#insurgent camp

[probablyasocialecologist]

Both Biden and Netanyahu know what they dare not say in public: On a military level, things are not going well. Israel, a nuclear-armed nation state with modern weapons systems and intelligence capabilities and fully backed by the most powerful nation on Earth, is desperately struggling to achieve a meaningful tactical victory over the armed Palestinian guerrilla forces in Gaza. Despite the vast resources Israel has dedicated to its propaganda effort, it is also flailing in its effort to defeat Hamas on that front. On a daily, sometimes hourly, basis, the Qassam Brigades, Hamas’s military wing, and their allies in arms release videos showing successful attacks on Israeli armored vehicles and troop positions. The short films offer a glimpse into another side of this war, the one that Israel and the U.S. do not want the public to see. And the picture that emerges stands in stark contrast to the official Israeli narrative. Fighters from Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad are engaged in urban combat and close-quarters firefights with Israeli forces, and they are inflicting heavy losses on them. They have also published a close-up video of Israeli soldiers in a makeshift tent camp inside Gaza that Hamas fighters filmed by discreetly popping up from tunnel hatches.

[...]

There is no doubt that both Washington and Tel Aviv underestimated the military capacity of the Hamas-led armed resistance. It is one thing to snatch Palestinians off the streets of the West Bank and disappear them into a military court system, a practice Israel has perfected over the decades. It is quite another to defeat a well-armed insurgency that has spent decades building vast underground infrastructure beneath its own territory and training for this very moment.

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Faye Schulman

Faye Schulman was a young Jewish photographer in Poland who became a resistance fighter after her family was slaughtered by the Germans. For the next two years, she took pictures of what she witnessed, leaving an extensive photographic record for posterity.

Born Faigel Lazebnik in 1919, she was one of seven children in an Orthodox Jewish family in Lenin, a small village in Poland. Known as Faye, she learned four languages: Yiddish at home, Polish at school, Hebrew in religious school, and Russian among the non-Jewish townspeople. Her brother Moshe was a professional photographer and she worked as his assistant, developing a keen eye and a talent for photography. When Moshe moved to another town, Faigel took over his business.

After the Germans invaded Lenin in 1941, they forced the town’s Jews into a squalid ghetto. On August 14, 1942, the Nazis “liquidated” the Lenin ghetto by brutally murdering 1,850 Jews, including Faye’s parents, sisters, and brother. Only 26 Jews were spared because the Nazis could make use of their skills. Faye was ordered to develop photographs of the massacre that claimed the lives of her family as well as almost everyone she knew. She secretly made extra copies of the pictures and kept them to bear testimony to Nazi crimes against humanity.

Soon after, Faye escaped from the Nazis and joined the Molotava Brigade, a group of Russian resistance fighters in the forest of Belarus. She said, “This was the only way I could fight back and avenge my family.” They were known as “partisans” – an insurgent militia group opposing an occupation army. Despite rampant antisemitism in the group, she was allowed to join because she had some basic medical skills learned from her late brother-in-law, who had been a doctor in Lenin. Faye became the group’s nurse, serving alongside the resident doctor, a veterinarian. For almost two years, Faye dressed fighters’ wounds and did whatever she could for sick and injured fighters, despite a lack of medical equipment. She participated in armed raids, later remembering “When it was time to be hugging a boyfriend, I was hugging a rifle. Now I said to myself, my life is changed. I learned how to look after the wounded, I even learned how to make operations.”

Faye’s partisan brigade raided her hometown of Lenin, during which the resistance fighters acquired food, weapons and supplies. As they passed her childhood home, Faye urged her fellow partisans to burn it to the ground, which they did. “I won’t be living here. The family’s killed. To leave it for the enemy? I said right away: Burn it!”

Faye found her old photographic equipment, and brought it back to their forest encampment. For the next two years, Faye documented the dangerous existence of anti-Nazi partisans. It was vitally important to her because as she later said, “I want people to know that there was resistance. Jews did not go like sheep to the slaughter. I was a photographer. I have pictures. I have proof.”

Faye’s resistance group was liberated by the Soviets in July 1944. After the war ended, she was overjoyed to find that her brother Moshe had also survived and had been part of another resistance group. Faye and Moshe were the only survivors of their family of nine. Soon after Faye married Morris Schulman, who’d fought alongside Moshe. They decided to make a new life in Palestine, then occupied by the British, who made it difficult if not impossible for war-scarred Holocaust survivors to enter the land. For two years the Schulmans were stuck in a displaced persons camp in Germany, waiting for the opportunity to immigrate. They helped smuggle arms into Palestine to support the Jews fighting for independence. In 1947 Faye became pregnant, and they needed someplace safe to live. They were able to get visas to Canada, and settled in Toronto, where they ran a family business and raised two children. In 1995, Faye published a book about her experience as an anti-Nazi resistance fighter: “A Partisan’s Memoir: Woman of the Holocaust.”

Faye died on April 24, 2021, surrounded by her family, at age 101. Sadly, the last few years of her life saw an upsurge of antisemitism worldwide. Faye left an inspiring message for young people today: “To Jewish kids I would like to say – be proud to be Jewish. To non-Jewish kids I would like to say – if there is a war and you have to fight, fight for freedom and don’t be ashamed to be in the army.”

For saving lives, battling Nazis, and leaving a photographic record so the horrors of the Holocaust would not be forgotten, we honor Faye Lazebnik Schulman as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[catboymoments]

Wait is that the Reality Check Summary Camp Luz almost went to? I don't know, it didn't exactly feel very neurodivergent-friendly (and I doubt Mabel would want to work at a place like that).

she needed a job to cover colleg and waddles expenses but shes like an insurgent and yeaches kids to harness their weirdness. also I think that camp might notve been that bad because masha and the other kiddos we see turned out the same/okay

[tofu83]

Let me introduce the latest high-tech prison in the Republic of All Mankind！

As you can see, it’s not a building or camp but simply a set of body armor. It can limit prisoners' freedom and correct their behavior with minimal resources

Mark, the rebel who encourage young people to engage in destruction, has the honor to serve as an example.

Turn around, Prisoner!

"What the fuck are you doing to my body!?"

See? Even if he has thousands of unwillingnesses, he can do nothing but obey. That's because this exoskeleton has been connected to his central nervous system. Now he is not able to control his own body, but let the armor in charge.

Oh, that gentleman with crewcut hair in black jacket, you have question?

"Why not brainwash the prisoner or implant a controlling chip to make him completely compliant?"

Good question! We intend to keep their mind clear in order to let them understand what we could do to them. Let them know that every single person is just the property of our country. Even you and me both have to admit that the authority has absolutely power over us. Right?

Besides, the prisoners have to learn what is good and what is bad. Take Mark as example. He will join the rebels hunting team working with law enforcers to hunt down his accomplices, and force them into the same kind of prison he is in now.

"You freaking bustard! I will never betray my allies!"

He is so noisy, isn’t he? No problem! Turn around to show our guest your face, prisoner! Just a click on this button,

"Mmmm…Mmmm!!!"

the mouth gag and face mask will make him quiet!

Okay, let’s continue. After working for the authority many times, we infer they will finally understand how childish they were and how glory to serve the country. They will submit and be loyal to their country from the bottom of their hearts.

But we know some people are very stubborn and won’t easily be break down. If we need immediate combat effectiveness, they are the best choice because the armor also has the ability to fully control the wearer.

Lets enter the code here…

You can see that the prisoner stops struggling and stands up straight. His eyes glowing red like robots’ because he is actually becoming a robot.

Their minds would be wiped out in order to be reprogrammed easily.

Only the useful parts of their memories will be retained, and the rest will be deleted.

Now the reprogramming is almost complete.

Hunter bot 001 active and report status!

"Hunter unit 001 is fully functional, reporting for duty."

Let me prove that he is already converted into a loyal servant of our country.

"Hunter bot 001, perform your main mission!"

"Yes sir, this unit will comply. Start searching for potential insurgents…. Target detected! A close friend of the famous rebel, Mark, is in this room!"

Wow, what a surprise!!!

"Rebel, Name: Black. Must be arrested immediately!"

Hey！That gentleman with crewcut hair in black jacket！

Congratulations on becoming the second inmate of the new prison!!!

[ohtobeleah]

Bruises // Jake Seresin

Chapter Two: [Tactile Takedown]

Summary: When a missile is headed right for Roosters F-18, Jake makes a decision that could end up costing you your life.

Series Warnings: Heavy themes of violence, sexual assault, torture. 18+ content. Minors DNI. Mature themes. Being held in captivity. Hostage style situation. Main character death! Whump, Angst. Conversations that discuss antisocial & antisemitism views.

Word Count: 4.4k

Author Note: THIS SERIES IS CONFRONTING, FICTIONAL, AND DEPICTS IMAGES OF TORTURE. DO NOT READ PAST THIS POINT IF YOU BELIEVE THAT THIS SERIES WILL BE DETRIMENTAL TO YOUR MENTAL STABILITY. CURATE YOUR OWN TIMELINE.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Tuesday - April 18th 2023. D-day. 

“How you doing back there Hollywood?” Jake asked as you settled into a steady climb, You’d just taken off from the carrier that had taken you out into the middle of nowhere to complete a mission that seemed somewhat impossible. But you were told these guys were the best of the best, that they don't get any better than the Daggers. An elite group of Naval Aviators who had completed some of the most insane covert operations you'd been blessed to read about. “How's my radar looking?” 

And now? Well–now you were one of them. 

“Radars clean Hangman.” You confirmed all the while trying to calm the pit of nervousness in your stomach. “Recommend increasing to three hundred knots, you've got Dagger Two approaching at around ten o'clock closure.” 

“Confirmed.” Jake replied as he pushed up on his throttle, it sent your head into the back of your chair a little from the force of gravity changing around you. “Increasing speed, Rooster you still with me?” It was just the three of you, Rooster, Hangman and yourself. A small yet tactile team of experienced and highly trained naval aviators sent it to disable a rogue insurgent group that was making far too much noise for the United States navy to ignore. 

The mission? Dismantle what Nav-Con believed to be one of the two main insurgent camps situated in the middle of a communication desert. With one highly explosive missile and two of the best air to air combat pilots the navy had ever seen, you were tasked with getting in through a valley that had been similar terrain to a mission Bradley had flown a few years prior. 

That was why he was chosen. Experience. 

Jake Seresin had a reputation, he was the Hangman. He had two confirmed air to air kills and wouldn't lose sleep over a third of forth. From what you could gather since being assigned as his weapons system officer, Jake took risks. Risks that paid off well. He was highly skilled and that somewhat egomaniacal belief that he was a god given gift to aviation made it easier to pull through with such risks. 

That was why he was chosen. Taktical ability to compartmentalise. 

But Jake Seresin had a fault. He had a single thread loose that if pulled could undo all that male bravado. He cared, deep down, about his squadron. His colleagues had become more like family than anything. He couldn't turn that blind eye that was so necessary to have if this mission were to fail. 

And that's why you were brought in. Why you were chosen for such a dangerous mission. You would have been easier to lose against Robert Floyd or Mickey Garcia and the Admirals all knew it. Jake didn't know you. You were a pivotal part of the mission design, a means to an end if necessary. 

You were simply expendable: 

From the Admirals who had tasked Bradley and Jake with this mission to Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell, they all knew that if it were Bob or Fanboy sitting in Jake's WSO seat, he wouldn’t take so many risks. And for once–they needed him to take risks. To not think and just do. 

“I'm right behind you, Hangman.” Bradleys voice came through the comms as clear as day. He was taling right behind Jake. “We’re looking good so far.” 

“Better not have just jinxed us Bradshaw.” Jake sighed as he made a small turn right, heading down into the canyon below. “We get in, we get out and we go home.” 

You had spent the last month revising the mission, sitting in hour long debrief sessions with Rooster and Hangman to go over critical points of the mission. You knew they were close, but there was an underlying sort of animosity you couldn't quite figure out. 

And that's why they were both chosen for this mission together. There would be no love lost between the two.

“Still nothing up ahead on radar Hangman.” You spoke firmly with enough conviction in your voice to cover up the fact your heart was racing a million miles an hour. You never thought in your wildest dream you'd make it to TopGun and then further, a specialist unit. But this was not the time to doubt your ability. “All systems go back here, max ceiling is three hundred feet if you wanna keep out of line of sight.” 

“Aye aye Hollywood.” Jake had never flown with a weapons system officer before. This was his first mission with one. When he’d been called into Admiral Simpson's office one random Thursday afternoon before finishing for the day–He thought for sure he was about to have his ass handed to him for something he’d surely done. 

“Hangman.” Admiral Simpson stood at his desk to greet the aviator who looked a little green around the gill upon first entry. He gestured for the flight suit clad, broad shouldered man to sit in the empty seat beside you. “I'd like you to meet Lieutenant Y/N “Hollywood” Y/L/N, she’ll be joining us here for the foreseeable future.” Jake listened as he sat down beside you. 

Without hesitation he sent you a strong smile that took up the entire expanse of his face, completely intoxicating and undeniably hollywood. 

“It's nice to see some fresh meat around here, keep the competition guessing.” Jake chuckled as he extended his hand to shake yours. “I'm Lieutenant Seresin, Jake.” He was all confidence and cocky ego until you touched his hand, until your hand shook his back in a friendly gesture. Jake wasn't going to pretend that he didn't feel that sharp spark, that jolt of energy, that lighting strike that ignited his skin when you touched him. “But everyone calls me Hangman.” 

“Hollywood here is actually joining us as a WSO Seresin.” Admiral Simpson explained as he let his elbows rest against the old oak desk that put some distance between where he sat and where Jake sat, completely unaware that your presence in North Island was about to completely change the trajectory of his career. “She’ll be your WSO.” 

“I’m sorry–” Jake retracted his hand from yours as he shot Admiral Simpson a look, he had previously warned you of this reaction, so you chose to remain silent. Taking in your surroundings and observing Hangman's emotions. It was your job to be observant after all. “Since when do I fly with a WSO? I've never flown doubles before and I don't intend to start now.” Jake argued before he turned back to where you sat. “No offence sunshine, I'm sure you’re great and all, it’s just I don't particularly play well with others.” 

“I'm more of a midnight rain kinda girl.” All you did was eye him off with an emotionless expression. Jake didn’t appreciate your tone, he did however appreciate the way your eyes nearly sparkled in the warm afternoon sun that came beaming through the window of Admiral Simpson's office. “I’m not too over the moon about working with you either.” It was a dig. “With a callsign as transparent as Hangman I’m sure I’m in great hands.”

“And I’m sure Hollywood has some outstanding depth to it.” Jake was quick on his feet with his comeback before he frowned a little more and turned his attention back to Admiral Simpson. “Why not Bradshaw?” He groaned, seemingly unimpressed by the decision to dump a WSO on him after years of flying solo. “He doesn’t have a WSO, or Coyote!” 

It was then that Admiral Simpson pulled out a cream coloured file from his desk draw and slid it across his desk. He let out a sigh that told you someone wasn’t coming back from this one. 

“Because we need it to be you.” 

“Approach the canyon entrance with caution.” You directed from behind as you watched the Radar closely. “Remember, we only engage if absolutely necessary.” 

“Once we’re in we make this quick.” Rooster spoke firmly, he had been a little hesitant to accept this detachment knowing its risk to reward ratio. But he’d been promised a shore leave after this. A well deserved vacation. “Let’s get to work.” 

“Copy, heading into Risk Range now.” That was the name on the cream folder Admiral Simpson had passed you and Hangman on day one. Risk Range. Because once you were in there was no way of pulling you out. It was risky, and a mountain range that expanded as far as the eye could see. “Hollywood, have that laser guide ready for me.” 

“On it.” It was like they knew you were coming, because as your radar began flashing with approaching enemy aircraft you knew immediately that they knew. It was a gut instinct. 

“Rooster evade left! Hangman break right, we’ve got company.” Jake didn’t waste a second of time reacting accordingly. He broke right as Rooster tailed off. It was the very definition of an ambush, cold calculated and premeditated. “Jake!” 

“Hangman on your left!” Rooster's voice came through panicked on the comms as Jake did his best to avoid the enemy aircraft that had seemingly come out of thin air: stealth pilots. Trained to be completely unseen until they wanted you to see them. “Break left!” 

“Breaking left!” You twisted and turned and left fingerprints on the canopy as you tried your best to get a better visual. It was madness, pure madness. One two three six how many were there? “Come on, talk to me Hollywood, tell me what you see!” As Jake asked you what you saw you felt your heart pounding inside your chest as you saw a single missile. With wide eyes and panic racing through your veins, you spun around. 

“Smoke in the air! Smoke in the air! Six o’clock Hangman break right!” 

“Deploying flares!” It was only by the skin of what felt like his nose that Jake was able to avoid a direct hit. These guys were ruthless, where one was evaded another would pop up. “Rooster, talk to me man where you at?” 

“I’m here! Hollywood, tell me what you see!” You could have sworn the next few seconds played out like a three hour long Christopher Nolan movie. Time stood still as Jake turned around to expose the full scene playing out on the big screen. A surface to air missile was aiming right for Bradley Bradshaw. 

“Jake—“ It was a mumble, a murmur even. It threw a spanner in the cogs of this well oiled detachment you thought you knew everything about. Every angle, every concept, every reason why the three of you were specifically chosen. Because as Jake made a decision that would send the F-18 the two of you found yourselves to be in into the side of a mountain range, you realised there would be love lost, a hell of a lot of love lost if anything happened to Rooster. Bradley Bradshaw was Jake Seresin wingman, period. “It's on him.” 

“Not if I can help it.” Jake mumbled under his breath as he swung around and headed straight for where Rooster was. 

“Banit coming in hot on your tail Rooster, break right!” It was your confirmation that you were all in, every decision Jake made in the sky affected you and vice versa. There was nowhere to run, not here in this mess. “Jake, deploy flares!” 

“Deploying flares!” It was only the smallest of miscalculations that caused it. If Jake had deployed his flares just three seconds prior, then perhaps you wouldn't have been hit. Perhaps you would have been able to save Rooster without sacrificing your own safety. Perhaps if Jake had deployed his flares just three seconds earlier, then the missile that hit the tail end of your F-18 with such force, that it blew the ass end right off the aircraft, wouldn't have knocked you out from the impact. 

The explosion was the last thing you heard. The warmth of the fire that kissed your skin was the last thing you felt before everything was cold again. So cold. So cold that it almost burned.

“Y/n!” Jake shouted with a panic in his tone of voice as he shook you softly. “Hollywood! Wake up!” There was blood dripping from your nose, a sign Jake wasn't too keen on but other than that? He couldn’t see any other physical injuries. You still had both arms and legs. “Lieutenant Y/L/N wake up!” It was all so muffled, like you were under water, you could hear Jake calling your name, you could feel him shaking your body, but you couldn't talk, couldn't open your eyes. Until you did, slowly and with a groan. “Oh thank god.” It was the first thing you heard Jake say clearly without the muffled understone. “You scared the hell out of me.” 

“What happened?” You asked softly as you tried to sit up. “Where are we?” Jake could recognise the panic taking over your being as he kneeled beside you, helping you to sit up with a groan. He noticed the way you held your ribs on the right side of your body, most likely bruised at the very least from the impact of your parachute deploying. “What happened?” 

“We got shot down.” Jake said the four words no aviator ever wanted to hear. “You blacked out on impact.” He explained tentatively, not wanting to scare you any more than you already were. “I pulled your chute.” 

“Rooster! Head back to the carrier, abort the mission!”  It was the last thing Jake could communicate to his wingman before he lost his radio. The fighter jet was totaled, there was no saving it. 

“Hollywood we gotta go! Punch out!” Jake shouted over the warning signals that blared in the cockpit as he spun out of control. There was no worse feeling than burning in. He hadnt experienced it often, only once before–but it still felt the same if not worse than that last time. “Y/n?” When you didn't respond Jake knew something was wrong, as he turned to look behind him he saw you slumped forward and unresponsive. “Dammit Hollywood!” Jake did the only thing he could think of that would help you– he reached over and pulled at the yellow and black ejection handle between your legs. 

Almost immediately the canopy went flying as you shot out of the fighter jet. Jake saw your chute deploy–relief flooded his system before he pulled his own ejection handle. It sent him flying high into the sky at the speed of light. He just prayed when he hit the ground he’d be able to find you alive and well.

The time between the moment Jake hit the snow covered ground below to the moment he found you lying between the trees was far too long. He ditched his chute and ran and ran and ran until he was at your side. But there wasn't a mountain he wouldn't climb to reach you. That much was true. You were his WSO. His responsibility. 

“Rooster?” You asked as it all came racing back. “Did he–?” You didn't even need to finish your sentence before Jake was giving you some sort of peace of mind. 

“As far as I know he turned back to the carrier after we got hit. I haven't seen him doing any flyovers.” Jake explained softly as he assessed your current state. “How many fingers am I holding up?” You watched as Jake held his hand up in front of your face and moved it side to side. You followed his every move. 

“Two.” You said confidently, still sitting in the snow. “I'm fine, promise, just a little bruised.” 

“You think you can walk?” Jake was helping you to your feet before you even gave him a response. “I'm sorry you're in this mess with me, it's just–” It was your turn to interrupt as Jake wrapped your arm around his shoulders to help you stand. If you had seen him demonstrate this kind of behaviour three days ago you would have sworn black and blue you were dreaming, or that some fictitious creature from another realm had replaced the Jake Seresin you’d been flying with for the past few weeks. But after seeing his harrowing attapet to save his wingman's life without a single second of hesitation, you knew Jake actually cared about the people around him. 

“It's fine.” You hissed as you took your first guided steps on wobbly legs after falling out of the sky. “You were protecting your wingman, I would have done the same thing.” Jake had a pretty nasty gash on the side of his head from when he’d landed pretty ungracefully. The side of his helmet cut into his temple on impact. “But now we’re down here, with no backup.” 

“E-stats are still working.” Jake reminded you as he continued to help you further into the woods, hoping that it could break the chill of the raging wind. “They’ll see us, hopefully, if we just stay put surely the carrier will be able to track our location.” You knew right then and there that Jake was bluffing, you were smack bang in a communication desert. 

“Hangman–” You sighed as he helped you sit down against a rock that was further in, Jake didn't miss the way you squinted as you did so, still holding your ribcage like something was wrong. “I don't think anyone will come back for us.” You did your best to try and block out the pain radiating whenever you took a breath in. “It would make more noise than they want to make.” 

“You don't know my squad Hollywood.” Jake smirked as he shook his head slightly with a chuckle. He was right, you didn't know the lengths they’d all go to for each other. Jake reached out to cup your cheeks softly, the pad of his thumb swiped at the blood that had dripped down from your nose. “Someone will come, we just gotta get comfy till then.” There was a moment of silence that passed as Jake really took a moment to drink in your features. Even through all the snow and all the worry your eyes still sparkled the same way they did when he first met you in Admiral Simpson's office. “Your ribs? You think they’re broken?” 

“Probably just bruised from the impact.” You replied, lost in your own mind as you stared at Jake’s features. From his eyebrows to his emerald green eyes that you swore swirled with desire. Everything was perfect, even the dusting of that five o’clock shadow that was threatening to expose his not so clean cut navy aesthetic. 

“Can I have a look?” You missed the feeling of Jake's hand on your cheek the minute he was gone and had pulled away. You couldn't help but to chuckle as you compiled and started undoing your flight suit. 

“You trying to cop a feel Seresin?” 

“Would that be the worst thing in the world?” He teased back almost too quickly to not have already been on his mind. Jake was as careful as he could be when you had undone your flight suit enough to expose your black under shirt. He watched as you lifted up the cotton fabric enough so that he could press his palm softly against where your ribs were killing. His heart broke when you whimpered, he knew you were holding back as much as you could. “I know why they call you Hollywood, you know.” Jake thought a distraction from the pain and the situation in general would be good. He kept pressing his fingers around your side trying to see if he could feel anything unusual. He knew it hurt like hell, but when your eyes met his as he looked up at you from where he was kenaling beside you–he hoped the distraction helped. 

“Oh yeah?” Jake could hear the pain in your voice as you tried to breathe through his poking and prodding. “What's the consensus?” You groaned through gritted teeth as tears threatened to spill down your cheeks. 

“Your dads Rick Neven.” Jake concluded as he finished up his examination. “I thought maybe you were some childhood hollywood hotshot at first but then I overheard Mav telling Mando that you looked just like him.” Jake paused for a moment, reading the terrain of your reaction—when you didn’t totally annihilate him for figuring it out, he pressed on. “You don’t like people knowing you’re practically Navy Royalty, hence your mums maiden name.” He shrugged all the while you worked to fix your flight suit up. “And just like you said, just bruised, not breaks.” 

It was hard to believe the same man who hadn’t really looked in your general direction for the better half of the time you knew him was paying this much attention to you now. But then again, he had been the one who got you into this mess in the first place. If you were gonna play the blame game. 

“Guess there was some depth to it after all huh?” You referred back to the very beginning, to when you had first met Jake. He smiled at you with that golden boy grin that took over the entire expanse of his face. 

“Yeah, yeah I guess there was.” Jake knew just by flying with you, albeit reluctantly, these past few weeks, that you were an extraordinary weapons systems officer. You knew your stuff as well as he knew his shit and together you actually made a pretty decent team. He’d been wrong about you personally though. He kept his distance knowing you were only supposed to be around for this particular detachment then you were off again. There was no real reason to get to know you when you'd be gone in the blink of an eye. But oh how Jake was kicking himself for that thought process. Because now here he was, stuck in the middle of nowhere with the very same WSO he’d been actively trying to not get to know. Something told him though the pair of you were going to have a hell of a lot of time to get to know one another. “The sun's starting to set, we should probably find somewhere to spend the night, maybe make a fire.” Jake looked around, trying to see if there was a place in eyesight where the two of you could make camp for the night. It wasn't ideal, but what else was there to do?

“Yeah–yeah that's probably–” Before you could finish your sentence you heard the unmistakable sound of tree branches being crushed under the weight of footsteps. You spun around to see what was behind you and your heart sank into your stomach. 

Insurgents, pointing guns directly at you and Jake. 

“Jake.” You whispered as you stood slowly, they didn't make any attempt to move from their positionings. Crouched behind rocks, trees and some were just out in the open. They were everywhere. Surrounding the both of you so that there was no way out. 

“Get behind me.” It was the only thing Jake could think about, protecting you. He got you into this mess and he was sure as hell going to get you out of it. He ushered you behind him, making sure to keep turning periodically to look at all angles, wondering if there was by chance a way out of this. “Listen to me, you say nothing, you hear me?” Jake reminded you as he assessed how many you were outnumbered by. “No matter what you don't say anything.” 

You’d seen movies before, what could happen to a woman held as a prisoner of war. You couldn’t help it when your mind went straight to that awful place.

“Jake, don't let them take me away from you.” It was the worst situation Jake had ever found himself in. “Please—don’t let them.” You begged as tears streamed down your face. You fisted at the back of Jake's flight gear he had yet to take off. Holding him as close to you as you possibly could. You were beyond terrified. 

“Put your hands where I can see them!” One of the insurgents shouted as he stepped closer, still aiming his assault weapon directly at the two of you. “Don’t make any sudden movements besides raising your hands above your head.” 

He was wearing all black clothes, they all were. Against the white of the snow it made them stand out like sore thumbs. But they did well enough to cover their faces. No identities were exposed besides your own and Jakes. 

“I want your word that you won’t hurt her.” Jake growled as he began to raise his arms around his head. Palms facing out. You didn’t dare to move as Jake felt you balling his uniform in your hands a little tighter. “Don’t you touch her.” Jake had his attention drawn to the insurgent in front of him all the while you had your face buried between his shoulder blades—trying to shelter yourself from this hellscape. “Touch her and I swear I’ll kill you all.” 

“Lieutenant, I highly doubt you're an incompetent man, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt when I remind you that you have absolutely no authority or power whatsoever in this situation.” The insurgent snickered as he approached closer. “Take the girl.” He tilted his chin in the direction of his men standing off to the side. Before you could react, they were on you. 

“JAKE!!” You screamed at the top of your lungs as one of them wrapped their arms around your waist and pulled you away harshly—Jake felt your hands slip from the Normex of his flight suit as he spun around to try and grab your wrist. 

“Don’t touch her!” Jake warned again. 

“No! No! Stop please—PLEASE!” Jake hated your pleas, your screams would forever haunt his heart. His fingers grazed yours as he whipped around to reach for you. “LET ME GO! GET OFF OF ME!” 

“I SAID DONT TOUCH—“ Before Jake could finish his sentence he was in the ground lying in the snow face down. The insurgent making the orders had hit him over the back of the head with his gun. It was enough to make you stop struggling, enough to make you stop resisting. 

There was a moment where you just stood there in the detainment of insurgents, taking in everything that was happening. Just how were you going to survive this? This wasn’t in the mission parameters. 

“Get them to the truck, before we lose any more light.” The insurgent ordered before he turned around, shouting over his shoulder at his men. Jake lying out cold in the snow was the last thing you saw before it all went black. You felt a pinch at the side of your neck before everything went black and your knees gave in. 

“Keep them alive, for now.” It was the last thing you heard before everything went numb. “I want answers.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Tags 🏷️ @americaarse @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @athenabarnes @imaginecrushes @whyareallnamesgone @mjmaximoffbarnes @amiets2 @mads-weasley @gabbyella @ephemeralninon @xoxabs88xox @pedrohoe04 @starkleila @je-suis-prest-rachel @clancycucumber230 @maisie-rebloging-blog @callsign-barbell @obiwankenobis-lap @some-lovely-day @paperbag333 @callsign-magnolia @jhiddles03 @hardballoonlove @shanimallina87 @seitmai @abaker74 @missemrose @starset21 @kmc1989 @phoenix1388 @emma8895eb

[captainofthetidesbreath]

It's really funny that Colin and Prince Tarthur missed one another by like ten feet.

Colin's grandfather Lucas Fontina led a populist uprising against Tarthur's grandfather, and Tarthur's grandfather executed him in as brutal a fashion as possible, clearly to discourage anyone from agreeing openly with Fontina ever again.

Then, decades later, Tarthur's father murdered Colin's father in the same manner for merely being the son of an insurgent, one whose memory the royalty apparently still feels threatened by.

Colin lived most of his life scared Tarthur will do the same to him.

They are in the same camp, passed so close through the same space, and don't seem to have seen one another at all.

[workersolidarity]

[ 📹 Scenes from the violent firebelts rocking the Shaboura Refugee Camp, in the city of Rafah, in the southern Gaza Strip, following bombing by the Israeli occupation forces on Friday morning. ]

🇮🇱⚔️🇵🇸 🚀🏘️💥🚑 🚨

DAY 231 OF ISRAELI OCCUPATION GENOCIDE IN GAZA: U.S. TO BE INVOLVED IN GAZA SECURITY PLANS AFTER WAR, BORDER CROSSINGS REMAIN CLOSED, HUMANITARIAN AID DELIVERIES SLOW TO A DRIP, TORTURE WIDESPREAD IN ISRAELI PRISONS

On 231st day of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) committed a total of 9 new massacres of Palestinian families, resulting in the deaths of no less than 91 Palestinian civilians, mostly women and children, while another 112 others were wounded over the previous 24-hours.

It should be noted that as a result of the constant Israeli bombardment of Gaza's healthcare system, infrastructure, residential and commercial buildings, local paramedic and civil defense crews are unable to recover countless hundreds, even thousands of victims who remain trapped under the rubble, or who's bodies remain strewn across the streets of Gaza.

This leaves the official death toll vastly undercounted, as Gaza's healthcare officials are unable to accurately tally those killed and maimed in this genocide, which must be kept in mind when considering the scale of the mass murder.

The Biden administration intends to appoint a "civilian advisor" to oversee a "mostly Palestinian" peacekeeping force after the Israeli occupation's genocidal war in Gaza comes to an end, suggesting the administration intends to be deeply involved in Gaza's affairs long after the end of the war. That's according to four American officials speaking with Politico, an American online newspaper, under the condition of anonymity.

According to Politico, an American civilian advisor based in the Egyptian Sinai or Jordan would "advise" the commanding officer of an interim peacekeeping force composed of Palestinians, but also forces from local Arab countries such as Egypt, Morrocco and the United Arab Emirates, which would work to "maintain security and avoid an insurgency that could plunge the enclave into more turmoil."

The coded language of the Politico piece seems to suggest the United States would use the proxy of a potential peacekeeping force to suppress the Palestinian resistance in order to bolster the defenses of the Israeli occupation.

The US would help protect the Israeli entity's internal security within the borders of occupied Palestine, while the Israeli occupation could refocus on potential external threats such as Hezbollah in Lebanon, Kataeb Hezbollah in Iraq, and the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps (IRGC) in Iran.

At the same time, the United States would work with regional players to create a "Palestinian Council", made up of "Palestinians from Gaza," to "serve as an interim governing structure."

Politico says fierce debates are raging within the Biden administration, and with America's regional partners, about the makeup of such a peacekeeping force and what authorities it might be given, as well as intense debates over the governing structure of Gaza and what level of US involvement there would be following a potential end to the war.

“We have talked about a number of different formulas for some kind of interim security forces in Gaza,” a senior administration official told Politico, “and we have talked to a lot of partners about how the United States could support that with all of our capabilities from outside Gaza.”

Any potential force comprised of Palestinians would also face intense push-back from the Israeli occupation authorities, particularly Netanyahu's far-right regime, which opposes any kind of scenario that gives recognition to a Palestinian State.

In other news, the United Nations Special Rapporteur on torture, Alice Jill Edwards, said she has received information about the torture and ill-treatment of Palestinians detained in prisons overseen by the Israeli Prisons Authority and also in Israeli occupation army camps, according to reporting published in the Palestinian media.

According to local reporting, Edwards, who has been conducting a ""thorough review over the past two months," discusses information she received describing cases of Palestinian prisoners who "were beaten and detained while blindfolded and handcuffed for long periods in cells, in addition to being deprived of sleep and threatened with physical and sexual violence."

Edwards said the information she received also included details suggesting that Palestinian detainees were subjected to "degrading treatment," including photos taken of them in "offensive positions."

Edwards, an independent human rights expert previously appointed by the United Nations Human Rights Council, said she raised her concerns for the mistreatment of Palestinian detainees with the Israeli authorities, asking them to investigate and to give herself, along with "international human rights monitors and humanitarian observers" access to Palestinian prisoners.

Edwards said It was "very important that there be independent inspections," and urged the occupation authorities to "investigate all complaints and reports of torture or ill-treatment promptly, fairly, effectively and transparently."

She also added that officials from all levels of the Israeli occupation's prison system "must be held accountable."

Meanwhile, the Israeli occupation continued its mass murder campaign across the entirety of the Gaza Strip, slaughtering dozens of Palestinians, including large numbers of women and children.

At the same time, the Israeli occupation forces (IOF) continued its closure of the Rafah and Karm Abu Salem border crossings for the 18th consecutive day, further preventing thousands of humanitarian and medical aid trucks, along with fuel deliveries, from entering the Gaza Strip, while also preventing hundreds, if not thousands, of severely sick and wounded Palestinians from leaving Gaza for medical treatment abroad.

At the same time, the Israeli occupation continues to deliberately put Gaza's hospitals out of service, launching violent raids of hospitals and medical centers, while also cutting off their supply of fuel for electricity generators.

According to local medical sources, Al-Aqsa Martyrs Hospital in Deir al-Balah, in the central Gaza Strip, one of the largest hospitals in the Strip, has lost power due to running out of fuel, portending a healthcare catastrophe for the Palestinian population of central Gaza.

Similarly, the Kuwait Specialized Hospital in Rafah City is also facing a potential shutdown due to continued attacks by the Israeli occupation army, along with a shortage of fuel for generators.

Occupation forces are also advancing towards Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahiya, in northern Gaza, while all the remaining hospitals still functioning in Gaza are operating well beyond their capacities.

Gaza's healthcare system is also being overwhelmed by the dead and wounded in the Israeli occupation's ongoing bombardment.

In just a few examples, occupation warplanes bombed a residential apartment last night belonging to the Al-Ayoubi family, in the Shabiyah neighborhood of Gaza City, resulting in the deaths of at least 10 civilians, including women and children, while a number of others were wounded in the strike.

In another war crime, Zionist fighter jets bombed a warehouse for the distribution of humanitarian aid in Deir al-Balah, in central Gaza, leading to the deaths of no less than 12 civilians, mostly women and children, while dozens of others were wounded.

Another series of occupation airstrikes targeted house in the Al-Fakhoura neighborhood, west of the Jabalia Camp, in the northern Gaza Strip, murdering another 5 Palestinians and wounding several others.

The slaughter continued when Zionist air forces bombarded a residential home belonging to the Al-Masry family, in the Sheikh Radwan neighborhood of Gaza City, killing two citizens.

IOF artillery detatchments also shelled several neighborhoods of Gaza City, including the Al-Zaytoun, Tal al-Hawa, Al-Rimal, Al-Janoubi, Al-Sabra, Sheikh Ajlin, and Juhr al-Dik neighborhoods, while occupation soldiers and armored vehicles continue advancing towards Kamal Adwan Hospital in Beit Lahiya where they surrounded some medical staff and patients.

In another criminal assault, IOF warplanes bombed another residential apartment belonging to the Abu Al-Laban family on Al-Nafaq Street, north of Gaza City, resulting in a number of casualties.

Zionist soldiers and armored vehicles also fired machine guns in the vicinity of the Ali bin Abi Talib Mosque and Street 8 in Gaza City, while occupation gunboats fired missiles towards the coast of the city.

Two more civilians were killed in yet more occupation airstrikes along the coast of the town of Al-Zawaida, in the central Gaza Strip.

South of Gaza, Israeli occupation quadcopters fly near the European Gaza Hospital, while at the same time, Israeli Merkava tanks advanced from neighborhoods east of Rafah towards the central areas of the city, and along the outskirts of the Shaboura Camp, coinciding with the firing of IOF missiles, shells and hails of gunfire.

In Deir al-Balah, in central Gaza, at least four Palestinians were killed after an Israeli quadcopter drone dropped a bomb on a group of civilians, while occupation aircraft bombarded Al-Rashid Street, adjacent to Al-Nuseirat, with no casualties were reported in the strike.

Occupation bombing and shelling also targeted the Juhr al-Dik area north of the Bureij Camp.

Israeli warplanes also participated in the assassination of Major General Diyaa Al-Sharafa, the Assistant Commander of the National Security Forces in the Gaza Strip, with four other officers wounded in the strike as Al-Sharafa conducted an inspection tour near the Saraya junction in central Gaza.

Meanwhile, for the 13th consecutive day, the Israeli occupation army continued its incursion into Jabalia, in the north of Gaza, coinciding with intense volleys of missile and bomb strikes.

Communications with staff at Al-Awda Hospital in Jabalia continued to be cut off as medical personnel and patients were forced to evacuate after IOF soldiers stormed the hospital.

In Gaza's southernmost city of Rafah, large explosions continue to be heard in neighborhoods east of the city, along with downtown Rafah and south of the city.

At least one civilian was killed, and others wounded, following an Israeli bombing in the vicinity of the Kiir Junction in central Rafah, while occupation artillery shelling and gunfire from drones and helicopters continue intermittently in central Rafah and east of the city.

As a result of the Israeli occupation's ongoing special genocide operation in the Gaza Strip, the death toll has risen once again, now exceeding 35'800 Palestinians killed, including over 15'000 children and upwards of 10'000 women, while another 80'200 others have been wounded since the start of the current round of Zionist aggression, beginning with the events of October 7th, 2023.

May 24th, 2024.

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#videosource

@WorkerSolidarityNews

[southeastasianists]

Nearly seven years after the Myanmar military killed thousands of Muslim Rohingyas, in what the UN called "textbook ethnic cleansing", it wants their help.

From interviews with Rohingyas living in Rakhine State the BBC has learned of at least 100 of them being conscripted in recent weeks to fight for the embattled junta. All their names have been changed to protect them.

"I was frightened, but I had to go," says Mohammed, a 31-year-old Rohingya man with three young children. He lives near the capital of Rakhine, Sittwe, in the Baw Du Pha camp. At least 150,000 internally displaced Rohingyas have been forced to live in IDP camps for the past decade.

In the middle of February the camp leader came to him late at night, Mohammed said, and told him he would have to do military training. "These are army orders," he remembers him saying. "If you refuse they have threatened to harm your family."

The BBC has spoken to several Rohingyas who have confirmed that army officers have been going around the camps and ordering the younger men to report for military training.

The terrible irony for men like Mohammed is that Rohingyas in Myanmar are still denied citizenship, and subjected to a range of discriminatory restrictions - like a ban on travel outside their communities.

In 2012 tens of thousands of Rohingyas were driven out of mixed communities in Rakhine State, and forced to live in squalid camps. Five years later, in August 2017, 700,000 fled to neighbouring Bangladesh, after the army launched a brutal clearance operation against them, killing and raping thousands and burning their villages. Some 600,000 of them still remain there.

Myanmar is now facing a genocide trial at the International Court of Justice in the Hague over its treatment of the Rohingyas.

That the same army is now forcibly recruiting them is a telling sign of its desperation, after losing huge swathes of territory in Rakhine recently to an ethnic insurgent group called the Arakan Army. Dozens of Rohingyas in Rakhine have been killed by military artillery and aerial bombardments.

The military has also suffered significant losses to opposition forces in other parts of the country - on Saturday it lost control of Myawaddy, a town on the eastern border with Thailand. Most of the country's overland trade passes through this vital route.

The junta has lost large numbers of soldiers as well. They have been killed, wounded, surrendered or defected to the opposition, and finding replacements is difficult. Few want to risk their lives propping up an unpopular regime.

And the Rohingyas fear that is the reason they are being targeted again - to be cannon fodder in a war the junta seems to be losing.

Mohammed said he was driven to the base of the 270th Light Infantry Battalion in Sittwe. Rohingyas have been prohibited from living in the town since they were driven out during the 2012 communal violence.

"We were taught how to load bullets and shoot," he said. "They also showed us how to disassemble and reassemble a gun."

In a video seen by the BBC another group of Rohingya conscripts can be seen being taught how to use BA 63 rifles, an older standard weapon used by the Myanmar armed forces.

Mohammed was trained for two weeks, then sent home. But after just two days he was called back, and put on a boat with 250 other soldiers and transported five hours up-river to Rathedaung, where a fierce battle with the Arakan Army was under way for control of three hilltop military bases.

"I had no idea why I was fighting. When they told me to shoot at a Rakhine village, I would shoot."

He fought there for 11 days. They were desperately short of food, after a shell fell on their supply hut. He saw several Rohingya conscripts killed by artillery and he was injured by shrapnel in both legs, and taken back to Sittwe for treatment.

On 20 March the Arakan Army released photos from the battle, after it had taken control of the three bases, showing several corpses, at least three of them identified as Rohingyas.

"While I was in the middle of the battle I was terrified the whole time. I kept thinking about my family," Mohammed said. "I never thought I would have to go to war like that. I just wanted to go home. When I got home from the hospital I hugged my mother and cried. It felt like being born again from my mother's womb."

Another conscript was Hussain, from Ohn Taw Gyi camp, which is also near Sittwe. His brother Mahmoud says he was taken away in February and completed his military training, but he went into hiding before they could send him to the front line.

The military denies using Rohingyas to fight its battles with the Arakan Army. General Zaw Min Tun, the junta spokesman, told the BBC that there was no plan to send them to the front line. "We want to ensure their safety, so we have asked them to help with their own defence," he said.

But in interviews with the BBC, seven Rohingyas in five different IDP camps near Sittwe all said the same thing: that they know of at least 100 Rohingyas who have been recruited this year and sent off to fight.

They said teams of soldiers and local government officials came to the camps in February to announce that the younger men would be conscripted, at first telling people they would get food, wages and citizenship if they joined up. These were powerful lures.

Food in the IDP camps has become scarce and expensive as the escalating conflict with the Arakan Army has cut off the international aid supplies. And the denial of citizenship is at the heart of the Rohingyas' long struggle for acceptance in Myanmar, and one reason they suffer systematic discrimination, described by human rights groups as similar to apartheid.

However, when the soldiers returned to take the conscripted men away, they retracted the offer of citizenship. When asked by the camp residents why they, as non-citizens, should be subjected to conscription, they were told that they had a duty to defend the place where they lived. They would be militiamen, not soldiers, they were told. When they asked about the offer of citizenship, the answer was "you misunderstood".

Now, according to one camp committee member, the army is demanding new lists of potential recruits. After seeing and hearing from the first group to come back from the front line, he said, no-one else was willing to risk being conscripted.

So the camp leaders are now trying to persuade the poorest men, and those with no jobs, to go, by offering to support their families while they are away, with donations raised from other camp residents.

"This conscription campaign is unlawful and more akin to forced labour," said Matthew Smith, from the human rights group Fortify Rights.

"There's a brutal and perverse utility to what's happening. The military is conscripting the victims of the Rohingya genocide in an attempt to fend off a nationwide democratic revolution. This regime has no regard for human life. It's now layering these abuses on top of its long history of atrocities and impunity."

By using Rohingyas in its battles against the advancing Arakan Army, the Myanmar military threatens to reignite communal conflict with the ethnic Rakhine Buddhist population, much of which supports the insurgents.

It was friction between the two communities which in 2012 caused the expulsion of tens of thousands of Rohingyas from towns like Sittwe. In 2017, ethnic Rakhine men joined in the army's attacks on the Rohingyas.

Tension between the two communities has eased since then.

The Arakan Army is fighting for an autonomous state, part of a wider campaign with other ethnic armies and opposition groups to overthrow the military junta and create a new, federal system in Myanmar.

Now on the brink of victory in Rakhine State, the Arakan Army has talked about giving citizenship to all who have lived there recently, implying that it might accept the return of the Rohingya population from Bangladesh.

The mood has now changed. A spokesman for the Arakan Army, Khaing Thukha, told the BBC that they viewed Rohingyas being conscripted to fight for the junta as "the worst betrayal of those who had recently been victims of genocide, and of those fighting for liberation from dictatorship".

Pro-military media have also been giving publicity to what appear to have been Rohingya protests in Buthidaung against the Arakan Army, although local people told the BBC they suspected these were organised by the army in an attempt to divide the two groups.

The Rohingyas are now forced to fight for an army that does not recognise their right to live in Myanmar, thereby alienating the ethnic insurgents who may soon control most of Rakhine. Once targeted by both, they are now caught between the two sides.

Mohammed has been given a certificate by the army, stating that he has fought in battle on their side. He has no idea what value it has, nor whether it exempts him from further military service. It could well get him into trouble with the Arakan Army if it continues its advance towards Sittwe and his camp.

He is still recovering from his injuries, and says he is unable to sleep at night after his experience.

"I'm afraid they will call me again. This time I came back because I was lucky, but next time I am not sure what will happen."

[soulsmusings]

Maiden Astraea and the Grief of Lost Faith

Many Souls fans liken the Maiden Astraea fight in Demon's Souls to Great Grey Wolf Sif in Dark Souls, describing both as tearjerkers that made them "feel like the bad guy."

The comparison always rubbed me the wrong way—not because it was misplaced or dishonest, but because it was shallow.

It centers how the player feels, and only that. To be fair, this is an understandable response, and definitely an overt part of the text. Against both Astraea and Sif, the player's success in combat, which has thus far been their primary means of progress, is now being scrutinized in a way that casts them unfavorably. They're being forced to reckon with the personhood of the enemy, with their enemy's good intentions and noble virtues.

Suddenly the assumption underpinning most video games—that your actions are good because they're yours—is overturned, and the mechanical rewards for combat are now complicated by emotional punishment. You're fighting a good person, and so you, the player, might just be a bad person.

This is very much in tune with the video gaming zeitgeist of the early 2010s. Dark Souls released just a year before Spec Ops: The Line, which does this same trick on an enormous scale, to well-deserved critical success. Players are placed in the mind of a paranoid American soldier in the Middle-East, and slowly slip into moral depravity as they go from "fighting terrorists" to "suppressing insurgents" to dropping white phosphorous on a refugee camp.

"Are we the baddies?" was really quite a novel idea at the time. It was novel enough that it could be the driving thesis of an entire game.

Perhaps this is why it still stands as the prevailing sentiment around Maiden Astraea—especially when Great Grey Wolf Sif, whose boss fight falls pretty squarely in line with the trend, is such an immediate point of comparison.

But the fight with Maiden Astraea and Garl Vinland is saying something more than that, I feel. The comparison to Sif is what crystallized this vague feeling into a clear, certain thesis for me. It's not just that the player is set against someone "good" or "noble" in Astraea, in the way that Sif is a good dog.

Astraea sets the player against someone human, who is experiencing the height of human loss: the loss of faith.

On some level, all of Demon's Souls is about our human yearning for the sublime, be it supernal or infernal, and the horrible failure that comes when we reach too far.

King Allant reaches for sublime power. In so doing, he achieves a new perspective that shatters his previous understanding of the world—including the values of feudalism and nationalism that drove him to seek power in the first place.

Sage Freke reaches for sublime truth. He believes that with knowledge that is normally forbidden to mortals, he can achieve the just and equitable world that is normally denied to mortals. In the end, however, he fails to consider his own mortal limitations, and he succumbs to the influence of the demon souls.

So on and so forth. The pattern is a familiar one. As Arthur Machen says in his supernatural horror story, "The White People," true sin comes in the "attempt to penetrate into another and higher sphere in a forbidden manner." This plays out with many key characters of Demon's Souls, each one exploring this cardinal sin from a new angle.

Saint Astraea does this too, yet she does it from an angle that I, as a former Catholic, find uniquely sympathetic. It begins when she reaches out for God, and catches only empty air.

"Dear Lord, you are too cruel... You have abandoned us. Is that not punishment enough?"

It's never stated what exactly causes this realization in Astraea—that the God of her world is a distant watchmaker at best, a cruel absent parent at worst. It could have been a direct revelation, such as King Allant received from the Old One, but this doesn't seem likely.

From what the text offers us, I think that Astraea's faith was broken by the Valley of the Defilement itself.

We hear from Biorr that King Allant "fought vigilantly against the vile and depraved," and we see through Yuria's torture that these labels were used for people on the fringes of society, to justify their persecution. Surely this extends also to the "lost and ill-fortuned souls" who were driven to the Valley of Defilement. The land was presumably called the "Valley of Defilement" well before the demon scourge broke out, and so it's the inhabitants themselves—the poor, the diseased, the unwanted—who are the "defilement." Them, and the rubbish and waste that are disposed of there.

The fact that we see aborted fetuses at various points throughout the Valley, mingled with the muck and the refuse and the remains of animals, speaks to the dire state of living there. As the filthy beggar woman says, it's "all the rot of the world, living or not," and it leaves no room for sanity or dignity.

Whatever can be said of the exact circumstances that produced this, or of the land itself, the fact remains that the misery of the Valley's inhabitants is of decidedly human origin.

Bear this in mind when you consider that the Church of Demon's Souls sends missionaries there—as if the Valley folk were suffering from some natural calamity, and not from the malice of the ruling class.

Perhaps that's all the Church could do. After all, the real-life Catholic Church has always been a powerful political entity, but never have they been able to erase poverty or prejudice, or directly stop a monarch from doing something. The same must apply to the definitely-not-Catholic Church of this fictional world, which is pretty committed to realism in that regard.

But even so, it should come as no surprise that every missionary who entered the Valley of Defilement was killed, either by the people or by the land itself.

These missionaries come from the very society that drove the Valley's inhabitants to such inhumane lows. How would they, who live in relative comfort, know how to navigate this treacherous hellhole? And why would anyone accept charity from the hand that beats them down?

So when Saint Astraea enters the Valley of Defilement, full of genuine compassion and goodwill, what does she see?

She sees the sheer magnitude of human suffering, the depth of the squalor, the inhumanity that it represents... and no relief from anywhere. Not from the Church she serves, and not from God on high. Not even in this end-of-days scenario, when demons walk the earth and miracles are witnessed again, does God's supposed mercy reach the Valley.

Saint Urbain might be a deluded, bigoted fool, but he might not be entirely wrong when he calls the people of the Valley "those left behind by God." Perhaps all of mankind has been left behind, and only in the Valley of Defilement is that truth laid bare.

What can anyone do in the face of such a horrible truth?

If you don't run away from them, how do you answer people who are suffering and dying on this scale? If they need miracles, and God does not provide, what do you do?

These questions don't pertain solely to the fiction of Demon's Souls. These are questions that have echoed across human history, philosophy, theology, and myth. Reckoning with the impossible scale of human suffering—the inevitability of it, the ubiquity of it, the horrible depths of it—has been the preoccupation of our greatest thinkers for, well, pretty much all of our time on this planet.

Even when some of us arrive at an answer, it's never a wholly satisfactory answer, and it's usually contingent upon an existing framework of values and beliefs. The Pope says one thing, the Dalai Lama says another, so on and so forth, and the greater share of humanity continues to suffer all the while.

As for Astraea's answer, I'll once again quote the prologue to Machen's "The White People":

"[H]oliness works on lines that were natural once; it is an effort to recover the ecstasy that was before the Fall. But sin is an effort to gain the ecstasy and the knowledge that pertain alone to angels, and in making this effort man becomes a demon."

She does this quite literally. She cannot access the power of God, so she accepts a demon's soul, and uses its power to bring relief to the Valley of Defilement.

Because this power is infernal, not supernal, she cannot purify the foul stagnant waters of the swamp, nor can she cure the diseases of the poor. Rather, she gives the Valley's inhabitants an affinity for filth and disease; it becomes their sustenance rather than their bane, their strength rather than their weakness. The natural order is inverted completely.

This is why Astraea is "the most impure demon of all." Her demonic power imitates the divine mercy that she longs for, yet the results couldn't be more different—perhaps, also, because she extends her mercy to those deemed impure themselves. The description of the spell Death Cloud, made from Astraea's demon soul, says as much.

And in a cruel twist of irony, Astraea's damnation does not ease the pain and misery of the Valley's inhabitants. The Archstone before Astraea's boss room reads, "The poor journey to this rotten place to offer their souls [to Astraea] so that they might be freed from their suffering." They might be sustained by the Valley's filth now, but they are still suffering from it.

They find lasting relief only in giving up their souls to feed Astraea's power, thus perpetuating the whole horrible system.

Astraea's wounds bleed perpetually, never closing, never healing. Her blood fills the grotto where she sits as an object of adoration, still performing the functions of a religion that failed her. All she can say, over and over, is that God has abandoned her, abandoned the world—she has no fewer than three separate voice lines saying this.

Notably, though others might call her a witch, she never turns to "witchcraft" in the archetypal sense. Her grief never turns to anger; she never rails against God. She never discards her clerical robes, she never dons a pointed hat, and she never casts curses or spells. She is stuck as Maiden Astraea, Saint Astraea, frozen in a state of loss.

The moment of her trauma, of her loss of faith, is extended into perpetuity. Even the boss music reflects this:

The melody loops and loops and loops, and any resolution feeds immediately into another loop. It's a textural piece more than anything, but you can't help getting lost in the endless repetition of that simple, incomplete melody.

Astraea's knightly bodyguard, Garl Vinland, also seems to be lost in unending grief. He rests in a pile of corpses, never removing the armor that is the sign of his holy vow. If you kill Astraea before him, he simply stands in shock, unable to move or speak or act. Unable to move on.

Anyway, uhh...

All of this? A wound that never heals, a grief that never ends?

Yeah, that's... that's how it feels to have lost your faith.

That's how I feel, anyway.

As you probably gathered already, this reading of Astraea is informed by my perspective as an ex-Catholic, now agnostic. My own loss of faith was very painful. It spanned the entire length of my adolescence, into young adulthood—as my rational mind was growing, my queerness was rising to the level of conscious feeling, and nearly every support system in my life was failing me.

My parish community was run by hypocritical bullies, and harbored an actual, real, pedophile priest, but still I reached out to God for answers. I looked to theology instead of community, to study and meditation and prayer. I looked for answers to my own suffering, and to the world's suffering. I looked for resolutions to all the insane contradictions. I looked for something to sustain the faith that was being asked of me. Surely God wouldn't abandon me, even if my parents and teachers and peers were all against me.

In the end, it all fell out from under me. I found plenty to admire, but even more to doubt and disdain.

I couldn't stop loving God or Jesus, but now it felt like they were dead at my feet, and that rot and maggots were visibly eating the corpses—and that everyone around me was politely pretending that they weren't.

I remember crying to my mother when my dog died around this time, and she tried to comfort me with talk of heaven, and I was just inconsolable. All I could say, as I cried for this sweet little animal who had loved me, was that I was "scared for the world." That nothing could ever possibly be right, nothing in the whole wide world, if God weren't there. I could no longer imagine a good, just end to any human life or endeavor, because the only end was death.

I've since recovered from that very low point in my life, and grown into a much happier adult. The grief never left me entirely, though.

The loss of my faith is likely the single most impactful event in my life. Because I'm no longer Catholic, I was able to transition, and I was able to find friends and partners who mean everything to me...

...but because I was Catholic, and still feel that small aching hole inside, I've spent the greater part of my life immersed in art, literature, and philosophy that explores the space where God once lived in my heart. I've spent years studying apocalyptic religions and their various underpinnings—political, social, theological, and narratological. I've become a literary critic, and a scholar of Victorian religion. My first published article is about how Elizabeth Gaskell positions the Victorian working class as an "apocalyptic demographic."

My favorite musical is The Hunchback of Notre Dame. My favorite author is Arthur Machen. My favorite video game is Demon's Souls. The grief that I feel for my lost faith is hardly all of me, but it has touched every part of me.

So when people who have never experienced such grief compare Maiden Astraea to the big sad wolf from Dark Souls, I feel a little frustrated. As a character and a symbol, she's so much more than that.

I could go on, and resolve this rambling, messy, emotional essay in some kind of critical statement about Demon's Souls... but I think I'll just leave it at that. I suppose I just wanted other people to understand what I feel, to see what I see, and to know why this video game is special to me.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. Umbasa.

[possumcollege]

Apologies to my comics friends here but this is ridiculous:

Just the photo for folks who like to ZOOM!

I've been handling guns since I was 6yrs old. These are obviously not real pistols. You can tell by the screw holes in the frames, the mold/assembly lines, the undersized magwells, and the VERY clear airsoft magazines. It's a specific mix of contemporary guns too, including at least 7 H&K USPS, which cost about $1,200 each, assorted Glocks, "tactical" 1911s, and generic S&W/ Beretta autos. They're some of the most common airsoft guns. The guns that aren't obvious plastic reproductions show no wear, and "custom" features that you wouldn't see on say, smuggled military weapons being carried around by local militia in a region that is absolutely littered with cheaper older Soviet hardware. Even looted American weapons would more likely include a bunch of very beat up Beretta M9s.

Plus a random Winchester 92? Is John Wayne's ghost backing HAMAS?

This is my favorite part though:

THAT appears to be a PILE of Knights Armament PDWs and only KAC PDWs. That gun is an "experimental" rifle w/ a $3k price tag. It chambers a proprietary 6x35mm round or 300 Blackout. Not standard ammo for any major military on Earth, making it a terrible choice for guerilla fighters. 500rds of 300blk will cost you as much as a basic S&W M&P (a civilian M4 clone) in .556 if you can find it in the US. The KAC PDW is also a popular airsoft rifle since it's rare, expensive, and dripping with tacticool features. There are almost certainly more airsoft versions than real ones in the world, but I can't say for sure because I can't find a number produced online.

There are NO AKs, M4s, M16s, FN FALs- guns that might conceivably be available in numbers for insurgent militia in the region. It's not uncommon to see fighters in the Middle East still fielding WW2-era weapons, but the only other long gun I can even try to ID on that table is essentially a cowboy gun! 🤠

A refugee camp had a baker's dozen of these though. 👇

A niche gun, so unused in any real number that the sum total of its service history on Wikipedia (gun guys religiously, lovingly maintain gun Wikis) is this:

There are at least 13 of them in this picture, so either that's nigh $40k sharing a table with rusted hunting guns and toys or ALSO TOYS!

(I still prefer LEGO)

10 minutes of searching on my phone was enough to prove this shit isn't real. And I am very very sleepy today. Writing this post took longer than tracking down that rifle by its features. I know this might not be as obvious to people who haven't handled real guns but for anyone remotely familiar with them, this looks like a joke.

This makes American cops posing around a ziploc bag of weed look good by comparison. That weed might be real.

This is extremely lazy misinformation work. It's a pathetically low effort ruse from an army that could easily have just planted real weapons. The only reason someone would post this for the world to see and claim it's real is if they're very, very stupid, think we are, or are well beyond trying because they know they hold a position of such untouchable privilege that they're cool doing the bare minimum of covering their asses. Like the cops!

All of those options make me real sad. So I'm going to just post this and never check on the comments.

[aquarterpastfour]

I wish Resolutions never happened.

Okay, okay. I know how that sounds coming from someone who isn’t J/C. But hear me out? I promise I’m serious and not trolling.

I think Resolutions jump started J/C for a lot of people, but it derailed it for me. I think I’d 100% be on board if the episode 1) didn’t exist or 2) treated Chakotay differently in it. I’ll start with 1, since that’s the first sentence of this post. My reasons for it are also briefer.

1. If the episode didn’t exist, the chemistry could have continued to grow (as it had been) over several more seasons and still fall within the bounds Kate Mulgrew created around her character. I’m a hopeless fan of slow burns. With this episode this turned into a burn that flared and then had diminishing returns. (Actually, no returns during the show proper).

On to 2, because I actually have more feelings about this.

2. They shouldn’t have had Chakotay so easily give in to their ‘new life’. This man led a cell within an insurgency movement that had purpose. Reason. He gave up the thing he chose that estranged him from his family to do it. Voyager and the Delta Quadrant had put a pause to his Maquis goals, but this episode killed it. That’s a travesty.

I wish he had worked as hard as she had to get off New Earth. That he helped her maintain her equipment, even if he couldn’t do the science, and bounced ideas off of her as he tried to provide comforts she would deny herself otherwise. That yes, he admitted she gave him peace, but he couldn’t truly enjoy that peace knowing his (now their) people were still out there looking for home. That his true home was making sure Voyager and its people were safe, and if endless duty and toil came with it then he was prepared to share that burden with her.

And make that devotion mostly platonic, so that in the following seasons, as he keeps his word to her to share that burden, it can grow into something more romantic (even if never quite shown because of KM).

Instead, they made him resigned/content to live the rest of his days not knowing what became of his people. That’s not sexy, that’s not him. And when they did that to him, it made me watch his character for the rest of the series like, “dude just wants to camp. How..bland.” I mourned the complexity he could have had. Not fair to him at all.

[thebrickinbrick]

The Extreme Edge

MARIUS had reached the Halles.

There everything was still calmer, more obscure and more motionless than in the neighboring streets. One would have said that the glacial peace of the sepulchre had sprung forth from the earth and had spread over the heavens.Nevertheless, a red glow brought out against this black background the lofty roofs of the houses which barred the Rue de la Chanvrerie on the Saint-Eustache side. It was the reflection of the torch which was burning in the Corinthe barricade. Marius directed his steps towards that red light. It had drawn him to the Marché-aux-Poirées, and he caught a glimpse of the dark mouth of the Rue des Prêcheurs. He entered it. The insurgents' sentinel, who was guarding the other end, did not see him. He felt that he was very close to that which he had come in search of, and he walked on tiptoe. In this manner he reached the elbow of that short section of the Rue Mondétour which was, as the reader will remember, the only communication which Enjolras had preserved with the outside world. At the corner of the last house, on his left, he thrust his head forward, and looked into the fragment of the Rue Mondétour.

A little beyond the angle of the lane and the Rue de la Chanvrerie which cast a broad curtain of shadow, in which he was himself engulfed, he perceived some light on the pavement, a bit of the wine-shop, and beyond, a flickering lamp within a sort of shapeless wall, and men crouching down with guns on their knees. All this was ten fathoms distant from him. It was the interior of the barricade.The houses which bordered the lane on the right concealed the rest of the wine-shop, the large barricade, and the flag from him.

Marius had but a step more to take.

Then the unhappy young man seated himself on a post, folded his arms, and fell to thinking about his father.

He thought of that heroic Colonel Pontmercy, who had been so proud a soldier, who had guarded the frontier of France under the Republic, and had touched the frontier of Asia under Napoleon, who had beheld Genoa, Alexandria, Milan, Turin, Madrid, Vienna, Dresden, Berlin, Moscow, who had left on all the victorious battle-fields of Europe drops of that same blood, which he, Marius, had in his veins, who had grown gray before his time in discipline and command, who had lived with his sword. belt buckled, his epaulets falling on his breast, his cockade blackened with powder, his brow furrowed with his helmet, in barracks, in camp, in the bivouac, in ambulances, and who, at the expiration of twenty years, had returned from the great wars with a scarred cheek, a smiling countenance, tranquil, admirable, pure as a child, having done everything for France and nothing against her.

He said to himself that his day had also come now, that his hour had struck, that following his father, he too was about to show himself brave, intrepid, bold, to run to meet the bullets, to offer his breast to bayonets, to shed his blood, to seek the enemy, to seek death, that he was about to wage war in his turn and descend to the field of battle, and that the field of battle upon which he was to descend was the street, and that the war in which he was about to engage was civil war!

He beheld civil war laid open like a gulf before him, and into this he was about to fall. Then he shuddered.

He thought of his father's sword, which his grandfather had sold to a second-hand dealer, and which he had so mournfully regretted. He said to himself that that chaste and valiant sword had done well to escape from him, and to depart in wrath into the gloom; that if it had thus fled, it was because it was intelligent and because it had foreseen the future; that it had had a presentiment of this rebellion, the war of the gutters, the war of the pavements, fusillades through cellar-windows, blows given and received in the rear; it was because, coming from Marengo and Friedland, it did not wish to go to the Rue de la Chanvrerie; it was because, after what it had done with the father, it did not wish to do this for the son! He told himself that if that sword were there, if after taking possession of it at his father's pillow, he had dared to take it and carry it off for this combat of darkness between Frenchmen in the streets, it would assuredly have scorched his hands and burst out aflame before his eyes, like the sword of the angel! He told himself that it was fortunate thatit was not there and that it had disappeared, that that was well, that that was just, that his grandfather had been the true guar dian of his father's glory, and that it was far better that the colonel's sword should be sold at auction, sold to the old-clothes man, thrown among the old junk, than that it should, to-day, wound the side of his country.

And then he fell to weeping bitterly.

This was horrible. But what was he to do! Live without Cosette he could not. Since she was gone, he must needs lie. Had he not given her his word of honor that he would die? She had gone knowing that; this meant that it pleased her that Marius should die. And then, it was clear that she no 'onger loved him, since she had departed thus without warning, without a word, without a letter, although she knew his address! What was the good of living, and why should he live now? And then, what! should he retreat after going so far! should he flee from danger after having approached it! should he slip away after having come and peeped into the barricade! slip away, all in a tremble, saying: "After all, I have had enough of it as it is. I have seen it, that suffices, this is civil war, and I shall take my leave!" Should he abandon his friends who were expecting him! Who were in need of him possibly! who were a mere handful against an army! Should he be untrue at once to his love, to country, to his word! Should he give to his cowardice the pretext of patriotism! But this was impossible, and if the phantom of his father was there in the gloom, and beheld him retreating, he would beat him on the loins with the flat of his sword, and shout to him: "March on, you poltroon!"

Thus a prey to the conflicting movements of his thoughts, he dropped his head.

All at once he raised it. A sort of splendid rectification had just been effected in his mind. There is a widening of the sphere of thought which is peculiar to the vicinity of the grave; it makes one see clearly to be near death. The vision of the action into which he felt that he was, perhaps, on the point of entering, appeared to him no more as lamentable, but as superb. The war of the street was suddenly transfigured by some unfathomable inward working of his soul, before the eye of his thought. All the tumultuous interrogation points of revery recurred to him in throngs, but without troubling him. He left none of them unanswered.

Let us see, why should his father be indignant? Are there not cases where insurrection rises to the dignity of duty? What was there that was degrading for the son of Colonel Pontmercy in the combat which was about to begin? It is no longer Montmirail nor Champaubert; it is something quite different. The question is no longer one of sacred territory, but of a holy idea. The country wails, that may be, but humanity applauds. But is it true that the country does wail? France bleeds, but liberty smiles; and in the presence of liberty's smile, France forgets her wound. And then if we look at things from a still more lofty point of view, why do we speak of civil war?

Civil war - what does that mean? Is there a foreign war? Is not all war between men war between brothers? War is qualified only by its object. There is no such thing as foreign or civil war; there is only just and unjust war. Until that day when the grand human agreement is concluded, war, that at least which is the effort of the future, which is hastening on against the past, which is lagging in the rear, may be necessary. What have we to reproach that war with? War does not become a disgrace, the sword does not become a disgrace, except when it is used for assassinating the right, progress, reason, civilization, truth. Then war, whether foreign or civil, is iniquitous; it is called crime. Outside the pale of that holy thing, justice, by what right does one form of man despise another? By what right should the sword of Washington disown the pike of Camille Desmoulins? Leonidas against the stranger, Timoleon against the tyrant, which is the greater? the one is the defender, the other the liberator. Shall we brand every appeal to arms within a city's limits without taking the object into a consideration? Then note the infamy of Brutus, Marcel, Arnould von Blankenheim, Coligny. Hedgerow war? War of the streets? Why not? That was the war of Ambiorix, of Artevelde, of Marnix, of Pelagius. But Ambiorix fought against Rome, Artevelde against France, Marnix against Spain, Pelagius against the Moors; all against the foreigner. Well, the monarchy is a foreigner; oppression is a stranger; the right divine is a stranger. Despotism violates the moral frontier, an invasion violates the geographical frontier. Driving out the tyrant or driving out the English, in both cases, regaining possession of one's own territory. There comes an hour when protestation no longer suffices; after philosophy, action is required; live force finishes what the idea has sketched out; Prometheus chained begins, Aristogeiton ends; the encyclopedia enlightens souls, the 10th of August electrifies them. After Eschylus, Thrasybulus; after Diderot, Danton. Multitudes have a tendency to accept the master. Their mass bears witness to apathy. A crowd is easily led as a whole to obedience. Men must be stirred up, pushed on, treated roughly by the very benefit of their deliverance, their eyes must be wounded by the true, light must be hurled at them in terrible handfuls.

They must be a little thunderstruck themselves at their own well-being; this dazzling awakens them. Hence the necessity of tocsins and wars. Great combatants must rise, must enlighten nations with audacity, and shake up that sad humanity which is covered with gloom by the right divine, Cæsarian glory, force, fanaticism, irresponsible power, and absolute majesty; a rabble stupidly occupied in the contemplation, in their twilight splendor, of these sombre triumphs of the night. Down with the tyrant! Of whom are you speaking? Do you call Louis Philippe the tyrant? No; no more than Louis XVI. Both of them are what history is in the habit of calling good kings; but principles are not to be parcelled out, the logic of the true is rectilinear, the peculiarity of truth is that it lacks complaisance; no concessions, then; all encroachments on man should be repressed. There is a divine right in Louis XVI, there is because a Bourbon in Louis Philippe; both represent in a certain measure the confiscation of right, and, in order to clear away universal insurrection, they must be combated; it must be done, France being always the one to begin. When the master falls in France, he falls everywhere. In short, what cause is more just, and consequently, what war is greater, than that which re-establishes social truth, restores her throne to liberty, restores the people to the people, restores sovereignty to man, replaces the purple on the head of France, restores equity and reason in their plenitude, suppresses every germ of antagonism by restoring each one to himself, annihilates the obstacle which royalty presents to the whole immense universal concord, and places the human race once more on a level with the right? These wars build up peace. An enormous fortress of prejudices, privileges, superstitions, lies, exactions, abuses, violences, iniquities, and darkness still stands erect in this world, with its towers of hatred. It must be cast down. This monstrous mass must be made to crumble. To conquer at Austerlitz is grand; to take the Bastille is immense.

There is no one who has not noticed it in his own case-the soul, and therein lies the marvel of its unity complicated with ubiquity, has a strange aptitude for reasoning almost coldly in the most violent extremities, and it often happens that heartbroken passion and profound despair in the very agony of their blackest monologues, treat subjects and discuss theses. Logic is mingled with convulsion, and the thread of the syllogism floats, without breaking, in the mournful storm of thought. This was the situation of Marius' mind.

As he meditated thus, dejected but resolute, hesitating in every direction, and, in short, shuddering at what he was about to do, his glance strayed to the interior of the barricade. The insurgents were here conversing in a low voice, without moving, and there was perceptible that quasi-silence which marks the last stage of expectation. Overhead, at the small window in the third story, Marius descried a sort of spectator who appeared to him to be singularly attentive. This was the porter who had been killed by Le Cabuc. Below, by the lights of the torch, which was thrust between the paving-stones, this head could be vaguely distinguished. Nothing could be stranger, in that sombre and uncertain gleam, than that livid, motionless, astonished face, with its bristling hair, its eyes fixed and staring, and its yawning mouth, bent over the street in an attitude of curiosity. One would have said that the man who was dead was surveying those who were about to die. A long trail of blood which had flowed from that head, descended in reddish threads from the window to the height of the first floor, where it stopped.

[ohtobeleah]

Jake Seresin

One-Shots

Best Worst Christmas// After some life altering news. You confide in Hangman which leads you to ticking off something incredibly important on your bucket list.

Roughing It // Jake Seresin begged you, his best friend to go camping with him and Bradley Bradshaw—but not for the innocent reasons you might think. A simple camping trip turns into something much more unholy.

Concussed In Love // When Bradley & Jake take their playful banter to a new level, Jake ends up with a concussion. Bradley knows all to well the hell he just created when he knows there’s a pretty good chance you’ll be your fiancés attending ER nurse.

GQ— Man of the Year // After the events of TopGun, Jake Hangman Seresin finds himself being awarded the prestigious GQ, Man of the Year award. With his best friend in toe—Jake finds himself in a whirlwind of confessing his undying love for his best friend.

Way Down We Go // Burnout isn't an academic exercise. No. It's an all-consuming, systemic condition. It's your entire body sending you one clear message. Something has to change and it has to change now.

Scream // When home alone on Halloween Eve, someone keeps calling you from an unknown number. As fear begins to consume you and panic builds as you run for your life, the masked stranger really takes advantage of the pretty girl he’s decided to hunt down. (Halloween Special)

Series

Was It Over? // When Jake is tasked with taking his kids this festive season, he never though he’d get a call in the middle of the night that would change his life. Marriage is tougher than it seemed on paper—but whats harder than accepting your marriage is crumbling around you is watching you ex wife slowly fade away.

Secret Sacrifices // Jake’s got his eyes set on the new Hard Deck Bartender who seemingly appeared out of nowhere. With a traumatic past and hundreds of secrets to keep close to your chest—it’s hard to play ‘pretend’ when everything feels so real with a certain Naval Lieutenant who won’t take no for an answer.

Bruises // After a mission goes south, Jake finds himself captured by insurgents that show no remorse. But what’s worse than knowing he failed his mission? Knowing that the Weapons Systems Officer who trusted him to bring her home safe was in the same cell as him. Collecting bruises that match his own. (Complete)

To Have & To Hold // Jake Hangman Seresin had been called a lot of things. But a good husband? Wasn’t one of those things. Being called back to TopGun has him trying all over again to win over the love of his life. His ex not yet divorced wife. You. Lieutenant Commander Y/n Seresin. (Complete)

I.R.I.S // When Jake Deadman Seresin spilled some drinks on you at the Hard Deck, the last thing he thought would come of that would be an entanglement that could ruin his entire career.

Father, Son & The Holy Shit // Jakes son, Kian Seresin is dating Y/n Y/n, or to be more specific, Y/n Bradshaw. Bradley Bradshaws estranged daughter from a relationship that past him by. What happens when Jake starts to develop an extremely dangerous kink that may involve messing around with his son’s girlfriend.

Roll Of The Dice // When Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin is brought back to TopGun, he ultimately has to face the gut wrenching truth that the woman he loves is never coming back. (On Hiatus)

Minimal Losses // A suspected serial murderer is posted abroad. Liaising with the NCIS, special agent Y/n Y/l/n is tasked with an undercover investigation after the FBI uncovers that her killer is…Navy. With the help of the Navy’s finest special detachment crew—Lieutenant Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin soon meets his unlikely life partner.

Two Part Series

Nosebleed Section // Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin & Y/n ‘Brawler’ Abbott have only one thing in common. They suck at communicating their feelings. So when a bar fight breaks out? Things start to bubble to the surface. (Complete)

Kink.com // You’re offered an opportunity you just can’t refuse ~ To shoot a kink .com video with Jake Seresin and Bradley Bradshaw, two of the worlds most renowned BDSM dominants. (Complete)

[youlikefanficdontyousquidward]

I know I already told you and showed you the role I had with Lyle's AI but people also deserve to read about it.😈 and here is the idea that you could use one day: Lyle and reader trapped in a broken elevator at the RDA base. BOOM!💥 I don't know, I'm just saying, think about it🥴

O M G I was literally thinking about doing that!! Final push to do it now!

Recom!Reader x Recom!Lyle

Warnings: Smut, semi-public sex(no one can see them but if they're no quiet someone could hear)

You two were celestial masses, caught in the gravity that pulled you both towards one another. Both moons to ones another's planets or great asteroids destined to crash together.

Every space you inhabited was inevitably Lyle's too. More often that not it seemed like fate that pulled you back together. As humans you'd spent your lives orbiting one another but never touching. Never quiet together but never far apart.

You'd both been through basic training together, just not on the same teams. Then you'd both been assigned to escort the scientists but again not the same groups. The first time you'd even officially met was after your soul-drive had been made. A polite excuse me and nothing else, though Lyle's eyes had lingered on your retreating frame.

Fates boldest move was to bring you back together. Recom bodies grown in parallel tanks, curled to the side to face one another in silent dreaming. Then assigned the same mission, hunt down the leader of the na'vi insurgency.

You had a week on base before they'd have you re-enter the forests of Pandora. Your excitement grew at the opportunity to take in the beautiful sights with your new eyes. Everything sharper, more vibrant and exquisite than before.

More so you grow excited to spend more time with your new friend. Lyle Wainfleet. You'd seen him so many times before as a human. Captivated by his dark eyes but never having a chance to introduce yourself. Now here you were on the same team and he'd come to you.

He was all smirks and jokes, lightening the foul mood your new situation threatened to suffocate you with. Lyle was just as handsome as you remembered, though in new and exciting ways. Same bulking arms and broad chest that made your stomach flutter but vivid striking eyes.

It only took a day before he'd started the flirting. Little comments here and there that you'd taken as jokes to begin with. Even firing back your own remarks. As the days past he got bolder, egged on by your reciprocation.

He snaked arms around your waist, tugging your body to his, nipping at your ear with sharp fangs. All moments interrupted by the other recoms or human soldiers. You'd laugh it off but he was setting a fire in you and each night you went to bed with the feel of him burned against your skin.

Lyle was getting frustrated too. He'd never get away with outright going to your room at night. No there were rules against that kind of thing, so stolen moments were all he could get. He yearned for more, to feel you beneath him, to taste you, to have you writhing and singing his name.

Lyle walked with you down the corridor. Tomorrow you'd both be off, heading out to search for the na'vi base camp. He imagined stealing you away, bribing whoever was on watch to have a couple hours with you. It was filthy, imagining you bare in the wilderness, arching off the dirt.

He snapped back to reality, cursing the twitch in his pants. Then something slapped against his rear. He jumped a bit, looking to you and catching your smirk. Your tail flicked back, slapping his butt a second time. Lyle laughed, then pretended to cough when the soldier leading them shot him a look.

You chuckled under your breath. Moving to swipe him again, his own tail caught yours however. Twisting around it's length tightly. Neither of you were aware how the sensitive skin would feel intertwined the way they were. You bit your lip against the groan and turned your eyes to Lyle. His were blown, pupils hiding the yellow of his irises.

"Right that's it for today, head up to the 4th floor. It'll be a long weeks ahead so you'll want some rest." The soldier turned to them. Lyle quickly untangled his tail from yours, saluting the soldier. He seemed somewhat aware he'd been the last thing on either of your minds but just stomped off.

When he was out of earshot you turned to Lyle, as soon as your eyes met you both laughed. The tension of the moment passing, you entered the lift. A good long shower, a decent meal, then the last sleep on a real bed before tomorrow. That's what you were going to do, though there was something you wanted more.

The lift doors come together as you both do. In an instant Lyle has you cornered against the wall, arms on either side of your shoulders and head tipped down to yours. His lips are on you before you can speak, pressing hard, molding against your own. You react immediately, arms flying around his neck as you moan into the kiss.

You know it won't last, that the lift will ping and you'll pull apart and that it'll be over. So you drink him in, as much as you can get in this moment together. He nips your lip and you part yours, letting his tongue curl around your own. You can't help the way your body arches, pulling flush against his. Lyle's hands roaming, squeezing your ass then coming to tangle in your hair.

Then the ground jolts under your feet, you stumble a little at the sudden movement, pulling away from the kiss. The lights flicker off and for one horrible second your in complete darkness, before the red emergency light comes on.

The lift doesn't move again. You both stand still in the silence for a moment before a voice speaks through the intercom.

"Hello? Hello is anyone in there?" A panicked women speaks.

"Yeah! Recom Corporal Lyle Wainfleet and Recom Private Y/n" Lyle answers back. He's speaking in his commanding officer tone, the one he uses when he's giving out orders. Something in the authoritative tone always set you off. Even now given the situation you can't help the heat that pools.

"I'm so sorry sir!" the women squeaks. "They're resetting the lift now, it shouldn't take too long to get it back working!" She stammers out. "Maybe ten minutes?" She blurts the last part out, clearly expecting to be chewed out.

Lyle's hands roam back down to your ass, slipping the skirt you'd worn up. You blush, briefly concerned at being seen but you couldn't be. The woman had no idea who was in the lift, the camera must have malfunctioned too!

"No worries mam, take your time." He speaks, his attention returning to you. His mouth at your neck, leaving love bites as the woman stammers out more apologies through the speaker. Your trying so hard not to moan too loudly, scared the microphone will pick up your mewling.

"I need you too honey..." Lyle whispers into your ear, nipping the edge between fangs. His hand slips into your blouse, cupping your breast as the other slips further under your skirt.

Lyle loved when you had to dress up for meetings. He'd seen you when you were human, heels clacking on your way to one. Some jackass had bumped you, sent your work flying. Asshole didn't even stay to help. Lyle had moved to you but had stopped in his tracks. You'd clearly not worn a skirt that short in a while and seemed unaware what leaning down like that would show.

The image was burned into his retinas and he'd definitely thought back to it alone in the showers. That flash of lace covered pussy came to him every time he'd glimpsed you since.

Now he felt his fingers skimming against that material. Thanking whatever perverted designer had thought to make the recoms lace underwear. Lyle ran a finger along the clothed folds, the material already wet. He tutted.

"Already this worked up honey?" He smirked, pinching a nipple. You whimpered your hands tugging at his shirt.

"I like when you talk like that." You confessed, his hand on your chest coming up to cup your cheek again.

"Like what buttercup, like what I did to the lady?" He questioned, feeling a buzz running through his veins. You nodded in his hand, your own coming to grip his. His other hand slipped bellow the lace, finding your sensitive bud.

"You like when I'm ordering you about?" He smirked, circling the clit. His mind called back to the drills he'd ran. Thinking about you getting all hot and bothered while he commanded the group. Taking long colder shower to calm yourself.

You let out a louder moan as he slipped a finger inside you, thumb continuing his motion against your clit. The speaker lit up again, the crackling voice coming through.

"Sorry what was that? We're still working to get everything up and running." The woman spoke. You froze, Lyle slid a second finger in, beginning to pump them. You bit your lip against another moan as he curled the digits.

"Nothing mam, we're fine." Lyle spoke, his voice calm. His other hand shifted over your mouth and he leaned in closer. "I'm gonna need you to keep quiet honey." His tone shifting to the authoritative one. You clenched around his fingers, a knot forming in your stomach.

Lyle delighted at the feeling, the knowledge of just what he did to you. He pulled his fingers out, removing the other from your mouth. You let out a quiet whine but your eyes darkened as you watched him suck his fingers clean. He groaned at the taste, wishing he'd have the time to dive down there.

"You ready honey?" He asked, unbuckling his belt. A look of hunger flashed in your eyes as you nodded eagerly. Lyle grinned, unzipping and letting his cock bob free.

Your eyes snapped down to the length, the shine of precum on the tip and the ridges along the girth. You swallowed still eyeing him. Lyle ran his hands down, lifting you behind each knee. You stifled the squeak in his shoulder at the sudden movement. With you pressed between his chest and the wall he could align himself.

Lyle pushed the fabric of your panties to the side, letting your body slide down his length. You pushed your face into his neck, feeling him stretch you out. He was so big, making you feel so full, the ridges adding extra sensation as he went.

Satisfied, Lyle began to thrust up. The small space filled with the lewd squelching and the slapping of skin. You hoped these sounds were quiet enough, that the woman couldn't hear. That no workers were under the box listening to the show.

Lyle groaned against your neck, growling and grunting as you milked him. Your walls clenching around him as he drove deeper. You struggled against the need to make more noise. The pleasure blinding in its intensity, the knot tightening in your stomach till it snapped. You bit down hard on Lyle's shoulder, the waves of ecstasy hitting you as he road out the orgasm.

Lyle couldn't last much longer, the sting of pain, the clenching around him, your scent overwhelming. He came hard, hot cum painting your insides as he groaned out your name.

You both panted against one another. Lyle slipped out, moving your lace underwear over to catch his leaking cum. God it was a sight to see and he wanted it all pressed up against you. He gently placed your weak legs back to the ground, holding your elbows for support. His own wound forgotten as he watched your wobbling steps.

The lights flickered a moment before the voice spoke "Sir! Hello? The lift should be operational now. Sorry for the inconvenience!" The woman chirped. The lift stuttered to life, moving up.

Lyle smirked down at your messy hair, you blissed out expression turning to him. Maybe he could bend a rule and see you again tonight.

[ultimateinferno]

If I got to write the final season of RvB I think I'd really lean into the theme of letting go. That's always what the story was about, at least post after season 5, but that was predominantly about letting go of people. For this hypothetical ending, I'd say it's letting go of Duty.

Think about it, at the end of every season so far, even casual endings, the Reds and Blues still wear their armor. Yeah, it's because it's all filmed in Halo and nobody wants a face reveal, but on a watsonian level they keep returning to "bases." Never "homes." Sarge always wanted to die in battle. Carolina, even when presumed dead, enlisted as a foot soldier. Washington stuck with PFL or was in jail. Hell, even those less invested like Grif stuck with it in spite of his complaints. Why? Why do they keep going back? Or in other words, "why are they here?"

In some way, they can't let go of this duty. They can't return to civilian life. Even when told they were simulation troopers in a fake war the entire time they refuse to give up. So, just like I think they learned to let go of Allison, Tex, Church, the Freelancers, and others, they also need to let go of this life.

I would have tied the villain in with this inability. Maybe make them the UNSC. The show had been progressively building them up as such. First PFL, the Charon, the Blues and Reds. They all tie back to the UNSC.

In Halo Lore, the Spartans were first used to quell insurgents. Not Aliens. Other humans. PFL was built to fight the covenant, but they were turned on insurgents. I think a UNSC after the Human Covenant War, now no longer faced with extinction, begins to crack. That bottomless pit of defense spending? Gone. No longer can they throw money at rounding up boot camp flunkies and dumping them in a box canyon in the middle of nowhere. Or manipulating genocidal civil wars. And they can't let it go.

That's what I would have done, at least.

[josefavomjaaga]

Petiet about the death of Alfred de Lameth

I still owe @cadmusfly a translation of this passage in Petiet’s memoirs. And I had totally forgotten about it. Mea culpa! Also, please bear with me, it’s rather long. But also quite gripping.

The Duke of Dalmatia had made General Quesnel governor of Oporto.

Sidenote: That’s one of the guys whom Gotteri suspects to have been in on the Argenton conspiracy.

The auditor Taboureau was intendant and Captain de la Colombière, in the service of Spain and the marshal's interpreter, had just been appointed by him as Spanish consul in this city.

And if this post wasn’t too long already, I would love to comment on the ways Soult apparently set up his makeshift administration:

Colombière, aren’t you basically a Spaniard? Excellent, consider yourself transfered to diplomatic service as the new Spanish consul.

La Colombière: Uhm… and what are my duties as consul of Spain?

Chorus of ADCs chanting in the background: Par-ty, par-ty, par...

On 11 April, the day of his inauguration, Monsieur de la Colombière gave a dinner for the army's general staff. General Ricard, chief of staff, attended, as did the aides-de-camp and officers of the Duke of Dalmatia.

Notably missing: The Duke of Dalmatia. Which makes me wonder if this wasn’t another Go get drunk elsewhere! incident...

Captain Choiseul-Beaupré, Franceschi's aide-de-camp, and Alfred Lameth, who were due to leave the next day to see this general, were present at the party, which was very merry and lasted until four in the morning. Eugène Choiseul, […]

That’s a different member of this illustrious family, and another of Soult’s aides.

[…] addressing his cousin and Lameth, told them that the route they were about to take was safe and that he had just taken it alone and without a guide. Lameth observed that in Portugal a road was only safe up to the moment at which no one had yet been murdered on it. The disastrous event which took place on the 13th proved only too well the truth of his answer.

And of course, knowing this, the most professionel approach is to start the trip worn out, without sleep and drunk as a skunk. But at least they're finally on their way and I can refrain from any further comments.

Choiseul-Beaupré and Lameth, tired from the night they had spent with the new Spanish consul, instead of going to Franceschi's headquarters the same day, stopped at Villa de Feira, four leagues from Oporto. A convoy of clothing, escorted by dragoons, had just arrived there. The next day, the 13th, the two officers preceded the convoy, which was moving slowly, and they asked to be followed by two dragoons. They had just passed the village of Arrifana when they entered a sunken road, the narrowness of which meant that they had to march one at a time, in this order: one dragoon, Lameth, Choiseul and the second dragoon.

In the middle of the sunken road was a path that turned right and led to a village in the fields. The continuation of the road, making a slight bend to the left, led to Oliveira, one of the cantonments of General Franceschi's troops. The hills bordering the sunken road were covered in woods where fifty or so armed peasants had taken cover, no doubt waiting for the convoy. The leading dragon followed the road directly, but as Lameth took the path to the right, Choiseul shouted at him: "Lameth, you're going the wrong way!" Immediately, a shower of musketry killed Alfred de Lameth and Choiseul's horse. The second dragoon fled towards Arrifana, while the first abandoned his horse and ran towards Oliveira amid renewed shooting and a hail of stones thrown at him by the insurgents from the top of the hill.

Choiseul had his foot caught under his horse. As he tried to remove it, he was hit by a bullet that slightly injured his ear. Choiseul redoubled his efforts, managed to free his leg, got to his feet, ran across the land to the left of the road in the direction of Oliveira and crossed a river at the foot of a hamlet. The armed peasants then ran down the hill like a torrent and followed in his footsteps. Choiseul only had time to reach the first house in the hamlet and ask an old man to save him.

The insurgents entered the cottage, seized Choiseul and took his watch and money. Soon there was a quarrel between the brigands over the division of the spoils and Choiseul, who noticed the compassionate eyes of the old man, hoped that the discussion between his attackers might save his life. But he was taken to a plain near the cottage to be shot. He saw a large number of inhabitants of both sexes gathered there. Choiseul shouted to them in their language that he did not recognise Portuguese honesty in the conduct of those who wanted to immolate a defenceless man. He added that, according to the laws of war, he should regard himself as their prisoner and not their victim. He ended by telling the inhabitants that if his blood were spilt, they would have to fear the most terrible vengeance.

The Portuguese, astonished to hear a Frenchman explain himself in their idiom with as much ease as energy, stopped, grouped together, talked amongst themselves and soon beckoned Choiseul to follow them. They returned to the house where he had been arrested. The old man wants to give him back his purse and his watch. The money is found but the watch has disappeared. The old man says to Choiseul: "You have not been arrested by soldiers of our nation, but by highway robbers. We are going to give you six of us to take you to your people. You should not even consider yourself a prisoner." However, the first dragoon arrived breathless at Oliveira and told General Debelle, who was in command there, that chef d'escadron Lameth had just been murdered and that Captain Choiseul was in the greatest danger. Tholozé, aide-de-camp to the marshal, […]

Yes. Another one. Brun’s Cahiers have a report by him about what happened during the evacuation of Oporto, when Wellesley attacked.

[…] was returning to Oporto and was close to the general. He assembled a detachment of dragoons and galloped towards the scene of this deplorable event. The six peasants escorting Choiseul saw the French arrive at full speed. They paled and thought they had arrived at their final hour. Choiseul reassured them, ran to meet Tholozé and shouted at him to spare his liberators. Lameth's body is found and he is taken away to perform the last services.

As soon as the Marshal, who was very fond of Alfred, learned of his assassination, he ordered the Thomières infantry brigade to go to Arrifana, to gather the old men, women and children in the church and to burn the village. General Thomières went to Arrifana to carry out this fatal mission. The village leaders came to meet the General and told him that the fifty culprits, strangers to Arrifana, had been arrested and would be handed over to him. General Thomières then took it upon himself to change the order he had received. The village was respected and the fifty brigands were hanged in front of the church.

So, according to Petiet, the village was not burned in the end. That’s somewhat in accordance with Soult’s memoirs, who claims to only have ordered to find and execute the murderers und to have their houses burned. Petiet, however, was sent on another mission the day after Lameth had left Oporto and can only have learned of all these events later, most likely from the ADC Choiseul, with whom he was close friends, as he states in his memoirs.

There you have my very belated translation. Sorry for the delay 😥.