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minefield-of-a-ninja · 2 months ago

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*image of Jensen Ackles is used with permission of the photographer Mandi Lea Photogtaphy.

Summary: After a significant career shift and subsequent break-up, Brandy Miller moves to Wayne County, Pennsylvania, to be closer to family. She invests in a small, sight-unseen condo in a “quiet, charming neighborhood with views of the Poconos and neighbors you can count on.” One particular neighbor seems to have a unique interpretation of what that means.

Characters: Brandy Miller x Soldier Boy, Serge Bernard, Kimiko Miyashiro (mentioned), Maggie Shaw, Annie January, Hughie Campbell, MM (mentioned), John James Davis (AKA Homelander but just as SB’s 21yo son), Butcher (mentioned)

Warnings/tags in this chapter: 18+ ONLY, sexual tension, sexual objectification, rough and degrading sex dream, alcohol, Soldier Boy is a terrible father, explicit sexual content

Words in this chapter: 3,500

Author’s notes: Soldier Boy will be referred to by many names in this fic. The full name I’ve given him is Benjamin James Davis III.

Thank you to @brrose-apothecary @stusbunker and @talltalesandbedtimestories for pre-reads and green lights!

This fills my #Inconsiderate Neighbor square for @jacklesversebingo

CHAPTER ONE

The last five years have been wild. A global pandemic impacted our life choices and decisions more than any other event in the previous 50 years. Career shifts, resettling in vastly different communities, honest declarations of who we are as people and who we love — these things I’ve witnessed first-hand.

I was an executive for a nationally renowned advertising agency. My partner of six years was a successful stock trader. About three weeks into our second lockdown, I realized I couldn’t stand the guy. I went through every reason why I’d have stayed for so long if he was so horrible. I wondered if he hated me too. Then one day, he told me.

“Brandy, I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t hate me; he just didn’t love me. He wasn’t horrible; he just wasn’t for me.

Working remotely gave me a similarly renewed perspective on my career choice. I worked 12 hours a day from my home office overlooking Central Park, drank a bottle of wine to go to sleep, then got up the next morning to do it all over again. Meanwhile, everyone in America was tightening their purse strings on ad spend.

Now, I’m in the Honesdale borough of Wayne County, Pennsylvania, working as a freelance document review specialist. I’m single, own my two-bedroom condo outright, and spend Sundays with my sister Amber and her two teenagers over in Damascus.

These changes introduced me to a set of concepts that I had previously denied. I thought I was happy, successful, content.

But I’m told that a constant desire for more hinders contentment. Comparison is the thief of joy, as they say. A sense of entitlement will always bite you in the ass. A lack of gratitude prevents you from appreciating what you already have and fosters a need for something beyond.

As it happens, I have a prospective client meeting in Scranton this afternoon, and my brand-new Jeep won’t start. I guess they don’t make them like they used to.

“Brandy, mon amie, where are you?” my friend Serge answers my call with worry in his voice.

“My truck won’t start,” I whine.

Last month, I complained to Serge and his partner-in-all-things Kimiko that government work was beginning to bore me. I like new things, which is a bummer, considering desire hinders contentment. Kimiko offered to introduce me to her brother, who works with one of the largest healthcare companies in the country.

“Oh, cher...” Serge laments in sympathy.

“I know, I know. And this fucking podunk town’s got like two cabs and one Lyft serving the entire county.”

I roll my neck and eyes in frustration, and in my periphery, I glimpse a man inside a single garage stall working on a motorcycle. I’ve never seen him before, but judging by the military-themed tattoos, evident dexterity with the tools he’s wielding, and his proportions, he’s the ‘asshole military contractor’ my next-door neighbor, Maggie, told me about when I moved in.

Serge frets in Frenglish on the other end of the line before returning to the point. “On se’n occupe. We will handle it.”

I watch my newly discovered neighbor deftly flex and twist and wonder if he’s as adept with other motor vehicles. “Please tell Kimiko I’m sorry and understand if this opportunity’s off the table now.”

My words are meant for Serge, but the man not 10 yards away sends me a subtle, knowing look. There’s an enduring facet of competence and perception in every flick of his eyes and wrist, every shrug of his thick, broad shoulders, and the taunting slant of his jaw. He knows I’m watching him and knows I’m in a bind.

He pities me.

I tell Serge that I’ll let him know how things go with the car before ending the call then tentatively head toward my neighbor’s garage stall.

“Hey there, I’m Brandy.” I thumb over my shoulder, indicating the general area of my condo. “Are you BJ?”

He smirks at his greasy wrench before answering, “BJ, Soldier Boy, Captain,” then pauses as he drags his eyes from his task to pin me in place. “Take your pick, sweetheart.”

He looks me down and up, slow and heavy, licking his lips. His demeanor would be comical at best and frightening at worst if I weren’t so stunned by the sheer audacity. As he unfolds from a squat, his muscles shift and grind under his sweat-slicked skin. He wipes his filthy hands on a filthier rag and saunters toward me. I have never in my life been so blatantly objectified right to my face.

“Need a ride?” he asks, meeting my eyes again. The rounded toes of his grungy work boots tap the points of my Jimmy Choos.

“I-” I attempt to speak but don’t know what to say. I should be outraged. I should tell him he can’t just look at people like that. He can’t just invade my space.

He tilts his head, and his eyes drop to my chest. “You're all flushed, Brandy. Feeling okay?” He drops his rag to the concrete before ghosting a finger along my collarbone.

Air returns to my lungs and the flush in my chest rises up my throat to my face. I smack his hand away and take a step back. “What the fuck?! Do you always harass and assault women half your size, or is it just me?”

Centuries of gaslighting threaten to drown me from one single look. And then he speaks. “My bad. Didn’t know you were a prude.”

He raises his hands in feigned surrender before returning to his bike.

“I’m a prude because I don’t like being evaluated like a pig going to slaughter?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Listen—no harm, no foul, alright? I thought you were game; you’re not, no big deal.”

“Man, I came over here as a neighbor to introduce myself. You clearly heard part of my call and know my car isn’t starting. I thought, since you’re in here working on a motorcycle, you might also know something about cars.”

He nods. “Got it. Is that where we’re at right now? You want me to take a look at your car?”

“Jesus- what?! Are you for real?”

“No? Okay, then.” He turns his back, and I stare at him for a moment.

Thoughts swirl through my mind. Where is your spine, Brandy? Show him what you’re made of. This isn’t over until you say it is.

A slave to my guts and ego, I’m determined to re-engage. “Yes.”

He slowly faces me again, eyebrows raised and head tilted in question. “Yes?”

“Yes. I’d appreciate it if you’d take a look at my Jeep.”

His expression shifts—softens, some might say, but his eyes remain hard and cold. “‘Course. What kinda neighbor would I be if I didn’t?”

He strides toward my two-car stall across from his, and I follow with no other excuse than my competitive spirit and morbid fascination with opposition.

“You pay extra for two stalls?” he asks, glancing at the gym area I’ve set up beside my Jeep before rounding its hood.

From what I’ve gathered in this brief and bracing interaction, Captain BJ Benjamin Soldier Boy isn’t a small-talk kind of person, but I’m not sure yet why he’s asking a simple question like that. I decide to answer as simply.

“Yeah.”

He nods and gestures to the driver’s seat. “Pop the hood.”

I watch through my windshield and the slant of space between the hood and my dash as he quickly pokes and prods at things I know nothing about. Less than two minutes later, he drops the hood shut and walks around to the open driver’s side door.

“Try it now.” He’s rubbing his hands together and his brow is slightly furrowed like he wishes he hadn’t tossed that rag aside in his garage.

I turn the key in the ignition, and it starts with no issue.

My morning started with limited knowledge of this man and the inner workings of my Jeep. I had a single goal in mind to expand my client portfolio. I did not grow my business, I have not learned anything new about my vehicle, and my introduction to my neighbor has provided me with very little satisfaction.

“Coupla loose terminals. It happens with new cars. Gotta break ‘em in.”

I flick my eyes to meet his. He holds my gaze, licks his bottom lip back between his teeth, then backs away before strolling away.

“He’s the fucking poster boy for misogyny.”

Maggie nods as she tops off my glass of wine. “Yeah, calling him an asshole is an insult to assholes, honestly.”

“I felt like I was transported back to the 1950s or something. He’s a caricature of misogyny.”

“The embodiment,” Maggie replies, settling back into her sofa and sipping her wine.

“Does he think that works on women? Like, are there women in his sphere who respond favorably to his behavior? He can’t be rewarded by it. Maybe he’s conducting a social experiment.”

Maggie laughs. “You’re giving him way too much credit.”

“Then why?”

Maggie stares at me for a beat. “The question is, why do you care?”

I’ve thought of nothing else since he left me in my garage yesterday morning. I felt defeated by him. Used, somehow. Inconsequential in the end.

“I hate how he made me feel.”

Maggie remains silent and intent. She’s a great listener, and she never judges.

“I had a dream about him last night.”

She nods. “And how did that make you feel?”

I shake my head and draw a deep breath. It made me feel hot and wild. I was angry and hungry for him. Or for redemption, revenge, or victory.

“It makes no sense. We interacted for like 10 minutes and I haven’t seen him since. That’s why I care. I can’t get him out of my head. I keep thinking of what I should’ve said or done instead of standing there like a deer in headlights.”

“Don’t let your pride rule you with him. He has no morals, no decency. You won’t win.”

“You think I’m trying to win something.”

She’s right. Maggie and I are a lot alike, but she’s smarter and more cautious than I am. Somewhere along the line, she learned a lesson I have yet to let sink in. She learned to resist a challenge and walk away.

“Aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Maggie suggests. “Did you get that meeting rescheduled, or is it dead?”

I fill her in on my chat with Kimiko. Kimiko’s brother Kenji was gracious enough to reschedule for next week, and I decided it best to go up the night before and spend the night with her and Serge in case I have any other car problems.

Maggie opens a second bottle of wine and we proceed with our binge of Dead To Me on Netflix.

I’m face down on my weight bench, straddling the padded seat with his fist in my hair and his cock hammering me from behind. He’s saying things to me, violent, hateful words, calling me names.

My wrists are bound, I’m blindfolded, and I am so wet. So wet from his rough hands, the way he slaps my ass and hips and pulls my hair. His voice is deep and rich, and it dominates the atmosphere and my mind.

He’s had me so many times already, and he wants more. He wants to devour me. He can’t get enough of me.

And I never want him to stop. He treats me like a whore, tells me I’m his whore, and I can’t stop soaking his cock and slicking up the bench.

“You fucking love my cock.”

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck me.”

I wake up in a sweat after a third night dreaming of him. I feel fractured and unlike myself. I’ve never wanted the kinds of things I’m dreaming about him. I’ve never wanted a man to degrade me or tie me up.

And this man is a pig of a man.

But I can’t get him out of my head.

I’m aching and breathless. My sheets are soaked from sweat and my pussy. I reach into my nightstand for my vibrator to soothe the twitching between my legs and rid him from my mind. I think about all the things that usually get me off, but he just keeps coming back around with big, rough hands and dirty words, and teeth that score my tender flesh.

I come silently, arching into my mattress, imagining his hands around my wrists and his cock driving into me hard.

When I told the newlyweds who live across the hall from my nemesis that I’d never been to our neighborhood bar, they invited me to join them for burgers and beers.

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but Butcher’s is an institution. I literally grew up in this bar,” Annie tells me as her husband Hughie distributes sticky menus and napkin roll-ups.

“I’ll get a pitcher,” Hughie says and heads to the bar.

“I like it. Thanks for bringing me.”

I glance around the space, taking in old pictures and carved sentiments in the wooden beams. It still smells faintly of cigarette smoke after decades of No Smoking laws have been enforced. It reminds me of my favorite New York dive bar.

“Well, I’m glad. I’m sure it can’t be easy to transplant to a place like Honesdale where everybody knows everybody.”

“You know, it hasn’t been too bad. Between you two and Maggie, I’m meeting all the neighbors and learning the ropes like a real local.”

I don’t mention the man who’s rapidly infiltrated every dark corner of my brain since we’re having such a nice time. I don’t want to spoil it, but you don’t always get what you want.

“Ugh, BJ,” Annie gripes, reaching for a menu even though she surely has it memorized. “He is so gross.”

I hazard a glance in the direction of her glare to see the bane of my existence waltzing toward the bar.

“He better not fuck with Hughie,” Annie says, narrowing her eyes as he brushes shoulders with her groom.

Hughie gracefully ignores the man’s obvious intention to needle him, gathers three chilled pint glasses and our pitcher, and rounds the crowd away from Captain Creep to return to the table.

“Who’s the kid?” I ask, finally noticing a quiet young man with BJ at the bar.

“That’s his son John. That kid’s been through the wringer with BJ and his mom. I don’t know why he still comes around; he clearly cannot stand the man any more than us.”

John’s smaller than his dad. He’s almost delicate-looking with a thick swath of blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He doesn’t have the swagger of the man next to him, and he seems to wish he were anywhere but here.

“MM, my man, it’s my boy’s 21st birthday! Get him a whiskey and a round for the house on me.”

“Hey.” Hughie settles the pint glasses on the table before filling each one, serving Annie and me first, then sitting down to pour his own. “John’s 21st. This oughtta be an interesting night.”

Annie tells me stories about babysitting John when he was a kid. He was sweet and gentle, quiet but curious, and his dad taunted him for it.

“He called his 6-year-old son a pussy.” She shakes her head. “Who does that?”

John slides into a barstool and idly sips his whiskey. A few of the older patrons wish him Happy Birthday, and MM makes a point to keep his water glass and popcorn bowl full while John’s dad struts around, flirting with every woman and slapping the backs of every man.

It’s odd to see people react to him positively. Men, no matter their age, appear to admire him, and every woman he smiles at blushes and giggles.

“They don’t know him like we do,” Hughie says. “Should we order? Butcher’s in the back tonight.”

I decide on the ”Terror,” a half-pound beef burger with taleggio, prosciutto, and peperoncini, medium-well. Annie recommends the cheesy house fries with special sauce as a shared dish, and within 20 minutes, we have our food and a second pitcher.

A soft buzz from light American beer warms and loosens me up. In this state, I’m less critical of my thoughts about the man who’s starred in my most desperate and debased dreams this past week.

He looks good. He’s agile and powerful, which is a spectacular combination. People laugh at his jokes. They gravitate toward him. They think he’s charming and handsome, and from the background of Annie’s stories, I learn that he’s a war hero.

It’s nice to feel something other than the overwhelming angst and shame I’ve felt all week. He affects people; it’s okay. I’m not an outlier. I just have to ride this out.

We finish our food, and I excuse myself to the restroom. There’s a vanilla candle burning on a table beside a well-loved armchair, a basket with single-size toiletries, pads and tampons, condoms, hand soap, and lotion. Definite homey vibe.

As I step through the door into the hallway, I’m jolted from my chill by a deep voice.

“Look at you all caszh and relaxed.”

He’s propped between the men’s and women’s, so close I brush his arm when I whirl around to connect the voice with a face.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“Hmm.” He pushes off the wall and turns into me, backing me against the closed door.

“There’s that flush,” he murmurs. He does that thing with his finger again that made me smack his hand away earlier this week. This time, I let him.

“Is it because I scared you,” he pauses and catches my eye. “Or something else?”

I close my eyes and let my head fall back to the door, feeling the heat and buzz of a potentially malicious yet certainly pleasurable outcome. He slides a knee between my thighs and skims a heavy hand over my hip, nuzzling against my throat with a low chuckle.

My breath catches in my chest under the hand he has pressed there, holding me in place, keeping me where he wants me. Ire swirls and rises from my gut, and I grip his t-shirt in my fists to yank him into the restroom.

“There she is.” He stumbles backward with a grin as I throw the lock.

“Shut up.” I push him to sit in the chair before climbing astride him and diving in.

His lips are plush and demanding, his beard is soft, and his mouth is superheated and whiskey-wet. He’s hard and hot everywhere I touch as I tug at the button and zipper of his jeans. His hands roam over denim and my cotton t-shirt. He nips at my lips and toys with the button of my jeans.

“Fuck,” I growl, pushing out of his lap to get my pants down.

Before I know it, he’s spun me around, and he’s shimmying my jeans and underwear over my hips and down my thighs. He slumps into the chair and fits a condom over his length, then juts his hips forward to give me a place to rest. One long arm wraps my middle, and he slips two fingers over my wet slit. The wide pads of his fingertips swirl around my clit, and I brace my hands on the arms of the chair. Then he’s teasing me with his hard cock, rutting underneath, making me squirm.

When he finally pushes inside, I shout and groan from the stretch and insane rhythm he’s keeping on my clit. I go off—ride him, pumping my thighs and elbows, using his arm around my middle for leverage.

In less than a minute, I’m coming. One second later, he’s on his feet with me on my knees in the chair. He forces me to bend and hold onto the back, grips my bare hips, and pushes inside me again. He’s muttering, grunting, and, god, he’s hitting that spot with every thrust.

“Come on, Brandy,” he gasps. “Lemme feel that tight little cunt come again. Make me come.”

I reach down between my legs and press over my mound, relishing his measured thrusts. I’m booze and fuck drunk, and my ears are ringing. His hands tighten on my hips, and we both come, swearing and howling.

Chapter Two coming soon...

What did you think? Reblog to share if you liked it! And let me know your thoughts. xox

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peachjagiya · 8 days ago

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did i understand it right, that u think tae and JK wont be renewing their solo contracts with hybe?

If so, why do U think that the company is pushing JK so much?

I 💯 % believe tae isnt saying for his solo music, but i can't think of a reason for hybe to be giving JK all those Tools If He is Not staying

Radio, playlisting, collabs and the oppertunitys all are expencive, why should they spent all this Money? To proof Scooter was worth it?

I don't know what the status of their contracts is.

I think all I've said is that I'd rather they didn't renew and that they go do their solo work somewhere that can respect them.

Tae's treatment is well documented but they're messing with Jungkook's career too.

Getting him to sacrifice his career at a peak just so BTS can continue to be a cash cow because Bang has zero idea how to replicate the success because it was never down to him in the first place no matter how much he thinks it was?

Not setting the record straight about when mistakes are made regarding his achievements or not even acknowledging his achievements?

Allowing him to be dragged through the mud by YouTube channels Hybe themselves subscribe to?

Briefing W with a reductive press release full of mischaracterisation of his character to promote a fanfic showmance in a TV show that filled his already packed schedule while he was ill?

What use is a playlist? What use are numbers? What use are any of these tools, if they really exist in any way beyond basic promotion, if it comes with this level of disrespect?

They know he's worth the money. They know he returns a lot for them. But they can't bring themselves to actually value him. Yuck.

So I hope he signs elsewhere for solo and Tae too. I'd say maybe it would make things hard for them for group activities but could it really get much worse?

#they could never make me trust you hybe #taehyung #jungkook

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batmanlovesnirvana · 24 days ago

Text

Chapter eleven | silent harvest.

masterlist

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : don’t know what to think about this one, it’s all over the place.

previous chapter

TWO NAKED BODIES tossed carelessly into the heart of Gotham's Robinson Park wasn't just a call to action—it was an omen. And this wasn't exactly how Dr. Ben Halimi wanted to start her day, but Gotham rarely asked permission to unleash its horrors.

After the chaos at the GCPD, Maryam returned to her apartment. You might assume she slept, exhausted from the night's events—but you'd be wrong. Sleep was never her refuge—or maybe that was a lie. Truthfully, she loved sleep, craved it even. But when something gnawed at her mind, pulling her into restless spirals, she couldn’t find peace until she dug into the answers.

And so, as always, she spent the night cloaked in the dim light of her room, shifting between her laptop and phone, diving deeper into the enigma that was Bruce Thomas Wayne

Wayne.

A name that resonated through Gotham like the toll of a cathedral bell.

The heir of Doctor Thomas Wayne, a man remembered as a surgeon who chose the operating table over the corporate desk, even while being CEO of one of the world's most powerful companies.

A socialist at heart, Thomas Wayne had been admired for his tireless dedication to saving lives at Gotham General and his brief, charismatic foray into politics as a mayoral candidate.

He was everything a billionaire wasn't supposed to be: progressive, empathetic, and tirelessly private.

The city loved him—or so the articles said.

Martha Wayne, on the other hand, was a more elusive figure.

To the public, she was a vision of grace—a devoted wife, a loving mother, and a pillar of Gotham's elite.

Always impeccably dressed, always adorned with that signature pearl necklace that Maryam had envied as a child. Yet to Maryam, something about Martha didn't fit. There were missing pieces in the picture-perfect image.

Her past was a haze—blank years following her elite education, likely spent traveling the world like so many of the wealthy, but nothing was ever explicitly documented. Martha's warm, reserved smile haunted Maryam, the same soft expression Bruce would sometimes wore—a flicker of humanity beneath the steel exterior.

Sometimes, if he wasn’t busy saving lives or navigating Gotham’s tangled politics, Thomas Wayne would join them on their Thursday subway rides. Maryam could still picture it clearly—his protective arm wrapped around Martha, a quiet gesture of devotion, while young Bruce nestled close to his mother’s side.

They were the embodiment of an unattainable dream: Gotham's royal family, untouchable and untarnished. And then, the dream shattered.

Now, that shy, bright-eyed boy was gone.

Bruce Wayne had become a man defined by shadows, vengeance personified. The Bat. Zorro.

His mystique fascinated the city—and Maryam. Despite his status as CEO of Wayne Enterprises, he shunned the public eye. No interviews, no socials, no speeches. Even the Gotham Renewal Fund, his father's vision for a better city, had been left to rot under the control of the mob.

Did he know? Did he care? Or was he too consumed by his crusade to notice?

Maryam didn't have the answers. What she did know was that Bruce Wayne was a puzzle with more layers than she could count.

A man born into unimaginable privilege who had chosen pain and rage over luxury.

A man who broke criminals in the street with his bare hands, fueled by the same grief that had made him.

And the worst part of it all was that she understood Bruce—perhaps too well. Yet, at the same time, she didn’t. It was strange, really. She could see the fury carved into his soul, the jagged edges of his grief that had shaped him into something both terrifying and irresistible.

He was a labyrinth of contradictions, a puzzle she couldn’t solve. It was maddening, really—how someone could feel so familiar and yet remain a complete mystery?

At first, she’d resented him.

Here was a man who had everything—wealth, power, the kind of privilege most could only dream of—and yet he chose to throw himself into the chaos of Gotham’s streets, breaking bones and battling those ensnared in the mob’s vicious cycle. People who were just trying to survive, to feed their families, to endure.

Why?

And then the answer had come to her slowly, unsettling and sharp.

Bruce Wayne was still teetering on the edge of his own rage and pain, a man consumed by the very thing that broke him. He wasn’t a hero—not yet. His fight wasn’t for justice; it was for something deeply personal, raw, and unforgiving.

Everything about him—his mask, his methods, his violence—reeked of unresolved grief.

It was brutal.

It was ugly.

And it was devoid of hope.

That was where they diverged. Because for all her struggles, for all the darkness she’d walked through, Maryam had never lost hope. Never.

It was the one thing she clung to, no matter how cruel the world became. But Bruce? His hope had died the same day his parents did, their blood pooling at his feet.

Her fingers hovered over the photo of him as a child, dressed in black at their funeral. His wide, innocent eyes had been replaced by a cold, unflinching stare—the look of a boy who’d learned too early that the world could take everything from you in an instant.

Once, Maryam had envied him. She’d hated him for his name, his money, his place above it all while she fought to claw her way through the depths of Gotham. But now? Now, all she felt was something far more complicated.

Empathy, laced with the bitter edge of resentment. A recognition of the pain that drove him—and a quiet fury at how he let it define him.

Bruce Wayne was a contradiction—a man of immense power who wielded it not in boardrooms but in darkened alleyways.

And yet, for all his mystery, Maryam couldn't look away.

She wanted to unravel him, piece by piece, to understand the pain and purpose that drove him.

He was fascinating. Dangerous. And she couldn't stop herself from wanting more.

That was how she spent the night—lost in the endless labyrinth of his history, scrolling through decades of Wayne legacy and tragedy. Piece by piece, she tried to assemble the enigma of him. His world was untouchable, vast and glittering, yet burdened with ghosts that refused to stay silent.

Now, in the brittle light of morning, the world outside felt just as unforgiving.

The sharp chill of the air bit through her coat, slicing through layers as if they weren’t there at all. It clung to her skin like a second, colder layer, wrapping icy fingers around her as she moved through Robinson Park.

Her breath hung in the steel-gray sky, a faint and fleeting ghost.

The call had come an hour earlier from Harvey Bullock—gruff and impatient as always, voice thick with an edge that even his years of cynicism couldn’t dull.

“Two female bodies. Robinson Park. You’d better see this yourself.”

That was all he’d said. That was all she needed.

Gotham had a way of pulling her into its shadows before the sun even had a chance to rise.

The doctor arrived to find the scene buzzing with muted chaos.

Crime scene technicians in white Tyvek suits moved like ghosts across the damp grass, their cameras flashing in eerie rhythm. Police tape flapped in the wind, a bright yellow wound cutting through the park's earthy greens and browns.

Officers held back a crowd of onlookers—early joggers, dog walkers, and curious passersby—whose whispers hung in the air like the park's morning mist. Maryam pushed through the throng, heart steeled but her mind racing.

The bodies lay near the grand lake, their placement deliberate, like a grotesque tableau meant for an audience.

The women— no teenagers, were sprawled on their backs, arms outstretched as if in surrender. Their hair fanned out around their heads like dark halos—one golden, the other deep brown, stark against the frost-kissed grass.

But it was the skin and the shape of the bodies, that stole Maryam’s breath—a pale, minty blue, like porcelain abandoned in winter’s grip.

They were so unnervingly devoid of fat. The skin clung tightly to their muscles, their bones, as if the fat had been taken from them, deliberately stripped away.

It wasn’t the deathly pallor she was accustomed to; it was too distinct, too intentional.

And the doctor recognized it immediately.

Fiona Harrison—discovered just five days ago beneath Gotham Bridge—had been the same color, body marked by the same chilling, eerie artistry.

Maryam straightened, pulling her coat tighter against the morning air that gnawed at her bones.

"Do we know their names?" she asked one of the crime scene technicians, her voice low but firm, cutting through the murmurs of the team.

"Not yet," the tech replied, shaking his head. "We haven't found any personal belongings. No IDs, nothing to tell us who they are."

Maryam nodded, her mind already cataloging the details she could glean from their physical state. The scene offered no answers, only silence and questions she was determined to chase down.

She knelt beside the bodies, the cold grass seeping through her slacks, anchoring her to the moment. Pulling on a pair of gloves, the snap of latex echoed like a surgeon preparing for a grim operation. Her hands moved with practiced precision, parting hair, checking for bruises, eyes scanning every inch of the women's exposed flesh.

She began her examination methodically, letting the clinical part of her mind shield her from the horror of the scene.

To untrained eyes, the women appeared serene, almost ethereal—untouched by the violence that had claimed them. Their porcelain skin bore no smears of blood, no jagged wounds. The color of their skin, that chilling minty blue, was the only clue to the unnatural state of their deaths.

But to Maryam's practiced gaze, it was too perfect. And in perfection, she knew, lay the greatest deception. Her eyes, honed by years of parsing the fine details of death, began to unearth the truth beneath the facade.

The women had been positioned symmetrically, as though arranged by an artist. Their hair, blonde and brunette, fanned out like delicate halos against the frost-covered grass. Their eyes, wide open, stared blankly into the sky, as if bearing witness to the world's indifference.

The blonde, mid-twenties, bore faint ligature marks around her wrists and ankles. The skin had broken in places where the bonds had bitten too deeply. Her forearms were pristine except for the cuts—tiny, deliberate five-pointed stars carved just above each wrist. They were shallow but exact, as if traced with a blade by someone with a surgeon's steadiness. There was no sign of blood, no jagged edges, just clean incisions meant to leave an unspoiled design.

The brunette was younger, barely more than a teenager. She lay in the same eerie symmetry as her counterpart, her dark hair spread like ink on the pale grass. The same ligature marks marred her wrists and ankles, and the same stars adorned her skin. But there was more—faint bruising circled her slender neck, a ghostly reminder of strangulation.

Maryam frowned. This wasn't the chaotic violence of rage or desperation. It was methodical. Precise. A story written in flesh, yet one that refused to offer its meaning so easily.

Her hands hovered over the stars, studying them closely. The edges were unnaturally smooth, almost waxy and again, the faint scent of perfume—a cloying blend of lavender and some darker floral note—lingered near the cuts.

"Perfume," she muttered to herself, her voice low but steady. It wasn't just a symbol; it was a calling card. The designs were identical between both victims, their placement intentional.

And then there was the skin. That impossible, minty hue. It wasn't just cold or lifeless—it was deliberate, as if death alone hadn't been enough for the killer. Maryam noted its consistency, how it extended uniformly across their bodies. It struck her like an unfinished question.

Everything was too perfect, too smooth, save for the calculated marks at their wrists and the unnatural tint of their flesh. Even death itself had been made to appear as art.

Her mind worked like clockwork, cataloging details, piecing together the clues that felt less like evidence and more like whispers from the dead. These bodies weren't just victims. They were statements. Messages left in a language Maryam was only beginning to decipher.

Behind her, Harvey Bullock's heavy footsteps crunched against the frost-hardened grass, each step weighted with the unspoken dread that lingered in the park. "So? What are we dealing with, Doc?" he asked, his voice rough, a rasp carved from years of cheap whiskey and cigars. True to form, a half-smoked cigar hung loosely from the corner of his mouth, its ember glowing faintly in the icy air. "The Riddler again?"

Maryam straightened, her eyes still fixed on the unnerving tableau before her. "No," she said quietly, her voice steady. "I don't think so." Brushing a strand of dark hair away from her face, she added with a faint edge of dry humor, "There's no riddle card lying around, for one."

Turning slightly, she cast Bullock a measured look. "Do they seem familiar to you?" she asked, her gloved hands now examining the victims' nails, searching for traces of a struggle or any lingering debris that might tell a story.

"Nah," Bullock replied, shifting uncomfortably.

"Then they're not anyone known in Gotham's usual circles," she concluded, her gaze returning to the bodies. "The Riddler's victims are typically people of importance. Corrupt officials, influential figures—people who fit into his twisted moral framework." Her brow furrowed, and the cold air kissed her high cheekbones, adding a faint flush to her skin. "Unless these two are mobsters' daughters or mistresses, I doubt it's him. And even then, this doesn't match his style."

Bullock grunted, lighting his cigar with a flick of his lighter. "I don't know if that's supposed to be comforting," he muttered, watching as the forensic team draped the bodies with white sheets, shielding them from the curious stares of onlookers.

Maryam crossed her arms, the latex gloves squeaking faintly. "The only thing I know for certain is that this isn't random. Four days ago, Fiona Harrison turned up under Gotham Bridge with the same discoloration. No stars on her body, but the skin? The same exact hue." She held up her gloved hand, faintly gleaming with residue from the bodies. "It's deliberate, Harvey. This isn't just about killing. This is about crafting something."

Bullock's brow furrowed, his jaw tightening. "Crafting what?"

She turned to face him fully, her hazel eyes sharp, glinting like shards of glass in the morning's dim light. "That's the question, isn't it? But this isn't simple murder. This is ritual." Her voice dropped a fraction, heavier now with meaning. "And they're not done yet."

Pulling off her gloves with a precise snap, she tucked them into her pocket. "I need to get them to the lab. There's only so much I can see out here."

"Any drops?" Bullock asks, exhaling a puff of smoke into the biting air.

"Definitely," Maryam replied, her tone clipped. "But not your standard cocktail. This feels different. New, maybe. Whatever it is, it's part of the killer's plan."

The park seemed to shrink around her words, the towering trees swaying in the icy breeze as if recoiling from the weight of her discovery. Maryam looked back at the shrouded bodies, and a familiar heaviness settled over her chest.

It wasn't fear—fear was something she'd learned to master long ago. It was something deeper, quieter. A relentless urgency, a vow whispered to herself on long, sleepless nights.

She stayed in Gotham for this exact reason: to read the stories the dead couldn't tell, to give them a voice when all that remained was silence.

With every detail meticulously cataloged in her mind, she knew one thing for certain. This killer wasn't just leaving a trail. They were writing a narrative.

And the final chapter had yet to unfold.

Alfred found Bruce in the bathroom of his suite, steam still curling around the marble tiles, the faint scent of soap clinging to the air.

The billionaire stood shirtless, his chest a patchwork of bruises—blues and purples blooming like watercolor on his skin, cuts crisscrossing like crude constellations. His hair was damp, rivulets of water tracing the sharp planes of his face. He moved with practiced indifference, pulling open a drawer to fish out a faded band T-shirt, the fabric soft from countless washes.

"Found anything?" Bruce asked, his voice low, as though the weight of Gotham itself pressed on his vocal cords.

Alfred, ever the picture of composure, flicked through the papers with his usual precision. "Yes, sir, though I daresay it's nothing you haven't already deduced yourself." His voice, calm and measured, carried the faintest edge of paternal exasperation. "Detective Kenzie, narcotics division. Born and raised in Gotham, attended state school, and joined the GCPD straight out of uni. No wife, no children—though he's had his fair share of flings, by all accounts. The truly telling detail, as one might expect, is his bank account. Transactions far too generous for a man whose income comes from a GCPD paycheck."

Bruce didn't reply, only grunted in acknowledgment, pulling the shirt over his battered torso. The hem settled against his frame as he moved to his desk.

The room around him told its own story.

A simple double bed, its dark sheets unkempt and untouched, spoke of sleepless nights. Beside it, two framed photographs stood sentinel: one of his parents, forever frozen in their warmth, and another of him as a boy, tucked between them with an innocence long since shattered.

It was organized chaos incarnate—a desk buried beneath scattered papers, photos, screenshots of surveillance footage, notes scribbled in his jagged scrawl, and rough sketches of Gotham's streets and buildings.

Every corner of the surface seemed to carry a piece of his nocturnal crusade.

An electric guitar leaned against the desk, strings slightly slack from neglect, the only evidence of a life Bruce had once dreamt of outside the cowl.

The massive windows overlooked Gotham's skyline, the city sprawled beneath him like a wounded animal, its lights blinking weakly against the dark.

And near the corner, a dormant fireplace sat cold and empty—a luxury he never indulged in, as though warmth itself was something he had forgotten how to accept.

Bruce's room was stark, a shadow of the grand elegance that once defined Wayne Manor.

Unlike his parents' room—untouched, sealed behind chained doors like a mausoleum for his shattered childhood—his space was utilitarian to say the least. It bore no trace of indulgence, no sign of comfort beyond necessity.

Alfred had offered countless times to move him into the master suite, to reclaim a piece of his past, but Bruce refused. He could not bring himself to sleep in that room, where memories clung like ghosts, the air forever heavy with what had been lost.

Seated at the edge of his cluttered desk, Bruce turned a photo over in his hands. It was grainy, captured through the lenses of his cowl at the Iceberg Lounge. Detective Mackenzie stared back at him, his expression a mask of nervous tension, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

"He's working for Falcone. I'm sure of it," Bruce said, his voice a low growl as he tossed the picture onto the desk.

Alfred joined him, leaning slightly to peer at the image. His sharp eyes flicked over the unkempt chaos of the desk before settling on the photograph. "A highly probable conclusion, sir," he agreed, his tone measured.

His gaze shifted to another photo buried beneath the disarray. Alfred's brow arched when he lifted it—this one wasn't of Mackenzie but of a brunette woman with striking hazel eyes.

Doctor Ben Halimi, unmistakably so.

The shot was taken at the funeral of the mayor, her posture regal and poised, as though she had stepped out of a portrait rather than reality. Even in mourning attire, she exuded a quiet defiance, chin held high as she exchanged hushed words with Carmine Falcone himself.

"And her?" Alfred asked, holding the picture aloft as though it were evidence in one of Bruce's endless cases. "Have you finally decided?"

Bruce's fingers brushed across the surface of his desk, pulling out a pink dossier marked with the name Maryam in bold, neat lettering.

He flipped it open without a word, his fingers gliding over the contents with an almost obsessive precision. A few photographs slipped out, landing with a soft thud. Bruce slid them into view, pointing to each one as he spoke, his eyes cold and focused.

"Maryam Ben Halimi," he began, his voice low and deliberate as he flicked through the pages. "Born May 1st, 1990. Daughter of Idris Ben Halimi and Lejla Petrovich. Both deceased when she was young—her father executed during the Srebrenica Genocide, her mother hanged during the Siege of Sarajevo. North African and Middle Eastern from her father's side, Bosnian from her mother's. Although..." Bruce's eyes lingered on a photo of Maryam's mother, a stunning woman in a black-and-white snapshot. His finger traced the edge of the picture, as if searching for something. "...I have my suspicions."

He glanced up at Alfred, his expression unreadable, before lowering his gaze back to the file in front of him.

"She grew up in Gotham with her four sisters," he began, his tone steady but focused. His finger traced the edge of a photograph before tapping on the face of a young dark brunette girl. "Warda Ben Halimi, the second eldest. She's an engineer at Wayne Enterprises, married to Ryan Khalid, a dentist." He reached across the desk, picking up a framed photo from the neatly arranged spread. Turning it toward Alfred, he tapped it lightly. "This one."

Without missing a beat, he moved on, rifling through a stack of newspapers until he pulled out an issue of the Daily Planet. He placed it on the table, tapping an article with Sherine’s byline highlighted. "Sherine Ben Halimi, the third, journalist and archaeologist. Works in Metropolis. She’s at the Daily Planet."

Sliding the paper aside, he tapped a dossier marked with campaign logos. "Rania Ben Halimi, the fourth, Bella Réal’s PR strategist. Handles all her messaging for the campaign."

He paused to grab a sticky note pinned to a nearby folder. "And Alma, the youngest—currently preparing for her bar exams. Ambitious, but grounded."

His hand moved to another pile, where a business card rested atop a photo of a boxing ring. He held it up briefly. "Their cousin, Moncef—runs a boxing ring in the Narrows. Former fighter himself

Finally, he gestured toward a small stack of personal letters, carefully labeled. "Their aunts, Meysa, a babysitter with a knack for organizing her neighborhood, and Jamila, a nurse at Gotham Hospital. Their uncle, Fawzi, is a fisherman—spends every Friday at the bay and runs a modest shop on Fleet Street with his wife."

He straightened, his eyes sharp and focused as he surveyed the collection of information he’d just laid out. "They raised them after their parents passed."

Bruce paused, his gaze lingering on the photo of Maryam at the mayor funeral. Her face was regal, bearing an uncanny resemblance to her mother, though her father's sharp eyes and bronze skin marked her distinctively. She appeared distant, caught in a rare moment of conversation with Carmine Falcone.

The orphan clicked his tongue softly before speaking again. "She went to Gotham State School, graduated with honors, and went straight to medical school."

He reached for another photo, this one of Maryam at eleven years old. Her hazel eyes stared straight at the camera, two neat braids framing her face, but already, there were dark circles under her eyes. She seems exhausted. Bruce's finger traced the edge of the yellowing photograph. "She came to the U.S. when she was ten, with her surviving family."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, looking at the man with an expression of mild surprise. "That's the most I've heard you speak in years."

Bruce didn't respond, merely scoffing softly under his breath. He stared at another screenshot of her, the night of the Mayor death. The first time he met her. His jaw tightens.

Alfred raised his hands slightly, almost as though in surrender. "What do you suspect of her, Master Wayne? She seems like a fine woman. I daresay, you two—"

His boss cut him off before he could say anything else. "I think she's the Wraith, and I suspect her mother's lineage isn't as clean as the documents suggest."

Alfred blinked in confusion, raising his brows. "The Wraith?" he asked, clearly unfamiliar with the name.

Bruce's eyes didn't leave the photo of Maryam, his finger tracing the edge of the paper absentmindedly. "The Wraith is a name that's been whispered around Gotham for years. A ghost for some and a myth for others. She operates in the shadows, targeting those who deserve punishment without ever being seen. No one knows her real identity, but she's been connected to a string of high-profile takedowns, people tied to the criminal underworld—mobsters, corrupt officials, anyone with blood on their hands. But most importantly, Fish Mooney."

Alfred folded his arms, his brow furrowing. "And you think she's behind it?"

Bruce nodded slowly, his expression grim. "The Wraith's methods don't fit anyone else. She's surgical, too precise, and leaves no trace. She doesn't kill unless she has to, and she doesn't do it for money or fame. It's personal... and I think Maryam is tangled in it somehow."

Alfred regarded him quietly for a moment, clearly piecing things together. "You think her past has something to do with this... with what she's become?"

Bruce's voice dropped lower, filled with suspicion. "Her mother's side, yes. There's something in her bloodline I can't fully trace. The more I look into her family's history, the less I trust the story she's been fed."

Alfred raised an eyebrow, skepticism lingering in his tone. "So that's the only reason you think she's The Wraith?"

Bruce shook his head slightly, leaning forward. "No. At the funeral, she wore a brooch," he said, pulling a red pen from his drawer and circling the piece of jewelry in a photo. "It's... distinctive. Fancy, almost regal. Too ornate for someone of her background. Looks like something passed down through generations. A family heirloom."

Alfred squinted at the image, leaning closer as he examined the brooch. "Hmm, it appears to be of--"

"Russian heritage," Bruce finished for him, his voice clipped with certainty. He pulled out another picture, an old black-and-white photograph, and laid it beside the one of Maryam. The image depicted Alexandra Feodorovna, wife of Tsar Nicholas II, wearing an identical brooch with the exact same emblem—an intricate design of a double-headed eagle. "This brooch isn't just ornamental. It's unique—historically significant."

Alfred's brow furrowed, his curiosity now fully piqued.

Bruce continued, tone steady and charged with implication. "The first time I encountered The Wraith, I overheard her speaking Arabic—but there was Russian too. Fluent, not just borrowed phrases. And her mother's last name... it leans more Russian than Bosnian. Though, admittedly, a Russian connection in Bosnia isn't unheard of."

He grabbed another photo, a screenshot taken during one of his nightly pursuits, showing The Wraith mid-motion. Bruce circled a small detail near her eye with his marker. "See this? Same beauty mark beside her right eye," he said, then compared it to the funeral photo of Maryam.

The similarity was undeniable.

Bruce flipped to yet another image, this one captured on the night he'd been chasing The Wraith. The photo showed her profile in sharp detail, her hood momentarily blown back, exposing a bleeding scratch on her temple.

He pointed at it with his marker, his tone measured but intense. "Here. An injury from our encounter," he said, circling the wound for emphasis. Then, with deliberate precision, he flipped back to the earlier photo—this one from Maryam's appearance at the funeral. He gestured to the faint scar on her temple, the lines of his face tightening as he spoke.

"The exact same wound," he muttered, "nearly healed."

He set the marker down on the table, the sound of it rolling across the surface oddly loud in the heavy silence of the room. It came to a stop against a photograph near the edge of the desk—a much older one.

It was of Maryam as a child, no more than five years old, standing stiffly in front of a plain kindergarten backdrop.

Her hazel eyes were wide and glassy, the red veins prominent as though she'd been crying just moments before the shutter clicked. In the harsh light of the photo, her irises looked more green-yellow than brown, a haunting effect that made her appear both familiar and alien.

Bruce stared at it, his jaw tightening.

He rubbed his eyes with a sharp motion, as though trying to shake the image from his mind. "The nickname," he mumbled under his breath.

"Pardon me, sir?" Alfred prompted, leaning closer.

Bruce hesitated, then spoke again, his voice quieter now, as though the words themselves were something intimate. "She calls me Zorro. Maryam. The Wraith. Both of them. If they weren't the same person, why would they use the same name for me?" His expression darkened. "It's too coincidental."

Alfred's eyes shifted to the photos and notes scattered across the desk. The evidence Bruce had painstakingly collected felt both damning and surreal. "If what you're suggesting is true, sir..." Alfred began slowly, as though still grappling with the enormity of it, "then she's either remarkably careless, or she wants to be found."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath him. His fingers drummed on the edge of the desk, a restless rhythm that betrayed the storm of thoughts racing through his mind.

"I know what you're thinking, Alfred," he said, breaking the silence. His voice carried a weight that made the older man pause. "But this isn't coincidence. It's deliberate. Every piece of this fits together too perfectly to ignore. She's hiding something—something tied to her past in ways she's never revealed."

Alfred adjusted his glasses and scrutinized the evidence once more. His skepticism hadn't wavered, but there was a note of concern in his voice now. "It's a bold claim, Master Wayne. But let's not forget the improbability of it all. The Romanov lineage was all but extinguished, and the surviving artifacts, including the jewelry, were secured in the British royal vaults after their execution. Even their most distant relatives—those who escaped—never had access to such treasures. To think she might possess a piece of it..."

Bruce's jaw tightened. "It doesn't add up, does it?" he said, almost daring Alfred to refute him. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up an old file on his computer. A string of articles and documents flashed across the screen, the bold headlines practically screaming their intrigue:

'The Romanov Mystery: Did Anastasia Survive?' 'Lost Heir to the Throne? The Last Hope of the Romanovs.' 'The Woman Who Claimed to Be Anastasia.'

"Whispers, Alfred. There've been whispers for decades," Bruce said, leaning closer to the screen. His voice was low, steady, but alive with conviction. "Rumors of a daughter who survived. Anastasia."

Alfred's expression remained stoic, though his hands clasped tighter behind his back. The images and text on the screen seemed to linger in the air, heavy with implication.

Finally, he spoke, his tone quieter but deliberate. "And what do you intend to do with this, Master Wayne? If Maryam is The Wraith—and her past is as shadowy as you suspect—what then? What does it mean for her? For you?"

Bruce's gaze shifted from the photographs to Alfred's, his jaw tightening as shadows played across his face. His eyes burned with unrelenting determination. "It means I need to find her before she finds me," he said, his voice low but resolute. "And if she's as dangerous as I think, I need to know where her loyalties truly lie."

Alfred regarded him with a measured calm, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of unease. "And you suspect her loyalty may not be to Gotham," he said carefully, "but to something—or someone—else entirely."

Bruce didn't respond immediately, but his silence was answer enough. His hand closed into a fist at his side, the tension in his frame coiled and palpable.

"You and she," Alfred continued, "are alike in more ways than you'd care to admit. Two sides of the same coin, as it were."

"I know, Alfred." The words were almost a growl, spoken through gritted teeth. "That's why I need to find her first. And when I do, I—" He stopped, his gaze dropping to a photograph lying askew on the desk. His favorite.

It was Maryam at her medical graduation ceremony, dark caramel curls swept back behind her shoulders, red lips curved into an unguarded smile, and those eyes—always green and yellow, like sunlight filtering through a canopy of autumn leaves—radiating a rare warmth. And for once, there was no mask, no veil of secrets—just her, caught in a fleeting moment of joy.

She looked different in that photo, almost like a stranger.

There was none of the guarded intensity he'd come to associate with her, none of the weight that shadowed her every move.

It was a version of Maryam he hadn't seen before, free of the burdens she carried now—a glimpse of the person she might have been, if her life had taken a different path. Like a reminder that behind the shadowy figure of The Wraith was a woman who had lived, struggled, and perhaps even found happiness once.

Bruce's gaze lingered on the image, drawn to its honesty, its simplicity.

The photo felt out of place amidst the others—like it didn't belong in the intricate web of clues and shadows spread across his desk. Yet it was the one he couldn't look away from, as if it held an answer he couldn't yet decipher.

"I'll make sure she doesn't slip away," he finished softly, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

Alfred watched him carefully, his brow furrowing. "And what if she's already found you, Master Wayne?"

The question was a quiet bombshell, laden with implications that Bruce wasn't yet ready to address.

Alfred broke the silence with a quiet sigh, his voice laced with resignation. "Very well. But do remember, some things are better left buried."

Bruce turned back to the photographs, the evidence, the web of connections he'd painstakingly pieced together. The brooch with its Romanov insignia, the languages she spoke with effortless precision, the funny nickname, her family's meticulously concealed history, the scar—it all pointed to something far more complex than he'd anticipated.

It felt like a weight pressing on his chest, the realization that his path wasn't just tangled; it was about to grow darker, and far more treacherous.

His gaze lingered on the graduation photo one last time, the image of Maryam burning itself into his mind. She was an enigma—a puzzle he couldn't yet solve.

That alone made her dangerous. But it wasn't just her danger that drew him—it was her defiance, her resilience, her ability to slip through the cracks of his world without leaving a trace.

It wasn't just that he wanted to solve her; he needed to.

She wasn't merely dangerous. She was captivating. And that, he realized, could be his undoing.

He couldn't afford even a single misstep. Not this time.

Jennifer O'Malley and Fatima Saffour. Those were their names.

Young women—barely out of their twenties—now frozen in time, their lives extinguished with chilling finality. Their bodies lay side by side on the cold steel tables, a juxtaposition of innocence and brutality. Beneath the sterile glare of the morgue's unforgiving fluorescent lights, their faces bore a semblance of peace that felt more like mockery than grace.

Death had wiped away their humanity, leaving behind only hollow echoes of who they once were.

Tammy lingered at the edge of the room, her usual chatter and energy replaced by a silence that hung heavy in the air, thicker than the antiseptic smell clinging to her gloves. Her hand fluttered near the clipboard she held, her fingers worrying the edges as if trying to smooth her own nerves.

She couldn't shake the unease tightening in her chest—a primal instinct warning her that whatever lay ahead was worse than what had come before.

Across from her, Doctor Ben Halimi prepared with her characteristic precision, a figure of composed detachment. The snap of her gloves echoed through the room, sharp and unforgiving, like the crack of a judge's gavel.

Adjusting her scrub cap, she cast a quick, assessing glance at Tammi. Her expression betrayed nothing, but there was a faint shadow beneath her eyes—a residue of sleepless nights and too many encounters with Gotham's darkest secrets.

"Alright," Maryam said, her voice steady but weighted with exhaustion. "You know the drill—external examination first. I'll call out the findings; you take notes and assist as needed."

Tammy nodded, her grip tightening on the clipboard. She swallowed hard, her eyes momentarily fixed on the blank sheet of paper in front of her. The emptiness of the page seemed to mock her, daring her to fill it with horrors she'd rather not face.

Finally, she stepped closer, the sound of her shoes against the tiled floor muffled by the oppressive stillness.

Maryam leaned over Fatima Saffour's body, her motions precise and clinical. Dark hair spilled over the steel table like ink pooling on silver. With careful hands, Maryam parted the strands, running gloved fingers along the young woman's scalp.

"Scalp intact," she began, her tone almost mechanical, a shield against the grim reality before her. "No abrasions, lacerations, or contusions. Hair is clean, no debris present."

The pen in Tammi's hand scratched across the paper, each stroke a stark counterpoint to the eerie quiet. Maryam shifted her attention to the jawline, tilting Fatima's head to catch the light. Her eyes, sharp and unyielding, swept over the contours of the neck.

"No ligature marks," Maryam murmured, her fingers ghosting over the smooth skin. "No petechiae, no signs of strangulation. The neck appears normal."

She paused, her brow furrowing as something faint caught her attention. She leaned in closer, her voice quieter now, but with an edge of certainty. "Wait. Faint impressions along the brachial arteries and shoulders." She gestured for Tammi to take note, the slightest frown pulling at her lips.

Tammi peered over, tilting her head to see what Maryam was pointing out. "Could those be restraint marks?" she asked, her voice tentative, as if she feared saying the words would make them more real.

Maryam considered the possibility, her fingers hovering just above the skin. "Maybe," she said at last, her tone clinical but thoughtful. "But they're too precise, too uniform. There's no bruising, no indication of a struggle. These impressions... they look like they were made by a device. Something designed to hold the body in place—efficiently, methodically."

The thought hung in the air, unspoken but palpable: This was not the work of an amateur.

As Maryam moved on to examine the chest, her hands stilled over the unnaturally smooth surface of the skin stretched tight over Fatima's ribs. Her eyes narrowed. "Subcutaneous fat is absent here as well," she said, almost to herself. Her gloved fingers pressed lightly against the area, her expression darkening. "The skin has an altered texture—stretched, manipulated to fit what's beneath."

Tammi hesitated before asking, "Do you think heat was used to remove it?"

"Possibly," Maryam replied, her voice sharp but not unkind. She straightened, her gaze unwavering as she continued the meticulous inspection. "We'll move to the face next. Make sure you note the symmetry and any anomalies."

Tammi nodded, already scribbling the details onto her clipboard, her pen's movement brisk but trembling slightly. Maryam turned her focus to Fatima's face, her gloved hands tilting the chin, angling the head as she studied each feature with an unnerving intensity.

"Facial symmetry is intact," Maryam noted. "No bruising or abrasions around the eyes, nose, or mouth." She gently parted the lips, her movements slow, deliberate. "No cyanosis. Teeth are clean, no fractures or wear patterns."

Tammi leaned in closer, her voice a whisper. "Anything in the mouth?"

Maryam retrieved a tongue depressor and carefully opened the mouth further. She frowned, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Nothing. No residue, no foreign objects. No signs of asphyxiation. Everything looks... untouched." She glanced at Tammi, her expression unreadable. "Which is unusual."

The examination continued, a grim procession of observations and notes. When Maryam reached the wrists, she froze. Her head tilted slightly as she sniffed the air. "Do you smell that?" she asked, her voice breaking the silence.

Tammi leaned in, her nose crinkling. "Perfume?" she guessed, though her tone carried uncertainty. "Lavender and rose. But... it's so strong. How can it still linger?"

Maryam nodded slowly, her brow furrowing in thought. "It's deliberate," she said. "Postmortem. Fragrance doesn't cling to dead skin like this. Whoever did this applied it—carefully, intentionally."

Tammi swallowed hard, her clipboard trembling in her grip. She looked at Maryam, her mentor's calm demeanor both reassuring and unnerving. Maryam jotted the detail in her notes, her pen scratching across the page: Unnatural scent preservation. Perfume—lavender and rose. Applied postmortem. Purpose unclear.

The process moved forward, every step peeling back another layer of horror. Burns appeared beneath the fingers, precise and clinical, as if designed for a purpose too grotesque to imagine. Impressions on the arms and shoulders told a silent story of restraint and control. The killer had taken everything human from these women—their autonomy, their identity, their very essence—and left behind only shells, stripped of life and dignity.

Tammi's voice broke the quiet, tentative and shaky. "What kind of person does this?"

Maryam removed her gloves with deliberate care, her gaze lingering on Fatima's lifeless form. "Someone who doesn't see them as people," she said softly, her tone colder than the morgue itself. "To them, these women were resources—nothing more."

As Maryam reached for a fresh pair of gloves, her pen moved across the page once more: Victims stripped of humanity. Systematic. Surgical. Intent unknown. Investigation ongoing.

The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting stark shadows on the room's walls. It felt as though the morgue itself held its breath, waiting for the next grim discovery.

Maryam steeled herself for what lay ahead.

The truth was out there, somewhere, buried beneath the horror—and she would unearth it, piece by chilling piece.

Maryam meticulously packed up the evidence, slipping each document into its designated folder and ensuring every piece of the case was accounted for. Her laptop followed, the lid snapping shut with a quiet finality.

Her desk was pristine, every item in its place before she left for the day—an unspoken rule she never broke. Disorder, even in something as small as her workspace, was unbearable.

Tammy had already clocked out, and the bodies were sealed back into the sterile cold of the morgue's fridges, their stories told and cataloged.

She glanced at the clock, then at the documents she needed for her meeting with Gordon. The precinct's makeshift operations hub, what some had taken to calling "the Tower," was where she'd be heading next.

Sliding her coat on, Maryam paused to catch her reflection in the small, cracked mirror near her desk. Her fingers instinctively brushed against the faint wound at her temple, a leftover reminder of the funeral chaos. It was tender to the touch but no longer bleeding, though it throbbed faintly as if it refused to let her forget. She sighed, pulling her hand away.

With a sharp click, she snapped her leather compartment case shut, hoisted her bag onto one shoulder, and tucked the documents securely under her arm. Keys in hand, she turned toward the light switch, ready to plunge the room into darkness, when a knock echoed through the stillness.

Her head turned slowly toward the door, her stomach tightening with annoyance.

Of course.

Dr. Elliott.

He lounged against the doorway with an easy confidence, arms crossed over his chest, his dark scrubs emphasizing the lean frame beneath. His disheveled blonde hair caught the overhead light, giving him an almost boyish charm that only made his smugness more infuriating.

That smirk—smug, maddening, and entirely too self-assured—remained fixed on his face as his eyes roamed over her, lingering just a beat too long, like he was trying to unravel her with his gaze alone.

"Yes?" she asked, raising a perfectly arched brow, tone clipped.

"Nothing," he drawled, his voice slithering out with a serpentine smoothness that matched the smirk curling at his lips. "Just checking."

His gaze was anything but innocent, making no effort to disguise its path as it slid from her face, down her shoulders, and lingered briefly on the line of her coat before dropping to her high-heeled boots. When his eyes finally snapped back to meet hers, they carried a shameless glint, as if daring her to call him out.

Her jaw tightened. "Checking for what, exactly?"

"For a change of heart," he said, his voice dripping with that infuriating mix of arrogance and amusement.

Maryam rolled her eyes, exhaling sharply. "No, Dr. Elliott," she replied, voice sharper now, cutting through his arrogance demeanor. "I haven't had a change of heart, unfortunately—for you."

Her words were crisp, controlled—a tone she reserved for him and those she didn't like, never for the other members of the hospital. And he knew it, too.

His smirk never wavered. Instead, he chuckled softly, as if her rejection only added fuel to whatever game he thought they were playing.

She reached for the light switch and finally flicked it off, the room dimming instantly. The shadows made his presence feel more intrusive, and yet she refused to let him unsettle her.

Maryam's lips pressed into a tight line as she locked the door to her office, keys jingling faintly in her hand. But Dr. Elliott's smirk only widened, a glint of amusement in his sharp blue eyes that made her skin crawl.

"You know," he drawled, his voice low and deliberately teasing, "it wouldn't kill you to say yes, just once. Maybe have a drink with me? You could even bring your notes—I promise I'm a good listener."

She exhaled sharply through her nose, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. "For the hundredth time, I'm not interested. Not in drinks, not in your offers, and certainly not in your advice on how to unwind."

Elliott chuckled, pushing off the doorframe and taking a small step closer, his arms still crossed. "You say that now, but I've seen how hard you work. Always here late, always cleaning up after everyone else's messes. A woman like you deserves a break."

Maryam turned to face him fully, hazel eyes narrowing as she tilted her head ever so slightly. "A woman like me?"

The question was sharp, a verbal snare Elliott hadn't anticipated. He faltered, momentarily fumbling for a response before slipping on his trademark grin. "You know what I mean. Smart. Dedicated. Gorgeous." The final word hung in the air, weighted with implication, his tone daring her to respond.

Before she could even fire back, he pivoted. "Heard about the murders. Anything new?"

Maryam didn't miss a beat, her retort as cold and precise as a scalpel. "Yeah, and it's none of your business."

Her straight hair caught the light as she flicked it over her shoulder, the movement deliberate, a dismissal as sharp as her words. She drew herself up, her posture radiating a composed authority that left no room for rebuttal.

"Have a good night, Dr. Elliott," she said, the clipped edge in her tone signaling the end of the conversation. Without so much as a glance back, she strode past him, her steps measured, purposeful.

Elliott's voice chased her into the hallway, smooth and infuriatingly smug. "Always a pleasure, Doctor."

She didn't dignify him with a response, letting the sharp click of her heels on the polished floor say everything she wouldn't. It wasn't the first time he'd tried to get under her skin, and it wouldn't be the last, but Maryam had long mastered the art of indifference.

Let him smirk, let him play his little games.

She wasn't about to hand him the satisfaction of a reaction—not tonight, not ever.

previous chapter | next

taglist : @faeryki , @gaypoetsblog , @rattyfishrock

ooop, hey guys…..

haven’t edited yet so sorry for any mistakes !!

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shiyorin · 9 months ago

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I'm just wondering how the High Lords of Terra will react to the Inquisitor's report on Yandere Astartes

Sure it won't end well but they know what to do.

+++ HIGHEST SEAL - HIGH LORDS OF TERRA

+++ SUBJECT: RE - INVESTIGATION INTO SUSPECTED ADEPTUS ASTARTES GENEFLAW

FROM THE THRONES OF THE HIGH LORDS OF TERRA:

Let the record reflect that Inquisitor [REDACTED]'s findings have been received and carefully analyzed by this most esteemed conclave. We commend your diligence in identifying this supposed "Geneflaw" affecting our vaunted transhuman warriors.

However, we must respectfully disagree with the Inquisitor's dire assessments and recommendations. To advocate the systematic extermination of countless Astartes Chapters, and thus weaken our Imperium at so tenuous a juncture, would be unforgivably shortsighted.

Instead, we propose an alternative stratagem to weaponize and harness these new "urges" infecting the Adeptus Astartes.

Based on the documented cases, it is now clear these divergent behaviors all stem from overpowering obsessions and perverse fixations towards certain unaugmented humans. Whether driven by abhorrent lust, deranged infatuation or utter self-destructive piety, the underlying essence seems a primal, animalistic drive to "possess" these individuals.

We must accept this metamorphosis as an opportunity, not a flaw. Just imagine the vast strategic potential of such unwavering, all-consuming devotion!

If provided "regulated doses" of these subjects, we could conceivably drive entire companies of Astartes into suicidal frenzies of zeal and ferocious protectiveness. Their battle-disciplines would be reinforced through the biological imperative to defend their "Obsessions" from harm.

A theoretical approach is outlined below:

1) Identify and indoctrinate vast stocks of psycho-bombinally suitable mortal humans to serve as "Fixation Targets"

2) Embed these "Fixation Units" within key Astartes deployments as "Distress Bait"

3) When Astartes succumb to these new gene-coded hungers, allow "bonding" under highly regulated circumstances

4) Closely monitor Astartes unit efficiency and combat fervency, providing "Fixation Targets" on a reward-basis

5) Deploy newly dedicated hunter-killer Astartes squads to priority war zones reinforce as needed with replenished "Fixation Units"

Properly implemented, this "Obsession Doctrine" would transform our Astartes into perfect weapon of fanatical, borderline psychotic intensity.

Casualties from "casualties of passion" would be relatively minor compared to the renewed slaughter they could inflict upon our foes. Even if entire Astartes assets are spent in the process, their sacrifices would be accepted as the highest honors.

This is the price of victory. The tormented spirits of these unaugmented mortals are a small cost to bear for the future dominance of Holy Imperium.

[ATTACHED: Proposal for funding "Fixation Unit" indoctrination camps on feral, non-compliant worlds. Methods for triggering and reinforcing selected psychosis strains…]

Let the Imperium's enemies fear the consequences of our newly unfettered wrath.

For the Emperor, no sacrifice is too unthinkable.

The High Lords of Terra shall catalogue your counsel under the highest seal.

Thought for the Day: "The path of virtue is narrow and sown with graven thorns. It is our eternal struggle to walk its bloody miles."

-High Lord of Terra

#shiyorin's answer #tw: yandere #yandere au #shiyorin's writer #warhammer 40k x reader #lol

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ballet-symphonie · 1 month ago

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I think the new Mariinsky of Coppelia is one of the most beautiful productions to come out recently! I'm really curious what you mean by stolen Pharaoh's Daughter! Please give me all the drama and tea. Also, what are they using of Ratmansky? I thought they went back to that grigorovich production of Sleeping Beauty? I'm so confused can you explain what is happening? Also, don't they still do Jewels? Isn't that Balanchine? are they even allowed? Sorry if i sound like I'm rambling but I'm so confused

Pharoah's Daughter

Here is an from NYT interviewing Ratmansky where he discusses the situation in depth but I will summarize it. NYT Article

The Phraroah's Daughter is a whole big drama. Alexei Ratmansky was creating a new reconstruction at Mariinsky before the war broke out.When Russia invaded Ukraine in February 2022, Ratmansky canceled the premiere in May 2022. Fateev (then director of MT) hired Toni Candeloro to finish the reconstruction.

Fateev said the whole ballet was re-choreographed by Candeloro but this is blatantly not the case. Ratmansky and his wife had spent 2 years going through the old notations and documents to create this restoration, the idea that Candeloro could create a brand new 3.5-hour ballet (yes it is that long) in a fraction of the time is frankly a tragic comedy on the level of Shakespeare. And of course, Ratmansky's name is nowhere in the credits.

Russians have also claimed that no prior knowledge or access to any of Ratmanksy's work was available, but I find that hard to believe considering there are clips of Ratmanksy rehearsing the ballet at MT still chilling on Mariinksy's Youtube.

Here you can read Ratmansky’s statement on Instagram on the matter, accompanied by Antonio Casalinho performing the famous act 2 pas d’action variation from Pharoah’s Daughter.

Here is a video of Kimin Kim in the same variation from the actual MT production. The two videos are nearly identical, this is clearly theft of Ratmansky’s work.

Copywright/ Theft

Ratmansky's name has been removed from all credits of the Bolshoi and Mariinsky. Yet his work, such as Flames of Paris, and The Bright Stream, and others, have been performed since he withdrew his work from Russia without Ratmanksy's name attached - which means he's not receiving royalties for these.

Licenses of Productions

Generally, to perform works by other companies, you need a license from either the company, the choreographer, or the choreographic trust (think the Balanchine Trust or John Cranko Trust). You negotiate fees for a stager/repetiteur to come and oversee the teaching of the repertory, and check-ins to make sure that rehearsals are going well, the style is being adhered to, and that the intentions of the choreography is correct, as the original choreographer intended. The license also covers costume details (are you making your own according to the style? Buying or renting from someone else?), staging requirements (tech, music, sets, lighting etc), how many performances, and with what types of credits.

Many of the Bolshoi/Mariinsky licenses to perform ballets by foreign choreographers have expired/are expiring. Western arts organizations are mostly not renewing them given the circumstances. Therefore BT/MT no longer have the rights to program those ballets and cannot do so without a high probability of facing legal ramifications.

For example, The Bolshoi no longer can perform their semi-recent premiere, Orlando by Christopher Spuck, these rights expired in March 2024. Similarly, their contract for Jewels is up as well as Nureyev created by Possokhov-Serebrennikov. Mariinsky's Jewels is said to expire in 2025. You can read more details here.

#alexei ratmansky #bolshoi theater #mariinsky theater #russian invasion #ballet #ballet ask #russian ballet #pharaoh's daughter

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kanakkupillai2007 · 1 year ago

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eugenedebs1920 · 2 months ago

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Trust me! There’s so very little I’d want to share similarities with when it comes to maga. I also have faith in the institutions that serve as the bedrock of our democracy. What I do not have faith in is Donald Trump’s integrity, honesty, or willingness to play by the rules. This is the 3rd article I’ve ran across that seemed credible. I checked the site, small independent journalism, no red flags when checking on its credibility. I’m not saying the election was rigged! While at the same time I’m not saying it wasn’t.

The thing is… We all saw that train wreck of a campaign. We all saw the apparent cognitive decline. We saw Trump ostracize, alienate, and discriminate against SO MANY different voting blocks. Saying, “They’re eating the cats, they’re eating the dogs, they’re eating the pets!”. He was called out on, and we saw and heard, him echo words of that German dictator from WWII, Mussolini and Stalin. We heard the promises to be a dictator on day one. His heavy lean towards authoritarianism. Him calling for the licenses of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, MSNBC, The Washington Post, The NY Times, pretty much everyone except OAN, Newsmax and Fox News. His calls for across the board tariffs were labeled as detrimental, and recession bound, by nearly every major economic think tank. He got DESTROYED during the debate. We saw hundreds of prominent Republican figures come out in opposition to Trump. Whole movements to ensure his defeat. Almost every single person in his previous administration say they wouldn’t support him, including, for good reasons, his own vice president.

The man’s an American traitor! We all saw the lead up to Jan 6th, then what occurred. I made it my life’s goal, as well as many others, on many platforms to remind everyone of it, and the fake electors scheme, and the theft and retention of classified documents, long after he knew he had last the election. The phone calls with Putin. The sending of vital pandemic relief supplies to Putin in the hype of the epidemic. All the f*ckin Russian ties. I know a lot of Americans ain’t that bright but. Really!? No one else put that together!?

Put on top of that his pressuring of Brad Raffensperger to “find 11,780 votes” and all the conspiring behind that. Not to mention the rape and definition charges. Not to mention his company being convicted of fraud. Not to mention HIM being convicted of fraud and a convicted felon because of it.

Add to that the strange bromance with Elon Musk the owner of Tesla. Trump HATES renewable anything!! He would go off about batteries and sharks habitually! Windmills!! Hates em! Talking all kinds of sh*t on electric cars, saying they would just run out of power, that there wasn’t any charging stations, then if there was you’d be there for hours, that the army wanted electric tanks, typical Trump fabrications. Just ALL the sudden him and the richest man in the world, who just happens to be in constant contact with Putin, who just happened to call for Ukraine to surrender, who just happened to buy a major social media platform, again or whatever. Musk who just happens to own Starlink, who just happens to offer free internet service in nearly every swing state.

On top of all that the numbers just don’t add up. You’re saying that 400,000 people, went in the voting booth, ONLY voted Trump and just walked out? Didn’t vote for the Republican senator, didn’t vote for the Republican representative, didn’t vote on any of the referendums or bills? Just “bullet” voted trump? Even dumbass Tommy Tuberville said in an interview, trying to accuse the left of fuckery, “It’s just weird how, the Democratic candidate, in a state Trump won, would be elected to congress”. Yea! Sure is “weird”, Tommy!

Then, the cocky statements from Trump and the right. I was watching this sh*t like, ‘these MFers are up to something’. Then, Him saying numerous times, he doesn’t need the votes. His “little secret” with Mike Johnson. The straight arrogance from Kevin Roberts, not only in publishing project 2025 but in his statements like, “there’s a second American revolution coming” leading to “and it will be bloodless, if the left allows it to be”. Then, there’s Joe Rogan, who lets it slip on his pod that Elon had an app on his phone where he knew the election results 4 hours before anyone else. Then why did he tell Tucker Carlson he would end up in jail?

You’re telling me, that guy, running that “prestigious” a campaign, with all the shinanigans after and during his first administration, a felon, hated by his own party, that fuckin guy won all 7 swing states, which hasn’t been done by anyone in 40 fuckin years, that guy, who literally said at a town hall, “no more questions, who wants to hear anymore damn questions” then proceeded to sway on stage for 40 mins to tunes, that guy won the popular vote too!? The popular vote that a Republican has only one once since Reagan!? That fuckin guy won all 7 swing states and the popular!? I don’t know if I can buy that.

I guess what I’m getting at is, forensic audits and hand recounts in the swing states would put all that unease to rest. It should be done, and soon! Trump has cheated at everything he’s done in the past, why would that change now?

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dreaminginthedeepsouth · 6 months ago

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Pat Byrnes :: @thePatByrnes

* * * *

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

July 5, 2024 (Friday)

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

JUL 06, 2024

For all that certain members of the media continue their freakout over Biden’s electability after his appearance in last Thursday’s event on CNN, it is Trump and his Republicans who appear to be nervous about the upcoming election.

Journalist Jennifer Schulze of Heartland Signal noted today that as of 8:00 this morning, the New York Times had published 192 pieces on Biden’s debate performance: 142 news articles and 50 opinion pieces. Trump was covered in 92 stories, about half of which were about the Supreme Court’s immunity ruling. Although Trump has frequently slurred his words or trailed off while speaking and repeatedly fell asleep at his own criminal trial, none of the pieces mentioned Trump’s mental fitness.

But for all of what independent journalists are calling a “feeding frenzy,” egged on by right-wing media figures, it seems as if the true implications of Project 2025 are starting to gain traction and the Trump campaign recognizes that the policies that document advocates are hugely unpopular.

On July 2, Heritage Foundation president Kevin Roberts assured Trump ally Steve Bannon’s followers that they are winning in what he called “the second American Revolution, which will remain bloodless if the left allows it to be.” In March, Roberts told former Trump administration official and now right-wing media figure Sebastian Gorka about Project 2025: “There are parts of the plan that we will not share with the Left: the executive orders, the rules and regulations. Just like a good football team we don’t want to tip off our playbook to the Left.”

This morning, although Roberts has described Project 2025 as “institutionalizing Trumpism,” Trump’s social media feed tried to distance the former president from Project 2025. “I know nothing about Project 2025. I have no idea who is behind it,” the post read. Despite this disavowal of any knowledge of the project, it continued: “I disagree with some of the things they’re saying and some of the things they’re saying are absolutely ridiculous and abysmal. Anything they do, I wish them luck, but I have nothing to do with them.”

In what appeared to be a coordinated statement, the directors of Project 2025 wrote on social media less than two hours later that they “do not speak for any candidate.”

Aside from the fact that “[a]nything they do, I wish them luck,” sounds much like the signaling Trump did to the Proud Boys when he told them to “stand back and stand by,” Trump’s assertion and Project 2025’s response can’t possibly erase the many and deep ties of the Trump camp to Project 2025. Juliet Jeske of Decoding Fox News noted that Trump’s name shows up on more than 190 pages of the Project 2025 playbook.

Rebekah Mercer, who sits on the board of the Heritage Foundation, was one of Trump’s top donors in 2016; her family founded and operated Cambridge Analytica, the company that misused the data of millions of Facebook users to push pro-Trump and anti-Clinton material in 2016. Trump’s national press secretary, Karoline Leavitt, has appeared in a Project 2025 video. Trump’s own super PAC has been running ads promoting Project 2025, calling it “Trump’s Project 2025,” and many of its policies—killing the Department of Education, erasing the separation of church and state, ending renewable energy programs and ramping up use of fossil fuels, deporting immigrants—are also Trump’s.

Project 2025’s director, Paul Dans, as well as both of its associate directors, Spencer Chretien and Troup Hemenway, were in charge of personnel in Trump’s White House, and the theme of Project 2025 is that “people are policy,” by which they mean that hand-picked loyalists must replace civil servants. Trump’s former body man John McEntee, who reentered the White House as a senior advisor after having to leave because he failed a background check, was in charge of hiring in the last months of the Trump White House; he helped to draft Project 2025. Key Trump ally Russell Vought wrote the section of Project 2025 that called for an authoritarian leader; he is also on the platform committee of the Republican National Convention.

If indeed Trump knows nothing about Project 2025 and has no idea who is behind it, his cognitive ability is rotten. As former chair of the Republican National Committee Michael Steele wrote, “Since [Project 2025] is designed to institutionalize Trumpism and you know nothing about it, then why do you echo some of its policy priorities during your rallies? Coincidence? And how exactly don’t you know that Project 2025 Director Paul Dans served as your chief of staff at the Office of Personnel Management, and Associate Director Spencer Chretien served as your special assistant and associate director of presidential personnel? And folks say we should be worried about Biden.”

Trump’s attempt to distance himself from Project 2025 indicates just how toxic that plan is with voters. As political scientist Ian Bremmer dryly noted, it seems that “the second [A]merican revolution apparently [is] not polling as well as the first in internal focus groups.” Former Republican strategist Rick Wilson was even more direct, saying that Trump was trying to distance himself from Project 2025 because “most of it polls about like Ebola,” the deadly virus that causes severe bleeding and organ failure, and has a mortality rate of 80 to 90%.

The extremism of the MAGA Republicans was on display in another way today as well after The New Republic published a June 30 video of North Carolina lieutenant governor Mark Robinson, currently the Republican nominee for governor of North Carolina, saying to a church audience about their opponents—whom he identified in a scattershot speech as anything from communists to “wicked people” to those standing against “conservatives”—"Kill them! Some liberal somewhere is gonna say that sounds awful. Too bad!... Some folks need killing! It's time for somebody to say it.”

Today the Vatican turned against one of those extremists when it excommunicated pro-Trump archbishop Carlo Maria Viganò, who was the Vatican’s diplomat to the U.S. from 2011 to 2016, for “schism” after he refused to recognize the authority of Pope Francis. Viganò has repeatedly attacked Francis’s Catholic Church for being “inclusive, immigrationist, eco-sustainable, and gay-friendly.”

Also today, Trump’s lawyers asked Judge Aileen Cannon, who is overseeing Trump’s criminal trial for retaining hundreds of classified documents, to dismiss charges that can no longer be prosecuted in light of the Supreme Court’s decision that a president cannot be charged for crimes committed while engaging in “official acts.” They also called the case “politically motivated” and asked Cannon to stop the case entirely in light of Justice Clarence Thomas’s suggestion that Special Counsel Jack Smith was not properly appointed.

The other big news today was that the U.S. added 206,000 jobs in June, bringing the total number of jobs created under this administration to 15.7 million. Last month’s numbers were, once again, higher than economists expected and, according to economic analyst Steven Rattner, above job growth levels before the pandemic. He added that these jobs are not simply a bounceback from the depths of the pandemic: 6.2 million more Americans are employed now than before Covid hit.

Poking fun at the calls for Biden to step down, conservative lawyer George Conway posted: “Biden needs to RESIGN NOW before any more of these terrible job things are created.”

In a speech today in Madison, Wisconsin, Biden vowed to stay in the race, and the speech appeared strong enough that right-wing extremists, including Senator Mike Lee (R-UT) and activist Laura Loomer, posted on social media—falsely—that he was having a medical emergency aboard Air Force One. Tonight, George Stephanopoulos of ABC interviewed Biden without a teleprompter or notes, focusing only on Biden’s age without any questions about policy. ABC News posted the interview transcript with the president’s conversation portrayed the “g”s dropped off the words and with other colloquial pronunciations spelled out, as if it were dialect. Trump, whose words the press tends to turn into clean prose, has refused to do an interview under the same conditions.

LETTERS FROM AN AMERICAN

HEATHER COX RICHARDSON

#Letters From An American #Heather Cox Richardson #election 2024 #Biden #project 2025 #Rebekah Mercer #Paul Dans #Heritage foundation #MAGA radicals

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theboywithburninghands · 8 months ago

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Here goes nothing. Arranged Marriage Funnybunny. Mostly worldbuilding and setup in this one. It was... something to make, that's for sure. Uh don't expect like... Jane Austen, but I went for a more... uh I guess... feel that was more old school? Just imagine a British narrator. Anyway here take it- T/W: Mentions of miscarriages, sexism, fantasy casual racism Primum Peccatum Chapter 1: You Don't Own Me

Primum Peccatum was an island a half-mile off the southeastern coast of Blackshell Bay, New Hirnantia. Inaccessible by any method other than ferry or private boat, Primum Peccatum was known throughout the county as a haven for the wealthy. Though Blackshell Bay was hardly a shantytown, those living in the coastal city often found themselves gazing wistfully or covetously at the island whenever they were on the southeastern beach in summertime or in the fish market near the harbor. Close enough to see, but far enough to never quite touch. Unless they were lucky enough to strike oil, inherit a good amount of money from a wealthy relative, or marry into one of the families already living on the island.

The Shutnyk family had lived on Primum Peccatum for two generations now. Originally a family of woodsmen, Nikolai Shutnyk broke the previously thought impermeable class barrier through, as said before, dumb luck. Nikolai, while living at a lumber mill in Telychia, would often go for long walks in the thick Telychian woods to try and curb his insomnia. While out there, he stumbled upon an as of then undiscovered natural gas reserve, and, under the nose of the logging company, managed to keep it a secret. Nikolai was talented with numbers and knew how to read and write despite his lower-class background, and drafted up a series of documents that he sent to several different gas companies along with some samples. In the documents, he offered to reveal the location of this reserve if he was given 100,000 crowns up front, and 5% of the profits from the reserves.

Although he was initially ignored, one struggling company by the name of East-West Renewable Energy sent an inspector to Nikolai, and they met in secret in the nearby town of Perrault’s End. Nikolai took the inspector out to the woods, and, when it was found to be very much real, the company gave Nikolai his up front payment, and began drilling. Nikolai quit his job at the end of his shift the next day, and moved to Perrault’s End. East-West’s earnings exploded overnight, and even though he had only asked for 5% of the earnings, it was enough to keep him sustained without the need of a job for a good two decades.

Newly wealthy and with a steady income, Nikolai Shutnyk caught the attention of several prominent families in Perrault’s End. He was soon married to the daughter of one Cartofolio Marconi, a magistrate for several industrialists in the much larger neighboring city of Angel’s Peak. Nikolai’s skill with numbers made him a valuable asset to his father-in-law’s corporate clients, and he was given a share of the company’s earnings for his hard work.

Nikolai and his wife, Clara Shutnyk, took the opportunity to purchase some land on Primum Piccatum, and had their manor built there. Nikolai continued his work for his father-in-law, and had a son with Clara, who they named Vladimir. Nikolai continued working until his death from a ruptured spleen when he was 61. Vladimir continued in his father’s stead, looking after his mother at his island manor and eventually finding a wife, the daughter of a surgeon named Amadeo. Her name was Mirella, and together they had a child of their own, a daughter, named Pomni. Her name was unique, taken from the Telychian word for “forget,” after Mirella’s favorite flower, the forget-me-not.

Pomni was the only child of Vladimir and Mirella, not for lack of trying. Mirella had miscarried three times before managing to have an underweight baby girl 4 weeks early. Luckily, her parents had access to high quality care thanks to their standing, and their newly born daughter lived. Pomni grew only somewhat larger in the following 25 years, never reaching any taller than 5 feet.

Had she lived in more modern times, there would be better and more scientific terms to describe the way her mind worked, but her parents and teachers only referred to her as “a bit odd” or “not quite there.” She was intelligent, that couldn’t be denied: she was writing full sentences at six years of age and read ravenously, but her social skills left much to be desired. She had few school friends, rarely speaking at all unless spoken to, and didn’t smile unless she was actually happy.. However, her taciturn nature was never to be mistaken for weakness, and she had an intensely stubborn streak.

When she was nine years old, a young lady in her class named Fredericka and her sycophants, seeing Pomni’s diminutive stature and hearing her unusual name, surrounded her desk one Monday before their lessons. Pomni looked up from her collection of Telychian short stories when the girls called her all manner of things, most of them pejoratives they’d overheard from their nationalist relatives.

Pomni looked back down at her book, her face placid. Fredericka, confused and angry that her usual routine appeared ineffective on the quiet young lady, turned back to her friends.

“She’s not just ugly, she’s deaf!” she declared.

Her laugh became a shriek as Pomni lunged for Fredericka’s arm, burying her sharp little teeth into the taller girl’s hand. Blood oozed from the punctured skin between her thumb and index finger and onto the polished hardwood floor.

Despite the headmistress’s best efforts, Pomni couldn’t be made to apologize. Vladimir had to be summoned to her school, but even her father couldn’t persuade Pomni to apologize to her classmate. She said this to Vladimir.

“She isn’t sorry, Papa. So neither am I.”

Pomni was forbidden from the manor’s library for a month for her churlish behavior, but privately, Vladimir was impressed. His own father would never have obtained his fortune without steely resolve. Had he followed the herd, the lumber company would have sold that natural gas reserve to line the pockets of the already wealthy board of directors, and Nikolai wouldn’t have seen a single crown.

Pomni’s classmates wisely decided to leave her alone after this incident, keeping their insults well out of earshot. Pomni graduated near the top of her class with excellent marks, a sure sign she would make a fine schoolteacher or court stenographer. Indeed, she inherited her father’s skill with numbers and attention to detail, and even began assisting her father with the heaps of paperwork from some of his weightier cases.

Mirella loved her daughter as any mother should, and just like most mothers, she worried about her quite often. Oddness aside, Pomni had almost no interest in finding a husband. A little independence was important for any young lady, it was the sign of a healthy brain, which Pomni certainly possessed. But whenever Mirella asked her daughter if she saw any young gentlemen that caught her eye when she was across the reach running errands for the family, or in the library or the city park, her answers were unsatisfactory.

“Oh yes, I did see a man with two different colored eyes. One blue, one brown. I believe the term is ‘heterochromia,’ did you know that, mother?”

“I saw a man who had lost an arm. I suppose he must have been a soldier, or perhaps a mill worker. It’s just terrible that someone’s livelihood can cost someone a limb, don’t you, mother?”

Mirella worried. Pomni was a pretty little thing. She had her father’s snowy fair skin and her own raven black hair, cut into a short little bob. When she smiled, which wasn’t often, it was illuminating. But she was 25, and that beauty wouldn’t last. In New Hirnantia, it was agreed that if a woman wasn’t married by age 30, she was destined for spinsterhood. Just five years… If Pomni wanted to carry on her family’s legacy, she needed to find a husband. She was their sole heir. Mirella couldn’t put herself through another miscarriage… and with her own advancing age, a failed pregnancy was all the more likely.

There were many young men around Blackshell Bay that would have suited Pomni perfectly well had she just given them the time of day. University professors, magistrates, authors and poets… men who held the same appreciation for learning and the arts that Mirella’s daughter did. And they were steadily decreasing in number as other women Pomni’s age, some younger, took them to be their husbands.

She confided in her husband one Spring evening before bed, collapsing into tears as her worries burst out like water from a crumbling dam. Vladimir held his wife and listened to her woes, stroking her hair and letting the torrent run its course. By the time Mirella’s sobs had waned into hiccups, Vladimir smiled at her.

“Darling, I’m so terribly sorry you’ve kept all of this inside. The pain must have been monumental. And yes, I too have worried that our daughter may carry the family name to her grave. But, you needn’t worry any longer, lisichka. I believe a solution is within reach. I simply have to write a few letters. Our daughter will be happily wed by her 26th birthday.”

—

Pomni stepped off the ferry onto the dock, sturdy oak wood imported from the monolithic forests of Ediacara out west.

“Be careful on your way home, Ms. Shutnyk.” the ferryman said.

“You say this whenever I exit the boat, sir. I assure you, no sheer cliffs or bottomless canyons have suddenly appeared on my commute home.” Pomni replied.

The sun set from within the treeline, coloring the horizon a bright tangerine. Pomni walked up the path to the Shutnyk estate, a weighty book under her arm. It was a collection of fairy tales, complete with color plates. Pomni typically preferred her fiction with a touch more verisimilitude, but she had already gone through her father’s library and most of the library in town, so she needed to wait for her favorite authors to actually produce new material. This would satiate her for a time.

Pomni wore a plain white dress and matching white shoes. She also wore her favorite straw sunhat with the black hatband, although it had been rather overcast today. Not that she minded. She did burn rather easily due to her Telychian blood.

She continued up the hill past the Rooker estate. She would have stopped to say hello to Mr. Kinger on any other day, but it was getting late, and summer was on the horizon. Mosquitos and other biting insects would surely be emboldened by the evening dark and emerge from the trees soon.

She saw the manor up the dirt path, second on the right, just after the Rooker house. In the dim light, she could see her mother’s immaculately maintained flower gardens in front of the delicate pink walls of the manor. It was just becoming summer, so the gardens were lush with hot pink roses and silky white gardenias. Pomni had thought about taking up gardening as a hobby, but she found the entire affair tedious. At least with books, you wouldn’t have to wait six months to read them.

She took her key from her pocketbook and unlocked the manor door, skirting inside and closing it behind her to keep the bugs away.

“Pomni, is that you?” her father called from the dining room.

“Yes it is, good evening, Father.” she called back, locking the door behind her and hanging her handbag and sunhat on the foyer hooks.

“Come and join us, supper is ready,” said Vladimir.

“Just a moment, I haven’t gotten out of my shoes…” Pomni sat on the floor and slid off her shoes, placing them neatly on the shoe rack and peeling off her socks, dropping them down the laundry chute. She set her book down at the foot of the stairs and she briskly walked into the dining room.

“Good evening, darling, so good to see you!” Mirella said from her spot at the table. Pomni returned her salutation, looking at the plate set out for her. Honey-glazed garlic salmon, her favorite. Usually she only had this for her birthday or to celebrate the start of fishing season.

“Oh, goodness. Thank you, what’s the occasion?”

“No occasion, dear, we just had Zooble cook your favorite tonight. Come, sit, enjoy it!” Vladimir said, motioning her to come and sit at the dining room table.

Zooble stood in the corner of the room in their usual tuxedo, nodding wordlessly at Pomni. Zooble was a shape-person, their head a magenta sideways triangle with no visible mouth and mismatched limbs. Shapefolk originated from a harsh desert kingdom known as Dovicia, found across the southern sea. While they had a much different diet and anatomy from humans, no one shape-person was built the same way, humans and shapefolk had been close allies for centuries. Humans offered them much needed resources that couldn’t be found in the beastly Dovician desert, and the shapefolk in turn offered manpower, often moving into more temperate areas to escape the extreme temperatures. Zooble had been the caretaker of the manor for 3 years, ever since the previous caretaker, Lidio, retired to Blackshell Bay at the age of 70. So far, Pomni liked them a lot, even if she never enjoyed change that much. Zooble didn’t allow her mother and father to walk all over them like Lidio did. Sometimes her parents needed someone to tell them “no” that wasn’t her.

Pomni cut into her salmon filet and sampled it, giving a contented hum. “It’s delicious, Zooble. My compliments.”

Zooble nodded. “Only doing what I’m paid for, Miss.” Their tone struck Pomni as oddly somber, but she ignored it.

“So how are you feeling, darling? Did you have a pleasant day?” Marella asked.

Pomni took a moment to chew and swallow, looking down at her food. “Yes, mother. I went for my usual constitutional in the park, and-”

“Eyes up, Pomni,” her father said. “Talk to your mother, not your dinner.””

Pomni bit her lip. She was a grown woman, and her parents still reprimanding her for her struggles with eye contact always touched a nerve. Maybe in grade school, but…

She looked up at her mother. Even looking into Marella’s brown eyes made her feel itchy, prickles of heat running up her arms and down to her toes.

“-and I got a book from the library. I finished the last one.”

As soon as she finished speaking, she put her eyes back onto her food, scratching her left foot with her right.

“Molto bene, darling. Well, your father has some exciting news.”

Marella looked over at her husband, who idly swirled the red wine in his glass. Vladimir glanced at his wife before clearing his throat and setting the glass down.

“Er- yes. A former client of mine has fallen into dire straits. You remember the Krolik family?”

Pomni thought for a moment as she chewed her food. She swallowed, had a sip of water and then spoke.

“Yes. Yes, they had the embezzlement case. Their business partner, their name was… Dombrowski Worldwide, was charging a non-existent handling fee for their grain shipments and then pocketing it. They took around 60,000 crowns, and the Krolik-”

“Yes dear, exactly right! Your memory is astounding as always.” Vladimir said, the pride palpable in his voice.

“What about them, father?” Pomni asked, working on cutting herself another piece of fish.

“Well, as you know, we won the case. But unfortunately, the judicial expenses left the Krolik family in something of a financial rut. Even with all the Krolik siblings working on the family business, they haven’t quite been able to scrape themselves out of debt.”

“I see. How is that good news?” Pomni replied.

Zooble let out a louder than normal cough.

“Well…” Vladimir took in a lengthy breath. “Their fourth son, er, Jax, is 22 and unmarried.”

“Oh, I see. So he’s marrying into a wealthy family. That is good news!” Pomni replied.

“Y-Yes, he does intend on marrying into a wealthy family. A-As a matter of fact-“

“Master Shutnyk,” Zooble suddenly spoke up. “Please. The longer you prolong the issue-”

“I don’t believe I requested your input, Zooble.” Vladimir said. The authority in his voice bordered on draconian. He never spoke to their caretaker like that, even during his foulest moods.

“Apologies, sir.” Zooble said, bowing shortly.

Pomni looked from Zooble to Vladimir. Her food sat momentarily forgotten in her cheek, before she chewed hastily and swallowed.

“Papa, is something the matter?” Pomni asked. She rarely referred to Vladimir as anything but “father” since she was twelve years old, only using “papa” when she was deeply anxious or in the midst of tears, be they of joy or sadness.

“No, piccola, nothing is wrong at all.” Marella interjected. “This is all good news. Your father and I think you should marry that Krolik boy!”

Pomni put down her fork. She picked up her glass of water and quaffed the entire thing.

“We have everything in order, you won’t have to worry about a thing! Your father spoke with the patriarch of the Krolik family- and what a fine man he is, larger than life, truly!- he’d be more than happy to have you wed his son. Oh, and you should meet his son! I’ve never met a more charismatic beastman! And-”

“Mirella!” Vladimir barked.

“I’m sorry but it’s true! He’s a gentleman, a real ambassador for his kind! And he’s only 22! You’ll love him, Pomni!”

Pomni prodded her filet with her fork. “I’ll… love him.” she echoed. Her eyes stared ahead, at nothing in particular.

“I’m sure of it! He’s smart as a whip, just like you! He and all of his siblings. And goodness, he’s tall and handsome…”

Pomni picked up her plate and whipped it at the wall behind her. It soared through the air like a clay pigeon before shattering helplessly against the wall, Mirella yelping and Vladimir rising to his feet instinctively. Her half-eaten salmon adhered to the wall for a moment before peeling off and plopping onto the imported carpet, brown glaze stuck to both the wall and the carpet.

Pomni turned to her parents, her blue eyes crystals of icelike fury.

“What have I done wrong..?” she whispered. “What sin could I have committed that would motivate you to sell me off? Am I no better than a mare or a sow? Answer me! What was my transgression?!”

“Pomni, you’ve done nothing wrong…” Mirella began delicately.

“Then I’ve always been nothing more than a commodity?!” Pomni cried. She looked to her father for aid. “Papa, what about your firm? Wasn’t I supposed to take over for you..? You always said I was so talented…”

“And you are, dear! You’re brilliant! But… clients would turn their nose up at a firm run by a woman. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth of our society. It’s why I want you to marry this man so you can-”

Pomni’s eyes lost the spark of fury in them, darkening with grief and betrayal. “…Papa.”

“So you can run the firm in my stead. You just need a man to serve as a figurehead. And believe me, Jax Krolik is charismatic enough to serve as a figurehead, I met with him only yesterday, and-”

“I haven’t! I don’t even know what this man- no, beastman looks like! How could you possibly think I’d be okay with you making such a rash decision behind my back? Are you really that heartless?!”

Pomni turned away from her parents once again. Zooble shook their head.

“Fiends… heartless, deceitful fiends…” Pomni whispered.

“Pomni, this was for your benefit.” Marella said stoically. “You’re 25. Time is running out for you. All the men who might have caught your attention are moving on to other women. Or even other men! We acted in your stead to make sure you had a fair shot at finding love, starting a family, being happy-”

“I am happy! Rather, I was happy until you thrust a knife into my back! Who are you to say what brings me joy and what doesn’t?!”

“I’m your mother, Pomni! And I was in your situation once! I was lucky enough that your father came along when he did-!”

“That’s enough from both of you!” Vladimir boomed. “Mirella, Pomni, sit back down.”

Mirella took her seat, but Pomni remained standing.

“Pomni. Sit down.”

“I won’t,” she said.

“We’ve already arranged a meeting with the Krolik family tomorrow afternoon.” Vladimir continued. “I assure you that once you meet Jax, your concerns will be assuaged. This wasn’t a decision made impetuously. Now, sit down, please.”

Pomni’s lips quavered. She gradually slid back onto her chair.

“Good girl. Zooble, please clean that up before it stains the carpet. And the wall.” Vladimir motioned to the detritus on the carpet.

“Right away, Master Shutnyk.” Zooble said with another short bow. They hurriedly stepped out of the room, glancing at Pomni before going to get the dustpan.

“We know how you feel, Pomni. It’s daunting to get married, but it’s part of a young woman’s life.” Mirella said. “And think about how much more you’ll have to do with a husband! An entire house all to yourself, new family to get to know… it’s an adventure! Besides, it trounces just going to town and back every day, wouldn’t you say?”

“No, mother. I don’t.” Pomni spat out the word “mother” like a poison. “I quite enjoy my time in town, thank you.”

“Well, now you can live in town! We’ve been to see their manor, and-”

“Well if you enjoy it so much, why don’t you live there in my stead? Clearly you’re infatuated with the man.” Pomni snapped.

“Pomni Shutnyk! You do NOT speak to your mother like that!” barked Vladimir.

“I did not suffer the loss of three children to be disrespected by my only daughter!” Mirella exclaimed.

“If you’re going to treat me like this, then I wish I had died right along with them-”

Pomni put a hand to her mouth, immediately wishing she could reel the words back into her throat. Her mother’s face blanched, and Pomni felt tears well up in her eyes.

“Pomni..!” her father gasped.

“I-I’m sorry…” Pomni managed to say. “I’m sorry, mother…”

“You’ve said quite enough.” Vladimir asserted. “To your room, now. And you aren’t to come down until we tell you.”

Pomni, her pretty pale face damp with tears, rose from her chair and went into the foyer. Sniffling, she ascended the first step. She stopped, and turned, and hurriedly put her shoes on, sans her socks. She grabbed her pocketbook from the foyer hook.

“Pomni?” her father’s voice came from the dining room. “Pomni, I instructed you to go to your room.”

She found her house key despite her blurred vision and unlocked the front door, easing it open. The sky was a dim orange and the trees mere black silhouettes, evening insects chirring.

“Pomni!” her father called. There was the sound of a scraping chair.

Pomni slipped through the door and shut it behind her, locking it behind her and pattering down the steps onto the dirt trail. She ran through the garden of the Shutnyk manor, wiping her eyes and nose and not looking back, even as she heard both of her parents shouting for her return. As far as she was concerned, it was no longer her home.

Soon, she reached the main road, and turned left, hurrying further up the island and towards the church.

#the amazing digital circus #arranged marriage au #funnybunny #jax x pomni #tadc pomni #tadc jax #oh no cringe #tadc zooble #pomni's family #rich people suck but it makes for good fiction #autistic pomni

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