other thoughts or feelings.

“Faith?” I asked. “Why are you here? Where am I?”

“My father’s home,” Faith replied, her eyes downcast—I think it’s the only time in her life she was ever bashful. “You told me I could take the one thing I loved best.”

Can I explain to you how my heart leapt at those words? There had never been a mind or a heart like my wife’s! It was like the moment she’d come to save her father—she made me feel a fool and feel glad for the reminder. I’d made the same mistake both times—let my head get in the way of my heart. She never made that mistake, thank heaven, and it saved us both.

Do you have something you want to add, Faith, darling? Don’t pretend I can’t see you lurking in the stacks and laughing at me! I’ll get as sappy as I like! If you think you can do it better, come out in the open and finish this story properly!

Faith

You tell it so beautifully, my darling fool boy, but if you insist—

I was forever grateful Dinah took that tea to Alistair. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen the loophole in his words—I was so afraid he’d see my ploy coming and stop me. But his wits were so blessedly dull that day. It was like outwitting a child.

When at last he came to, I was terrified. He had cast me out because I’d outwitted him, and now here I was again, thinking another clever trick would make everything well.

Fortunately, Alistair was marvelous—saw my meaning in an instant. Sometimes he can be almost clever.

After that, what’s there to tell? We made up our quarrel, and then some. Alistair brought me back to the palace in high honors—it was wonderful, the way he praised me and took so much blame on himself.

(You were really rather too hard on yourself, darling—I’d done more than enough to make any man rightfully angry. Taking you to Father’s house was my chance to apologize.)

Alistair paid the farmer for the loss of his foal, paid for the mending of the fence that had led to the trouble in the first place, and straightened out the legal tangles that had the neighbors at each others’ throats.

After that, things returned much to the way they’d been before, except that Alistair was careful never to think himself into such troubles again. We’ve gotten older, and I hope wiser, and between our quarrels and our reconciliations, we’ve grown into quite the wise pair of lovestruck fools. Take heed from it, whenever you marry—it’s good to have a clever spouse, but make sure you have one who’s willing to be the fool every once in a while.

Trust me. It works out for the best.

[tossawary]

Okay, spoilers for the first twenty minutes of the first episode of the live-action ATLA remake, because they added a brand new prologue that was VERY bad and I need to talk about how hilariously bad it was.

So, the show opens in the Fire Nation's Capital City at night, with an earthbender running away with an important-looking scroll and being chased by Fire Nation soldiers. There's an unimpressive chase sequence that ends with the earthbender managing to hand off the scroll to someone else, before being caught and dragged before Fire Lord Sozin.

First thoughts: why are they opening 100 years early? I liked the way the original cartoon opened in the actual world state that mattered to us, then the war and its history slowly unfolded as the main characters learned more about their own world. Sozin's wig and costume looks CHEAP, and they are throwing away all of the intimidating mystery of the Fire Lord (we don't see Ozai's face in the cartoon for like two seasons) by showing Sozin as just some guy. Also, it's kind of a waste of time to introduce Sozin here at all, especially in person, because while he had a MASSIVE impact on the world of the story, he's basically irrelevant to the main narrative happening 100 years later, because our actual villains are his descendants ACTIVELY CONTINUING his work.

The earthbender is beat-up but defiantly says that the Earth Kingdom has now been warned that Sozin intends to attack. Sozin is all smug, though, because apparently he WANTED these plans to be stolen. He wants everyone (he actually explicitly names the Water Tribes and the Air Nomads as well as the Earth Kingdom) to be looking towards the Earth Kingdom, so that he can attack the Air Nomads instead, because that's where the new Avatar is, who is the only person who could stop him. (The exposition is sooooo clunky and cheesy. It's baaaaad. Talk directly to the camera, why don't you?) Then Sozin burns this poor earthbender to death and then the scene skips over to Aang at the Southern Air Temple.

Second thoughts: oh, so we're not only going to waste time building up Sozin as a villain when we're going to very shortly skip ahead 100 years? We're also going to establish Sozin as a guy in a bad costume who is kind of shit at military strategy? He doesn't need a distraction! He doesn't need a feint! No one is expecting him to attack anyone, he shouldn't need to fake attacking someone else! In fact, he's letting all the other nations know that they should be paying close attention to his movements? What?!

At the Air Temple, we see Aang and Gyatso's relationship, and we see Gyatso called in to speak with a council of senior monks. The council has been alerted to the fact that Sozin intends to attack the Earth Kingdom, they intend to help, and they want to prepare Aang for war. And I didn't really have to think too hard about the logistics of Sozin's attack on the Air Nomads when it was something that happened 100 years ago! But now this stupid fucking show is making me actually have to think about how all of this worked, because it actually shows SOZIN'S ATTACK on this temple and this is why Aang is forced to leave! (And gets frozen in an iceberg for 100 years.)

Don't show me this nonsense if you don't want me to think about the logistics and strain my suspension of disbelief! If the Air Nomads intend to help the Earth Kingdom when the Fire Nation attacks, then because they're PACIFISTS who can FLY, they would be most helpful serving as scouts and messengers. But NO ONE is watching the movements of Sozin and his entire fucking army of firebenders when they have been EXPLICITLY forewarned that he intends to attack the Earth Kingdom??? They don't have anyone watching out for this explosive conflict that will directly impact their ability to travel at the very least?

It's one thing if the Fire Nation has simply become increasingly militaristic and industrial, because from an outsider's perspective, that could just be Sozin strengthening his internal power. (The Fire Nation could have had multiple lords and kingdoms, historically, before being forcibly united into a single nation.) Chin the Conqueror was also just one Avatar ago, so it's maybe not unreasonable for the Fire Nation to be wary of warmongers within the Earth Kingdom. The Fire Nation becoming increasingly hostile and aggressive is concerning, but people tend to hope that cooler heads will prevail and war won't happen. It's not the same as DIRECT CONFIRMATION that the (United?) Fire Nation intends to invade the Earth Kingdom and start a war?

Sozin, apparently: "The best way to pull off a surprise attack is intentionally put all of my enemies on their guard."

So, now the Air Nomads don't look great for failing to notice an army showing up like that. Especially if they're in contact with the Earth Kingdom about the war that they're anticipating? Like, sure, they didn't anticipate THEY would be attacked, but they have information now that Sozin has an army on the move and terrible ambitions? Maybe these senior monks aren't sharing the news around because they don't want to panic anyone yet? Maybe it took a long time for the Earth Kingdom's information to reach them? But it's not a great look that the show is immediately inspiring me to find flaws (in the plan of telling your enemies to look out for your attack beforehand) and to have to come up with excuses for these potential plot holes.

And I personally didn't enjoy seeing the Air Nomads engaged in combat with the Fire Nation as one of the first things we see from them! Of course they're going to defend themselves when attacked, but it's just so sad, especially when Aang is introduced in the original cartoon as a wondrous mystery to Sokka and Katara and the audience, fun-loving and bright and with incredible powers, a miraculous shock of sunshine colors against the blue of the South Pole, a person from a more peaceful time and a hopeful way of life, someone who has never seen war and never heard of this one. In the cartoon, we learn about the Air Nomads through getting to know Aang, this penguin-sledding kid who can't even conceive of war yet, before we see the remnants of his loss. We don't have to see airbenders fighting for their lives and dying horribly before we fully understand who they are as a people.

This remake heavily frontloads its exposition with new material that is painfully clumsy, largely irrelevant, and doesn't add anything good to a story that's already been done pretty well. Was this just an attempt to avoid being accused of directly copying and adding nothing? Because it was bad. What the fuck was wrong with opening in the main time period of our story with Sokka and Katara as our POV characters? We could have instead seen more of the Southern Water Tribe! We could have spent more time with Aang getting to know the Southern Water Tribe and bonding with Sokka and Katara! We could have had more conflict between Aang and Zuko (who is, unlike Sozin, alive and relevant to the actual story at hand)! But no, we cut good stuff from the original show and have to waste all of this time on Sozin instead, who is dead by the time that the real story starts, and also apparently thinks telling everyone he intends to attack the Earth Kingdom when no one knew he was going to attack anyone is good military strategy.

[polish-art-tournament]

paintings* round 1 poll 82

about the artist: Since 2005 he is publisher and editor-in-chief of DIK Fagazine, and has founded the Queer Archives Institute in 2015

Maria Konopnicka (from the series "Poczet"), 2017:

propaganda: I will just quote some text from the curatorial text by Fanny Hauser and Viktor Neumann accompanying the "Poczet" exhibition at Kunst(Zeug)Haus, Rapperswil, Switzerland (23 August - 1 November 2020), because they talk about it better than I could: "The Polish word “poczet” once referred to the smallest unit of the army of Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth (1569-1795), and later came to describe a group of people of common descent or performing a specific role. Most importantly, the word relates to a series of portraits of Polish kings and queens (since 966 to 1795), arranged chronologically and conceived as pictorial representation of Polish history [...]. [...] The artist’s employment of portraiture, traditionally considered a bourgeois genre, constitutes a crucial part of his practice as a means to paraphrase and inquire the aesthetics of a variety of historic artistic movements and practices. Adding another perspective to the common visual codes and historical narratives, this contextual shift becomes a subversive strategy to challenge dominant modes of representation and commemorates those who have been subjected to the patrilinear logic of history. Radziszewski’s "Poczet" is a bold retake on the idea of the formation of national identity as demonstrated by pictures that testify to (or rather construct) the continuity of royal power, exercised by heterosexual, cisgendered males and perpetuated through royal marriages. Forming a gallery of twenty-two ancestral portraits of non-heteronormative Polish figures of the past millennium from fields including politics, science, literature and art, "Poczet" deliberately reaffirms the protagonists’ expression of queerness that has been suppressed or erased from their historiography to a large extent."

The series "Ali", 2015-2017:

propaganda: Taken inspiration from Picasso in terms of style (specially like the nod to Guernica), to pay homage to the real life figure Agbola O’Brown (pseudonym “Ali”), a Nigerian-born jazz musician and the sole black combatant of the Warsaw Uprising, right wing assholes like to definine who and who not belongs, so this work really speaks to me as a counter work.

[militarymenrbomb]

U.S. Army Warrior Fitness Team Member

Capt. Brian Harris

Capt. Brian Harris, was born in Edmond, Oklahoma and graduated from Edmond North High School in 2009. He was a member of the high school’s baseball and wrestling teams throughout high school. He enlisted in the Oklahoma Army National Guard in August of 2009 as a firefinder radar operator (13R) in field artillery. While serving in the Guard from 2009 to 2013, Harris attended the University of Oklahoma and actively participated in the Army ROTC program. During this time, he was introduced to functional fitness and began competing at a high level at various competitions around the country. In 2013, Harris commissioned into the Regular Army as a Medical Service Corps officer and that year was selected as one of twenty two medical service officers to attend flight training and be trained as an aeromedical evacuation officer (67J) / UH-60 Blackhawk helicopter pilot.

Harris’ assignment history includes Fort Rucker, Alabama where he attended Army flight school followed by Fort Carson, Colorado as a section leader, platoon leader and staff operations officer for the 2nd General Support Aviation Battalion, 4th Combat Aviation Brigade. During his time with 4th CAB, Harris participated in several full-scale training exercises and served one nine-month deployment to Afghanistan in support of Operation’s Freedom Sentinel and Resolute Support providing aeromedical evacuation services across RC-East and RC-North. In 2016, he was named the 4th Infantry Division’s “Junior Officer of the Year” for his efforts both in combat and garrison. After his time in Colorado, Harris returned to Fort Rucker to serve as the operations officer for their Air Ambulance Detachment (110th Aviation Brigade) known as “Flatiron” providing 24/7 crash rescue support to the Aviation Center of Excellence, as well as, routine support to 6th Ranger Training Battalion at Eglin Air Force Base and support to the local civilian population in accordance with the Wiregrass Letter of Agreement.

Harris is a CrossFit Level 2 certified trainer and master fitness trainer (phase 1) and has accumulated more than 700 hours of one-on-one and group coaching time teaching functional fitness methodologies to servicemembers and civilians enabling them to reach their fitness and lifestyle goals. He has competed at the local, regional and national level in functional fitness competitions. Under the old CrossFit season format, Harris was a 2 time regional qualifier and recently represented the United States of America as a member of the national team at the International Federation of Functional Fitness World Championships in Malmo, Sweden (2018).

His awards and decorations include the Air Medal with “C” device, Air Medal, Army Commendation Medal with 2 bronze oak leaf clusters, Army Achievement Medal with 3 bronze oak leaf clusters, Meritorious Unit Citation (2-4 GSAB, 4CAB), National Defense Service Medal, Afghanistan Campaign Medal, Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, Army Service Ribbon, Overseas Service Ribbon, NATO Medal, Combat Action Badge, Basic Army Aviator’s Badge, Parachute Badge, and the Air Assault qualification badge.

[clickoly]

O'Knutzy Week - Day 1

I saw the prompt Racing on the bingo card and I couldn't resist. 

Me? Watching twenty cars go vroom vroom in a circle for sixty laps every other weekend? Absolutely not. 

Here's the first of five parts of Starboys, a Cubs Formula One AU! 

(Leo will arrive in style, fashionably late, tomorrow)

Characters belong to the amazing @lumosinlove. A big thank you to @oknutzy-week-2024 for organizing the fest. 

A5: We lost

Link to Ao3 here

Monza, Italy

National Automobile Racetrack

The late August heat radiating from the pit lane was anything but a pleasant welcome. Sliding his sunglasses into messy hair, slightly sweaty from a short walk under the scorching sun, Logan took a quick look around. 

The Silver garage was uncharacteristically quiet, with only a few mechanics loading tires onto trailers, probably setting them up for tomorrow's free practice sessions.

The weekend hadn't even started yet, and Logan already wished it were over. He ached to wash away the feeling of too many sleepless nights off his body, to get rid of the latent headache that had been haunting him for days—ever since he'd boarded that flight from Amsterdam alone. 

What would happen if he refused to show up? Would they fire him? He actually considered hiding for a second, just as the back door to the offices opened. 

"Logan?" 

The unmistakable sound of Celeste's voice made him turn around. 

"Oui, maman?"

"Don't maman me, Tremblay," she stepped closer. "You're late." 

"I know," Logan risked an innocent grin. "Please tell me why I have to do this."

The threatening look he earned was more eloquent than any real answer. "Okay, okay," he held his hands up in a sign of truce. "Who's at the press conference?" 

Celeste had a habit of memorizing every single detail of his schedule. "Olli, Thomas, Jackson and Finn," she recited. "Do I have to remind you to behave?" 

"You know I hate those fucking-"

"Language," Celeste playfully pressed a finger to his chest, then tilted her head toward the door. "Go charm everyone with that sweet face of yours."

"Yeah," Logan huffed. "If anyone so much as breathes a word about last week, I swear to God–"

"You will kindly remind them it was a misunderstanding." 

"Mais non," he tried to reason. Had it been a misunderstanding?

"Logan, they want to throw gasoline on this already raging fire. We won't let them." 

"Fine," he gave up. There was no point in arguing with her. "But he better be on the same page." 

Celeste Dumais wasn't just any manager. She was a friend, a steady presence at Logan's side. And she also happened to be the scariest human being he'd ever met in his life. At least when she wanted to be.

"Go," she insisted. The bossy yet extremely loving tone came out, capable of commanding an army and taking care of a wild household at once. "Behave, and be ready for dinner at six. Pascal is taking us to his favorite restaurant in town, and Katie wants to show you she's learned to eat spaghetti."

"All by herself?"

"And with a fork. Can you believe that?" 

Logan's smile was genuine. "Merci, maman."

Down the hall in the Media Center, Logan could hear the loud chatter of people. He checked his watch and realized that they were probably waiting for him to start the conference. 

Media day, real fun. 

The same old faces welcomed him as he sat down at the end of a long red couch, right next to Thomas Walker, Racing Bull's first seat. 

"Care to join the party?" Thomas whispered, muffling his words from the cameras. 

"I'd rather not," Logan crossed his arms and leaned against the backrest. "But apparently I have no choice." 

Thomas tried to stifle a laugh as the journalist spoke into his microphone, drawing everyone's attention. 

"Welcome everybody to the drivers' press conference ahead of the FIA Formula One Italian Grand Prix," he said to the cameras. Years of interviews and conversations with this man, and still Logan found it tricky to understand his thick Scottish accent. "Here are our five drivers joining us today. Closest to me is the home hero for this weekend, Finn O'Hara."

Finn actually smiled for the audience and politely returned the greeting with a grateful nod. 

"Then we have Olli Halla, Jackson Nadeau, Thomas Walker and Logan Tremblay. Welcome to you all."  

Every other Thursday afternoon on race weekends, when his teammate James wasn't on call, Logan was forced to sit through the same boring go-to questions—usually asked by the same three people. What can you tell us about last week's results? What are your expectations for this weekend? And each time, he tried his best to hide his discomfort behind safely prepared answers, carefully tailored to avoid any kind of drama—the very thing reporters were always looking for.

"Why don't we start with you, Finn?" The man, Tom, asked. "How does it feel, as an American, to be able to race again in red in front of the Italian crowd?"

"Oh, man," Finn laughed, and the rapid clicking of camera shutters instantly filled the room.

Fucker.

"This is incredible," he went on. "Every year it feels like coming home. The fans are amazing, and their support means everything to me and, of course, to the team."

Not only was Finn an elite driver, but he also had an innate talent for winning people's hearts with the silliest of comments. Finn O'Hara was pure charm, and Logan hated to admit it, but he had always been a little jealous of his natural way with people—reporters, journalists, fans. Finn acted like he was born to be in the spotlight and, most importantly, on the top step of the podium. It came as no surprise to Logan when Finn received a multi-year contract offer from the most prestigious racing team in the world, the one people could name without thinking twice when asked about Formula One.

Ask a child to draw a car, and they will certainly draw it red—the same crimson as the Scuderia's vibrant and historic livery, the flagship of Made in Italy. 

"Let's move on to Logan," Tom said eventually, his voice as calm and punctuated as usual. "Shall we go back to last weekend? I believe it was a tough one for you, but you still managed to finish the race." 

Logan took his time answering. He grabbed the mic, untangled the long cable twisted at his feet, and slowly pulled it to his mouth, white knuckles clutching the metal casing. "It was," he said coldly. His free hand reached for his hair, feeling exposed by the absence of his snapback. "But there's not much to add, to be honest. As I said in the post-race interview, I got damaged by the contact and the car lost a little performance in terms of aerodynamics," he explained calmly. 

"The safety car he..." Logan trailed off. "The safety car helped. The mechanics did a mega job during the pit stop and fixed the problem enough to let me cross the finish line."

But I still don't know why it happened.

"It was absolutely a fantastic team effort," agreed Tom. "What about your predictions for this Sunday?" 

Logan's lips twitched on autopilot into a cocky smile. "Oh, I can totally see a win." 

"Best of luck to you," the man smiled back. "Now I think we have time to take questions from the print media."

Logan tensed. This was the tough part, when sports journalists went on a merciless gossip hunt, looking for the best headline for their next article. And once again, Logan found himself in their crosshairs. 

It didn't take long for Tom to give the floor to the most annoying of them all.

"Peter Jones, ESPN F1," the man said as he switched on the microphone. "Finn, the DNF at Zandvoort cost you important points in the battle for the championship," he paused. His greedy eyes flicked not so casually between Finn and Logan. "What are the consequences in the close fight between you and the current leader?" 

A subtle question, because Logan knew exactly where this was going. He couldn't help but turn to look at Finn, who sat up straighter on the couch and inadvertently moved a hand to rub the back of his neck—as he always did when he was nervous. 

"Like you said," he cleared his throat, "it's still a tight fight. I made a mistake and I apologized, because..." Logan heard the hesitation in his voice, a faint tremor. "We both lost something last week. The race, good points..." Finn's eyes went blurry for a fleeting moment. "But I have to focus more on the future if I want to close the gap between us. And that's still my goal, so I'd say nothing has really changed". 

"So everything's okay between the two of you?"

Logan had watched the footage in his hotel room. He remembered storming out of his box. He had wanted to talk, to understand. And they just ended up yelling at each other in the middle of the paddock. Fifteen minutes later, the pictures were all over the Internet. 

Sparks flying on and off the track. Tempers flare as Tremblay and O'Hara clash after today's collision, the official F1 account had captioned the post on Instagram. 

"Of course," Finn nodded, a half smile on his lips, uncertain. "Yeah, good rivals and all." 

Rivals. That's what they were these days. Faces of the rivalry between two legendary, antagonistic teams. Names in capital letters on magazine titles and website headlines. 

One against the other.

As soon as they were dismissed, Logan bolted out of the room. It was four in the afternoon, and he still had to find a way to get out of the circuit unnoticed.

Logan wasn't being hostile. He loved his job and the life that came with it—or almost all of it. Even if it meant exposing himself more than he actually liked. 

Just not today, not now, not when the constant pounding in his head kept his focus far away, trapped in a conversation he wished had turned out differently. 

He was close to the exit door when he heard footsteps running after him. 

"Logan, wait." 

"Not in the mood," he said without looking back.

"Lo." a warm hand cupped his shoulder. "Please." 

They hadn't talked in almost a week, a first for them. Finn had texted, but Logan had needed time to figure out why he was so upset. In the back of his mind, Logan replayed the scene for the thousandth time.

Lap fifty, one hour and forty minutes into the race. Logan was leading the Dutch Grand Prix, going through Sector 2 with a 0.286-second lead over Finn, who had his DRS open. At the entrance to Turn 11, they were neck-to-neck, fighting for the apex.

The contact between the two cars happened out of the blue. It felt like a punch in the gut. 

Logan had watched the tape over and over, looking for a valid justification, an explanation. There had been plenty of room for both cars, and yet Finn had pushed him off the track, damaging Logan's front wing and knocking himself out of the race.

"You lied," Logan said firmly, still with his back to Finn. 

"What?"

"You said you apologized. But you didn't."

Finn let out a heavy breath, a hint of disbelief in it. He stepped in front of him, tall and broad as he was, brown eyes unbearably sad. 

"You think I did it on purpose?" he asked, his voice shaking with emotion. 

Logan held Finn's gaze. He felt all the tension in his body release at the sight of the hurt on his face. "Finn, I could never. Merde, I just... I don't understand why you snapped at me like that." 

You know what, Logan? Fuck you too. I don't have to explain anything to anyone. Just leave me alone.  

"I didn't mean to," Finn ducked his head, shying away from him. "I was tired of people asking me what happened and..." he shrugged helplessly. "You were so angry and I was furious because I'm an asshole and that was a fucking rookie mistake." Finn finally looked back at him, "I'm so sorry, Lo. I should have told you right away. I'm sorry." 

We both lost something last week. Something.

Logan closed his eyes.

Competitiveness was rooted in his DNA. He'd been racing for as long as he could remember, and he knew he would become a professional driver from the moment he sat in a kart for the first time at the tender age of five. The son of Marius Tremblay, a legend of the sport, following in his father's footsteps. 

He'd come a long way, with ups and downs, blissful achievements, countless defeats and steady improvement. And yet he'd found his way to this, to be a two-time world champion at the pinnacle of motorsport. To compete for a third title against Finn, the best friend he could've ever asked for. The only thing he hadn't expected to find on this competitive journey, and yet the most precious.

Logan had lost a race. That was it, a mistake. He certainly wasn't going to make the one to let Finn go. He could barely stand the idea of fighting with him. 

Still, he kept his face straight. He would never have given in that easily. "Listen," he said seriously, fighting the urge to hold Finn as he grew even paler, the freckles on his nose and cheekbones a stark contrast to his milky skin. "If you're not taking me out for a drink tonight, we're done."

A sparkle lit up those helplessly kind, soothing eyes. "We're not supposed to drink alcohol, Tremblay," Finn smiled shyly. 

"D'accord," Logan rolled his eyes and bit back a smile of his own. "Alcohol free it is."

[isabella-kr]

Chapter Thirteen: Old Comrades

This story will include mature themes, please only read if you are 18 years old or over.  

If you are underage, you can read the Wattpad version instead as it will include no smut.  

This is a work of fiction and does not represent the real Army.  

Synopsis: No-Face meets Nik for the first time on a mission and has conflicting feelings about her role.

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Warnings: Swearing, violence, death, mentions of human trafficking, mention of suicide.

Word Count: 7.5k

Note: Heartfelt apologies for those who waited months for the update. Switching from formal writing and back to creative has been a nightmare after so long, so bear with me. Please let me know if you would like to be added or taken off the tag list!

Series Masterlist  I  COD:MWII Masterlist

Previous Chapter I  Next Chapter

GIF not mine

The wolf was dead. 

Hadir has not been captured. 

Farah's forces were put on the Foreign Terror Organisations list. 

Alex was now considered a 'traitor' for joining said forces. 

What were once their allies, were now considered hostiles.

Their friends, now enemies, though only legally. They were not above breaking the law to aid those they trusted. But until then, they were to go their separate ways; reach their own goals and complete their own missions. 

The sun was scorching, even the gentle breeze of the evening air not helping the soldiers to cool down on the quiet base. His hat cast a shadow over his eyes, shielding them from the blinding light like a fire blanket would from the blistering flames. The years of service made the tactical vest seem almost weightless on his chest despite its heavy weight; its presence now more familiar than its absence. 

The ground crunched under his footsteps, the brittle stones falling apart underneath his thick boots. He cleared his throat, his eyes narrowed as the gentle wind blew coarse particles into his face, irritating his eyes and skin.

"Twenty years of Civil War," Laswell spoke, a sharp exhale leaving her lips as she walked beside him.

With a gruff voice, Price responded, "Eh, there's nothing civil about it."

"Hadir's well trained..." Laswell said, briefly looking over at the captain, "...teamed up, kidnapped, it doesn't matter. He took the gas to Russia, John."

"He did that with Al-Qatala's help," Price pointed out.

Kate took a deep breath, "He's got the Network and the manpower."

"Yeah, well, can you blame him?" 

"Unofficially, no, but this is bigger than Hadir now," Laswell beathed out a heavy, burdened sigh, "We've got two options."

"What?" Price questioned, "We warn Moscow?"

"Or we let Mother Russia have a taste of her own medicine." 

"A lot of innocent people are gonna die."

"At the hands of a Western asset." Laswell added, stopping in her tracks. 

"Okay, so let's cut to the chase," Price grumbled, hands at the straps of his vest as he looked out aimlessly through the mesh fence. 

"What do you suggest?" 

"A business trip."

"Unsanctioned?" 

"Black."

"Who's your team?"

He turned to face her, his voice growing softer, quieter, "Some old comrades."

"And the Sergeant?"

They both turned to look over at Kyle, his hands and mind busy, too preoccupied with his gun to notice them looking his way.

"He's ready."

Laswell took in a breath, giving him a look before, ultimately, nodding in agreement, "I can get you in. After that you're on your own. Host nation weapons only."

"Leave it to me," he responded with an understanding nod, "And, Kate..."

She hummed questioningly, and was quick to follow his line of sight when she caught him looking over his shoulder. Their eyes settled on No-Face who, with her elbows digging into her knees, stared ahead with a blank look in her eyes. Southwick was beside her, holding out a packet of chocolates for her to take, but she swiftly refused with a swat of her hand. 

"She's ready, too."

Kate was apprehensive. She didn't respond at first, and after a moment she shook her head in disagreement. Yet when she saw the seriousness – the certainty –in his eyes, she had no choice but to agree, "If you're sure."

"I am," he said flatly, his voice deep and gruff.

There was another small pause, the two standing together in silence, eyes settled on the horizon; the yellows and oranges painted the evening sky as the sun began to settle. It was a pleasant sight. One neither of them got to admire much these days.

"You should've told me," John eventually spoke again. 

"Told you what?" She questioned, her arms crossing over her chest as she stared ahead and took in a sharp and heavy inhale. 

"Everything, Kate." He murmured, "Everything."

"About No-Face?" she raised her brows, to which he nodded, "I told you, John, I needed you to-"

"Build trust, yeah," he scoffed, "But I didn't know what I was working with, Kate. This is bigger than a group of hitmen killing for money. She doesn't even have a proper name for fucks sake."

"Well, she does now-"

"Right, Jane Doe. I'll Have Morris' fuckin' head for that," he grumbled, clenching his hands around the vest straps.

"John-"

"She can do nothing with it, Kate. Can't open her own bank account, can't get a loan, can't buy a... can't do anything with it. No-one will believe it's her real name. It's useless."

"Yeah, that's the point," Kate muttered, "You-"

"Pissed him off, yeah I know."

He pulled out a cigar then, and swiftly lit it up with a lighter. The smoke was quick to envelop him like a fog, and he sighed as he felt the burn of it as it entered his airways and filled up his lungs. 

"D'you know anything else?" he eventually asked, his tone calmer than it was just a few seconds ago, "Something she might... not? About the compounds, the 'management', the trafficking? Anything?"

A frown, followed by a disappointed shake of her head.

"We've tried," She told him, "Had some leads, but never anything solid that would lead us to the root; matched some of the ones we've captured, or found dead, with missing persons cases, intervened before a group of kids could get trafficked... but every time we feel we're getting close..."

"You get pushed back," he spoke gruffly, to which she confirmed with a grim nod, "Have you... found her family?"

Their eyes locked, hers holding a hint of disappointment as she spoke, "No, we couldn't get a match. As far as we can tell, she's got no family."

A pause. 

A tense pause. 

"I've already told No-Face this..." Kate spoke again, "But you should know, too. They're planning something for her."

His brows knit, "Like?"

"I'm not certain," she admitted, "Definitely something to do with her past. I told her she'd be the first to know if I found out, but John..."

She took in a deep breath, and a sharp exhale followed. 

"I don't think she'll be your problem for much longer."

He hummed, clearing his throat before he spoke out, "She's not a problem."

"You know what I meant," she retorted, "She won't be under your direct order... under your supervision."

"Kate, I don't think..." he shook his head, eyes drifting down to the ground, focusing on a sharp rock by the edge of the fence, "I don't think she's ready for that yet."

"I doubt this is up for debate," she told him with a serious look in her eyes, a heavy exhale following before she added, "Leave Southwick here."

"Why?"

"They're close," Kate spoke as though it was obvious. 

She looked over her shoulder, eyes settling on the duo as Thomas pressed a chocolate star against her lips, practically forcing her to eat the sweet treat. She sent him a bothered look, yet took the chocolate anyway, and popped it into her mouth.

"He's always around; she'd grown dependant on him," She explained, "He won't always be with her, so... see how she does without him."

          Their boots echoed off the brick walls as they climbed up a chilly staircase, the stomping echoing against the run-down walls. A smell of mildew and something she couldn't quite put her finger on was thick in the air; an old scent. The type of scent you would smell in decades-old buildings, the type that would tickle your nose, and make you clear your throat before an irritated cough escaped your lips. 

She stopped behind Gaz, her arms crossing as the captain lightly knocked on a wooden door. Her eyes drifted for a moment, as if taking the place in; the holes in the concrete wall, the grey paint on the bottom half of the walls, which she had no doubt was once a pristine white. 

There was a sheet of a paper taped onto it. Half of it was ripped, no doubt having spent days, or perhaps even weeks in the cold corridor. The Cyrillic writing on it was faded, some of it smudged, but she could still read it somewhat. 

A missing poster.

A missing poster of an older black cat with two white patches on its little head. The picture was hand-drawn, no doubt by a broken-hearted child desperate to find its friend. A light frown pulled at her corners of her lips, the corridor growing a little colder as they stood there... waiting. 

Eventually, the door opened, and a tall man let them through, the Russian accent thick on his tongue as he spoke his greetings, "Captain," he nodded his head at Price.  

"Nik," John returned with familiarity in his tone, and reached out to shake the other man's hand. 

The friendly nature of their exchange was enough to tell her that not only were the two men familiar with one another, no doubt sharing a rich past, but they were also friends; they were close. At least as close as soldiers from two different nations could be. 

After exchanging pleasantries, John turned back towards his subordinates and first gestured at Gaz, who stood straight beside her, the thick coat keeping his body safe from the cold of the winter season. 

"Sergeant Garrick," Price introduced Kyle to the Russian, who then reached forward and shook his hand in a pleasant greeting. 

Price's eyes then settled on her, a small nod spared her way, "No-Face." 

"Pleasure to meet you," Nik's strong accent echoed in the small room, the grip of his hand firm when he reached forward, and shook hers too. 

He was tall with slick back hair, the gel he smoothed it over with reflecting the light from the lamp above him. His face was creased with wrinkles that came with the job; the stress, the near-death experiences, and harsh environments were sure to leave their marks. The creases and cracks like a maze of experiences on his skin – sad, but also beautiful in their own way. 

The flat they were in wasn't big, the rooms barely big enough to fit the four of them, but it did its job. They weren't there for a holiday, they were there to work, and the run-down walls, nor the struggling heater wouldn't get in their way of completing their assignment. 

"Likewise," she responded, the Russian language rolling off her tongue in an almost natural manner. 

"Ah," Nik laughed, "You speak Russian!"

"A bit," she responded with a brief smile, "I was taught when I was a child, but I haven't used it in years."

"Still good," he complimented with a soft chuckle, and gave her a firm pat on the side of her arm. 

A friendly gesture. 

One she often received from her captain, forcing a brief and light smile to pull at her lips. She gave the man a nod, and then looked to John, as if expecting a briefing, or an order of some kind. 

"Could be some time before we see anything," he said, his voice low and eyes on his subordinates, "Get some rest, you two. Might be a while before you get the chance again."

There was no arguing or questioning his order. Not that anyone wished to; they were both exhausted after a long journey, and although she doubted she would get a healthy, full 8-hour's worth of sleep (Not that she ever did in the first place), resting her eyes for even a moment would be beneficial in the long-run. 

And as she took her place on a less than comfortable arm-chair, and the minutes ticked her by, she watched silently as the moon moved along the night sky. Kyle's soft breathing as filled the room as he slept, an occasional snore causing her to send him a frustrated look at ruining the most pleasant silence. Hushed words travelled from the kitchen area, where the captain and his old friend discussed the mission at hand. 

There was a brief tapping against the old window as small spatters of rain fell against the glass, the wooden frames creaking from the soft wind, a gentle whistling coming through the cracks. Sleep came briefly to her that night, allowing her rest, but not enough to sustain her the entire day.

Her eyes closed, soothing the sting that settled on her corneas, though not for long. The female assassin she murdered was haunting her dreams; her voice, her youthful face, the dreaded mark on the back of her neck. The moment the light went out of her eyes, the way she fell to the floor with that lifeless thud. 

Her past was ingrained on the inside of her eyelids, torturing her.

No-Face's eyes snapped open, staring up at the boring, white ceiling and doing her best to distract herself. But when it wasn't the girl she was thinking of... it was those eyes.

She recognised them. 

She knew him. Personally. 

And yet she could not figure out how. 

A passing face at the compound? No, it was more than that. 

Her head hurt from the thoughts as she tried to make herself remember. But her attempts were fruitless. 

She reckoned it was her mind blocking it out. She remembered her therapist saying something about that years ago; about how our own minds would block out hurtful memories in order to protect ourselves. 

It was a pain in the ass, though, and it was really working against her at that moment. 

The already existing circles were more apparent around her eyes when the morning came, an obvious exhaustion painted on her features. Her arms crossed over her chest, shoulder leaning against the threshold of the kitchen door, a protein bar crunching between her teeth as she watched the men move outside the building. 

"I got two on the door," Kyle's low voice echoed in the cramped room, the soldiers watching from behind an old floral net curtain as the terrorists stood armed in front of a closed, metal gate.

"More Al-Qatala inside," Nikolai grumbled. 

A vehicle approached the two, armed men, it's engine purring, the tires scraping against the pavement as the car slowed, quieting before finally coming to a halt. 

"Good spot," Nik spoke, a sense of acknowledgement in his tone, "The parking here sucks."

Two more men exited the car, quick and eager to pull out their weapons, pistols in hands before their feet even hit the ground. Like loyal guards, they opened the back door for their leader, the man jumping out in a carefree fashion.

"There's the butcher in the yellow shirt," Price stated, his eyes narrowing slightly, the crow's feet intensifying on his skin. 

Kyle exhaled in a sharp and frustrated manner, "Bastard from the embassy."

"No Gas," Nik pointed out, recognising the lack of cannisters in the back of the vehicle. 

The Butcher pointed his finger at one of his men, spewing orders at his subordinates. No-Face's eye twitched, the protein bar crunching between her teeth as she took another bite, the sweetness almost sickly on her tastebuds. 

"No Hadir." A sigh escaped the captain. 

"Easy shot," Kyle spoke, his voice light. 

"Tempting," Nikolai agreed.

"Four of us, five of them," No-Face said with a monotone voice, "One of us could take two. They'd be out before they knew what hit them."

"Hold fast." Price interrupted, "The Butcher gets us to Hadir."

"Or the gas attack goes off," Garrick countered, having a valid point. 

Just because they could not see the gas, does not mean it wasn't there. 

Price crossed his arms over his chest, his voice low and grumbly, "Well, if that happens then we're all fucked."

The captain took in a sharp breath, sharing quick looks with his comrades. 

"Let's gear up," he motioned, "get evil – clock's ticking."

"This way," Nik gestured for them to follow, and lead them into a room they had not previously entered. There, on a round table covered in greying table cloth, was a large black weapons box, "Best I could do on a short notice..."

He opened up the box, the thick metal heavy in his hands. A series of weapons were inside, large and small, but all deadly, the beautiful black reflecting the headlight above. 

"Suppressors, ammo – no flashbangs," the Russian soldier told them, gesturing at the weapons. 

The three reached inside, each grabbing a pistol. No-Face felt the weight of it in her hands, the cold of the metal seeping through her leather gloves, the motion of loading the weapon like second-nature, the ammo sliding easily into the compartment. 

"Nice job, Nik," Price gave his old friend a thankful nod, inspecting the gun in his hands, ".40 cal hollow points."

"150 grain," Nik pointed out, "Your favourite."

Price gave a deep and gruff chuckle, nodding appreciatively. 

The captain concealed the gun in its holster by his hip, hiding underneath his coat. No-Face was quick to do the same, hiding the gun from any peering eyes under the comfort of the coat she was wearing, the material trapping heat underneath it. 

Heat that she would have appreciated in the night, but now, as she had to be wide awake, her eyes stinging and lacking sleep, it did not do well in keeping her awake. She shook off the feeling, the pads of her fingertips briefly rubbing at her eyes. 

This was no time for exhaustion. 

No time for weakness.  

With a last nod spared for the new addition to the team, she took her leave. Her footsteps loud against the creaking floor, an echo following when she stepped out of the flat, the cement tough underneath the soles of her shoes. 

Garrick spared her a look over his shoulder, his eyes momentarily meeting hers before they moved, trailing behind the captain, taking quick yet careful steps down the old staircase, their footsteps echoing in the old block. 

"I know you want another shot at the butcher," Price spoke, his words directed at the sergeant.

"No grave deep enough for that sick bastard, sir," Gaz responded, his voice deep and full of ambition, focused on only one goal. 

"You'll have your chance," Price's voice came out gruff as it echoed in the corridor, "but right now, we need the Butcher alive."

As their boots stomped against the hard floors of the old building, a door opened before them, and a civilian with a pleasant smile stepped out of his home. 

"Hello," the man spoke in Russian, his tone friendly and smooth. 

Price was quick to answer, responding in like manner and sparing the man a nod, before a chorus of 'good morning's came from behind him, Kyle's accent clearly foreign, his pronunciation of the unfamiliar language lacking. 

"That's not bad," the captain complimented. 

"That's all I got..."

No-Face breathed out a light laugh as they neared the end of the staircase, "Need a tutor?"

Kyle spared her a brief look as their journey continued, "Might just take you up on that."

Price's deep voice interrupted them then, the light old and dusty light flickering above him, "We sweep the guards up so they can't alert the others, then move in on the rear door..."

He pushed the door open with a creak, the unpleasant noise bouncing off the cement walls and ricocheting throughout the building. The light from the morning sun infiltrated the cold corridor, its presence welcome in the barely lit building. 

"Guns on my signal," he ordered, stepping out into the yard, "not before..."

They followed behind, the chilly air hitting their skin. Their arms were at their sides, trying to look casual, but she could see the tension under their coats, and she was sure the hostiles could, too.

An Al-Qatala soldier screamed at them, the group stalking in their direction, their brows furrowed and lips pulled into a grimace. Fierce looks grew on their faces, their backs straight and hands on their guns in an intimidating manner in an attempt to scare them off; back them into a corner. 

"Easy, mate," The captain spoke, pretending to be nothing more than a civilian, "we've got permits, alright?"

The shouting didn't cease, the soldiers only growing more frustrated with their guests. The leader of the group pointed an accusatory finger at Price, speaking quickly in his mother tongue, spewing orders and trying to control the situation. 

"Show him, Kyle – Now!" 

They were down before they could even blink. 

The three had pulled their weapons out in a matter of seconds, bullets flying across the yard and lodging in the enemies' skulls. They fell like flies, heavy heads hitting the concrete ground, a crack or two echoing between the old buildings. 

She almost winced at the sound, imagining the split scalps and bloody puddles that were bound to flood the ground, deep red painting the stone beneath. 

The next moments were of chaos and death. 

Weapons raised, gunshots echoing in the air, bodies falling to the floor. 

They charged through the buildings, a trail of bodies behind them. Their blood spluttering from their enemies' lips, bones breaking, hearts stopping. 

No-Face jumped over a bar counter, broken glass cracking as it littered the floor, spilled alcohol sticking to the soles of her boots. Her eyes were on a hostile, whose furious gaze was on the captain, gun aimed at his head. She was quick in grasping a knife from a chopping board, the sharp blade wedged into a lemon, its juices running down the silver when she pulled it out and threw it. The blade whirred in the air, flying quickly across the room until the cold, silver metal impaled itself into the hostile's temple, blood trickling down his cheek in an instant.

He fell to the floor, hand grasping at the knife as his fingers attempted to wrap around the handle; to pull the damned thing out of his head. His eyes were almost pleading. Scared.

Crash.

She could've sworn she felt something crack within her chest when her back was forcefully slammed against the wall. The air was punched out of her lungs, and before she could replenish them, a thick hand wrapped around her neck, rough fingers squeezing her throat.  

She scratched at his hand in shock, fingernails digging painfully into his wrist. She kicked at his legs, almost bending his knees the other way, but his hold only tightened, and he slammed the back of her head against the wall in retaliation. 

Choking on the air she couldn't take in, her eyes narrowed, the moment of shock quickly passing as she tried to reach for the belt around her waist, the stupidly thick coat only getting in her way. She stomped harshly on his foot, taking the chance to pull the knife out of its sheath when he grunted in pain, his hold briefly loosening around her throat. 

Blood splattered on their faces as she plunged it into his wrist, splitting his skin apart as she cut deep into his flesh. He screamed in pain, rage and adrenaline burning in his eyes. 

He pulled that very same arm back, and punched her hard in the face, fist colliding with her nose. The blood was quick to trickle down her lips, scent of iron strong in the air. There was a ringing in her ears, the high-pitched type that made you feel like your ear drums were about to explode, the pain that caused her face to go almost numb only worsening it. 

She spat the blood out onto the floor, grabbing his fist with her hands before he could land another blow. She pulled the bloodied blade out of his flesh, his blood mixing with hers as it sprayed onto their clothes, painting their skin red. 

Before she could stab him again and again, he grabbed her hand with his, their arms creating a cross between them as they fought over the blade. Droplets of red fell from the tip of the knife as she pushed, her arms stinging as she used all her strength against him, the blade close to his cheek, yet not yet close enough to hurt him. 

Just as she was coming out the victor, the bloody tip cutting into the soft flesh of his cheek – bang.

A splutter of hot liquid.

Her eyes were stuck together by the thick blood that painted her face, the sound of a whizzing bullet almost making her flinch. The metal lodged itself into the wall beside her, missing her head by a mere inch.  

The blood squelched underneath her fingertips as she wiped it off, smearing it around her eyes just in time to watch as he fell, a see-through hole now in his temple. His head bounced off the sticky floor, shards of broken glass imbedding into his skin. 

"Fuck," Price's voce caught her attention, his lips pulled into a grimace when he saw the bloody state she was in, "You alright?"

A white cloth turned red when she grabbed it, wiping the thick, drying fluid off her leather gloves. She groaned in disgust, the damned blood stuck underneath her fingernails. 

She spared him a nod, throwing the dirty cloth to the side as she sheathed the wiped blade back in its place at her hip. "Nice aim," was what she told him, the lack of emotion in her voice causing his brows to knit. 

For the briefest of moments, they stood there in silence. Just staring before more bullets were shot in the distance, and the chaos of the mission resumed.

She zigzagged between old cars, her legs swift against the pavement as she ran through the loud city, her bullets echoing, bouncing between the buildings as they killed off their enemies. One by one, Butcher's men fell to the ground like ragdolls. 

Speak of the devil.

The man was barely metres away, his yellow shirt like a target in the monotone city. They rushed towards him, Kyle most eager to reach the terrorist before he could, once again, escape their grasp.  

A squeak of tires. A thud.

An old, grey van crashed into him. his body fell and slid painfully onto the road, the gun slipping from his limp fingers. No-Face was surprised he hadn't left a bloody trail behind him, or a faceprint on the pavement. But aside for potential brain damage, he seemed to be physically sound. 

The van door opened, and out jumped Nikolai, his footsteps quick as he rushed to secure the hostile's body before any of his friends could save him. 

"Is hard to run with concussion, no?" the Russian chuckled as he picked up Butcher by his arms, dragging his body backwards towards the old vehicle. 

"Ah, it's only a scratch," The captain joked, "Get him in the fucking van...."

The Russian threw the unconscious butcher in the van, his body almost bouncing off the dirty flooring before stilling in the corner, bunched up against the wall.

"Who are you?" he grumbled out, waking from his sudden and unwelcome slumber, his tone growing angry and frustrated, "So my men can send your heads home to your families."

"Fuck off, shit-pouch." Kyle spat as he and No-Face jumped in after him, locking themselves in the van with guns at the ready, guarding the back of the vehicle from incoming enemies. 

Her knee popped as she crouched, her gun aimed out of the smashed window, eyes narrowed as gunmen and armed vehicles headed in their direction. She looked back at Gaz, who gave her a determined look in return.

The engine sputtered. Sirens wailed in the distance. 

Her lips parted, ready to question the men at the front of the car, when Nik's voice echoed throughout the vehicle.

"Uh, small problem!" he announced. 

"What?" The captain was quick to question. 

"The engine," He began, his voice almost apologetic, "... is a little cranky."

Tires screeched against the road as more and more vehicles joined, men jumping out the cars with guns raised and aiming their way. Bullets whistled as they flew past, lodging in the metal of the van, a loud clang following. 

"Ah, sing it a bloody lullaby, we gotta go!" Price's frustrated groan echoed throughout the old car; desperation clear in his tone as the hostiles swarmed around them.  

Her finger squeezed the trigger, bullets flying back at the attacking hostiles. It penetrated one's head, the force throwing him back, his eyes going lifeless as blood trickled down his bruised temple. Another bullet lodged itself in a hostile's shoulder, sending him backward and into a car door, his back smashing hard against it, his breath knocked out of his lungs. She shot at the man again, bullet flying through him and smashing the window behind him, glass raining down in small, sharp pieces. 

An explosion caused her arm to fly in front of her, shielding her eyes and face from the sudden heat, the light almost blinding as one of the cars lit on fire. 

Kyle was beside her, an RPG resting heavily against his shoulder as he aimed the weapon at another car. She covered herself, hiding behind the van doors as he shot another round, another explosion following, the flames lighting up the dull street as bodies of their hostiles were thrown to the side. 

A loud groan echoed, the van rumbling when the engine finally revved, and Nik's happy laugh reached her even through the chaos of the outside world, "There she is!"

"Floor it!" The captain yelled, "Go!"

          The cold, evening air prickled at her skin, elbows digging into her knees as she sat sideways on the old car seat. The door was wide open, one of her feet dangling above the ground, specks of blood still littering the fine leather. The smell of smoke tickled her nose as it danced in the air, the tip of Nik's cigarette bright in the dark of the night. 

It was a quiet night, the crescent moon hanging proudly in the sky, surrounded by faint specks of light. The starts were dimmed by the brightness of the city lights, but their beauty not erased completely. 

Only faint chatter and laughter disturbed the otherwise peaceful moment, cutting through the silence of the night. It was distant, a group of friends sharing a pleasant night out, their voices cheerful and carefree, drunken singing echoing between the buildings.  

It was almost pleasant to listen to.

She leaned her head against the cold metal of the car, an almost relaxed breath escaping her lips. She allowed her eyes to close, the quiet soothing, the cold night air a reminder of her childhood, of the cold nights she endured, and yet... it was almost comforting. 

"Smoke?" Nik interrupted the silence that settled upon them. 

"No," she spoke in a quiet tone, "I don't smoke."

"You're stressed," he pointed out as though it was obvious, "Smoke. It will relax you." 

A surprised laugh had escaped her in response. Her eyes ventured to the sky, gazing upon the many stars which sparkled like glitter in the night sky. 

"Really," he added, holding the cigarette out towards her. 

She held a look of disbelief, though couldn't help the curiosity that quickly grew. 

Her childhood was... sterile. The scent of antiseptic common in the four walls she grew up in. The smell of bland food during lunch, the metallic scent of blood and itchy gunpowder on her fingers. 

Smoke brought a scratch to her throat, cigarettes a rare sight during missions. Yet in the recent years grew more common; from the foul-smelling soldiers who smoked like their life depended on it, to the captain himself, who often held a thick cigar between her fingers. 

It was a scent she grew to detest, but reached for the thin stick anyway. 

She held it between her index and middle finger, the smoke swirling around her hand in a slow dance, its scent settling on the bloody leather of her gloves. 

Placing it between her lips, she took a hesitant drag, the smoke settling on her throat like falling soot and scratching painfully as it ventured further, choking her as it filled up her lungs. A harsh cough escaped her, the sound coming from deep within her chest as her body rejected the intrusion. 

She handed the cigarette back to Nik, who only laughed as she coughed into the inside of her elbow. He took another inhale of the smoke before throwing it on the pavement, and putting it out with his thick boot. 

"Trained all your life to stand anything but not a little cigarette smoke," he commented with a chuckle, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned his back against the side of the van, "Funny, no?"

She took a few moments to rid her lungs of any remaining smoke, small coughs rattling her chest and throat. She looked at him, her eyes analysing him; his words, his stature, his expression, before she shook her head and almost rolled her eyes at him in response.

"Very," she said sarcastically, the Russian accent thick on her tongue, "This is how you and Price became friends? You took smoking breaks together?"

The soldier laughed, his arms crossing over his chest as he leaned back against the side of the cold van. He gave her a knowing look, sensing her words held more than just sarcasm. They stunk of curiosity, and were perhaps even a little nosy as well. 

"We met on a mission," he told her honestly, "Years ago. We have a... common enemy."

"A common enemy." She repeated, raising a brow in further question. 

He pulled out a lighter, and lit up another cigarette, the tip bright as he inhaled the thick smoke, "Yes."

She sent him a look. Her expression enough for him to know she wanted to know more, her interest about the captain's past piqued. 

"No, no, no," He told her plainly, but with a brief laugh, "If he wants to tell... he will."

She almost huffed, her arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back against the chair in defeat. She wanted to know more about the captain; about his past and present. 

She guessed it would come in time, but aside for knowing what the inside of his home looked like, and brief mentions of his life here and there, she didn't know much. It was her past that had been slowly revealed, tales of her childhood shared, but when it came to him... she still had a lot to learn. 

Perhaps it was still early, not even a full year passing since she was forcibly placed on his team. They had come a long way, there was no denying it. But there was still a long way to go, though she reckoned patience really was the key in this instance.

"What are we doing here?" She eventually questioned, breathing in the thick smoke that swam around them in circles. 

She was quiet on the way here. After Garrick and the captain took Butcher with them into a secure room, her order was to remain with Nik, who swiftly took the van back on the road, successfully evading any Police cars or hostiles who could have been lurking about. There was a sense of confusion when he parked in a seemingly ordinary neighbourhood, civilians none the wiser as they went about their day.

He cleared his throat, tapping the soot off the tip of his cigarette. 

"Picking up a package," he explained, sparing the watch on his wrist a brief glance. 

He stomped the cigarette out, the burning tip sizzling as it was met with the wet snow on the pavement. He gestured for her to follow, and no-face did so without question, slamming the car door behind her as she walked beside him, doing her best to appear as casual as possible.

Blending in was never her strong suit. 

The large, wooden doors creaked as they were pushed open, the cold following behind them as they stepped inside the old building. He led them through the cramped corridors, the lights dull as they swayed above them.

He reached for the gun in his holster, having it at the ready as he lifted his arm, and knocked three times on a stranger's door. There was a series of whispers on the other side, soft footsteps echoing as people moved about. 

The lock clicked and hinges squeaked as it was pulled ajar. Barely open, allowing only a slither of light to pass through. Nikolai pushed the door open, sending the woman on the other side backwards, her back almost hitting the circular table behind her. 

Her eyes were wide, and upon seeing the gun in his hands, she didn't even try to run away, the thought of fighting him off seemingly not even crossing her mind. She lifted her hands up in a defeated position, her arms shaky and breathing heavy, fear clear in her eyes.  

"Where is the other one?" Nikolai questioned the frightened woman. 

She shook her head frantically, eyes briefly landing on no-face before she spoke, "No... No one is here. Just me."

She was a bad liar. 

"Watch her."

No-Face held her own pistol her way, aiming at the woman despite knowing she had no intention of escaping. No intention of making this difficult for them.

"Please..." a whisper left her lips, her eyes almost begging as Nik made a ruckus in another part of the flat, "Don't..."

"I won't hurt you," No-Face spoke flatly, her tone not meant to comfort her in any way, "As long as you do as we ask."

A minute or two ticked by before Nikolai finally returned. The woman's face growing even more frightened when she saw her son guided forward, Nik's finger not on the trigger, but the gun still aimed at the boy's back. 

She could see the tears welling up in the woman's eyes, her breathing growing shakier and more frightened as the boy ran into her arms. A sob escaped her, bouncing off the walls in the small room.

"No screaming," Nik warned, "No running. Do what I say and you will be okay. Yes?"

She nodded frantically, desperately clawing at her son, holding him close to her as though she was his shield. She held his hand, fingers grasping his own tightly as she guided him behind her, her breathing erratic and eyes wet with tears. 

Nick was at the front, leading them out the flat and the building, his walk casual and nonchalant, not looking any different from the civilians that passed them by. One even sent them a stiff smile and nodded in a greeting, but the tired marks on his face had him lacking in focus, not giving the frightened woman a second glance before he disappeared from view. 

The van door was pulled open, and with no fight at all, the woman and her son climbed into the back, curled together, his mother's arms wrapped protectively around the boy's frame. He wept in a frightened manner, his quiet sobs muffled by his mother's body shielding his own. 

Nik pulled the door closed, the lock clicking as metal slammed against metal. 

Getting back in the car, a tense silence grew. No-Face said nothing, looking numbly out the window, unable to tune out the boy's crying, and his mother's gentle whispers as she tried to soothe him. They didn't seem to know what was truly happening; the boy, she wasn't surprised by, but his mother seemed to be in the dark as well. 

The car drove smoothly down the road, occasionally bumping as they drove over a pothole. The radio was turned off, and the silence uncomfortable. 

Nik cleared his throat, but remained silent, his eyes focused on the road ahead. 

She took in a sharp and heavy breath, "They didn't do anything..."

"No," Nik agreed, his tone low as he spoke, "You were trained for this, no?"

Confusion brewed on her face. Were soldiers trained for this? To kidnap innocent people, to traumatise children with their guns? She definitely couldn't see Thomas doing something like this. He was too kind, she thought. But maybe he didn't mean them.

He meant her. 

She turned to look at him, her brows knit, "Price told you?"

A moment passed before he shook his head and spoke in his mother tongue, "He didn't have to... I met a few of you before. First one was young boy, no older than 17... and leading a fucking trafficking operation. He had this... look in his eyes. Empty. Cold. Back then I thought it was the usual case of falling into company with the wrong people. Common more with drug dealers and gangs, but still possible."

A burdened sigh left his lips, the muscles in his face tensing.

"He had those gloves, but I never gave them a second thought," he said, "Until I saw them again. On a girl, maybe in her mind-twenties. Then another, and another. All killed before I got to them. I knew there had to be something more to it, but I was younger and inexperienced, so all my efforts to raise the concern with my superiors were shut down."

A brief silence settled upon them. He cleared his throat, rubbing at his face before his voice filled the van again.

"There was one I had the chance to question," he told her, "I was alone, and thought taking a... kinder... approach might work. But the more I tried to assure her, tell her I could help her, the more scared she became. She shot herself right in front of me... She was no older than 15."

Nik looked at her, his eyes glancing down to the red scythe embroidered into her leather gloves. 

"And now you..."

Her finger covered the red symbol, feeling the rough material underneath her fingertips. She leaned her head back against the stiff seat, her eyes falling shut as a heavy breath escaped her lips.

"We were," she admitted with a nod, "Trained for this... kind of. It depended on your strengths. Some were great at manipulating others, some blended in well, some spied, some were the muscle, and some... seduced."

She breathed out heavily, her breath fogging up on the cold glass of the car window. 

"I was the muscle. The perfect soldier," she chuckled, albeit humourlessly, "And I was fucking good at it. Still am. Blending in and doing undercover work was not my strong suit; the one of the few times I was sent on a mission like that, it was in a hospital... and I ended up looking straight into a camera. Then, because I was actively trying not to, I ended up looking more suspicious than I initially did."

Despite the anger Nik felt moments ago when telling her of his experiences, he laughed. A soft chuckle, but still an amused one, his muscled slowly losing the tension they held.

"The boy I met first, he did seem... charismatic," he said, and she nodded, aware it was a common trait shared between those who specialised in more 'social' departments. "Which... no offence, but, you're not."

She raised her brows, though didn't take any offence to his statement. He wasn't exactly wrong, and it was definitely what played a huge part in her role in the organisation. But that wasn't to say she completely lacked in those skills; if it came down to it, she was taught enough to know how to blend in, or manipulate, even if it didn't come as naturally to her as it did to others.

"Yeah," She sighed, "I just killed."

There was a brief pause that settled between them. She pressed her forehead against the glass, the cold numbing her skin.

"So many innocent people," Her voice came out in a soft and faint tone, almost a whisper, "Which I... don't want to do anymore. Not that woman in the back... not the kid."

Nik exhaled. Sharply. 

"Speak with the captain," he told her, shooting her a sympathetic glance before adding, his tone lighter, as if his next words were supposed to make her feel any better, "You are the lucky one, you know that, yes?"

She supposed she was. 

She wasn't murdered or sold.

She wasn't still stuck in that compound, nameless and cold as she was forced to blindly follow every single order she was given. No questions asked or you're out. 

She was given a second chance...  kind of.

She met new people, made new friends. Shared some laughs, tried new foods.

She saw the coast. Watched the way the sunlight sparkled on the gentle waves of the sea.  

She felt the sand beneath her feet. 

But still... she couldn't escape the fate of a soldier. 

The gunpowder. The blood.... the smell of death. 

It was ingrained into her being.

Impossible to escape.

"Doesn't feel like it."

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[2000s-music-tourney]

Here are the entries to the 2000s tourney:

Pokerface by Lady Gaga

Welcome to the Black Parade by My Chemical Romance

Toxic by Britney Spears

Sk8ter Boi by Avril Lavigne

All my Life by Foo Fighters

American Idiot by Green Day

1985 by Bowling for Soup

Take Me Out by Franz Ferdinand

Somebody Told Me by the Killers

Hey There Delilah by Plain White Tees

Feel Good Inc by the Gorillaz

Sugar we're goin down by Fallout Boy

Brave as a noun by AJJ

Hot N Cold by Katy Perry

Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It) by Beyonce

The Dog Days are Over by Florence + the Machine

Seven Nation Army by White Stripes

Kryptonite by 3 Doors Down

She Hates Me by Puddle Of Mudd

Stacy's Mom by Fountains for Wayne

All the Small Things By Blink 182

Since U Been Gone by Kelly Clarkson

Hurt by Johnny Cash

Hey Ya by Outkast

Rehab by Amy Winehouse

Stan by Eminem

Do you realize by The Flaming Lips

Sexyback by Justin Timberlake

Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus

Drops of Jupiter (Tell Me) by Train

Californication by the Red Hot Chili Peppers

Fireflies by Owl City

TiK ToK by Ke$ha

Gives you Hell by All American Rejects

Paper Planes by M.I.A.

Can't get you out of my head by Kylie Monogue

I write sins not tragedies by Panic! At the Disco

Short Skirt/Long Jacket by CAKE

Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus

Bring Me to Life by Evanescence

Before he cheats by Carrie Underwood

Vida La Vida by Coldplay

Photograph by Nickelback

99 Problems by Jay-Z

Hash Pipe by Weezer

A Thousand Miles by Vanessa Carlton

Love Story by Taylor Swift

Unwell by MatchBox Twenty

Yeah! by Usher

Dilemma by Nelly and Kelly Rowland

Beautiful by Christina Aguilera

My Hips Don't Lie by Shakira

I gotta Feeling by Black Eyed Peas

Hollaback Girl by Gwen Stefani

Watcha Say by Jason Derulo

Drop it like it's Hot by Snoop Dogg

Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield

Numb by Linkin Park

Umbrella by Rihanna

Crazy in Love by Beyonce and Jay Z

How to Save a Life by The Fray

Get the Party Started by P!nk

Survivor By Destiny's Child

Everytime we touch by Cascada

Beautiful Girls by Sean Kingston

Bad day by Daniel Powter

Chop Suey By System of a Down

I'm Yours by Jason Mraz

Crazy by Gnarls Barkley

The Middle by Jimmy Eat World

Harder Better Faster Stronger by Daft Punk

Chewing Gum by Annie

Lollipop by Mika

It's gonna be Me By Nsync

Low by Flo Rida

Fuck the pain away by Peaches

Misery Business by Paramore

It's my life by Bon Jovi

The Past Is a Grotesque Animal by Of Montreal

Work It by Missy Elliott

Butterfly by Crazy Town

Caramelldansen by Caramell

In da Club by 50 Cent

4 minutes by Madonna and Justin Timberlake

White Flag by Dido

Beautiful Day by U2

Fallin by Alicia Keys

All for you by Janet Jackson

Bootylicious by Destiny's Child

This Love by Maroon 5

Milkshake by Kelis

Smooth Criminal by alien Ant Farm

I'm a Believer by Smash Mouth

Sandstorm by Darude

I believe in a thing called love by the darkness

Float On by Modest Mouse