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cksmart-world · 2 years ago

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SMART BOMB

The completely unnecessary news analysis

by Christopher Smart

January 25

CELESTIAL KINGDOM FOR DEMOCRATS — HELL NO

Faithful members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, aka the Mormons, can be barred from the Celestial Kingdom if they register as Democrats. This is not a dictum from the Council of the Twelve (the ruling body) or a revelation from president and prophet Russel M. Nelson, but has sifted down through the church's wards (congregations) in something of a whisper campaign. Although the LDS leaders have said Mormons can be Democrats if they pray real hard, nobody believes it. Most members of the Utah State Legislature are LDS and Republican. Even progressive Mormons won't register as Democrats for fear they could spend eternity in the Telestial Kingdom with Harley riders and professional wrestlers. Voting Independent isn't quite as bad but will, the grapevine says, relegate folks to the Terrestrial Kingdom with lawyers and mean cops. The scuttlebutt is that Republicans would have a clear shot at the Celestial Kingdom even if caught drinking Tecate or lime vodka or using Copenhagen. Word is still out on teabag enemas. Cheating fellow church members in scams or questionable business deals is very bad, but faithful Republicans could still attain the Celestial Kingdom if they pay a full tithe. Well, that's what they said at church, anyway.

WIN A TRIP TO MARTHA'S VINEYARD

Hey Wilson, how would you and the band like to win a trip to Martha's Vineyard. It's easy, just go down to Ciudad Juarez and walk across the border into El Paso. There a nice lady will ask you if you want to go to a swell place and get a swell job. Soon you'll be landing in beautiful Martha's Vineyard near Cape Cod, Mass. — compliments of Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis. Pretty great, huh. That's what happened to dozens of illegal Venezuelan immigrants who ended up on the little island known as a refuge for wealthy Democrats. Vineyard denizens were taken by surprise — there was no housing or jobs for the immigrants. Haha, the joke's on those bleeding-heart liberals who need to see illegal immigration up close. Folks from Mexico, Central and South America don't immigrate to Florida 'cause it's surrounded by water. Duh. So why would the governor of Florida mess with immigrants in Texas. Hmm. It couldn't be politics, although he did get almost as many headlines as if he promised to build a wall to keep all the (brown) criminals out. DeSantis knows where his bread is buttered. He's now the favorite of “Christian leaders” for the 2024 GOP nomination. You know Wilson, you gotta love those Christian nationalists — fine people they are. They have accepted Jesus into their lives.

THE LYING-ABOUT-SEX EXCEPTION

Americans like nothing more than a nice, juicy sex scandal. So, no surprise we get to revisit Bill and Monica's excellent adventure 25 years ago. As you will recall — if you're old — it all started when Republicans demanded a probe of Bill and Hillary's investment in a failed real estate venture called Whitewater. It ended with the president's impeachment for lying under oath about fellatio in the Oval Office. Bill was toast because Monica's “friend” Linda Tripp advised her not to clean the dress that held the evidence (if you know what we mean). That's right, Wilson, a real estate investigation that turned out to be a blowjob. Moving on (if that's possible), we now get another look at Supreme Court Justice Brett “I Like Beer” Kavanaugh in a new documentary, “Justice,” premiering at Sundance. Christine Blasey Ford alleged that at a party in high school Kavanaugh held her down, covered her mouth and tried to force himself on her. He denied it. A second woman, Deborah Ramirez, alleged Kavanaugh sexually assaulted her at a party when they both were at Yale. He denied it. Yes Wilson, he was under oath, but it gets complicated. Some folks believe there is an exception for lying about sex and the Supreme Court has yet to rule it out. Go figure.

Post script — That's it for another scrambled week here at Smart Bomb where we keep track of egg smugglers so you don't have to. Sources say furloughed tech workers are developing an app for smugglers so egg lovers won't have to go cold turkey. The San Diego Customs and Border Protection Office notes that illegal eggs are moving like hotcakes. Whoa, what's that smell? Brazilian-based beef producer JBS has methane emissions that exceed the combined total of France, Germany, Canada and New Zealand. Last Week, Mighty Earth filed a complaint with the Securities and Exchange Commission alleging that JBS is failing to meet its emissions targets. In a hot mic moment, a spokeswoman for JBS reportedly said, “Bullshit.” A lot of food is wasted each year, but the Japanese are finding ways to use discarded victuals. They have created “recipes” that turn food scraps into concrete, dishes and even furniture. There could be a use for Aunt Thelma's Christmas fruit cake, after all. And finally, this is the Chinese Year of the Rabbit. As it turns out, there are dozens of delicious rabbit recipes — roasted, stewed and grilled. But despite folklore, rabbits don't lay eggs. So warn the kids, Easter egg hunting could be a real bummer in the Year of the Rabbit.

Well Wilson, lucky for you and the band that Berkeley Breakfast doesn't require eggs. On the other hand, it's not all that healthy and can be very hard on the sinuses, as you know all too well. But we digress. The band, of course, has it's favorite rabbit song and we can't stop them now. So go ahead and lay it on us:

One pill makes you larger And one pill makes you small And the ones that mother gives you Don't do anything at all Go ask Alice When she's ten feet tall And if you go chasing rabbits And you know you're going to fall Tell 'em a hookah-smoking caterpillar Has given you the call Call Alice When she was just small When the men on the chessboard Get up and tell you where to go And you've just had some kind of mushroom And your mind is moving low Go ask Alice I think she'll know

When logic and proportion Have fallen sloppy dead And the White Knight is talking backwards And the Red Queen's off with her head Remember what the dormouse said Feed your head Feed your head

(White Rabbit — Jefferson Airplane)

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wisehq · 4 years ago

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Mission Debrief: Chapter 43

...IT’S HAPPENING! IT’S HAPPENING! IT’S HAPPENING-!

Alright, before we get into it- full disclosure; the hivemind is in full swing at the Operation Strix discord server, so pretty much anything I write here is going to be an amalgamation of all the conspiracy theories and reactions we vomited out as soon as the chapter dropped. On that same note, I think writing these the day after will start to be the norm. Just so I have the chance to calm myself before going on a twenty-page tangent about everything Endo may or may not be planning.

Okay [deep breath] let’s get into it.

First, let’s start off with Franky, before we get into the juicy stuff.

When the chapter first started, I thought we were going to get backstory on Franky. Endo seemed to be alluding to this on his twitter page, and I was actually interested in possibly seeing more about his and Twilight’s relationship. Of course that didn’t end up happening; instead we got another side story about Franky trying to get some action by finding a lady’s lost cat, but seeing as how it’s Franky we’re talking about it seemed appropriate. Also, how can I be upset when-

The princess herself arrives! I gotta say, I loved the lightheartedness of most of this chapter. Yor’s always a delight, and pairing her together with Franky was a smart move on Endo’s part. They built off each other’s wackiness and I love this moment with the two of them. Just like with Twilight, we see that Franky genuinely wants to make the world a better place (and also get rich along the way) and Yor’s so impressed with him. I also liked that moment where Franky is surprised to find Yor still playing Loid’s wife even when he isn’t there- much like how he was with Anya while he was babysitting her. Just another little nod to the fact that he sees the Forger girls as being more than players in a game of elaborate house.

Then- just a quick thing before we get into what I know we all want to talk about- it’s interesting to me that Franky isn’t a one-man operation. He has a whole network of informants that he works with, and it makes sense that someone in his line of work has a many ears on the wall as possible. It’s a surefire way to stay plugged into the goings-on of the Ostanian underworld, unless of course...

...They get taken out by Garden.

AGHGHGHGHGH ALRIGHT, OK LET’S GO-

Garden. We finally have a name for Yor’s group now; we thought it was The Shop for the longest time, but apparently that’s only part of it. Yor alluded to this briefly back in ch. 29 when she described The Shop was being in charge of information gathering, and once their job was done it was Yor’s turn to come in and do the actual assassination. In this sense we see The Shop was being more of a support role in the same way that Franky is, though it’s still safe to assume the Shopkeeper is still in charge of both The Shop and Garden. At least for now- until we get more information to say otherwise, anyway.

Of course, the interesting thing is our silhouetted figures standing in this panel- not to mention the fact that Franky states that all the members are capable of taking on a whole troop of soldiers (for reference, a troop ranges between 9 and 100 men, though it usually hovers around 50). We know Yor is capable of doing this, but now that we also know the other assassins of Garden are as well, it begs the question; is Yor’s strength truly a unique thing in this world? And if it isn’t, what could be the source of it?

OSO-R, the drug used during the Tennis arc, was described as being in its trial stages. I originally chalked up it’s fast development time as just being part of manga logic, although I’m now starting to question that theory. It’s possible the roadmap for OSO-R has been around for much longer than first thought, and may find its traces back to when the war had just ended. Loid describes Garden as having been around for some time. We also know that Yor was just a child when she started up her assassination gig, so it’s possible that she and others like her may be have been exposed to a serum similar to OSO-R a decade or so before. Given Ostania’s track record of human experimentation, the scenario is possible.

Also going back to what Franky describes as “the shadow government”; it’s interesting that we’re hearing rumblings of a government operating outside the public’s view literally one chapter after we were just introduced to the concept of a royal class at some point in Ostania’s past. There’s a lot of things that cab be construed from this (such as Garden serving an authority that doesn’t necessarily align with Donovan and the government) but listing everything would just turn this review into one long-winded mess. So instead, we’re gonna entertain a fun theory- one that may or may not be true, but if it *does* end up being confirmed later on down that road, you heard it here first.

*ahem*

Mr. Green is a part of Garden.

Allow me to state my case.

When ch. 39 came out, I found it very unusual that a brand new character we haven’t seen before got a majority of the panel-time alongside Damian and the boys. It wasn’t very suspicious at the time, given that we’d just been introduced to Becky’s maid Martha, so we all just assumed Endo was building up his side characters a bit. For all intents and purposes, that may very well be the case.

However.

I know one person in particular who latched onto this panel right here, and for good reason; why would a security guard stationed at a school nowhere close to the border know about code words being used by people trying to cross over illegally? Yes, he was supposedly in the navy, but the way he phrases it here heavily implies that these code words are a recent affair, or at the very least are still being used currently. Why would he know that? Even if he was in the military, it’s information that has absolutely nothing to do with being in the navy.

Mr. Green is also very strong; strong enough to make the boys think they were going down rapids when in actuality it was just him rowing so fast. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever paddled a boat before, but it’s hard work- and it’s certainly difficult to the get that boat going at cruising speed, let alone fast enough to cause rapids. Yor’s the only one we’ve seen with strength like that and- yes, Green was supposedly in the navy, but at this point in time we don’t know anything else about him. We don’t know what he did after the war, nor do we know how he wound up in Eden Academy in the first place.

This is where we start going deep down the rabbit hole. Hang on.

This gentleman who we’ve never seen before is clearly aware that Garden exists, or at the very least is privy to Yor’s actual job. Much like how WISE has plants within Loid’s hospital, this man likely works to support Yor in some way. If such is the case, we can likely assume that- because the shadow government is supporting Garden- they would have their assassins posted in key areas for various reasons, likely to keep an eye out for traitors or to keep them spread out to cover a wide area should the need ever arise to deploy them.

We’ve only ever see Yor target traitorous politicians and outright terrorists (I realize this one is just a daydream, but you get my point). It would make sense, seeing as how she works at city hall and it would likely put her in an advantageous position when hunting them down. Of course, politicians aren’t the only people who might catch Garden’s attention. Given the amount of political and economic unrest that is currently going on in the country, there likely would be some people who would be fed up with the state of things. Such people may not be like Franklin Perkin- someone who would take direct action against the government- but instead would rather try to steer others towards a mindset that stands in opposition to Ostania. Such a person may try to target more impressionable people- people who are likely to listen and learn from an authority figure in their lives. People like...small children.

Eden students.

Garden. Eden. I see what you’re doing there, Endo.

Traitorous professors? Renegade academics? It would make sense to have a Garden assassin stationed at the most prestigious school in the country; the amount of information and contacts that are positioned around there are second to none, and what better way to suppress insurrection than at the source, at the very foundations of knowledge itself? Also, for kicks and giggles, let’s not forget that the name Mr. Green certainly fits with the plant motif Endo is going for with his assassin group (Garden. Thorn Princess. Briar. You catch my drift?)

Am I grasping at straws? Probably lol. I’d also like to reiterate that this is in no way all my thinking- a lot of crazy people put their brains together for this one, good or bad. But hey, it’s about all we can do until the next chapter! And at the very least, it’s a lot of fun to wonder what-if!

Also, BONUS

...She’s coming.

#spy x family

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unholyhelbig · 4 years ago

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How about part two to the workplace Au you just did? Loved the first one!

A/N: Sure thing! I’m glad you guys liked the first one so much (You can read it here)

Request more prompts here | Read on ao3!

Chloe could read the discomfort on Beca Mitchell’s face as soon as she unzipped the bag that she had picked up from the dry cleaners. She was struck with the instant scent of lavender detergent, fanning her hand over the outfit like she was picking the next lucky number for the lottery.

Beca had her hand on her chin, a flash of red made her head spin. She was in sweatpants and a grease-stained shirt. She figured that if she had ignored the date on the bottom of the flyer long enough, maybe Chloe would just forget.

No such luck.

“How did you find my apartment?” She asked, clinging to the door.

“It was in your file.”

“I feel like this is slightly illegal.”

“Slightly,” Chloe pushed her way through the door and looked around the apartment. It was kept in a shockingly messy state. Beca presented herself as someone who dotted every ‘I’ and crossed every ‘T’. At least, that’s how she was at work. But there was a leaning tower of pizza boxes and a couple of record sleeves strewn across the room. “You’re not even close to ready.”

“I forgot,” She let the door swing closed “what if we just ignore this PR bullshit and watch a movie instead. Technically I’m still socializing.”

Chloe turned on her heel and scanned Beca up and down. She hugged the bag close to her. “It would look horrible for me to ditch a party I planned.”

“Then you go. I’ll keep watch here.”

“Beca,”

The coder flopped down onto the pile of blankets at the far end of the sofa. She crossed her socked feet and waved her hand in the air as if asking Chloe to continue. For the first time tonight, she noticed the makeup and the slim fitted dress that hugged every inch of the woman’s curves. The black material made the sharp disdain in her eyes glow even further.

But goddamn it, if she wasn’t absolutely captivating. And she smelled lie oranges. Beca had half the mind to stealthy survey her fingers for any trace of a ring. She hadn’t done so in the office, but there was no man to be seen in them. She had blown her chance, she figured, by being her authentic self.

“Red isn’t my color.” She stared at the dress. It had a plunging neckline and would make her look pale. She wasn’t working with much, Chloe was kidding herself. She was also here three full hours before the dreaded thing was supposed to start.

“Just give it a shot. You promised.”

“Wrong. I considered.”

Chloe tossed the bag at her. The fabric was nice, soft against her fingers. She stared at the slight bit of lace and the little bag of gold jewelry that the woman had attached. A few rings and a necklace tipped with a triangle that practically pointed at her cleavage.

“Alright, whatever. I’ll shower.”

She hoisted herself from the couch and tried not to stare too long at the look of triumph on Chloe’s face. It was equally as infuriating as it was attractive. She grabbed a towel from the pile of unfolded clothes on the other end of the sofa and vanished into the back hallway.

Chloe stood like a statue until she heard the water running. Then her curiosity got the better of her and she started to glace around the space; the walls were slathered in charcoal grey and a few album covers were framed and tacked up. Beca had a record player and an extensive library of music. It seemed to be the only tidy thing in here.

She walked over to the couch and picked up one of the blankets. It smelled like detergent and whatever musk Beca radiated herself. She started absently folding, chewing the inside of her lip, so deep in thought that she hadn’t even realized that the shower had shut off and Beca padded into the room in nothing but a towel, still soaked to the bone.

She cleared her throat “Did you clean up?”

“It’s a nervous habit,” Chloe turned and tried not to let her breath catch. The employee usually stuck with baggy sweatpants and even baggier shirts. They didn’t’ have a dress code at work and she border-lined pajamas with her outfit choices. But Beca? Beca had a figure. “You ready?”

“I’m at your mercy.” She grumbled, “But no eyeliner.”

“oh, come on.”

“You’re not getting close to my eye with a pencil, forget it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, not letting the towel slip in the slightest “Fine. But I’m doing it. Stop pouting.”

Chloe begged to differ. She didn’t pout. She didn’t’ want to push it any further though, so she nodded and grasped the dress before letting Beca lead the way to her room.

Beca tugged uncomfortably at the hem of her dress as they exited the car. It had hiked up as soon as she sat down, but at that point, she didn’t’ care. The weather had taken a turn to the colder side and she just wanted feeling in her legs. A light dusting of snow had forced their driver to flick on the wipers and move closer to the glass to see past the haze of headlights.

Chloe grasped at her wrist absently, forcing her to stop shifting the fabric. Her hand was warm enough to shock her into complying, but not without a glare. They looked like quite the pair; Beca was almost the same height as Chloe with the heels that were supplied, and she stood out horridly. Red like blood on the snow after a fresh hunt.

The company had spared no expense with the carpet, purple like their logo and leading into a lavish lobby in a hotel that Beca had never been in. She was sure they would throw her out if she walked in and asked to use the bathroom with fancy soap. But when Chloe was at her side, looping her arm through her own, she could pass instantly.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Chloe read the blush on the woman’s cheeks “I’m sure if I weren’t holding onto you, you’d be face down on the floor by now. Take it slow.”

“You sound like a stage mom.”

“In that case,” she frowned “You’re a horrible student.”

Beca scoffed but was secretly thankful for the human crutch. Chloe had an easy way of walking about her, she pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, and acted like she owned the whole building. It was one foot in front of the other, and Beca wobbled on the first few, but eventually evened out. Maybe the stance was a tactical thing- to keep the balance.

They walked through the doors and Beca instantly felt her legs wobble at the direct warmth. There was a clothed table by the entrance, lined with identical masks. Chloe plucked a red one off the table and passed Beca a black one, looking at her expectantly.

“The whole purpose of this is for you to get comfortable being around people. Maybe you can do that if they can’t see the top half of your face.” She spoke with ease as she knotted her own mask. And she had to admit, even though this was utterly stupid, she wouldn’t have recognized Chloe in a crowd. Not if she hadn’t spent the last four hours with her.

She fastened her own mask and took Chloe’s outstretched hand, begrudgingly but thankful at the same time; the ballroom was equally as impressive, violet lights on an installed dance floor and clothed tables with little favors and plates. It looked like a wedding for bank robbers, but Beca couldn’t help letting her mouth prop open.

“Shocked?” Chloe asked, scanning the décor “I do know how to throw a hell of a party.”

“The last party I went to was not this classy.” Beca breathed “We did have bongs made out of apples though, so I’m going to need you to step up your game.”

Chloe smiled, it looked brighter under her mask. She leads them towards a table in the corner and plucked two flutes of champagne from the passing waiter. Alcohol. That was something that Beca wasn’t opposed to. She finished it in two long gulps.

She hovered awkwardly by as the woman who had dragged her here in the first place spoke with a couple of people that she wouldn’t have recognized even if they were shrouded by masks. They shouted over the music; a man in a snazzy looking suit questioned her presence.

“This is one of the most talented coders we have!” Chloe shouted over the sound of the base “Almost single-handedly created the VPN.”

“You’re impressive!” He called out to her “Such a pretty date too!”

Chloe just laughed and Beca thanked him over the bass. He squeezed Chloe’s shoulder before vanishing into the crowd. She leaned close then, her breath hot against Beca’s collarbone, and that familiar floral scent clouded her lungs and judgment. “See, that wasn’t so hard. You’re a natural. Want to dance?”

She did not, in fact, want to dance. But Chloe pulled her onto the floor almost as smoothly as the champagne glasses. Beca was glad that she had swallowed it so quickly. It made the idea of dancing seem more appealing. And Chloe did have good taste in music.

They worked themselves into the crowd and Beca let the sound flow through her. She ignored all of the people, for the most part. Chloe was painfully obvious behind her, grinding close, running her hands across the dress that she had picked out. Beca felt like she was back in college- and she had to admit, she was having fun.

She lost track of how many songs they had danced to, but eventually, the DJ lowered the music and spoke into the microphone. “Alright folks, we having fun? I hope so! I want to interrupt your masquerade for just a moment.”

There were a few groans from the crowd, but none of them sincere.

“Now, I know you’re all being secretive about your identities tonight. But I want to pull the one and only Chloe Beale onto the stage. Y’all okay with that?”

There were a few shouts from the people around her, followed by applause as Chloe gave Beca’s arm a squeeze and maneuvered her way through the crowd. A woman in an even tighter navy blue dress helped her up the stage and Beca clapped along, lilting her head as she watched, captivated like the rest of the room.

This didn’t’ feel customary, bringing the party planner up to say a few words. Not when it was essentially a giant PR event for a tech company. Beca crossed her arms over her chest as Chloe captivated an entire crowd.

“I’m glad you’re all having fun under the cover of the night,” She lowered her voice dramatically, flashing that brilliant smile. “And we’re so happy to unveil our new VPN, that everyone has been working so hard on.”

It had been months of coding, Beca having to fix so many bugs that the 0’s and 1’s ran circles around her head. Hearing praise from Chloe’s lips made her tingly- or maybe that was the buzzing of her skin after eating cold pizza for breakfast and drinking on a nearly empty stomach.

“We strive for innovation and protection, and our new product can give you just that.” She gripped the podium and waited for a few cheers to settle “When I first started this company in my parent's basement, which doubled as our laundry room, I never imagined this. Thank you, and enjoy the party!”

Beca’s heart had seized in her chest then, as the music started up and the people around her moved with the rhythm once more. She let them bump into her as she mindlessly walked to the edge of the lit-up floor, towards Chloe.

This made sense to her, finally, it made sense. The reason why she was pushing her so hard to interact with other people in the office, why she didn’t have a title on her door. Chloe was the boss. Chloe had seen her ratty apartment and, oh my god, Chloe knows she smokes weed.

The woman in the navy dress talked animatedly to the woman at the side of the stage, nodding and gesturing to the rest of the room. Chloe looked pensive, she mumbled something under her breath and immediately turned towards Beca.

“Dude, what the hell?” She asked, sounding less elegant than she’d hoped.

Chloe shrugged “Stacie from HR wanted to talk to you first but I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“This is literally your party.”

“Yes?”

“Like in your honor. Not something you planned.”

“Well, I did that too.” She shrugged nonchalantly as Beca gaped at her “Look, Beca. I like you, okay? You’re one stubborn girl. And I wanted to spend a night with you, is all. When the report about your lack of social skills happened across my desk, I took a chance.”

She felt her cheeks heat up “You could have just asked me, you know?”

“Would you have said yes?”

“Absolutely not,” She pointed her finger “But only because you’re making me wear a dress. Maybe next time, we could just settle for street tacos or something?”

Chloe laughed, and it was a beautiful sound that mixed so perfectly with the music. “Next time?”

#Beca Mitchell #Chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe au #bechloe oneshot #bechloe fic rec #bechloe fanfiction #Pitch Perfect #pitch perfect au #pitch perfect fanfiction #workplace au

60 notes · View notes

katehuntington · 4 years ago

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Title: Black Dog - part four Word count: 4475± words Episode summary: When Sam gets an anonymous phone call with information about his father, Dean receives a text message with coordinates to different location. The brothers clash and split up, one following orders, the other trusting his instincts. Meanwhile, in the wilderness of Cascade Range, Washington State, Zoë loses grip on a personal case and is forced to confront her demons. Without back up, this might very well turn out to be her final hunt. Part four summary: Dean closes in on the location that the coordinates lead to, and soon begins to grasp the magnitude of this case. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Swearing, smoking, weaponry. Descriptions of torture and murder. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Descriptions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies, depression, panic attacks, hallucinations. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09 & @deanwanddamons. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E03 “Black Dog” Masterlist

Darrington, Washington December 2nd, 2005 - Present Day

Two days later, Dean and his Impala roll down a two-lane highway through Stillaguamish Valley. Mountains rise from the earth as if they are still growing, overshadowing the villages beneath. Rays of sun pierce through the clouds, spotlights of the sky shining down on the land below.

It’s not nearly as warm as it was in Texas. In fact, Dean has the heaters on to cast out the cold. The radio started jamming some time ago, not because of the presence of a ghost or some other supernatural force, but simply because the high mountains are interfering with the radio signal. To break the silence, Dean threw in an old Metallica mixtape, one he used to listen to whenever he was on the road alone. Enter Sandman rages through the speakers as Dean taps his thumb on the steering wheel in the rhythm of the drums.

He needs his music right now. It’s the only thing that can keep him sane. The evident empty space next to him and the silence that filled the car before the screaming guitars did, had him almost turn around at least half a dozen times. The knot in his stomach hasn��t exactly loosened ever since he left Sam on the side of the road, but with his father’s orders in mind, he kept pushing north. You’re here now, Dean. Might as well solve this case.

When he crossed the Texas - Oklahoma state border, he stopped at an internet cafe and traced the location of the coordinates. It turns out that 48°13’11.00”N 121°41’4045”W isn’t an abandoned factory building in the American wastelands or a graveyard which happens to be the final resting place of a not so peaceful spirit. These coordinates are those of a pass on the south side of a mountain range, west of a small town called Darrington, located in Washington State.

When he searched for articles on anything out of the ordinary in that area, he stumbled on a bunch of missing person reports and killings in the local newspapers. The growing population of grey wolves and bears, plus the city closing in on nature, are the causes of this unusual animal behavior, according to the wildlife services. Apparently Dean’s father doubts that the animals have anything to do with it. The missing people and casualties are random. Dean couldn’t find a link between any of them, so he went on and eventually got himself on Arlington-Darrington Road, heading for the small village.

As far as Dean knows, the last attack took place nine days ago. It happened at the exact location of the coordinates, where a family was hiking. The teenage daughter and the father were killed by God knows what, only the nineteen-year-old son survived. He expects the local police will know more about his state and current whereabouts. Having a word with the poor kid is on the hunter’s to-do list, once he finds him.

Dean looks over to the right, where a high peak stands out from the other mountains surrounding him. It seems ominous and beautiful at the same time, intimidating anyone who enters the valley as it reaches for the sky. That’s the place where it went down; Whitehorse Mountain.

The hunter carries on and passes a church and a short airstrip, then he enters the town of Darrington. Not quite sure where he’s supposed to go, he follows the main road, and soon spots the police department on his right. The Impala turns to the curb and through his windshield, the driver takes a look around. The benefits of a small town; everything is close by. Across from the police department he finds a diner and a small hotel, no need to drive around to find a place to stay and to eat. First things first, though, he has to figure out what he’s up against.

Somewhat carelessly, the hunter rummages through the several false ID’s and badges in the glove compartment, choosing one that his father printed a couple of months back. As he gets out of the car and walks around it, he checks out the ID as he mouths the false name. “Glenn Frey. Brilliant, Dad,” he chuckles, instantly recognizing the name of one of the founders of the Eagles.

Confident, Dean steps inside the governmental building. The deputy, who’s reading a file by a large desk in the corner of the room, looks up from his work. “Can I help you?” “Yeah, I’m Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services,” Dean flashes his identification as he walks up to the counter. “Ah, you’re here for the attacks.” The officer stands up and walks over, after which he shakes Dean’s hand. “Deputy Steven Morson.” “Is the sheriff in?” Dean wonders, getting straight to the point. “Not at this moment, but he will be later on,” the young deputy replies.

The hunter purses his lips, letting a sound of discontent slip past his teeth. “I was hoping to gather some more information about the Cleveland family.” “Your colleague missed something?” deputy Morson assumes. Oh oh, the real rangers got here first? Quickly, Dean improvises, the slight hesitation barely noticeable. “We just don’t want to miss any details, make sure we know what we’re up against.” The deputy nods at that. “No problem. I’ll get the documents for you.”

He moves over to the file cases against the back wall, opens one of the doors with a key, and leafs through the files. As he’s working, Dean takes his time to have a look around the small police station. Pictures of officers decorate the bleak walls, together with a collection of medals and declarations. The sheriff’s office is separated from the main desk. A bit further in the back, Dean sees the door that leads to the holding cells. It looks pretty much like every small town’s department he’s been in; way too familiar. There have been several occasions that he saw places like this from behind bars.

“Here you go.” The deputy interrupts his thoughts as he hands the file to Dean. With a grateful nod, so-called Glenn Frey from Wildlife Services lays out the documents on the desk. Attentive, he scans the pages as he flips through them, but there isn’t much there. Puzzled, Dean faces the policeman. “This is it? No imaging, death reports?” “The remains haven’t been brought down the mountain yet. Three hunters went up to track them down, bring the bodies back and shoot the animals if they get the chance, but it snowed for quite a while a few days back, so I think they got delayed,” the deputy explains. Dean hums at that, but doesn’t say anything. And I think they got killed, he ponders quietly. “So all you have is an eyewitness report of ...?” Dean concludes, leaving the line open for the deputy to fill in. “David, the oldest son. Poor guy,” he sighs. “Got hurt bad?” Dean presumes. “No, not at all. He didn’t have a scratch on him. But what he saw… Well, read for yourself,” The policeman nods at the page on the counter, and gives the ranger some space.

Dean scans the eyewitness report intently, taking out the details that matter to him most. Tear wounds, bite marks, limbs shredded off, major blood loss. By the looks of it, the two victims were torn in pieces. The description of the suspected killer is rather poor, though. Apparently Deputy Morson notices the change in Dean’s facial expression, because he comments on it right away.

“The kid lost his entire family, so I can imagine it was all a blur, but he said the animal was ‘invisible’. He also claimed he heard a wolf-like howl right before the incidents happened, but nothing like any grey he has ever heard, apparently. It seems unlikely, doesn’t it? One lone wolf attacking people? I think he kind of lost it, if I may speak honestly,” he says with a little chuckle.

Dean, however, doesn’t find it funny at all and keeps a straight face. “Why don’t we both stick to our fields of expertise, shall we? Is he still in town?” The deputy clears his throat awkwardly. “He is, Sir. He refuses to go back home until his family is recovered from the mountain.”

The hunter nods, able to get behind that reasoning. Foolish, but understandable. Either way, for his investigation on this case it’s quite convenient that David is still here. The report doesn’t give him a lot to go on, and he really needs to know more before he sets foot onto the creature’s hunting grounds. He straightens his back and looks the deputy in the eye before he exits the police department. “Tell me, where can I find David?” “He has a room at the Inn, but I’ve seen him in church a lot,” the young officer says. “Thank you, I’ll see if I can find him.” Dean knocks on the wooden counter before he turns away.

When he exits the building, he halts on the doorstep, narrowing his eyes to shield them from the bright surroundings outside. Snowy mountain tops reflect the sun, a chilly wind rolling through the valley. The hunter adjusts the collar of his leather coat to protect himself from the cool breeze.

“You’re a ranger, aren’t you?” He glances aside, finding an older man on a bench by the grass. The grey-haired local glances at the badge in Dean’s hand, before he makes eye-contact. “I am,” Dean confirms, despite it being a lie. The elder nods at that, averting his gaze to the peak on their west. The deep wrinkles become more evident while he folds his boney hands around the handle of his cane. “That missing family? You won’t find them.” Frowning at that, Dean watches him, curious if he knows more. “What makes you say that?”

“Three of this town’s best hunters have gone up there, they should’ve been back by now,” the senior says with a voice raw from age. “If you’d ask me, I’d say they befell the same fate.” Dean tilts his head slightly in agreement, beholding the menacing scenery as well. The wise man seems to know that there is more going on than meets the eye at the treacherous slopes. “Have you seen anything up there?” he wonders. The old local shakes his head, his stare turning to the icy pavement. “No one has seen anything. It moves too fast. I’ve heard it, though.”

Intrigued, Dean turns his head to face the man on the bench again. There is a fear in his eyes that seems out of character for the old soul who has without a doubt seen so much in his long life. “I’ve lived here for seventy years. Have protected my cattle from quite a few predators during that time. Grizzlies, mountain lions, coyotes, wolves. But what I’ve been hearing lately is unlike any animal I’ve ever heard,” he tells.

Plenty might think the local has gone mad, but Dean has a growing respect for the senior. If he ever had any doubt that this was his kind of deal, it is taken away now. “Well, whatever is up there, I’ll take care of it,” he claims, sure to succeed. “You’re not the first one to say that, and yet no one has returned, but that boy,” The old farmer nods in the direction of the church. “If I were you, I would leave the mountain be.” “Can’t do that,” Dean shakes his head. “More people will disappear.” “So will you if you go to find that beast.”

The elder’s blue eyes surprise Dean when they meet his green ones. They are so piercing and weary, that it startles him, but he manages not to flinch. Instead, he tries to read the man of age, who has one last message for him. “There is something evil in those woods.”

The much younger hunter can’t stop himself from swallowing thickly at the intense stare that comes his way. The local is desperate to change the ranger’s opinion, pleading with him to reconsider. Dean won’t, however, although he takes the warning seriously. The hunter might not know what he will be up against once he heads up, but it’s beginning to dawn on him it’s something unlike he has ever faced before.

On the corner of Commercial Avenue and Riddle Street, Dean halts in front of a small church. The sign in front of the house of God, which is called St. John Mary Vianney Catholic, has his stomach reacting in a way he didn’t expect it to. The fact that both his parents’ names stare back at him, gives this place a whole other meaning. A strange feeling comes to him as a chill runs down his spine. It bothers him, because he’s not one of those new-agey kids who believes in destiny. Of course, this is just an odd coincidence, but somehow it feels like he was meant to be here.

Cautiously, he steps up the porch and enters the building. The church seems deserted, even the priest is nowhere to be seen. Light from outside falls through the stained glass and brings color to the house of the Holy. Candles are lit by the altar and have been burning for a while, given the way the wax has dripped down the silver candleholders. Several smaller flames flicker at the sidewall, worshipping the statue of the Virgin Mary.

As Dean enters the small church and walks through the central aisle between the rows of wooden benches, he spots a figure on the front row. Although the hunter’s footsteps echo through the old building, the guy apparently doesn’t hear him coming in. He absently stares at the statue of Jesus, nailed to a cross. And so Dean halts at the end of the aisle, trying to judge the situation and how to approach. Either the young man on the bench is ignoring him, or he’s so trapped in his thoughts that he has shut himself out from the world around him. Dean decides to say something to break through to him. “Are you David?”

Slowly, the young man glances aside, but doesn’t look Dean in the eye. His gaze is empty and beholds immense devastation. As if he has cried so much over the last couple of days, that he’s unable to express himself any longer. “Who are you?” he asks with a raspy voice. For a moment there, the hunter considers taking out his ID, but then he changes his mind. Sam is always far better in these situations, so he tries to imagine how his little brother would approach David. He decides to be upfront. “I’m Dean,” he answers.

The introduction doesn’t trigger a response, though; the only living member of the Clevelands continues to stare into the nothingness absently. Dean exhales, pondering. How the fuck is he going to get through to this kid? It’s clear as day David doesn’t want company, and right about now, he could use Sam’s people’s skills. His little brother can work miracles with a few kind words and a pleading gaze. A bit ill-at-ease, Dean looks down at his feet. “I heard about your family. I’m sorry.” The silence that follows is even more evident under these high ceilings. The acoustics should allow every sound to be amplified, yet it remains eerily quiet. “I know how you feel,” he continues carefully. David scoffs. “No, you don’t.”

His firm answer catches the hunter off guard. The young man is right, he doesn’t know how he feels, not entirely. Dean didn’t see his entire family die, but the sound of his mother’s horrifying scream still rips through his mind every now and then.

For a moment he goes back in time. He doesn’t remember much of his early childhood, just bits and pieces, stills taken from a movie. But what went down on November 2nd 1983, the one day he wishes he could erase from his memory, he can recall in detail.

He remembers how he was comfortably sitting in his mother's arms. She held him close, she always did. She carried him into Sam’s room and they wished his little brother goodnight. Dad was there too, it was the last time he remembers him truly smiling. He remembers being tucked in by both of them. ‘Angels are watching over you,’ Mom said, right before he drifted off. Then he was awoken by the chilling cry that would continue to haunt him until this day. He remembers rushing out of bed and into the hallway, where he froze to the ground. From Sam’s nursery, a rage of flames heated up the entire house. Then his father appeared from the fire, holding little Sam in his arms, handing him over.

Take your brother outside as fast as you can, don’t look back! Now, Dean! Go!

Even though the heat was unbearable, as was the toxic smoke that filled every room of the house, he ran downstairs as his father told him to and eventually found himself in the front yard, looking up at his burning home. Then Dad came out, snatched both his sons from the grass, and carried them away from the house, after which moments later the second floor exploded. As he looked over his Dad’s shoulder at the burning remains of their house, he knew: he would never see his mother again.

Dean swallows with difficulty, coming back to the present. “Believe me. I know.” A bit surprised by that statement, David looks up into Dean’s eyes, holding his gaze for a few long seconds. “You’ve lost your family too?” “My mother,” he replies. “She was murdered.”

Dean looks away for a brief moment. His Mom’s death was hard on him then, it still is now. It might have happened twenty-two years ago, yet avenging her is what motivates him to keep going. She is the reason his father is willing to go to the edge of the earth and beyond to catch the son of a bitch that killed her. That defining moment kickstarted the hunt that would turn out to be his life’s work. That night, he lost so much more than just his mom.

Dad never recovered from her death, condemning his boys to a career of hunting. They are soldiers now, fighting a war of which they can’t grasp the magnitude. A crusade against the monster that tore the family apart. Ironically and sadly, that same crusade seems to have driven the Winchesters apart even further than Mary’s killer ever did.

Look at him; he has no idea where his father is and he got into a huge fight with Sam. He is truly on his own right now, unsure if his remaining family will return. What if right now, Sam walks into a trap? What if Dad gets killed by the same thing that killed Mom?

Suddenly it strikes him. David is what Dean is afraid to become; he’s alone.

“What happened on that mountain?” Dean asks, trying to focus on the case again before his mind spirals out of control, but the only survivor cuts him off immediately. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “I think you do, but you’ve given it up because no one believes what you are saying,” Dean replies, seeing right through it.

Perplexed, David looks aside, eying the stranger who is still standing in the aisle, in the middle of the church. “Like I said, I know how you feel,” Dean repeats, reading the question from his face. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?” The young guy shakes his head, defeated. “You wouldn’t believe me anyway.” “Try me,” Dean encourages.

With a sigh, David looks down at his feet while the hunter observes him. His dark hair is a mess and he has a stubble growing. Blood and dirt has embedded in the prints of his fingers and around his nails, the blood of his family that seems impossible to wash off.

“Dad, Ruth and I were hiking on the north side of Whitehorse Mountain. We started out early in the morning and everything went smoothly. We had about an hour of light left, when me and my sister reached the location where we planned to set up camp first. Then it started…” he tells as he folds his shaking hands together. “Ruth and I heard a cry of some sort of animal. For a moment we thought it was a grey wolf, but I’ve heard them before, this… this was different. It took Dad ages to get over the Lone Tree Pass, I thought he might have some equipment trouble or something, so I went back.”

His jaw clenches and he takes a breath, now he has come to the hard part. Tears fill his eyes, but he is able to hold them back. “I found him, against a tree. There was blood everywhere, his chest was… he was torn into pieces. He - he had bite wounds and nail scratches all over him, so deep that I - I could see the bone, his - his intestines. His arm was s - severed,” David stammers. “And your sister?” Dean asks sympathetically.

A short pause and he can see in David’s eyes that he relives the haunting memory every time he talks about it. “Same thing... I heard her scream, but by the time I got there, it - it was too late. There was barely anything left. She was only sixteen,” he reveals with a trembling voice. David rubs his face and wipes away the tears, but he stays strong. “Then I heard it, this deep growl. It felt like it was right behind me. When I turned around I didn’t see it, but I heard the call again. Then everything returned to normal,” he remembers. “What do you mean, back to normal?” Dean questions, curious about his choice of words.

The young guy looks up at him again from the bench. He hesitates, as if what he’s about to say will just confirm that he’s completely losing his mind. “The mountain came back to life. Birds started singing again, the wind blew through the trees. Right after the first cry, everything went dead. You could hear a penny drop in that forest,” David tells him. “I don’t know how to describe it. It… It was surreal.” Intently, Dean listens to him and doesn’t give any sign of disbelief what so ever. “Then what happened?” he asks, intrigued.

“I ran. I knew I needed help and the only place where I could find it was down in the valley. So I ran.” David drops his gaze again, ashamed. “I’m such a coward. I should’ve called it in with the satellite phone. I should’ve stayed by their side.” “There’s nothing you could have done for your family. You would’ve ended up dead if you had stayed,” Dean says, trying to relieve him from his guilt. Carelessly, the lone survivor shrugs. “Maybe that would have been better.”

Dean keeps quiet, because he understands where he’s coming from. If your entire family ends up dead, what is there to live for? He wouldn’t want to stay behind either.

“You - you know what the worst part is?” David stammers. “I have absolutely no idea how to explain what happened. It wasn’t an animal, I know that much. But if it wasn’t, what the hell was it? There’s just no explanation.” “There is,” the hunter states. “What? That it was bigfoot?” David scoffs sarcastically. “There’s no such thing as bigfoot… I think,” Dean answers, doubting his own words the moment he says them. “Then what killed my family?” the young Cleveland wants to know. “I’m not sure yet, but I can tell you, it ain’t no wolf. It’s not from our world,” Dean states. “I don’t care from what world it is. I want it dead,” David makes clear.

“I’ll track it and get rid of it,” the man next to him promises. Determined, the mourning teenager gets up from the bench. “Good. When are we heading out?” But Dean holds out his hand in front of him, stopping him. “Whoa, dude. I don’t think it’s wise for you to come along.” “Do you know anything about that mountain? Do you know anything about the trails? About hiking?” David questions. “I’ll manage, that’s beside the point. This is gonna get ugly, David. You don’t want to be a part of this,” Dean makes clear, trying to discourage him.

“Trust me, that mountain is one big monster by itself. If you don’t know her paths, you’ll get lost and die. I know these woods like the back of my hand. Together we’ll have a chance. I’m not gonna sit here while you go up there and get killed just like those three hunters,” he argues, his voice gaining strength. Dean huffs. Smart kid. He’s got spunk, alright. “Whatever it is, it killed my family. So don’t tell me I can’t be part of this,” the young guy insists firmly. “If you had the chance to face who killed your mother, wouldn’t you take it?”

Dean doesn’t have an answer ready for that one, he wasn’t expecting a curveball. David is right. If he had even the smallest opportunity to have a share in the fight against the monster that killed Mom, he wouldn’t even have to think about it. “Alright,” the hunter sighs. “But if anything happens to you--” David doesn’t even let him finish and walks past him towards the exit. As he does, he looks over his shoulder. “What? Like I have anything to lose?”

Dean watches him leave, the corner of his mouth pulling into a small smile. He recognizes himself in the kid; hands on, not cowering in the face of danger, willing to do everything for his family. He won’t be able to stop the only remaining Cleveland, and so he follows.

As he descends down the steps of the church, he finds David standing on the sidewalk, staring up at the sky. Before them, Whitehorse Mountain stands tall, looking down on them like a dark, looming thunderstorm. That’s what they need to overcome, that’s their challenger.

It is going to be a difficult climb, but fighting a vicious creature along the way makes things a little more complicated. Dean wishes he had Sam to back him up on this one, because he’s sure his smart brother would have an idea what they are up against. Even though he’s not fond of having a civilian to worry about on a hunt, David does know this terrain. Dean has to face reality here; he’s going to need a guide. He only hopes that he can bring the kid back down, safe and sound. Enough people have died on that mountain already.

Story fact: the church mentioned in this chapter was the actual name of a church in Darrington in 2005. Came across in during research, and just had to use it!

Thank you so much for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read part 5 here

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nofacenocaseblog · 4 years ago

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𝗗𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 #3: NARCOPISOS Inc. /Barcelona narcopisos, a necessary evil

The 3rd episode of Dope Stories is the most in-depth investigation of the series, so much that it took me nearly 3 years to gain the trust and respect of my contacts and more importantly, to get relevant insights about the local drug market and its players to show, under a different angle than mainstream media, what’s happening behind the closed doors of the Ciutat Veilla’s narrow streets.

Playground 1 - Raval, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone

“Drugs are ruining our neighborhood! “, “Narcopisos are disrupting the real estate market!” , “ We don’t feel safe!”…

Those are the slogans or headlines you see in the media or written on banners hanging from people’s balconies.

“Narcopisos are filthy and dangerous!”

But are they though?

FOREWORD

Before getting started, I wanted to write a few words about Barcelona. After living more than a decade in New York, my wife and I moved to Catalan capital for about 4 years. After reading this article you might think that I m not particularly fond of the town and its inhabitants. I won’t lie, we didn’t receive the warmest welcome, especially from Catalans. This said, the town and its vibe are unique and galvanizing. Very much like Marseille (my hometown), Barcelona is an harbor city with the port/marina right in the center, meaning: lots of traffics, smuggling, immigration, corruption, drugs etc… There is always “something going on”, if you catch my drift. Shady, nasty, funny, ugly, beautiful, vulgar, the cast of “pirate-like” characters gravitating around the city center is fascinating.

Occupied - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / Nikon 3200

As far back as I can remember, I’ve always been drawn toward the forbidden, the danger, the illicit, the hidden, the bad... To my eyes, “ugly” has always been more interesting than “beautiful”. Barcelona is not a dangerous city but you need to keep your guard up: pick pockets roaming the subway, gypsies asking for money on La Rambla (the city’s most touristic avenue) while releasing your back pocket from your wallet, junkies selling stolen goods or begging for change for their next fix #nextfixandchill , black people selling fake airmax on the Barcelonetta marina, drunken street fights in the early hours of the morning... Tragicomic scenes are unravelling before your eyes in an surreal backdrop: Gaudi’s most beautiful “psychedelic” buildings (Sagrafa Familia, casa pedrera, Palau Guell...) in a jungle of gothic buildings ending on a fisherman village overseeing a beautiful beachfront promenade ending with the native “star’chitect” Bofill’s famous W...

Poolside - Barcelonetta, Barcelona / 2018 / iPhone

Ok, enough with the touristic tour, time to get real!

Stairway to Hell - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Embark on a descend to the heroin inferno that became Raval. From the fields of Afghanistan to the bloodstreams of Spain...

La Ruta [Spanish for “the route”]

19,414 Pakistanis live in Barcelona, 6,600 of them are established in the neighborhood: El Raval (1) meaning more than 30% of the total community. El Raval has always been my favorite barrio in town. With 47% of immigrants (2) , the mosaic of faces, cultures and shops you encounter is dazzling . Going back to the Pakistani population, I used the word “established” for a specific reason: they actually own many of the businesses in Raval: barbershop, cheap bars and restaurants, wholesale shops, import/export businesses, money transfer services (Western Union, Moneygram), food and grocery shops... I’m not accusing here the Pakistani business owners of backing the drug traffic but they basically created a web of small businesses in a tight net community with their own language, making it hard for the authorities to see through this social fabric potentially sheltering illegal activities.

Why the Pakistani population is subject to speculation and doubt from the local authorities? The answer is simple: Afghanistan. Afghanistan is by far the biggest producer of opium in the world. According to the US military, 90% of the world's heroin is made from opium grown in Afghanistan. It makes up 95% of the market in Europe (3). The country has been the leader in opium poppy production since 2001. Based on the 2014 report from the UNODC (United Nation Office on Drugs and Crime), Afghanistan not only grow opium but also process heroin in several laboratory as well as morphine (easier to produce from raw opium by adding calcium oxide and ammonium chloride). From Afghanistan, several routes are used to smuggle their prime commodities: the Balkan route has been the primary route but things are changing and the Southern route has become more and more used. Afghanistan share 2,400km of border with Pakistan and over 50% of illicit afghan opiates are trafficked through Pakistan which enjoys a a strategic location making it a perfect dispatch zone with readily accessible by land, sea (Gwadar and Karachi seaport) and air ways .

The same UNODC report also indicates that the majority (37%) of the heroin seized in Pakistan was en-route for Europe..

*** Read and/or download the full report here ***

By the way, let’s not forget that Barcelona is also one of the Camorra’s stronghold. And with Russians and Albanian mafias also present on the territory, Spain -where no powerful local crime syndicate operates and laws on prostitution and gambling are “blurred” to say the least- has become one of organize crime’s favorite playgrounds for money laundering, drug smuggling, human trafficking, gambling and prostitution... Nothing really happens here without their “green light”, but that’s another story (5)

Back to our Southern route, once the product reaches Barcelona, it becomes very hard to pin point. Narcotics coming through the Balkan route also ends up in Barcelona but in different “retailers”’ hands: Romanian family-based clans, based mostly in Besos (a run-down project in the heart of Poblenou) and occupying one single narcopisos in Raval (they have moved 3 times over the 4-year period of my “investigation”) but known to have the purest and most processed Caballo sold in town.

El Caballo [Spanish for “the horse”, street name of heroin ]

[WARNING] Most of the photographs of this post are uncensored, quite graphic and… of poor quality…. my bad, I took them. But I had circumstances: hidden cellphone, no flash, illegal activities going on, indoor, with very little to no light… Shots are not the best (no pun intended) but you’ll step right into the infamous narcopisos you’ve heard of or read about. And not once they’ve been searched and trashed by the police like you’ve seen in the press but while they are in full operation. Raw, those images might be quite shocking to some of the readers, but take the emotion out of he equation and you’ll come to realized that, for lack a better choice, narcopisos are a necessary evil. My intention here is not to start a polemic nor come out as a provocateur but to shed light on a real issue, still happening, involving real people, slowly dying, failed by a syste unable -or unwilling- to help them.

Gears - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

El Raval

1989, US superstar Keith Harring is in Barcelona for his exhibition on La Rambla. After speaking with an old friend of him from New York living here for awhile, he decided to paint a mural, his way to to show his love for and connection with the town. The next day, Harring chose the wall in Plaça de Salvador Segui in Raval. He was warned that the area was one of the most dangerous areas in town. Back then, in the 80’s the Spanish government had the genius idea to decriminalize the use, but not the supply, of hard drugs and did not implement any proper treatments to sustain this measure... Spaniards have ignored the issue and it sparked a heroin addiction epidemic that saw HIV rates soar (2a).The artist was attracted to the neighborhood and decided it would offer the perfect canvas for his message about the dangers of drugs and AIDS. At first it was supposed to be a temporary mural but in the end, up to this day, you can still enjoy Harring’s mural behind the MACBA museum. Below is a photograph I took of what became now hot-spot for skateboarder and cool bars

Tricks - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

Beside its bad reputation, Raval has always been a magnet for artists and “cool kids”, misfits and outcasts but more recently the new kid on the block is named gentrification… in other word: Fun is over. Well… not quite yet. In Barcelona, everything moves slowly, gentrification included. The result is a mix of fancy hotels, art galleries, designer boutiques... mixed with prostitutes and their lovely clientele, dealers, junkies, businessmen, families of tourists wandering the streets… a fascinating mix of characters with theatrical scenes playing before your eyes: hustlers trying to rip off tourists, white collars finding themselves buying bad cocaine from a kid in a narrow, sketchy alley… the show is in the street, but not only.

The Narrows - Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / Nikon 3200

What businesses, in Barcelona, are open 24/7, have no vacancy, a steady stream of customers and a product that sells itself? The answer: Narcopisos Inc.

The phenomenon of the Narcopisos emerged in 2016 (a year after I moved to Barcelona) following Spain’s property crash. Foreclosed or unsold apartments, owned by banks and investment funds were left emptied, abandoned, in a country in full housing crisis... It wasn’t long before the vacant spaces started being squatted: some by respectable families, in need of a place to live, some by drug dealers using them as selling point and shooting gallery. A place where you can get a cheap fix in a relatively clean room.

Ritual - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Helped - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Thanks to my various contacts, I had access to different types of narcopisos, but from crack to dope houses, most of them were operating the same way: - a cctv video surveillance in place at the street level or someone looking out for the cops. - a room with junkies to confuse police upon arrival and make it look like they are actually squatting the place - 1 to 3 dealers serving customers one a the time. - An exit back door (if available) in case the police knocks on the front door. - One or two rooms for users. - Hourly cleaning of the premises to make the place look “decent” and “squatted” in case of a bust - Little quantity of drugs at the time, no more than 10 grams of each. - Open 24/7 - Re-up every hour or so - Single use paraphernalia available to the users - In some cases, Narcan at hand (medicine used to reverse the effect of an OD).

Cleaning Session - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

My connections in the Pakistani community took time to build but strengthen throughout the years to reached a level of trust where we came to split the bread at several occasions… no seriously, we actually got invited in their Halal “canteen” in Raval where only Pakistanis could enjoy their local cuisine, a unique experience… They also gave me access to two of their stash houses: located in legit apartments, in proper buildings, on the outskirt of Raval, close to Sant-Antoni, less prone to police check. No users there, only wholesalers, dispatching heroin to “representatives” of each narcopisos at below retail-price: between 20 and 40 euros the gram depending on the quantity purchased.

Going back to the narcopisos, some were run by junkies (where the product was often cut from the bash they were getting from the stash houses), some by pakistani or afghan immigrants, with decent quality product, some by Catalan families, living there for decades under stabilized rent and with their own connection and product of fluctuant quality. Last but not least, one narcopiso was occupied by the Romanian clan mentioned earlier. Below are some photos of one of their spot at 22 Carrer d’en Roig, later busted and walled by the Mossos d’esquadra (Catalan police)

Romanian at work - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

Boss - Career d’en Road 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2016 / iPhone

If narcopisos was selling both crack and heroin, two rooms were at the disposal of users, one for smoking their bottles or pipes and the other room to shoot up or smoke heroin on tiny pieces of foil.

Sterile hospital-like garbage disposal were available for discarding the used paraphernalia.

Bloodstream Hunt - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

#NextFixandChill - Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

Everything is provided to avoid the spread of disease and the use of the drug in plain sight in the street therefore reduce public disorder.

Not that dealers became humanitarian all of a sudden, but kicking customers with their (illegal) purchase out in the street expose them to being ratted on or worst, having an overdose in plain sight attracting the police and paramedics... either way, it’s not good for business so narcopisos’ “managers” rather keep their clientele indoor until they’re done using and good to do.

Now, there is another type of business in Barcelona dealing with drug users and addiction: it’s called Centre de Dispensació de Metadona - Centre d'Atenció Primària Casc Antic (the methadone clinic in short....).

* They’re not open 24/7 but rather in the morning only * It can take up to 2 weeks to see a doctor in order to enroll in a Methadone Maintenance Treatment -MMT (true story...when a single day can be the last one for a heroin addict living in the street) * Last but not least, since the doctors and nurses’ work schedule is way more important tthan their patients’ care, some centers give up 3 to 4 days worth of supply of methadone at once to heroin users so the health workers can have their days and weekends off. The result of this amazing system: the methadone is sold in the street by users so they can buy their heroin and/or in certain case, the methadone is saved up (for rainy days) and the patient keeps using heroin instead. Yes, the patient: let’s not forget that those “filthy junkies” actually are patients (even if they’re hardly seen as such in those centers), suffering from a disease called addiction, or substance abuse disorder if you prefer the american way of calling it, and in need of medical care but what can I say... old habits die hard (both way...).

Patients taking methadone to treat opioid dependance must receive the medication under the supervision of a practitioner. After a period of stability (based on progress and proven, consistent compliance with the medication dosage) and only then, patients may be allowed to take methadone at home between program visits... but not in Barcelona.

Methadone substitution as a treatment of opioid addiction does not function as much to curb addiction as to redirect it and maintain dependency on legal channels. Methadone has been designed that way, as a lifetime treatment whereas alternative palliatives such as Buprenorphine are not even considered by doctors when those therapies would be more efficient in certain cases: with users who do not shoot the drug for example, or with users wishing to quiet and get sober... but let's be honest here, sobriety has never been the objective of those methadone programs. The real goal of this public service is not to cure addiction, but to make sure junkies don’t use, steal, rob and/or commit act of violence in the streets to feed their habits

The patient here is not the users but the society. Those centers aren’t trying to help the user quit his habit, but to make sure the society doesn’t suffer from it. Good or bad, Narcopisos are curbing down the spread of diseases, cleaning up the streets from users as they offering temporary shelter to their customers and operate around the clock.. It seems to me that their function is almost... complementary if not necessary.

So before eradicating narcopisos from the face of Raval, let’s pause and look at the alternative: junkies buying and using drugs in the streets of the city center, in the worst sanitary condition possible with no regard for the residents around.

Mañana

So what’s next? Keeping those illegal activities going on? Certainly not.

But before jumping the gun and closing it all at once, better get ready for the alternative because drug addiction will not disappear with the narcopisos. In my last article, I speak about users stigmatization and how society still struggles to see addiction as a disease and not a will power issue, turning the blind eye to a sheer amount of studies and discoveries explaining how heroin addiction, over time, modify the pathway of your brain frontal lobe and affect your decisional power, making it hard -to not say impossible- to say “no”.

Don’t take me wrong. It would be naïve to think all users roaming the streets are here trying to quit and become their better self. Most of them have no intention to do so. I’m not here to judge nor take side. But in order to find a solution to the narcopiso situation, I would like to introduce Barcelona to his neighbor: Portugal.

Portugal had one of the worst heroin epidemic in Europe back in the 90′s and after the failed many “US war on drug”-type of approaches. They finally shift approach and started treated drug addicts as patients who needed help, not as criminals” says Goulao, the architect of Portugal drug policy. After the decriminalization and treatments, they planned to open “supervised drug consumption facilities” Naina Bajekal says in her 2018 article in the Time “where drug users can consume drugs in safer conditions with the assistance of trained staff. Such facilities have been running in Europe since 1986, when the first was opened in Berne, Switzerland.”(5)

The result? Evidence (6) shows these these type of sites save lives, reduce public disorder, and curb the spread of diseases.

Does that sound familiar? Yes, that's right, the first of the two businesses we spoke about: Narcopisos Inc.

Purgatory - Carrer d’en Roig 22, Raval, Barcelona / 2017 / iPhone

For No Face No Case: Dope Stories chapter 4, we’re going to Italy. Don’t worry, it won’t be another mafia-related article explaining how the N’Drangheta and Camorra became the most powerful crime syndicates in the world, you can watch that on TV. Called “Il Racconto dei Racconti” (Tales of Tales in english), the article will keep it real, street style: short stories from North to South: Torino, Milano, Genoa, Roma, Napoli... Stay tuned for some dope stories on how drugs are sold, used and abused in the Renaissance country

References (1) https://www.barcelona-metropolitan.com/featuresx/report-barcelona-pakistani-community/ (2) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/El_Raval (3) https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-47861444 (4)https://english.elpais.com/elpais/2018/12/07/inenglish/1544171107_204329.html (5) https://time.com/longform/portugal-drug-use-decriminalization/ (6) https://www.cbc.ca/news2/interactives/portugal-heroin-decriminalization/

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loudlytransparenttrash · 5 years ago

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Man. After reading that post about the college topics, I am SO glad I chose engineering as a major

It’s awesome you chose engineering :) But the field isn’t quite immune.

Four professors from different schools published an article arguing the engineering field has to rid itself of toxic “masculine social norms” such as the desire to win, emotional regulation, a need for high performance and risk-taking as it prevents women from succeeding in engineering. The professors frame these traits as hurtful to women, saying that masculinity ultimately legitimizes “men’s dominant position and the subordination of women” and reinforces “white male heterosexual privilege.”

Attendees of an annual engineering conference at Louisiana State were made to spend a full hour learning about “implicit bias” and “microaggressions” in engineering. The audience were asked to write examples of microaggressions on sticky notes and post them to a bulletin board to highlight the issue. The professors who presented the training said those who aren’t aware of their microaggressions continue the discrimination and discouragement of women and minorities in STEM. “When implicit biases result in entire groups being underpaid or being subjected to higher standards, we have a problem.” Emory University professor Scott Lilienfeld however wrote a research paper disputing microaggression training, stating microaggression theory is not close to being ready for real-world application and could actually exacerbate racial tensions by encouraging students to perceive offenses in everything.

Three Iowa State University professors were given a quarter of a million dollars to study race and gender microaggressions in engineering, claiming that the research will ultimately help students feel more safe in their classroom. “The project will contribute to diversifying engineering programs through increased awareness of subtle behaviors, creating an environment where minority students feel safe, which will ultimately positively impact our society. Using an intersectional perspective that considers race and gender identities as unique identities, this research proposes to address gender and race microaggressions experienced by engineering students and compare gender and race microaggressions between predominantly white institutions and historically black colleges.”

The dean of Purdue University’s School of Engineering Education declared that academic “rigor” reinforces “white male heterosexual privilege.” Defining rigor as “the aspirational quality academics apply to disciplinary standards of quality,” the professor asserts that “rigor is used to exclude marginalized groups and marginalized ways of knowing.” She claims that rigor reinforces white male privilege and makes men and women of color, LGBTQ+ people and first-generation students invisible, adding that “decades of ethnographic research document a climate of microaggressions and cultures of whiteness and masculinity in engineering.” She evens contends that “scientific knowledge itself is gendered, raced, and colonizing,” asserting that in the field of engineering, there is an “inherent masculinist, white, and global North bias, all under a guise of neutrality.” On her faculty page, it says her aim is to “revise engineering curricula to be relevant to a fuller range of student experiences and focusing on de-centering Western civilization and uncovering contributions of women and other underrepresented groups.”

Cornell University dropped its Graduate Record Examination requirement for one of its graduate programs in order to increase diversity and inclusivity. While other universities have scrapped the GRE requirement for science and English programs, Cornell is one of the first schools to drop its requirement for the engineering program. They scrapped it after studies showed women tend to perform worse on the exam than men and minority groups tend to perform worse than white and Asian students. “Removing the GRE scores from consideration is expected to reduce barriers to graduate education and contribute to a fairer and more holistic review process. We anticipate that others will join this vision.”

Faculty at Harvard’s School of Engineering and Applied Sciences are now required to submit reports detailing their involvement in “promoting diversity and inclusion.” Unsatisfactory performance in diversity efforts could affect faculty bonuses. “When we think about bonuses or rewarding faculty, we look at the full complement of expectations, we think about questions around how this person contributes to our institutional commitment to advance equity and diversity.” In addition, applicants for engineering teaching positions at the school must be ready to submit a “diversity, inclusion, and belonging statement” before even being considered for the job.

The University of San Diego hosted an engineering conference with a focus on social justice that included a trip to the U.S.-Mexico border to allow participants a chance to discuss the topics of social justice and immigration. The event welcomed those who want “to help deconstruct our historical and current engineering practices” and “bring social justice to their engineering classes.“ Attendees were hosted by the Border Angels, a group that helps migrants and illegal immigrants, “to discuss social justice and engineering in relation to engineers ‘building a border wall.” There were also workshops which included “Engineering and Peace,” “Identities and Social Justice” and “Revolutionizing Engineering Education to Create Changemaking Engineers.”

The chair of the Department of Engineering Education at Ohio State University told the campus community in a letter that her relationship with her colleagues is adversely impacted simply because they’re mostly white and male. Monica Cox emphasizes that “it was important for me to work with my male students, my white male students, people who have never engaged with a female professor of color.” She added that the lack of diversity in the department “represents some of the real issues in our society when it comes to socioeconomic differences and disadvantages to minority populations.” Both Cox and Ohio State are currently being sued after an engineering director was allegedly fired unfairly. In the lawsuit, the former director stated when Cox first became her supervisor, she told her “I want you to hear how my background shaped me in to the person I am today. White people have put up barriers to my career success and I have worked against disadvantages in my workplace put up by you people.”

The American Society for Engineering Education spent $300,000 on “diversity research” with the goal to change “campus culture” by providing resources to train engineering professors in advancing and promoting LGBTQ causes in their departments. The principal investigator for the study is a member of a group who keeps track of which faculty and staff have completed "Safe Zone training" at the university and have "pledged to stand against heterosexism, homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia.” The ASEE also granted Worcester Polytechnic Institute $150,000 to study how to make LGBT students “feel comfortable” in their engineering classes because “engineering schools are notoriously inhospitable to LGBTQ people” and “engineering programs full of straight students are less creative.“

A mechanical engineering professor from Michigan State University published an essay condemning the social justice corruption in the field. “Instead of calculating engine horsepower or microchip power/size ratios or aerodynamic lift and drag, the engineering educationists focus on group representation, hurt feelings, and microaggressions in the profession.” He states that engineering education schools increasingly focus on concepts that are incompatible with the actual discipline. “They have sought out the soft underbelly of engineering, where phrases such as ‘diversity’ and ‘racial gaps’ and ‘unfairness’ and ‘unequal outcomes’ make up the daily vocabulary. Their purpose seems not to be how best to train new engineers but to let everyone know how bad engineers have been. The door to engineering is open to everyone, the question then is, are you good enough?”

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whumpywhumper · 5 years ago

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Oryn--Part 5

This one is a little heavier on the “world-building” side than the whump but I’m using this one for the “Fevers” slot on my @badthingshappenbingo card

Thanks @0idril0 for looking this over for the eternity that this has been on my computer. Red is completed, yellow is requested, and green has an idea--I need some more requests!

Link to previous parts: Part One, Two, Three, and Four

Tagging the people who seemed interested in Oryn: @castielamigos-whump-side-blog @fallingstormphoenix @whumpitywhumpwhump @wildfaewhump @whumping-every-day @imagination1reality0 @voidwhump

***

Galen rustled through his bag, pulling bottles out of it and looking at labels. "I think we're going to need to keep a closer eye on this one," he murmured.

The "one" in question was finally asleep, his whistling breaths drawn through dry and cracked lips. Emrik continued combing through the black, greasy locks under his hand. The Fae needed all of the comfort that he could get. "I think that would be a good idea," he pinched the bridge of his nose and gave a dry chuckle. "That probably took more than a few years off of all of our lives."

The older man gave a sardonic smile, "An understatement."

Their sleeping charge moaned quietly, and Emrik turn back to him. His face was lax in sleep, the only evidence of pain a small line between his dark brows, just under the cool cloth on his forehead. Sleep changed the Fae’s face from the terrified and pain filled mask that he had first seen. Emrik didn’t think he would ever forget the stark terror in those yellow eyes or the way he had called out for his goddess.

Now, he looked so young. Young and war torn—a mass of bruises, stitches, and broken bones. Emrik sighed and flipped the cloth to the cool side. He felt a tug on the tattered remains of the dyät knot and nudged back with gentle reassurance, “It’s alright, shhh.” He brushed through the dark hair again before disentangling the knot and releasing the magic. A shudder rolled through him at the release, and he sighed in relief.

Galen gave him a concerned look at the noise, "Are you going to be alright? You don’t normally seem to strain like that."

"I don’t normally have to strain like that,” he muttered, giving the sleeping Fae a considering look. “I'll be fine. I'm just glad I waited until he let me, and I didn't try to force the knot on him."

The human cocked his head at him with confusion, hands stilling, “You know I don’t know magic, especially your magic, what do you mean?”

“I mean if I had tried to force him, I wouldn’t have had the power to follow through.” A shrug, “Would’ve knocked me out of commission for a few days, trying to battle it out with him.”

A frown, "I've never heard you put it that way before, lad. Usually, you just do it and everything is fine."

"Usually, our patients are human," Emrik leaned forward in the chair that he had drug to the bedside, "or lesser seelie. Greater seelie are a whole new game, their grasp of magic is unparalleled. Their access to the weave of lei lines in the world is literally a part of their body, like an extra organ." He sighed and shrugged, "I don't understand all of it. I just know my magic cannot trump his. You humans have found ways around it," he tapped at the cuffs around their poor charge's wrist with a dark look, "for certain things. But I can't."

Galen gave an equally dark look at the cuffs and collar. “Guess I’ll take your word for it then.” He came over with his bag and pulled the blankets back from his charge’s chest. Black bruises crawled up his sides, equally matched by red welts and stitched cuts. The tube, made from the hollow roots of an astor plant, in the Fae's chest wall had been quickly stitched in place, held against his side with blood tacky bandages and lead down to a glass bottle on the floor.

His hands were gentle as they could be, but the Fae whimpered as the older man searched for air pockets or other injuries from his fall. “I know, I know, pup, it hurts.” Galen’s voice held a comforting baritone gravel that settled their charge, his weak breaths smoothing into a softer rhythm.

Emrik shook his head, the corners of his mouth turning downward. “You said Melisandra is coming in the morning, right?”

“Mmmhm, why?”

“I think she speaks better Saethe than I do, she might be able to talk to him if he wakes up again. He seemed to respond to some of what we said, but I don’t know how well he understands us. Even if he understands us, I don’t know how well he would speak Common.”

Galen grimaced. “He knows the words ‘please’ and ‘no more’, I can tell you that. He woke up for a few minutes earlier tonight, begged me not to hurt him.”

“They really did a number on him,” Emrik murmured. He shook his head again, pushing away the melancholy as he stood. “He’s stubborn, hopefully stubborn enough to recover from this. I’m going to go and get you more water.”

“Thanks.”

***

Oryn woke to the low murmur of voices nearby. There was a cold wet weight over his eyes and arms that caused him to shiver weakly. His bones ached and the slight weight that covered him was too much. It hurt, everything hurt, and he couldn’t stop the quiet whimper that pushed through his chapped lips. The voices near him quieted, and he did his best to breathe normally through his fear and confusion. He didn’t know what was going on, but he knew that the people in the room weren’t actively hurting him. That could change quickly if they knew that he was awake.

A cool slender hand pressed against his hot cheek, and the Fae flinched, automatically turning his head away, a burbled moan caught in his throat at the spike of pain through his spine. The wet weight—a towel?— slipped from one of his eyes, but he kept it closed.

“He is so warm,” an accented feminine voice whispered, not appearing to notice that he was awake as the towel was eased back over his eye. “How long has his fever been like this?”

“The fever started last night,” a gruff vaguely familiar grumble answered, near his hip, “it’s still climbing. Emrik and I are doing everything we can for it, but it’s up to him now.”

The woman hummed, slender fingers pressing over the wet towel, making cold drops of water track down past his ears. “Did he wake at all?”

A choked laugh, and he heard the rasp as the man ran his hand over his beard. “For a few minutes. By Tala, he was so scared.” The gruff voice faltered, and he cleared his throat. “The pup toppled off the bed when I went to get water for the fever and split some of his stitches open falling on the floor. Punctured his damn lung. Poor Emrik had to help me calm him.”

”I saw Emrik when I came in, he’s dead asleep in your foyer.” The woman’s light touch moved across his forehead and carded through Oryn’s still matted hair, catching on the tangles and knots. His fevered skin ached where her fingers touched, hypersensitive to the pull of his hair against his scalp, and he couldn’t suppress the hitch in his breath.

“Hmph, he said he used a lot of his reserves last night, tried to explain some of the magic to me. Not that I understood it. Meli, I know Emrik is exhausted, but is there anything you can do?”

Fevered confusion clouded the injured Fae’s thoughts. What?

“I don’t think so, Galen. Our magic doesn’t work the same with them. I haven’t figured out why yet.” The woman‘s chair skittered over the floor as she stood. “Even if he was human, he is very weak right now. I don’t know that he would survive my attempts at healing.”

“That’s basically what Emrik said,” a thick fingered hand took Oryn’s limp one and covered his swollen fingers with a warm, rough palm. Oryn’s fingers twitched around the larger hand, the hard splints under the manacles causing a twinge through his arm, and the stranger smoothed over them with a soft murmur. “He’s been tortured to within an inch of his life, Meli. Where did your men say they found him?”

Her men? Who were these people? Were they Soren’s friends? A dim memory of yelling men with authority in their voices welled up, but it was too tenuous to grasp and examine.

A quiet rustle of papers across the room marked the woman’s location. “Soren’s, apparently he was searching for some seelie runaways. You know about his fascination with their magic.”

Oryn felt his insides throb at actually hearing Soren’s name, a sharp inhalation making his ribs tug painfully, and an insistent voice started up in the back of his mind. They’re Soren’s friends. They’re going to hurt me too. They’re just waiting for Soren to come back.

He barely noticed the other’s fingers stilling over his own. “Run aways?” the questioned response stressed the plural. “By Tala, will he never learn? Someone needs to teach him there is a reason that the seelie are illegal to own. He is going to cause another war.”

A sharp sigh. “I’m not sure he hasn’t. The run aways were, apparently, on the border of the Leander Ridge when this one was captured. I don’t think the Queen’s forces were able to find the others after we got our report from Soren’s informant.”

Oryn felt his heart start to drum against his ribs, a spike of dread lancing through his gut. They were hunting the other seelie too. That’s why they were treating him, because Soren hadn’t gotten the information from him.

She continued with an ironic lilt to her voice that made Oryn tense further. “Besides, and I have no idea how he did it, but this little pup killed him as my Inquisitors broke the door down. So I guess we don’t have to worry about teaching Soren any lessons in the the future.”

“I’m sorry, he what?!” Shock colored the male’s voice as Oryn’s hand was placed back on the covers.

The Fae felt a wave of alarmed confusion start to roil and churn within him. Dead? A fog of pained memory boiled up, the sharp press of a knife against his abdomen, a brief, sweet flash of hope. But nothing else. He killed Soren?

Meli laughed as she answered, and the Fae’s frantic mind turned it into a sharp, cacophic peel of noise. “You heard me, Galen. Soren cracked his head on the floor, and it turned his brain to jelly. The only reason I know it was your dark haired charge, and not some sort of freak stroke, is that one of the lesser seelies could feel the knot.”

“But, how? This has to be one of the most magically restrained seelie I’ve ever come across, how did he even manage to scrape together the magic to form a knot?”

“I’m not—“ she cut herself off and there was the soft slip of fabric against fabric. Oryn felt the woman’s presence leaning over him again before there were slender fingers at his throat, over his collar, over the pounding pulse in his throat. “Galen,” she murmured, softly, “I think he’s awake.”

Oryn’s chest hurt, and he realized he’d forgotten to control his breathing, small wheezes for air making his broken ribs scream with pain. Panic flared, and he choked on a whimper when he sensed the male leaning over him as well, the masculine presence strong and looming. Celünie, please. Please, don’t hurt me. Soren was going to hurt the boy. He was so young. Please.

“Oh, lad,” Galen murmured, “shhhh, easy, it’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay. Oryn didn’t know who these people were, and they were touching him, and he didn’t feel good, and everything hurt. He gave up playing at sleep and tipped his head back into the pillow, shifting, gasping as a throbs of pain pounded through him. Wanting to get away from the hand at his throat, the potential punishment. He tried to move his legs, needed to flee, but he moaned weakly when a jolt of pain crashed through his body like lightning. Traveling from the broken bones and into the shorn muscles in his abdomen.

“Shhh, myonik, shhhh,” the woman soothed in Sæthe, “we are not going to hurt you.” Her fingers moved from his throat to brush against his hair in a deceptively gentle caress, another hand trying to cup his cheek.

Oryn didn’t believe her. Didn’t believe any of these humans with their promises and gentle hands. They’d been gentle before too. But he’d killed Soren, and they wanted to punish him. Hurt him. Make him scream.

His body was so heavy, and it was agony to move, every tiny muscle contraction telling him to stay still. But he didn’t want them to touch him. The damp cloth slid off of his face when he shook his head, rejecting the hand against his cheek, dull pounding starting up behind his eyes. The heat of the fever flared without the coolness of the cloth, and he whined, eyelids sliding open to search the blurry shapes over him.

Two people hovered, the bright light making them dark, indistinguishable shadows to the brightness of the room. He flinched back with a tight gasp of air, trying to raise his arms in a defensive posture, but the heavy appendages were easily caught in strong hands. His wrists throbbed even in the light grip, and the square, broad hands controlled him without any trouble. Ignoring his whimpers of protest, the man crossed his wrists across his stomach so that Oryn could be pressed back into the mattress by his other hand.

“Don’t move, lad,” Galen ordered, false kindness in his voice, “you’re very sick and very hurt. You need to stay still.”

Oryn’s struggles weakened, and he shuddered, the fear of disobeying overcoming his trembling limbs. His tongue was heavy and unwieldy in his mouth, but he swallowed thickly, trying to force his eyes to focus. “Dä. . . därog. . .il. . .il a. . . “ His voice was a hoarse, thin rasp that wavered on the plea, and his dry throat closed on any additional words as he panted for air.

“Shhh, be calm,” the woman said in Saethe, the lilt of his native tongue falling easily from her lips. The woman leaned further in, the hand in his hair sliding back to cradle his head as a cup was placed against his lips. “Drink, myonik.” Her angular face finally came in to focus, but her expression was unreadable to the exhausted Fae.

Blinking his gritty eyes fitfully, Oryn turned away from the sloshing liquid in the cup, an incoherent croak all he could manage. His throat was so dry, but these humans would hurt him, wanted to punish him for Soren. Wanted to know where his friends went. He didn’t know what was in the cup. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want it.

He couldn’t stop the hiccuping sob that slid out of his mouth as he squeezed his eyes closed. Please, I don’t want it.

“Shh, shh, shh, okay, okay.” The cup left his lips, and he sobbed harder when something skimmed across his cheek softly. “I know you’re scared, shhhh, it’s okay.”

“Oh pup, don’t cry.” Galen’s hands softened their restraining grip, his thumbs rubbing circles into his skin.

Oryn exhausted himself quickly, his breaths coming in hitching, shaky sobs and gasps as the woman continued carding through his hair, murmuring softly. “You aren’t going to be hurt, I promise. You’re being taken care of; you’re safe, now. Shhh.” His eyelids fluttered weakly, unable to fully unshutter themselves, and he swallowed past the dryness in his mouth.

“This is just water, we aren’t going to hurt you, but you need to drink, little one.” The woman raised his head again as she pressed the cup back to his mouth, and Oryn couldn’t fight against the cool liquid as it poured past his chapped lips. Pure, sweet water touched his tongue, and it soaked it up like a sponge in the desert. Swallowing fitfully, he sighed as the water soothed his parched throat, and she helped him drink until she pulled the cup away.

The Fae was drifting on fatigue, the rattle of things in the room making him jerk and whine, as the woman lowered his head back down. “Galen, is that too much water?”

“That should be enough for now,” Galen murmured, making Oryn shudder as new cool rags were drawn down his arms and across his neck. “He needs all of the fluids he can get, but we can’t have him drinking too fast.”

“Okay. . . “ Fingers carded through his hair again before she continued in Saethe, “Sleep now, myonik, we will talk when you feel better.”

Oryn whimpered, head ticking to the side as he forced himself to stay awake. He wanted to explain, maybe they’d have mercy if he explained. “D’rog. . . “ he slurred, wavering “. . .S’ren. . .”

“Hush, you don’t have to worry about Soren. You’re safe. No one is going to hurt you here. Sleep.”

The Fae did the only thing he could and obeyed, dark completely overtaking him.

#Oryn #Fae #Galen #Emrik #MY OCs #My writing #whump #some worldbuilding #fever #confusion #weak #bad things happen bingo #aftermath of torture

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the--sad--hatter · 6 years ago

Text

Game Of Survival - 8 (Bucky x Reader)

FANDOM - MARVEL

PAIRING - BUCKY X FEM!READER

WARNINGS - SMUT, VIOLENCE, ANGST, VERY GRAPHIC BLOOD AND GORE, SWEARING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL

DESCRIPTION -

The Executioner - Killer of Killers, the monster that hunts monsters, the bad-guys bogeyman.

It’s a title you earned and one that you cherish. Your goals are justified, your methods are not. But when a simple murder turns into a suicide and you are left clutching a flash drive with a terrible secret on it, you find yourself caught up in a mystery that you can’t solve alone. You turn to the professionals, the experts, the heroes. The Avengers.

With the lives of everyone in the world suddenly at stake, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have no choice but accept your help and Bucky Barnes quickly finds himself drawn in by you. He never much believed in love, let alone love at first sight so it figures he’d be proven wrong in such a spectacular way.

Masterlist

Chapter Eight

The cold English air bit into your skin, whipping your hair around your face madly as you walked.

“So we’re in London. What do we do, check every hotel reservation from June 6th last year?” Bucky scoffed.

“No. We use logic. Kawashima was a criminal, he had a criminal empire. It’s logical to assume the other members of the six do as well. Every city, every nation has a criminal underbelly. And almost always, there is a crossover with another organization. A deal, a feud, an agreement. But if you’re holding the keys to the end of the world, you’d do everything in your power to avoid any overlap. So, we can rule out human traffickers for a start.” You explained calmly.

“You want to hunt down the major players in London to figure out which ones don’t have any ties to Kawashima? That could take a while.”

“So we had better get started. And no, we’re asking who does have ties to him.”

“Because it’ll stop the six from figuring out what we’re doing and people will fall over themselves to prove that they don’t have ties to him.” Bucky guessed easily.

“Exactly.”

“So where do we start?” He asked you.

You smirked and tilted your head, indicating a building to him.

“Are you serious? We’re going to find criminals in a hipster coffee shop?” He asked incredulously.

“Not all shady business’s are fronted by a seedy nightclub.” You pointed out.

“But this place serves… maple infused green tea?” He said, reading the chalkboard through the window, from across the road.

“If that’s not proof of illegal dealings, I don’t know what is.” You sniggered.

“So how are we playing this?” He sighed.

“You go in, order something and sit down. Wear these.” You instructed, handing him a hair tie and a pair of sunglasses.

He gave you a dirty look but took them, tying his hair back and slipping the glasses on.

“See you on the other side Sarge.” You said, winking at him and striding into the café.

You walked straight up to the counter, leaning on it and fixing the barista with a charming smile.

“I’ll have a blood orange tea, extra bloody and whatever the owner recommends with it.” You told her, knowing full well what you ordered wasn’t on the menu.

“He recommends the death by chocolate brownies, that interest you?” She said without missing a beat.

“I’ll have two, no make it three.” You recited.

This wasn’t your first time in this establishment and the ‘barista’ now knew you weren’t here for the overpriced coffee.

“Who’s it for?” She asked.

“Lucy.”

If you weren’t watching for it, you wouldn’t have noticed the way her shoulders tensed up at your alias.

“Say, my mobile’s dead and I really need to call my boss. Do you think I could trouble you to use your phone?” You asked.

“Of course, it’s in back.”

“I know the way.” You whispered.

She visibly paled and nodded. You turned and made your way to the employee’s only door, catching Bucky’s eye as you did. He looked like any other Hipster in the place and if it wasn’t for the slight tick in his jaw, you wouldn’t be able to tell he was pissed at you. You maybe should have mentioned you were splitting off to do your own thing but it was more fun this way.

He had promised to do things your way without interfering but you weren’t stupid, you knew it was a lie. He was waiting, evaluating, looking for a chink in your ice cold armour, a crack in the walls you put up. He was looking for a chance to save you. You were betting you could break him before he found what he was looking for.

You made your way out of the café via the back door and through the connecting tunnels into the large warehouse behind it. People were milling around and unsurprisingly, not one of them met your eye. They all ducked out of the way, one man even going as far as to flatten himself against a wall as you passed. You kept your expression stony and your pace brisk as you made your way to the second level and didn’t bother knocking on the office door before your barged in.

“Well if it isn’t my lovely little devil.”

“Linda.” You greeted tersely.

The older women crossed her long legs and held out her arms in greeting. You started her down until she tutted and pretended to be disappointed, folding her hands on her waist.

“To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure Lucy? I set you up with more than enough information to keep you busy for months last time you were here.” She said.

“And one of those leads led to another lead that led to another and so on and so forth, now I need to know the extent of your dealings with The Japanese mafia. Specifically, the Kawashima empire.”

“Kawashima? I do believe the rumours are he committed suicide, though there are whispers that The Executioner got to him… something about an elevator full of diced up bodyguards.” She said, raising her eyebrows at you.

“I’m not here to dance around the issue.” You warned.

“You never want to dance at all.” She pouted.

“Oh Linda. I dance. Just not with you.” You smirked.

A flicker of annoyance crossed her face that she quickly hid behind a vipers smile.

“I don’t have any dealing with Kawashima’s organization, had a teensy scrape about seven years back when they used one of my channels across the Swiss border but he paid me off and that was the end of it.” She said.

“What was he moving?” You snarled.

“No idea darling, I don’t ask those kind of personal questions.” She shrugged.

“Bullshit darling. You would have found out exactly what he moved and what it was worth before you accepted his payoff to make sure he didn’t screw you out of a bigger payday.”

Your discerning gaze picked up on the way she paled just a touch and the pulse point on her throat jumped.

“It was before you, before our deal.” She protested.

“Then you can tell me.” You said soothingly.

“Girls. He was moving girls. Eighteen of them.” She said, tilting her chin upwards in an effort to appear unphased.

“And that was the last time you dealt with him?” You asked her.

“Haven’t heard a peep since.” She confirmed.

You believed her.

“I want to know who was dealing with him, I want to know every single deal he made. Tell people Linda… tell them The Executioner is going to be knocking on their doors looking for information.”

“You don’t normally call ahead.” She said, surprised by the strange nature of your request.

“I don’t normally offer leniency either. But anyone who helps me out get a free pass today. My focus is on Kawashima’s legacy and nobody else right now.”

“I’ll put the word out.” She agreed.

“You might need to write it down.” You said coldly.

She felt the change in the air, sensed the danger coming for her and reacted accordingly. She pulled out the gun that had been strapped to the underside of the desk and aimed it at you, pulling the trigger. You were close enough that all you had to do was reach out and calmly push her had aside, sending the bullet into the wall behind you. You wrapped your fingers around her wrist and twisted, making her drop the gun and you kept twisting until the bones in her wrist snapped under your grip and she screamed.

She clawed at you with her other hand, screaming for backup.

“They know who’s in here with you, they aren’t coming through that door.” You told her, pushing her back into the chair.

“We had a deal!” She argued desperately.

“You handed me criminals to stave off your own execution but you always knew this day was coming.” You laughed cruelly.

“No, no, I can give you more! Please.”

You held her good arm down and pulled a knife from under your coat, slamming into her hand and pinning her to the chair.

“Eighteen girls, sold into slavery because you choose not to help them. All you had to so was tell someone. But you let him pay you off, let him buy your silence. Was it worth it? Think carefully, these will be your last words.” You hissed.

“Fuck you!” She snarled.

“As last words go… I’ve heard better.” You scoffed, pulling a second knife out, a wickedly sharp one.

Her eyes widened as you gripped her jaw and squeezed, putting your blade to work. You could have done a much neater job if you cared to, but this was about sending a message so you didn’t mind breaking her jaw or the cuts across her lips as you sawed through her tongue, pulling it from her mouth and flinging it onto the desk.

“This… this is the true price of your silence.” You declared, placing your hand over her mouth and holding it there.

She thrashed wildly, her eyes bulging out of her head as she desperately fought to breathe but you didn’t let up. You held her down and watched with satisfaction as she choked on her own blood until the last bit of light died from her eyes and her body slumped, her head lolling to the side.

There was no remorse in you, no disgust in yourself for your actions as you pressed two fingers to her neck to check for a pulse and when you found none. You dipped your fingers into her mouth. Smearing her blood on the wall behind her corpse you left instructions for all her ‘employee’s’, a warning for the criminal underworld of London.

The Executioner was in town and she wasn’t leaving without what she came for.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky had been characteristically silent since he followed you out of the coffee shop and through the streets of London until you led him down a cobbled side street to a charming boutique hotel.

“This is where we are staying?” He asked, not sounding particularly fussed about it one way or the other.

“I can check us in if you want to go and get supplies?” You offered.

“Supplies?”

“Change of clothes, shaving cream and razors, quickly call your boyfriend and make sure he’s not mad you ran away with another woman…” You quipped.

He rolled his eyes at you and looked around to see if anyone was close enough to overhear before he spoke.

“In that café, you told them your name was Lucy.” He said.

“It’s an Alias.”

“What kind of Alias is Lucy?”

“It’s short for Lucifer. Because when I come calling, I bring hell with me.”

“Should have guessed that you’d have a flair for the dramatic.” He scoffed.

“Comes with the territory of being a serial killer but I didn’t come up with it. The recently deceased drug smuggler who ran the joint did.” You explained.

“You killed someone?”

“How is that even remotely surprising at this point?” You asked, raising a disbelieving eyebrow at him.

“It’s not. You were well acquainted enough with a criminal for them to give you a nickname though, that is surprising.” He shot back.

“How do you think I find my victims? Do you think I skulk on rooftops and watch the streets for criminal activity?” You scoffed.

“Fair enough.” He said in a tone that let you know this topic would be revisited.

“Go call your big blonde boyfriend before he has an aneurism. I’ll check us in. We can be…. Mr and Mrs Smith.” You decided.

“Unimaginative. Mr and Mrs Wilson.” He retorted.

You laughed at the Irony and subtle jab at the Falcon. When Sam found out you’d been using his name he was going to throw a bitch fit, you hoped you were there to see it.

_____________________________________________________________

Ex: *Makes a joke about Steve and Bucky dating*

Bucky: *Says nothing*

Ex: So your BOYFRIEND... You know... STEVE, STEVE ROGERS,YOUR BOYFRIEND.

Bucky: *Says nothing*

Ex: Just tell me if you’re dating him or not! I need to know!

Game of Survival Taglist

@keepcalmandsosayweall @shirukitsune @alina-barnes @musingpredilection @sexyvixen7 @dropthepizza346 @nighmxre @chook007 @dragonrosegardens @brazen88brat @clockworkherondale @demonlover87 @life-wanderer @joe-mazzello-is-my-dad @sireennotsiren @rootbeerboogy @spnrvt @violetthoughts97 @musingsofafangirlblog

PERMA TAG LIST

@likes-to-smell-books @thelostallycat @dilaila95 @dropthepizza346 @destiel-artemis @hiddles-rose @myfandomlife-blog @thosesexytexasboys @liveonce-sodoitright @spnrvt @tarastudiesalot @dahkness @sexyvixen7 @jaynnanadrews @littledeadrottinghood @pinkisokay @angieptt @anamcg317 @belladonnarey @queen-kayy92 @breezy1415 @penumbrawolfy @fairislesheets @lianadelphius @coolmassivenerd @youhavebeenspared @candyxcyanide @musingpredilection @isaxhorror @destiel-artemis @my-drowning-in-time @isabelcrichards @teh-nerdette @dlcita @deathofmissjackson @life-wanderer @cleo0107 @spicymagz @drdorkus @inquisitor-selvala @le-mow @zeannastardust @nighmxre @blue-cat-1989 @writingforbucky @abo4280ooof @mad4oak @jsmith509

#bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes x reader #steve rogers x reader #sam wilson x reader #Steve Rogers #sam wilson #captain america #The Winter Soldier

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illyrianwingspans · 5 years ago

Text

Do Not Go Gentle: Buzzcut Season

Link to song: Buzzcut Season by Lorde (my other absolute fave)

Synopsis: The history of Hybern and Night Industries.

Ao3 Link

Chapter 17: Buzzcut Season

War.

The word echoed in my mind, and all I could see was his face twisted into that vicious snarl of his.

“Please,” I breathed, “Don’t do it. Not for me. It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”

“What are you talking about?” Rhys demanded, his eyes full of concern and confusion. When he finally understood the fear in my eyes, the trembling of my fingers, he shook his head. “No, Feyre—not with Tamlin. Not with Spring Corporations.”

I flinched at the sound of his name.

Rhys sighed, then gently took me by the elbow and lead me over to the couch. It was directly in front of the map I’d seen before. Rhys wandered over to the coffee counter, and I heard the whirring of a machine. He spoke over the noise.

“Spring Corporations, for the last six months, has been working with Hybern and Co to import and sell Cauldron. C’s made their way into Prythian’s black market about three years ago, and since then can be found at nearly every party, frat house, club or back alley. They are all anyone wants right now, and the price they go for has never been higher. Hybern and Spring have been profiting big time off of these druggies. But they can’t maintain their supply anymore.”

“Why?” The world of drugs and illegalities still confused me to high hell, but Rhys remained calm and focused. He strode over from the coffee bar with two mugs in his hands, and handed me one. The smell was peppermint, and one sip of it had my stomach calm. He sat beside me, hands wandering over the map.

“This, here, are the ports. They used to import everything and operate out of here, the warehouse. That’s where I had my guys working to deliver them.”

“Wait, wait, how did you get caught up in this?”

“I’ll explain after. Anyways, we used to distribute from here to our dealers. But now, they can’t import anymore. They were caught with some misdealing at the border, and now they have no incoming supply. So they need a new facility to start producing here, in Prythian.”

“Okay, but what’s the issue then?”

Rhys sighed. He took another marker, then circled the mountains and territories north of Prythian, Illyria. “He’s looking at buying the reserve.”

My mouth fell open, and I immediately blurted, “Hybern can’t do that. That’s protected land. That’s their land.”

“I know,” Rhys sighed and fell back against the couch. “But this city has an asshole of a mayor in charge who doesn’t quite care as long as there’s money in his pocket.”

My brows furrowed. “He can’t do that.” I repeated, furious. I didn’t know much about Illyria, but I knew that their people, the Illyrians—they’d been there for hundreds of years. They were native to this land before Prythian was colonized, before the city had a skyline at all.

“He can, and he’s trying. The land, though they claim is protected, is under city jurisdiction. No matter what we do, feds aren’t getting involved because it’s not federally owned. It’s up to the mayor and the people to decide. And as you know, the Illyrians aren’t very popular amongst city people.”

It was true. They had a reputation for their coldness, and were known only for their cheap gas prices and bars.

“For years my people have been marginalized. They have no voice, no means to make a living. We’ve been demanding for better government infrastructure, for healthcare, for schools, but the only thing that seems to be opening up are more bars and liquor stores.” His eyes closed. “My people have been suffering. The homicide rates, the suicide rates—they’re six times higher in their territories than here.”

For a few moments, we were quiet. I only looked down at the map, disdainful that I’d never been told of the suffering lingering just beyond the city limits.

“If they buy that land, their homes will be destroyed. But that’s not all—they’ll employ those people. They’ll give them a pittance of a salary for menial work, and three quarters of them will be addicted to C’s before the first month of production is over.” He glanced at me sidelong, the usual spark in his features gone. “My people will only suffer more than they already have.”

I shook my head, eyes still focused on the map. “So what are you doing?” I wondered. “What can I do?”

Rhys hesitated for a moment, then said, “You seriously want to work with us?”

I thought it over for a moment, and realized quickly that I hadn’t been so passionate about something in… in years. I’d loved my job at Hum’s. It was something to do. Something to make the days go by without submitting completely to the numbness filling my bones. But this…working with my friends, trying to destroy the people who had ruined my life…

“You need to tell me how you got involved with Hybern, though. I want to know the whole story. I want to know what exactly it is you all do in this building before signing anything.”

Rhys looked to me for a few moments before saying, “Night Industries works security. Exactly like I explained to you: security detail, cybersecurity, infrastructure security, we do it all. We have real estate holdings, we have hundreds of investment projects. But security is our main focus.”

“Why?”

At that, Rhys smirked. “Because no one thinks the people that are protecting them actually listen in.”

“And by that you mean…?”

“Information, Feyre, costs more than any currency you can imagine. Secrets are worth more than a hundred kilograms of gold. Because they are leverage. Insight. A way into your enemy’s mind, the thread you pull for the fabric to fall apart completely. Nobody thinks the security guard in the front of the limo is listening in on their conversations about sly deals. Nobody thinks their security software is actually reporting back to the manufacturer whenever a new file is uploaded. Nobody thinks the guard at the museum party is noticing who walks into the bathroom with a married man for a quick fuck.”

I sat back for a moment, trying to process everything he was telling me.

“I first caught wind of Hybern’s dealings because I was the one who worked his security detail when he first came to Prythian. As soon as my people reported back, I realized that I was sitting on one of the biggest drug operations to ever enter Prythian. Days later I was in Hybern and Co’s office, speaking to Mr. Hybern himself, proposing a business plan for his future dealings here.”

“Why did you help him?”

“It’s easier to know your enemy by being their friend. But back then, I was stupid. I moved too fast. Before I knew it my guys were in the streets practically dealing the stuff themselves. By then I knew I was in too deep, and I tried to back out as quickly as possible. But they had me by the balls. Bookkeeping on which my name wouldn’t be erased if it ever came to light. Irrefutable incriminating evidence that would flush my life and my business down the drain.”

“How did you get out finally?”

At that, Rhys’s face completely shut down. He only said, “By chance. I saw my opportunity and got the fuck out of dodge.”

By the sound of his voice, I knew not to push him. I only said, “I’m in.”

The storm in his eyes cleared up at the words. “What?”

“Whatever it is, I’m in. I’ll do it.”

“Feyre,” Rhys said quietly, “take some time to think it over. It doesn’t have to be right away.”

“What would my position be?”

“For starters, you’d be my personal assistant. That office out there would be for you.”

“I have very limited experience working in offices.” I never wanted to think about that janitor’s closet ever again.

“I know,” Rhys hedged, “and it won’t be like that at all. We’ll start you off slow, get you used to our systems, help you work your way up. Cerridwen, Azriel’s assistant, will show you all the ropes. We’ll start you off on half-days and work you up from there. If ever you feel sick, tired, anything—you have the day off, no questions asked.”

I eyed him nervously. I couldn’t believe, in the course of two weeks, I had gone from Spring Corporations straight to their enemy, ready to accept a job offer two days after nearly ending it all.

“Like I said, take your time, Feyre.” Rhys said softly. “You don’t have to do this.”

“I’ll think about it.” I promised. “Over dinner tonight.” I added.

“Jesus Christ, I hoped you forgot.”

***

When we got home, I took a nap while Rhys cleaned up the main floor. He’d turned it into his office while he was working from home, despite the fact that he had a perfectly usable office upstairs. He said it was ‘too dark’ (despite the wall of windows it had), and I knew full well it was just because he wanted to keep an eye on me while I lounged on his couch reading and watching TV. As though I would try to suffocate myself to death with a pillow.

My alarm went off at seven, and I dragged myself to the bathroom to make myself look presentable. I donned some of the nicer clothes Mor had bought me, just jeans and a t-shirt, but each were soft and expensive looking, that made the guilt within me fester even more. For the first time in a while, I looked at myself in the mirror, and was terrified of the face who stared back.

I hadn’t noticed the thinness in my face until my cheeks had hollowed out and my skin was pale and white. My hair had begun falling out a while ago, coming out in heaps of strands in the shower, and it’d lost any traces of shine and glimmer that it originally held. Not to mention, my waist had thinned out as well, and my ribcage stood out starkly against my skin. The t-shirt, thank the Gods, was loose. All I had the energy to do was run a comb through my messy hair, brush my teeth and splash some water on my face. Though it wasn’t much of an improvement from before, at least it was something.

Downstairs, Rhys had cleaned up most of his mess, leaving behind only his computer on the corner of the coffee table before the TV. In the kitchen, the counter was clean, and something smelled glorious as the sounds of kernels popping emanated from the microwave.

“Popcorn?” Rhys wondered as he pulled the bag out and dumped the contents into a bowl. I nodded my head and pecked at a few kernels. My stomach, thankfully, did not protest at the buttery taste across my tongue.

At the edge of island were two games stacked atop one another: Pictionary and Monopoly. I raised my brows.

“My family takes game night very, very seriously. It doesn’t happen often. When it does, I always have to buy a new table.”

“A new table?”

The doorbell rang, and a look of misery overcame Rhys’s face. “Because someone always ends up flipping it.”

I stayed in the kitchen while Rhys wandered unhurriedly to the front entrance. Once the door opened, it was instant chaos that overtook the household. There was so much noise and voices that I could barely decipher who had walked in the door, only the fact that someone had wrapped in their arms. Cassian’s comforting scent enveloped me, and I sighed as I hugged him back, missing his cheerful spirit.

“Feyre! You could’ve at least given me some rent money before you left.”

I forced the best chuckle I could as he released me, and his full, toothy smile shined above me. Before I could even say anything his hand was already reaching for the popcorn. I guess Rhys hadn’t said much about my abrupt move out of his apartment, and I wasn’t sure if I preferred it that way.

A low voice sounded from behind me, “We brought pizza. Mor requested banana chilis, I’m sorry.” Azriel nodded to me, and I gave him my best impression of a grin. It didn’t work.

“It’s like you’re trying to burn off my tastebuds.” Cassian whined. Mor was already moving around the kitchen like a hurricane, plucking wine glasses from Rhys’s cabinets and pulling a bottle of rosé from her purse. She only replied to Cassian, “You’re one of the only ones here with an inkling of culture, honey. Your tastebuds should be adapted to spice by now.”

“I’m going to ignore that slightly racist comment. And remind you that you and Feyre are the minorities in this party.”

“Do you have anything strong, Rhys? I don’t know why they keep inviting me to these.” Amren commented. She’d already taken up a spot sitting on the kitchen counter. By the lack of looks she was getting, I guessed that was her usual seat.

“You’re the one that keeps showing up, Amren. Nobody’s forcing you.” Cassian argued.

Amren quipped, “You parked in front of my apartment building and threatened to honk all night until I got in with you. I don’t want a public disturbance added to my criminal record.”

Added? was all I could think to myself as Rhys pulled out a bottle of vodka. Amren smiled—well, smile was the best word for it, it was more like a wolf bearing its teeth. He poured her a knuckle’s length, and she knocked it back in one gulp. Rhys took one look at her and the bottle, then left it there for her on the counter. She poured herself another then kept it next to her, like a dragon guarding its trove.

“I know you don’t like talking about work at home, but I have to tell you one thing.” Azriel said.

Mor and Cassian both rolled their eyes at the same time (Mor tried to claim jinx, but Cassian refuted you can’t jinx something non-verbal). Rhys, though, was at full attention. In his hands was a glass of what looked like scotch. Suriel’s words kept playing in my mind, but I was thirsty—and a glass of wine wouldn’t hurt. Just something to ease me into this new dynamic. I stood and went to the pantry and grabbed a glass, then went to the fridge where I knew Rhys kept his stash of white wine.

Behind me, Azriel asked, “Do you trust her?”

The room was silent, save the sound of the wine pouring into my glass. Quietly, I put the cap on the bottle, then slid it back into the fridge side door. When I turned, five sets of eyes were turned to me. I only took a sip of my drink, then looked to Rhys.

“Do you?” I asked curiously. Rhys only exhaled sharply.

“Seeing as though I might be hiring miss Archeron, yes, I do trust her, Azriel.”

Cassian’s eyebrows lifted in excitement. “Seriously, Fey? You’re coming to work with us?”

The name threw me off, and I flinched. All I could see was his face, his and Lucien’s, the stupid nickname they’d called me for years. It only made me tilt back my glass, wanting to blur the lines of their faces until they were unrecognizable.

“I have not agreed to anything yet, so don’t get your hopes up.” I took another sip, then pinned Cassian with a look. But not the type that was antagonizing or joking. I stared at him, dead serious, and said, “Don’t call me that.”

Cassian blinked. Even Mor looked between the two of us, shocked, only for Cassian to say, “Message received.”

“I got a call this afternoon,” Azriel said, trying to clear the air as quickly as possible, “that they’ve arranged a meeting for next week.”

“Hybern and the mayor?”

Azriel shook his head. “No. The mayor and Spring Corporations. They’re having lunch at West Border.”

“So he’s taken over as Hybern’s coordinator?”

“More or less. The mayor trusts Ivy. They’ve made deals together in the past, the mayor’s profited off of a few strategic property investments. It would be too direct to get Hybern directly involved.”

There was nothing else to do but sip my wine. Anything but think about his kind features and golden hair. Because I knew those investments. The limited amount of information he’d shared with me, I remembered, was about the mayor’s dealings. I’d even been to one of those lunches with him, a year back, when they were discussing a new condo development on the east side.

“We can’t let that meeting happen,” Rhys said, “or we have to intercept it in some way.”

“What do you want us to do? Waltz in dressed as waiters and pull the fire alarm?” Cassian interjected.

Amren, seated at the kitchen counter, seemed like she was pondering the idea fondly.

“Can we hold this meeting tomorrow? I’m hungry for pizza. And Pictionary.” Mor said.

“That pizza is inedible.” Cassian grumbled, but picked up the boxes and wandered to the kitchen table anyways.

“That’s why the Gods gave your Neanderthal-self opposable thumbs to pick off the peppers.”

I took a seat at the table between Rhys and Mor. Cassian instantly dug into the pizza box, tearing away the red peppers with an animalistic furiousness before nearly inhaling the slice. Mor savoured her piece slowly, and I reluctantly took a bite. The peppers set my tongue on fire, and I washed it down with a sip of wine.

“Well?” Amren wondered, staring at her perfectly manicured nails. “Are we going to get this ridiculousness over or what?”

Azriel collected the Pictionary box from the kitchen island reluctantly and set it on the table, pulling away just in time before Cassian dug into the box, grease dripping from his fingers.

“Remember what I told you Feyre?” Rhys murmured beside me.

“Yup,” I said, “if anyone but Azriel wins, then they’re cheating.”

#dngg #acotar #acomaf #acowar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fanfic #acotar fanfiction #sjm #sarah j maas #feyre #rhys #rhysand #feysand #feysand fanfic #feysand fanfiction

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berniesrevolution · 5 years ago

Link

President Obama inspired a lot of progressive disappointment for often failing to live up to his lofty rhetoric. But a strain of liberal thought defended him by insisting that presidents just weren’t that powerful. Political scientist Brendan Nyhan mocked the mindset of the uninitiated by calling it the Green Lantern Theory of the Presidency, after the DC Comics hero who possessed a ring that gave him near-total power, bound only by his imagination and will.

To Nyhan, partisans hold the misguided notion that a president “can achieve any political or policy objective if only he tries hard enough or uses the right tactics.” In reality, he argued, a strong legislature, a Supreme Court that can overturn laws, and the dynamics of a polarized age make policy accomplishments a difficult climb.

Theoretically speaking, this is all correct. A president has a thicket of checks and balances to maneuver through. But America has also been passing laws for over 232 years, and buried in the U.S. Code are the raw materials for fundamental change. It doesn’t take Green Lantern’s ring to unearth these possibilities, just a president willing to use the laws already passed to their fullest potential.

The Prospect has identified 30 meaningful executive actions, all derived from authority in specific statutes, which could be implemented on Day One by a new president. These would not be executive orders, much less abuses of authority, but strategic exercise of legitimate presidential power.

Without signing a single new law, the next president can lower prescription drug prices, cancel student debt, break up the big banks, give everybody who wants one a bank account, counteract the dominance of monopoly power, protect farmers from price discrimination and unfair dealing, force divestment from fossil fuel projects, close a slew of tax loopholes, hold crooked CEOs accountable, mandate reductions of greenhouse gas emissions, allow the effective legalization of marijuana, make it easier for 800,000 workers to join a union, and much, much more. We have compiled a series of essays to explain precisely how, and under what authority, the next president can accomplish all this.

The need for a Day One agenda is particularly acute as we head into 2020. I keep sensing an undercurrent of despair when talking to liberal partisans about the election, a sigh that beating Trump is not enough but all that can be done. Yes, Democrats are only an even-money shot, at best, to flip the Senate. And yes, even if they succeed, Mitch “Grim Reaper” McConnell can obstruct the majority with the filibuster, and it would not be up to the next president, but the 50th senator ideologically, someone like Joe Manchin or Kyrsten Sinema, to agree to change the Senate rules to eliminate the 60-vote threshold for legislation. (There’s always budget reconciliation, but that limited path goes through the same conservaDems.)

But this reality does not have to inspire progressive anguish. Anyone telling you that a Democratic victory next November would merely signal four years of endless gridlock hasn’t thought about the possibilities laid out in this issue. And if you doubt the opportunity for strong executive action, let me direct your attention to Donald Trump.

MAKE NO MISTAKE: Trump is an autocrat, more than willing to break the law to realize his campaign promises. His invocation of inherent, extreme executive power, egged on chiefly by Attorney General William Barr, is in fact dangerous, as former Representative Brad Miller lays out for us later in this issue. Trump has asserted the right to ignore Congress’s oversight function, reinterpret laws based on his own preferences, hide information from lawmakers and the public, promise pardons before illegal actions take place, appoint acting heads of federal agencies without advice and consent from the Senate, and raise the specter of emergency to follow through on his campaign promises.

But in a significant number of cases, Trump’s pathway has sprung from a simple proposition: When Congress gives the executive branch authority, the president, you know, can actually use it.

Trump’s health and human services secretary is employing the federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act of 1938 to test the importation of lower-cost prescription drugs from Canada. His education secretary canceled student debt automatically for 25,000 disabled veterans, implementing part of the Higher Education Opportunity Act of 2008. His agriculture secretary is resurfacing the work requirements already present in the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program statute, to prevent states from waiving them.

We’ve similarly seen Trump apply Section 232 of the Trade Expansion Act of 1962 to impose tariffs on imports he deems present a risk to national security. He also used the Commodity Credit Corporation, established in 1933, to send billions of dollars to farmers, to protect them from the blowback from his own tariffs.

Even his most tyrannical action, transferring billions from the Defense Department to build sections of a wall along the Mexican border, had the backing of a federal law: The National Emergencies Act of 1976 allows limited circumstances for presidents to move around money, despite Congress holding the purse strings. (It was such an emergency that he waited seven months to announce the second batch of funding shifts.)

Few of Trump’s ideas have been good policy, from a progressive perspective. Some, like the invocation of emergency powers, are a common tool of despots which never turns out well even when used by small-d democrats, from Lincoln’s suspension of habeas corpus to Roosevelt’s Japanese internment camps.

(Continue Reading)

#politics #the left #2020 election #progressive #progressive movement

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99nzheorphanedacc · 5 years ago

Text

Trolling Su

Rating: K+ Words: 2455 Description: Korra keeps her promise to Baatar and Izumi teaches Suyin a much needed lesson.

For Lin and Tenzin, the airship ride to the Fire Nation was unbearably awkward. It felt like they were parents having to bail their child out of prison. Korra had sneaked into the Fire Nation with Baatar Jr. in tow. It was all because of a promise she made to keep the two separated if Baatar failed to talk Kuvira out of surrendering to Republic City during the Invasion of the United Republic only a few days prior. In a last effort to save her son from being tried for aiding the Great Uniter in her war crimes, the Matriarch of Zaofu even sponsored the Avatar’s plans and sponsored hers and her son’s passage in the cargo hold of some merchant vessel in an attempt to have the voyage go unseen by border control in the United Republic and Fire Nation Islands.

When Lin and Tenzin landed, they found Lin’s younger sister waiting for their arrival on the runway of the Royal Airfield, positively quaking while waiting for ‘an audience with her Lordship, Izumi’.

“Spirits, I miss the days when she was like a sister and we could just waltz in and –” Suyin grumbled, furious that no one allowed her to see her eldest son yet.

“Cry about how your sister beat you in sparring again?” Izumi asked, appearing behind them in all of her grey-hair and crimson-robed glory, accompanied by Tenzin’s two older siblings of all people.

“Zumi!” Lin exclaimed, rushing to hug the Fire.

“Bumi?” Tenzin asked, eyeing his older brother with surprise. “Kya?”

“We were on the islands just visiting when we got the report!” Kya explained, hugging her little brother first and then his ex-girlfriend.

“What report?” Tenzin asked.

“The report that Izumi had my son arrested?” Suyin asked pointedly.

“Spirits! No!” Izumi exclaimed. “The one that announced they’d been seen, the Avatar and the Great Uniter’s Fiancée, without visas or explanations for their presence on our pumice.”

“It was supposed to be Baatar’s punishment for his involvement in Kuvira’s Regime!”

“How is sending him on a vacation in my country a punishment?” Izumi asked, accepting a drink from a passing palace servant as they walked into the Red Keep.

“The punishment isn’t sending him on vacation! It is keeping him from Kuvira during the trials!” Suyin explained carefully.

“So he can get away un-accused without any sort of sentencing for building that spirit mecha?” Izumi asked Suyin.

“Well—” Suyin stammered. “Kuvira coerced him to—brainwashed him—”

“—You know, I was going to let them go, at first, as long as they didn’t disturb the peace we have worked so hard to achieve.” The Fire Lord explained, entering a private parlour of the palace. “But after Kya gave me a few drinks, apparently I gave the order to have them detained for illegal trespassing.”

“Why?” Suyin asked. “He’s my son!”

“I know, and I regretted it for a few minutes, but then stopped once you started talking,” Izumi finished, kicking her feet up onto a coffee table as she sat on a love seat with Kya.

“Bu—” Suyin stammered. “Zumi you can’t be serious!”

Izumi simply smirked as she took a sip of her drink and folded one arm under her other elbow.

“Oh, you’re cruel,” Lin exclaimed, laughing as she noticed the wicked grin just beyond the rim of the cup that Izumi made no attempt to hide.

“What have you done?!” Suyin yelled, stomping her foot, shaking the room. “Release my son at once! Lin you can’t let her do this! He’s a Beifong!”

“The Beifong name might mean something in Zaofu, and maybe Republic City on some days, but Suyi, this is the Fire Nation,” Lin apologized to her little sister.

“You guys are such—UGH!” Suyin yelled, pacing the room in her fury, only a few moments away from collapsing the entire palace with her bending.

“Do you have back up?” Bumi whispered in Izumi’s ear, standing behind the love seat with his hand’s on her shoulders, mildly concerned for their safety.

“Always. I’m the Fire Lord,” Izumi replied.

“You guys are so mean!” Tenzin yelled at Lin, Izumi, and his siblings. “Come on, Suyin. I’ll help you find Junior and Korra. They don’t deserve this treatment.”

The other four watched the Air Nomad lead the enraged earthbending matriarch from the room with mild amusement.

“Was all this a ruse to spin up my little sister for your entertainment?” Lin asked curiously once they had gone.

“Only partially. I do believe Baatar needs to face some sort of judgement for creating the weapon that enabled that power-hungry- child to invade my Father and Avatar Aang’s masterpiece and destroy its capital city—but those crimes were not committed in my country, so—” Izumi sighed and ser her cup down. “I could not be the one to do the judging… But he needed to be sentenced to something and then Kya reminded me that after the 100 year war, the Fire Nation lost all previous visa agreements with other countries. If we can’t cross their borders without reason and permission, they can’t cross ours. While it is not justice for the mecha, it’s something.” Izumi said, taking another sip of water.

“I didn’t know you knew how to intimidate,” Suyin exclaimed, impressed that her older sister’s nerd of an ex-boyfriend managed to get the location of the Avatar and the Great Uniter’s Ex-Fiance out of him without taking off fingers as Suyin had suggested.

“I may not have been the greatest Councilman, but I picked up some things,” Tenzin replied, walking quickly down an underground of the Capital City’s highest security prison. “KORRA!!! JUNIOR!!!”

“Oh shut up! I can’t stand the echo, allow me,” Suyin said closing her eyes and stomping a single, heavy foot down to feel the vibrations of the earth to search for her son and the Avatar’s signature heartbeats. “This way!”

Tenzin followed suit. By the time he caught up with the matriarch of Zaofu, she had torn off the iron door to the cell and run in only to be punted back into the opposite wall by the inmates of that cell.

“That prophet was right about an escape opportunity on the fourth moon of the seventh year of—”

“You’re not escaping if you weren’t meant to escape,” Suyin said, grimly lifting a hand as the other rubbed her head, bending a spear of earth from the floor of the prison cell into the ceiling, pinning them to the roof of the prison hall by their shackles.

“That doesn’t look anything like Korra or Junior,” Tenzin commented, resting as Suyin found her feet again.

“They’re the same weights as Korra and Junior,” Suyin replied, standing up.

“I thought Seismic Sense identified people by their heartbeats!”

“Yeah, mine was never as acute as Mom and Lin’s, so I had to make do with weights and densities,”

“Do I they know that?

“They’re the same weights as Korra and Junior,” Suyin replied, standing up and dusting herself off as the guards came to collect the ‘escaped’ criminals.

“My Lord, Masters Tenzin and Suyin have discovered at which prison your guests were being held,” a palace servant wearing Earth Kingdom clothing announced while Lin, Izumi, Bumi, and Kya were enjoying a large plate of lychee, longan, and rambutans.

“Good,” Fire Lord Izumi replied, discarding a rambutan skin in one of the large tins beside the plate of fresh fruit.

“Were being held?” Lin asked curiously. “Where are they now?”

Izumi raised a hand and the palace servant in Earth Kingdom clothes earthbent open a secret door revealing the two in chains in a chamber just off the parlour.

“Lin?!” Korra yelled.

The Palace guard threw a flat metal strip over the Avatar’s mouth. “You were told to be silent!” the guard yelled.

“Tadashi, that isn’t necessary. Unbind them please, I’m sure Lin has many questions for them… and they should eat,” Izumi instructed, sitting back on the lounger with a handful of longan.

Tadashi and Korra both exchanged rather menacing glares as the earthbender unlocked the platinum cuffs and hung them on hooks on his belt.

“Korra, you let yourself get captured by the Fire Lord?” Lin asked incredulously.

“My Father would be so proud of me!” Izumi whispered to Kya and Bumi with a smirk as the other’s snickered.

“Okay—first of all, she didn’t capture me! Her cronies did—”

“And who trained them?” Izumi asked.

“Her lordship was the one to discover your hiding place and coordinate the attack—” Tadashi added as Baatar sat down on an empty couch and reached for some fruit.

“You didn’t think to use the Avatar State to escape?” Lin inquired.

“I thought you and Tenzin didn’t want me to use it except for when my life was in actual danger!”

“You didn’t know Izumi’s guards! They could have been Red Lotus insurgents or something.”

“For your information, we’re confident we’ve scourged them from our soil, but—” Izumi tried to chime in.

“Izumi revealed herself pretty immediately so—” Korra exclaimed.

“You were afraid of her?” Lin asked, raising a brow and turning to her friend.

“She explained that she knew what we were doing and how she thought Baatar still deserved some sort of sentencing and—”

“In short, the Avatar knew she wasn’t in mortal danger and therefore didn’t need to initiate the Avatar State. Anyways, this isn’t about Korra, Lin. It is about making sure Baatar knows he overstepped his bounds in the Earth Kingdom and United Republic and that Suyin knows she can do nothing to hide it,” Izumi explained. “Not from us, at least.”

“Like how my mother covered up her involvement with the Terra Triad,” Lin realized, looking up at the ceiling in relief.

“Exactly!” Izumi raised a rambutan to her friend.

Lin let out a sigh of relief and picked up her cup of tea.

“So when are we supposed to expect Su and Tenz to come back raging?” Lin asked.

“A few days. My agents report her sub-par seismic sense abilities mistook two legitimate inmates for Korra and Baatar…”

“She also thought that Zhu Li was Kuvira the night she tried to assassinate the Great Uniter,” Baatar whispered bitterly.

Lin clicked her tongue and shook her head. “I guess that’s what she gets for being cocky and not practicing.”

Izumi shrugged.

“I wonder what skills you missed. Toph mentioned neither of you ever really grasped the finer points of metalbending,” Korra chimed in, trying to make conversation as they waited for further updates on Su and Tenzin’s wild goose chase.

“She WHAT?” Lin shrieked as Izumi, Bumi, and Kya burst into equally raucious fits of laughter.

“I can’t believe we still haven’t found them!” Tenzin sighed in defeat as he and Suyin walked down another alley on another island following another lead that lead to nothing.

“Wait!” Suyin said. “Is it just me or do you get the sense that we’re being followed?”

They both stopped walking to listen. There was no breeze under the cover of the high walls that surrounded them on all sides. It was the perfect place for an ambush, they realized as a dozen men in long, hooded black coats appeared on the roofs of the flanking buildings.

One drew a knife. Suyin stepped in front of Tenzin and raised metal stips off of her necklace preparing for a fight. She fired first as he threw his knife . He missed intentionally and out of the handle, fluttered a rolled up piece of parchment.

Just come back, Suyi was written on it in Izumi’s hand.

“Not until I have my son back!” Suyin yelled, crushing the paper in her hand, tossing it up, and shredding it with a swipe of several metal strips bent into blades of a knife.

One of the cloaked men threw another dagger. “And what makes you think he has been held in one place?”

“Fuck the Fire Lord!” Suyin groaned turning up to the sky.

“What was it?” Tenzin asked.

“Zumi,” Suyin growled.

“She’s had him the whole time?”

“Yes,” Suyin confirmed.

They both waltzed straight into a meeting Izumi was having with her war generals in the throne room.

All of the generals stood upon the intrusion ready to defend their Lord to the death only to find the matriarch of Zaofu and the Air Nation’s only grand master.

“Session dismissed. We will recommence tomorrow,” Izumi snapped, standing with her hands folded in front of her, eyes narrowed and mouth pressed into a tight frown.

The Generals all saluted and filed out.

“WHERE ARE THEY?” Suyin demanded.

“The pool in the guest quarter,” Izumi answered immediately

Suyin ran with Tenzin at her heel.

When they arrived at the pool, they found Korra screaming as she slid down a water slide that lifted at the end, launching the Avatar into the air.

“WATERBENDING BOMB!” Korra yelled as she came crashing into the pool shooting a column of water into the air.

“Kya! Heads up!” Baatar yelled, passing the ball to the older waterbender as Bumi and Lin opposed them in a game of water polo on the opposite side of the pool.

“My Son!” Suyin yelled, running towards the water’s edge.

“Mother?” Baatar gasped, spinning in the water.

Lin intercepted the ball and caught it, holding onto it, eagerly waiting for her little sister’s reaction.

Suyin stood, dumbfounded.

“I see you’ve been—treated well,” Tenzin uttered, displaying an equal expression of confusion.

“His paperwork,” Izumi said appearing out of a secret passage way, handing Suyin a stapled stack of papers.

Charges: Illegally crossing International borders without Visa and Resisting Detainment Penalties: - 500,000 Yuan fee to be paid to the Department of Border Control of the Fire Nation - 500,000 Yuan fee to be paid to the National Border Protection of the United Republic - 5 years probation (details outlined on page 6 of Release Documentation)

“He has already paid the fees, and knows the consequences of not reporting to the United Republic Probationary Offices here, in the Earth Kingdom, Water Tribes, and URN. Don’t try to pay off the probation officers, or any other government officials in any country to buy his freedom. No more crimes will go unpunished, my dearest little Suyi.” Izumi said firmly.

Suyin’s hands shook as she read the front page bearing her son’s name and the words “Yuyiao Provincial Police Department, Fire Nation” and fell to her knees.

Baatar moved towards his mother by the pool edge, but Lin stopped him.

“Don’t,” Lin whispered. “She needs to learn just like you.”

“Only justice can bring peace,” Korra whispered, quoting one of her previous incarnations.

---------------------------------------------------

A/N

I was rereading some old one shots and remembered just how neglected the Gaang’s children are in the fandom and needed an excuse for them all to get together again, so.... HERE IT IS! :D

Also, Tadashi is one of my original characters that regularly appears as an earthbending member of Fire Lord Izumi’s personal guard in a lot of my other stuff that is posted... somewhere.

#fanfiction #oneshot #korra #baatar jr #suyin #suyin beifong #lin beifong #tenzin #kya #bumi #fire lord izumi #longan #rambutan #lychee #Fire Nation #Earth Kingdom #kuvira is mentioned but briefly

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pinetreeanarchism · 5 years ago

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When George Orwell returned to Barcelona for the third time, on June 20th, 1937, he discovered that the Spanish secret police were after him. He had been forced to return to the front in order to have his discharge papers countersigned and, in his absence, the Communists had initiated a purge of their perceived enemies. Orwell was on the list. As he arrived in the lobby of the Hotel Continental, Eileen approached him calmly, placed her arm around his neck, and smiled for the benefit of anyone watching. Once they were close enough she hissed in his ear:

“Get out!”

“What?”

“Get out at once.”

“What?”

“Don’t keep standing here! You must get outside quickly!”

Eileen guided a bewildered Orwell toward the hotel exit. Marceau Pivert, a French friend of Orwell’s who was just entering the lobby, seemed distressed to see him and told him he needed to hide before the hotel called the police. A sympathetic member of the staff joined in, urging Orwell to leave in his broken English. Eileen managed to get him to a café on a discreet side street, where she explained the seriousness of the situation.

David Crook, a young Englishman working for the Independent Labour Party’s (ILP) Barcelona office, had become friends with both Orwell and his wife over the last few months. He was not what he seemed. He had arrived in Spain in January 1937, the month after Orwell, eager to join up with the International Brigades and fight the Fascists. He was descended from Russian-Jewish immigrants and grew up in Hampstead, attending the prestigious Cheltenham College.

Like many young men who grew up after the First World War, he was attracted to left-wing causes. He moved to New York City, where he attended Columbia University and embraced radical politics, joining the Young Communist League. As a student delegate he traveled down to Kentucky to support the famous miners’ strike in Harlan County, witnessing its brutal suppression by the National Guard. On his return to London he became a member of the British Communist Party. At one meeting, the doomed poet John Cornford spoke about the Republican cause in Spain, and Crook was inspired to enlist.

Like Hyndman, Crook was thrust straight into the action at the Battle of Jarama, taking three bullets to the leg. Recovering in Madrid, he socialized with the literary set, including the brilliant war correspondent Martha Gellhorn, her lover Ernest Hemingway, Mulk Raj Anand, and Spender. At this point he came to the attention of Soviet intelligence agents. After recruiting him, the NKVD sent him to a training camp in Albacete, where he was given a crash course in sabotage and surveillance techniques.

There he became a Communist spy. Crook’s mission was to infiltrate the ILP and report on all their activities. The Soviets already had one agent in place, David Wickes, who volunteered as an interpreter with the ILP and passed what information he found on to his handlers. Now Crook was to infiltrate deeper and get hold of documents. Orwell was his most prestigious target.

Orwell knew it was pointless to remain in Spain; he could no longer serve the cause to which he had committed himself.

As cover Crook pretended to be a stringer for a British newspaper, with credentials on headed paper secured from “a comrade in London.” The NKVD arranged for him to be discharged from the International Brigade with “lung trouble.” The day after Orwell returned from the front for the first time, before the outbreak of the May fighting, Crook installed himself at the Continental, befriended Eileen, and insinuated his way into the ILP office.

During the long Spanish lunch breaks, when the office was deserted, he took documents to a safe house on Calle Muntaner and photographed them. He compiled reports on the Orwells, Kopp, and McNair and, at meetings in a local café, delivered them folded up in a newspaper to his handler, Hugh O’Donnell (code name “Sean O’Brien”). Sometimes he secreted the reports in the hotel bathroom if more discretion was needed. Crook reported that Kopp and Eileen were having an affair, the kind of information the NKVD valued for blackmail purposes.

Kopp professed to be in love with Eileen, and while Orwell recuperated from his wound, their “association” developed “in little leaps” (these are her words; Orwell and Eileen had an unconventional relationship, and she was clear with Kopp that he could never replace his friend and rival). Also among the documents Crook apparently lifted was a report from Orwell’s doctor about his neck wound, which ended up in Orwell’s KGB file in Moscow. He was compiling evidence that could be used as justification for the coming purge.

Nobody suspected Crook, but there were plenty of other reasons to be fearful. Orwell knew it was pointless to remain in Spain; he could no longer serve the cause to which he had committed himself. Any foreign fighters seeking to leave the country were considered deserters, so it was important that Orwell got his discharge papers in order. For that, he needed to return to the front one last time. It took him five days. Time was running out.

The raid on Eileen’s room came early in the hours of June 16th, the same day that the Communist-controlled Republican government declared the POUM [the Worker’s Party of Marxist Unification] an illegal organization. The NKVD and the Spanish secret police (the SIM) moved swiftly on their targets. The NKVD assassin Iosif Grigulevich led the hit squad. Nin, POUM’s leader, had previously served as Trotsky’s private secretary in Moscow and, even though the two had split over political differences, argued that Catalonia should have given Trotsky asylum.

Those associations proved fatal. He was “arrested, brutally tortured, then flayed alive when he refused to confess to imaginary crimes.” Irwin Wolf, another of Trotsky’s former secretaries, was kidnapped and executed. Kurt Landau, a prominent Austrian Trotskyist, went into hiding, but thanks to information gathered by Crook, the death squad kidnapped and murdered him, too. Landau’s wife spent five months in prison, all the while vainly trying to discover what had happened to her husband.

Kopp was arrested at the Continental and thrown in prison. Crook, in order to maintain the integrity of his cover and to continue his spying, was “arrested” by two plainclothes policemen and thrown into the same jail as Kopp.

In the raid on Eileen’s room agents of the SIM confiscated every piece of paper they could find, including Orwell’s diaries, papers, and photographs. They also seized Orwell’s books, including his French edition of Hitler’s Mein Kampf and, ironically, Stalin’s Ways of Liquidating Trotskyists and Other Double Dealers. For two hours the policemen sounded the walls, checked behind the radiators, sifted through the trash, and held every item of clothing up to the light, searching for hidden letters or pamphlets.

They went through every single one of Orwell’s cigarette papers looking for hidden messages, yet for some reason, perhaps a perverse sense of decency, they failed to search the bed in which Eileen had concealed their passports and checkbooks. “The Spanish secret police had some of the spirit of the Gestapo, but not much of its competence,” he wrote.

Orwell arrived back in Barcelona on June 20th, having secured his discharge papers. It became clear he needed to get out quickly if he were to avoid the same fate as others associated with the POUM. Eileen told him McNair and an 18-year-old ILP volunteer, Stafford Cottman, were already in hiding. Eileen feared the only reason she remained free was as bait for her husband. She told him to destroy his militia card and incriminating photographs.

On no account could he return to the hotel. He would have to go into hiding, as there was almost certainly a warrant out for his arrest. Orwell suddenly felt like “a hunted fugitive.” The Orwells now had to find a way to get out of Barcelona and across the French border undetected. This was easier said than done. Suspicious as Orwell was, he had no idea just how closely the Communists were having him watched.

Eileen arranged for them all to meet the following morning at the British Consulate. Orwell spent the night in the ruins of an old church. After learning that it would take the consulate three days to get their passports ready, he and his friends did their best to remain inconspicuous. That night, in the bitter cold, Orwell, McNair, and Cottman slept, or at least tried to, “in some long grass at the edge of a derelict building lot.”

They spent the following morning restless for the cafés to open so that they could revive themselves with a coffee. After that Orwell went to the barber for a shave and then for a shoeshine. He took care to avoid any of the hotels or cafés associated with the POUM. Instead he began frequenting the city’s most exclusive restaurants, where no one knew him. Orwell took care not to be stopped as the streets “were thronged by local and Valencia assault guards, Carabineros and ordinary police, besides God knows how many spies in plain clothes.”

The morning after going into hiding, Orwell learned that Smillie, the young journalist alongside whom he had fought on the front, had died in a Valencia prison. The official verdict was appendicitis, but Smillie was only 22, and Orwell had seen just how tough he was. At best, Orwell thought, Smillie had been allowed to die “like a neglected animal.” Kopp later claimed he saw a police file that said Smillie had died from heavy kicks to the stomach. Orwell never forgave Smillie’s death.

By day the Englishmen pretended to be in the city on business, by night they slept rough. To get some respite, Orwell spent one day at the public baths. “It was an extraordinary, insane existence we were leading,” he wrote. “By night we were criminals, but by day we were prosperous English visitors—that was our pose, anyway.”

Needing an outlet, Orwell took the opportunity of an unobserved moment to scrawl political slogans on the walls. While on the run, Orwell persisted in the “ineradicable English belief that ‘they’ cannot arrest you unless you have broken the law,” even though “practically everyone we knew was in jail by this time.” He tried to do something for his friend Kopp, taking a great risk of his own arrest in twice visiting him in the filthy, overcrowded prison. Eileen offered to help Crook by smuggling letters out. But in the end there was nothing they could do for Kopp, and he spent the next year and a half being shuttled from prison to prison, from interrogation to interrogation, from prison ship to labor camp.

Even years later, Orwell kept among his papers a report detailing how when Kopp refused to sign a confession he was “put in a coal bin without light, air, or food where enormous rats ran in and out of his legs.” The use of rats in torture stuck with Orwell and became the subject of an iconic scene in Nineteen Eighty-Four. When Kopp was finally released 18 months later, he had lost 98 pounds in weight, and was suffering from scurvy and blood poisoning.

In the prison, Orwell had also seen Milton, who had tried to leave the country only to be arrested at the frontier despite having all his papers in order. The American had helped carry Orwell to the ambulance when he was wounded, and they had served together for months on the front line. But fearful of discovery, they “walked past each other as though [they] had been total strangers.” Milton’s failure to get out was a warning to Orwell and his friends: even jumping through the right hoops was no guarantee of a successful escape.

Orwell needed to tell the world, and most importantly his fellow left-wingers, the truth about what was going on in Spain.

Finally Orwell discovered his papers were ready. The group hatched an escape plan. A train was leaving for Port Bou, on the French border, at half past eight in the evening. It was important the secret police did not get wind of their planned escape. Eileen was to give no indication that she was leaving or they would pounce. They would order a taxi ahead of time but Eileen should pack her bags and pay the bill only at the last possible moment. To his horror, when Orwell arrived at the station he discovered that the train had left early. Fortunately, it had done so in time for him to warn his wife. It was a close call.

Orwell managed to ascertain that the manager of a local restaurant was an Anarchist and therefore sympathetic to their cause. He put Orwell and his two friends up in a spare room, a great relief after sleeping rough. A train left early the next morning, June 23rd, and, joined by Eileen, the group took seats in the dining car. “Two detectives came round the train taking the names of foreigners,” he wrote, “but when they saw us in the dining-car they seemed satisfied that we were respectable.”

At the border crossing the guards looked up their names in a card index of suspects. It was a tense moment, but for some reason their names were not listed. (Orwell suspected police inefficiency.) Everyone was searched thoroughly, but nothing incriminating was found. The guards pored over Orwell’s discharge papers and, in another stroke of luck, failed to make the connection that the Twenty-Ninth Division was in fact the POUM.

The Orwells and their friends made it to France and safety (the first newspaper they read contained a premature report announcing McNair’s arrest for espionage). A secret police file, dated July 13th and prepared for the Tribunal for Espionage and High Treason in Valencia, denounced Orwell and Eileen as “confirmed Trotskyists.” The report was compiled with information from Wickes (and almost certainly Crook). Orwell had fled just in time.

Orwell’s tenure in Spain, he later wrote, “was a queer business. We started off by being heroic defenders of democracy and ended by slipping over the border with the police panting on our heels.” His wounds hurt and his health, as always, was poor. He needed time to recover. But when his strength returned he knew what he needed to do: he needed to tell the world, and most importantly his fellow left-wingers, the truth about what was going on in Spain.

The Communists had perhaps mistaken Orwell for another naive volunteer, there to be pushed around, but they had in fact made a powerful enemy, an enemy who now prepared to fight back with his trusted weapons, the typewriter and the pen.

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