#tony aveling

[tenth-sentence]

'That was the conservative accounting approach.'

"Westpac: The Bank That Broke the Bank" - Edna Carew

[kirikorik]

Adam’s Death

Bucky Barnes/femOC! (Aveline). 18+

Part 1! Part 2! Part 3! Part 4! Part 5! Part6! Part7! Part8! Part9! Part 10...

Summary: Maybe if he had turned away, pretended not to recognize her, everything would have been different. Maybe then she would have lived a long life — not with him, but at least a living one. But Bucky doesn’t know how to turn away. Doesn’t know how not to search for her in the crowd, not to grab her hand trying to remember everything… Maybe he could have saved her. Maybe next time he’ll make it in time and she’ll survive. Maybe next time… Aveline was destined to live three lives:as the sister of America’s hero, as the daughter of a great engineer, and as Hydra’s legacy.

Warnings: Angst, Drama, Blood and Violence, Jealousy, Love, Age Difference, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Slow Burn, Suicide, 1930s, 1940s, Reincarnation, Unrequited Love, War, Sexual Content, Miscarriage, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Sexism, Child Soldiers, Love/Hate, Blood, Trauma, Psychological Torture, Grief/Mourning, First Time, Developing Relationship, Cruelty, Sexual Inexperience, Masturbation, Character Death, Feelings.

"Renunciation"

“The past clings to us like shadows, but sometimes it comes alive in the faces of those we never hoped to see again.”

Date: 2008. Canon: 2010.

Avengers Tower, New York. The air in the briefing room is thick with the smell of coffee, the metallic ozone of overheated gadgets, and a faint trace of something burnt. A massive table is buried under folders, tablets, torn-up maps, empty cups, and someone’s gloves. A recorded hologram of Fury flickers with an annoyingly monotonous tone, but no one — except Natasha and Steve — pays much attention to it.

In the corner of the room, sprawled heavily on a worn leather couch, Thor fondly cradles his hammer — his fingers idly tracing the handle, twirling it. He looks worn out: a fine layer of dust and ash coats his armor, his hair is tangled from battle, and his cape is singed in places — but the god of thunder seems unbothered. Thor lazily watches Clint, who’s struggling to get comfortable in a chair, clearly irritated and at a loss with where to put his quiver.

Tony, as always, leans back carelessly in his chair, feet kicked up on the table. He lazily chews on gummy bears. His grey t-shirt is smudged with soot, a dark crust of dried blood on his temple. His gaze shifts thoughtfully between the screen and his daughter sitting beside him.

Aveline, curled up in her chair, absentmindedly bites the corner of her lip. Her blond hair is tied into a messy knot, with a few random clips glittering in her bangs. Her cheeks are smudged with paint, though she only holds an ordinary pencil. Tony notices this from the corner of his eye, furrows his brow, but says nothing. He’s used to her being odd. After all, she’s his daughter.

On her lap lies a sketchbook. She’s drawing everyone in the room. Quickly, confidently. The lines are precise, detailed — like a seasoned artist’s. Stark watches her page a moment longer than he meant to. A tightness creeps into his chest: that’s how his sister used to draw. The same lines, the same focus, also far too skilled for her age. Memory jabs sharply at his ribs, but he pushes it away. The past belongs in the past. And if not — well, he’ll chalk it up to Aveline inheriting her aunt’s talent along with her name.

Tony presses his lips into a grim line and rolls back in his chair. Sometimes he wonders why his daughter looks so much like her. Sometimes he notices faint gestures, intonations, expressions — and something twists painfully inside. But he never lets himself dwell on it for long. Just like now — Tony quickly shakes the thought. Not the time for memories.

“Hey, I mean, I’m no expert, but that’s suspiciously good for a seven-year-old,” Clint suddenly says, peering over Aveline’s shoulder. His tone carries a teasing note, but there’s a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “Like, creepily good,” he adds, nodding to himself.

Aveline ignores him. She sits with her legs folded on the chair, swinging them lazily in the air. One hand holds a half-eaten chocolate bar — a gift from Natasha — the other glides her pencil across the page, glancing now and then toward the towering panoramic windows where evening New York glows. The city’s lights reflect off the glass in vibrant flashes. Beyond the thick panel, the city lives loudly, but in here — it’s silent.

“Although,” Clint smirks, crossing his arms over his chest, “if you��re doodling me, could you maybe bulk me up a bit? Just for realism’s sake.”

Aveline raises an eyebrow high, slowly looking up at him, squinting mischievously:

“If I wanted to draw something unrealistic, I’d give you superpowers. Or at least decent sunglasses — unlike the ones you’ve got.” She clicks her tongue.

Thor is the first to burst out laughing. Even Natasha, usually unreadable, lowers her papers and hides a smile behind her coffee cup. The soft desk lamp casts gentle shadows on her face, making it look almost relaxed and light.

“Ooh, harsh critique coming in hot!” Clint throws his hands up, though his eyes are laughing. “Straight to the ego — yeah, you’re definitely a Stark.”

“Did you ever doubt that, Seagull?” Aveline bats her lashes innocently and bites off another chunk of chocolate. “Well, if you’d like, I could give you a shield like Stevie’s. Might help.”

“Please don’t,” Rogers cuts in. “One of those is more than enough.”

A new wave of laughter ripples through the room. Steve smiles, but his gaze returns to Aveline. The glow of the screen nearby softly lights her face, highlighting familiar features. He watches her tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear without thinking. A simple motion — but his heart tightens. He’s pulled back, to the ‘40s, to a cramped kitchen where his sister — his Aveline — tucks her curls behind her ear just like that, sitting by a canvas or a kitchen table, reading a book and scribbling notes. Exactly the same.

Memory doesn’t lie… does it?

Ever since he first saw the girl, something cracked inside him. Time seemed to blur. Steve tried to chalk it up to coincidence, but every time Aveline Stark laughs or frowns in thought, he hears his sister. Sees the shadows of those he’s lost. Sometimes he even smells it — coal, a stove, that old wooden table with its chipped legs and a lid carved with three initials...

It’s impossible — he tells himself that, over and over. His sister’s been gone for over half a century. But sometimes… when Tony’s daughter smirks, argues, or just stares silently out the window — it feels like he’s home again. For a moment. And that moment tears him apart.

“Mini-Stark! And for the record, my nickname isn’t Seagull — it’s Haw—” Clint snaps, then trails off. “Wait, you didn’t get that wrong, did you?” He clucks his tongue, lips pursed. She said it on purpose, not by mistake.

“Well, that’s what Dad calls you,” Aveline shrugs innocently. And Tony mimics her shrug right beside her, as if he’s got nothing to do with it. A heavy sigh rises near the panoramic windows.

“Loki slipped away. We got that the first time,” Steve says, looking off to the side. “So why are we hearing this for the twentieth?”

“Because One-Eyed Drama King loves his theater,” Tony quips, pulling out his tricked-out smartphone, still lazily chewing gummies and passing a few to his daughter with a wink.

Next to him, Natasha folds her arms. Her calm voice cuts through the air:

“Or maybe it’s because our genius, playboy, philanthropist turned the hangar into a ping-pong arena?” She levels him with a sharp stare, perfectly echoing his own words from earlier.

Tony rolls his eyes:

“What is this, nickname appreciation day?” he arches a thick brow, theatrically scanning the room. “Sorry, Romanoff, I just hate wasting time,” he snaps, turning his attention back to his gadget, then throws a glance at Steve. “Why don’t you tell us something fun, American New Hope? Like — do you even have one photo where you don’t look like a living propaganda poster?”

He raises his phone, its screen filled with news articles about the devastation in New York — and every single one of them has Steve’s face front and center.

The room comes alive again with light teasing, cozy bickering. Avelina giggles, her ringing voice seems to fill the space with warmth. Steve turns toward her over his shoulder, and for a moment, his gaze softens. That feeling… it’s almost like hope. Almost. But he knows too well — hope can be cruel.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, not even the hundredth. He catches himself staring at the girl too long, trying to understand what exactly is bothering him. The first time he saw Avelina, he forgot to breathe. Stumbled, couldn’t get a word out. Standing before him was something achingly familiar. Of course, he was quickly informed that she was Tony Stark’s daughter, but from that moment on…

Steve pushes the thought away. Thinking about his sister is too painful, too terrifying. Even if she and Avelina share the same name, even if they look like two drops of water — it can’t be her. Avelina Rogers is dead. This is not her. And yet sometimes… something warm and aching clutches at his heart when the girl laughs. But he tells himself: hope must not be fed.

Clint leans back in his chair with a quiet sigh, smirking, playing with his tongue against his cheek like he’s holding back an especially witty joke. In the dim light of the room, holographic screens flicker, scattering the shadows, and somewhere in the corner, the ventilation system begins to hum softly…

“Oh, by the way! Been meaning to ask!” the archer exclaims, lazily stretching out his legs. “Stark, do you have a photo of you with those… baby suspenders? You know, when you carry a kid around in a kangaroo backpack?” He squints, watching everyone’s reactions, and knocks over his quiver with a loud crash, sending papers scattering across the table.

The room freezes for a moment. No one moves, no one gives anything away. But precisely because everyone holds still waiting for a response, the silence becomes palpable — it electrifies the air as everyone processes what they just heard.

Tony slowly lifts his eyes, blinks once, then again, and dramatically places a hand on his chest — as if from unspeakable shock.

“First of all, are you seriously expecting an honest answer? Planning to raise tiny special-agents?” A pause. “No?! Then bow and arrows, I’m stunned! You really think that I —” he sweeps his gaze over everyone, as if demanding confirmation of their sanity, “— would carry my child in one of those ridiculous kangaroo backpacks?”

“Oh, I’m sure you did,” Steve smirks, relaxing just a bit, letting himself enjoy this light moment of friendly banter. But his gaze, passing over the laughing Avelina, catches on something else — a flickering shadow.

“No, no, and again — no!” Tony makes a broad, nearly theatrical gesture with his hand. “I am a man of high technology, a walking star of propaganda posters! If I had to carry a child, I’d do it with a mini jetpack or something of the sort,” his voice is too fast, too lively — enough to make anyone suspicious, to plant a seed of doubt.

“But dad, you’re lying!” Avelina declares loudly, putting her drawing aside. Her eyes flash with genuine outrage, and a triumphant smile spreads across her face. All eyes turn to the girl. For a moment, silence reigns, broken only by the soft tapping of rain starting on the windowpane.

“What?” Tony frowns, like he doesn’t get what she’s implying.

“We do have a photo of you carrying me in a kangaroo backpack!” Avelina proudly lifts her chin.

Clint perks up and leans forward:

“Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Avelina nods confidently, hopping off her chair. “Mom showed me!”

“PEPPER!” Tony throws up his hands theatrically. “Family betrayal! Did you hear that?!” A tall, fair-haired woman enters the room holding a tray with juice and something sweet. Her soft gaze immediately envelops the younger Stark protectively.

“Don’t start, Tony,” Potts tosses offhandedly. “You looked like the happiest person in the world back then.”

Avelina jumps up to her mother, peeks at the tray, beaming, and asks to show the photo to everyone. But then JARVIS’s impeccably polite voice chimes in:

“Sir, if I may, I believe you are referring to this image?”

“No, JARVIS, don’t you dare—” Stark tries to stop his voice assistant.

But it’s too late. The next second, the screens around the room light up with the photo: Tony with a baby in a bright red carrier against a backdrop of twinkling Christmas lights. His face — pure, undiluted happiness. And he looks far too content for someone trying to deny the whole thing.

“Damn…” Clint exhales in awe.

“That’s what you call a kangaroo backpack?” Thor rises curiously from the couch.

“Clint, what, you want the baby store brand too?” Stark snaps, glaring at the archer.

“You look like the sweetest dad in the world,” Natasha laughs, already pulling out her phone to capture the image for keeps.

“I refuse to comment on this,” Tony mutters, covering his face with his hand.

And Avelina just laughs, coming closer and wrapping her arms around his shoulder:

“But you’re the best dad in the world!”

Tony lets out a loud sigh, chuckles, but gives in. He picks up his daughter, settling her on his lap. His arms are warm, steady, and the girl leans into him a little tighter, sinking into her father’s embrace.

“Well, can’t argue with that…”

Avelina squeals again when he tickles her. Her giggles are contagious, making everyone in the room fight off smiles. Clint lowers his head, lost in thought, a trace of melancholy crossing his face.

Steve casually says the younger Stark’s name while asking Natasha something. And Avelina flinches. As if someone just ran a cold hand down her spine. It doesn’t hurt — but it leaves a trace. The Captain’s voice sounded so… familiar. Achingly so.

The tone — like a dream that slips away just as you try to hold onto it after waking. Avelina blinks, shaking off the strange, persistent feeling, but it lingers. She frowns, unconsciously placing her hand over her chest, as if searching for something important that should have been there. But under her fingers, there's only the soft fabric of her shirt. Nothing else. And no one notices the gesture.

No one, except Steve Rogers.***

Date: Summer, 1940.

Brooklyn hasn’t yet cooled down from the daytime heat. The air is filled with the smell of heated asphalt, mixed with dust and the fumes of cars. In the alleys, a stagnant stuffiness smolders, which even a light breeze can’t dispel. The streetlamps cast pale spots of light onto the cracked walls of buildings. Their electric flickering barely pierces through the damp haze.

Somewhere in the distance, a car door slams, muffled laughter sounds — the echo of a street celebration, slowly fading into the depths of the night.

At the edge of the sidewalk, a vendor sweeps up the remnants of confetti into a metal dustpan, tiredly brushes off his shirt, and throws a brief glance at a couple walking slowly along the road. Rare lights burn in the windows of the houses — someone is already asleep. And someone is just returning home. The flickering flame of a candle draws vague shadows on the curtains.

The smell of celebration still lingers in the air. The cloying sweetness of caramel mixes with the aroma of roasted nuts and tobacco that trails from weary men stuck at the tables of a street café-bar.

Somewhere on the cobblestones lies a forgotten toy — a plush bunny with a torn ear, lost in the bustle of the fairgrounds. Muffled beats of music tremble in the distance, but now they barely reach. Everything around gradually comes to a halt: vendors fold up their stalls, boys in rolled-up shirts lazily chat, leaning against the wall of a diner, from which wafts the smell of yesterday’s oil.

Avelina and Steve walk slowly, unhurriedly. Their steps echo dully through the empty streets. The festival was too noisy, too crowded, and they didn’t want to be among the masses. So they ran away from it all — from the laughter, the music, and the dancing, from the feeling of someone else’s happiness that doesn’t belong to them. Maybe because the memories of the past, of how the world used to be before all this, weigh heavier than they’re ready to admit. Or maybe because...

They walk in silence, leaving behind the bustle of celebration, as if it were foreign to them, unnecessary. Leaving Bucky among the dancing and joy, among the music that seems unbearably cheerful. They are the first to leave. And Avelina remembers too late about the forgotten stuffed bear from the shooting gallery. Though it used to be different: before, Bucky always walked them home, sometimes even stayed the night. But now he stayed there. Behind. Together with Dolores.

They don’t want to talk about it. But the silence weighs heavier than words.

Sometimes silence speaks louder. Especially this kind — heavy, sticky, nasty. It presses on the chest, turning a simple walk into a painful anticipation, as if one of them is about to break and say something they shouldn’t.

But Avelina knows that in such moments, you can say anything — you can even laugh, blurt out something silly, try to pretend that everything’s fine. But is it really?

Bucky isn’t with them.

Bucky isn’t walking behind them.

Bucky chose something else.

Most importantly — Bucky doesn’t choose them. Doesn’t choose her.

A cool breeze lazily rustles the paper notices stuck to old poles — among them posters of jazz nights and war enlistment slogans, theater ads and flyers about the horrors happening in Europe, faded and torn at the corners. In the distance, a block away, the last tram bell rings, carrying passengers toward the bridge. Somewhere near the diner, chairs clatter. A tired owner swears under his breath as he locks the doors, and the footsteps of a passerby rushing home quickly dissolve into the darkness…

The night smells of: damp rooftops, tired cobblestones, grime, and a faint bitterness of smoke. It feels like the city burned out in the sun during the day, soaked up fire, and now, at last, is slowly cooling down, exhaling the accumulated heat. But this warmth brings no comfort. It reminds that the day has passed, and tomorrow might bring even more changes…

“Bucky’s changed,” Avelina says quietly, breaking the silence first.

Steve slouches. It’s long been obvious, but hearing it from his sister is especially bitter. Rogers stuffs his hands in his pockets, lowers his head. The motion is almost unnoticeable, almost habitual. But Avelina knows her brother too well. He’s trying to hide, shrink, disappear from everyone and everywhere. First and foremost — from himself.

“We all changed,” he says. “Time spares no one.”

Avelina looks at her brother. In his face, she reads fatigue and a lack of strength — something painfully familiar. They have only each other left. Two years have passed since their mother died, the house feels empty, and even when they are together, it feels like something is missing, like her voice still echoes through the walls…

Every morning, Avelina hopes to hear her mother’s call from the kitchen… That first winter without her, when she got sick, she started hallucinating from a high fever. Avelina barely remembers the moment, but she remembers too well the horror in Steve and Bucky’s eyes when, having run out in a clammy nightgown clinging to her skin, with a feverish gleam in her eyes and a trembling smile, she started searching for her mother in the kitchen. Only she wasn’t there. Not there — not anywhere in the house. And her brother’s words: “Mom’s not here. Not anymore…” broke her far more than anyone expected.

In the distance, a car horn wails, and again — silence.

“I just don’t understand. Sometimes he seems so… distant,” she mutters, not looking at her brother. “Sometimes he acts like everything’s fine. But… I know. I feel like something’s bothering him, and he doesn’t tell anyone. Why does he never admit anything? He’s like… like… I don’t know…”

Steve glances sideways at his sister, his eyes warm, understanding. Maybe they all think he’s blind, maybe even a fool, but he sees more from the outside than the two of them do. If Steve is sure of anything, it’s...

“You think I understand him?”

Avelina smirks faintly.

“At least you’ve always been better at it than me.”

Steve doesn’t argue. He just shakes his head, as if unsure whether he should agree with that.

Maybe he did understand Bucky once. But now… his decisions sometimes make no clear sense, as if it would be logical to act one way, but he deliberately does the opposite — and suffers from it himself.

What’s the point? He doesn’t know either.

Steve kicks a pebble under his foot, and it bounces off the road with a soft click and stops near the curb. Somewhere in the alley, mice squeaked, darting off in search of crumbs. In the distance, a thud sounds, and for a brief moment a light turns on in one of the windows — a female figure leans over the sill, adjusting flower pots. Then the window darkens again, leaving behind the faint breath of a home they can no longer return to. No matter how hard they try to build their world anew, brick by brick — everything crumbles.

Steve takes a deep breath. Avelina still remembers the lullaby their mother used to sing to them… The night is filled not only with summer warmth but something else — something elusive, tense, lurking in the shadows and corners.

“You know, when I first met Bucky, he seemed like a carefree guy. The kind who gets everything easily, who lives without much thought, without too much responsibility. He laughed louder than anyone, always knew what he wanted — or so I thought,” he scuffs his boot toe against the ground, then continues: “But over time I realized it wasn’t like that at all.”

Avelina sees before her the Bucky who laughs, who draws everyone along with him, who says everything is fine — but at the same time disappears.

Slips away again and again.

Her heart reaches for Bucky, while she herself moves in the opposite direction. And he — even farther.

It’s like trying to grab something that slips through your fingers. Like holding onto sand — the tighter you squeeze, the faster it runs out. But if you let go, it vanishes completely.

“I don’t understand him at all,” Avelina echoes her own words. And in that confession, there’s more pain than she’s willing to show.

“He carries a ton of responsibility,” Steve mutters, hopping from the cobblestone to a low curb. “For family, for the younger ones, for us. Bucky’s used to being the one who protects, who takes care — and he may seem like an overconfident jerk,” Rogers even allows himself to swear, “but that’s not how it is. Bucky wants to do what’s right, but doesn’t always know how.” Steve looks around and meets his sister’s heavy, restless gaze.

Avelina unwittingly slows her pace, absentmindedly fidgeting with a flower picked from someone else's garden.

“He’s always been like that. Bucky took care of us after Mom died, even when he could barely stand himself. He pulled us out of every mess, stood by us, and never complained. Just did what he had to. Or maybe... the only thing he had left.”

Steve shakes his head and gives a dry chuckle.

“Everyone thinks he knows what he wants. But he just keeps going forward—because stopping isn’t an option.”

Avelina bites her lip, a wave of gratitude rises in her chest... and guilt? How many times had she seen Bucky exhausted, beaten and bruised from training, rushing to help them, to support them even when they should’ve managed on their own? Many times. Too many. He doesn’t owe them anything, yet—Bucky’s always there. And still, she wants even more from him. Maybe… maybe that’s not fair.

“Do you know?” the younger Rogers asks softly. “What he wants?”

“That’s just it—I don’t,” Steve shrugs, exhaling dryly. “Maybe I’m a bad friend…”

“You’re not,” Avelina whispers, catching her brother’s hand and interlacing their fingers. She leans her head on his shoulder. “If you were a bad friend, you wouldn’t understand that.” She lifts the corners of her mouth slightly, but the smile still turns out sad.

Steve only nods and gives a bitter smirk.

The alley they turn into has known them since childhood. The faded chalk writings still mark the walls, and on the corner of the fence a crooked scratch remains—the trace of the day Steve crashed into the wall when Bucky was teaching him to ride a bike.

The damp air smells of old bricks, rusty fire escapes, and the faint sourness of rotting newspapers gathered in dark corners. Glass crunches underfoot—someone shattered a bottle, and its shards glitter in the streetlight like fragments of stars.

Somewhere around the corner, the patter of cat paws on trash can lids is heard, followed by a grumpy snort. Avelina freezes for a moment, peering into the familiar darkness. Here, in this place, the past feels sharper. Here, it’s almost like you can hear their mother’s voice calling them home from an evening walk. Here, you can almost see childlike shadows, barefoot and darting along the pavement.

“You know, Bucky doesn’t understand you at all either,” Steve suddenly says, breaking from his thoughts. Avelina blinks, turning a confused look toward her brother.

“You think so?..”

“I know so. And I know that you two—need to talk.”

The younger Rogers only nods slightly. She knows it too. And she knows they’ll never talk—not until it’s too late. That’s just how it always goes with them. It’s a kind of stability, in its own way. You know what to expect.

Avelina stops, looking at the swing set that creaks softly in the breeze. She remembers how they used to swing here together as kids, back when the world felt simple, when there was no war, no fear, no emptiness inside.

She snorts, then winks playfully at her brother and sits down. The swing groans ominously in response. How has it not snapped yet? Steve silently grabs the chains and gives her a push. At first, gentle, cautious.

“Remember how I always asked you not to swing too high?” he chuckles. Avelina lifts her legs into the air, laughing, grabbing the edge of her dress, hoping they won’t get chased off for the noise. It’s late after all.

“Yeah. But you always gave in anyway. You could never say no to me, Stevie!”

Steve sighs.

“And you never listened,” he replies with a grin.

“And I never listened,” Avelina repeats, smiling wider and raising her eyes to the sky, to the stars barely breaking through the city haze.

She closes her eyes, feeling the wind play with her hair, the heavy, sticky air settling in her lungs. It’s thick, warm, filled with the sounds of the night—distant voices, footsteps, echoes. It lifts the hem of her dress, chills her skin, but brings no relief.

Avelina inhales deeply, trying to push away the images that won’t leave her alone. Back at the festival—there was Bucky, spinning in a dance with Dolores. Sweet, beautiful, kind Dolores. Avelina can’t be angry. There’s no anger left in her. More like... silent acceptance and sorrow. Sometimes, you just don’t have the strength to fight anymore.

Steve pushes the swing again—harder this time. The creak of metal tears through the night. Avelina’s head spins from the sudden motion. And she squeezes her eyes shut, letting go of everything.

Let this moment last longer. Let tomorrow not come. But tomorrow always comes, no matter how unexpected. Tomorrow always comes.

“I still don’t understand him,” Avelina whispers, as if the past few minutes, the stars, and the wind should’ve told her what to do next. Steve, through the squeaking, replies:

“Maybe he doesn’t understand himself.”

Avelina breathes deeply, trying to banish Bucky’s image from her mind. But the thoughts cling like a splinter.

They’re left alone. She and Steve. Always the two of them. Only they know what it’s like—to lose their mother. Pain can be similar, but only theirs is the same. Only they understand each other better than anyone else. Like no one else ever could. And that silly belief eats them from the inside.

The swing slows down. Steve’s worn out. As a child, Avelina used to like it more when Bucky pushed the swing—he always gave it a stronger shove than she expected. Sometimes it felt like she’d go flying and crash her knees into the sand, but her grip was always firm—doesn’t want to let go, won’t let go.

When the swing finally stops, she keeps her hands on the chains for a minute longer, unable to let go. Unable to release. Somewhere beyond the buildings, a sleepy voice calls out, then comes a short bark from a dog. The yard seems empty. But the past lives in these walls, in these shadows, in the rusty howls. It lingers behind, leaving only a quiet ache and the wish to bring everything back the way it was…

A new clang. Steve sinks down onto the swing beside her. If Bucky were here, he’d probably joke that Rogers on their own aren’t whole people—just halves. Sometimes even kids can’t manage to fit on one swing together. But Steve and Avelina, naturally neither tall nor heavy, fit just right. Well, at least they’re quicker than most—especially Avelina.

“I can’t protect you the way he can,” Steve admits. “Bucky will always be stronger, steadier, more reliable… and… and I’m afraid that…”

“Stevie, you’re strong too, smart, and the bravest fool I know,” Avelina interrupts, hugging him and resting her head on her brother’s narrow shoulder. “You’re just not exactly like him. And that’s a good thing too.”

But Rogers stubbornly shakes his head.

“I’m afraid one day we’ll drift apart,” he suddenly confesses. “That Bucky will leave, you’ll leave… and I’ll stay. Stay here, still weak, still clumsy…”

“You’ll never be alone,” Avelina insists. “I’ll always be here. I promise.”

But Steve doesn’t answer, though something warm flickers in his eyes—something almost childlike. Avelina knows he’ll never really believe it. That deep down, he’s afraid one day they’ll be gone for good, and he’ll be left behind… truly alone. But for now, Avelina’s here. For now, they sit on these old swings in this alley that’s known them since they were kids—they’re together.

And for this one moment, everything stays as it once was. For this one moment, it’s okay to pretend everything’s fine. Just hold on a little longer. It will get better. It has to…

Avelina nestles into her brother’s neck and hugs him tighter. Steve remains silent, but gratitude glimmers in his eyes. They sit side by side in the quiet night, just like they used to. For now—they can still believe their small world won’t break. At least for a while, they can…***

Date: The year 2006.

The lab in Stark Tower smells of something metallic and warm. In Avelina’s opinion, it smells like a place where miracles are created. On the tables — a scatter of microchips, thin wires, unfinished models. Somewhere a dim bluish light flickers. In the semi-darkness, equipment softly buzzes, and beyond the glass wall, a view of nighttime New York opens — the city lights blur behind a curtain of rain. Raindrops tap on the glass, leaving chaotic patterns, and it seems even the eternal hum of the metropolis becomes quieter, as if the city is tired.

Tony sits, slightly hunched over, squinting behind the glass of his protective goggles, holding a soldering iron with one hand and fiddling with tiny parts with the other. The light scent of heated metal and plastic mixes with the faint bitterness of coffee cooling somewhere nearby. Work always helps distract. Helps not to think about the fears that whisper in his head when it gets too quiet. And now — the world outside sinks into the melody of rain, while inside the lab, everything is familiar: warm, bright and… safe. His child is at home — as always, which means everything is alright.

At the edge of the table, resting her cheek on her fist, sits Avelina. Her light hair slips slightly across her face, long lashes trembling in sleep. Next to her hand lies an open heavy science book with an intricate title about cell regeneration and cloning — clearly not something that would interest Tony himself. And something that gives him a headache.

On the nearby shelf stands a small terrarium: inside, a tiny plant with fragile green leaves slowly turns under soft light. Scattered near Stark’s daughter are pencils and a notepad, covered in small diagrams and strange notes he doesn’t immediately understand.

Stark lifts the book, squints, wondering if the problem is in the handwriting or… On the cover, in dark letters, is the name of a scientist that Tony doesn’t notice right away, but once he catches it, he involuntarily freezes. It’s one of the surviving books of Avelina — his younger twin sister — which used to rest in the library in the far hall. Tony rarely goes there. When he rebuilt the tower, he couldn’t help but make that room. Sad, as if he still waits for his sister to one day come home…

Avelina had a passion for biology, cell structures, everything related to life — unlike him, focused on metal and mechanics. She always thought it more important not to create machines but to understand the very essence of nature. And, it seems, that trait was passed on to his daughter from her aunt, just like her looks.

A little further away, on a separate stand, stands another "project" — a small glass jar, inside of which stirs a miniature biosphere: tiny plants and a couple of snails slowly moving under the light. One snail is named Natalie, the other — Bruce. Clint, of course, was offended that no organism was named after him. Avelina assembled all of this over several days, with an enthusiastic gleam in her eyes, muttering something under her breath.

Tony hums, examining the terrarium, and a warm wave of pride washes over him. “My girl,” he thinks, and something deep inside squeezes with tenderness. Maybe she’ll go further than him — not just mechanics and tech, but life, the very essence of its creation. Their father had always pinned all his hopes on his sister. So maybe the world decided to give her back?

From the side, JARVIS announces that another microchip is ready.

"Ah, that’s it," Tony mutters under his breath, rolling back to his desk, adding the final touches. "It’s brilliant, Stark. You’re still damn good."

No reply. Silence. He frowns, glancing over his shoulder. Where’s the laughter? Where’s the giggling and smile?

"Well? What do you think, my mini-copy? Should we adopt it?"

Silence. It takes him a moment to realize that through the quiet, he can hear soft breathing. Tony spins around in his chair — and freezes.

Avelina, curled up, dozes, almost slipping from the chair. Her cheek is pressed against the table, breathing steady. In her hand, she holds some gear from his suit. Something tightens in his chest. Soft and warm. A couple of careless marker lines are visible on her wrist — apparently, she was sketching something while waiting for her dad to notice her.

“Seven years… Already seven,” Tony thinks, feeling an involuntary smile tug at his lips. It seems like only yesterday she was a tiny bundle handed to him in the hospital, declared a single father. She was so small, so defenseless, she could barely wrap her palm around his pinky.

That first night home after the hospital — he panicked, of course. What the hell did he know about kids? He was a genius, a playboy on all the magazine covers, a philanthropist on every form, but definitely not a father. And yet…

He remembers how scared he was to hurt her, how he desperately searched for what to feed that little being, calling Pepper, begging her to come and save him. Small, fragile, with messy blonde hair and eyes full of childlike trust, looking at him with such belief…

She didn’t know who he was in the world’s eyes, didn’t know his mistakes and sins — just reached out to him, as if he really could protect her from all the evil in the world. Back then, Stark leaned over his daughter, not believing his eyes or the smile lighting up her tiny face. He…

He really didn’t know how to be a father. Didn’t know how to be a good one. He had no good example, no guidance. He had no role model, nothing to lean on. And this child, barely born, seemed to already love him with her whole little heart. And then he understood — whatever he did, whoever he was, however he acted, his daughter would always love him. Always, no matter what.

And then, her tiny fingers grabbed his hair and yanked so hard it made his vision blur — and something inside, like a jammed part, broke free, leaving a sense of long-awaited release.

Her first “Daddy” came unexpectedly. He remembers every detail. Evening, another presentation, a fancy hall and a crowd of people, each wanting something from him. Tony, out of habit, held Avelina in his arms — small, nearly weightless. Her fingers clutched the lapel of his jacket, and suddenly, through the noise of the crowd, he heard that simple word. “Daddy.” As if it was the most natural thing in the world. And damn it, nothing in his life had ever sounded more beautiful.

He almost dropped his glass then. All the bravado, his carefully built image, vanished in a second. He just stood there, staring at his daughter, feeling his heart painfully pulse under his ribs. How did he even deserve something so pure and innocent? He was called the “merchant of death,” and she calls him, so simply yet lovingly — “Daddy…”

Sighing, Tony slowly stands up, approaches the table, and — acting with the precision of a man who can assemble and disassemble a reactor blindfolded — gently lifts the younger Stark into his arms. Avelina stirs slightly, buries her nose in his neck, but doesn’t wake.

“You’re getting old, Tony,” he mutters to himself, but his voice sounds warm, more like joy, pride in who he’s become.

The living room is quiet. Not the suffocating kind, but a different one — a homely kind. Soft lamp light, a faint scent of beer and chips. The Avengers sit scattered: Natasha is comfortably settled in a chair, watching some movie on TV. Steve — on the couch, in his usual thoughtfulness, and Clint quietly arguing with Bruce about something clearly unimportant.

When Tony enters, carrying the sleeping Avelina, the conversations fall silent. And JARVIS instantly mutes the TV. Natasha smiles warmly, corners of her lips slightly trembling. And Steve looks at the child intently, as if pondering something, but stays silent. Stark doesn’t pay it any mind. Rogers is a hundred-something years old — who knows what’s going on in his head.

“What?” he hisses at Clint. “Haven’t seen enough of a superhero playing daddy?” Tony grumbles, but his voice lacks its usual bite.

“It’s sweet,” Natasha notes, not lifting her eyes from the popcorn bowl.

“Too sweet,” adds Barton with mock horror, but Tony only snorts.

He walks past them, carefully holding his daughter, heading to her room. It’s dark and quiet there — the air smells of children’s shampoo, vanilla, and something sweet. On the bed — a soft blanket with a star print, and by the pillow — an old plush bunny with a slightly worn ear. Avelina didn’t let him buy a new toy, even though she already has plenty of dollhouses, cars, and stuffed trinkets.

Laying his daughter on the bed, Tony slowly brushes the hair from her face. Avelina mutters something, barely audible in her sleep:

“Daddy…”

And with those words, his heart seems to tremble. Tony leans in and kisses her forehead.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

For a moment, he lingers, adjusting the plush bunny under her arm. His fingers tremble slightly as he strokes her cheek. Avelina sighs and, as if sensing his presence, hugs the toy tighter, smiling in her sleep.

Tony straightens up and casts one last glance at his daughter. In the soft light of the night lamp, her face looks so defenseless, and something in his chest painfully tightens. After all, there is room for a miracle in his life. And that miracle is now sleeping in her little bed, hugging a worn-out bunny. And it’s the most precious thing he’s ever had…

Stark closes the door a little quieter than usual and stays standing in the hallway for a few more seconds. Then, taking a deep breath, he walks away — for the hundredth time promising himself that he will never let anyone hurt his child. No one will hurt Avelina. Never. No matter what.***

Date: 1940. End of November.

Avelina slowly flips the page, absorbing the lines printed in typeface. The dense silence of the library, filled with the faint crackling of wood and the occasional rustling of paper, envelops her in a thick veil of solitude. It smells of time here — of old books exuding the scent of yellowed pages, dust, and a barely perceptible sweetish hint of mold, stuck in the spines damaged by dampness.

The library is a special place. High ceilings with massive wooden beams create a sense of grandeur. Along the walls stretch shelves, crammed with heavy volumes with worn corners. Ladders stand by the cases, allowing access to the very top shelves. Somewhere in a far corner, a typewriter clicks — Mrs. Meredith is filling out the catalog, quietly sighing over the worn-out index cards.

Avelina ventures deeper into the dark hall, where the faint light of a desk lamp pulls her silhouette out of the gloom of the shelves. The bulky cabinets loom over her, but she feels comfortable here. In this place, one can feel how time stands still, caught in the spines of forgotten folios.

She is used to these walls, to their muffled, almost conspiratorial silence. She has come here since childhood, from the moment an unbearable need arose to somehow distract herself from her own thoughts, disappearing for hours studying formulas, structures, medical theories. Avelina managed to skip several school grades even before the examination date. Her success was not based on magical insight or random luck — only strict, precise, reliable logic.

It is precisely here that her boldness transforms into an endless calculating mechanism, analyzing variables, calculating probabilities, untangling the most complex biochemical puzzles. It is here, among lines about the conformational stability of proteins and mechanisms of gene regulation, that she lays the foundation of her future.

Because science is the only thing one can be sure of. The laws of thermodynamics don’t change their minds, molecular interactions obey strict rules, and the algorithms of biological system modeling do not betray. Science will not let you down. At least, it hasn’t yet.

Today, Rogers’s attention is wholly drawn to the fourth-year biochemistry textbook. The chapter on the stabilization of complex compounds interests her the most — mechanisms of molecular folding, hydrogen bond dynamics, thermodynamic stability optimization. Deriving the perfect balance of components in a formula, their interaction with receptors, and their impact on metabolic pathways.

In her mind, it all comes together: the Michaelis-Menten equation, Gibbs free energy calculations, kinetic models of ligand binding — everything connects into a unified network until suddenly something goes wrong. Irritation flares up inside — not because she doesn’t understand, but because the answer slips away, leaving only the premonition of a guess.

She just can’t focus.

Something undefined, shapeless, is wandering inside her, pulling her in different directions like stochastic fluctuations. Avelina can’t figure out her feelings. But she can easily write down formulas so complex that students at Northfield University take several days to solve them. She manipulates biocatalysis parameters, models the kinetics of enzymatic reactions, and accurately calculates the stability of recombinant proteins in an artificially created microenvironment. But she can’t express in a single word what abyss has opened up inside her.

Avelina can’t tell her brother about it — she can’t find the words, can’t convey what’s tearing at her from within. Instead, she throws herself into calculations — modeling the diffusion of signaling molecules and predicting the behavior of biopolymers in a changing environment.

Because emotions are chaos, resembling random fluctuations in living systems. But science is stable, like the principles of gene regulation or self-assembly mechanisms, and that gives her a sense of control.

Here, Avelina is preparing to apply to MIT — the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, to the faculty of bioengineering. She dissects equations of enzyme kinetics, dives into methods of gene therapy and synthetic biology.

Teachers at school didn’t like her — for asking too many questions, for not being afraid to argue, and for refusing to conform to the standards and the rest. She was ridiculed, openly ignored, punished for the smallest infractions, but in the end of high school, they still let her go with tears in their eyes.

Of course! — how many olympiads and competitions she had won for the school! Without her, the institution would have long since lost its funding. So even the principal, who had grumbled about her inappropriate character for years, on the last day said he was proud of her and personally submitted her university application with a recommendation.

But she was rejected. Because she’s a woman. Discrimination by gender — it’s almost laughable.

Steve was angry, but also unmistakably proud of his sister — even if society doesn’t recognize her talents, he knows what she’s capable of. Mom would probably be proud of her too, if she were alive. It was Stevie who convinced Avelina to try applying to MIT, assuring her that this was her future, her chance to go further than either of them could have dreamed.

Right after the war began in Europe, everything started changing rapidly. The world turned upside down, familiar boundaries shifted. Fears arose that a new demographic crisis was on the horizon. And now Avelina herself was offered a chance: if she passes all the entrance tests, she’ll be admitted directly into the second semester.

If she passes the exams and passes them well, she’ll head to Cambridge in January — with full funding and a scholarship. And that’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. One you simply can’t refuse.

But admission means she’ll have to leave. MIT is eight hours from New York, from Brooklyn, from home. A new life awaits her — discoveries, research, the chance to work with cutting-edge technologies, but also loneliness. She will be among others like her — future scientists, engineers, innovators. But her family will remain here…

Rogers’s fingers nervously run along the chain with the pendant — an old, familiar gesture that’s become almost subconscious. A butterfly carved from cold metal sways slightly in her hand. Avelina sighs heavily and clenches the medallion, trying to concentrate.

But a sharp pain slices her finger. She winces, gritting her teeth. Looking down, she sees a crimson drop of blood slowly running down her pale skin. Her pulse quickens. She lifts the pendant higher, inspecting it from all sides, but… nothing. No sharp edge, no burr, not even the slightest hint of something that could have cut her.

What the hell?

Avelina runs her finger across the pendant’s surface again. The cold metal — smooth, without a single rough spot. And yet, the fact remains: her finger is bleeding.

A quiet rustle comes from the depths of the hall. Rogers turns sharply, alert. The dark corners of the library remain still. Only the weak light of the lamp casts shadows on the walls. Perhaps a mouse ran between the shelves? Or the old building is creaking with age? She knows she could explain the sound rationally, but the unpleasant feeling does not go away.

For a moment, Avelina sits, listening to the ringing silence, as if trying to catch some hidden meaning in it. Then, taking a deep breath, she returns to the book. The lines blur before her eyes, her thoughts are tangled, and the strange incident with the pendant refuses to leave her mind.

But one thing she knows for sure: in this world, there are no coincidences. Even the smallest detail — an error in an equation, a barely noticeable shift in molecular structure, an unremarkable choice in everyday life — affects our future.***

Date: 1941. Winter, January.

Bucky steps cautiously onto the staircase, and the rickety wooden steps creak under his weight, as if in protest. The cold handrail under his palm is rough, the paint peeled off, exposing the gray wood carved by time. The Rogers' house is old. The walls have absorbed thousands of days and nights, soaked in laughter, screams, whispers, and their mother’s singing.

He remembers running here as a child with Steve, holding onto this same handrail, tripping over the same steps, now even more worn. Back then, the staircase seemed endless, and the house—though old—was a fortress, protected from the whole world. Now, any careless movement could bring about its final collapse.

The smell of warm dinner floats in the air, spicy, thick, as if covering the walls with a sticky film. Somewhere in the kitchen, the radio crackles softly—a melody plays, simple, tugging at the soul, with a lazy rhythm, reminding him of those summer evenings he spent in this house.

Bucky absentmindedly climbs a few more steps, about to call out for Avelina to hurry down. His thoughts scatter—how often does he spend the night here? Almost the whole week. Month after month, day after day. As if this old creaky Rogers house has already become his, too. He doesn’t think about it seriously until his gaze catches on a half-open door, and the world narrows to a thin gap from which light spills out.

Bucky freezes in front of it, while a stripe of soft yellow light from the room etches across his face, flickering on the edges of the window frames like melting wax. It spreads across the floor, touches the worn boards, slowly runs down the wooden panels, clings to the mirror in the corner, catching a reflection—a delicate silhouette of a girl. Avelina.

And Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.

She stands with her back to him, swaying her hips slightly, as if lost in thought. Her light curls are tied with a ribbon, but a few strands have come loose and stuck to her neck, to her bare collarbones. A thin strap of her slip has slipped down, revealing the line of her shoulder, the sharp corner of her shoulder blade...

Bucky clings to the outline of her body—the garment traces every curve of her figure. The fabric clings to her skin, emphasizing the curves, hollows, and sharp angles, the slender waist, the arch of her lower back, the faint shadow of her spine, the protruding ribs, her hips—not plump, but rounded. The hem of the slip barely covers the most intimate parts. Avelina, a little thin, and because of that—delicate, fragile, like a ballerina figurine.

Her movements reveal displeasure—a barely noticeable curl of her lips, tension in her fingers, a sullen glance sliding over the reflection. But Bucky ignores it. Again, his gaze drops lower.

Her skin, where it’s visible, seems porcelain-like, as if made of sunlight, but her elbows, knees, and ankles are tinted with the hue of a warm sunrise on frosted glass. Avelina straightens her shoulders, and Bucky’s gaze once again catches on her shoulder blades—sharp, defined, like those of a sculpture.

And Bucky swallows. His throat tightens. When he inhales, the sweet scent of jasmine and powder stings his nostrils, the air catching somewhere in his chest.

He should leave. He must.

But he stays, unable to look away. Instead of turning and walking off, he watches as Avelina grips the fabric of her slip at the waist, pulling it tighter, inspecting her own body with a critical eye. She pulls harder, stretching it over all the things no one… No one should be looking at.

Completely unaware of his gaze. Of how Bucky clenches his fists, how his fingers ache from the tension.

The light glides across her skin, brushing against the birthmark under her left shoulder blade—pinkish, irregular in shape, resembling a heart, but elongated, smudged. Bucky had seen it before, briefly, when she was younger. Much younger. And then it didn’t matter. But now… It’s a reminder that the Avelina before him is still real. That her body is alive, warm. And he shouldn’t be looking at it, let alone dreaming of touching it.

Barnes exhales quietly. A knot twists inside him—something dark, unforgivable, and definitely indecent.

The stockings on her legs are slowly slipping down, and Bucky unconsciously clenches his jaw so tightly his teeth creak. His chest rises in a breath that’s too slow, too heavy. This is wrong. This is forbidden. This is… this is—

He can’t look away.

His gaze is glued to her legs, her thighs, her backside, to the way the fabric of her slip lifts with each movement. One more second—and he’ll cross a line that must not be crossed. If Avelina makes one more move, the line will be crossed. If he stays for one more second—he’ll do something he’ll hate himself for.

But he doesn’t leave. He can’t.

Low in his abdomen, near his groin—it pulls, painfully and hot. The taste of the forbidden spreads through his veins, sticky and sweet, aching, tightening his mind in a loop.

And Avelina stretches her arms upward, arching like a cat, and the slip barely covers her chest. Her face frowns in a faint, barely noticeable expression of displeasure—she studies her reflection as if it's a stranger’s body. But to Bucky, it’s perfect. Too enticing. And the stockings keep sliding down toward her ankles. One more movement—and Bucky knows he’s already close to the edge.

Barnes notices the tension in her shoulders, how the thin skin stretches over fragile bones, highlighting the almost painful ethereality of her figure.

Bucky likes Avelina as she is. All of her. Entirely.

Rogers reaches back, as if testing her reflection for strength, for harmony—but he sees in it something frighteningly intimate, private and…

“Leave!” he commands himself. But his legs won’t move. Everything inside him tightens to a single point. His pulse hammers in his temples, blood flows through his veins too thick, too hot.

This is wrong. Dangerous. He’s known her since she was eight. This is Avelina. The girl he used to tug by the ear when she hid his boots, who ran after him down the street with a silly grin, never falling behind…

He must leave. Now.

But the hem of the shirt finally jumps higher, sliding over the buttocks, lower back, and Bucky exhales completely. The smooth skin is exposed more and more, and just a little bit—the line of the underwear, a narrow waist, a flat stomach, a graceful dip of the navel. A soft yellow light slides over her body, accentuating all the lines. Avelina barely turns sideways. If she had torn her gaze away from her own reflection for even a second, she would have noticed him in the mirror.

Only she is too deeply lost in her own doubts and doesn’t see how Barnes' eyes darken, how his Adam's apple jerks when his gaze accidentally touches her chest. It restrains him, as if he's sinking in hot tar.

The thin, translucent fabric of the shirt almost reveals nothing, and Bucky could swear he sees not just the small hemispheres but also the areolas of her nipples... Heat pierces him through. There is a ringing in his ears, a dull pulse in his temples, and this rhythm reverberates through his body in a burning electric shock. He feels his heart wildly pounding in his chest, his breath faltering, his palms sweating, and his nails digging into his skin.

Bucky tries to look away. He has to look away. But he can’t.

His eyes greedily explore every inch of her skin. They follow every movement of hers. Bucky is enchanted by her...

It's pathetic. It's miserable.

He shouldn’t be looking, but his groin aches mercilessly...

Struggling to unclench his fingers, and remembering that he needs to breathe, Bucky steps back. He jerks away sharply, pressing his back against the cold wall of the corridor. He shuts his eyes, grinding his teeth, trying to drive away the image that has burned into his memory. A dull ache is pulling at him from below — hot, torturous, unbearable. And he feels nauseous. He curses himself for it. He curses his own thoughts. He curses himself for allowing himself to look. For wanting to see more and... Damn it, not just see.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with him, and not with her. Not with Avelina. His heart pounds loudly in his throat, desperately, as if demanding air. It’s agonizing. It pulls him downward.

He shouldn’t have looked. He shouldn’t have, but...

He needs to leave. Right now. But his body doesn’t obey.

Bucky catches himself realizing he’s suffocating. It’s terrifying. Disgusting. But even scarier is that, in this moment, there’s something inevitable, something that with every next glance pulls him closer to the edge of the abyss.

Barnes lowers his eyes, gathering his thoughts. Inhale-exhale. Get a grip! Bucky raises his hand and knocks on the door. Once. Twice. With a bent finger — not too loudly, but enough to snap Rogers out of his reverie.

She flinches. He understands it from the barely audible rustle of fabric and swallows again, because it doesn’t matter whether his eyes are closed or not — before his inner gaze flashes: how her shirt jumps up again over her rounded hips, exposing too much. If Avelina had raised her arms a little higher, arched her back... He could have even remembered it...

"I’m not dressed!" — her voice is sharp, frightened.

Bucky slowly exhales, heavily. His head drops, his forehead pressing against the cold surface of the door. Rage churns in his chest, contempt for himself. Gods, how he wishes he could hit himself right now — with all his strength, right in the jaw, so that the heat would rush to the wound and burn his filthy thoughts to the ground.

"I know you’re not..." a barely audible, hoarse, ragged exhale slips from his lips.

And then in response to Avelina, he says hoarsely, soaked, and strangled, sending a shiver down younger Rogers’ spine:

"Dinner," he exhales. "Ready."

He has to clear his throat so as not to give himself away. His fists are trembling. He clenches his teeth, furrows his brows... but notices how traitorously the fabric pulls at the zipper of his pants. Damn it!***

Date: 1991.

The dim light trembles under dusty lamps, leaving ragged yellow streaks on the concrete walls, like dried bloodstains of a faded color. There are no windows here — only cold, oiled walls, soaked with the smell of sour chemicals, rotting flesh, and the iron taste of stale blood. The air is heavy, sticky, like an inseparable layer of dirt that has settled on the skin.

Inside, everything is burning. An invisible flame eats away at the nerves, burns the consciousness, and scorches the remnants of will. His head still cracks from the electric shocks — a dull pain digs into the bones, echoes in the skull, spreads through the body like a painful wave. Scarlet flashes pulse under his eyelids, and inside — there is emptiness, wrapped in a sticky smoke of his own brain’s burning scent.

Everything is familiar. Everything is as usual. Everything is unchanging.

Somewhere far away, beyond this cell, there is a world full of sunlight and fresh air. But here — it is eternal night. In this prison, there is no time, only endless cold, soaked with the iron smell of blood and rust. The air is thick, suffocating, and each breath seems to cling to the lungs, leaving a metallic taste. The dim light trembles under the ceiling, casting long, ugly shadows, and it seems that these shadows are the only witnesses to everything that happens. There is no beginning, no end — only pain, enveloping, slowly blurring the boundaries between reality and the program.

Inside him — silence. But not the kind that brings peace, but the kind that rings in the head like an echo of a distant scream that no one will hear. He knows that memory doesn’t completely disappear — it’s somewhere deep, behind layers of commands and codes. Sometimes, flashes appear in this emptiness: someone’s laughter, sunlight, the warmth of another’s hand. But every time this happens, the pain returns stronger, not letting him hold even the tiniest shards of himself.

The cold here is special. It clings, penetrates under the uniform, gnaws into the bones, spreads inside like black mold. The sounds are muffled, distorted. Somewhere behind closed doors, instruments tick evenly, footsteps creak, and a quiet, dull cry is heard. Someone is sobbing — suppressed, as if they understand that tears will only make things worse, but for some reason, they can’t stop suffering.

From this sound, Activ thinks of breaking someone’s neck and, if not the guards, then himself.

Activ sits, head lowered. His hair clings to the damp sweat on his forehead, hiding his eyes. But he sees. He feels. He watches. Every movement. His muscles remain still, but inside — inside is horror, freezing, numbing, aching like phantom pain. But now, a burning pulse in his temples adds to it. The system has been rebooted, but there’s a glitch in its operation — something clings to his consciousness, not letting him fully plunge into the emptiness.Click.

A dull squeak of the door behind.

Before, there was another sound — sharp, dry, creeping under the skin. The smell of burned flesh, like on that operating table. They shocked him, again and again, until he forgot who he was. Until the world became just a gray spot, full of foreign voices and agony. Only the smell of burned meat let him know he was still alive.

"Soldier," the voice slides like a knife along a raw nerve, even, measured, but with a hint of something maliciously self-satisfied. The Curator enters slowly, step by step. He moves like a snake, lazily and dangerously, as if stretching the pleasure before making the bite.

Activ doesn’t move, but he feels him. He knows what’s coming. Something inside contracts. What remains — is instinct. The reaction of a cornered animal, who knows: any disobedience will be punished. And yet deep inside, something else smolders — a barely perceptible resistance, a tiny crack in the perfect program. He shouldn’t feel. But he does.

The man wears a perfectly fitting suit, impeccably pressed. He enjoys this. He examines Activ, studying him like a collector examining a rare exhibit, a trained beast who doesn’t know that his freedom is always an illusion.

Man is pitiful in his knowledge and desire for independence. Humanity is an organism, and it must be carefully managed — otherwise, everything will collapse.

The Curator stops in front. He dives his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket.

A folder. Click. The paper lies on the table.

A photograph. Activ recognizes the man in it instantly — Howard Stark.Pause.

A click inside his skull. Blurry, rusty, but tangible. He remembers. It’s like a feeling — causing a barely perceptible burn, like a phantom noise at the back of the brain, from which there’s no escape. He didn’t remember him until they showed him.

"Do you recognize him?" the Curator knows the answer. He doesn’t even need a voice. He sees the slightest reactions, tiny glitches in the program. "Of course, you do."

Pause. Activ doesn’t respond. But inside, something shifts.

A new photo. A woman. An older woman. Gray strands, wrinkles on her face. But she looks… happy? Her eyes are full of life. Warmth, light, something indefinably real.Click.

The Curator leans forward slightly. His voice becomes lazy, almost bored:

"There are changes in the mission. With Stark, it will be his wife, Maria." Pierce shakes his head, smirking. "You know what to do, right?"

The Curator turns the page with a new photo.

"You have a privilege," the man continues, crossing his arms over his chest, as if in mockery. "Not everyone can leave their mark on history. But you..." he leans even lower, looking into the Asset's eyes, stretching the word louder. "You're changing it." I'm rewriting everything as it should be. Shouldn't that make you proud of yourself?"Click.

Something stirs in his head.

"No witnesses," the Curator says this not as an order, but as a reminder. A simple, understandable truth.She’s not the target.She mustn’t be.She is not guilty.

"The road is slippery, the night is dark. An accident. Shoot the tire, or better yet, break the glass. The important thing is to make it look clean. Everything, as usual, Soldier."

He has no choice. Activ doesn’t choose. The metal of his fingers creaks barely perceptibly. Somewhere deep, in the place that should have been his mind, something tiny cracks. Insignificant. He has never had a choice. He has never had his own desires. He has never had the ability to act as he wants…Maria Stark — is not the target.She’s a random factor.She’s not guilty.But the order…

His brain struggles to process the words, but the program — precise, relentless — digs in, erasing doubts. He’s been taught that choice is an illusion. He is a tool, a weapon, devoid of will. But every time the task concerns not just objectives, but people, innocent victims, something breaks inside over and over again. His own scream is an echo. He doesn’t know why this order causes a tremor in his fingers.

But he will carry it out. He will kill Maria Stark."No witnesses."

The program glitches. For a split second. But the Curator notices. He smirks crookedly, predatorily, like a snake slipping under the skin.

"You look… concerned," the mockery burns under the skin, leaving poison in the blood. "Does this cause you doubts, Soldier?"

Pause.

Pierce waits. Presses with his gaze. Presses with his presence. But Activ remains silent. Silent, his eyes darting from side to side.Are you afraid? You should be afraid.

The Curator smiles wider:

"The most important thing," his voice becomes even more even, dry, emotionless, "is the serum. Stark has samples. The latest developments. We need this formula. You need to get it. Everything else is just territory cleanup."

Cleanup. The word settles somewhere deep in the retina.Do you remember? We will fix it.

The woman… The system reboots.

Something pulses deep inside the skull. Dull, but persistent. As if the remnants of the electric shock still wander through the nerve endings.

The Curator leans forward again, looking directly into Activ’s eyes. Thin lips move, driving the last nail into the coffin lid:

"What’s your plan, Soldier?"Click.

The program is activated.

The road is slippery. A shot to the tire. The car loses control. A flip. A crash into the glass. Howard loses control. The car skids.

If Stark is alive — finish him off on the spot.

The woman… Maria Stark."No witnesses."

The gears slow down.

The serum.

Get the super-soldier serum.

His head again splits with pain. Something suffocates inside, barely noticeable, but dying slowly...

"The mission will be completed," his voice is even, empty, dead.

Pierce smirks.

"Good, Soldier." His palm rests on Activ's shoulder. A light, almost friendly gesture. Metal creaks faintly.

There are no foreign voices in his head anymore. Only death.

He will carry out the mission unquestioningly. That’s what he was created for. That’s what he was born for.***

Date: 1941. Winter, January.

The train howls long and drawn out. Its sound is long, harsh, like a scream or a wail. The air on the platform is dense, heavy, mingled with coal soot, the cold breath of winter, and something elusive and bitter—the smell of farewells. Snow, once soft and clean, has turned into a dirty mixture of ice and soot beneath hundreds of feet, sticky, clinging, like regrets that follow those departing.

Between the light posts slicing through the dark mist, shadows of people flicker—hurrying, bidding farewell, silently waiting. Someone quietly whispers a prayer, someone hides trembling fingers in mittens, and someone simply stands, weak and speechless, watching the carriages, as if hoping the train might change its mind and not leave.

People bustle back and forth, dropping suitcases, belatedly embracing, laughing—but the laughter is fragile, brittle, strained, like a shard of ice before it cracks. Someone hides their tears, turning away, someone clings to a precious person until the last moment, as if hoping to hold them with their fingers.

Avelina stands by the carriage. In her palm is a crumpled ticket to Cambridge. Her fingers clench it until her knuckles turn white—she holds onto it like a last support. The paper burns in her hand, searing from within. She could tear this ticket. Just squeeze it tighter, and the thin paper would rip. And then she wouldn't have to leave, wouldn't have to take that step into the unknown. But that would only be a postponement, not a solution.

Avelina looks at the city, at the gray rooftops, at the snow-covered streets, at the faces of people who have become her family. She is leaving all of this behind. Her heart beats a dull, slowed rhythm, as if already sinking into the emptiness of parting…

She never thought she would leave New York for such a long time. Years of study at MIT lie ahead. And only in the spring, perhaps, will she manage to return, if only for a short while... Her home—will remain behind. Even the beloved library at Northfield Institute, the smell of its old books, and the quiet hours between the shelves. All of this will become nothing but wistful memories.

Stevie stands a little to the side, wrapped in a warm scarf, his hands in his pockets. He hardly speaks, but Avelina sees how tensely he grits his teeth, as if afraid to say something that would make her change her mind.

"I... I still have to ask. Are you sure, Avelina?" His voice is soft, almost pleading, not wanting to sound weak, but still betraying anxiety.

Avelina swallows, feeling the lump of tears rise in her throat. She nods.

"Yes. But that doesn’t mean I’m not scared."

"You’ll manage," her brother insists, though doubt reflects in his eyes. Or maybe, he doesn’t want to believe she’s really leaving. "Just... Just be careful."

Avelina nods, and suddenly, unable to hold back, she throws herself into his arms, and he holds her so tightly that for a moment, it’s hard to breathe. His fingers seem to dig into her shoulders, trying to remember, hold on, not let go. He exhales, then shudders, and it hurts even more. Stevie holds her tighter, as if afraid that if he lets go—he’ll never see her again.

As though she will never return.

The warmth of his embrace offers some comfort, but inside, something still tears. Avelina feels his fingers twist for a moment, then release. Stevie steps back, unable to look her in the eye.

Then Dolores comes closer, wrapped in a warm woolen coat. Her usually carefree face now looks bewildered. When Avelina turns to her, she sees the tears shining on her cheeks.

"You’ll come back, right?" Her voice trembles. Dolores tries to smile, but the smile comes out painfully, like a wound that hasn’t been allowed to heal.

And Avelina sighs hoarsely, squeezing the strap of her bag tighter. They weren’t close friends... or at least, that’s what she thought. But now, looking at the tear-streaked face of the girl in front of her, she understands: Dolores is also a part of her life. In some way, important, significant. Even though sometimes Rogers envied her, even though her ease and femininity sometimes annoyed her, but now...

Now, it doesn’t matter.

"Of course," Avelina tries to say it confidently, but it comes out too muffled. Dolores hugs her suddenly, desperately, and Avelina feels their shoulders shake in rhythm, as Dolores clings to her, afraid to release her grip.

What did she do to deserve this?

Tears begin to fall down her cheeks, and Rogers no longer tries to hide them. There are few people in her life who truly love her, and those who do... too often leave and never return.

And then—him.

Finally, it’s Bucky’s turn. He stands a little apart. Snow falls in a thin layer on his coat, and he doesn’t brush it off, as if he doesn’t even notice. His face is almost calm, but in his eyes... In his eyes, something bottomless, burning, lies hidden, something he will never say. Something he won’t admit to anyone.

Farewell. Pain. Helplessness.

Bucky never imagined that the "persistent nonsense"—as he had called it in childhood, would someday be so far away that he wouldn’t be able to care for her at any moment she needed him. He wouldn’t be able to help, protect, keep her safe…

Now, to see her, he will need to spend a whole ten hours of travel one way, and to return to New York—another ten hours. Avelina had never been so far from him. And if only a few weeks ago, he could reject the fact of the impending separation, now he feels it fully.

Avelina takes a step, hesitant, but Bucky takes it first. And embraces her. Suddenly. Too tightly, so that she gasps for air. Not just an embrace—it’s desperation, hopelessness, an attempt to say without words: "Stay. Please." Avelina feels his fingers digging into her coat, squeezing at the back of her neck, tangling in her hair. He doesn’t want to let go. He can’t let her go.

And Avelina feels how his fingers tremble. Barely noticeable, but still trembling. If she were braver, she would tell him she doesn’t want to leave either. That every movement toward the train is a betrayal. But the words won’t come. All that remains is a few moments, in which she tries to remember the warmth of his hands and the thumping of his heart, pressed to her temple.

The embrace is such that her bones creak. Her body aches, it’s hard to breathe. For a moment, Bucky squeezes her even tighter, and Avelina wants him to press her deeper into his body, to never part from him, to always be by his side. To become one with him…

But with the next breath—Bucky lets her go.

"Don’t forget us, okay?" His voice sounds muffled, hoarse, painful. Bucky, if he were a little braver, if he could be honest with himself, would say: Don’t forget me, okay? Don’t leave, don’t abandon, don’t go, please…

Avelina clenches her jaw to keep from bursting into tears right on his shoulder. She doesn’t want to leave, but she knows she must.

"Never," she whispers, gripping him a little tighter. Their fingers intertwine, palms pressed together in the tightest grip: Please don’t leave…

But this is her future. Her life. And she can’t be tied to Bucky, like a keychain on a ring—forever. There will come a time, and they will drift apart. And by then, Avelina doesn’t want to be completely crippled by her feelings and helplessness. Love will always lurk in her heart. But she must think with her head.

The embrace ends too quickly, and now the conductor announces boarding. Avelina looks back one last time at her family—the soft lines of Stevie’s face, Dolores’s sparkling tears, the shadow of pain in Bucky’s eyes. She wants to hold onto this moment, preserve it in her memory, like an old photograph that can be taken out on cold nights of loneliness. But the train does not wait, time does not wait. It pulls her forward, like a tide washing away traces in the sand.

Stevie—tense but smiling through the pain. Dolores—wiping away tears but trying to look cheerful. Her smile is sincere, despite everything. And Bucky… Bucky—with that unreadable expression in his eyes, as if he wants to say something more, but it’s already too late. If he starts, she’ll miss the boarding, and the train will leave. And he can’t do that to her.

Avelina climbs the steps into the carriage, shivering as she grips the handle of her travel bag, in which she managed to fit eighteen years of her life. The train jolts, slowly gaining speed. Through the window, she sees her family left behind. With every new meter that separates her from the platform, it becomes harder to breathe. As if something inside is tearing, like invisible threads that bound her to home, snapping one after the other.

She knew this moment would come, she prepared for it, but only now has she fully realized its inevitability. Time moves in only one direction. And she—she is heading into the unknown, to a new beginning, to a new life…

English is not my native language! Maybe there are a lot of mistakes. ♡♡♡

My AO3^ My Tiktok My Wattpad

[enchantedvistas]

1, 4, 12, 21, 22, 31, 50 ♥ please and thank you 🌻

Thank you for these <3 1. Who is/are your comfort character(s)? I'm not thinking this way, like ever, so I needed some time to think about it. Tony Tony Chopper from One Piece Mikasa from Attack On Titan Marty Deeks from NCIS: Los Angeles 4.Which cryptyd being do you believe in? Mothman, Mongolian death worm, Sea serpants, Mermaids, Fairies 12.What kind of day is it? Meh. It started good, everything was fine, work wasn't so bad today, but then me and my brain decided to ruin it... 21.Something you've kept since childhood? Are traumas acceptable answer here? Besides that nothing really, I don't want to remember my childhood. 22.What type of person are you? Overall, I am a kind-hearted and introspective person, working to overcome my traumas, while staying committed to helping others and creating a positive future as much as I can. I just don't know what to say here, I think I don't know much about myself, I just wanna be freaking happy. Self-Awareness doesn't exist here.

31.What type of music keeps you grounded? I tend to try relate to a lot of lyrics, so anything without a lyrics or the lyrics that I can't understand can calm me down. Something like Ren Avel, Joe Hisaishi. But also Wardruna, Casiopea, Mree... 50.Can I tag you in random stuff? yes, yes, yes and yes please <3

[el-delacruz]

Samsung x Charles Jeffrey - Night mode from matilda finn on Vimeo.

DIRECTOR: MATILDA FINN DOP: BEN FORDESMAN EP: RUPERT REYNOLDS-MACLEAN PROD CO: BISCUIT FILMWORKS PRODUCER: SIMON EAKHURST PRODUCTION MANAGER: LUKE THORNTON DIRECTORS ASSISTANT: NELLIE HERON-ANSTEAD PRODUCTION CO-ORDINATOR: ROMA NESI PIO CHOREOGRAPHER: PIERRE BABBAGE AGENCY: MOTHER LONDON EDIT: STITCH EDITING EDIT PRODUCER: ANGELA HART EDITOR: LEO KING EDITOR ASSISTANT: LUKE ANDERSON POST PRODUCTION: TIME BASED ARTS POST PRODUCER: CHRIS ALIANO COLOURIST: SIMONE GRATAROLLA 2D LEAD: OLLIE RAMSEY 2D TEAM: THIAGO DANTAS, WILL ROBINSON, MICHAEL AVELING, RALPH BRISCOE, ADAM LEARY, TOM MACKAY-THOMAS SOUND: MARK HILLS @ FACTORY MUSIC: WAX WINGS CAST CO-ORDINATOR: GABIJA LAUCE COVID-19 CO-ORDINATOR: CAMILLA MORRIS LOCATION MANAGER (SHOOTING UNIT): GEORGE VERDON-SMITH LOCATION ASSISTANT (DAYTIME PREP): NICK JAY 1ST ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: BEN GILL 2ND ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: CHRIS MEARS 3RD ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: KITTY RAJAKULASINGAM RUNNER: ALEX MCALLISTER RUNNER: KAI RAJAKULASINGAM RUNNER: TIGER BREWER PRODUCTION/AGENCY RUNNER: AYESHA ANDERSON FOCUS PULLER: ANDREW BRADLEY CLAPPER LOADER: ADAM GREEN CAMERA TRAINEE: CAROLINA DA COSTA KEY GRIP: DAVID HOLIDAY GRIP (TECH RECCE ONLY): DAN MORIARTY GRIP TRAINEE: WILLIAM MILES DIT: MIKE MCDUFFIE VIDEO PLAYBACK OPERATOR: CHAZ NORTHAM VIDEO PLAYBACK ASSISTANT: RAPHAEL BALOGUN CAMERA CAR DRIVER: ALISTER BUGGE DRONE PILOT: PETE AYRISS DRONE REMOTE HEAD OPERATOR: TOM ALDCROFT MOTION CONTROL OPERATOR: JUSTIN PENTECOST MOTION CONTROL ASSISTANT: STUART GALLOWAY SOUND RECORDIST: SAM MENDELSSOHN GAFFER: JONO YATES DESK OPERATOR: JOE BEARDSMORE ELECTRICIAN: ALEX GIBBONS ELECTRICIAN: ALEX MAGILL ELECTRICIAN: BEN SKYRME ELECTRICIAN: DAX SHARKEY GENNY OPERATOR: TONY BRUCE RIGGING GAFFER: MICHAEL SMIT RIGGING ELECTRICIAN: CHRISTIAN HAYES RIGGING ELECTRICIAN: JOHN MALANEY RIGGING ELECTRICIAN: NICK BRITT RIGGING GENNY OPERATOR: PAUL ROWE RIGGER: JAMES MALLOY RIGGER: MICHAEL LEE FROST TELEHANDLER OPERATOR: STEFANO ZIPPO PRODUCTION DESIGNER: DAN TAYLOR ASSISTANT ART DIRECTOR (DRESSING): LAUREN DIX ASSISTANT ART DIRECTOR (DRESSING): PHIL BROCKLEHURST STYLIST (DRESSING): FREYA HAAK ART DEPARTMENT RUNNER (DRESSING): ANNIKA BERTFIELD ART DEPARTMENT RUNNER (DRESSING): BEA DAVIDSON MASTER PROPS (DRESSING): PHIL SMITH PROPS (DRESSING): ANDREW BALCON PROPS (DRESSING): ANDREW MATTHEWS PROPS (DRESSING): DONNCHA ALBERT RAHILL MASTER PROPS STANDBY: JASON BRADLEY MASTER PROPS PRODUCT STANDBY: LEO TURNBALL CONSTRUCTION MANAGER: NICK DILWORTH CONSTRUCTION: CASEY CONCANNON CONSTRUCTION: EAMONN CONAGHAN CONSTRUCTION: GERT RADEMEYER CONSTRUCTION: GREG SIMPSON CONSTRUCTION: MATT AMOS CONSTRUCTION: RAMZI JABBUR CONSTRUCTION: THIBAULT MARTINEAU SFX SUPERVISOR: STEVE HUTCHINSON SFX TECHNICIAN: CHRIS GIBBS SFX TECHNICIAN: ED SMITH SFX TECHNICIAN: SAMUEL HUE-VASHON STYLIST: BEN SCHOFIELD STYLIST ASSISTANT: KIT SWANN STYLIST ASSISTANT: SCOTT CRUFT MAKE-UP ARTIST: PHOEBE WALTERS MAKE-UP ASSISTANT: CHANTAL AMARI MAKE-UP ASSISTANT: ESME HORN MAKE-UP ASSISTANT: NIC PASKAUSKAS HAIR ARTIST: CLAIRE MOORE HAIR ASSISTANT: ANNA JOHNSON HAIR ASSISTANT: ERIKA FREEDMAN HAIR ASSISTANT: KRESZEND SACKEY PROSTHETIC SUPERVISOR: VICTORIA MONEY PROSTHETIC ARTIST: ALEX HARPER PROSTHETIC ASSISTANT: DOMINIQUE BUTLER H&S OFFICER/COVID SUPERVISOR: DAVE WATKINS UNIT MEDIC: DAVID BROAD PREP MEDIC: JAI MASSEY IFA CO-ORDINATOR & MAIN TESTER: ALEX RALLS IFA TECHNICIAN: ALEX CAMPBELL IFA TECHNICIAN: DIVINE ZAKI IFA TECHNICIAN: MADJID KALE IFA TECHNICIAN: MARK SANDBERG IFA TECHNICIAN: ROXANNE MARTIN IFA TECHNICIAN: STUART WALKER IFA TECHNICIAN: ZYGI VOLOSINTAS ANIMAL HANDLER: DEAN CLARKE ANIMAL HANDLER: CERYS WILLIAMS ANIMAL HANDLER: DERRY WELLS ANIMAL HANDLER: LUCY SMITH VET: DR. AIDA FERREIRA VFX SUPERVISOR: OLLIE RAMSEY CATERING: PHIL WARD BARISTA: ALEX CUNNINGHAM MINIBUS 1: MARK RIGHELATO MINIBUS 2: LEE RIGHELATO MINIBUS 3: PAT O’LEARY PREP 4 X 4 DRIVER: ANTON WRIGHT UNIT 4 X 4 DRIVER: PETER JONES UNIT 4 X 4 DRIVER: SIMON PHIPPS FACILITIES: GARY MOORE FACILITIES: PAUL HADDOCK FACILITIES: WARREN SMART SECURITY: ALEX LANEY SECURITY: ANTHONY RICHARDS SECURITY: BARZAN MOHAMED SECURITY: JAMEL WOODFORD SECURITY: JOHN TURNER SECURITY: MARK EDWARDS SECURITY: COLLIN WILLSON SECURITY: GRAHAM DYER SECURITY: LEIGH FOXALL SECURITY: ALAN LANEY SECURITY: RICHARD JOHNSON WIRE SUPERVISOR: BOB SCHOFIELD WIRE TECHNICIAN: MAX SCHOFIELD ARTIST: CHARLI XCX ARTIST MANAGER: SAM PRINGLE ARTIST MAKE UP ARTIST: FRANCESCA BRAZZO ARTIST MAKE UP ASSISTANT: ALEJANDRO ORTIZ ARTIST HAIR ARTIST: PATRICK WILSON ARTIST HAIR ASSISTANT: CHARLES STANLEY ARTIST NAIL TECHNICIAN: MICHELLE HUMPHREY TALENT: CHARLIE BUCKLAND TALENT: TRACY BARGATE TALENT: NIAMH WOODS TALENT: CY FOXX TALENT: AUSSIE TALENT: YILING ZHAO TALENT: EDEN JODIE TALENT: JASON BATTERSBY TALENT: JOHN KAMAU TALENT: KIA LEE TALENT: ALEX MARGO ARDEN TALENT: CAMRYN YULE TALENT: JENKIN VAN ZYL TALENT: NAN MTHEMBU TALENT: ALICE CORRIGAN TALENT: HUGO HAMLET

[tumsozluk]

Seagate cuts 3,000 employees in latest sign of major PC and cloud slowdown

Seagate cuts 3,000 employees in latest sign of major PC and cloud slowdown

Tony Aveler | Bloomberg | Bloomberg | Getty Images hard disk manufacturer seagate technology On Wednesday, it plans to cut 8% of its global workforce, or about 3,000 employees, citing economic uncertainty and declining demand for parts. Seagate Chief Executive Dave Mosley said on a conference call with analysts, “In addition to adjusting production volumes and promoting supply discipline and…

[sid-red]

Broad—Church Labour Party

Spartacus Blog Left-wing pressure groups in the Labour Party Sections The Independent Labour Party The First World War The Socialist League References John Simkin In a recent interview he gave to The Guardian newspaper, Neil Kinnock argued that their are strong connections between Momentum, and Militant, the organization that he fought against soon after he became leader of the Labour Party. Kinnock quotes George Orwell as saying "People who forget their past are doomed to relive it. That’s why we’ve got to make sure we don’t forget that past.” (1) Politicians are always attempting to find parallels with events from the past. There are of course similarities as both Militant and Momentum were left-wing pressure groups within the Labour Party. Kinnock, however used another left-wing pressure group, Tribune, to help him be elected as leader in October 1983. He won the votes of 91% of party members but only a minority of MPs. Kinnock, therefore employed Peter Mandelson, to develop a strategy to isolate the left. This involved the expulsion of Militant figures such as Terry Fields, Derek Hatton and Tony Mulhearn. (2) However, this was a very different situation to the one facing the Labour Party today. Militant at its peak only had 8,000 members and had little impact on party policy. In contrast Momentum has the support of 17,000 members, and has been an important factor in getting its candidate elected to become leader of the Labour Party. A much better parallel is with the Socialist League that supported George Lansbury when he became leader of the party in October 1932. It is a story that Momentum should take some time to study as although it dominated policy making at the time, its leaders were expelled in 1937. The clash between left and right began when the Labour Party was formed on 27th February 1900. Representatives of all the socialist groups in Britain (the Independent Labour Party (ILP) the Social Democratic Federation (SDF) and the Fabian Society, met with trade union leaders at the Congregational Memorial Hall in Farringdon Street. The unions represented had a total of 570,000 members. (3) Ramsay Macdonald of the ILP told the meeting that the intention of the conference was an "attempt in good-humoured tolerance" to create a united organization. After a debate the 129 delegates decided to pass Hardie's motion to establish "a distinct Labour group in Parliament, who shall have their own whips, and agree upon their policy, which must embrace a readiness to cooperate with any party which for the time being may be engaged in promoting legislation in the direct interests of labour." To make this possible the Conference established a Labour Representation Committee (LRC). This committee included two members from the ILP, two from the SDF, one member of the Fabian Society, and seven trade unionists. (4) It was uneasy alliance of socialists and liberals. The SDF was established by H. M. Hyndman, who had been converted to Marxism by reading Das Capital in 1881. Members over the years included William Morris, Tom Mann, John Burns. Eleanor Marx, George Lansbury, Edward Aveling, H. H. Champion, Theodore Rothstein, Helen Taylor, John Scurr, Guy Aldred, Dora Montefiore, Frank Harris, Clara Codd, John Spargo and Ben Tillett. Under the leadership of Keir Hardie, the ILP had been formed in 1893. It was decided that the main objective of the party would be "to secure the collective ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange". Leading figures in this new organization included Robert Smillie, George Bernard Shaw, George Barnes, John Glasier, Philip Snowden, Edward Carpenter and Ramsay Macdonald. The Independent Labour Party In 1895 the ILP had 35,000 members. However, in the 1895 General Election the ILP put up 28 candidates but won only 44,325 votes. All the candidates were defeated but the ILP began to have success in local elections. Over 600 won seats on borough councils and in 1898 the ILP joined with the the SDF to make West Ham the first local authority to have a Labour majority. This experience convinced Keir Hardie that to obtain national electoral success, it would be necessary to join forces with other left-wing groups. On 27th February 1900, representatives of all the socialist groups in Britain (the Independent Labour Party, the Social Democratic Federation and the Fabian Society, met with trade union leaders at the Congregational Memorial Hall in Farringdon Street. After a debate the 129 delegates decided to pass Hardie's motion to establish "a distinct Labour group in Parliament, who shall have their own whips, and agree upon their policy, which must embrace a readiness to cooperate with any party which for the time being may be engaged in promoting legislation in the direct interests of labour." To make this possible the Conference established a Labour Representation Committee (LRC). This committee included two members from the Independent Labour Party, two from the Social Democratic Federation, one member of the Fabian Society, and seven trade unionists. Whereas the ILP, SDF and the Fabian Society were socialist organizations, the trade union leaders tended to favour the Liberal Party. As Edmund Dell pointed out in his book, A Strange Eventful History: Democratic Socialism in Britain (1999): "The ILP was from the beginning socialist... but the trade unions which participated in the foundation were not yet socialist. Many trade union leaders were, in politics, inclined to Liberalism and their purpose was to strengthen labour representation in the House of Commons under Liberal party auspices. Hardie and the ILP nevertheless wished to secure the collaboration of trade unions. They were therefore prepared to accept that the LRC would not at the outset have socialism as its objective." (5) Ramsay MacDonald was chosen as the secretary of the LRC. As he was financed by his wealthy wife, Margaret MacDonald, he did not have to be paid a salary. The LRC put up fifteen candidates in the 1900 General Election and between them they won 62,698 votes. Two of the candidates, Keir Hardie and Richard Bell won seats in the House of Commons. Hardie was the leader of the ILP but Bell, the General Secretary of the Amalgamated Society of Railway Servants, once in Parliament, associated himself with the Liberal Party. (6) Keir Hardie (c. 1900) Keir Hardie (c. 1900) Many members of the party were uncomfortable with the Marxism of the Social Democratic Federation and H. M. Hyndman had very little influence over the development of the new organization Hardie was hostile to the SDF and thought it vitally important that he persuaded the more conservative trade union movement to support the LRC. In August 1901 the SDF disaffiliated from the LRC. (7) The Independent Labour Party (ILP) was the main left-wing pressure group in the early years of the Labour Party. Ralph Miliband, the author of Parliamentary Socialism (1972) has argued that its members attempted "to push their leaders into accepting more radical policies and programmes, and to press upon them more militant attitudes in response to challenges from Labour's opponents". (8) In the 1906 General Election the LRC won twenty-nine seats. This included Ramsay MacDonald (Leicester) Keir Hardie (Merthyr Tydfil), Philip Snowden (Blackburn), Arthur Henderson (Barnard Castle), George Barnes (Glasgow Blackfriars), Will Thorne (West Ham), Fred Jowett (Bradford) and James Parker (Halifax). At a meeting on 12th February, 1906, the group of MPs decided to change from the LRC to the Labour Party. Hardie was elected chairman and MacDonald was selected to be the party's secretary. Despite providing the two leaders the party, only six of the MPs were supporters of the ILP. (9) This success was due to a secret alliance with the Liberal Party. The Clarion newspaper wrote: "There is probably not more than one place in Britain (if there is one) where we can get a Socialist into Parliament without some arrangement with Liberalism, and for such an arrangement Liberalism will demand a terribly heavy price - more than we can possibly afford." (10) In July 1907, the 25-year-old, Victor Grayson, a member of the ILP, stood as an independent "Labour and Socialist" candidate in a by-election at Colne Valley, without the endorsement of the Labour Party. He was elected on a left-wing socialist programme. The Daily Express reported: "The Red Flag waves over the Colne Valley... the fever of socialism has infected thousands of workers, who, judging from their merriment this evening, seem to think Mr Grayson's return means the millennium for them." (11) Grayson refused to accept the discipline of the Parliamentary Party and sat as an independent member. In the House of Commons he attacked the gradualism of the Labour Party: "We are advised to advance imperceptibly - to go at a snail's pace - to take one step at a time. Surely there are some young enough to take two steps or more at a time." (12) Grayson's impassioned zeal in pressing the claims of the unemployed soon involved him in angry scenes and he was eventually suspended from the House of Commons: "Grayson's activities were profoundly embarrassing to his colleagues, both because these activities were deemed to compromise the Labour Group's respectability, and also because they offered to the activists a striking contrast with the Group's own lack of impact." (13) Over the next seven years Labour MPs gave its support to the Liberal government. The chief whip reported in 1910: Throughout this period I was always able to count on the support of the Labour Party." One Labour supporter asked: "How can the man in the street, whom we are continually importuning to forsake his old political associations, ever be led to believe that the Labour Party is in any way different to the Liberal Party, when this sort of thing is recurring." (14) John Glasier argued that Ramsay MacDonald gave him the impression that he had lost faith in socialism and wanted to move the Labour Party to the right: "I noticed that Ramsay MacDonald in speaking of the appeal we should send out for capital used the word 'Democratic' rather than 'Labour' or 'Socialist' as describing the character of the newspaper. I rebulked him flatly and said we would have no 'democratic' paper but a Socialist and Labour one - boldly proclaimed. Why does MacDonald always seem to try and shirk the word Socialism except when he is writing critical books about the subject." (15) Labour Party poster on the House of Lords (1910) Labour Party poster on the House of Lords (1910) At the end of July, 1914, it became clear to the British government that the country was on the verge of war with Germany. Four senior members of the government, Charles Trevelyan, David Lloyd George, John Burns and John Morley, were opposed to the country becoming involved in a European war. They informed the Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, that they intended to resign over the issue. When war was declared on 4th August, three of the men, Trevelyan, Burns and Morley, resigned, but Asquith managed to persuade Lloyd George, his Chancellor of the Exchequer, to change his mind. (16) The anti-war newspaper, The Daily News, commented: "Among the many reports which are current as to Ministerial resignations there seems to be little doubt in regard to three. They are those of Lord Morley, Mr. John Burns, and Mr. Charles Trevelyan. There will be widespread sympathy with the action they have taken. Whether men approve of that action or not it is a pleasant thing in this dark moment to have this witness to the sense of honour and to the loyalty to conscience which it indicates... Mr. Trevelyan will find abundant work in keeping vital those ideals which are at the root of liberty and which are never so much in danger as in times of war and social disruption." (17) The First World War The Labour Party was completely divided by their approach to the First World War. Those who opposed the war, included Ramsay MacDonald, Keir Hardie, Philip Snowden, John Glasier, George Lansbury, Alfred Salter, William Mellor and Fred Jowett. Others in the party such as Arthur Henderson, George Barnes, J. R. Clynes, William Adamson, Will Thorne and Ben Tillett believed that the movement should give total support to the war effort. On 5th August, 1914, the parliamentary party voted to support the government's request for war credits of £100,000,000. MacDonald immediately resigned the chairmanship. He wrote in his diary: "I saw it was no use remaining as the Party was divided and nothing but futility could result. The Chairmanship was impossible. The men were not working, were not pulling together, there was enough jealously to spoil good feeling. The Party was no party in reality. It was sad, but glad to get out of harness." (18) Independent Labour Party certificate (1914) Independent Labour Party certificate (1914) Opponents of the war in the Labour Party joined forces with rebels in the Liberal Party to form the Union of Democratic Control. Members of the UDC agreed that one of the main reasons for the conflict was the secret diplomacy of people like Britain's foreign secretary, Sir Edward Grey. They decided that the Union of Democratic Control should have three main objectives: (i) that in future to prevent secret diplomacy there should be parliamentary control over foreign policy; (ii) there should be negotiations after the war with other democratic European countries in an attempt to form an organization to help prevent future conflicts; (iii) that at the end of the war the peace terms should neither humiliate the defeated nation nor artificially rearrange frontiers as this might provide a cause for future wars. (19) In the 1918 General Election all the leading members of the peace movement lost their seats in Parliament. This included Ramsay MacDonald, Charles Trevelyan, Philip Snowden, George Lansbury and Fred Jowett. On the surface it seemed that the UDC had achieved very little. However, as A.J.P. Taylor has pointed out: "It launched a version of international relations which gradually won general acceptance far beyond the circle of those who knew they were being influenced by the UDC." (20) In the 1922 General Election the Labour Party won 142 seats, making it the second largest political group in the House of Commons after the Conservative Party (347). David Marquand has pointed out that: "The new parliamentary Labour Party was a very different body from the old one. In 1918, 48 Labour M.P.s had been sponsored by trade unions, and only three by the ILP. Now about 100 members belonged to the ILP, while 32 had actually been sponsored by it, as against 85 who had been sponsored by trade unions.... In Parliament, it could present itself for the first time as the movement of opinion rather than of class." (21) Labour Party poster for the 1923 General Election. Labour Party poster for the 1923 General Election. In the 1923 General Election, the Labour Party won 191 seats. Although the Conservative Party had 258 seats, Herbert Asquith announced that the Liberal Party would not keep the Tories in office. "With a House of Commons constituted as this House is it is idle to talk of the imminent dangers of a Socialist regime." If a Labour Government were ever to be tried in Britain, he declared, "it could hardly be tried under safer conditions". (22) On 22nd January, 1924 Stanley Baldwin resigned. At midday, Ramsay MacDonald went to Buckingham Palace to be appointed prime minister. He later recalled how George V complained about the singing of the Red Flag and the La Marseilles, at the Labour Party meeting in the Albert Hall a few days before. MacDonald apologized but claimed that there would have been a riot if he had tried to stop it. He added that he was having difficulties with his "extremists". He added "it had required all his influence and that of his moderate and immediate friends to prevent this taking place; they had got into the way of singing this song and it will be by degrees that he hopes to break down this habit." (23) Philip Snowden recalled how he had a meeting with Ramsay MacDonald, Jimmy Thomas, Arthur Henderson and Sidney Webb about the strategy of the Labour government. "The conversation turned upon what we might be able to do in the first session. There would be two courses open to us. We might use the opportunity for a demonstration and introduce some bold Socialist measures, knowing, of course, that we should be defeated upon them. Then we could go to the country with this illustration of what we would do if we had a Socialist majority. This was of course which had been urged by the extreme wing of the party (ILP), but it was not a policy which commended itself to reasonable opinion. I urged very strongly to this meeting that we should not adopt an extreme policy but should confine our legislative proposals to measures that we were likely to be able to carry... We must show the country that we were not under the domination of the wild men." (24) Labour Party poster for the 1924 General Election. Labour Party poster for the 1924 General Election. Only two Ministers, John Wheatley, at the Ministry of Health, and Fred Jowett, at the Office of Works, represented the left-wing of the party. According to Ralph Miliband: "Now, he (MacDonald) felt, was the Labour Party's great chance to dispel any suspicion that it was a party of revolt and to show the country how free a Labour Government was from any class bias." (25) As Ian S. Wood has pointed out: "Wheatley's Housing (Financial Provisions) Act was the only major legislative achievement of the 1924 Labour government. Until its subsidy provisions were repealed by the National Government in 1934, a substantial proportion of all rented local authority housing in Britain was built under its terms and sixty years later there were still people in Scotland who spoke of Wheatley houses. The act was a complex one, bringing together trade unions, building firms, and local authorities in a scheme to tackle a housing shortage which was guaranteed central government funding provided that building standards set by the act were adhered to." (26) Members of establishment were appalled by the idea of a Prime Minister who was a socialist. As Gill Bennett has argued, the intelligence services were working closely with the Conservative Party to bring the Labour government down: "Although the short-lived Labour Government was in many respects unexceptionably moderate, and surprisingly successful in both economic and foreign policy, its opponents were not only waiting for it to make a fatal mistake, but also working to undermine it in any way possible." (27) On 25th July 1924 John Ross Campbell published an "Open Letter to the Fighting Forces" in the Worker's Weekly newspaper that had been written anonymously by Harry Pollitt, the leader of the Communist Party of Great Britain (CPGB). The article called on soldiers to "let it be known that, neither in the class war nor in a military war, will you turn your guns on your fellow workers". Sir Patrick Hastings, the Attorney General, initially advised Ramsay MacDonald, to prosecute Campbell under the Incitement to Mutiny Act 1797. However, Hastings later changed his mind because he was "a man of otherwise excellent character with a fine war record." The opposition parties accused the minority Labour government of being under the influence of the CPGB. (28) In September 1924 the MI5 intercepted a letter written by Grigory Zinoviev, chairman of the Comintern in the Soviet Union. The Zinoviev Letter urged British communists to promote revolution through acts of sedition. Vernon Kell, head of MI5 and Sir Basil Thomson head of Special Branch, told Ramsay MacDonald that they were convinced that the letter was genuine. While this was going on MacDonald faced a motion of no confidence in the House of Commons over the way he had dealt with the John Ross Campbell case. In the debate that took place on 8th October, MacDonald gave an uninspiring account of events and when he lost the motion by 304 to 191 votes, he decided to resign and a general election was announced for Wednesday, 29th October, 1924. It was initially agreed that the Zinoviev Letter should be kept secret. However, just before the election, someone leaked news of the letter to the Times and the Daily Mail. The letter was published in these newspapers four days before the 1924 General Election and contributed to the defeat of MacDonald. The Conservatives won 412 seats and formed the next government. The real losers in the election were the Liberals who now only had 42 MPs. Labour actually gained 1.1 million votes though they lost forty seats, falling to 151. "Labour had established itself, not a party of real socialism (which at that time would not have attracted many millions of votes) but as the credible party to form His Majesty's Opposition". (29) Ramsay MacDonald suggested he had been a victim of a political conspiracy: "I am also informed that the Conservative Headquarters had been spreading abroad for some days that... a mine was going to be sprung under our feet, and that the name of Zinoviev was to be associated with mine. Another Guy Fawkes - a new Gunpowder Plot... The letter might have originated anywhere. The staff of the Foreign Office up to the end of the week thought it was authentic... I have not seen the evidence yet. All I say is this, that it is a most suspicious circumstance that a certain newspaper and the headquarters of the Conservative Association seem to have had copies of it at the same time as the Foreign Office, and if that is true how can I avoid the suspicion - I will not say the conclusion - that the whole thing is a political plot?" (30) After the election it was claimed that two of MI5's agents, Sidney Reilly and Arthur Maundy Gregory, had forged the letter. According to Christopher Andrew, the author of The Defence of the Realm: The Authorized History of MI5 (2009), it was clear that Major George Joseph Ball (1885-1961), a MI5 officer, played an important role in leaking it to the press. In 1927 Ball went to work for the Conservative Central Office where he pioneered the idea of spin-doctoring. (31) Of the 151 MPs, 114 were members of the ILP. H. N. Brailsford, became the new editor of the the ILP newspaper, the New Leader (the former Labour Leader). As chairman of the party, Clifford Allen helped to formulate ILP policy with pamphlets such as Putting Socialism Into Practice (1924), The ILP and Revolution (1925) and Socialism in Our Time (1926). In opposition the ILP devoted much effort to "formulate policies which would, in its view, be appropriate to a movement which was theoretically pledged to the establishment of a socialist society in Britain". It also attempted to persuade the Labour Party "to incorporate these policies in its own programme" and "to compel the Labour leadership to act upon these policies". (32) In 1925 James Maxton led the "Socialism in Our Time" campaign and the following year was elected as leader of the ILP. It was reported that by 1927 the ILP became a growing influence in the Labour Party. It was claimed, with some justification, "a very marked growth of the organized left-wing opposition within the British Labour Party... which is causing the Right-Wing Labour bureaucracy more and more anxiety and alarm". A conference was held in September of that year where 54 local branches of the Labour Party were represented. (33) Ramsay MacDonald continued with his policy of presenting the Labour Party as a moderate force in politics and refused to support the 1926 General Strike. MacDonald argued that strikes should not be used as a political weapon and that the best way to obtain social reform was through parliamentary elections. He was especially critical of A. J. Cook. He wrote in his diary: "It really looks tonight as though there was to be a General Strike to save Mr. Cook's face... The election of this fool as miners' secretary looks as though it would be the most calamitous thing that ever happened to the T.U. movement." (34) James Maxton by John Lavery James Maxton by John Lavery At the 1928 Annual Conference, James Maxton and Arthur J. Cook, published a manifesto that complained that "in recent times" there had been "a serious departure from the principles and policy which animated the founders". The authors went on to argue: "As a result of the new conception that Socialism and Capitalism should sink their differences, much of the energy which should be expended in fighting Capitalism is now expanded in crushing everybody who dares to remain true to the ideals of the Movement." (35) Armed with the crushing power of the trade union vote, the Labour leadership was able to defeat the policies proposed by the ILP. Philip Snowden, who had left the ILP in 1927, proposed the ILP disbandment. Clifford Allen, one of MacDonald's close advisers, argued that this would be a mistake as "there was a necessity for a Left Wing organization in the larger Party; otherwise there would be a tendency of certain elements to drift towards the Communist Party". (36) By 1928 Ramsay MacDonald was 62 years old. He wrote in his diary: "How tired I am. My brain is fagged, work is difficult, and there is a darkness on the face of the land. I am ashamed of some speeches I have made, but what can I do? I have no time to prepare anything. It looks as though it will be harder to make my necessary income this year. I wonder how this problem of an income for political Labour leaders with no, or small, independent means is to be solved. No one seems to understand it. To be the paid servant of the State is objectionable; to begin making an income on Friday afternoon and going hard at it till Sunday night, taking meetings in the interval, is too wearing for human flesh and blood. On the other hand, to live on £400 a year is impossible. If it killed one in a clean, efficient business-like way why should one object, but it cripples and tortures first by lowering the quality of work done and then by pushing one into long months of slowly ebbing vitality and mental paralysis." (37) MacDonald's moderate image was popular with the voters and he was expected to lead his party to victory in the 1929 General Election. However, some thought that the party needed to promise more dramatic reform. Richard Tawney sent a letter to the leaders of the party: "If the Labour Election Programme is to be of any use it must have something concrete and definite about unemployment... What is required is a definite statement that (a) Labour Government will initiate productive work on a larger scale, and will raise a loan for the purpose. (b) That it will maintain from national funds all men not absorbed in such work." MacDonald refused to be persuaded by Tawney's ideas and rejected the idea that unemployment could be cured by public works. During the election campaign, David Lloyd George, the leader of the Liberal Party, published a pamphlet, We Can Conquer Unemployment, where he proposed a government scheme where 350,000 men were to be employed on road-building, 60,000 on housing, 60,000 on telephone development and 62,000 on electrical development. The coast would be £250 million, and the money would be raised by loan. John Maynard Keynes, the country's leading economist, also published a pamphlet supporting Lloyd George's scheme. (38) In the 1929 General Election the Conservatives won 8,664,000 votes, the Labour Party 8,360,000 and the Liberals 5,300,000. However, the bias of the system worked in Labour's favour, and in the House of Commons the party won 287 seats, the Conservatives 261 and the Liberals 59. MacDonald became Prime Minister again, but as before, he still had to rely on the support of the Liberals to hold onto power. MacDonald refused to appoint left-wing members of his party to his cabinet. This included John Wheatley who had been a great success as housing minister in the 1924 government. Philip Snowden later recalled: "During the time we had been in Opposition (1925-29), Wheatley had dissociated himself from his former Cabinet colleagues, and had gone to the back benches into the company of the Clydesiders. In the country, too, he had made speeches attacking his late colleagues. MacDonald was strongly opposed to offering him a post in the new Government. Wheatley had deserted us and insulted us, and MacDonald thought the country would be shocked if he were included in the Cabinet, and it would be taken as evidence of rebel influence." However, Arthur Henderson, disagreed with MacDonald. So did Snowden, who argued: "Arthur Henderson took the view, and I was inclined to agree with him, that it might be better to have him inside than outside. I took this view from my experience of him as a Minister. he was a man who, when free from the responsibility of office, would make extreme speeches; but as a Minister I had always found him to be reasonable and practical." (39) In March 1931 MacDonald asked Sir George May, to form a committee to look into Britain's economic problems. The committee included two members that had been nominated from the three main political parties. At the same time, John Maynard Keynes, the chairman of the Economic Advisory Council, published his report on the causes and remedies for the depression. This included an increase in public spending and by curtailing British investment overseas. Philip Snowden rejected these ideas and this was followed by the resignation of Charles Trevelyan, the Minister of Education. In a letter to the prime minister he explained his actions: "For some time I have realized that I am very much out of sympathy with the general method of Government policy. In the present disastrous condition of trade it seems to me that the crisis requires big Socialist measures. We ought to be demonstrating to the country the alternatives to economy and protection. Our value as a Government today should be to make people realize that Socialism is that alternative." (40) Trevelyan told a meeting of the Parliamentary Labour Party that the main reason he had resigned: "I have for some time been painfully aware that I am utterly dissatisfied with the main strategy of the leaders of the party. But I thought it my duty to hold on as long as I had a definite job in trying to pass the Education Bill. I never expected a complete breakthrough to Socialism in this Parliament. But I did expect it to prepare the way by a Government which in spirit and vigour made such a contrast with the Tories and Liberals that we should be sure of conclusive victory next time." He attacked the government for refusing to introduce socialist measures to deal with the economic crisis. He was also a supporter of the economist John Maynard Keynes: "Now we are plunged into an exampled trade depression and suffering the appalling record of unemployment. It is a crisis almost as terrible as war. The people are in just the mood to accept a new and bold attempt to deal with radical evils. But all we have got is a declaration of economy from the Chancellor of the Exchequer. We apparently have opted, almost without discussion, the policy of economy. It implies a faith, a faith that reduction of expenditure is the way to salvation. No comrades. It is not good enough for a Socialist party to meet this crisis with economy. The very root of our faith is the prosperity comes from the high spending power of the people, and that public expenditure on the social services is always remunerative." (41) On 24th August 1931, MacDonald formed a National Government. Only three members of the Labour administration, Philip Snowden, Jimmy Thomas and John Sankey agreed to join the government. Other appointments included Stanley Baldwin (Lord President of the Council), Neville Chamberlain (Health), Samuel Hoare (Secretary of State for India), Herbert Samuel (Home Office), Philip Cunliffe-Lister (Board of Trade) and Lord Reading (Foreign Office). On 8th September 1931, the National Government's programme of £70 million economy programme was debated in the House of Commons. This included a £13 million cut in unemployment benefit. Tom Johnson, who wound up the debate for the Labour Party, declared that these policies were "not of a National Government but of a Wall Street Government". In the end the Government won by 309 votes to 249, but only 12 Labour M.P.s voted for the measures. (42) The cuts in public expenditure did not satisfy the markets. The withdrawals of gold and foreign exchange continued. On September 16th, the Bank of England lost £5 million; on the 17th, £10 million; and on the 18th, nearly £18 million. On the 20th September, the Cabinet agreed to leave the Gold Standard, something that John Maynard Keynes had advised the government to do on 5th August. On 26th September, the Labour Party National Executive decided to expel all members of the National Government including Ramsay MacDonald, Philip Snowden, Jimmy Thomas and John Sankey. As David Marquand has pointed out: "In the circumstances, its decision was understandable, perhaps inevitable. The Labour movement had been built on the trade-union ethic of loyalty to majority decisions. MacDonald had defied that ethic; to many Labour activists, he was now a kind of political blackleg, who deserved to be treated accordingly." (43) The 1931 General Election was held on 27th October, 1931. MacDonald led an anti-Labour alliance made up of Conservatives and National Liberals. It was a disaster for the Labour Party with only 46 members winning their seats. Several leading Labour figures, including Charles Trevelyan, Arthur Henderson, John R. Clynes, Arthur Greenwood, Jennie Lee, Herbert Morrison, Emanuel Shinwell, Frederick Pethick-Lawrence, Hugh Dalton, Susan Lawrence, William Wedgwood Benn, and Margaret Bondfield lost their seats. The Socialist League After the election most members of the Labour Party rejected the gradualist doctrines of the MacDonald leadership. In the 1920s MacDonald had argued that socialism "would evolve from capitalism as the oak from the acorn". This view was now totally discredited. Capitalism had plunged the working class into mass unemployment and the MacDonald government had demanded cuts in the standard of living of workers. Most members, including those on the right of the party, had concluded that henceforth the only way forward was the "decisive transformation to socialism". (44) The Independent Labour Party, the main left-wing pressure group in the Labour Party, decided to disaffiliate from the Party. It was replaced by another left-wing pressure group, the Socialist League. Members included G.D.H. Cole, William Mellor, Stafford Cripps, H. N. Brailsford, D. N. Pritt, R. H. Tawney, Frank Wise, David Kirkwood, Neil Maclean, Frederick Pethick-Lawrence, Alfred Salter, Jennie Lee, Harold Laski, Frank Horrabin, Ellen Wilkinson, Aneurin Bevan, Ernest Bevin, Arthur Pugh, Michael Foot and Barbara Betts. J. T. Murphy became its secretary. Murphy saw the Socialist League as "the organization of revolutionary socialists who are an integral part of the Labour movement for the purpose of winning it completely for revolutionary socialism". (45) George Lansbury, the new left-wing leader of the Labour Party, was sympathetic to the ideas of the Socialist League and it was no surprise that at the 1932 Labour Conference agreed that once in power they would take all banks into public ownership on the grounds that control of them would be essential for real socialist planning. Another successful Socialist League resolution laid down "that the leaders of the next Labour Government and the Parliamentary Labour Party be instructed by the National Conference that, on assuming office... definite Socialist legislation must be immediately promulgated... we must have Socialism in deed as well as in words". (46) A. J. A. Morris, pointed out that the wealthy Charles Trevelyan, the first of MacDonald's ministers to resign over his right-wing policies, helped to fund the group. "Trevelyan... encouraged the Socialist League, gave help both political and material to a number of aspiring and established left-wingers, and seemed quite convinced that the Labour Party was at last committed to socialism. There was a brief moment of personal triumph at the annual party conference in 1933. He successfully introduced a resolution that, if there were even a threat of war, the Labour Party would call a general strike." (47) Gilbert Mitchison, a member of the Socialist League, published a much-discussed book, The First Workers' Government (1934), advocating an enabling act under which a future Labour government would nationalize most of the economy and redistribute wealth, bringing in socialism almost overnight. Clement Attlee, another member of the Socialist League, wrote at this time: "The moment to strike is the moment of taking power when the Government is freshly elected and assured of its support. The blow struck must be a fatal one and not merely designed to wound and to turn a sullen and obstructive opponent into an active and deadly enemy." (48) In May 1936, the Left Book Club was formed. It's monthly offerings, selected by Victor Gollancz, John Strachey and Harold Laski, became highly successful. The main aim was to spread socialist ideas and to resist the rise of fascism in Britain. Gollancz announced: "The aim of the Left Book Club is a simple one. It is to help in the terribly urgent struggle for world peace and against fascism, by giving, to all who are willing to take part in that struggle, such knowledge as will immensely increase their efficiency." (49) As Ruth Dudley Edwards, the author of Victor Gollancz: A Biography (1987), pointed out: "They were a formidable trio: Laski the academic theoretician; Strachey the gifted popularizer; and Victor the inspired publicist. All three had known a lifelong passion for politics and all had swung violently left in the early 1930s. Only Victor did not describe himself as completely Marxist, though he was objectively indistinguishable from the real article." (50) Within a short period the Left Book Club achieved a membership of nearly 60,000 and had some 1,200 local discussion groups linked by a monthly bulletin, Left News. "In addition, there were functional groups for scientists, doctors, engineers, lawyers, teachers, civil servants, poets, writers, artists, musicians and actors; and the Club was also responsible for the arrangement of rallies, meetings, lectures, weekend and vacation schools." (51) Ben Pimlott, the author of Labour and the Left (1977) has argued: "The growth of the Club was partly spontaneous, partly a consequence of imaginative organization From the start, giant Club rallies were held in large halls all over the country. In attendance and in drama, the Club's biggest meetings outdid any organized by the Labour Party. People came to a Club rally as to a revivalist meeting, to hear the best orators of the far left - Laski, Strachey, Pollitt, Gallacher, Ellen Wilkinson, Pritt, Bevan, Strauss, Cripps, plus the occasional non-socialist, such as the Liberal, Richard Acland." (52) Clement Attlee replaced George Lansbury as leader of the Labour Party. Attlee now left the Socialist League and began to move the party to the right. In 1936 Hugh Dalton became Chairman of the Labour Party National Executive, and Ernest Bevin, another former member of the League, became Chairman of the General Council of the Trade Union Congress. They were now in a position to oppose left-wing policies that were favoured by its membership. (53) Attlee first decided to tackle the Labour League of Youth, who he believed was under the control of the Socialist League. In an investigation carried out in 1936 it claimed that "the real object of the League is to enroll large numbers of young people, and by a social life of its own, provide opportunities for young people to study Party Policy and to give loyal support to the Party of which they are members." The Executive decided to remove the right of the Labour League of Youth to be involved in policy decisions. (54) On 27th January, 1937, the Labour Party decided to disaffiliate the Socialist League. They also began considering expelling members of the League. G.D.H. Cole and George Lansbury responded by urging the party not to start a "heresy hunt". Arthur Greenwood was one of those who argued that the rebel leader, Stafford Cripps, should be immediately expelled. Cripps was expelled by the National Executive Committee by eighteen to one. He was followed by Charles Trevelyan, Aneurin Bevan and George Strauss in February. On 24th March, 1937, the National Executive Committee declared that members of the Socialist League would be ineligible for Labour Party membership from 1st June. Over the next few weeks membership fell from 3,000 to 1,600. In May, G.D.H. Cole and other leading members decided to dissolve the Socialist League. (55) By John Simkin (john@spartacus-educational.com) © September 1997 (updated October 2016). References (1) Neil Kinnock, The Guardian (8th July 2016) (2) Martin Pugh, Speak for Britain: A New History of the Labour Party (2010) page 375 (3) Henry Pelling, Origins of the Labour Party (1965) page 212 (4) The Clarion (10th March, 1900) (5) Edmund Dell, A Strange Eventful History: Democratic Socialism in Britain (1999) page 20 (6) Paul Adelman, The Rise of the Labour Party: 1880-1945 (1972) page 31 (7) Henry Pelling, Origins of the Labour Party (1965) page 220 (8) Ralph Miliband, Parliamentary Socialism (1972) page 14 (9) Martin Pugh, Speak for Britain: A New History of the Labour Party (2010) page 71 (10) Philip Poirier, The Advent of the Labour Party (1958) page 145 (11) Daily Express (20th July, 1907) (12) Reg Groves, The Strange Case of Victor Grayson (1975) page 48 (13) Ralph Miliband, Parliamentary Socialism (1972) page 14 (14) Tony Cliff and Donny Gluckstein, The Labour Party: A Marxist History (1988) page 43 (15) Bruce Glasier, diary entry (June 1911) (16) A. J. A. Morris, Charles Trevelyan : Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004-2014) (17) The Daily News (5th August, 1914) (18) Ramsay MacDonald, diary entry (5th August, 1914) (19) Martin Pugh, Speak for Britain: A New History of the Labour Party (2010) page 103 (20) A.J.P. Taylor, The Trouble Makers: Dissent over Foreign Policy (1957) page 132 (21) David Marquand, Ramsay MacDonald : Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004-2014) (22) The Times (19th December, 1923) (23) Harold Nicholson, King George Fifth: His Life and Reign (1952) page 384 (24) Philip Snowden, An Autobiography (1934) pages 595-596 (25) Ralph Miliband, Parliamentary Socialism (1972) page 25 (26) Ian S. Wood, John Wheatley: Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004-2016) (27) Gill Bennett, Churchill's Man of Mystery: Desmond Morton and the World of Intelligence (2009) page 80 (28) Keith Jeffery, MI6: The History of the Secret Intelligence Service (2010) page 216 (29) Tony Cliff and Donny Gluckstein, The Labour Party: A Marxist History (1988) page 103 (30) Ramsay MacDonald, speech (24th October, 1924) (31) Christopher Andrew, The Defence of the Realm: The Authorized History of MI5 (2009) pages 147-152 (32) Ralph Miliband, Parliamentary Socialism (1972) page 152 (33) Joseph Redman, The Communist Party and the Labour Left (1957) pages 8-10 (34) Ramsay MacDonald, diary entry (2nd May, 1926) (35) John McNair, James Maxton: The Beloved Rebel (1955) pages 171-172 (36) Clifford Allen, minutes of the Executive Committee of the Labour Party (23rd May, 1925) (37) , diary entry (20th January, 1928) (38) Paul Adelman, The Rise of the Labour Party: 1880-1945 (1972) page 64 (40) Charles Trevelyan, letter of resignation to Ramsay MacDonald (19th February, 1931) (41) Charles Trevelyan, speech to the Parliamentary Labour Party (19th February, 1931) (42) Paul Adelman, The Rise of the Labour Party: 1880-1945 (1972) page 72 (43) David Marquand, Ramsay MacDonald : Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004-2014) (44) Paul Addison, The Road to 1945 (1975) page 48 (45) Ben Pimlott, Labour and the Left (1977) page 52 (46) Tony Cliff and Donny Gluckstein, The Labour Party: A Marxist History (1988) page 170 (47) A. J. A. MorrisCharles Trevelyan : Oxford Dictionary of National Biography 48) Paul Addison, The Road to 1945 (1975) page 48 (49) Victor Gollancz, brochure for Left Book Club (February, 1936) (50) Ruth Dudley Edwards, Victor Gollancz: A Biography (1987) page 229 (51) Previous Posts The Peasant's Revolt and the end of Feudalism (3rd September, 2016) Leon Trotsky and Jeremy Corbyn's Labour Party (15th August, 2016) Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England (7th August, 2016) The Media and Jeremy Corbyn (25th July, 2016) Rupert Murdoch appoints a new prime minister (12th July, 2016) George Orwell would have voted to leave the European Union (22nd June, 2016) Is the European Union like the Roman Empire? (11th June, 2016) Is it possible to be an objective history teacher? 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(12th February, 2015) The History of Freedom of Speech (13th January, 2015) The Christmas Truce Football Game in 1914 (24th December, 2014) The Anglocentric and Sexist misrepresentation of historical facts in The Imitation Game (2nd December, 2014) The Secret Files of James Jesus Angleton (12th November, 2014) Ben Bradlee and the Death of Mary Pinchot Meyer (29th October, 2014) Yuri Nosenko and the Warren Report (15th October, 2014) The KGB and Martin Luther King (2nd October, 2014) The Death of Tomás Harris (24th September, 2014) Simulations in the Classroom (1st September, 2014) The KGB and the JFK Assassination (21st August, 2014) West Ham United and the First World War (4th August, 2014) The First World War and the War Propaganda Bureau (28th July, 2014) Interpretations in History (8th July, 2014) Alger Hiss was not framed by the FBI (17th June, 2014) Google, Bing and Operation Mockingbird: Part 2 (14th June, 2014) Google, Bing and Operation Mockingbird: The CIA and Search-Engine Results (10th June, 2014) The Student as Teacher (7th June, 2014) Is Wikipedia under the control of political extremists? (23rd May, 2014) Why MI5 did not want you to know about Ernest Holloway Oldham (6th May, 2014) The Strange Death of Lev Sedov (16th April, 2014) Why we will never discover who killed John F. Kennedy (27th March, 2014) The KGB planned to groom Michael Straight to become President of the United States (20th March, 2014) The Allied Plot to Kill Lenin (7th March, 2014) Was Rasputin murdered by MI6? (24th February 2014) Winston Churchill and Chemical Weapons (11th February, 2014) Pete Seeger and the Media (1st February 2014) Should history teachers use Blackadder in the classroom? (15th January 2014) Why did the intelligence services murder Dr. Stephen Ward? (8th January 2014) Solomon Northup and 12 Years a Slave (4th January 2014) The Angel of Auschwitz (6th December 2013) The Death of John F. Kennedy (23rd November 2013) Adolf Hitler and Women (22nd November 2013) New Evidence in the Geli Raubal Case (10th November 2013) Murder Cases in the Classroom (6th November 2013) Major Truman Smith and the Funding of Adolf Hitler (4th November 2013) Unity Mitford and Adolf Hitler (30th October 2013) Claud Cockburn and his fight against Appeasement (26th October 2013) The Strange Case of William Wiseman (21st October 2013) Robert Vansittart's Spy Network (17th October 2013) British Newspaper Reporting of Appeasement and Nazi Germany (14th October 2013) Paul Dacre, The Daily Mail and Fascism (12th October 2013) Wallis Simpson and Nazi Germany (11th October 2013) The Activities of MI5 (9th October 2013) The Right Club and the Second World War (6th October 2013) What did Paul Dacre's father do in the war? (4th October 2013) Ralph Miliband and Lord Rothermere (2nd October 2013) Subscribe to our Spartacus Newsletter and keep up to date with the latest articles.

[jxnder-blog]

Part 1 of AEONIAN

Chapter 1: Ether's Whisper

  "So, have you ever experienced anything paranormal?" says the sweet voice coming from the girl who's atop the bed, and beneath the covers; she's beside her companion within the dark bedroom.

  "I was three when I saw my first ghost. It was early in the morning, and the sun hadn't even rose, yet; just as I woke up, a translucent figure was smiling down at me. I could barely make out what he looked like; all I could see were antlers on what appeared as a man," says Patrick, the protagonist, to his girlfriend, Gabby.

  "That's actually terrifying; honestly, I don't think I'll be able to sleep, now."

  "You have nothing to worry about," he says as he giggles. "This was so long ago."

  "Was that the only time you saw something?"

  "Can we just go to sleep?"

  "No, I want to know; were there more times?"

  "If you really want to know, there was another time that I remember seeing that thing; my mother and I were about to get robbed when I was nine, and when the man broke into our house, my mom jumped out in front of me, and started screaming at the top of her lungs. He pointed the gun to her head, forced her to shut up, and demanded us to get to our knees.

  When I finally found the courage to look up at the robber, I noticed the tip of his gun melting apart. In that same moment, I saw that to the left of the thief, was the ghost from before; all he did was touch his finger to the tip of the weapon, and before we knew it, the criminal dropped it, and was booking out the door. When I asked my mom if she saw him, she denied it. When the cops showed up, I sounded like a lunatic trying to describe what happened." A pause occurs. "Growing up, because of how I was looked at when I told them what I saw, I was always too ashamed to ever bring those instances up to anyone else; tonight was one of the first nights in a while that I even thought about any of that."

Chapter 1 Part 2: Debts due

  Patrick Keaton (an African-American male who just turned nineteen) is wearing a green-hooded jacket and blue jeans, as he sits atop the closed toilet within the lavish bathroom; throughout the rest of the prestigious restaurant, are customers suited in different-colored suits and fine clothing. While sitting in the lonely stall, he's peering down at the screen of the cellular device that he's holding in his two hands, which is displaying a map of the immediate vicinity; a golden circle indicates that the car he's after, the M.V.III, is near.

  Two men suddenly enter. Using the x-ray lens that's crafted into the camera on his phone, he holds it up to scan the gentlemen. If they were Patrick's target, his phone would vibrate, indicating that the desired car key is attached to the scanned individuals, however this did not occur. He repositions his phone downward, and continues to stare in silence. Moments after the two leave, almost one after the other, another man enters. Patrick scans, and is able to identify that this individual is his target; his name is Aaron Avel, and he's both the chief of the New Fair Police Force, and the most crooked cop in the entire state.

  Patrick's boss is Mr. G.; people with criminal ties either go to him for the best haircut in town, or an illegal pair of wheels, but most likely it's both. As it turns out, Aaron only paid half of the amount he owes Giovanni for the car, with the promise that in two weeks he'd have the rest. Those two weeks passed two months ago, and Gio has decided to send his most reliable employee, Patrick, to retrieve what's rightfully his. Just as Aaron takes his stance before the urinal, Patrick stands to his feet.

  The automatic toilet flushes, and after exiting the stall, he casually walks over to the exit.

  "Your mother ever teach you to wash your hands, son?!" says Aaron, as he continues to face forward. His tone and expression indicates his intoxication.

  Patrick waves his hand over the blue laser attached to the locking system. This action locks the door, without a sound. He then retrieves the tranquilizer pistol that was hidden in his pants, and releases a round into Aaron, who has just finished zipping up his bottoms. The dart enters his back, and Patrick catches his falling body from behind. While dragging him into the open stall, he steals the (small, white, squarely-shaped) key, from his blazer. He places him on the toilet, and positions Aaron so that he doesn't topple over. Patrick closes the stall, washes and dries his hands, and proceeds out of the unlocked-automatic door.

  He pushes a button on the key device, and the (sleek) yellow, red, and orange, sports car, which is parked across the street, flashes its bright-green head and tail lights, revealing to the holder of the key that it's now unlocked. Patrick enters the (completely) tinted car, and maneuvers onto the busy streets within the incandescent city. He takes a right at the end of the block, continues downward, and makes a left at the next light.

  He briefly advances before being halted by a red indicator, which he abides. From the right side, an all-black police officer's car pulls up, and stops beside him. Patrick breaks a sweat. "Chief! It's Rodge, roll down the window!" says a voice that expels from the radio that's built into the middle compartment. Before this moment, Patrick hadn't seen this object. He remains motionless. "Hey! You in there?!"

  Just as these words are spoken, he aims his tranquilizer at the man whose eager head sticks out of his car. Patrick lowers the passenger window with his (left) index finger on the indicator, as his right hand holds the pistol at the cop. Just as the line of sight with the officer's head is revealed, he lets off a round, which lands in his neck, instantly causing him to fall asleep; the man's head hangs out of the craft. He uses this opportunity to escape, and zooms into the (horizontally) moving traffic; Patrick slips through the gap of two speeding vehicles.

  "Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty grand; here you go, P.," says Giovanni, as he places Patrick's payment (in orange paper dollars) atop the wooden-rectangular table; they're within Gio's hotel room, and seated in chairs that match the (dining) surface. The boss is wearing a white shirt, and black-basketball shorts. His hair is gray and slicked back, and his skin is white, but slightly tan. Two (suited) members of the Hax mob, which is an organization ran by top-notch launderers, who've managed to spread their influence and business across the entire planet, are standing at the entrance.

  "Thank you, sir," says Patrick. He stands to his feet, and after opening the door for himself, he exits the room. The chime of the oven indicates that his food is finished cooking. Mr. G. proceeds into the kitchen, and places the oven mittens on both of his hands; he removes the two paper plates, and brings them to the table. They're holding lasagna.

  "So how much longer until he arrives?" asks Mr. G..

  "He should be here shortly," responds one of the men. Just then, two knocks sound against the exterior of the entrance. The mobster opens the door, and at the other end, is Layon, who's a (young) suited-black male. He's the son of Tony Hax, who's the man that's actually in charge of the mob, however is now seventy-eight, and expecting to pass away from health issues sooner than later. He has entrusted Layon with the job of overseeing future operations, which is a known fact to anyone that's involved with this infamous family.

  "Mr. G., it's nice to see you. You look well." As these words are spoken, Gio is approaching his guest.

  "Don't take a step closer," sternly says the guard.

  "This food is for me?" Layon asks.

  "Sure is, I made it myself. It's delicious, I promise. Please, take a seat." The two seat themselves across each other. Layon continues to scan the food.

  "It's safe sir, we watched him make it," says the other guard.

  Gio places a napkin in his lap, and Layon follows suit. They both briefly bow their heads, and whisper prayers over their food. With the silver utensils that have been neatly placed by Mr. G. beforehand, they begin eating. Gio asks, "So, what do I owe this occasion?" and takes another bite.

  Once he swallows his food, Layon says, "My father has sent me. As you know, he has lots of love for you, however, as of recently, we've entered quite the predicament. It turns out that he trusted the wrong people in one of his business dealings, and long story short, he lost money, lots of it; so much so, that he has asked me to personally express to all of his associates, that if he doesn't collect double the amount that you pay for his services and protection, then he'll have no choice but to cut you off."

  "How does he expect me to collect an extra million every other month?"

  "Are you telling me it's impossible?"

  "It's not impossible, I just feel like-"

  "Good, then you have exactly one month before I swing through again." Layon places his utensils down at the right side of his plate. "Do you mind if I take this with me? I'm in quite the rush."

  "Not at all," Gio replies, as he cleans his fingers on the paper towel; he stands to his feet, and fetches the aluminum that resides in one of the drawers within the kitchen. He returns with a sheet, and hands it to the new boss.

  "You weren't lying when you said this was delicious," says Layon, while wiping his hands. He takes the aluminum, and wraps up his plate.

  "Thank you, I made the recipe myself." While holding the food in his left hand, Layon extends his right one, to shake. Their hands briefly and firmly interlock. Layon heads for the door, which has been opened by one of his guards.

  Just before leaving, Layon says, "By the way, would it be too much to ask if when I make my visit, I can get a cut? I imagine I'll need one by then."

  "Of course not; I'll hook you up, anytime."

  "Much appreciated." He exits along with the guards. Gio, using the (black) rectangular-cellular device, which he removed from his right-pant pocket, types into the screen.

  The person whom he dialed on his phone, picks up, and Mr. G. shouts, "Terra, I need you to come by the hotel, pronto. Make sure that she's charged up enough to reach the hangar." From out of the bedroom, which was accessed after Patrick climbed up to the roof, and down to the (open) banister that's connected to Gio's room (on the highest floor), exits the young criminal, with a semi-automatic weapon strapped across his shoulder.

  "Is everything all right?" he asks.

  "I'll be fine, kid; thanks for the help."

  "No problem." Patrick tosses the gun onto Gio's couch, and proceeds out.

Chapter 2: The Rolling Wolves

  Mr. G., now in a purple suit, is standing atop one of two helipads that have been built into the roof of the hotel, which doubles as a lot, and is packed with hovercars. His red helicopter, piloted by his (young) assistant, Terra (who's wearing a blue jumpsuit), is descending onto the building. She lands, and he enters the passenger seat. The automatic door closes behind him. They lift off, and continue to the hidden hangar in the desert.

  "You mind me asking why we're going back?" asks Terra.

  "It's not a huge deal, but Hax is expecting me to double the amount I give him. We have a good enough system to where we can keep this up for the next year or two, but it's going to require me to take out everything I have, which is why we're going where we're going."

  "How do you expect to move three-hundred vehicles at one time?"

  "The only way possible, I'm going to program them to find different routes to the warehouse; I'll have them park around the facility."

  "You think they'll make it all the way there?"

  "Yeah, I checked everything out, last week." An hour passes before they reach their location. Upon reaching a position above the hideout, they recognize that the trapezoidal prism-shaped (concrete) structure, which is usually hidden beneath the sand, has been left engaged, and raised above the surface (this, as well as the tire marks, indicate that his belongings have been stolen). "Are you kidding me!?" screams Gio. "Hurry up and get us down!" They land, and the two rush into the empty space. "This can't be real," Mr. G. solemnly says.

  "What now?" asks Terra.

  "Did you tell anyone about this place?"

  "Of course not, sir." A blue sports car rushes into the scene; it belongs to his daughter. She, along with her boyfriend Patrick, who's sitting in the passenger seat, are speedily approaching. By the time they've parked in the sand, Terra and Mr. G. have exited, and are now standing before them.

  "Dad!"

  "Why are you here, Gabby?"

  "I tried calling you, what's wrong with your phone?"

  "I've been busy."

  "Well while you were busy, some guys riding motorcycles, broke into your house!"

  "When?!"

  "Three hours ago!"

  "Why'd you bring him?"

  "I picked him up from the meeting you two had; he was the one who told me where you were headed."

 "I told you to never bring anyone here."

 "Dad; I'm sorry, it's just-"

 "Enough; did you get a good look at who broke in?"

 "Yes; they looked like a biker gang wearing burgundy, and black colors."

 "I told her I think it's The Rolling Wolves," says Patrick.

 "Never heard of them," Gio replies. He quickly retrieves the gun that's tucked into the front of his pants, and steps to Patrick with it drawn and aimed at his head. "Look me in the eyes, and tell me you don't know anything about this."

  "Dad!"

  "Stay out of this. Mr. G., I swear to you that I don't," he says without flinching. "I feel terrible, and I realize how this situation affects us both, so I'll return the money you gave me today, and also promise that I can get what has been stolen from you, back."

  "How can you make that sort of promise?" he says, while still aiming the gun.

  "By Gabby's description, I'm positive that who I think is responsible, is to blame. In the past, The Rolling Wolves tried recruiting me; I know where they scout, and tonight, I'll convince them to let me join. Give me two days to locate your merchandise, that's all I need." Gio removes his pistol.

  "I'm sorry for jumping the gun like that; but if what you say is true, and you can come through for me like this, as my name becomes more known as far as the Hax family is concerned, then so will yours. Not to mention the millions I will reward you throughout the years."

  "Consider it done."

  Five hours have passed, and it's now twelve in the morning. Patrick has just arrived at his cousin's house, and has parked his (silver) hoverboard (which remains hovering) atop the dirt road beneath his feet; his name is Shannon, and for the past twelve years, he has distributed the most top-notch bootlegged movies, on Earth. He's known worldwide for his fabrications, and has even gained popularity amongst the underground society.

  Tonight, according to Shannon, three members of The Rolling Wolves will be making a purchase; earlier, Patrick gained permission to join him during the exchange. He walks through a lush field of grass that makes up his front yard, and ascends up the short flight of steps. He knocks twice on the door to the lonely (white), pentagonal prism-shaped home, which is surrounded by a green field that has a dozen oak trees scattered around; a pond is behind the vicinity. "It's unlocked!" yells Shannon, as Patrick suddenly notices the bicycles belonging to The Rolling Wolves, resting in the driveway to his right. Patrick proceeds inside.

  "You keep your door unlocked?" Patrick asks. Shannon, who's wearing a gray sweatsuit, is sitting on his couch within the living room, and watching a boxing match on a monitor that's mounted into the wall across from him. He ignores the question, and his cousin's presence; the television resides above a fireplace, and beside a smaller T.V., which is displaying an infrared camera feed.

  Shannon, intrigued by the spectacle of brutal blows being exchanged by the two fighters, points over to the small one, and says, "I always know who's coming." By pressing the button on the center of an almost flat, small, black and square device that's within his lap, he closes and locks his door, which is indicated by loud clicking, and the clamping down of locks.

  "Where are the guys?"

  "Testing out their purchase, upstairs."

  "Did somebody named Jay, show up?"

  "Why?"

  "I want to see if I could get put on the team."

  "No kidding?"

  "I mean it."

  "Yeah, he did; he's upstairs. How do you know him?"

  "He invited me to join his clique after he witnessed me wipe the floor with some guy I got into a bar fight with. When you told me the head of the gang was coming, I assumed he'd be here." Footsteps abruptly descend the staircase; two robust figures, who're wearing black pants and boots, and burgundy tops with designs that resemble a simple-black outline of a snarling wolf on the backs of them, follow Jay, who's carrying a black-plastic bag, and is dressed similarly, as they enter the front of the house. "So how does one go about joining the squad?" The three men laugh in unison as they continue down the steps.

  "Are you asking for yourself?" asks Jay, as his group closes the distance with the front door, which Shannon unlocks with another press of a button.

  "I am; we actually met a few months ago. You were a witness to a beating I laid down on someone at Marty's Bar. That's when you said I could join you; I denied at first, but now I'm thinking of taking you up on your offer." Jay takes his time to scan Patrick's profile.

  "I remember everything, kid, but I don't remember you; so that means if I said what you said I said, I was probably drunk, and I'm easily impressed when I'm under the influence. But if I saw something in you for what you can do with your hands, then I'll need you to show me again, if you really want to join that is."

  "Fine by me."

  "What's your name?"

  "Patrick."

  "Patrick, meet Sean, he's our new blood. Sean, show him what you got." The recruit violently pushes Patrick without warning, and he stumbles back.

  "Not in here, please," Shannon sternly demands. Jay leads the men to the field.

  "Line up five feet apart, and start when I say. The winner is whoever is left conscious; try not to kill each other if you can help it," says Jay. They line up across one another, raise their fists to cover their faces, and ready their stances.

  "Go!" Simultaneously as this is shouted, Sean, with his head down, attempts to tackle Patrick. Just as he latches onto his opponent's abdomen, Patrick grips his neck with his right forearm as his feet slip back a few inches in the dirt. He continues to choke Sean as he tries everything to slip out of his (breathtakingly) powerful hold. "Let him go! New rule, no choking, only striking; it's too boring any other way," demands Jay.

  Patrick raises his hands, and steps back a few feet, as Sean, whose previously pale face is now red, recomposes. They assume their fighting stances once again. Sean steps forward and throws a right hand, but he leans back just in time to dodge it. He follows with a left jab, however by ducking, Patrick dodges it, and retaliates with a right punch to the opponent's abdomen; this causes Sean to lower his guard, and cover his broken ribs.

  He takes advantage of this moment by hooking his left arm under Sean's right shoulder, and locking it behind his head. He uses his left foot to sweep the fighter's legs; with his weight and leverage, Patrick throws him to the ground. The moment Sean slams, he's put to sleep. "Impressive! Now I see why I said what I said." These words are spoken while Jay and his comrade close the distance with their sleeping friend. They each help him to his feet, and place one of his arms, over each of their heads. Jay, who's now standing across from Patrick, reaches into his pocket, and hands him a card. "Meet us there." By their third step, the unconscious wolf wakes up.

  "What the heck happened?" Sean asks.

  "You got beat down, bud; it was incredible."

  "Oh... Oh, yeah. Thanks guys, but I got it from here." They stop in their tracks, separate themselves, and continue to their bikes; Sean rubs the back of his head with his right hand, as he walks. They mount their rides, engage them, and zoom north, toward the road.

Chapter 3: The Ranks

  The wolves have chosen a ginormous yacht as a hideout; this vessel has two helipads, is completely white, and is currently floating a few dozen yards away from the shore of the deserted beach. A hangar that's identical to Gio's, resides behind the ten men, who're positioned atop the sand; Jay, after exiting the bike-filled space, presses in a code on the digital security system that's mounted on the exterior. The iron doors vertically fall shut, and the structure descends into the ground. "Now that's, amazing," says Patrick. Two jet boats have dropped down from the yacht (by the use of propellers, which recede upon reaching the top layer of the sea), and shirtless members of the wolves are heading toward the shore to retrieve Jay's group.

  "Pretty awesome, right? A good friend of mine made that for me; he's actually the one responsible for our most recent score," says Jay.

  "How so?"

  "He told us about a client who never paid him full price for his handiwork. He said that this guy he did a project for, was some barber slash illegal car dealer, who deals with the mob; of course that sparked our interests, so I gave him some cash, and he gave me the whereabouts of our mystery hairdresser; as it turns out, what you'll be seeing in that yacht, is everything we found from his stash." The boats have finally reached land. The crew enter into them; Jay, Patrick, and three others enter one, and the last five enter the other one. They swim back to the ship.

  "Patrick, I trust you; I know you don't know this about me, but I'm a huge fan of hand to hand combat. Growing up, that's all I practiced, and that's all I was really entertained by. I can tell a lot about a person from how well they fight, and right away, I can tell that you have discipline, patience, strength, and courage; to me, to have those qualities makes you an ideal comrade. I say that to say this, if you decide to betray my trust, I'll see to it that I personally torture you, and it will last until your last breath.

  We follow a strict code: you respect me, and I respect you; if you feel the need to fight someone in the crew, you come to me, and we'll get you, and your temporary opponent, in the ring, however afterward, you'll make up, and we'll continue this operation, smoothly. If you want to be one of us, I hope you're prepared to stay with us, because I'm telling you now, you'll see way too much dirt for us to trust you with just up and leaving. Can you make that commitment?" Jay asks. Patrick offers him his open right hand, to shake.

   "You have my word," he says.

   "Around here, we don't shake hands; we fist bump." Jay offers his right-closed fist. Their fists collide. "Welcome to The Rolling Wolves; today, we're going on a mission. We've found a buyer who's willing to pay a little over ninety million for those cars we came up on. You're going to provide security for this operation. You'll be carrying an assault rifle, but you most likely won't be shooting anything; we're on good terms with these guys, but we just need to show them we don't mess around.

  They'll most likely be armed too, so do keep your eyes peeled. We're meeting them on their turf, and should be arriving within the next thirty-six hours." Their boats have finally arrived at the yacht; metallic poles shoot out from the center of the small crafts, and at their tips, unfold eight blades, which spin at an immaculate rate. Suddenly, Patrick's ride, as well as the others, levitate up into the boat, and land in the vast pool that's crafted into the top of the vessel, which is meant for storing sea craft. They park near the edge of the pool, and step out onto the upper deck.

  "Welcome to Aeon, my father created this, and passed it down to his only son. As a part of our team, this will not only be your second home, but it will also be your job to keep it together. I'll assign you your duties after this operation is over; for now, I'm going to my room," says Jay, as he begins for the staircase that leads him down into the ship.

   "Where will I sleep?" Patrick shouts out to him, before he fully descends.

   "There's thirty-seven of us in total, and fifty rooms; figure it out. If you need anything, tell my girl, you can find her in the bar. She'll get you some new clothes, too. If I were you, I'd get acquainted with everyone."

Chapter 4: The Storm of Destiny

  It has been seven hours since the previous events, and as the heaping storm occurs outside of the soundproof interior, Patrick, while in his new gang attire, lays asleep in his dorm. Jay, now holding a coat in his right hand, abruptly swings open his bedroom door, and yells, "Wake up!" Patrick jolts his body up, and stands to his feet.

  "What's going on?" he asks.

  "Aeon has been hit by lighting; the strike caused us to lose control, we're heading right toward an uncharted island. Here," Jay throws him the orange (bomber) jacket; he puts it on. "Follow me." Together, they rush to the upper deck, and meet the other members, who're both escaping with the use of the six jet boats, and the nine hovercrafts parked atop one of the helipads (they appear as simple, jet-powered cars, which seat three people). By the time they reach the pool, only one boat remains. They head inside the last one, and follow The Rolling Wolves, who're making their way to the nearby island that's now 200 meters, north.

  After the propellers carry them into the air, and down toward the surface of the sea, the incredibly strong current pushes them the entire way. After a brief trip over the water, they crash onto the tan sand. Almost as soon as the clan regroups, they simultaneously watch Aeon collide with the land; the front end is badly damaged. Jay announces to the men, "This thing was made out of material that can fix itself; it may take a few hours, but we should be all good, soon."

  "Get on the ground!" a mysterious voice screams; the source of it is cloaked in the darkness of the night, as well as the jungle which borders the beach. They turn around to see the silhouettes of a line of forty-armed soldiers, dressed in all-black military attire; they have pale skin, long-black hair, slanted eyes, and muscular figures. The clan yields to this command, and the militia, who've turned on the flashlights attached to their weapons, rush in to bind their hands.

Chapter 5: Predator Becomes Prey

  Two (armed) soldiers (wearing navy-blue jumpsuits) make their way into the prison that's just outside of their base, through the open entryway. The high-ranking leader is wearing a silver cap, and the sergeant's bald head is exposed; the structure is designed like a giant igloo, with thirty (box-shaped) cells aligned within its perimeter.

  The walls are made with (see-through) impenetrable glass, which expose the dark jungle, beyond; the cells are protected with the use of (multiple) red, horizontal, intense-light beams. Their hands are bound above their heads by metal restrainers mounted into the interior of the chambers.

  The bald one is carrying with him a device (that resembles a metallic frisbee) with a handle at its center (which he holds it from); earphones extend out from its top end, and are connected into both of his ears. "Which one of you is the leader?" the capped man calmly asks.

  "I am," Jay answers. The men head over to the cubicle from which the source of this voice, expelled. By typing a password into the back of his advanced (left) glove, the cell's beam protection vanishes. The captain, along with his partner, enters.

  "What's your name?"

  "Jay, we're a biker gang that happens to sometimes travel by yacht; my ship was struck by lightning. We lost control of her, and crash landed here. We don't mean you any harm, I can assure you we didn't even know you were here." As these words are spoken, the hairless gentlemen is holding the strange tool up to Jay's forehead.

  "He's telling the truth," the sergeant says.

  "These are the conditions: in the morning, we'll let you go; I'll provide you with a plane, however I'll be keeping that ship of yours, and everything on it," says the leader.

  "I understand," Jay responds.

  "Good; for your cooperation, once we leave here, we'll remove the binds from all of your hands."

  "Thank you." They head toward the exit, and the beams re-engage. "Hey, there's one more thing." The group turns to face Jay. "There's something I'd like to retrieve from my ship; it's a picture of my father, and it's locked in my briefcase. That's the only photo I have left of him, and you won't have any luck finding it on your own. It would mean a lot to me if I were able to have it."

  "Cuff him and bring him upstairs," says the man with the hat, as he disables the leader's barrier; simultaneously, the metal binds holding the crew, disengage for everyone except Jay. The bald one hands his boss the lie detector, and as the commander exits the prison, the soldier heads towards Jay's cell.

  "No sudden movements; when these things retract, you either keep your arms up, or get shot," he says, as he types into the keyboard that appears on the surface of the back wall. As he finishes typing, the restrainers disengage. "Step forward, and slowly lower your arms," he says, while pointing his rifle at him. Just as the officer positions himself directly behind Jay, he bashes his elbow into his nose, instantly knocking him out.

   He takes the silenced-automatic weapon that's strapped across his back, as well a grenade that rests in his vest. He leaves the cell, sneaks over to the exit, and uses the gun to shoot through the control panel that's responsible for the cells' beam-shield system, which is mounted beside the opening.

  After the tenth round, the beams concurrently vanish. They regroup near Jay's position. The leader pulls the pin out of the grenade, and tosses it into an open cell. The explosion destroys the glass barrier, and the wolves scurry out, and into the dark jungle. They sprint for a short trek, before spotting ten, glowing-orange orbs, hovering east. They hide.

  "If we get separated here, whatever you do, make your way to the yacht; we can't be too far away," quietly says Jay.

  "I think I just picked up a signature," a voice from one of the orbs, states. The objects zoom toward the wolves with the turrets that have descended from their lower hemispheres, now aimed out in front of them. They close the distance with the group, who have hidden themselves within the bug infested bushes, tall grass, and behind the trees. "There!"

  The wolves sprint in different directions as one of the hyperventilating members is penetrated by a fury of bullets. Patrick, along with four other wolves, dart down a dangerous slope that's composed of only mud. By the time they reach the bottom, the four have once again split up. Patrick relentlessly presses forward, and hears a trail of ammunition at his feet.

  Abruptly, the ground beneath him gives, and he finds himself falling for fifteen feet. He lands in a vast pool, within a cave. He dives under the water, and swims deeper into the space to avoid detection. He finally reaches the end, and crawls onto the dirt-covered land; a golden chest rests against the stone wall ahead. He walks over, and closely examines it. He opens the box, and discovers a steel-black bow. Without hesitating, he grabs the weapon. His eyes begin to shine white, and he vanishes from sight.

  "Patrick Keaton; we finally get to meet our hero," a male voice calmly announces. When Patrick regains consciousness, he finds himself within an all-white dojo, sitting with his legs crossed, and before three (Asian) men (sitting similarly), wearing white-monk robes.

  "Where am I?" Patrick asks.

  "A world outside of your own. We call it the Astral Realm," says the elder to the right of the man in the middle.

  "Is this the land of the dead?"

  "Not quite. We're here because we've made a deal with The Master of Spirits; he has allowed our souls to reside in this place, where interaction with the physical world is accessible through meditation, until the time that we can witness our dying wish, come true. Patrick, completing your mission will grant us the peace necessary to achieve a life in the Upper Realm," says the man in the middle.

  "My mission?"

  "Before we died, The Master told us that the bow we would forge, would be found by a man carrying his grandson's soul. Naturally, in your current body, you wouldn't have any recollection of this relation, however, it has been prophesied that you'll be the one to save our people. You were being chased by the Gonu tribe; they are our descendants, as well as the reason behind why we created the bow.

  We were warned that if we didn't sacrifice ourselves on the island, then the most dangerous threat our people will ever face, would eradicate our lineage. The object you stumbled upon contains our magic essence, and was created for the individual who shall, by himself, remove the cannibalistic devils.

  There are a village of practitioners that call themselves the Vama; they've succumbed to wicked ways, only studied and practiced by those who either manipulate the Spirit Princess' teachings, or who've fallen to Vasu, the evil sorcerer who escaped the Upper Realm. The Vama are guilty of both, and their unspeakable rituals have transformed these people into blood-sucking minions of pure evil.

  By sacrificing their own people to the mysterious Vasu, without even knowing why he wants them, he has granted them supernatural forms, and terrifying abilities. The Vama wish to overthrow one nation at a time, starting with their neighbors, the Gonu. Once they gain control of your planet, they wish to make everyone food. This action will allow them to gain enough strength to transform their spirits into monstrosities; with the abundance of power they'll obtain through eating the innocent souls, they plan on transporting their minds into the world of spirits, in order to consume The Master. If they're successful, every-single lifeform in each realm, would be enslaved by them.

  Their attack on the Gonu began three hours ago; they decided to strike when the king, who's responsible for protecting the land with the use of our other blessed weapon, was captured by the mainland soldiers. The princess has been able to lock the remaining people within the castle, however now, you must save them. By touching the bow, which the Gonu soldiers came here in search of in hopes of cultivating its power, you're now merged with our mana; that means that our knowledge is now yours, as well as our magic and skills," says the (middle) elderly man.

  "Do you accept our power, which only you can wield, and which will bring an ending to our struggle?"

  "So this is my destiny?"

  "Part of it, there's still much more."

  "How can I be sure that all of this is true?"

  "We've been made aware that your special spirit has already made itself known to you."

  "Could you possibly mean-?" A pause ensues. "So the one with the horns, was..."

  "So you do remember. Your spirit was born concurrently with your physical form, however all Royal Souls are fully mature, from the start. My brothers and I were chosen to create the gift The Master of Spirits always wanted you to wield. This power is in fact your destiny; you were always meant to be this world's immortal hero."

  "Immortal?"

  "It's true; by taking this bow, you'll be accepting two of the many gifts your grandfather wished for you to receive; immortality, and evil's bane. That doesn't mean that you'll be hearing from us forever however, we only require seeing our home being cleansed from the Vama.

  Once that happens, and we ascend, our gifts and knowledge will remain yours. That's not to say your troubles will be ending. Sooner or later, you're bound to run into Vasu, or at least his minions; The Master however, has told us to make sure you know that by taking the bow, you'll always have the means to overcome any obstacle you come across.

  If you wish to deny, he's given you that option as well, however by denying, the overnight destruction of an entire race, and potentially the downfall of the world, will be on you. Now that you're aware of all of this, what do you wish to do?" A brief pause occurs as Patrick contemplates.

  "I'll help."

  "Glad to hear you make the right choice. Let's get to it, then," says the monk that's left to the one in the middle.

Chapter 6: The Heron

   A silver, blue, and white, heron, flies high over the uncharted island, and heads east. The huge bird, at a phenomenal rate, continues for one hour in this direction, until finally, after soaring over the ocean below, he reaches another island. It's snowing there, and piles of the white flakes have spread over the entire land. A mountainous castle extends high past the white trees, and ruined infrastructure plagues the area. A translucent-green, pyramid-shaped shield, protects the castle's exterior.

  The heron lands twenty yards behind the line of creatures, who're naked, have the tails of devils, and faces and bodies that look as if saber-toothed cats merged with humans. Their hands and feet have sharp claws that extend out of the tips of their fingers and toes, and black wings cover their backs. The heron morphs into Patrick, who's now suited in a white-shimmering ninja outfit; he's equipped with a hood, a short-sleeve shirt, sandals, and a ninja mask.

  Patrick, without alerting the creatures, who're attempting to break the shield by striking it, draws his bow (which he holds with his left hand), and aims his arrow, which manifests in place (out of thin air). "The longer you pull back, the more power your soul arrows will generate," an invisible voice states. Patrick maintains his posture, and the incandescent-white arrow, after ten seconds, turns from its original color, to orange.

   "Hey! Over here!" Patrick screams at the enemies. They turn their attention to him, and by using their wings, flock over. Patrick releases his arrow, and upon connecting with the monster at the center of the group, an explosion takes out thirty of them, out of the one hundred and twenty that continue to pursue him. Their severed limbs hit the snow, and shortly after, morph into strange-black smoke, that evaporates. Patrick breaks for the barrier, sprinting beneath and past his oncoming opponents; he leaps spectacularly high into the sky, and lands atop it.

  He then uses rapid quick shots to take down ten more of the foes, which are now ascending to the top of the shield. Patrick turns his bow vertical (with his left fist facing the sky), and releases three arrows at a time, killing three more, simultaneously. He repeats this twice, and doesn't miss a mark. Before they're able to reach his position, he vertically leaps, again.

  He gains 250 yards away from his enemy, levitates in space, and charges his arrow. This time he waits for fifteen seconds; by the time it's fully charged, the arrow has turned red, and the enemies are only twenty feet away. He releases the projectile at the center of the collection, this time destroying fifty of them in a grand-burning explosion.

  The fifty-one remaining enemies flee, and scatter off into the same direction. Patrick transforms into an orb of white light, which reshapes into the heron from before. With stunning speed, he chases after them. The enemies swirl together in a tornado. Soon after, their bodies shift into a pile of green gas.

  In a flash, the legion combines into one entity (that stands 150 feet tall), which looks like a titanic, bull-horned ape, with red fur, four (luminous-yellow) eyes, reptilian wings, four (long and robust) arms, and two powerful legs; fire is brewing within its mouth, which is also filled with pointed teeth. Patrick, who has once again reshaped himself into the ninja, is stunned at the sight of this transformation. His frozen body is knocked out of the air by the beast's lower set of hands, which are held together, and rise up to strike their prey from underneath.

  He's launched into the air, and plummets down to the ground. Immediately after hitting the snow, the monster's gargantuan foot is raised, and ready to collapse atop the protagonist. Patrick quickly rolls to his left, and away from the falling limb. He hops to his feet, and darts in the opposite direction. While sprinting away, he charges his arrow. He's abruptly grabbed by the extendable tongue of the beast, and rapidly reeled into its mouth; he continues to charge his weapon while being taken away. Moments before entering the head of the beast, Patrick releases a (point blank) fully-charged shot, directly into its face. The lifeform instantly glows red; it then shrinks into a ball of fire, which briefly radiates, before dying down.

  The only thing that's left of the being, is the collection of black salt that has fallen down from the strange sphere. Patrick is thrown hundreds of feet, back. He slams into the snow, and his body remains motionless; his outfit, although it's regenerating, has been destroyed.

Chapter 7: The Queen's Request

  By the time Patrick wakes up, there are two people in the elegant-white room, which he finds himself within. One of them is Queen Erina; both her turban and dress, are black, and her sandals are brown. The other individual is a (seven foot tall) female guard named Bafa, who's wearing golden-gladiator armor, a bronze helmet, and silver boots; in her right hand is a steel sword, which she grips with caution and aggression. Tan-colored furniture has been organized neatly around. He slowly raises his torso. "Where am I?"

  "In my castle. My name is Queen Erina, I, along with my husband, rule over the Gonu people. Who are you?"

  "You can call me Patrick."

  "You saved us from the Vama clan; we watched you from here. You were absolutely outstanding. How can we repay you?" A pause occurs before the next line is spoken.

  "Do you happen to have any gold?"

  "Tons of it, how much would you like?"

  "Four million Credits worth, if that's possible?"

  "Not a problem." Patrick stands to his feet.

  "Thank you, Queen Erina; pardon my rudeness, but do you mind if I collect it now? I've got to get back home." She hesitates to answer.

  "Long ago, there were three men who founded this land. They were born slaves of war, and by mastering their captors' magic, they were able to best their oppressors, and free their people. Their names were Exy, Kine, and Arlo. Through a mysterious ritual, those men transformed into the bow you carry."

  "So I've been told."

  "You've made contact?" Patrick nods. "You're obviously special, and I believe you're the only one who can save the king. I beg of you, will you please help me?"

  "I remember now, the elders, they told me that he's been captured. What did his captors want with him?"

  "Our ancient teachers planted a special herb on this island, called Tala, which was only meant for our king's consumption; it allows him to hear the voices from the astral land. Not only is this realm home to our teachers, but it's also the first place fugitives from The Wrath, choose to hide out in."

  "The Wrath?"

  "It's a place where souls who've chosen a life of vile and disgusting behavior, reside as slaves for one of The Spirit Master's grandsons. Without an evolved soul, the possibility of becoming possessed by the evil spirits that lurk in the shadows of the other world, by using the Tala, are likely. Somehow, word has spread to the mainland about it.

  They sent their private militia to steal both the Tala, and my husband, away in the night. The Vama attempted to use the time our defenses were lowered, to attack us. If you'll be so kind to retrieve the king, and the stolen medicine, however much gold you want, it's yours!" Another pause occurs.

  "I'll do it. But first, I'll need a share of the gold sent to a specific address, as soon as possible."

  "That's perfectly fine; thank you so much!" She tightly embraces him.

Chapter 8: King Les and the Tala

  Patrick, in the form of the heron, flies over the ocean once more, and heads in the direction of the base, which appears as a (black) gigantic-military ship. He finally reaches his destination; he perches his feet atop the antenna that extends hundreds of feet into the blue sky, and is crafted into the (monumental) radio tower. Below, using his enhanced vision, he's witnessing King Les being interrogated by a man that appears as a general, whose outfit consists of burgundy-military fatigues and golden boots; a plethora of gold stars are pinned to his (long-sleeve) shirt's collar, and the king is wearing a black-sleeveless shirt, and slim-fitting matching trousers and boots (he's now on his knees and facing the ground, with his arms behind his back, and his hands bound by a metal cuff).

  Twenty of the general's soldiers, who're also wearing similar outfits, are standing in a horizontal line, behind him. Within his right hand, is a stun rod; by the look of the king, it's obvious this weapon has been used on him, plenty of times. Soldiers moving cargo, casually walking together, and who're either driving vehicles or standing idle, can also be seen, along with parked planes and tanks, and ginormous-multicolored crates. Down below, there are a total of three-large buildings that stand beside each other. They all appear as silver pyramids, and are constructed into the floor of the vessel; the two between the largest one, are the same size.

  "Les, for many years, your pursuit of liberty has been supported by the mainland. Your inability to provide the information that I request, is threatening that support. If you don't want us going back to that precious island of yours, and picking up another one of your kind, for questioning, I suggest you-"

  "That's pointless, I'm the only one who knows how to use it, and I'm the only one it's meant for," tiredly responds Les.

  "Those sound like the words of a man attempting to save his people. Les, this is my last time asking politely; how is the Tala properly prepared?" Les remains still and silent. "Take him to the cells. And prepare a ship for Gonu Island." Two guards scurry to follow through with this order; they grab him by his arms, and drag him along, as they proceed into the building to the right of the middle one.

  "Wait!" yells Les. The soldiers carrying him, halt. "I'll tell you everything." They stand him to his feet.

  "Smart man," pompously says the general. The two guards, now following their general, forcibly escort Les into the middle pyramid. Patrick scans his surroundings; a few hundred yards away from his position, he spots a security guard within a (prone) motorboat. Patrick flies over to it, and once he's above the man, he transforms back into the ninja. He lands quietly behind the soldier, and by using the inside of his right forearm, he strangles him until his movements, cease.

  He lets him go, and his body thuds against the floor. Patrick powers down, and replaces his Rolling Wolves attire, with the guard's outfit. Before the soldier is able to wake up, he uses the cuffs that were attached to his new-utility belt, to bind up his hands to the railing that's assembled into the interior of the craft, and uses the rope that rests on the passenger seat, to wrap up the sleeping man's feet. He changes back into the heron, and flies over to the base. He takes cover behind a crate, shifts, and now, disguised as a soldier, makes his way into the facility he witnessed Les being taken into.

  "They're on the highest level," says one of the invisible spirits. "The door leading to the stairs, is the second one on your left." Patrick continues past the soldiers, and enters the staircase while maintaining his incognito status. He hurriedly speeds up the many flights of steps, and finally reaches his destination, which appears as a steel, featureless door. "The key is in your right-pant pocket."

  With the use of the stolen item, which is shaped like an (almost flat) rectangle with a (black) lens at its center, and white circuits running across its blue surface, he opens the door by placing the key, much like a puzzle piece, into the indentation that's carved into the wall to his left; a small-orange (triangular) light, blinks beside the slot.

  The blinking turns solid green, and the door opens. "Proceed with caution. Les is at the end of the hall, to your left." On this floor, the opposite wall is ten feet away from the entrance, and two-long pathways exist in either direction. Patrick slowly makes his way to the end, until suddenly, after his fifth step, Les bolts out of the room, that from within, different monstrous screams, which seem to indicate both pain, ferociousness, thrill, and fear, escape.

  "Unbind me! I'm your only chance at survival!" exclaims King Les. Patrick grabs his right shoulder, and the two vanish. They reappear in the astral world, and within the elders' dojo; they're sitting in the same fashion as before. Patrick is now in his ninja attire, and Les' hands are unbound. The king's signature sword is now within his right hand; it appears (completely) golden, and the face of a violet-eyed dragon is crafted into its hilt. "What is this place?"

  "You're safe here, King Les. Mr. Keaton there, is a Royal Soul, who's going to aid you in besting those monstrosities. You two must listen carefully to my instructions," says the one in the middle.

  "You--you're Arlo," mumbles Les.

  "What happened?" asks Patrick.

  "You didn't see them? As we've been meditating here, we've recently noticed a spike in demonic energy. There's no doubt that this force is from The Wrath. It seems as though whatever it is, has the ability to manifest within this area, as well as within the souls of its new hosts. When those men absorbed the Tala you gave them, they allowed their spirits to become susceptible to this evil influence.

  So far, from what I've been able to decipher, there were nine brothers who fought in a war versus a tribe of peaceful witches, over allegations of lethal spells being cast on their leader. The witches cursed these nine souls, and gave them spirits of monsters, capable of turning their own tribesmen, into similar ghouls. Once the witches witnessed their complete transformation, they decided to spare the people by curing them, but sent the nine assassins directly into The Wrath.

  Somehow, those assassins escaped; there's no telling how long they've been hiding away here, just waiting on someone weak enough, to possess. Now that they've found their way back into the physical realm, they remain without their natural senses, and will blindly infect everyone they come across. Attempting to stop them in the real world, will only result in their regeneration. You must first destroy the forms located here; when the spirits of the nine are disabled, only then can we cure those who've been afflicted by them," says the one to the left.

  "Cure?" asks Patrick.

  "By soaking your bow in their blood, my brothers and I will use our souls to purify the curse; once this is complete, we'll have enough of their essence, to contrive an arrow capable of deleting the disease. Follow me," says Arlo. They follow the man to the exit. He opens the white-wooden door. The ground below is composed of black space; distant stars seem to ignite the abyss. Very far north of their location, are (nine-red) smoke-like swirls, that ascend high into the green-burning sky.

  "Those smoky formations are emitting from the top of the heads of the nine corrupted brothers, let them be your guide. What they're doing, is providing a beacon for the cursed mainland soldiers. It's going to take the two of you to finish this."

   Patrick and King Les exchange a nod, and sprint across the magic surface, leaving a glowing-smoke cloud that briefly resonates against the bottom of their feet, with every step. In two minutes, they've ran two miles. While running, and maintaining a close distance apart, Les suggests, "How about we both take care of four, and join forces for the last one? We can collect their blood, afterward." They're a mile away from the first target.

  "I don't think so, I rather make sure you're safe."

  "Are you trying to insult me!? You must not know the power of my blade. Don't assume that since you may have witnessed me bound by the hands, that I'm not gifted with incredible power. It just so happens that I made a vow not to use my powers on humans, however if you wish to test me like you've indicated by your words, then-"

  "King Les, I wasn't trying to-"

  "No! Since you've seen me in my lowest state, I'll ensure that you see me in my most high! Behold!" With an enormous leap, he swiftly races through the sky, and directly at his enemy ahead; his sword is pointed out in front of him (in his right hand).

  As Les closes the distance with his target, whose appearance resembles a magnificently sized, black-furred creature, with the face of a rooster that has a (terrifically) sharp beak, the body and legs of a sharply-clawed Tyrannosaurus, as well as chicken-like wings (disabling him from flying), a long neck, and spikes running down its back and tail, Patrick catches up.

  It notices Les before he reaches it, and prepares his spiked tail to swing. Les grabs his sword with both hands, and flips forward; his momentum causes him to spin in this direction with incredible speed, and upon reaching the monster, whose tail has swiped in attempt to knock Les, he's able to cut cleanly through it, and lands on its back. A thunderous scream that reveals hints of both human and chicken origins, expels. While Patrick continues in the direction of the fight, he watches as the hybrid attempts to use its beak, to stab the king. Using his sword, he blocks the fury. He then jumps onto its head, and uses his tool to stab through both of its eyes, triggering even louder screams.

  Just before reaching the battle, from out of the sky, descends twelve, lizard-men-like beings, with blue hair on their heads, green scales, tan abdomens, red eyes, giant figures, elongated arms and necks, two hind legs, sharp talons and claws, and two tentacle-like tongues, which hang out of their mouths (stingers are attached to these slimy limbs, and they have the ability to stretch far distances).

  The twenty-four (sharp) projectiles attack Patrick, simultaneously. To dodge their lightning fast speed, he backflips while simultaneously pulling back on an arrow. Almost immediately after missing, they retract their tentacles, and relaunch them. Patrick leaps 100 yards into the air, and levitates; his arrow has now turned orange. He releases it. Four of them are able to dive out of the way, however eight have been dissolved into (blue) smoke.

  The remaining enemies, with incredible power, jump to meet Patrick in the air. While falling past them, he slowly rotates in a circle. As he spins, he takes out each of them with a single arrow through their necks, instantly causing them to disappear in the same fashion as their brothers. Patrick lands gracefully. By the time he looks up, the ginormous head of the hybrid, is severed from its body.

  "I was expecting that thing to put up more of a fight," states Patrick.

  "I'm not going to lie, it was formidable, even without eyes. It seemed as though the moment it caught wind of you killing its offspring, it became distracted; that's when I delivered the finishing blow." Patrick makes his way over to the downed enemy. "I doubt I'll get that lucky, again." He sets his bow down in the pool of glowing-green blood. Moments later, the fluid, as well as the weapon, glow white, and the liquid is seemingly absorbed into it. By the time the process is finished, the weapon is without a stain. Just after retrieving the bow, in the distance, thirty more reptilians pour down.

  "I have a new plan; since I'm the one who has to collect the blood, how about you keep these creeps off my back, while I take down the chickens?"

  "Fine, but if I run out of things to kill, don't be surprised to see me taking your glory." In a flash, Les appears in front of the bunch, and is hacking away with extraordinary swiftness. From the beginning of Les' assault, limbs are tossed in every direction (before becoming mist).

  Patrick darts for the next target. Once he reaches a point in which the details of the monster are distinguishable, he jumps. While midair, he charges an arrow. The (similar-looking) cursed brother abruptly turns to face the oncoming assassin. Just as he spots the ninja, a fully-powered arrow is released. Using its wing, the varmint takes cover.

  The power from the attack, blasts flesh, bone, and feathers, in every direction. Patrick lands before the foe. The savage swings its tail at his head, but by leaning back, he maneuvers out of the way. It then stabs downward; Patrick grabs the tail just before it penetrates him. Due to his upgraded avatar, only a small amount of blood leaks from the puncture points.

  He struggles with its immense strength (for five seconds), which is pushing him downward, until he finally throws the tail into the air by thrusting his arms, up. He then vertically lunges upward before giving his target the chance to recalibrate. Now thirty feet above the entity, Patrick releases three arrows into the tip of the tail; they pin the limb to the ground. He lands in front of the adversary, and aims two arrows at a time, at its face. Once released, they find their home inside the eye sockets of the vile animal. Two more arrows are shot immediately after this, and land in the same exact spots; they impale the previous arrows, driving them deeper into the eyes.

  This attack collapses the anomaly, and blood spills from its mouth. While briefly soaking his weapon, he scans the distant battlefield. Les appears as a twister, and is blending the many devils, to shreds. Reassured by this sight, once his bow is ready, Patrick breaks for the next signaler.

  He sprints for a minute before reaching his next prey. Just as the organism turns to face him, his arrow penetrates between its eyes; this briefly stuns it, and he continues past. This action draws its attention, and the being follows behind, while snarling and making ghoulish noises.

  A short while later, he closes the distance with another corrupted chimera; his brother's heavy footsteps forewarn it of Patrick's approach. By bolting in a diagonal angle, he passes it, and heads toward the next target. The two fiends let out a high-pitch shriek as they chase after him. This sound alerts the other five of their predator's presence.

  The remaining prone daemons turn their attention toward the source of the signal, and with wonderful speed, they advance in its direction. Patrick and the five enemies north of his location, rush at one another. While this occurs, he applies tension to the magical string. Just before the two groups collide, he once again leaps upward. From the peak of his ascension, he shoots the fully-powered shot at the center of the group; this eradicates most of each of their bodies. He lands atop the head of one of the three creatures that remain standing. From the moment he lands, it attempts swiping him off with its tail; it thrusts downward, however, by side flipping out of the way at the last moment, Patrick avoids the attack, and forces the monster to best itself.

  As for the last two, from out of nowhere, Les has submerged himself, sword first, within the side of the face of the monster standing northwest of Patrick's position. A moment later, the remaining brother, still unaware of Les' presence, lunges its beak at Patrick. Just as he dodges this attack by hopping backward, Les finishes it off by landing atop the back of its head; his thrown sword hits the mark first, and Les follows right behind it. He lands with his feet planted on his weapon's crossguard, which further pushes in the point of the saber.

  "You weren't kidding, I had absolutely nothing to worry about," admits Patrick.

  "I'll give you a break since this is your first time witnessing such magnificence. But never doubt me again, young hero."

  "How did you learn how to do all of that?"

  "My sword was created by the same beings that made your bow. Our elders used a metal that can only be summoned through magic, to make my blade. While wielding this weapon, all of my skills and abilities are second nature."

Chapter 9: The Young Hero

  Patrick finishes collecting the cursed blood. The elder spirits create a cure, and manifest it within the fabric of the spirit arrow; this causes its color to shine, gold. The elders transport the two back to the military ship; they manifest atop the highest platform on the radio tower. Below, are the hundreds of mutant soldiers, which resemble the lizard-like creatures from the astral world. By this time, the entire base has been enclosed by a (violet) holographic, bubble-like barrier. Patrick pulls back the arrow, and after holding it for ten full seconds, a transparent-purple sphere encapsulates the arrow's tip, and swirling black mana has begun to twist around the projectile's exterior.

  He releases it, and upon making contact with the floor, black electricity, starting from the point of contact, spreads throughout the entire ship (in the shape of an expanding circle). Before their very eyes, the roaming beasts change back into a sleeping and nude version of their previous forms.

  They finally notice nine-gargantuan humanoids (also without clothing), on their knees, and aligned in a horizontal line; their hands are closed together, and their heads are bowed. "Those can't be who I think they are," says Les. They jump down, and land before the anomalies, who're seemingly praying. Patrick readies his bow, and Les keeps his right hand on his sheath (which resides down at his right side). The nine figures finally stand to their feet. They're identical, eleven feet tall, have long-white hair, pitch-black eyes, fangs for teeth, and burly figures.

  "Thank you for curing us; words cannot express our gratitude. Instead, allow me to share with you the location of an abundance of gold, that throughout thousands of years, we've collected," says the brother who's standing in the middle. Suddenly, both Les' and Patrick's eyes are forced shut. The coordinates to a planet, as well as an image of it, and the exact whereabouts of the hidden stash, are engraved into their memories. By the time they come to, the nine have disappeared.

  "I suppose it's time we get going, too," suggests Les. Patrick uses one of his red arrows to blast a hole into the barrier, directly north of his position. This shatters the shield, and a mega-regenerating opening, is made. They jump through, and with their incredible speed, they sprint atop the ocean, and back to Gonu Island.

  Fifteen minutes of sprinting occurs before the two arrive. Patrick continues to trail him through the woods until they reach the set of three-hundred steps, formed into the hillside. As the heron, he flies to the top. Patrick reaches the bridge, which allows travelers to cross the canyon and reach the kingdom that's erected atop the highland, a short time before Les; sitting on the dirt near the bridge, are Erina and Bafa. Upon seeing her husband and the mysterious hero seemingly appear from out of thin air, she bursts to her feet, and tightly hugs the king before planting a kiss on his lips; he holds her close, and lovingly kisses her, back. They finally let up.

   "I couldn't save the Tala, they forced me to prepare it for them."

   "And?"

   "It was a nightmare, but thanks to him, we were able to solve the problem."

   "What happened?"

   "I'll tell you everything, after my nap; I'm beat."

   "Of course you are."

   "Strange man, bring it in," says Les, as he extends his open right arm, while still holding his left one around his wife's waist. Patrick snickers, and embraces the two in a (brief) three-way hug.

   "Bafa, bring the chest, please," says Erina. The guard makes her way over, and drops the treasure at Patrick's feet. The cube-like box is made out of silver, and has two handles shaped into both of its sides.

   "Would you like for us to prepare for you a way back to your home? It would be my treat, and I can assure you that our ships are trustworthy, and exceptionally swift," says Erina.

   "I would appreciate that."

   "Bafa, please prepare our finest vessel for Patrick's trek," requests Erina.

   "Hold on; you're going to need a way to get to that treasure those guys showed us back there, so instead, Ba, see to it that this man has the highest caliber ship we have in stock. I'll show you how to operate everything, once you're ready."

Chapter 10: Home

  A black, upright, octahedron-shaped craft, silently descends from beyond the clouds, and gently lands its end, in the tan sand, below; four jets, which release purple flames, are assembled into its sides. It powers down, and an automatic door that's at the center of the ship, separates apart. While carrying the silver box on his right shoulder (in his ninja suit), Patrick escapes the craft, and heads toward the entrance to his isolated trailer that's parked in the middle of a vast desert.

  He proceeds to his front door, and after opening it, he sees his girlfriend watching television on his bed. She jolts at the sight of him; baffled at his suit, glowing eyes, and the silver chest, Gabby asks, "Am I hallucinating?" Patrick sets the chest down at his feet, and powers down. Three oval-shaped tattoos, manifest on the front of his right wrist; they're horizontally aligned, and are all the same size.

  The one on the farthest left is green, the middle one is golden, and the last one is blue; these marks are the monks' insignia. Once his ninja attire dissipates, his stolen-military fatigues are revealed, as well as his face. She plants her feet on the floor, and while sitting upright, begins hyperventilating; she covers her heart with both of her hands.

  "Baby, it's really me," he says as he plants his right hand on her right shoulder. "I can explain everything, but before I start, did your dad get his money?" She looks up at him, remains silent and afraid, and nods her head. He slowly sits down on his bed, beside her.

  An hour passes before the entire tale has finished being explained; Patrick, in attempt to calm his girlfriend down, keeps her hands within his. Gabby, still noticeably uncomfortable, is finally calmed by Patrick's words, when he asks, at the conclusion of the story, "Do you really love me?"

  "Yes, Patrick."

  "Then let's get out of here, and never come back. We have enough gold to live a happy life anywhere we want to, between here and Mars; and don't worry about your belongings, I'll buy you everything you need, once we touch down."

  "But wait, what about my dad? Don't you think he needs you?"

  "I've given him my fee for bowing out; he should be fine with an extra billion dollars worth of gold, to his name. I doubt he'll have any trouble finding another thief in that city." Gabby's expression is still unsure, as is indicated by her concerned eyebrows, and inability to maintain eye contact.

  "But how do you know that those dead magicians won't need you for something else? Like what if that village is attacked again? Or what if some undead monsters or aliens threaten the world? Will you always have to risk your life for as long as you live? When you were stealing cars, I always knew you weren't in any real danger, but now-"

  "I'm still not in any danger. I was being modest in the story, but if you were there to see what I was capable of doing, you would know that there's nothing to fear. You can trust me; besides, the Gonu are safe now." A pause occurs. "I can't promise you that I won't be called on because of my gifts, I also can't promise you that I'll deny the invitation to save the world. All I can promise you is complete truthfulness and loyalty, and that I'll never let anything stop me from coming home to you." These words soften Gabby's face, and the two lovingly kiss.

  "We can really go anywhere?"

  "No kidding."

  "When can we leave?"

  "Tonight, if you'd like. Where's your ride, by the way?"

  "It's out there, it's just cloaked."

  "Perfect; where would you like to go?"

  "The mountains in the north."

  "Sounds good to me; you ready?" After a brief pause, she nods her head.

   The two, still holding hands, proceed outside. She disengages the invisibility cloak on her motorbike, and they load it into Patrick's new vehicle; they then enter, themselves. The spacecraft rises, and zips off (south).

  At this period of time, homes can be bought off of the internet. The two decide on settling down in a mansion that overlooks the ocean, on a massif within a neighboring location that's called, Central Sector. Only one-million people live in this country of mostly farmers, that's known for its beauty, vast-green lands, wild animals, and kind neighbors, who keep love and hospitality at the forefront of their interactions.

  One night, while sitting on his new-velvet couch, along with his sleeping girlfriend, whose legs are sprawled out over his lap, Patrick, while observing his sixty-inch television that's mounted into the wall above his extravagant, gold-plated fireplace, decides to, by gently kissing her nose, wake her up.

  "What are you doing?" she sweetly asks, as her eyes flutter open.

  "Do you want to be with me, forever?"

  "I already told you, yes."

  "Then that settles it, we're husband and wife." They passionately kiss; afterward, their eyes interlock. "What type of ring would you like?" Another pause ensues.

  "Who says I want a ring? I rather us just have matching tattoos."

  "What would you like to get?"

  She kisses his right wrist. "This. By me wearing your mark, I'll prove to you that I'll always accept who you are; beneath it, I want the words--wait what kind of bird did you say you can change into?"

  With a smile, he says, "A heron."

  "Oh, yeah; I want it to say, Mrs. Heron," she says, before bursting into a short bout of laughter. "What do you think?"

  "I love it," he says, while continuing to smile.

  She yawns, "I'm going to bed."

  She places her feet on the floor, but before she can stand up, Patrick says, "There's something I didn't mention."

  "What?"

  "I'm not going to die; I'm not even sure if I'll keep aging. But with that being said, for as long as you're alive, despite how old you become, I'll never leave your side." A long pause takes place; Gabby's gaze faces the floor as she contemplates what to say.

  She finally looks up, and says, "That means the world to me, Patrick. You've really made me the luckiest girl, ever. I won't torture you though; when the time comes when I'm just too old, I'll understand you wanting to do your own thing. Just know you won't have an excuse to, until I'm at least seventy; until then, I'm doing everything possible to remain as young and beautiful as I am now."

   "I love you."

   "I love you too, Mr. Heron." They exchange another passionate kiss. "By the way, I think that should be your hero name."

   "Mr. Heron?" Gabby giggles at the notion.

   "No, that's corny; just, Heron."

The Wolf and the Heron Part 2

[heliossexton]

#heroeslooklikeme Mercedes "Misty" Knight is a super-heroine in the Marvel Universe. Created by Tony Isabella and Avell Jones, Misty made her first appearance as an unnamed character in 1972's Marvel Team-Up #1. Nearly three years later, Misty would be formally introduced in Marvel Premiere #20 and #21. Misty is a former highly decorated officer of the NYPD. After losing her right arm ana bomb attack, Tony Stark (Iron Man) provided her with a bionic arm made of Vibranium. She's an exceptional marks-woman, athlete, detective, and skilled martial artists. Misty's affiliations include the Daughters of the Dragon, Heroes for Hire, and the Defenders. With Simone Missick's strong portrayal of Misty Knight in Netflix's "Luke Cage", Marvel has seen an increase in the character's popularity. Inspired by blaxploitation films of the 70s, Misty is one tough, "foxy" woman that can't be pushed around! #heroeslikeme #mistyknight #simonemissick #blackhistorymonth

[tenth-sentence]

Tony Aveling, who had proved his abilities in downsizing at Westpac General Finance and in Westpac's technology division, replaced Robertson at the head of AGC.

"Westpac: The Bank That Broke the Bank" - Edna Carew

[tenth-sentence]

Tony Aveling, Westpac's man in London since March 1990, was persuaded to take control of the business and was winding it down.

"Westpac: The Bank That Broke the Bank" - Edna Carew